An Unexpected Symbol

Living in the upside down, in a tortured inversion of cultural mores, where tolerance is most celebrated by its intolerance of opposing views; where we’re told that fighting racism requires us all to segregate ourselves into irreconcilable roles of perpetual conflict – no amount of common sense could ever hope to unravel such a Gordian knot of self-delusion. For the narrative of these neo-Gnostics, pretending to have awakened to some deeper truth, has so poisoned the well of civil discourse with its pseudo-moral pretense – no one dare object . . . out loud. But we all know it’s broken – even if we’re not allowed to say so.

But this is just one more iteration of the brokenness of a self-deluded world. Just one more variation of the palpable upside down that fills us all with unease — the ever-present reminder of our own fallen natures on full display. If truth be told, we’ve lived in the upside down for so long that the right side up isn’t readily apparent to us, except for maybe a glimpses of it breaking through into our lives – but even then we’re tempted to respond in an upside down way . . . assuming that having the power to control our circumstance will somehow set things right.

But such a Nietzschean “will to power” assumption is part of how things got so upside down in the first place. In fact, to view everything in life as a power struggle, invariably places us back in the Garden of Eden, believing that we could somehow self-exist as our own god – making the world conform to our own image. Is this not how we experience the upside down of the world, imposing itself on us, on every level, in the world today? In this way, history replays again and again the same broken scenario – wanting so desperately to be free of our chains, we can’t seem to resist the impulse to forge new chains.

Jesus was born into a backwater portion of the Roman Empire. It was a cruel and unforgiving world, where Roman authority was absolute. It was an authority maintained by the brutality of violence – a threat of violence constantly reminding the people of who had the power . . . and what happens to anyone challenging their authority. So it was within this context, the Roman practice of crucifying criminals and subversives came to symbolize the stark distinction between the powerful and the powerless. So for the Romans the cross was an ultimate display of power . . . and those who hung upon it were the pitiably powerless.

As profound as the Resurrection is to the Christian confession, it is the Cross that has become the unexpected symbol of our faith. Without a doubt, it is the power of the Resurrection that gives our faith hope – but it is the Cross that defines the very nature of that power. For it is the Cross of Christ that inverts our upside down understanding of what real power looks like. Rome in all its self-assured grandeur, fades into history as one more empire come and gone – but ironically, it is their symbol of brutality that survives the test of time . . . not as a symbol of how the mighty control the world . . . rather, as a symbol of how self-emptying love saves the world. So we take up our cross and follow Him.

. . . and for the Christian everything begins and ends at the cross.


In Search of Significance

We all want a life that matters – even if it only matters to ourselves. Think about it – even if you attempted to live a pointless life, such an undertaking would invariably take on a purposefulness of its own, otherwise it couldn’t be sustained. Just think of the most unambitious, random person you know – who appear to be making things up as they go along. But unavoidably their days will be filled with choices they will make, based on some contrived criterion — one that differentiates what matters most to them, from what they assume to be either contrary or inconsequential to the life they want to live . . . a life that matters, at least to them.

Our anthropological impulse is to somehow reconcile our own personal sense of meaning, with how we perceive our significance within our community and culture. In this way, all of our choices are given a context – determining how much connection (or disconnection) should exist between ourselves and others . . . so that within our proximity to others we might experience some sense of our shared significance. This very often becomes the driving force behind our inclination to seek a tribal identity – an identity from which we borrow the pretense of a greater significance and a practical sense of belonging.

We are contingent beings, which is to say we are not self-existing, we require an ontological context – in this regard, we can only find our significance within this context. I only bring this up because we live in a culture that invites us to find our significance in the perpetual reinventing of ourselves – while it simultaneously insists we must conform to social expectations. And such a cognitively dissonant context is unsustainable, which is likely why we’re drawn to a disembodied imagining of our own existence – as if we only lived in our heads . . . unconstrained by material realities.

Historically speaking, such gnostic notions of meaning and significance have been around since the very beginning – since Adam and Eve assumed that they were capable of arbitrating good and evil . . . on their own terms. And ever since, we’ve all assumed we have the authority to determine our own significance and value – especially, when in comparison to others. And what a sad little game of make believe it is – pretending we matter simply because we say so. As if we could be self-existing as a matter of self-pronouncement.

We are created in the image of God, this is the ontological fountain of our immutable significance – in this regard, we are contingent upon God’s existence whether we want to accept it or not. This is why those who ardently deny the significance of God’s existence, are the ones who invariably find themselves at odds with the significance of their own existence. This is also what makes our faith confession essential to how we understand of ourselves – believing that the God who created us is still at work on us (Philippians 1:6) . . . and that makes us all pretty darn significant!

I am no longer a slave to fear — I am a child of God

Falling To Earth

You don’t have to be an expert talking head, or a seasoned political pundit, to recognize that the world is a troubled place. It is more than evident that our culture has been exponentially unraveling for a while now . . . with no discernable end in sight. Caught between the self-involved narcissism of the perpetually offended, and the militant tribalism of the pseudo-virtuous – one would think that all could be made right in the world if we would simply dispatch this notorious THEM, that everyone else seems so concerned about. Because there are few things more primal than blaming others for what we are unwilling to face up to, about ourselves . . . about the way we contribute to the divide.

No doubt you’ve experienced contentious people who insist on being adversarial at every turn – as if they had covered themselves in gasoline, daring you to strike the match. Because for people like this it’s in the combustion of conflict where they find their validation and significance – in this way their anger makes them feel as if they’re connected to something larger than themselves . . . some higher purpose. So how do we cross the divide with people who seem so intent on sustaining the divide? Or maybe the better question is – have I been the one who’s been sustaining that the divide?

Every day I have to make a choice, whether I’m going to be life giving or life depleting to those I encounter . . . and many days I fail that test. What makes this choice so critical – is that each choice has a multiplying effect. Either I am creating moments of grace that spreads generously from person to person, as their day unfolds. Or I am forging a chain that each person I encounter will invariably add their own link to, until the weight of it is a burden far too heavy for any of us to carry. For it is the very nature of human interaction that we will either lighten one another’s load, or we will laden each other with the heavy baggage of our own discontent.

I have been pondering these things as I’ve been meditate on these words of Jesus “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:23, 24) This is a curious pairing of ideas that seems to be saying: In the same way that the glory of a seed resides in how it falls to earth and dies, thereby multiplying the life that it was given – the hour that the Son of Man is glorified, is when he dies on the cross, is buried, and rises again, thereby multiplying his resurrection for us all.

And if the pinnacle glorifying moment of Christ’s incarnation is to be likened unto a seed that multiplies life by dying – what do you imagine our moment of glory in this life should look like? The way of Jesus is a humble path, and the glory of that path is found in redemptive sacrifice. Therefore let us die daily, so that we might be life giving to those God has placed in our lives – so that his glory may be known. Is that not the glory of what it means to live in Christ?

Yes, it will be the humble who will know the glory of self-emptying love

What Do We Mean By Rational? (4 of 4)

On many occasions, in the midst of conversation, where the other person felt compelled to announce their rationality, as what I can only assume, was an effort to establish their credibility — I’ve never been sure of how I was supposed to respond to such an assertion. Were they really contemplating being irrational, but then changed their mind? Given the fact that they don’t even attempt to make an actual contextualizing argument for what they might mean by rational, I’m left to wonder if they even know what constitutes rationality – so ironically, such a pronouncement makes me think it might just be a compensation for exactly how irrational they are. But more likely, it’s just a transparent attempt at passive aggressively marginalizing my view as irrational . . . without actually having to do the heavy lifting of making that case.

The most common false assumption about rationality is that it’s somehow self-evident – as if we all share the same cognitive reference point, in regards to how life makes sense. And it’s why under this erroneous assumption, that most of those promoting themselves as rational feel no compunction to demonstrate exactly how their views are rational – which ironically makes a rational exchange of ideas with them nearly impossible. Because truth be told, their claim of rationality is nothing more than a rhetorical device intent on creating the illusion that their opinion is intellectually superior.

This is precisely how civil discourse devolves, as most people are simply unwilling to recognize their own presuppositional bias. For those who view the meaning of life through the prism of pleasure, then the pursuit of pleasure constitutes what they find most rational. For those who believe life is best understood as a matrix of power struggles, then their framework presupposes that all competing ideas must be forced through that lens before they can ever be deemed rational. This is because there is invariably a context and criterion implicit in how each of us defines what it means to be rational. But an intellectually honest discussion about what criterion best applies the logic of rationality is hardly ever engaged.

Disagreements over what is rational are very often predicated on a false dichotomy attempting to pit empiricism against faith, as if they were diametrically opposed – when they are not. An empirical examination of information is inescapably an interpretive process relying upon a presupposed criterion of meaning and significance. It is in this presupposing of unproven beliefs where the empiricist is actually exercising their faith . . . albeit, a faith that goes largely unconfessed. While the person of faith is more than willing to announce their faith beliefs upfront, as they examine all of the available information with logical integrity and intellectual honesty.

The Christian faith presupposes the existence of a God who purposefully creates the universe, imbuing it with meaning and purpose. It is a design that gives transcendent significance to how we comprehend concepts like love and justice as meaningful. It is a redemptive narrative, ever seeking to reconcile us to our own existence. So if you believe that life has meaning, and that love and justice are transcendently sourced, and that you are meant to be in harmony with your own existence (and not just a refugee, surviving an indifferent universe) – Then you are basically embracing the Christian rationale for how reality was designed to work.

. . . a design so wonderful that it inspires us to lift praise as our most natural and reasonable response.

The Tale of Two Kingdoms

For the most part, literature has been a faithful curator of the grand themes of life, allowing us to experience the scope, contour, and native tensions of such things as hope and fear, life and death, and good and evil – so that we might vicariously find ourselves in the midst of struggle . . . and yet remain unscathed. In this way we get to rehearse the various scenarios of what it means to be on either side of the equation. But real life experiences don’t actually unfold as predictably as we would imagine, as they tend to take a far more circuitous path.

So invariably the self-narrated role we play in our own story, creates for us the illusion we’ve chosen correctly, leading us to assume we’re on the right side of history, because we imagine we’ve chosen to serve a greater good and a nobler purpose . . . and this, unfortunately, is how most cautionary tales begin. So at this point the storyline may split off in one of two ways – either on to the road to hell marked with good intentions; or it will take a darker path, of the ends, no matter the cost, will justify the means. Which is why it might be best if we defined what constitutes the greater good.

This is where we enter into the tale of two kingdoms, because any defining of the greater good will invariably require a whole-cloth philosophical evaluation – which invariably becomes a collision of two distinctly different ideals. Either it will be an assessment that embraces the manifest destiny of secularly driven imperatives, or one that submits to the beneficent transcendence of divine providence. So not only do these two presuppositions have competing ideas of what the greater good might be, but more importantly, they have competing visions for how their version of the greater good is achieved . . . which is exactly what brings these two kingdoms into direct conflict.

The Kingdom of Man believes that the greater good is a matter of seizing power, so that control and lockstep conformity, to whatever the latest iteration of the greater good the ruling authorities say it is, can be achieved. Therefore it is a kingdom best served by intimidation, coercion, and violence. But for the Kingdom of God, the greater good is best understood relationally – that only the humble servant of all will have prominence in God’s Kingdom (Mark 10:42-45). Therefore it is a kingdom best served by, forgiveness, redemption, and love. In short God doesn’t bully people into conformity – He lovingly entreats them to reconciliation – to be reconciled to God . . . and to one another.

When we read classical literature — in the midst of the story, the struggle seems almost overwhelming, the choices seem complicated and conflicted, but by the end of the story, by the mercy of retrospection, the right thing seems as if it should have been obvious to us all along. Within our fallen frame of reference, under the rubric of expedience, we are often tempted to employ the tactics of Man’s kingdom — but in the end it is the relentless love of the Kingdom of God that wins our hearts. But even still, we should ask ourselves daily – what kingdom am I serving today?

. . . because your gonna have to serve somebody.

For God’s Sake

I consider myself an above average sports fan, having a well-developed appreciation for the athleticism, strategy, and emotional arch of the game. But what I’m not a fan of are all the pre and post-game interviews with players and coaches. It’s not just the predictable banality of their remarks that bothers me, rather it’s the excessive hyperbole with which such remarks engage – that tends to get up under my skin.

We’re gonna leave it all on the field and give it one hundred and ten percent” It’s not merely the fact that such a statement is a mathematical absurdity that catches my attention – rather, like most overstatements it ends up being ironically reductive. So instead of being an exhortation to give more than all you are, it makes simply giving all that you are just another form of rhetorical hype and bravado – said more for effect . . . than actual meaning.

So when we come to the ShemaHear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might . . .” ~ (Deuteronomy 6:4, 5) The modern mind struggles to place this admonition into a correct perspective, tempted to respond out of sentimentality or spiritualized unction – as if the Shema were merely a challenge to up your percentage of love effort.

An observant Jewish friend of mine recently explained to me that the first line of the Shema isn’t actually intended to underscore God’s monotheism, as much as it is an ontological declaration about God – that in God, all things exist . . . for God is the very state of being, itself. Therefore, there’s an intended symmetry to be understood between the all that we are admonished to love God with . . . and the way that all things exist in God. In this way, loving God is understood as a confession about the true nature of existence . . . that there is no us apart from God.

shutterstock_328480373_682St Bernard of Clairvaux believed that what the Shema places in stark relief is the tension between our default inclination to love God within a quid pro quo expectation of personal advantage — with our need to love God, for God’s sake. Therefore we are to desire God, and God alone – and not simply above all other things . . . but within all things. That every desire we have might be emptied out of its own ambition, and offered in oblation to the God who is One!

So when Jesus reiterates the Shema, in answering the question “Teacher, which is the great commandment in the Law?” He adds “ . . . you shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:34-40) – he wasn’t really adding something new to the Shema, as much as he was better explaining how all the Law and the Prophets is hinged on our understanding of God as One. Therefore, because loving God is all encompassing, it should be understood as all-consuming — allowing us to love one another as an essential expression of how we love God . . . (1 John 2: 9-11).

O my Jesus, I love thee . . .

When Love Calls Your Name (2 of 3)

It was a cold December night when I first met my wife. It was a Christmas party – I showed up with some other girl . . . and Doreen (my wife) who doesn’t drink coffee, brought coffee for everyone else (and that was my first clue). And even though she and I only spoke for a few minutes, she ended up inviting me, through a mutual friend, to a dinner she was hosting at her house, between Christmas and New Year. So as they say, the rest was history – we were married the following May. And we’ve been married now for 35 years. We have 7 kids and 4 grand kids . . . with another one on the way.

That was the night my life was forever changed. I went from being a vagabond poet, living in the wild impermanence of a single life – into a shared path of abiding love with my sweetheart, a woman who has been so completely woven into my life, that I can no longer clearly identify exactly where I end and she begins. I guess you could say, that December night, was a night that love called my name, pulling me into another dimension, making my life much larger than the life I was living. But that is the way of love, it is unconstrained, and will not be domesticated . . . as if it could somehow fit into the small life it originally finds us living.

Love is a powerful thing—it will take you to extremes. With love, you’ll experience the greatest of joys, and invariably, you will experience the deepest of sorrows. But here’s the thing — more often than not, we are hardly ever prepared for what love is actually calling us to do. Because we falsely assume that we can have our own agenda with love . . . as if love had no agenda of it’s own. When we define love as getting everything we want — then it really isn’t love at all . . . because real love is incapable of being selfish.

AdobeStock_144177491_webEven the person with a healthy appreciation for self-love doesn’t subscribe to a selfish love, as much as they practice a form of self-identifying love – correctly identifying themselves as the beloved of God, as one who bears his image. For they know that love has been calling their name long before the foundations of the world, and it is that very love resonating within them that they have identified. Because love set apart from the ineffably transcendent truth, that God is love, is nothing more than a meaningless self-indulgence pretending to be something more.

St Benedict is said to have pondered – what could be better than to have the Lord call your name? Because it is a profound intimacy, to be known, and to be loved in just this way. This is the very love that took Christ to the cross, so that he could reconcile us to himself – becoming the love story, by which all other love stories are measured. So yea, that’s love calling your name – are you ready to allow it to forever change your life? But before you answer that, remember — there really isn’t an option where it doesn’t.

“I threw the dice when they pierced his side
— but I’ve seen love conquer the great divide”

Changing Clothes

Ingrid Bergman starred in the 1944 movie, Gaslight — a story about a woman being psychologically manipulated into believing that she’s going insane. This is how gaslighting has come to describe scenarios where one person deliberately attempts to re-tell events through a skewed self-serving filter, in order to manipulate someone else into doubting their own natural perception of those same events.

We find a variation of this in Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Emperor’s New Clothes”. The emperor is conned into believing that only an astute and refined person can perceive his new clothing — so not only is the emperor being deceived, but everyone in his court was thrown into crisis, doubting their own perception, torn between what their eyes clearly see . . . and what social conformity demands of them.

Let’s face it, social conformity has been attempting to gaslight us since the day we were born – telling us what we need to have, and how we need to act . . . and how odd we must be if we disagree. And in a world where the ethics and mores are as changeable and capricious as the latest fashions, we become culturally conditioned to doubt our natural instinct to question the change . . . for fear of being ridiculed as out of step with the times.

So whatever the new rules are, we best not run afoul of them – but if we wait long enough, the current rules will have been over-written . . . the way the old ones were. Every generation tries to re-imagine the world, pushing it through a skewed self-serving filter, until it approximates a world that conforms to their manipulative desires. Could it be that like the emperor, we’ve been wearing the clothing of our own vanity? What if I told you that you’ve been wearing old clothes, long destined for the dustbin – would you think I was gaslighting you?

downloadIn Colossians 3:9 Paul invites us to quit lying to ourselves and one another, and to remember that we’ve already taken off those old clothes, and the madness associated with them. But this invitation isn’t just another iteration of rules (Colossians 2:20-23), for in Christ we are dead to those rules. No, this is an invitation to remember that as image bearers of God, all of the superficial things that divide us evaporate in Christ (Colossians 3:10,11).

For these are the new clothes we wear (Colossians 3:12-15) as God’s beloved – woven into the fabric of humility, meekness, and patience are the threads of compassion, kindness, and forgiveness . . . pulled together in a harmony of love. And all those who wear this garment are filled with grateful hearts and the peace of Christ. Now, if you ask me – those are some pretty spiffy duds! Makes you wonder why you keep trying to put on those old rags of the old self – when clearly the vestments of the new self have been purchased for you at such an extravagant cost.

So maybe it’s time you started working on that rewrite . . .

Gone Fishin’

We don’t just want to live – we want a life that matters. We don’t just want a job, we want a purpose, a job given significance because it’s truly meaningful. This, of course, is no surprise – we were created to live meaningful and significant lives, co-laboring in what God has given us. This made me wonder — were we all meant to do the same job, or were we all meant to do different jobs? And the more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that the answer is – yes!

In my youth, I attended a bible college that was founded by an award winning salesman. So needless to say, training in evangelism was considered the preeminent task at hand. We were taught to pitch a clear gospel, in such a way as to confirm conversion – to close the deal. Therefore, the college’s exegetical take on Matthew 4:19 “And he said to them — follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” was considered the unstated real meaning of the Great Commission (Matthew 28:18-20). So let’s get out there and catch those fish (people) and haul them into the boat, before they get away (go to hell). But would this have actually been how Simon (Peter) and his brother Andrew would have understood Jesus’ invitation to come follow him?

I guess what I’m asking is — how would they have taken this metaphor? Would they have taken it as specific – having once spent their lives catching fish . . . now they would catch people? Or is it more likely they would have taken it more generally – having once been preoccupied with fish, now the lives of people would preoccupy them? Now you may see this as a distinction without a difference – to which I would remind you that our modern notion of evangelism would not have been the first thing to have occured to them.

GettyImages-55847319-630x418For those Jesus called to be his disciples, Jesus was a local carpenter, who disappeared into the wilderness for forty days like a prophet of God. So when he returned, they would have thought of him as a man called of God – who was now calling them to join him. John the Baptist was already known to them to be a prophet of God, calling people to repentance – they may therefore, have assumed that Jesus would be like John, calling for repentance . . . unaware that Jesus was the very one that John had been prophesying about.

Like the disciples, we are called to join Jesus – to love all those whom Jesus loves . . . in the way that Jesus loves them. So you could say — we all have the same job. But because we’re all so uniquely deployed, so particularly gifted, and each of us having lived through such specific experiences – the way the love of Jesus within us makes its way through us to others, takes on a life of its own . . . so it’s never really the same job. This is because God doesn’t view us with the same impersonal detachment we might have for fish – his call on our lives is a call to relationship . . . so relationship is the preeminent task at hand.

It’s an invitation to dance the esplanade all the way into his presence . . .


Learning To Find Your Edge (6 of 8)

Something I’ve noticed about growing older – I’m finding it harder to remember the answer. Now, before you roll your eyes and sarcastically whisper under your breath “O really, tell me more?” – I’m not talking about the natural absent-minded, general forgetfulness that accompanies old age. No, I’m talking about that cog we keep in the back of our head that seems to keep all of the other wheels in our life turning with prescient purpose. It’s a cog that comes in the shape of a question, the question we spend our whole life offering up various answers to – all along the way, retooling and upgrading our response. It’s the question – what is it I’m trying to do?

As a younger man, it seemed so much easier for me to answer this question. Back then, I came up with some pretty great answers – but now, I can only remember them as fragments, like so many irreconcilable puzzle pieces . . . vaguely familiar, but disconnected. It’s not that I’ve lost my sense of purpose, it’s more like I’ve lost my edge . . . more content to let the next generation do all of the dreaming associated with answering that question. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to work – maybe forgetting how to answer that question releases me from the burden of needing to have an answer for it.

I’m not really suggesting that wanting to answer this question is unimportant – it’s just that it requires a much larger context before it can truly be answered. It’s the type of question that tempts us to reflexively answer extemporaneously out of the sophistry of our own default philosophical abstractions, driven by the impulse of our current state of mind. But now that I’m older I tend to slow my roll, and answer another question first, a question that requires a far more deliberate meditative response . . . what is God already doing?

sz9BdToo often in my youth the urgency of my convictions fueled the self-importance of my bravado, creating for me the illusion that my efforts had heat and edge. And it wasn’t that my convictions were somehow misplaced, as much as they lacked the wisdom of understanding how best to make them known — in a more fully formed way. But now, so many layers of shed skin later, so many iterations of me later — I’m still convinced, and even more confident of my calling, yet I’m humbled by the path that calling has taken. I guess you could say I’ve grown tired of trying to do something important with my life . . . but haven’t yet lost my interest in knowing what it is that God is already doing.

It’s been about four years since my daughter Katy, and my daughter-in-law Faith, suggested that I write a blog – an idea, at first, I protested. I had no interest in becoming one more purveyor of extemporaneous opinions, joining a chorus of internet voices, all speaking at one another. But as I began to turn the idea over in my head, having long been a song writer, it occurred to me that if I approached it with the same discipline I use when writing songs, then I might just be able to create a few thoughtful vignettes that could offer a moment’s pause – a meditation that God might inhabit . . . so that what he is already doing might be rediscovered. So in the most modest of ways, and by the most understated of means, my calling has found a new edge.

Here’s a song I wrote many years ago out of the angst I felt back then
about my desire to know God’s will

Learning To Refract Light (3 of 8)

Moonlight is the borrowed light of the sun meant to remind us that the sun hasn’t actually gone away – that it shines ever on, albeit from the other side of night. Even the waning and waxing moon can’t help but smile about how faithfully the sun continues to shine, even when it doesn’t fill the sky with light. But on a moonless night, the moon hides from the sun and the path becomes unclear, more shadow than light. More than likely that’s an artificial light, the escaping ambient halo of light above the city. But on that same moonless night, walking a country road, reveals a sky full of distant suns shimmering like diamonds on black velvet — no doubt, our own sun shines with a similar brilliance for some other distant planet.

The moon is a desolate waste, a barren satellite rock caught in earth’s celestial orbit. Having nothing of its own, yet it reflects the glory of the sun, making it the preoccupation of poets and romantics, alike. A serendipitous proximity of cosmic happenstance — even so, it’s evocative beauty remains. How much more are we held as precious to the Father, than this rock hurling through space . . . that in the most unexpected ways we might reflect his glory?

All of creation cries out, proclaiming in wonderment the intricacies of design hidden in plain sight – the hand of God on display. Even the atheist, convinced of the rationality of his disbelief, finds it hard to hide the mark of imago dei he bears – ever pulling on him to understand his life as meaningful, ever drawn to love and beauty and justice . . . as if the universe, for no reason at all, held them as significant. But even these are simple reflections, pointing back to their source, light bouncing off of the surface . . . but what of the light that enters in?

AM_Fig5-ChurchAndCruxGunnIt is the Christian confession, that as believers, we not only bear the image of God, we are also indwelt by the Holy Spirit. So not only do we reflect his glory — we are meant to refract his glory . . . in the same way that light pours through a prism. As God changes us we become the face of God to those who have forgotten what he looks like – it is how we become a tangible instrument of God’s grace to the world. We are not the source of this light, but the light passing through us does take on the color and shape of our personal story . . . of redemption and reconciliation.

So this is what occupies me during this season of expectation, I find myself searching the heavens for a sign, not unlike those wise men of old, who knew the distant light would guide them to something wonderful. It is the mystery of Emmanuel, God with us, entreating us to remember that God enters flesh and blood and changes all of human history. It is Jesus who is the light of the world – a light shown on our countenance, as it moves through us to those in the lost dark of night, those who may be wondering if the Son still shines . . .

It is from the substance of what is given us — that we give unto others

Learning To Watch the Night (2 of 8)

Our expectations are built upon our presupposed understanding of how the world is supposed to work. Which is to say, we have layers of expectation, we’re likely not even completely aware of — constantly shaping our perspective. And chances are, we only become aware of these embedded expectations when we find ourselves becoming increasingly impatient about something. In this way, our impatience is measuring the space between what is and what we imagine ought to be – either because it hasn’t happened yet . . . or worse, we begin to believe it won’t happen at all.

It’s funny how willing we are to allow our emotional state to be dragged around behind such poorly defined expectations – that the baseline peace and contentment of our hearts and minds could be so fragile. Could it be that our understanding of being at peace and finding contentment are all too often chained to the roller coaster ride of our ever-changing circumstances? So how do we break those chains? How do we refine our expectations and longings, so that we might learn the humble path of patience?

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.” (Psalm 130: 5, 6). I have long been drawn to the emotive beauty of the Psalms of Ascent (Psalms 120 – 135), in the way they resonate with our visceral experience of sojourn. But this particular psalm’s invitation to wait the night like a watchmen waits for morning, always strikes me as especially evocative – maybe it has something to do with the way waiting is the unexpected verb.

C10q0NWW8AAPr84In the parable of the Ten Virgins (Matthew 25) we find an important distinction between those who have prepared themselves to wait the night . . . with those who have not. When the discipline of patience is given focus, like those in the parable prepared themselves to wait the night for the bridegroom, it becomes a meditation of the heart. Our longing for daybreak, filled with anticipation, filled with a sacred expectation – allows us to know the night as a friend, delivering us eventually to our hearts desire. This is what it means to watch the night – to keep vigil through the night . . . knowing the morning will come.

Of course, all of this has a particular application this time of the year, given that Advent is all about being expectant — where all of our longings are met in the birth of Jesus. Our faith embraces an already accomplished reality, as it reaches through the long night of our daily circumstance, toward the moment we’ll know face to face, what it means to enjoy the unobstructed presence of the lover of our souls. So this year you might want to allow this Advent season to instruct you in what it really means to watch the night, and in so doing, sanctify your expectations of what comes next . . . and enjoy peace on earth all year long.

I have always loved the melancholy of this Christmas Carol 

Learning To Read The Room (1 of 8)

Having been a music engineer and producer for many years, take it from me, the process is much more than simply recording the music. There’s agreeing upon the arrangements and performances, settling on and managing a budget, and hiring and directing the musicians – every part contributing to the desired vision of the project. So I end up wearing three hats – I’m an administrator, a music conductor, and a psychotherapist.

The need for musical expertise seems obvious enough. The management of time, people, and money isn’t really that surprising, given the type of undertaking such a project requires. But what is often over looked is the need to cultivate and maintain the creative process of all of the artists involved who will be leaving their fingerprints on the end result. Artistic talent doesn’t simply get flipped on like a switch of a machine, it needs to be entreated to find its voice within the dynamic arch of the music.

vDzdZBgSo I learned early on, the importance of tuning into the emotional state of everyone involved. I had to learn to read the room. The more I focused on the objectives of the project, the more I ran the risk of leaving behind those who I had asked to join me in the process. So sometimes, I needed to be willing to put on hold those objectives in order to assure that everyone was making the trip together. Because making music, making art, is first and foremost, a very human enterprise. After all, music that is evocative, that moves us, in a very real way, is an expression of our deep longing for transcendent beauty and significance.

It has likely already occurred to you that my point here has little to do with music production, and more to do with our need to be mindful of how we might tune into those around us. Because it’s not enough to find our own path within God’s purposes, our path must include others, challenging and encouraging them on their path. The temptation is to view these opportunities as teaching moments—as if imparting some great wisdom were the point. Yes, the temptation is to think giving someone good advice is what they need – when what they actually need most is our presences in their life.

We experience Christ as incarnate, not as a conceptual ideal, or a proposition about heaven. He isn’t an academically insulated spiritual teacher, as if removed from our real world experiences — rather, he makes his dwelling among us, so that he might be with us . . . and us with him. When you read the Gospels it’s plain that Jesus knew how to the read the room. Because his desire to enter our room, in the first place, was evident — he left no doubt that he valued being with us . . . not as an opportunity to change our thinking, but because he knew that just being in his presence would change us.

In music there is a melody line and various harmonies moving together along the meter of the song. So think of Jesus as the melody, inviting us to sing our part – where the beauty of the music rises far above the smallness of our individual lives. It is a song of gratitude and rejoicing. It is an endless symphony, ageless and unencumbered, floating free of the cages of our isolation. It is an ancient song our hearts have always known . . . we just need to be in the room together, inviting one another to remember how it goes.

This is an Advent song I wrote with my old friend Mo Leverett a few years back

An Observable God

Because we’ve come to know so much about the universe, the modern non-theist considers himself brave enough to face the uncertainties of that universe without the irrational encumbering mythology of belief in God. Meanwhile, he simultaneously ignores the blatantly self-referencing circular logic, which is the central theme of his own philosophical thesis – that survival is the most important value to life. And how does he know this . . . because his own survival instinct told him so, of course.

But somehow, the atheist can’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that if God created the entire universe, we likely wouldn’t be able to investigate or measure him, as if he were nothing more than one more object among many, in a universe . . . he created. But this does not keep them from demanding an observable God – one that is subject to their terms of inquiry, and conforms to their expectations.

Which has led me, over the years, to ask a few questions. “What percentage of all that can be known, do you think we already know?” This is a great question for thinning out the intellectual herd – if they offer a percentage . . . I know right away that they don’t have the intellectual bandwidth to continue the conversation. But for those who realize that we have no idea how little we already know – I ask “Then, on what basis of knowledge can we say that God doesn’t exist?”

Then I go on to ask “What specifically are you looking for, what evidence would convince you?” You’d think they’d have a ready answer for this question. . . and you’d be wrong. In my experience, after a few uncomfortable minutes of ill-considered thought, their answers fall into one of two categories – (1) God revealing himself directly to them – to which I remind them that they regularly dismiss anyone offering such evidence. Or (2) God revealing himself to everyone all at once – to which I remind them that they would simply explain away as a scientifically explainable event we just haven’t discovered the reason for yet. So it isn’t that their evidentiary bar is too high – it’s that it’s too self-referencing . . . they assume an objectivity for which they are simply incapable of ever hoping to attain.

IMG_0800So it turns out that the non-theist knows precisely the God who doesn’t exist — but is absolutely clueless about the one that might actually exist . . . because they refuse to accommodate the idea that if he is God, then logically he would be the one to dictate the terms under which he makes himself known. So, I ask “when you look out the window of your home and there are no cars in the driveway – you are aware of their absence, because you’ve established a baseline expectation of what you’re looking for . . . but if you really don’t know what you’re looking for, how do you know it’s not already there?”

When I ask them to tell me about the God they don’t believe in, quite often they describe a god that I also don’t believe in – and this surprises them, because they expected a different response. So, I ask “Could it be that you’ve spent all of your energy rejecting a non-existent god, instead of humbly seeking a God who might exist?”

It’s a false assumption to believe that God can be found with the intellect alone – we are far more complex than that . . . not to mention the inscrutability that is innate to the nature of God’s existence. Could it be that intuitively our longings and desires speak with more clarity about what truly satisfies the heart and mind. Could it be that we expect to find meaning and purpose in everything, because we were meant to find it? So would it not logically follow, if we are truly made in his image, then he can be found . . . if that’s what we really desire. Is that what you really desire?

We’re all trying to make our way home

What Is It That Haunts You?

What a person fears says a lot about them. It tells us what they value most. It gives us insight into how they conduct relationships. It allows us to see how they view themselves. The old adage “Fear is a great motivator” rings true to us, but what does it motivate? Then again, fear can just as easily incapacitate us, paralyzing us with indecision. Sometimes what we fear is apparent to us . . . but sometimes what we fear hides in our sub-conscience undetected, nudging us away from things, unbeknownst. So what do you fear?

There are three general categories that our fears fall into – the fear of the unknown, the fear of shame, and the fear of suffering. Then each of these three categories break into three subsequent categories:

Fear of the unknown – The unknown is a mystery, which includes everything about the future. We may be able to predict with a measure of certainty, but the unforeseen always lurks in the shadows – death being one of the most obscure shadows. The unknown that plagues our decision making. How do we know the choice we’re making will be the right one? We may end up with regret. The unknown of how we’ll respond. Will we hold up under pressure? Will we hold fast to what is right? All of these unknowns foster their own unique forms of fear.

Fear of shame – The shame of having all of our darkest thoughts and deeds exposed. The shame of what we did not do because some other fear held us hostage to inaction. The shame of feeling like our lives don’t matter—that we have no worth. Shame can be a very powerfully crippling form of fear, and can be the hardest to detect.

haunted-homesFear of suffering – We fear that we might have to suffer, whether emotionally or physically. We fear that a loved one might suffer, and all we can do is helplessly watch. We fear that we might be the cause of someone else’s suffering, regardless of our intent. The fear of suffering, in many ways, is the most obvious to us – but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

But there’s a fear that’s underneath them all – the fear of not being in control, and it is the fear we struggle with the most . . . because we can’t resist trying to be in control. It is this fear that is in direct competition with our fear of God – tempting us to believe that God has lost control, so we must step in. Which is rather foolish when you think about it – but fear isn’t always rational.

In this way, our fear of God restores for us the true understanding of the universe – everything is contingent upon him . . . and when we forget that, we create a vacuum that all of our fears rush into. When I say “fear not”, you might think “but you don’t know what I’m going through”. But when Jesus says “fear not” he also says “I am with you always” – so trust that there’s nothing beyond his control.

So remember . . . it’s alright