In my dream, a young woman I know was uttering a complaint to me, and as she stuttered through her complaint, it came out as a song; the others around us heard only a beautiful song.

As I replied back, I took a more measured approach, acknowledging her criticism, but assuring her that things were not as bad as she said, that she had misunderstood the nature of the people and institution about which she was complaining. The people around us scolded me for my negativity and not recognizing her song. The more I tried to explain, the worse my explanation was received. Fast forward ten years, and someone brings up this occasion as a critique of my negativity, and I am silent. This other person wipes their mouth with a napkin and leaves the room in disgust. End dream.

As I ponder this, I feel it must be a metaphor for something that happened a few months ago. A few months ago, someone brought up an experience I had at a church nearly a decade ago. I am not sure they realized the experience was from nearly a decade ago, but they had received some one-sided information. They had heard I had not fit in another church. At the time, I kind of ate it because I felt that no matter how I tried to explain it, the result would be more misunderstanding. I don’t get flustered often, but I tend to get flustered when trying to communicate with certain people, and when I get flustered, I tend to make little sense.

Those of you who read my blog a decade ago lived through that church experience with me. Though I didn’t talk about the details, my frustration came out. A decade ago, I moved across the country and joined a church. Before I ever arrived, some within the church had heard an earful about me from other people who had never known me (I know this because these people got to know me later and apologized). I was only at the church for seven months, but my time at that church was miserable. No matter what I said, it was taken in light of the false information they had on me. No effective communication took place in that situation because of their bias and my frustration.

I received disturbing letters from the congregation. A main area of criticism was my relationship with Rachel. On one occasion, my pastor reported to me that someone from a sister church had seen Rachel and I sitting on the couch in a lobby, and by the way we were sitting, the person judged, “If they’re sitting that closely on a couch, I can only imagine what they’re doing in the bedroom.” Now I find it disturbing that he’d want to imagine that, but the ghettoized Reformed theology of the church drove the people’s view of pre-marital relationships. In truth, Rachel and I weren’t making out (or even kissing) or sitting on each other’s laps. We were simply close to each other. On another occasion, a church member wrote a letter to my father-in-law about Rachel and my public display of affection at church. The offense? While we were sitting in church, our shoulders were touching. Things got worse when my roommate was excommunicated. Somehow I got associated with his ways. Though each week was drudgery, I did not want to leave the church for the wrong reasons.

I ended up leaving that church after seven months because another church asked me to lead worship on Wednesdays and assist leading on Sundays. For awhile, leaving only intensified the reaction I got from the old church’s members. But eventually, I started to receive apology letters from members of the church for the way they had treated me. Some, of course, never acknowledged their wrong, and unfortunately, the repercussions of that experience followed me to the conversation I had a couple of months ago.

When I went into CPE at St. Luke’s, I spent time exploring this phenomenon in my life; in fact, it was the main focus of my self-reflection. What I learned is that poor communication often reflects both the communicator and the audience. I’m trying to make peace with this, but when the repercussions follow me (or precede me to my next life situation), it is frustrating. It is difficult to be misunderstood and even harder when those around you are perceived as beautiful singers of speech. Every time I think I am working through my frustration, something else arises that brings it back. I just wish it wouldn’t happen in the middle of my attempts at sleep.

The other two dreams had to do with the Tea Party, and apparently, I was a really big fan in my dreams.

In the first dream, I was selling newspapers, and a guy says, “I haven’t been here in a really long time. Which pill should I take? The red pill or the blue pill?” I start walking with him and say, “If you take the red pill, your once lucrative career will be shipped overseas. You will be told unemployment is low because there will be many jobs, but they won’t pay enough to support a family. All the money will be taken to start wars around the world.” The guy replies, “So I should take the blue pill?” I say, “If you take the blue pill, you will work endlessly…if you can find a job. Half of your earnings will be given to drug addicts and prostitutes.” (Realize this isn’t really representative of my views.) The guy replies, “So which pill should I take?” By now, we’ve wondered through the city streets and an alley where dealers are peddling red and blue pills, and we’re at a harbor that has the background of San Francisco. I take a brown pill filled with tea and throw it into the brown harbor, and with a maniacal smile exclaim, “Take the brown pill…it’s for freedom!” The guy looks at me and says, “Uhhhh….I like freedom?” He pauses, turns around, and walks away. I’m pretty sure this dream was a commercial/ad.

The third dream is actually an alternative ending to the second dream. At the end of my spiel, the guy asks again, “So which pill should I take?” I reply, “Take the grey pill. The earl grey pill.” The camera pans out, and we’re wearing tuxedos with coat tails, while standing on a semi truck going down the highway. After handing him the pill, I dive off the back of the truck, into a limo which has no top, into a lake of grey tea. Yes, a limo-lake. The other guy is left on the top of the truck with a choice to make—the uncertainty of driving down the highway on top of a truck or…the peaceful calm of a grey limo-lake.

Unfortunately I didn’t dream long enough to see how McCain’s plan was better for the uninsured. Maybe tomorrow night.

Anamnesis is usually referred to as “bringing the past into the present.” However, the literal translation of that word is “the bringing near of memory.” “Memory” being a recapitulation of past events, not just a recalling of thoughts.

In the Hebrew, the word for “offering” is corban. Or so you see it translated. It is literally “the thing brought near.” Communion is a bringing near of Jesus by anamnesis.

If I had an Oxford English Dictionary sitting by my side, it would be interesting to see if there are any etymological connections between the two words.

That was long. I have a very weird imagination.

I have a very strange mind.