It All Starts With You

Quick Update: I am on the first leg of a 40 hour voyage to go help a couple of my best friends in the world serve some folks in Liberia right now. I really can’t describe how thankful I am. I just got laid off on Monday, which I thought could never, would never happen to me. Everything is in flux. There is more change than I can handle. In the midst of all this, I have the chance to go to a beautiful country and serve with two amazing dudes. Here I am, jobless and facing other severe life challenges, and I cannot stop spontaneously smiling. Swoon. I. Can’t. Even.

Thank you to everyone who helped support me and make this trip happen. If you’d like to support Partner Liberia (and me, while I work with Partner Liberia and look for more permanent work), please go to www.partnerliberia.org and give. Thank you!

Most times, a post named like this one is a Tony Robbins-esque motivational piece. It will tell you all you’re capable of and how nothing can get you where you want to be apart from hard work and determination. This is certainly not one of those posts. This is a post about relinquishing your powers, abilities and determination and allowing yourself to be washed over by the beautifully terrifying flood of grace.

A couple of years ago, I decided I had no need for God. I can’t say that I stopped being a believer. At my furthest, I called myself a deist. I was confident that there was a Creator. Someone who not only set this world into motion, but who kept it all bound together. This god was a living embodiment of love and a common thread flowing through all of humanity. He was the mold from whom we were built, leaving his imprint on all of us. Despite those qualities, I ceased to believe in his sovereignty and his concern for us. I thought of him as disconnected and disinterested. He was someone who set this cosmic plate spinning and subsequently set off to tend to other things.

I still believed Jesus existed as well. I believed he was an amazing person who set the standard for how we were meant to live. I wanted to to be like him. The thing is, without believing that I had God’s help, it was on me to be like Jesus, to be the man I was meant to be.

The result was a tremendous amount of disappointment and frustration. I tried to love others despite myself. This is what that sentence means to me:

I had very low opinion of myself. My self worth and confidence were in shambles. Massive cognitive and emotional dissonance existed between who I was and who I perceived myself to be. I found myself to be, in short, a stupid asshole. This type of perception led to two separate results. First, perception became reality. Most people probably didn’t notice, because I still fought to be good to others, but I was growing decreasing tolerant and caring inside. I could find a way to be bothered about nearly everything. I became short tempered and constantly anxious. Criticism was my language of choice. Next, I projected my view of myself onto others. I thought myself selfish, intolerant and irrational, so I assumed everyone else was the same. I approached every situation with this contextualization.

The example that most easily comes to mind is the terror I was when driving. The insulation of being in a car freed me to feel okay about treating people terribly. If someone cut me off, there was no way it was an accident, there was absolutely malicious intent. They got the finger. If I was at a four way stop and a driver proceeded ahead of me out of turn, I tailgated them as long as we were headed in the same direction, to make perfectly clear that they were in my way and inconveniencing me. In some situations, I managed to behave better, but I had to fight my initial instincts. My first thought was always that others were trying to do me harm and I would fight against that instinct and try to treat them well. It took so much effort to be good to others. The cycle exhausted and defeated me. It drove me to the end of myself.

About two months ago, I realized I just couldn’t live in this world as I desired without help. I found myself screaming into an abyss. I desperately wanted to love myself and my fellow adventurers on this beautiful, spinning ball of chaos. I wanted to help restore Shalom. I invited God back in. I chose to believe that He is a good, loving father and that he made me beautifully. I chose to let his grace, steeped in folly, drown and kill the striving, unhappy man I was. As Aslan did to Eustace, He’s peeling back the layers of a tough, hardened monster. He is leaving me with the truth that there is nothing I can ever do that is so great that He will love me more, there is nothing I can do that is so reprehensible that He will love me less. I now get to live in the freedom of being His beloved son.

Being the son of the author of the universe is a freeing experience. Accepting His unconditional grace is transformative. Now, rather engaging in the Sisyphusian task of digging up and displaying love for others, I get to let His flow through me. It’s far easier and more effective than I ever could have hoped. Turns out, Jesus’ yoke actually is easy and his burden actually is light. There is nothing you can do to earn and display this transfiguring grace. All you can do is accept it. And that starts with you.

San Francisco

Step outside

The fog

Refracts and magnifies

The sonlight

These are the most beautiful days.

Saved?

The fired burned damned fiercely. Up until that moment, it had been a standard night at camp. We all sat and stood on cue in the fellowship hall. We laughed riotously as our counselors sprayed whipped cream in various orifices while echoing the refrain “smooth and creamy.” We sang “Pharaoh, Pharaoh” with much delight and “Our God is an awesome God” with all the reverence that preteens can muster.

Now, the air was different. We sat outside while the fire whipped our faces and we told stories bearing a greater gravity than the collective experience of our lives. We spoke of heaven and hell. We considered the decrepit state of our young lives and how we were certainly bound for hell barring redemption through Christ.

At once, I felt a weight greater than any I had ever felt. I was caught up in a moment rife with emotion and drama. I rose to meet it. I searched my mind for the the most significant and terrible moments of my life. I did my best to view myself in the worst light possible. I also tried desperately to view life as fleeting and under constant threat.

I settled on a memory of a story that my father once told me. When I was two years old, he had taken me home and left me with my mother one day. As he left our apartment, his car was broadsided right where my car seat sat. Nevermind the fact that there was no scenario in which I could have been in the car, all I could think about is that I could have been in it. I thought to myself and shared with others around the circle that I could have been dead and bound for hell that day

This perilous vision of life paired with the enormous amount of sin I felt I had committed put me in a terrified place. Eternity felt horrific. I had no idea what I was signing up for by becoming “born again,” but I knew that no matter what it was, what it wasn’t was burning in hell for all of eternity.

I grabbed my camp counselor and tearfully told him of my near-death experience, my hopelessly terrible behavior as a human, and my need to be saved immediately. Jimmy prayed the prayer with me, asking God to live in my heart.

The next morning, everything felt different. I was happier, absolved. Still, something felt thin and flimsy about this new state of being. I went to breakfast where I was met with hugs and high fives. Our camp director let me know that my parents had already been informed that I had become a believer and they were proud. It struck me as odd that an event and relationship that felt very personal was being broadcast for me.

The high of becoming a believer probably lasted about as long as I remained at camp. I arrived home with the pressure of feeling that now I had to be different. My new life had to be a testimony to my parents and younger brothers. I needed to be changed, I needed to be “born again.” Apart from following the ten commandments, I had no blueprint for what this looked like. Additionally, I didn’t have an immediate motivation to behave differently, I had really asked God into my life to avoid the terrifying thought of hell.

A couple of years later, I would sit on the shore of a lake of that very same camp, watching my parents and one of my brothers get baptized while I refused to do the same. It wasn’t a moment of rebellion or bitterness. It was a rare clarity in the heart and mind of a teenager. I had spent enough time with the questionable commitment I made to be unsure as to whether I really meant it. I felt joy as I watched my family take a step I was yet unsure of.

I’m still not sure of what happened the intense evening I asked God to save me from hell. It’s possible I became a believer and it’s possible that was the moment I was indwelt by the Holy Spirit. I do know that it began years of a divided heart. Adolescence and young adulthood were a struggle of feeling I should follow a doctrine I didn’t really understand or necessarily want.

I’m still thankful to the people who brought me to that place. I’m thankful to Jimmy, who prayed with me. I’m thankful to our amazing camp director, Chet, who exuded the love of Christ to a bunch of clueless kids. I’m thankful to Josh, my Young Life leader who always stuck with me and held up a mirror showing me the best version of myself.

These men spent years fertilizing the soil of my soul for the day that I would finally meet Jesus face to face. After meeting Him, I have come away with a many truths, a few of which I would like to share:

First, following Him is about Him and now, it’s not about me and the future. Jesus says the kingdom is at hand. As his followers, we are called to spread little bits of shalom in every step we take after him. For all intents and purposes, a future heaven and hell have become irrelevant in my life.

Second, it is critical that we know what we are signing up for when we decided to follow Christ. Following Christ is about self-forgetfulness, not about ensuring our eternal well-being. What he calls us to is simultaneously much easier and much harder than following God’s law.

Third, we are incredibly broken and not only are we allowed to be, but we are expected to be. Jesus made me to be exactly who I am and he loves me exactly as he made me. I still feel that using massive amounts of profanity is the best way to express myself at times. I still let two drinks become six. I constantly think of myself more than others. This does not mean I should sin more so that grace can increase, but I believe that there is space for me to be a flawed me, that’s actually why I need Jesus in the first place.

I certainly need to work to align my heart closer and closer with God’s. However, increasing that alignment has absolutely no bearing on Jesus’ love for me. If I went on a tear of drug use, womanizing and hateful behavior, Jesus would love me no less. If I spent all my days in quiet reverence of Him, seeking unity, He would love me no more. So much internal conflict in my life over the years has been caused by the deep crevasse between who I am and who I think He expects me to be. All He expects me to be is me. The depth of His love for me is unfathomable and greater than any other love in the world. The same is true of His love for you.

Untitled

An ember glows

long dormant

A flicker

becomes constant

It brightens, barely perceptible

does it give warmth?

Atoms are drawn

The ethereal is magnetic

Knowledge

Mystery

An Explosion

An Inferno

Deep Calls

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Throughout several seasons of my life, I found what I believed to be compelling reasons to dislike Christmas. At one point, it was a lack of interest in the Christian faith. Another period, I hated how much it seemed Christmas had floated away from its origin. Still later, I was railing against consumerism (A justification that anyone who has witnessed my spending habits can identify as shaky at best). I look back and I pity Humbug Clint because Christmas is in a couple of words, Freaking Awesome.

I love Christmas so hard. It is the absolute best time of year. My heart and mind are overwhelmed by the amount of music produced for this holiday. If I'm feeling a little jaunty and campy, I'll throw on the Carpenters, nostalgic, Bing Crosby, reverent and expectant, Future of Forestry, if I just want to have a good time, Sufjan. No matter what emotions I'm experiencing in relation to Christmas, someone has written and recorded a beautiful song I can identify with.

I love the colors and lights. The way spaces we frequent transform, often with happiness and whimsy in mind, excites my senses. I love the slight downturn in temperature, especially back on the east coast. The smell of logs on fires permeating neighborhoods warms my heart. Even on the west coast where I am now, it's cool enough to justify cuddling up under a blanket on the couch with someone you love, or as the case will be for me this year, a bowl of pho. I've grown to love Christmas so much that I kind of dislike Thanksgiving because if we didn't have it, the Christmas season would likely start much earlier, like in many other countries.

The greatest thing about Christmas is the fact that the above listed qualities, along with many others, seem to point to one thing. We as a human race are all being captivated by something at one time. We come together to decorate, celebrate and fellowship because we all see something big is happening.

No, we didn't get the date right. Yes, consumerism has gotten in the way. Regardless, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus of Nazareth. There is no dilution or confusion that will ever change that.

I love Christmas more with each passing year because I love Jesus more each year. I am also growing increasingly confident that He was irrefutably awesome. Even if you don't believe in His miracles or that He was the Messiah, it is historical fact that there was a guy named Jesus roaming the countryside and being really kind and loving to people roughly 2000 years ago. People of nearly any background can agree that the wisdom He shared is extremely powerful and helpful in living life well. Even to Muslims, Jesus is a very important prophet.

In Speaking of Jesus, Carl Medearis illustrates the way many of us think of Christianity. Medearis urges us to take a piece of paper and put a dot in the middle - that dot is Jesus. He then asks us to put a whole bunch of other dots on the page. Those are people who aren't Jesus. He then asks us to draw a circle with the Jesus Dot at the center, with some of us included and some of us excluded. This view exemplifies our preoccupation with salvation and exclusion. We want to know who is in our out of Jesus' club and if we call ourselves Christians, we want desperately to know with some surety which side of the line we're on.

Medearis had another illustration about getting to know Jesus that I liked better. He urges us to erase the circle and draw little arrows on many of the dots, pointed toward Jesus. Medearis would argue that the circle and our relation to it are less important than that we are postured toward Jesus and trying to get closer to Him. Jesus was and is about building relationships now rather than making deals to inherit salvation later. I love this about Jesus, because I know that if my salvation were up to me keeping up my end of the bargain, I would be hopeless. I also love it, because I think following Jesus gives us glimpses of perfection and an opportunity to participate in it now, rather than waiting around for it.

It would seem that Christmas is the time of year that the most arrows are pointing toward Jesus, and feeling that is the true source of my joy at Christmas.

Advent starts today. Advent is a time of expectant waiting. It is a time spent in trembling in anticipation of Jesus glory and it's impact on the world. I'm the most excited I have ever been about Advent this year. I want to spend the next 26 days with my arrow squarely fixed toward Jesus and I'm hoping that my dot may ever so slightly shift closer to him during this time.

The only thing that excites me more about the next 26 days is that you might do the exact same thing. No matter who you are or what you believe, Jesus is incredible and I am sure that just knowing a little bit more about Him will make your life better.

If reading this does urge you to get to know Jesus a little bit better this year, please let me know what you learn. Chances are, I haven't learned it yet. I feel like I'm really just getting started. I guarantee that learning about Him through you will be the best gift I receive this year.

The Near Moleskine Catastrophe of 2014

I think I've always been a little sensitive (Read: super sensi and melodromatic). It's really not a quality that gives me a great sense of pride, but I'm doing my best to recover from this predisposition. As a man, being overly sensitive is much akin to being a huge fan of Grey's Anatomy or learning to cross-stitch at the beach with your cousins at the age of 12, in that it's not widely celebrated in our culture. It's kind of tough to admit publicly. I probably wouldn't be writing this post if I wasn't fairly sure that at this point, the secret is out (fast forward to :18) on one of my less desirable character traits.

Despite my desperate attempts to separate myself from my soap opera tendencies, they've taken a little more control in the past couple of years. Suffering losses makes life feel raw. Taking chances leaves you vulnerable. My losses and risks knocked me out cold for a little while. I was down and pretty unaware of the things going on above and around me.

Fortunately, I had some friends pick me up off the canvas and snap some smelling salts under my nose. I've been back in the fight. It's felt good to throw some punches, imagine success and believe I'm not alone. Something happens when you get knocked down, though. You get the taste of your own blood on your tongue. You feel the rough canvas against your face. You get a glimpse of what it would be like to suffocate as your breath leaves you entirely for a moment.

When you get up, you're woozy and painfully aware of your weaknesses and injuries. If you're smart, you learn from your mistakes and prepare better for the next onslaught. Regardless of what you learn, nothing but time can help you recover from the spacey detachment that results from that first big fall.

I feel I'm at that point in the fight right now. I've recovered and learned from some pretty rough mistakes. My coaches have taken a blade to my once-swollen eye and I can see again, even if my vision is still a little blurry. I'm gritting hard on my mouthpiece, ready to make a clear statement that I'm not going down in the next round. But I'm still woozy and one solid, well-placed blow could easily put me on the mat again. This is how a misplaced notebook pretty much destroyed my psyche for roughly 48 hours.

About six months ago I got robbed. The details aren't worth hashing out, but the items I was relieved of had a vicious combination of monetary and sentimental value. There was a large amount of cash, a laptop containing work and pictures from a once-in-a-lifetime trip that were never backed up. It was, in a word, lame. One of the items stolen was my Moleskine.

For those of you who aren't hipsters and don't fancy your thoughts more significant than everyone else's, I'll explain what a Moleskine is. It is a notebook. Really, that's it. It's a notebook with a thin leather cover and a ribbon to mark your page, much like many other notebooks. What differentiates a Moleskine is its heritage. Great thinkers, writers and artists such as Jean Paul Sartre, Ernest Hemingway and Vincent Van Gogh carried Moleskines. In carrying one, nearly every one of us deludes himself/herself into believing that one day we will record something as significant as the works of the aforementioned greats in our $20 notebook. Who knows? Maybe we already have, and the world just needs to stop being so lazy and discover our wondrous brilliance.

This is what was taken from me six months ago. In the interest of full disclosure, I don't just love my Moleskine because it makes me feel smarter than I am, it's also at the core of my organization. I take notes in it daily, both for work and my personal life. It's filled with to do lists, strategic plans, deeply valued thoughts, ideas and sketches. As I get older, my brain is an increasingly rapidly shaking sieve. Every thought I have is roughly two seconds away from being erased from existence. I need my Moleskine. When this first Moleskine was stolen, I felt the sting of a deep loss. I learned how much I valued it.

Fast forward to Sunday evening. I had a really fun time running all over the Bay Area with my Dad during the preceding four days. We saw Yosemite, SF, Oakland, drank excellent coffee, went mountain biking, ate and drank at Lagunitas and Brown Sugar Kitchen and created a deep bond with the bar manager at Lost & Found, a local beer garden. The only problem with this amazing time was that it completely threw me out of my daily habits, which is a major issue cuz the brain sieve thing. On Sunday evening, I was trying to get some work done when I realized I hadn't seen my Moleskine in days. Thus began a 48 hour downward spiral of hatred and self-loathing. I knew exactly how valuable this little notebook was to me, after having to part with one recently. If I couldn't handle a responsibility as small as keeping track of this item I have deemed incredibly important in my life, what could I handle? I had ONE job! And perhaps the worst part of the whole situation was feeling as if I was floating above my spiraling self, knowing that in the grand cosmic scheme, this notebook was pretty meaningless. I screamed at myself to go on with my days like a normal person, but both of my ethereal selves were apparently powerless to act. Now I could hate two of me for our irresponsibility and inaction. I am not a great multitasker (see above: brain sieve), but while I used most of my will to resist punching everything in sight, I was able to compile a list of responsibilities I would never be able to handle because I lost my Moleskine:

1. Succeeding at my job
2. Succeeding at any other job for the rest of my life
3. Meeting and caring for a woman
4. Marriage
5. Children
6. Really being trusted to take care of anything, ever, at all
7. Cactii

I referenced a boxing match earlier. If you've seen Fight Club, you can recall the unforgettable moment when Edward Norton beats himself to a pulp in his supervisor's office. As you remember it, you are creating a pretty accurate image of what was going on in my brain and my apartment for 48 hours. 

Over a notebook.

With the exception of actions required by basic survival instinct, I completely shut down as a functioning human being for two days. Because I lost a notebook. To some of you, this likely sounds absolutely nuttier than squirrel turds. On the other hand, I'm sure there are a few people who can relate to this. The struggle is real, as they say.

We let so many things define us. Our successes, our failures, our jobs and our relationships are just a few of the many external things we allow to dictate to us who we are. When we are emotionally and spiritually at our healthiest and happiest, everything we've done and own matters to us less. It becomes easier to say, I am not my career, I am not the things I own. It's the days when life is harder that we begin to grasp on to anything we can use as evidence that we are worthy. It's the slightly harder days that we look to our perceived failures because we are so disappointed in ourselves we actually want evidence of our unworthiness. 

Giving a pat solution to this degree of disappointment and self-sabotage feels a little contrived and forced, given that I'm still amidst a hangover from two days tail spinning over a notebook. I will say this: every single moment we have is an opportunity. One moment may be an opportunity to serve, one may be an opportunity to listen. One may be an opportunity to prove that although you lost a prized possession, you are capable of contributing to society in a meaningful way. Behind the ability to make the most of each moment is the confidence that no matter what happens, you can make the best choice possible, you can press on, you can be, as my mother used to say, a duck back. But even if you can't there are still a lot of people and a God who loves you. Maybe that actually matters a lot more than anything you'll ever do.

And you never know, maybe your roommate will find your Moleskine under the front seat of his car.

There is Unspeakable Beauty

"It's hard to notice gleaming from the sky when you're staring at the cracks."

- A band I will no longer publicly cop to having lyrical knowledge of

Every now and then, I find myself perusing old posts I have written. I do this because when I spend time away, I miss writing. I also wonder if people miss my writing. I go back to find justification to write again. Sometimes I find completely pedestrian thoughts and structure, so I put writing off further. Other times, I find something that makes me feel proud or prompted. Every now and then that thing is a line from a band I won't publicly name, provided by a friend. Today those words are confirmation that in recent months, I've spent far too much time looking down.

I fall in love with words. Embarrassingly, they are oftentimes my own. Increasingly, I'm coming to acceptance with this phenomenon. When some bit of encouragement or wisdom creeps it's way into my head and makes a home there, I like to think of it as a gift. I don't consider it my own creation. I reason that if it was totally worthless, I would hopefully throw it out. Thus, I am left with this phrase, idea or theme stuck in my head, believing that I should both embrace and share it.

On Friday Morning, I left Oakland for a backpacking trip in the Hoover Wilderness just north of Yosemite. I left with excitement and trepidation, as I committed to spending 96 hours with a friend I respect and anticipate learning a great deal from, but actually know very little of. It can be a little overwhelming trying to figure out how to fill (and not fill) 96 hours of silence with someone you barely know. I also felt exhausted and overwhelmed, with two weeks of travel in my rearview, jetlag dominating my body and an important meeting on the horizon. We didn't get hiking till three o'clock. With 7.5 miles to cover and packs weighing around forty pounds, I felt a bit discouraged. As the hike went on, our conversation found it's pace, but my feet didn't quite do the same. I was exhausted and felt beaten. As often seems to be the case, the last leg of our first day was a long, uphill pull. As my final defeat loomed, the lake where we would camp appeared below us, highlighted by the setting sun. I took in the colors and the shapes and felt my eyes begin to water. We set up camp and listened to silence and the wind rustling the trees and water. We stargazed. I laid with my back on a rock curved perfectly to fit me. I appreciated the moment and dreamed of what the future might look like. I heard a whisper I couldn't make out.



Our time went on. We saw more beautiful lakes, we invited each other into our lives. We shared and affirmed. Despite not having service, I habitually checked my email. I found a message from before our departure confirming a partnership between HOPE and a church I had been working on. I was blown away by generosity. We camped by a river, we sipped bourbon, I watched shooting stars flare. I experienced the undeniable knowledge that God is all powerful and loves us, a knowledge I most strongly understand in nature. In the silence, I heard the whisper again, audible, but still not comprehensible.

We returned home. I had an encouraging meeting with a group of people who are in love with HOPE and excited to see what we can do in the Bay Area. I hopped on my motorcycle, now my sole means of transportation, to work and visit with more friends I had not seen in awhile. I avoided a very close call and came out unscathed. I got encouragement, I did crossfit with some amazing people (I know). We worked hard and sweated together. I shared foodtruck dinner with a great friend, whom I had been missing, along with his family. I hopped on my bike and rode home. As I crossed one of the amazing bridges spanning the San Francisco Bay, I looked over my left shoulder to see the sun set. Over the wind in my helmet and the musical roar of my engine, I heard it unmistakably. People are loving, understanding and generous. The earth is beautiful. The world has so much to offer. You have so much to be thankful for.

There is Unspeakable Beauty.

Now go live in it.