The team.

So say you want to work at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station during the Winter. You apply for any of the numerous jobs available and you get the gig. This means that at some point, it will be you and around 40-45 or so other people living 800 miles from any other human beings for close to a year (time on and off the ice can be determined by weather, delayed flights, and other such factors). Through years of experience the United Stats Antarctic Program learned it is best practice to see if the people who winter-over at the South Pole get along first. Good idea!

This means attending a week of team building and training where the station manager assesses how each individual fits in the overall group. We arrived a day late to meet the group already midstream in training. While walking over to meet the everyone, the station manager took the opportunity to talk to this Christian minister guy who would be working alongside his crew. He wanted to make sure I would not be trying doing any mass conversion attempts with his crew mid-Winter, melting ice with the purpose of baptizing anyone, or other such religious zealot type shit. I naturally assured him that this was far from my style of how I went about my faith. But isn’t that what I would say if I had grand schemes of saving the whole lot of them?

Having assuaged his concerns, at least mostly I think, I then could not resist introducing myself moments later to the team like a real asshole. “Hi my name is Brett. I will be working in logistics. I am an ordained Baptist minister.” At the time I thought this was funny given the context of the conversation I just had, paired with the fact that I knew most of these scientists would be thinking, “oh shit,” but I was the only one smiling. “Oh well,” I thought, “they will get the joke eventually. Or not.”

I enjoyed that week getting to know everyone. All winter-overs have to pick one of the teams to join (fire, medical, etc). So, I found myself being trained by fire-fighters for a week! Are you fucking kidding me?! I got to learn from full-fledged fire fighters how to put on my gear, how to expect fire to work, practice pulling people from their fire tower, and got the shit scared out of me every day. Fire fighters are bad ass mothers, let me tell you. The only downside is I was only one week out of having just had my gallbladder removed (do not worry, I am sure this is its own post), which meant I was not supposed to lift anything over 25 pounds. And I didn’t, except for that one time when I was commanded to by a firefighter in a building with flames all around me — “Your team member is down. Grab him!” Well shit. I came out of the shortened training as a weak replica of the real thing. Another story for yet another day.

Most of those who attended the training I saw later at the station. One left in the middle of the night that very week, apparently having decided he did not want to work at the South Pole after all — or maybe he hated someone he was supposed to work with for those long Winter months. Then there were a few who had been there for the summer and were unceremoniously sent home due to their choices or conflicts or whatever. By the end there were forty-six of us all on station when the last flight left.

This is not the most common way to build a community, though after having gone through the process I do kind of wish I could do this to some extent with my various hubs. “Want to join our church? Here’s a personality test crafted by us to make sure you’ll fit right in. Oh and then we have a training camp with some core members to make see if you all get along.” Established friends groups should almost always have a process of some kind. Not gonna mess up the rhythm for some rando right?

But church, at least in theory, works almost exactly the opposite — or should. Any church should be a place where any human can show up and be welcomed as a life-long friend who has been away on a trip. “Bob, there you are, we have been eagerly awaiting you!” The Christian community that existed with Jesus and then following his death and resurrection was radically generous. It was almost as if they had just spent time with a guy who had told them to love others as they love themselves — and they believed him! Seriously, they sold fields if they found out others were hungry. They donated beyond their means to ensure widows and orphans were cared for properly. There are accounts from the Roman Empire of Christians taking care of the poor who were not even Christians, who even in its greatness even the empire failed to consider.

This is not a post on how Christians get community wrong. This is a post about how important community is/should be to us. I think my main advice for finding a church community would be in noticing how those total strangers treat you when you show up. If they are not good at that aspect of life, they probably suck as Christians.

I traveled back to Memphis, TN to see my family this past week. My parents still attend a large church where I worked my first job out of seminary as a youth pastor. There is an ocean between how that church and I approach certain theological issues, but it is a special church. I was reminded of one of the simple reasons that makes it so unique. The entire place is ecstatic that you decided to spend your Sunday morning there. I am not exaggerating. By the time I had walked my kids over to the children’s part of the church, at least fifteen people told me variations of “good morning” or “great to see you” or “hey how are you today.” The kicker is that they mean it! It’s not bullshit.

I know this particular church takes greeting guests and congregants to the next level, but when you only experience it once a year the memory of how it really is tends to fade. I mean hell, I was smiling like a jackass by the time I got to my seat because I felt so wanted — so welcomed — so affirmed — so warm — so loved.

Community matters. Some of us think we can go it alone but we do not live in a vacuum, and we are all better off or worse for the community(ies) we choose. Go for that wonderful 2017 winter-over community feel, not the wheels-falling-off-the-bus horror show of a 2013 winter-over I heard stories about. Work at it too, it’s worth your time.

Whatever community you belong to needs to know how much you love it/them. Go out of your way this week to really make a show of it. Whoever your people are, they need to know they are your people. Dig deep and find a way. For me this can often look like, “Hey man, I fucking love you.” That may or may not work for you. Do your own thing.

As summer is beginning to come to a close, it seems fitting to do a series of posts inspired by the time I spent living at the South Pole. Though living in Western North Carolina gives me a more gentle summer than most in this country, there are still many days when I pine for a less humid and much cooler temperature. I have a glass of the good whiskey poured as I prepare to record the audio, because well hell, I am exited about this series.

In truth, as with most major decisions since June 2007, the dream to live and work at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole station came from attempting to keep my grip on the tale of the tiger — in this case the tiger is the beautiful and brilliant woman I married. While I can never be sure if I ever would have heard of the United States Antarctic Program without her, I had certainly not been aware of it before she let me know she planned to work there one day. I think when this first happened I did what most people do when a person says such a comment. I nodded affirmatively, agreed to support her, and then immediately forgot the plan as if she had told me she wished to grow corn on the moon. This was not, and certainly will not be the last time, I made myself “look like an idiot in front of T-bone.”1 To be fair, I had no idea who I had married.

Fast forward a couple of years. Turns out there is a position my better half would like to apply for at one of the three Antarctic stations run by the USAP — wait there are three stations? Oh shit, this is real! Obviously, my kick-ass-wife got the job. I did not get a job. So she went to live and work at Palmer Station down in Antarctica for a six month stint. While this was not ideal, we said our goodbyes and we both started new adventures — though hers was way sexier. It is pretty fucking cool knowing someone who is traveling down to Antarctica. While I can attest that it is astronomically better to be going with your wife, it’s still pretty damn amazing.

Two months. Apparently that is my threshold for being apart from my wife. At that point shit went sideways for me. It was not fun anymore. This time can best be described by all those around me who, went I looked for comfort, did not understand why wife would do such a thing, or why I would let her — let her (um, maybe you have a different relationship with your wife my man. I don’t let my wife do shit). Anyway, suffice to say it was a “dark fucking period.”2

Rinse and repeat. The wife gets another job, this time at the South Pole for the summer. Again I am incapable of landing a job, even as a dish cleaner. At this point in life, the dream of living and working in Antarctica was becoming a nightmare to me. “Fuck Antarctica,” was sometimes passing my lips in quiet whispers. Still I read the books on the history and tried to keep up with a wife who had gotten me thrilled about what it would be like to get down there.

Four years after she took that first Antarctic job, I stepped onto the two miles of glacial ice where the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station rests. I had gone through an extensive medical screening, underwent surgery to have a gallbladder removed so I could go (long story), and walked towards the station in mild disbelief that what I was experiencing was real. The wind whipped its icy tentacles around me in a “hey fuck you” kind of welcome as I slowly made my way toward the building. I almost fell to my knees in gratitude as my emotions threatened to overwhelm me, but I was too terrified someone would think there was something wrong with me and send me home. Until the station closes for the Winter any position can be threatened by a broken leg or some other discovered ailment that prevents you from staying. I had made it and I was determined to stay — so no kneeling down like some whack job!

Today’s post will end there, at the doors to the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. If you keep reading in the future weeks, my stories will take you through ice tunnels under the station, into the bizarre life found in communities living so secluded, and who knows where else.

If I was pressed into finding a message for this post, and I am because that’s the whole shtick of this deal, it could probably be summed up in a phrase often attributed to Dwayne Johnson. Yes, you guessed it, “Suck it up buttercup.” This is the kind of phrase my mom likes, though she normally does not say it so politely.

It was a rough fucking journey getting to the South Pole. Not as rough as the teams of explorers who first discovered it, but pretty damn tough for me. I have not given up an organ on any other quest in my life. Nothing has broken me so severely to then forge me into something so uniquely new on the other side, besides maybe my conversion to my faith. All of my life is now colored by the ice. Antarctica is in my blood, as they say, and it calls to me. If the USAP allowed families on station, we would definitely be doing all we could to live down there, at least off and on.

As I write about the experiences from living and working on the frozen continent, I will attempt to tease out why it has had such an effect on me, and so many others. But for today, perhaps like me, you need to hear — Suck the it the Fuck Up Buttercup! We do not always get to choose our path and sometimes it really fucking sucks. Pick a point and focus your way to the other side, if the other side even exists. I get it, there are those of us who have to suck it up through shit that will never end. I hate that for you and for myself. But we still need to get our shit together. I still need to wake the fuck up every single day and work the problems before me. So do you.

I realize I do not know most any of you well enough to deliver such a message. But, hey, there it is nonetheless.

OK, I am sure that Ben is some sweet guy with a family and a dog at this point in time. Hell, he was probably a nice guy way back when. But when you set yourself as my local rival, I am going to tell your tale years later to illustrate my points. Plus I had to tell just one more story because it is so damn hilarious.

If you read the first Ben story (link here, two posts ago), you know that Ben was an emotional player who liked to get loud and mouthy. Just so happens my father was an emotional fan who liked to get loud and mouthy. Would you believe the two of them communicated during games?

Funny the things you remember when you look back on your life.

We were hosting Ben’s team at home and it was a beautiful day for soccer. I do not remember who won the game or even what was happening, when suddenly I noticed a frustrated look on Ben’s face as he was looking over at the sidelines. What the hell was going on?

Play resumed and when Ben got the ball, instead of passing it up field he just blasted it off out of bounds. Ben was pointing towards my dad and I heard my dad laughingly say, “What the heck was that?!” Ben shouted back, “I was aiming at you!” In one of the best responses I can recall in real time, my father quickly retorted, “I believe you. You missed by a mile!” Ben’s face went red and the rest of the game he was absolute shit on the field.

To this day I do not know how the whole exchange began. I did not know these two fools communicated at all before witnessing this moment.

Lessons from the field right? As a twelve-year-old, or whatever I was at the time, I was not experienced enough to know the ease with which a fan can involve themselves in a game to mess with the heads of those playing. Normally I picture some asshole at a Yankees game badgering a Redsox pitcher, as opposed to some asshole on the sidelines of a youth travel soccer game, but hey the lesson remains. Don’t let some asshole get in your head!

When Paul is finishing one of his last letters and his death is looming near, his encouragement to the church of Philppi is to keep their focus harnessed and distraction free. He says in Philippians 4:8-9:

Whatever is going on in your life, tell the assholes to fuck-off and focus on what matters.

Seriously, we all have goals in life. Along the way assholes of all kinds will come along to distract us with their antics. We can self-destruct Ben style and blast a soccer ball off the field, or we can do what all people should do with assholes — ignore them and keep on keeping on. Focus on what matters.

Oh and sorry dad, you were both the lesson and the asshole, I guess.

Once upon a time, when I was still a youth minister, there were long bus rides to lots of places. For one such trip we were all told we could buy one youth-friendly movie to take and share while on the trip from Memphis to Colorado.

I got online and did some research. I had a history of showing movies for talks that somehow had coarse language. I would watch clips three to four times and still get in trouble when Lt. Dan said, “Goddamn it” — it is almost as if I could not hear the profanity. Beyond being appropriate, I also wanted to find a good movie too. It is kind of strange how much time I spent on this project.

Then on a few different lists appeared a movie I had never heard of before. My Neighbor Totoro. What? How could I have not heard of one of the best kids movies? I read about it and became enamored with the tale. I felt I had heard almost every story there was to be told by this point, yet this movie’s story line felt completely unknown. Click! It was purchased and heading my way as fast as parcel couriers could manage the task.

When it arrived I decided I would wait for the official bus viewing to watch with everyone else. Turns out this would be a first time for everyone! It did not go over well. While this group of high school students rarely complained about anything we showed on these trips, this movie was too much for their, I will say, uncultured brains. And granted, it is quite a unique film. On a full bus of 65 people, two students said they liked it while the rest said things they would not have been able to repeat in front of their mothers.

“What the fuck,” I thought to myself over the next few days as I processed the film. The story is wildly original. The animation so unusual, it causes the viewer to drift to a space where reality is suspended completely. By the time the character, I consider to be Totoro comes on screen — though its name is never confirmed in any way (as far as memory serves), all shit goes wild in the most magical ways.

This movie sat with me, moving inside of me in a way that the good ones do. Apparently it sat with the kids too, though in a bad way. Oh well, their loss. Meanwhile, Totoro has been bouncing around in my consciousness for years.

It seems Totoro is a mystical spirit guardian of the forest. The only thing near me that taps into this type of mythos is from Native American folklore. I find traditional Judeo-Christian beliefs fall short of providing me with a giant badass, or extremely sweet, Totoro type of a being that helps protect nature.

The answer always seems to be, “Well, that’s why God made you.” So go out and be Totoro you dumbass. And while this is probably pretty close to the reality we have, tonight I want to dream a little, like I do sometimes when I am on a run miles out on a trail by myself in the forest. Can the trees hear me? Or is that Totoro lurking nearby in that glen off yonder?

Why limit ourselves here? Instead of seeing a flying spirit guardian as so entirely contrary to what we know of our own faith perspectives, let’s dream. Let us speak to the trees and tell them of their beauty. May we thank them for their shade and the air we breathe, conscious of how vital they truly are for our survival. Beckon for the local Totoro to protect the forest at all costs as you align yourself with the entity. Allow your imagination to reach into the depths of that which is more ancient than we can imagine — to connect — to seek guidance — to express gratitude.

I wonder if when we thank a tree for its shade as we sit beneath it to protect our children during a picnic, is there a way that we are not in fact praying to God? Does it matter? Does the tree not also deserve such praise? If there is a Totoro, he/she/it and the big kahuna would be tight.

Oh and I still think we should do everything in our power to protect this world. Just remember the wondrous quote from the movie Inception when you come to your faith. “Don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

(Now do yourself a favor and go watch the movie!)

(Sorry this post and the last have not had audio, for those who like that option. It will be back!)

The world cup has me thinking more about soccer. I honestly do not know if the story I want to share will amount to anything, but to quote the classic Grumpier Old Men, "There ain’t no moral. I just like the story. That’s all. I just like the story.” I miss Burgess Meredith.

When I played travel soccer in my youth, I played for the Findlay Cobras. I know, sweet name right?! As with most travel teams we went all over. Also as with most travel teams, we played the kids just up the road more often. Those are the teams you really get to know, and in turn, then also have a strong connection to in some way. Rivalry!

Ben played for one such team. I refuse to type their team name—no free advertising, or whatever. But Ben was interesting and he deserves full credit in the post. At first I paid attention to Ben because he was their goalie. Oh how I loved scoring goals on Ben. He was emotional and always reacted just the way you might hope, if you were the one making him look like a fool.

He was loud and silly. My nickname in those days was Mouse. Well, it still is, but almost no one knows or uses it. He was known to call to his team things like, “Don’t let Mouse get his cheese.” Which I guess meant do not let me score. What a funny guy.

Then a curious thing happened. Ben grew the fuck up—fast! Suddenly one season he was at least a foot taller, had lost all of his pudge, and appeared to be much stronger. Though this might have helped him as a goalie, he had moved to the striker position. This changed the nature of our relationship quite a bit. He and I now played for the same open ball constantly. We were always smashing into one another—it was awesome! I was a hockey player after all.

There was one game where Ben and I had what I consider to be the culmination of our competitive relationship. There have been few moments for me in sports where I feel as if I can see the future. Time slows down and I just know what is going to happen. The ball went up and I could see Ben getting ready to meet it in the air. I could see him watching me and preparing for our collision. Everything was perfect for a nice clean clash. I knew I would take the moment.

I met Ben in the air as high as I could jump and we hit shoulders hard, the ball perfectly between us. I won the ball, and best of all, Ben went flying sideways hard to the ground. Holy shit, that had gone better than I could have imagined. The whistle was blown and I tried to play it cool. My favorite teammate rushed up and said, “You just totally kicked his ass!”

I loved playing soccer. I enjoyed playing against Ben and teams that got to know Mouse as a player. It does say something if some knucklehead is shouting your name, I guess. Mostly the game itself is just fun as shit.

So really, I am sitting here thinking, “So what does this story have to do with anything?” And honestly I sort of want to end with the Burgess Meredith quote. But as a forty-six year old man, I think there is some deep part of me always wondering what my purpose is in life. Ben’s comment echoes back from the field so many years ago, “Don’t let Mouse get his cheese.”

What is my cheese? Was Ben a fucking prophet? Was he looking beyond the soccer field the whole time?

For a while my ultimate purpose (cheese is feeling a bit cheesy) has been anchored in my relationship with God. Having a family of my own, a wife and with two kids, has certainly split that purpose to where my heart has to split it’s focus.

Soccer made it simple. Knock Ben out of the air and kick the ball in the net. It also made it fun. Now most nights I lie in bed thinking, “Did I really lose my shit and raise my voice at my kids for that?” It makes me feel like I am losing the game and somehow Ben is keeping me from my cheese.

Yet one of the key lessons I learned from sports, was about how the struggle that ensues on the field develops the athlete regardless of the final score. Not a single player leaves the same. And, as my parents helped me to learn, I am the one that is responsible for making sure I leave the field a better person. I can whine and bitch and complain, in success or defeat, or I can learn and grow. Sports are fucking awesome and they can teach us so much about how to live life!

Though perhaps entirely out of context, along these lines I have always appreciated Jeremiah 29:11: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

Excellent! Whether meant for me or you or people we have never met, this verse can set our feet straight and our hearts right. Now, whether you feel Burgess was right or not, I have tried to provide a moral to my story.

And oh God I desperately hope that somewhere on some distant shore there is a man sitting down with friends who saying, “Let me tell you about this son-of-a-bitch named Mouse I used to play soccer against.”

They will ask if there is a moral. Who knows what he will say.

Praying is rough sometimes. Well, at least for me.

“Sorry I have been such a little bitch lately God. Please help.”

This was the prayer that clawed its way to the surface the other day. Nothing added, that was all. I laughed later as I thought about it, but at the time it was the reflection of my spirit. Also, I apologize if my turn of phrase hits anyone the wrong way. To all the little bitches out there, it is just my way of saying a particular something.

If you have been reading with me for a while, you have come to understand most of my core language comes from a hockey locker room. This language is still the most authentic way for me to communicate when I am being honest. So out it flows.

But there are depths to admitting to God I have been behaving like a little bitch, at least in how I use the phrase. Rather than doing it myself, I have been letting my internal process to be controlled by outside factors.

In other words, I have been letting my relationship with the divine be complicated by shit. I mean, this shit matters to me, obviously, but in the end it is up to me to still do the work. Just like in any other part of life, I am responsible for how I grow and what I accomplish.

So I can go on being a little bitch—not praying when I do not feel like it, or not taking a few moments to center myself in my faith each day. I can allow these outside factors to fuck up my process.

OR!

Or, I can do what I know I am supposed to be doing. I can see some verses in my mind where Paul tosses around athletic imagery to drive home just such a point. I have goals, some just happen to be spiritual. Time to refocus and set my sights once again on that which lies ahead, letting nothing deter me from the path. I can use the same mindset in being a parent, a husband, in my running, or whatever else. Maybe you can too.

Don’t dismay, God is used to me being a little bitch. Maybe you sometimes too. But I think God is also used to me snapping out of it from time to time too. All parents understand such things of their children.

Romans 7:15 seems most reasonable for where Paul might have been troubled about his little bitch moments.

Sticking in Romans to make it easier on any of us looking it up, I skip only one chapter 8:38 for the reminder that even my being a little bitch cannot separate me from the love of God.

I hope you’re smiling. Go pray and be honest in how you do it!

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“This is the cup of life.” “This is the body of Christ, broken for you.” “Christ’s blood poured out for you.” “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.” “The blood of Christ, cup of salvation.” “The body of Christ, given for you.”

These things, amongst others, are said by pastors, or people serving communion, as they administer the elements of communion. Jesus Christ goes out of his way to rid his followers of any need to continue the practice of blood sacrifice and ritual, yet we (most Christians), because Jesus said to remember him when we do it (presumably take communion though I argue he meant every time we eat together — I mean communion was not even a thing yet), go out of our way to focus on the blood sacrifice of Jesus every chance we (again, most Christians) get. Going for the longest sentence ever there.

And I understand this desire, this deep need. Like Paul, we all came from a place where our theology does not allow for much wiggle room on certain ideas. Paul continually struggled with the concept of grace his whole life, even as he desperately tried to tell churches about how radical it was in the same breath. In a similar way, we have been freed from the need for the blood of an animal to stand in for our own iniquity, yet we still find ourselves obscenely obsessed with the very blood spilled to make us clean. As I said, I understand this concept deeply. I stand under the blessing. I do, however, often wonder at what Jesus envisioned for his followers.

I want to tell you a story and then I will revisit this train of thought. Choo choo!

When I was a youth minister I had a student we will call Taylor, because that is his damn name. Taylor was one of those kids who was always at the youth group—I mean always. He and I bonded pretty quickly and we spent a lot of time together, especially over the summers when I was an intern. Taylor seemed to see it as his goal to push me to the brink of kicking his ass. Seriously, if he could do something to piss me off, the little asshole would run off giggling like a child. And Taylor and I hung out so much, he was able to throw enough shit at the wall that he eventually found a few things that stuck. I, of course, knew I could almost never let him see that anything he did bothered me, but eventually he found the weaknesses were sniffed out.

After knowing one another for a couple of years, we were working on some project when he made a ridiculous noise. I probably said, “Uh, Taylor, what the hell was that?” He replied with, “That was a German porn noise.” Oh hell no. While you may assume Old Ye Baldhead has no lines in the sand, I do in fact have several, even when I do not know where they are until Taylor shows me—yes, in case you are wondering, we are still friends. I told Taylor that shit was off limits. You can’t have some kid in the youth group walking around making any kind of porn noises, or whatever the hell he was doing.

Needless to say, he had found something that pissed me off. Like he was playing the longest game of “penis” ever (you know the game where immature boys say the word louder and louder till someone wins, if winning is even a possible scenario), Taylor would discretely, if I can say that, drop his noises every now and again. Not enough to really warrant any action on my part, but enough to piss me off. The little fucker was smart.

When my wife and I got married I convinced her to let a certain number of my youth come to our wedding (just not the reception). We had decided we wanted to share communion at our wedding service. The Methodist church where we had our ceremony said this was only possible if communion was offered to the all of our guests. OK. It was a beautiful set up. The ministers served us and then allowed us to serve all of our friends and family—seriously, how amazing is that!? So there I am having the most meaningful experience of communion in my life, when the next person I see coming toward me is Taylor. Glad to see him I smiled. As he drew near me, he chose to lowly make one of his German porn noises. Cleverly just so only I could hear him. I could not punch him or react really in any way. I put my hand on his shoulder and served him the bread with grape juice while saying in a gruff low voice just for him, my grip tightening on his shoulder, “Christ died even for you Taylor.” Then I patted him and pushed on his merry way.

In a weird way this moment encapsulates our entire relationship. As a musician, Taylor has gone off into the world to make his life. I would get calls sometimes, which I quickly learned were almost always on speaker phone and almost always pre-explained to whoever was listening, where he would just call to mess with me. “Remember that time…” and then he would embellish some story for the listener. Other times we have real conversations about his life and mine. More of the latter as he gets a bit older. For us, for me and Taylor, this ridiculous back and forth is our method of communion. It is how he chooses to remember me and our time together. As this evolves I have enjoyed watching how some of his behavior shifts. The stories Taylor recounts change or become more based in reality. The telling of the tales, for two people who rarely see one another anymore, are the communion. And yes, he still sometimes cannot help himself and the German porn noise comes out, almost in lieu of a goodbye because he knows I will just hang up on his ass at that point.

So, ya, communion. I am not trying to shit all over how anyone does communion. Not at all. I just do not read the story about Jesus in a way that inspires people to create a ceremony for it in a church. Jesus has a last Passover meal with his disciples where he breaks bread and pours out some wine. He draws an analogy between the broken bread and poured out wine, and his body and blood with what is about to happen to him. When he says, “Do this in remembrance of me” just after breaking the bread, people have basically said, “We need to remember this important moment by breaking bread in a holy service.” I on the other hand, hear Jesus saying, “Every single time you are together and break bread, remember me.” It’s not a service or a ritual or a mysterious act of magic where bread become flesh. It is simply a meal.

But also it is not simply some meaningless meal, it is every single time we eat for the rest of our lives. With the advent of pre-sliced bread, we do not really break bread when we eat at meals any more, but perhaps we should (or a few other reasons too) start doing it again for the metaphor’s sake. I think Jesus was saying, “Whenever you sit down for a meal, remember me—the broken body and poured out blood. Remember you have been set free.” Furthermore, with an all-encompassing reading of the gospels and looking at everything else Jesus said, I do not really think he intends us to focus so overtly on his death. Rather, I would argue it is a message to remember all of what he did and said. Remember me!

Remember that I gave everything. Remember that I was resurrected. Remember everything else I told you about God and life. Remember that you too are called to love God and others in the same way.

To me, the miracle of the breaking of the bread, is the message of how we are to break ourselves in the loving. We follow suit and love those around us in such a way that eventually the powers that be, kill us for a lack of being able to understand our love and how it works.

I suppose I have been told one too many times that communion is a serious thing that reminds us of how our asshole selves were saved through the bloodletting of the Son of God. Yet at it’s core it is a reminder that our asshole selves were saved and we no longer need to ever worry about blood oaths again. The real reminder is to move forward and love as Jesus loved.

I definitely fucked up a bunch as a youth minister. For as many success stories I could share with you there are a few that just suck. Maybe it is because Taylor was such a little bastard that we got along so well. I after all happen to speak bastard fluently. I think part of why it has always worked for us, is because somehow in my attempt to emulate Christ I was able to give space for Taylor to be a middle school kid—and then a high school kid—and then a twenty-year-old young man in a band—and then a guy I can hardly reach because he is traveling the world playing in bigger bands. Sure the German porn noises used to piss me off a lot, and while I never condoned them in any way, I was somehow still able to affirm Taylor. I am not going to say it was not tricky or that he is done throwing me curve balls, but I can say I have often sensed the divine hand in our relationship.

Who knew communion could mean so much? Who knew it could mean serving a kid communion who was just making German porn noises? Who knew it could be a thing I daily celebrate with my family as I sit down to dinner every single day?

However you take, or don’t take your communion, good for you. Remember sometimes an asshole shows up looking to take communion. I was one. I have served it to many. Whatever it is we are supposed to remember while taking communion, sometimes the assholes in the crowd need that reminder the most!

I try not to take it for granted. My son asks if we can wear our matching socks. It is a small thing. It is everything.

At the time I was already dressed to run with a group later but I assured him I would put on my socks with a polar bear wearing a red sweater that and says “BIG”. It is cute as hell that he wants to match and I will say yes to him until that fateful day when he suddenly wants anything but looking like his “daddy.” I suppose I will be “dad” then too. I shudder and move on.

Honestly it is too painful envisioning this shift in our relationship, so I focus on how grateful I am that he has asked. I pull on my socks in the afternoon and negotiate my outfit. There is not much that makes it work. “To hell with it,” I think as I add some lobster shorts in to the mix and go about my day grinning like a jackass because my son wants to wear the same socks. This is cloud-nine-shit for me!

It just so happens on the very same day that my son asked me to wear the matching socks, the group of guys I meet with read through Mark 12. This chapter is full of people asking Jesus all kinds of questions to try and trick him — what a bunch of bastards. Jesus answers all the questions so well that one of the scribes who has been listening nearby is moved to ask him, “Which commandment is the first of all.” Jesus responds with the infamous:

I have always loved this response from Jesus. He sums up one commandment in a most beautiful way and then adds the second, though he was asked for only one. The Old Ye Baldhead version goes like this: “The Lord our God is one. Love God with all you fucking have — everything. When you think you have loved enough dig a little deeper and love some more — every fucking ounce! Oh and love everyone around you as if they were yourself.”

Theologians, pastors, scribes, rabbis, teachers, religious leaders, idiots, and everyone else have argued for thousands of years what it means to love God with all your heart and soul and mind and strength. Blueprints are drawn up, lines are made, somehow actual battles are fought, and people disagree.

Today as I reflect back on the socks I am wearing, I wonder about what it means on, perhaps, a much more simple level. For me, my son wearing the same socks reflects a deep meaning of what our relationship means to him. I have always thought of the question of loving God from the standpoint of what I need to do, but here I am now wondering the most simple of questions.

Would God like to wear the same socks as me?

I almost instantly find those nagging tears looking to find their way into my eyes. I sit back in my chair and think, “What does it look like for me to ask that question? Or a question like that?” What is that question for me as an adult? Would God like to sit and have a coffee with me? Go for a run? Sing a song with me?

Honestly I am a bit perplexed by how flummoxed my heart is in trying to imagine being in a space where I might ask God to wear the same pair of socks as me. I smile about the simplicity of it all. I realize how badly I want to be a child with matching socks God can toss on. Mostly I think I want this because in all fairness, it can be difficult trying to express my love for God.

Maybe it is stupid or trite or foolish or something similar. But for today it seems the honest way for me to love God with all I have is to say:

“Hey daddy, do you want to wear that pair of matching socks we have?”

• So for me, especially in this experience, the image of God as my daddy is extremely moving. Sometimes the image of God as my mother or friend or other such options is equally important to me. I am adding this hear simply to admit that there may be some deep way you connect to the Holy Other that is anything but as a father type figure. However you may perceive God, ask for God to put on a matching pair of socks, or whatever works for you!

(This pic was taken circa 2016 while we were sitting in a zodiac)

This post and my last one were both created on my phone as I travel. This may leave room for more typos than usual, and I cannot add audio. Sorry about that!

The first time I saw a polar bear in the wild was a near religious experience. Compare it to when you see one in a zoo an you may know some of what I experienced. Instead of a neurotic bear that looks a pale image compared to the videos and photos we see of majestic white apex predators roaming the Arctic, you see the real deal.

And there it was, a mother polar bear with her cub. We were safely in a zodiac as it peered at us from shore. I had the distinct feeling it saw the equivalent of a floating can of sardines, or some such treat. It was clear she was calculating how to try and eat us.

Because that is just what polar bears do — eat! They roam in a desolate landscape from meal to meal, never turning down an opportunity to fill their bellies and add to their fat stores. There is no living creature they would not eat given the chance, including humans.

But back to that first polar bear. She stood near a whale carcass, some of the blood still on her white coat as she sniffed the air. She looked healthy and plump. We bobbed up and down in the water as we watched her. She decided it might be too much effort for the scrawny ass creatures she was deliberating about eating, and she ambled off with her cub close behind.

Seeing a beast like a polar bear roaming the shoreline or swimming from ice floe to ice floe, is daunting and exhilarating. If one believes in the Creator, one cannot help but wonder at human beings and our role on this planet. Also, damn, did God create us and polar bears and just say, “Well, uh, good luck!”

I have always been disappointed in any theology that leaves room for mistreating this planet, for any of the ridiculous reasons that might be offered. Most prevalent in my mind are, “Well God gave us the world to subdue so we can do whatever we want,” as well as, “God is going to create a new heaven and new earth soon enough so it doesn’t really matter what we do now.” There are other more nuanced approaches but it all amounts to the same bullshit.

When we read Genesis we see a God who creates the world (animals and plants and all) and says it is good. Then, depending on which creation account you are reading, God creates humans, telling us to take care of it all. Take care of it, not rape it. (read first few chapters of Genesis)

As someone who has visited the Arctic and then worked in Antarctica, I have been around a lot of the science that clearly shows disturbing trends in our planet when it comes to the sustainability of it as a place for life. While we can argue about what causes all this on the grand scale and what part humans really play, it is clear we do contribute. But even if we had no way of knowing, why would we not want to be good stewards of our home?

Even if we did not know that fossil fuels cause pollution and destroy the ozone, wouldn’t we always want to be finding cleaner and healthier ways to live for ourselves and the world?

Maybe the polar bear wasn’t looking at us like we were food. Maybe she was just wondering why we all had our heads up our asses as we blow this planet to oblivion, taking her and her cub with us. Let’s not disappoint her. Maybe you can help me pull my head out of my ass and I’ll help you pull yours out of your ass. What do you say?!

Let’s be good stewards, not assholes who misunderstand our roles on this planet

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I’m sitting in an airport in Oslo, Norway on my way to Svalbard. I am sure I will be writing some posts about this trip in the near future. This is my fourth airport out of five on this trip. I am tired but wanted to write about one of my favorite quotes from the Big Lebowski. It relates well to life in airports, but also just life in general. Sorry no audio for today. And I’m using the app on my phone, not a laptop, so a bit clunky.

At one point in the movie The Dude is talking to Mr. Lebowski, who I have come to consider is the Big Lebowski. He is trying to explain that everything is ok and it comes out, “Look, nothing is fucked, here, man.” This line is delivered flawlessly by Jeff Bridges in this manner of speaking it seems he created just for this character.

The Big Lebowski replies to him, “Nothing is fucked?!” He then raises his voice to shouting level and bursts, “The goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain!”

This past week we were reading Mark 12 in my guys Bible study group. As someone was sharing their thoughts on a particular passage, this line erupted inside of me. I think it hit me on multiple fronts, but mostly it was the way in which we tend to talk to ourselves. Something terrible happens in life and we say to ourselves, “Nothing is fucked, here, man,” while another part of the self is shouting, “nothing is fucked?! The plane has crashed into the mountain!”

Or we tend to do this with our friends, colleagues, and whoever else we talk to during our day. We tend to try to calm people down with a sweet “nothing is fucked, here, man.”

But sometimes, in fact, the plane has crashed into the goddamn mountain. Sometimes life is ripped away from you, leaving hopes and dreams smashed against the cold rocks of reality. Sometimes it gets worse as you work through the wreckage to realize the loss you’re experiencing will last a lifetime. Sometimes it’s so inexplicably bad that you cannot even face it. “Nothing is fucked, here, man.”

It is in times like these I turn to the Psalms. This is one of the most honest spaces the Bible has to offer us. People rage! They question. They writhe in disbelief. They shake their fists at God. There are moments when they still come full circle to a loving God and there are others where they remain outside of the tent in the devouring storm. I mean go read Psalm 109 and 137!

And it is in this dance, this eternal struggle between humanity and God, where I find solace in the darkest of my nights. I think in part is because in this mystery defined by dichotomy and seeming contradiction, that both and becomes reality. We see a space where the “nothing is fucked, here, man” and “the goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain” are both reality. It is a place where the ground is soaked with our tears of loss, but also where some part of us extends to the grace of God knowing somewhere deep, is a truth we cannot fully process.

Have you ever entered into such a reality such as this? I hope you have not m, but I am almost certain you have. One of our only hopes in moments like those is a friend who forces us to remember that everything is not “fucked, here, man,” while leaving space for the fact that the “plane has crashed into the mountain.”

It is rare to find someone who can hold this kind of space for us. Perhaps the best practice for today is to wonder how we can be those people. How do we hold these seemingly opposing views in tandem? How do we offer hope and grace to someone caught in the storm?

Today my answer is — go to the Psalms! Go there. Live there. Rest there. Be challenged there. Be.

And remember both, “Nothing is fucked, here, man.” AND “Nothing is fucked?! The goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain!”

Amen.

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So if you have been reading any of my posts but have not read the OG piece, you might be a bit confused as to the name—Old Ye Baldhead. For a thorough take click anywhere here for that first post. A quick reminder is that it all comes from a man among men that I used to work with once upon a time. He was mostly bald and would joking refer to the story found in 2 Kings 2 when Elisha finds himself being mocked by children.

In my memory he would say “Old Ye Baldhead,” and thus many years later I stole the name right out from under his feet without even asking first. Mostly I love how the name is associated with a story that when any decent person who reads it, they are forced to afterwards say aloud, if even in a whisper, “What in the fuck was that about?” If you tell me you did not say that after reading the text I will question your decency, sir or madame.

Diving right in! Elijah (most badass of all Hebrew prophets if you do not know him) has just been taken up in a flying chariot of some kind (so he did not die but just ascended), and he has left Elisha to carry on the good work. Elisha is granted the ability to see this all happen. He then picks up the mantle of Elijah (supposedly this hairy cloak thing of some kind) and immediately performs a miracle of splitting a river just like Elijah did. He then makes his way to Jericho. There is a funny story about a group of prophets wanting to search for Elijah even though Elisha tells them it is a waste of time. When this is done the people there complain about the water, saying it is no good. Elisha throws salt in the spring of water and pronounces a message from God saying it has been made wholesome, producing a miracle.

Then! Then this strangest of strange stories takes place. He leaves and while he is walking from Jericho to Bethel, we find ourselves reading about 2 Kings 2:23-25.

I read a lot of explanations of what was most likely going on in this text. There are many attempts to satisfy the imagination of a modern day reader trying to understand what could aggravate God so much that bears would maul 42 children. Make no mistake, a prophet has no power without the divine authority. This is not just a hangry Elisha wishing he had grabbed a quick bite to eat before he left Jericho.

Even what seemed to me to be the best of the answers does not, to me at least, seem to justify the punishment. The best explanation was that those mocking Elisha were challenging his role as a prophet. Do not do that!

I want to do a deep dive into this text and explain all I have read, even giving my own spin that I am sure is not original but that I did not read anywhere. But that is not a devotion, so I will attempt to peak your interest with questions that came from the study.

Where did the youth come from? Bethel, a most likely hotbed for idol worship. Or Jericho where he had just come from. Or another place? All answers would have possible reasons and meaning to help understand the text somewhat.

Were the youth young children as this translation says, or a gang of kids, or older youth? The Hebrew word is apparently fluid and can mean many things. What do you think? Did they die or were they just mauled? Does that matter?

Why did what they said bring such quick and violent retribution?

Is this story factual, exaggerated, a tale to scare children into respecting prophets, or something else?

As I read commentators who were completely at peace, or so they said, with a reading of this text where the kids “got what they deserved,” I wondered at how little I saw that left room for curiosity, anger, confusion, and the like for people reading this text. Everyone wanted to justify why what Elisha did was just fine.

Well if you have read many of my posts you know my answer to that is a big ole’ “fuck that noise.”

Sometimes we can find understanding or enlightenment for particular texts, or so it seems. In other times we cannot. When we try to force our own understanding into these ancient stories we can forget just how wild the Bible can be.

We want to tame it. We want to own it. We want to understand it fully. We want to wield it. We want it to make sense.

What we want less than anything is to respond to a person who has just asked us about 2 Kings 2:23-25 with, “Uh,” awkward laugh, “Well guy, I just do not know what in the hell those verses are about at all.” I guess that is too embarrassing for most of us. I know I often want to have it all figured out too.

In moments like these I take comfort in the long history of the rabbinic tradition. As I understand it, there is never a final answer on what any text means. But rather, there is always a constant reevaluation of the text as new generations come it to. They have, of course, all of the suggestions and thoughts of those who have come before them. Yet then it is their turn to wrestle with the text and with the previous thoughts, and to come to their own conclusions. Jesus certainly added his own thoughts to how the rabbinic tradition had been interpreting verses during his life.

I like that a lot. I enjoy being reminded that other people do not have their shit fully together. I enjoy being reminded that other people work hard to find meaning out of their lives just as I do with mine. I find it very comforting that other people read this text and also say, “What the fuck is going on there?”

And more than anything, I find it peace-filling that there are people willing to wrestle with the story — not dismiss it or dismantle it or misinterpret it or hide it. There are those who are willing to say things like, “This story does not seem to mesh with the God I have come to love.” Or, “Huh, how the hell does this work with a guy that said, ‘Turn the other cheek.’ ”

It is often not fun to sit in the in between—in that space of not knowing and wondering. But let me tell you that this is where the magic happens! This is where I have found God to be most present. When you question and wonder and push back and demand love and listen and shout and sit silently and get confused and have to admit you just do not know the answer.

I am wanting so badly to try and give you some bullshit solve to this she-bear mystery and the mauling of 42 children. But I put my hands under my legs and abstain from the temptation to do so. You go find one and report back.

Step out of the boat.

Seek.

But whatever you do, do not ever, I MEAN EVER, call out like a jackass to some guy that looks like a prophet, “Go away, baldhead! Go away, baldhead!” And if you are near someone that does, get your ass running fast! If there is one thing we have learned, it is certainly that.

This post is my last in a three-part series on listening to God. This journey has taken me back to the very beginning of my faith journey and then through many experiences since. I have written about only two of these encounters, attempting to isolate various pieces of what has worked for me over the years.

Flashback to Honduras circa 2003. As a youth minister intern, I had traveled with a youth group to a remote area in the mountains of Honduras. The last part of our journey was a long hike to some villages that could not be reached by roads. We had taken a few medically trained people who offered some assistance in a makeshift clinic we set up in various places where we hiked each day. After people visited the clinic, a few of our students waited to talk with them. My assigned job most days was to sit with these students and encourage them as they shared their faith with those willing to listen.

On one of the days a person came to me and said, “One of our patients cannot walk home and needs to keep their foot clean. Can you help some of the other adults carry him?” I leapt up and eagerly accepted the chance to do something. Doing a fireman’s style carry, I helped get an old man back to his home. The trails were steep and the work tired us all out quickly. On our walk back we all discussed how meaningful it was for us to serve someone in this way.

The next day the same thing happened. “Would you please help carry this person home?” This day, however, something happened to me while we were walking. As I was helping carry a man up a sharp embankment, I suddenly recalled a verse from the Bible followed by a distinct voice in my head. The verse that came to mind is from Matthew 25: 40, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.” Immediately I heard, “You are carrying my son up this hill.”

Holy shit! I was so overwhelmed with emotion I almost faltered in my attempts to keep a good grip. I remember thinking that God should have given me a warning first! “Hey dumbass, I am about to say something. Keep a good grip huh?”

Seriously though, tears filled my eyes and I could barely see. I stumbled forward, somehow managing to not drop the man, and we completed our task. Each step I took was filled with a sense of unworthiness mixed with gratitude and joy. I can hear Wayne and Garth exclaiming, “We aren’t worthy!”

This experience by itself would have stayed with me for a lifetime, always reminding me of how God uses us to help those around us. But this is not where the story ends! The very next day, while I was still reeling from my previous day’s experience, I was sitting there when someone came from the clinic again and said, “We need you to come carry someone home.” Internally I was barely capable of this task, but I jumped to my feet and followed the person into the clinic. I was led to a cot with a child sitting on it.

The boy did not look happy. He was certainly not happy to see me. He had received medical assistance but had apparently come on his own. I cannot recall his age, though I would guess the boy in my memory to be about six or seven—around the age of my son now (yes I am now crying while I type, mind your own business). They put him in my arms. His head was covered in sweat and had a big bandage on it. He buried his face into my chest. I could feel him crying softly. Off we went as an adult led us to his home. I carried him in and put him in his bed.

Have you ever been so full of emotion you felt you could take no more without some part of your bursting open? That was how I felt before carrying a child to his home. I have often wondered about this young boy, curious to his condition and life. He taught me so much about life, love, faith, and service. Most days I forget those lessons—it has just been so long ago that I forget, mostly the most important lesson of all.

We are all sons and daughters of God. We are all one family. When we carry one another we carry God.

Last night after doing my nightly final check to make sure my children were sleeping soundly before I headed to bed, this lesson from Honduras hit me from a different angle. Quickly and without warning, the deaths of children in recent wars and shootings crashed into me. Then the images flashed into adults and the message was clear: these men and women are the children of someone.

Not someone’s, God’s children—your children—my children.

Do I just cry more now because I am a dad? So be it.

I started typing these words today with the idea that I would convey how we sometimes encounter God more acutely when we have familiarity with Scripture, or deep truths God holds dear. I had no idea this would shift into a reversal of sorts.

“Just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.”

Stop killing children with bombs. You are bombing your own children, and me. Stop shooting children in schools. You are shooting your own children, and me. Stop going to war. You are warring with your own children, and with me.

Damn it. I thought today’s post would be fun and uplifting. I did not realize I would be having an encounter with God while I typed. So, people way smarter than me, what do we do now?

My small step is to remember the child I carried home. I will let him be a reminder that every person I come into contact with is my child. I am their child. We are family. No matter what comes, I should treat them with love and respect.

This is my response today. What is yours?

Last post I shared about my conversion experience—a story that includes hearing the voice of God. The kick-starter to my Christian journey, so to speak, and the proper kick-in-the ass I needed.

Today I would like to continue this conversation. I will share from another encounter with God, and then offer a story from the Bible it reminds me of as well. Please always feel free to comment or send me a message for clarification or follow-up.

Let’s dive in!

I was in seminary when the topic of LGBTQ+ first really started working its way into my world. We had a student, one who openly discussed this issue in classes and with friends, who was gay.

Here is a timeline of sorts to my personal journey of how I processed on this topic.

I know what the Bible says and I will not change my mind just because I happen to know someone who is gay.

The topic kept coming up. I do not really want to talk about it.

Internally the issue would not leave me alone. It surfaced inside of me the way things do when the Holy Spirit will not let me be. Still, I resisted.

I slowly began to care more about people who identified as LGBTQ+, and this love that began to emerge caused my theology to shift. In an odd choice of phrase, I did not feel it was my choice.

Eventually the love grew so strong that I found I could no longer hold my original thoughts—what had begun as an unwilling process had shifted so significantly that I did not know how to express my views clearly. However, I was now full of this love and saw it to be good.

I became fully convinced that as a Christian minister I must support LGBTQ+ people no matter what. I had not yet come back to reflecting upon biblical verses that I had initially cited at the beginning of this journey. I was in a bit of internal turmoil.

This is where I encountered God.

I had started sharing with select people where my journey on this issue had taken me, and would sometimes tack on something like, “I believe I have been moved here by the Holy Spirit. If loving these people is not God’s will ultimately, well, I guess I am just going to have to deal with that later.”

I had been working as a campus minister at the time when all of this came to a head. I took my leadership team to a beautiful outdoor setting and sent them off with instructions to try the meditation technique called lectio divina. I was so full of expectations, not only to hear back from them when they were done, but to also have my own time with this ancient practice.

One problem—nothing happened.

Lectio divina at this point was a tried and true practice in my faith life. So when I sat there and felt like I was throwing myself at a stone wall, I wondered at what the hell was going on. OK, something is off. I closed my eyes and searched myself looking for an issue, kind of like a mechanic with the hood open.

It was not long before my entire being was focused on a summation of that timeline I shared with you above. I could feel an estrangement in how I had come to consider the issue, the people it involved, myself, and in how I was viewing God. Then, like being hit in the side of the face, the question surfaced, “Why have you never asked God about this?”

Shit.

Whatever my hold up, I was acting as if the deity I loved with all of myself was dead—as if it was not a relationship already proven to be interactive and caring.

The day was especially windy. I felt the tears coming as I said, “God, I have been doing this all wrong. I need to know beyond the shadow of a doubt if I am on your side with this whole deal. If I am, please, just make the wind stop.”

Instantly and without warning as my lips finished the word “stop,” I was sitting in an absence of wind. I could see its effect on everything around me and yet I was untouched by it. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the relationship healed. Confirmation welled more deeply. The part of me that held the years of resistance, quiet discontentment, followed by an internal holy nagging transfused with love to have moved me to where I had gone, were all suddenly affirmed as of God. More tears. I fucking hate to cry. But these tears were a warm embrace I had waited for, though I had not known I had needed them till they came.

This was my experience. It is not my intent, at least not fully, to share this experience so you may be convinced of anything in particular on this specific issue—though perhaps you should take pause if you happen to feel an internal holy nagging.

I share this moment in time with you all, to reveal but one more way God has communicated with me. I cannot say why I was motivated to ask for the wind to stop, nor why I was humored in this way, but I can say that I was sitting quietly searching my motives and the face of God for truth. My experience is my own, though I am quite certain others can learn from it just as I have from others.

In I Kings 19 Elijah experiences God:

What are you doing here?

This was what the Holy Spirit kept asking me as I kept refusing to shift my thoughts and feelings on a topic to which I thought I already knew the heart of God. Then I was moved.

Then I was asked again, “What are you doing here?” Again I resisted and was moved. Over and again. Over and again. Yes, I am as stubborn and deft as the most stubborn ass at times.

Till there I sat out in nature. What are you doing here? Trying to have a spiritual experience God, duh. No, what are you doing here?

Oh! Where are you God? Are we aligned? Are we in sync? Damn, OK. Tell me where to go. You have been? Oh.

Sometimes the voice of God is the burr under the saddle of your soul.1

Nagging. Nudging. Leading. Asking. Loving. Dragging.

So I ask myself today, “What are you doing here?”

I ask you, “What are you doing here?”

It can be a bit odd trying to tell someone else you have heard the voice of God. “Uh, the fuck you say?” People do not always say that out loud, mind you, but it’s definitely what most people are thinking.

Even Christians can be doubtful of this kind of language, because as I found out when sharing my experiences, this kind of encounter can be rare. Some express a mixture of sadness with a dash of excitement as they ask, “How? What do I have to do to hear God too?” “Oh shit,” I think as I internally process what proper responses might be to this earnest plea. When this has happened, I have always felt I was walking on eggshells so to speak. I have wanted that other person to succeed in their hopes to hear God too, but I also know that God is not some easy to manipulate being that will respond to someone simply if they do what I did. It seems to be way more complicated than that—double oh shit. When we do have experiences like these they seem to be varied and hardly ever the same.

Backing up, my first experience as a Christian was ended with the whammy of hearing the voice of God. Others have since suggested that this was perhaps my own wishful thinking, but I will die believing it to the be the truth.

Lying down on my freshman dorm room bed in 1998, I prayed desperately to God. I wanted to be in a relationship with God and I wanted to pursue this connection through Jesus Christ. As I finished praying for the hope of such a relationship to exist, I tried something a friend had suggested. He had said that prayer is a two way conversation and that at times we need to listen. So I did just that—I listened quietly—I waited.

The dialogue that followed is lost to the experience. In fact, I could not remember most of it the very moment it ended, but I do vividly recall the intense joy I felt throughout the encounter, and how it concluded. I was feeling so overwhelmed that I finally had to sever the connection (hard to find the right words). As a person filled to the brim with no more possibility to take in any more, I stuttered out the words…

“God, I love you.” This flowed from the depths of my being.

There was the briefest silence.

“I know Brett. I love you too.”

(If you are not a paid subscriber, this post will be unlocked in about a week—just in case you are on pins and needles and wanting more!)

If I had not already been on the edge of bursting internally, I had found there was another reservoir within me specifically designed for this moment—and in the hearing of God calling my name and saying “I love you” back, caused this entire part of me to overflow as well. I think I said, “Ok, goodnight,” or something ridiculous and I ripped myself back to a sitting position on my bed.

What had just happened? I felt more alive than I ever had before. It seemed everything I had searched for in girls, sports, and anywhere else (honestly I think it was mostly those two avenues) was finally found. Did I look different? I felt I had traveled a great distance and was somehow entirely made new.

Whether you believe this happened or not, imagine for a moment how changed a person would feel if they believed with all of their being that this was their experience. Nothing has been the same since December 3rd, 1998. Hearing your name tagged with “I love you” in that way is truly indescribable. Even now my attempts to grasp at this moment with words fail to catch but a glimpse of it all.

And that, hearing God, is what I will be writing about for three posts.

Each post, like this one, will regale the reader with fantastical tales of moments similar to this one where I encountered God. I will do my best to describe them with all of my might, but my focus will be on discussing a bit of how and when and where and why it might have happened. I, of course, really have no idea why I have experienced what I have—I mean not really. I am just some asshole from the Midwest right? Yes!

Therein lies what I believe to be one possible answer is to the whole deal. I simply need the experiences I have had more than most others. Some assholes need a big kick in the ass. Others do not. There are so many possible ways to get after that, but honestly you do not care.

Intent.

What a word ya? I can tell you that, as much of an asshole as I really have been during moments of my life, perhaps my greatest gift as a human is my desire to fully commit myself to something. I am not sure I am getting at this in just the right way, but when I am firing on all cylinders, my heart has but one singular focus. This part of me helped me beyond measure in sports and in relationships—you can imagine how it played out in a life of faith.

When the concept of God was really introduced to me in a way my heart could grasp, but even an ounce of it all, I was fully 100% all-the-way drink the Kool-Aid in, if you know what I am saying. So far I do not think I am in a cult…

All that said, what I am trying to say, is that I believe intent matters. If and when a person sets off to encounter God, in any shape or form, their heart needs to be in the right place—not perfect or without sin or any of that nonsense. I simply mean the intention of it all needs to be set right.

What does that really mean? I don’t rightly know. All I can say is that there have been times when I have sought after the heart of God only to find myself frustratingly walking away pissed off from the endeavor. In the next few posts I will discuss other aspects to what seems to have worked for me, but above all when my inner-shit is not together, it is like trying to start the engine on a dead car. Nadda.

Yes, as you might already be visualizing, I see Indiana Jones slowly walking towards the cup of life in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. He steps slowly, considering his father’s diary carefully after having watched others unsuccessfully having failed the first test. He is muttering to himself over and over again, “only the penitent man shall pass.” In the last moment he seems to understand and kneels quickly, putting himself in the posture of a penitent man.

I cannot say the word penitent is really a word I toss around much. I both love this word and hate it for this post. In its nature the word gets to the heart of a person, and for that I shall dwell on it. How does one embrace a posture penitence in the heart so as to come before God? How the hell should I know what this looks like for you? I have learned, sort of and at times, what this often looks like for me. I have learned it does NOT mean heaping shame upon yourself. That is some grade A bullshit.

Intention.

And—setting aside a specific time and place.

And—being fully committed to the experience.

And—expectation.

And—using Scripture, song, some totem of experience, or other such foci has seemed necessary for me.

And—then more expectation—engaging—prayer—silence—and a dash more of expectation.

In the next two posts, at least, I will come back to this topic from different vantage points, such as setting aside a time and place or being expectant, and these will be paired with other unique experiences. I hope you will come with me and share some of your own.

The resurrection of Jesus Christ is the ultimate “fuck you” to any and all evil in this world. Really, just think about it. Just when evil thinks it has finally won by killing the Son of God and then, whammy—fool you!

And let me be quite clear, I am talking about the physical resurrection of Christ from death. Yes, something even more than that too, but also just that emphatically. No metaphor or allegory or lesson for us to view triumph over evil—an actual reversal from death back to life.

CS Lewis has immensely formed much of how I think about the resurrection. Without looking up all the quotes and citing them, I’ll say that in his works he mentions several times that the death of Jesus Christ was impossible. Because of who Jesus was and how he lived his life and then in how that life is given for others, the very nature of how death operates had no choice but to reverse upon itself. In essence it is no miracle, though CS Lewis refers to it as the Grand Miracle. Yet his very argument implies that the resurrection was the only outcome of the death of Christ.

The Chronicles of Narnia are magical books. One of my favorite things about CS Lewis is that he takes difficult concepts and explains them simply. He goes even further in in these tales as he writes about Christian concepts to children. When Aslan, or Jesus, dies in the story he is killed on the stone table, or the law. The White Witch, or Satan, believes she has won as Aslan steps in to die for Edmund who should have rightfully died on the table. But what the White Witch does not know, what she cannot know, is of the deeper magic that all of Narnia was founded upon. This deeper magic, as I understand to be God’s love, will not allow for events to unfold as they do. The story says that either all of Narnia would have been destroyed in fire, or death itself would reverse.

I am summarizing quickly in an effort to keep this post short. Go read some CS Lewis and The Chronicles of Narnia for more!

When I worked as a youth minister I offered them this demonstration on how to try and understand the resurrection of Christ. I took mentos and dropped them into a two liter of Diet Coke. As you most likely know, if you do this the Diet Coke erupts violently from the bottle as if it were a powerful geyser. Woosh! Up the Diet Coke would burst, leaving a sticky mess all over the tarp I had laid out beforehand. “What a mess,” I would think every time and, “shit, I will be here late tonight cleaning that up.” Full disclosure, I think one time I folded it up to clean the next day and forgot. Sorry to whoever pulled that tarp out the next time…

I loved this illustration because it is exactly what I think about the death of Christ. Jesus died for the entire world. He died a death that he himself did not deserve. Mark 10 says:

This is why death rejects the Christ, or in essence why Christ destroys death—the debt being paid was not his own. There are so many ways that the death of Jesus Christ can be looked at and interpreted. In this post it simply matters that in every way he died in the place of others—us—all of us—the entire damn world!

And so death itself worked backwards.

And so the Christ defeated death and left it impotent.

And so Satan cried out, “This isn’t fucking fair! What the hell?”

Why do Christians celebrate Resurrection Sunday, commonly referred to now as Easter? Because it is everything. With no risen Christ we are all just deluding ourselves into thinking at the end of the day evil will lose because we tried our best. And that is a lie.

NO!

Evil loses because love found a way. Evil lost because evil had no concept of what love would do. Evil will always lose because it still cannot fathom that love is the very foundation of the cosmos. Evil will grapple and struggle and spit and bite and wriggle to the desperate end, believing destruction and death to be the only way.

BUT

But when one holy lamb stands up to take everything, from this day to that, upon its perfect shoulders, death is absorbed into love. Evil dissolves in the heart of Christ.

The Christian—Christ-follower—stands believing this with all of their heart. The only true steps forward are that of resurrection. Death or resurrection. Love or hate. No metaphor or fancy words. We either embrace with our full being the love of the Son of God who died for the world, or we join the mocking crowd and those who beat him.

And to all of you, I am so sorry, so fucking sorry, that I so often live most of my life as the latter. I strive for resurrection love and instead selfishly deceive myself into thinking other options are better. It happens every day.

BUT

But I hope with all of my heart that every single one of you knows that this is not my intent. My intent is to stop fucking it all up so miserably and to really love as Christ showed us all. Sometimes, for but a brief moment, I get it perfectly right. Then I shit the bed all over again. Damn it. OK, get back up and start again.

Make no mistake about it. Our only hope is in the resurrected Christ. I am chasing after the Son of God with all of my might. I fall and bite the trail hard—way too often. It is brutal. But I get my ass back up, setting my eyes upon the author and perfecter of my faith, and I run my race the best I can, often bleeding from my last fall. As a I run I mutter, “fuck off,” to the evil that exists in this world. Then I look to God and ask for love to replace the hate I harbor, knowing that saying “fuck off” is not in sync with resurrection love. Then I start again!

Celebrate the Resurrection this Sunday with a wild abandon that dares to believe a Jewish man was the Son of God, who died for the world, only to be physically resurrected to something even more. It is tough trying to love as Jesus loved, but dig deep and try.

It is the kind of love that changed the world. It is the kind of love that is changing the world. And it is the kind of love that will continue to change this world.

Yes, I have to admit that every time I hear someone say Maundy Thursday, it triggers a string of images in my mind. Most notably is Apollonia from The Godfather frustratingly reciting the days of the week to Michael in English, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.” The second is a clip from You’ve Got Mail when Tom Hanks types on and on about the Godfather to Meg Ryan—so great. It just sounds so right to hear a person speaking English with an Italian accent to say, “Hey, you coming to the Maundy Thursday service?” And my response would always be, “Is it Monday or Thursday? I don’t know but I’ll probably be there.”

No I am not as funny as I think, but this dialogue has been going on in my mind for some time now. I am still laughing.

So what is Maundy Thursday all about? Well Latin is not one of my studied languages, and so we will have to take someone else’s word on it. Apparently the Latin word mandatum is where this word maundy comes from. It is the word commandment and on Maundy Thursday we focus on the new commandment Jesus gave from this verse in John 13:

Jesus shares these words with his disciples while he is preparing them for his death, and so it makes sense that as we look to Good Friday (do not even get me started on who picked that name) that anyone following Christ would do the same—prepare for his death.

Jesus gives his disciples a new commandment. Kind of a big deal for Jewish people. They had their ten commandments. Jesus says, “Ya, and I’m going to add one.” One might suggest that this commandment sums up all the others. If you live by this new commandment you would be hard pressed to break any of the other ten.

Sounds like a beautiful melody. Smells like hot chocolate with smores around a campfire. Tastes like that perfect favorite meal done just right. Feels like the embrace of a loved one. Looks like that smiling face you have been waiting to see.

But I have a hard time loving people in a way that I think is good most of the time. Someone does not drive just as I think they should for about ten seconds and I lose my shit—seriously I have a problem. My sweet and wonderful children do that thing they have done, that is no big deal really, for the tenth time today and the seventy-second this week, and I lose my shit. I am working on patience with them.

I want to love as Christ, yet I barely succeed in emulating Christ one-tenth of the time at best. Maybe you can relate? How can we learn to love as Jesus? Perfect, patient, enduring, persistent—and to a point where he gave up his life for that love?

This question, for me, seems to be the point of Maundy Thursday. We ponder it. We wrangle with it and try to imagine a world where a version of us might exist capable of such love. We imagine a community of people doing the same in such a joy-filled way, that others look in and in wild wonder, walk away saying, “They must be disciples of Jesus Christ.”

You listen, or ignore, me in my posts complaining like a scoundrel about how so many people who claim Christ project instead hate and violence and the like. Well not today! Today I dream the dream of Maundy Thursday. It is a dream where I recognize clearly the potential we all have to love as Jesus loves us—even me! And because of this dream I will boldly do just that—love as Jesus loves.

My attempts to follow this commandment might only last but a fleeting moment. Perhaps yours will last longer! Maybe together our love will be a flickering bonfire to those who desperately need to see it this week. Let us love!

I love you. Will you love with me? Who can we love today? And who will see that love and see the face of God?

If you read the last post, you know that I just re-read A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L’Engle. There was no wait so I started listening to the audio version of the next book in the series called A Wind in the Door. As I ran through the mountain trails just behind our house yesterday, I listened to this book. Much of this portion of the book talks about “naming” and “un-naming.”

The concept is both extremely moving and unnerving. There are people who when they see the true version of a person, or thing, who are able to name them—to usher forth the best version of that person. There are other forces at work that attempt to un-name people and things—virtually the opposite of naming and what the author calls “x-ing them out.” I desperately want to write on these concepts and yet I am not ready as of now.

And yet these thoughts are at the forefront of my mind when I come to the Bible this week. So when I read the tale end of Mark chapter ten, I cannot help but feel oddly compelled by the story.

The lens through which I am reading this text is that of the L’Engle book and the themes I have been encountering there. The line that sticks out to me today is, “Many sternly ordered him to be quiet”. I cannot help but see, whether deliberately or not, people trying to un-name this blind beggar, or at least keep him from being named by Jesus. And yes the profanity wells up within me!

What in the hell would motivate one person to keep a blind man from making his way to Jesus? What sense of devilish propriety can drive a person to “sternly order” such a man to remain silent when this Jewish healer walks so closely past? Damn it all!

But we all do it don’t we? I do it. Someone gets excited about God in the “wrong way” and I think, “What the hell is wrong with that person?” Or that extremely awkward person from church begins talking in the middle of the sermon. Just think of that denomination you think is batshit crazy, and you will probably be on almost the right page.

We do not want to—I do not want to—but we cloister Jesus off to where we are comfortable with him, or God, being. As a youth minister I used to be very good at encouraging young people to follow their call, despite what their parents might have thought (God is above all that). But now as a parent I begin to slightly tremble at where God might call my little ones one day.

But mostly all I see in this text is a huge fucking wake up call. Someone is trying to get to Jesus, even calling out at the top of their lungs, “Son of David, have mercy on me,” while others do their best to stop that person. Can we just fucking stop this nonsense? Holy smokes!?

OK, that guy smells. Alright, she is a bit too friendly with alcohol. Sure, they seem to love each other in the wrong way. Whatever the hold up we might have, we need to wake up!

Can you not feel the hand on your shoulder? Do you not feel the gentle nudge beckoning you to loosen your grip? Do you not hear the command, “Bring him here”?

Most of the time when a person is seeking out God, they are more broken and in need of God than we can possibly imagine. Maybe it is time to let the-hell-go of all the bullshit we try to heap on people as they crawl towards Jesus.

We believe God is alive, yes? We believe God is love, yes? We believe God is in the business of transforming lives, yes?

Then let us all either do everything we can to remove all obstacles anyone might need to overcome in getting to Christ, or get the fuck out of the way and shut our damn mouths.

One last thought — we never know when or how someone is calling out for God. I heard Alan Hirsch once say, “The man knocking on the door of the brothel is seeking the face of God.” It just might not look like we think it is supposed to look—let’s get over that part.

Maybe we can trust that God can take care of the rest, whatever that might be. Can we give it to God? Can you? Can I?

It has been a “hot minute,” as they say, since I have had one of those moments where it seems as if God has somehow set up a confluence of events in order that I might have a deeply moving spiritual experience. And while I fully understand we may just see what we are looking for, there are special times that seem set aside for a group or individual—you know, one of those ineffable moments that are so painstakingly difficult to explain to anyone else after, but the kind you have to share anyway.

Sidebar: No, ineffable does not mean that something is absent of a fuck, nor anything to do with it. Though now that I have made this mental connection to the word, I shall have more meanings for it in the future, or at least laughs when I see or hear it!

My father read us tons of books growing up. One of these books was A Wrinkle in Time. I still have odd memories of what I pictured in my mind as he read this book, and other stories, to us at bedtime. The most notable memory from this book is when Meg puts on Mrs. Who’s glasses and walks through walls to go save her father. The images my mind formed to help me try and imagine this still float around within me to this day.

Years later I came to other works by Madeleine L’Engle as an adult. I discovered that I love her books. They are fascinating and I grew quite fond of how she sees the universe and concepts of faith. I read through so much of her various writings and enjoyed them so thoroughly, that I decided I should write her. In an attempt to figure out how to do such a thing, for I had never done anything like it, I learned that she had died only two weeks prior.

I can still see the computer screen and the office around me where I read this news. I feel the impact of it still. As I sat and processed what I had just read, a thought surfaced from deep within. No, thought is wrong. A concept, an explanation of sorts… it is ineffable. Two weeks before reading the news of L’Engle’s death, I had felt inexplicably sad one day. It felt clear to me that the Holy Spirit was connecting the dots for me. Somehow I had sensed her death—felt it over the distance. I still ponder this mysterious experience.

This past week I noticed that A Wrinkle in Time was available on my library app in audio format read by the author. I could not resist the opportunity to listen to L’Engle read this infamous book. What a joy it was to reconnect with her as she read, hearing the book anew as a much older person. Coming to this tale during Lent seemed to be extremely poignant as well. Many of the themes just fit the season.

I feel as though I am going around my ass to get to my elbow here, but I am desperately trying to explain something I scarcely have a glimpse of in my own mind.

Last night our Wednesday Lenten service somehow collided perfectly with my soul to provide what seemed like a tailored spiritual experience. Anyone who spoke seemed to use L’Engle’s words or ideas, though she was clearly not their origin of thought. The music that was offered mystically wove together an indiscernible gift for anyone wishing to receive it. Everything somehow came together seamlessly to provide the most fertile of spiritual soil for the truly unimaginable to take place—at least for me!

I sat there befuddled—flabbergasted—bereft of speech—tears freely forcing their way free from whatever prison I keep them in.

Maybe it has just been too long since the Holy Other so significantly jostled me about.

It seems this Lent is a reminder, a vitally forceful turning of my spirit back to a foundational truth. As I try to grasp at this truth I see words from Isaiah 43, “I have called you by name; you are mine.”

Here I am with a whole post trying to speak about the ineffable.

Yet as was expressed so clearly last night in the Lenten service, there are experienced moments that must be shared even though there is no way to truly communicate them to another human being. So I offer this all to you, hoping that the One who sometimes mysteriously reveals to me truths I can hardly grasp, will ameliorate certain truths in your life too.

Let us end with a quote from A Wrinkle in Time:

If you have never read the book go do yourself a favor and read it. It doing so you just might discover how truly valuable you are. You might not understand it, but what does that matter?

There I was just minding my own business reading some Mark with my buddies, when Jesus started talking about children again. It was not long ago I posted about children in church and how most worship services tend to operate as though they do not exist (click on the following link if you want a refresher or missed it - Fuck Off Little Ones, You Are Not Wanted Here ). Here we are again with Jesus having to indignantly remind his disciples of how important children are to him.

Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it. What an interesting thing for Jesus to say. As a father of a three-year-old and six-year-old, it is fascinating to talk to them about God or Jesus or faith or any of this stuff. Sometimes they show intense curiosity about these subjects, while in other moments the intangible nature of it all proves too overwhelming for them to even care.

How do we receive the kingdom as a little child? What does it mean to not receive it as a little child?

The other night I sat with three children (ages 3-4) as a woman from our church taught them about being the light and salt of Christ—the focus mostly being on light. They bobbled in their chairs, alternating between listening eagerly as the teacher brandished a flashlight to help her cause, and needing to desperately interrupt her so they could share some random information from their past week as if it was breaking news. As their teacher talked about how Christ was a light inside of them, their overwhelming response seemed to be, “OK, that’s nice. Did you hear me tell you that I went to the zoo last week?”

(This post will be free at the end of this week for any non-paid subscribers)

What is it specifically that comes with being an adult that Jesus is warning us against in Mark? How shall we assure that we are able to enter the Kingdom of God?

When I first became a Christian at age eighteen, I started marking the day each year as a spiritual birthday. I am one year new (I am sure I had heard someone else say it). Reflecting back on how I approached my faith during that time, I feel as if I get a sense of what Jesus is perhaps saying here—maybe. Maybe not. I was trusting, eager, willing to do anything for my faith, wanted to tell everyone about it, and absorbed as much as I could learn about it rapidly.

That’s nice, but is that what Jesus means? I think about the three-year-old and six-year-old. It matches up some but not entirely.

Maybe it helps to wonder at when we became assholes. Where do we cross the line when we are no longer bearers of that childhood innocence that somehow shields us from the disgusting transition into tiny jerks? Somewhere along the line, and surely at different moments for each of us, there is a metamorphosis most every human being goes through, during which time the child is moved aside for something else. Those that hold on too long seem to meet with great resistance at from community around them. Grow up! As even Paul says it in the Bible, put childish things behind you. But lets linger with this indecision on what perhaps Jesus is wanting us to hear.

If you have not seen the movie Step Brothers, you have missed some true comedy genius that may speak directly to our questions today. The story line follows two forty-year-old men who have had issues growing up—they just want to behave like children. As the movie is nearing the end, one of their fathers gathers them to share how he has hated watching them lose their childish passions, even though he was the biggest proponent driving them to “grow up.”

He says to them: “Listen to me. Dale, look, when I was a kid...when I was a little boy, I always wanted to be a dinosaur. I wanted to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex more than anything in the world. I made my arms short and I roamed the backyard...and I chased the neighborhood cats, and I growled and I roared. Everybody knew me and was afraid of me. And then one day, my dad said, ‘Bobby, you're 17. It's time to throw childish things aside.’ And I said, ‘Okay, Pop.’ But he didn't really say that, he said, ‘Stop being a fucking dinosaur and get a job.’ But, you know, I thought to myself, ‘I'll go to medical school... I'll practice for a little while, and then I'll come back to it.’

But he never went back. He forgot how to even do it! Ever look back on your imagination and realize you no longer remember how to anymore? The father sums up his speech by saying, “don’t lose your dinosaur,” and encouraging them to pursue their “childish” dreams.

Is that child you ushered away so you could be an adult still in there somewhere? Can you coax out a memory or two of when you were a child who still dared to dream with a powerful imagination?

Enough circling with Socratic questions. I am going to take a stab at what I think Jesus is saying with a modern look at scripture in conjunction with the insightful help of our comedic movie.

Come to your faith as a child with unlimited wonder, endless imagination, unhampered joy, exuberant curiosity, unbridled excitement, and extreme optimism. Make your faith your own as any child would do. Drape your expectations of God in fairy tales and tea parties. Dare to imagine beyond the scope of what you can comprehend. Come as a child, knowing, as any healthy child would, that you are of utmost importance to God.

And when someone tells you to “stop being a fucking dinosaur,” turn to them quietly and give them your best head-tilted-back roar of your life. Too much is at stake it seems, for ourselves and our children, to allow anyone to keep us from coming to Jesus as a child.

And for goodness sake, no matter what you do, do not be the one who keeps the children, or child-like, from getting to Jesus. Let the children come. Let them roar and fly and dream. Let them climb into the lap of Jesus with all of their childish wonder.

Let us join them!

I did not grow up in the church. We went for awhile but I was never a part of it. What I experienced was not negative in any way, but neither did it compel me to want to stay. So when I became a Christian in college, I needed to learn everything.

The biggest piece of my learning was to be what to expect from churches. What odd places they seemed me. Just as the one I went to growing up never appealed to me as a child, neither did most churches really draw me in either, not wholly. There was always something off putting. I went because I was supposed to go—it is where a Christian goes after all.

The several churches I have attended over the years have taught me much, and usually the lessons varied as much as the individual churches did themselves. Each has been of immense benefit and there is so much I have enjoyed, though churches still do not generally beckon to me in a way I can really understand. It is me, not them. Probably.

Lent is a tradition I have been learning more intimately about in the past six years because my current Baptist church embraces this part of the Christian calendar. Naturally I learned all about it through books and Church history classes, but engaging with it has been intriguing. I suppose Lent looks, smells, tastes, sounds, and feels more honest to me than many of the other Christian seasonal themes.

It is in Lent where all is laid bare. We make more authentic attempts to reflect on our lives that are more than just a resurrected Christ—in some ways we strive to remember such a thing is even imaginable. Normal modern Christian life tends to leave little room for suffering and darkness and pain and the dark night of the soul. How can we wallow in such things when the resurrected Christ calls us into the light?

But Lent, oh Lent says, “Hey, time to stop fucking about. Get serious. Life is not all sunshine and potato chips you pie in the sky flibber gibbit.” Yes, it is in your face and even somewhat confusing at times. What do we do with Lent? Do we give something up we really love so we can focus on God? Do we take on a new spiritual discipline for forty days? It can often be strenuous to see a clear road before us for this season.

Yesterday I met with the guys I meet with every Thursday morning. We check-in with one another to see how things are going. We read through a portion of the Bible. We talk it over and wonder at what it might mean. We then share parts of our life for which we covet one another’s prayers. I have come to cherish this time deeply. Let me share a portion of what we read from Mark 9 this week:

When we read this text a chord was immediately struck in the most inner part of my soul. When Jesus points out the lack of faith on the father’s part, my heart sinks to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. I can see myself making the same mistake! Here I am before Jesus, who has the power to heal my child who has been suffering for years, but I go and fuck it all up. But there is hope, there is something in how Jesus responds that causes the father to immediately cry out, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

The father’s declaration is Lent to me. It is not some perfectly worded prayer or beautifully picturesque faith—it is a desperate plea—“help my unbelief!” When we engage in Lent we are laid bare. We stop staring into the brilliant light of Christ to realize we are but a starving husk of a faith creature barely surviving. There is no more bravado or pageantry to cover up the shitty rotting corpse. It is hideous and disgusting and overpowering and—authentic.

Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time I am going do my damnnest to remind all of you that you each are beautiful, redeemed/redeemable, grace-filled, wondrous creations made by a God that loves you. But this is Lent. This is when we stop to see the truth underneath it all, the us without God.

It is the moment on the cross when God withdraws his presence from Jesus.

It is the days after his death when his followers were broken. When Peter said, “Fuck it, let’s go fishing.” (click here to read more about that)

It is the ocean filled with the tears of every parent who could not find Jesus when their child was dying.

It is the empty promise broken, the threadbare ghost of a blanket we draw over our sorrows.

Lent is when we are honest. Lent is when we weep and then weep some more. Lent is when we shake our fists in rage with bloodshot eyes, shouting as so many before, “How long oh Lord, how long!?”

But Lent is NOT giving up, it is giving in. It is NOT walking away, but crawling towards. Lent is NOT a broken faith, but faith breaking apart.

Lent is our sacred opportunity to finally embrace all of the profanity we can muster into our faith life. It is your chance to authentically let go of the shitty desperation to always be happy or fine or good just because you love God. What nonsense! Drop that and embrace Lent’s modest invitation, trusting that in the vastness of God there is space for all of you, not just the parts you think God or Christians want(s).

I am trying really hard to do just that this Lent. I am trying to get into the muck. In all honesty I am still battling with some resistance, but I think writing this helped. I am going to push past it all and let all the barriers fall. Come with me!

And as we go may this be our mantra: “I believe; help my unbelief!”

No matter what depths of darkness our Lent faith journey takes us to, we will whisper, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

Despite what pieces of ourselves are exposed as we are left vulnerable and broken, growl back desperately, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

We go where Christ has gone. We follow. Let us embrace the shadow of the cross, where Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!?”

And as we go, oh God, help our unbelief.