I'll get right to the point. Tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this), Tuesday, December 2, is "Giving Tuesday." I'm writing this asking you to give, specifically to Second Life of Chattanooga.
Giving Tuesday has been developed as a bit of an answer to the hysteria and consummerism that surround Black Friday and Cyber Monday. In this the "season of giving," Giving Tuesday asks us to focus on the people and issues who could use our help. Second Life of Chattanooga works to create awareness and collaborative action on the issue of sex trafficking as it exists in Greater Chattanooga and throughout Southeast Tennessee. Beyond our city and region, we have also provided help for trafficking victims as far away as New England and the West Coast.
We are a small organization, and operational funding is our greatest current need. Giving Tuesday is an opportunity to help with this need. Over 1,700 people have liked us on Facebook. If you are one of those 1,700, please make us your Giving Tuesday focus. We are asking everyone to make a donation of at least $10 to Second Life of Chattanooga for Giving Tuesday. If each person who has liked us on Facebook does this, we experience a serious boost in not only resources, but momentum, both of which are an organization's life-blood.
You can make your tax-deductible donation securely online at secondlifechattanooga.org. In addition to your Giving Tuesday gift, we ask you to also consider becoming a regular donor to Second Life. But, for tomorrow (or today) please make that $10 gift. Giving Tuesday is not about creating small numbers of large gifts, but instead large numbers of small gifts, each of which are important parts of the solution to the terrible crime of sex trafficking.
Thank you for being part of this year's Giving Tuesday and for making us your priority for this year. Your generosity and partnership mean the world to us.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
The War is Over
"You're looking at a dead man." That's what I told a group of women I spoke to yesterday. I went on to tell them that mine had been a slow, creeping death that began 10 years ago. But first, some context.
I spent this past weekend at a 3-day spiritual retreat, oddly enough, a women's spiritual retreat. It's based on the Catholic Cursillo movement & model. I was there because I was asked to be one of the ministers ("spiritual directors") for the weekend. My connection to this movement began 23 years ago and over the years it has been a part of my spiritual journey, sometimes a very important part of that journey, other times not so much.
The theme of the weekend was, "Faith-Hope-Love...From Beginning to the End." I approached the weekend knowing I needed a bit of all 3. Actually, I needed a ton of all 3. I have learned over the years that I can speak to groups and usually have something worthwhile to say no matter how empty I may be personally. This weekend, however, I knew I could not just be a casual observer, standing outside of the circle. If I was going to be there, I knew I needed to be fully there and that whatever hopes I had that the retreat participants would experience something positive and helpful, I needed to have the same hopes for myself.
In addition to serving communion and being available for conversation, I was also asked to give a couple of talks on the weekend, both of which focused on grace. Since metaphor is one of the ways I seem to best be able to understand deeper things, I approached my first talk on grace with a metaphor drawn from a Keith Urban show my wife and I attended in February of this year. Many of Keith's fans bring hand-written/painted signs to his shows (I didn't bring a sign in case you're wondering) with all sorts of messages on them, ranging from telling him how far they traveled to see him to requests for Keith to marry them (those are probably Nicole Kidman's favorites).
During the show Keith grabbed a spotlight and looked around the crowd at the various signs. One young lady's sign was, "Keith, I need a hug." He brought her on stage, gave her a hug, then sat her down and sang a song to her. It was quite a moment for that young lady. It was also a moment where I realized I'd been given a metaphor I would use at some point. In this case, it ended up being for this weekend.
At the close of my first talk on grace, I told the ladies about the Keith Urban show and the young lady's sign. I then asked them to go with the metaphorical flow and imagine what would be on their sign should the Almighty shine a light on them during the weekend. I asked them to be honest about what was on their sign instead of thinking about what they should have on it. Later that evening some of the folks who were there serving the attendees used a similar metaphor, a bit of a before and after approach, with signs that described previously difficult/hurtful/damaging events, and then a much more hopeful message on the flip side describing their lives now.
This had quite an impact on everyone in the room, including me. We spent a few minutes in silence after being asked to consider what message we would like to have on our metaphorical sign as opposed to the one that was there currently. I knew I needed a new message, a new reality on the sign of my life and I asked the Almighty to help me discover just what that message and reality could be. After a minute or two, the words, "the war is over" flashed across my mind. I knew I had my answer.
Which takes me back to the first sentence of this post and 10 years of slow death. It was 10 years ago that a series of personal attacks began coming my way. No one person or group generated the attacks and they didn't come in a constant stream. Instead, there would be a wave of shots taken at my reputation, who I am as a person, etc., then things would die down, only to see another similar wave come at me (and my family) again, always unexpected, always vicious. The only consistent thread about the attacks was this: they were all initiated and delivered by Christians.
I'm a Christian, have been for a long time, so we're talking about being attacked by people who occupy the same faith space as me, who are supposed to be my "brothers and sisters." It was only a handful of people driving the attacks, but they had pretty wide-ranging impact. Over time I became crippled by the accusations, the half-truths, the outright lies. As I said to the ladies yesterday, you get the hell beaten out of you long enough, you begin to die. That is what began happening to me.
I withdrew, went deep within myself, built some huge, thick walls and told everyone but my wife, daughter, and a few close friends to stay away. Far away. And I began to hate. First, I just hated the acts perpetrated against me. Then I began to hate the perpetrators. Then I began to hate the fact that the perpetrators were Christians. Then I began to hate Christians in general.
As I told the ladies yesterday, you spend enough time hating Christians, you'll eventually end up hating God. This was true for me. Mine was not this constant, seething hatred. Instead, it was sort of an ebb and flow thing, sometimes rising to the surface, but mainly just a deep, quiet thing, something I tried to hide from everyone, including myself. Most times I thought if I ignored it it would go away. It doesn't work like that, at least it didn't for me. To let it (the hatred) just lay undisturbed meant I may not be nurturing it, but I wasn't trying to kill it either.
So instead it slowly killed me. And it started a war inside me. Although it was pretty much a silent war, it was a war nonetheless. My enemies in this war were those who hurt me and the God who let them. Actually, there was one other enemy- me. I hated myself for letting it all happen to me, for not seeing it coming, for not preventing it, for putting myself and my family in a vulnerable position. I hated myself for not being able to get over it. I hated myself for letting it matter as much as it did.
I realized a long time ago that no apologies were coming, no one responsible for the pain had any intention of making it right. But I held on to my hurt, anger and hatred anyway. And the war raged. I made sure that it did.
Until Friday night. When those words, "the war is over" flashed through my mind, I knew that more than anything what I wanted on my metaphorical sign was that message, that reality. And I suddenly realized that not only did I want that reality, I had the power to create it. Then. There. So then and there, I ended the war inside me. I set free the only prisoner of war I had captured this whole time...me.
Yesterday I shared this story with the ladies at the retreat. I even showed them a sign I'd made that had the words, "The War Is Over" written on it. I don't know for sure, but maybe they saw a dead man come back to life right in front of them.
It's nice to breathe free air again.
I spent this past weekend at a 3-day spiritual retreat, oddly enough, a women's spiritual retreat. It's based on the Catholic Cursillo movement & model. I was there because I was asked to be one of the ministers ("spiritual directors") for the weekend. My connection to this movement began 23 years ago and over the years it has been a part of my spiritual journey, sometimes a very important part of that journey, other times not so much.
The theme of the weekend was, "Faith-Hope-Love...From Beginning to the End." I approached the weekend knowing I needed a bit of all 3. Actually, I needed a ton of all 3. I have learned over the years that I can speak to groups and usually have something worthwhile to say no matter how empty I may be personally. This weekend, however, I knew I could not just be a casual observer, standing outside of the circle. If I was going to be there, I knew I needed to be fully there and that whatever hopes I had that the retreat participants would experience something positive and helpful, I needed to have the same hopes for myself.
In addition to serving communion and being available for conversation, I was also asked to give a couple of talks on the weekend, both of which focused on grace. Since metaphor is one of the ways I seem to best be able to understand deeper things, I approached my first talk on grace with a metaphor drawn from a Keith Urban show my wife and I attended in February of this year. Many of Keith's fans bring hand-written/painted signs to his shows (I didn't bring a sign in case you're wondering) with all sorts of messages on them, ranging from telling him how far they traveled to see him to requests for Keith to marry them (those are probably Nicole Kidman's favorites).
During the show Keith grabbed a spotlight and looked around the crowd at the various signs. One young lady's sign was, "Keith, I need a hug." He brought her on stage, gave her a hug, then sat her down and sang a song to her. It was quite a moment for that young lady. It was also a moment where I realized I'd been given a metaphor I would use at some point. In this case, it ended up being for this weekend.
At the close of my first talk on grace, I told the ladies about the Keith Urban show and the young lady's sign. I then asked them to go with the metaphorical flow and imagine what would be on their sign should the Almighty shine a light on them during the weekend. I asked them to be honest about what was on their sign instead of thinking about what they should have on it. Later that evening some of the folks who were there serving the attendees used a similar metaphor, a bit of a before and after approach, with signs that described previously difficult/hurtful/damaging events, and then a much more hopeful message on the flip side describing their lives now.
This had quite an impact on everyone in the room, including me. We spent a few minutes in silence after being asked to consider what message we would like to have on our metaphorical sign as opposed to the one that was there currently. I knew I needed a new message, a new reality on the sign of my life and I asked the Almighty to help me discover just what that message and reality could be. After a minute or two, the words, "the war is over" flashed across my mind. I knew I had my answer.
Which takes me back to the first sentence of this post and 10 years of slow death. It was 10 years ago that a series of personal attacks began coming my way. No one person or group generated the attacks and they didn't come in a constant stream. Instead, there would be a wave of shots taken at my reputation, who I am as a person, etc., then things would die down, only to see another similar wave come at me (and my family) again, always unexpected, always vicious. The only consistent thread about the attacks was this: they were all initiated and delivered by Christians.
I'm a Christian, have been for a long time, so we're talking about being attacked by people who occupy the same faith space as me, who are supposed to be my "brothers and sisters." It was only a handful of people driving the attacks, but they had pretty wide-ranging impact. Over time I became crippled by the accusations, the half-truths, the outright lies. As I said to the ladies yesterday, you get the hell beaten out of you long enough, you begin to die. That is what began happening to me.
I withdrew, went deep within myself, built some huge, thick walls and told everyone but my wife, daughter, and a few close friends to stay away. Far away. And I began to hate. First, I just hated the acts perpetrated against me. Then I began to hate the perpetrators. Then I began to hate the fact that the perpetrators were Christians. Then I began to hate Christians in general.
As I told the ladies yesterday, you spend enough time hating Christians, you'll eventually end up hating God. This was true for me. Mine was not this constant, seething hatred. Instead, it was sort of an ebb and flow thing, sometimes rising to the surface, but mainly just a deep, quiet thing, something I tried to hide from everyone, including myself. Most times I thought if I ignored it it would go away. It doesn't work like that, at least it didn't for me. To let it (the hatred) just lay undisturbed meant I may not be nurturing it, but I wasn't trying to kill it either.
So instead it slowly killed me. And it started a war inside me. Although it was pretty much a silent war, it was a war nonetheless. My enemies in this war were those who hurt me and the God who let them. Actually, there was one other enemy- me. I hated myself for letting it all happen to me, for not seeing it coming, for not preventing it, for putting myself and my family in a vulnerable position. I hated myself for not being able to get over it. I hated myself for letting it matter as much as it did.
I realized a long time ago that no apologies were coming, no one responsible for the pain had any intention of making it right. But I held on to my hurt, anger and hatred anyway. And the war raged. I made sure that it did.
Until Friday night. When those words, "the war is over" flashed through my mind, I knew that more than anything what I wanted on my metaphorical sign was that message, that reality. And I suddenly realized that not only did I want that reality, I had the power to create it. Then. There. So then and there, I ended the war inside me. I set free the only prisoner of war I had captured this whole time...me.
Yesterday I shared this story with the ladies at the retreat. I even showed them a sign I'd made that had the words, "The War Is Over" written on it. I don't know for sure, but maybe they saw a dead man come back to life right in front of them.
It's nice to breathe free air again.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Thankful for my life
Today, July 15, I am thankful for my life.
This is the final post in my series on being thankful. As I wrote at the beginning of this, I don't know exactly why the idea for a series on thankfulness came to me, but I'm glad I've followed up on it. I can always use a reminder that being intentionally thankful serves me well. Hopefully this series has been a good reminder to you as well.
Today is my birthday. I am now 54 years old. My favorite line in The Grateful Dead's classic song, "Truckin,'" states, "What a long, strange trip it's been." I'll paraphrase that by saying that the trip to 54 has been quick and at least often unexpected, if not outright strange. I'm thankful to be the age that I am. I've never been a person who complained about birthdays. Frankly, that has always struck me as ridiculous, stupid even. I'll take every birthday I can get.
But my thankfulness goes beyond the fact that I've had a lot of birthdays. Plenty of people have been allowed far more birthdays then I've known to this point. The quality of my years rather than just the quantity is what holds my focus now.
As I have written in a previous post, I'm very drawn to the future, not very interested in the past. I'm excited about what is ahead for me, the opportunities and challenges that will allow me to grow and become a more fully-formed, fully-alive human being. But I'm also appreciative for the journey up to this point. Although not all of it has been enjoyable, and some of it was hellacious at times, I've still been able to learn something from every experience.
I have been blessed to be married for 32 years now...to the same woman. Not a lot of people get to say that. We still love each other, still like being with each other, we still laugh together. I have a wonderful daughter who inspires me to be a better, more compassionate person. I get to do work that challenges me, that gives me a sense of contribution, that reminds me of the value of humanity.
I still get to speak to a variety of audiences on a variety of topics. This has not been without a price, as there have been a few along the way who have tried to block my opportunities to fulfill my calling and use my voice. They haven't succeeded. I'm still here. I still speak, teach, preach. And I will continue to.
As my dad told me years ago could be the case, the circle of those who are truly close to me and know me well at this point in life is smaller than I thought it would be. I count this as a good thing as well. I'm acquainted with many people, most of whom I am on friendly terms with. But, there is that small group of just a few who know me warts and all, and who remain. They are friends who are family. Making the journey with them has been and remains a huge blessing.
Finally, I am thankful that I come to this point in life still holding on to my faith, or it holding on to me. As I wrote the other day, my faith looks very different than it did years ago, full of far more questions and far less certainty. But a man of faith I remain. As my favorite hymn by a certain Irish bar band says, I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I also believe that the One who years ago began a good work in me will complete that work and my search will be complete.
I am a thankful man.
This is the final post in my series on being thankful. As I wrote at the beginning of this, I don't know exactly why the idea for a series on thankfulness came to me, but I'm glad I've followed up on it. I can always use a reminder that being intentionally thankful serves me well. Hopefully this series has been a good reminder to you as well.
Today is my birthday. I am now 54 years old. My favorite line in The Grateful Dead's classic song, "Truckin,'" states, "What a long, strange trip it's been." I'll paraphrase that by saying that the trip to 54 has been quick and at least often unexpected, if not outright strange. I'm thankful to be the age that I am. I've never been a person who complained about birthdays. Frankly, that has always struck me as ridiculous, stupid even. I'll take every birthday I can get.
But my thankfulness goes beyond the fact that I've had a lot of birthdays. Plenty of people have been allowed far more birthdays then I've known to this point. The quality of my years rather than just the quantity is what holds my focus now.
As I have written in a previous post, I'm very drawn to the future, not very interested in the past. I'm excited about what is ahead for me, the opportunities and challenges that will allow me to grow and become a more fully-formed, fully-alive human being. But I'm also appreciative for the journey up to this point. Although not all of it has been enjoyable, and some of it was hellacious at times, I've still been able to learn something from every experience.
I have been blessed to be married for 32 years now...to the same woman. Not a lot of people get to say that. We still love each other, still like being with each other, we still laugh together. I have a wonderful daughter who inspires me to be a better, more compassionate person. I get to do work that challenges me, that gives me a sense of contribution, that reminds me of the value of humanity.
I still get to speak to a variety of audiences on a variety of topics. This has not been without a price, as there have been a few along the way who have tried to block my opportunities to fulfill my calling and use my voice. They haven't succeeded. I'm still here. I still speak, teach, preach. And I will continue to.
As my dad told me years ago could be the case, the circle of those who are truly close to me and know me well at this point in life is smaller than I thought it would be. I count this as a good thing as well. I'm acquainted with many people, most of whom I am on friendly terms with. But, there is that small group of just a few who know me warts and all, and who remain. They are friends who are family. Making the journey with them has been and remains a huge blessing.
Finally, I am thankful that I come to this point in life still holding on to my faith, or it holding on to me. As I wrote the other day, my faith looks very different than it did years ago, full of far more questions and far less certainty. But a man of faith I remain. As my favorite hymn by a certain Irish bar band says, I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I also believe that the One who years ago began a good work in me will complete that work and my search will be complete.
I am a thankful man.
Thankful for California
Today, July 14, I'm thankful for having lived in California and the long-term influence it's had on me.
Frankly, I'm a bit surprised by this being one of the posts for my "thankful" series, but it occurred to me in thinking about what to write for today that my time living in California years ago has had a profound and lasting impact on me. I am a native-born American Southerner, having lived the majority of my life in the southeastern US. Although I've had the opportunity to travel around a lot of our country, my primary experiential context has been the American South, especially the "buckle of the Bible Belt" portion where I now live and have lived for a total of 30 years.
So, what in the world does California, a place I haven't lived in 40 years, have to do with having had a long-term influence on me? In thinking about this I have realized I can trace some things back to my 2 1/2 year-period in California, things that have characterized who I have been ever since, things that cause me to live with both eyes and mind a bit more wide open than might have been the case otherwise.
When we lived in California, we lived in Fresno, which is right in the middle of the state and also in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, a major agricultural area for our entire country. Today Fresno is a city of over half-a-million people, so I would imagine when I was there its population was probably at least 300,000, maybe more. I lived close to Fresno St. University and went to their football games all the time. The climate was great, and if you wanted a change in climate, you didn't have to drive very far at all to get to the ocean, the snow, the desert.
My time in California introduced me to the beauty and vastness of the West, a region I still deeply love and miss today. But, California introduced me to something much deeper than geographical beauty and climate diversity. The diversity of humanity is the greatest thing California taught me and it is a lesson that resonates in me today, 40 years after I left there.
I hadn't really thought about this until the last couple of days. I don't know why the contribution of this time and place is just now coming so clearly into focus, but it is and I am thankful for that contribution.
The street on which we lived in Fresno (Santa Ana Ave.) was a mini-United Nations. If you were racist on that street, you were going to have a tough time. Asian, African, Portuguese, Italian, German, and Irish (courtesy of the Redman's) are just some of the ethnicities that were represented in our neighborhood. Everyone wore their ethnicity proudly, right under the shared identity of "American." No one was considered more American than anyone else. We were all Americans. We were all America.
Our parents worked hard, looked out for each other's kids, helped their neighbors. You know, basic stuff, built around shared values of community and neighborhood. Catholics, Protestants, Buddhists, and probably a few other religious labels I don't remember, all living side-by-side. I don't recall one argument or fight (God knows there were plenty, since it felt like there were about 1,000 of us kids on that short street) having to do with someone's ethnicity or religion.
I look back on that time and place, especially in light of much of the noise I hear today about "traditional values" and I realize the values lived out on a daily basis on Santa Ana Ave. were the kind of values that would make any neighborhood a good place to live. While so many people beating the traditional values drum today seem to be referring to a set of values that they believe are most closely held by one particular demographic group in one particular region of the country (read between the lines; you'll figure it out), my Fresno neighborhood from age 11-14 gave me both an experience and a vision of how life can be lived, should be lived, by all of us, with all of us.
It's been a few years since I've been back to California. I don't know when I'll get back there next, but when I do I plan on stopping in Fresno and driving back to Santa Ana Ave. (if it's even still there) and remember the lessons I learned there that help me be the man I am today and will hopefully be in the future. It will be a matter of paying my respects. Of giving thanks.
Frankly, I'm a bit surprised by this being one of the posts for my "thankful" series, but it occurred to me in thinking about what to write for today that my time living in California years ago has had a profound and lasting impact on me. I am a native-born American Southerner, having lived the majority of my life in the southeastern US. Although I've had the opportunity to travel around a lot of our country, my primary experiential context has been the American South, especially the "buckle of the Bible Belt" portion where I now live and have lived for a total of 30 years.
So, what in the world does California, a place I haven't lived in 40 years, have to do with having had a long-term influence on me? In thinking about this I have realized I can trace some things back to my 2 1/2 year-period in California, things that have characterized who I have been ever since, things that cause me to live with both eyes and mind a bit more wide open than might have been the case otherwise.
When we lived in California, we lived in Fresno, which is right in the middle of the state and also in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, a major agricultural area for our entire country. Today Fresno is a city of over half-a-million people, so I would imagine when I was there its population was probably at least 300,000, maybe more. I lived close to Fresno St. University and went to their football games all the time. The climate was great, and if you wanted a change in climate, you didn't have to drive very far at all to get to the ocean, the snow, the desert.
My time in California introduced me to the beauty and vastness of the West, a region I still deeply love and miss today. But, California introduced me to something much deeper than geographical beauty and climate diversity. The diversity of humanity is the greatest thing California taught me and it is a lesson that resonates in me today, 40 years after I left there.
I hadn't really thought about this until the last couple of days. I don't know why the contribution of this time and place is just now coming so clearly into focus, but it is and I am thankful for that contribution.
The street on which we lived in Fresno (Santa Ana Ave.) was a mini-United Nations. If you were racist on that street, you were going to have a tough time. Asian, African, Portuguese, Italian, German, and Irish (courtesy of the Redman's) are just some of the ethnicities that were represented in our neighborhood. Everyone wore their ethnicity proudly, right under the shared identity of "American." No one was considered more American than anyone else. We were all Americans. We were all America.
Our parents worked hard, looked out for each other's kids, helped their neighbors. You know, basic stuff, built around shared values of community and neighborhood. Catholics, Protestants, Buddhists, and probably a few other religious labels I don't remember, all living side-by-side. I don't recall one argument or fight (God knows there were plenty, since it felt like there were about 1,000 of us kids on that short street) having to do with someone's ethnicity or religion.
I look back on that time and place, especially in light of much of the noise I hear today about "traditional values" and I realize the values lived out on a daily basis on Santa Ana Ave. were the kind of values that would make any neighborhood a good place to live. While so many people beating the traditional values drum today seem to be referring to a set of values that they believe are most closely held by one particular demographic group in one particular region of the country (read between the lines; you'll figure it out), my Fresno neighborhood from age 11-14 gave me both an experience and a vision of how life can be lived, should be lived, by all of us, with all of us.
It's been a few years since I've been back to California. I don't know when I'll get back there next, but when I do I plan on stopping in Fresno and driving back to Santa Ana Ave. (if it's even still there) and remember the lessons I learned there that help me be the man I am today and will hopefully be in the future. It will be a matter of paying my respects. Of giving thanks.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Thankful for my faith
Today, July 13, I am thankful for my faith.
One of the many reasons this is true is because my faith is much different than it used to be, not just the faith from my childhood and youth, but also from my earlier adulthood. Although it took me some time to recognize this, over the last several years I have realized that my faith has always been something that was in transition, in process. For a long time I felt like I couldn't (shouldn't) admit this fact to myself or anyone else, but once I began admitting it, my faith seemed to grow stronger.
I need to clarify what I mean when I use the word "faith." Or, maybe I can clarify it by stating what I don't mean when using that word. So many people think faith means certainty and vice versa. Not me. My faith is a central aspect of my life in spite of all of which I am not certain. Faith for me is not a list of doctrines and regulations and it certainly is not insisting that I've got the Almighty of the universe all figured out. At this point, I have him less figured out than I ever have. It would be fair to say that while in my twenties I was sure I had most of the answers about God. Now in my mid-fifties, I'm mainly full of questions.
And I believe that this fact has made my faith deeper, more real, more human, maybe even something that God can actually work with to make me more of the person I've been created to be. But, this process, this journey, has been a very tough one at times, full of plenty of doubt, even questions about whether I could hold on to my faith. Plenty of people who know little to nothing about me have even passed judgement on me during this process, pronouncing me as having compromised or even abandoned my faith. This used to bother (actually it more than bothered) me. Today, I choose to look at such people and such opinions as the difference between faith and certainty disguised as faith. Faith makes room for and even welcomes the questions, the doubts. Certainty insists that questions and doubts must be avoided at all costs. And this is actually the easier of the two options, as long as you don't mind stunting your mind, heart, and soul.
But I'll take the tougher of the two options any day. Embracing a messier, more elastic approach to having faith doesn't make for an easier journey and it will even make you pretty unpopular in certain circles, but the upside is one of discovery, mystery, hope, as well as a sense that you are a human who is still becoming and that the Almighty is right there with you in the middle of the questions, doubts, fears, and longing.
I used to be a guy with all the answers for how you should think, live, and believe. I look back and realize I don't like that guy. Today I am a man who is still in process, still unsure about a lot of things, but who is more hopeful than I've ever been. At this point in life I have far more questions than answers, but I've never been more thankful that I have my faith and that my faith has me.
One of the many reasons this is true is because my faith is much different than it used to be, not just the faith from my childhood and youth, but also from my earlier adulthood. Although it took me some time to recognize this, over the last several years I have realized that my faith has always been something that was in transition, in process. For a long time I felt like I couldn't (shouldn't) admit this fact to myself or anyone else, but once I began admitting it, my faith seemed to grow stronger.
I need to clarify what I mean when I use the word "faith." Or, maybe I can clarify it by stating what I don't mean when using that word. So many people think faith means certainty and vice versa. Not me. My faith is a central aspect of my life in spite of all of which I am not certain. Faith for me is not a list of doctrines and regulations and it certainly is not insisting that I've got the Almighty of the universe all figured out. At this point, I have him less figured out than I ever have. It would be fair to say that while in my twenties I was sure I had most of the answers about God. Now in my mid-fifties, I'm mainly full of questions.
And I believe that this fact has made my faith deeper, more real, more human, maybe even something that God can actually work with to make me more of the person I've been created to be. But, this process, this journey, has been a very tough one at times, full of plenty of doubt, even questions about whether I could hold on to my faith. Plenty of people who know little to nothing about me have even passed judgement on me during this process, pronouncing me as having compromised or even abandoned my faith. This used to bother (actually it more than bothered) me. Today, I choose to look at such people and such opinions as the difference between faith and certainty disguised as faith. Faith makes room for and even welcomes the questions, the doubts. Certainty insists that questions and doubts must be avoided at all costs. And this is actually the easier of the two options, as long as you don't mind stunting your mind, heart, and soul.
But I'll take the tougher of the two options any day. Embracing a messier, more elastic approach to having faith doesn't make for an easier journey and it will even make you pretty unpopular in certain circles, but the upside is one of discovery, mystery, hope, as well as a sense that you are a human who is still becoming and that the Almighty is right there with you in the middle of the questions, doubts, fears, and longing.
I used to be a guy with all the answers for how you should think, live, and believe. I look back and realize I don't like that guy. Today I am a man who is still in process, still unsure about a lot of things, but who is more hopeful than I've ever been. At this point in life I have far more questions than answers, but I've never been more thankful that I have my faith and that my faith has me.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Thankful for new beginnings and second chances
Today, July 12, I'm thankful for new beginnings and second chances.
And of course, sometimes they're the same thing.
I love looking forward, endeavoring to envision what the future could be, and then working to create it. The past doesn't hold much interest for me, but the possibilities of the future fascinate me. And whether a new beginning involves the first steps of the process of creating something from scratch, or letting the light of day finally shine on a project that's been in development for a while, either way I'm going to be excited.
Managing something that is already in place without exploring how it can be changed, reimagined, etc., holds no interest for me and I'm really not very good at it. I'm thankful that much of what I do is about new beginnings and thinking about and then working to create what's next, what could be. My futuristic strength is one of those things that makes me me. For people who are tied to the past, to maintaining traditions, to resisting change, I tend to drive them crazy (the feeling is mutual). As one of my seminary professors said about me, "Jerry's so much of a futurist, that today's too far in the past for him." Guilty as charged.
But every now and then, the new beginning is about re-engaging with something that has been part of my journey before. Every once in a while, I find that a connection or an initiative that had a place of importance in my life in another time re-presents itself. I try to pay attention to these re-presentations, endeavoring to ensure that my futuristic orientation doesn't cause me to miss an opportunity to re-connect with someone or something that may be offering me new opportunities for growth.
I am currently experiencing such a re-connection after a several-years-period of being away from a particular initiative. There was a time that I thought my experience with this initiative was completely wrapped up and that there was no need to consider re-connecting with it. Several months ago when the opportunity to discuss this re-connection presented itself, something told me I should at least be open to the possibility.
It has turned out to be a good decision. And maybe the best thing about giving (and being given) a second chance in this situation is that it feels much more like a new beginning instead of re-booting something from the past. Maybe it's a bit of both, but given my bias for the new, a new beginning gets my vote.
New beginnings, second chances, to see something formed out of virtually nothing, to see something reformed, to see people be transformed. I'm not sure there are many other things in life for which any of us can be more thankful.
And of course, sometimes they're the same thing.
I love looking forward, endeavoring to envision what the future could be, and then working to create it. The past doesn't hold much interest for me, but the possibilities of the future fascinate me. And whether a new beginning involves the first steps of the process of creating something from scratch, or letting the light of day finally shine on a project that's been in development for a while, either way I'm going to be excited.
Managing something that is already in place without exploring how it can be changed, reimagined, etc., holds no interest for me and I'm really not very good at it. I'm thankful that much of what I do is about new beginnings and thinking about and then working to create what's next, what could be. My futuristic strength is one of those things that makes me me. For people who are tied to the past, to maintaining traditions, to resisting change, I tend to drive them crazy (the feeling is mutual). As one of my seminary professors said about me, "Jerry's so much of a futurist, that today's too far in the past for him." Guilty as charged.
But every now and then, the new beginning is about re-engaging with something that has been part of my journey before. Every once in a while, I find that a connection or an initiative that had a place of importance in my life in another time re-presents itself. I try to pay attention to these re-presentations, endeavoring to ensure that my futuristic orientation doesn't cause me to miss an opportunity to re-connect with someone or something that may be offering me new opportunities for growth.
I am currently experiencing such a re-connection after a several-years-period of being away from a particular initiative. There was a time that I thought my experience with this initiative was completely wrapped up and that there was no need to consider re-connecting with it. Several months ago when the opportunity to discuss this re-connection presented itself, something told me I should at least be open to the possibility.
It has turned out to be a good decision. And maybe the best thing about giving (and being given) a second chance in this situation is that it feels much more like a new beginning instead of re-booting something from the past. Maybe it's a bit of both, but given my bias for the new, a new beginning gets my vote.
New beginnings, second chances, to see something formed out of virtually nothing, to see something reformed, to see people be transformed. I'm not sure there are many other things in life for which any of us can be more thankful.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Thankful to preach
Today, July 11, I am thankful that I get to preach.
Maybe a more correct statement would be that in spite of a whole lot of stuff that's come my way in the last decade, I am thankful that I continue to preach anyway.
I speak a great deal in my work with Second Life of Chattanooga. I also do a fair amount of guest-lecturing on college campuses, some of it related to Second Life, some of it not. From time to time I'm also asked to speak to groups on the subject of leadership, team building, etc. I enjoy each of these types of speaking, as I think being able to engage a variety of groups on a variety of topics makes me not only a better communicator, but also a better learner.
But preaching is a completely different matter, not only in terms of its structure and how I approach it, but also because at its core it is an exercise in hope. The preacher hopes that somehow both his or her audience and the preacher him or herself will see, feel, believe something beyond the difficulty of their present circumstances, their present fears, their present disappointments, their present lack of belief. Both the preacher and those listening hope they may somehow touch God. They also hope that God might also return the favor.
Every time I preach I have 2 goals. The first is that those hearing the message will think. Deeply. That they will dare to go beyond their presuppositions and closely-held opinions and instead allow themselves to consider the possibility that the text and the Spirit behind it might actually have something to teach them. Hopefully the one preaching will engage in the same deeper level of thinking.
The second goal is that action will then rise from that thinking. The action may not happen till a week, a month, or even a year later, but if I am able to say something that causes someone to think so deeply on it that they cannot help but then act on that thinking, then hopefully I have been a good steward of what has been given me to say.
Many people don't peg me for a preacher. God knows I never wanted to be one. I grew up in the industry, a preacher's son, a preacher's grandson. As I've said many times before, I wanted nothing to do with that kind of life, mainly because I wanted to be happy. But at the age of 19 "the call" came to me in a simple, quiet, but unmistakeable way. I then did what any reasonable person would do with such a realization...
...I tried to ignore and run from it for the next 17 1/2 years. Eventually though, in the same simple, quiet, unmistakeable way that it first presented itself, the call (and the One issuing it) made itself irresistible to me. The 17 years since then have been filled with some great highs and some crushing lows. There have been times I've thought, "The hell with this. It's just not worth it." But somehow the call remains in me, so I remain in it.
I never treat lightly any opportunity to preach. To do so would mean that I no longer respect the call, the Caller, the audience that's willing to listen, the text, or myself. I know that I have a role to play in the exchange, one that I want to steward well. Unlike so much of the models of ministry I've seen in my life, I do not view myself as indispensable or the most important person in the room. Ultimately I am also part of the audience, needing just as much (maybe sometimes even more) to think deeply, act boldly, to be transformed.
So in spite of plenty reasons to no longer do so, I continue to preach when given the opportunity. I imagine I will do it as long as I have breath. Thanks be to God.
Maybe a more correct statement would be that in spite of a whole lot of stuff that's come my way in the last decade, I am thankful that I continue to preach anyway.
I speak a great deal in my work with Second Life of Chattanooga. I also do a fair amount of guest-lecturing on college campuses, some of it related to Second Life, some of it not. From time to time I'm also asked to speak to groups on the subject of leadership, team building, etc. I enjoy each of these types of speaking, as I think being able to engage a variety of groups on a variety of topics makes me not only a better communicator, but also a better learner.
But preaching is a completely different matter, not only in terms of its structure and how I approach it, but also because at its core it is an exercise in hope. The preacher hopes that somehow both his or her audience and the preacher him or herself will see, feel, believe something beyond the difficulty of their present circumstances, their present fears, their present disappointments, their present lack of belief. Both the preacher and those listening hope they may somehow touch God. They also hope that God might also return the favor.
Every time I preach I have 2 goals. The first is that those hearing the message will think. Deeply. That they will dare to go beyond their presuppositions and closely-held opinions and instead allow themselves to consider the possibility that the text and the Spirit behind it might actually have something to teach them. Hopefully the one preaching will engage in the same deeper level of thinking.
The second goal is that action will then rise from that thinking. The action may not happen till a week, a month, or even a year later, but if I am able to say something that causes someone to think so deeply on it that they cannot help but then act on that thinking, then hopefully I have been a good steward of what has been given me to say.
Many people don't peg me for a preacher. God knows I never wanted to be one. I grew up in the industry, a preacher's son, a preacher's grandson. As I've said many times before, I wanted nothing to do with that kind of life, mainly because I wanted to be happy. But at the age of 19 "the call" came to me in a simple, quiet, but unmistakeable way. I then did what any reasonable person would do with such a realization...
...I tried to ignore and run from it for the next 17 1/2 years. Eventually though, in the same simple, quiet, unmistakeable way that it first presented itself, the call (and the One issuing it) made itself irresistible to me. The 17 years since then have been filled with some great highs and some crushing lows. There have been times I've thought, "The hell with this. It's just not worth it." But somehow the call remains in me, so I remain in it.
I never treat lightly any opportunity to preach. To do so would mean that I no longer respect the call, the Caller, the audience that's willing to listen, the text, or myself. I know that I have a role to play in the exchange, one that I want to steward well. Unlike so much of the models of ministry I've seen in my life, I do not view myself as indispensable or the most important person in the room. Ultimately I am also part of the audience, needing just as much (maybe sometimes even more) to think deeply, act boldly, to be transformed.
So in spite of plenty reasons to no longer do so, I continue to preach when given the opportunity. I imagine I will do it as long as I have breath. Thanks be to God.
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