To be forgiven

To me at least, it’s not a question of how we ought to forgive; there are endless ways to forgive. There are more ways to forgive than there are reasons- Soft and beautiful poetic ways- Loving melodic and uplifting ways- Simple ways- Even silent ways. No, how we forgive is not our challenge. Our challenge is in the question, ‘Why would anyone accept our forgiveness?’

It’s as though a violent quake has torn the ground open between two persons and so a bridge is built by one of them. But will the other person cross? Well, why would they? I have forgiven many, extending many bridges. I have built bridges with letters, with gifts, and with poems. I have built bridges with slight smiles, gentle whispers and compassion. I’ve built bridges upon bridges on top of one another. All in hope and in prayer that the person who I’ve been separated from will finally accept and trust and cross and let us be rejoined again. Yet no one comes. Why? Because I am prideful and a fool and I have misunderstood forgiveness.


Watch as I stand at this side of life, waiting, for those I’ve forgiven to come. Stand with me here in my self-reliance staring into the distance, wondering, “When will they see that I’ve let go of their attacks and allowed them to love me again?” as though they were waiting for my permission.


The truth is that I have the need to forgive, not that they have the need to receive it. I have the need to forgive because they are those who I most need to love.


Yes, a tear has happened which I must mend. A bridge must be built, a dozen bridges by my own hands. Then I myself must run. I must cross that connection. I must race at a full sprint rushing to the one I’m separated from. To embrace them, to kiss them, to lift their wrists to my own sides and hold their arms around me. This, to me, is forgiveness- to run and lift up and hold the person who’s hurt me until my strength finally gives and I collapse at their feet.


When (even if in the silence of their bewilderment at me) I am able to say to them, “I’m sorry. I’ve been hurt. In my pride, I’ve allowed myself to think I deserved your love and your friendship. I am not deserving of it, I am blessed by it. And I am blessed to be allowed to love you in return. Please let me set down this pain between us and love you once again.”

Somnambulist

Has anyone ever told you to be careful when waking a sleepwalker? Urban myth says it can send them into cardiac arrest. I did some sleepwalking as a kid. And if you've never had the experience then let me tell you- Being woken up in a strange place is weird but, then realizing you walked your own self there is terrifying.


You might flicker your eyes open in wonder trying to understand where you are but then you start to see vague and unfamiliar shapes in the darkness and you start to cry. Your first thought is something like, “Did I hurt myself?”


And that’s what the first days of sobriety can be like too. After a week or so of not poisoning your body, your mind starts to clear and a sort of dream-like haze lifts.


Then you start seeing glimpses of what your true reality is and you realize, “This is not the place I thought I was.”


You’re a lot older now. You look awful. Your life is full with debt, shame, and dead-ends. Then you get to check your body for scars.


It’s too much for some people. I’ve watched friends waking up from their old life become so overwhelmed that their first sober act is to try to kill themselves. And honestly, what’d you expect?


This reality is heartless. It’s a world so fueled by self-preservation that everyone has already moved a lifetime ahead of you. So now you don’t just feel like your starting over; you feel like you’re starting from years behind.


And that’s why I say, don’t expect me to slap on a suit and a smile. I’m not ready to seize life as though the last 20 years of self-mutilation never happened.


No, addiction recovery isn’t that feel good fairytale with a plot that turns on a kiss as trumpets sound and everyone cheers. This is a lot more like waking a sleepwalker who then buries their face in their hands and sobs.


So if you’re an addict or know an addict or for whatever reason are feeling the same way, don’t be so anxious to jump into the normal life of those you see on the sidewalk with you. Yeah, their lives do look better than yours. Frankly, yours looks like a train wreck and that’s ok.


Just focus on getting to a safe place. Somewhere quiet and somewhat calm where you can slowly get used to being awake.


Blessings…

Root to the Fruit

A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. –John Muir




“I don’t trust nobody,” he smiled and said as he pulled a fist size roll of cash from his pocket and audaciously began peeling through its bills looking for something smaller than a 20. And the bony, teenage counter clerk at the overnight gas station just stared almost trembling in envy at the wad of what must be ten of his paychecks while holding out my friends’ pack of Newports. And without fully understanding the truth in its meaning I laughed back while mocking them both and answered, “Dishonest people usually don’t.”


Now years later I was reminded of that saying as a friend and I talked about how a person’s insecurity always seems to reveal their guilt. For instance, the excessively jealous spouse is usually the one most likely to have an affair.


And if you haven’t read it in awhile, check out Edgar Allen Poe’s very short story The Tell-Tale Heart- where the author tries dealing with the guilt of killing an old man while being questioned by the police: “The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness - until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.”


It’s this subject of who we truly are in the center of our hearts and how it affects who we are as people in action that I’m writing about here. In my lingo I call it “Root to the Fruit” and it comes from scripture: “For no good tree bears bad fruit, nor again does a bad tree bear good fruit, for each tree is known by its own fruit. For figs are not gathered from thorn bushes, nor are grapes picked from a bramble bush. The good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil.” -Luke 6:43-45


While I first sobered up I continually asked God to change my whole life. I was almost suicidally sick of the person I had become. My morals were slippery with desperation. My sense of humor was jaded and perverted. My amusement was morbid and vengeful and in general, I just felt like I had become a parasite. Like someone who just feeds on the scraps of others while complaining and giving nothing back.


I shared this with my friend the other night by saying, “I don’t know if drinking made me the way I was or if I drank to deal with knowing I was that way.”


In either case, if I was going to live sober at all I needed to change. I wanted to be cheerful. I wanted to be trusting and trustworthy. I wanted to be giving and helpful. I wanted to be loving. In short, I wanted to be a shiny new person without any of the old scratches or scars. And it was during this time I came across 1 Corinthians 13:4-7: “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”


And in my simple self-controlling mind I thought, well there it is right there! It’s a list of how to be. So I went out that day and bought a small notebook and wrote a few words in red marker on each page- John is Patient. John is Kind. John does not Envy. John does not Boast. ect…


I then read the pages over a few times trying to get them to sink in a little until I finally put the thin notebook in my back pocket, armed and ready, as I headed out the door. Well it didn’t work. No matter how many times throughout that week I read those pages in anger, in frustration and in jealousy I was still not at all patient, kind or any of those things.


At best as they say in AA, I was “white-knuckling it” with a stubborn silence while burying my resentment even further inside me.


But you see, I was thinking backward. I was thinking that if I changed the way I acted then my heart would eventually follow and change the person I was. And that’s kinda like a pine tree trying to produce apples thinking that if it could just force out a few then it’ll turn into an apple tree.


Luckily God didn’t give up but instead led me back into scripture. And through his counsel I eventually began to learn that the whole process of accepting Christ is not the same as working out to a P90X video. Christ doesn’t just show you all the ways you should live and then say, “Now get out there and be healthy!”


No, accepting Christ means allowing his spirit to enter inside you. It’s as though your heart gets an entirely new captain who changes course to steer you out of the darkness toward light. And my job is not to force change by grabbing the wheel but to let go and submit myself to be changed.


Here’s how that looks on a daily level- I start in prayer by thanking Jesus for being present with me. I talk to him plainly as my emotions rise and fall throughout the day. When I’m at all overwhelmed I stop what I’m doing, find a quiet place and verbally hand the whole situation over to him saying, “Lord, I need you to lead me through this.”


In return, God leads me by speaking to me through my heart. Sometimes it’s as simple as a feeling that says, “Hey that’s a good thing, I should go do that.” Or, “Hey that’s wrong and I should apologize for doing that.” And week by week my heart leads my actions further from the old ways of desperation and perversion and into a new way that’s more like the Love I read about in 1 Corinthians.


And I’ll be the first to admit it’s a slow process. In a biblical way, it’s purposely meant to take my whole life. But just as in the analogy of a tree, I am slowly growing- I’m learning to sink my roots deep into prayer and faith instead of my own unpredictable self. And surprisingly enough, every once in awhile someone might even come up and say, “Hey, thanks for being kind.” (which always blows my sinful mind)


Think of Psalm 1:1-4
Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers;
but his delight is in the law of the LORD, and on his law he meditates day and night.
He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season,
and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.
The wicked are not so, but are like chaff that the wind drives away.


And also Colossians 2:6
“Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him, rooted and built up in him…”


Blessings...

Faith: Through Shame

What would you say to someone so wrecked with shame they couldn’t face themselves? Anyone ever been with someone who’s at that point in their lives? Anybody ever been that person?


Anyone ever wake up hung-over in a motel bed with someone you don’t remember meeting the night before? Anyone ever stolen something from a loved one? You ever been or caused someone to go through an abortion? Anyone ever hit someone you knew couldn’t hit back?


As just one example I’ll share this with you- I had been steadily spiraling downward for months. I had dropped out of college during a 4.0 semester because I just couldn’t get to class sober anymore. I had stopped showing up for work to a federal government job that took me almost a year of applications, interviews, and screenings to get. My girlfriend had moved out taking her two kids with her. My bank account was closed with a negative balance in the hundreds. And my daily life had become little more than a slow burn. Usually by around noon on Monday you could find me tripping drunkenly through the alleys behind dive bars, combing the dirt and busted asphalt for cigarette butts and fallen change.


And it’s not that I had “lost it all”. We sometimes get that romantic image of the handsome Prince Hamlet that’s fallen into an almost gothic melancholy from being unable to cope in an unjust world- but that wasn’t me. In fact I hadn’t lost anything. Not one thing had been unjustly taken away from me. No, I had nothing because in my own shame, I had given up and given it all away.


Because the list from the beginning of this essay would be just the tip of the iceberg for the things I’ve done. And now I was at the point in my own life when I just couldn’t justify them anymore. I was standing face-to-face with my own true identity and I couldn’t bare to open my eyes. I was a drunk, a thief, a liar, an adulterer, an abuser, and in my desperation so much more.


In fact, the last thing I owned in my name was a small collection of pistols. And with each day I was getting closer to justifying using one of them on myself. But in a cowardly act instead, I had begun selling them one-by-one for cash to buy gallon jugs of Jim Beam so I could sit by a back alley fire pit at night burning broken pallets while drinking until I’d pass out.


This was the living image of my shame. This was the point in my own life when I could no longer face myself. I couldn’t find a reason to take a shower, to brush my hair or even eat. My race was over, I had lost.


And sitting comfortably now in my cozy kitchen with a cup of hot tea in my hands while typing this I’d love to turn the whole story over into one magical night when I prayed into a beaming light of spiritual victory and my whole life was saved! But that’d just be another lie.


In fact, it was almost another three whole years of this type of living before my life would stop falling and only because I’d finally hit rock bottom, handcuffed in a county booking cell. But rest assured, this is a story about faith. In fact it’s a story about a faith that sprung up like a seedling through that shame.


In one of my favorite lines in the gospel, when the disciple Peter first recognized Jesus for who he was- he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” Luke 5:8 And I guess I just like that Peter said that to Jesus as though Jesus didn’t already know. Because that’s exactly how I’ve felt for so many years. Alone, night after night from days I had spent doing terrible, sinful things.


And no matter how bad my life was getting I didn’t dare to pick up a bible or to pray or even linger too long thinking about God because I was afraid I might actually draw his attention and then be in serious trouble!


The only thing I ever had to say to God was a shameful, “I’m no good, God. Just leave me here... I’m not worth your time.”


There was another time when Jesus was at this guys house for dinner and a prostitute came bursting in being filled with that same shame just like me and Peter, but she did this- “weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head and kissed his feet and anointed them with the ointment.” Luke 7:38 But the guy who had invited Jesus over for dinner thought to himself- “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner.” –Luke 7:39


Honestly, I think shame is the devil’s favorite tool. He just loves to pour shame over us. And he also loves getting us to be self-righteously ashamed of others. I hear him all the time when I think about myself and that little voice says, “How could you have done that? You’re a horrible person.” Or on the rare occasion (which does happen) that someone passes by me and quickly turns away knowing, “That’s John, the alcoholic.”


Yeah, shame is the greatest way for the devil to get us to do his work for him. Because if he can get us to feel ashamed of ourselves then, we’ll slowly and systematically destroy our own lives without his help. In fact, Satan will probably never send someone to blow your brains out. He’ll just give you the gun and a list of reasons.


So what happens when we are in our worst shame? What do we tell ourselves? What do we tell our friends?


Lets go back and see what happened with the prostitute- And Jesus said (answering the man), “Simon, I have something to say to you.” And he answered, “Say it, Teacher.” “A certain moneylender had two debtors. One owed five hundred dollars, and the other fifty. When they could not pay, he cancelled the debt of both. Now which of them will love him more?” Simon answered, “The one, I suppose, for whom he cancelled the larger debt.” And he said to him, “You have judged rightly.” Then turning toward the woman he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven—for she loved much. But he, who is forgiven little, loves little.” -Luke 7:38-47


So there you go. Bigger the sinner you are, better the savior he is. That’s why people in the midst of successful lives have a hardest time coming to terms with faith while those like us who live with massive guilt or shame can have fairly strong faith.


Think of two people standing in a Wal-Mart parking lot reading a bumper sticker that says- Jesus Saves. As one person climbs into their nearby car they might say, “What do I need saving from?” While the other who looks at his paper bag of booze as he staggers away says, “But can he save me from myself?”


In the deepest, darkest place in my own heart when I doubt everything and begin looking for just enough rope to hang myself with, I’ve pinned this simple scripture to keep me calm and breathing. And there have been times when I’ve had to lay down and repeat this over and over until I’ve fallen asleep but, it does work and I pray that it helps you too- “Be still, and know that I am God.” -Psalm 46:10

Me?

Me? I still look at my own life with a pessimistic fear. Because my identity has always and naturally been in myself. And ‘myself’ has many weaknesses, many needs, and all too many failures.


And even though I can believe I’m called on a journey I’m still nervous and uncertain to move. Because I cannot see the path and am in fear of losing my present place.


And please stop preaching to me about Heaven; because it’s not enough for me to prepare for this journey by putting my hope in the destination. It’s not enough to believe that by my New Identity, namely the Holy Spirit of God within me; I am being led through this wilderness to that destination.


Even-so-far as knowing that every temporal thing I stand in fear of losing actually serves no greater purpose than to guide me like sign posts into that place- it’s still not enough to unchain me from them! Why!?!


Because I need the cross... I need to die on that cross.


‘To be crucified with Christ so it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me. So that the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me…, who gave himself for me.’ (Gal 2:20)


Truthfully, don’t expect me or anyone else to leave all they know because you told them about a place called Heaven. I don’t need Heaven- I need Jesus.


And it’s only while standing, wrapped and embraced in the arms of Jesus that I can have the strength and the courage and the meaning to look to this entire world with everything in it and with tears in my eyes scream out, “When did you humble yourself for me!? When did you suffer on my behalf!? When did you ever promise to give me new life!? When did you ever intercede in MY trial so that I could be seen innocent, pure, and blameless? When did even the smallest part of you die so I might live?”


Yeah, I still look at my own life with pessimistic fear. Because I’m not in heaven, not yet. But I will nail this earthly life to the cross tonight and every night with him who hangs there with me. And with my last feeble plea of repentance let every cold, steel link to the chain of sin this world has wrapped me in from birth shatter and fall from my broken body. So that as I wake each morning I might have just enough hope to pray that I am risen in Him who was raised before me.


No, don’t talk to me about any journey though. Don’t talk to me about my destiny. Don’t talk to me about me at all… Just give me Jesus.


"Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith—that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead." -Philippians 3:8-11

Junkyard Faith

Most of you have heard the saying, "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog." I can easily testify to that! Let me give you an example from my own life:


Nightclubs always like to start new bouncers off on busy nights, usually Friday or Saturday. It’s sort of a trial-by-fire attitude. And I think it was a Friday that I found my young-self on my first night at a Deja Vu Gentleman's Club. Dressed in black slacks and an over-sized wrinkled white dress shirt (which they’d let me borrow) as I was being 'shown the ropes' of strip club bouncing.


I had done some teenage dance club stuff over the previous year but I was still so very naïve and never even been into a place like this. This place was simply, a Porn Palace- brass mirrored high-rise ceilings reflecting swirling and strobing lights across two floors with 3 stages. Over 100 nude dancers in clear stilettos prowling like purring cats in every dark corner of a spiraling complex that could easily hold a thousand drunk and shouting lust-enraged men. And this place was packed! I could hardly see across the bass-pounding, smoke-filled room.


And I guess it was around midnight when the very large, well dressed and dangerously acute manager of the club approached me. And with complete control while staring intently down at his clipboard of girls names he took the cigar from his mouth and said in a deep and commanding voice, “There’s two guys on a VIP couch over by the DJ booth. They can’t sit there. Tell them to move.”


And in my own young, tall, twitchy, and over-caffeinated way I shouted back, “Yes Sir!” and headed to the couch area. Once there I rolled my shoulders back, put on a smile and said with all politeness something to the effect of, “Hey guys, can I help you find a different seat?” when one of them sharply interrupted me saying, “No A**hole, you can find us a couple b*tches to come party with us.”


I wasn’t ready for this. I was almost frozen by it. I was use to teenagers with glitter and small backpacks who listened to ABBA played at high-speed as they danced through a dozen overpriced bottles of water. This was something totally different. These guys looked like Marines straight from boot camp who couldn't wait to get deployed anywhere violent.


Frankly, I was scared. But I wasn’t going to tuck and run that easily so I tried again by smiling nervously and saying, “I’m sorry guys, I was just sent to tell you that you can’t sit here.” And you’d think by the expression that suddenly came over both their faces as they turned to stare directly through me that I’d just told these guys I’d ran over their mother.


A bloodshot rage lit up in their eyes that started my whole body shaking as the larger of the two muscle-pulsing men sat up rigidly and slid to the edge of the couch and challengingly said, “Why don’t you go ahead and move us then.”


I could tell right away these guys were ready to brawl and that’s the last thing I wanted. So now being completely off guard and trembling like a leaf I went back to the manager and started to explain by saying, “Sir, I think we have a problem…” But he cut me off too and shouted, “No pencil-neck, we don’t have a problem! You have a problem! Get those two guys outta my club or you can get out of my club and never come back!” Then he plugged the cigar back into his mouth and continued writing on his clipboard as though I wasn’t even there.


I had to make a decision. How bad did I need this job? How much was this job worth to me? I knew I was flat broke and starving. I was new to town and had spent the last month sleeping on the floor of a friend’s basement apartment. In fact, I had to walk almost 5 miles just to get there that night and would have to walk the same 5 miles back at whatever late hour I got off. I’m not even sure if I had eaten anything other than a couple sugar packets from the bar. No, there was no other option. I needed this job bad.


So with a mocking smile and an screw-it attitude I said back to the manager, “Oh I know its my problem. I was just letting you know so when you see chairs and tables flying out of that area, you wouldn’t worry cause that’s just me laying down the law!” To which he chucked a little then soberly said, “Get going Sherriff.”


I turned on my heal and walked back toward the couches. Then stopping to think clearly at the last minute I ducked into the nearby glass DJ both. The DJ had met me earlier and wasn’t impressed by my puny size so now he hardly bothered to look at me as he went on digging through his collection of CD’s. I didn’t look at him either as I took off my clip-on tie and started unbuttoning my dress shirt. Then as I pulled the shirt off my shoulders and began folding it neatly the DJ finally glanced over with an annoyed expression and said, "What are you doing?"


And with my voice trembling as I laid the folded shirt down I said with all honesty, "I might not win this fight and I can't afford to pay for this shirt after I've bled all over it." Then without looking back, I walked out of the booth and toward the two men.


They’d both been laughing with one another thinking I had given up when one nudged the other and pointed to me now standing in front of them with trembling spaghetti arms in my pit-stained tank-top. I clenched both hands into the tightest fists I could make and quickly said, “You want to do this one at a time or all together?”


Now, the look on their faces was priceless; just complete bewilderment. For almost whole minute they just stared in silence at this pathetic, boney kid standing like a prisoner before a firing squad ready to go down swinging at the bullets. Then they looked at each other and began laughing. Suddenly one of them bolted to his feet quicker than I could blink and with his nose almost pressed into mine as he breathed on my face he said, “We were just leaving anyway.”


Then they both stared coldly at me as they slowly grabbed their coats. And as they passed by, the second one gave me a shove with one hand that sent me tumbling completely back over their table as the two of them laughed again and left for the night.


Now gathering myself together as quickly as I could and cleaning up the ashtrays and glasses I had knocked over, I went back over to the manager to see if I still had a job. The manager stared at me with the same bewildered expression those two guys had. “There gone sir” I reported with eyes wide open in my own shock. Finally his eyes dropped back down to his clipboard as he sighed and said “So what, get back to work.” “Yes sir” I answered.


And as I turned back toward the DJ booth the Manager yelled out one last time, “Hey Poindexter! Only girls get naked here. Got it?” “Yes sir” I said again with a little smile as I hurried to get dressed and keep working.


So my point is this- The fight in the dog can definitely determine the outcome. But not always the way you might think. To me at least, it really comes down to the hunger. How hungry is this dog? Is he starving? Is he small and wasted to nothing? Just thin skin and sharp bones as his fragile frame prowls whichever junkyard he’s in? Is he cold and wirery? Would he attack something twice his size just for one chance to sink his teeth into anything warm?


Because to me that’s how we need to live. If we hope to get through this life without surrendering into some self-induce overly sedated coma of existence, we’re going to need to start letting ourselves starve a little. Let’s test our faith to get the flavor back. Get out of our emotional comfort zones. Stretch our goals, take our chances. Let’s get a little desperate and even delirious with a passion that makes you sweat.


Because we should always get a little twitchy about where our hearts lead us. About what we love- What we need. Not resting in what we have. Not settling for what we get. But like when we were young, alone, cold, and starving- Let’s all get back to that stripped down, bare-boned, junkyard faith that’s always willing to fight as though our next meal depended on the outcome.


To me at least, for all its outward flaws that’s still a life worth living.



"For if anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself. But let each one test his own work, and then his reason to boast will be in himself alone and not in his neighbor. For each will have to bear his own load."
-Galatians 6:3-5

Meaning Makers

These are just some notes and quotes from a book I’m studying called, How People Change by Timothy Lane and Paul Trip: In chapter 3 the author teaches us that we are “meaning makers”, unconsciously but incessantly. We never stop trying to figure life out.


Whether we suffer, strive, achieve, or relax, we continually ask ourselves, What is the point? What does it all mean? And here is the important part: the answers we give ourselves, the meanings we give to our thoughts, circumstances, relationships, and actions, move us in specific directions.


It’s as though we are trying to re-write the script in the middle of our own life stories so that we can make sense of what’s going on. Because instinctively, we sense that things are not the way God designed them. And ultimately we convince ourselves that a change needs to take place.


But shouldn’t we first consider that God is already working? And that our current circumstances are intentionally placed here by God’s hand? Not for our purpose of changing them, but in God’s plan to change us. Essentially, that we all spend too much of our lives trying to change the outside circumstances which God has intentionally allowed in order to cause change and growth in our own hearts.


This helps me to understand what Paul says in Philippians 1:6, “That he (God) who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Jesus Christ.”


Because the author then goes on to say, “No matter what you face today, you can be encouraged that God’s good work continues in your life, even when you don’t see it. God continues his work right in the middle of that tough situation at work, or with your teenager, or that battle with your weight, or your struggle with discouragement. God moves you forward as you submit yourself to him.”


So we can all rest in the presence of Jesus as we say to ourselves, “He is working right now to complete what he started in me.”


And as for me, I have to remind myself that growth in God’s grace is a process, not an event. That, “The Christian life is a journey that often takes us through the wilderness. You will get tired and confused. You will have moments when you wonder where God is. You will struggle to see God’s promises at work in your life. You will feel that following God has brought you more suffering than blessing. Sometimes it just seems as though the wrong side wins.” But I don’t have to figure everything out as its happening.


We are indeed “meaning makers” by nature; so then let us find meaning in our trust for the One who does understand, and who knows exactly what he is doing.


It’s as simple as- not needing to know. I don’t need to understand. I don’t need to make or re-make grandiose plans for myself. What I need is to believe in God’s plan for me. To know that God knows what he’s doing and let that be enough for me. To understand that God understands me better than even I understand myself.


And God, who is a loving father, leads me; being taught, nurtured, and raised by the path he’s set me on.


Blessings…

The Party

At some point you get invited to a party at someone else’s house. And never really being popular or even feeling apart of anything, you feel pretty excited about going.


You arrive and there’s already some familiar faces there including the person who invited you.


There’s a stereo in the corner playing some music. There’s a couple people telling jokes and some games going on. Within a few minutes someone hands you a beer and you start to meet the others.


The alcohol helps you open up and by your second beer you’re getting relaxed, listening to stories and settling in.


The room is filling up now as more people arrive. People carrying in cases of beer and cardboard boxes full with bottles of liquor. Mixed drinks start getting passed around. Someone hands you a cocktail on ice in a red plastic cup. It’s stronger than you’re use to but tastes alright so you drink it to be polite.


Now the people are getting louder so someone turns up the music to drown out their voices. Most of the lights start turning down till there’s nothing but a thumping base in a neon glow and a cloud of cigarette smoke.


The mixed drinks are kicking in and your guard is beginning to lower so now like everyone else you’re dancing a little and having a pretty good time.


And while on the side taking a break someone passes you a joint or offers a pill or whatever; it’s all a part of the atmosphere so you smoke a little and pass it on, maybe take a pill.


Another hour slips by and you’re really having fun now as even more people show up. Good looking people. They’re dancing with you, flirting with you. And for the first time in your life your self-confidence really starts to grow!


But even with all the fun you’re not use to being out this late and you’re body’s already starting to get tired. But you don’t want to leave so you start looking for another pill or something more to smoke to keep you going. You start wandering from group to group till someone finally offers you a line.


So now you’re pretty drunk, a little high, you’ve taken a couple pills but still feel in control so just to be cautious you only accept half the line they give you and, POW! You’re on top of the world! Suddenly, everyone’s your friend. Everything you say is funny. You can talk to anyone, flirt with anyone, dance with anyone. You feel great, you look great, and everyone loves you!


And with all this new excitement you want to wander around the house even more; see what other great things there are. And why not? Everything so far just keeps getting better and better!


So with a fresh drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other you start wandering upstairs where there’s even cooler lighting, more smoke, and better music as you feel your way down the long hall with doors on each side.


And you almost fall in as you open the first door then suddenly straighten to your feet again as you see two people having sex on the bed. And you think, “Wow, that’s wild! Just two people going at it in someone else’s house! Oh well, that’s cool for them but that’s not me.” So you laugh as you apologize for interrupting but they don’t even seem to notice you as you slowly close the door.


Further down the hall you open a second door and see a woman who’s changing a baby’s diaper. The baby’s crying as babies normally do and the woman picks up a joint from the ashtray and offers you a hit. But the whole scene seems just a little out of place as you think, “There shouldn’t be a baby here. But, it’s not my baby. And at least her mothers taking care of it.” So you close the door and keep exploring.


The third room is a tornado of blue and red lights swirling around as you see a couple guys dressed like cops handcuffing a third guy you remember meeting downstairs. And one cop looks at you and smiles and say’s, “He’s going away!” You laugh thinking it’s all a joke and say, “For how long?” And the cop laughs back saying, “30 years!” But you just roll your eyes and think, “30 years, yeah right. Just for partying.”


Then suddenly a fight breaks out pulling you back into the hallway as you get slammed and rolled along the wall. But then just as quick as they came the rowdy group barrels past and you’re left with a shoulder that feels twisted and a little messed up as you straighten your shirt. But you’re alright, even a little numb, as you come to the fourth door and swing it open.


Here you see a guy lain motionless on the floor in the center of the room. There’s another guy kneeling over him with a stressed look on his face saying, “I don’t know what happened, it’s the same stuff I’m on.” And over the burnt and booze stained carpet beside them both you see that someone dropped a needle and a bent-up spoon.


So now the alcohol and weed and pills and powder are all mixing together. And you’re having trouble distinguishing the reality from the hallucinations. So you decide to go find the person who invited you for some stability.


Back downstairs you find your friend and yell out over the music, “Hey, we gotta go. There’s like cops and sex and fights and I think someone’s sick or something…” But your friend whose still smoking and drinking and snorting and laughing says, “Don’t worry about all that! That’ll fix itself. Besides that’s just them; you’re you! You’re better than that!”


And when your friend turns in the flashing lights you focus a little and can see their cheeks are sunken in. Their nose has a little blood coming from it and there’s a weird sort of scab on their forehead. And as you stand there just staring at them wondering what happened, you notice you’re rubbing your own sore shoulder. You lift your sleeve and check it for bruises but you freeze when instead you see a scab of your own starting to peel.


Now you’re realizing you don’t just need to leave this party, you need to escape this party.


And now the music is its loudest as more and more people keep crowding in. The room is packed and your vision is getting blurry. And your thoughts are getting fuzzy. You can’t remember which direction is out. You panic looking around and around while sliding along the walls, opening any door you find. But everything just leads to more smoke, more crowds.


And now everyone seems to be having sex in every corner. Fights are breaking out on the dance floor. People are passing out on the couches and going into seizures. It’s a complete nightmare and everyone’s a stranger. And you can’t remember when you first got there but it almost feels like its been weeks or even years. It’s really all just spiraling together now.


Suddenly a quick flash of white light catches your eye from a ways away. You spin toward where it came to try to find it again. It’s a window. So you fight through the crowd pushing and elbowing till you’re at its sill. And as you wipe away the fog from the glass you can see a person on the sidewalk outside. Someone with a flashlight held over their shoulder shaking it back and forth to get your attention.


You look around but there are no exits, no doors. You’re terrified and dying here! So out of fear and rage you make a fist and punch through the window. With blood pouring down your arms and off your fingertips you climb through the broken glass while people inside yell curses trying to pull at your legs.


Finally, you collapse onto the ground outside. And you run and you trip and you fall and crawl to the person who helps you up. Quickly now, they jam you into the passenger side of their car as the engine fires up and the two of you speed away.


And just barely catching your breath as you wrap your shredded arms in what’s left of your shirt; you flip down the vanity mirror in front of your head and you see that your face is a wreck. Your cheeks are dark like shadows and sunken in, your lips are cracked and bleeding. There are scabs on your nose and forehead.


“How long was I in there?” you ask in disbelief.


“Longer than you think,” the driver says.


“How long were you outside signaling for me?”


“Since the second you went in.”

Prayer in the Shadow of Idols

It was already past 10. Those last two lines I double-barreled were kicking in fast and I was getting annoyed that the girls weren’t ready. But I knew I’d have to choose my battles that night so I poured another glass of Makers over ice, went outside, lit a cigarette and sat on the steps. It was a week before Halloween, 2001. I had been back in Minneapolis less than 5 days and still hadn't gotten use to even being in the States.
Inside, four beautiful girls from 18-25 frantically changed their outfits over and over having to re-do their hair with each new style as they cut lines of coke, smoked weed, and yelled in laughter over the blaring techno music. It was good to be back in the Twin Cities.
A couple weeks earlier I had left Mazatlan on a midnight bus toward Tijuana owning nothing but a leather suitcase full with Cuban Cigars, 3 bottles of Napoleon Brandy and about $200. It wasn’t much but enough buy, barter and trade my way to the Spearmint Rhino in Vegas where a friend of a friend said he had a job waiting for me.
Well before I even got there, the job had dissolved along with the entire tourism industry in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks leaving me sitting on a couch in an American Inn across fro the Rio with my last box of cigars, 1/2 bottle of brandy and no money while making collect calls to anyone who’d get me out and onto the next city.
The answer finally came from a stripper girlfriend named Goldie in Minnesota. She said she could get enough money from one of her regulars to fly me in but when I got there I’d have to come home with her and be her boyfriend, “This time for real.”
And I still wasn’t about to make any sort of commitment to one country, one state, or even one city, more-or-less to her but I had no other option for escaping Vegas so I agreed with a lie. Within 10 days I was back in Minneapolis sitting on those frozen cement steps, flipping up the collar of my tuxedo and wondering if we were ever going to get to this damn party.
Now fast forward almost exactly 10 years as I stand on the sidewalk outside an Alcoholics Anonymous club in Nampa, Idaho with my 52 year old brother who just hosted tonight’s meeting. In attendance were 3 middle aged women, two old men, a kid with a court-card and me.
“Gonna see you tomorrow for dinner?” I asked my brother. “Yep,” he said as he lit another hand rolled cigarette made from pipe tobacco (because it’s cheaper). “Alright then,” I said, “I’ll tell Mom we’ll be there around 4:30.” And with that I got on my bicycle and rode 3 blocks to the only late night coffee house in town.
There’s a term in AA called “Dry Drunk”. Here’s a brief description I heard blurted out during a meeting one afternoon, “I used to be a drunken, selfish, self-centered, A-Hole. And now thanks to this program, I’m a sober, selfish, self-centered, A-Hole.”
On a spiritual and slightly more literary level Edward Welch wrote, “Dry Drunks are individuals who have reformed themselves in the sense that they are sober, but who are still mastered by the demons that drove them to drink.”


I’m a dry drunk.


I’ve been sober now for 10 months and 15 days and as I sat in that coffee shop with my Bible in lap, highlighter in hand, and ear buds blaring Christian rock I couldn’t for the life of me stop staring at every pretty girl in a low cut shirt and tight jeans sitting, standing, and stalling all around me. And I’m still sizing up the clean-cut men they’re laughing with while thinking, “Wouldn’t take much to scare him off.” And as I turn my eyes away to stare out the window I can distinctly smell the smoke from one lit cigarette being exhaled over 200 feet past the front door.
And if you watched the video sermon I posted on my blog called Jesus Without Sin you’d hear Mark Driscoll describe it as, “Satan re-baits the hook.” And as I sit there in a cloudy yet open eyed fantasy of lust, violence and nicotine I think of Satan and say to myself, “What a jerk.”
But I know its more serious then that. I finish my coffee, pack up my things and shuffle quickly out the door. Half way on my ride home I’m in such a deep prayer that I have to stop my bike, get off and stand still.
When I do get home, I let my dog outside and I go into my bathroom shutting the door so it’s entirely dark. Then finally on both knees I start to pray completely.
I pray with shouts, I pray with tears, I pray with begging. I pray with anger, with despair, and with demands. I pray until I am standing in resolve again, pointing my fingers to the ceiling saying, “You are my God; you alone. You are my God.” Why? Because of Luke 11:24-26
“When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, ‘I will return to my house from which I came.’ And when it comes, it finds the house swept and put in order. Then it goes and brings seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they enter and dwell there. And the last state of that person is worse than the first.”
I know my house is swept. I’ve spent every day of the last 10 months cleaning every corner of wreckage from my whole life. But sometimes in all the cleanliness I can feel so… empty. And there in that little bit of space and silence, Satan temps me.
So I pray for Jesus to come and fill my house. I pray for his spirit to completely fill all of me until I finally worship Christ alone. Alcohol, Drugs, Violence, Women, all these things are the idols I worshiped all my life. Like barricades, I’ve let them be built between me and the true God. And knowing that I am created to worship, knowing I will always worship something; I get scared when in my weakness I wander back into their shadows.
And some might fault me for writing all this and un-bashfully sharing it with everyone. But you see I have to live in the open now. I have live in light. And rushing home like a child in tears, calling out for Christ, is my gospel. It’s my life. It’s my testament in faith of my trust in Christ to save me.

Reaching for God

People are fundamentally the same. Cultures may have differences but as people, we are generally the same. We all have the same needs to live a happy, healthy life. Physical needs like food, shelter, clothes. Emotional needs like identity, love, and purpose.


Poverty is a term which simply means- the absence of these basic needs.


And many times we’re confused and disconnected when we try to understand wealth and poverty relationally. So here’s my simple explanation. Imagine a horizontal line. The line represents the minimum amount we need to live. We’ll call that line "Survival".


Now, do you live above or below the Survival line? How far above or below the line do you live? That’s a simple image to keep in your head.


Let’s put it into action. If you’re reading this, that means you are somewhat literate and that’s a pretty good indication that you’re above the line. And you might feel like saying, “Well yeah but just barely.” But to make our visual even simpler let me tell you, when you’re above the line it doesn’t matter how far above the line you are. You can be lower-class, middle-class, upper-class or even elitist-class and it doesn’t make a difference. It’s all above the line and no amount of distance above the line matters.


It’s when you’re below that line that everything matters. Every inch is life-threatening. So don’t think of poverty as a high-rise ghetto in South Chicago, that’s lower-class and it is inexcusably allowed in our society but, it’s mostly above Survival.


No, when addressing poverty we must think 3rd world refugee camps. Because poverty isn’t really the dirty child sitting on the grass at the freeway exit while their parent holds a sign asking for money. Poverty is a dirt field without streets or electricity where a parent holds their child who has already starved to death. That’s poverty. Got the perspective?


Now with that in mind, there is one place in all our lives where we all tremble in poverty. There is an area where we are all below the Survival line. A place where every person is born with less than the basic human need to survive. From the richest ruler who lays down to sleep in his plush satin bed, to the businessman who lays down with his wife in their 2 bedroom house, to the homeless city drunkard who lays down on a park bench, to a child asleep on the dirt floor of a hut; we all from birth live beneath this line. And every minute is a threat.


We are in a Spiritual Poverty. We are born in Spiritual Poverty like being born into a famine. We are born hungry, incomplete. Because our Spirit is a living, functioning part of our existence. But we are not born with enough of our own spirit to nourish itself and grow. And like any child who hungers without a daily amount of even minimal food, our spirit begins to starve and to weaken.


We as people are all equal in this poverty.


And somehow, instinctually we know this. It shows in the similar ways we all live. Because our whole lives can be defined as nothing more than a quest, seeking that which our spirit needs to survive. And just like a child starving in poverty we will search for and pick up and ingest anything we can to try to feed ourselves. And yes, spiritually, we’ll pick up just about anything.


Some people look for spiritual nourishment in romantic relationships with each other, some in material relationships like money and possessions, some in chemical relationships like alcohol or food and still others in religious relationships like church’s and rituals. If you’re anything like me you probably seek it in all these areas and even a few more.


We are continually being moved by the deepest demands within our hearts and minds as they groan; telling us that our two bare feet connected to this ground is not enough. There must be more. We are still incomplete. That’s why we struggle in our relationships. That is why we put crushing demands on our spouses and possessions and chemicals. We are essentially demanding them to love us more.


Because that’s the only nourishment our spirit truly needs, Love. And ultimately our spirit yearns to be loved continually. To be loved fully. To be loved unconditionally. To be loved overwhelmingly by something, anything, greater than ourselves.


This is what I see in myself and in everything around me as I experience the world and the people in it. As I ride my bike from home or from a café or from a church. I see it from a man in a Lexus driving past, to a woman waiting outside the local food bank, to two young lovers in each others arms under a tree in the park across the street. They, like me are all living with some sense of being incomplete; starving. And in that we are all in our own ways but, from the same Spiritual Poverty, reaching for God.

Burning Butterfly's

If you ever find yourself wanting to impress a room full of addicts bring up the subject of Nihilism. And if you want them to think you’re both cool and smart, call it Existential Nihilism. Here’s a quick overview from Wikipedia:
Most commonly, nihilism is presented in the form of existential nihilism which argues that life is without objective meaning, purpose, or value.


In an earlier essay I listed off a few authors from my bookshelf which can be used as a resource library for the Philosophic Evolution of Existential Nihilism (now I’m just trying to impress you). But if you’re not familiar with any of those authors, don’t worry, there’s no reason you should be.


Because essentially all Nihilism is, is just a bunch of spoiled adults who don’t want to accept responsibility for living. It’s a pseudo-sociological way of saying, “F-It, Nothing Matters!” while swan-diving into whatever feel-good carnality they choose.


And that was exactly the self-righteous battle cry of my escapades for years. I loved this philosophy of meaninglessness; it offered perfect freedom in both being creative and destructive simultaneously. And I think there’s a part of everyone that is drawn at least romantically to this idea of being beautiful tragedies. But addicts are the one’s who love it enough to live it.


(And if you've been able to recite these last 2 paragraphs from memory to them, I guarantee at this point they’ll be hanging on your every word)


I can still remember leaning my head back with every sip from a warm glass of scotch as I’d roll it in my mouth; mesmerized on the burning butterfly a woman’s subtle fingers will resemble, slowly turning as she inhales crack from a glass pipe. Every minute of those nights seemed like a complete testimony to life’s purpose. Not as a sadist. Not as a masochist. As a nihilist. Because to me the whole ritual was always captivatingly complete, beautiful beyond words, but ultimately, suicidal and worthless.


It’s the beauty in destruction that attracted me. Not the destruction itself. It’s the actual beauty being torn down. You see, the reason addicts are not sober is because they don’t like sobriety. We don’t like your goals. We don’t like your success. We don’t want to win. We want equality. We want you destroyed into being like us.


And it’s only by kneeling on the depravity of that crumbling platform of existence that I came from, that I can first look up and speak honestly with Jesus. Because scripture tells me that Jesus…


“made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” –Phil 2:7-8


And then it says,


“For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his." -Rom 6:5-6


So it’s as though Jesus had already become human like me, to die with me, to reach me in my death and pull me out. And I can’t think of a more beautiful and complete sacrifice to and resurrection from nihilism than that.