MEUS BONUS PARS

Aurora

2012-01-11T15:01:00.000-08:00

OneSunday morning, a little over a year ago, I was up before dawn. Personal struggles had led to a particularly difficult few weeks and yet another restlessnight. We live in the mountains in a home that overlooks a largemetropolitan area. I brewed a cup of tea and made my way out onto thedeck. As I gazed across the city lights below, I emptied myself outto God in prayer. I say “emptied myself in prayer,” but, if I'mbeing honest, I think it was more of a gave-up-out-loud while God waslistening kind of thing; a behavior in no way to to be confused with“surrender.” Surrender is an act of the will. It's choosing totake the loss and, by default, letting your counterpart win. There'salmost always someone else involved— someone to whom you surrender.Giving up? Well, I can do that all by myself. No opponent necessary.

Emotionallyspeaking, I don't know which I find more frightening: feelingentirely empty or overwhelmingly full. I suppose it depends a gooddeal on with what I'm filled. On this particular occasion, I feltboth empty and full. Is that even possible? To feel completely fullup with more negative emotion than one can handle and to feelcompletely empty in spite of it? Or, did I feel completely emptybecause of it? All I know is that I wanted to cry.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'mreally not much of a public crier. For the most part, I'm emotionally reserved (thanks, dad). So, some might find it surprising that my heart breaks quite easily; more and more as time goes by.In truth, I'm considerably softhearted (shhh, don't tell). I get that universallyfamiliar lump in my throat and my eyes well up: when I think about my kids, when Ihear a particularly moving piece of music, when I feel God speakingthrough something I read or hear or see, when I gaze at a powerfulphoto or painting, when I witness an act of truly inspiredselflessness, when I think about cats. (I just want to hug themall... or not.) Evenso, it's sometimes hard for me to cry. I don't mean it's difficult for me toproduce tears. I mean, I seldom truly weep.

I usedto think that meant there was something really wrong with me. Ienvied the catharsis others appeared to find after a good, blubberybreakdown. But, when I do cry, I don't generally feel better for it.Perhaps it's a guy thing. Perhaps not. Either way, for me to say thatI wanted to cry is personally significant. I guess it might bemore accurate to say that I wanted something inside me to break. Itwouldn't. I longed for sorrow. I knew joy was too much to ask for andI just wanted to feel something simple, something noble enough todispel the feelings of frustration and fear and anger and confusionand helplessness that consumed me.

As Ispoke, my throat began to close and my mouth contorted, my neckmuscles tensed and my eyes clenched tightly... but alas, nothing. Ithink I wanted it too badly. I was lost and repentant and hungry for change. I wanted to sit there before God asalty, wet mess; a broken heap. It seemed appropriate. I didn't want topresent myself to him all hard and in matter-of-fact. That had to be wrong. But, I was tired in every way a person can be tired. I wasphysically tired, emotionally tired, spiritually tired, and I wastired of waiting for the soft, helpless, childlike desperation withwhich you're supposed to approach God... yes? Unfortunately, I couldn't find my way there fromwhere I was. I gave up. I sat staring into the distance, no longertrying to figure out from whence the courage to start my day mightcome. Either it would come, or it wouldn't. That's all. I gave up.

Astillness began to settle over me— a product of my resignation, nodoubt. It was nothing magical, but I was going to take whatever Icould get. I inhaled the cool air and looked up at the silhouette ofthe pine trees around me. The sky was starting to change. A subtlepurple hue eased in to replace the blackness. It's actually quitestunning how quickly our world changes from night into day. One minute it's as black as... well,night. And, the next thing you know, light moves over the surface ofthe earth like a welcome breeze that blows gently across yoursweat-damp skin on a hot summer day. But in those fleeting moments Isaw something I'd never seen before. The twinkling lights from thecity below, the same that had so starkly offset the darkness only abreath or two ago, began to fade before my eyes. They weren't goingout. Not really. Still, little by little they became less and lessremarkable— another breath, and they were gone.

Now,somewhere there was a power plant pumping raw electricity totransformers that routed impressive amounts of voltage to homes andstreetlamps and signs and traffic signals all over the city. Thewhite hot filaments of millions of bulbs continued to burn withpassion. But, no matter how much energy coursed through thesemanufactured luminaries, it was all to no avail. Absolutelymeaningless. God, one. Humanity, zero. No contest.

Dawn hadcome. And, I knew then that it didn't really matter all that much ifI surrendered by choice, if I just gave up, or if I held on with avengeance. When dawn comes, all bets are off.

That wasa little over a year ago. How much and yet how little in my life haschanged. Just now, outside my study window, I watched the sun setbeyond the coastal ridge. The city below has come to life. The lightsdance, an amalgam of colors shimmering through the atmosphereattempting to lure me into yet another catatonic gaze. I trust thoselights. I understand them. I know how to control them. They know howto control me. They fill me up. It's what I want. And yet, I feel empty. Maybe it's because I know, somehow, that it's a manufactured reality. This doesn't make it any less "real." Still, illusions are almost always based in reality. That doesn't make them true. So, here's to the not-so-subtle difference! Foolme once...

A Contingency

2011-07-04T16:46:00.000-07:00

I packed my dreams away
In case of rain.
It seemed like a good idea.
Wouldn't want them ruined
By the elements.
Only now,
Now, the rain is here.
And I'm the one who is exposed.

[read more at Once Upon a Blog]

A Foreword

2011-05-05T11:13:00.000-07:00

After four years of writing “Meus Bonus Pars,” I thought it might be time to shake things up a bit.

My house is full of antiques: a china hutch from Oklahoma with pecan veneer panels; an Italian marble coffee table gifted by my wife's great-aunt; a 70 year old, mahogany secretary that we picked up somewhere in California; two oversize alabaster lamps from God-knows-where... Each piece is unique and attractive in its own right. But, perhaps more significant for me than appearance or function is the knowledge that every piece comes with a story. Sometimes I know the history. Most of the time, I don't. But, I know it's there. I love that those stories, in some small way, become a part of my own. And, should the pieces ever leave my home, they carry a bit of me on the next leg of their journey. I’m now a part of their story.

I come to deeper, better, more healthy terms with myself when I acknowledge that the people and things around me have their own story—they're not just background characters and set pieces in the tale of me. I often stop to imagine what those stories might be. It would be fun to see those musings take form outside of my head. Even so, I've never thought of myself as a fiction writer. Perhaps because my past attempts (long ago) were feeble, at best. Lately, however, I've become captivated by the explosion of flash fiction in print and on the web. I'm a somewhat reluctant social joiner. But, it would be sophomoric to dismiss any form of creative development solely as a matter of principle or out of fear that I might not meet with easy success.

So, I've opened a new writing forum. "Once Upon a Blog" is my turn around the flash fiction circle. Some posts may lean more toward short story. I may even throw in some poetry from time to time. Whatever the medium, these entries are born somewhere beyond the boundaries of my reality; places only accessed by imagination. Check it out and let me know what you think.

I won't be abandoning this space. It is very much my plan to continue to write for Meus Bonus Pars as time and inspiration allows. I would love the benefit of your feedback in both forums and, as always, thanks for reading!

Save the Humans!

2010-10-23T23:37:00.000-07:00

At present, I sit perched atop a rock formation a few hundred feet above a crystal blue mountain lake nestled deep in the San Bernardino National Forest. It’s a crisp, clear, autumn day. The smell of dark, rich oak; musky woodland earth; and sweet butterscotch (from the bark of the Jeffrey Pines) form an intoxicating blend, each alternating in strength and distinction with every passing breeze. The sun shines warm on the back of my shirt while the wind chills my neck, nose and hands. Winter has sent cool, fresh oxygen ahead to scout the landscape. The brisk air burns my nasal passages as I breathe in a bit too deeply. And, instead of taking the opportunity to truly enjoy my surroundings, to draw on the inspiration presented by the muse of God’s creation—inspiration to meditate, pray, write, rest; I find myself derailed, thoughts hijacked by a plastic water bottle. Here, along the woodland trail, someone has discarded a water bottle. While I want to believe this was inadvertent, an old tennis shoe abandoned on a rock a few feet back has already set my mind’s course in the opposite direction.

I place the garbage in my day pack and push ahead, trying to refocus and enjoy the afternoon. I find a secluded spot away from the main trail and begin to read. Half an hour slips by. I watch chipmunks dart blithely in and out of the rocks around me. It's cold in the shadows—the cleft of the rock where I have been sitting. I set out further into the woods in search of a sunnier site. No sooner have I escaped the solitude of my boulder fortress than I literally trip on a second water bottle; a synthetic blemish conspicuously marring the forest floor.

Now, I’ve never spray painted a fur coat or picketed the G.M. Corporation for producing gas guzzling sport utility vehicles. I don’t have solar panels on my roof. I don’t limit my wardrobe to natural fibers. I don’t post the photos of the latest puppy up for adoption at the local shelter on my facebook profile. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that...” I’m just not that guy. Even so, I love granola. I can frequently be found camping or hiking or biking. I often spend hours exploring tide pools or photographing coastal wildlife. I hate wearing shoes. I love the mountains and the ocean and the desert. I enjoy sleeping outside under the stars. (I took my oldest son camping in the inner gorge of Grand Canyon, just he and I, when he was only seven years old.) I recycle. I bring my own bags to the grocery store whenever possible...

I connect with God most freely when I am surrounded by the beauty of His creation. I’m overwhelmed by the intricacy and balance—the plenary perfection in His design. I’ve learned more of who He is and who I am in environments such as these. For a long time, stumbling upon vandalism or reckless abuse would make me angry. I’d feel robbed—somehow victimized by another person's thoughtlessness; another person's selfishness. But, anger is rarely a healthy motivator. Going deeper, I can’t help but acknowledge that the agenda behind this kind of emotion is ultimately just as narcissistic.

I could tell you that the water bottles and the abandoned footwear and the graffiti on the majestic, fifty foot rocks at the top of this trail all rob me of the enjoyment of the natural beauty around me. And, honestly, it is, for me, a bit like an air-horn in the middle of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto for strings. But, who am I that these things should be mine to enjoy? Why am I at the center of this argument? Am I the victim? Really?

Please understand, I am not advocating for the chipmunks or oak trees or Jeffry Pines (though that might not be a bad thing). And, I do see how nature is often victimized by humanity. But, how much more often is humanity victimized by itself? Today, as I sit here, I can’t help but wonder “who we think we are?”

You see, on my way here, I passed through a construction zone where crews are building a new bridge/dam over the lake. Large portions of rock had to be carved away to accommodate the new road. Metal anchors protrude from the boulders to hold the elements in place. But, perhaps most disturbingly, there is a portion of the rock facing that has been reconstructed—fashioned out of concrete to give a more “natural” look to the cliff wall along the man-made path. So, now we are synthesizing nature?

I hiked this same trail with my family a couple of weeks ago. At the top, colorful moss adorns the underside of a large rock formation. My youngest son asked me who painted the rocks. It wasn’t that he had no context for understanding the limitless colors and variations of organic life. It's just that my family is constantly exposed to the graffiti laden urban area in the valley below. He has become accustomed to the defacement and subsequent cleanup (smeared residue or patches of rolled paint) of freeway overpasses and abandoned buildings. The “tagging” at the top of the trail, around the corner from where we stood, just further confirms his suspicion that someone has painted these rocks.

When did nature become unnatural? Is our life so full of simulation that we are unable to distinguish between the real and the synthetic? Maybe someone left their tennis shoe on the rock because it didn’t seem all that wrong or out of place. After all, the last time they were sitting on a "rock" adjusting their shoe was on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland or outside the Rainforest Café that anchors the southeast entrance of the mall. Maybe the individual didn’t notice they were leaving their water bottle behind because the synthetic has become so commonplace among the natural. Is that possible? Are we losing the ability to make these important differentiations? If so, what does that say about our ability to understand ourselves and others? Are other vital areas of discernment lost on us as well—the kind of distinctions that feed our appreciation of one another? Are we able to distinguish ourselves from God? Do we want to? Using Hollywood motion picture set tricks to even out part of the rock wall along the highway is just an innocuous enhancement, right? What are the broader implications in my relationships, my education, my faith? How do we keep from becoming disillusioned or even jaded when the Divine has become so inscrutably intertwined with humanity—when the dangerously dynamic God has been replaced by a more manageable static version? The angst I often feel at the intersection of identity and spirituality expands in the vacuum created by these unanswered questions.

Get the "lead" out

2010-08-25T21:39:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since my last post. Sorry about that. This has been an extremely busy summer. Among other things, my family and I moved from the valley to a home in the nearby mountains—which, consequently, leads me to my thought for the day.

A couple of weeks ago, early on a Sunday morning, we were driving “down the hill” and, as is often the case, we found ourselves in a winding line of cars accordioned together by a slow vehicle in the lead.

The shortest route connecting our small town to the valley below is a two lane, state highway. There are four, brief segments over the fourteen mile stretch where the road widens, providing an opportunity for motorists to pass slower vehicles. In addition, there are dozens of “turn-outs” along the road. Signs are posted, encouraging slower motorists to use these “turn-outs.” Funny, no matter how long the line of cars behind them, few of the slower drivers seem to recognize that these signs refer to them.

There we are, riding our brakes down the twisting mountain road, praying the hunter green minivan in the lead will take the not-so-subtle hint. Alas, no such luck. So, we wait in restless anticipation for the next passing lane. Sadly, however, if one finds oneself more than two vehicles behind the lead car, the chances of passing the offending tortoise are sketchy at best. Hairpin curves and steep grades present a worthy challenge even for the most skilled drivers. Often, only a vehicle or two break away. The remaining seven jockey aggressively in a 20 second free-for-all, eventually settling into a new, but equally frustrating configuration.

A small, white sedan that had been veraciously tailgating our minivan pied piper eagerly passed at the first opportunity. I watched in envy, fully expecting the car to slip quietly away into the serpentine distance. On the contrary, we watched in head-shaking resignation as the sedan settled into a pace negligibly different than that of the minivan. I might have been surprised if I hadn’t witness the same phenomenon countless times before.

As the noxious stench of burning brake pads wafted inexorably through the morning air, I thought to myself, “dissatisfied followers make lousy leaders.” How many people make it a life theme to discredit, defame, second guess, and work around those out-in-front? But, when granted the reigns, either by gift or by coups, they demonstrate a keen lack of innovation or meaningful direction.

A few miles ahead, our not-so-merry band of travelers caught up to another small string of vehicles, held captive by a large RV. The driver of the behemoth, more considerate than many, pulled over into a suitable turn-out and the now lengthy parade of motorists made their way past. Both cars that had initially been trapped behind the RV resumed a tempo quite a bit brisker than the white sedan had previously maintained. You guessed it! The driver of the white sedan began hugging the tail of his leader—exercising the tenacity of a would-be revolutionary, desperate to triumph over his malicious oppressors.

The simple truth is that most people—in spite of all the complaining, the character aspersions, the social tailgating—need a leader to follow; an official pace car, if you will. It’s much easier to apply the pressure than it is to deal with it. Ask Governor Schwarzenegger.

Literary Roulette

2010-05-06T00:16:00.000-07:00

It’s not that there are no words waiting to emerge from the blank page before me. Alas, there are too many words; too many thoughts; too many emotions. Most are worthy of contemplation. Few are worthy of prose.

I recently saw a clip from the 80’s hit television show, The Golden Girls. Betty White’s character, true to course, launches into some inane tale from her childhood. Estelle Getty’s character responds. “What an injustice! Hemingway ran out of stories to tell and shot himself. She just keeps on going!”

Tonight, I find myself caught somewhere between St. Olaf and The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.

A picture's worth...

2010-03-09T22:14:00.000-08:00

…about 39¢ at the Kodak photo kiosk.

I spend a lot of time at the beach—biking; kayaking; exploring tide pools; enjoying the sun, sand, and surf. The family and I went whale watching a couple of weekends ago. We’ve been a number of times, each trip a unique adventure. From late January through mid April, California Gray Whales migrate from the warm waters of the Baja Mexico peninsula (where they breed) to the food rich waters of the Arctic.

On a two hour expedition, it is a treat to see one or two of the exquisite mammals. On this particular outing, we were privileged to follow three whales for over an hour. Seeing the Gray Whales fluke (a dive fully exposing the large, powerful tail) is also no guarantee. We saw the trio fluking more than half a dozen times.

I took our old beater, 2.0 megapixel, digital camera on the trip. When we would see a whale crest the blue-green waters on the horizon, I would rush to the side of the boat and snap feverishly, desperate to capture the moment. I kept thinking of people I wished were there with us—family friends who would love this experience. I hoped the photos might inspire them to plan their own expedition. Even more, I wanted to capture the wonder and remember the connection I felt with creation. On occasions like these, my petty problems are swallowed up by a glimpse at the enormity and beauty of God; showcased in this breathtaking work of art we call Earth. These are among the lean but precious moments that grant pause to my otherwise evanescent existence.

Once home, I couldn’t wait to view the photos. The images staring back at me from the screen failed to meet my expectations. I wasn’t surprised by the poor quality. My disappointment and frustration had little to do with the inferior results. Even with the very best technology, the photos were destined to miss the mark.

I grabbed a great shot of my wife leaning against the port bow, the late morning sun warm on her face. But, there was a young boy behind her in the shot. Not one of my children. A stranger. I honestly don’t remember him being in the frame. So, I used my finely tuned photo editing skills and extremely expensive software to simply remove him from the photo. After the expedition was over, we went on a hike up the coast, investigating tide pools and exploring caves carved out by centuries of waves crashing against the rocky shore. I took a photo of the stony coastline. On the left hand side of the frame, a couple stands near the ocean cliff. I somehow overlooked them in my viewfinder. In fact, I don’t recall them ever being there at all. Again, a little computer magic, and they were gone.

Not long ago, we celebrated a good friend’s birthday by going to see jazz singer, Jane Monheit, at a club in Hollywood. She is a favorite of mine and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have her sign a CD and pose alongside me for a photo. After a few weeks of displaying the picture as taken, I cropped Jane out, did a little photo manipulation, and used the headshot as my profile icon on a social networking sight.

A friend commented: “You're playing with Baudrillard's notions of simulation/simulacra quite a bit here...”

My reply: “Is that the notion that reality doesn't exist; that humanity has reduced everything to a mere simulation of reality? If so, I'm not entirely certain I disagree— with the theory or how it may relate to this photo. [written with a sly grin]”

Her response: “Yes, this is a simulation of ‘you’ - the simulation is even furthered by merely taking a picture... copies of copies... =)”

On principle, I am not one for revisionist history. I like to think I remember (or at least strive to remember) things as they were, not as I want them to have been. However, I realize that my understanding of “how things were” was then and still remains limited to my perspective, my values, my focus. I manipulated the photos to better serve as a reflection of my memory of the outing. One may argue that, in doing so, I altered reality. But, alas, in truth, it is my experience, my perceived reality I want to immortalize.

I trust the images I capture with my camera to spark memories of the experience. I see the photos and suddenly I can smell the ocean. I feel the breeze. My muscles recall the difficulty of the rocky terrain. I feel the cool of the water filling my boot as I misstep in an ocean cave. I hear the seagulls overhead and the crash of the waves against the shore. I feel the rocking of the boat, the smooth wood of the starboard rail, and the softness of my wife’s hand in mine. I hear Ms. Monheit’s warm, sultry tones— the fragrance of wine rich and heavy in the air.

But, sharing my photos with you, providing a soundtrack, simulating a fragrance, adjusting the temperature… regardless of the accuracy of the images, no matter how multisensory the replication; I cannot give you my experience.

My grandparents used to travel a lot. They would fly off to exotic places and visit people and things I had only read about or seen on television. My siblings and I could hardly wait to see what souvenirs they might bring. We would pour through their photos. (My grandmother was notorious for cutting people’s heads out of the frame.) We would listen to them talk about their adventures. It was enough to wet my appetite for such experiences but, sadly, it would be some time before I had the freedom or resource to taste them myself.

A number of years ago, my family and I drove down highway 101 in Los Angeles for the first time. I saw the murals that had been painted on the freeway wall in preparation of the 1984 Olympics. I remembered them from my grandparents’ photos. In context, they were nothing like what I had imagined those many years before. The amazing thing was not seeing them for myself, it was sharing them (along with my childhood memories of the idea of them) with my own children.

In the next few weeks I will be spending a good deal of money upgrading my camera. I am excited about the notion of capturing the beauty of the world around me with a higher level of excellence. I thoroughly enjoy photography as art. I am a graphic design hobbyist largely because I enjoy sharing ideas and emotions through visual expression. But, life is not a scrapbook. It is not a collection hanging in a gallery. And, if I wish to really taste it and smell it and feel it and know it… I must do so by personally engaging life’s subject matter. If I want those I care about to enjoy the benefits of my experiences, I must bring them on the journey. In the end, to see the whales —I mean to really know what they look like— you can’t log on to my blog. You have to get on the boat.

“You’re gonna make it after all!”

2010-02-20T08:17:00.000-08:00

In 1970, Mary Tyler Moore starred in a runaway television hit bearing her name. Her character, Mary Richards, was a tenacious, independent woman in her thirties who exercised the personal strength and resourcefulness necessary to “make it” on her own in the big city. Breaking with the social convention of the day, she was the first single female character in television history not waiting or even looking for a man to marry and support her. She helped lead a cultural revolution to secure a professional place for women in what had been a man’s world. Ironically, Moore’s television stardom had been established by her role as Emily Post approved, stay-at-home wife and mother, Laura Petrie (“The Dick Van Dyke Show”).

Moore was not the first television actress to shed her archetypal, happy-homemaker persona. In 1962, iconic comedienne, Lucille Ball, traded in the puritanical Lucy Ricardo image to become Lucy Carmichael, a middle aged widow and mother of two. The show chronicled her adventures as she successfully, but inimitably navigated life as a single mother: first, in suburban Connecticut (with roommate Vivian Bagley, a divorcée with one son), and later, living on her own in Los Angeles.

In 1975, Norman Lear introduced us to George and Louise (Weezy) Jefferson; a successful, upwardly mobile, African-American couple holding their own in the Anglo-American dominated world of business and semi affluent society. The show, by far the most successful spin-off of Lear’s “All in the Family,” would continue for a total of eleven seasons, making it the longest running series in American television history to feature a predominantly African-American cast. This paved the way for the incontrovertible success of “The Cosby Show” (premiering in 1984), which ranked first in Nielson ratings for five consecutive seasons and opened the door for an explosion of African-American centered series like “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” “A Different World,” “In Living Color,” and “Family Matters.”

In 1998, NBC gave us “Will & Grace,” a show whose creators and cast were outspokenly dedicated to normalizing homosexuality in middleclass America.

But, this is not a post about social breakthroughs in media or the impact of television on civil rights. And, though I often use this forum to discuss the intersection of faith and culture, I will refrain from expressing my less than amiable views concerning the extreme fundamentalist argument that our world began to spiral out of control when women left the home or that corporate American media is driven by a liberal, anti-God agenda. Those targets are far too easy and the arguments a wasteful diversion. Instead, I want to speak to the universal social value demonstrated in what seems to be a recurring theme in small screen theatrics.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.” My fellow “LOST” addicts will recognize the John Locke mantra. But long before actor Terry O’Quinn uttered the phrase, it had already served as anthem for centuries of epic hero stories—fables, poetry, art, music, literature, cinema, television, on and on it goes.

I thoroughly enjoyed the Super Bowl this year. I’m not much of a football fan. I’ve been known to take in a good college game now and then, but I cannot honestly say I’ve ever watched an entire professional league game. This year was different. It wasn’t that I suddenly developed a greater appreciation for the sport. It was the circumstance I found engaging.

My wife was born in Louisiana. I know firsthand how diehard Saints fans can be. I also know how much of a joke the team has been to the rest of the NFL. When they earned their place in the Super Bowl opposite the Colts, I posted the following as my facebook status: “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” When the big game finally came around, I found myself cheering for the unlikely franchise. Not out of allegiance to my wife or her family, not out of pity or hope for the underdog— I rooted for the Saints because I love a good upset. It is not so much that I want to see the little guy win as it is that I enjoy seeing the self-assured, big guy get taken down a notch or two.

I laughed. I actually laughed out loud and for a long time when I heard that little-known Republican state legislator, Scott Brown, won Edward Kennedy's old seat in the US Senate. I was curiously ecstatic— not because or in spite of his political affiliation, rather because it seemed the people of Massachusetts went to the polls muttering, "don't tell me what I can't do."

There was something incredibly satisfying when my son’s U12 soccer team (who, consequently never won a single game in regular season play) knocked the number one ranked team out of the regional finals. When the odds are stacked against you, it feels good to have a little “don’t tell me what I can’t do” (a la Lucy, Mary, George, Will, or Locke) rise up from deep inside.

But, it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, this attitude has so permeated our sense of self and the social constructs of the average American community that we root for the underdog just to see the big guy fall. We simply can’t stand the thought that someone else gets to be right. But, just because someone or something is “wrong,” does that mean any opposition is “right” by default? Who decides? Before the battle, “sic semper tyrannis!”— but, what happens once Caesar is dead? You see, now the New Orleans Saints are the big guy to be beaten. Vindication rarely evens the playing field. Most often, all it does is rearrange the players.

While international and domestic equity assurance policies (e.g. Affirmative Action) are unquestionably noble in theory, in practice, they often seem to do little more than restack the deck. I’m not crying “reverse discrimination” here. I am simply pointing out that, when the dust settles, someone still wins and another still loses; someone gets the job and someone doesn’t.

I guess what I’m wondering is, from whence do our convictions come? Are they our own? Or, are they simply the opposite of what we perceive our enemy’s agenda to be? “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” When did we make the world about proving everyone else wrong? And, what does that say about humanity? Not everyone is right for every job. Not every team has what it takes to win the Super Bowl. Not every single (or single-again) man or woman is built to navigate life on their own. What makes us think that “on our own” is somehow better? And, while we certainly shouldn’t stack the odds against one another because of race, gender, religious conviction, marital status, and the like; anger and frustration and “don’t tell me what I can’t do” seem to lead to a mere shifting of the players and voices. Is this, ultimately, how we settle the issue of inequality? Is this the path to lasting peace? How many regimes must fall? How many leaders do we overthrow? How many amendments do we make? How many T.V. shows does it take?

Without argument, there are inhumanities that must be ended. There are egregious abuses to be redressed. This is not about acquiescence to oppression or a justification for tyranny. Even so, in the end, Mary Richards’ most formidable opponents were her own personal demons. She didn’t have to “stick it to the Man” to be happy. Lucy found the greatest joy among her friends and family, not in triumph over those she thought were her enemies. George and Weezy faced many of the same domestic and relational issues I grapple with daily, despite the differences in the color of our skin. Ironically, while Will and Grace boldly confronted unjust social generalizations and unmerited hatred, one petty quarrel would rob their characters of years of friendship. As for John Locke? ...well, I guess we’ll soon find out where “don’t tell me what I can’t do” gets him. Still, I cannot help but think there must be a better way. Maybe.

Meus Bonus Pars: The Lost Episodes

2010-01-17T20:39:00.000-08:00

Those of you who actually follow my blog with some regularity (or should I say both of you?) will notice that both this and the entry dated February 20 only just appeared today, March 13th. Confused? I often begin entries as inspiration strikes and then save the unfinished works as drafts until I have sufficient time to revisit them. (At present, there are at least four unfinished drafts waiting in cue.) While it is my intention to post here at least once a month, there are times when the "to do" list of life becomes brutal and the unshaped thoughts are left on the cyber-shelf. Furthermore, I will often take independent bits and pieces and fold them into a single post or add them as support to a burgeoning thought line. Some drafts may never become published pieces in any form.

So, when a post appears here, the date/time stamp usually represents the moment when the writing process began and may or mayn't reflect the publish date and time of the work. Sorry for the confusion. And yes, I wrote this entire entry just so I might have cause to use the contraction "mayn't."

10... 9... 8... 7... 6...

2009-12-31T17:24:00.000-08:00

A friend from years gone by posted this statement today on a social networking site…

Dear 2009: We are so over. You've been the most miserable year of my life. You lied to me, stole from me, and betrayed me. Worst of all, you shattered my heart without once looking back. But you know what? You will never destroy me because I am strength personified. Don't let my door smack you in the ass as you leave--good riddance!

I began a response. “Actually, it sounds like you owe a lot to 2009.” I should have stopped there but, instead, continued with something about how our character is more clearly defined in difficulty than by ease or even triumph. Impossible though it may seem, the message actually went downhill from there, attenuating to a level of triviality traditionally reserved for cheap fortune cookies. I quickly back-spaced the thoughts into cyber oblivion.

The truth is, in many ways, I share her sentiment. 2009 was not my favorite year and I can't say I'm sorry to see it go. I too find myself happily looking ahead.

Even so, I am not a big New Year resolution guy. Fresh starts? Great. Resolve and subsequent discipline? Let’s go. But, quixotic visions of new identity inspired by a superficial delineation of time? Good luck with that. Still, these superficial delineations are the framework for the world in which I must functionally exist. And, while I don’t believe it possible to make a clean break of the things I don’t like about who, what, and where I am, just because the year is coming to a close; change must find its beginning.

I am seldom completely unaware of the consequences of my actions. I live much more intentionally than that. However, that does not mean potential consequences are the major motivation for many of my choices—especially those I have or will come to regret most. No. Those choices are usually motivated by selfishness, immediacy, even apathy; regardless of any impending consequences.

I cannot speak of my resolve. I will make no personal promises. I'm not sure anyone ever really does. I think it is more accurate to say we have New Year desires—New Year hopes. So, what I long for in the New Year is to live in the full implication and reality of the statements made by a follower of Jesus, two millennia ago.

God went for the jugular when he sent his own Son. He didn't deal with the problem as something remote and unimportant. In his Son, Jesus, he personally took on the human condition, entered the disordered mess of struggling humanity in order to set it right once and for all. The law code, weakened as it always was by fractured human nature, could never have done that.

The law always ended up being used as a Band-Aid on sin instead of a deep healing of it. And now what the law code asked for but we couldn't deliver is accomplished as we, instead of redoubling our own efforts, simply embrace what the Spirit is doing in us.

Those who think they can do it on their own end up obsessed with measuring their own moral muscle but never get around to exercising it in real life. Those who trust God's action in them find that God's Spirit is in them—living and breathing God! Obsession with self in these matters is a dead end; attention to God leads us out into the open, into a spacious, free life. Focusing on the self is the opposite of focusing on God. Anyone completely absorbed in self ignores God, ends up thinking more about self than God. That person ignores who God is and what he is doing. And God isn't pleased at being ignored.

But if God himself has taken up residence in your life, you can hardly be thinking more of yourself than of him. Anyone, of course, who has not welcomed this invisible but clearly present God, the Spirit of Christ, won't know what we're talking about. But for you who welcome him, in whom he dwells—even though you still experience all the limitations of sin—you yourself experience life on God's terms. It stands to reason, doesn't it, that if the alive-and-present God who raised Jesus from the dead moves into your life, he'll do the same thing in you that he did in Jesus, bringing you alive to himself? When God lives and breathes in you (and he does, as surely as he did in Jesus), you are delivered from that dead life. With his Spirit living in you, your body will be as alive as Christ's!

So don't you see that we don't owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent. There's nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God's Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It's adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike "What's next, Papa?" God's Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what's coming to us—an unbelievable inheritance! We go through exactly what Christ goes through. If we go through the hard times with him, then we're certainly going to go through the good times with him!

Romans 8:3-17 [1]

1. Peterson, Eugene H. The Message: The Bible in Contemporary Language. Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2002.

James and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2009-11-30T15:50:00.000-08:00

I want to sleep in. I do. But as the autumn sunrise brightens the room, the anticipation of adventure stirs my soul. It’s more angst than anything, really. There is still much to do before we can leave. I’ve yet to take a family vacation for which we were anywhere near prepared when the day of departure arrived. The reservations have been made, the time frame for hitting the road has been discussed, but my wife and I carry in our heads two different versions of a last minute "to do" list and we are far from ready. We dig out the ice chest and load up bags with snacks and paper products for picnic lunches. We throw our clothes into a suitcase and remind the boys to pack their toothbrushes. I’ve made eight road trip mix CDs—a little travelling music. We load the mountain bikes on the back of the SUV, make sure the house is secure, and we’re off. Two hours later than I would have liked, but we are on the road all the same.

Our destination is only a little over an hour away, but Thanksgiving traffic may stretch the trip a bit. As we near the halfway point, I get a phone call from my mother. She and my father are camping for the holiday in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma. She has called to wish us a happy Thanksgiving, but the conversation, as it often will, encompasses a much broader range of topics. Just before we say our goodbyes, I notice the light indicating the pressure in my right rear tire has dropped below an acceptable level. A few exits go by and I pull off the freeway to add a bit more air. I plug in our small emergency compressor and proceed around to the rear of the vehicle only to discover a near flat tire. I can actually hear the hissing as the air escapes. I feel around the tread. My hand is met by a forceful stream flowing from where the inner sidewall meets the tread line.

The SUV is heavy laden with “necessary” provisions for our adventure. The bikes and bike rack prohibit the opening of the back door (from whence the spare is lowered and where the jack is stored). The spare, if I could get to it, is not full sized and would be inadequate for the journey (Joshua Tree National Park with an itinerary to include some back country travel). And, though our tires are under warranty with a major auto chain, it’s Thanksgiving Day and no one will be open.

Now, I understand that in the grand scheme of life, this is by no means tragic. However, in moments like these, when the excitement of actually getting away—the urgency I feel deep inside to escape to adventure is so palpable I can almost hear the movie score in my head, I have to tell you, I wasn’t taking it so well.

There is a Walmart half a block away (isn’t there always). Anyone who knows me will tell you I am not a fan. All right, that is a gross understatement. If it were 30 degrees below zero and a trip to Walmart meant the difference between a long, warm, happy life and slowly freezing to death, alone in the bitter cold, I'm still not sure I'd give Sam Walton the satisfaction.

Digression aside, I pull around to the auto center to see that they are chaining up the service bay entrances. It is almost noon and it looks as though they are closing the automotive department for the day. I enter the store and walk the aisles looking for God only knows what when I spot a can of aerosol flat repair for SUVs. I know what you are thinking. “DON’T DO IT! IT’S A TRAP!” But, “safe for tire sensors” is printed right on the side of the can and I’m desperate. If this can of flat repair will just get me to the hotel, I can unload the vehicle, change the tire, and formulate a more permanent solution from there. If it doesn’t work, I’m right back where I started, right? WRONG!

I follow the instructions precisely. Flat repair fluid comes gushing out of the hole in my tire and is now running down the parking lot. Subsequent steps call for driving a couple of miles to let the fluid evenly distribute and for the pressure to build, after which, once the leak is sealed, if the tire is still not fully inflated, more air can be added. I drive around a parking lot for about 10 minutes. When I stop, no more hissing. It worked! Even so, the tire is still 12-15 lbs low on pressure. I try to inflate it. The compressor nearly explodes. It seems as if no air can get through the valve stem.

I drive back to the retailer (whose name I dare not type three times in one post). Three mechanics are standing around in front of the auto center. As suspected, they have closed for the day. I approach the trio. They stop and look at me like I’ve just interrupted a nuclear disarmament summit.

Mechanic: “Do you need something?”

Me: “I have a question… well, more of a story really.” (I proceed to tell them what has transpired)

Mechanic: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Me: “You think?”

Mechanic: “You probably messed up your sensor. They cost $50 to replace.”

Me: “But it says right on the side of the can that it is safe for tire pressure sensors.”

Mechanic: “Yeah, I don’t know why it says that. The repair fluid is designed to plug holes. It doesn’t know an air pressure sensor or the valve stem from any other hole. It just plugs everything.”

Me: “All right. On to ‘plan B’ then. Thanks.”

They all three give me the look. You know the one. It was like I'd just asked Pavarotti if he knew how to sing “Glow Little, Glow Worm.” Then, fully satisfied that they have exercised due disdain, they return to their conversation as if the annoying interlude had never taken place. Don’t get me wrong. This is completely expected. It happens to me nearly every time I take my car in for any kind of repair. I have come to believe most auto mechanics, physicians, college professors, a large portion of France, and Barbara Boxer are all cut from the same cloth.

I understand what it means to be annoyed by people who just don’t get it. But, who am I to judge elective stupidity? What I don’t know about a lot of things is… well, a lot. There exists a universal bank of information that socially productive individuals should probably know. The impact of a consumer marketed flat repair product on the inner workings of tire sensors is not in this standard repertoire. Even so, teach me what I need to know and don’t assume I’m incapable of comprehending or patronize me for having somehow missed this day in "life-school." In eighth grade, when given the choice of electives, I chose Spanish over shop. Sue me. [the writer gently steps down from his soap box]

So, now stressed to the point of internal frenzy, I remove the bikes, unload the cargo hold, and proceed to change the tire. We unpack our picnic lunch (which has now become road trip fare) and return home. For the second time we unload the vehicle and for the third time load (now into our small sedan) our supplies. Nearly five hours after we first left our home, we arrived at our destination. It was 45 minutes before sunset when we entered the park.

And that is how our wonderful Thanksgiving vacation began. Really. We had a great time. Funny how the highs and lows of life can come at you in such rapid fire. Funny how quickly and easily an otherwise reasonable grown-up can revert to what is tantamount to a toddler meltdown (at least on the inside). Funny how, just like the toddler, with a little time, something to eat, and a place to get out and run, all of the angst can just melt away.

Know Me

2009-11-03T16:17:00.000-08:00

Regardless of how much easier it might seem for you…

I am not the sum of nor am I defined by what I’ve done.
I am not confined to the implications you assign to what I’ve said.
I am not concerned with my appearance—how you see me.
I am not responsible for maintaining your good feelings.
I am not limited to your experience with me.
I am not conscripted to only the things I’ve promised.
I am not beholden to you.
I am not inconsistent.
I am not predictable.
I am not controllable.
I AM God.

“...everything else is worthless when compared with the infinite value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have discarded everything else, counting it all as garbage, so that I could gain Christ and become one with him. I no longer count on my own righteousness through obeying the law; rather, I become righteous through faith in Christ. For God’s way of making us right with himself depends on faith.” - Paul

Aloysius Snuffleupagus

2009-10-26T17:32:00.000-07:00

I very much enjoy the writings of Donald Miller. I am proud to be one of the few people who actually bought Searching for God Knows What and Through Painted Deserts (yes, he has written quite a bit since Blue Like Jazz). Last week I finished reading his newest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.

I know this girl (we’ll call her Big Bird) who used to constantly talk about her “friend,” (we’ll call her Snuffleupagus). Snuffy was Big Bird’s roommate. But, every time we went to visit Bird, Snuffy wasn’t home. Big Bird would regale us with wonderful tales of misadventure and mayhem involving herself and Snuffleupagus. But, alas, Snuffy never materialized. Eventually, there were photos on the wall of the notorious (yet ever illusive) Snuffleupagus. Photoshop magic? We began to wonder if “Snuffy” was really just Big Bird’s alter ego. One evening we attended a party, of sorts, at Big Bird’s house and, low and behold, there was Snuffleupagus (or at least the actor hired to play her to throw us off the trail). She hung around for 20 minutes or so and then vanished. That was a few years ago. We’ve not seen her since.

I know this guy (we’ll call him Gordon) with whom I lunch from time to time. Last week, over Asian food, we started discussing life and faith. The conversation went something like this (I will undoubtedly embellish. That is a writer’s prerogative, you understand.)

Gordon: Growing up, I was always taught that the most important thing a Christian is to do is make more Christians. But, how can I convince someone else of something if I have so many unanswered questions about it myself?

Me: Like what? What do you mean?

Gordon: Imagine you’ve grown up being taught that all of the answers to life's questions and everything you ever need to know about God can be found in this book. The book tells you how much God loves you and cares for you. Then, as an adult you start to look into this book, where it came from, how it came together… you look around at the world you live in and you see all of these inconsistencies. Even things in the book itself don’t seem to always add up. People around you ask you all kinds of questions about your faith, what you believe and why, but your answers often seem to come up short—both for them and for you. What if you are discovering that maybe God isn’t who you thought He was. You’ve had undeniable experiences with Him, but you don’t know how they fit into your understanding of who He is.

Me: Academically speaking, the Bible is a loose collection of writings spanning hundreds of years, removed from their original context, translated, organized and distributed by believers in Jehovah; followers of Jesus, the Christ. Whatever you believe about it from there, know and understand the limitations, apart from Divine insight, we most definitely have in understanding the intent and context of each writer. Would it really represent a compromise to who God is for one writer in one time and place to have one experience with Him and yet another to have a different understanding? The story of the three blind men describing an elephant comes to mind.

Gordon: Yeah, I get that. But where does that leave me? Then there is the whole,” if God is so loving, why is there so much tragedy and suffering in the world?” argument. Where are the biblical answers to that? If I can’t find God there, where do I find Him?

Me: Exactly. That is exactly my point. You have to stop trying to find God IN the Bible and start letting God speak to you through it. The Bible isn’t merely a means to knowing God. You can acquire an exhaustive knowlege of the Bible and still not know God. I had a professor in college who had a master’s degree in biblical studies. He knew more about scripture than I did but didn’t believe in God at all. He had only pursued the degree because of his fascination with the Bible as literature. Literary understanding of a book won’t connect you to God. Hermeneutically reconciling any contradictions between accounts by various biblical authors is not the secret to knowing God. I do, however, believe the Bible is the principle of quite a few different ways God can speak to us. It is also a good way for us to get caught up on this grander story—who He has been and wants to be in relationship to humanity; to creation.

Would you believe me if I told you I knew the author, Donald Miller?

Gordon: Probably. You haven’t given me any reason to believe you would lie to me.

Me: Okay, so you would believe me based on the nature of my character as you know it. Fine. Good, in fact… thank you for that. But, say you had doubts. What would it take for me to convince you that I know Donald Miller? Keep in mind, I’m very familiar with his writings. I’m his social networking “friend.” I could share with you life stories and personal information regarding Donald’s likes, dislikes, childhood struggles and hang-ups. On my facebook page, you can see a recent photo of the two of us (his arm around my shoulder). I can even show you words written to me in his own hand.[1] Would that be enough for you?

Gordon: Probably not.

Me: So, what would it take? What would you need to believe that I knew Donald Miller?

Gordon: Well, I guess I would have to see the two of you together.

Me: There you go. God isn’t asking us to convince anyone that He is. We can’t. What’s to keep thinking people from concluding God is just an elaborate myth if all you have to show for Him are artifacts, stories and organizations? But what if they saw us together? What if they met my friend, God, instead of my book or my church or my empirical evidence? What would that look like? What would that be like? Suddenly, it is God’s responsibility to prove that He is (something He is certainly capable of doing with or without me). But, it is my responsibility to know Him and to make our friendship public. I’m not talking about TBN, here. I’m talking about friendship, not salesmanship. Besides, we are charged to “go and make disciples”—not “new converts.”

My most recent faith struggle is not one of intellect. I don’t really do that anymore… Sooner or later you just figure out there are some guys who don’t believe in God and they can prove He doesn’t exist, and some other guys who do believe in God and they can prove He does exist, and the argument stopped being about God a long time ago and now it’s about who is smarter, and honestly I don’t care.[2]

Right now, Snuffleupagus is featured in Big Bird’s facebook profile photo. I recognize her. I’ve met her, but I don’t know her. It is unlikely that anyone will ever see me and Snuffy together. She is Big Bird’s friend, not mine. While I am sure she is a wonderful person, I have no real desire to call up Big Bird and get Snuffy’s contact information. I don’t imagine my wife and I will be inviting her to dinner any time soon. You see, Snuffleupagus hasn’t really been a part of our relationship with Big Bird.

I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.

After that I liked jazz music.

Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.

I used to not like God because God didn’t resolve. But that was before any of this happened.[ibid.]

By the way, God says "hi."

1. All of this is true, though not what it seems (or as creepy as it sounds). I read his blog. He autographed my copy of A Million Miles and I took a photo with him at the book signing.

2. Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality (Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 2003)

Onan the Barbarian

2009-09-11T07:05:00.000-07:00

I was hiking and talking with a friend the other day. He said something about faith community pleasuring itself. Yep, you read that correctly. He used the term masturbation to describe the selfishness of some Christian communities. Any attempt on my part to recapture his point here would be inadequate. I won’t try. Even so, while it was clear he was referring to the idea of masturbation, not the literal act, the negative connotation was still conspicuous and intentional. Curious, since the Bible says nothing directly about the issue. Many, however, feel it does make strong inference.

In his letter to the Corinthian church, Paul lists a number of people (by the activities in which they engage) who will not “inherit the Kingdom of God.” Included in the list is the ancient Greek word “malakoi” which seems to have been understood by many early Christians as a person with “soft morals.” The 1611 translation of the Bible into English interprets the word as “effeminate” (a weak man). By Martin Luther’s day, the popular translation for the word was “masturbators.” In fact, as late as 1967, this designation still appeared in the Catholic Encyclopedia. The more recent Bible translations assign a reference to same-sex acts.

In Genesis 38, the author writes of Judah and his three sons; Er, Onan, and Shelah. Er married a woman named Tamar but, because he was wicked, God killed him before an heir could be conceived. Judah told Onan to “lie with your brother's wife and fulfill your duty to her as a brother-in-law to produce offspring for your brother.” [1] But Onan knew that the kid wouldn’t be his and, every time he slept with Tamar, withdrew and “spilled his seed.” This was equally as wicked in God’s sight, so Onan was put to death as well. (Who says the Bible is boring? This is made for TV, movie of the week stuff right here.)

Theologians have taken many different perspectives on Onan’s deadly mistake. Some advocate that it was Onan’s disobedience to his father that provided the offense. Other interpretations have led to the creation of the term onanism. Often a euphemism for coitus interruptus, the term intimates that it was Onan’s selfish intentions God found so detestable. Onanism is also used as moniker for the act of masturbation, implying that Onan was just using the sex act for personal pleasure, not procreative purpose. Since the middle ages, the Roman Catholic Church (and others) have used these interpretations to take a moral stand against masturbation, coitus interruptus, and even contraception. (Though, if, indeed, fiddling with your own equipment irrevocably leads to eternal damnation, I suspect there will be few post adolescent men in heaven. Just sayin’…)

But, is the point of this little story to give us another entry into our list of moral DOs and DON’Ts? Is that the purpose of Paul’s list of mortal sins?

I’m not taking a stand here on what acts, in and of themselves, are sinful in God’s sight. I’ll leave that between you and Him. But, I do wonder if these passages aren’t much more clear in point than the credit church history has given them. They seem to me to be saying, quite simply…

• know why you are doing what you’re doing
• know for whom you are doing what you’re doing
• be prepared to face the consequences of your intentions and focus

Our choices and actions are important. But, in the end, if you have a growing, living relationship with Christ, “why” and “for whom” you choose and/or act, not just how, tend to be the factors that will either commend or condemn. These things define us both apart from and in conjunction with what we do. As people of faith—lovers of God, what we do is, well... what we do (though, in my opinion, the things many people do in the name of God are ludicrous). Why and for whom we do are far more significant criteria in determining who we are. Contrary to what Christian book store bracelet-theology may espouse, ultimately, I wonder if what Jesus would do is all that doctrinally definitive or even consistent. If we were motivated by His “WHYs” and focused on His “WHOs,” “what” we are supposed to be doing and/or not doing might become more clear… or, dare I say, maybe less important.

For example, in Onan's case, his focus was keeping the inheritance for himself and his own. Oops! I said I would refrain from making my friend’s point.

Footnote

1. HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society.

Baby, Please Don't Go

2009-08-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

I closely follow several personal blogs (and loosely keep up with a few others.) I specify "personal" because I also follow a couple of authors' blogs and an outdoor adventure information forum. For the few personal blogs I regularly follow, it has been a slow couple of months. Since mid June, a cumulative ten entries have been posted by seven of the web writers; two of them haven't posted at all. In fact, if you examine this page, you will notice a gap in my own entries-- nothing whatsoever in July. So, what's up? Is it a summer lull? Have we all run out of things to say?

Yesterday, I read an article by Carolyn Duffy Marsan, Business Week, titled, "12 Words You Can Never Say in the Office." It was a list of words and "phrases that you shouldn't be using at work anymore because they will make you seem old." Terms like: Intranet, Web Surfing, Push Technology, Long-Distance Call, World Wide Web, Personal Digital Assistant (PDA), or Internet Telephony. Among them was the word "weblog" with the following explanation...

A blog is a shortened version of "Weblog," a term that emerged in the late 1990s to describe commentary that an individual publishes online. It spawned many words still in use such as "blogger" and "blogosphere." Nowadays, few people have time to blog so they are "microblogging," which is another word that's heading out the door as people turn Twitter into a generic term for blasting out 140-character observations or opinions.

I'll admit, I gave in to the whole Twitter thing last December. While I recognize (and have even exercised) some of its unique benefits, on the whole, I find it extremely tedious. If anyone is actually that interested in what I'm doing every waking minute of the day, they really need to get out more (either that, or I need to look into getting that restraining order). The truth is, I find it difficult to really sink my teeth into a statement like "working on a Sunday! ... story of my life." or "Just watched first 2 Hours of transformers 2. Didn't download all i missed the ending." I read one tweet recently that simply said, "trying to think of what I'm doing so i can post a twitter about it." I understand his sentiment.

I often find myself staring blankly at standing prompts like Twitter's "what are you doing?" or Facebook's "what's on your mind?" I could waste a lot of time trying to come up with something, ANYTHING remotely pithy with which to fill the box-- congeniality and intrigue in 140 characters or less. Contrary to popular belief, I don't always have something to say. In fact, I spend the largest portion of each day working entirely alone not saying anything at all. I don't usually mind it one bit. I draw energy from solitude. Yesterday, for lunch, I drove up to a generally deserted hiking trail in the national forest and just sat on a rock reading and taking photos. But, when I do speak or write or, in some other way, communicate, it generally has the full force of all my alone time behind it. Sometimes conversation, for me, is a release of that pent up raw energy. (One more reason never to ask me a question.) Writing is a refocusing of that energy and, often, my preferred outlet. But writing, though cathartic, is not communication without a reader. [Enter: the blogosphere]

So, bloggers, let's refocus some of that summer energy. I love our silent conversations. I love discovering life with and learning from you. Let the rest of the world "tweet" away. We both know we've more substance than that.

Red Light District

2009-08-20T22:37:00.000-07:00

Remarkable how simple choices, when they find their effect
Can choke out the voice.
Not that there is nothing to say
Or even that it is or isn't being said;
Rather that the carrier, by reputation
Inspires a preemptive disqualification of the message.
Robbing others of the treasure within
By careless transport.

More tragic still, as a matter of convention
Others cheat themselves by premature defense—
O, malicious mishap.
Perhaps brilliance buried is best left covered.
For brilliance, free to shine
Is wontedly passed over for its tariff
Its pretension
Its peculiarity.
After all, it is more satisfying
To admire the jewel on one's own hand
Than on the hand of another.

As for me, I am strangled;
Silenced by witness
To my own once passionate acuity turning, as a matter of course
To platitude— three dimensions distilled to one.
Even so, it's more difficult than I imagined
To give up a life of prostitution.

The Poverty Experiment

2009-06-08T10:03:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've developed a nagging concern that our children have little appreciation for how blessed we are. Don't get me wrong. They are amazing kids (thoughtful, generous, sensitive to the needs of others...) It's just that they show too many of the normal signs of American entitlement. We all do. So, my wife and I decided to do a little gratitude exercise and live below poverty level for seven days.

The boys got to choose three toys for the week, each of which had to value under $10. There were no computers (except for work), DVDs, gaming systems, etc. After doing some research and a little creative math, we came up with a weekly income (after rent and utilities) reflective of the national poverty level. We ate, fueled our vehicles, purchased incidentals, paid for school field trips (and the like) for just slightly under this magic number. We ate a lot of beans, rice, pasta, etc. and very little meat. We played board games, with playing cards, and sidewalk chalk. We read books available to us through the library.

We didn't widely publicize what we were doing. In fact, only three people knew about it outside of our family. Each family member did, however, keep a nightly journal and, at the request of a friend, I will share my entries for the week here.

Day One- Monday, May 18, 2009

I’ve actually been looking forward to the start of this little exercise for a few days. Shopping for the week was a fun challenge. But, now that the week has officially begun, I’m finding this a bit more of a challenge than I could have anticipated.

For two reasons: First, an unplanned turn in my dental health has made it so that I will be having my wisdom teeth out tomorrow morning. I am a bit nervous and not looking forward to the painful recovery. But, because of this week’s exercise, I’m not sure I will even be able to “shop” for my recovery like I would otherwise. Luckily, we had planned at least a few soft foods into our poverty budget menu. Still, this may prove to be a real challenge.

Fortunately, it seems the procedure is covered by our dental insurance. Yet, it occurs to me, if we really were living below the poverty level, we wouldn’t likely have such insurance. I’m not sure what I would have done if this were the case. My pain level, at present, is barely tolerable. I am extremely thankful for our dental insurance and my wife’s job with the school district.

Second, I have found myself, a surprising number of times today, thinking of things I need to go “pick up” from the store; things like hair conditioner or more plastic spoons for my office. Ordinarily, these thoughts are fleeting and pass without action— but only because I don’t have time or because it’s not worth a trip to the store for such few items. It is never because we just can’t afford these things. I’ve never thought of basic toiletries as luxuries. Sobering.

Day Two- Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Today I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed. They had become impacted and were causing swelling and discomfort. I was told that I would need someone to drive me home because I would be under a general anesthetic.

One of the most striking things I’ve learned about combating the struggles of poverty is the unmistakable importance of community. For those that “have,” independence is the rule of the day. For those who “have not,” interdependence is survival rule #1. My wife had to work today. In fact, most everyone in my “community” was at work today. We have built lives of individuality and semi-independence. Thankfully, a good friend was able to become available during the day (rearranged her obligations) in order to drive me to and from the appointment. Afterward, she was kind enough to purchase a chocolate milkshake for me and then, to purchase (insurance co-pay) and pick-up my post-surgery prescriptions. It is only Tuesday and after purchasing groceries for the week and gasoline for the truck, we are already through more than half of our money for the week. I offered to pay for the shake, the mashed potatoes (another purchase made by our friend on my behalf) and the prescriptions, but she wouldn’t accept. Later, another friend brought me a smoothie from “Juice it Up.” And yet another couple of other friends sent text messages asking if I needed anything. Now, more than ever (and for many reasons), I am thankful for friendships—for community.

Day Three- Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The eating part of this is proving to be more challenging than I imagined it would be. Tonight for dinner, we made tuna casserole. Ordinarily, this is a low budget family favorite. But, I found I couldn’t take more than two or three bites. Chewing is next to impossible. I put my portion back into the pot and proceeded to drink a shake again for dinner just before rushing out to take my oldest son to his all district band concert.

The concert was wonderful. I was duly impressed with the students’ performances at all levels. I was slightly less than impressed with the school board and administration representatives who spoke throughout the concert. I was more aware than ever before of the range of dress clothing worn by the students— everything from jeans and a T-shirt to slacks and black tennis shoes. There were some kids dressed to the nines, but very few who looked as though they had the appropriate attire in their wardrobe. We are so blessed to be able to afford dress slacks, socks, shoes, and shirt for our son.

By the way, this morning, since I was still under the 24 hour mark with the anesthetic and unable to drive, a friend came by and picked up the boys to take them to school. Another above-and-beyond moment in our relationship. And, yet another representation of the wealth and strength found in community.

Day Four- Thursday, May 21, 2009

This morning, I woke up more sore and swollen than yesterday. Not fun.

I read an article today about how it is more expensive to be poor than it is to be wealthy or middle-class. When you can’t afford to shop around for the best price (due to lack of transportation or the cost of time lost utilizing public transportation), you can end up paying quite a bit more for everyday items such as milk or bread. In addition, with limited assets or credit, you may end up having to finance purchases at a much higher interest rate. What a vicious catch 22.

I was getting a little frustrated this evening. I’m not sure, as a family, we are doing so well at the focusing through this exercise. My wife had to sit down and write out what we’ve spent so far to mentally get back on track. It seems she had been using a few items from the pantry that we hadn’t factored into our budget (chips and sunflower seed butter for the little guy’s lunch). My youngest son has been sneaking in play time with more than his three selected toys (under $10).

I think all of us have been challenged in keeping the experiment pure. If I had it to do over again, I think I would have done more physical prep— cleaning out the cupboards, putting away all the toys, etc. Also, I’m sure, at or below poverty level, we would not have a washer and dryer in our home. We probably wouldn’t have a dishwasher either. My oldest son asked today if we were supposed to be using our blender. I’ve had to use our food processor to puree my food (since I can’t chew, at present). I don’t feel like we are cheating, exactly. But, I do feel like we are getting less than the full experience for lack of thorough preparation.

So, it is Thursday night. We have spent nearly 80% of our budget for the week. Three more days to go. One of those days includes a picnic and another a baby shower. I’m on less than a quarter tank of gas. Heaven help us!

Day Five- Friday, May 22, 2009

I am completely over this whole eating mushy foods business. My mouth/face can’t get back to normal fast enough.

I was thinking earlier that it would be nice to just sit and watch a movie tonight. But, alas, no T.V. or D.V.D. in our below-poverty-level household. That’s okay. The truth is, I didn’t really want to watch anything. It’s just that the other, low cost entertainment alternatives all required more effort. Reading, playing a game, etc.—all required more thinking and/or energy.

I really want to adventure outside the house tomorrow (Saturday). The beach, or mountains, or something. I’ve been a little stir crazy stuck around the house the past few days (recovering). But, alas, no gas money and almost an empty tank. Guess more creativity is called for.

Day Six- Saturday, May 23, 2009

Today was a lazy day spent at home. At least for the most part, anyway. Lazy for me is relative. My wife had a baby shower to attend. One of her colleagues from school came by for an hour or so before the shower. My wife has been helping the woman with her professional writing skills.

Though my swelling has decreased over the past few hours, my pain level has only increased. My jaw is extremely sore and contributing to a dull, but constant headache.

While my wife was gone to the baby shower, the boys and I sorted and folded laundry. I made them lunch and introduced them to my wife’s rice pudding. It was a huge hit! Who would have thought the kids would make a new food discovery in all this?

We’ve been playing a lot of “Rummikub” and “Apples to Apples.” There are quite a few other things (fun, family things) I would love to have done today but gas prices are outrageous. Still, we’ve gotten a lot accomplished and have had fun in the process. We haven’t needed money to laugh, sing, dance, play, and make an adventure out of just about everything. It’s been good to see!

Day Seven- Sunday, May 24, 2009

I have mixed emotions about the success of our little experiment. On one hand, I feel like my family has at least a cosmetic understanding of how blessed we really are. By that I mean, we have been made more consciously aware of the “stuff” we take for granted every day. To a lesser degree, there have been moments of recognizing how blessed we are to have each other—to truly enjoy one another. There is a lot of love in our family. I feel it is too often overlooked because we are always running and working to make (or maybe keep) life “better.” Which begs the question, “better than what?” Is this the great “American Dream?” To ignore (or at least set aside) the things that should truly be most precious to us in exchange for the ongoing opportunity to prove in visible ways to the rest of the world that we can afford these all but neglected “precious things?”

Also, I feel that, in the end, the awareness that we’ve only been pretending has inoculated the whole experiment. There has been little real bite to this. Even now, I am thinking about the things I’ve been putting off until our little exercise is over (hair cut, lunch with a friend, replacing my broken guitar, etc.). But, I can honestly say I have a deeper appreciation for the circumstances that afford me the resource to be able to “indulge” in such things. Hopefully, for my family, even if in the smallest of ways, they too may be coming to recognize just how much of an “indulgence,” not an “entitlement,” these things are. For MOST people in the world, they are extravagances.

We still haven’t decided what we will do with the money we have not spent this week. I don’t mean the few dollars we have left from our allowance. I mean the money we would have spent if we hadn’t been on it. We haven’t really even discussed it. I think it should be a family decision. I can’t wait to see what we come up with.

Finally, I’m forced to wonder, “what is our cut-off?” Do we have one? What I mean is, it seems we had less trouble than anticipated living at or below poverty income for a week (though, I’m not sure my family would enjoy the idea that any of our sacrifices become permanent). But, what do we really need? What is the bare minimum required for us to survive as a family? What changes in the way we think about ourselves and our world would be required to go below that line? Would they be worth exploring? What would God have us do with what we’ve discovered and experienced? Where do we go from here?

All's well that ends well

2009-05-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

Today I sit in a lush ravine, surrounded by thick underbrush, twisted and tangled. The trunks of fallen trees lean heavy on struggling neighbors, creaking with each gentle breeze. I can hear the gurgling of a small stream a few feet away. I hear it, but cannot make it out through the growth.

The wilderness trail I traveled to get here was longer than anticipated. Pleasantly so. I couldn’t help but smile as I passed a small post with the word “trail” carved into the side. The continuing path ahead was well worn, bare soil flanked by woodland trees and bright green foliage. “Hmmm. Now, where as that trail again? Thank God for the sign!”

A bit further down the path, another sign read “trail ahead dead ends.” I read it, but, never hesitated at my forward pace. The motion was instinctive.

Now, I know “objects in motion tend to stay in motion.” I recognize there must be countless psychological explanations for why people stay a course, resist a change in trajectory, or disregard warning signs. But, I found myself immediately considering the simple question, “if you know the trail dead ends, why continue?” “What real motivation does one have for forging ahead?”

My parents own a home that was built by my great-grandfather. I spent the majority of my growing up years on that acreage. The street dead ends into the South Canadian River. I have always loved hiking (though, as a younger man, allergies often kept me from it). When we were kids, my brother and I would spend hours exploring the river bed, tumbling down the sand dunes, and searching out hiding places.

There is a park at the end of the street. An old wagon wheel stands affixed to a large, stone monument at the entrance to the playground. The recreation area is dedicated to the pioneers who crossed the river there during the 1889 land run. Every year, hundreds of people travel from all over the country and, decked out in full prairie regalia, mount up on horseback or in covered wagons to reenact the crossing. I recall that our street would be covered in (and, consequently, reek of) horse feces for a week.

When I was in grade school, a sand and gravel company somehow managed to procure the rights to some of the area resources. Large dump-trucks passed up and down our street multiple times a day, damaging the pavement, creating traffic danger for local children, and becoming a general nuisance to residents. My mother, along with many of our neighbors, went on the war path. I will not go into the details of the ordeal, nor will I take time to elaborate on the dangers to anyone foolhardy enough to underestimate my mother. I will simply say that, in the end, the street was repaired and the trucks were rerouted.

There are quite a few amazing things that can happen and many fascinating discoveries to be made at a “dead end.” In fact, the trail I hiked to this spot is not a dead end at all—regardless of what the sign said. There is a long loop that returns you, surprisingly enough, to the back side of the same sign.

When I began to put down my thoughts, I fully intended to write about the divergence of paths and the process—the criteria one uses to make his/her choice of direction. I thought of writing about “destination” verses “journey.” I thought I would even introduce “adventure,” not as a companion to either, but rather as an alternative to both. But, instead, I couldn’t get passed the thought that the end of the trail can be the beginning of many worthwhile things. I am finding , in my life, that words like beginning and end can rob me of more clarity, understanding—discovery, than they provide. Beginning often merely describes the place where we have picked up the trail (or first acknowledged that we were on it). And, it is at the end of the trail that some of the best adventures in life begin.

No Victim, No Crime?

2009-04-22T18:16:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my wife picked up our boys from school and returned home to find our house had been burglarized. The place was ransacked. Every room, every drawer, every cabinet, every closet— financial information all over the floor. The intruders had emptied my sons’ backpacks and refilled them with our DVD collection (around 200 disks), gaming systems, other small electronics, and miscellaneous items. They then rode off on my bicycle and my son’s scooter.

The police CSI unit dusted for prints. They took photos, made a list of crime scene evidence, asked us a number of questions, interviewed our neighbors, gave us a case number, and went on their way as yet to be heard from again.

Slightly over a week later, I received a call from my boss asking me if I could come into the office. The police were there. Our offices had been broken into over the weekend, ransacked, and thoroughly cleaned out. Here we go again. Unbelievable! Granted, I live (by choice) in San Bernarghetto… er, I mean San Bernardino, California, but, come on. Really?

Certainly, I am not happy about these events. I am broken hearted about our losses. A deep and almost violent anger toward our unidentified assailants swelled inside me when I saw my ten year old weeping over stolen belongings. I am frustrated and wearied by the arduous task of rebuilding lost data and program templates at work. I feel abused and violated. But I am not writing to lament. In the end, it is just stuff. And, stuff can be replaced.

The lingering disconcertion, however, comes in the awareness that strangers have been in our home— that uninvited delinquents have infiltrated our offices. We know, because there is clear and irrefutable evidence. The police have fingerprints on file. Things are broken and missing and defaced.

But, in the middle of all the mess, a curious thought crossed my mind. What if people have been coming into my home for a long time and I simply haven’t been the wiser? What if I am not the only person who spends a good deal of time sitting behind my desk? I only know people have violated the sanctity of these places because there is evidence of their time there. That fateful Monday morning, my office looked much different than when I left it the Friday before. The physical and emotional atmosphere of my home is strikingly different than it was a few weeks ago.

I recently attended a conference on spiritual development. One of the speakers confessed that, until he was in his mid twenties, traveling overseas, the Church (and consequently, Christianity) had made no measurable/observable impact on his life or community at large. He had never met anyone who professed to be a Christian and actually demonstrated some significant evidence of such a claim (outside of the things they avoided and the language they spoke). Sadly, I wasn’t all that shocked. I continued listening to his story as if there must be more to the point. But, when given pause, there was more weight to this reality than just about any other statement that could have followed.

In his book, The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne writes of an exchange with a leper he met in India. While working in a makeshift health clinic, after dressing the man’s wounds, the patient thanked Shane with the word namaste.

We really don’t have a word like it in English (or even much of a Western conception of it). They explained to me that namaste means “I honor the Holy One who lives in you.” I knew I could see God in their eyes. Was it possible that I was becoming a Christian, that in my eyes they could catch a glimpse of the image of my Lover?[1]

God has ransacked my life. All the stuff I’ve stored away in closets and drawers, He works to systematically expose to His grace. I believe this is evident to anyone who knows me. I wish I could say it is a totally different feeling than when my home and office were burglarized. But, my initial reaction is still that of one violated; an uncomfortable, but, in this case, not unwelcomed reality.

What’s more, I consider the people in my life, the others in my community, and I wonder if there is any evidence in their lives—anything in their world that would serve as indication that God is present in me. Claiborne also writes:

One of the lepers explained to me that oftentimes lepers don’t even know the words thank you because they have never needed to say them. They had rarely experienced occasions when they used language of gratitude.[2]

When God shows up, it is obvious He has been around. “My old self has been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.[3]” So, shouldn’t it be obvious He’s been around when those near me survey their lives? There are far too few moments when someone had to learn a new word because they saw, in my life, a love beyond their experience. I’m anxious to do something about this.

Footnotes:

1. Shane Claiborne, The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical (The Simple Way, Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 2006).

2. ibid.

3. Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

"Holy weblog, Batman!"

2009-03-30T12:04:00.000-07:00

The new banner for this blog is also currently my profile image on facebook. A friend made the following comment on the photo.

“powerful picture. your bare feet on the carpet where my tears have fallen: in the place where I've prayed, laughed, learned, grieved... My favorite time was when the only lights were Christmas twinkle lights, and I'd sit in the back on a pew: silent: alone.”

Last night, another friend had a bunch of guys over to watch the 2005 Ridley Scott film, “The Kingdom of Heaven.” The story takes place around 1180 AD (during the crusades) and chronicles the life of Balian of Ibelin (Orlando Bloom) and his heroic defense of Jerusalem against a powerful Muslim army.

Balian of Ibelin: [To the people of Jerusalem] It has fallen to us to defend Jerusalem, and we have made our preparations as well as they can be made. None of us took this city from Muslims. No Muslim of the great army now coming against us was born when this city was lost. We fight over an offence we did not give, against those who were not alive to be offended. What is Jerusalem? Your holy palaces lie over the Jewish temple that the Romans pulled down. The Muslim places of worship lie over yours. Which is more holy?

[pause]

Balian of Ibelin: The wall? The Mosque? The Sepulcher? Who has claim? No-one has claim.

[raises his voice]

Balian of Ibelin: All have claim!

Bishop, Patriarch of Jerusalem: Blasphemy!

Almaric: [to the Patriarch] Be quiet.

Balian of Ibelin: We defend this city, not to protect these stones, but the people living within these walls.

So, what makes a place holy? Is it what happened there? Who was born there, lived there, died there? In the Old Testament, altars were built, wells were established, temples were erected; because God did a miracle here, or met us there, or spoke in this place. And we call these places “holy.” We esteem them, hallow them— we visit them hoping for some mystical solace, or revelation, or encounter. Why?

There are places that inspire or return me to a once familiar, or significant, or otherwise precious emotion. There are fragrances, and sounds, and sights that conjure up past glories or, by classical conditioning, adjust my mental frame. But, does that make these places, or smells, or sounds, or textures “holy?”

Please don’t misunderstand. I can be a very nostalgic guy. There is nothing inherently wrong with remembering where God has been; revisiting tender places of the soul; examining the marks on the wall that help us measure our growth. In fact, in the right context, these can be very important exercises. Even so, that doesn’t necessarily make these places “holy.”

I have deep respect and affection for those who worship with ceremony and true piety. I believe, by what is often a lack of true reverence, much of western Evangelical Christendom has lost any genuine recognition of God’s sovereignty and power. But I would not necessarily call orthodox liturgies more “holy.”

When God gave instructions for constructing the Arc of the Covenant or building the Tabernacle/Temple, He didn’t ask people to build a “holy” object. He asked them to, “build a place for Me to meet with you.[1]” These things are “holy” because, and, consequently only when God is present.[2] The sanctity of our encounter with God in those places is held, not by the place itself, but in the presence of the person of God and the hearts of the people who encountered Him there.

Unlike a temple, God cannot be destroyed. Unlike a golden box full of artifacts, God cannot be stolen or hidden. Unlike a prayer, or text, or liturgical sacrament, Truth in the person of God cannot be altered. In fact, it seems to me that sometimes these forms must be broken down; torn away; stripped of all sanctity in their own right in order for the treasure— the holy presence of God to be exposed and experienced.[3]

I have discovered that I need more “holy” places in my life. But, that is not to say I need more buildings, or sacraments, or boxes. I simply need more places in my life where God and I meet. I need more true sanctuaries.

Footnotes:

1. “’I will meet with you there and talk to you from above the atonement cover between the gold cherubim that hover over the Ark of the Covenant. From there I will give you my commands for the people of Israel.’” – Exodus 25:22 (NLT)

2. “’These burnt offerings are to be made each day from generation to generation. Offer them in the Lord’s presence at the Tabernacle entrance; there I will meet with you and speak with you. I will meet the people of Israel there, in the place made holy by my glorious presence.’” – Exodus 29:42-43 (NLT)

3. We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves. – 2 Cor. 4:7 (NLT)

I'm no Superman

2009-03-19T14:24:00.001-07:00

Recently, like many others, my wife and I have suffered some significant blows to the security we've too often taken for granted. You know, the “we went to college, pay our taxes, vote in general elections, give to charitable organizations, refrain from kicking small animals, reduce, reuse, recycle, buy American, etc. and are, therefore, entitled, on our own terms, to every good health and unencumbered opportunity imaginable” kind of security. After all, this IS America, right? Maybe such arrogance deserves a good take down now and then. At any rate, for endless reasons, it’s been a rough few months.

For the first thirty years or so of my life, my initial reaction to challenging news was usually one of heightened adrenaline and an overwhelming desire to leap into crisis “go” mode. What can I say? I’m a fixer. Lately, however, my first response has been far less intense. Lest you think this a mark of maturity (growth in trust) or the proverbial “softening with age,” I should also note that, since a rather serious bout with depression in the middle part of this decade, I have come to recognize the difference between peace and protective detachment. Peace is active— perennially animated and adaptive. Emotional lock down, if you will, is a more passive, defensive state— conditioned and mechanical. I fear I may yet fall into the latter category.

On one hand, my heart is pricked by a deep desire to be proactive. I imagine gracefully advancing like an intrepid superhero using flying debris from my enemy’s onslaught as the very weapon that will win me the victory. On the other hand, I am all too aware of how much of a “superhero” I am not and find myself torn between the ever extant, critical analysis of my mind and the noble, sanguine churnings tucked away in my soul. And, truth be told, I’m not convinced that one is altogether better than the other. I’m afraid I need both. Or neither. Or, maybe, I just need to be taken out of myself completely.

But, the humbling, shame of it all rests in the sobering realization that I am still so blessed. When I consider the worst case scenario for everything I currently face, I would still be better off than the overwhelming majority of people on this planet. The thought blinds me, albeit temporarily, to the things I must do to successfully navigate the rough road ahead. What defines success here is so superficial by comparison to what many others face. (e.g. For me, successfully navigating our current economic crisis might mean finding a way to keep my youngest son in private school. For billions of other fathers in the world, financial success means their sons will eat today.) So, how hard do I fight for these things? What makes them superficial? I live in an environment of great excess and abundance when measured against that which is fundamental to human life. And yet, certain aspects of this “abundance” are necessary for survival in an environment where excess is the rule of the day.

In the end, I hope I will do what needs to be done. I am open to divine guidance on this point. But, whatever the path ahead, I feel challenged to approach it with a deeper solemnity, requisite humility, and thankfulness. I am not “entitled” to certain securities. I am simply blessed to enjoy them from time to time. Maybe this attitude is a key to unlocking peace. I think I’ll grip it more tightly than I have in the past.

"The average pencil is seven inches long...

2009-03-05T12:43:00.001-08:00

...with just a half-inch eraser - in case you thought optimism was
dead." ~Robert Brault

Yesterday in a staff meeting I made a “speaking those things that are not as if they were” kind of comment and referred to myself as choosing optimism. Someone in the meeting said, “yeah, well, it just comes off as sarcasm.” I assured him this was only because he knew me so well. If he didn’t know me, my optimism would have been believable. Okay, maybe not… but humor me. See, there’s the optimism again.

Truly, I’m not as jaded as I sometimes appear. Still, I’m more of a pragmatist than most of the people with which I surround myself. A happy accident? I think not. Because I’m neither a “glass half full” or “glass half empty” sort of guy (I’m more of a “the glass is in a state of unhealthy compromise, much like the church at Laodicea[1]” guy), people often think I’m devoid of the ability to celebrate the little things in life. Not true. I just like to celebrate and then move on. I’m usually on to the next step before everyone else is done celebrating— sometimes before they even truly get started. I’m working on that one. But seriously, what's wrong with a little celebration "to go."

This past weekend was one such cause for celebration. Not a “little things in life” celebration. Actually, quite a big thing. One of my closest friends (consequently the last, long time, close, single, male friend I had) got married. It was, as they say, “the end of an era.” I had mixed emotions. But, the feeling that dominated was one of acceptance. (Is acceptance a feeling? Hmmm. That may be another blog post.)

I am the oldest of four children; three boys and a girl. My youngest brother died when I was eight years old. My other brother and my sister are three and a half and twelve years younger than me, respectively. I was a full time college student by the time my sister was starting first grade. I was married before she started jr. high. But my brother and I grew up together.

Even in a loving, stable home, same gender siblings close in age often seem to compete more than ally. As much as I love my brother and do have MANY things in common with him, and as much as we enjoyed playing with one another when we were young; as we grew older, we worked to separate ourselves from one another by capitalizing on and accentuating strengths not possessed by the other. While this did not pull us apart emotionally, it did lead to distinctly different approaches to life. Our bond is still and will always be fraternal, but, unfortunately, physical distance and very different lives keep us from being as close as either of us might like.

It seems all of the children in my family have chosen independence, each in distinctive ways. Independence is one of the values that attracted me to my wife. I believe the ability to carefully regard the feelings and values of others and yet make autonomous decisions is a mark of health and maturity. But, in its purist form, independence can be lonely. (By the way, I’m not a psychologist. I just play one on the internet.)

Among other things, I think a growing dissatisfaction (maybe disillusionment is a better word) with independence over the past few years, has helped me to recognize a deep need for covenant relationships bonded by something more than time, or blood, or proximity, or common goals/values.

My friend (the one who got married) is one of the people in my life with whom I feel that bond. And, while hanging out before and after the wedding with the other groomsmen (his older brother, his two lifelong childhood friends, and a mutual comrade), I realized something interesting. I watched these guys interact with him. I listened to their wedding toasts. I observed the way they spoke about him in our conversations, even when he wasn’t around. And, it occurred to me that we each felt that same special bond with him in one way or another.

So, my relationship with him was less unique than I had believed. But, at the same time, I was reminded (and encouraged) that I wasn’t the only one with this deep need for brotherhood—and that the connection I feel with him has as much to do with the exceptional way God has gifted him as it does my need. The net result: true belonging.

He reads this blog and, it occurs to me, this may all be news to him. He has often (even recently) commented that he believes he takes away much more from our friendship (specifically our conversations) than I possibly could. While the odds may favor me for obscenely tedious insight (we’ll be “optimistic” and call it wisdom… yeah, that’s it… [ahem] wisdom), on this point, when it counts, he’s no slouch. Regardless, he brings to my life something I consider much more valuable—genuine love, respect without reservation, unadulterated camaraderie, care that goes below the surface, passionate and authentic spirituality… brotherhood.

And he is not the only one. I am truly blessed—between my wife, my children, my family and friends, I am rich in the love and support necessary for abundant living. And that gives cause to stop and celebrate—the "dine-in" not the "carry-out" kind of celebration. Dear reader, I wish you may have and take the same occasion in your life.

Footnote

1. "To the angel of the church in Laodicea write: ...I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth." - Revelation 3:14a, 15-16 [HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society.]

Better Off Dead?

2009-02-06T20:53:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite places to hike, read, write, think, pray is an arboretum at Heaps Peak in the San Bernardino National Forest. The trail is only about a mile long with gradual inclines, rich foliage, and woodland wildlife. Self guided tour leaflets containing information about the various views associated with numbered markers along the path are available at the trailhead.

I currently take Mondays off. Whenever possible, I try to get away from town and enjoy much needed alone time. There's a tasty barbecue joint in the nearby mountain community of Running Springs (former town of residence). I headed there for lunch this past Monday only to find the owners have decided to close shop one day a week. Guess which day. ARRGGH! So, I rerouted to another of my favorite haunts, a little restaurant overlooking close by Lake Arrowhead. On my way home, I stopped by Heaps Peak.

As you come to the first small clearing along the heavily wooded trail, you find a split rail fence guarding a grassy slope.

"If you look at trees down slope in front of you, you should be able to notice the scorched black trunks from the Old Fire of October, 2003. It should also be evident that those trees are healthy and green. Over millions of years pine trees have adapted to fire so that their bark acts as a protection against fire. These large knobcone pines, Coulter pines, and white fir survived the fire and continue to grow and flourish. Some of the much smaller seedlings did not survive, which encourages forest health by naturally thinning out trees, thereby reducing competition for scarce resources such as water."

As you round the third bend on the trail, you come into a large clearing—a creek wash fed by a small spring. You cross a narrow bridge and begin a modest ascent to a landing that hosts one of my favorite views. When you reach this point, over your left shoulder, on a clear day, through the lush green forest you can make out the distant snow covered peaks near the Cajon Pass. In sharp contrast, directly in front of you, you find a barren, somewhat menacing slope studded in towering, dead tree trunks.

"As you look across the drainage to the far slope you will notice a large group of standing dead trees or ‘snags.’ Although these trees burned in the Old Fire they did not die from that fire. These pines succumbed to the Western pine beetle infestation during a recent drought, before the fire burned through this section of the forest. Unlike the living green trees at the Arboretum, which resisted the fire very well, these trees were dry or ‘brown,’ thereby providing fuel for the fire and they burned easily. The large burned snag that towers above the other barren trunks is a Ponderosa pine. After a year or so the scorched bark tends to fall off the dead trunks leaving the white inner core wood exposed."

These words and images catch on something deep inside me every time I visit the arboretum. I’m seriously considering this as a teaching topic soon. Thoughts?

[thump, thump] Is This Thing On?

2009-01-10T07:58:00.000-08:00

It’s one of the cardinal rules of marketing: know your audience. But, inherently, public web personae are just that… public. Public and blind. Dear reader, I can’t see you. I don’t know who you are. The whole thing is a little unfair to my taste. You get a window into my soul and I get… well, I get the odd comment now and then from one of the same four people.

Still, just when I am ready to conclude that it’s not worth the time it takes to format my personal journal entries for “public” consumption (is it still considered “public” if everyone can but nobody actually does see it?), then, out of the blue, a friend will verbally reference one of my entries. Or, I will receive a comment from someone I’ve never met. I don’t even know how they found this place.

And another thing - As much as I’d like to convince myself that maintaining this blog is valuable to me with or without readership, the truth is, I can enjoy the catharsis and other benefits of journaling/writing without posting here.

So why share my thoughts in an open forum? What do I hope to accomplish with this little exercise? I’m sure there are many reasons: working out my thoughts with unrestricted accountability, challenging readers to go deeper, weighing in on things important to me, staying connected with friends and family… but, for me, the most valuable implication of this little experiment is the opportunity to engage in thoughtful dialogue on meaningful issues; to exchange ideas; to reach for each other’s minds, take the floor and meringue a little while.

I won't pretend that everything I write might inspire you to weigh in. Still, you must find something of interest here from time to time or you wouldn't stop by.

So… hi, my name is James. I write this blog. But, enough about me. Tell me a little about yourself. What are your experiences? What's going on inside your head? [THUMP, THUMP, THUMP] “HELLO? IS THIS THING ON?”

[Click COMMENTS below and just go nuts... "hey, I read your blog," "these are the inane ramblings of an otherwise brilliant mental patient," "meusbonuspars changed my life," "James is crazy hot," ...heck, wherever the wind may take you.]

* * *

THIS JUST IN - Blogger has added a new feature where you can sign on (look left) as a "follower" of this blog. SO, DO IT!

Graham's Fairy Tales

2009-01-03T11:52:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time…

…I believed people were simply the product of their own choices.
…I dreamed I would be “discovered.”
…I saw personal weakness as something to be ashamed of.
…I feared exposure.
…I believed God considered me more than some people.
…I believed God liked me less than most people.
…I thought everyone was interested in knowing the truth.
…I thought I was always interested in the knowing the truth.
…I believed smarter was always better.
…I believed if people just took the time to know me, they would value me.
…I believed if people really knew me, they wouldn’t love me.
…I believed the world was a really big place.
…I imagined how much better off I might be if I were someone else.
…I found black and white more attractive than gray.
…I believed idealism was as noble as hope was naïve.
…I feared infinity.
…I thought it was alright to save my best effort for the right time.
…I thought the right time was when I had the most to gain or lose.
…I believed I knew how other people saw me.
…I believed I saw myself as I really am.

What happens when you discover you aren't the hero in your own story but, rather, the foe to be vaquished? I feel little shame by way of surrender knowing "happily ever after" depends on it. The protagonist costume is still a little roomy but I welcome the new perspective

We Need a Little Christmas Now?

2008-12-18T16:26:00.001-08:00

I was recently reminded (thanks Bob) of one of my favorite Henry Ford quotes. “If I’d asked customers what they wanted, they would have said faster horses.” By implication, his statement articulates a great frustration I have been feeling for some time.

If I asked Republicans who they wanted in the White House, they would say another Ron Reagan.

If I asked people defaulting on their “something for nothing,” buying beyond their means home mortgage what they wanted now, they would say a government bailout.

Hillary Clinton wants to hold another office. Donald Trump wants to amass more wealth. Britney Spears wants one more hit (I’m not sure of what, exactly – uh, I mean, on the charts… yeah, that’s it).

If I asked most Evangelical Christians in America what the world needed, they would likely say more Christians. But what kind of answer is that? I don’t even know what that means? Does it mean more followers of Christ or just more people who think like western Christendom; more people to validate the philosophical ideals of modern Evangelical Christianity? What does that have to do with Jesus?

It’s Christmastime. I’m reminded every year of how, in the name of anti-commercialism and “Jesus is the reason for the season,” Christians have prostituted the sacrifice and love of God. Jesus never once asked anyone to remember His birth. I’m not saying it’s a bad idea in theory. But, did you ever consider there may have been a reason he didn’t? Sometimes I don’t think this anniversary celebration has worked out so well in practice. It’s nothing new. We create a false sense of significance out of a moment, or a mole hill, or a manger, missing the larger point. Okay, maybe not altogether missing it. Rather, thinking somehow that the point is not strong enough to stand on its own without some pageantry or a little marketing push. Who is all this for anyway? Come on, really? Consequently, if the saints capitalize on heaven’s true agenda along the way, so advances the kingdom of the godly. Right?

Please understand, I believe there is great significance in the incarnation. But I don’t believe it is communicated best (maybe not even at all) by a light up, animatronic angel in my yard, glitter laden greeting cards featuring ridiculously large headed cartoons of white Anglo children wearing pastels, ceramic figurines in a miniature stable or the 73 different arrangements of “O Holy Night” I will endure (maybe even contribute to) this holiday season.

The infinite Creator of all things surrendered the omnipotence of deity and, by His own choosing, moved by flawless compassion, submitted to the form and limitation of creation. Love perfection. But, if you had asked the people of Israel what they wanted, they would have said another Moses or Joshua or David. Who told us we have any idea what we really need?

So, I will celebrate the yuletide crap out of Christmas this year. I will make wonderful memories with my wife, my boys, my friends and family. I will do it because it is important. I will do it because I want to do it. But, I’m not hoping to find a faster horse under my Christian-mas tree this year. I’m looking to unwrap a Model-T. Whatever the heck that is. Dear reader, I wish you the same.

I just called to say...

2008-11-18T23:12:00.000-08:00

George: I might tell her that I love her. I came this close last night, then I just chickened out.
Jerry: Well, that's a big move, Georgie boy. Are you confident in the “I love you” return?
George: Fifty-fifty.
Jerry: Cause if you don't get that return, that's a pretty big matzo ball hanging out there.
George: Aw, I've just got to say it once, everybody else gets to say it, why can't I say it?
Elaine: What, you never said it?
George: Once, to a dog. He licked himself and left the room.
Jerry: Well, so it wasn't a total loss.
New scene— George and Siena are sitting in the car again. They're listening to the hockey game on the radio.
George: You know, I could have actually gone to that.
Siena: So why didn't you?
George: Well, I didn't want to break our date.
Siena: Oh, well.
George: Because I... I love you.
Siena: You know, I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat.

In 2000, I joined the pastoral staff of a moderately large church in Northern California. It was the most huggy place on earth. It seemed whether greeting or parting, an embrace was required. At first, it drove me nuts. I have some real personal space issues. You’re only welcome to land if you have received clearance from the tower. It wasn’t just the hugs. This church was the “I love you” capital of Christendom. Public profession of adoration between friends is a fine gesture to be sure, but not exactly within my stockpile of experience.

You see, “I love you” for me is an expression of great import. The phrase carries with it the weight of significant depth and personal covenant. To feel love for someone else is one thing. To say, “I love you,” well, this is more than deep caring, it is a contract—a new level of spoken commitment.

In part, as a result of my brief experience at that church, I verbally communicate my feelings for my close friends more often than before. Still, it can be “a pretty big matzo ball hanging out there.” Not for lack of confidence in the “I love you return.” I’m not sure that is always so important. I mean, everyone likes to hear they are loved (whether or not the feeling is mutual), right? Ah, but therein lies the problem.

It’s all about semantics. At that church, “I love you” meant, “I appreciate you” or “I’m glad you’re my friend” or “it sure is nice weather we’re having.” For me, “I love you” means, “built on the qualities I have come to deeply value in you, I care for and trust in you enough to risk a consequential portion of the depth of who I am on my relationship with you.”

Not only are there considerable differences in what these words mean from one person to the next, but, I have come to recognize that many people (including myself) find the idea of being loved difficult. Being loved is not a passive state. It seems to carry implicit responsibilities. If I am loved by you, I must bear the burden of your emotion. I now knowingly have the power to hurt you deeply. Sometimes, however, the problem is even more straightforward and narcissistic. I feel guilty—find it difficult (or even impossible) to receive your love because I don’t feel lovable. If you really knew me, you wouldn’t feel this way. Because of your expression, I am now beholden to continue whatever charade has inspired you to develop such affections. I no longer have the option of ever “being myself.” I must be the person you can love.

I sometimes wonder if this isn’t one of the reasons westerners in postmodern society are so quick to push God away. The formidable complexities—the internal antagonisms involved in the giving and receiving of unconditional, honest, whole love appear insurmountable… or, even worse, strike debilitating terror. The issues of personal space surrounding our heart keep Him (and most everyone else) at arm’s length. What tragic, personal devastation we affect through passive resistance in the name of self preservation.

New scene— Jerry and George are at the coffee shop.
Jerry: "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat."
George: Yup.
Jerry: Big matzo ball.
George: Huge matzo ball.
Jerry: Those damn “I love you” returns.
George: Well, it's all over. I slipped up.
Jerry: Oh, you don't know.
George: You have any idea how fast these things deteriorate when there's an “I love you” out of the bag? You can't have a relationship where one person says, "I love you", and the other says, "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat."
Jerry: Unless you're married.
George: I mean, now she thinks that I'm one of these guys that love her. Nobody wants to be with somebody that loves them.
Jerry: No, people hate that.
George: You want to be with somebody that doesn't like you.
Jerry: Ideally.
George: I am never saying “I love you” again unless they say it first.
Waitress: Matzo ball soup?
George: That'd be me.

People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw "Eli Stone"

2008-11-06T12:42:00.000-08:00

My wife and I watch Eli Stone. As network television goes, it’s pretty alright by me. I’m a Victor Garber fan (thus the initial interest). The premise: an associate attorney in a large San Francisco Law firm develops a hereditary subarachnoid brain aneurysm. He begins to have “sensory hallucinations” or visions. This rather serious scenario is often handled (on the show) with levity—sometimes even song and dance. The twist? The visions usually come true. Motivated by the phenomena, Eli finds himself advocating for worthy but less than popular causes. He comes to believe the visions are from God.

A faith theme runs strongly throughout most episodes. The season premiere a few weeks ago held no exception. Eli has undergone surgery to remove the aneurism. As a post procedural requirement, Eli must participate in counseling sessions to determine his fitness to once again practice law. Season two opens in one of these sessions (with a counselor played by Sigourney Weaver). The episode's story hinge: Eli comes to realize, though he has been meeting with her for three months, Ms. Weaver’s character is visible only to him. He asks if it’s possible she is only a “supersized vision.”

Weaver - Well, anything’s possible Eli. Isn’t that the very essence of faith?

Stone - That’s not an answer. Are you . . . ?

Weaver - God can be a narrow term. Let’s say hypothetically that I am or, to use a term from your line of work, that I’m His “fiduciary.” You had the aneurism removed. You were quite clear that you wanted your life to return to what you consider “normal.” But you’re meant for so much more, Eli. You’re one of those people for whom “normal” is a failure of potential.

Stone - Oh, so, you’re punishing me by dropping a bank on Jordan?

Weaver - That’s not the way of things. There’s no, "you don’t scratch my back, I’ll smite yours."

Don’t get nervous. I’m not about to start drawing my theology from the ABC Network writers’ table.

Most of the time, I love what I do. Still, I have often been remarkably jealous of people with a straightforward, 40 hour a week job; a handsome 501K; and a cake party in the staff room every time someone has a birthday. I wrote in my last post that people often want someone else’s problem. But, sometimes it feels like I already get EVERYONE else’s problem by default—by the very nature of this organism called ministry. There are days when I want to “have the aneurism removed,” as it were. But I keep hearing this voice in the back of my head say, “you’re one of those people for whom ‘normal’ is a failure of potential.” Unfortunately, this voice doesn’t sound much like Sigourney Weaver.

Consequently, depending on how you define the word, one might substitute that “followers of Jesus are people for whom ‘normal’ is a failure of potential.”

Weaver – You’re missing something. It’s true. But, it’s nothing a law license is going to give you.

Stone – [turning to go] Only one way to find out. [pausing and looking back] Or, I guess you could just tell me.

Weaver – I think you’re missing having the sense of the divine in your everyday life. I think you’re less happy now than when your life was occasionally upended by the fantastic. I think that grace fulfilled you in a way you didn’t even know you needed. And the only thing crazy about you is the fact that you don’t seem to realize that.

I have a friend who recently wrote about wanting to live among those who fall into the top 1% of self discipline and personal aspiration (e.g. Olympic champions). She feels lonely in her humble pursuit of personal and faith community excellence and seeks hope in environmental change. I understand and can’t discount that this can sometimes be an important part of growth. But, active engagement in the quest to climb one step higher, go a bit deeper, see things more like Christ sees them… these things separate her from others. I have a feeling they always will, regardless of her surroundings. You must find the ideal environment for who you are today, but if you are still (in this case always) becoming, you may just outgrow it tomorrow. For this person, “normal” (even if it is found among the top 1%) is not an environment in which to thrive. Nor is it a place to despise. It is something to transcend. It’s an environment you create, not one you discover.

I guess what I mean when I say, "I sometimes wish I could have a 'normal' job," is that, at times, I wish I could be satisfied with anything else. But I can’t. Not to say anything else is a lesser calling. It just isn’t mine. Whatever God has set before me today, THIS is where my potential lies. It IS my “normal” in and from which to rise. Anything less would be a failure of potential.

Realizing and accepting that makes my heart smile. Actualization is a myth. Satisfaction is a consequence of good choices—of obedience, not of arrival. Joy is the driving force of a great life, not its byproduct.

Plateau vs. Plato

2008-10-19T22:35:00.000-07:00

May 9, Nueve de Mayo, in the year of our Lord, two thousand and eight; a day that, for me, will live in infamy as long as I shall live. All right, maybe it’s not infamous. Well, not unless you use the Ned Nederlander definition.

in·fa·mous [in-fey-muh s] –adjective 1. when you’re more than famous; you’re in famous.

On May 9 of this year, once again for the I-can’t-count-how-many-eth time, I started a weight/muscle gain initiative. For as long as I can remember, I have been under weight. I have a high energy level and an incredibly fast metabolism. I get very hot when I sleep. I burn off calories without doing ANYTHING. Now, before those of you who are trying to loose weight finish cursing me under your breath, consider the frustration of not being able to walk into a clothing retailer and buy a pair of pants off the rack— of having most everything tailored or living with a poor fit. Imagine hearing, “oh, I didn’t see you there for a minute. You must have been turned to the side,” about 20 times a month. I guess it isn’t considered a social faux pas to describe a person as the skinny guy or stick person when pointing him out to friends. After all, it’s not like calling someone fat. But, for a man, it is no less unflattering… emasculating even. (Cue solo violin with haunting, lyrical melody) Imagine feeling helpless to do anything about it. Oh wait. You don’t have to imagine. I’m sure there is something in your life about which you feel the same.

Over the years, I’ve grown very frustrated with comments like, “I wish I had your problem” or “I should be so blessed.” I want to say, “no, you don’t. You don’t want my problem. You just don’t want yours. There is a big difference.” You see, it seems people with big noses want smaller ones. People with blond hair want brown hair, brunettes want red hair, and red heads wish to be blond. People with straight hair want curly hair while people with curls spend hours straightening their locks. Big people want to be smaller and small people want to be bigger. No one is happy and everyone wants someone else’s problem.

Self discipline, in most areas, comes somewhat naturally to me. Part of my retentive and moderately OCD personality, I suppose. It is both blessing and curse. Sticking to a workout routine or nutritional plan has never been that difficult. And motivation? I have motivation coming out my… (sorry, something caught in my throat). But, up until recently, the most I’ve ever gained was about 5 lbs over the course of 6 months. 5 lbs, consequently, that I would loose if I fell ill for a couple of weeks and couldn’t maintain my high caloric intake.

But May 9, 2008 was different. Once again, I employed my years of research and aggregate knowledge on the subject, detailing a foolproof plan. The same kind of plan that had never really worked before. (I guess it wasn’t non-fool proof?) But, this time— call it slowing metabolism with age, divine intervention, or a combination of the two— this time, I started seeing significant and exciting results. From May to August, I made steady gains; over 21 lbs of mostly lean muscle mass in three months (only a 3-4% gain in body fat)! Nearly 1.5 inches in my neck, over 3.5 inches in my shoulders, 4.5 in my chest, just under 2 inches in my biceps, and a little less than 3 inches in my quads. I did gain 3 inches in my waist (not uncommon when bulking) but, considering I started out at 28.5 inches, I think this is more than acceptable.

Hooray! Right? That was May through August. It is now nearing the end of October. My gains since August 9? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nicht. Non niente. Neits. Ничто. 沒什麼東西. The dreaded plateau. The frustration that had slowly been melting away has returned with full force to flourish like never before. And why? Why can’t I just be happy for what has been accomplished? Because, like most westerners, I am constantly caught between two primary motivations: abject dissatisfaction or debilitating fear of change. (Wow, did I just sum up the political poles in the U.S. or what? I digress.) Neither are healthy motivations, nor do they lend themselves to salubrious decision making.

What’s worse, still 15 lbs below my target, I continue to hear things like, “you’ve gained 20 lbs? Where did you put it?” This post is not intended as a personal plea for social mercy. Even so, I'm reminded of a Plato quote I once read. “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” I am learning more and more how very important it is to celebrate even the smallest victories. Not to the point of distraction, but, if for no other reason, because plateaus have a way of draining more energies than the climb ever could. I am convinced that “stuck,” wherever that may be, is the worst location on earth.

I will change tactics and gain more weight. I am determined and not completely derailed. Yet, the disheartening reality, the looming and formidable threat of "stuck," abides. Though much deeper applications abound here, I will leave you to your own meditations on the issue. I close with only this simple query: I wonder if you will join me in lending a more generous portion of grace to those around you. Maybe together and with Gods help we can take on “stuck” in its many forms, and win! “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

“Break on through to the other side”

2008-09-24T21:39:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my youngest son started Kindergarten. He’s doing well and seems to be enjoying the experience on the whole. He’s attending a Catholic school (long story) and, though the classroom part is fairly familiar (he attended a very academic preschool), there are other things about school and its structures he yet finds quite foreign.

His first day of class, my wife (who had taken off work for the occasion) and I walked him into the room, helped him find where to put his lunch pail, backpack, supplies, etc., and walked him to his seat. The next few days, I said goodbye just inside the door. However, for the last couple of weeks, I have only walked him across the parking lot and to his building. I stop just outside the door, kiss him on the head, and send him inside. He usually has much to say as we walk toward the class. He moves at a steady pace, full of energy. But, when we arrive at the door and exchange our goodbyes, a curious thing happens. He freezes at the threshold. He walks right up to the entrance and stops, silent.

Now, the classroom is decorated with kid friendly shapes, letters, images, and games of all sorts. Everything is low and mostly well within his reach. His friends are waiting for him just inside. The whole thing is designed for him—a place where he can thrive.

The exterior of the building is unimpressive and stark. There are no windows. It’s surrounded by other uninteresting structures, black-top, and concrete. Yet, there he stands. It’s not so much that he’d rather be standing on the sidewalk than that he just can’t bring himself to cross the threshold and enter the room.

So, I wondered to myself today, “what is he afraid of? He seems to really like school. His teacher is friendly, mostly disarming, and very complimentary of his performance and behavior thus far. He has already made friends, he enjoys the learning and activities… what’s the big deal? Just walk on in and start your day.”

Then, I realized on how many fronts, in my own life, I am standing outside, staring in the door, speechless, hesitant to cross the threshold. What’s the big deal? For the most part, I’m a risk taker. (Alright… so I am a “manageable” risk taker, but still...) Why do I just stand here, when the promise of what may be much better lies just over a metal plate between the sidewalk and the room ahead?

Curiously, later today, a thoughtful acquaintance (another friend of a friend) wrote to me about life after death and the mysterious way in which we cannot know with any scientific or academic certainty what lies beyond until we cross into it; on this side of the threshold, there's only speculation, faith… hope.

I see a theme developing. I hate that.

I don’t walk my son into the room everyday anymore— not because I don’t love him, or want to ease his trepidation, but because I know at some point, even in the smallest of ways, he must learn that crossing thresholds is an important personal step. Though others may walk you to the door, no one can enter for you. Sometimes, they can’t even do it with you. That's what makes it so powerful.

I don’t need to go to Kindergarten. This is his threshold to cross. I have my own. It seems at ages five and thirty-s i .. . (well, let’s just say I’m older than five), we have a lot in common. Who knew?

So, the question of the day is: “What’s holding you back from crossing the important thresholds in your life?”

Ref, can I make a substitution?

2008-09-22T10:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was leading a musical worship set and altered a lyric on the fly. It wasn't intentional. I lost focus for a moment, omitted a line, and repeated an earlier one in its place. The song was new to most everyone in the room so it wouldn’t have been a problem EXCEPT that the words were being projected at thousands of ANSI lumens on multiple, jumbo screens throughout the auditorium. “No big deal,” I thought to myself, “my version made perfect sense and the song moved on quickly. I don’t think it was a distraction.” And, even now, I’m sure it wasn’t.

Still, figuratively speaking, I recognize how often in life I have changed a line here and there or substituted lines I should be singing for ones with which I am ultimately more comfortable. I wonder if that inconsistency is noticeable—if it creates a credibility issue. What are the consequences of projecting words on the big screen (the words I want everyone to sing) and then demonstrating something noticeably different… even if the “different” is not inherently bad.

There are other times I feel like it is someone else’s version of the song on the screen—a version I have no intention of ever singing. I’m held accountable for a standard I never accepted, one to which I feel no moral or spiritual obligation (only organizational or social).

Either way, it is not okay with me.

"Now, how much would you pay?"

2008-09-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

From time to time, I read a blog by Tim Miller (a friend of a friend) called These are My Church Clothes. A few weeks ago he wrote, “churches say they want to reach lost people, until they figure out what that means.”

For reasons I will keep to myself, the unfortunate truth of this statement has never resonated more strongly with me. That is, with one significant clarification: I do not believe the root problem is with “churches,” but rather, that “individuals say they want to reach lost people, until they figure out what that means” – personally… for their own life.

Without argument, we know we should be reaching people with God’s love. We want to do it! That is, until we recognize this means our church will no longer exclusively (or even primarily) exist to meet our needs. A church bent on impacting non-members with God’s love is not a safe harbor for personal, spiritual complacency. It is extremely challenging to admit some practices and experiences we guard in tender sanctity aren’t— nay, shouldn’t be important to everyone. It’s not so much that there may no longer be room in the budget or in the bulletin or on the calendar for my favorite ministry, or that I might lose my position or comfortable spiritual identity (though jagged little pills, indeed). But, even more difficult to swallow—having to face the reality that my sorrow (or even animosity) over the pending loss of these things reveals something about myself and the selfishness of my faith. I don’t want to see my reflection in that particular mirror.

“But wait… there’s more!” It’s not just about reaching lost people. Believers want to worship in unity, until we figure out what that means… personally. We want to disciple to real Christian maturity, until we figure out what that costs… personally. We want to minister/serve like Jesus, until we figure out that’s more than a one hour a week attendance effort… personally. We want to fellowship/partner in lasting, meaningful relationships, until we figure out that this requires availability, transparency, and covenant… personally. "Now, how much would you pay?"

It is my experience that most churched people are more resistant to change than the lost people we want to see transformed. Not resistant to the idea of change; just the personal implications of it.

Tim writes, “what they [churches] want is for their methodology to work.”

We hire people and read books and attend conferences and adopt programs to this end. But, a caterpillar can’t fly. He's not the wrong species, just the wrong form. A rather intimate personal (not environmental) transformation is necessary.

I am very challenged by this. Church is not an entity unto itself. A church can only be what its members are willing to be— can only accomplish by the active service of its collective individuals. Heaven help us. So, what do you think?

Postcards from the Edge

2008-09-09T10:30:00.000-07:00

Faithful Readers,

I’m thinking of trying something a little different. For the past year, I have posted entries here in article form—well thought out, focused musings and personal discoveries (see archive). I am finding it difficult, however, to devote the time and energy required to make such complete entries available. I have started MANY posts only to find that I haven’t the time to finish them. So, I am thinking of posting more often and less completely. This is not to say the entries will be any less thoughtful and, from time to time, I still hope to make more fully composed submissions. I enjoy (even relish) your comments and would love to pose some questions in hopes of discussion. Response is wonderful, but mutual engagement is even better. (Fighting the urge to post an emoticon wink right now. Don’t know what is wrong with me that I would even think about it. What has the world come to?)

I look forward to seeing how this goes. Thanks for stopping by my little corner of the internet from time to time. It means a lot to me to have the honor of capturing your thoughts for a moment.

James

"WE WANT YOU TO HAVE LOBSTER!"

2008-07-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

My friend, Frances, keeps a blog she calls Cracked Clay Pot. Instead of replying to her June 19, 2008 post entitled "Spaghetti Sauce and Church," I decided to write about the topic here. You will want to read her entry before you continue (or risk serious metaphorical confusion).

Not only am I inclined to agree with her thinking on diversity, I feel a fundamental issue is curiously ignored in most discussions of church style/form/experience. [1]

"Why do Christians take everything so personally with Christ, ya know? It's like, not only do you have to worship him, you want everybody to. It's like, I like lobster. Do I go around pushing lobster on people? Do I say, 'you must like lobster? Eat lobster; it's good, it's good!' It's not only where you live. You go to Africa. You travel all over the world. 'Eat lobster. Have some more lobster. It's good! WE WANT YOU TO HAVE LOBSTER!'" - Larry David, “Curb Your Enthusiasm”

A growing number of people don’t want plain, spicy, OR extra chunky spaghetti sauce—a reality I believe to be widely overlooked by the church (and most believers in Christ). They don’t want spaghetti sauce, regardless of variety, because more and more people in America don’t like Italian food. They don’t care what Prego or Ragu or any one else produces because they find Italian food to be distasteful or overly simplistic or a key contributor to epidemic human obesity. If they do like Italian, they don’t understand why sauce should be required or they want only the sauce… noodles have WAY too many carbs. Or, maybe, they like Italian food just fine… just not exclusively. What’s wrong with Asian or Mexican or French cuisine?

My point: Only those who value spaghetti have a sauce preference. I wonder if this wasn’t among the reasons Jesus spent so very little time (comparatively) talking about the formation, structure, style, even purpose of faith community. He spoke rather, in words and example, to the formation, structure, style, and purpose of the believer. In fact, the apostles spent an inordinate amount of their energy trying to mitigate problems within and minimize the distractions of early Christian community.

I am not saying the fellowship of believers is bad or even unimportant. By no means. Even so, at what point did we come to understand organization to be the primary outreach tool? When did we shirk the personal responsibility to be what Christ challenged us to be? When did this become something we merely encouraged instead of the foundation of who we are? Why is it something we program, administrate, even cash in on? I wonder if the American aversion to Jesus is not more an aversion to a church who has used His name and message as a marketing tool for building its numbers.

"Between the first persecution under Nero in 64 to the Edict of Milan in 313, Christians experienced 129 years of persecution and 120 years of toleration and peace.” [2] During periods of persecution, Christian fellowship was an underground movement. Yet, it was in concurrence to said persecution that faith in Christ spread most rapidly. How was that possible without a local, socially relevant meeting, effectively advertised, with flexible catered structure and presentation to appeal to the diverse masses? When did worship (by way of style) come to bear the weight of ecumenical relevance in our culture? When did organizationally sanctioned children’s programs become the principle entry point for introducing kids to Christ? When did biblical instruction and evangelistic preaching of the Gospel become synonymous? Weren’t these once two different things? (see The Holy Bible: New Testament) Will a shift from traditional church thinking to community (mission) guided church thinking (organization) without a decided shift in the responsibility taking and vision of the individual believer really get it done in the long run? Is that what the organization is even for?

It is my conviction that we do not draw disciples largely because we do not equip disciplers. We do not empower disciplers largely because we have not really made disciples of Christ in the first place. What I mean is, we have made disciples of our church, our form, our style, our understanding… but it might appear that few people are meeting Jesus and engaging in deep meaningful relationship with Him—a relationship from which springs a deep and desperate passion to share His life, love, and spiritual rescue with others (even in the face of severe persecution). Sadly, it seems Larry David has not yet met a Christian whose testimony of Jesus is born of God’s desperate love and concern for… well, Larry David. We are not commissioned to propagate the church-going species. If that is all this is, then we ARE just pushing lobster—and it is ridiculous! God’s love for others must transcend our organization and be the fundamental motivation of its membership.

Getting someone to church isn’t necessarily getting them to God. Helping someone connect to God will not necessarily mean they will connect to your church. Building the Kingdom of God is not the same thing as building a ministry. Jesus didn’t die for churches, He died for people. He did not commission an organization, He commissioned disciples. Consequently, these people, these disciples are the Church… His Bride. When do we get to start talking about “the Church,” an entity (with common responsibility to Christ), instead of “my church,” an organization or schedule or style or event?

Footnotes:

1. Please note: (for those who read my post entitled “Two Thumbs Up”) This commentary is in no way intended as external criticism of Christ’s Bride. Rather, it flows from the growing personal conviction of a Christian leader. These issues strike me, as a foremost offender, squarely between the eyes. This blog is a dedicated forum for such discussion and discovery.

2. Maurice M. Hassatt, "Martyr." The Catholic Encyclopedia, Vol. IX (Robert Appleton Company, 1910).

Deep and Wide

2008-06-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

Communication is essential to social life. (I know, profound stuff isn’t it?) Interpersonal connection is a relatively natural thing for me most of the time. Reminded just recently that this is not always the case, I recognize the danger in taking the skills involved for granted. Still, I am not often misunderstood (note the difference between “mis-“ and “fully” as they relate to “understood”). I consider myself intuitive and creative enough to make situational communication matches. But, where I am inclined to go with my communication, the natural direction/destination for me… “aye, there’s the rub.”

I was chatting with a good friend a few weeks ago. After asking me some difficult questions, fully expecting careful answers, he commented about the level at which I had been thinking the situation through. “Funny, the truth is I haven’t had a chance to give it much thought until just now,” I commented. He jumped to another topic altogether. I tracked with him for a couple of minutes and then, without thinking, somehow connected the conversation back to the earlier depth. The safety I feel in our friendship, his concern, and his questions had commissioned a journey that wasn’t, for me, complete—a journey most would never have started in the first place (not without a good deal of prodding). Though the idea challenges my natural proclivity, I recognize not every journey is completed in a day— not every purchase is made with a single payment.

I caught myself and grinned. “You know what? I think I just figured out why we get along so well. You allow me to go deeper and I have no problem with you pulling the conversation back up to the surface.” In fact, we’ve come to expect it from one another. He laughed, “are you saying I’m shallow?” “Absolutely not.” I explained that the way I am inclined to process, the tendency I have in conversation is to take it deeper and deeper— to hold to one topic or any relative association, break it down to its DNA and/or consider its connections to larger contexts. It is the way I think. He is broader. When I share conversation with him, we are much more likely to cover a wider spectrum of topics— anything from politics to personal struggles, music to mechanical engineering, football to friendships. We may talk about these things only as they relate to a moment in time. I love it. More than abiding these tendencies in one another, I believe we value them, balancing ourselves against them. But, our friendship is unique and I am thankful for the awareness this discovery has afforded me as it bears on other relationships.

More than once over the course of the conversation, we inadvertently traded places. I drew on random connections and shifted topics freely. He connected the dialogue back to earlier, deeper thoughts. We caught ourselves doing it. Very entertaining. “See, we’re rubbing off on each other. Maybe I’m learning the joy of a broader conversational surface area and I’ll just leave the depth to you.” On the other hand, looking back over today’s blog entry... maybe not.

"Two thumbs up"

2008-05-05T18:24:00.000-07:00

Doesn’t it seem the toughest (even foremost) critics in most disciplines are often past their prime, out of shape or limited on— even devoid of the talent needed to perform said discipline? Seriously. Simon Cowell couldn't sing his way out of a paper bag. What was the name of that acclaimed film Roger Ebert wrote or produced or starred in? Oh yeah, that's right... there aren't any. Political pundits don't actually govern. No one has elected them into office (though they likely have more power to shape government than any politician). The most ruthless judge in a dance competition is usually the one whose last active partner was Ginger Rogers. To my knowledge, Nobel and Pulitzer prize winning author, Earnest Hemingway, never reviewed for the New York times. It is a rare literary critic who has penned more than a widely published opinion. No matter the discipline, most critics’ reputations are based primarily on their ability to assess what is wrong, not on a proven ability to produce what is right. Maybe the cliché should go, “those who can, do. Those who can’t, critique.” So, why do we trust them? And, how did they become untouchable?

The 1988 film, "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," provides an apt illustration. Lawrence Jameson (Michael Cane), a highly educated, refined, and extremely successful confidence man, imparts wisdom to his half-wit protégé, Freddy Benson (Steve Martin).

Freddy, as a younger man, I was a sculptor, a painter, and a musician. There was just one problem: I wasn't very good. As a matter of fact, I was dreadful. I finally came to the frustrating conclusion that I had taste and style, but not talent. I knew my limitations. We all have our limitations, Freddy. Fortunately, I discovered that taste and style were commodities that people desired. Freddy, what I am saying is: know your limitations. You are a moron.

Sadly, I fear the church remains caught in the same trap. Just because someone will stock our book, put us on television, publish our article, or listen to our sermon, doesn’t make us an expert. True, taste and style have their relative value. But, where the Bride of Christ is concerned, well… Who gets to tell Her what works and what doesn’t? Who gets to decide these things? The only opinion that truly matters here is that of the Groom. And, it would seem He has made His taste with regard to Her beauty quite clear. He desires Her affection and devotion, that She share in His joys and purpose, that She conduct Herself in ways that bring honor to His Father’s name, and that everyone be invited to the wedding. I hear Him express no real opinion on what band to hire for the reception, what color the living room curtains should be, or whether She should wear Her hair up or down. He will clothe Her so She needn’t worry. Pleasing Him is Her primary concern.

Yet, we all have an opinion on the how-s, when-s, and where-s. I have struggled all my life to gain weight. Anyone who has felt powerless to change their body mass understands this frustration. I have read countless weight gain and muscle development theories. Everyone wants to tell you their story. How they gained thirty pounds of pure muscle in three months. The trouble is, what works for one body, doesn’t always work the same for the next. Of course, there must be some givens here. Still, many how-s, when-s, and where-s are relative and only a careful understanding of the individual’s unique genetic make-up can reveal the best course of action for maximum results.

Long time critics of Bill Hybels and the Willow Creek model have had a field day with the recent self-publishing of the organization’s internal study. In the past few months I’ve read at least a half dozen “I told you so-s.” God’s people don’t always hit the mark. So, we self assess and learn and regroup and go again. Bravo to Willow Creek for being self-effacing enough to take a hard, honest look at their values, their measures, and reorganize accordingly. Few, if any, churches in America have successfully, consistently, and for thirty years reached with Christ’s love as many people as Willow Creek and its Association. Why doesn’t this fact alone drown out the “I told you so-s?” I would hardly say the organization has failed God. In fact, all Willow Creek has said is that they are dissatisfied with their effectiveness in making the kind of connections God has charged them to make. Why, instead of learning from this beautiful example of real, humble, honest leadership, are churches and Christian leaders so quick to use this study as evidence for validating their own, ineffectual practices—fuel for catapulting their own opinions and formulas to the forefront? When do we learn that listening carefully to those we serve and being honest with ourselves about what is most valuable by God's measure is an essential part of the success process, not a precursor to resignation. It is carefully setting up the next operation, not a painful debrief after a failed mission? Doesn’t it seem a better focus to lead toward positives, not away from negatives? Might not the former inherently take care of the latter?

Positive feedback is often robbed of any credibility because it isn't viewed as "constructive" criticism. Maybe Paula Abdul knows something about criticism that eludes most of us. People grow when they are encouraged and guided. This may most certainly include some pruning or painful shaping. But most of the time, it means fertilization and watering and the proper balance of environmental elements (light, temperature). I’ve grown tired of church critics so quick to negatively assess what isn’t working. They tell us why/when/where the problem began and who is responsible… but where is the encouragement in fruitful direction? Where is the watering of God seed or tending for healthy soil? Where are the examples of success? Oh wait, I just remembered— those folks are out getting it done and inviting us to come along, not chastising us for missing their mark. Well, not yet anyway. Unfortunately, it seems the allure of becoming the “expert” voice sometimes intoxicates the effective servant. Maybe it’s more inadvertent than that.

I have a young friend in his first year of Bible College. Earlier this year, he asked for my opinion regarding what he felt to be the growing prevalence of believer-centric worship. He was starting an “underground” newspaper with a friend “to critically examine Christianity at [this] school and how it can be improved.” I formed a careful response to his question, giving him history and context for my observations. Then I added…

Be careful. Before you go criticizing worship practices in the American church (something you have EXTREMELY limited knowledge of) or any aspects of church for that matter, consider that you are criticizing Jesus’ Bride. You are criticizing the way She expresses Her love for the Bridegroom. If there is something She is missing, ways in which She may be incomplete, it would be better for you to seek to instruct, encourage, support, complete Her than to criticize Her. Jesus will defend His Beloved. I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of that.

I didn’t hear from him again for weeks. I don’t think my answer set particularly well.

Don't get me wrong. Not all feedback should be positive. Not all criticism results in warm fuzzies. But God's instruction for His Bride, though it may at times be hard to take, always has Her triumph as its inspiration. This is a proper litmus test for church criticism.

So, it would seem the "expert" may not always be one's most valuable assessor. Outside-in objectivity has its place. But, the insider, the one who knows what it smells like in the trenches, the one who looks for the wins and then celebrates them along side you— that is the "constructive" critic. The person who helps you categorize the losses, disarming failure, guarding hope; the person who helps you navigate around potential pitfalls and warns you before you turn down a dead end street— this is the esteemed voice of a godly guide. God, Himself, is not objective when it comes to the Church, without apology. And, when all is said and done, His is the only opinion that counts.

A little respect...

2008-04-07T18:31:00.001-07:00

No one likes to be (or feel) disrespected. But, I live in Southern California. I drive on the freeways. A disrespect-free life is out of the question. Seriously—it seems to me society now revolves around this word… this concept. We believe we deserve respect. We demand it. Name your reason. My ethnicity, my position, my bank roll, my age, my education, my experience, my fame, my appearance, my physical prowess… We further believe respect is ours to give or withhold at will. We wield it like a weapon. We use it as leverage. We withhold respect until proven respect-worthy. The most desirable position in society is one of unquestionable, universal respect without reciprocal obligation. Ludicrous!

We live in a nation (maybe a world) that has little regard for Christians (though I’m not sure Jesus doesn’t fare a little better than those who live to serve Him). So, I am used to having to earn respect. I don't generally resent this idea. In some ways, it is the nature of the life I’ve chosen and I’ve become accustomed (though not completely immune) to the frustrations of the process. In fact, respect earned has its rewards. Still, there remain a handful of people from whom I hope to be granted generous benefit of the doubt. Not because I deserve it (though I pray I might). Rather, I feel these individuals should understand the nature of the thing. Truly, I respect them enough to expect more from them. It is a small handful, mind you. Is that fair as expectations go? Maybe not. I just had a long, difficult conversation with someone over mutual respect. But, I wonder if it was difficult for all the wrong reasons. Jesus seemed saddened, once in a while irritated; but never derailed or even all that frustrated about an absence of respect from those who should have freely granted it. Huh...

To further complicate the issue, it seems "respect" has no universally accepted definition. For some, it is merely regard/consideration (to take into account, have or show concern for, think highly of; esteem). For some, it is value (relative worth, merit, or importance; to consider worth, excellence, usefulness, or importance). For others, it is preference (advantage given over others; a prior right or claim; the right or chance to so choose; being given priority). For some, it is an expectation of emotional responsibility (to anticipate and guard against all potential negative feelings in another). For still others, it is outright and unquestionable deference (submission or yielding to the judgment, opinion, will, etc., of another). At best and for most, it seems circumstantial. The kind of respect one gives is relative to whom and the kind of respect one deserves dependent on by whom it is being granted. While I can’t believe this entirely unreasonable, it is often extremely difficult to mitigate the inherent perils unscathed. It seems the arrows are flying before you even draw your bow (or wave a white flag).

So, is respect given, received, earned, lost… all or none of the above? Is it reasonably expected or is respect decorously withheld until one is proven otherwise worthy? What is the value, the power of respect received? Given?

As for earning respect: a friend of mine (musing on a slightly different topic) recently posed these questions…

"How much tooting of one's own horn is necessary?" Or is this something completely foreign to the Christ-centered life? And why is it that we feel that we have to make sure people know what we are doing? Is it because we are a society based on action, and if we do all our service in secret we appear to be inactive and ineffective? I guess it goes back to my favorite quote: "You know you are a servant when you are treated like one and it does not bother you."

I like his quote. A lot. It brings me to the rhetorical question of the day... Is there anything of lasting value that cannot be accomplished from a greater sense of respect given than received?

While I would not suppose it an ignoble or ungodly goal to live as one worthy of respect; and, though I cannot disagree that respect carries with it a certain freedom, authority, and responsibility; I wonder if being respected is requisite in the servant life... essential for joyful living. Or, maybe, it is a matter of Whose respect we seek and whether or not, when granted, it is enough.

Back in the Saddle Again

2008-03-28T21:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, I really don't know what this song is supposed to mean. I guess what I'm trying to say is... it’s been a while since I made an entry here. Things have been (still are) a little crazy. But, I'm back. And, though there is much about which to write, there is no easy place to begin. Deep breath. Swan dive.

Lately, it seems I’ve really had to put up a spiritual fight for emotional purity-- a God glorifying center in my attitude. I say it's a fight, but it’s really just having to answer a nagging question over and over. Sometimes, though too seldom, the question seems just silly and I can laughably shrug it off. Sometimes it is annoying, like a fly that keeps buzzing around my head. I can’t catch it to shut it up and I can’t get away from it. Even though I come through with the right answer, having to face the question again and again changes my mood, my outlook for the worse. Still, more and more, when faced with the same stupid question, I am realizing that the number of right answers does not change my holiness grade. It isn’t a test to see how many times I get it right or wrong... whether I will pass or fail. It is more like a thermostat. It is a test to see if I am maintaining my dependence on God, a humble deference to His truth or if I am more willing to try and prove my own strength, make up my own answers using the logic that works for me.

I’ve been reading a lot from the New Living Translation. I didn’t like it at first. I have some kind of prejudice toward the original Living Bible. It doesn’t even pretend to be a translation. It’s a paraphrase of the American Standard Version that Kenneth Taylor wrote as he commuted back and forth to his job (by train). I guess I had always thought of it as the Bible for people who need things dumbed down. It was released the year I was born and, by the time I could read, had become very popular in the church because of its ease of understanding. Funny, the same criticism could be made regarding Eugene Peterson’s sermonization of scripture in The Message, yet I have the whole of Peterson’s work on CD in my truck as I type. How life changes. Still, the New Living is a true translation with the language feel and “everyman” priority of Kenneth Taylor’s original. So, I’ve tried to put my prejudice aside and am really enjoying this new version.

Anyway, I was reading the beatitudes from the sermon on the mount and, in the NLT, Matt. 5:3 reads… “God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.” Striking. Because of where I am in my journey, this language leapt off the page at me. I dove into research mode to try and find out how accurate this interpretation might be. Everything I could find on the original Greek supported this language. Jesus was clearly saying that the spiritually desperate, those who recognize how destitute they are on their own have God’s government at their disposal. Charles Spurgeon wrote, "the way to rise in the kingdom is to sink in ourselves."

Reading his statement reminded me of one of my favorite John Donne poems.

HOLY SONNETS. XIV.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Wow! I haven’t read that in some time. It means more to me now than ever. Though it scares me to death (which may be the point), Father, this is my prayer.

Stood Up

2008-02-01T22:41:00.000-08:00

Take me to where greatness lives
He was supposed to come over and inspire me today
He taunted me instead
That spiteful little politician
He slips around hiding behind other people’s faces
Never my own
He makes certain I know he’s there
He’s busy giving just enough
To remind me I’m not enough
He deals in illusion— allusion
The brochures are free
But he stood me up yet again
I’m pretty sure he’s laughing about it
Or maybe he just decided to nap instead
So, take me to where greatness lives
I want to have a word with him
Maybe more
Then we’ll find out who the real coward is
He has some explaining to do

Wrote this poem yesterday. Thought I would share it here. Was a little frustrated with the way a creative project was going. Anyone else ever feel this way?

"Break on Through (To the Other Side)"

2008-01-22T20:31:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who is always reading wonderful things I might otherwise never think to read myself. For example, he has recently been enjoying Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. He quoted the Nobel Peace Prize winner’s eloquent words…

“If God who owes nothing to us is ready to impart to us no less than Himself, shall we answer with just a fraction of ourselves? To give ourselves fully to God is a means of receiving God Himself. I for God and God for me. I live for God and give up my own self, and in this way induce God to live for me. Therefore to possess God we must allow Him to possess our soul.”

I was chatting with another friend late last week. She told me about Maxine, an 86 year old woman who attends her church. Maxine is wheelchair-bound and often unable to see the projected lyrics to the worship songs. The people standing around her unintentionally block her view. She doesn’t know many of the songs. Still, my friend stood next to Maxine one Sunday, watching and listening as the elderly woman threw her arms up to God and, voice strained and broken, with abandon sang out “la, la, la, la, la!” For the most part, Maxine managed to keep in time with the rhythm and follow the melodies. But, if she sounded a few raw notes now and then, she didn’t let it bother her. She had come to worship her Savior. And worship she did. Nothing was going to stand in her way. My friend welled up as she told me about Maxine. What a beautiful expression of deep love between Creator and His creation.

I was reminded of a woman Matthew, Mark and Luke wrote about in their accounts of Jesus life.

Jesus… was surrounded by the crowds. A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding, and she could find no cure. Coming up behind Jesus, she touched the fringe of his robe. Immediately, the bleeding stopped. “Who touched me?” Jesus asked. Everyone denied it, and Peter said, “Master, this whole crowd is pressing up against you.” But Jesus said, “Someone deliberately touched me, for I felt healing power go out from me.” When the woman realized that she could not stay hidden, she began to tremble and fell to her knees in front of him. The whole crowd heard her explain why she had touched him and that she had been immediately healed. “Daughter,” he said to her, “your faith has made you well. Go in peace.” - Luke 8:42b-48 (emphasis mine)

This woman approached an influential Jewish man, a rabbi (culturally unheard of). She pressed through huge crowds of people, all the while suffering from a physical condition that made her unclean; a social outcast. She pressed through overwhelming personal, societal and physical barriers to touch Jesus. She did it believing Him to be who He said He was. Regardless of what she might hope to gain, it was a pure act of worship.

I think of how many hoops organized religion often expects people to jump through; how many hurdles one must clear in order to touch Jesus, and I am ashamed. There are already enough barriers (doubt, fear, confusion, pride, disillusionment, relationships, deception, etc.) to keep people from the God who created them—who adores them. Instead of working to eliminate these barriers, the church erects its own. Style, tradition, experience, doctrinal elitism… arguments like which Bible translation is best; or how many new or old worship songs we should sing; or whether sermons should be evangelistic, theological or just plain practical. The dispute crowds in around the central message of Christ, blocking the way more and more. God forgive us for missing the point entirely.

I think of Maxine and am all the more convinced that the only essentials here are truly knowing and loving God. I believe we can trust Him to work out anything that's left.

A tax man, in Jesus’ day, thought he could avoid the crowds and get a better glimpse by climbing a tree. When Jesus saw him, he called the guy down and said, “let’s grab some dinner at your place,” because getting a good look is not enough. Recognizing Christ is passive. Following Christ, that’s something else entirely. Pushing all barriers aside, nothing matters more than getting to God’s heart. At least, it seems that’s how He felt when He set aside the benefits of deity and pushed through humanity to get to us.

In the early days of the church, would-be leaders were trying to convince believers it was necessary they jump through hoops other than Christ in order to know and honor God. Paul wrote to the Christians in Galatia charging that these guys just want to…

…look good to others. They… don’t keep the whole law themselves. They only want… to… boast about it and claim you as their disciples.

As for me, may I never boast about anything except the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ. Because of that cross, my interest in this world has been crucified, and the world’s interest in me has also died. …What counts is whether we have been transformed into a new creation.

From now on, don’t let anyone trouble me with these things. – Galatians 6:12-17

It kind of sounds like that altruistic nun, “I live for God and give up my own self, and in this way induce God to live for me.”

Sunday, I told the musicians and worship leadership at my church about Maxine. I found myself welling up as I spoke—and I’ve never even met her. It didn’t matter. I feel like knocking down a few barricades to get to Christ. Anyone with me? “La, la, la, la, la!”

"The Day the Conversation Died"

2008-01-10T23:22:00.000-08:00

I have often considered myself temporally displaced. How is it I missed the age when conversation was a social art form? People don’t converse anymore. They send text messages and emails and write blogs and join social networks… but, somewhere along the way, artful, unadulterated conversation died. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who showed up to pay my last respects. Bummer.

Mind you, talk still abounds. So by way of concession, there is a difference between prolific dialogue and verbosity. The former is intellectually productive. One careful thought may instinctively lead to another in compounding depth and expansion. The latter is just too many words. I should know. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at both.

I process my environment very quickly—in my head, that is. But the depth required for working observations into livable principles usually involves some ruminating, and ruminating some talking out. Therein lies the problem. Catch me on a topic I have processed and my language may be quick, careful and ready for discussion. Challenge me with a situation for which I’ve yet to lay sufficient cognitive foundation and watch out! I have to get my bearings. However, few people these days seem sensitive to the difference between or respective value of both processing-speech and engaging conversation. Though I prefer language, there are other viable means of process. But truly engaging conversation? I believe its value unequalled and frequently discover I’m starved for it. Once found, I am ravenous and sometimes, before I realize it, pick the carcass clean.

I am self aware enough to know I often have too much to say. Sometimes I find myself rattling on simply because I fear the awkward staring if the conversation dies (and I cannot escape). Still other times, I credit a conviction that good conversation has a beginning middle and end (even if it is punctuated with an ellipsis). This, however, requires mutual investment. A one winged plane spins wildly out of control until it finally crashes. A natural, graceful landing takes the balance of two.

Too often I observe and/or experience a profound inequity in substantive verbal engagement. I want to know the people around me and feel as though they know me. I want to hear who and what and where they are and work life out together. There are many wonderful people with whom I’ve had the privilege of doing just that. But, of late, amid all the IM-speak, mobile etiquette and cerebral loitering, finding people who value thoughtful dialogue has become increasingly difficult. Conversation requires thought. It tests defensible opinions. It is an investment in one’s self and others. It is inconvenient. It is extraordinarily worthwhile.

Recognizing how selfish it would be to blankly indict society upon this point, I self examine. A few of the (many) discoveries...

1) My relationship balance may be unhealthy (between protégés, peers and mentors – emotional, social, intellectual and spiritual relationships)
2) I may mismanage how others perceive or measure my intensity in conversation, inadvertently pushing them away
3) I can misinterpret an invitation to deeper thought and exploration (optimistically project shared value)

I yet have much growing to do. Still, none of these considerations disarm my original contention. Where have all the meaningful conversations gone? Is it just me? My humble observation—with the wealth of global information at our disposal, we still don’t really know one another and have, insomuch, lost ourselves. Christian faith is rarely rooted in community these days (read the New Testament epistles and compare). I believe this is one reason the Emerging Church is gaining so much ground. Real conversation sparks real thought about real life. Without it, we live in a cursory world, dangerously superficial. Why are we in such a hurry to get on to the next shallow activity or relationship? What is it we fear?

Here’s to resurrecting the art of great social dialogue in 2008. Vive la conversation!

Running to the window...

2007-12-22T22:37:00.000-08:00

...he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!

"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.``

"Eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.

"To-day?" replied the boy. "Why, Christmas Day!"

"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can..."

This is going to be a very different sort of Christmas for us. It will just be our nuclear (or nucular, if your last name is Bush) family. I have had mixed emotions about this (the holiday and the Bush family). We will miss our extended families very much. Still, I welcome, with hearty embrace, the opportunity to form and/or seal our own traditions this holiday season. As the day draws closer, I can actually feel my excitement growing. It’s been a while.

Midweek I helped deliver Angel Tree gifts and baked goods to the children of inmates. I have to say, it wasn't entirely what I expected. I'm not sure what I expected. But, it was really wonderful all the same.

For a variety of reasons, we have had to budget more conservatively this year. Ordinarily this wouldn't be such a big deal because our children would be overloaded with packages from grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins galore! I think our tree has a total of about 8 presents beneath it as I type. None of them are terribly impressive. I hear Santa is bringing something really cool. That old coot will be getting credit for the big excitement on Christmas day. Oh well. His gift is consistent with our thinking this year. We want our big Christmas gift to each other to be about family and quality time.

As for our gifts to friends, we baked. It was fun time with the kids. We mixed batter, decorated cookies, loaded the goodies into tins... the whole thing. We wanted the gifts truly to be from all of us. We spent a good deal of our allotted Christmas funds on our other gift to family and friends. This gift is another first for us. Tuesday night, Kris, the boys and I signed cards that began...

This season, we, as a family, have chosen to give our gifts, not to you, but from a heart and shared evangelistic passion along with you...

Instead of shopping for dozens of people who, like ourselves, need very little, we made a sizable donation in the names of these persons to an international organization, providing Bibles to individuals and families worldwide. I know, I know… it all sounds so very George Costanza and the “human fund.” But hey, we figure since God has so generously demonstrated His love to each of us through the gift of His Son, the least we could do is give the hope of that gift to others this season.

There are a couple of people on the list who may not appreciate their gift so much this year. Ah, but they won't be able to say anything. To show disdain for something like this would be selfish and tacky. [insert satisfied, evil laugh here] Seriously though, a few of the cards have already been received and have, so far, met with heartfelt smiles and warm, generous gratitude.

Funny thing is, I'm not really sure I cared all that much what people thought. Of course I hope the gift represents something of value to each recipient. Regardless, this is what we felt we should do, what we wanted to do. At least for this year, it was the right thing to do. And a season that, in the past, has largely fed my frustration and cynicism concerning the exploitation and churchification of God's gifts to humanity, has become a real joy to me. [Yes, you read that right. I’m not talking about the secularization of Christmas in the world market. It seems to me the church has gratuitously commercialized Christ’s birth, reducing God’s astounding sacrifice for mankind to warm, fuzzy images of angels and shepherds and wise men and children singing “Silent Night” softly by candlelight and pageants starring flannel board caricatures and “Jesus is the Reason for the Season” bumper stickers. But, that said, I retire, take a deep breath and walk purposefully away from my soapbox.] In fact, I'm not even approaching this Sunday's kid's choir screechfest and cat-killing with the usual dread. I think something's wrong with me Marley. Quick, call Bob Cratchit!

Schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated...

2007-12-17T16:45:00.000-08:00

In 1976, when Laverne and Shirley locked arms and went skipping down the streets of Milwaukee, their credo seemed so noble. It was all so convincing. Taking the world by storm, facing all fears head on, words like…

We’re gonna do it! Give us any chance, we’ll take it. Give us any rule, we’ll break it…

Nothin’s gonna turn us back now. Straight ahead and on the track now…

There is nothing we won’t try. Never heard the word impossible. This time there’s no stopping us…

And we’ll do it our way, yes our way. Make all our dreams come true, for me and you.

The trouble is, dreams come and dreams go. Which dreams do you chase? Seriously. Set aside the “power of positive thinking,” the humanistic “doin’ it our way” part and what do you have? Tenacity, dedication, determination, hope… nothing wrong with that. But applied to what?

Mind you, I have always been something of a pragmatist, yet I find myself strangely intrigued, intoxicated even, by this idea of an all-consuming dream. Even so, I’m not sure I have ever sold out to this kind of vision. Have I? Should I?

There is a Seinfeld episode in which Elaine is to read and review a manuscript for a job interview at Viking Press. Only, she doesn’t know of the assignment and, through a twist of disastrous circumstances, must rely on Kramer (who, consequently, has read the book) and his thoughts on the story.

Elaine: So what's it about?

Kramer: Well it's a story about love, deception, greed, lust and... unbridled enthusiasm.

Elaine: unbridled enthusiasm...?

Kramer: Well, that's what led to Billy Mumphrey's downfall.

Elaine: Oh! boy.

Kramer: You see Elaine, Billy was a simple country boy. You might say a cockeyed optimist, who got himself mixed up in the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue.

I have a good friend who has these big dreams (or at least he used to)—I mean, wonderfully grand visions of what lay ahead for him and his life. I believe wholeheartedly that he possesses the raw talent to see these dreams come to life. Still, he lacks the tenacity, discipline and overall faith in himself to ever come close. He has had a couple of false starts and minor failed attempts at moving toward his visions, but he has never been a serious contender. Cockeyed optimist, yes. Enthusiastic, sometimes. Unbridled, not so much. I fear the viability of his “dreams” will soon time out.

I remember friends growing up who, like Billy Mumphrey, were certainly optimistic, unbridled enthusiasts, but they lacked the fundamental talent, were devoid of (or at least seriously limited on) the resources necessary to make any serious attempt.

I have another close friend who has, at points in life, possessed both the attitude and the talent, all of these things and more… personally, that is. But, the rest of his life (relationships, placement, timing) and his external resources have kept his many sincere and noble attempts from reaching any real level of measurable success.

So, given the seemingly inevitable frustration dreamers face, why would, why should one give such noble gauge to these lofty hopes?

This is not a question that can be answered with a casual Proverbs 29:18 retort. You know that whole, “Where there is no vision, the people perish” business. This is one of those cases, in my opinion, where the King James Version does a really lousy job. Literally translated the verse reads more like, “Without a vision is a people made naked, and whoever is keeping the law, O his happiness.” (YLT) The Hebrew word the KJV translates as “perish” is iphro which basically means “to loosen or become unbridled.” By implication it can also mean “to expose, dismiss, bare or uncover.”

The New Living translates the verse, “When people do not accept divine guidance, they run wild. But whoever obeys the law is joyful.” Eugene Peterson paraphrases, “If people can't see what God is doing, they stumble all over themselves; But when they attend to what he reveals, they are most blessed.” (The Message) I like that. It actually seems more true to the original language.

Furthermore, I like those definitions of a dream, a vision—“to accept divine guidance or to see what God is doing.” And I like the subsequent proper pursuit identifiers, “obedience” and “attending to what He reveals.” I love that pursuing this kind of dream in this fashion leads to words like “joy” and “blessing.”

I believe passions often come from God, especially the kind that are born deep within the soul, revealed over and over in many different forms. Still, I’m not sure all dreams, passions, visions are to be pursued—lived out to some sort of actualization. They only work, they only really make sense when they are, indeed, coupled with or steeped in or born of “divine guidance”—when they are “what God is doing.” Any other attempt to live your dreams seems like quite a long shot. On the merit of my dreams alone, I am the undisputed underdog. “What God is doing,” dream or no dream, feels like a much safer bet.

And so, the dilemma seems all too obvious. If dreams are important (and in spite of myself I believe they must be), what is God doing and do I dream it? If I am dreaming it, does that necessarily mean He’s guiding it? Is that a matter of trusting Him to “make all our dreams come true?” Or, is it in the surrender of our dreams that we find His? The tragedy of it all is that my struggles with these questions have reduced many of my would-be dreams to fleeting fantasies. I don’t know… is that even really such a tragedy? I guess it depends on “what God is doing.”

"Why is it you only feel the thorns...

2007-12-09T20:42:00.000-08:00

...in your feet when you stop running?" I love this quote from the film, "Amazing Grace," released this past February. We watched it again last night. (I saw it twice in the theater. I just received the DVD for my birthday.) The line is spoken by Prime Minister William Pitt to his long time friend William Wilberforce. They have been racing barefoot through the grounds of “Wilber's” estate and have slowed as they approach the house. Wilberforce questions in reply, "Is that some sort of heavy handed metaphorical advice for me Mr. Pitt?" "Yes, I suppose it is," Pitt says pausing. "We must keep going. Keep going fast." [jabbing Wilber in the stomach and taking off in a run]

There were a number of memorable (and quotable) moments in the film. There is a line spoken by Wilber’s wife-to-be, Barbara Spooner…"It seems to me, that if there is a bad taste in your mouth, you spit it out. You don't constantly swallow it back." This is a creed by which many might argue I already live. I’m not sure that is entirely true. But I do think there is a big difference between turning “the other cheek” and spiritual/personal compromise. The former is kind to all as, by Christ’s example, the principle demonstrates grace and a higher sense of personal value than that which is satisfied by simple retaliation seeking vindication. The latter is cruel to all; both the one who compromises, hiding or avoiding the truth in the name of grace, and the one who is robbed of ever feeling truth’s weight or is, in genuine grace, required to respond to it.

So, here it is, from where my grace ends and where God’s must begin: You see, I had forgotten about this moment in the film until last night. It leapt out at me like a tiger at his prey. In general, I am pretty careful about not taking doctrine from media, anecdote or tradition. Still, I’m not sure this isn’t a sound Scriptural/spiritual concept. “You only feel the thorns… once you stop running.” I’ve been grieved, vexed, if you will, lately by certain layers of negativity that surround me. I am referring to my own attitudes as well as those of others in my world (though each is decidedly different). I often justify my own negativity because of the intentions, the motivations behind it (though these themselves deserve scrutiny). Still, I cannot say the intentions of others are malicious—the motivations, sometimes questionable. But, back to the plank in my own eye.

There are ways (maybe “areas” would be a better word) in which I feel I have stopped moving. I don’t know exactly when it happened. Still, it did. A pause from time to time seems reasonable, even wise, right? Catching one’s breath, assessing the progress, mapping the next leg of the course, enjoying the environment, tending to a wound or an ache, refreshing through nourishment, entertaining the need for rest… But, there are consequences. Loss of momentum, stiffening of the muscles, recognition of pain (the loss of adrenaline), slowing of the heart, a clouding of one’s sense of direction, grappling with the temptation to make camp rather than forge ahead (it is, after all, much easier to stay at rest once one has already established the state—thank you Sir Isaac Newton)...

But William Pitt calls it “feeling the thorns.” Here’s the thing. Thorns hurt. Especially in your feet. And I don’t know anyone who, when in serious pain, cavalierly shrugs it off and moves on. Seriously. When we are in pain, it usually shows in one way or another. Conspicuous observation #2… when we are in pain, we usually do our best to get out of it. Either this, or, if we are narcissists suffering from a victim complex, we juice it for all it’s worth. Our selfishness (or distortion of grace, stipulating others should demonstrate God’s love toward us by our definitions not His) convinces us others should know and care and be responsible in some way for making us feel better about it. Unfortunately, this sounds all too familiar to me.

Right now is a challenging time in the life of the faith community to which I belong (am even a leader). The community itself is MUCH older than I and, I’m afraid it just may be that many of its wonderful members (my friends) have stopped running also. I say this primarily because it seems our complaints and discussions and perspectives sound more like loss of momentum, stiffening of the muscles, recognition of pain (the loss of adrenaline), slowing of the heart, a clouding of one’s sense of direction and grappling with the temptation to make camp rather than forge ahead.

The problem is with that idiot Newton. How do you get the proverbial ball rolling again once it is at rest.

Rest, hmmm, that sounds WAY too nice. I have been thinking for some time that what I needed most was to catch my breath, to get a good handle on where I am and where I’m going, to map out the next leg of the course, to learn to take in and find joy in my environment, to heal and settle into the ease of restoration, to be nourished and rest. But, now I’m thinking these things may not be hiding where my best logic dictates they should be found. Maybe they were never in the stopping. Maybe the thorns don’t need fixing. Maybe they don’t matter as much as I think they do. Maybe they are a lame attempt at distraction (lame but effective by election). Maybe I need to leave them alone and just start running again. Not running away from the thorns. Just running the course ahead. I don’t think it would take long before I stop feeling their sting. You know they say adrenaline is the best pain killer. I imagine purpose is pretty potent as well.

Luke 9:57-62 (The Cost of Following Jesus)

As they were walking along, someone said to Jesus, “I will follow you wherever you go.” But Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens to live in, and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place even to lay his head.”

He said to another person, “Come, follow me.” The man agreed, but he said, “Lord, first let me return home and bury my father.” But Jesus told him, “Let the spiritually dead bury their own dead! Your duty is to go and preach about the Kingdom of God.”

Another said, “Yes, Lord, I will follow you, but first let me say good-bye to my family.” But Jesus told him, “Anyone who puts a hand to the plow and then looks back is not fit for the Kingdom of God.”

Wouldn't you know...

2007-12-04T22:41:00.000-08:00

...I decide to launch a public blog and I have nothing to write about. Okay, that's not exactly true. I always have stuff to write about. I am, after all, still breathing in and out. (Forgive the sentences ending in prepositions. I fear I'm becoming a descriptivist in my old age.) What I mean is, I can't just post the random life stuff or my personal rants or, well, just or... no one wants to read that, not even me. So, here I sit, trying to think of something brilliant and thoughtful and deep and all I can think of is "dang it, I forgot to give Mark his birthday card."

On a more personal front, I entertained an absolutely noxious thought line today. I have no idea why (the old man rears his ugly head—why can't he just stay dead). And, though God and I had a long conversation about it (in which I offered my pathetic apology and He offered His astounding patience and unyielding grace), I'm still fighting feelings of distance.

It is amazing how quickly one can lose a sense of closeness with another, that is, with God and with other people. Gaining relational ground seems so difficult at times. But losing it—the most simple thing in the world.

As for God, I know the closeness, the intimacy is not really gone. I'm not talking realities, just feelings. Still, feelings are powerful and the way we respond to them can very much shape our realities.

People? Well, that's another story entirely. Unfortunately, MANY people equate feelings with reality. If they feel a certain way about something or someone then that is the way it is. They cannot be convinced otherwise until something causes them to feel differently.

I read this today. Haven't yet wrapped my head around all that is here. But it seems somehow apropos.

John 8

31 Jesus said to the people who believed in him, “You are truly my disciples if you remain faithful to my teachings. 32 And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

33 “But we are descendants of Abraham,” they said. “We have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean, ‘You will be set free’?”

34 Jesus replied, “I tell you the truth, everyone who sins is a slave of sin. 35 A slave is not a permanent member of the family, but a son is part of the family forever. 36 So if the Son sets you free, you are truly free. 37 Yes, I realize that you are descendants of Abraham. And yet some of you are trying to kill me because there’s no room in your hearts for my message. 38 I am telling you what I saw when I was with my Father. But you are following the advice of your father.”

39 “Our father is Abraham!” they declared.

“No,” Jesus replied, “for if you were really the children of Abraham, you would follow his example. 40 Instead, you are trying to kill me because I told you the truth, which I heard from God. Abraham never did such a thing. 41 No, you are imitating your real father.”

They replied, “We aren’t illegitimate children! God himself is our true Father.”

42 Jesus told them, “If God were your Father, you would love me, because I have come to you from God. I am not here on my own, but he sent me. 43 Why can’t you understand what I am saying? It’s because you can’t even hear me! 44 For you are the children of your father the devil, and you love to do the evil things he does. He was a murderer from the beginning. He has always hated the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies, it is consistent with his character; for he is a liar and the father of lies. 45 So when I tell the truth, you just naturally don’t believe me! 46 Which of you can truthfully accuse me of sin? And since I am telling you the truth, why don’t you believe me? 47 Anyone who belongs to God listens gladly to the words of God. But you don’t listen because you don’t belong to God.”

I am amazed at how quickly we digress from "Jesus said to the people who believed in him" to "but you don’t listen because you don’t belong to God." What's up with that? Seems all He was really asking them to do was be free and, in response, they outright denied their very need for freedom. They didn't feel bound so they must not be. Right? I wonder if the inverse is true? If I don't feel close or righteous or free... hmmmm... what does that mean?

Bringing Sexy Back

2007-11-29T16:14:00.000-08:00

At the end of October, I spoke on Jesus’ “revolutionary” definitions of holiness. I usually receive some feedback from congregants about the messages, which is good (even the occasional negative comment is worthwhile). But every once in a while, most always a surpirse, I will receive more than a little feedback. “Buzz” is the word that comes to mind. The topic or delevery or my thoughts or some combination of the three seemed to really resonate. I love it when, good or bad, things that happen in church make people really think, explore, feel. God’s voice is so much easier to hear and understand when He has our attention.

Strange, while most of the points upon which people connected were different, one of my off-the-cuff statements emerged in quite a few conversations. Somewhere along the way, I said something about falling in love with my wife. It wasn't planned or even very strongly connected to the general topic. I made a comment about how captivating it was to watch her worship. How gorgeous she was in those moments when she was lost in love with God. I hadn’t thought it should be all that novel an idea. Still, the positive reactions on this prompted me to unpack it a little more.

What is attraction but to see in someone else something we find disirable—something we want for ourselves? Lust can distort this, sure. But, far more stunning than any element of my wife’s physical appearance was this picture of self, holistically wrapped in presentation to the One she adored. She has beautiful eyes, an amazing smile, an adorable laugh; she is intellegent, thoughtful and witty; she has other very attractive features which a gentleman should not discuss. But, if in time these things begin to fill out or shrink back or sag or fade or should her mind become less sharp… all the things that happen as we age; her love for God, the beauty I see in her in those moments at His feet, it is timeless. In fact, it stands to grow more and more beautiful with increasing wisdom and the passage of time.

Today I turn 36 years old. I received an e-card from one of my aunts, wishing me a happy birthday. The closing screen flashed Psalm 103:5 from Eugene Peterson’s, The Message. I had never seen the idea of this verse interpreted this way. It said, “He renews your youth—you're always young in his presence.” See what I mean? His presence… timeless… beautiful!

I am blessed. It is only four o’clock in the afternoon and already I have received twelve facebook wall posts (from all over the world), two emails, four phone calls, five text messages and two personal appearances to wish me a happy birthday. This is in addition to my wife and boys. I don’t think I have ever had so many independent, unsolicited (not associated with a group or party) birthday well wishes in my life. Curious.

I have a point. Can I get to it? Let’s see. My oldest son just went on a field trip to see the musical “Wicked” in L.A. The only song (in fact the only word) I know from the musical is “Popular.” (to be sung in a kind of half yodel made famous by Kristin Chenoweth) Apparently, at this point in the storyline, Glenda the good witch is trying to convince the young wicked witch of the west to embrace a quest for popularity. The most she offers by way of help is a quick fashion makeover. There are many ways to gain popularity. Few of them involve acquiring or demonstrating eternally attractive qualities.

Grant me a moment of narcisism. “Popular” has never been a word with which I have much associated myself. And yet, somehow today, I have never felt more “popular” and for all the right reasons. Not because it’s my birthday, but because, for the past few years I have chosen to more actively pursue in my own life the eternal things I find most attractive. There are many factors contributing to today’s events (including technological convenience). But, as I think through the list of people who have wished me well on my “special day” and consider the content in their expressions, I believe many were offered, not out of sense of obligation or because of what the giver hoped to receive in return or simply because they were prompted by a social networking site, but because of connections formed from a genuine affection for and attraction to the God parts of me. I don’t know quite what to do with that thought. Even though I have done little to earn such a thing, I’m still honored and humbled by the very idea. And, while it may not be as true as I’d like to think, I will indeed cherish the thought a bit longer. Because, whether or not it is altogether true, I desire to live my life in order to make it so.

So, here’s to bringing sexy back. A life lived in worship is HOT! Dang, I wanna get wid dat.

Pilgrim's Progress

2007-11-20T23:07:00.000-08:00

Some new friends came over for dinner tonight. We had a great time. It was fun to watch a young couple with a new baby and remember when... It did make me feel old though. Not that this is hard to do anymore. It's just that there was a point in the evening (I don't recall now what it was) that I realized, it has been over eight years since we were where they are in life right now.

Overall, I am glad to be the man I am now. Still, there are parts of that man, the eight years ago man, that I really miss. In general, I am not all that nostalgic or, at least, I haven't been in the past (that sounds funny). But, in life, the roads across bridges are all one way. You do not get to go back. There are second chances but they don't erase the first try. Every shot counts... either for or against you.

I feel like I've seldom missed the target but I've never hit the bull’s-eye. Just once I'd like to knock it out of the park and make the headlines. Not for the fame. Just for the satisfaction of knowing I nailed it and it mattered. I'm great at the exhibition work. But I want to bring it home in the last game of the finals. I guess that is what every man wants in the end-- to know that, even if only for a moment, he is a superhero. Most days I feel, at best, like a sidekick. I have the costume, but that's about it. Oh well. (How many clichés can I possibly fit in one paragraph? Let's count...)

On a completely unrelated note, we have been talking about making a quick trip to the Grand Canyon to celebrate Thanksgiving. I am excited about solidifying this idea of a family adventure as our holiday tradition. Our family hike in Palm Springs a couple of Thanksgivings ago is one of my fondest memories. Still, I think Kris will miss the feast a bit. Truthfully, so will I. Not the eating part. More the strange let down of leaving something I've always done behind. But we are not leaving it behind. We're just amending it a bit. Tweaking if you will. We'll see. Regardless of what we do, I'm looking forward to spending fun time with the fam. For that, I am truly thankful.

"I am Invincible!"

2007-11-13T22:52:00.000-08:00

…shouts Mr. Incredible’s arch nemesis, Syndrome, just before his cape gets caught and he is sucked into the turbine of a jet engine. “I am invincible,” repeats John Mayer in his hit song, No Such Thing, followed by the statement “as long as I’m alive.” I love that song.

The last few years have served to teach me just how invincible I am not; the events of the last couple of weeks, reminders of these lessons.

When I was young, I believed in all kinds of wonderful things. Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, the President… seriously, I believed my parents, my grandparents, my friends would always be there for me, would always be around or together or happy. I would never have to face life without them. I believed everyone in the church loved God and me and wanted what is best. I believed Jesus would heal every sickness and that, if I loved Him, I would never go without the things I felt were most important. I believed the past was really like the Flintstones and the future would be like the Jetsons. When I was scared or in trouble, I believed I could outrun any foe. I’d take off as fast as I could, heart pounding, mind racing… the world was a blur, my feet barely touching the ground… and when I’d finally stop and turn around, I was home, safe and sound. Nothing could touch me when I was home.

It wasn’t until I was 30 that I broke my first bone. I was 31 when I felt my first real disappointment and fear over a job. I was 33 when I first felt the pain of a lost relationship. It wasn’t until I was 35 that I received my first speeding ticket or lost my first grandparent. I lost my brother when I was only nine (one year older than Christian is now). But my memories of that time are surreal at best. I don’t think I remember them for what they were but rather for what they would become as I grew up.

When I was a very young man, I was often the smartest person in my class. I was often the most naturally talented person in my circle. I became accustomed to people pulling me out of the crowd. I was spoiled, a little. I admit it. But, really, the attention was seldom given because of who I was. Most of the time it was about what I could do or with whom I was associated. I was relatively young when I first began to deal with the pain of this duality. I think I tried to convince myself the two were somehow the same or that fusing them was the key to happiness. When you allow yourself to be defined by what you can and can’t do, you are asking for heartache and disillusionment.

Truthfully, looking back on life thus far, it seems I spent the better portion of it defining myself and my worth by what I couldn’t do (on a personal level) and hiding behind what I could do (on a public level). I lived my teenage and adult life like I lived as a child. I ran and ran and ran but I never made it home. Every time I would turn around, my enemies would still be chasing me. I grew tired of running. I stopped to realize I was not being chased by a monster but rather by my own shadow. Still, in all my crazy chasing about, I had done real harm to myself and others. I had nothing else to blame for it. I was the very enemy I feared. It turned out that I am NOT invincible. Worse yet, mine is my own undoing.

So, I began to think invincibility was a myth. Only God could defeat every foe. He created us to be vulnerable, breakable, weak. That is the mature conclusion, right? Maybe not. You can’t kill something that’s already dead. You can’t slay a spirit. You can’t wound an apparition. You can only be wounded, slain by it—not the fact of it because it doesn’t exist in fact. Rather by the idea of it and your faith in that idea. I was being destroyed by the idea, a lie. My faith in it gave it power. My choices gave it form. Therein lies the key to invincibility.

I read this and am perplexed by its simplicity. “For I fully expect and hope that I will never be ashamed, but that I will continue to be bold for Christ, as I have been in the past. And I trust that my life will bring honor to Christ, whether I live or die. For to me, living means living for Christ, and dying is even better. But if I live, I can do more fruitful work for Christ. So I really don’t know which is better. I’m torn between two desires: I long to go and be with Christ, which would be far better for me. But for your sakes, it is better that I continue to live. Knowing this, I am convinced that I will remain alive so I can continue to help all of you grow and experience the joy of your faith. And when I come to you again, you will have even more reason to take pride in Christ Jesus because of what he is doing through me.” – Phil 1:20-26 It really seems as if Paul is saying “I am invincible!”

I am only capable of being conquered, defeated or subdued when I put faith in the enemies I fear. When I was a child I thought I was invincible. I thought my faith was invincible. I had evidence to support my claims. Little by little, my case unraveled before me. Trying to come to terms with this and still have a life worth meaning became impossible.

“I just found out there’s no such thing as the real world, just a lie you’ve got to rise above.” – John Mayer

So, I’m learning how to be invincible again. Wish me luck.