Day 37: Quiet

“Those who love their own noise are impatient of everything else. They constantly defile the silence of the forests and the mountains and the sea. They bore through silent nature in every direction with their machines, for fear that the calm world might accuse them of their own emptiness.” Thomas Merton

We live in a noisy world, don’t we?  Noise is like the air we breathe. It is always there, like a constant buzz. It is white noise.  Soon the chatter and disruption becomes almost soothing. We don’t even realize how overstimulated our minds have become. 

Until we are quiet, even for a moment.  And in the pause the silence overwhelms us.  We fidget.  We want it to stop.

My friend, Chris, who is also our worship leader, often pauses at the end of the final song on Sunday mornings.  He waits.  He listens.  The whole church goes silent.

And you can slowly feel the stress level rise.  “What are we supposed to be doing?”  “Why the pause?”  Sometimes people will even shout out a praise or prayer.  Nothing wrong with that…but I wonder if it is sometimes just to break the awkward silence.  To bring relief by filling the ominous void of dead space.

But the space isn’t dead.  This is where we hear the still, small voice.  And if we lean in to the silence, if we persevere through our discomfort, there are all kinds of gifts and invitations that quiet brings. 

Noise allows us to divert our attention away from emotions and anxieties that are begging to be felt and heard.  When we tune them out, they don’t disappear or even fade away.  They lurk.  They find residence within us.  And they do their best to steal our attention.  They present themselves as fear, or anger, or impatience.  They cause stress and keep us from being present.

When we enter into silence, we are invited to listen to our hearts.  We become aware of all the noise, the disruptions, the worries.  And one by one, we hold them before God.  We show him ourselves.  It is painfully vulnerable, but vulnerability miraculously destroys shame.  It allows us to be seen.  To be loved.

My favorite part of Lent has become our evening services.  Chris and I get to work with John Schreiner on the structure and content. John is an orchestrator.  He curates a service.  They are beautiful, deep, thoughtful, and quiet.  The pace slows.  His piano playing is so rich.  There is room in the service to listen and hear. It is sacred space.

Every week, I find myself wrestling with some logistical or technical  issue immediately before the service starts.  I’m sweating a bit.  I’m frustrated.  But it always comes together just before we start.  As I take the microphone and begin, I feel the pace of my heart beating too fast.  As I prepare us for a time of contemplation, I am painfully aware of just how badly I need it myself. 

These services have been wonderful times of refreshment for me.  It usually takes several readings or songs before I feel God’s presence.  But when I do…everything in me breathes a sigh of relief.  That comforting presence carries with it the assurance that all shall be well.

This last Sunday, our final Lent service for the year, was probably my favorite.  As we finished communion, I went up on stage.  I paused.  And then I closed with a blessing.  And no one moved.  Seriously.  Everyone just sat there.

I had a brief moment of panic.  Maybe I wasn’t clear.  “You are dismissed.”  Still no one moved.  And it finally dawned on me…no one wants to leave.  When God’s presence falls like that, it is so moving.  I could see tears in many people’s eyes.  I could see the calm on each face.  God is here.

I love that statement of Jacob… “Surely God was here and I knew it not.”  Which is why we must pause.  Otherwise we miss it.It is why we need moments where all the sound and words have ceased.  Where we listen.  Where our hearts are seen.  By us and by God.  I’ve treasured these times where I’ve experienced the quiet presence of God in my Lenten journey this year.  To be in that presence is such a wonderful gift.

 “In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength.” (Isaiah 30:15)

Day 36: Sparring

So, yesterday I got kicked in the face.  It was my first time.  I didn’t see it coming.  I did block two punches, but the third move got me.  I can’t believe Master Mark can even get his foot that high.  Thankfully I had a padded helmet on.  Otherwise I might have lost a tooth.

Sparring is a whole different level of training.  Much of our time and energy in Hapkido goes into form and memorization; step back block, front kick, double punch.  Again…and again.

This is how we learn.  Wax on, wax off.  As we do, the moves feel more and more natural.  We don’t have to be told to straighten our fingers when we elbow someone in the ribs.  It just happens.  And our fingers close quickly into a fist when we block a kick.  Because when we don’t, and our fingers get kicked, it hurts really, really bad.

But practice of this kind can only take us so far.  And I’ve noticed, when the sparring gear is on, my mind tends to go blank.  What move are we practicing?  Are we doing kicks or punches?  This way of thinking doesn’t apply to sparring.  It causes us to overthink and freeze up.  Sparring isn’t the time to refine technique.  It is the time to fight.

And as we do, we find ourselves discovering a whole different level of meaning.  Master Mark reminds me over and over to get my front hand up.  But I like it a bit more low and tucked, boxer like.  He pulls my fist out and up.  This is proper form.  And I keep it up there for a bit.  But a couple moves later, my hand is back where I like it.  This feels more natural to me.

Except that my lowered fist is like a huge invitation to hit me in the face.  I want to put my effort into strikes, into kicks, into moves.  But this is getting ahead of myself.  We must first build a strong, impenetrable foundation, and then go from there.  We can then add to it.  Because if we are too focused on our punch, we miss our block.  And the punch becomes irrelevant.  That missed block can leave our head ringing.

Lila loves to spar.  She comes at you like a spider monkey.  She is fearless.  She is all attack. As we walked to the car afterwards, a lady asked us how class was.  Lila said, “It was great!  I kicked everyone’s butts.”  The lady smiled.  “That’s as it should be.”  It was a sweet ‘girl power’ moment for the two of them.

I, personally, have more trepidation when sparring.  I prefer the safety of the classroom.  I like the theory.  I like the controlled environment of technique and form.  But that, ultimately, isn’t the point.  All that training is simply the structure for the real thing.

And the real thing is the dance.  We learn so we can truly live.  We practice so that we can come alive.  The work and discipline matter.  But we must get in the ring.  We must engage.  This is where it all comes together.  The arena is where it counts.

Day 35: Crooked Crosses

For the past few years, on Palm Sunday I’ve led my church in folding palm crosses.  It is a longstanding church tradition, but a fairly recent one for Church by the Sea.  Each year I’ve had at least one of my kids help me with the demonstration.  This year Lila and her good friend Eva helped me out.  I usually have to twist my older kids arms to get them on stage, but when I mentioned it to Lila she said, “oh, that sounds like so much fun!”

Every year I get a little teased for doing the crosses.  I realize it can feel a bit like arts and crafts time, but I think we can use more of that in church.  It is good for us to use our hands, not just our minds and mouths.  But more than anything, I love the symbolism.  The deep meaning it brings to an otherwise awkward day of celebration.

Palm Sunday was Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem.  The palm branches symbolize the cheers of victory as the new king rode into town.  But the praises would be short lived.  The hosannas would turn to jeers and cries of anger in less than a week.  Selfish motives would be exposed.  It is shocking how quickly our allegiance can turn when our expectations go unmet.

Palm Sunday begins Christ’s journey towards the cross.  And so we take the palm leaves and bend them and bruise them and twist them until they are formed into the symbol of sacrificial love.  Because that is actually where true hope lies.  Not in conquest, but in pouring our lives out for the sake of others.

After the services I go through the pews and gather the remains.  Twisted palms, bent and broken. As I gather them, these crooked crosses, I can see the intentions of the ones that did the folding.  They tried, but couldn’t quite get it.  I can sense their frustration as I see their discarded failed attempts.  I gather them, and I save them.  And eventually, I burn them.  Along with all the others left behind.  I’ll wait almost a year, and then my son and I will take them all out to our barbeque and set them aflame.

Afterwards we’ll gather the ash, and on the following Ash Wednesday, I’ll apply the ash to the foreheads of the ones that gather in church for a time of confession and repentance.  “From dust you have come and to dust you will return.”

These crooked crosses have become dear to me.  They are beautiful in their own way.  To me, they symbolize the incredible grace of God that beams with joy in our failed and frustrated attempts to do good.  Like a loving parent cheering their kid on as they swing and miss the ball.  “Good try!”

In one of my favorite prayers, Thomas Merton writes,

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”

Isn’t that so good!  “the desire to please you does in fact please you.”  Thank God for that!  Because sometimes that is all we have. On Palm Sunday, we are reminded that the only victory we can cling to is God’s grace.  In all our twisted motives and misguided prayers, that is ultimately, the only thing we can depend on.

At our Lent service last night, my friend John’s wife, Cathy, started refolding the broken palms.  I hadn’t seen crosses like that…loops instead of tight edges.  They were beautiful.  The frayed edges and dry cracks smoothed and reshaped.  It was so redemptive.

And maybe this is what God does.  He takes our crooked crosses, our broken Hallelujahs, and refolds them, patiently, into something more.  Or He gathers the remains and savors the attempts and smiles.  All of them, ultimately returning to dust.  A reminder to us that our lives are over so quickly, and yet are extremely precious to God.

Day 34: Seventeen Years

Today is our anniversary, babe!  Can you believe it?  We’re seventeen, which means our marriage is almost old enough to vote.

I look at that picture from our wedding day and can’t believe how young we were!  We were just kids!  Our whole lives were before us.  Everything was just beginning.  We were only just getting started.

I remember, in those days, we were both discovering so many new things about ourselves.  So much of my life was centered around leadership and ministry.  So much of yours around spirituality and new identity.  In many ways, we fell in love with each other’s potential.  How could we not?  We were changing and growing every day.  And together we just continued in that stream, redefining who we were, and shaping where we wanted to go.

Laguna Beach instead of L.A.  Small church over large.  The decision to have a family.  You deciding to stay home and figuring out how to be a mom.  Me juggling work and family and learning how to be a dad.  So many changes have happened between now and then.  And yet, somehow, things are still very much the same.

At middle age, we are both still discovering new things about ourselves.  But one of the main ones is the discovery that we haven’t really changed as much as we thought.  The minister’s wife/stay at home mom is still actually the cheerleader/athlete who loves to dance and perform, and is a phenomenal coach!  And me, well, I’m still that nerdy kid that loved books and D&D.  All the surfing, guitar playing, and good music in my life never seem to alter the fact that I’m still a geek at heart.

Which means our life is very much like a John Hugh’s movie, and I’m the awkward Michael Anthony Hall character who somehow, someway, ends up with the gorgeous Molly Ringwald.  How in the world did I get so lucky?

When you first choose your spouse, it is for all the reasons they are the perfect fit.  At least that is what we think.  But that is just the small part of ourselves we’re consciously aware of.  The things we find immediately attractive, as opposed to the deeper questions of what we really need.  When you get to midlife, that top ten list is no longer front and center.  In fact, it is probably buried away somewhere in a drawer.

What we have instead is so much reality.  Who we truly are.  All the ways we fit, yes, but also all the ways we don’t.  But both of those lists have become practically irrelevant.  Because what we have is seventeen years.  Seventeen years of intimacy, vulnerability, struggles, frustrations, dreams, defeats, victories, losses, embarrassments, and moments of glory.  And we have three little ones that aren’t so little anymore, who have added all their complexities to the mix. 

Who I am and who you are has become inseparable.  We really are one.  And as you continue to grow, and flourish, and become more of who you are, then so do I.  And I love who you are becoming and therefore, who we are becoming.  It is so familiar, and yet so brand new.  It includes more of who we were, and yet continues to expand into new territory. 

I love you, not because you somehow complete me.  I love you because you and I no longer come apart.  I love us.  As both of us step into new areas filled with new fears and insecurities, you are the one I want to go there with.  I love you so much!  Can’t wait for the next seventeen.

Day 33: Meaningful Rituals

This morning was delightful!  Mia and I have been having breakfast on Fridays for years now.  She and I are breakfast people.  It is both of our favorite meal of the day.  We’ve been exploring all of Laguna’s spots on a quest for the very best poached eggs and cinnamon rolls.  There are plenty to choose from.  Zinc, Heidelberg, Penguin, Urth, Shirley’s…Laguna is filled with a great variety of little breakfast nooks.

But our most favorite of all is Orange Inn, and that’s where we went today.  This place has so much soul!  The rafters are filled with old Brewer and Dewey Webber longboards…not well persevered, but dinged up, yellowed, and well surfed.  We love the window seat with the words “Best Coffee in Town” decaled on it.  (We usually make some Elf reference.)  The muffins are fantastic. The soup is great.  They even have a fabulous tuna sandwich.  But we come for the eggs and the cinnamon rolls.  Every time.  Because it is our ritual.  It is what we do.

This morning, Mia was commenting on the different smells.  They are so familiar.  John, the owner, comes out and greets us, checks in on us, calls me “padre.”  We feel known.  We belong here.

We finish up breakfast and walk down to the end of the street and down the steps to the beach at Cleo.  There’s a bench down there, close to the water, where we like to sit and watch the waves and surfers before school.  That, too, is our spot.  It is our bench.  We laugh about different stories and memories over the years.  That one time we watched a random sandal being sucked out to see and then thrown back by the waves, over and over.  We just sit and giggle. 

These moments, these glimpses, are solidified in the ritual.  They take on a certain permanence.  They have shaped us.  These experiences are now a part of who we are.  And because of that, they are sacred.

I love my daughter.  I love the way she comes alive when it is just the two of us.  She and I move through life at the same pace.  We’ve always just sort of understood one another.  Ever since she was little, we’d find ourselves on trips or at parties, retreating to a corner and hanging out quietly. 

We get each other, and that is such a gift.  I love our rituals, not for the formality or structure, but for the deep peace they bring.  We are the same.

This morning, as Mia finished her cinnamon roll, she had worked it all the way down until just the center was left.  Because the center is the very best part (did you know that?).  It is the gooiest, sugariest bite of the whole thing. Every time we split it.  We savor it.  And we give thanks.  For good breakfast. For our friendship.  For the beauty of our ritual.  But most of all, for the sweet gift of each other. 

Day 32: Perseverance

“[Hope is] the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate.”  Chesterton

Today I’m straining my eyes, looking for the finish line.  Day 32 feels like an adequate duration for Lent, right?  What is so sacred about 40 days, anyways?  I’m ¾ of the way there, which should qualify as close enough.  At least that is what I am tempted to tell myself.

When I began this Lenten season with the idea of writing a glimpse a day, I knew I was getting in over my head.  And a part of me really likes that feeling.  I love how challenges draw out of me more than I realized was in there.  As I began, I had in mind already, a sense of the satisfaction that would come upon completing the assignment.  I looked forward to what I would learn, about myself and about God.

But that satisfaction has always been a fleeting emotion.  It is like the excitement at the beginning of a semester, which disappears the moment you’re handed the syllabus and realize just how much reading lies ahead.  What have I gotten myself into?

Because today I’m tired of writing.  The sentences come out slower.  I press the delete key more than the spacebar.  Sentences appear and then disappear with a frown.  Writing is so much work!

I’ve been reading Anne Lamott’s book on writing, and, in a chapter called ‘Short Assignments’, she gives an illustration from which the book derives its name.  Her brother has put off an assignment for the last 3 months that is due the next day.  It is a paper on birds and he is sitting at the table with his head in his arms, surrounded by open books, completely overwhelmed.  His father enters the room and says to him, “Bird by bird, buddy.  Just take it bird by bird.”

Or, in my case, “blog by blog.” 

Today, I realize that the end is in sight, and yet far enough away that I cannot slow my pace. Nor can I begin to celebrate the finish without jeopardizing my ability to complete this last lap.  I must continue step by step, one foot after the other. 

A new sort of hope surfaces at moments like these.  As uncomfortable as it is to feel dependent on fresh glimpses from God, an expectancy begins to rise to the surface. In order to finish, God is going to have to show up.  And isn’t that the point, after all?  Not writing, or fasting, or self-discipline.  Because Lent is about encountering God in the desert.  And, as He said to Jeremiah, in the wilderness we will find favor and rest.

In many ways, today is the day that my true Lenten journey begins.  The supplies and resources I’ve snuck in with me are now gone.  All my initial ideas that I jotted down have been used up.  But my eyes are open and my ears are listening.  I’m not giving up.  So here is the blog for day 32.  From here til 40 I’ll be taking it blog by blog.  I’m excited to see where the last lap leads me. 

Day 31: The Arena

A number of you, in the comments, have mentioned Roosevelt’s "The Man in the Arena" speech.  It is one of my favorites as well.  For those of you that haven’t read it, here it is…

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I read it the first time in Brené Brown’s book, Daring Greatly, and have picked the book up again per your recommendations (and a little nudge from the library angel), and have been rereading favorite sections.  Brené writes the book in response to her nagging question, “how do people live wholehearted lives?”.  Her findings are that they possess two distinct elements; they embrace vulnerability and they carry in themselves a sense of their own worthiness.

I find this so helpful!  First, as I’ve already mentioned, I find vulnerability agonizing.  So do most of us.  It is inherently difficult.  It is painful to be seen, warts and all. To feel exposed and naked.  Learning to embrace vulnerability takes immense courage and a good deal of resilience.  It is a learned skill.

Worthiness, however, I find equally challenging, but in the opposite direction.  As much as vulnerability can mistakenly feel like weakness, worthiness can feel like arrogance.  I know what unrestrained ego looks like, and it is ugly.  Honestly, I’d prefer to look weak than to look arrogant. The times in my life I most regret are the times when my pride has taken control.  Whenever I’ve thrown sensitivity to the wind, my unrestrained words are almost always regrettable. 

To counteract my prideful ego, I choose a more self-deprecating path. I choose meekness.  I become timid. I stay out of the spotlight.  I sit in the back of the class.  I hide.  This strategy can even come across as virtuous.  “Blessed are the meek…”

But as I withdraw, my self-doubt grows.  I haven’t attained humility.  I’ve only channeled my ego down a road of insecurity. Even though I’m in the shadows, I’m still consumed with myself.  I’m simultaneously hoping to be seen and not seen.  What a mess!

Vulnerability refuses to be insecure.  Instead it allows itself to be seen honestly and truthfully.  And similarly, worthiness refuses to be vain.  Instead, worthiness is a form of self-forgetfulness.  It isn’t plagued by all the concerns of who is thinking what.  It doesn’t need to beat anyone to win.

What I notice about people in my life that are comfortable with their worthiness is that they are at peace.  There is a calm in them and a lack of anxiety.  They know who they are. And they know who they aren’t.

And this natural ease is powerful.  They are the ones who inspire, not just impress.  They are not to be copied or imitated.  Instead, they motivate us to find our own freedom, and thereby our own greatness.  Not greatness in a self-congratulatory sense.  Greatness, as in brilliance.  When we shine like this, it is glorious.

My friend, Rob, once told me, “God is going to insist on your greatness.”  At first I struggled with that word.  But as a father, I get it now.  It is the thing I want to see in my kids.  God is after my “Jeffness”.  He wants more and more of it.  Not some attractive talent of mine that I do my best to exploit.  It is about my essence.  The thing that God sees in me.  And that isn’t just great, it is sacred.

Brené writes, “I believe that owning our worthiness is the act of acknowledging that we are sacred. Perhaps embracing vulnerability and overcoming numbing is ultimately about the care and feeding of our spirits.” 

Which is why encouragement is so important.  We call these qualities out in each other.  As we do, as we learn to accept our worthiness, we gain the freedom to let that light shine.  It is a light that is both glorious and selfless. It is simultaneously vulnerable and worthy. 

When we live like this, daring greatly, we strive valiantly.  We spend ourselves on a worthy cause.  Even when we fail, our lives are triumphant. 

Day 30: Humbling Encouragement

I learned something about myself last week. I am only comfortable with vulnerability when it doesn’t threaten my appearance of self-sufficiency.  In other words, I want to be truthful without coming across as needy.  I have no problem admitting to a struggle I used to have.  But admitting to one that I am still struggling with…that’s a whole different thing.  I can point to my scars with confidence, but still find it unbearable to expose my open wounds.

When I wrote a blog on criticism (this is the last time I’ll mention it, I promise), it was met with a flood of kindness and affirmation.  And also a bit of concern and worry for me.  It was the concern that I struggled with.  It was hard enough to write the blog I’d written, but to then be helped…that opened up a whole new level of vulnerability. 

My knee jerk response was to go back online to reassure you all that I was fine.  But the subtext of that, the thing behind the thing, is that I felt embarrassed by your affirmations.  They exposed the vulnerabilities that I was refusing to admit to myself.  Those truths that everyone else sees and we don’t, like a bad comb over.  I needed you.  And I hate to feel needy.

As I read through the responses, not only were the words so affirming, but they revealed to me where I was bleeding.  I had a choice…self-sufficiency or healing.  And that is a really difficult choice for me, because self-sufficiency is like nicotine.  I crave it.

I want to be the encourager, not the encouraged.  I want to lend an arm, but not have to take one.  When I’m sick, I just want to disappear.  When I feel blemished, I want to hide, until the blemish is gone and I look presentable once more.

Truth is light.  It exposes us.  And it sets us free.  If we’ll only come out of the shadows.  Which is why encouragement is so necessary.  Because those soft words allow us to inch out of our shells.  Little by little, until we can see ourselves the way God sees us. 

Encouragement is humbling.  And the humility it brings is so freeing.  It breaks the false myth that vulnerability is weakness.  We know this so confidently when we encourage others.  It is in receiving encouragement that our lie is exposed.

And that’s what you all did for me.  You showed me my false belief that to be helped is weak.  And I stand condemned, in the best way.  If you thought I had this all figured out, which you didn’t, I’m here to say I don’t.  To me.  And to say thank you.  I’ve said before that I love you guys.  Now I’m saying I need you.  Thank you, my friends, for the healing and humbling light of your tender encouragements. 

Day 29: Aging Well

I’m 45, which, in my mind, puts me right smack in the middle of my life.  Statistically, that is probably way off.  Most likely I left the halfway point back in the dust a few years ago.  But reality aside, this year has been a good one for me in reflecting on where I’ve come from and what lies ahead.  The realization that the memories bucket is heavier than the future possibilities bucket is a bit sobering.  But I’m slowly understanding that the feeling of sobriety is a gift.  There is a freedom in it.

I’m writing a book.  I’ve already told some of you that.  I’ve always wanted to, and now it has gone from mere intention to a firm deadline.  It isn’t just a possibility, it is a responsibility.  In other words, I’ve sold the unfinished product, and I’ve got to make good on the deal.  That isn’t a bad thing.  In fact, it is how I work best. This is why I’ve loved education so much.  Fixed deadlines are just what this procrastinator needs to get the job done.

But I’ve always looked at writing a book as a sort of arrival.  It is an achievement that gives life its weight or meaning.  You’ve left a contribution behind to be remembered by.  Your life has produced a treasure that will remain after you’re gone.  After the years of your life have expired, a part of you remains.

But at 45, with this book becoming a reality, I’m realizing that this whole premise will, once again, let me down.  There is no lasting satisfaction in a master’s degree, or a doctorate, or a senior pastor position, or…gulp…a book.  All we do is push the bar just a little further beyond our reach.  This is a good thing, in a way, because it keeps us moving, growing, pushing for more.  As long as we don’t make the mistake of thinking that this life offers us any sort of arrival.  If the book does well, then what about the next one?

I just read a letter from C.S. Lewis to his friend, Warfield Firor, a surgeon at Johns Hopkins.  In it he shares the fact that he is being compulsorily ‘retired’ from Oxford and would not be receiving the chair position he’d always dreamed of attaining.  In this heartbreaking moment, he realizes that this disappointment, in a way, is a mercy. 

He writes, “I am therefore trying to profit by this new realization of my mortality.  To begin to die, to loosen a few of the tentacles which the octopus-world has fastened on one.”

In the letter he imagines a world here without aging and death.  What if we lived forever in this world without true fulfillment?  How many of us would have the courage to choose our real destiny elsewhere?  Aging then becomes our companion in unhitching our dreams from this life where ultimate fulfillment eludes us, to our next where our deep appetites are ultimately satisfied.

And therefore, aging is a gift, a mercy.  Even in the sorrows of leaving behind our unrealized dreams, or saying goodbye to friends we love, or parting from a life we’ve found beautiful and dear.  By embracing aging, we free ourselves from, as Lewis puts it, the tentacles, that seek to wring out of life more than it can give.  To turn the momentary pleasures into possessions that ultimately break our hearts. 

But as the tentacles come loose, as we let go of this world, we receive it back for what it truly is.  The momentary pleasures can be savored and then released.  The sunset can be enjoyed without having to possess the view.

Lewis writes, “One ought not to need the gloomy moments of life for beginning detachment, nor be re-entangled by the bright ones.  One ought to be able to enjoy the bright ones to the full and at the very moment have the perfect readiness to leave them, confident that what calls one away is better…”

I’m writing a book.  Not to cling to some notion of ultimate meaning, nor to exist in this world beyond death, nor to give my kids something to fight over when I die.  I’m writing a book, at the midpoint of my life, to celebrate what a gift this life has been.  Beyond that, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.

Day 28: Authenticity

A goal of mine, while blogging during Lent, has been to write more authentically.  This is trickier than it sounds, because I’m constantly editing.  And truth be told, that isn’t always a bad thing.  There have definitely been times wisdom has had the final word, by a hair, and prevented me from saying the wrong thing, or even the right thing for the wrong reason.

But authenticity isn’t just a lack of editing.  It is a lack of BS (see there, I just edited.)  And that can be really difficult since we are always trying to project an ideal image of ourselves.  At least, I am. What that ideal might be varies incredibly from person to person, but we all have our strategies.  Even humility can be used to market oneself. 

As I’ve been blogging, I’ve been doing my best to walk that line between what is meaningful and what is simply true.  What is interesting and what is actual.  Writing every day helps.  If something crashes in loudly, it is hard to pick up my pen and write about something else that is easier, or more pithy. 

The other day I wrote a blog about criticism triggered by a letter of complaint I’d received.  I didn’t want to write about it, but I didn’t have a choice.  Either I did it, or I skipped writing that day…which would mean breaking a Lenten commitment, which has dire consequences.  (not really. I just said that for effect.)

And all of you responded so brilliantly with such encouraging words!  I am going to write a separate blog about encouragement, because that alone really worked me, and also did something deep in my heart. But today is about authenticity. 

Writing about that letter of criticism awakened some deep anxiety that is always lurking down there in the bottom of my heart.  It has become my old friend.  The anxiety hit me just after I pushed the ‘save and post’ button.  What have I done?  That was too much!  I’ve overshared.

Why?  Because I feel vulnerable.  I feel exposed.  And now my whole body hurts.  I feel jumpy, worried, weak.  Most of all I feel weak.

Brené Brown writes about telling her counselor that vulnerability feels excruciating and her counselor replies that it is an exquisite emotion.  Her whole premise is that vulnerability is the key to living a whole-hearted life.  Somehow, we must learn to savor the feeling.  To appreciate its exquisiteness.

I can imagine what that must be like.  After all, I hated my first sip of coffee, and now I can’t live without it.  Coffee was too bitter, and now that bitterness is all I want first thing in the morning.

Or the pain of a hard workout.  Who, honestly, wants to feel their legs or arms ache?  But if I pushed through some workout that I wasn’t sure I could survive (Insanity) and made it…well, that pain is almost the reward.  It is the reassurance that I’ve done something I can be proud of.

So here’s my little epiphany for the day.  That the excruciating feeling of vulnerability is the texture of courage.  So many of you responded to me with just that word of encouragement.  When I feel vulnerable, it means I have completed an emotional workout I wasn’t sure I was ready for. 

This doesn’t mean I’m going to go out of my way to write something painful each day, but I’m also not going to run from those feelings when they come.  When they do, I will try my best to associate them with the after effects of bravery.  And do my best to savor the feeling. 

Who knows, I might learn to like it.  Maybe I’ll learn to crave it, like coffee.  Maybe if I’m not vulnerable, by the afternoon, I’ll have a headache.  Either way, thank you all for teaching me a bit more about why authenticity is worth it.  I sure love you guys!

Day 27: Sick Days

Well...I went home early from work today with a fever.  Lila had it first and then Mia.  I was hoping I'd dodged the bullet, but no such luck.  I'm going to lay low, skip Hapkido, and try not to move.  Just me and A Man Called Ove.  I'll give you a report later. thank you, my friends.  See you tomorrow.

Day 26: The Greeter

“Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines.” Henri Nouwen

Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Michael Minutoli.  He is one of the most brilliant souls I have ever met.  He is the greeter in Laguna Beach and his life purpose has become putting a smile on the face of each driver that passes his corner at Brooks St. and PCH.

He has been greeting for over 6 years, earbuds in place, dancing and spinning away, his beaming smile and wave causing ripples of joy throughout the commuter traffic, the tourists, and the ones out for a leisurely drive, inching bumper to bumper along hwy 1.  His happiness is contagious.  His elaborate clothing only heightens the playfulness of his countenance.  You can’t help but wave back.

Michael is homeless, but doesn’t panhandle.  He has chosen his life and loves it, despite the difficulties it presents.  His story is a collection of miracles, one after the other. You wouldn’t believe him but for the photographic proof of himself standing alongside just about every A list celebrity you can think of.

But let me tell you why I, personally, love this guy so much. Because that warmth that spills from him every day on his greeting corner is just the tip of the iceberg.  He is a man with such a generous heart.  I remember one morning Mia and I were grabbing breakfast at Heidelberg.  He swung quickly into line behind us and handed the cashier a gift card before I could pay.  It’s on me, he said.  I started to protest.  I know how little he has.  And yet I could see in his eyes how much this mattered to him.  How humbling to accept this gift!  Such lavish generosity.  I’ll never forget that, nor will my daughter. 

He comes, from time to time, to my church.  I feel so honored to have him sitting there in the pews.  This is a man who teaches me how to love and give from his deepest reserves.  How to spend his life emptying himself for the sake of others.

Michael has endured some heavy persecution over the years.  It is shocking, and yet not surprising, that people would see fit to return his happiness and joy with mockery and abuse.  Several times he has pedaled his bicycle past the church and come in for prayer.  His heart is so tender and fragile in these moments.  I pray for his strength, for courage, for protection, and for a heart full of compassion.  His eyes well up with tears. 

Michael does what he does because he has been called to do it.  His has the gift of hospitality, and that is no small gift.  There is such brilliance in the simple blessing of happiness.  But the effect goes much deeper.  It provides healing. This is what true hospitality brings. 

When I think of my own calling, I am usually fantasizing about some elaborate, self-important future.  But Jesus is always pushing us in the opposite direction.  To see God in the simple acts…giving a cloak to someone in need, visiting the sick or incarcerated, or giving a meal to someone who is hungry.  These acts aren’t just godly.  They are done as if to God himself.

Whenever I see Michael he greets me with a nod of his head, and with his thick New England accent he says, “hello passta!”  My heart leaps.  Thank you, Michael.  Thank you for the light you bring!

Day 25: Thin Places

“You never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself flows in your veins…”  Thomas Traherne

On Monday I spent a couple hours at one of my favorite beaches in town.  For me, it has become a sacred space.  It is beautiful and quiet, at least on weekdays.  There is a fun little wave that can break there.  But honestly, it is a place where I surf even when the waves are flat. I paddle out even when it’s better everywhere else. Because I’ve grown attached to it.  It is familiar.  It is a place where I belong.  And it is a place where I feel God’s closeness.

For me, it has become a thin place. It is a place where heaven and earth almost intersect, but not quite.  The boundary between worlds feels paper thin.  I often hear God’s still, small voice.

As I walked down the steps, I could see a cluster of people out there surfing.  It was a steady wind swell…playful and fun.  As I changed into my wetsuit and threw a quick coat of new wax over the building layers on my board, I watched as one surfer after another rode their last wave in.  By the time I started paddling, the lineup was empty.  Lucky me!

My first wave was a marvelous little gem that popped up out of nowhere.  Wind swell is so fun!  The waves are stacked close together.  They are peaky.  You gotta be quick to your feet.  After 25 minutes I’d lost count of how many waves I’d ridden.

I thought, I can’t believe I have it to myself!  And that’s when I felt a little poke in the ribs.  As if God was saying, “you’re not alone.”  Oh yeah.  How quickly I forget.  God is here with me.  Remembering this causes the whole context to expand.  Suddenly I feel His joy as well as mine.

As a spiritual director, I often ask the person I’m directing where God is in the situation they’re describing to me.  Because, we all know, God has a way of disappearing into our peripheral vision, especially when we become overly focused.  Whether it is worry, or anxiety, or even pleasure or joy, if we aren’t careful, we become myopic, nearsighted.  We see the details separated from their designer.  We enjoy the gift and forget the giver.

And, as a result, we lose the depth of meaning, the deep renewal that joy brings, the lightness of perspective that comes from finding God amid our circumstances.  This connection is where the real power lies.  Without it, experiences lose not only their taste but their ability to nourish our souls.

Thomas Traherne writes, “Your enjoyment of the world is never right till every morning you awake in heaven, see yourself in your Father’s palace, and look upon the skies, the earth, and the air as celestial joys, having such a reverend esteem of all, as if you were among the angels.”

How I long to see the world in such a way!

It can take so much work to keep God in our perspective.  My mind is always wandering down rabbit trails that lead to some worry or complexity or problem to solve.  While there might be a semblance of value to this, often the energy expended could be better spent simply remaining present.  Savoring the joy that is before me.  Enjoying God’s immediate presence.

As I take my last wave in, I feel renewed.  The emptiness has been satiated.  I feel God’s pleasure.  I’m full.

Day 24: Criticism

Today I received one of those letters.  I get them from time to time…anonymous critiques.  An apparent expert with scathing commentary on how my sermon, or style, or approach is missing the mark, or even causing harm.  I know what I’m supposed to do with these sorts of unsigned letters.  Pitch them.  If it isn’t signed, don’t even bother.  I wish it was that simple.

Instead, I usually just feel like I’m going to throw up.  I feel rejected at the deepest level.  It isn’t simply a critique of my talk, but of me.  Not just my style, but my heart.  “You shouldn’t read so much.”  “Forget the historical commentary.”  “We are suffering, we don’t need your book reports.”

There is so much implied in these criticisms.  That I lack spiritual depth and sensitivity.  That I am stuck in my head and have missed the heart.  Too many smart quotes.  Too much information.  Not enough emotion.

The thing is, as I read these quotes in my sermons, I’m often choked up.  I find myself giving the very best I can find.  These aren’t words, they are keys that have unlocked deep truth in my own heart.  As I read the letter, my heart feels trodden upon.  I stoop to pick up these pieces of what was once beautiful, that is now broken and cracked, and ground into the dirt.

This is, unfortunately, an unavoidable part of leadership.  All you really can give is yourself.  But it is costly.  It requires painful vulnerability.  It is like giving blood. 

I remember another time I felt the weight of criticism so heavy on my shoulders.  The counselor I was seeing, with empathy and a little pity, told me I was going to have to grow a thicker skin.  He was right.  He told me no one learns to walk point without getting shot at (he was a Vietnam vet).  The problem is, some die in the process.

One approach to a thicker skin would be to stop caring so much.  But this sort of self-protection is costly.  It requires creating a necessary distance from others.  The boundary for safety also creates disconnection.  I don’t want to lose feeling or grow callous.  Instead, I want to be able to let criticism go.

I heard a story from John Ortberg where he was leaving a speaking engagement he had led with Dallas Willard.  John was evaluating and replaying his talk in his mind afterwards when he heard Dallas whistling next to him.  He asked Dallas how he could be so light and free immediately after having spoken.  Dallas said, “Oh, I just picture all that stuff like a helium balloon.  I hold it, look at it, and then let it go.”

I love that image.  How I wish to be that free!  So today I’m doing my best to release this balloon.  I’ve heard it, seen it, and now I’m letting it float away.  At least I’m trying.

I don’t want to avoid my critics.  I want to listen and grow.  I want to be open to feedback.  But I refuse to get angry, to grow bitter, and to let resentment build.  That stuff is like poison.  And I also refuse to retreat, to hide, or to edit. 

To whoever wrote that letter, you might be right.  But all I can be is me.  I’m not going to ignore it.  Instead, I’ll read it, pray about it, and then, release it…and watch as it slowly disappears.

Day 23: A Father’s Heart

Today my son bought an electric guitar.  He saved up his pennies and purchased it himself.  That is such a rite of passage moment.  This isn’t a gift from his dad who is hoping maybe this hobby will stick.  No, Gabe is hungry.  He paid for it himself.

Many of you know Gabe plays the drums, and happens to be a fabulous drummer.  But Gabe isn’t just a drummer, he’s a musician.  Whatever instrument is nearby, he’ll pick it up and tinker with it. Saxophone, piano, stand-up bass, you name it.

But electric guitar is the thing that has really grabbed him.  It is fun to watch his eyes light up when he talks about it.  I hear him listening to “old people” music like the Strokes or Radiohead or the Arctic Monkeys.  It is what he and I do now whenever we’re driving somewhere.  We walk down memory lane as he asks me about the music from my past.  Gabe can tell you more about Jack White or Kurt Cobain than I ever could.

So, I asked my friend Marc if he could give us some input on what Gabe should buy for his first guitar.  Marc happens to be one of the best guitarists in the world.  Seriously.  So you can imagine his response.  “What guitar to buy???  That’s way too big of a question! He’s got to sit down and play them. What matters most is that he gets the one he likes.”

It reminded me of Olivander, the wand seller in Harry Potter, saying, ”the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter.”  “The guitar chooses the guitarist.”

Marc met us today at Guitar Center.  It was a little bit like having Kelly Slater come help my son pick out his first surfboard.  But Marc was so into it.  He was so kind with Gabe, as he pulled different models off the racks.  “Ooh, here’s one if you want to go more Kurt Cobain!”  Marc knows everything about guitars, and not just sounds, but styles, colors, eras.  This is a man who has invested his entire life in this instrument. 

None of the employees were old enough to shave, and none of them recognized who he was.  They chipped in with their own input and perspectives. But Marc didn’t skip a beat.  He has no need for attention or recognition.  I love that about him.

Marc is a master guitarist, and yet a master that has lost none of his joy.  It meant the world to me to watch him invest this time with my son.  I can think of no greater gift you could give me.

When we got home, Gabe asked, why do you think Marc was willing to do that for me?  “Well…he’s our friend.  And he loves guitars.  And, I think, it meant a lot to him too to be a part of your first purchase.”

As I sit here tonight, writing, I feel grateful.  Grateful for new friends, and new instruments, and the future joy that awaits Gabe as he continues to figure out just who he is.  I love my quiet, thoughtful son, who has fantastic taste in music, amazing rhythm, and who longs for a bit more distortion.

I think of Marc, with all his knowledge and experience, sitting down and playing these bottom end guitars, making them come to life, finding out just what Gabe likes, and then pointing with confidence… “that’s the one!”

It was a glimpse, for me, into God’s heart.  He delights in our simple gifts that must look so small to Him, and yet He continues to find such pleasure in our steps.  God doesn’t just honor us with his presence, he comes down to our level.  Not simply for our joy, but for His.

The realization that God delights in me causes me to blush.  I feel that odd mix of humility and joy.  But the fact that God delights and takes pleasure in my son…well, as a father, It delights my heart. It is the greatest gift I could ask for.

Day 22: Vicarious Joy

Last night Lila and I completed our test for yellow belt.  I’m not going to lie, I was a bit nervous. I even practiced my moving attacks on Patty ahead of time.  It is funny how we never outgrow those jitters.  At least I haven’t.

We got there and the room was set up a bit different.  A table was out.  A Korean flag was hung.  My instructors didn’t smile.  This was serious.

This is one of the things I’ve loved about Hapkido.  It is the sense of deep tradition and meaning. My friend, Scott shared with me about the years he had invested in this discipline, and his eyes revealed just how deep this ran in his heart.  This class wasn’t being taught by just anyone.  Mark was like Scott’s brother.  This was family. It was that moment that made me sign up.  I wanted in. 

After our test we celebrated at San Shi Go.  As we stuffed ourselves on their fabulous sushi, I sat back and watched Master Mark and Scott savoring in the joy of the moment.  They were relishing in my and Lila’s accomplishment.  And it was connecting them to this rich vein of joy that they could tap into vicariously.  We were all celebrating, but my instructors most of all.

This is one of the deep truths in life.  Joy is increased when it is shared.  It diminishes when we try to possess it.  It flows, like a river.  The blessing is allowing ourselves to pour out the blessing.  Investing our lives in others is the good life.  It was a wonderful evening.

And then, this afternoon, my role switched as I took Alex, a friend of my niece, Mary’s, out surfing for the first time. Alex is a snowboarder from Idaho and was itching to get out there.  We ran through the prep on the beach and then paddled out into the chilly water. 

I shoved him into a couple waves to begin with so he could get the timing for his pop up.  His first wave was great but he went to his knee on his back leg.  Almost!  From there he just got closer and closer.  He pearled a couple times.  Popped up too early on a few.  Went over the falls once or twice.  And then nailed it.  He paddled into it by himself, got right to his feet, and rode it all the way in.

As he hooted on the inside, all the guys in the lineup beamed.  We all remembered.  We were all there.  Alex was so stoked!  But we may have been even more than him.  There’s a saying that gets tossed around at moments like this.  Some version of “So much for him ever becoming president.”  Just writing that makes me smile.  It is so true!

He was so thankful.  But I was the one feeling grateful.  Because when we pour out our joy and passions on others, when we seek to be as generous as our hearts will allow, we tap into something so very rich.  It is the goodness of life.  And while it cannot be possessed, we can wade into it.  We receive it and give it.  We become conduits of the blessing.  And that is the blessing.  That is abundant life.

Day 21: Being Known

Last night I had dinner with one of my favorite people.  His name is Father Francis and he is a Benedictine priest and lives at St. Andrews Abbey in Valyermo.  He was visiting some friends here in Laguna, and Patty and I were able to enjoy a beautiful meal with a man that is becoming a dear friend.

Afterwards Patty mentioned the deep sense of peace she felt with him.  It came out in the way he spoke.  It was a sense of calm underlying his responses, even when the subjects were points of tension or concern.  There was such a lack of defensiveness, even when handling delicate or controversial matters of faith.  And when responding to potential areas of confusion or doubt, his response was almost whimsical.  There was a lightness to him.  A playfulness.  A deep sense of joy.

We talked about the Benedictines…how they deeply value community, counsel, and respect for all persons.  They live each day in the practice of hospitality.  Often Benedictines stand at the door to the sanctuary and greet each person entering with the phrase, “Thank God you’ve come.”

Francis has lived at Valyermo for over 40 years.  He came when he was 19 and he’ll one day be buried in the cemetery at the top of their hill.  I love that spot.  It is one of the most quiet places on earth.  It is sacred ground.  Walking amongst the gravestones you feel the stability of the ones who have remained, who have grown deep roots.

True peace takes years and years to cultivate.  Edwin Friedman refers to it as non-anxious presence.  And the prerequisite for it is self-differentiation, or in simpler terms, knowing oneself.  Who you are.  Who you aren’t. 

Whenever I travel to the abbey (which is often, but not often enough) I am usually wrestling with one or the other.  Who am I?  Who am I not?  Two sides of the same coin.  What is my identity?  My identity in Christ?  What is my true vocation?  My true self?  Where am I hiding?  What are my facades?

Self-discovery is powerful and meaningful, and often humbling.  It makes us vulnerable.  It exposes our hearts.  My deepest longing is to be able to receive the love of God in that place of vulnerability, without pretense or self-protection.  I have a long way to go.

But there has been a consistent voice for the last several years when I stay at the Abbey.  I’ll be eating breakfast in silence.  Quiet and still.  Slowly waking up.  Preparing for the day ahead.  And I’ll hear the voice behind me whisper, “I know you.”

And I turn around, and there’s Father Francis.  Full of such grace and peace.  A heart warm, like a fire.  Non-anxious presence.  I can’t help but want to draw close.  To warm my own heart.

That phrase gets me every time.  It touches a deep longing.  My heart leaps.  There is such tenderness in the words.  When he says it, I hear the whisper of God’s voice.  And my own heart opens just a little bit more.  To be known is so powerful.  It is such a vulnerable gift. 

Living in that place takes faith.  I experience this peace only for brief moments.  But slowly it is starting to stick.  I’m beginning to speak more honestly.  To stand a bit straighter.  To release worry and self-criticism.  To allow myself to just be who God made me to be.  That is true self-differentiation.

Francis visited our prayer room yesterday.  What a joy to have him here.  We’re going to have him speak soon at our church, and I’ll be sure to let you all know ahead of time.  As I walked up the stairs to greet him, I was so encouraged to see so many in our church already enjoying the warmth and peace he brings. 

As I entered and gave him an embrace he held me tight and whispered, “I know you.” 

“O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
    you discern my thoughts from afar.
You search out my path and my lying down
    and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
    behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.
You hem me in, behind and before,
    and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
    it is high; I cannot attain it.”

Psalm 139:1-6

Day 20: Disorientation

Today, honestly, I feel empty. It feels like the sauna door has been left open too long and my heart feels tepid.  Room temperature.  It feels like I have so little to give.

Which makes me worry.  Because my self-perceived value is so tied to feeling strong.  Without emotional energy I feel vulnerable.  I risk being exposed.  I become ordinary.  Flawed. 

Because confidence is what we find attractive, right?  Neediness is not.  It takes energy to speak with authority.  It takes emotional reserves to be present and to lead.  At least it does for me.  Without energy, I’m always one step away from saying something I’ll regret.

There are days like this.  Seasons sometimes.  My week feels cluttered.  I can’t find the patterns and connections that give life its clarity and meaning.  I am bouncing between meetings and appointments and am getting to the end of the day feeling disoriented and even a little noxious.

What I need is retreat.  But sometimes retreat is a luxury I can’t afford.  There simply isn’t the space for it. I probably need better boundaries.  But often those boundaries are unrealistic.  Sometimes you just need to toughen up a bit. 

Part of the desert experience is aimlessness.  It involves wandering.  Questions remain unanswered.  Needs are met with silence.  God rarely acts in accordance with my self-interest.  There is a greater plan, I know.  But apparently it is on a need to know basis, and I don’t need to know.

One of my favorite places to turn to on days like this is to the Psalms.  There are Psalms written for every season, be it worship and praise, trust and faith, and even lament.  The theologian, Walter Bruggeman, talks about the importance of the Psalms of disorientation in his book Spirituality and the Psalms.  Psalms of disorientation are honest, raw, and ragged.  They are often Psalms of complaint.  They refuse to minimize the sufferings in life.

Bruggeman writes,

“The dominant ideology of our culture is committed to continuity and success and to the avoidance of pain, hurt, and loss. The dominant culture is also resistant to genuine newness and real surprise. It is curious but true, that surprise is as unwelcome as is loss. And our culture is organized to prevent the experience of both.”

Isn’t this true?  The work of avoidance describes so much of what robs me of my emotional energy.  And the rest of it is spent trying to control what cannot be controlled.  The desert is a place for releasing these illusions and accepting that today is what it is.  It is often the end of our rope.  And, as Dallas Willard says, that is God’s address.

And though God is often silent in these moments, He will often draw near.  He reminds me that this, too, will pass.  That my tendency to place personal value on what I do or say is unnecessary, and, in fact, a waste of time.  And that tomorrow brings with it the newness of reorientation.  Finding my way back. 

And usually that way back is a surprise.  It comes in unlooked for, in a way that I’m not anticipating.  And, as a result, I see something new.  And in the newness comes the return of hope.  Because in the desert, God gets bigger.  And somehow, through it all, so do I.

Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
    I will be joyful in God my Savior.

The Sovereign Lord is my strength;
    he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
    he enables me to tread on the heights.

Habakkuk 3:17-19

Day 19: The Head or the Heart?

Are you familiar with the MBTI?  The Meyers Briggs Type Indicator?  For those of you that aren’t, this is referring to a test created around Carl Jung’s four principal psychological functions.  For each letter there is actually a pair…I or E, N or S, T or F, and P or J.  When you take the test, you’re scored somewhere on the spectrum between poles and then assigned the letter you’re strongest in.  The four letter sequence places you within one of 16 different personality categories.

I’m an INXP. 

Now, if you were paying attention, you’ll notice a little hiccup in my third category.  The T or the F is replaced by an X.  This refers to the spectrum between thinking and feeling.  The X means I land right smack in the middle of the two.  At least I did at first.  It has changed a few times since then.

Some would say that an X means the test isn’t working.  In other words, I’m emotionally confused.  They might be right.

I’ve always struggled with the role of emotions in my life.  My dad is an engineer, which means he’s almost entirely a T or thinker.  In our discussions, it wasn’t that emotions weren’t validated.  But when push came to shove, they were best checked at the door.  Because emotions are messy.  Feelings can change, sometimes dramatically.  A decision based on feelings was risky.  Potentially even dangerous.

So, I’ve done my best to act like a thinker.  I pursued engineering for several years before reluctantly admitting I found most of it uninteresting.  I then pursued analytic philosophy, because that fit with the part of me that loves to ask why.  But I always felt as if I was playing a part.  I could handle the conceptual physics or the philosophy of mind, but, in the end, I was driven more by the deeper questions of meaning and identity.  I was drawn more to the mystics.  The Kierkegaard’s and the Dostoevsky’s.  The ones with angst.

Because there is an emotional side of me that has been dying to get out.  It first started showing up as physical pain in my shoulders.  It was as if my emotional sensors weren’t working.  I lacked the emotional intelligence and language to even identify the feelings I was having.  That is until they starting creating enough pain that I couldn’t ignore them any longer.

I started seeing a spiritual director, and it has saved me from a downward spiral that I couldn’t get out of myself.  My early sessions were remedial.  I don’t know if you’ve seen “feeling flashcards” or the page of different facial expressions that help you choose the emotion you’re experiencing?  Those saved me.  It is amazing the power of naming feelings.  Jealousy.  Resentment. Anger. Fear.  I’m sure it was like coaching a first grader.  But slowly I began to not only recognize my emotions, but to experience them.  Not to stuff them or avoid them, but to remain in them.

Because, if you don’t recognize them, they have so much power and control.  They possess you, not the other way around.  But to see them, to notice them, and to name them, allows them to pass on by. 

And as they do, I find I experience a depth of living that I was missing out on.  Controlling emotions is certainly valuable at times, but avoiding the hard ones means you’re also missing out on the good ones.  Ignoring the hurts means also losing out on the joys.  Feeling others’ pain allows you to enjoy their pleasure.

And what I’ve found is that the parts of myself that have atrophied are getting stronger and stronger.  It makes me a better husband and father.  It makes me a better friend and pastor.  It makes me a better Jeff.  Because I’m actually an INFP.  There, I said it.  And while this means I’ll probably never be the best scientist or academic philosopher, it does make me a pretty good pastor and contemplative. 

And with it, the pain has almost entirely left my shoulders.  It comes back every once in a while.  But when it does, I identify it.  I name it.  I allow it to pass through.  And, as a result, I stand straighter.  More confident.  More my true self.

Day 18: Introverted Conversations

So, there have been quite a few books written lately on introverts, and I, for one, want to say “thank you” to these brave authors who are navigating new waters.  Thank you for explaining that the need for quiet is not a personal rejection of others.  Thank you for clarifying that an unreturned phone call is not apathy or indifference, but instead the result of an emotionally empty fuel tank.  And thank you for advocating that there is value in letting introverts withdraw.  Because quiet is where we dive down into the deep waters.

Being both an introvert and a pastor has been challenging at times.  Although I’m wired more relational than task, I can only go for so long, socially.  I’m like Cinderella at the ball.  Come midnight, things are going to get awkward. 

Alone time is how I recharge.  Sometimes it’s surfing.  Sometimes journaling.  Usually it involves good coffee.  And, almost always, it involves some reading.  And not just one book.  I usually am reading five.  One from each of my genres…challenging, deep, inspiring, formational, and educational.  Together they form a conversation, a chorus, interacting and debating with each other.  I love it. 

So much of what I learn happens in surround sound.  And various authors and diverse voices adds a profound complexity.  There is a synergy to it.  I hear God’s voice in their harmonizing.

So here’s who I’m reading right now.

I Asked for Wonder, by Abraham Joshua Heschel

Seriously, run, don’t walk, and go buy this.  Overnight it.  I told my friend, Joey, today that if he can’t afford it, he should steal it.  This book is filled with such poetic, mystical brilliance and wisdom from one of the world’s most profound Rabbi’s.  For example,

“…Awareness of God does not come by degrees from timidity to intellectual temerity;

It is not a decision reached at the crossroads of doubt.

It comes when, drifting in the wilderness,

            having gone astray,

we suddenly behold the immutable polar star.

Out of endless anxiety,

Out of denial and despair,

The soul bursts out in speechless crying.”

See what I mean? 

Next…Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott

Don’t you love her?!  If not, I’m not sure we can be friends.  I’ve read this book before, but now that I’m seriously giving writing a shot, this book has been just the reassurance and self-deprecation that I need.  Anne is fearless, hilarious, and full of her own brutally honest struggles.  She’s a gift.

We Stood Upon Stars, by Roger W. Thompson

I’ve sort of stalked this guy for years.  He was a former roommate of one of my best friends, Billy.  When he started a surf clothing brand, we all wore his South Jetty shirts.  When he built a skate park, we’d take our youth group kids up to Skate Street in Ventura.  We watched the surf films he made with Walking on Water, and now that he’s writing books, I’ve read them both.  Well, I’m in the middle of his second.  It is a book of stories that follow his travels and journeys throughout California and Montana, with a few other locals thrown in (like Baja).  Roger is a fly fisherman and a surfer.  He writes beautifully.  Every once in a while I find myself thinking, “I wish I’d written that.”

His writing is light and playful, and also poignant and true.  Like this,

“None of this would have happened if we had followed recommendations of how to move on.  This feels more like moving through.  Tunneling through grief to some secret shore that we alone will share.  We plant a flag together.  Slow walks with hands held along the water is a bond for cracks in a marriage.  And like the place where two broken pieces are joined by glue, the crack becomes the strongest point.”

By the way, he’s speaking at my church in May.  I can’t wait for you Lagunans to get to hear his voice.

Centuries of Meditation, by Thomas Traherne

The two endorsements on my copy are by C.S. Lewis and Dorothy Sayers. Lewis says, “I could go on quoting from Centuries of Meditation forever.”  Not bad. 

Traherne was an Anglican country priest and a poet, not credited with his brilliant work until long after his death.  He has been compared to Whitman or Gerard Manley Hopkins.  For instance,

“You never enjoy the world aright, till the Sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars: and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world, and more than so, because men are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you. Till you can sing and rejoice and delight in God, as misers do in gold, and Kings in sceptres, you never enjoy the world.

Force of Nature: Mind, Body, Soul, and of course, Surfing, by Laird Hamilton

This one my wife bought for me.  It isn’t necessarily one you’d choose for spiritual depth, but then again, you might be surprised.  I’m totally enjoying it.  It covers the gamut, from eating, to exercise, to life goals and philosophies, and surfing.  Laird is such a phenomenal athlete, but also a powerful advocate for living the abundant life.  I may never have his physique or surf massive Teahupoo, but I’m loving his voice added to the conversation.  He tells Heschel and Traherne, sure, you’re smart, but can you surf?

So what are you reading?  What authors are you conversing with?  Introverted or extroverted, we need these guides and companions to push us, comfort us, and correct us.  I’d love to hear who is inspiring you?