Anthony de Mello. 
Jesuit Priest. 
1931-1987. 
Google him. 
It'll change your life.

One of his thousands of excerpts, which has grabbed me this week:

"A man found an eagle's egg and put it in a nest of a barnyard hen. The eaglet hatched with the brood of chicks and grew up with them. All his life the eagle did what the barnyard chicks did, thinking he was a barnyard chicken. He scratched the earth for worms and insects. He clucked and cackled. And he would thrash his wings and fly a few feet into the air.

Years passed and the eagle grew very old. One day he saw a magnificent bird above him in the cloudless sky. It glided in graceful majesty among the powerful wind currents, with scarcely a beat on his strong golden wings. The old eagle looked up in awe. "Who's that?" he asked. "That's the eagle, the king of the birds," said his neighbour. "He belongs to the sky. We belong to the earth - we're chickens." So the eagle lived and died a chicken, for that's what he thought he was."

Call it coincidence, but for some reason I’ve been seeing a lot of transsexuals lately.  Granted, I live in LA, but still—even here, they’re not the norm.  The one I’m touched by this hour is sharing a coffee shop and sitting across the room.  He’s dressed in cowboy boots and I guess what you’d call a midriff showing tube-top,” alongside a thong accented backside, wrapped in a mini-skirt.  Suffice it to say, he stands out a bit.  Minding his own business and reading a wedding magazine, of all things, but his demeanor is as gentle and unbothersome as they come.  And yet most who’ve crossed into our vicinity the past twenty minutes or so, have been visibly bothered.  How can a man so quiet open a story so loud?

Last night I watched Amistad.  (Yeah, I know.  A decade late.  So it goes in my life.  I still don’t have a digital camera.)  Actor Anthony Hopkins played what I’d consider a brilliant role of Former President John Quincy Adams.  In a most telling scene, he taught of stories and that in the end, regardless of the journey, it’s the better man’s story who’ll win the race.  (I actually found the film to speak a quiet obvious message of Jesus’ story being that which wins, but maybe I’m biased.)  

“Story” isn’t a word or concept foreign to us as go’ers of this generation, but at the same time, I find its territories of insight ceaseless in a constant readiness to tell anew.  I guess part of that follows the idea of a larger Story being eternally in motion, so that no story we know ever holds the full, or final chapter.  God is always at work, and always at work on a larger Story than we could know.

My first niece was born last night at 12:01am.  Avery Elizabeth.  I’m ecstatic, and have already been the possessive aunt who calls every five minutes for the update (sadly, Rhode Island isn’t close to California).  I want every chapter.  Every page.  Every new twist of this new life’s story.  And right now, I have similar emotions to the man across the room.  I curious what his story is?  I wonder what he’s wanting to say, or wishing he’d said, or wishing someone had said to him at this point in his story?  I wonder what he wants?  And I wonder if what he wants seemed so beyond words that drastically changing his identity seemed a helpful end, and beginning, to telling his story?

I think one of the greatest mysteries we've been invited into is hearing another’s story.  But the temptation seems to be already knowing it—we think we know what to expect and what such outfits usually unfold.  But I wonder what it would look like see every story and every hour as a new Avery?  As a new page of content.  As a new life.  A new chapter ushering us into new ways of Love.

The polarities of college ministry are often so extreme that it feels like we’ve gotta choose “one way” or “the other.” 

Local church vs. parachurch 
Discipleship vs. fellowship
Small group vs. large group
Singles vs. Marrieds.
Boundaries vs. freedom
Grace vs. truth 
Drinking vs. no drinking
Date vs. wait
And the list goes on…

So many questions and opinions, and yet so seemingly few agreed upon “answers.” So maybe—just maybe—our answers are somehow founded in our questions?  More specifically, maybe our answers are founded in questioning what we really believe.

Do you believe God cares about your campus more than you do today?
Do you believe He’s the one who’s actually transforming lives? 
Do you believe there is nothing you can do to enhance the process of your sanctification?
Do you believe God is enough?
Do you believe God?

No matter where you land, your “answers” here unveil what I believe as the true questions. It’s no mystery that college ministry struggles to find answers.  So maybe we’d find it helpful to start staking more in our questions (of belief, namely), than continuing to struggle for “answers.”  To truly see, I wonder if we might benefit from the unseen; to truly know, I wonder if we must cooperate with fears of the unknown; and to truly believe, I wonder if we’ve gotta start risking pride and exposing unbelief?

I went to a really bad church a couple weeks ago.  And it made me wonder why people go to really bad churches.  But then I forgot to write about it.  And so now, after returning from a healthier church experience, that title from two weeks ago is still on my mind.  So I've just decided to use it.  Even though it doesn't pertain.

I've been on a bit of a church hiatus.  Nothing against a particular church, per se, but more so have just been enjoying the space and permission to explore what "church" might be in the first place.  I've dabbled in different known congregations, as well as simply showed-up to completely unknown ones.  (Like literally, I just get in my car and drive until I pass a church with a relatively near-by service time.  I've done this twice.  Once was amazing.  Once sucked.  They both served nutter-butters after the service.)

"Church" is the most fascinating and sad and hopeful and hopeless concept to me right now.  Not sure what that says about me (probably that I'm a nerd and a seminary student), but for whatever its worth, its teaching me a heck-of-a-lot about God.  And I like that.

Later.

Always seems like summer holds these grandiose plans for relaxation, but somehow you get to August and feel sunburned and more tired.  So far for me, summer has been a messy transition where rest has looked pretty restless.  One day has seamlessly rolled into the next and I don’t have a gage on the last month.  And ironic, or causal, or coincidental, or affectal, it hit me en flight home from a wedding this weekend that I've also been out of sync with God.

Though I tend to buck most “traditional customs” of being in relationship with Him, it dawned on me that some of the more traditional disciplines of Christianity took hold for a reason.  Something of their end brought focus and enjoyment, for a time, to their means.  And if I’m honest, I can’t help but wonder if something of their lacking in my summer living is affecting my synclessness?  I’ve not been attending church regularly.  I’ve not been journaling much.  Serving has been sporadic.  And spending time with God’s Word has been sparse.
 
Am I saying I’ve done something wrong, or not enough right, so am therefore "out of sync?"  No!  I'm a big believer in God having me where I am on purpose, and also Him being at work where(ever) I am.  But, I am saying there’s something to be said for the gift of spiritual disciplines.  There’s something to be said for intentionality and structure and commitment in our relationship with God (or anyone).  You’d think I’d have this down after two years of graduate level study with it, but I don’t.  I’m still learning.

I’m aware that structuring discipline into my summer won’t promise an end, but I’m also aware that sometimes I don’t need an end; just a beginning.

I guarantee either you, or one you lead, struggles with body, image, or body image problems. It’s unarguably one of the most pertinent topics for modern ministry.  So pertinent, and expansive, really, that I’ll not pretend one chunk of thoughts suffices for conclusions.  But as I’ve said before, blogging is fun cause random chunks and admitted inconclusions are okay.  So here goes...
 
I’ve been struggling with my own image issues lately, so decided to put a blanket over my full-length mirror.  It’s been great. Has forced me to ponder “seeing myself” and “what I look like,” from a different angle.  And oddly enough, drawn me back to an afternoon in northern Uganda last summer.  Walking with a local through random bush villages, at one point he warned, “Now most of these people have never seen a white person, so there’s no telling how they’ll react.” What he didn’t tell me, however, was that “most of these people” were children—most of this village was under age fifteen, so young in years, maybe, but severely aged in what they’d seen. For the brunt of the afternoon, I spent time playing with kids of a different generation, different language and different worldview.  Statistically speaking, I’ll live to 78.  They’ll be lucky to make next year.  I have a set of parents, plus godparents and a handful of random parents, who could further parent me should something happen to my own.  These kids are their own.
 
Most of my time was spent with a family of nine.  Both parents had died, leaving their oldest at 11’ish and youngest less than six months.  Not only had none of them seen a white person, but neither had any of them seen themselves. The closest they’d come was the reflection from a shallow puddle, or shiny knife.  So suffice it to say, introductions to a digital camera were pure magic.  At first they seemed to think it was a gun, scared to death and wanting nothing to do with this black weapon.  But eventually, they realized the little tool could produce some pretty unbelievable shrapnel. It delivered a picture that was bright, detailed and somehow familiar.  Upon seeing one of the images, the eleven-year-old “mom” of the family ran away crying.  I wonder what she saw? Before long, dots were connected and reflections on the screen quickly yielded into mimics of our scene. And soon after that, logic caught pace with imagination, or imagination with logic, and it was realized they, then, must be in those reflections too? For the first time, these people saw what they looked like.  And yet somehow, it was still evident to me that they knew better than me what their true imaged entailed.
 
To fathom a world without mirrors…a world without measuring panes of size, shape and beauty, or seasoned sightings of how one looks…is unfathomable.  So I’ve been wondering if maybe seeing and sight has a more expansive definition than I’ve been sold—or “reflection” a less holistic answer to my “image”?  Maybe “seeing ourselves,” as we know it, isn’t the end, or beginning, it’s cracked-up to?  Though black boxes and glass are unarguably cool, maybe they don’t see all reality, or show all of ones self?  Furthermore, maybe there are other ways to learn what I look like, than a mirror, screen, or Facebook photo.  It seems that since I am inside of me, I am incapable of fully seeing me.  So maybe like these children, God permits other ways of learning to see—like seeing inwardly, as a means to my outward?  
 
How is it that I surrender something unseen (myself), to Someone unseen (God), in belief that doing so will allow me to see (faith, as described in Hebrews 11:1)?  
 
Maybe our ability to see is somehow rooted in our ability to know?  So that in learning to know ones self, we actually learn what we look like?
 
Let me get back to you.

My friend Garret called last week.  He was in town from Atlanta and wanted to hang for the night.  I was amidst finals and just having a crappy day, so told him it might not be the best timing.  “We’ll, here’s the deal, Abbie.  I have an extra ticket to the finale of American Idol tonight, so if you wanna meet me at my (Four Seasons Beverly) hotel, be here in an hour.  We’ll head to the show and then grab some dinner.  I’d love to treat you, but understand if it’s too last minute.”  I got ready in about ten minutes and headed downtown.  Suffice it to say, it was an insane night.  From waiting outside with Ozmans for our limo, to turning down fifth row seats for stage-side, then meeting Simon and dining fine at Spago, it was the Hollywood dream, to say the least.  

Funny thing was (well, one of the many funny things about the night was), I’d never even seen American Idol, so had no idea who “the Davids” were, or Simon, for that matter.  So from a completely objective, outsiders perspective, I was amazed at the obsession (understatement) with “idols.”  The poster-screaming, hope-dreaming shouts of love, lust and fantasy in a blatant, idolatrous fashion.  People love to dream—and shoot, if you get the chance to actually live in it for fifty minutes, why not, these people seemed to preach!?  The waking-up will surely come, but maybe seconds of the dream suffice to trump the sad wake to reality.  For maybe when reality feels hopeless, or loveless, or bored enough, the fantasy can at least fill in a part of the gap.  Even if the majority of this Idol audience knew they were loving a lie, at least they could know love—or taste love, for a time.  Maybe jaded love is better than none at all—cheap love, fake love, or forced love beats the lacking loves sung by reality.

97 million people voted for this season’s American Idol…and that doesn’t even account for the number who simply who simply watched.  

There is no question that this generation is confused by love.  The question, I think, is what does it look like for us to sing the Truth?

Forgiveness has always been one of those tiny, yet knowingly robust words I didn’t understand.  Realizing that’s because in order to forgive another, or be forgiven by another, there seems a prerequisite, or at least companion requisite, of forgiving yourself.  And I’m just learning that.  

The end is the beginning.  And all earthly ends always move toward new beginnings.

Do you tell people sitting next to you that their cologne is waaaay too strong?

I thought my heart had loosed hope.  But it hadn’t.  I was still hoping that if, when, or then…  But God’s hope doesn’t seem to impose such attachments.  It just is.  He just IS.  Professing God as my “only hope” is not natural.  And requires supernatural cooperation.

Geez…and its only 9:24am.  A WELL of depth and question and unseen, scary Life is brewing inside me.  Holy Spirit, lead on.

http://www.stevencurtischapman.com/

(or When Sin Got Sexy or The Church’s View on Smoking or It Would Suck to Have Asthma)

In an attempt to dissuade smoking, I remember adults and health books saying it looked “uncool.”  I hardly agreed.  Although never taking-up the habit, “uncoolness” was far from the compelling cause.  I have to say, the thought of one smoking in a Parisian café, suavely engrossed in a good book, or stimulating conversation, rates as one of the more “cool” looking scenes in my opinion.  In its proper context, I think smoking is sexy.  

Too bad it gives you cancer.

(Random aside: I wikepedia’ed smoking and came to find that these little white sticks have dented history since 3000BC!?  Among other interesting, disturbing facts, “Between 1970 an 1995, per-capita cigarette consumption in poorer developing countries increased by 67 percent, while it dropped by 10 percent in the richer developed world. Eighty percent of smokers now live in less developed countries. By 2030, the World Health Organization (WHO) forecasts that 10 million people a year will die of smoking-related illness, making it the single biggest cause of death worldwide, with the largest increase to be among women. WHO forecasts' the 21st century's death rate from smoking to be ten times the 20th century's rate ("Washingtonian" magazine, December 2007)).

I was taking a walk the other day and passed a relatively fit looking woman on the other side of the road.  She was probably fifty or so, and I think what led to my initial double take was the fact that she required the pursuit of an inhaler two times in our fifty-yard span of passing.  Man, it would suck to have asthma.  But what an inspiration to see people like this, captured by disease, or disability, but still committed to a life that fights the odds.

But then I realized it wasn’t an inhaler.  

The woman was smoking a cigarette.  

While walking.  

Inspirational moment had passed.

Maybe something about this was good though—at least she was still exercising, right?  And certainly being “transparent” in her addiction.  But…really…together…cigarettes and cardio?  Could they work?  Should they work?  Puffing the odd cigarette in a Parisian café is one thing.  Sucking down cigs while exercising is another.  And publicly!  But then I got back on my “things that suck” bandwagon and realized an addiction to smoking must be really awful.  I have enough addictions and rarely have the gall to admit to them, especially in public.  Her authenticity appealed to me and although it didn’t strike me as sexy, it did strike me as honest—and I liked that.  Which led to my consideration of today’s “emerged church.”  We love authenticity.  But unfortunately, I feel like it’s taken on a pretty sexy twist.

It’s one thing to attempt belief in a wooden cross and unconditional Christ who wants to save you.  But it’s an entirely other to walk that out.  As if it’s enough.  As if his exercise really cuts the bill.  Without cost.  Without adornment.  Without a sexy cigarette in hand.  I think a lot of our dogma has moved into walking while smoking—because at least you’re out for the walk...and, at least you’re smoking with authenticity.  

So am I saying we can’t have our walk and smoke our cigarette, too?  In some ways, I guess, yeah.  But I think the bigger thing I’m saying is that there’s a temptation to make, and keep, sin sexy.  To over-glorify exercise with a cigarette, versus just exercise—to keep afloat destructive habits, as long as they’re “in accountability.”  Again though, I’m not saying cigarettes are “bad,” or “following Christ and/or authenticity,” is a seamless “good.”  Furthermore, I’m not meaning to minimize, or maximize, given habits.  These are theologically fringe conversations you can take up with God.  What I am meaning to say though, is that I think we’ve gotta be willing to further grapple with an atoned for, yet transparently addicted culture of saints.  Furthermore, to tread lightly in treating the arguably sexy appeal of sin.  Can they walk together?  Should they walk together?  How do they walk together?  

Because no matter how sexy smoking can seem, it still leads to death.

Airplane

Airplanes are one of the more perplexing things in life to me.  They’re intimate and communal, yet detached and individual. Unfaithful in offering a detailed view, yet immeasurable in light of granting “the big picture.”

I’m flying right now.  En route home from the Orange Conference in Atlanta, which collected thousands of leaders aiming to rethink our thoughtful (and sometimes not so thoughtful) attempts at “Church.”  It was encouraging on many fronts, but overwhelming on many others—revealing a naked and yet overdressed, vow-less and yet overly complex, modern Bride.

The man behind me is speaking German and has ordered three “vodka and tonics.”  The woman in front of me is holding a baby.  She seems sad and tired.  The man beside me snores in intervals of three and hasn’t moved since take-off.  The guy across the way looks about forty, with a young daughter.  Going by their head-gear, they’re Jewish and look to have a tender relationship.  And these are but the inside faces.  My window keeps changing its visage, from cloud, to mountains and soon to be ocean.

Imagine all the stories on just this plane, let alone the faces of atmosphere airing its frame.  Where do they come from?  And where are they going?  Which can’t help but make me think about leaving this conference and wondering where we’re all going—and if the airtime we experienced was enough to change where we’ll choose to go?

I believe the distance between the Church Body is shrinking.  Mileage between denominations and destinations seems to be lessening.  Masses are colliding and ministries collaborating toward new (and newly old) attempts at the Commission.  But I’m still can’t help but realize we’re gonna land in 46 minutes…and all these people are gonna go their own way and reenter their own story.  And I have to wonder if all of us from the conference will do the same?  If all of us in the Church will continue doing the same?  Will we choose to keep colliding on certain fronts, sharing airtime and elevation, but then isolate again when the rubber hits the runway?

Not sure what I’m meaning to say here, exactly, or if there’s every anything conclusive to say after all—heck, I’m thousands of feet in the air, so far from conclusive statements of precision.  I guess I just want us, and me, to be aware of the Churches full process in attempting to fly—the take-off and landing points, as much as the airtime in-between.  That we’d be grounds in our points of departure and destination, but risky in our willingness to head upwards.  I guess I just want our generation of disciples to be with the Bride in all parts of Her aisle—porch and alter, as well as airtime in between.  Flying high with lofty ideas and innovation is good, but its most important and challenging task is “landing well.”  Integrating successfully.  

The bad news is, I have no idea what this looks like.  For me.  For you.  For us.

But the good news is, the pilot just announced a grace period.  Seventeen minutes till landing.

makes it easier to believe God can handle the whole world in His hands today, but struggles to handle just mine?

I was asked in a radio interview last week the biggest challenge confronting college campuses today.  I said “isms,” with pluralism and relativism topping the list.  Imagine if your campus was restructured such that all faiths were combined under the same umbrella (I can’t not mention that “ella, ella, ella” is running through my head right now).  Imagine that your “staff position” was mixed with that of the Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist and Athiest staffers, too?  "You’re all aiming for the same thing right?!  Trying to help students explore their “god-concepts”? Ummmm, sort, but no, not really…  The LA Times ran an article Sunday that doesn’t fall too far off this paradigm shift. http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-op-alameddine6apr06,0,2743519.story

It’s eerie how much this article took me back lawn conversations and lectures during my undergrad days at Emory.  In short, the writer takes about 80% of the article to build a point regarding “Allah” as synonymous with “God,” and thus rightfully needing to be used as such in the English vocabulary.  The point is padded by remarking that so many religious faces are acceptingly worn by “God,” and yet Allah remains separate—dangerously separate.

I’ll agree to the extent that openness to the term and context of “Allah” would do our linguistic and existential vocabularies well.  But on almost every other front, I have to disagree.  Compartmentalizing all gods into one “God” ends up minimizing all the gods.  Every “god” of every religion is unique and uniquely named into its given culture, history, cult and/or custom.  And although most may assume similar characteristics, they mean different things, to the degree that that have been differentiated at some point in history in order to designate a given faith, or spirituality.

Presuming that “all gods are the same” and should be titled under the same heading (“God”) feels to me like saying “all people are the same,” so let’s ditch specific “names” and just refer to each other as “people.”  Furthermore, consider my current writing environment: a family of bluebirds is singing into my window, and the Berlin Philharmonic is wafting spectacular notes from my living room below.  But what if I were to say, “There are animals making noise outside my window and sounds coming from downstairs.”  Oh how this minimizes the grandiosity of precise sound enriching my ears!

Finally, and I feel like I’m just getting started, but the writer of the article ended with: “One nation under Allah?,” as if to say this is where our country needs to head.  What a scary thought, I think—not because Allah is scary, but because trying to “refound” the history of a given country, let alone faith, is manipulative, dangerous and dishonest.  America wasn’t founded as a nation under Allah, or else old Christopher would’ve said so.  Furthermore, Islam wasn’t founded under “God,” or else I’m quite sure their Christopher would’ve said so, too, for Allah’s sake.

I wonder what it felt like?
I wonder what he felt like?

And why him in the first place?  It’s not like there weren't other people on the road, or like he didn’t have anything to do that day.

What about the minutes wherein they chose him?  Did they yell at him, or beat him - did he fight back?  How much force did agreement take?  What was Jesus doing during this time?

What did agreeing feel like?  Did he know the cause at hand?  Or its effect?  Did he even know who Jesus was?

How long was the walk?  Did he ever hear the whole story?  Did he need to hear the whole story?  

What does it mean that Sovereignty allows crosses?
Allows us to carry crosses?
Chooses us to carry crosses?
And sometimes forces us to?

Heard an interview with Drew Barrymore lately, where she said, “I don’t want to sit around and hope good things will happen.  I want to make them happen…I want to be in control of my own destiny.”  And on a different, but I-promise-to-tie-together-in-a-second-note, I was strolling by the ocean last week and distracted by the accelerating legs of a small bird.  He made me smile, with sand-cast feet running full-speed away from the approaching waters.  Each wave, clearly more wise and experienced than this little creature, showed uncanny amusement almost, as it let the bird race gravity.  Out of breath and in what seemed his fated end, the determined creature contributed one final stride.  And then, as if destiny were never in question, his wings took rise as his body glided off the sand into the warm, spring air.        

I was impressed by this exhausted run, but more exhausted by the bird’s forgotten ability to fly.  Because in a remarkably similar way, I forget this same thing.  If what God says is true, and I really have every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 1:3), I have the power to fly—but typically choose to walk chained.  

Any given day finds me running as fast and as far as my legs will take me, which on good days is pretty far.  But the sad truth is, I’ve still settled for the pace of running, when I have the option of graced flying.  I’ve substituted the cheap lie that lets me function, for the unfathomable Life that lets me fly.  

We all want to make good things happen.  Great things, even.  But we can only cover so much ground, before the waves take us over—control so much distance, before destiny takes us under.  I’m wondering what would it look like today to be delivered from our own feat, and positioned into God’s?

Weakness—I think that’s what I need.  I think that’s what I want to ask God for today.

Outlandish?  Completely. Counterintuitive to me, culture and a lot of “the church”?  Utterly.  

But the truth of it is, I need to be weak.  God’s Word, and God, himself, I am realizing this Easter week, is flooded with personifications of weakness.  Endured weakness, failed weakness, transformed weakness, transforming weakness, and ultimately, I guess, resurrected weakness.  And maybe this is a stretch, but as of today, I feel like something of the crux of Christianity lies a willing surrender to weakness.  

Heard a thought recently that I can’t let go of.  “People will admire you for being strong, but love you for being weak.”  I have tried for most of my life to be strong.  I covet admiration and crave affirmation.  I long for people to see me as unfailing—to know my faith as unshaking.  Bottom line, I do whatever I can to avoid weakness.

Strength saturates our culture.  It’s sexy, stable and stands on its own.  Unfortunately though, it’s also a never-ending facade.  Yes, strength is always willing to lead us somewhere, but it’s always a Somewhere Road to nowhere.  So what I’m learning is weakness is actually my source of going where God wants me to go, which may mean “going,” but may also mean staying, being, or waiting, i.e. taboos in our culture, and in our post-fall complexion.  

As a Christian, my greatest understanding of Christ rises in my greatest understood weakness without him.  Thus, my strength after God MUST be prefaced by weakness in me.  Willingness to surrender—willingness to admit imperfection—this then, is my to way to strength.  My way to love.  The way to God.  

When I am weak, then I have reason to be with God.  When I am weak, then I am strong (2 Corinthians 12:10).

If I’m honest, I’d much rather ask you, than God.  I’d much rather hear your answer, than “hope” to hear one from Him.  Why is this?  Do I really think you know more than Him, or better than Him?  No.  But do I really think God knows more than me, let alone what’s better for me?  Apparently not, which leads me to my next question.

Are our prayers really being heard?  Because if I’m really human, which I am, and if God’s really inhuman, which He is, is our “connect” really possible?  Is His hearing really plausible?  No, It’s really not.  So my only fair, or quasi logical, conclusion then, is that prayer isn’t possible without some mediary source.  Or force, rather (see Luke 2:5). Prayer isn’t normal or natural.  It leans more toward ridiculously abnormal and unnatural, in fact.  But I guess if God were really my God, wouldn’t I want Him that way!?

Believing the Lord as sovereign assumes believing the Lord has a plan.  So that, whether you pray for him, or I invest in her, God’s will will prevail.  His story will unfold.  Essentially, your prayers don’t determine outcomes.  Does that mean they don’t matter?  No.  But does that mean peripheral theologies of why you should, or shouldn’t pray have gotten off line.  Yes.  Too often, I think, we lose sight of our ‘role’ in praying.  Our role in God’s eternal story.  What we’re offered in prayer and optioned through Jesus Christ, is the capacity to ask unnatural things for the sake of supernatural intervention.  Impossible dreams of man, by way of possible faith in God.  When you ask something outlandish and see it come about, who gets the credit?  Who, but God, finds you amazed?

So I guess the question I’m left asking is, if we really believed our lives script scenes of eternity, and really believed God as jealous for our voices, why the heck wouldn’t we get-in on it!?  Why the heck would I prioritize asking your opinion, over His?

(I'm contributing a weekly blog to www.collegeleader.org, a new site for college ministry resources, so many of my posts here will come straight from there, including this one.  Hope you're well!  Abbie)

“So what’s going on with you spiritually?” I asked through the steam of two cups of coffee. 
The student responded, “You know, I’m doing okay, but really struggling in a certain area.” 
At this point I was pretty convinced what the ensuing minutes would entail.  Namely, that topic that every student of Jesus will eventually face—and certainly every college student.
“Hmm,” I said, trying to remain at height with the conversation, “would you feel comfortable unpacking the struggle a little more?” 
“Yeah…I guess…I mean, I think a lot of people struggle with it, too…it’s just that, well, I don’t really know what to do about it.  Like…I don’t really know why it’s so bad lately.” 
“Well,” I said, seeing shame embodied before me, “let’s try to at least get this “it” on the table, and then maybe we’ll go from there.”
“Okay…well, it’s just this problem with…lust…I think about the opposite sex and sex and just lustful stuff all the time.” 
“Okay,” I said, “talk to me about those thoughts a little more.” 
“Ummm, I don’t know what else to say…it’s just like really bad and really gross.” 
At this point the student became more frustrated at the “it,” or the self, or something of the two.  “It’s like I can’t get lustful thoughts out of my head.  And they come-up at random times, like while I’m trying to study, or watch TV, or even trying to pray!?” 
“Gosh…it seems like God is unveiling a lot here.  Thank you for being willing to talk about it.  It’s clearly been burdening you a lot.”
“Yeah…yeah, it really has,” the student said, looking down at the table.  “I hate it.  And I hate me when I hate it.  And I can’t imagine how God would want anything to do with this—and definitely me in this.” 

The “it” of this conversation is not unlike many, and probably most, we’ll sit across from (or with) this semester.  As I’ve started to explore the topic (“lust”) with God, taking into account my presumptions and presuppositions, I’ve come upon some pretty interesting ends—well, not ends maybe, but at least entrances into beginnings I’d love to toss out. 
How does this four-letter word carry such power in our Christian lives, and persistence in our Christian journeys?  How does something so good and potentially opportunistic, become such an evil in an untraceable matter of seconds?     So I’m a nerd and went to dictionary.com.  The definition of lust is as follows:

1.    intense sexual desire or appetite.
2.    uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness.
3.    a passionate or overmastering desire or craving (usually fol. by for): a lust for power.
4.    ardent enthusiasm; zest; relish: an enviable lust for life.
5.    Obsolete.
a.    pleasure or delight.
b.    desire; inclination; wish
6.    to have intense sexual desire.
7.    to have a yearning or desire; have a strong or excessive craving
(synonyms: crave, hunger, covet, yearn)

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)  Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

Nothing too surprising, maybe, but of further interest was the etymology of lust, exposing original usages of, "joyful and merry,” and in later years, "full of healthy vigor.”  Christological interpretation followed, carrying the trophy that disturbed every positive inclination this word ever held.  Easton’s 1897 Bible Dictionary explains lust in two ways: sinful longings (referencing Romans 1:21) and objects of desire (referencing Mark 4:19).  And yes, I am in seminary, but no, I’m not about to exegete all “lustful passages” in Scripture.  I guess what I want to throw-out though, is what it would look like for lust to not always be the “bad-guy”—to not always be the “struggle” we assume, or standard to which we prescribe “accountability partners”?  Must the (natural) tendency of lust be always boxed as “sin”—always branded all bad?  Moreover, what if lust could actually bridge a good—a gateway into prayer, or glorifying potential of grace?  What if lust could be explored as an aspect of our sexuality, and window toward honoring the others’?   What if culture, Church, or Satan’s obsession with lust deflated to its intended role—to something designed with joy and boastful of vigor for Jesus?  What if lust was redefined—as a means, and not an end?  Rediscovered—in terms of gain, and not guilt?

What if lust was a gift?

Odd coincidence of posting the last three Thursdays.  Weird.  Anyway, grateful for the some thoughts from psychologist, Carl Jung this week.

"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."
...
"The least of things with a meaning is worth more than the greatest of things without it." 
...
"Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking.  The one is the shadow of the other."
...
Hoping you're well tonight.
PEACE.
Abbie

How much can the heart take? 
When one man’s battle is another man’s breeze, where is the level to which one can hurt?  Or what is the liberty to which one should help?  Where is the level to which one can guard
his “wellspring of life?”
Or what is the end to which one should unguard
his journey of life?

If you put yourself out there, you put yourself out there. 
   You put yourself in the space.  
                             The space between known and unknown.  
                             The space between seen and unseen.  
When
   you put yourself out there,
   you put yourself into nakedness.  
                       Into the space where shame hides.     Or hollers. 
                                             Where freedom hides.  Or hollers.

Love wants to be one-sided. 
But it’s two. 
You can have my glory,
but there’s a cost at stake, too.  
Love wants to be easy.        
But it’s hard.
You can have my romance,
but there’s a journey standing guard.  

How much can the heart take?

What if there was a canvas  
that was finished.  
And what if the artist of that canvas
showed it to a viewer.
“Wow,” the viewer might say.  “That’s stunning.”
“Thank you…that really means a lot,” the artist might humbly respond.

Turning to the piece, however, he shares a chuckling, questioning, coveting of sorts. “How can he call you stunning, having viewed you only so briefly?  And with such brief understanding, relative to what we’ve shared?”  

“What if though,” the canvas replied, “he could actually see something stunning, despite limited perspective of our whole?”  
What if stunning could be found in a color, curve, or even corner of us—versus seeing the whole of our final masterpiece?”

What if part was enough to stun today?
What if stunning was enough to fully realize part?

What if there was a canvas
that was finished.
And the artist could see the stunning whole, but the viewer could only see part.
And yet what if that part could be called stunning
and in many ways
whole.

“What if,” said the artist to the viewer.   

Jesus was born here. 
Meaning he deliberately stepped-out of heaven.
Decidedly chose to be a child. 
A baby. 
A life who needed to be cared for. 
A love who wanted to live.
What humility.
What humanity.
And for the one ultimately (and originally) called our Savior.
Our God. 
Our King. 
What a story we’ve been invited into.
What an invitation we’ve been sent.
What a miracle.
What a mystery.
What a man. 

I was walking with friend in Hermosa Beach this weekend.  We decided sipping coffee while watching surfers would be fun (it’s a tough life in southern California), so ascended a hill toward the best java-joint of choice, i.e. Peets, as a family on bikes was noticed as coming toward us.  At first glance they looked like the happy little clan, out for a morning ride.  But in closer observance, the youngest boy had a stench of fear in his eyes, as well as increasingly velocity in his wheels.  He’d lost control and was going downhill fast—literally.  His training wheels were tottering back and forth, swinging his fragile body to dangerous degrees.  “Daaaddddy, I can’t stop,” he screamed, as my friend and I went breathlessly numb.  Mom and Dad were on bikes, too, so were of no help but terrifying stares of horror.  He had about ten yards till he crashed through us, and then about another ten before he hit a big intersection.  In what seemed like an hour-long pass of seconds though, his out-of-control wheels spun him into safety.  Spun him into a cinderblock wall.  Into a cement savior who’d come to his rescue.

Though the entrance wasn’t pretty, and rather quite abrupt, painful and bruising, little-boy-biker was alive.  His life had been spared.  By a wall.  By a boundary.  By a brick bordering otherwise known as hard and heartless.  This morning, however, these arms were soft and incredibly heartfelt.

They saw.  They protected.  They saved.

Maybe roadblocks are good.  Maybe walls aren’t always the worst of our predicament.

Stoic bricks on the outside, but sensitive points of saving when I scream, “Daddy, I can’t stop.”

It’s easier when you know the whole story.  Makes more sense when all the pieces have fallen.  But that’s not where I am.  And per request, that’s not what I’m posting.  My latest thoughts have been unfinished. Unfinished starts, and unstarted ends.  It’s like they’re soaking the middle.  Steeped in the tension.  And I’m realizing that to dismiss this space—to discard this mess—is to lose the story.  To minimize the whole.  So here I am. Maybe these starts will further your finish, or maybe these midpoints resurface your start.  Or maybe we’ll just stay here and revel in the middle.

***
The Fall—how did it feel?  What did it sound like?  How was it to experience the birth of fear?  Like in the garden…like when Eve consciously chose the apple…  Do you think her appearance changed?  Do you think her stomach flooded with anxiety, or maybe “falling” was more subtle?  And Adam—how was the experience for him?  What were his thoughts?  What did he say at his lover’s choice?  Did creation scream?  Or maybe it went numb?
*
Who would I want to trust that has the power to take everything away?  
But who else would I want to trust?
*
Jesus died on the cross to restore perfect relationship with our Heavenly Father.  What does this mean?  What does it mean that at the base of Roman nails, a soul finds nourishment in the cleansing blood of Christ?  Or that at the cross, we are rescued from ourselves, rescued from the death of this world, and most profoundly, rescued into the loving arms of our purposed chase—a Lord who, “Out of all the peoples on the face of the earth, has chosen you to be his treasured possession” (Deuteronomy 14:2)?
*
The call to marriage and God's sovereign plan for finding the “one” seems most about a sovereign plan for one's heart and heart's mutual readiness for find that one.
*
Do you ever feel like you give and give and give…and you’ve given so much that you’re done...out...at the end of your rope?  Hurt, tired and empty….saying to God, Lord, how do I do this?  How much am I suppose to give?  How much did you give?  How far does your grace go?  How far did your grace go?...”  I wonder how God would respond?  Wonder if He might say something like this, "I know child…I hear you.  My grace goes as far as it needs to.  My grace goes farther than it can fathom.  My grace goes back to the cross.  Always.  My grace always goes back to the cross.  Back to the point of death.  To the point of killing me.  Grace killed me.  Killed me for life.  For your life.  I died because my deepest longing was your birth.  
*
He knew who he was.
He knew whose he was.
He knew what he wanted.
He knew what he had.
*
I long for him tonight.  I long for the knight in shining armor.  I long for the smell, for the touch, for the silent gaze that speaks a novel.  What is that Lord?  What true longings found these thoughts?  What true desires sweep away my longings?  The blindfold on my heart is tired today.  But the raw strands of desire are exhausted too.  I can't run from it anymore, but my tears running toward it have cried their last.  The chase has found me beat.  The chasing has found me beaten.  How long must I wait, O Lord?  How long must I wait?  What is love, Father and who defines it?  What is not love, Lord, and who can so discern?  Is it the discrepancies that blind?  Or are blind?
*
Doing is so much easier than not doing
*
I saw a girl chasing a butterfly today.  It was glorious—the innocence, the artistry, the creation.  What is she really wanting though?  Is it the completion of the the caught fly?  Or the journey of actually chasing it?  Confusion seems to awaken when we chase an end without knowing its really for another.  Or when we chase another, unable to embrace its already found end.
*
Ever feel like your faith is frozen?  Wanting to move anywhere, but feeling stuck, to some degree, everywhere?  You know it has the potential to ebb and flow and mist and make, but right now it’s hard as a rock.  You’ve seen it soak and fill, and you’ve experienced its taste and filling, but its current state is dull, dark and fixed.  Frozen, cold and scared.
*
Mindful: "What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?  You made him a little lower than the angels; you crowned him with glory and honor and put everything under his feet." Hebrews 2:6-7
I love the word, "mindful."  I love how philosophical it sounds, how introspective it reads and even how intellecutally it speaks.  What I don't love about mindfulness, is how hard it is.  Based on sheer semantic breakdown, mindful connotes carrying a full mind of, toward, to, or from something.  So the obvious challenge falls in the fact that to be full of anything, we must be emptied of something else.  In other words, in order for my mind to be filled completely, I must attempt an emptying of what’s already there.  Consider mindful listening.  If I want to be mindful in hearing you speak, my mind must attempt to be “full” of you—and thus to some degree, intentionally “less full” of me.  
*
Prodigal Freedom: I was always the perfect one, so didn’t relate to the story, or circumstance, or strayings of “the prodigal son.”  I was clean, innocent and didn’t need forgiveness.  I was the brother.  But now I’m angry.  Now I have done all the deeds and delivered the good life, but am still empty.  Am still longing.  Still lusting after the life I don’t have and freedom I don’t experience.  To get there though, I’m thinking part of me might have to embrace my stance as the prodigal—unveil my masked states of rebellion.  Not because of the rebellion itself, but because of what lies beneath.  Because of its instant gratification and then let-down.  Because of its turning, and then returning, to the porch I was made for.  The Home I was Freed for.  The hell I was Freed from.  But doing so means I let go of control.  I let go of my guard.  And resultingly, I follow and let Someone else in.  And that scares the hell out me.
*
Home: Something in me longs for home today.  But what, I must ask, is home—be it a home, my home, or the home?  It’s not as simple as grieving my church home, or residential home.  And it’s not as complicated, or far-off, as my spiritual home.  It’s a space between—a tension unscripted.  
I long to be at home in my body today, but I also long to be at home in my surroundings.  I long to taste the familiarity of peace, but I long to bring comfort to the confines of injustice.  I long to rest, and I long to play.  I long to be with and I long to be without.  I long to be whole and I long to be empty.  I long to live and I long to die.  
For in without, I am with.
In being empty, I become whole.
In coming to die, I choose to live.
Something in me longs for home today.
*
I’ve heard myself pray for opened or closed doors, believing such doing insists that, "God's will is being done."  Recent musing, however, has found me realizing it’s not just a matter of an open, or closed door.  My willingness to walk, or not walk through, is equally crucial.  "Yes, there you are God, but yes, here I am, too."
*
Loving: I asked my mom if she loved God.  She responded, “Yes.”  Then I asked her if she was in love with God.  She said, “No.”
*
Her tattoo caught my eye.  First impression was from across the bar, so I couldn’t make-out more than a caliedescope of colorful, Chinese script.  Moving closer, though, the shape morphed into a cross, coupled with a subscript that read: “RUINED FOR LESS.”  I loved it.
*
I learned what I don’t want to be when I grow-up.  A truck-driver.  See, I always thought leadership meant leading forward.  I thought it meant you lead and I’ll follow.  And it does, in some ways.  But it also doesn’t, in maybe a lot more ways.  That's what the truck driver taught me.
*
Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think we tote deepest impression when we are least like the world.  Which seems to leave us in the most capable state to actually change the world?  And thus, maybe find ourselves most relevant to it?
*
Have you ever considered that a Savior was born to die?

It was broken.  And dirty.  And gross.  And I was able to be with them.  There were feces on the sidewalk and urine puddles rinsing our sandals.  It was drug-infested and prostitute-infected—and all in my own backyard.  

I spent yesterday in Skid Roe, touring the grounds and serving alongside a friend who works with Union Rescue Mission, as well as two ex-Tweakers (meth-addicts), ripe with memories grafting hellish days in this fifty block range.  The past couple weeks have found me itching to be back in the broken realities of Africa, often harder to recognize here.  A few collisions have scratched pretty clearly though, providing a brokennes, and reality, that would've been hard to miss.

Yesterday I was able to be with Andy, six months into his recovery program and convinced, “This is the time, because it’s finally me that wants it (recovery), versus God, or someone else, wanting it for me.”  Last weekend I was able to share dinner with a homeless woman named Nancy.  She comes from an educated and lucrative background and spoke of fond memories living on a farm and “breathing the airs of freshness” (I loved that she spoke of air in a plural sense…how did something so robust and uncontainable gain such a confined, singular phraseology?).  And I’m not sure if you remember the story of Barbara (see February posts), but she’s been a special player in bridging my gaps to brokenness, and has ironically resurfaced this week.  Barbara called at midnight on Saturday, ecstatic to apologize for her silence, but more ecstatic to brag that she’d been in a strict rehab program and as of that morning (at 12:01am), had been sober from meth, pot and alcohol for ninety days.  This Friday we will get to share a meal and afternoon of hiking.  If I were gonna die on Saturday, this is exactly how I’d schedule it—truly being with a person and doing so in the unshackled confines of airs.

As I ponder these stories, each seems to pose a bridge.  A bridge to the broken.  A bridge to my brokenness.  A bridge to complexities of the past, concerns for the future and realities of the present.  Each receives me as a bridge to poverty—my poverty and theirs, my wealth and theirs, my story and theirs.  Each presents a bridge to humanity—humanities heart and the heart of humanities longing.

Can it be quantified this simply though?  Life—as a web of bridges—connecting me to you and you to me—or me to me—or me back to them—and all back to Thee?  Could it be—not to fix, or force, or finalize, or face, but to bridge and to be bridged and to be with bridging gaps?

Is this all just a bridge?

I was broken.  And dirty.  And gross.  And you were able to be with me.

It’s daunting to think about leaving. I depart for Kampala in the morning, where I’ll spend my last days with a Rwandan family and some missionary friends. The next time I write will be from my laptop in Los Angeles—a loaded thought, to say the least. By this time next week, I’ll have been in a car (driving on the right-side), eaten without a derivative of corn, potatoes and bananas, bathed, bathed in hot water, savored a tall-soy-chai, shopped at a grocery store, sat on a couch, sat on a beach, seen wealth, indulged in wealth, worn make-up, been somewhere alone, put clothes in a laundry machine, used a cell phone, conversed in clear English, felt safe, healthy and clean, strolled by moonlight and slept in a bed…all of which stand in rich contrast my last two months.

Some obvious questions mark this map then: How will it feel? How will I feel? Am I ready for it? Do I want it? Do I need it? Will I feel guilty? Will I make others feel guilty, etc.? The questions of the coming weeks are somewhat predictable, but the answers, I presume, will remain far more unscripted. I never could’ve imagined what was in store for my summer. I gave God a canvas of will and a few lines that seemed of His lead, but from there, I was His.

At the end of my senior year of college, I asked for a one-way ticket to Africa. I wanted to, “hike through the tribes and love on people.” Simple goal, but sounds outrageous to me now. Thank God a little book idea fell into action—I would’ve been killed before stepping off the plane. Endless reasons able me to look back now and realize a naïve passion drove me, whose realities were untimely and unwise. Knowing now what I didn’t know my senior year, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t in the right place. And the same goes for now. This spring was necessary, in order that I best face this summer. And this summer was required, that I best face the details of this fall. My spring highlighted play, laughter and crying, whereas my summer passed themes of service, rest and newfound faith. God only knows what the coming season will bring.

There are many, many things I will miss about my life in Africa. I’ll miss the monotony of doing laundry by hand. I’ll miss sunset walks by the Nile. I’ll miss the babies. I’ll miss the plainness and predictability of schedule. I’ll miss the community of the volunteer home. I’ll miss the Mamas. I’ll miss silence of cell phones, email and media. I’ll miss the simplicity of living. I’ll miss a lot of the food. I’ll miss the amounts of solitude and rest. I’ll miss meals and minglings with my housemates…and so much more. But I am ready to go. I am ready for a new season and hope potentials of guilt will be soothed by a deeper Guidance, surpassing my understandings and reminding me that I am in the right place. I am in the will of my Father. Shades of this season will surely join me in the next, but a new day is dawning and I feel ready to meet it.

Many parts of here have become familiar, and yet many parts of there remain so, too. Just over a year ago I wrote the following piece, which strikes me as quite similar to how I feel today:

It’s the familiar that grips me today; it’s the familiar that makes me feel at home. What is familiar to me is comforting. It’s comfortable and conforms my humanity to a state of being. Whether it’s being with those whom I know, or being with that which knows me, familiarity holds me in peace. But if such is the case, what lies in the unfamiliar? What stirs in the uncomfortable and unconformed place staring at my headlights?

Come tomorrow, I will approach a new Destiny of sorts, Manifest by the western coast of the United States of America. I will leave the familiar, to lean on but the natural laws of the unfamiliar—change leads to progress, progress leverages growth, etc. From experience, I know that such a move will elicit challenge. But I also know that spending time with that challenge will elicit familiarity again. Maybe different looking, and maybe different feeling, but still in the brand of familiar.

Shifting to a lens less carnal, I’ve been forced to question the unfamiliars of God. Do dictations of familiarity rest in the spiritual realm, too? If so, what aspects of God are unfamiliar to me today? What spaces of His Being have lacked my explore? For lest I humanize a being unchanged, I must trust a path uncharted. But what then, will hold me in lasting peace?

Maybe it is He? Maybe it is One who transcends the road and the transforms the comfort? Maybe it is He who is my Familiar—here, in the “familiar” and there, in the “unfamiliar.”

It’s the Familiar that grips me today; it’s the Familiar that makes me feel at home.

This synopsis from an email summarizes my trip quite well. And succinctly. "it's been so hard, so raw, so lonely, so stretching, so tiring, so enriching, so restful, so eye-opening, so dream-producing, so freeing, so long, so short, so overwhelming, so real, so needed, so wanted, so disturbing, so hunger-producing, so draining, so moving, so scary, so Life-giving, so sensory, so exciting, so boring, so adverturous, so me, so unfathomable to me...with so many so's."

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. Matthew 11:28-30

Have you looked Jesus in the eye today? Have you sought something beyond the natural, or above the normal? Has the Spirit of God found any space in your schedule, or the discipline of faith any means of necessity? Has grace found you on you knees?

There was an hour of this day that owned you. When was it?
There was a conversation that stole your true identity? Why?

Consider, confess, and turn from it, freeing your heart to claim forgivenness as far as the east is from the west!

I'm realizing more and more that I can battle "being" for the rest of my life, or I can submit to "not being," and trust that if God is really who He says, He will. "I am" only takes me so far in being strong, capable, smart, disciplined, wise, even Godly enough, before I come face to face with the reality that I am not...nor will I ever be.

Only God can BE all that I am not.

May you come to the Lord today, and allow His words to give you rest.
"But God, what if..." Daughter, I AM.
"But God, she said..." Beloved, I AM.
"Father, He did..." Child, I AM.
"Lord, they didn't..." Chosen, I AM.
"God, I need..." Blessed one, I AM.
"When it..." I AM.
"Why can't...?" I AM.
"They don't..." I AM.
"But I'm not..." Shhhh, child, be still. I AM.

Be His today, unashamedly His.

Amen.

Have you ever thought about your future spouse? Or should I say, when you think about your future spouse, do you ever wonder about their personality, style, or favorite hobby—what their job, dream-job, or family will entail?

Pop-Christianity has been preaching a "negotiable/non-negotiable" idea for quite some time now, exhorting us to “list” the absolutes and maybes of our spouses. In other words, what are the characteristics you simply can't compromise on, and what are those that are “up for grabs?” Well, I wouldn’t call myself a groupie here, at all, but I do think the topic holds some ground. Thinking beforehand about who we’ll be hand-in-hand with...forever...is clearly important. Irrevocably important, in fact. My hold-up, though, is prioritizing this “list” over the Lord's. I'm convinced that no matter what we subscribe to, He's always willing and wanting to outdo it—otherwise, the mystery of marriage (and life) would be within man’s reach. Let me give you an example.

Yesterday was a slow Saturday morning, where sleeping-in and daydrea