Total Silence, Complete Dark

I like total silence. Early in the morning I like it best. No distant cars with their gently purring engines, and the swish of tires on the roadway. No hum of computers, or appliances singing through the house. No birds chirping, or voices whispering. Total silence.

To find this soundless universe I sometimes just cover my ears, but even here the sounds of my own breathing, occasionally the beating of my own heart, and the movement of my hands against the cartilage of my ears invade the noiseless universe; but these self generated sounds at least give the sense that I am alone.

I realize that evangelists and theologians have theorized that man's lonliness is one of the factors drawing the human heart towards God. This sense of lonliness in the universe is a cause for anxiety, and creates my deeper search for meaning I am told. Yet somehow I am drawn toward the silence. In a portion of every day I just want to be alone.

"Alone with God?" you ask.

No, just alone.

Perhaps this is a mild version of Job's regret that he was ever born. Maybe it is just my brief encounter with running away without having to go anywhere.

Avoidance is a major characteristic of my seasons of stress. I wonder how many people like me cover their ears just to hear the silence? If you do this go ahead and leave me a comment so that I will know that I am not alone in my little universe of loneness. Darn....there goes my theory that I really want to be totally alone.


I like complete dark too. Sometimes when my eyes are tired late at night, and bedroom still has enough light to give that gentle glow through my closed eyelids which tells me that the deep night has not come to its fullness, I cover my eyes with my hands. My eyes relax with relief in this lightless universe I create. No pinpoints of light coming through my fingers like the night stars. No barely perceptible glow like distant cities on the horizon. No deep grays, browns, or blues. I wait for the impressions of color upon my retina leaving their subtle watermark in my vision to fade away. Total dark.

Perhaps like silence, I've never met the complete dark. I visited the mighty Mammoth Caves in Kentucky, and while beneath the earth, the lights were turned off for a minute to experience complete darkness. I could not see my hands in front of my face. Was this really complete darkness, or is there something darker?

Christianity does not generally gravitate toward darkness. We compare light and darkness with truth and lies. We speak of the spirit of darkness, and the children of darkness, and contrast that to ourselves being the children of light. I realize that darkness is not a popular subject among Christian leaders through the ages. But I like the darkness.

You ask, "Are you drawing near to God in the thick darkness as Moses did?"

No, just plain darkness is what I am looking for.

Perhaps at some point I've just seen enough. Maybe this is my way of saying that I've had enough of searching for answers why, and receiving information which only deepens the mystery; and enough of seeing blessings which do not appear to match the depth of misery experienced in this world.

Perhaps this too is my brief encounter with running away at the end of the day. Do I have a gentle deathwish prodding me toward the dark and final sleep? Theologians and Psychologists say I have an innate fear of the dark sleep of death. Yet I love complete dark.

Avoidance fills my senses I suppose. I just like to be alone. Seeing no one smile. Seeing no one cry. Does anyone else cover their eyes to block out the gentle glow of light at night? Does anyone else like complete dark and search for it before sleep? If you like to be completely alone occasionally, leave a comment. Perhaps there is a twilight zone episode we can create together.

Home Brew Gone Bad? gauging persecution, isolation, and a Martyr's Complex

This being my personal blog which releases the serial deconstructionist in me back upon myself it only seems right to consider whether my highbrow ideas about church life, and the state of Christianity are really just some sick Messiah Complex.

Okay my ideas about churchlife may not really be highbrow. They may actually be quite common, simple, and more like an home-brewed ale, than a expensive wine matched with the first course of a seven course meal, but that does not relieve me from the possiblility of acting all highbrow and know-it-all about my self-appointed important ideas.

Now I know a few people with Messiah Complexes. Most of them tend to have a Martyr Complex as well. Could it be that somewhere their good ideas were rejected, that they received a little abuse - perhaps even a lot of abuse? Could it be that good ideas ignored ferment, and build pressure until they bust out in a more aggressive expression? If left to ferment too long, is it possible for the expression to be more violent than it needs to be - self important, and perhaps over bitter like a bad home brew?

The Messiah Complex people I know are pastors, alcoholics, businessman, unemployed laborers, lawyers, high school dropouts, soccer moms, and society's disenfranchised. They do not fit a specific demographic, but they do all have ideas which carry some sense of urgency, and they view their ideas as under-utilized, and ignored.

Of course, I am not sure how one personally discovers whether their ideas are revolutionary or simply insane. I am not sure that Martin Luther felt any different about his ideas than Rasputin, DeTorquemada, or the countless mad monks who have filled the hills of history.

I do know this: I need to be careful about how I think about what I think. I am convinced that church as usual is not the way to go. Having been on the receiving end of abuse in denominational activity, I am convinced that something needs to change in the circles I had a part of over the last twenty years. I have seen the hypocrisy of the people who speak in the name of unity, and carry the small knife which gets buried deep in the back. I have seen Christian leaders nod in approval to ideas which I have presented, only to have them turn and treat those same ideas as heretical spewings.

Yet I have to ask myself, "What is the difference between good ideas gone bad, and truly revolutionary thinking?"

I am sure that I have had enough persecution, and general trouble, with a small degree of isolation (especially now while I help lil' ol' Forrest to recover) to allow the Martyr's Complex to ferment in my heart, and even develop to the Messiah Complex. Yet I am hopeful that in questioning this I am knocking myself back to a humble position, and avoiding thinking more of myself than I ought to. Perhaps this will allow the yeast of my thinking to controllably ferment.

Jesus was a Rebel, and so must I be. Yet his home-brew has lasted for centuries. It has not gone bitter. It still fills the heart with laughter and joy. I am not sure I have His recipe, or his skills in my batch.

Lord, help my revolutionary thoughts to brew a fine deep red ale, and not a nasty little home brew no one else can stomach.

Deconstructing My Own Name

Well this is the beginning. Or the end. Or maybe the beginning of the end. Or maybe even the end of the beginning. What I really mean is that I have no idea what comes next.

21 years is a long time to serve one denomination as a pastor, and now the church I pastor, and myself are moving on to another pasture to graze in.

The beginning of my blogging is the end of something, and hopefully the beginning of something else. So it's time to break my system of thoughts into it's lowest common denominator and see what's most important. I've spent quite a few years deconstructing church life in hopes of discovering what was critical, and what was just something I did because everyone else did it too. Now it's time to deconstruct my name.

Some people say that Wyman comes from the River Wye in Wales, and the original Wyman lived by the River Wye, and ferried people across the river. I walked Afon Gwy (River Wye in Welsh) from Rhayader to Chepstow Castle with my wife Bev in 2002. Well okay, we cheated and took a bus the last few miles from Tintern Abbey to Chepstow, and we didn't start in the mountains at Plynlimon, but started at Rhayader instead. We also paddled in a canoe for two days, and nearly got beat up by some nasty swans, but we did walk a good 10-20 miles a day for two weeks, and I had cuts from blackberry bushes, and burning welts from stinging nettles to prove it.

See Wye Valley Walk Here

I've never felt so much at home as I do in Wales, except perhaps when I drive across the city limit sign in my little city of Salem, Massachusetts.

But now I need to consider my name once again. Who am I attached to? and what do I stand for?

As a serial deconstructionist I suppose taking myself apart is the natural conclusion to any season of change. So that's why little Mr. Wyman is The Why Man. "What is man that thou art mindful of him?"? I ask again.

One thing I do know - Christ and Him crucified. Other than that I think I will change my name to Jake - Lame Jake. I figure I've still got some wrestling to do with God, and I am sure that I will end up limping when the match is over.