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 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.

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.

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.

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.

The worst thing that could happen is grace.

Can you imagine it?

The worst possible thing that could ever happen...has happened.

All your dreams, dashed!

All your hopes, faded...

You are young.

You are from a less than desirable community.

You are engaged.

You are madly in love with this man.

You are just learning things about the biology of your own body.

You are pregnant.

And the father of this baby? Not the man to whom you're engaged. Not the man to whom your dreams are joined at the hip.

You are going to have a baby and its not his baby.

Everyone's heard this story, this way so many times.

The poor, marginalized, unwed teen, pregnant with someone else's baby.

You've heard that story.

But can you imagine it?

All this weight and pressure on such young shoulders...

The worst possible thing that could ever happen...has happened.

This is the kind of thing that makes melodramatic writers pen words like "her greatest dreams became her worst nightmare."

But that's what happened.

If you were a teenage girl and you had these incredible dreams of love and escape...what worse thing could happen to you?

Pregnant and its not even the fiance's baby.

Awful!

Put yourself in that dark bedroom on that fretful sleepless night.

He's going to leave. And he's going to do so with complete justification.

You know how guys are afraid of commitment (which is an unfair blanket statement, but gives lazy writers a good fall-back in a storyline) and now he's got an easy out!

There's a dream dashed.

And now you're the scandal of this already unfortunate region, Nazareth.

People are going to point, stare and talk about you behind your back.

The worst possible thing that could ever happen...has happened.

And as you lay there in tearful worry, fear and isolation...alone with you thoughts, suddenly you're alone no more...

A celestial, vaporish being shines in your darkness.

And speaks.

"Do not be afraid, Mary..."

The first words spoken tonight spoken not in desperate fear, telling you not to be afraid.

What absurdity!

What paradoxical absurdity!

"Don't be afraid..."

Of your now shattered future?

Of this rising-sun-like apparition standing at the foot of your bed?

I mean, really?

Don't be afraid?

But then a warm piercing blade of peace penetrates your oppressive worry...

"Don't be afraid.."

A deep, clean breath releases into a calm exhaling of those age-inappropriate burdens.

"Breathe, little girl...its going to be okay..."

But wait! You're still pregnant! The worst possible thing that could ever happen...has happened. It STILL has happened.

"Deal with that, Angel-man!" you think...because you're still pregnant and its still not Joseph's kid!

Then the angel continues the ridiculous talk.

"... you have found favor with God."

Favor?

With God?

Yes, this thing that has happened to you...this worst possible thing that could ever happen...is actually God showing you his FAVOR!

Favor.

The Greek word the angel spoke to Mary: Charis.

Favor in English.

Charis in Greek.

Charis, a word translated many times in the New Testament as grace.

"Mary, God has shown you grace."

What Mary, in her current state, viewed as the worst thing that could ever happen to her...

What at that time in her history seemed to be the thing that robbed her of her dreams and future...

Was actually God showing grace (favor) to her and all creation.

It didn't really rob her of her dreams and future...it was actually the granting of Mary's, along with all creation, dreams and future.

It secured her place in history.

Where are you today?

What has happened that you would describe as the "worst thing that could ever happen?"

That thing, that tragedy, that theft of your dreams...could possibly be your loving, gentle, gracious Daddy showing you his favor, his charis, his grace.

Have hope.

What is the worst pain you've ever known, could be the changing of history for you, as well as all creation.

Start over.

Start over.

That's what I've been convicted to do.

Start over.

I've been hanging out with Jesus for the last 22 years, and for the last 22 years I've been in ministry.

I say "hanging out with Jesus" not to be irreverent or anything but because there's been times when (actually for almost all that time) I wasn't really about living and patterning my life after Jesus.

I used to be a "Christian" (religiously that was my identifier.)

And I went through times of being a "believer." I thought that was a really admirable thing. I was in and around a bunch churches that were all about faith.
"BELIEVE!!!" They would scream.

And I was "believing" Jesus.

I believed, but I wasn't doing anything with what I believed.

And I was okay with that. I sat on my big, fat, white booty and didn't DO jack!!

Then, there was the time I was a pretender.
I've moved in and out of this phase over the last couple decades.
This was those times when I really got a kick out of my titles.
I liked being called "Reverend."
I liked being called "Pastor."
I liked being called "Brotha Ollie."
(Excuse me, I just threw up in my mouth a little. Jesus probably threw up a lot during those times as well.)
These were the times when I was just a pretentious, self-serving butt hole!

Start over.

I don't like "labels." Labels limit us. Labels say, "this is who I am." Labels draw a line in the sand and say, "I'm with you, but only up to this point." (Does that make sense?)

But I labeled myself in these ways.

Labeled as a "Christian" I was just all about my religion.

Labeled as a "believer" I was just about my beliefs and opinions.

Labeled as a "pretender" (this is a.k.a.ed as being labeled as a "minister.") I was just about, well...being a butt hole.

Start over.

I don't want those labels anymore...I don't want anything to limit me in my love for my Daddy or my loved for people.

But if I use a label now, that label is primarily "follower/lover." (I think these two words, when speaking of Jesus, are synonymous. Jesus was a lover and if we follow him and do what he did...we'll be loving. So, follower is lover in the way I see it.)

So my new label is Christ follower/lover. (And I'm pretty sure we're staying here for a while...)

Okay...
With all these labels, I've approached a collection of books, writings, prophecies, rants and letters (commonly called the Bible) in different ways.

As a "Christian" I saw it as one big book and I wanted to read it so I could learn about my religion. I took the parts of this book I believed, the parts that I thought facilitated my religion and read those parts. I thought all of the bible was about being a Christian.

As a "believer" I saw this book as something I was supposed to believe. Again, I took the parts I believed, the parts that made my "faith" stronger and read these parts. I thought it was all just about making me a believer.

As a "pretender" I saw this book as something I was supposed to tell, preach or SHOVE down the throats of others. I didn't use these words to apply to MY LIFE, I used these words to apply to YOUR LIFE! I used the parts I agreed with to help me be, you guessed it, a butt hole.

Start over.

With all my different labels, I used traditional, bible school taught methods of "bible study."

I studied topically. I would pick a topic and try to find everything the bible said about that topic.

Not bad...but often confusing.

I studied exhaustively by book. I would pick a book, letter, etc. and study through that section of scripture.

Not bad...but again, often confusing.

Either type of bible study would always take me to this lost place of forgetting the context of what I was reading and studying.

I would read some letter Paul wrote to people a few decades after Jesus died and apply it to today, without even considering Jesus in the equation.

Or I'd read some part of the ancient legal books and apply it to a current situation forgetting Jesus.

So this is where I am today. Right now.

This is where I am and if you're not feeling where I am...well, that's not for me to decide in your life. (Surprise! I'm not your Holy Spirit!)

Start over.

I've been in a process of starting over for the last few years and its brought me to this place in studying the bible:

Start with Jesus. Not with his "words" as much as his LIFE.

I've learned from spending time in other countries and seeing translations of languages...what a WORD means to one culture isn't always the same as what the same word means to another culture. (For instance, the movie "Wild Hogs" when translated to Ukrainian, then back to English, became "Crazy Boars.")
And what words meant to society in one generation are very different from the meaning in another generation (i.e. being "gay" in the 1890s and being "gay" in the 1990s are slightly different).

So before I get too deep in the words Jesus spoke, I want to look at how he lived. How he acted. Who he hung out with, who made him angry, who made him comfortable.

I want to learn about how Jesus lived his life first, before I let Ollie's brain, in America in 2009, interpret his words.

Then through the lens of how Jesus lived his life...what words did he say?

I want to study Jesus words, taking into account how he lived. How he loved. Who he ate dinner with and who he chased out of a building.

Then, after studying Jesus' life and actions, after studying HIS words, I want to study the rest.

See, in my understanding, this compilation of books we call the bible is all about HIM. Why not learn him first?

The legal books at the start of the Old Testament show how much we'd have to do meet his standards. They remind us how inadequate we are without him. But when read through the lens of knowing how Jesus lived and the words he spoke, these books show me how much he loves. These books remind me not to show others judgment, but grace and mercy, because I'm as messed up as them.

The prophecy books are all about Jesus coming...reminding me my Daddy loves me so much, that Jesus was going to come to earth to fix my brokeness.

All the letters in the New Testament are about Jesus and living the life of love he lived.

I used to think "keeping things in context" was about just knowing the logistics of what I was reading. Who was being spoken to.
Where they were geographically.
How screwed up they were emotionally and spiritually.

But I'm beginning to think that is only a portion of understanding the context.

Maybe understanding the context is more about remembering who its all about...how he lived and what he said.

I think if I don't start over, there won't be any change in my life and how I live.

I think if I don't start over I'll know words but won't know life.

I think if I don't start over, reading the bible will just enable me to be a religious Christian.

I think if I don't start over, reading the bible will just enable me to be a lazy believer.

I think if I don't start over, reading the bible will just enable me to be a pretentious butt hole.

And I don't want to be a butt hole.
The absence of hate does not equal love...