a beautiful lie

I watched the movie “A Beautiful Mind” again a while ago. The first time I watched it, I was barely a teenager. I don’t think I truly understood the meaning behind it. I don’t claim I do now, but I think I have a little bit of more insight regarding the film. When I watched it the first time, I flagged it as one of my favourite movies. I don’t know why I did this. But I stayed up late to watch it now again because of that decision I took all those years ago. Don’t we do that sometimes? Keep things, people and memories all for sentiment’s sake? Even when those things are doing us more harm than good?  I know I do.

If you haven’t watched the movie, this is a SPOILER ALERT!

In the movie, John, the protagonist played by Russell Crowe is a mathematical genius that suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. In the story we meet three people who we later find out only exist in John’s imagination. These people are Charles, his old roommate at Princeton, Charles’ niece; Marcee and a man named William Parcher, who works for the US department of Defense and has asked John to crack Soviet codes for the department.

The focal point of this blog post is not a synopsis of the plot; rather, I want to liken the relationship between John and his three ‘friends’ to the lies we choose to hold on to and believe.

We all have our issues. Some run deeper than others. We have been dragging them along our many passing seasons; refusing to let them go because they have served us in one way or another, or because we just don’t know how to really let them go even if we have laid them at the alter countless times. I have issues that fall under both categories. John’s hallucinations, I believe, can relate to three different types of lies that we hold on to in our lives.

The first is the ‘William Parcher’. This lie sneaks into our lives posing as something that will elevate our circumstances, “If I do x, I will become more beautiful/popular/interesting/won’t get hurt… insert any other appealing adjectives. These WP lies end up holding us hostage and even when they threaten everything we love and instill in us an unimaginable fear, somehow, we just can’t let them go. We feel that we are ‘in too deep’ or we still think we are in control. My WP is slightly twisted (but aren’t all lies?). Mine is that I am not a writer. Even typing this out is hard. I’m struggling. Now, thinking that I am not a writer doesn’t exactly elevate my status, but I believe this lie because I don’t want to get hurt. So in a sense, my security is elevated. I won’t get disappointed when nobody agrees that I have this ability; when I don’t become bestseller or blogger of the month; or wherever this writing gig will take me… if I pursue it (I’m still not convinced).  Another thing is that I am surrounded by so many obviously talented writer friends… people who have developed their craft and have an undeniable talent. Who am I to even begin to think of walking this road? That’s my WP lie in a nutshell. I am not a writer.

The second type of lie I would like to call the ‘Charles’. This is probably my biggest problem. These are the lies that make you feel at home. They are our security blankets. When the world is caving in on you, your Charles keeps you afloat. You know that Charles is lie because he only shows up when you need him too. If he were a truth, you would believe in his existence 24/7, rain or shine. For example, my Charles is the lie that I struggle with depression. Now, I have had my fair share of slumps on and off since I was sixteen, but it is no medical condition. It is just easier to deal with something once you’ve given it a name and if you are as dramatic as I am, you research it, find all the symptoms, watch as they match up with your life and voila you have depression… or hypochondria. Charles helps keep me in the slump. It justifies my slump. Your Charles, no matter how comforting or well meaning, keeps you back from being the overcomer you are.

The last type of lie is the Marcee. The Marcee is the lie that makes you feel good about yourself; the ‘pat yourself on the shoulder’ type of lie. We know that Marcee is a fraud because she makes us forget all our shortcomings. We run to Marcee when we are trying to avoid dealing with issues at hand. Instead, we look at all that is going well for us. As an aside, this is exactly what political parties do just before elections. My Marcee tells me that I am a good dutiful daughter. All the symptoms point to this. But what Marcee conceals is that it is the fear of man, rather than the Ephesians 6:1 conviction that drives these compliant actions. By entertaining Marcee, I begin to see every conflict between my parents (or other people) and myself in a skewed way. I am able to see where they are coming from (because after all, I am the humble and sensible one), but I am misunderstood; the one that must bear the cross of being under authority. I’m not saying that it is always the case that my view is lopsided, but because of Marcee, it makes it complicated to discern when I am right and when I am not. Oh Marcee!

There is absolutely no point in putting all the lies in your life into three neat boxes if it ends there. There needs to be a way forward. Are you going to acknowledge these lies, ‘keep calm and carry on’? Or is your boxing going to help you deal with these lies and kick them to the curb?

Through his wife, Alicia, John finds himself committed at a psychiatric institution and receives shock therapy that somewhat disfigures him. But it is not until he threatens the life of his infant son and assaults his wife (thinking that he is protecting her) does he realize that he is indeed sick. He comes to accept his condition when he realizes that throughout the years that he has been seeing his three ‘friends’, Marcee had not grown older; she was always the same age. I don’t care how many times you have DMCs with your accountability partners or you respond to the alter call, you will not go anywhere unless you are totally convinced of the existence of the lie and are even more convinced that it needs to stop.

The most profound thing that gripped me about this movie and what got me thinking about this post is that years later, John still saw his three lies. Whenever he met new people, he would have to ask someone who he trusted and knew existed if they could see this new acquaintance. But the fact is that, those three lies never left him and their existence in his head made it possible for new lies to come about. But here is the thing; he learnt not to entertain those lies. It didn’t matter how bored with his life he was, or how lonely he was, or how insignificant he felt, he did not entertain those lies.

“… in the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus. Therefore do not let sin (lies) reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires…” Romans 6:11

Like John who carried the physical scars of the treatment he had gone through on his way to his healing, we too will have marks, internal or otherwise, that show that ‘WP, Charles and/or Marcee were here’

But by grace alone; we too have an Alicia who stays through it all. He sticks out every blow, every ditch attempt and every relapse. He offers a new life, a better life of truth. Once we accept him and all the truth he offers, we may one day echo John’s words to his Alicia:

“I’ve made the most important discovery of my life. It’s only in the mysterious equation of love that any logical reasons can be found. I’m only here tonight because of you. You are the only reason I am… you are all my reasons.”

Selah.  

FAITH...

This is such a weighty title that it puts the fear of the Lord in me. I hate such titles because I sometimes feel like they have been over done. It is almost like watching a romantic comedy; I can predict what the person is going to say because I have heard it all before. You can ask my mother on a Saturday morning during the Muvhango omnibus how much I detest repeats. With that being said I hope that this is not a repeat of a sermon you’ve heard or a best selling Christian book. If it is, please feel free to wait for the next blog, whose date is unknown. While I’m still there, apologies for the late update.

Between the last blog post and now, I have been going through an interesting phase of my life. Read ‘interesting’ as ‘awful, but there should be some good in the midst of this, right?!’ It all started when I got an email asking me to apply for a programme at my dream organisation. Exactly a year ago, I found out about the UNESCO Young Professionals Programme. If anyone knows me and finds out what UNESCO is all about, they will see that what that organization is aiming to do resonates so deeply in my heart. I will not get into details for fear of getting side-tracked. This, and not the invitation to apply, was what posed my problem. I wanted this so much that the world lost its luster. Everything palled in comparison to this opportunity. Still don’t see the problem? Well…

What if I didn’t get in?

Have you ever wanted something so much that you procrastinated doing it for two weeks because you would rather face your own regretful wrath than the possible rejection? I have. But this still wasn’t the root of the problem either.

In everything I have ever attempted or wanted, God (you know? Jehovah Jirah? The one that provides? Yes! That guy) well, he has always been apart of it. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t go to him, seeking solace. This time somehow it was different. Hard as I tried, I could not utter anything more than a “Jesus, PLEASE”. Disconcerting, I know. When I got to the bottom of this I found that I actually did not trust God.

 And all the Pharisees, myself included, began to throw stones. “How dare you not trust GOD?!”

Over the last couple of years, I have been disappointed in so many things; relationships, leadership opportunities, travel opportunities, the list goes on. All the while during these times, I had had hope anchor me. I had had faith. It seemed as if God had been pulling pranks and I was the unsuspecting dim-wit who kept going back to the hanging carrot, even after he had said “PSYCH!” so many times before. This is what it felt like in that moment when I attempted to type out that application. In that moment I was reminded of all that I had felt cheated of. But here is the catch, I wasn’t even angry at God. I was angry at myself. How could you, being saved by miraculous grace, not trust the one who gives you life everyday? Just because that guy you loved so much didn’t wait for you like he said he would, just because you didn’t get that Italian adventure, how dare you distrust God?

This sounds so noble, so Christian. But somehow it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

More times than not, I believe I give God a way out. I make up excuses for him because it is easier to think of God as one who is faithful more than I could ever be. Don’t get me wrong, God is more faithful than I could ever imagine. The problem is how I get to this conclusion after a disappointment. The only reason I flee to get God off the hook is because it is less painful to think that he would let me get disappointed.

A couple of days ago, my cellphone was stolen. Now, I should probably explain my relationship with my phones. I have never lost a phone (excepting one R60 phone that was left at the beach). I have had the same number since I was fifteen. I credit this to the fact that I have prayed over my phones (excepting the R60 one that was left at the beach). This white beauty was no exception. I loved that phone more than any other phone I had ever had. I loved discovering new things on it. I loved how versatile it was. It was my baby. And now some other idiot had it.

I was upset and I didn’t understand. Instead of going to God and saying “Hey, Daddy, why?!” I just resorted to my normal self battery. Leave God out of your carelessness. That was the initial reaction. The next one was redeeming God; “maybe God has a better phone (insert ‘plan’) for me. Maybe this one was going to get me into trouble and God is protecting me… etcetera etcetera.” Hmph. Don’t you get tired of yourself sometimes?

I have taken the long way round to get to the point of this blog post. Forgive me.

When I got home and delivered the news about the phone to my mom, she put on her full armour and we prayed with a friend of hers for the safe return of my baby. Meeting this woman, I was suddenly injected with a portion of a kind of faith I had never had before. The authoritative kind. The kind that tells demons to flee and raises the dead. Needless to say, the next day, I was expectant. Nothing. And then the next day I went even more expectant. Still, nothing.

There he goes again, laughing with the angels, “we got her again, hey Michael? PSYCH!”

What do you do with your faith when the substance of what you hoped for does not come? Do you do what I do and hide behind excuses like “maybe I didn’t hear God properly” all in the name of keeping faith alive, or do you raise your fists at the heavens like Job eventually did?

Being the person that I am, I am very grateful that God is very secure; that his identity is not shaken by our thoughts about him. I wonder why he requires that we have faith. Why does he say that without faith, it is impossible to please him? Why does he insist on it like it is some magic potion that fixes everything, when my life and so many other lives clearly prove that it doesn’t always work? I know that God is not mean spirited; that he is not out to get us, but why? Why does he do this? Tells us we can move mountains, walk on water with just a little bit of faith? Is he crazy?

I have tearfully pondered upon these questions over the last couple of days and have come to a conclusion. I am tempted to think that this is yet another way of getting God off the hook, but I am going to be ironic and have a little faith. So here it goes; here is my proposition.

Maybe the purpose of faith is not the ‘what’ that we have faith for. Maybe the purpose of faith is the ‘who’ we have faith in. What if the fish instead of the snake is just another way of getting to the father? What if that rejection letter is meant to take you back into his arms?  What if the sole purpose of having faith is to get you even closer to God, regardless of the result of that faith? Remember Abraham? Taking Isaac, the promised heir, up that mountain to be slaughtered, Abraham had faith that God would make a way to fulfill his promise. The focal point of his faith wasn't the ram or the son, but the God! Wow.

So here I am waiting for that response from UNESCO, hoping for the job but being undeniably sure that there is God on the other side. I am going to have faith that I am going to get that license the right way and meet God on the steering wheel. I am going to have faith that in my foolishness I didn’t miss my husband because at the end I will find Jesus at the real wedding banquet. Here I am, finding myself smart phoneless, but so much closer to God.

When you remember that the purpose of your faith is to get you to God, you are never disappointed. 

Selah. 

Introducing me

For twenty three years now, there has been a battle of who inhabits this body. A battle between three different aspects: expectations, aspirations, reality and a mixture of all three depending on what time of the day you caught me. I have been at war with myself and today (well, technically yesterday seeing that it is 3am) is the day that it stops.

This identity crisis of sorts began long before I could fully conceptualize the idea of the self. Before I was born, my father wanted to name me Onkgoposte (after a political struggle hero), but I turned out to be a girl. He decided on the name Lesang. My mother, who had a surge of whatever hormones one has after giving birth, forgot to put her name of choice on my birth certificate. So I became Lesang Gumede. When my parents sealed the deal and tied the knot, became Lesang Sebaeng.

Apparently, when I was younger, I went around telling people that my name was ‘Hlihli’. I don’t know what existential crisis was going on in that little head of mine, but that utterance did not resemble any of my names; official or otherwise. But over and above that, it wasn’t even a word.  In grade 6 or so, we had a project where we had to find out what our names meant and why we had been given those names. With a peculiar Tswana name like Lesang, I could not fake the project, so I asked my father. He was not of any help; told me that he would only tell me when I turned 21. I, disappointed and highly irritated, turned around to say, “Well, I will use that name when I’m twenty one!” At the back of my mind, I was relying on my mother’s unofficial offering. I kept my word; when I got to high school and I was asked which name I wanted to be addressed by, I simply said, Mbali.

As if this name crisis was not enough, seventeen year old me, seeking acceptance from my paternal grandma, asked why I was the only one of her grandchildren who had not received a name from her. My answer became Baratamang.  When the time came for me to get an identity document, according to the South African Government, I was Mbali Lesang Baratamang Sebaeng.

I have always struggled to 'describe myself'. I have wondered about people who have easily done this. Secretly I would judge their answer, wondering which version of themselves they were describing; their real 'when I am alone' selves, their aspirational selves or their expected selves. This is because I have been fighting with myselves and have been fought with about this very question.  

Growing up an only child and being an introvert of sorts (my friends are shaking their heads at this. Noted), all I had for best friends were my books and the television. I could get lost in those worlds. I would include myself in the storylines; rewrite reality and in the process, rewrite myself. Somewhere along the road, I lost the plot.

The added pressure of being constructed into being what I was expected to be; the good Christian girl, the academic achiever, the writer, the caring friend, the humble child and every mother’s desire got a bit too much and it broke me. Ever since then, I have been roaming the streets of me, picking up shatters of glass holding on tight to them as if they were the truest version of me until I bled. I would then throw them down, pick up another pile and carry on with the journey.

How awful.

However, I was meditating on a piece of scripture in James 1 recently and it gave me a new perspective.  I won’t get into too much detail about it, but essentially what I got from it is that, the Word of God points out how sinful we actually are. It is a mirror. On the other hand, the Word (as we learn from John 1) is Jesus himself. When we look at the Word, we see ourselves and Jesus. The cool thing that we also know that when God the Father sees us, He sees Jesus and all his righteousness. This is cause for rejoicing. In reality we are both tattered and torn, needing healing through Jesus, but we are also whole and healed because of Jesus. But the main point I want to drive home and straight to my own heart, is that we cannot ever truly know who we really are until we look at the mirror and keep our eyes focused on it. As we are focused on this Word Jesus, we see the transformation of broken pottery to Kintsugi.

This morning I had a choice between two pairs of shoes, regular black leather boots or my blue Wellington boots. I chose the latter even though there was not a rain cloud in sight or as someone pointed out, “it [wasn’t] THAT cold”. This was a private and public declaration of my independence from my own governance and other-centered governance on what is acceptable for me to be.

From yesterday, I chose to embrace what I see in the mirror, whether it is red hair and blue Wellingtons or a stiletto and a black number.  Whether it is the woman who is a hot mess, afraid of her own potential or the girl who slaps her thighs, almost out of breath, laughing at her own jokes. I chose to be who He says I am and who He says I should be. I chose to be what I see in the mirror.

So world, this is me introducing me.