Stop Talking to Yourself

By Shaefer (not a self photo)

It happens almost every day. Perhaps it happens multiple times a day. I talk to myself. I am not referring to a sentence or two either. I mean a full blown and engaging dialogue. Sometimes after I am finished I change some of the parameters of the conversation and start again to see if the outcome is different. It usually is. Most of the time the conversation contains at least two distinct personalities; mine and one or two other people (that actually exist) I am projecting from within. It could be me and my wife (or rather me invoking the person of my wife), me and my best friend or me and a neighbor. The voices could even be of me and the guy walking toward me on the street who I do not knowyet but for whom I have created an entire life story based upon what he is wearing, how he is behaving and whether or not he has a nice or mean face.

These conversations are sometimes a trial run for a conversation I need to have with an actual person in the future and sometimes they are fantasies of the conversation I wished I had with that actual person. I always sound so good in these rehearsals and reenactments. Yet, I find the reality isn’t nearly so brilliant, quick witted or fair. The reality is sometimes abysmal.

As a younger man, these imaginary encounters were sometimes all I had because I never seemed to have the courage and skill to engage in real-life dialogue. Those I did have were so fundamentally awkward and wayward that I stopped talking for a while my freshmen year in college. I did not have the audacity for brutal honesty which might offend or cause pain, nor did I have the skill to apply a diplomacy that might curb the blunt edges of a raw truth. I wrote a lot more back then as a result, and I talked to myself…a lot.

Yet, over time my competence and confidence deepened with my mistakes, failed attempts, and meager successes to engage in what some term “crucial conversations.” Yet, it is the imaginary conversations that are a constant pitfall. In trying to project or forecast a given conversation what often might begin as a mild assumption about what or how the other party might respond becomes, through the rehearsal of rebuttal and response, an emotional conviction about that other person. I begin to judge or condemn a person for things that have only been said in my mind. Thus, I enter the real version of that conversation with faulty assumptions navigating my logic. It is like entering a peace negotiation with loaded guns.

I have discovered that it is easiest for me to be direct, and while I continue to hone my diplomatic skills my conscience dictates I deal with things head-on. Some people have the gift of taking conversations slow and easy, approaching with caution and great care. I neither have the skill nor the emotional make-up for this usually. I grow weary very quickly of carrying the thoughts and attitudes of conflict within me to take too much time to resolve them. I cannot endure their weight long, so I tarry not. To each their own.

Still, often time and space does not permit a quick resolution. It is in the delaying moments, hours, days or weeks that my mind wonders. In its wonderings it chances upon “theory”; theoretical outcomes of the delayed conversation and all its permutations. That is when I unknowingly begin to load my guns. There is only one solution for this. I have to pray.

The conversation that must be had is the one between me and God, and I have to have it every time those “theories” arise from within. I cannot allow my heart to be tainted toward an individual based on virtual dialogues. It is then I hear the Spirit telling me to “Stop talking to yourself.”  It must be that I pray for the person with whom I must broach a dialogue and reason with God on behalf of the relationship I have with the said individual for peace to ensue.

The “slacker” gene meets the anvil.

My oldest son has a number if things in life that come very naturally to him. He has a great capacity for math, science and deductive reasoning and for that reason much within his academic career has come easily. When you couple this with a lack of competitive spirit and distaste for doing things that require greater effort you have the makings of a potential "slacker", for lack of a better term. He gets by in school and is contented with that. He could, for all intents and purposes, follow in the footsteps of his father who perfected the art of doing the least possible work that still allowed for the greatest amount of time, energy and freedom to do the things I actually enjoyed. It must have been such a frustration to my parents who, despite their best efforts and encouragement, could not persuade me to try harder at those things I didn't like doing, such as homework, studying and organization. My oldest son is a stark contrast to my second son who is as competitive as they come; second only to my wife. He plies his hand to schoolwork with a determination that might lead you to believe that his spelling homework had somehow insulted him and he will master its erratic rules and pronunciations as punishment for the slight. He sometimes even looks angry as he studies. It's as though he is attacking the homework. He almost gets nothing but perfect marks in school. The two of them represent me and my wife almost exactly.

As I have matured there have been growing attempts and more frequent successes in shedding the "slacker" within. I have discovered, however, that my tendency toward lethargy has more to do with my obsession for control than it does with laziness. I can control those areas where I am naturally gifted, while the ones where I am not naturally inclined are more difficult to control. And once I can no longer determine the outcome I am not interested in participating, and if I have to participate I do the least possible amount of work. It is easier to say "I don't care" than "I have failed". Besides, growing up taught me that apathy was cool and casual disinterest was interesting.

While I no longer ascribe to these principals I continue to struggle with them. I hate failure, I hate loss of control and therefore I often reject those aspects of life where those two eventualities may exist. I have many such areas; dancing, basketball, Spanish, spontaneous emotional expression… the list could go on. So this brings me back to my eldest son. Since he was three years old we have enrolled him in team activities like soccer or baseball. He has loved neither. I will not bore you with the despair it has sometimes caused me, but at this moment in his life athletics hold little interest to him, which is perfectly fine. However, his tendency toward indifference at the areas of life he doesn't naturally excel is not good. So we helped him look for an activity in which he had some initial interest. This turned out to be Karate. When he first put in his "Gi" (karate uniform) which was black with a white belt he looked awesome. It was as if I was bringing him to Superhero training. This initial euphoria was tempered by his instructor who, while not cruel in any sense, meant business. Karate was not easy. Karate was hard.

My son's initial interest waned quickly. However, a few times a week we spend time going through all the forms and practice executing all the moves. He has learned to suffer this patiently and without complaint. For weeks going to Karate was a chore for him. And then something happened- he started to excel. During sparring matches he knew what he was supposed to do. As the instructor opened every class reviewing the seemingly infinite variants of all the forms my son was one of the only ones able to keep up. One class the instructor brought him up front so the class could watch him execute each form. My son began practicing with greater willingness. Last week the instructor pulled my wife aside and told her he needed to get my son out of the class because he couldn't learn anymore and the other kids were simply copying him instead of learning for themselves. He asked if she had time to test him for the prized "yellow belt". So in front of all the kids from his class and the kids from the incoming "yellow belt" class he tested my son. When Isaiah was finished he bowed to the instructor who told him he was now a "yellow belt" to the applause of his now former class and his new class of cohorts. My son called me right away to tell me of his victory.

I don't know that athletics will ever come naturally to him, yet that is of no consequence. He has learned something at a young age with which I continue to struggle. No amount of words could convey to him the lesson. He had to experience the drudgery of repetition, hard work and public mistake making in order to understand the lesson. We grow through heat and pressure, until we are malleable and easy to reform and change. One can imagine God as a blacksmith heating us to unimaginable temperatures where his hammer and anvil eventually changes us and makes us strong. God often talks of refining us through fire (Prov. 17:3; 1 Peter 1:7; Rev. 3:18). To refine a metal is to heat it to extreme temperatures until the impurities of the metal can be removed leaving the remaining matter pure. The manner in which we are refined, remade or changed is out of our hands- we are not the potter or craftsmen. Going through such change is an act of faith in our Creator. It is character building and it makes us stronger, certainly. Yet, to let go the reigns and simply go where we are commanded to go also creates trust and intimacy between us and God.

When the time comes for my son to contemplate the trials he will need to endure in becoming a follower of Christ later in life- a process over which he will be able to exert little to no control- I hope he recalls the anvil and what it can make or remake. I hope he will trust the one wielding the hammer as he has trusted me in his endeavors with Karate.

 

I don't trust your heartburn...

                                                                         image originally created by Cishore

During my latest stint at a shelter for which I sometimes volunteer I had yet another encounter that left me feeling uneasy. So let me begin by saying that by and large I am a rule follower- as long as I don’t find them morally bankrupt or a foundational impediment to my purpose. I used to interpret rules loosely when I was younger but now I am a rule follower.

When I was the campus minister at Northeastern University in downtown Boston I used to spend a lot of time in the campus center. Every morning I’d buy a small ice tea because it was free refills all day. I’d sit at a table and do my work, have appointments and generally hang out. I would fill up that ice tea all day long. However, I would not allow anyone else to use my cup and get themselves a drink. That would break the rule of “free refills” which is intended to benefit only the one who purchased the drink. I do not copy my CDs for others, I don’t purchase bootlegs and I never ever go through the grocery line marked “12 items or less” if I have 13 items. I follow the rules.

So during my latest shift at the shelter I was faced with a dilemma. The rules state that no one is allowed to go outside the shelter for any reason after 10 PM. If they go outside they cannot return. The reason for the rule is so that no one can leave to get alcohol or drugs and then return again. The shelter is a “dry” shelter. No one is even allowed outside for a smoke after 10 PM. Some might state that such rules infringe upon the dignity of the individual since we are dealing with grown men and not children. Decades of experience from those that run shelters might say otherwise. In any case it is the rules. They are meant to protect both the other inhabitants of the shelter and the volunteers. Back to my dilemma.

At about 1 AM a man got up and headed out the door. I told him he could not leave if he wanted to stay the night. He responded that he needed to go to his car and get his heartburn medication because he couldn’t sleep. He told me this without slowing down or giving any indication that this rule would deter him in any way. I also gleaned from the tone and language he applied that his mood was on the darker spectrum from my cheerful attempt at first contact.

Rules are rules. And yet… rules applied in a vacuum of context often create greater problems. I needed to improvise here.  On the one hand if he indeed simply needed his medication there is no reason not to help him in an already uncomfortable and somewhat humbling evening of sleeping in a homeless shelter with 25 other men. Then again, I had the other inhabitants and volunteers to consider if he wasn’t getting heartburn medication but some form of narcotic- which was my very true fear.

“Well I’ll need to walk you to your car then.” Unfortunately, he didn’t appreciate the situation I was in and threatened me instead saying he would do this or that if I tried to follow him. Now I am not a small man so I wasn’t concerned for my physical safety yet he rightly interpreted what was implied- “I don’t trust your heartburn.” Now there are a myriad of reasons I can give for why I should care less about what offense this offered the man not the least of which was that if he wanted to utilize the benefits of the free shelter, food and bedding he’d have to abide by some rules.  However, I get his resentment. Nevertheless there I stood watching him get his medication out of the car while cursing me under his breath.

In an unbelievable twist of fate I happened to be suffering from an awful bout of heartburn myself. I never have heartburn ordinarily but I had drunk a Mountain Dew earlier that day (which I had just put together was the culprit of any heartburn I’ve had in the last five years) and was suffering its effect. Despite the man’s rant I actually had the audacity- which I trace both to my morbid desire to see how radical variables can affect volatile situations and my general oblivion to the extreme emotions of others- to ask for one of his heartburn tablets. For some strange reason this actually seemed to quiet his discontent. He began saying “no” because they were prescription and cost him $15 a bottle but then stopped and said “Well… if you want one you can have one.”

Deciding that I probably shouldn’t be taking paid medication out of the hands of a man that was presently homeless, nor risk the chance that such medication might be something other than a normal heartburn prescription I declined with a “thanks”. A subdued peace settled between the two of us and back off to bed he went. I went back to the kitchen to make his lunch for the next day.

Yet, there I was making turkey sandwiches with the discomforting feeling that all dilemmas offer after they’ve passed. What could I have done differently? Somehow if Jesus was put in the same situation that man would have not only made a decision to change his life but would have thanked Jesus for their late night discussion with tears of devotion. Right? After a couple days of mulling it over I’m not so sure.

The reality is that there were times people wanted to kill Jesus even before his unjust demise. Most people chose not to follow him while some called him insane, gluttonous and even a demon. So sometimes there are simply “no win” situations within a given moment. The important part is to remain at peace with the person in your own heart. Much the way Jesus was with the rich young ruler who rejected Jesus and walked away. In that moment of rejection it says that Jesus loved him (Mark 10:21).

The unease I felt is the after-effect of where my own heart went as I tried to do the right thing both through following the rules of the shelter and by giving the man an opportunity to get his medicine. I had no real compassion for the man and instead was trying to fight down my angry impulses while he berated me. I did nothing wrong in action, yet it is where I allowed my heart to tread that betrayed my best intensions as woefully lacking. Despite what we may say or do it is what is truly taking place inside us- the heart as it were- that does the real communicating.

What an unbelievable pain. I consider it a task of monumental difficulty for me to find compassion for people. Yet there we go. It wasn’t in His style, rhetoric or even miracles that Jesus won people over. It was where he started with them. He was at peace with people and on that account many found, despite themselves, that they felt at peace with Him as well. It won’t be until I imitate Him in this that I will be free from the after effects of conflict and the inevitable and ensuing heartburn. 

Crowd Control

There are few things that give me the unique sensation of discomfort and low-grade anxiety like large social events. While I may be a social creature by design I do not love the crowd given my particular place in life at the moment. This is not the result of any kind of phobia I harbor but more likely because of some quirky weaknesses I will presently disclose.

To begin, I have a terrible memory when it comes to names. In other areas of life I find my memory to be astonishing; but not with names, or faces for that matter. Likely, this says something about me I don’t want to know. I imagine it means I am self-centered, egotistical and perhaps vain because I cannot remember the names and faces of others. I have thought about it a lot and the implications are not pleasant. Yet, that isn’t what I want to write about. Suffice it to say, if I’ve met you once, twice, three times or more and I still cannot remember your name please understand that I feel worse about it than you do.

I am terrified of offending someone because of this neurological hiccup. I have standard operating procedures that help bail me out of tight spots like introducing whatever person I happen to be with to the as of yet un-named individual- “Hi, let me introduce my wife Meegan…” to which the unnamed individual then introduces themselves to my wife. Still, it is a tight rope act. The point, however, is that this is a major obstacle when it comes to being in a crowd.

Add to that social disorder my acute incapacity to carry on small talk. I find that I care so little about the little things that I am a total bore.  I so easily zone out when discussing ice breaker type topics that once I snap back to the conversation I begin saying what first comes into my head like “wow, you have massive forearms” or “I watched this special on dung beetles last night and did you know…” or “my cat killed a mouse last night and all I found was its decapitated body this morning”. Not only does such rhetoric leave the person on the other end of the conversation with absolutely no possible response but they begin to wonder if I am on medication. I begin asking why I am not on medication.

Finally, and probably most importantly, one of my worst nightmares is that my wife or children will be kidnapped. While I don’t know anybody that has ever been kidnapped, whenever I see it in the movies or TV dramas it always seems to happen in crowded places where people seem to be very happy. I use to love anonymous crowds for the sheer joy of observation, but when I am with my family every stranger becomes a potential “perp”.

So I avoid crowds when possible. The last concert I attended was to see the Violent Femmes in 1994 in Chicago. I cannot stand the mall. I am grouchy and uneasy when my family goes to the local fairs or parades and while I love the Chi-town museums I am almost crawling out of my skin on the crowded free days.

So I get it when Jesus goes to the mountain after feeding the 5,000; or in other parts of the gospel narrative where he quietly withdraws from the crowds to spend time alone with his disciples. The challenge I face is to ensure I don’t medicate the draining effect of the crowd with the numbing effect of the internet, the TV, or (name your interactive medium).  It is to the mountain or the sea I must go.

Yet, it is usually a challenge for me to face God; to put knees to ground and pray. I fall short within the crowd so often I find it difficult to once again go to the Lord in my varying degrees of failure. I was of the notion that Jesus should send the crowd away, back to the towns to eat. And when Jesus tells me “You give them something to eat” putting aside the logistic impossibility of the thing is only the first obstacle. It is in the gracious service of the often bestial masses my heart kicks and screams. So going to the mountain to debrief the Lord in the failure of my love is often overwhelming. It is much easier to unwind in front of the discovery channel’s special documentary on dung beetles.

So the crowd represents not only a trial upon my heart but the looming mountain ahead. Though I have a gracious and compassionate understanding of God, it has not grown any easier to admit weakness and failure to Him especially as so much hangs in the balance. Yet, the great Counselor spurs me onward both to the crowds (I leave for campus soon to share my faith and lead a Bible discussion) and further ahead to the mountain (the inevitable prayer walk around the park following an afternoon on campus).

The Waiting Room

I hate going to the doctor. I HATE going to the doctor. No amount of wit or rhetoric will adequately convey my disdain. You would have to see my face, my eyes, my hands, and hear my voice to detect the myriad levels of loathing I have. I can point to life-changing misdiagnoses, painful and ultimately useless medical treatments, and bad (I mean terrible on the order of magnitudes) bedside manner to the sources of this abhorrence I harbor. Yet, one thing more than anything else really articulates the “why” of it all; and this is the waiting room.

In no other area of life outside of roller coaster lines and restaurants on very busy nights where I have no other choices do I pay to come on time to an appointment only to wait for an indefinite period of time for a 5-10 minute consultation which may or may not ever really help me. Often, one might be ushered into an examination room to give the illusion of progress toward an appointment to wait for another undisclosed period of time only to be surrounded by possible instruments of torment to mull over how they may be used to poke, prod, cut, and otherwise cause you discomfort in the name of responsible medicine. Please excuse me; agitation causes me to write in unwieldy run-on sentences.

Now, I know that it must be very difficult to practice medicine and to treat illness and disease on a best hunch and to do so knowing your patients expect exact and flawless treatment. Such expectations are foolish. Yet, it is often the medical field itself that propagates such fantasy. There are no definites in this realm of practical science- there are too many variables in each body, environment, and history for treatment not to only be the best educated guess that a $200,000 education can buy. I have no illusions about this. It is the waiting room to which I would apply my angst.

How is it that so much medical progress still cannot cipher the mystery of keeping an appointment? There are reasons- some seem reasonable and others have more to do with treating people as chattel or automobiles on an assembly line. It is insulting, degrading, and unnecessary. It goes against what any business would call good practices. However annoying it may be it exposes a personal trait of my own shaped by our culture, and it isn't pretty.

It betrays a general trend toward entitlement to allow the waiting room such leverage in my heart. As I sat in the examination room I contemplated breaking the equipment around me, writing a letter to the governor, and creating a lobbyist group to convince congress to enact laws against long delays in the waiting room. I updated my Facebook status so the world could know the injustice of my current situation. I imagined staging a coughing fit when the doctor entered so he would feel horrible about making me wait. “I don’t deserve this!” I said to myself.

How infantile.

Put aside the fact that I receive some of the best medical care in the history of the world and that my waiting time might be 90 minutes past my appointment but the reality is that such care is imminent and always at the ready. Forget about the fact that the flu bug will never really present any danger to me nor does a broken bone or the need for an organ to be removed. What is it that I am really complaining about? I am too important to wait. I shouldn’t be treated like this.

The waiting room brings out my ugliness.

 Are there things this particular medical group might do better for their patients? Sure. Yet, what is that to me? I still must conduct myself with gracious magnanimity because that’s what the redeemed do. Those who have held large debts and been forgiven do not beat the ones that are fractionally indebted to them. I am entitled to nothing but justice, and justice is not a friend of mine because I am guilty over and over again. It is unto mercy I have hedged my bets.  

When the doctor entered apologetically I smiled in a way that conveyed that I know what it means to have many people vie for your time with expectations that each one has your full and undivided attention. “One of those days, eh? No worries.” And 5 minutes later our consultation was done and I walked out with prescription in hand.

Then I called someone that had been ill lately who I hadn’t gone yet to visit. We set a time for me to visit. I will be on time and I will apologize for not coming sooner. They will probably be extremely gracious as usual.

On public speaking....

I have often heard that the one thing that some people dread more than death is public speaking. Now I am not a soldier, I don't fight fires nor am I an astronaut. My children, all of whom are boys, love race cars, star wars, and ninjas. What I do for a living seems somewhat boring by comparison. So when I hear that there is no small segment of our population that is more scared of what is part of my normal job routine than they are of death than I feel somewhat gratified.

Now there are many circumstances to which a minister might be called to do some public speaking that are outside the parameters of simply doing a sermon on Sunday. In almost any gathering of people you will likely be called upon, without prior notice, to be the bull horn- to quiet a crowd, to provide directions, to say a prayer, or perhaps to help introduce the mayor of Chicago. The latter may only happen once in your life but because it has I will include it among the repertoire. I have been asked- again, without prior notice- to speak at weddings, funerals, and large conferences. Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea about what I am communicating let me be clear; it’s an honor.

To be invested with so much trust as to be the communicator representing the wishes or convictions of the deceased, the newly betrothed, a large dinner gathering, or thousands of people together is a part of my life that will never grow old. It is truly one of my favorite aspects of the role I play. It is also a terrifying part of my spirituality.

Let me explain. What I am about to say is as honest as I can be, and I hope there are no repercussions from it. Every sermon I write, for the most part, entails a process for which torment is no small element. There is always a moment where I inevitably say to myself "this is the worst thing I have ever written" and I start again. At some point the words "why didn't I have somebody else preach this week" come out of my mouth and finally when I reach my lowest point I begin to question whether or not I am even a Christian. This is not that point of honesty to which I was referring yet.

There is usually, however, a moment where the angst disperses and the torture of trying to achieve coherence ends and I reach an epiphany where all my thoughts make sense. Finally, what lay before me is a stream of ideas, facts, and Biblical insights that form a narrative that makes sense and has a point. And what do I get for all this hard work? A lot.

I get to present my thoughts and ideas to a group of people usually eager to hear them and always gracious as an audience. Once a week I get applause and feedback that encourages and motivates me for the week to come. Oh yeah, and I also get paid to do it. While that is not nearly the entirety of my job it seems to be an important piece. I am now about to reach that point of honesty to which I previously referred. Here is what terrifies me: I am not someone that God chose to do this job because of my spirituality.

I am not saying I'm a heathen or living a double life. I am very moral if I don't say so myself. I just struggle to be spiritual. I look at the members of our church and I am consistently awed by their humble walks with God; working 50 hours a week, taking care of their marriages and children, turning down career opportunities so they can devote more time to God's fellowship, learning and listening to men much younger and less experienced, allowing their personal lives to be discipled... it goes on and on. And no one gives them applause at the end of the week. No one congratulates them. Honestly, most of the time no one notices because everyone else is doing the same thing. Their reward is yet to come, while I often receive mine in advance and again, I’m not even that spiritual.

I don't like to sing. I force myself to pray most of the time. Sharing my faith everyday is an act of will power often solely motivated by my desire to be obedient to God rather than my love for the lost. I don't read devotional-type books (sticking strictly to theology and commentaries) and I couldn't even tell you how to find a Christian radio station. I don't fast enough, I don't take notes when others are teaching, and I'd rather watch football than go to a worship concert. I am not very humble and I have the annoying habit of always believing I am right. If I wasn't married to a saint I would be ten times worse.

When the end of days does come, I know my place will be modest. In this world God has given me a set of tools and He uses them to His advantage. Along the way I am given greater attention as a result. There are many people in the Bible God used as His instrument out of no virtue of their own. Pharaoh was tool, and it didn't go so well for him. Now I know I am no Pharaoh, but I am no Moses, Jeremiah, or one of the many nameless prophets in the scriptures either. I am more likely somewhere between Samson and Hezekiah (at the end of his life). The point is that there are so many more devout, spiritual, and humble people that I know who might be more qualified to do my job. It just happens that it isn't their calling or gift set. It is my calling out of no merit of my own. This thought is chilling to me.

James 3:1 says, "Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly." That verse has driven me to my knees on many occasions asking forgiveness for any stupid thing I might have taught and not yet realized. I am humbled and terrified by my calling. Again, while teaching and preaching are not the entirety of my job, they have been a significant element to that calling.

So, on the subject of public speaking I have reservations of a spiritual nature. I love public speaking and while it makes me sick every Sunday morning because of nervous energy I hope I am allowed to do it the rest of my life. That said, I often wonder what it will mean for me at the resurrection. I have applied my gifts to a work of service for which there is great reward in this world (when you do a good job at least) and what could possibly then be left for me then in the next? It is a thought that will hopefully always keep me humble- something for which my wife often prays I notice- and honest as I try and run my own race.

Like Butter

I once interviewed for a job in high school to be a lumberjack. Well, the suburban form of a lumberjack, anyway. I was applying for a job with a tree removal company. I would be trained to climb into the tree tops and remove limbs and overhangs. I had envisioned a summer of flannel shirts, hanging out with men who were so tough they could eat glass and me becoming the most storied and daring tree climber of the crew they had no choice but to accept me as their leader and captain, young though I was. During the interview there was a series of questions I had to answer and I could tell that I was answering the way I needed to in order to obtain the job. Then he hit me with the last question "Are you absent minded at all?" I paused and then stumbled in my answer and in that little hiccup I lost the job. The man looked at me and said "Listen, last year one of my guys left the cuff unbuttoned on his flannel shirt and the sleeve got caught in the mulcher and pulled him in. He died quickly but it was a mess." He forgot to button a sleeve. Those blasted flannel shirts.

Every instance of my parents pointing out the fact I had on two different socks or shoes before heading out to school, every forgotten homework assignment or test, and every blown stop sign and narrowly missed car accident began filling my thoughts. I was one of the most absent-minded people I knew. Perhaps a job consisting of killer falling limbs and mulching machinations of death was not the right career path for me.

The man interviewing me knew it, and I both knew it. I thanked him for his time and I left. That summer I continued working at the pool as a life guard. Sitting in the sun on a chair and focusing on one thing only- that was more up my alley.

Today, however, I find myself dividing my attentions more than ever. Between being a husband and father to three boys, I have taken on more professional responsibility than I ever have in the past. Because of my personal limitation, therefore, things fall apart. I may not leave the house with two different pairs of shoes on but there are too many days where I enter a public restroom at three in the afternoon and come to realize that I never combed my hair. Which is lucky for me because there is only a margin of difference between my hair combed and my hair un-combed.

Beyond issues of neglected cosmetics I find too many tasks left undone for far too long. I cannot catch up. I am perpetually apologizing to one person or another for some thing that is still not completed. I can hear the response to these facts in the form of an answer that is not ever quite as simple as it sounds: delegation. In my life, I often find that delegation is sometimes more work than doing the job yourself because delegation often requires some form of training and teaching. While I believe in training through doing there are times where there isn’t time.

So I find Bilbo Baggins a compelling figure when he says within Tolkien’s classic trilogy “I feel thin, sort of stretched…like butter scraped over too much bread.” I have found it to be a monumental challenge to cover my slice of bread. I want to make it clear that his is not one of those “Don’t cry for me Argentina” moments; I am not trying to play the martyr. I am just trying to avoid the pride swelling defensiveness that ambushes me when some of my general incompetence is on display as things fall apart.

Here is the painful truth. Sometimes things must fall apart if they are to change as completely as they must. My limitations are perhaps an ingredient to that important process. Falling limbs and mulching accidents are the catalysts to greater safety and focus in the long run. It’s just that I hate being the lumberjack who forgot to button his flannel. Playing the part of the object lesson is an important, albeit humbling, role.

War with the world.

Even within the most recent context of my life I carried it as a badge of honor the ongoing conflict between me and the world. I saw myself, in what must seem like romantic idiocy on par with Don Quixote, as a fighter behind enemy lines. I walked out my front door swinging. Each human interaction became an engagement of invisible powers. Certainly such a narrative exists Biblically, but this was woefully applied by yours truly. The driver next to me is not mine to overcome, nor the librarian part of the horde, and finally the approaching retail associate does not carry the flag of my enemy. Even the most belligerent soccer mom or early morning jogger does not hide the seeds of my undoing. And yet... they are not with me. Right? Irrelevant.

The gospel in a moment of honest drama depicts a moment of observation by Jesus who sees the masses as something I never do; harassed and helpless (Matthew 9:36). It would only be condescension on my part to say that I understand this. I do not have the ability to see things as truly as Jesus did. To me the arrogance of the wealthy is not a cry for help nor the transparent symptoms of harassment. To me, it is what it is, the ugliness of human depravity. Which is why I am not Jesus. I would have to fake superior wisdom and magnanimity to say I see such people as harassed and helpless.

It is in this I suppose I've had to arrive at a different conclusion. I am little different from what surrounds me essentially. I too am oppressed by a nature I twisted for too long a time. I am afflicted by self-made affliction no different that of the unsmiling toll booth operator or mocking grad student with whom I just babbled a messy invitation to Bible Talk. Are they with me? What does it matter? We together belong to a community of sinking ships. Some try and bail water while others live those waning moments in revelry and others are paralyzed by the despair of it all. Everyone needs rescuing. We are with each other in that crucial fact.

It is only at a certain philosophic level, removed from real time interaction, I can view the world around me as harassed and helpless the way Jesus did. For that very reason I have no authority to deem who is and who isn't an enemy for whom I must wage war. So I am suitably removed from that horse and I must ask for necessary humanity to smile more often, remember more names and faces, and finally to join the PTA or Homewood Book Club etc. I have no war to fight with them. I am rescued from this ship and they cannot strip me of it. I can only hope to bail enough water that others will realize and come along.

Fresh from the woods

I recently returned from an annual backpacking trip I take. The point of this trip, for me, is restorative in nature. The adventure and beauty of being in a more remote wilderness is the inhalation the creative but somewhat asphyxiated mind needs. Yet, even beyond the respite (if one can call a 50 mile trek carrying 50 lbs on your back a respite) this provides lies something more primal I am convinced. It is a tired sentiment, yet no less true, to suggest that a man might need the wild. Risking the ridicule I probably deserve I can only nod in agreement and admit that I need the mud and rock and air and solitude and water that I find only in the quantity required when I seek the wilderness. This year that search was made in Algonquin, a park three hours north of Toronto. While it is no Denali or Glacier or Patagonia it is one of the closest things I can find in under a 12 hour drive. I walked each day in wonder of and infatuation with the world around me; to touch truck-sized boulders carpeted with moss, fallen pines made smooth by a running creek and midnight silence broken by the loon.

I asked to hike the last four miles of our trip alone. Those 90 minutes afforded me the opportunity to turn my mind back-forward; a week outside time displaced my need to consider any planning outside of water, dinner and shelter. I needed to take some time to consider real life before I left. To consider the future, yet within the context of this wilderness. So I walked and I attempted to put myself back inside of time asking what I might think about differently after yet another week in the woods.

This year the answer was joy. The gratitude which produces unreserved affection and laughter; the yearning attachment to my living blessings and the almost oblivious awareness of rewards yet to come. There is no greener grass, so to speak. I wanted more than anything to have only what I've already been given and to enjoy them as long as they were still mine to have.

However, there was a footnote to these last moments of solitude. A post script so that I'd not forget my own prayers during my time in the woods. To that footnote I will commit more time in my next entry, but in essence it was a particular personal trait I was able to articulate for the first time. I am always at war with the world around me and this needs to change. A truce of a kind must be made.

One of these kids is doing their own thing...

I live with a low-grade, ongoing paradox steeped deeply within my paradigm; the lens through which I interpret life. I am at once a Federalist and Anti-Federalist. My wife further endeared herself to me when she invoked these terms to describe a planning dilemma as it relates to our large congregation in Chicago.

I love team sports. I love being on a team. I am loyal by nature in many ways, and I have always tended to side with "team" agenda over "individual" agenda. I believe this is the method that gets the team furthest fastest and is also the best path to personal development. Sit on the bench and root for the team, even if you're not playing. Let the coach call the plays and then run them perfectly. Be a good soldier.

I have a million allegories to back up these principals- some of the best in my arsenal. There is something moving about knights who pledge themselves to their good king and do his bidding at risk to their own lives without hesitation. Even the unofficial motto of the postal service- "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” -inspires me. There is something that cannot be duplicated in the selfless devotion to a team, creed, or ideal that is greater than the individual. The beautiful and lofty dreams of The Federalist.

And yet...

I often find myself standing on the other side shouting down "the man" as an inefficient and plodding pathfinder toward actual progress because it stifles the creativity, ingenuity and problem solving ability of the individual to find solutions for the whole. And what is the world or our church or our family but the sum of individuals? What was the prophet but a man that most often stood alone "to raise up or tear down the nations" (Jeremiah 1)?

I owe no small part of my successes and victories to minor rebellions, revolutions, and a bit of anarchy that have guided some part of my past decisions. I actually find conflict extremely uncomfortable and yet it brews within me at all times as ideas, plans, and schemes rage within travelling counter to the road on which the "team" walks.

In an effort to synchronize the strengths of the Federalists and the individual the business world has coined the term "flattening". Flatten an organization- Less bosses, more creative freedom, more peer leadership, less hierarchy. Interesting thoughts all, and while perhaps not all wholly practical there is a principal that guides the thinking that I affirm completely. There is great opportunity in corralling individual thinking and initiative. The individual has to have a place to rant, think aloud and be heard, apply personal theory and fail while still holding to the goal and direction of the whole.

Listen, Elijah took his hiatus, Moses negotiated with the Lord, and a myriad of other heroes broke from convention testing impossibly stupid schemes while evoking the name of the Lord in faith. Yet, the "good ones" never broke from God's covenant. In the end they all bent their will to God's and to his blueprint. Who knows what David could have done with the Israel if he had simply usurped Saul as soon as the Lord anointed him the new king instead of waiting a decade for the process to take place? He didn't usurp Saul because it wasn't in the "team" plan. He ranted and cried out in the Psalms, but he submitted in the end.

We all need space to experiment, create and plot- yet in the end we must submit to the greater need, plan, team etc. We expect the same when we lead others so we'd better provide great spaces for the same need to explore and push the boundaries for our own constituencies. The balance between the Federalist and individual is crucial, as God created us each unique and yet required we exist in family. Striking the right balance is the most efficient pathfinder to where God wants us to land as individuals and as a church.

Silence, bad planning and heroes.

So, this blog looks a lot like the journals I've kept over the years. Stops and starts with long silences in between. I pick up and put down until I get things to fit correctly. In my mind I have tried to see this as a kind of virtue and not a glaring symptom of integrity deficiency. Certainly the Holy Spirit Himself comes and goes like the wind, at least from what our limited human capacities can glean of it. Yet, it would be foolish to draw any comparison there. Allow me only to say that this is not a responsibility I have abandoned, but more like a project with which I choose to fiddle now and then. As it becomes more developed so will my sense of commitment to its completion.

And why now return one might ask, if one actually read what I am writing (which no one yet seems to do). I might turn again to Elihu himself who sat in great silence for a long period before speaking to Job and then fell silent again as God responded. Certainly Elihu spoke again, though it is not recorded. In the same vein, the last 6 months has brought much change to my life, some of it dramatic, as God speaks through circumstance and through occasion. So, it is time for me to begin writing I feel.

It is to faith I draw my attention today. It is to Jonathan's armor bearer (1 Sam. 14) who when faced with his masters idiotic plan to attack a military outpost strategically placed to repel frontal assaults replied without hesitation "I am with you heart and soul." It is such an enigmatic quality to believe in victory through foolish and derelict plans, and yet we have in the Bible seas dividing and then folding upon armies, walls falling through marches and trumpet calls, armies fleeing at the site of foxes with scorched tails, and so many more improbable stories of success. I have been, by and large, the prophet's servant that needed his eyes opened in order to see chariots of fire and angels shouting down baser voices whom I believed would carry the day. Too often, I see inefficiency and badly conceived ideas.

Today though, I will embrace every dumb notion and plan conceived with childlike faith in a God that has used men and women to destroy the morale of armies with jaw bones, with slings, and with tent pegs. What do I know about plans that change the world? Mine are boring, methodical and ordinary by comparison. God makes heroes of men with insane schemes and faithful hearts.

table for two

table for two
Originally uploaded by jami~

My wife and I are going to have breakfast together every Monday morning from now on. We drop the boys off at school and then sit down and talk for a couple of hours. There is no one I enjoy talking to more than my wife. There is also no one that can make me more unease with myself more than my wife. She is a formidable human being- I am to a large to degree what I am today because of her influence in my life. Sure, if you were to meet her you would immediately take a liking to her- everyone does. She has that quality of a person that makes you feel as though they feel there is nothing in the world more important than what you are saying right at that moment. Of course that means you absolutely cannot be false to her either.

In any case it’s a date written in stone- her, me, and the McDonald’s Playland where our two year old can occupy himself while we discuss marriage, the upcoming week, the larger future, the concept of eternity, Pauline eschatology, the Red Sox, or weather my writing pushes the boundaries of grammar and syntax or simply contains run-on sentences.

Perhaps you might say to yourself, “What’s the big deal? So you get breakfast with your wife, everyone does that.” Yeah, well…not everyone apparently. When we had less children and no children we spent that sort of time regularly but the advent of a more complex life rendered such times immensely difficult to maintain. However, with concerted effort and unshakeable commitment I will once again stare at my wife over a coffee table and look her in the eyes for more than 30 seconds without the distraction of aerial food assaults, endless questions of Star Wars lore, or general whining- every Monday at 9:30 AM.

"on the bright side..."

My oldest son (above) is a brooder like me. Last night I realized a mistake I had made in scheduling an event for the church. What had begun as a well executed and communicated plan was falling apart in front of me as I realized this very simple yet somewhat dramatic miscalcualtion. I was visibly upset. I stomped through the house for a little bit before I decided to go take a walk and gather myself. As I walked to the door mt oldest son, who was awake way past bedtime because his spring break had begun, walked up to me and said "Daddy, I am just like you right now. I'm not on the bright side either. I lost all the guns to my Clone Troopers." There is no end to the delight I take in my son misquoting age old catch-phrases. I immediately calmed down and told him I would help him find all his clone trroper guns.

I wasn't on the bright side. It was evident and my seven year-old related. His lost toy accessories amounted to the same degree of importance as my event planning disaster. He is right of course if we consider all things- life, death, eternity etc. How many withered vines am I going to lament (Jonah 4:8) and flown breezes will I madly chase? It is far better and more constructive to be on the bright side. 

Homeless Shelter Faux Pas

Shelter
Originally uploaded by elliejay08

I volunteer at a rotating homeless shelter. My particular shift lasts from 2:30 AM until 7 AM. It is a jarring experience each time I wake up in my own house and drive over to the shelter where the smell is palatable as soon as I'm inside. It is the quietest part of the night when I arrive. Around 4 AM the men start to get up. By 5 AM almost all of them are awake. We make them breakfast and hand them packed lunches for the day.

Most mornings go smoothly; today was a bad morning though. Nothing dramatic happened except that I did something to offend one of the men and he went off on me. We are given a set of rules we're supposed to follow as volunteers. One of them is that we aren't supposed to give out toiletries and socks in the morning. All of it was supposed to be passed out the night before. This ensures no one doubles up or takes more than they need, or tries to sell their surplus. It also ensures the shelter doesn't run out of supplies.

This morning at about 3:45 AM one of the guys asked if he could get toiletries. I asked him why he didn't get any last night and he told me he went to sleep before they passed them out. I reluctantly gave him a pack of supplies. Then he asked for socks. In my only defense, it was 3:45 AM and I wasn't as sharp as I normally am. I told him that they passed out socks last night and asked why he didn't get any. He got really upset and exclaimed he already told me he went to sleep. He began berating me. I knew I had a choice at that moment but I made the wrong one. I reasoned to myself that I was coming here to volunteer my time, not to be scolded by an ungrateful and judgmental man who, after all, had asked for my help. So I fired back and things escalated. “Do you want the socks or not?” I asked. After firing some expletives my way he answered “Yes.” I looked at him and said “Then just answer my question next time.” He began arguing with me but I just handed him some socks and walked away. I almost left the shelter.

I am normally a diplomatic human and faster on my feet than that moment would indicate. However, I realized that I was so bothered at being dressed down by someone who couldn’t even feed himself much less house himself that diplomacy wasn’t in it for me. Of course my thoughts weren’t that conscious but in the end it is no less true.

The fact is, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have asked twice. I didn’t even realize that I really had because I didn’t care that much about how it would make this man feel to be questioned. I would take anyone else at their word for the most part; but not this man. I was assuming he was taking advantage of the shelter. One cannot, in many ways, help such assumptions when one is given static rules to follow, but if I’d cared about the man’s pride I would have found a more discreet way to deal with the issue. As it was, I simply disrespected his word. And because his response was so inappropriate I wrote it off.

I felt angry when I left the shelter. It took me the entire day to get to a point where I was willing to admit my culpability in that scenario. It shows me how much I still stratify the people worth my best energies and empathetic impulses. Once I made the mistake of asking again why he didn’t get the supplies everybody else got last night and once he began laying into me I should have simply stopped him and said, “Listen Arthur, please excuse me. I shouldn’t have asked again. We have rules they want us to follow and in the process of adhering to them I have forgotten my manners. I’ll get you those socks right away.”

American Journalism

I have become somewhat addicted to TED.com and here is why: some of the most intelligent and creative minds in America and beyond give their best and most poignant insights into what they see as most important. There is much to disagree with in these short monologues but there is no other forum like that I know of today. If this were ancient Greece TED.com would be the place sophists held court. In this particular clip a formal criticism is made against American journalism. It is short but insightful. The same night I watched this clip I took an informal survey of the 4 or five cable news channels I have access to. My purpose was to sample 20 straight minutes of their news information and find a ratio of what could be considered "positive" news stories against what could be "considered" negative news stories. My I had hoped to either legitimize or debunk the notion that our news outlets were "fear mongering" or catering to the public's oft cited insatiable desire for dirty news. I could not produce an actual ratio because in those twenty minutes there were no "positive" news stories between all the networks and various local news reports I witnessed. The point I make is that our news media has a needs intervention. The commentary of Alisa Miller in this video is far more revealing than my mean little survey but they both say the same thing- American journalism is not a window to the world at all- it is a bigger window into what interests Americans. I think we can all agree that this is not a capstone upon which we should make choices as to what should or should not be in the news.