Familiar with Lent?
Unless you’ve been involved with the Catholic Church, Eastern Orthodox Churches or Protestant denominations such as the United Methodist Church or Lutherans, you may not be familiar with the whole concept of the Lent Season.
And if you have been involved with these groups, there’s a slight possibility that the season of Lent you’ve known all these years was just another in the long litany of religious activities that consumed your mind and time.
To some of you, “lint” is just the fuzz in your belly button…to others of you; Lent is about equally as relevant to your life, as belly button fuzz.
But what if that was different?
What if it was all so different!?
Lent: The Back-Story
So a quick back-story on the whole Lent thing.
Lent is a season of religious ritual, usually starting with Ash Wednesday* and lasting 46 days until Easter Sunday.
Forty-six (but it’s really only 40-days, because Sundays don’t count. Those are “mini-Easters” and are days to celebrate.) days of fasting from something, anything, to show your sorrow for the condition of the world and to prepare your heart for Resurrection.
The fast is a sort of penitence for not only our wrongdoing but also the wrongdoing of the whole world.
Fasting.
In the tradition of Lent, people “give up” something for Lent, a form of fasting. People give up chocolate, booze, TV, movies, eating out (or eating altogether), or whatever they choose. During Lent, people find something they will “give up” for the Lent Season to show their sorrow.
So, this is Lent.
But what if we gave up something different?
I’ve found, in my life, that fasting has been a very beneficial discipline. I’ve fasted several times and it’s been a very rewarding experience. But therein lies the problem: fasting has always seemed to be beneficial only for me…and actually increased my focus on myself.
When I fast, I seem to inevitably focus primarily on ME, and the thing I’m giving up. Fasting from food is a constant reminder that I’m not eating food. Everywhere I turn there’s food that I can’t eat.
As rewarding as fasting is, it seems only rewarding for me.
(Now, I do believe we have to be the best “us” we can be, which sometimes requires some seemingly selfish self-focus. We must provide ourselves with proper nutrition, education, exercise and rest.)
But self-focus, sometimes turns to self-centeredness, which is often what rears its ugly head during my times of fasting.
So, how can we turn Lent, a season of fasting, into something that turns our focus outward. Outward to something beneficial to society…outward to humanity?
Not everyone reading this would consider himself or herself to be a “Christian” or even religious, for that matter. But, if you are a person who believes, or even regards the words of scripture in the “Bible” you may find some of this interesting.
An ancient prophet named Isaiah addressed the issue of fasting. (We labeled the address as being Isaiah 58.)
“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter-when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?”
WHAT THE WHAT?!?! This is INSANE!
It’s almost as though this dude is suggesting that fasting is about reaching out to show love to others, rather than focus in on our self.
So, if you’re one of the people who believe in the Bible as being the word of God, then you’ve got to believe that what God wants for his followers, is to reach out and meet the needs of others.
But, wait…there’s more!
Several hundred years later, a guy named James wrote something else (And by the way, lots of smart people believe this guy is Jesus’ kid brother.):
“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
(Hint: the word “religion” here isn’t religion as in a “belief system,” but religion as in “an act of worship.”)
It’s almost (well, it actually IS) as though James was saying that worship is really more about serving the needs of others than it is about the songs we sing and the prayers we recite.
Again, INSANITY! (We call this tone sarcasm.)
So, um…Lent. Giving something up for Lent, right?
Here’s my proposal for this Lent…my manifesto…my thesis I’m nailing to the door of whatever religious establishment each of us follow.
What if we gave up our SELF for Lent?
What if we turned our focus this Lent season from the “thing” we’re doing without to all those everywhere whose whole life is “doing without”?
To put it a little more plainly: my idea is that we dedicate ourselves this Lent season to giving ourselves up…that we would spend this Lent season serving the needs of others.
MAKE A DENT THIS LENT!
I know this is a cheesy little rhyme. But what if…what if we could?
What if during this Lent, instead of focusing on ourselves and what we’re giving up…what if we could have a positive effect on the world and the people that fill it?
The dents.
Have you ever been to an art gallery and seen some beautiful sculpture? I don’t know much about the art of sculpting stone, but word on the street is, the way these artists work is by making thousands and thousands of tiny dents in the stone. Chiseling away at the stone until the beauty of the inner sculpture is revealed.
From what I understand, these artists don’t grab a slab of stone, give it one giant whack, and then wheel their masterpiece into an art gallery.
I think we can do this. I think each of us can make one of these tiny dents in the stone. If thousands of us would make a little dent, maybe we could change things. Maybe we could create something beautiful…
I’ve got a couple tattoos. I love my tattoos because their meanings are very significant to me.
My first tattoo is the summation of what I describe as my “Crazy Idea.”
It’s simple…nothing elaborate.
It’s just an image of planet Earth, sculpted into a misshaped heart.
This tattoo is my constant reminder that love can change the world.
Love.
Want to change the world?
Give love.
Give up your SELF.
Give LOVE.
I know I’m crazy!
I know I’m simple-minded.
I’ve freaking ADMITTED all this!!
But what if, just what if it works?
What if this Lent was just a prelude of what we could do in the glorious light of Resurrection?
Who do I give myself up to?
This is where it gets a little bit subjective…a little relative to YOU!
I certainly don’t think we should all jump on the same bandwagon.
My dream is not that thousands of people could come together and focus on the same need, the same issue.
My dream is that thousands of people would find thousands of things to focus on. You’d be amazed at how life changing your one little voice and action could be.
So whom do you help?
I have two suggestions:
Suggestion 1: help whomever it is you have the most passion to help! Maybe you’ve got a real passion for helping the homeless, or special needs kids, or single moms, or people in Third-World countries, or maybe even .
Go help them! Find an organization you could with which you can volunteer, give money to their funds, whatever. Help them!
Suggestion 2: help whomever you think deserves help least!
Jesus once told this story to religious people about how he was hungry, naked, sick, in prison, etc. and no one helped him.
The religious people asked when he had been in these conditions and been helped.
Jesus said, “When you did these things to the LEAST OF THESE my brothers, you did this to me.”
Who are your “least of these?” Who do you see as being the least worthy of help?
GO HELP THEM!
You can do a mission trip; volunteer at a shelter/organization, whatever…my only encouragement is that you do your reaching out throughout the entire Lent Season. Not just a one time thing, or a once a week thing, no I encourage you to give yourself up for FORTY DAYS (take Sundays, or whatever day you choose, to rest and celebrate…recharge your batteries!)
PLAN NOW!
If you’re going to give yourself up for Lent, you need to start planning now.
Now, December 9th. Before you even get through with Christmas.
My friend Josh, keeps reminding me AdVENT is not even over…and I’m pushing LENT!
You need to figure out whom you’re going to help.
You need to figure out how you can AFFORD to help!
You need to figure out how you can help people, while not deserting your family and friends.
You need to figure it out…you need to plan now.
You’ve got four months to get all this figured out…start now!
Lent starts in four months.
Beauty for Ashes
*Lent begins, in most traditions on Ash Wednesday, which is March 9th, 2011 this year.
Ash Wednesday.
On this date, in tradition, Lent-ees attend a special church service in which a “sign of the cross” is placed on their heads with ashes.
Ashes are ugly.
Placing ashes on one’s forehead is ancient symbolic gesture showing one’s sorrow.
That same guy, Isaiah, also wrote this thing about how ashes would be exchanged for beauty.
Doesn’t that sound like an amazing thing? We give ashes and the pay back is something beautiful?
Can you imagine how beautiful it would be, if beginning Ash Wednesday, we all reached out and shared LOVE with those around us (or around the world from us!)
There’s a word for that shared love: BEAUTIFUL.
Commit.
Now, I’m going to ask you to do the most difficult part.
Commit.
Commit to searching yourself and finding the way you can give your SELF up for Lent.
Part of my “Crazy Idea” is this: we can take what may be an irrelevant religious observance…or something you’ve never heard of…and do something beautiful to make a DENT THIS LENT.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
You’re Not Invisible To Me
Maybe it’s my simplicity,
Or could it be my insanity?
But you’re not invisible to me.
I hear your whisper in the Mediterranean Sea breeze as it cools my skin,
And your passion in the same-named sun that brings the heat again.
I see your power in the crashing waves, your ravishing ways.
Rolling over my mind, my heart—my eyes see you.
I don’t see the dogma that curls the fists of nations
I don’t feel the frustration.
I don’t see the exclusivity of political partisan fight.
I don’t see Left; I don’t see Right.
I don’t see the chapters and verses.
I don’t hear exclamations of curses.
I don’t see my way is better than what you believe.
But I see you—
Plain and simple—
Glorious and complex—
Multi-dimensionally BEAUTIFUL!
You’re not invisible to me.
Or could it be my insanity?
But you’re not invisible to me.
I hear your whisper in the Mediterranean Sea breeze as it cools my skin,
And your passion in the same-named sun that brings the heat again.
I see your power in the crashing waves, your ravishing ways.
Rolling over my mind, my heart—my eyes see you.
I don’t see the dogma that curls the fists of nations
I don’t feel the frustration.
I don’t see the exclusivity of political partisan fight.
I don’t see Left; I don’t see Right.
I don’t see the chapters and verses.
I don’t hear exclamations of curses.
I don’t see my way is better than what you believe.
But I see you—
Plain and simple—
Glorious and complex—
Multi-dimensionally BEAUTIFUL!
You’re not invisible to me.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Don't Turn Your Back On The Beauty of Life
So, as most of you know, I had the incredible opportunity to work a trip to Anchorage, Alaska this past week. And, like I've said, the scenery, the clean air and the people just completely won my heart.
One of the especially cathartic experiences was a very long walk on the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail, which meanders along Cook’s Inlet, from, downtown to the airport. (The word "very" is inadequate. I walked approximately 15 miles that day, then worked a seven-hour flight, only sitting for a total of 40 minutes...my feet, legs and glutes are still not particularly happy with me.)
As I walked along this trail, I saw beautiful sites. Scenery that was, at the same time, breath-taking and life-giving. It was as though every bend in the path, lead to a knew sensation of awe. (One scene in particular, forced me to stop and write poetry. I think this image of majestic mountains piercing whimsical clouds over a beautiful lagoon simply mandated a poetic response to its grandeur.)
If you know me, and my weak emotional restraint, you'll find it no surprise that on so many occasions, I could be heard (literally) laughing out loud, or seen crying, at what my brain and heart were processing.
Beautiful. Breathtaking. Overwhelming.
One bend revealing the tranquility of Cook's Inlet. The next, lush green of evergreen trees. The next, mountains standing at attention, like centuria protecting their charge.
But one particular scene keeps surfacing in my memory.
Among the emotions evoked in other scenes, emotions like awe, joy, exhilaration, this scene evokes the emotions of confusion and, well, pissed-off. (Sorry, Mama and Ma!)
At many of these picturesque settings, park benches were placed, giving the viewer ample opportunity to take in all elements of the beauty presented.
Then there was THIS bench.
At the apex of one curve, the trees opened to give one of those (have I used this term?) BREATH-TAKING vistas of the dancing waters of the inlet, back-dropped by green mountains miles away. And at this bend, near the water, was another bench.
Only this bench didn't face the water.
This bench didn't face monumental mountains.
This bench, in this amazing location, faced some drab, emotionless building apparently housing systems for municipal water or sewage, its only purpose for existence: utility.
I didn't understand!
Why? In this place, this inspiring place, why in the world would a bench be placed in such a manner that your back is to beauty and the only thing you can see is cold utility.
Well, like I said, I haven't been able to shake this feeling and the questions it's placement has brought about.
You may not be like this, but I see great symbolism in almost everything. Sometimes I consider that I must be insane, because of how seemingly inertia, seems to speak such volumes to me and my views of life.
But, here I saw how we humans, so often approach the circumstances and situations, with which we are presented.
Here's what this has meant to me.
As we walk this path, life, and find ourselves at places or in situations, so often we can only see the cold, the drab, the lifelessness that the situations present.
So often we find ourselves stuck on a bench in life and the only thing we can see is the old, dead utility that lies just before our eyes.
So often we see only the drudgery of work.
But this would make sense, right? I mean, the bench on which we're sitting only faces utility, normality or maybe futility.
And, since we play by the rules, we use the bench only in the manner it was designed.
The bench faces drudgery. We only see drudgery.
WHY WOULD THEY POINT THE BENCH IN THE DIRECTION OF THE UTILITY BUILDING???
Better question: why do we think we have to face the direction the bench is telling us to face???
So, I guess what I'm saying is this: when you come to places in your life where on one side the scene is ugly, lifeless; and the other side is limitless beauty and unrestrained life, it all just depends on which way you choose to look.
Where are you?
Are you staring at the definition of meaninglessness?
Maybe, just maybe, we should defy the rules of bench-setters and be the scorn of bench-sitters, and turn the other way.
Maybe, just maybe, we should look for the beauty that is obvious in that same place!
It may not all be as bad as it seems...life may be just 180 degrees from where you happen to be...
I love you all, and the cry of my heart is that you all find beauty in life.
One of the especially cathartic experiences was a very long walk on the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail, which meanders along Cook’s Inlet, from, downtown to the airport. (The word "very" is inadequate. I walked approximately 15 miles that day, then worked a seven-hour flight, only sitting for a total of 40 minutes...my feet, legs and glutes are still not particularly happy with me.)
As I walked along this trail, I saw beautiful sites. Scenery that was, at the same time, breath-taking and life-giving. It was as though every bend in the path, lead to a knew sensation of awe. (One scene in particular, forced me to stop and write poetry. I think this image of majestic mountains piercing whimsical clouds over a beautiful lagoon simply mandated a poetic response to its grandeur.)
If you know me, and my weak emotional restraint, you'll find it no surprise that on so many occasions, I could be heard (literally) laughing out loud, or seen crying, at what my brain and heart were processing.
Beautiful. Breathtaking. Overwhelming.
One bend revealing the tranquility of Cook's Inlet. The next, lush green of evergreen trees. The next, mountains standing at attention, like centuria protecting their charge.
But one particular scene keeps surfacing in my memory.
Among the emotions evoked in other scenes, emotions like awe, joy, exhilaration, this scene evokes the emotions of confusion and, well, pissed-off. (Sorry, Mama and Ma!)
At many of these picturesque settings, park benches were placed, giving the viewer ample opportunity to take in all elements of the beauty presented.
Then there was THIS bench.
At the apex of one curve, the trees opened to give one of those (have I used this term?) BREATH-TAKING vistas of the dancing waters of the inlet, back-dropped by green mountains miles away. And at this bend, near the water, was another bench.
Only this bench didn't face the water.
This bench didn't face monumental mountains.
This bench, in this amazing location, faced some drab, emotionless building apparently housing systems for municipal water or sewage, its only purpose for existence: utility.
I didn't understand!
Why? In this place, this inspiring place, why in the world would a bench be placed in such a manner that your back is to beauty and the only thing you can see is cold utility.
Well, like I said, I haven't been able to shake this feeling and the questions it's placement has brought about.
You may not be like this, but I see great symbolism in almost everything. Sometimes I consider that I must be insane, because of how seemingly inertia, seems to speak such volumes to me and my views of life.
But, here I saw how we humans, so often approach the circumstances and situations, with which we are presented.
Here's what this has meant to me.
As we walk this path, life, and find ourselves at places or in situations, so often we can only see the cold, the drab, the lifelessness that the situations present.
So often we find ourselves stuck on a bench in life and the only thing we can see is the old, dead utility that lies just before our eyes.
So often we see only the drudgery of work.
But this would make sense, right? I mean, the bench on which we're sitting only faces utility, normality or maybe futility.
And, since we play by the rules, we use the bench only in the manner it was designed.
The bench faces drudgery. We only see drudgery.
WHY WOULD THEY POINT THE BENCH IN THE DIRECTION OF THE UTILITY BUILDING???
Better question: why do we think we have to face the direction the bench is telling us to face???
So, I guess what I'm saying is this: when you come to places in your life where on one side the scene is ugly, lifeless; and the other side is limitless beauty and unrestrained life, it all just depends on which way you choose to look.
Where are you?
Are you staring at the definition of meaninglessness?
Maybe, just maybe, we should defy the rules of bench-setters and be the scorn of bench-sitters, and turn the other way.
Maybe, just maybe, we should look for the beauty that is obvious in that same place!
It may not all be as bad as it seems...life may be just 180 degrees from where you happen to be...
I love you all, and the cry of my heart is that you all find beauty in life.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Beauty in "Everyday"
I used to hate hot tea.
The mere thought of tea served at any temperature warmer than a tooth-pain inducing level made me sick to my stomach.
My grandma made the best sweet, iced tea! If I remember correctly, the beverage of choice to be served with butter beans and cornbread for every meal was sweetened with two cups of sugar and five saccharin tablets (if anyone remembers what saccharin is...). It was so sweet, I often just had tea for dessert!
I loved iced tea and HATED hot tea.
But then I went to Ukraine.
In Ukraine, as with most of the rest of the world, tea was preferred hot. The hotter the better.
Maybe my love for tea came from my deep love for the Ukrainian people who introduced me to it, but in that three weeks, tea became synonymous with things like comfort, creativity, peace and love for me emotionally.
"Vwi khoteetya chai?" The question.
"Da, spaseeba!" The reply.
"Kofe', chai, potansuem?" That still makes me giggle.
A love for tea, and the evoking emotions was birthed in me.
The tradition I learned from Sveta of inhaling a deep breath of the tea's aroma before taking a drink.
The way to wrap the tea bags string around the spoon until you can squeeze out the last drops of tea water held in the bag. (Of course, me, being the rebel I am, with a taste for the bold, always left my tea bag in the cup! Scandal!)
The late nights in Gala and Dima's apartment; eating cookies, drinking tea and laughing at jokes that lost meaning in translation!
Ah, tea.
In the few years since then, I've had the opportunity to sample teas from around the world.
Amazingly exotic and expensive teas.
Like the ruby red chai from Trader Joe's that made people almost melt from it's delicious smell.
Or the sharp, ginger tea that calmed the passenger's queasy stomach on a very rough flight.
The blueberry tea in Turkey.
Or the masala chai tea in that little market in Mumbai. More presented than served.
Teas steeped from bags or just loose leaves floating in the cup.
Teas so strong and bold it made you feel "like a man."
Teas so delicate I thought they would drift me into some swan like dance. (But I resisted.)
Like I said, some exotic, some expensive. All vying for a position in my backpack, to be enjoyed on the next layover or while writing or simply at gate A19...
And I wrestled with the decision of which was favorite.
But recently I realized the winner.
It was a tea I never even purchased.
Just the little packets left next to electric kettles in hotel rooms in Ireland and the United Kingdom.
Free for the taking. And inauspiciously and absent-mindedly tossed into my backpack with it's more alluring cousins.
But I found it to be the best, in my humble estimation.
Drinking this tea makes me comfortable, at peace, while simultaneously enticing me to be creative and risky.
And to think, I spent so much time overlooking this tea...almost never giving it a chance.
See, it's packaging appears dull and boring. It's name almost nondescript.
In competing for my choosing, this tea faded into nylon recesses when compared to names like Indian Spice, Kenya, Passion or Awake.
The name of this tea seems almost as though Thomas Twinings himself was calling from beyond his British tomb, with a haunting, sing-song warning: "BOR-ING!"
As though, even a major tea company's marketing department could think of nothing spectacular to say, only that this tea is insignificant, pallid.
See, this tea that has become my favorite, this tea that both calms and inspires me, rests in a docile label reading "Everyday."
Everyday.
Any old day.
Nothing special.
No birthday cakes or shouts and cheers.
No red carpet applause or acceptance speeches.
No barrage of bubbles or bird seed.
No spiritual mountain peaks.
Just...everyday.
(I always think of Tuesday afternoons.)
The reality of my love for this tea, and it innocuous title, hit me in the middle of a sea of brilliant significance. It hit me this weekend while being part of an incredible mountain high experience called CGYWVN #23.
In the height of this jubilation, surrounded by some of the most beautiful faces and words, knowing the capacity of my heart and feeling the exhilaration that capacity's burst, I realized that this beauty can be known.
But not just there.
Not just in that seclusion of love and acceptance.
Not just behind the great walls laughter, tears, Daddy-hugs and the floating-on-air-feelings of freedom.
I realized that this can be known in Everyday.
Even when I'm far removed from that fortress of forgiveness, where everyone almost seems to live to tell me I'm loved, I can know the Daddy who loves me Everyday.
This also made me think of people.
And I realized that it is not really the one's whose appearance, talents and gifts are featured in prime time or illuminated by spot lights, who make the big difference in the lives of people.
In fact, sometimes these people detest their own mirror's reflection or the burden that comes with living up to the expectations of those gifts and talents.
So often, the people who make the biggest difference in our lives are the people who feel they wear that Twinings Tea label.
Everyday.
Sometimes people feel they have nothing to offer in the lines of exotic, special or memorable. And feel that shrinking into obscurity is their obvious destiny.
But just like this tea has brought such emotional reassurance to me and my life, it is most often the people who seem to just quietly exist that have brought about the most security in me being the best me I can be.
It's so often those who feel they have nothing special to offer that have brought the most special gifts for me to open, and that remind me life is worth living alive.
So today, if you're having an "everyday," or if you're feeling that you stand out like beige paint...don't forget the great peace and significance and beauty of your Everyday.
And thank you for making the difference that makes me alive.
I love you and the beauty of the Everyday.
The mere thought of tea served at any temperature warmer than a tooth-pain inducing level made me sick to my stomach.
My grandma made the best sweet, iced tea! If I remember correctly, the beverage of choice to be served with butter beans and cornbread for every meal was sweetened with two cups of sugar and five saccharin tablets (if anyone remembers what saccharin is...). It was so sweet, I often just had tea for dessert!
I loved iced tea and HATED hot tea.
But then I went to Ukraine.
In Ukraine, as with most of the rest of the world, tea was preferred hot. The hotter the better.
Maybe my love for tea came from my deep love for the Ukrainian people who introduced me to it, but in that three weeks, tea became synonymous with things like comfort, creativity, peace and love for me emotionally.
"Vwi khoteetya chai?" The question.
"Da, spaseeba!" The reply.
"Kofe', chai, potansuem?" That still makes me giggle.
A love for tea, and the evoking emotions was birthed in me.
The tradition I learned from Sveta of inhaling a deep breath of the tea's aroma before taking a drink.
The way to wrap the tea bags string around the spoon until you can squeeze out the last drops of tea water held in the bag. (Of course, me, being the rebel I am, with a taste for the bold, always left my tea bag in the cup! Scandal!)
The late nights in Gala and Dima's apartment; eating cookies, drinking tea and laughing at jokes that lost meaning in translation!
Ah, tea.
In the few years since then, I've had the opportunity to sample teas from around the world.
Amazingly exotic and expensive teas.
Like the ruby red chai from Trader Joe's that made people almost melt from it's delicious smell.
Or the sharp, ginger tea that calmed the passenger's queasy stomach on a very rough flight.
The blueberry tea in Turkey.
Or the masala chai tea in that little market in Mumbai. More presented than served.
Teas steeped from bags or just loose leaves floating in the cup.
Teas so strong and bold it made you feel "like a man."
Teas so delicate I thought they would drift me into some swan like dance. (But I resisted.)
Like I said, some exotic, some expensive. All vying for a position in my backpack, to be enjoyed on the next layover or while writing or simply at gate A19...
And I wrestled with the decision of which was favorite.
But recently I realized the winner.
It was a tea I never even purchased.
Just the little packets left next to electric kettles in hotel rooms in Ireland and the United Kingdom.
Free for the taking. And inauspiciously and absent-mindedly tossed into my backpack with it's more alluring cousins.
But I found it to be the best, in my humble estimation.
Drinking this tea makes me comfortable, at peace, while simultaneously enticing me to be creative and risky.
And to think, I spent so much time overlooking this tea...almost never giving it a chance.
See, it's packaging appears dull and boring. It's name almost nondescript.
In competing for my choosing, this tea faded into nylon recesses when compared to names like Indian Spice, Kenya, Passion or Awake.
The name of this tea seems almost as though Thomas Twinings himself was calling from beyond his British tomb, with a haunting, sing-song warning: "BOR-ING!"
As though, even a major tea company's marketing department could think of nothing spectacular to say, only that this tea is insignificant, pallid.
See, this tea that has become my favorite, this tea that both calms and inspires me, rests in a docile label reading "Everyday."
Everyday.
Any old day.
Nothing special.
No birthday cakes or shouts and cheers.
No red carpet applause or acceptance speeches.
No barrage of bubbles or bird seed.
No spiritual mountain peaks.
Just...everyday.
(I always think of Tuesday afternoons.)
The reality of my love for this tea, and it innocuous title, hit me in the middle of a sea of brilliant significance. It hit me this weekend while being part of an incredible mountain high experience called CGYWVN #23.
In the height of this jubilation, surrounded by some of the most beautiful faces and words, knowing the capacity of my heart and feeling the exhilaration that capacity's burst, I realized that this beauty can be known.
But not just there.
Not just in that seclusion of love and acceptance.
Not just behind the great walls laughter, tears, Daddy-hugs and the floating-on-air-feelings of freedom.
I realized that this can be known in Everyday.
Even when I'm far removed from that fortress of forgiveness, where everyone almost seems to live to tell me I'm loved, I can know the Daddy who loves me Everyday.
This also made me think of people.
And I realized that it is not really the one's whose appearance, talents and gifts are featured in prime time or illuminated by spot lights, who make the big difference in the lives of people.
In fact, sometimes these people detest their own mirror's reflection or the burden that comes with living up to the expectations of those gifts and talents.
So often, the people who make the biggest difference in our lives are the people who feel they wear that Twinings Tea label.
Everyday.
Sometimes people feel they have nothing to offer in the lines of exotic, special or memorable. And feel that shrinking into obscurity is their obvious destiny.
But just like this tea has brought such emotional reassurance to me and my life, it is most often the people who seem to just quietly exist that have brought about the most security in me being the best me I can be.
It's so often those who feel they have nothing special to offer that have brought the most special gifts for me to open, and that remind me life is worth living alive.
So today, if you're having an "everyday," or if you're feeling that you stand out like beige paint...don't forget the great peace and significance and beauty of your Everyday.
And thank you for making the difference that makes me alive.
I love you and the beauty of the Everyday.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Hitch of Dreams, a sequel.
I used to be the “Hitch” of dreams.
You know you’ve seen the movie…
Will Smith (who is proof that skinny little rappers with big ears can be something if they apply themselves) plays a match maker of sorts. He helps guys get the girl of their dreams against insurmountable odds. (In other words, he coached them on meeting, and making a first impression on, women who were WAY out of their league.)
Hitch’s premise was that all women want to be loved and want a relationship even if they didn’t know it yet.
Anyway, Hitch was good at his profession. I mean, good.
Men all over Manhattan sought this guru of masculine allurement. And gladly paid his fee.
Hitch got men married. Goofy little dorks and the balding middle aged found confidence and prowess, at his instruction, leading them to the open doors of their desired one’s heart.
Success.
Sound familiar?
Hitch was a success.
Not really.
(If you remember the movie, you may now skip ahead.)
See, Hitch was alone and lonely.
That in which he was powerful for others, he found to be powerlessness in himself.
In his personal life he was a master of one-night-stands, but incompetent in long term monogamy and fulfillment.
The reason was played out in recalling scenes of his college life.
As the montage falls across the screen, we see Hitch as the fumbling, spectacled buffoon, who fell in love only to find fidelity unrequited, but rather massaging the tonsils of another during a torrential downpour.
Broken.
Jaded.
Empty.
Burned.
Hitch. While sneering at such naiveté in his clientele, he also found himself living vicariously in their victory: the winning over of love.
He was the Hitch of Love.
I was the Hitch of dreams.
I had dreams.
I was that simple college student, clumsy with Trapper Keepers and sloppily dressed.
But my search, my desire was not for feminine companionship, but for a dream.
My dream? Simple. I wanted the world to change.
And I traded everything I could release for that dream.
My family joined me in chasing this dream and followed it around the world, only to return feeling like Hitch.
Metaphorically speaking (stop and read those two words again).
Metaphorically speaking, I stood, soaking wet, staring through rain-dropped windows, at my love, my dream in the arms of another…slipping out of my hands.
Broken.
Jaded.
Empty.
Burned.
I realized my dreams were not to be realized and gave up. I didn’t just give up on that dream.
I gave up on dreaming. I gave up on the world ever changing.
But what is a dreamer to do? Can a dreamer just stop dreaming? Can a dreamer pretend dreams don’t exist?
Bold courage was replaced by trembling cowardice.
However, I knew there had to be a place for dreaming.
I became that “has-been” stage parent, whose own hopes of being “somebody” slipped away and now must be lived out in the lives of their children.
I became the “Hitch of Dreams.”
I grieved the tragic death of my dreams and reckoned the risk of resuscitation was not worth another loss.
I found myself projecting my own desire for dreaming on to others. I found an easy-out in the lives of those around me.
I replaced my dreams with a desire to see others’ dreams come true.
It sounded so noble! I could be a catalyst…a cowardly, hiding in corners, catalyst to the successful realizing of dreams in others.
What could be of a more noble motivation? What could be a better picture of “preferring my brother?”
What could be more unassailable?
What could be more manipulative?
So often I found myself not actually trying to help people realize their dreams for them, but for me!
I was too afraid to live the life I was created to live. I was too afraid to be Ollie. I was too afraid to really affect lives.
I became completely satisfied (and even felt a self-inflicted sense of compelling) in living vicariously through the dreams of others.
Others' success would be my success, but their failure wouldn’t be my failure.
In fact, another’s failure just increased my worth…because who would people run to with bruised knees when their dreams fell hard on sidewalks of fiasco?
This, my friend, is called manipulation. And is sometimes confused with leadership.
But I lived in this pattern for several months.
Several empty, meaningless months.
Until I was picking up trash somewhere over Utah.
“Failure” brought me to a new career, working as a flight attendant. And being in a profession abounding with emptiness and loneliness, seemed the perfect place for vicarious dreaming.
I could run from my dreams, encourage others to pursue theirs and hide in anonymity.
My distant-reach hiding place of Sinai was at thirty-five thousand feet.
So high, so low.
And I was flying to Las Vegas.
Collecting trash from passengers, I came upon a burning bush, of sorts.
A passenger holding an intriguing book.
A book about a Celestial Being who gives dreams to humans.
In fascination, I asked the passenger about the book.
I thought it could be a great resource for helping other’s dreams come true and my living life by proxy.
The passenger began to tell me about the book, but then stopped.
“What is your dream, Ollie?”
Suddenly, I was confronted with a mirror. What was my dream?
My dream died.
I had a funeral.
I buried my dream on a dirt road in a rural Central Georgia county, after hurling curses at that Celestial Being who gives away those dreams—and sometimes pulls them right from beneath our feet.
That Celestial Being, also known to some as God, in my heart he is now, in simplicity, Daddy.
My mouth opened and these words came out, coldly, “I don’t have a dream anymore. My dream now is to see others’ dreams come true.”
And then I felt a deep sense of pride in my false humility. This random passenger would surely think he was in the presence of a great servant!
No.
On my knees in a Boeing 737, next to his seat, this random passenger looked me squarely in the eyes and began to tear up as he said, “Ollie! You HAVE to have a dream! The world needs your dream!”
Suddenly, I was rescued by a hi-lo chime and an announcement, “We’ve begun our initial descent…”
It was time to get up, leave the mirror and go to work!
After landing, in the mad rush of passengers eagerly seeking riches, one passenger came to the back of the plane.
You guessed it.
He said, “Ollie, I’m supposed to give you this book. Promise me you’ll at least read it.”
I said okay.
I spent the next twenty-four hours bouncing between reading this book, talking to my wife and wiping infinite amounts of tears and mucous.
I decided to turn around.
I decided to live.
I decided to dream.
As far as I had run from living my dream, as diligently as I had worked to live through others, suddenly I found myself back.
Although this resurrected being was wrapped in the remnants of death, the dream was back-to-life and ready to be refined.
Over the last year or so, I’ve had learned so much.
I’ve realized the only way to truly encourage others to be all they can be, to live their dreams and chase them with reckless abandon, is to do the same.
It’s very frightening.
It’s very, very risky.
But, I’m no longer Hitch.
I’m Ollie, a dreamer.
I’m a dreamer, alive.
You know you’ve seen the movie…
Will Smith (who is proof that skinny little rappers with big ears can be something if they apply themselves) plays a match maker of sorts. He helps guys get the girl of their dreams against insurmountable odds. (In other words, he coached them on meeting, and making a first impression on, women who were WAY out of their league.)
Hitch’s premise was that all women want to be loved and want a relationship even if they didn’t know it yet.
Anyway, Hitch was good at his profession. I mean, good.
Men all over Manhattan sought this guru of masculine allurement. And gladly paid his fee.
Hitch got men married. Goofy little dorks and the balding middle aged found confidence and prowess, at his instruction, leading them to the open doors of their desired one’s heart.
Success.
Sound familiar?
Hitch was a success.
Not really.
(If you remember the movie, you may now skip ahead.)
See, Hitch was alone and lonely.
That in which he was powerful for others, he found to be powerlessness in himself.
In his personal life he was a master of one-night-stands, but incompetent in long term monogamy and fulfillment.
The reason was played out in recalling scenes of his college life.
As the montage falls across the screen, we see Hitch as the fumbling, spectacled buffoon, who fell in love only to find fidelity unrequited, but rather massaging the tonsils of another during a torrential downpour.
Broken.
Jaded.
Empty.
Burned.
Hitch. While sneering at such naiveté in his clientele, he also found himself living vicariously in their victory: the winning over of love.
He was the Hitch of Love.
I was the Hitch of dreams.
I had dreams.
I was that simple college student, clumsy with Trapper Keepers and sloppily dressed.
But my search, my desire was not for feminine companionship, but for a dream.
My dream? Simple. I wanted the world to change.
And I traded everything I could release for that dream.
My family joined me in chasing this dream and followed it around the world, only to return feeling like Hitch.
Metaphorically speaking (stop and read those two words again).
Metaphorically speaking, I stood, soaking wet, staring through rain-dropped windows, at my love, my dream in the arms of another…slipping out of my hands.
Broken.
Jaded.
Empty.
Burned.
I realized my dreams were not to be realized and gave up. I didn’t just give up on that dream.
I gave up on dreaming. I gave up on the world ever changing.
But what is a dreamer to do? Can a dreamer just stop dreaming? Can a dreamer pretend dreams don’t exist?
Bold courage was replaced by trembling cowardice.
However, I knew there had to be a place for dreaming.
I became that “has-been” stage parent, whose own hopes of being “somebody” slipped away and now must be lived out in the lives of their children.
I became the “Hitch of Dreams.”
I grieved the tragic death of my dreams and reckoned the risk of resuscitation was not worth another loss.
I found myself projecting my own desire for dreaming on to others. I found an easy-out in the lives of those around me.
I replaced my dreams with a desire to see others’ dreams come true.
It sounded so noble! I could be a catalyst…a cowardly, hiding in corners, catalyst to the successful realizing of dreams in others.
What could be of a more noble motivation? What could be a better picture of “preferring my brother?”
What could be more unassailable?
What could be more manipulative?
So often I found myself not actually trying to help people realize their dreams for them, but for me!
I was too afraid to live the life I was created to live. I was too afraid to be Ollie. I was too afraid to really affect lives.
I became completely satisfied (and even felt a self-inflicted sense of compelling) in living vicariously through the dreams of others.
Others' success would be my success, but their failure wouldn’t be my failure.
In fact, another’s failure just increased my worth…because who would people run to with bruised knees when their dreams fell hard on sidewalks of fiasco?
This, my friend, is called manipulation. And is sometimes confused with leadership.
But I lived in this pattern for several months.
Several empty, meaningless months.
Until I was picking up trash somewhere over Utah.
“Failure” brought me to a new career, working as a flight attendant. And being in a profession abounding with emptiness and loneliness, seemed the perfect place for vicarious dreaming.
I could run from my dreams, encourage others to pursue theirs and hide in anonymity.
My distant-reach hiding place of Sinai was at thirty-five thousand feet.
So high, so low.
And I was flying to Las Vegas.
Collecting trash from passengers, I came upon a burning bush, of sorts.
A passenger holding an intriguing book.
A book about a Celestial Being who gives dreams to humans.
In fascination, I asked the passenger about the book.
I thought it could be a great resource for helping other’s dreams come true and my living life by proxy.
The passenger began to tell me about the book, but then stopped.
“What is your dream, Ollie?”
Suddenly, I was confronted with a mirror. What was my dream?
My dream died.
I had a funeral.
I buried my dream on a dirt road in a rural Central Georgia county, after hurling curses at that Celestial Being who gives away those dreams—and sometimes pulls them right from beneath our feet.
That Celestial Being, also known to some as God, in my heart he is now, in simplicity, Daddy.
My mouth opened and these words came out, coldly, “I don’t have a dream anymore. My dream now is to see others’ dreams come true.”
And then I felt a deep sense of pride in my false humility. This random passenger would surely think he was in the presence of a great servant!
No.
On my knees in a Boeing 737, next to his seat, this random passenger looked me squarely in the eyes and began to tear up as he said, “Ollie! You HAVE to have a dream! The world needs your dream!”
Suddenly, I was rescued by a hi-lo chime and an announcement, “We’ve begun our initial descent…”
It was time to get up, leave the mirror and go to work!
After landing, in the mad rush of passengers eagerly seeking riches, one passenger came to the back of the plane.
You guessed it.
He said, “Ollie, I’m supposed to give you this book. Promise me you’ll at least read it.”
I said okay.
I spent the next twenty-four hours bouncing between reading this book, talking to my wife and wiping infinite amounts of tears and mucous.
I decided to turn around.
I decided to live.
I decided to dream.
As far as I had run from living my dream, as diligently as I had worked to live through others, suddenly I found myself back.
Although this resurrected being was wrapped in the remnants of death, the dream was back-to-life and ready to be refined.
Over the last year or so, I’ve had learned so much.
I’ve realized the only way to truly encourage others to be all they can be, to live their dreams and chase them with reckless abandon, is to do the same.
It’s very frightening.
It’s very, very risky.
But, I’m no longer Hitch.
I’m Ollie, a dreamer.
I’m a dreamer, alive.
The Great Success of Life's Failures: pre-warned ramblings of a mad man.
I’ve described myself, and been described, as a failure.
Often.
It seems so often that I’ve been blessed with the curse of the Midas touch, just in reverse.
It seems so often that everything I touch…falls apart.
“If at first you don’t succeed…try again.”
I did, and failed again.
So I tried again and guess what happened?
Overwhelming failure met me once again!
I’m really not that unattractive, it’s just the look of falling miserably on my face in a repeated fashion.
I cautioned you in a Facebook status and Twitter tweet! Don’t blame me! I warned you! I told you the rambling words of a mad man were coming!
Here they are!
Why the repeated preface?
Because the conclusion of over 22 years repeated failure (preceded by 18 years of mediocre incompetence)…
That conclusion?
The results of my resume’ of failure?
It is Ab-so-freakin-lut-ly AMAZING!
All my failures have yielded an amazing and unimaginable life!
When I was eighteen years old, I felt this birthing result of the marriage between two things inside my heart. Two overwhelming feelings which had always risen to the surface, but were now an intensified burning I can only attribute to a dormant relationship with my Daddy that had begun to flourish. (The relationship had always been present I believe, but was now beginning to be reciprocated upon.)
These two feelings were my comfort and passion for being in front of people, communicating (and entertaining); and my deep desire to nurture people, especially when pain was part of their process.
The “church-world” has a word (which I resist as a title) for people who embrace these two desires and/or gifts: pastor.
A little over twenty-two years ago I made a long distance calling to my dad. I told him something was happening in my heart, my emotions. I described these desires and my feeling that I just couldn’t control it any longer. With an embarrassingly limited vocabulary, I said, “Dad, I think I’m supposed to…preach?” (Yes, I said it with more of a question mark for punctuation than I did with a period.)
He said, “I’ll come pick you up Saturday. I want you to speak at church Sunday.”
The next few days I studied, read, contemplated, meditated and visualized. In those visualizations I saw myself in realistic terms. Visualized Ollie was standing in that drafty, old antique building on top of a sandy hill…shaking like a leaf and dripping sweat in a way that was fitting for Southeast Georgia summers.
There’s so much more to the story, but it’s not part of this story. (Remind me later to tell you some of the other amazing things that happened in the journey.)
Needless to say, I spoke that weekend on a word synonymously related to my Daddy (commonly referred to as God)…the word, Love.
(Shocker, right?)
Soon after, I was invited to speak at other locations and introduced to experienced speakers and pastors.
Still a teenager, and obviously in need of instruction, I was giving “Instructions for Successful Ministry” by well meaning men and women wearing polyester suits and chicken greased fingers.
“Son, start as a youth minister in a small church, which will lead you to a pastorate at a small church. From there, get a job as a youth pastor at a big church, and then you can become a pastor of a big church.
“This is the secret to being a great pastor.”
Yes, I was literally told this on more than one occasion by more than one pastor. Really.
I gave it a shot. I was told all the keys to success as a youth pastor, children’s pastor, pastoral care pastor, missionary and preacher.
I tried it.
Remember what this rambling note is about? Failure.
I failed at all of it.
Youth pastors and children’s pastor need finely honed organizational skills.
I just had creativity.
Pastoral care pastors need precisely timed appointments and an ability to maintain professional distance.
I only had concern.
Missionaries need lots of support.
I only had a dream.
Preachers need three points and an applicable story.
I had passion.
I tried them all.
I tried being a youth pastor, multiple times. Time and again, I fell on my face…I didn’t have what it took to organize the all-important trips to Six Flags or fundraiser car washes.
I tried to be a strong presence in the midst of hurting people by providing pastoral care. But I made the mistake of crying while visiting a dying friend. (The Senior Pastor described this as breaking the “cardinal rule of pastoral ministry.”)
I tried being a missionary, “starting a church” in a foreign country. But I didn’t have a compelling enough stories to raise the necessary support.
And leadership. I tried. I read the books, went to the conferences and listened to the podcasts.
But I walked away with the icky feeling of manipulation.
I failed at all of this.
I saw it, and I named it failure.
Others saw it, and named it failure as well.
In ministry I’ve never been a significant part of anything wildly successful or experiencing exponential growth.
But the success of my failure wasn’t only limited to the confines of ministry.
No, I seemed to spread my talent for mediocrity into the business world as well.
My outgoing personality and inability to meet strangers seemed to be welcome in the corporate world of sales. And I needed money. So I tried.
I wore suits and ties, called people on the phone, took them to lunch and visited their offices.
I introduced products and solutions.
But lack-luster results were about my highest achievement.
I’ve cast vision and made commitments.
I’ve strategized and asked for volunteers.
I’ve devised plans and instituted procedure.
I’ve presented power points and made convincing return-on-investment appeals.
Risks.
I’ve taken risks, both impetuous and calculated.
I’ve lost a home and a car.
I’ve been fired, laid-off and asked to resign.
I’ve given up, walked away and quit.
Deep in the red, I’ve seen virtually no return on the risks of the investments I’ve made in the last twenty two (plus) years.
I’ve been successful at being a failure.
Or, have I? I’ve thought recently about all those risks and the lack of results.
I’ve done it the way I was told to do it.
I’ve adhered to the prescribed steps of the formulas for success, but rarely, if ever, have I known the guaranteed outcome.
I’ve pursued the visions I’ve written and found them to be elusive.
I’ve chased the goose into wild and unstable places and got not even a feather of anything of material substance.
No trophies, no wall mountings.
But, through all these failures, I’ve been overwhelmingly successful!
In every secular job and ministry position I have, in actuality, seen return on the investment.
See, the thing about success sometimes, is that you have to LOOK for it!
Sometimes the success has absolutely nothing to do with the cost of the investment.
I’ve realized that my deficit has brought about an amazing surplus.
In every single one of my failures, both in business and ministry, I’ve walked away with relationships, friendships.
Every bit of love and intimacy I know, horizontally, is the result of some great risk.
Come to think of it, even the love I know vertically is a direct result of the greatest risk ever taken.
See my pay off, my success in life isn’t an empire that flies my gallant flag.
Every single person I know has impacted my life and shown love in various ways, encouraging me and reminding me that I have worth.
The pay off, the return, on my investment…is you.
Often.
It seems so often that I’ve been blessed with the curse of the Midas touch, just in reverse.
It seems so often that everything I touch…falls apart.
“If at first you don’t succeed…try again.”
I did, and failed again.
So I tried again and guess what happened?
Overwhelming failure met me once again!
I’m really not that unattractive, it’s just the look of falling miserably on my face in a repeated fashion.
I cautioned you in a Facebook status and Twitter tweet! Don’t blame me! I warned you! I told you the rambling words of a mad man were coming!
Here they are!
Why the repeated preface?
Because the conclusion of over 22 years repeated failure (preceded by 18 years of mediocre incompetence)…
That conclusion?
The results of my resume’ of failure?
It is Ab-so-freakin-lut-ly AMAZING!
All my failures have yielded an amazing and unimaginable life!
When I was eighteen years old, I felt this birthing result of the marriage between two things inside my heart. Two overwhelming feelings which had always risen to the surface, but were now an intensified burning I can only attribute to a dormant relationship with my Daddy that had begun to flourish. (The relationship had always been present I believe, but was now beginning to be reciprocated upon.)
These two feelings were my comfort and passion for being in front of people, communicating (and entertaining); and my deep desire to nurture people, especially when pain was part of their process.
The “church-world” has a word (which I resist as a title) for people who embrace these two desires and/or gifts: pastor.
A little over twenty-two years ago I made a long distance calling to my dad. I told him something was happening in my heart, my emotions. I described these desires and my feeling that I just couldn’t control it any longer. With an embarrassingly limited vocabulary, I said, “Dad, I think I’m supposed to…preach?” (Yes, I said it with more of a question mark for punctuation than I did with a period.)
He said, “I’ll come pick you up Saturday. I want you to speak at church Sunday.”
The next few days I studied, read, contemplated, meditated and visualized. In those visualizations I saw myself in realistic terms. Visualized Ollie was standing in that drafty, old antique building on top of a sandy hill…shaking like a leaf and dripping sweat in a way that was fitting for Southeast Georgia summers.
There’s so much more to the story, but it’s not part of this story. (Remind me later to tell you some of the other amazing things that happened in the journey.)
Needless to say, I spoke that weekend on a word synonymously related to my Daddy (commonly referred to as God)…the word, Love.
(Shocker, right?)
Soon after, I was invited to speak at other locations and introduced to experienced speakers and pastors.
Still a teenager, and obviously in need of instruction, I was giving “Instructions for Successful Ministry” by well meaning men and women wearing polyester suits and chicken greased fingers.
“Son, start as a youth minister in a small church, which will lead you to a pastorate at a small church. From there, get a job as a youth pastor at a big church, and then you can become a pastor of a big church.
“This is the secret to being a great pastor.”
Yes, I was literally told this on more than one occasion by more than one pastor. Really.
I gave it a shot. I was told all the keys to success as a youth pastor, children’s pastor, pastoral care pastor, missionary and preacher.
I tried it.
Remember what this rambling note is about? Failure.
I failed at all of it.
Youth pastors and children’s pastor need finely honed organizational skills.
I just had creativity.
Pastoral care pastors need precisely timed appointments and an ability to maintain professional distance.
I only had concern.
Missionaries need lots of support.
I only had a dream.
Preachers need three points and an applicable story.
I had passion.
I tried them all.
I tried being a youth pastor, multiple times. Time and again, I fell on my face…I didn’t have what it took to organize the all-important trips to Six Flags or fundraiser car washes.
I tried to be a strong presence in the midst of hurting people by providing pastoral care. But I made the mistake of crying while visiting a dying friend. (The Senior Pastor described this as breaking the “cardinal rule of pastoral ministry.”)
I tried being a missionary, “starting a church” in a foreign country. But I didn’t have a compelling enough stories to raise the necessary support.
And leadership. I tried. I read the books, went to the conferences and listened to the podcasts.
But I walked away with the icky feeling of manipulation.
I failed at all of this.
I saw it, and I named it failure.
Others saw it, and named it failure as well.
In ministry I’ve never been a significant part of anything wildly successful or experiencing exponential growth.
But the success of my failure wasn’t only limited to the confines of ministry.
No, I seemed to spread my talent for mediocrity into the business world as well.
My outgoing personality and inability to meet strangers seemed to be welcome in the corporate world of sales. And I needed money. So I tried.
I wore suits and ties, called people on the phone, took them to lunch and visited their offices.
I introduced products and solutions.
But lack-luster results were about my highest achievement.
I’ve cast vision and made commitments.
I’ve strategized and asked for volunteers.
I’ve devised plans and instituted procedure.
I’ve presented power points and made convincing return-on-investment appeals.
Risks.
I’ve taken risks, both impetuous and calculated.
I’ve lost a home and a car.
I’ve been fired, laid-off and asked to resign.
I’ve given up, walked away and quit.
Deep in the red, I’ve seen virtually no return on the risks of the investments I’ve made in the last twenty two (plus) years.
I’ve been successful at being a failure.
Or, have I? I’ve thought recently about all those risks and the lack of results.
I’ve done it the way I was told to do it.
I’ve adhered to the prescribed steps of the formulas for success, but rarely, if ever, have I known the guaranteed outcome.
I’ve pursued the visions I’ve written and found them to be elusive.
I’ve chased the goose into wild and unstable places and got not even a feather of anything of material substance.
No trophies, no wall mountings.
But, through all these failures, I’ve been overwhelmingly successful!
In every secular job and ministry position I have, in actuality, seen return on the investment.
See, the thing about success sometimes, is that you have to LOOK for it!
Sometimes the success has absolutely nothing to do with the cost of the investment.
I’ve realized that my deficit has brought about an amazing surplus.
In every single one of my failures, both in business and ministry, I’ve walked away with relationships, friendships.
Every bit of love and intimacy I know, horizontally, is the result of some great risk.
Come to think of it, even the love I know vertically is a direct result of the greatest risk ever taken.
See my pay off, my success in life isn’t an empire that flies my gallant flag.
Every single person I know has impacted my life and shown love in various ways, encouraging me and reminding me that I have worth.
The pay off, the return, on my investment…is you.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Beyond the Squishy
Love.
(That's love with a period behind it for punctuation)
Love.
Love is one of those typically odd English language words whose sound and spelling are alike regardless of how you use it.
Love, the noun, looks and sounds just like love, the verb.
Some languages give you a distinction between the different parts of speech in word usage.
Not English, however.
(I guess we couldn't afford the extra letters or something.)
Love is love.
But...um, not really.
Love.
Just to exhale the word elicits a plethora of responses, thoughts, attitudes and emotions.
Some see carefully scored romantic scenes of roses, candles and lace.
Some see mad passion, released in impetuous abandon.
Some feel the excruciating pain of shattered emotions.
Some will begin to cry.
Some feel such a deep sense squishy fluffiness, they'd almost swear they were being digested by a Teddy bear.
Some: numb.
Love.
Love & Ollie.
People seem to love to talk about Ollie and love.
Some have transformed nouns to adjectives to describe me in such terms as Teddy bear or puppy. And I suppose this has something to do with how they view me, and my intimate relationship with a noun.
That noun?
Love.
And, I suppose that on my "What's Love All About" pie-chart, the biggest wedge of color would certainly be dedicated to the "Love is squishy" legend.
I'm just that kind of person.
For me love is, in so many ways, about teary-eyed embraces, uplifting utterances and understanding glances.
I do hereby proclaim to be a squishy, gushy man of fluffy warmth.
Need a Teddy bear? I'm that guy.
Need a sad-eyed, loyal puppy? I'm on-call, pretty much 24/7.
No more denial, I have embraced the Ollie I've found myself to be.
I am completely secure in my insecure, needy-by-nature outlook on love.
But there's so much more to love than all that billowy marshmallow & hot cocoa stuff that I obviously embody.
Love, true & pure, doesn't always require an extra shot of insulin or additional miles on the elliptical.
Love.
See, we see love as being only about the emotionally charged passion of Lifetime movies.
And I think this may be the exact reason love is viewed as the icing-on-the cake to accessorize an otherwise bland ensemble, or a rarely noticed fringe benefit.
Our discussions are so often capped with afterthought phrases, which often hold no meaning but to appease our conscience.
Things like, "And yes, let us not forget the 'royal rule of love.'" (Said so often with the same cold sterility found on your dental hygenist’s plaque scraping utensil.)
But sometimes love is way, way beyond the limits of our emotions.
Sometimes love is simply not about our emotions.
Love, the decision.
Love, the verb.
It is the hero in the story who steps into that darkness where the fluffy dare not venture.
Love, in the reality of its purity, is one tough son-of-a-gun!
Love is an act of our will, regardless of the feelings of our heart & mind.
Sometimes love is the toughest thing you'll ever do!
Sometimes love is fighting every urge and natural desire and doing that very thing we dread most.
Sometimes its, as I said, going into a place of overwhelming, putrid darkness because that's the place love is needed.
Sometimes love is forsaking justice so mercy can comfort and grace can prevail.
Sometimes love is calluses on hands, dirt under fingernails, dryness in mouths.
Sometimes love makes zones of comfort distant memories.
Sometimes love is a strength and intestinal fortitude whom Chuck Norris would humbly call you sir.
Where is the Teddy bear now?
Love.
An ancient man named John said it is the only way to theology in the true meaning of the word: God knowledge.
An incarcerated apostle named Paul said love pales faith and hope, and without it, even our martyrdom is useless.
A rabbi with a justifiable rebellion, named Jesus, said everything his people’s law and the teaching of their prophets were suspended on love. (He didn’t stop there…he said ridiculously radical things like love was his new and final word, it was the proof of a person who was learning from his life…)
There’s a time and place for the squishy, gushy love…and there’s a time and place for the backbone love.
Embrace them both.
ove.
(That's love with a period behind it for punctuation)
Love.
Love is one of those typically odd English language words whose sound and spelling are alike regardless of how you use it.
Love, the noun, looks and sounds just like love, the verb.
Some languages give you a distinction between the different parts of speech in word usage.
Not English, however.
(I guess we couldn't afford the extra letters or something.)
Love is love.
But...um, not really.
Love.
Just to exhale the word elicits a plethora of responses, thoughts, attitudes and emotions.
Some see carefully scored romantic scenes of roses, candles and lace.
Some see mad passion, released in impetuous abandon.
Some feel the excruciating pain of shattered emotions.
Some will begin to cry.
Some feel such a deep sense squishy fluffiness, they'd almost swear they were being digested by a Teddy bear.
Some: numb.
Love.
Love & Ollie.
People seem to love to talk about Ollie and love.
Some have transformed nouns to adjectives to describe me in such terms as Teddy bear or puppy. And I suppose this has something to do with how they view me, and my intimate relationship with a noun.
That noun?
Love.
And, I suppose that on my "What's Love All About" pie-chart, the biggest wedge of color would certainly be dedicated to the "Love is squishy" legend.
I'm just that kind of person.
For me love is, in so many ways, about teary-eyed embraces, uplifting utterances and understanding glances.
I do hereby proclaim to be a squishy, gushy man of fluffy warmth.
Need a Teddy bear? I'm that guy.
Need a sad-eyed, loyal puppy? I'm on-call, pretty much 24/7.
No more denial, I have embraced the Ollie I've found myself to be.
I am completely secure in my insecure, needy-by-nature outlook on love.
But there's so much more to love than all that billowy marshmallow & hot cocoa stuff that I obviously embody.
Love, true & pure, doesn't always require an extra shot of insulin or additional miles on the elliptical.
Love.
See, we see love as being only about the emotionally charged passion of Lifetime movies.
And I think this may be the exact reason love is viewed as the icing-on-the cake to accessorize an otherwise bland ensemble, or a rarely noticed fringe benefit.
Our discussions are so often capped with afterthought phrases, which often hold no meaning but to appease our conscience.
Things like, "And yes, let us not forget the 'royal rule of love.'" (Said so often with the same cold sterility found on your dental hygenist’s plaque scraping utensil.)
But sometimes love is way, way beyond the limits of our emotions.
Sometimes love is simply not about our emotions.
Love, the decision.
Love, the verb.
It is the hero in the story who steps into that darkness where the fluffy dare not venture.
Love, in the reality of its purity, is one tough son-of-a-gun!
Love is an act of our will, regardless of the feelings of our heart & mind.
Sometimes love is the toughest thing you'll ever do!
Sometimes love is fighting every urge and natural desire and doing that very thing we dread most.
Sometimes its, as I said, going into a place of overwhelming, putrid darkness because that's the place love is needed.
Sometimes love is forsaking justice so mercy can comfort and grace can prevail.
Sometimes love is calluses on hands, dirt under fingernails, dryness in mouths.
Sometimes love makes zones of comfort distant memories.
Sometimes love is a strength and intestinal fortitude whom Chuck Norris would humbly call you sir.
Where is the Teddy bear now?
Love.
An ancient man named John said it is the only way to theology in the true meaning of the word: God knowledge.
An incarcerated apostle named Paul said love pales faith and hope, and without it, even our martyrdom is useless.
A rabbi with a justifiable rebellion, named Jesus, said everything his people’s law and the teaching of their prophets were suspended on love. (He didn’t stop there…he said ridiculously radical things like love was his new and final word, it was the proof of a person who was learning from his life…)
There’s a time and place for the squishy, gushy love…and there’s a time and place for the backbone love.
Embrace them both.
(That's love with a period behind it for punctuation)
Love.
Love is one of those typically odd English language words whose sound and spelling are alike regardless of how you use it.
Love, the noun, looks and sounds just like love, the verb.
Some languages give you a distinction between the different parts of speech in word usage.
Not English, however.
(I guess we couldn't afford the extra letters or something.)
Love is love.
But...um, not really.
Love.
Just to exhale the word elicits a plethora of responses, thoughts, attitudes and emotions.
Some see carefully scored romantic scenes of roses, candles and lace.
Some see mad passion, released in impetuous abandon.
Some feel the excruciating pain of shattered emotions.
Some will begin to cry.
Some feel such a deep sense squishy fluffiness, they'd almost swear they were being digested by a Teddy bear.
Some: numb.
Love.
Love & Ollie.
People seem to love to talk about Ollie and love.
Some have transformed nouns to adjectives to describe me in such terms as Teddy bear or puppy. And I suppose this has something to do with how they view me, and my intimate relationship with a noun.
That noun?
Love.
And, I suppose that on my "What's Love All About" pie-chart, the biggest wedge of color would certainly be dedicated to the "Love is squishy" legend.
I'm just that kind of person.
For me love is, in so many ways, about teary-eyed embraces, uplifting utterances and understanding glances.
I do hereby proclaim to be a squishy, gushy man of fluffy warmth.
Need a Teddy bear? I'm that guy.
Need a sad-eyed, loyal puppy? I'm on-call, pretty much 24/7.
No more denial, I have embraced the Ollie I've found myself to be.
I am completely secure in my insecure, needy-by-nature outlook on love.
But there's so much more to love than all that billowy marshmallow & hot cocoa stuff that I obviously embody.
Love, true & pure, doesn't always require an extra shot of insulin or additional miles on the elliptical.
Love.
See, we see love as being only about the emotionally charged passion of Lifetime movies.
And I think this may be the exact reason love is viewed as the icing-on-the cake to accessorize an otherwise bland ensemble, or a rarely noticed fringe benefit.
Our discussions are so often capped with afterthought phrases, which often hold no meaning but to appease our conscience.
Things like, "And yes, let us not forget the 'royal rule of love.'" (Said so often with the same cold sterility found on your dental hygenist’s plaque scraping utensil.)
But sometimes love is way, way beyond the limits of our emotions.
Sometimes love is simply not about our emotions.
Love, the decision.
Love, the verb.
It is the hero in the story who steps into that darkness where the fluffy dare not venture.
Love, in the reality of its purity, is one tough son-of-a-gun!
Love is an act of our will, regardless of the feelings of our heart & mind.
Sometimes love is the toughest thing you'll ever do!
Sometimes love is fighting every urge and natural desire and doing that very thing we dread most.
Sometimes its, as I said, going into a place of overwhelming, putrid darkness because that's the place love is needed.
Sometimes love is forsaking justice so mercy can comfort and grace can prevail.
Sometimes love is calluses on hands, dirt under fingernails, dryness in mouths.
Sometimes love makes zones of comfort distant memories.
Sometimes love is a strength and intestinal fortitude whom Chuck Norris would humbly call you sir.
Where is the Teddy bear now?
Love.
An ancient man named John said it is the only way to theology in the true meaning of the word: God knowledge.
An incarcerated apostle named Paul said love pales faith and hope, and without it, even our martyrdom is useless.
A rabbi with a justifiable rebellion, named Jesus, said everything his people’s law and the teaching of their prophets were suspended on love. (He didn’t stop there…he said ridiculously radical things like love was his new and final word, it was the proof of a person who was learning from his life…)
There’s a time and place for the squishy, gushy love…and there’s a time and place for the backbone love.
Embrace them both.
ove.
(That's love with a period behind it for punctuation)
Love.
Love is one of those typically odd English language words whose sound and spelling are alike regardless of how you use it.
Love, the noun, looks and sounds just like love, the verb.
Some languages give you a distinction between the different parts of speech in word usage.
Not English, however.
(I guess we couldn't afford the extra letters or something.)
Love is love.
But...um, not really.
Love.
Just to exhale the word elicits a plethora of responses, thoughts, attitudes and emotions.
Some see carefully scored romantic scenes of roses, candles and lace.
Some see mad passion, released in impetuous abandon.
Some feel the excruciating pain of shattered emotions.
Some will begin to cry.
Some feel such a deep sense squishy fluffiness, they'd almost swear they were being digested by a Teddy bear.
Some: numb.
Love.
Love & Ollie.
People seem to love to talk about Ollie and love.
Some have transformed nouns to adjectives to describe me in such terms as Teddy bear or puppy. And I suppose this has something to do with how they view me, and my intimate relationship with a noun.
That noun?
Love.
And, I suppose that on my "What's Love All About" pie-chart, the biggest wedge of color would certainly be dedicated to the "Love is squishy" legend.
I'm just that kind of person.
For me love is, in so many ways, about teary-eyed embraces, uplifting utterances and understanding glances.
I do hereby proclaim to be a squishy, gushy man of fluffy warmth.
Need a Teddy bear? I'm that guy.
Need a sad-eyed, loyal puppy? I'm on-call, pretty much 24/7.
No more denial, I have embraced the Ollie I've found myself to be.
I am completely secure in my insecure, needy-by-nature outlook on love.
But there's so much more to love than all that billowy marshmallow & hot cocoa stuff that I obviously embody.
Love, true & pure, doesn't always require an extra shot of insulin or additional miles on the elliptical.
Love.
See, we see love as being only about the emotionally charged passion of Lifetime movies.
And I think this may be the exact reason love is viewed as the icing-on-the cake to accessorize an otherwise bland ensemble, or a rarely noticed fringe benefit.
Our discussions are so often capped with afterthought phrases, which often hold no meaning but to appease our conscience.
Things like, "And yes, let us not forget the 'royal rule of love.'" (Said so often with the same cold sterility found on your dental hygenist’s plaque scraping utensil.)
But sometimes love is way, way beyond the limits of our emotions.
Sometimes love is simply not about our emotions.
Love, the decision.
Love, the verb.
It is the hero in the story who steps into that darkness where the fluffy dare not venture.
Love, in the reality of its purity, is one tough son-of-a-gun!
Love is an act of our will, regardless of the feelings of our heart & mind.
Sometimes love is the toughest thing you'll ever do!
Sometimes love is fighting every urge and natural desire and doing that very thing we dread most.
Sometimes its, as I said, going into a place of overwhelming, putrid darkness because that's the place love is needed.
Sometimes love is forsaking justice so mercy can comfort and grace can prevail.
Sometimes love is calluses on hands, dirt under fingernails, dryness in mouths.
Sometimes love makes zones of comfort distant memories.
Sometimes love is a strength and intestinal fortitude whom Chuck Norris would humbly call you sir.
Where is the Teddy bear now?
Love.
An ancient man named John said it is the only way to theology in the true meaning of the word: God knowledge.
An incarcerated apostle named Paul said love pales faith and hope, and without it, even our martyrdom is useless.
A rabbi with a justifiable rebellion, named Jesus, said everything his people’s law and the teaching of their prophets were suspended on love. (He didn’t stop there…he said ridiculously radical things like love was his new and final word, it was the proof of a person who was learning from his life…)
There’s a time and place for the squishy, gushy love…and there’s a time and place for the backbone love.
Embrace them both.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Haunting Words: He Found Nothing But Leaves
He found nothing but leaves.
These five simple words haunt me.
He found nothing but leaves.
Whispering in my ear on a daily basis. And sometimes the whispers become screams. He found nothing but leaves.
These five words evoke such emotion inside my heart.
Sometimes tears, painful and bitter.
Sometimes anger, raging anger.
Sometimes these words prompt a sense of purpose and even at times joy.
I cry tears because I don’t understand. Why?
I feel anger because it is still happening. He is still just finding leaves.
I find purpose in knowing he is still waiting to be fed.
I find joy because I know there is hope to feed him.
He found nothing but leaves.
I hear these words whispered in the lonely halls of our houses of worship. I hear the ghostly whisper of these five words in our state-of-the-art sound equipment, our elaborate décor and in our comfortable auditoriums.
He found nothing but leaves.
Over the loud lyrics of our emotional worship service songs, I hear these five words screamed.
He found nothing but leaves!
I hear these words in our strategic planning and cut-and-paste mission statements.
He found nothing but leaves.
Why? Why just leaves?
He was hungry. He had work to do. He needed nourishment. He needed nurturing. But he didn’t find anything to meet his needs.
He found nothing but leaves.
I wish I could see the bigger picture. But the bigger need is blocking the way.
Five forgotten words remind me of a forsaken man.
He found nothing but leaves.
These are haunting words…because this ancient occurrence occurs around us everyday.
Figtown.
He was in Figtown. Most commonly referred to as Bethany, the Hebrews called it Beth Anya, the Place of Figs. I call it Figtown.
A place so known for having fruit they even called it by the fruit’s name.
Figtown. Where else in the world would a homeless man go when he had a simple taste for a breakfast of figs and an empty belly? Beth Anya sounds like the perfect place to be.
But even there, even in Figtown, there were no figs for him.
He found nothing but leaves.
This is where we live. We live in Figtown. Right?
Here’s how Mark recalled the story: "The next day as they were leaving Bethany, Jesus was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to find out if it had any fruit. When he reached it, he found nothing but leaves, because it was not the season for figs."
This tree, this fig tree, so prominent and beautiful…so obvious it was distinguishable even “from a distance” is so overwhelmingly a metaphor for the church.
Where do we live? We call it the “Bible Belt” and where I live, Central Georgia…this is the place where “the belt” is pulled tight: the buckle.
“A church on every corner,” that’s what we say.
Churches of every pedigree and distinction, right here.
Fig trees…as far as the eye can see. We are living in Figtown.
Jesus couldn’t find what he needed, nourishment and nurturing, when he approached the fig tree.
He found nothing but leaves.
And he finds the same thing when he approaches us…when he approaches our “fig tree.”
I know what you’re thinking. “How dare you, Ollie! How dare you accuse us of starving Jesus.”
But Jesus said it.
Matthew heard him and quoted him this way: “I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.”
When we don’t provide for the hungry, sick, lonely, imprisoned, and naked, the marginalized and disregarded…we aren’t providing for Jesus.
He approaches our tree…he looks for fruit. What is he finding?
The word for leaves, in Greek is “foolon” which boils down to basically meaning “everyone the same.”
That’s what he found. No fruit. No care, no compassion…just everyone the same.
We love this comfortable feeling and try to find a church where we can comfortably exist with people who are like us in things like appearance, enthusiasm, or philosophical belief. But is this best?
Is thick, lush, impressive foliage worth a starving Jesus?
What is Jesus finding when he approaches?
Is it the same haunting five words?
He found nothing but leaves.
Let’s show love. Let’s feed Jesus. Let’s feed the least of these.
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