#12 - But What About His Life?

by James Baker

You would think that being a part of putting together worship services that illustrate the wonder, the splendor, and the reality of Jesus would necessarily mean that I’m flush with the spirit of Christmas; that I’m able to see through all the tawdry commercialism and plastic well-wishes that rain down from Black Friday on.  Not true.  It takes work - more than it did when I started working for the church - to consider the implications of the advent season.

I have brief glimpses of perspective throughout the month, but am most dialed in around 12:03 am, December 25^th, minutes after the last Christmas Eve service ends.  A moment when the work is done, save for some last-minute Santa labor, and I stop to reflect on the birth of our Savior.  But I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong.  Or at least incomplete.  The phrase, ‘birth of our Savior’, sort of bookends Christ’s life into a manageable mantra, but misses out on so much of who Christ was.  He wasn’t just born, and He didn’t just die. 

Of the 89 chapters that comprise the four Gospels, only 23 detail the events surrounding Jesus’ birth, death, and resurrection.  The rest deal with His life and teachings.  But like Ricky Bobby, I’ve gotten comfortable with the “eight pound, six ounce newborn baby Jesus”.  The one that coos in December, and marches to the cross in early spring.  If I can reduce him to a symbol, rather than God manifest, then I can keep Him from invading the parts of my life that I like to keep in the ‘Jesus-free zone.’  It’s pretty easy for me to condemn the materialism that surrounds Christmas, but look past my own brand of glittery, cinnamon-stuffed theology.

Please don’t misread me.  This is not some veiled attempt to disparage our traditions and suggest that if we get choked up during ‘Silent Night’ we are somehow shallow or a heretic.  But for myself, I have to ask, “What happens next week, other than the fact that I dare venture back on to Bay Area Boulevard?  Am I to all-of-a-sudden celebrate the adolescent Jesus?  Is the ‘reason for the season’ still a reason for January?”

Here’s my aim this Christmas:  Consider Christ.  The whole Christ.  The One who existed before all things, born of a virgin and visited by Magi on a cold winter’s night that was so deep.  The one that was hunted by Herod, and fled to Egypt.  The one that was tempted by the devil.  The one that exposed hypocrisy and forgave taxmen and prostitutes.  The one that taught what it means to follow, give up, stand strong, and love with reckless abandon.  The one who sweat blood.  The one who was scourged in my stead.

A blessing and a curse, things have to fit for me.  They’ve got to make sense in the larger narrative, and I can’t make myself merely worship a baby.  The birth of Christ was not an isolated event.  Jesus does not live in perpetual infancy, making an annual appearance before being socked away in the attic for another eleven months.  He is the complete package.  Child.  Man.  Teacher.  Companion.  Lord.  Savior.  Like me, He has depth and He has a story - a story that will continue on December 26^th.  Unlike me, He is worthy of my full consideration.

#11 - The Inexplicable

by James Baker

A friend recently sent me a link to a YouTube video of a group of musicians that were playing for a relatively small gathering.  The group included Elvis Costello, Sheryl Crow, Neko Case, and some guy named Jesse Winchester.  In the video, Jesse sings a solo folk-ish love tune called ‘Sham-a-ling-dong-ding’ with nothing but his acoustic while the other artists look on.  I have watched this video at least a dozen times, even though the music doesn’t particularly capture me.  What captures me is the reaction.  It is fascinating to watch the other musicians, as well as the panning crowd shots.  Some are slightly swaying, but for the most part, everyone is stone-still.  You can see it in their eyes; they are taken to another place.  There is some sort of worship going on, but not of Jesse.  It is through Jesse.  Near the end of the song, Neko Case (another indie artist) has a tear running down her face.  When Jesse finishes, the place erupts…not so much a raucous applause, but more like an exhale.  I find the whole thing to be absolutely beautiful.  Even though the music doesn’t speak to me, the experience does.  I know that feeling.  I just can’t explain it.

For one friend of mine it is geese.  Not the snarky domestic ones you find in city parks, but real ones.  The kind that fly.  This crazy mix of awkward and grace.  These bulbous creatures that look to have all the fluidity of cold oatmeal, yet pound the sky with force and rhythm; honks that are both ridiculous and stirring.  For another friend it is a U2 concert.  Another it is tangling with a redfish.  My wife can be absolutely consumed with fear, but when she takes in the chocolate murk of Galveston surf lapping the shore, her soul finds rest.

For me, it’s different things.  Sometimes it’s watching my kids laugh.  Or sleep.  It can be a well-told story like Shawshank, or even the mindless brilliance of The Office’s Creed Bratton.  Sometimes – and I know this is weird – it can be an abandoned, run-down barn, or burned-out warehouse. Or like the time I was swimming with my boys in Barton Springs in Austin, a natural spring that rarely gets above 70 degrees.  I dove in, opened my eyes, and the deep blue-green that lay beneath that surface haunts me still.  It is how I picture eternity, as impossible as that is.  Sometimes it is merely sadness, which I find holds a beauty all its own.  Whatever it is, it is fleeting – gone before I can fully appreciate it – and almost never reproducible. It is a shadow.

A shadow.  That is what these sublime treasures are.  They are a glimpse into something richer, yet elusive and without construct.  Perhaps a more talented writer could paint the picture, but whatever words I can muster all fall painfully short of describing these times that pierce my soul.  It is these times – more than doctrine or theology – when I know that God is real.  Real, and wholly inexplicable.  Because if I could explain them, they wouldn’t be worth writing about.

#10 - November 21, 2010

by James Baker

Dad & me

I’m having a hard time remembering the details, but I think his last coherent utterance was about the Aggies.  Dad was happy they were doing well.  He liked the new quarterback.  I agreed.  I told him if he didn’t quit talking, the nurse was going to make me leave, that he needed his rest.  Standing next to his bed 12 hours later, holding his hand, watching him gulp for air, I scoured my past searching for anything new – some undiscovered treasure that I could hold on to as I watched a man die.

James Wallace Baker lived for nearly 80 years; through the Great Depression and WWII, through two marriages before my mom, through the death of his first son who died as a toddler, through nearly two decades of alcoholism that chewed up relationships and jobs alike, and through my childhood that was riddled with conflict and chaos.

I hesitate to even mention these things, for fear I’ll be accused of trampling my father’s grave.  But I believe there is no honor in reducing a life on this earth to a handful of warm & fuzzies.  Whenever I hear a man eulogized as if he were the lovechild of Paul Bunyan and Snow White, I think to myself, “Really?  Why are we so afraid to pay proper homage by being honest about who this person really was?”  We love to speak of redeeming qualities, but redeemed from what? 

The truth is, my dad had his warts, but he ended his life well.  He was blessed with an uncommon self-deprecating humor and endearing humility.  He adored my mother, never once speaking poorly of her. He wasn’t shy about how proud he was of all his kids, and he always made my wife feel like a movie star.  He believed in God.  He prayed daily.  And he had made great efforts over the last 20 years to restore our relationship.

Unfortunately, I have spent far too much of my own life refusing that restoration, and it cost me intimacy with my father that I’ll never recover.  I am ashamed to say that, until recently, I did not fear my father’s death.  I feared I wouldn’t care.  By the grace of God, I’m no longer hostage to those resentments, and I’m living a new storyline.  The jaded, unforgiving, ‘nobody gets me or understands the depths of my pain’ character had gotten pretty annoying – at least to me.

Standing at the foot of his deathbed, that definitive memory remained elusive, and all I could muster was a few good-natured scenes:  playing airband together at the opening sequence of the 70’s sitcom, Maude; or walking in from school, and seeing a penny stuck to his forehead (always an unspoken contest…a win for me meant that I wouldn’t acknowledge the oddity of coin stuck to his head before it would fall; he must’ve sweat glue, because in 18 years I never won – not once); or even taking turns jumping off the diving board at the lavish Ramada Inn motel pool in San Antonio, practically a mecca for our family during every middle-class summer vacation.  These were all pleasant.  Great, in fact.  But not weighty enough to give me context for this man’s life.

I stared at the vitals on his monitor as his heart rate went from 90, to 65, to 40 beats per minute.  I think he squeezed my hand.  He took another couple of breaths, and then….nothing.  Those few minutes have both plagued me and provided me with some strange fondness.  A fondness, I suppose, because I was privileged to be in the presence of my father as he left this earth, 9:20 am on November 21^st – my birthday, no less.

As the doctor turned off the monitor and informed us, “He is dead”, I collapsed in a chair, buried my head in my arms and wept like I’ve never wept before.  My wife clutched my neck, sobbing.  My mom stood looking at her best friend of 44 years and holding his still-warm hand, tears streaming but with a slight smile.  No one said anything for a long time, because, what do you say?  After everyone left, I leaned over, kissed his forehead, and was struck with a realization.  I had been looking for a quintessential memory, but what I got was far more profound.  Not a specific time, but the very thing that was threaded through all those times. 

God had unexpectedly given me the greatest birthday present I’ll ever receive.  The reminder that I, indeed, loved my father.

#9 - The Want-To

by James Baker

A few years ago, Santa brought a couple of acoustic guitars down our chimney; one for me, and one for my oldest son, Patton.  I had a brief fantasy that we were going to be the male version of The Judds, but promptly discovered that my 40+-year-old hands were a little too crispy and I didn’t have a cool performer name (like Merle or Justin or Gaga).  Combine that with the fact that I couldn’t get the whole ‘note’ and ‘chord progression’ thing, and my CMA ‘Entertainer of the Year’ acceptance speech would have to be shelved.  My interest was waning by the second, and after a few lessons and a discovery that Santa didn’t save his Guitar Center receipt, dad’s half of the musical duo made its way to the closet with all of the rest of his dead hobbies.  Patton, however, has persevered, as it just seems to be in his maternally-given blood.  I asked his guitar teacher how much natural talent was needed to have any modicum of success.  His answer surprised me. “Anyone can pick up guitar.  What you can’t pick up is the ‘want-to’.”  To his point, Patton and I started with the same skill level (zero), but I dropped out shortly after mastering the “e” chord, while Patton now has ‘Smoke On The Water’ down pat.  He will spend hours plucking his way through Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, and even a little ‘row, row, row your boat’ for good measure.  Simply put, he wants it. I don’t.

When I was newly married, I had a mentor that was teaching me what it meant to have a Christ-centered marriage.  The first time we sat down, he pulled out all sorts of pamphlets, papers, charts, and books and began to lay out the principles of all things husband-dom.  After about an hour, he woke me from my glassy-eyed stupor with something I’ve never forgotten.  “You know, all these things are just tools.  They’re meaningless unless you have some desire to use them.  The question is, do you want a better marriage?  And don’t answer too quickly, because your honest response will determine the success of your marriage.”

The question was not lost on me.  I mean, yeah, of course I wanted a better marriage…it’s not like I wanted a worse one.  But at what cost?  Was I willing to sacrifice, to put my own selfishness aside for more than five minutes, and do the necessary work it took to love my wife well.  In short, did I have the ‘want-to’?  The answer, for the most part, was – and still is – yes.  But sixteen years later, I still have to ask myself the same question.

And it applies to most everything I consider essential.  Sure, I want to be a better writer, but do I really want it?  Am I willing to come into the office two hours earlier, stare at a blinking cursor for half that time, then bang out a page of muddled blather – just to get a sentence or two of something that seems readable?  I want to be a better dad, but how badly?  Enough to forgo a re-run of ‘The Office’ that I’ve seen fifteen times already, and dive into a round of 20 Questions over some James Coney Island with my boys?  I desperately want to hear the raucous applause when crossing the finish line of the Houston Marathon in January, but do I want to hear the barren echo of feet pounding the pavement at 5 am in July?  (actually, that one’s easy to answer)

I can say all day long that I’m a well-rounded individual with tons of great hobbies; my closet would suggest otherwise.  I can also tell you that I love God with all my heart.  That I would lay my life down for Him and His cause.  That I am willing to go wherever He leads me and love whomever He puts in my path.  But what would my work ethic say?  My bank statement?  My neighbor?  I’ve long ago made peace with the fact that I am not equipped to be a great man of God.  But I have to ask myself, “Do I have the ‘want-to’?”

And I can’t answer too quickly.  Because my response will determine the success of the only thing that really matters.

#8 - Q&A with Nathan Ford

by James Baker

We thought it would be fun to do a little Q&A every-once-in-awhile with an FCC'er (or others) that we find interesting.  And perhaps no one's more interesting that our friend Nathan Ford.  He was one of Toby's high school buddies, and he and his girlfriend, Amanda, have been coming to the church for several years.  I like Nathan because I don't know anyone else like Nathan.  He's a 27-year-old throwback to a different era, and probably should've lived during the Civil War, or maybe fought at the Alamo.  The modern conveniences of Twitter, Blu-Ray, and running water aren't really his thing.

Before I knew Nathan well, a few of us were sitting around discussing movies when the subject of Lonesome Dove came up.  As I confessed that I had never seen the movie, Nathan's demeanor turned noticeably cold.  When I asked him what was up, he said, "I'm just having a really difficult time not judging you right now."  I was a little ashamed, but mostly amused.  I figured anyone that had such deep convictions over movies was an alright kind-of-guy.

Nathan's as rough & tumble as they come, but he's also got a good heart.  Here's a peek at some of what makes him tick:

Q:  So you're camped on the side of a mountain in Colorado, and in the middle of the night, your buddy has a severe asthma attack.  His rescue inhaler is in a dry bag 40 feet away, In the glow of the fire, you notice there is a black bear cub asleep on top of the dry bag.  You see that the mama bear is maybe 50 yards beyond that looking straight at you.  Another friend is complaining that his sleeping bag isn't very insulated and he's kind of cold, your girlfriend has just called you from back home on your SAT phone wanting to work out the argument that you had right before you left, and your phone battery is about to die.  What do you do?

A:  Easy.  I hang up on her, kill the mama bear, catch the cub and get the inhaler.  I skin the mama and make a bear skin blanket for my wuss buddy.  Then I will train the cub to do cool stuff and give it to my girlfriend when I get home.  How could she be mad at me then?

Q:  I've noticed that in restaurants, you always need to be sitting in a booth and facing the door....why is that?

A:  Well, booths are obviously more comfortable.  Typically they are located on the perimeter of the restaurant and I hate being in the middle because I feel too exposed and feel like everyone is watching me.  I sit facing the door so I can see who is coming in and identify a threat quickly if one should arise.  I only trust one person to eat with that I will have my back to the door and that depends on who is buying.  If he buys he can face the door, if I buy I face the door.  I also identify all known exits when I enter the establishment.  It's all about situational awareness.

Q:  If you have a say in the matter, how do you hope to die?

A:  In a hail of gun fire. 

Q:  What is something you will definitely not name your child?

A:  Nathan.

Q:  Your yet-to-be son-in-law asks for your yet-to-be daughter's hand-in-marriage....what is one piece of advice you give him?

A:  It depends on the type of guy it is.  Some hippy punk, the advice is run.  A good guy that I like, the advice is don't screw it up.  I don't know, communication is important, make God the center, blah, blah, blah.  Something Christian.

Q:  If you could be friends with any movie character, who would it be?

A:  Augustus Mcrae, or Woodrow F. Call.

Q:  Any regrets?

A:  I have many regrets, but they don't eat me up too bad.  I guess the main one is starting smoking, stupid choice.

Q:  What breaks your heart?

A:  Innocent victims.  Sex slaves and victims of sexual abuse.

Q:  When does God feel most real to you?  Most distant?

A:  God feels most real to me when I am poor, or out enjoying his wild creation or during severe storms.  He feels most distant when I am making good money, and "have it all together."

Q:  Who is your hero, and why?

A:  My grandfather, he was a great man.  My father, for a million reasons.  And Chris Spealler, he is an incredible crossfit athlete.  His work capacity to body weight ratio is insane, he breaks all conventional exercise science rules.

Q:  Describe your perfect day.

A:  My perfect day would begin nasty cold and early in the morning, I would build a fire on the back porch and drink coffee and spend a little time with the Lord and have a few smokes.  Then I would be with just the guys and go fish or anything outdoors and have a near death experience and make a memory.  Then we would go back to the house and meet up with the girls around a fire and tell our tales and have community.

#7 - Like Juan

by James Baker

Being the impressionable type, I have often latched onto certain personalities that I wanted to emulate.  Growing up, it was my brother, because he was everything I wasn’t. He’s eleven years older than me, and even though he has a staunch conservative bent, he’s also always had a bit of leftist rebel in him. During his teen years, his hair was mid-way down his back, he was a drummer in a rock band, and he often hitchhiked across the state. Responsibility would later kick in, and at about the age of 20, he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He would regale me with brutish tales of boot camp - how the drill instructors would scream profanities that were both terrifying and hilarious, and how he had been practically handcuffed to another recruit for a full week as penance for a fistfight. He was then, and still is, the toughest person I know. A five-minute conversation with me would tell you that I do not share his fortitude.

As I’ve aged, I’ve found other heroes, but mostly all for the wrong reason. Perhaps it was their swagger, their sharp wit, or the fact that they could hit a nine iron farther than 110 yards. In recent years, I’ve found myself longing to be like those who impact people for Christ. I am fortunate enough (or depending on how I feel on a particular day, unfortunate) to rub shoulders with some incredibly gifted teachers, counselors, mentors, and the like. And while any of them have yet to grace the cover of Christianity Today, they are in my mind an incredibly effective agent for raising disciples. But as I look longingly at these friends of mine, it hits me: I want to be like them, not for God’s glory, but for my own. I look at the way people hang on their words and are touched by their songs. I see the admiration in their eyes as wisdom is imparted that comes as easily as breathing. I study their motions and voice inflections, but my mimickings are a poor impostor. I become defeated. And then I become tired. Tired of trying. Tired of failing.

I often take to the hallways of FCC looking for enlightenment – or at least, less talented people.  But there is nothing. Well, not nothing.  There is Juan, of course.  Juan has worked as a custodian at Friendswood High School for many years, and serves the church in a similar capacity. You will find him most every day sweeping, mopping, and polishing every fraction of our 70,000 square feet of floor space. To be honest, he’s easy to miss. He stands barely 5’ tall and is the soft-spoken sort.

I haven’t had many conversations with Juan, but every one that I have had involves floors…the amount of dirt tracked in on a particular muddy Sunday, the type of polish used, how many giant oscillating fans it’s going to take to dry the most recent waxing. He isn’t complaining, mind you. Far from it. There is a gleam in his eye when he speaks about laminate squares and stained concrete. His voice gets a little higher the more he goes on, and he eventually breaks out in a broad grin and then steps back behind the business end of the floor polisher – because he’s already wasted too much time talking to me.

I look at Juan work, how he does what he does with virtually no recognition. How he works so diligently because he desperately wants to provide a mirror-like finish for the hundreds that pass our doors each week, only to have to start all over again on Monday. It occurs to me as I watch this slightly built 60-year old Hispanic janitor, that I want to be like Juan. Not because I want Juan’s glory, that is obvious. But there’s something else, and I’m not exactly sure how to describe it. Perhaps it is his humility. Or his ability to be present in the moment. Or maybe it’s the simplicity of a life that isn’t clouded with petty jealousies and one-upmanship. I watch him hum along with his mp3 player, making steady swaths back and forth, and I smile. I’ve found someone else to emulate. Maybe this one’s for the right reason.

#6 - Roar of the Crowd

by James Baker

***Editor’s note – gotta give a shout out to Dana Aaronson, my gracious Yankee benefactor, without whom this experience would not have been possible ***        

         

Two out in the top of the ninth, and our favorite foil – A-Rod – faces a two-strike count in Game 6 of the American League Championship Series against the New York Yankees.  Looking around at the frothing pack of pennant-starved Ranger fans, screaming so loudly the Ballpark had gone silent with noise, I was reminded of a different era in our organization (note the use of ‘our’, conspicuously absent during ‘their’ previous 37 abysmal seasons).  A time when I would sit in the outfield bleachers at the old Arlington Stadium with maybe 5,000 in attendance.  A time when no Ranger lead was safe, and we had the market cornered on starting pitchers that other clubs would have used for batting practice.

But this is a different generation of Rangers.  When the final pitch crossed the plate, bat still firmly in place on A-Rod’s shoulder, there was a brief hush in the mayhem while all 51,403 of my friends waited with heart-in-throat for the ump to determine our fate.  Strike three.  Deafening roar.  Fireworks.  Confetti.  Ginger ale showers on the mound.  Bear hugs with drunk guys that I’ll never see again, but in the moment, for whom I would give a kidney.  Ah, to finally be a winner.  Even if we lose every World Series game by ten runs, this night was splendid.  Absolutely splendid.

And yet.

And yet there seemed to be something missing.  While everyone else was still convulsing with elation, I sat back down, and tried to take it all in.  I wanted this moment to be something special.  Something transcendent and essential.  I needed for this to be more than just a playoff win for a long-suffering ball club.  I needed it to be satisfying.  As great as this moment was, it fell short.

In the days since, I wondered if any sort of celebration could measure up.  Was it possible to cheer on a victor for more than driving in runs and clutch pitching?  I mean if this experience left me wanting, was satisfaction in a singular event even possible?  Sure, my wedding day and births of my children have been visceral experiences that have given my life meaning and direction.  But those were more isolated affairs affecting only me and those close to me, rather than uproarious, cataclysmic events. 

And then I was reminded of my life eighteen years ago.  I was on a fast-track to nowhere; pretty much flunking out of college, living only for the next drunk fest and meaningless relationship – all the while having a sense of loneliness and failure that left me bitter and distraught.  If you knew me then, you would have been struck with the fact that there just wasn’t much to be struck with.  I was merely another insecure frat guy looking for purpose and recognition in all the empty places.  In spiritual, emotional, and psychological terms, I was the old Texas Rangers.

But on January 21, 1992 at 12:05am, I sat in bed facing a crossroads.  I knew God was calling me to him.  That much, I was sure.  What I didn’t know was whether I could measure up to whatever it was I was being called.  Because I had never measured up to anything before.  I had never seen anything through to completion, and I didn’t want to have some skin-deep conversion experience that would be just one more dead-end in a long list of spectacular disappointments.  Strange as it may seem, I knew that failing in this would shake my faith to a place from which I would never recover, even though I really had no faith to speak of.  Clutching my knees close to my chest, God put those fears to rest by letting me know that indeed I would not measure up.  But it didn’t matter.  I could either walk through the door into a world that promised nothing, but seemed hopeful, or remain in the darkness that was at least familiar.  I closed my eyes, and said something like, “God, I have no idea what I’m doing, or how to do it.  I don’t know what words I’m supposed to say.  But in as much as I know how, I give myself over to you.  I can’t imagine that I’m someone you could do much with – but screw it, I’m doing it anyway, whatever ‘it’ is.”

Reading scripture in the years since, the event has been put in perspective.

“…there is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who are righteous and haven’t strayed away!” – Luke 15:7

Strike three.  Deafening roar.  Fireworks.  Confetti.  A wild, raucous, piercing shriek of unadulterated pandemonium.  A celebration for the ages.  More importantly, one that matters.

It would have been nice to be in the stands at that moment.  Being on the field was even better.

#5 - The Counterfeit Driven Life

by James Baker

The only thing different about the day was that it was more ordinary than usual.  As I pulled out of the church parking lot and squeezed in between the familiar cement truck and the Honda Odyssey that continues to point out my lack of pride in having an honor roll student, I scrambled for some sports talk or political rant – anything to avoid thinking about the sink hole that was my day.  Went through a few emails, got some video ideas shot down, and stared a hole through the blank white board in my drop-panel, fluorescent-filled office.  I’ve had naps that were more productive.

And then in an instant, my day was changed.  A sporty little Pontiac Grand Am, complete with after-market spoiler and silhouette of Calvin relieving himself on the Ford logo, slid in front of me within inches of my front bumper.  He slowed down enough to force me to hit my brakes, but then dropped it in fourth and weaved through about four cars ahead of me before I had the chance to even resume the posted speed.  I don’t know if I had more anger or excitement, but it didn’t really matter, because I was experiencing something that had been missing all day.  Purpose.  Maybe it wasn’t the Rick Warren kind, but it would have to suffice.  It was on.

I squinted my eyes, flipped through the dial until I hit anything Aerosmith, and jumped the Titan an extra 5mph (this is Friendswood, after all) until I caught up to ol’ fiddy-cent.  I had boxed him in, shot over my best Vin Diesel glance, and was fully expecting to see that beautiful mix of seething anger and helpless resignation.  What I got, was blind oblivion.  He was on his phone.  And not even the cool Bluetooth kind that would have freed him up to both shift and steer, but one hand fully plastered to the left side of his head.  This guy had just destroyed me, all the while blathering on about Axe body spray, or Grand Theft Auto, or maybe the burrito supreme from Taco Bell he was about to pound.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t about me.

In my clearer moments, I’ll feel the embarrassment of my juvenile shenanigans, and think, “Really?  You’re forty-two years old, and this is what you’ve got going on in your life?  Getting cut-off in traffic somehow turns into an epic showdown between Potter and Voldemort?”  Unfortunately, self-chastisement does little more than shame me until I find the next distraction.  What I need is not a scolding.  What I need is a real challenge.  I’m convinced that’s what we all need.  The truth is we’re hard-wired for it, and we’re going to find it no matter what.

Discontentment – or strife – is not all bad, and in its purest form, produces a life with meaning.  Fighting to work hard at our jobs.  Struggling to love our families well.  Pursuing others vigorously with the love of Christ.  It is that friction that reminds us we’re alive.  But perverted, our days look very different.  It is the genesis of envy.  Of back-biting and angry words.  Of frivolous lawsuits and marital affairs.  And yes, even imaginary car chases with punk teenagers. 

When we wake up tomorrow, we will ready ourselves for battle.  It is inevitable, and God’s intent for our life.  The question is, which enemy will we choose.

#4 - Perfectly Wrong

I have a condition.  A condition that for many years I chose to ignore, because I wasn’t altogether sure it was real – sort of like Bieber Fever.  Finally convinced that denial was getting me nowhere, I decided to seek help.  So, about ten years ago I scrounged up a co-pay and went to a doctor who confirmed my suspicions; I was clinically depressed.  Even as I write these words, I wonder if I'm making it all up, merely because I don't have any real problems.  But, for the most part, I’ve learned to live with the reality of having a chemical imbalance, and one that will likely never go away.  My depression isn’t always manifest, and I have different triggers that set it off.  Sometimes it’s my natural biorhythm, or maybe when I forget to take my medicine.  Sometimes it’s just stress and fatigue.  One of the catalysts, however, is counterintuitive.  It is when life seems perfect.  Too perfect.

Like the fake lake in the middle of my in-laws master planned community.  I don’t know what they put in the water to make it neon blue, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same stuff my grandmother used to put in her toilet bowl.  Or the precision-manicured trees, hedges, and lawns in my own neighborhood (deed restrictions require each new home that is built in my section to have exactly 2 oaks trees, or 1 pine and 1 oak…you know, just to make the place look more natural).  Every time I drive by a new strip center that is an exact replica of the thirty I’ve just passed – complete with a bank, nail salon, and donut shop – a small piece of me dies inside. Every once in awhile, I’ll see a rebellion in the making, and I get a little giddy.  Such as when a real estate agent makes the gutsy call to put up a billboard without a glamour shot.  Or the time my neighbor uprooted his standard-issue oak and replaced it with a (gasp) palm tree.  I love it when people stick it to the man.

Nothing saps my soul, however, more than ‘relational’ perfection.  And unfortunately, many of my relationships are perfect…reduced to some superficial glad-handing and trite well-wishes, as brief as they are forgettable.  I can be all tied up in knots, feeling direction-less in my job, but be more compelled to chat about how grateful I am that fall has finally arrived.  Walking into church on Sunday morning, I will give a handful of hearty back slaps and side hugs, but tell no one that I just yelled at my kids for their incessant squabbling.  Why let on to close friends that Su and I are disconnected, when NFL talk is much less awkward?  If I’m feeling especially vulnerable, maybe I’ll confide that one of my co-workers is struggling with gossip.

I suppose that small talk has its place, but I’ve never been any good at it (if I’ve ever dished with you about, for instance, the inbound traffic congestion on I-45, you’ll know what I mean).  If I never had another meaningless conversation again, I think I’d be okay.  Not to say that every interaction has to be some deep, gut-wrenching disclosure of our deepest wounds.  But I’d love to engage in sincere, honest discussions about the stuff that really matters.  I want to tell you what I’m pumped about, and hear the same from you.  I want to talk about our triumphs and our screw-ups.  I want to talk about what we’re actually thinking about, and not just the sterilized version.  I want, when asked, ‘How’s it going?’, for my first instinct not to be a lie. 

Then again, maybe it’d just be easier to stay surface-y.  After all, you may not like what you see in me.  Or I in you.  Maybe we’ll conclude that depth is overrated, and that knowing and being known incurs a little too much risk.  Let’s just exchange a few pleasantries, share a few laughs, and keep it all nice and tidy.  Perfect.

A little too perfect.

#3 - In the process

by Toby Wise

I don’t write.

I think the most I write these days is a few notes in a meeting, an email here and there, and quick descriptions of ideas I hope to eventually produce as images or video. Organizing my thoughts into sentences and paragraphs with well-groomed punctuation just isn’t my prime outlet for expression. I think I delete three sentences for every one I keep. And when I try to write something longer than a paragraph, it some how explodes beyond the original idea into a babbling amorphous blob devoid of coherent thought.

I’ll do my best to avoid that here.

I express myself far better through imagery. Call it a sweet spot or wheelhouse, I just really like it. It’s a fantastic thing to dwell in the gap between an idea and the visual representation of an idea. Its kind of like watching fireworks. Firework gets lit, rockets through the sky leaving just the slightest trace, then the boom and dazzle briefly create a moment consisting of light, color, sound, composition, and plot. Yes, even plot. But the ‘rocketing though the sky unseen’ is the part that compels me. When a good idea gets ignited it really does feel like you have a rocket booster on your back. It’s hot, fast, and the pressure is intense. You’ve got to flex to keep intact, only burning the fuel you need to get there. People say, “Wow, look at that one”, and you think, “Yup, I got to ride it”.

Ok maybe I glorified it a little. But I hope you understand me when I say the process of creating is way more of a thrill to me than the final outcome. Maybe that’s a flaw. I’m not a car guy but I could totally see myself restoring some classic ride from the ground up and then taking it out once or twice before I sell it or give it away. Really, unless I was pressed for cash I would give it away. Not out of generosity, but because I really value the process. What I wouldn’t give away is my cast iron skillet. You can pry that thing from my cold dead hands. It’s a journal of everything I have ever cooked; a canvas made for food; the central tool I need for the process of cooking. I use it so much that I recently combined my food and entertainment budget because I realized I enjoy the process of cooking more than going to the movies, restaurants, or whatever else. It is my entertainment. A good buddy of mine has the same tendencies. Give him five feet of rope and he will be entertained all night: memorizing knots, learning new ones, making up games with it, tying distracted peoples feet to a chair -- you get the idea. Some tools enable processes that have the power to captivate the heart and mind more so than any finished work could.

It’s in the process that life transitions from flat plains and map dot towns to a three-dimensional world of mountains, canyons, geysers, and forests. What a treat God gives us that our existence is not a finished product sitting on a mantle that occasionally serves as a conversation piece. We get to be part of a great unfolding, where we wander through creation only to have each step reveal a bigger, deeper, and richer world.

If I were to ask you to build a chair, where would you begin? Looking over designs and plans, choosing the right woods, measuring, finding hardware, learning to use a saw? Would you enjoy the textures, learning new skills, and appreciate the craftsmanship involved? Could you tell me every detail, could you show me every flaw? Would you immerse yourself in the process? If these questions are spinning in your head, I hope it’s not the overwhelming possibilities, but a sense of childlike discovery, for so much life is in the process.

Go make something.

# 2 - I Give Up

by James Baker

When it comes to romance, we like to toss around a lot of scientific metaphors.  “Opposites attract.”  “They just didn’t have any chemistry.”  “He has a magnetic personality.” “I’m really digging her Pythagorean Theorem.”  When I was courting my wife, Susan, we ‘grew on each other’.  Our wedding night was ‘steamy’.  But pretty shortly...well, like very shortly – like day three of the honeymoon, a new formula began to emerge.  Something like:

1 part low-self-esteem-and-highly-emotional wife

+

1 part low-self-esteem-and-highly-insensitive husband

=

bad marriage

You hear about marriages where people have just grown apart through the years.  Well, Susan and I were fortunate.  There wasn’t going to be years for us to grow apart.  We were blowing up seemingly in a matter of days.  I still don’t exactly know how to define the problem, but what I do know is that we were both miserable.  Innocent misunderstandings became monumental grievances, and hairline fractures turned into deep chasms.  There was constant tension; hurt feelings and bruised egos were the norm.  The little personality quirks that were so cute and innocuous only weeks before were now grotesque and grounds for annulment.

Through all of this, I kept towing the company line.  “Don’t worry”, I’d say, “it’s not as bad as it seems”.  Because that’s what I thought being a spiritual leader meant.  I viewed my role as making sure we were staying the course, ignoring danger signs, and pretending like everything was in order.  But the more I did this, the more it all seemed like a lie:  our premarital counseling, the wedding vows, the Young Life ministry we were leading, the quaintly framed ‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord’ that hung neatly in our 200 square foot 1-bedroom apartment…it was all a sham.  Before long, we looked at each other with genuine regret.  It was a mistake.  An honest one, to be sure, but still a mistake.  The thought occurred to us, “We’re young.  We have no kids and no estate to haggle over.  This doesn’t have to be messy.  It’s only a slightly more complicated high school breakup.  Let’s chalk it up to a false start, and still give ourselves a chance to find real happiness.”

Within a mere six months, the angry words had settled into a cold silence, and hostility turned to resignation.  As we lay in bed one night, both crying and both tired of fighting, Susan asked me, “What are we going to do?”  Through my own tears, I said, “I have no idea.  I’m out of answers”.  And then we did the unthinkable.

We prayed. 

It was then, and always will be, the most inarticulate, most honest prayer that I have ever uttered.  “God, we give up.  We have no answers.  We are at our end.”  And almost audibly, I felt God say, “Exactly.  You have nothing to offer to this marriage.  You are broken.  You are misfits that are unfit even for each other.  You cannot fix this.  Oh, and by the way, you are now exactly at the place that I want you.”

I can only point to a few genuine milestones in my life; points at which things drastically turned.  This was one of them.  That night marked a new beginning –  a night of surrender and healing; a night when hope actually meant something.  Though I don’t remember the date, that night was more memorable than my wedding day, because that was the night my marriage truly began.

That was sixteen years ago.  Today, if you look closely, you’d be able to find trace amounts of the low self-esteem and insensitivity that I had entering into my marriage (and by trace, I mean lots).  You’d see that Su still struggles with her own insecurities.  But what you’d be most struck with, is that through all of that, we have a fierce love for each other.  A love that’s survived the minefields of our own depravity.  A love that should have never made it.

When we think of victories in life, we are struck with imagery of conquering some great evil, or emerging from the battlefield brimming with courage.  We imagine ourselves steeled against enemy forces, weathering the worst but winning the day with nothing but a little spunk and five smooth stones.  The greatest battle I’m likely to ever have on this earth – the fight to save my marriage – wasn’t done with skill, cunning, or bravado.  There was no storming the gates with reckless determination.  There was no eloquent speech.  I merely waved the white flag.  I gave up.  And I won her back.

Surrendering to the enemy is one thing, and it's really pretty easy.  Yielding to the Lord is another thing entirely, and one of the most difficult things you will ever face.  It requires brutal honesty, and an oh-so-humbling admission that you are not as self-sufficient as you would like to think.  Is there some place you need to take a stand?  Or do you just need to give up?

Sometimes, it's the same thing.  

# 1 - Does The World Really Need Another Blog?

by James Baker

When I see anything that is wildly creative, I’m always fascinated to know the process behind it.  I would love to know what inspired Cormac McCarthy to write “The Road”.  Or how Guy Laliberte went from being a street performer to the genius behind Cirque du Soleil.  Or how Daniel Day Lewis concocted the fiendishly dark role of Daniel Plainview in “There Will Be Blood”.  In every great work of art, the creator seems to have become somewhat detached from reality, letting the process run a path of its own.  Perhaps this is nowhere more evident than the most delicate of creative endeavors.  Automobile advertising.

Here’s how I picture the ad agency counseling the auto dealer to voice his radio ad:  “No Crazy Mike, you have to say it faster.  You’ve paid for sixty seconds, there can be absolutely no dead space.  And you can’t just say, ‘we’ll take your trade-in no matter how much you owe’ – you have to yell it, otherwise people might not pay attention.  Research has shown that screaming rants about overstocked inventory and the insanity of low sticker prices makes you seem more trustworthy.”

Car ads do not make me want to buy a car.  They make me want to kick my dog.

On the opposite end of the marketing spectrum lies my corporate-crush, Apple.  I confess to loving everything about them, all the way down to the laid-back-but crisp keynote addresses at each product launch.  Inside their stores, the oxygen smells cleaner, and like with any good crush, my palms get sweaty when I approach the Genius Bar.  They don’t sell electronics.  Radio Shack has electronics.  Apple offers electronic-coolness. Who cares about dropped calls, poor battery life, or unhealthy alliances with AT&T?  All greatness has its detractors and Mac is no different (if you doubt me, just Google ‘Steve Jobs, antichrist’ to see all the haters).

But what I love most about Apple is not what they offer, but what they leave out.  They are the very essence of minimalist…a virtue that I’m convinced is biblical.  There is a healthy distance between each MacBook on the shelf.  They have TV ads that have no pitchman’s voice at all.  Their print ads have an enormous amount of negative space.  Even their logo has a bite taken out.  They understand what appeals, which is, less is more.  It’s more than gimmickry.  It’s how I want to live.

And it is what this blog space hopes to embody.  There will be a few of us sharing our experiences on what faith in the real world looks like, but there will be no sermonettes.  No do’s, don’t’s, how-to’s, or I-told-you-so’s.  There won’t be bold decrees.  Just some stories about how little things shape the big things.  It is our belief that the narrative of our lives is written more in the margins than between the lines, and our days remembered more for the subtleties than staples.

However, this will also not be some ethereal mish-mash of half-truths and artsy-fartsy rhetoric.  At least that is not the intent.  We want them to be well-written, but more than that, we want them to be helpful.  A dialogue about how to encourage one another to fall more in love with God.  About how to be expectant.  And about how to be awoken to the brokenness that infects our world but escapes our senses.  We want to step away from the Twitter-driven, status-updating, text-obsessed world – if only for a few minutes – and clear some room for God to do something deep in our souls.

Your input and feedback on this blog will be more than desired, it will be essential, as you assuredly have better things to do than just peruse our personal journals.  There will be room for disagreement.  There will be room for doubt.  We will seek truth without the need to audit each other’s theology.  We don’t want vulgarity, but we’re not looking for what is appropriate, because appropriate doesn’t inspire. This won’t be a place for grandstanding, or useless arguing over biblical minutiae…the only requirement is honesty and a good dose of humility.

At the risk of being self-promoting, we ask that you bookmark our page, and check back every week or so for updates.  If, after a few entries, you hate it – then you can go back to your Danielle Steele novels, or TMZ news, or whatever it is that uninteresting people read (kidding of course…we find TMZ riveting).

In the end, this is about change.  When we look back on our lives 20, 30, 40 years from now, there will be a jillion things that will have influenced us to become who we become.  Here’s to hoping that we will have made room for the deeper things.

Stay tuned…