Be glorified in my weakness.
Be glorified in my weakness.
Today is a day for hatred.
As I write this article, the death count stands at 20 children. Twenty. Twenty babies who got on a bus or walked out a door or stepped out of a car at the drop-off curb and are never coming home.
Father in heaven, their lunchboxes still hold uneaten sandwiches, unread love notes scrawled on napkins.
For 20 families, the worst fear a parent can know was waiting at the other end of a phone line today. Eleven days before Christmas, no less. Those children and teachers who survived will carry in their heads sights and sounds that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.
And what comfort is there to offer them? What words are there to speak? A parent takes every measure possible to protect a child, though we know full well the world is not safe. But this?
There is no spin to put on a story like this. Yes, we will hear stories of heroism begin to emerge over the next hours, and they are stories we will need to hear. But there is no way to soften the blow.
Nor should we want to.
As a mother watching someone else’s horror play out on a screen, I want to feel this to the core of my being. I want it to inform my thoughts and actions in a way that leaves me changed. Because on days like today we learn just how broken sin has left us, just how bleak is our landscape without a Savior.
Days like today give us no choice but to hate. They leave us only with a choice of where that hatred will land: Will we hate God, or will we hate sin?
I choose to hate sin. On days like today I will reflect again on the ravaging effects of rebellion against God, multiplied across millennia, manifested in a freshly printed headline. The more shocking the headline, the more I must come to grips with my minimized reckoning of the severity of sin. With Nehemiah I will cry out, “I and my fathers have sinned,” freshly grieved over the sins of others—-yes—-but freshly grieved over my own sin as well. I have not pulled a trigger, but I have harmed my share of victims. The killer lies dead, but I live on to harm again. On days like today I will renew my resolve not to participate in tearing down what God pronounced good at the dawn of human existence. I cannot stop a murderer, but by the grace of God I can stop sinning against those he has given into my care.
I cannot offer a snippet of Scripture or a platitude to comfort those families, or to comfort you, my fellow believers. The day of our comfort is a future one. All I can offer is to hate my sin more deeply than I did yesterday and to cry out to God for a time when the groaning of this creation gives birth to that which is once again good. If hope ever transects hatred, it is here. In a few hours my own children will walk through my front door, God willing. I can be a mother who loves deeply and unselfishly in a world that is not safe. Surely that is the least I can do for these precious lives.
Today is a day for hatred. Today is a day for the weight of our sin to be felt in full force. May our hearts break under the blow. May they be shattered to dust.
You may have noticed a strange phenomenon on the sidewalks, coffee shops, and (perhaps) church pews of your town: mustachioed men in tight denim shorts wearing worn-out touristy t-shirts, ugly moth-eaten cardigans, and grandpa hats. Women with boxy haircuts, cat-eyed glasses, hideous Christmas sweaters, and working-class 1950s skirts. Gangs in skinny jeans that would make a magician wonder how they fit their feet through ankle openings. They ride around the city on fixed-gear bicycles, drinking PBR, smoking Lucky Strikes or Parliament cigarettes, and taking pictures on Holga, Polaroid, and other clumsy, vintage cameras.
Yes … this is an article about hipsters.
Hipsters as a cultural phenomenon have been around for a few years. Their influence has spread into the broader American culture, becoming a regular punchline on Saturday Night Live and on primetime television. For better or worse, they are the hippies, punks, and grungers of our generation.
But where the hippies and grungers were marked by a howl of angst against the shiny veneer of the previous generation’s glamour, prosperity, and presumption, the hipster makes a much different sound—-the sneer of cynicism. Their core value is irony, and the aesthetic they embrace—-their posture towards the culture around them—-is defined by a sense of cynical superiority over it.
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i would rather hear the ringing
never questioning the ringing again.
HOLY SHIT TIME FOR SOME MUSIC BYE.
wow okay im actually really scared right now this is gonna give me nightmares now jfc im freaking out
ELLEN WHY MUST YOU PUT INTERESTINGLY SCARY SHIT ON MY DASH
This reaches back from the days before I decided to ignore these voices. Lo! I’m not insane after all.
brb while i go cry
w h a t
actual anxiety attack on the rise jfc i hate you vex
what the fuck is going on with you people do you know that hearing voices is a symptom of schizophrenia
nope nope nope nope nope