I Just Want to Speak Life

I question my motives in everything I do. It’s practically an addiction for me. I wonder why I even bother writing these blog entries. I’ve managed to thoroughly surprise myself by keeping them coming fairly consistently for two and a half months now. I’d thought it might last for no more than two entries, but this one would be number ten. Yeah, in the grand scheme of things, that’s not much, but it’s more than I might have expected.

But why am I doing it? Why have I persisted in this probably pointless effort? Do I do it because I just need an outlet for my thoughts? Am I hoping someone will read it and give me a nice pat on the back and tell me I’m a good writer? Am I trying to send a message to my future self, that someday I will be reminded of what God has done in me? Am I genuinely merely passing along what God is saying to and working in me so that someone else can read it and be blessed and encouraged? Am I trying to make myself think that anyone even cares what I have to say?

These questions careen through my skull like ping pong balls in a lottery machine. And it’s the same for so many relationships in my life. Do I befriend a certain person because I actually have interest in that person, or is it just because they are attractive to me and I like being near that? Do I hang out with someone because I value their friendship, or because they have skills or connections of which I wish to take advantage? Do I help out with church fundraisers because I genuinely want to offer whatever I can to the community I love, or because it’s fun or it involves traveling to new places or it might score me brownie points with God?

The truth is, it’s probably pretty much a combination of motives, both the good and the bad, the altruistic and the selfish.

I often wonder why it is that I want to make music, and do it full time someday. I attended a college full of aspiring musicians, and I live in Nashville, where music dreams come to die. This city is one big glitzy elephant graveyard. And with all the massively talented musicians that are in Nashville getting their hopes squished, how could I have the chutzpah to think I can dream any bigger? I’m not nearly so talented as they are. I think of a quote from a favorite movie of mine, called Camp. A character named Ellen states, “When I was eight years old I told my dad that I wanted to take an acting class. He said, ‘There are five billion people in this world. If one-tenth of 1% of them wanted to be actors, that would still be five million people. Do you really think you're prettier than five million people? You're not even the prettiest girl in your class.’” This is how I feel when I look around at all the talent in this city. Heck, I can attend a church service at the Anchor, and I wouldn’t even be the most talented musician in the row of chairs I sit in. Who am I to think I deserve a chance at my dreams?

All I know is, when I was a teenager I could just pull on my headphones and escape from the bullcrap around me. The voice in my ear would comfort me or commiserate with me. The guitars and drums and orchestras would latch hold of me and transport me to new places where all would be made well. And I realized that I wanted to do the same for others. I wanted to be the voice in the ear of a lonely teenager somewhere down the road who just needed someone to tell them that it would all be all right, and that they were not alone.

As I grew and matured, so did my tastes in music. So, too, did the focus of my songs, as they became more a means of expressing myself and the constant clashing of worlds that I experienced in college, as I bounced back and forth between the prison that was my home life and the relative happiness that was school in Illinois.

I graduated, and again my songs shifted focus. Life in Florida was now safely far behind me as I set up permanent residence in Nashville. But I found myself stuck in a hateful job, finding little motivation to work on music. So my songs were about doubt and disappointment and the occasional gasp of hope. Again, the motive for making music was for self-expression; I needed to air out my frustrations with God.

Over the last year-and-a-half, however, I’ve started to come to some peace with God, and I’ve become much more surrendered to Him. My songs have taken a more optimistic and hopeful turn, expressing the longing of a soul to find its place in God.

But self-expression is a purely selfish motive for making music. Sure, it can resonate with others who feel the same. But ultimately it wouldn’t matter if it ever got recorded or performed; if catharsis is the goal, then no one else really needs to become involved. So why is it that the only two times in my life that I’ve felt truly whole as a person were the two times I got to get on stage with a full band and just rock out for a crowd? Surely if self-expression were the only motive, this would not feel any different than sitting in my bedroom playing the same songs on my battered acoustic guitar.

I have an intense adoration for the band U2. Anyone who’s known me for more than an hour probably knows this. There’s something about their music that touches a place deep inside of me that otherwise only God can reach. I could spend all day watching their live DVDs with the volume cranked as loud as the speakers and neighbors will allow; somehow the electricity of the crowd and the performance carries through the TV screen to me personally. I have felt the same way at times during live concerts of other favorites, like Muse and the Killers at Mississippi Nights in St. Louis, or Sigur Ros at the Ryman Auditorium, or even Mavis Staples at Bonnaroo 2007. When I am attending an incredible concert by an artist I love—one that connects with the crowd in an almost mystical way—I feel like I am a part of something greater than all this. Not only do I feel like I am not alone in this world, I also feel the presence of God in the unified crowd and the pounding music. I feel just for that short time like all is well with the world and God is ultimately in control and in love with me—regardless of the lyrical content of the artist on stage.

It was only extremely recently that I made the connection between this feeling and whatever it is that others seem to experience during worship in church. For someone who lives and breathes music, I’ve got this huge disconnect when it comes to worship music. Even at the Anchor Fellowship, where the music is always topnotch and honest and beautiful, I can never seem to experience that euphoria I see in all those around me. But I now have a frame of reference to understand it. I see U2 the same way others see worship music; similarly, I have viewed some worship leaders the same way others have viewed Bono—as a preening egomaniac waving his arms around for attention.

I understand now that my greatest motive for desiring to make music is that others might experience worship. But not in the traditional sense. I know full well that it would be fully hypocritical of me to attempt to write traditional worship songs and play them every week in church. Rather I want to bring that same feeling to a crowd of people that I feel whenever I’m at a great show; it’s the same feeling I imagine is felt by worshipers in church. It’s that feeling that I am just one little part in this great amazing world that God has created, and that He is here with us all.

We’re all called to be worshipers. That’s just a part of our identity as Christians. That’s what we humans were created to be. I feel like I’ve been given this particular talent, and that I need to use it for God’s glory. But not within the framework of a church service. When I watch Bono up on that stage, I feel like he’s leading worship with a crowd that is mostly non-Christian. Still, though, I sense the Spirit of God in that place, ministering joy and comfort and peace and hope to everyone there. That’s just the “magic” that is in music inherently. To me, music is one of God’s greatest creations, and it’s something He inhabits through its very existence. Heaven itself is notoriously overflowing with the most beautiful music any human ear will ever or never hear.

So why do I want to make music? Is it because I just want to be rich and famous and live in a spotlight? Hardly. Anyone who knows me can confirm that I don’t like being the center of attention. I also know that anything good that comes through my music is entirely of God, because I’m overly aware that I can do nothing of value by myself. And I don’t need things. Any money I’d make beyond what I need I’d rather give to someone who is struggling; why should I own multiple cars and a mansion when so many people are buried in debt, and so many ministries and charities are struggling to stay afloat? Millions of people around the world are dying of malnutrition! What right would I have to ignore that and instead purchase a yacht? And fame would just come with more headaches than it’s worth.

Do I make music to express myself? Of course. Anyone who makes honest music does this. Music has immensely cathartic properties. But it’s more than about self-expression.

It’s about God-expression. It’s about telling others what He’s done for me. It’s giving Him honor. It’s making use of the talents He’s given me. It’s about leading others into a place of experiencing God. And it doesn’t have to be lyrically blatant. Bono’s lyrics are veiled expressions of his “lifelong argument with [his] maker,” as he put it. Matthew Bellamy’s lyrics are sometimes directly anti-God. And Jonsi of Sigur Ros sings in Icelandic, and sometimes nonsense syllables; I have no idea what he’s trying to express in his lyrics. But all these bands take me to a place of experiencing God’s presence. And I want to do the same for others. I want to let them know that they are not alone. I want them to receive hope and encouragement. I want them to feel the breath of God’s Spirit. And maybe somehow through it all God can speak to them specifically and personally, even if I never use the words “God” or “Jesus” anywhere in the songs. I just want to speak life into the listener, whoever and wherever he or she might be.

Believers in the Hands of a Loving God

I know you’ve heard it ad nauseum. But let me quote it once again. John 3:16 states, “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.” Anyone who has grown up in the church has been able to spew it out mindlessly since he was old enough to string a sentence that long together. Its popularity is understandable, of course; it is perhaps the most succinct statement of the gospel in the entire Bible.

This verse, however, made me feel disconnected from faith when I was young. I couldn’t understand how God loved me personally. Yeah, I believed that I was lumped into the “whosoever,” but only by the default nature of the word. I believed in theory that God loved me, but only because He had proclaimed His love for everyone. It’s like hearing about a party with an open invite. Sure, in theory you’re invited, but that doesn’t mean that the one throwing the party actually wants or expects you to be there.

I’ve spent most of my life believing that God loved me only in theory, that He loved me only because He’d so rashly proclaimed “whosoever” long before I’d ever been born. It’s just been very recently that I’ve started to accept that maybe He loves me specifically, and intentionally.

But how do I know this? I recently had a conversation with a friend who has been feeling the same way I had been for so long. The worship band had been playing “How He Loves,” with that epic refrain of “He loves us, oh how He loves us,” and he felt completely disconnected from the emotions expressed by the people around him. I tried to encourage him, to tell him I had felt much the same in the past but things had changed. But I couldn’t explain the process. I couldn’t look back and give tangible and useful evidence of the change. There is no twelve-step program for accepting and recognizing God’s intimate love for us. It was just a miracle that God had worked in my life, and I felt helpless in knowing all I could do was to recommend hanging on and waiting for God. I know from my own experience how hollow that sounds to someone in that place.

What changed in me? How is it that I’ve dared to believe that maybe God really does love me in a personal way? The truth is, I had always been hoping for some kind of transcendent moment where God might float down on a big cloud and proclaim in a Morgan Freeman voice that He really does love me, and that all my dreams will come true; I would feel all tingly and ecstatic and want to start dancing in the aisles during church. But I’m sure that even the most surefooted Christians, the ones most secure in their relationship with God, would say that those moments where they feel the direct contact of the Creator are few and far between. There are few who can genuinely say that God has spoken to them audibly, or who can claim to have seen angels, or who have felt the physical touch of invisible hands and arms. And these occurrences are rare even for them.

In my own life I cannot claim any experiences of this nature. The closest I’ve come is a dream I had maybe a month ago, and it’s the only dream I’ve ever had that I can even remember. It started out as a standard dream, where various unrelated points of my past and present life intersected in typically bizarre ways; what details I can recall of this part were related to memories that have contributed to my sense of low self-worth. Then I remember distinctly being surrounded by friends (their faces were not visible, but I knew deep in my heart that they were genuine friends), and they presented me with a jacket. And just looking at it I knew that it would fit me perfectly, and be warm and comfortable and cozy. And all over the lining inside the jacket were scrawled messages of Truth. Like the people around me, the messages were indistinguishable, but I just knew in the most profound way that they were words of Truth about who I was, and how much they cared about me, and how valuable I was. I turned out the inner pockets in the coat, and even there I found Truth written in the shimmery, silken lining. I began to weep, and at that point I woke up to find myself weeping in reality as well.

I can also remember an occasion or two in which I was heavily overcome with a sense of the Spirit while reading Scripture. One such event happened at Bonnaroo, of all places, as I read through Isaiah one morning after the sun had risen too high for me to sleep in the tent, and it’s a moment that I referenced in the lyrics of a song I’ve written and recorded called “First Light.”

But these things are very subjective and personal to me, and of little value recounted to another. So how can I relay to someone that God really does love them personally and intimately? The words “God loves you” ring empty in a scientific and technological society that relies so heavily on the question “Why?”

Let me try approaching this from a different angle.

Evangelism is a major part of the Christian faith. We are called to spread the gospel to unbelievers, and the afore-mentioned John 3:16 is a popular quote in this endeavor. If it were possible to simplify evangelism into two styles, or categories, I would say that there are those that evangelize through the use of words and those that do so through the use of actions. Certainly there is a place for both approaches, but most Christians would tend to lean one way or the other.

Mere words are not enough in this society, though. In 1741, Jonathan Edwards preached the infamous “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” and masses of people were converted. In more recent times, Billy Graham packed out stadiums with his preaching. But modern society has seen an overload of opinions, thanks to the internet and the constant exposure to mass media. Anyone can spout any kind of opinion anywhere, and this makes people jaded to words alone. Maybe passing out tracts in a train station was a viable means of evangelism in the past, but not anymore.

Our society increasingly needs the evangelism of actions. Kids who are growing up in shattered homes, and surrounded by constant stimulus and chatter, are likely only to listen to those who show them genuine love in tangible ways. Words require actions to gain anyone’s attention, and love—genuine, unforced love—is certainly the sort of action that can see positive results.

All that to say, we know that God has called us to be His hands and feet. It’s a cliché already, and Audio Adrenaline copped it for a cheesy youth group anthem. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true and viable. And so that is the more common form of effectual evangelism in our society. We feed the poor, we donate to charities, and we pitch in to help a neighbor who has fallen upon disaster.

Unfortunately, the idea of us being God’s hands and feet has generally been typecast as evangelism, as only being a means of saving souls. But God has called us to be His hands and feet to our fellow believers as well. I’ve heard the words “God loves you” all my life, but in the absence of tangible signs directly from God Himself, it only began to sink into me that God loved me when His followers became His hands and feet to me. And it obviously wasn’t intended as proselytizing; I was already “in the fold,” so why bother? No, they loved me and cared for me genuinely, and this was God’s love becoming tangible in my life.

I think about when Ryan Rado took time out of his day to pick me up where I was stranded by the side of the road and help me pump up the flat tire after I’d succeeded in accidentally letting all the air out. I think about another flat tire, when Aaron Holden picked me up at nearly midnight to give me a ride home, and then Ryan Stubbs came to my house early the next morning and drove me around town while I got the tire situation worked out. I think about all the times Brady Lane has worked his magic underneath the hood of my car. Wow. God has shown His love to me so many times through my piece-of-crap car. It kind of makes the headaches and the wasted money worth it, in a skewed sort of way.

I think about the year my birthday fell on poker night at the Stumps’, and Jamie and the others took the time to bake a cake as a surprise for me. I think about the times I’ve been completely broke, and friends gave me food or had me over for dinner. I think about all the conversations I had with friends like Chris Hayzlett and Kevin Bender, who were gracious enough to put up with my constant complaining and confusion and generally exasperating ramblings in self-loathing. I think about all the friends who have taken time out of their extremely busy schedules to indulge my desire to play music live, or to record it better.

I could go on and on with occasions where God showed His tangible love to me through His hands and feet on earth. I had just failed to recognize it all as such until now. I had only understood the concept of God’s love personified in His followers as a form of evangelism. I had never extended it to the way we Christians interact with each other. I know God loves me personally and intimately because He has placed these wonderful people in my life who love me personally and intimately even though they really don’t have to. They’ve never proclaimed any sort of “whosoever.” They’ve gone far above and beyond what would be considered basic human goodwill.

Yes, on occasion God will choose to interact with His people directly. But it is a rare thing. His day-to-day expression of His intimate, personal love for us is through the amazing people He puts in our lives. Of course, people are flawed conduits of God’s love, and often we fail. A person who is intensely lonely and who has been hurt and abandoned by those around them is not unloved of God. He is only surrounded by broken hands and broken feet. Fortunately, God is also the Great Physician, but that’s another thought for another time….

Oh let me walk the midnight skies

Oh let me walk the midnight skies

Where stars and aching hearts collide.

Love let the lonely lift their eyes

This time....

For I live in shame, I live in fear

For feeling I am only here

To breathe, to weep, to disappear

In time.

Break my heart with what to yours

Is pressing deep a crown of thorns

(The hands by which it daily forms

Are mine),

That only chords accompany

This voice that sings your melody

That echo virtuosity

Not mine.

And let this be the tie that binds

Faithful yours to hopeless mine:

That all who seek will surely find

In time.

An Overactive Imagination

Children aren’t surprised by miracles. Their capacity for imagination amazes me, and oddly puts my intellect to shame. As an adult, I’m fairly certain that next time I’m at the mall a unicorn will not materialize and saunter through the crowds. But if one does, you can bet every child in the place will approach it with matter-of-fact curiosity, while every adult in the mall will emit a collective “WTF?!” In the same way, a mother with cancer can suddenly be found to be tumor-free; the doctors will be entirely mystified, while the child is just happy that Mommy is back home and her hair is growing out again. It is as though children understand things that are far beyond the comprehension of adults.

It’s the complete opposite with things that we adults understand. We don’t have to be knowledgeable in the field of aerodynamics to grasp the fact that the wings of an airplane are structured and angled in such a way as to create lift with enough speed. We take for granted that an airplane takes off and lands because we as adults understand it. But a child can stay nose-glued to the terminal window, watching in awe as plane after plane takes off and lands, and it’s amazing to them. We as adults can walk through a garden without noticing one thing around us, yet the child is caught up with the brilliance of the flowers and the caterpillar on the sidewalk and the puddles just begging to be jumped in. Children find such joy in the things we adults take for granted.

What happened to us? Why do we discount the things we can’t comprehend, and find no amazement in those things we do understand?

In our world, the moment we stop believing in Santa Claus is a rite of passage. Setting aside tales of fairies and dragons and aliens is considered part of growing up. Dreams are reduced to being nothing more than the result of late-night pizza. Angels become naked babies with wings, and the monsters under the bed are the products of an overactive imagination.

In Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle theorizes that we’ve been taught the story of Peter walking on the water all wrong. We’re told that he just had so much faith for that moment that he was able to perform the miracle of walking on the tops of the waves. Her idea, though, is that Peter was remembering how to walk on water, that for that brief second he had returned to what he had originally been created to be.

L’Engle also emphasizes that Jesus was fully human as well as being fully divine. And Scripture makes it clear that his miracle power was not coming from within him, but rather from God the Father working through him. He was fully human, but because he was also fully divine and knew the Father so intimately, he was perfectly willing to go along with everything the Father commanded him to do. He knew the Father so well that he trusted Him without question. And God was able to use him to the greatest extent. He could perform miracles, and heal, and walk on water, because he trusted the Father implicitly and was the man he had always been created to be.

(I’ve heard the question put forth as to why the Western world doesn’t see miraculous healings like the Third world still sees on a regular basis. The answer posited was that God’s gotten so fed up with our self-reliance that He just gave up on the West almost entirely and left us with our health care. This was only partly a joke.)

We all know that story of Jesus with the little children, how the adults didn’t want them to bother Jesus, but he put the adults to shame by declaring that the kingdom of heaven was of such as those children. We’ve also all been taught that story incorrectly, or at least incompletely. I know I was. I was always told that that story was proof that children were important like adults were. It wouldn’t be overly flippant of me to say that it was meant to be a self-esteem boost for kids. But that’s not what Jesus meant.

What Jesus meant was that “childish” qualities such as creativity, imagination, wonder, trust, and acceptance were qualities that one needed to see the kingdom of heaven come to fruition. These kids ignored all the “important” adults who wanted to debate theology and real life with Jesus, and who wanted to observe the proper protocols of interaction with a teacher. They just walked right up to him and sat in his lap, and allowed him to love them without prerequisite or condition.

It is implied in this story that the kingdom of heaven is one of those things that children inherently grasp but adults have discredited at worst or taken for granted at best.

Holy crap, what if the “overactive imagination” of a child was a part of God’s original design for humanity?! What if creativity, imagination, wonder, trust, and acceptance are qualities God intended for each of us to have, and it’s just been the proper adults who have squashed those nascent gifts within us as a requirement for “growing up”? What means to knowledge can be found in the ninety percent of our brains that we do not use? What if we truly take hold of the idea that there are more ways of knowing than just logic and the scientific method? And what if we were to go beyond just recognizing that observable fact is truth to acknowledging that not all truth is observable fact—that observable fact is actually merely a subcategory of truth?

I wish I knew how to regain the wonder and the curiosity of a child. The innocent inquisitiveness. The easy trust. The vibrant creativity. (I can’t ignore that creativity is the very first aspect of God’s character that we see in action in Scripture. Not faithfulness. Not love. Not wisdom, or judgment, or power. Creativity. Should it be a surprise then that children take to it so naturally and so early in life?)

I just know that I used to be terrified of God, and now I dare to approach Him like a dear friend, and often tactlessly. I know that I used to tell people what to think, and now I’m made fully aware I know nothing and all I can do is encourage them to seek God more intimately. I know that I could never find any interest or joy in my physics classes, but now I long to know about black holes and string theory and general relativity and the Creator of this universe and all its mysteries. I know I used to feel like the stories in Scripture were tired and cobwebby, and now I’m insatiably curious to know what else happened—I want to know about the Nephilim and the Watchers, about Enoch and Jared, about the “hot springs” Anah discovered in the wilderness, about the further exploits of the sons of Jacob.

I want to remember who I was created to be. I want to walk on water. I want to see miracles, and healings. I want to create uninhibitedly. I want God to come down and walk with me in the cool of the day. I want to approach Jesus without reserve and just allow him to love me without cause. I want to be filled with all the wonderment of a child gazing out the window of the airport terminal, as the airplanes take off and land over and over again.

Sturgis and Gomorrah

I recently returned from a week in Sturgis, South Dakota, where I was working during the town’s annual motorcycle rally. I was there with twelve other members of my church, The Anchor Fellowship; we were donating our time to work there, and our wages would then be given to the church as a fundraiser. We manned entrances at the Buffalo Chip Campground, which is the epicenter of Sturgis Bike Week’s festivities, and where a massive amphitheatre was built to accommodate performances by the likes of Toby Keith, CCR, Aerosmith, and other artists popular in motorcycle culture. Following the shows, we would clean up the grounds within the amphitheatre area.

This was easily the spiritually darkest experience of my life. Sturgis is in southwestern South Dakota, near the Badlands and the Black Hills, and it is an incredibly beautiful area. But as the bikers began to roll in, and as the events got underway, I could feel a great heaviness settle over the campgrounds and town. I’m not one who tends to be very sensitive to the spirit realms, but even I could sense the Darkness building. It was even tangible, in the same way August humidity in Florida is tangible. It clung to my skin, and pressed in heavily.

The Buffalo Chip Campground was private property, and therefore it became a place of complete lawlessness. Literally the only rules there were that each person had to have a wristband, and that they could not bring weapons or their own alcohol into the amphitheatre area (so as to protect beer sales by vendors inside). Here the baser instincts of mankind were on full display; drugs and drunkenness were rampant, strippers performed at several different locations around the stage, and there was enough public sex and nudity to make Bonnaroo seem like an Amish community. Constantly men would offer to have their wives/girlfriends flash us (at the very least) if we would look the other way while they brought in alcohol. And this wasn’t Woodstock-ish hippie lawlessness, with that free-love-and-marijuana sense of camaraderie; this was violent lawlessness, fueled by Budweiser, testosterone, and gasoline. Weapons were everywhere, and as the entire campground was accessible to bikes and four-wheelers and golf carts, there were drunk drivers everywhere. The environment was not only spiritually Dark, but it was flat-out dangerous.

I will not take the time to go into great detail, but midway through our time there, we found out that four or five individuals independently had gotten word from God that we were to leave Sturgis immediately for home. These were people back in Nashville, people within our group, and even a member of a biker ministry there on the campgrounds. So we fled. The place had been nicknamed “Sturgis and Gomorrah,” and we were Lot and his daughters in flight. On the road home, we found out that that night’s performance by Aerosmith had been cancelled due to Steven Tyler falling off the stage and being airlifted to the hospital. News articles said little about the crowd response except that although concertgoers were disappointed, they were just glad he was going to be okay. Ha. We knew better. Imagine having to be security in a place where tens of thousands of drunken bikers had just had their Aerosmith show cancelled. That would have been an extremely dangerous situation. And suddenly the call for an abrupt departure made sense, as well as the comparisons to Lot and family.

This all got me thinking about the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. We all know it well. God had determined to destroy the cities for their unabashed wickedness, and had sent two angels to extract Lot and his family before the fire fell. A crowd gathered around Lot’s house as he hosted the visitors, and they demanded that he release the visitors to them. Scripture seems to indicate that the crowd intended to rape the angels, and Lot even offered up his virgin daughters to them, but the crowd refused. The angels then struck the crowd with blindness, and the family escaped just before the brimstone and sulfur rained down.

Many Christians like to twist this story into a condemnation of the LGBT community (that is, the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered community). Since the crowd was made up of men, and the angels were male, the great evil for which God wanted to destroy the city was homosexuality. But anyone with half an open mind can see that this is a ridiculous association; since when do all the men of a city suddenly “go gay” when two visitors enter town? Knowing that only a small percentage of people (2% to 10%, depending on who you ask) are homosexual, why would all the men of the city reject the offer of two beautiful virgin girls in favor of two male visitors?

Writings outside of Scripture (whether they be legends, historical accounts, or books associated with sects of Judaism) seem to indicate that Sodom and Gomorrah had developed a huge reputation for being extremely inhospitable to outsiders. Accounts exist of visitors being regularly robbed, tortured, humiliated, or even murdered in increasingly imaginative ways by the people of the cities. And any townsperson who helped the visitor would find himself in the same predicament. (Lot seems to be an exception—a tolerated alien—most likely due to his wealth, power, and relation to Abraham, of whom the cities were wary.) If this is true, then a re-read of the Genesis account of Sodom and Gomorrah brings a whole new perspective. The men of the city were not a horde of “homosexual perverts” just trying to get a piece of the “hunky new guys” in town, as popular Christian teaching would like us to think. Rather, they were setting about their usual hobby of torturing and humiliating outsiders. Lot indicates full awareness of this custom in Genesis 19:8, when he says, “But don’t do anything to these men, for they have come under the protection of my roof” (NIV). The crowd then replies in the next verse, “This fellow came here as an alien, and now he wants to play the judge! We’ll treat [him] worse than them.” This makes incredible sense when understanding the great wickedness of Sodom and Gomorrah to be that of inhospitality.

But surely inhospitality isn’t a legitimate evil, one which would cause God to destroy entire cities! This would seem anticlimactic to Christians who have been raised to believe that homosexuality is a great wickedness that God would wish to exterminate from the earth. After all, wasn’t the city Sodom named after a form of homosexual intercourse? (I’m being facetious with that last statement; unfortunately and incomprehensibly, to some that clear fallacy is a cogent argument.)

We all know James 1:12—“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress…” (NIV). The second law that Jesus taught was to “love thy neighbor as thyself.” He also taught that we must love our enemies. And throughout Scripture we see innumerable stories in which hospitality is promoted or rewarded. A widow provides food and lodging for Elijah even though she has nothing. David brings into his home Mephibosheth, the last remaining descendent of his nemesis Saul. Ananias and the Christians of Damascus welcomed Paul into their community following his conversion, even though he’d been responsible for killing so many of their brethren. And let’s not forget the Good Samaritan.

We are not called simply to show love and kindness to those of our own community. The Bible is unarguably clear in making the point that we are called to love EVERYONE. We are to show hospitality and kindness to those who are in need of it, even if they are outsiders to us, and even if they are our enemy. The wickedness of Sodom and Gomorrah was so great that they didn’t just settle for ignoring or shutting out strangers and people in need—they outright exploited and tortured them. It was a sport, a pastime to them. And to God this was an inexcusable wickedness.

And the parallels between Sodom and Sturgis become even clearer. Never have I seen such blatant racism, misogyny, and homophobia (often accompanied by a figurative wave of the American flag). As visitors clearly not a part of biker culture, I genuinely felt like we could easily have had a giant target painted on the front of us. The only black individuals I saw the entire week (with the exception of one extremely brave biker) were the people hired to clean the bathrooms, and it must have taken great courage or desperation to have caused them to take the job in that kind of explicitly racist environment. Even some of our fellow co-workers, people hired in from Rapid City and who were (in theory) completely sober, were fully unashamed of their own hatred; one guy went on a tirade about how he hated Canadians because gay marriage was legal there. Twice I heard him voice a desire to inflict serious physical harm upon guys who rode on the same motorcycle as another male. I have never experienced a place more inhospitable to those not a part of the majority culture. Well, outside the church, that is.

Unfortunately, the followers of Christ, those who should be most loving of others, have gained a reputation as being extremely inhospitable. It has been said that Sunday morning is the most segregated time of the week, as the majority of churches are predominantly composed of people of the same race. So many churches actively promote the idea that one must become like the rest of the congregation before they are welcome. Even in the twenty-first century, churches abound that look down on visitors with tattoos, visitors dressed as a part of a counterculture, visitors who aren’t familiar with the “proper decorum” expected in that church. The massive divide between the church and the LGBT community exists in part because few gays have met a Christian who actually loves them like Jesus would, and few Christians have bothered to get to know a gay person for who they really are. And women are still considered inferior to men in so many churches. They won’t admit it, but many churches have allowed the real spirit of Sodom and Gomorrah to sit amongst them in the pews every Sunday.

What it comes down to, is that we the church must return to those two commandments given by Jesus, to love God and to love others. This impossible for any person to do, however, on his own. He must instead cry out to God, and ask Him for the grace to love those he is incapable of loving. It involves pushing himself outside his comfort zone. It involves putting the opinion of God over the opinion of fellow churchgoers.

I’ll be the first to admit that I suck at loving. I really do. I found myself most of the week at Sturgis laughing at the absurdities of biker culture. I found myself complaining as I raked up countless piles of “patriotic” confetti and smashed, disgusting beer cans after Toby Keith’s show. I could not find it within myself to truly look upon these people with love—pity was the most I could muster.

And it was in the van, as we waited for the last of our group to arrive so we could make our escape, that I broke down. I watched as a young man suffered through a very powerful drug trip—whether it was heroin or crack or something else, we don’t know. But he was stumbling everywhere, collapsing on top of his tent and exposing himself and falling over fences. And there was this girl with him. She was maybe nineteen, and she’d worked with me at the front gate one night; you could see a radiant personality in her, and incredible potential and talent. But here she was doing her best to coerce him into lying down to sleep it off. She tugged on his arms, trying to calm him down. You could see the incredible frustration mixed with love she felt, but ultimately she could do nothing more than just roll up in her sleeping bag in front of the tent, and just wait it out there next to him. It was the most heart-breaking thing I’ve ever seen. Two young people with so much potential, and this is where their lives had led. All I could do was weep, as for just that moment God allowed me to see them at least in small part the way He saw them. And there were so many broken people in that campground…. I was convicted for the way I’d thought of the bikers there, and I saw for a moment just how sorrowful God was for the self-destruction and brokenness around. It was devastating, and I doubt I shall ever forget it.

I was struck by the weight of that prayer, that God would break our hearts with the things that break His. That’s such a dangerous prayer to pray. And I felt—and still feel—such overwhelming gratitude for all the things God has done in my life. Yeah, I’m broken and screwed up, and I am no better than anyone out there at Sturgis. But I’ve given God room to work, and it is to His glory that I am not in that same place of destruction. Now that’s amazing grace.

P.S. For the record, and to try to head off any arguments, I am not making any kind of judgment call on the rightness or wrongness of homosexuality. I am fully aware that it is a hot-button issue for many Christians, and in this context I wish to set my personal beliefs/opinions aside. I am merely addressing the subject as objectively as I can. There is a time and place for one to state and defend his position on the subject. This is not it.

The Palm Tree Thanks the Hurricane

I don’t watch a huge amount of television on a regular basis. Sure, I can get caught up in “Ace of Cakes” marathons, or “18 Kids and Counting” on demand, or cheesy Playlistisms, or “Will and Grace” reruns, or “Family Guy” episodes I personally own on DVD…. Okay, so maybe moving into a house that only has basic cable was the best thing I ever did. There is little of interest on basic cable outside of Conan O’Brien. And “American Idol.” And “So You Think You Can Dance.” And….

All that said, it’s probably a bit strange that I’ve not seen a whole lot of the show “30 Rock.” Tina Fey’s appearances on “Saturday Night Live” portraying Sarah Palin were the highlights of the 2008 election season for me, yet I’ve seen little of the show that has really launched her to national prominence. The sitcom also features Jack McBrayer as Kenneth the Page, an actor with whom I’m familiar because of hilarious appearances on Conan, “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” “Walk Hard,” and “Talladega Nights.” Kenneth is an endlessly naïve and optimistic country rube who is a member of an unspecified conservative charismatic religious denomination. And thanks to the miracle of Facebook stalking, I discovered through a friend’s post that this character was a graduate of an institution called Kentucky Mountain Bible College.

Probably nobody is aware that KMBC is an actual college in the tiny town of Vancleve, nestled in the Appalachian hills of eastern Kentucky. The 2000 census lists Vancleve’s population at about 364, with only 6 individuals being of a minority race. The average household income at the time was just over $16,000. It would seem that a Bible college located in such a place would be the perfect school to have produced such a character as Kenneth the Page.

The funniest part of all of this is the fact that most of my mother’s family attended this school, or at least attended Mt. Carmel High School, which is essentially the little sister to the college. My mother and I believe all three of her siblings, as well as a few cousins, attended Mt. Carmel. I’m not sure just which relatives attended KMBC itself, but I do know that my aunt and uncle currently live and work at the college, and all three of their sons (my cousins) attended. One can also go to the Mt. Carmel website and see a picture of my cousin Brian listed as an RA of the men’s dorm there.

So there is one portion of my heritage—Kentucky hillbilly. The community in Florida in which I was raised was really no different; it was just located a mile from the Atlantic Ocean rather than in the toothless maw of Appalachia. Both places are a part of what they call the “conservative holiness movement” (feel free to search the term on Wikipedia). One might consider it loosely a blend of the Wesleyan-Arminian theology of the Nazarene denomination with the lifestyle standards of the most conservative Pentecostals, mixed with a healthy dose of what is basically asceticism. One must actively work to free himself of all “worldliness.” Therefore women may not cut their hair or wear jewelry and makeup, and may only wear long, loose skirts; men and women may not so much as kiss or hold hands until marriage; rock music in all its forms is worldly, derived from the satanic tribal music of Africa; television is forbidden, as are nearly all movies; alcohol and cigarettes are signs of pure, unadulterated evil in a person’s soul. I actually grew up in a household much like that on “18 Kids and Counting,” just minus 15 kids and a father.

Okay, maybe I’m starting to be a bit facetious. But they do go to unusual lengths to keep themselves “unspotted from the world.” It’s an environment that creates paranoia that one might become “worldly” by accident, and therefore contact with anything outside this community is kept to a minimum. Children grow up, marry right out of high school or Bible college, and start families just around the corner from their own parents (unless they are called to be missionaries or pastors elsewhere). People work and hire within the church community as much as possible, and—much like with the Amish—pressure is (usually) implicitly but strongly levied on everyone to remain a part of the group. And funnily enough, the church I grew up in was considered to be more “liberal” within the conservative holiness movement; shirt sleeves were only required to reach the elbow, and single parent status was not considered enough of a moral failure to justify someone being fired from a school or church job.

Clearly I still have issues with my upbringing. But how can I not? Because of this environment, I had to wrestle with the minute question of the acceptability of Christian rock music with the same spiritual exertion someone else might use to understand the concept of a loving God that allows evil to reign on earth. Others might debate the idea of predestination with the same gusto with which we would debate the acceptable length of shirt sleeves.

So when I see NBC mocking this mindset via the lovably innocent character of Kenneth the Page (gulp…I even have two relatives named Kenneth), I can’t help but join in on the laughter.

I suppose there are benefits to this sort of childhood. I was never given the chance to screw my life up before I was old enough to know better—heck, I’d never been in a movie theater until I went to college, much less been allowed the opportunity to knock up a girl or careen drunkenly through a red light or overdose on anything stronger than caffeine. And I definitely have (somewhat) interesting stories to tell. And I think in some skewed way this upbringing has allowed me to be more accepting of the differences of others than I might otherwise have been. After all, my own family is out in left field compared to most of the world.

The subject of my first blog posting here was that of my aversion to risk-taking, and it’s true that I don’t like taking risks without knowing all the variables involved and making conscious recognition of what is the necessary course of action. But I think the battles I had to fight in freeing myself of this upbringing have built in me the willingness to make bold and fearless decisions once I know what is the right and necessary thing to do. It was drilled into me that rock music was the evil tool of the devil, and it was not an easy task to shed the spectre of hell every time I listened to my favorite music. It was so heavily ingrained in me. But I made the conscious decision to accept the risk that they might be right and that I might be condemning myself for wanting to write and record rock music of my own.

And so the most precious gift my upbringing has given me, I think, is the courage to abandon tradition and the resulting guilt whenever I come to understand that it is wrong. I’ve learned to weigh everything carefully, knowing that conviction is a dangerous companion that must be kept at arm’s length and readily exchanged or dismissed if truly need be. I’ve come to acknowledge the humility that is necessary when making decisions or assertions, the humility that allows me to acquiesce to fuller understanding in the future. And I’ve become good friends with Doubt, rather than enemies.

I now line up to the standards of my upbringing very little. I love and even create “evil” rock music. I work and shop and watch movies on Sundays. I wear shorts in public. I love a good beer and the occasional cigar or cigarette. I sometimes use profanity. I oppose the banning of abortion (for practical reasons, not moral reasons), and I oppose any sort of marriage amendment and favor most gay rights. I haven’t voted Republican in years. I live half-way across the country from my family for no “approved” reason, and I’m still nowhere close to getting married. And there is therefore now no condemnation on me for any of it.

So while I have accumulated a great deal of baggage from my childhood, I also have developed the ability to doubt and to question without fear of damnation. I’ve learned that my faith is about my relationship with my Father Creator, not about what lifestyle standards I adhere to aside from anything that would actually grieve Him, my dearest friend. I recently wrote a song about this very idea; the chorus includes the lines “Your purpose in life is not what you do/It’s who you love and who loves you.”

I don’t find my faith easily swayed; at the same time I don’t have it tied too tightly. I have the guts to stand firm in the face of doubt, and the guts to give in when more truth comes to light. For that I can thank the “conservative holiness movement,” in the same way the palm tree can thank the hurricane for making it need to grow strong and flexible.

If I Could Dig a Hole to China

I have rightfully earned the nickname “Quiet Dan.” I’m known to generally hang near the back of things and to keep my mouth shut. I prefer to listen to conversations than to attempt to interject my own thoughts. I feel no need to be the center of attention. Of course, anyone who knows me well enough knows that I’m fully capable of coming out of my shell (often with the aid of a pint or two). If I’m comfortable with my company and surroundings, I’m much more likely to participate in discussions. My sense of humor comes into play as well, as it tends to be at its best (which isn’t saying much) when I’m riffing off others. I don’t know if these contradictions make me a man of complexity and paradox, or if this simply makes me confused.

We’ve all heard the phrase “Still waters run deep.” I’d like to think that’s the case with me. I’d like to think that I don’t have time to talk because I’m busy observing people and pondering the world around me. I’d prefer to be known as the guy who doesn’t say much, but when he speaks, everyone listens. I want to be known for the profound wisdom only found in those who take the time to listen and observe. Unfortunately, I don’t have any evidence of any of this actually being the case.

There’s also an old adage that says something like, “Better to be silent and thought a fool, than to speak and prove it.” I’m pretty sure this is the saying that more accurately describes me. Silence became a defense mechanism for me as a child. I was incredibly sheltered, and many times as a kid in school I’d make comments off hand that would have everyone staring at me aghast. I would be promptly informed that people just don’t say those things out loud. Ever. I’d cower away, bewildered and humiliated. And in a community as small as the one in which I grew up, reputations don’t change quickly, even when they are no longer warranted. So I learned to just keep my mouth shut and try to disappear—at least disappear as best one could in a class of sixteen.

Silence then—for me at least—is the result of insecurity rather than wisdom. And I really am trying to bust my way out of this habit of quietness. I’ve grown in confidence so much over these last few years—honest! If you think I’m quiet and shy now, you should have seen me eight, four, even two years ago. But I still have so far to go. When I’m lacking confidence I still naturally retreat into my shell, though maybe not as far. In the past, if I was not feeling particularly confident socially, I would stay home alone. Now, I will go out, and merely limit my conversation to one-word responses if I’m not in the mood to push myself. Baby steps. Baby steps.

A funny thing happened, though, when I began to learn how to be more comfortable around other people. I began to become less comfortable on my own. I began to need the company of others in order to feel some semblance of normalcy. If I was alone too long, I’d feel like there was something wrong with me. And I’d begin to force things. My mouth would open a little more often, and a little more often I’d find my foot buried deep in it. What would I do then? I’d force myself back into silence. I’d retreat back into my shell, and I’d be right back almost where I started. It has really become a pattern in my life. (I’d call it a vicious cycle, but I hate that phrase.)

But looking back, each time hasn’t been full regression. It might have been ten steps forward and nine steps back, but at least I would net a step each time. This whole process of falling down and getting back up has at least gained me some ground over time.

By this point, I’ve made enough progress to have the confidence to reach out to new people in my community and attempt to get to know them, at least if I think we might have common interests (this is a fairly recent development). I have a desire to expand my circle of friends, and I’m finding it easier to do this. (I have to make sure, however, that I’m not basing my security and identity in the amount of friends I have. On the whole, though, I think it’s a healthy thing, and good for my self-esteem.)

So recently I began this process of trying to get to know a new friend. I’ll spare the details, but I completely ignored a major part of this individual’s personality, and ended up driving them crazy with my attempts at conversation and my honest interest in them as a person. I totally missed the fact that they were suffering from an acute case of Dan Wright overkill. They preferred solitude, and I continued to assume they’d want company.

Naturally, once I realized this I began to deride myself, and I had to quickly bring this under control. I wanted to tell myself that my personality was obnoxious, that I was being a jerk—and maybe this was partially true, at least from their perspective. But the truth is, I simply misinterpreted the situation and made a fool of myself. It was a forgivable error. I now understand them better, and myself.

Nevertheless, I still retreated into my silence. I had great respect for this person, and I’d just gone and made a fool of myself by opening my mouth. I felt humiliated (of my own doing), and I wanted to dig a hole all the way to China, where I could just disappear into anonymity.

But what good does it do to retreat? Yes, I did something stupid. Yes, this person probably thinks me a fool. Yes, it might take some time to repair my reputation with them. So what? I’ll just dust myself off and keep going. This is one more step I’ll net in the grand scheme of things. This is one more lesson learned. Failure makes the man, after all, much more than success does. How many people in the Bible blundered about long before they found success? Moses suffered eighty years of failure before he was ready for God to use him, and that was even still with much protest and trial and mistake. Paul had to overcome his shame at having murdered so many Christians before he could be used to speak truth and wisdom to a fledgling religion. Jacob had a full history of error and deception, and still God used him to father a mighty nation.

So, if I could dig a hole all the way to China, and disappear, would I? I’d probably try. But the dirt would get mashed up under my fingernails, and my hands would stream blood. I’d wear out, and ultimately give up. I’d learn the hard way that the best thing to do is just to lift my eyes to the stars at the mouth of my pit and climb out. Keep going. Keep netting that one step every ten. Failure makes the man.

Tracing Letters

If I wake up one morning sneezing, I can load up on drugs and chicken noodle soup and see the runny nose and coughing subside in time. That doesn’t mean I’ve found a cure for the common cold. In the same way, if I have an addiction to alcohol, I can set up boundaries and never have another drink again, but that doesn’t mean I’ve resolved any of the issues that drove me to drink in the first place. Bad physical habits are hard enough to break; even more difficult is correcting destructive ways of thinking and feeling.

Anyone who has known me for more than about ten minutes knows that I function in a mindset of self-deprecation. My natural impulse is to tear myself down. If someone hurts me or criticizes me, I automatically accept the blame for the situation. If I find myself in a place of conflict, I pile all the responsibility on myself so that I might not have reason to dislike or resent the other person. I am an expert at accepting the greatest harms that have been done to me and then twisting them so that they are all my fault. Of course this has built into me a very heavily ingrained sense of worthlessness—I have nothing to offer the world, and my existence just doesn’t matter. This mindset shows up in the way I talk (I don’t), in the way I carry myself, and in my sense of humor.

I know full well that Scripture contradicts this point of view. Psalm 139 is one of my favorite passages in the Bible, and Jeremiah 29:11 remains the single verse that has most impacted my life. My favorite character in the Bible is Gideon, the man God used to lead Israel despite his constant protests that he wasn’t good enough. Yet I have always struggled with recognizing the value that is inherent in me as a son of God.

It has taken me many years just to reach a point where I am aware of this problem in me, and to grow into a functional understanding of God’s character. Only now am I beginning to accept that maybe God loves me without condition and without qualifiers. Only now am I grasping in my head the liberating truth of God’s grace, that it is His hand placed upon our lives to help us do the things we are called to do but are thoroughly incapable of doing (like recognizing our own value). Only now am I starting to realize that I don’t need to be ashamed of myself, and that I can be a little bit more assertive and it won’t matter what people think.

Essentially, I’ve recognized the problem and I’ve begun to see the solution. But how do I transfer this new knowledge from my head to my heart? How to I plant this seed of truth in my soul and have it take root? How do I make this way of thinking a good habit to replace the bad habits that still reign quite solidly in my head and my heart?

I know a girl who taught herself Korean. It’s a difficult language to learn, for sure, but especially in a place like Nashville, where absolutely no one else speaks it. But she worked at it every day. She immersed herself in every bit of Korean culture she could find, seeking out a Korean church community in the area and watching Korean television online. She dedicated herself to grasping the grammar and composition of the Korean language, which is designed completely differently from English. She memorized characters and vocabulary and expressions, and she worked to develop her accent. Then one day, after living and breathing Korean for well over a year at the very least, something clicked in her mind. She just realized suddenly one morning in Korean church that she no longer had to translate to herself. No longer did she have to ponder the Korean words and figure out what the English translation was; now she was actually truly listening and thinking in Korean. Now she could just enjoy the sermon without having to utilize a good chunk of her brainpower just translating. She could watch Korean television without having to actively translate to English before comprehending the dialogue. She just understood Korean without English coming into play.

I’m starting to think that it’s the same with developing healthy thought patterns. I’m a native speaker of Deception, and I’m trying to learn the language of Truth. And right now I’m just learning the vocabulary of Truth. I’m just learning how sentences are formed. I’m tracing out the new letters on lined paper, the same letter over and over a thousand times. And I’m constantly translating in my mind. When I find myself thinking, ‘Dan, you pretty much suck at life’, I have to “translate” that very intentionally to what I now know to be true. I have to catch myself in the act, and actively say, ‘Dan, it’s okay if you suck at life, because it’s no longer in your hands. You’ve given it over to God, and He’s promised that He has a plan and purpose for your life. He doesn’t suck at life…’.

I’m just waiting for that day when, like that friend who learned Korean, it just clicks in my mind. That day when no longer must I expend the energy to translate everything, and instead just know. That day when I can think and feel and speak the language of Truth naturally and with confidence, and when I just know who I truly am in Christ and can live it out honestly.

That day is coming.

My Name is Daniel (part 2)

My name is Daniel. Daniel Patrick Wright, Jr. That’s right, I’m a junior. I’ve been lugging my father around my whole life. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing; someday when I have my first son I’m most certainly going to nominate the name Daniel Patrick Wright, III. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m quite fond of the name Daniel.

However, my name is not the only thing I hold in common with my dad. The name often serves as a reminder that we as children are often saddled with the faults of our parents. I don’t really know anything about the concept of generational curses, other than that it’s a frequent theme in the Old Testament. I don’t even know if that is anything remotely applicable to these thoughts here. I do know, however, that part of growing up is realizing just how much we are becoming like our parents.

One very prominent fault of my own is my nearly paralyzing reluctance to take risks. I’m the guy who, upon finding himself lost in the forest, is perfectly content to sit down and wait for someone to find him, out of fear that looking for a way out will only make him even more lost—and all that only after being forced into the woods in the first place. If I don’t know for a fact that something is the right thing to do (or the only thing to do), I won’t do anything. Sure, this protects me from making a lot of mistakes. But if I want to do more with my life than just work/eat/TV/sleep/repeat, I’m going to have to take some risks. And sometimes I’m going to have to take risks without knowing what all the variables involved might be.

I am watching this whole thing unfold right now with my own father.

When I was four or five years old, we moved from Alberton, Montana, to Hobe Sound, Florida, so that I could attend a school there that my mother wanted her children to attend. I was enrolled in kindergarten at (then) Hobe Sound Bible Academy, and my mother took up the position as high school English teacher. My dad found a job as a roofer, something he had done when he was in Bible college. I was seven years old when my parents separated, and my mom was left to raise three sons (the youngest being less than a year old) by herself on an extremely small and inconsistent salary. My father remained in the area, continuing to work on roofs.

My relationship with my father is another story for another day, so I’ll fast forward to Super Bowl weekend 2008. I joined him in Indiana on the occasion of his mother’s funeral. I barely knew her at all, and I had never even met anyone else on my father’s side of the family. I think that due to my proximity to the funeral (I lived three hours away in Nashville), he simply wanted me to be there with him during what had to be a very difficult time for him. It was during this trip that he told me about his dream for his life. He’d always wanted to return to Montana and open up a carpentry shop. He had a heart for the Native Americans—in fact, both of my parents had been teachers at a place called Northwest Indian Bible School when I was born—and so he also wanted to hire on a couple Native American guys that he could teach and mentor in his shop. But he’d felt obligated to remain near us as we grew up, and so he’d never made the move back to Montana. My youngest brother was about to turn eighteen and graduate high school at this time, and I think his dreams had started to return to the forefront of his mind (that is, if they’d ever left it in the first place).

But thanks to the ballooning of insurance rates in Florida following the disastrous 2004 hurricane season, and to the economic recession that is currently in place worldwide, he has had trouble finding work at all, much less enough to allow him to save up for a move. His truck is too old to make the trip, and he just doesn’t have the money to make it happen. So he continues to try to ignore his dreams and just fight to make ends meet working the same job he’s worked for the past two decades—a physically demanding job which he frankly can’t do too much longer at his age. Doing what has to be done to make it all happen is just too risky.

I realized not too long ago that I am absolutely following in his footsteps. In college I worked at a grocery store during the summers, and upon deciding to move to Tennessee I simply transferred from the store in Florida to one in Nashville. I had a job waiting on me when I arrived. Then suddenly four years passed, and I’d done nothing to further my dreams of making music. I was stuck in the rut of working forty hours a week at a job that sucked about eighty hours of energy and willpower out of me. My fear of doing this for the rest of my life was only trumped by my fear of not being able to pay my bills. And so I stayed.

After learning about my father’s dreams, though, I began to realize that I was fully placed to find myself two decades down the road in his exact same position. And so I began desperately praying for a way out. Nothing ever came to fruition, though, and the workplace environment began to degenerate considerably, adding to my misery. So many times I just wanted to walk out of that place forever; I wanted to just give up and try to force God’s hand, really. But each time I felt God tell me to hang on, to wait just a little longer. He promised I wouldn’t be there forever, but every time I wanted to quit He told me to persevere. In August and September of 2008, a sense of restlessness began to build inside of me; friends were traveling to Canada, France, South Africa, and all over the U.S., and yet I was stuck. And still I was told to stay.

Then in April 2009, I felt God clearly say to me that it was time. I put in my notice for the end of June, giving me two months to chicken out. And during that time I received nothing but confirmation. All the friends I expected to be voices of reason to advise me to think and pray a little harder before quitting instead expressed nothing but encouragement and happiness. And one night at church I felt God point out to me that I’ve inherited from my parents an aversion to risk, and that He wanted to heal that place in me that allowed fear to reign, and that taking risks was going to have to become something I get used to. He reminded me that I had prayed a very genuine and desperate prayer for Him to build faith in me, and that this was a vital part of the process. He was going to take it quite seriously.

So here I am, jobless and uncertain where to go next. My dreams of making music and traveling have been pumped to almost painful levels, and I’ve been receiving stronger encouragement than ever before from those around me. Yes, the obstacles are pretty much insurmountable. I’m not gonna lie; I have no idea how to make things happen in my current circumstance. But I also believe in grace, which is God’s hand placed upon us to empower us to do the things He’s called us to do, but which we cannot do in our own strength. This is where my faith must grow. This is where I must continue to take the risks that will allow me to follow after the calling God has placed upon my life.

I have inherited this legacy of playing it safe. I am watching as my father struggles with the idea of pursuing his dream, which seems to me like a legitimate calling from God. I am realizing that this is something I need to break now, and build a new legacy, one of faith and courage and boldness which my children can look up to someday as an example to follow. And I am fully aware that I can only do it through God’s grace.

And this really is why I created this blog. I’m in a rather crazy point in life, and I just want to provide account of the developments as they happen. I hope that it can be both a place where I can reason things through “out loud” and a testimony to others of what God can do if we’re willing to let Him have His way completely. It was over a year ago (March 11, 2008, to be exact) that I told God I wanted to be transformed into who He wanted me to be, no matter what. I was sitting in Starbucks, having just finished reading The Rainbow People of God by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, and I realized that I wanted to be completely turned over to God’s purpose, no matter what it might require of me to do or to sacrifice. And He’s taken me very seriously. So let this place be a chronicle of what God can do with an underdog like me.