Day 29: Aging Well

I’m 45, which, in my mind, puts me right smack in the middle of my life.  Statistically, that is probably way off.  Most likely I left the halfway point back in the dust a few years ago.  But reality aside, this year has been a good one for me in reflecting on where I’ve come from and what lies ahead.  The realization that the memories bucket is heavier than the future possibilities bucket is a bit sobering.  But I’m slowly understanding that the feeling of sobriety is a gift.  There is a freedom in it.

I’m writing a book.  I’ve already told some of you that.  I’ve always wanted to, and now it has gone from mere intention to a firm deadline.  It isn’t just a possibility, it is a responsibility.  In other words, I’ve sold the unfinished product, and I’ve got to make good on the deal.  That isn’t a bad thing.  In fact, it is how I work best. This is why I’ve loved education so much.  Fixed deadlines are just what this procrastinator needs to get the job done.

But I’ve always looked at writing a book as a sort of arrival.  It is an achievement that gives life its weight or meaning.  You’ve left a contribution behind to be remembered by.  Your life has produced a treasure that will remain after you’re gone.  After the years of your life have expired, a part of you remains.

But at 45, with this book becoming a reality, I’m realizing that this whole premise will, once again, let me down.  There is no lasting satisfaction in a master’s degree, or a doctorate, or a senior pastor position, or…gulp…a book.  All we do is push the bar just a little further beyond our reach.  This is a good thing, in a way, because it keeps us moving, growing, pushing for more.  As long as we don’t make the mistake of thinking that this life offers us any sort of arrival.  If the book does well, then what about the next one?

I just read a letter from C.S. Lewis to his friend, Warfield Firor, a surgeon at Johns Hopkins.  In it he shares the fact that he is being compulsorily ‘retired’ from Oxford and would not be receiving the chair position he’d always dreamed of attaining.  In this heartbreaking moment, he realizes that this disappointment, in a way, is a mercy. 

He writes, “I am therefore trying to profit by this new realization of my mortality.  To begin to die, to loosen a few of the tentacles which the octopus-world has fastened on one.”

In the letter he imagines a world here without aging and death.  What if we lived forever in this world without true fulfillment?  How many of us would have the courage to choose our real destiny elsewhere?  Aging then becomes our companion in unhitching our dreams from this life where ultimate fulfillment eludes us, to our next where our deep appetites are ultimately satisfied.

And therefore, aging is a gift, a mercy.  Even in the sorrows of leaving behind our unrealized dreams, or saying goodbye to friends we love, or parting from a life we’ve found beautiful and dear.  By embracing aging, we free ourselves from, as Lewis puts it, the tentacles, that seek to wring out of life more than it can give.  To turn the momentary pleasures into possessions that ultimately break our hearts. 

But as the tentacles come loose, as we let go of this world, we receive it back for what it truly is.  The momentary pleasures can be savored and then released.  The sunset can be enjoyed without having to possess the view.

Lewis writes, “One ought not to need the gloomy moments of life for beginning detachment, nor be re-entangled by the bright ones.  One ought to be able to enjoy the bright ones to the full and at the very moment have the perfect readiness to leave them, confident that what calls one away is better…”

I’m writing a book.  Not to cling to some notion of ultimate meaning, nor to exist in this world beyond death, nor to give my kids something to fight over when I die.  I’m writing a book, at the midpoint of my life, to celebrate what a gift this life has been.  Beyond that, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.

Day 28: Authenticity

A goal of mine, while blogging during Lent, has been to write more authentically.  This is trickier than it sounds, because I’m constantly editing.  And truth be told, that isn’t always a bad thing.  There have definitely been times wisdom has had the final word, by a hair, and prevented me from saying the wrong thing, or even the right thing for the wrong reason.

But authenticity isn’t just a lack of editing.  It is a lack of BS (see there, I just edited.)  And that can be really difficult since we are always trying to project an ideal image of ourselves.  At least, I am. What that ideal might be varies incredibly from person to person, but we all have our strategies.  Even humility can be used to market oneself. 

As I’ve been blogging, I’ve been doing my best to walk that line between what is meaningful and what is simply true.  What is interesting and what is actual.  Writing every day helps.  If something crashes in loudly, it is hard to pick up my pen and write about something else that is easier, or more pithy. 

The other day I wrote a blog about criticism triggered by a letter of complaint I’d received.  I didn’t want to write about it, but I didn’t have a choice.  Either I did it, or I skipped writing that day…which would mean breaking a Lenten commitment, which has dire consequences.  (not really. I just said that for effect.)

And all of you responded so brilliantly with such encouraging words!  I am going to write a separate blog about encouragement, because that alone really worked me, and also did something deep in my heart. But today is about authenticity. 

Writing about that letter of criticism awakened some deep anxiety that is always lurking down there in the bottom of my heart.  It has become my old friend.  The anxiety hit me just after I pushed the ‘save and post’ button.  What have I done?  That was too much!  I’ve overshared.

Why?  Because I feel vulnerable.  I feel exposed.  And now my whole body hurts.  I feel jumpy, worried, weak.  Most of all I feel weak.

Brené Brown writes about telling her counselor that vulnerability feels excruciating and her counselor replies that it is an exquisite emotion.  Her whole premise is that vulnerability is the key to living a whole-hearted life.  Somehow, we must learn to savor the feeling.  To appreciate its exquisiteness.

I can imagine what that must be like.  After all, I hated my first sip of coffee, and now I can’t live without it.  Coffee was too bitter, and now that bitterness is all I want first thing in the morning.

Or the pain of a hard workout.  Who, honestly, wants to feel their legs or arms ache?  But if I pushed through some workout that I wasn’t sure I could survive (Insanity) and made it…well, that pain is almost the reward.  It is the reassurance that I’ve done something I can be proud of.

So here’s my little epiphany for the day.  That the excruciating feeling of vulnerability is the texture of courage.  So many of you responded to me with just that word of encouragement.  When I feel vulnerable, it means I have completed an emotional workout I wasn’t sure I was ready for. 

This doesn’t mean I’m going to go out of my way to write something painful each day, but I’m also not going to run from those feelings when they come.  When they do, I will try my best to associate them with the after effects of bravery.  And do my best to savor the feeling. 

Who knows, I might learn to like it.  Maybe I’ll learn to crave it, like coffee.  Maybe if I’m not vulnerable, by the afternoon, I’ll have a headache.  Either way, thank you all for teaching me a bit more about why authenticity is worth it.  I sure love you guys!

Day 27: Sick Days

Well...I went home early from work today with a fever.  Lila had it first and then Mia.  I was hoping I'd dodged the bullet, but no such luck.  I'm going to lay low, skip Hapkido, and try not to move.  Just me and A Man Called Ove.  I'll give you a report later. thank you, my friends.  See you tomorrow.

Day 26: The Greeter

“Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines.” Henri Nouwen

Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Michael Minutoli.  He is one of the most brilliant souls I have ever met.  He is the greeter in Laguna Beach and his life purpose has become putting a smile on the face of each driver that passes his corner at Brooks St. and PCH.

He has been greeting for over 6 years, earbuds in place, dancing and spinning away, his beaming smile and wave causing ripples of joy throughout the commuter traffic, the tourists, and the ones out for a leisurely drive, inching bumper to bumper along hwy 1.  His happiness is contagious.  His elaborate clothing only heightens the playfulness of his countenance.  You can’t help but wave back.

Michael is homeless, but doesn’t panhandle.  He has chosen his life and loves it, despite the difficulties it presents.  His story is a collection of miracles, one after the other. You wouldn’t believe him but for the photographic proof of himself standing alongside just about every A list celebrity you can think of.

But let me tell you why I, personally, love this guy so much. Because that warmth that spills from him every day on his greeting corner is just the tip of the iceberg.  He is a man with such a generous heart.  I remember one morning Mia and I were grabbing breakfast at Heidelberg.  He swung quickly into line behind us and handed the cashier a gift card before I could pay.  It’s on me, he said.  I started to protest.  I know how little he has.  And yet I could see in his eyes how much this mattered to him.  How humbling to accept this gift!  Such lavish generosity.  I’ll never forget that, nor will my daughter. 

He comes, from time to time, to my church.  I feel so honored to have him sitting there in the pews.  This is a man who teaches me how to love and give from his deepest reserves.  How to spend his life emptying himself for the sake of others.

Michael has endured some heavy persecution over the years.  It is shocking, and yet not surprising, that people would see fit to return his happiness and joy with mockery and abuse.  Several times he has pedaled his bicycle past the church and come in for prayer.  His heart is so tender and fragile in these moments.  I pray for his strength, for courage, for protection, and for a heart full of compassion.  His eyes well up with tears. 

Michael does what he does because he has been called to do it.  His has the gift of hospitality, and that is no small gift.  There is such brilliance in the simple blessing of happiness.  But the effect goes much deeper.  It provides healing. This is what true hospitality brings. 

When I think of my own calling, I am usually fantasizing about some elaborate, self-important future.  But Jesus is always pushing us in the opposite direction.  To see God in the simple acts…giving a cloak to someone in need, visiting the sick or incarcerated, or giving a meal to someone who is hungry.  These acts aren’t just godly.  They are done as if to God himself.

Whenever I see Michael he greets me with a nod of his head, and with his thick New England accent he says, “hello passta!”  My heart leaps.  Thank you, Michael.  Thank you for the light you bring!

Day 25: Thin Places

“You never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself flows in your veins…”  Thomas Traherne

On Monday I spent a couple hours at one of my favorite beaches in town.  For me, it has become a sacred space.  It is beautiful and quiet, at least on weekdays.  There is a fun little wave that can break there.  But honestly, it is a place where I surf even when the waves are flat. I paddle out even when it’s better everywhere else. Because I’ve grown attached to it.  It is familiar.  It is a place where I belong.  And it is a place where I feel God’s closeness.

For me, it has become a thin place. It is a place where heaven and earth almost intersect, but not quite.  The boundary between worlds feels paper thin.  I often hear God’s still, small voice.

As I walked down the steps, I could see a cluster of people out there surfing.  It was a steady wind swell…playful and fun.  As I changed into my wetsuit and threw a quick coat of new wax over the building layers on my board, I watched as one surfer after another rode their last wave in.  By the time I started paddling, the lineup was empty.  Lucky me!

My first wave was a marvelous little gem that popped up out of nowhere.  Wind swell is so fun!  The waves are stacked close together.  They are peaky.  You gotta be quick to your feet.  After 25 minutes I’d lost count of how many waves I’d ridden.

I thought, I can’t believe I have it to myself!  And that’s when I felt a little poke in the ribs.  As if God was saying, “you’re not alone.”  Oh yeah.  How quickly I forget.  God is here with me.  Remembering this causes the whole context to expand.  Suddenly I feel His joy as well as mine.

As a spiritual director, I often ask the person I’m directing where God is in the situation they’re describing to me.  Because, we all know, God has a way of disappearing into our peripheral vision, especially when we become overly focused.  Whether it is worry, or anxiety, or even pleasure or joy, if we aren’t careful, we become myopic, nearsighted.  We see the details separated from their designer.  We enjoy the gift and forget the giver.

And, as a result, we lose the depth of meaning, the deep renewal that joy brings, the lightness of perspective that comes from finding God amid our circumstances.  This connection is where the real power lies.  Without it, experiences lose not only their taste but their ability to nourish our souls.

Thomas Traherne writes, “Your enjoyment of the world is never right till every morning you awake in heaven, see yourself in your Father’s palace, and look upon the skies, the earth, and the air as celestial joys, having such a reverend esteem of all, as if you were among the angels.”

How I long to see the world in such a way!

It can take so much work to keep God in our perspective.  My mind is always wandering down rabbit trails that lead to some worry or complexity or problem to solve.  While there might be a semblance of value to this, often the energy expended could be better spent simply remaining present.  Savoring the joy that is before me.  Enjoying God’s immediate presence.

As I take my last wave in, I feel renewed.  The emptiness has been satiated.  I feel God’s pleasure.  I’m full.

Day 24: Criticism

Today I received one of those letters.  I get them from time to time…anonymous critiques.  An apparent expert with scathing commentary on how my sermon, or style, or approach is missing the mark, or even causing harm.  I know what I’m supposed to do with these sorts of unsigned letters.  Pitch them.  If it isn’t signed, don’t even bother.  I wish it was that simple.

Instead, I usually just feel like I’m going to throw up.  I feel rejected at the deepest level.  It isn’t simply a critique of my talk, but of me.  Not just my style, but my heart.  “You shouldn’t read so much.”  “Forget the historical commentary.”  “We are suffering, we don’t need your book reports.”

There is so much implied in these criticisms.  That I lack spiritual depth and sensitivity.  That I am stuck in my head and have missed the heart.  Too many smart quotes.  Too much information.  Not enough emotion.

The thing is, as I read these quotes in my sermons, I’m often choked up.  I find myself giving the very best I can find.  These aren’t words, they are keys that have unlocked deep truth in my own heart.  As I read the letter, my heart feels trodden upon.  I stoop to pick up these pieces of what was once beautiful, that is now broken and cracked, and ground into the dirt.

This is, unfortunately, an unavoidable part of leadership.  All you really can give is yourself.  But it is costly.  It requires painful vulnerability.  It is like giving blood. 

I remember another time I felt the weight of criticism so heavy on my shoulders.  The counselor I was seeing, with empathy and a little pity, told me I was going to have to grow a thicker skin.  He was right.  He told me no one learns to walk point without getting shot at (he was a Vietnam vet).  The problem is, some die in the process.

One approach to a thicker skin would be to stop caring so much.  But this sort of self-protection is costly.  It requires creating a necessary distance from others.  The boundary for safety also creates disconnection.  I don’t want to lose feeling or grow callous.  Instead, I want to be able to let criticism go.

I heard a story from John Ortberg where he was leaving a speaking engagement he had led with Dallas Willard.  John was evaluating and replaying his talk in his mind afterwards when he heard Dallas whistling next to him.  He asked Dallas how he could be so light and free immediately after having spoken.  Dallas said, “Oh, I just picture all that stuff like a helium balloon.  I hold it, look at it, and then let it go.”

I love that image.  How I wish to be that free!  So today I’m doing my best to release this balloon.  I’ve heard it, seen it, and now I’m letting it float away.  At least I’m trying.

I don’t want to avoid my critics.  I want to listen and grow.  I want to be open to feedback.  But I refuse to get angry, to grow bitter, and to let resentment build.  That stuff is like poison.  And I also refuse to retreat, to hide, or to edit. 

To whoever wrote that letter, you might be right.  But all I can be is me.  I’m not going to ignore it.  Instead, I’ll read it, pray about it, and then, release it…and watch as it slowly disappears.

Day 23: A Father’s Heart

Today my son bought an electric guitar.  He saved up his pennies and purchased it himself.  That is such a rite of passage moment.  This isn’t a gift from his dad who is hoping maybe this hobby will stick.  No, Gabe is hungry.  He paid for it himself.

Many of you know Gabe plays the drums, and happens to be a fabulous drummer.  But Gabe isn’t just a drummer, he’s a musician.  Whatever instrument is nearby, he’ll pick it up and tinker with it. Saxophone, piano, stand-up bass, you name it.

But electric guitar is the thing that has really grabbed him.  It is fun to watch his eyes light up when he talks about it.  I hear him listening to “old people” music like the Strokes or Radiohead or the Arctic Monkeys.  It is what he and I do now whenever we’re driving somewhere.  We walk down memory lane as he asks me about the music from my past.  Gabe can tell you more about Jack White or Kurt Cobain than I ever could.

So, I asked my friend Marc if he could give us some input on what Gabe should buy for his first guitar.  Marc happens to be one of the best guitarists in the world.  Seriously.  So you can imagine his response.  “What guitar to buy???  That’s way too big of a question! He’s got to sit down and play them. What matters most is that he gets the one he likes.”

It reminded me of Olivander, the wand seller in Harry Potter, saying, ”the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter.”  “The guitar chooses the guitarist.”

Marc met us today at Guitar Center.  It was a little bit like having Kelly Slater come help my son pick out his first surfboard.  But Marc was so into it.  He was so kind with Gabe, as he pulled different models off the racks.  “Ooh, here’s one if you want to go more Kurt Cobain!”  Marc knows everything about guitars, and not just sounds, but styles, colors, eras.  This is a man who has invested his entire life in this instrument. 

None of the employees were old enough to shave, and none of them recognized who he was.  They chipped in with their own input and perspectives. But Marc didn’t skip a beat.  He has no need for attention or recognition.  I love that about him.

Marc is a master guitarist, and yet a master that has lost none of his joy.  It meant the world to me to watch him invest this time with my son.  I can think of no greater gift you could give me.

When we got home, Gabe asked, why do you think Marc was willing to do that for me?  “Well…he’s our friend.  And he loves guitars.  And, I think, it meant a lot to him too to be a part of your first purchase.”

As I sit here tonight, writing, I feel grateful.  Grateful for new friends, and new instruments, and the future joy that awaits Gabe as he continues to figure out just who he is.  I love my quiet, thoughtful son, who has fantastic taste in music, amazing rhythm, and who longs for a bit more distortion.

I think of Marc, with all his knowledge and experience, sitting down and playing these bottom end guitars, making them come to life, finding out just what Gabe likes, and then pointing with confidence… “that’s the one!”

It was a glimpse, for me, into God’s heart.  He delights in our simple gifts that must look so small to Him, and yet He continues to find such pleasure in our steps.  God doesn’t just honor us with his presence, he comes down to our level.  Not simply for our joy, but for His.

The realization that God delights in me causes me to blush.  I feel that odd mix of humility and joy.  But the fact that God delights and takes pleasure in my son…well, as a father, It delights my heart. It is the greatest gift I could ask for.

Day 22: Vicarious Joy

Last night Lila and I completed our test for yellow belt.  I’m not going to lie, I was a bit nervous. I even practiced my moving attacks on Patty ahead of time.  It is funny how we never outgrow those jitters.  At least I haven’t.

We got there and the room was set up a bit different.  A table was out.  A Korean flag was hung.  My instructors didn’t smile.  This was serious.

This is one of the things I’ve loved about Hapkido.  It is the sense of deep tradition and meaning. My friend, Scott shared with me about the years he had invested in this discipline, and his eyes revealed just how deep this ran in his heart.  This class wasn’t being taught by just anyone.  Mark was like Scott’s brother.  This was family. It was that moment that made me sign up.  I wanted in. 

After our test we celebrated at San Shi Go.  As we stuffed ourselves on their fabulous sushi, I sat back and watched Master Mark and Scott savoring in the joy of the moment.  They were relishing in my and Lila’s accomplishment.  And it was connecting them to this rich vein of joy that they could tap into vicariously.  We were all celebrating, but my instructors most of all.

This is one of the deep truths in life.  Joy is increased when it is shared.  It diminishes when we try to possess it.  It flows, like a river.  The blessing is allowing ourselves to pour out the blessing.  Investing our lives in others is the good life.  It was a wonderful evening.

And then, this afternoon, my role switched as I took Alex, a friend of my niece, Mary’s, out surfing for the first time. Alex is a snowboarder from Idaho and was itching to get out there.  We ran through the prep on the beach and then paddled out into the chilly water. 

I shoved him into a couple waves to begin with so he could get the timing for his pop up.  His first wave was great but he went to his knee on his back leg.  Almost!  From there he just got closer and closer.  He pearled a couple times.  Popped up too early on a few.  Went over the falls once or twice.  And then nailed it.  He paddled into it by himself, got right to his feet, and rode it all the way in.

As he hooted on the inside, all the guys in the lineup beamed.  We all remembered.  We were all there.  Alex was so stoked!  But we may have been even more than him.  There’s a saying that gets tossed around at moments like this.  Some version of “So much for him ever becoming president.”  Just writing that makes me smile.  It is so true!

He was so thankful.  But I was the one feeling grateful.  Because when we pour out our joy and passions on others, when we seek to be as generous as our hearts will allow, we tap into something so very rich.  It is the goodness of life.  And while it cannot be possessed, we can wade into it.  We receive it and give it.  We become conduits of the blessing.  And that is the blessing.  That is abundant life.

Day 21: Being Known

Last night I had dinner with one of my favorite people.  His name is Father Francis and he is a Benedictine priest and lives at St. Andrews Abbey in Valyermo.  He was visiting some friends here in Laguna, and Patty and I were able to enjoy a beautiful meal with a man that is becoming a dear friend.

Afterwards Patty mentioned the deep sense of peace she felt with him.  It came out in the way he spoke.  It was a sense of calm underlying his responses, even when the subjects were points of tension or concern.  There was such a lack of defensiveness, even when handling delicate or controversial matters of faith.  And when responding to potential areas of confusion or doubt, his response was almost whimsical.  There was a lightness to him.  A playfulness.  A deep sense of joy.

We talked about the Benedictines…how they deeply value community, counsel, and respect for all persons.  They live each day in the practice of hospitality.  Often Benedictines stand at the door to the sanctuary and greet each person entering with the phrase, “Thank God you’ve come.”

Francis has lived at Valyermo for over 40 years.  He came when he was 19 and he’ll one day be buried in the cemetery at the top of their hill.  I love that spot.  It is one of the most quiet places on earth.  It is sacred ground.  Walking amongst the gravestones you feel the stability of the ones who have remained, who have grown deep roots.

True peace takes years and years to cultivate.  Edwin Friedman refers to it as non-anxious presence.  And the prerequisite for it is self-differentiation, or in simpler terms, knowing oneself.  Who you are.  Who you aren’t. 

Whenever I travel to the abbey (which is often, but not often enough) I am usually wrestling with one or the other.  Who am I?  Who am I not?  Two sides of the same coin.  What is my identity?  My identity in Christ?  What is my true vocation?  My true self?  Where am I hiding?  What are my facades?

Self-discovery is powerful and meaningful, and often humbling.  It makes us vulnerable.  It exposes our hearts.  My deepest longing is to be able to receive the love of God in that place of vulnerability, without pretense or self-protection.  I have a long way to go.

But there has been a consistent voice for the last several years when I stay at the Abbey.  I’ll be eating breakfast in silence.  Quiet and still.  Slowly waking up.  Preparing for the day ahead.  And I’ll hear the voice behind me whisper, “I know you.”

And I turn around, and there’s Father Francis.  Full of such grace and peace.  A heart warm, like a fire.  Non-anxious presence.  I can’t help but want to draw close.  To warm my own heart.

That phrase gets me every time.  It touches a deep longing.  My heart leaps.  There is such tenderness in the words.  When he says it, I hear the whisper of God’s voice.  And my own heart opens just a little bit more.  To be known is so powerful.  It is such a vulnerable gift. 

Living in that place takes faith.  I experience this peace only for brief moments.  But slowly it is starting to stick.  I’m beginning to speak more honestly.  To stand a bit straighter.  To release worry and self-criticism.  To allow myself to just be who God made me to be.  That is true self-differentiation.

Francis visited our prayer room yesterday.  What a joy to have him here.  We’re going to have him speak soon at our church, and I’ll be sure to let you all know ahead of time.  As I walked up the stairs to greet him, I was so encouraged to see so many in our church already enjoying the warmth and peace he brings. 

As I entered and gave him an embrace he held me tight and whispered, “I know you.” 

“O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
    you discern my thoughts from afar.
You search out my path and my lying down
    and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
    behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.
You hem me in, behind and before,
    and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
    it is high; I cannot attain it.”

Psalm 139:1-6

Day 20: Disorientation

Today, honestly, I feel empty. It feels like the sauna door has been left open too long and my heart feels tepid.  Room temperature.  It feels like I have so little to give.

Which makes me worry.  Because my self-perceived value is so tied to feeling strong.  Without emotional energy I feel vulnerable.  I risk being exposed.  I become ordinary.  Flawed. 

Because confidence is what we find attractive, right?  Neediness is not.  It takes energy to speak with authority.  It takes emotional reserves to be present and to lead.  At least it does for me.  Without energy, I’m always one step away from saying something I’ll regret.

There are days like this.  Seasons sometimes.  My week feels cluttered.  I can’t find the patterns and connections that give life its clarity and meaning.  I am bouncing between meetings and appointments and am getting to the end of the day feeling disoriented and even a little noxious.

What I need is retreat.  But sometimes retreat is a luxury I can’t afford.  There simply isn’t the space for it. I probably need better boundaries.  But often those boundaries are unrealistic.  Sometimes you just need to toughen up a bit. 

Part of the desert experience is aimlessness.  It involves wandering.  Questions remain unanswered.  Needs are met with silence.  God rarely acts in accordance with my self-interest.  There is a greater plan, I know.  But apparently it is on a need to know basis, and I don’t need to know.

One of my favorite places to turn to on days like this is to the Psalms.  There are Psalms written for every season, be it worship and praise, trust and faith, and even lament.  The theologian, Walter Bruggeman, talks about the importance of the Psalms of disorientation in his book Spirituality and the Psalms.  Psalms of disorientation are honest, raw, and ragged.  They are often Psalms of complaint.  They refuse to minimize the sufferings in life.

Bruggeman writes,

“The dominant ideology of our culture is committed to continuity and success and to the avoidance of pain, hurt, and loss. The dominant culture is also resistant to genuine newness and real surprise. It is curious but true, that surprise is as unwelcome as is loss. And our culture is organized to prevent the experience of both.”

Isn’t this true?  The work of avoidance describes so much of what robs me of my emotional energy.  And the rest of it is spent trying to control what cannot be controlled.  The desert is a place for releasing these illusions and accepting that today is what it is.  It is often the end of our rope.  And, as Dallas Willard says, that is God’s address.

And though God is often silent in these moments, He will often draw near.  He reminds me that this, too, will pass.  That my tendency to place personal value on what I do or say is unnecessary, and, in fact, a waste of time.  And that tomorrow brings with it the newness of reorientation.  Finding my way back. 

And usually that way back is a surprise.  It comes in unlooked for, in a way that I’m not anticipating.  And, as a result, I see something new.  And in the newness comes the return of hope.  Because in the desert, God gets bigger.  And somehow, through it all, so do I.

Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
    I will be joyful in God my Savior.

The Sovereign Lord is my strength;
    he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
    he enables me to tread on the heights.

Habakkuk 3:17-19

Day 19: The Head or the Heart?

Are you familiar with the MBTI?  The Meyers Briggs Type Indicator?  For those of you that aren’t, this is referring to a test created around Carl Jung’s four principal psychological functions.  For each letter there is actually a pair…I or E, N or S, T or F, and P or J.  When you take the test, you’re scored somewhere on the spectrum between poles and then assigned the letter you’re strongest in.  The four letter sequence places you within one of 16 different personality categories.

I’m an INXP. 

Now, if you were paying attention, you’ll notice a little hiccup in my third category.  The T or the F is replaced by an X.  This refers to the spectrum between thinking and feeling.  The X means I land right smack in the middle of the two.  At least I did at first.  It has changed a few times since then.

Some would say that an X means the test isn’t working.  In other words, I’m emotionally confused.  They might be right.

I’ve always struggled with the role of emotions in my life.  My dad is an engineer, which means he’s almost entirely a T or thinker.  In our discussions, it wasn’t that emotions weren’t validated.  But when push came to shove, they were best checked at the door.  Because emotions are messy.  Feelings can change, sometimes dramatically.  A decision based on feelings was risky.  Potentially even dangerous.

So, I’ve done my best to act like a thinker.  I pursued engineering for several years before reluctantly admitting I found most of it uninteresting.  I then pursued analytic philosophy, because that fit with the part of me that loves to ask why.  But I always felt as if I was playing a part.  I could handle the conceptual physics or the philosophy of mind, but, in the end, I was driven more by the deeper questions of meaning and identity.  I was drawn more to the mystics.  The Kierkegaard’s and the Dostoevsky’s.  The ones with angst.

Because there is an emotional side of me that has been dying to get out.  It first started showing up as physical pain in my shoulders.  It was as if my emotional sensors weren’t working.  I lacked the emotional intelligence and language to even identify the feelings I was having.  That is until they starting creating enough pain that I couldn’t ignore them any longer.

I started seeing a spiritual director, and it has saved me from a downward spiral that I couldn’t get out of myself.  My early sessions were remedial.  I don’t know if you’ve seen “feeling flashcards” or the page of different facial expressions that help you choose the emotion you’re experiencing?  Those saved me.  It is amazing the power of naming feelings.  Jealousy.  Resentment. Anger. Fear.  I’m sure it was like coaching a first grader.  But slowly I began to not only recognize my emotions, but to experience them.  Not to stuff them or avoid them, but to remain in them.

Because, if you don’t recognize them, they have so much power and control.  They possess you, not the other way around.  But to see them, to notice them, and to name them, allows them to pass on by. 

And as they do, I find I experience a depth of living that I was missing out on.  Controlling emotions is certainly valuable at times, but avoiding the hard ones means you’re also missing out on the good ones.  Ignoring the hurts means also losing out on the joys.  Feeling others’ pain allows you to enjoy their pleasure.

And what I’ve found is that the parts of myself that have atrophied are getting stronger and stronger.  It makes me a better husband and father.  It makes me a better friend and pastor.  It makes me a better Jeff.  Because I’m actually an INFP.  There, I said it.  And while this means I’ll probably never be the best scientist or academic philosopher, it does make me a pretty good pastor and contemplative. 

And with it, the pain has almost entirely left my shoulders.  It comes back every once in a while.  But when it does, I identify it.  I name it.  I allow it to pass through.  And, as a result, I stand straighter.  More confident.  More my true self.

Day 18: Introverted Conversations

So, there have been quite a few books written lately on introverts, and I, for one, want to say “thank you” to these brave authors who are navigating new waters.  Thank you for explaining that the need for quiet is not a personal rejection of others.  Thank you for clarifying that an unreturned phone call is not apathy or indifference, but instead the result of an emotionally empty fuel tank.  And thank you for advocating that there is value in letting introverts withdraw.  Because quiet is where we dive down into the deep waters.

Being both an introvert and a pastor has been challenging at times.  Although I’m wired more relational than task, I can only go for so long, socially.  I’m like Cinderella at the ball.  Come midnight, things are going to get awkward. 

Alone time is how I recharge.  Sometimes it’s surfing.  Sometimes journaling.  Usually it involves good coffee.  And, almost always, it involves some reading.  And not just one book.  I usually am reading five.  One from each of my genres…challenging, deep, inspiring, formational, and educational.  Together they form a conversation, a chorus, interacting and debating with each other.  I love it. 

So much of what I learn happens in surround sound.  And various authors and diverse voices adds a profound complexity.  There is a synergy to it.  I hear God’s voice in their harmonizing.

So here’s who I’m reading right now.

I Asked for Wonder, by Abraham Joshua Heschel

Seriously, run, don’t walk, and go buy this.  Overnight it.  I told my friend, Joey, today that if he can’t afford it, he should steal it.  This book is filled with such poetic, mystical brilliance and wisdom from one of the world’s most profound Rabbi’s.  For example,

“…Awareness of God does not come by degrees from timidity to intellectual temerity;

It is not a decision reached at the crossroads of doubt.

It comes when, drifting in the wilderness,

            having gone astray,

we suddenly behold the immutable polar star.

Out of endless anxiety,

Out of denial and despair,

The soul bursts out in speechless crying.”

See what I mean? 

Next…Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott

Don’t you love her?!  If not, I’m not sure we can be friends.  I’ve read this book before, but now that I’m seriously giving writing a shot, this book has been just the reassurance and self-deprecation that I need.  Anne is fearless, hilarious, and full of her own brutally honest struggles.  She’s a gift.

We Stood Upon Stars, by Roger W. Thompson

I’ve sort of stalked this guy for years.  He was a former roommate of one of my best friends, Billy.  When he started a surf clothing brand, we all wore his South Jetty shirts.  When he built a skate park, we’d take our youth group kids up to Skate Street in Ventura.  We watched the surf films he made with Walking on Water, and now that he’s writing books, I’ve read them both.  Well, I’m in the middle of his second.  It is a book of stories that follow his travels and journeys throughout California and Montana, with a few other locals thrown in (like Baja).  Roger is a fly fisherman and a surfer.  He writes beautifully.  Every once in a while I find myself thinking, “I wish I’d written that.”

His writing is light and playful, and also poignant and true.  Like this,

“None of this would have happened if we had followed recommendations of how to move on.  This feels more like moving through.  Tunneling through grief to some secret shore that we alone will share.  We plant a flag together.  Slow walks with hands held along the water is a bond for cracks in a marriage.  And like the place where two broken pieces are joined by glue, the crack becomes the strongest point.”

By the way, he’s speaking at my church in May.  I can’t wait for you Lagunans to get to hear his voice.

Centuries of Meditation, by Thomas Traherne

The two endorsements on my copy are by C.S. Lewis and Dorothy Sayers. Lewis says, “I could go on quoting from Centuries of Meditation forever.”  Not bad. 

Traherne was an Anglican country priest and a poet, not credited with his brilliant work until long after his death.  He has been compared to Whitman or Gerard Manley Hopkins.  For instance,

“You never enjoy the world aright, till the Sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars: and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world, and more than so, because men are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you. Till you can sing and rejoice and delight in God, as misers do in gold, and Kings in sceptres, you never enjoy the world.

Force of Nature: Mind, Body, Soul, and of course, Surfing, by Laird Hamilton

This one my wife bought for me.  It isn’t necessarily one you’d choose for spiritual depth, but then again, you might be surprised.  I’m totally enjoying it.  It covers the gamut, from eating, to exercise, to life goals and philosophies, and surfing.  Laird is such a phenomenal athlete, but also a powerful advocate for living the abundant life.  I may never have his physique or surf massive Teahupoo, but I’m loving his voice added to the conversation.  He tells Heschel and Traherne, sure, you’re smart, but can you surf?

So what are you reading?  What authors are you conversing with?  Introverted or extroverted, we need these guides and companions to push us, comfort us, and correct us.  I’d love to hear who is inspiring you?

Day 17: The Critic

This morning I got a pop up from a periodical I subscribe too.  I don’t remember giving them permission to do that, but I’m sure it was one of those boxes I failed to uncheck.  Anyways, it was letting me know about a recent review by one of their regular authors on the movie The Shack.

Now this is an academic theological journal that has been becoming more and more conservative over the years, so I’m pretty sure I can guess where this review is going to go.  But what the heck, I click the link anyways.

Now, I haven’t seen the movie.  We don’t really go to the movies much.  The last twenty movies I’ve watched have been Moana.  But I did read the book years ago and remember the stir it had created then.  Usually some version of, “can you believe they made God a girl and not a boy???”  Which is such a silly concern.  I do remember thinking that it was a brave idea to tackle the problem of evil like it did as well as pondering more deeply the nature of the Trinity.  We can all do with more of that. 

As I read the review, I wasn’t surprised at all with the writer’s criticisms.  Accusations of the theology being self-help, or new-age, or sophomoric.  I didn’t pay too close attention.  Because the tone of the article was like finger nails on a chalkboard.  Smarmy.  Pedantic. Doctrinaire.  Why do we do this?

I know why.  Because it makes us feel right.  It makes us feel just a smidge better than the next guy.  We feel enlightened and superior.

The funny thing is, the author confessed to have once believed like the people that are liking the movie.  He used to be into all that rebellious progressive evangelicalism.  He used to look down on all the conservative, NRA, republicans too.  But then something changed, I guess.  He doesn’t really say.  Maybe he outgrew it.  Clearly, those days are behind him.

He puts down the movie as self-help Christianity, but as I’m listening to him I’m thinking, “what you really need is a good therapist.”  Because that self-righteous kid that you think you’ve left behind is still in there.  And he is still self-righteous.  He’s just switched teams.  And you know what?  He probably had some pretty good thoughts and ideas back in the day, that you now resent or are embarrassed about.  The point is, you’re the same guy.

And that is okay.  But rather than pretend that guy doesn’t exist anymore, you should make friends with him.  Rather than living in embarrassment of all those bad haircuts you’ve had in the past, you need to learn to embrace it.  Learn to not take yourself so seriously.  So that you stop criticizing everyone from a place of insecurity or worse,  self-loathing.

Because my hunch is, when you stop trying to pretend that you’re smarter than everyone because you’re reading Wittgenstein, you might surprise yourself by actually enjoying a movie like The Shack for what it offers or how it is helping others, and not ruling it out because it doesn’t live up to your standards.

I write this, because I know you, dude.  You’re me.  And I’ve spent way too many hours invested in finding what is wrong, instead of discovering and celebrating and clinging to what is good.

So here’s to embracing that awkward, sophomoric, insecure Jeff.  I don’t want to be the critic anymore.

Day 16: The Least are the Greatest

Today’s softball game was my very favorite of all Mia’s games.  Her team was assisting a program that our league offers to children with disabilities and special needs.  Each player on her team was paired up with a partner who they would shadow and assist when needed.  They would lend an arm when running bases, back them up when fielding, and speak words of encouragement throughout the entire game.

It was so tender.  So many beaming smiles.  So much joy and enthusiasm. I was choked up for the entire hour.

Several of these sweet-heart girls, after rounding home plate, would walk past their cheering fans and ask everyone their name.  One in particular was named Miracle.  So perfect!  She absolutely was.

I couldn’t help but compare it to a typical game where I’m sitting under a cloud of pressure that I feel for my daughter.  Mia is getting so good, but I’m still nervous for her, especially as her position continues to move towards more and more critical roles.  There is no room for error.  Every ball hit towards her causes me emotional distress, for her, for me, for her team and the parents sitting next to me. 

Because, in these games, fun is secondary and inseparable from winning.  And winning means you outperformed the other team.  And, even better than just a win is when you made a significant contribution to the victory. Right? We all know this to be true.

Until you sit through a game like this morning’s and realize that maybe you don’t have this figured out.  I can still see one of the girls at bat, having swung at least 10 times, turning to her mom and blowing her a kiss.  Then, somehow, smacking the next ball past second base.

Some refused to be helped.  Others were more insistent.  One darling little girl shook her head and pointed to which ball she wanted placed on the tee.  When she swung, the ball landed maybe two inches from the plate.  She ran to first, then second, then third, and sure enough, she had turned that brilliant 2” hit into a home run.  We went crazy!  She strutted past us with pride, waving the whole way.

Now I realize, when it comes to games like this I’m a complete tourist.  I can easily sit in the stands and romanticize the suffering and struggle that these families go through every single day.  I see it in the eyes of the tired mom’s in the stands.  One little girl was so overwhelmed she just stood at the plate and cried.  Her mother came over and put an arm around her, spoke a couple silent words of encouragement, and then walked her daughter off the field and sat with her in the stands as her daughter rocked noticeably back and forth and shook for the remainder of the game.  I could see them both, arm in arm, tenderly suffering together.

But after that failed attempt, every batter that walked up to the plate first stopped to check in on their friend.  “It’s okay.”  “You’ll be alright.” “I love you so much.”

Leaving the game, I felt honored to have been included in such a tender scene and for my daughter to have partaken in such a powerful moment.  There is something about that level of patient suffering that feels sacred.  It is illuminating.  It exposes the fallacies of our privileged existence and shows us a depth of feeling that goes often overlooked in our fast paced world. 

Because it moves way too slow for us. 

The game lasted just one inning, but took an hour.  Each batter stood up there for pitch after pitch, swing after swing, until the least bit of contact.  The girls in the outfield stood still and watched for the majority of the game.  But what they saw, as they shifted their weight patiently from leg to leg, waiting for something to happen, was a glimpse of true tenderness.

We often ridicule a society where everyone gets a trophy, because then we underperform and always expect to be a winner.  And I guess that is true. But a world where only the strong survive, where winning is the goal, where we praise talent and beauty and shun the weak, is a much graver mistake.  And comes at a much deeper cost.

Jesus asked, “What good is it to gain the whole world and forfeit your soul?”

Today’s game was a sacred glimpse into the purity of what love can be.  It is enormously costly, and yet of the greatest worth.  I’m not surprised that the “least of these” holds the greatest weight in God’s economy.  This isn’t God’s mercy or generosity.  It is God’s brilliant wisdom on display for all those patient enough to stop and see.

Day 15: Sitting in our Weeds

My family is taking a break from screens during Lent.  All of us, to one extent or another.  Obviously, we can’t totally unplug.  My kids do their homework on chrome books.  Patty’s work life revolves around social media.  Most of my office work is on my MacBook.  Screens are a necessary part of life these days.

But what we’ve cut out is the mindless entertainment portion.  Scrolling, flipping, binge watching, gaming, YouTube.  You’d think we’d given up nicotine or caffeine.  My kids are in agony.  Every day is a protest, often ending in tears, or stomping, or pouting.  It has been rough.  Who knew just how dependent we had become on our phones!

Initially the boredom was overwhelming.  “What am I supposed to do now?!”  “I don’t know, read a book?”  “But nothing I read is interesting!  I need something that will just grab my attention.”

Exactly!  Screens are effortless.  We don’t have to engage…they do all the work.  What good is free time if you must be creative, if you must practice, if you must get through the first 30 pages before the story draws you in?

Instead we prefer to scroll through copious amounts of digital content that we aren’t interested in looking for that one thing…that thing that…wait, what are we looking for?

And so we go from one YouTube to another, chuckling at random falls or cute cats, until our eyes are red and everything around us feels irritating.  At least that is how it goes in our home.  When free time is spent looking at your phone, real life becomes an annoying intrusion.

It is an interesting dilemma.  In his Pensees, Blaise Pascal talks about the weariness we all face and how diversion has become our primary coping mechanism.  He writes,  

“Nothing is so insufferable to man as to be completely at rest, without passions, without business, without diversion, without study. He then feels his nothingness, his forlornness, his insufficiency, his dependence, his weakness, his emptiness. There will immediately arise from the depth of his heart weariness, gloom, sadness, fretfulness, vexation, despair.”

Yep.  All those.

Without diversion, the pain in our lives becomes evident.  The emotions we’ve been avoiding become inescapable.  We see our loneliness, our disconnection, our insecurity, our inferiority, our worry.

These are our weeds.  St. Theresa of Avila tells us that we must sit in them…with God.  But this is easier said than done.

When the screens are gone the silence can feel suffocating.  Our minds race.  We fidget. We can even panic.  We pick up our phone and start scrolling.  Until we get caught… “Hey! No screens!” 

But my family is slowly starting to detox. 

In the space we’ve created, I now see my kids reaching for their guitars, pulling out the markers or colored pencils, grabbing a board game, sitting down at the piano, picking up a book.  And what they don’t realize is how happy they sound.  They aren’t bickering or complaining.  They are laughing, giggling, teasing each other.  Connecting.

We are giving the best parts of ourselves to each other, instead of to the screens.  And life is richer and deeper.  Our eyes are clearer.  And we start to notice more. 

This is one of the hidden gifts of Lent.  Sometimes all we can think of is what we’ve given up.  But what we often overlook is the gift or the invitation that awaits us in the empty space.  By turning off our screens we aren’t creating a vacuum.  No, we’re allowing ourselves to slow down to the pace that real relationships require.  Our minds calm, our hearts rest, and our joy returns.  There is space for each other, and for that still small voice of God.

Day 14: The Power of Myth

So, true confession time.  I’m a bit of a nerd.  Some of you are like, “Duh.”  But for those of you that don’t know this side of me, I’m here to tell you, it goes deep.  I’m not just a jump on the bandwagon, Dr. Who fan.  I’m not one of those that thinks the kids in Stranger Things are cute and likeable.  I, seriously, am one of those kids.  I’m pretty sure I would have named my street Mirkwood, just like they did.  I loved D&D, even though it was highly controversial for a little 6th grade Christian kid to play. 

And I’ve always loved Tolkien’s, Lord of the Rings.  I started with the Hobbit and the Narnia books when I was young, but progressed to LOTR when my dad would read it to me as a kid.  It was a bit over my head at the time (all that history and elvish poetry), and it was maybe a little too suspenseful for my 10-year-old emotions at bedtime (black riders chasing Hobbits through Bree kept me up more than once), but I was hooked from day one.  I loved the immersive world Tolkien had created, with all the languages, history, races, ages, and depth of mythology.  To read Tolkien is to be ushered into a magnificent story, in a world so vast and real that the story itself is a mere glimpse into the greater whole of Middle Earth.

My good friend, Bret, gave me a beautiful map of Middle Earth in a wonderful barn wood frame.  It hangs on my office wall and is one of my dearest treasures.  As a pastor, I suppose it ought to be Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son, or maybe Grünewald’s Crucifixion, but honestly Tolkien’s Middle Earth has as much spiritual significance for me personally.

This is probably worth explaining a bit.  As a child, when I would read these stories, something deep in me would stir.  Something not only real, but more real, more true than the world around me.  I was moved by emotions that were familiar and yet were being awakened for the first time.  A longing for depth and nobility, for a life of glorious deeds done without need of recognition, and for depth of character that refused to turn back or look away in despair when seemingly hope was lost. 

The rest of the world spoke words of caution, of sobriety, of critical reality.  Give it up, kid!  But my heart knew better.  When I read that scene (spoiler!) where Boromir dies, but confesses his betrayal of Frodo and swears allegiance to Aragorn as king…I would fall apart in tears of admiration.  That scene is beautifully redemptive, courageous, and true.

When I read about Aragorn protecting the Shire and yet being held in suspicion by the cautious little hobbits (they refer to him distrustfully as Strider) I would find myself longing for the same humble valor.  And when he is asked to step into his calling as king, I would share in his reluctance.

I love that the main character of the story is a hobbit.  Not Frodo, but Sam.  Sam’s story is one of radical transformation.  The little gardener goes on to become the bearer of the ring bearer.  He literally carries his master and his master’s burden up the side of Mt. Doom. 

As I would read, I would find myself desiring to be the very best version of myself.  Because I see in the characters not only characteristics I long to possess but a quality of life that feels big enough to contain my heart.  Something about the mythical and heroic speaks to our truest callings in life.  And that calling is glory.  Not fame.  Not success.  But glory. 

The Hebrew word for it captures it best.  Kavod.  It means weighty.  Solid.  Heavy.  We are made to live lives that are big enough for eternity.  To walk in a manner that the world is not worthy of. 

Lewis writes this about Tolkien’s masterpiece, “The imagined beings have their insides on the outside; they are visible souls.  And Man as a whole, Man pitted against the universe, have we seen him at all till we see that he is like a hero in a fairy tale?”

Which is why the map remains proudly displayed in my office.  It cautions me against letting life become too familiar.  It inspires me to choose the bigger story when I grow weary or insecure.  And it reminds me that the beauty and depth of life await those with eyes to see that,

“All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”

Day 13: Generativity

I’ve been enjoying a book called Culture Care, by Makoto Fujimura.  It is specifically about creating a generative community for artists to inspire beautiful creation that will feed our souls.  Without beauty, our souls wilt.  Without artists, we starve.

I love new words, and generative was a new one for me.  It means the power or function of propagating or reproducing.  I guess I should’ve been able to figure that out myself.  Its opposite is ‘to degenerate.’

Fujimura, (or Mako if you know him, which I don’t) uses an example from his own life when he was young and newly married and strapped for cash.  His wife came home from the grocery store with some food and a bouquet of flowers.  He was alarmed at the apparent wastefulness of the purchase.  His wife, wisely, responded, “We need to feed our souls, too.” That was a genesis moment for them and has become a powerful symbol of how they desire to live their lives. 

I resonate with that.  So often I can see art as the dessert of life, not the meal itself.  Art and beauty can feel gratuitous.  We pay for them only when we have some money left over.  But this is exactly what this book is pushing back on.  Beauty is what brings our souls to life.

Do you remember that movie, Dead Poets Society?  I can still picture Robin Williams saying,

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."

My friend, Kate, mentioned to me that generativity is one of Erickson’s stages of psychosocial development…and just so happens to be the one I’m at in my own life.  Generativity vs. Stagnation.  It happens to us at midlife and can go on for quite a while (up to 65).  It means we’ve passed through the identity stage, and the intimacy stage, and are now prepared to give back, to enrich others, to pay it forward.

As I look at those stages of development, it makes me pause.  At 45, I still find myself struggling a good deal with identity and intimacy.  I still wrestle with the question of when I am truly being myself, and what is the façade I’m hiding behind.  I still hate the feeling of being inadequately defensed.  I am confident only when my guard is up.

But as I look at the last few months, weeks, even days, I see a theme to where God is at work in my life.  And it is generativity. 

The temptations I face are much more towards isolation and withdrawal.  I can retreat to where it is comfortable.  I find myself more and more possessive of my time and energy.  I call it self-protection, but if I’m truly honest, there is a bit of avarice in it.

This is where Erickson is so helpful.  By connecting our withdrawal and possessiveness with stagnation gives me just the sort of push I need.  Because the thought of being stuck is one of my greatest fears.  I see how easy it is in life for us to drive ourselves into a cul-de-sac that we cannot get out of.  Generativity protects us from this.  It protects us from our small selves.

And it gives us vision.  Because a beautiful life is a generous one.  It is self-sacrificial love that speaks to the deepest parts of our soul.  A mother’s love for her child.  A teacher pouring themselves into their students. A father running to greet his lost child returning home.  This is who I long to be.

But the reality is, it happens in small steps.  Doing the dishes. The unlooked for favor.  Bringing home flowers.  Considering others as more important than ourselves.

There is a dying involved in this.  A dying to self.  But an awakening to beauty.  My friend, Kori, reminded me that the path of Lent is not specifically preparation for Easter, but for the cross.  I needed to hear that.  The depth of the celebration of Easter comes as a result of the vision of love that would bear such a price for me, and you and us.  The celebration is not merely the grace alone, but the generative beauty of the sacrifice. 

As Scripture says, “There is no greater love than this: than to lay down one’s life for his friends.” 

Day 12: The Freedom of Ideas

I’ve always loved ideas.  I think I was born asking why.  I know my mom feared the worst, that I was a born skeptic.  But I was driven more out of curiosity than skepticism.  I was after the idea behind the idea, the principle behind the rule.  That is where things get interesting.  Sure, it can seem messy, but there can be real joy in navigating through the complexities of life.

For instance, I just read a blurb the other day talking about how the artificial intelligence in self-driving cars might have to sacrifice the driver for the sake of causing harm to greater numbers.  So interesting!  Automobiles driven by computers with a moral compass.  That’s straight out of Blade Runner. 

Ethical conundrums are an open road where ideas can be tested.  Science and philosophy are filled with them.  Theology too.  Heaven and hell, sovereignty or free will…the implications of the Trinity.  The world is filled these sorts of deep truths to be pondered.

One of the things that I love about reading is that we can try on an idea as if it were our own.  What if I saw the world through this lens?  It is fascinating.  It adds perspective.  It stretches us to get outside ourselves for a bit, to see with greater empathy and humility.

At least that is what it does for me. 

But I’ve learned, over time, that ideas are threatening for many.  Especially the new ideas.  They are intruders.  They are challengers. And this puts so many immediately on the defensive. When ideas are presented with even a whiff of controversy it causes an immediate spike in blood pressure and an inevitably heated exchange.

And so, we avoid these subjects, to a fault.  We are so fearful of stepping on a proverbial mine, that we steer clear of anything too political or religious.  The only way to keep civility is abeyance.

Which is why I’m so thankful for my book group.  It was started over ten years ago by my dear friend Mark Metherell, whom I dearly miss.  Mark was a navy Seal and died in Iraq.  From the very start he told me, you’re going to lead this group and this is who is coming.  That’s kind of how he rolled.  Little did I know at the time what a gift he had given me.

We began meeting at Jean Paul’s Goodies, the coffee equivalent of Seinfeld’s soup nazi.  The location has moved several times since then.  The group has changed faces over the years.  But the common thread hasn’t…it is a free for all when it comes to ideas.  We don’t edit each other.  We don’t shut each other down.  We definitely push back, even chide, but the rule is and always has been, that bruises are fine, but no broken bones. 

We’ve read philosophy, theology, the mystics, pop culture, physics, history, you name it.  We’ve covered the spectrum.  We’ve read some delightful books, some perplexing, some vexing, some completely exasperating.  But the spirit of the group has remained.

My friend, Chuck, refers to us as the monks.  Except we’ve recently added a nun.  She happens to be smarter than the rest of us put together.  The group is so dear to me.  Not just because of the books we read, or the friendships we share, but because of the safety and freedom of ideas.  It is a place where I learn and grow, where I am stretched and push back, where I can truly be myself.

We need spaces like these.  And when we find them, we need to protect them.  Because friendship is one of the greatest gifts we get in this life.  And when your friends can absorb all your passionate outbursts and the misguided strength of your ideas and respond without judgment, you know you’ve found something truly sacred.  Somewhere you are known and trusted.  Somewhere you truly belong.

Day 11: Elusive Contentment

Yesterday was such a good day.  The sermon, especially the first service, though rushed, felt like my true voice.  I have been chasing after it for years, like Peter Pan after his shadow.  The next time I find it, I should probably sew it on.

Afterwards was a reunion for the recently returned students from our Guatemala missions trip.  So much joy!  So much to celebrate seeing how the students’ lives and hearts were enriched, laid bare, and filled with such passion.

And then we had an evening Lenten service.  I was a bit frantic during the set up, and many arrived late due to horrendous traffic, but it all came together and was so beautiful.  These evening contemplative services have become my favorites.  It felt sacred.

At the end of a day like this I’m longing for my chair.  We have a big leather recliner that is well broken in.  Throughout the day I’m looking forward to that moment when all the tasks are finished, all the conversations completed, and I can make a cup of tea, grab something to read, and lean back.  That is my vision of heaven.

I guess this does actually happen from time to time, but not last night.  Last night I was irritable, and I have no idea why.  Maybe it was jetlag over the time change.  At bed time, everyone just kept ignoring my requests to get ready for bed.  They each just sat there, scrolling through their phone, strumming guitar, slowly turning the pages of their book.  “Yeah, one second dad.”

I got annoyed...then frustrated...then angry.  By the time I finally got them in bed and sat back in my chair, I was fuming.  So much for my relaxing evening!

As I reflect on it now, I guess I thought I had earned something that was being withheld.  After such a long day, this moment of quiet was mine by rights.  This was my time to savor the day.  What angered me was their complete lack of consideration.

But as I write, I’m realizing that it might be even deeper than that.  I think I have an expectation on life itself that it cannot live up to.  This feeling of disappointment is too familiar.  What irritates me most is my inability to control my environment.  I can never make the moments live up to my expectations.

What I long for most in life is contentment. Peace.  This might simply be the introvert in me talking.  I know others are more ambitious or pleasure seeking.  They are driven by the thrills or experiences.  But for me it is always a sense of satisfaction and fulfilment that I’m longing for.

And rarely ever find.  Because nothing in this world ever seems to truly satisfy.  The anticipation is always larger than the actual experience itself.  Nothing tastes quite as good as you remember it tasting.  No victory is lasting.  Every goal turns out to be just another rung on the ladder.

So what to do?  Of course, there is always the midlife crisis.  Basically start over, new car, new girl, new career, new whatever.  We’ve all seen that painful cliché over and over again.

Or resignation.  Herman Hesse was recently featured on the blog Brainpickings and was quoted as saying, “I would simply like to reclaim an old and, alas, quite unfashionable private formula: Moderate enjoyment is double enjoyment. And: Do not overlook the little joys!”

I like that a lot.  There is so much wisdom in seeing the little gifts, the small moments of pleasure.  But, while that is helpful, it doesn’t seem to cut deep enough.  What do I do when the simple joys are present but my emotions are in turmoil?  What do I do when my needs are met, when all is well, and my heart tells me something is still missing?

I’ve been reading a Lenten devotional with excerpts from C.S. Lewis. (Shocking, I know) This morning’s was on hope.  I’ve read this passage a million times, but today, it spoke right to a new and tender place. 

“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.  If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud.  Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing.  If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage.  I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help others to do the same.”

So I’m sitting with that today.  Accepting the restlessness as part of the journey.  Reminding myself that, in this Lenten season, we are not to despair, but to continue moving forward, towards resurrection and the hope of all things being made new.  In the spirit of Lewis’s words, to press on to that other country and to help others do the same.  He has helped do this today, and I hope it has helped you too.

Day 10: The Library Angel

One of my favorite things to do is write sermons.  Don’t tell anyone, but I’d do it for free.  Delivering the sermon is pleasurable, but the preparation is usually what brings me the most joy.

You might think I’m referring to the research, but that isn’t it exactly. I do love to read.  Some of my dearest friends I’ve met exclusively through their writing.  I feel like I know them so well because good writing is a window to the soul.  I’m not sure where I’d be without Clive, Gilbert, Fyodor, and Thomas.  I’m so thankful for Søren and Blaise and Flannery.  These have been my faithful companions on this journey of life.

But the joy of writing sermons, for me, is not simply in the linking of ideas.  It is in the discovery, and ultimately, in the sense of being led. 

Some passages of scripture preach themselves.  All you have to do is simply read them aloud.  For example,

“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.”

But others are much harder.   My initial response is often a blank stare.  What does this even mean, let alone what am I going to teach about it? 

But this is where the sense of being led begins.  Suddenly things start to stir.  As I read the passage over and over, the waters slowly begin to clear.

As it does, little lights go off and connections are made. Examples spring to mind.  The passage begins to unfold.  One of my very favorite experiences is when a difficult passage is suddenly illuminated.  It is such a sacred and holy moment.  The verses that first appeared so opaque are suddenly seen in their brilliance and depth. 

But that doesn’t happen every time.  Sometimes I just get stumped.  Everything feels dry. 

I have a secret technique when it gets to this point.  I turn and stare at my books and wait.  And time and time again, something bizarre happens.  I’m drawn to one in particular.  I’m not saying I close my eyes and pick one.  It is as if a book is somehow illuminated. Often I don’t remember what the book is specifically about.  I’ve read it, but it was a while ago.  I pull the book off the shelf and open it and start reading.  And there it is.  A key that unlocks things.  A bit of wisdom that points me to the thing I’m missing.

It is like being given a hint or a short cut.  It is a little humbling but mostly exciting.  It has happened so many times that it has become familiar.

I was telling my friend Kate about it and she exclaimed, “there’s a name for that!  It is called the library angel.”  I looked it up, and sure enough, it has even made it into Wikipedia.  Their blurb says it is chance or coincidence, but I’m pretty sure I know better.  I call it the Holy Spirit. 

The Spirit is our teacher. The Spirit pushes us deeper.  It surprises us.  And sometimes it gives us hints when we’re stuck.  It is playful.  It likes to be sought after.  And it loves to take us deeper.  Scripture says He will lead us into all truth.

The nudge is often the critical, missing piece. From there you just follow the thread.  It isn’t an idea growing in my mind.  It is like completing a puzzle without knowing the final image until the last piece is placed.

Preparing sermons has become another lens through which to see God at work in my life.  I’m reminded of that beautiful reality that we are being led.  And that, while God longs to be sought after, even more He longs to be found.