The Tarnish

More on Corruption (and what to do about it.)

I’m surprised the floor didn’t break under the collective weight of our ambitions.

Happy Wednesday. This post is about corruption, idolatry, and dreams. It’s a continuation of this post. It’s also terribly unfashionable.

The Main Point

I’ve been wrestling with the problem of Great Works corrupting their authors. Is it even possible to do something “big” without being eaten by the Shadow?

Alarmingly, this infects small works, too. Petty Tyrants and Z listers are still deaf, with something to prove.

Culture warriors seem most susceptible. Go look at Twitter. Everyone is small, disfigured, scarred by their acid fights. Jung asked “Do we have ideas, or do Ideas have us?”

(I think he knew the answer.)

(I think we do, too.)

Perhaps it’s a question of idolatry.

Leveled

“I’ve got this book I think you’ll like…I really hope it doesn’t come across as me preaching or anything. Keep it as a going-away gift.”

“Thanks, Alannah. Good luck in Nashville!”

(If you don’t know Alannah, you should. She just blogged a nifty dream she had, and you’d enjoy following her.)

Tim Keller’s Counterfeit Gods is indeed “Jesus-y.”

It’s awesome.

I’m not sure what I am. For the sake of this story, chalk me up as “agnostic, but trying to not kick the can more than necessary.”

Keller talks about false idols. I’d usually scoff. “I’m not bowing to a golden snake. Don’t worry, pastor, I’ll be alright.”

Except - things could be going better. Couldn’t they for you?

Keller persists in his writing, bringing the clay gods to the modern day: fame, money, career, love, political solutions.

(Most) everything I’ve been aiming at.

The book came to rest on the desk. I put it down. Something clicked. Maybe it was my jaw returning to a normal state.

So that might be a problem.

Leveled. I was just leveled. (But not in a bad way.)

Keller’s - and Christianity’s - solution?

You shall have no other gods before me.

Yeah, but…..this surrender thing.

The Dream

Alannah sent me her alligator story last Tuesday. For me, dreams describe reality that I haven’t figured out yet - a jump ahead in the assembly instructions for my days.

Last Wednesday, I had a wild one of my own.

The jail was simple, plain, with an ordinary man we’ve met a thousand times at the front desk. My offense was in the past, unspecified, but to be paid. I was there of my own volition.

The ordinary man looked through my briefcase. It was a graduation gift from my guitar playing uncle, something I used for my lectures.

“Can I keep this multi-tool knife?” I asked.

“No.”

“But I got it for my tenth birthday. It means something to me.”

He shook his head. “It’s a weapon.”

“I’ll need some time to think. Is that OK?”

“Sure.”

I left, paroled, and was in the middle of DJing a wedding reception. Everything broke.

Stressed, I found myself back in the old neighborhood.

An old girlfriend moved in next door, and promptly set about ignoring me.

I sat in a giant truck with my brothers, hoping she’d notice. She didn’t, but they did.

The childhood friends sneered up at me. “Hey, we heard you moved back. Why?”

Once beautiful and unreachable, these were the people I swore would idolize me when I was famous, spitting failure back in my face, ugly and wrinkled.

The neighborhood band cued up. I stood at their feet, mesmerized. Hey, I should really start practicing my guitar again.

An old friend staggered by. He had taken up drinking again. Hmm, that’s not good.

More driving the truck around, brothers in tow, reckless, pushing the limits, given up on the Call to Adventure, and settled back at Square One.

Then I woke up.

No wonder I’m always tired I grumbled to myself. Then, I started to unpack it.

• The Jailer was St. Peter, or his professional equivalent. (While this story is told in Christian imagery, it’s not necessarily of a particular doctrine.)

• The prison was surrender/God/life greater than me

• The briefcase and multi-tool was my “personality”

• The rest were the withered idols I cling to (fame, god-like skill, love, acclaim, security.)

Alpha States

Falling asleep two nights later, I pondered this.

But…surrender. Sure, I’m not the king of it all - but I like being the governor of my own little district.

The ideas seemed suddenly suffocating, the need to be in charge something to escape.

I pictured running back to the jail. Little ordinary St. Peter looked up. “Hello again.”

“Lock me up! They’re coming! Put those golden bars between me and the world.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Urban.”

He took two simple folding chairs, and faced them towards the door, our backs to the safety of the bars.

We sat and waited, unarmed. The horde arrived.

And overran us.

Their shadowy feet trampled and stomped.

Then I fell asleep.

(Key point: it wasn’t “okay”, but the mode of being was so altered, “okay” was transcended.)

Appomattox at Roanoke

The next day was a writer’s conference. It was swell.

Wait, I now know better.

Saturday dawned bright. The road unfolded through mountains, arriving at the writer’s conference. Three hundred people sat and paid attention.

(You’ll note the absence of the word “was.” :)

I learned editing. I learned world building. I networked. I saw old friends, and made new ones.

I’m surprised the floor didn’t break under the collective weight of our ambitions.

And I was choked by my need to matter, amplified by three hundred other souls needing to count. If we can craft our words carefully, the readers will be hooked.

So what?

I drove away under a Roanoke sunset.

But it should have been Appomattox.

I surrender.

The sky was immense, bigger than any thought I could have, or character I could build.

I didn’t need it anymore. Mattering - acclaim from my peers - the brilliant Josh Urban, a man of himself.

It’s come back. And then it’s gone. But I’ll take that progress. It’s the first time it’s ever happened.

“Uhhhh….”

You may be thinking…

“Uh…like…what?”

Fair enough. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know, too.

Have a great Wednesday. (And I’d love to hear your thoughts.)