Making things beautiful.

The more I was working, the more I was beginning to feel part of it. I was bitching less. And was on the early stage of actually enjoying the work, instead of fearing it. There was always this mental barrier in my mind, that I would die, or peel over, or burn out if put in these conditions for more than a day. A man like me just couldn’t do that type of work. I wasn’t cut out for it. That somehow my life, my upbringing could not go through that type of experience and come out the other side. Much less a man still intact. And my nuts attached.

The simple repetitions of caulking lines, to the mourning routine before work, which I thought would be soul killing, had a rhythm to them I was starting to settle into and enjoy. Waking up, grabbing all my tools, placing them in the car, spending time praying, and driving to the jobsite contained an order and grounding not experienced in the rush and sporadic life before. There wasn’t this list of a million choices before me. I was painting. Sanding. Or caulking. That was about it. Simple really. And I didn’t have a choice in even that. I showed up to be told orders. It was actually nice to be just told what to do, and to do it. Not have to think so much. Or be told the world had a thousand possibilities to follow those dreams. That wasn’t my choice here.

I started feeling the pride in my job too. I wasn’t just trying to pass the hours, just staring at the clock, but wanting to do a good job, and make the homeowner happy. I wanted to learn better technique. It wasn’t just throwing paint on a wall. Roll well, and caulk solid and seamless lines. I wanted my boss pleased with the product, and my work at the end of the day. I started admiring the work. Not just heading to the next task, but actually staring at what we had accomplished, so proud of what we had help create.

I started feeling more like a painter, not just the experiment this had began as.

It was also true off the job.

I would step into the evening shower with this feeling of accomplishment. The days dust, and spray, and caulk collected on me. The shower was the proof of my hard labor. Of my sweat and work. To be covered in paint and even needing a shower was proof that I had spent the day doing work, which unlike so much of my life, of academics, there was no real tangible sense of what I had accomplished in a day. I never took showers after 5pm. Never needed to. Studying for a test brought at best the reward of a letter or a number. A, 85,C+,76,F,91, these were how I had spent my entire life to achieve. Like carrots held in front of me, I was told to reach for. Rewards that started with a sticker, and smiley faces, and then were told, “you will need this for college one day.” All that validation did much less than when I came home, peeled off the white pants, and shirt, and started scrubbing.

A few friends told me they were envious. That most of their day was staring at computer screens, checking and writing email, and reports. My friend Brian confessed, “I drive by the guys working on houses every morning on the way to my cubicle, and in my mind I am thinking, I want to be doing that. Why the hell am I sitting at this desk? How did I get here?”

I started realizing there was something very admirable in this type of work, I had looked down upon for so long, as below me. Men were almost looking at me like, I wish I could do that. They would tell stories with faces lit up about how they loved mowing the lawn, or how much they loved their first job working as a blacksmith, or on their little 5 foot patch of garden.

As a sign of freedom, I stopped removing every single paint spot from every single piece of skin during my evening shower. Being too tired, or missing spots, and often just not caring to remove it all. I just left areas of paint on my hands or arms. Sometimes walking into a restaurant with my wife with paint on me, and being ok with it. Almost proud of what I was doing.

I started hearing from friends similar stories. A friend who owned a construction business had told me how he had wrestled with his calling staining concrete surfaces. It seemed so far from a true calling in ministry, or working for Jesus—so unspiritual. He was trying to figure out what he was to do when a man asked him, “what if God called you to make beautiful floors?”

He looked at me, and said, that’s what I realized God wants me to do.

“I make beautiful floors.”

It seemed so unspiritual, and yet, so fulfilling, so deep, and so spiritual. That we were to step into God’s creation, and be creators as well. Make stuff. Beautiful things. Nice things. Good things.

Another friend told me of how his father in law had been diagnosed with cancer. Only a few months to live. In thinking about all the things he could do, he decided to make his city, Chattanooga more beautiful. That is what he felt from God. The place was all concrete. He wanted to make it pretty. So he did. Started stopping at interstate exits, and office parks, and planting trees and flowers. People started joining in. Landscapers began donating plants, and before long he had landscaped the city. Making things pretty.

I started feeling that. I was using my body to recreate rooms and peoples living. It was just a room. But I was changing it. Restoring and remaking something old to something new. There was such joy in it, watching rooms explode in colors and richness through my roller and brush. I felt like I was actually participating in something important, as mundane and small as it was.

It seemed at the heart of every man was to create. To build and work on something. A man in Nashville, a pastor named Randy walked into a muffler shop. He watched the man re-do his tailpipe and exhaust, just mesmerized by it. Amazed at what this man was sculpting with metal. He said, “You work like an artist.” This big all fellow stopped, and with tears in his eyes said, “ya know, I’ve always thought of myself that way. As an artist.”

It started making me wonder, how did we lose that? How did it become that we looked so far down on blue collar workers, and laborers? Why was the man of wealth, and wisdom in an office seen as the ideal life?

I did some research and I found out that much of our western thought of work came from Greeks. Even the new testament is written in the language, that society bringing us the words to use to describe the gospel accounts, and Pauls letters to the church. Point being, the Greeks had a great influence on us, and where we are today. The Greeks were thinkers. Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. Their vision was that real work, and honorable work was in the mind. The body was temporal. Thought was where the real work was, “so to speak.” Having money, and not having to do physical labor, allowed you to concentrate on the mind and more important matters of thought and study.

It seemed as years passed, people adopted this for the most part. We put it into part of our Christian lifestyles. The institutions of learning and education were often only found through the church. The schools were the church. The only people that could read and write were the boys who had devoted themselves to study, and who became the priests of the day. The commoners, and laborers and peasants who did not receive this education came to hear their educated counterparts speak about what the scriptures meant, and what the greek words meant. They couldn’t read or spell, and relied on the thoughts of these men to lead them. The priests studied, while the people worked.

It was kinda ironic. Because so many of Jesus parables were about what the commoners were doing, farming, fishing, and the daily things. All the things the people were doing, but very few of the pastors of the day had experienced. They knew things. Intellectually, but few had put their hands to the plow. They were concentrating on the mind, and understanding of scripture. It was important, and we need that, but it gave the power to the intellectuals.

Quite ironic, since Jesus spent most of his life, as just that a commoner—a carpenter.

It seemed before long, labor and spirituality just kinda was separated from one another. And our spirituality became more intellectual than concrete. The study of scripture, and understanding is where most pastors went, as opposed to walking out into a field, and working. Learning the lessons from hardship and sweat, and labor. Our teachers and pastors told stories of their personal lives, which were often spent in a study with a concordance, and volumes of spiritual knowledge.

Talking with a friend about seminaries today, he said it’s a sad story. All these soon to be pastors who had spent their entire life in education. From grade school, to high school, to college, to seminary. Their experiences have been through knowledge of books and education. Good things. But few in the areas of real life, holding a hoe, or landscaping a lawn. All the things that Jesus seemed to speak of in the stories he told. It was quite ironic.

I started seeing all these blue collar workers as having an immense understanding and knowledge of life. They didn't see it as spiritual. And some of it was not. But it was rooted, and grounded in real life, and hardship. Physical stuff. And a world that I had avoided, and had absolutely no stories or understanding. I was starting to see that there was a reason I needed to come here. And experience this. I was on track to be that same guy, like those priests, all in the head. Great ideas, with no grounding, no real life experience to relate to.

I was starting to see this work, not just as a hard lesson on life. But more like a seminary class through real life. My teachers were Carlos, and Juan, and John. My professors.

Worship in the river.

I went to a conference up in Denver that was dealing with worship and the prophetic. It was a good conference, with a very charismatic leader, who spoke words of the Holy Spirit, and revelation. The teaching was profound. The lady worship singer seemed to love a few phrases that she would sing over and over before we got started each day.

Her favorite was… “In the River.”

She kept repeating the words about being in the river with Jesus. And like so many conferences, there were mostly women there, all of whom were loving this picture, and entering into singing from this place in their heart, closing their eyes like they were in the river. I think the worship lady wanted us to feel like we were swimming, and letting the cool water brush up against our face. Being surrounded by Jesus, and the spirit. There was a freedom, as I felt people letting go.

And my own heart trying too as well.

It started picking up steam, and beat, and a few were flayling their arms, like they were back stroking in the river. And a few of those banners were being waved back and forth in the crowd like it was the river. The whole conference room was moving back and forth. I was actually feeling a great peace in the midst of all this going on.

But after a few more minutes of this, we seemed to still be just hanging out in the river. Again, and again, in the river. Apparently it was a really long river. Too long.

The more I sang, the more I felt like I was drowing in the river. It just kept going. Over and over. More and more in the river words. I was staring at all the women around me captured by it all, and so happy to be in it all. Eyes closed, moving to and fro like they were on a cozy raft cruising down the river with Jesus as they felt the water, aka the spirit, rush around them.

All of a sudden, I started laughing. A thought had hit me. I wanted to be on the banks of this river, fishing. My memories fading to the days of being there with men, like Timm and Ron. I wanted this water. But I didn’t want to be in it, I wanted to be fishing on the banks of it. And yeah, I wanted Jesus there, too.

But I wanted him next to me with an Orvis rod, and a two count rhythm leading me into some good holes. I just pictured all these ladies floating down with their little umbrellas and sunglasses on, as we sneaked by them, and moved up the stream to find a section with some big brown trout. As the ladies kept singing, I just kept picturing it, and kept thinking of heaven, and Jesus, and how I just hoped we would fish. And we would be together on some of those rivers he speaks about in Revelation.

Beyond all this singing, somehow I was hoping this fishing, and our time together would actually be worship.

Why hunt? Why fish?

I started asking guys why they hunt and head out into the wilderness. I would ask at a shooting range, or on the river, or at a campfire. Sitting and standing around a group of men, I would say, so guys… tell me why you do this, why you hunt? Why you fish?

People would kinda start stratching their heads. Looking around. Wanting to avoid it.
It was a party killer. Silence would come. Guys would kinda stare at each other, nervous, and then mad at me for asking such a question. I had asked them to think about it, and it seemed counter-intuitive to why they were here. It wasn’t a place you asked life’s serious questions. You just came out, and took place in it. You left all that at home.

It was weird because people would look at me, like what? Are you really asking me that? Other guys would just have no answer. Avoid it. Turn away. Even though they had been doing this for ages, and ages, they had never thought about it. As one guy said, “ya just hunt.” Another guy told me, “I like to hunt.” Which was not really answering why, but I took it. One man said, “I was asking too many damn questions.”

The weird thing is these men weren’t just Joe Dirt rednecks with a Rambo blood lust. Some were CEO’s of logistic firms, bankers, others drove delivery trucks, engineers, white collar bankers, and blue collar car mechanics, it was a smattering and mixture of a little of everything, every type of man. There was no way to pin down fishermen, backpackers, and hunters. They came from everywhere. And it seemed, few of them were talking about why.

If they didn’t say anything, often I would break the silence by opening my mouth, and telling them what it was like for me. Why I started doing these things. Trying to find initiation, and fathering, and stepping into a man’s world, and where I could experience these things and God.

The air would thin out, the mood would shift. Men would start acting shifty. I couldn’t understand it.

At first, I thought I was being the hero. Helping them. I am a writer, I like words. I thought I was helping them name, and explain things. I thought it was my contribution to these men. Help them out a bit.

The more I went, the more I saw, they actually knew this. Not in direct words, but from their stories, and how they told it. The way their faces light up when they at around each other. You could feel it from the stories of who was with them, when they killed the longhorn sheep, or buck off ranger mountain with their son. All the themes of why I was there, were in them. They just didn’t say it.

They didn’t need to.

It seemed they started getting mad at me for exposing this. They wanted it more of a secret. Even though one guy would say he wanted to kill giant elk, I realized it had much more in it. It was for the men, and what happened with men. The stories, the friendship, the laughter, sitting under a clear sky with a fire. This hunting and fishing thing was just the place it happened, the excuse to experience and feel it. It was starting to make more sense.

I stopped asking men. Started enjoying it instead. Tucking the need to put words to things aside.

I started feeling Ron’s love, when he whistled from down the river when I had a trout on, and said nice fish. I knew what he meant is “I love you, and care about you deeply, and I am so honored to be in your life.” The same when I got a knife from Jere who said, “this is for when you kill your first elk this season.” I knew in that was much deeper than kill elk, what he also meant is, “you have what it takes as a man. And I was thinking about you today when I bought this for you.” If PJ called to want to watch a hunting video, it meant as much that he was kinda lonely, and would love to hang out. It was kind of code. Man code. All of this stuff was.

I started seeing this as I ran across various men in their cubicles, and offices. I would walk into a man’s office, and there were pictures of trout on the wall. Or maybe some mounted ducks. It was kinda of life a sign to other men. Like in the movie Fight Club. Although most people saw it as displays of animals, or death. It was actually a picture of life. Those were the symbols, and signs that said, I am part of that group. Again, no words. But just the signs that said, I hunt. I fish.For those who understood this code, as I was starting to pick up, there was just a bond. A connection.

I started noticing a lot of men at coffee shops, and bagel shops in the morning, hanging out doing a bible study. Grown men, sharing their words, and feelings, about life, and pain, and the bible. I knew it was a good thing, but I wanted to go over, and hand them a gun. I wanted to grab the dudes and take off the white collar shirt, and place them in some camo overall bibs, and say, this is your bible study, go into the woods, and figure this thing out. Pray there. You really need this. You really do. I know it sounds whacky, and weird, and unspiritual, but I promise, you need it.

I started seeing that we had lost that as men, a place to go. Not a place to put words to everything, like sitting at Starbucks, doing a bible study, and sharing our thoughts and feelings.

We needed a place where we could get out, into something larger than ourselves, close to nature, and wild, and feel the dirt and the wind. We needed to sleep on it, have it rub across our faces, and talk about the things that were in creation we wanted to find, hunt, or fish. We needed all that together. That is really why I had come. I had sat in enough square rooms sharing my feelings and using words, but I had not been out in the world, exploring it with men.

It seemed all this hunting and fishing was really just a way for a man to get back in touch with that. As God said, from the dust you were made, and dust you will return. It seemed we needed to enter back into that story, of the ground, and the earth that had been taken from us by all the building and development. We needed to feel the cold water of a stream rushing down the mountains, with the hope of a rising trout, not just the demands of a deadline and numbers on an excel spreadsheet. We needed to head out into the outback of mountains that we didn’t have a paved road, and street light to guide us. We needed to run into the woods with fathers and sons together. We just needed to be together.

I finally came to see there where all these little secrets. And it seemed the best to leave them that way with each other. You didn’t have to speak it, just enter into it. Receive it. Give it back. You didn’t have to spend an hour processing it, and sharing your feelings, and all that. It had been happening for thousands of years, men doing this. That was the sacredness of the time.

I don’t ask men anymore why they head out to fish, and hunt.

Ya just hunt. And you let them figure it out.

Hunting Knife

This happened about two years ago...

We walked into this giant warehouse of hunting gear, weapons, and clothes. It was like Wal-mart meets G.I. Joe’s complete collection of weapon supply depot. I felt like a weirdo, like I needed a card proving my manhood, or flash a can of long cut Copenhagen, to let me in. Everything unmanly I had ever done in my life flashed before me. Was I qualified to enter? And what the heck was I doing here anyways?

There were aisles of fishing lures, rows of camo shirts, and more guns, and more guns laid out like produce at a grovery store. It was if Noah had sacrificed one of every animal getting off the boat to be mounted in this place. Moose, elk, turkey, fish, weird birds, you name it, it was there. Dead, and stuffed. Hanging on a cheap little plaque.

PJ and I walked around looking at the various things. Elk Jerky makers, make your own bullet machines, and a list of hunting videos by bigger rednecks than Jeff Foxworthy that would have rivaled Blockbusters entire selection of new releases. Every Bubba of backwoods Virginia had put out a video. We walked over to the knives, which is why I had come. I was hoping to buy a knife. It was no small display either. Cases of them. This kind, and that. I had no idea what I needed, but I wanted something that was a little on the cheap end, as a beginner knife, and something that would help me cut up an elk if one of my friends killed one.

I laid my eyes on the Grizzly Kodiak knife. It sounded manly enough for me, and had an extra saw blade to cut through bone. I asked the rather intimidating man behind the counter if I could take a look. He grabbed it, laid it on the table. I looked at it for a minute in the container. And everyone was kinda staring at me, like, take it out, feel the blade, see it you fool. What’s a knife in the plastic sheath? So, as they stared at me, I pulled it out.

Again, I was completely new to this, and not sure what I was thinking, but as I pulled it out, I ran the edge along my hand somehow. I felt the cutting of flesh, but was hoping they did not see it. I pretended it did not happen, and started ooing at the features, and the metal, looking everywhere but my hand that was pulsating. I was hoping my movement away, despite the pain, from my hand to the blade would have them miss it too. Within second it was bleeding. The guy behind the counter looked at me like an idiot, and said, “do you want a Band-Aid for that?” Oh, wow. Look at that. How did that happen? Sure, that’s not a bad idea.

I had walked into my first experience of hunting and I had already cut myself. This was not the plan. Or why I had come. I wanted to feel like a man, not like this little kid who needed a band-aid for his ouchy. I felt like a fool. The shame of what I had just laid out before this man. I was completely unaware of how to do anything, even hold a knife.

I bought the knife, and we got in the car, and PJ and I started laughing.

I had drawn first blood.

My own.

Gifts.

From a story awhile back...

A man told me that I needed to start asking God for gifts. Stop trying to buy my own. It was kind of a weird thing to ask God. For stuff. Replace my Americanized, spoiled, entitled, and full of stuff life, for his stuff.

He wasn’t talking about praying for treasures in heaven, but a few things here and now. A real gift or two.The thought of doing that at first, sounded even worse than just buying it on my own. But his point was, stop arranging your life, and treating yourself, and start letting God do that for you if he wants. Let him give you things. Putting your desire for what you wanted, giving it to Him, instead of your own pocketbook.

It sounded crazy. But I decided to give it a try.

When I went into a store, and saw something, normally I just bought it. I found a way to justify it, like, I need this. Or I really need this. And I still kinda did that. But started feeling more guilty realizing what a selfish bastard I really was. The way the whole thing went down is that I would get something, feel horrible for not asking God, think about it later. And feel even more like a scum bag.

But finally, after enough of this. I did try it. About one time out of ten. I prayed a short prayer, would you get me that? Would you bring it back around if it was something I could have?
I probably did, and did not do this for a good six months. And I really assumed it wasn’t working, and this whole thing was a sham, and God didn’t want me in this stuff anyways. There was so much more important things to be giving people, than more stuff for me.

But then one day out of the blue, a friend and I were coming down from the mountains when he said he wanted to stop at the fly shop. I said, “great. There is one right here.” And then I said, “why?” And he said, “I want to buy a fly vice.” And it sounded weird, because I knew he already had one. And then he said, “its for you. God told me to buy it for you.”

I kinda was stunned. Just stared at him. I felt really like a jerk, because I knew I wanted one. And I thought it was almost like a sick game, that it was happening. I’m getting what I want. I’m getting what I asked for. You selfish man, you.

The truth was, that I had been at the fly shop about 5 times looking at this one vice. I would look at it through the display case, drooling, and staring. Hoping. If it wasn’t so expensive, my guess is that I might have bought it, but I felt bad enough for blowing so much, and so I had prayed, and still desired that somehow it might come around. I just was shocked it was happening.
I kinda thought he was in on it. I thought I must have told him at some point I wanted it. Maybe it was this guy trying to fulfill that desire of mine or something. And so I asked, and he said, no, I didn’t know that. And I thought about it more, and it just kinda blew me away. God was giving me a vice through this man. God was giving the guy with so much stuff, more stuff.

I had felt like Jabba the Hut with gear. A giant stomach saying, “feed me.” But I came to see this one was different. This gift was different than all the ones I had bought myself.
All the other stuff started collecting in the corner, while this vice was kinda on display. Everytime I looked at it, there was something so special about it. When I tied a fly, and looked at the pictures of my fishing pictures, they had such a meaning. I wasn’t sure if God was in all the other purchases but I knew he was in this one. I had a vice from God and a man. I had asked for it. And instead of buying it on my own, God had given it to me.

The weird thing about it was I didn’t need to buy as much gear. I just kinda slowed down my purchases. Thought twice, and thought about my wife, and our needs, and savings. Stopped acting so much like a boy. Things started to somehow lose their appeal. I think it was because I started feeling like God, might take care of me. Maybe I really could trust him with my stuff. He would come through. He would show me the way. The power of things were a little less, and the power that God was a father, and would give me good gifts, felt a little stronger than before.
It was if, knowing God would provide, was the thing I had been wanting all alone. The gift was great, but the greater meaning of someone that I could trust. Beyond me.

Entitlement.

The second week, the painting gang, Carlos, Jack, John, Juan Carlos, Juan, and Jesse and I walked into a Chipotle Mexican restaurant to get a quick bite to eat. On my white pants, now were two weeks worth of paint, and caulk, and a half days worth of sweat from the hot sun, along with the overspray of some stain. By this point, I was getting down a bit of the lingo. Relating better. Feeling like one of the crew, like a painter.

We rolled up to a restaurant in the business tech district of Colorado Springs, laughing, and relieved of our 30 minute break. After grabbing our burritos we sat down next to a group of guys my age. They looked like my from college. We were surrounded with men dressed in ties, and suits. The clean cut, and well spoken, and good looking people. People I had grown up around. Been friends with. Admired to become.

I looked and really noticed my crew. How different we were. Slouched over, dirty, cussing a bit, from different countries south of the border, joking on each other, and ragged. I kinda felt ashamed. And embarrassed.

I starred at this table of the guys next to me, reminding me too much of myself. Thinking about what I had left leaving Nashville, and the business world, and starting this job. I felt the loss. As if I was starring at what I could have been.

I wanted to take off these clothes, and grab them, and say, “Hey, I am one of you. It’s not what it looks like. I am really white collar, not like these guys.” It was a weird reaction. I wasn’t expecting it. I felt so cruel thinking it. But they never looked over anyways, never noticing us.

It kept happening. Walking into a mall, or even at a homeowners house. Normally I was given respect, looked at in my eyes when talked to, seen as a bright young man. I felt noticed. But not in this job. Something about putting on the painter pants, and shirts, and grabbing my tools, that took away all that from me. Stripped me of my previous life, and view of myself.
I was rarely respected, or noticed. I was one of the workers. A laborer. People were kinda afraid I might steal something, or ruin stuff. I didn’t seem trusted in these painter clothes.

I never knew how much I needed it. How I put off an image, that I needed people to see me as, and relate to me as this golden boy. I wanted to be seen as spoiled, and well-off, wealthy, good looking, and college educated. I used that, to get people to like me. It wasn’t until I put these pants on that I felt such a lack of it, a deep desperation to somehow get that back.

It was hard to take. I kept wanting to explain myself. I wanted to pull aside and tell the homeowners, you can trust me. There were even times I didn’t want to associate with the painters. I wanted to sit at a table all my own. I wanted to tell the homeowners talking to us about their house, about my college career. I remember constantly checking email on my phone during the day, to see if I had any good news. Something to tell me I was more than this lifestyle, and this paint on my clothes.

God was doing something in this place. Breaking something in me, that I didn’t even know was there. This place of entitlement was being stripped away, day, by slow day.

Failure.

This week we are talking in our group, and large meeting time about failure. It is a topic that hits home for most of the guys at this point. We have climbed mountains, biked through valleys, worked in the heat, fly fished on a 10,000 foot lake. And with all the great joys, and scenes, and experiences of life, for all of us, failure is something we have been exposed to.

As men we hate these lines... I dont know what to do.

One young man with tears in sharing his confession, "I can't fix it."

We aren't taught to go there in our culture. Everything in our culture is set on rising up. In fame, fortune, and life. In some ways, beauty, and success, and the ascending part of life is a good thing. It's really true. But to get there, we must come to an end of that. The goal is not those things. Because we live with the idea, if I get those things... then I will be loved. noticed. respected. honored. embraced.

We work hard, to earn that. Most of us spend our lives in that path.

As much as I hate it, it seems the path God takes us is to descend into those dark places. and to feel the pain. the hurt. the loss. I dont know what to do. I can't make it better. I can't fix it. It is such a powerless place for a man. We are in some ways, created to bring order, and law, and rule, and dominion to things. But not on our own. Jesus as our guide.

You see man doing this on his own in Genesis 11, in the Tower of Babel. Man is starting to innovate, design massive structures, with one language, and working together. God scatters them and their language, because who knows what they might accomplish on their own. He wants them to know Him. To experience God in those buildings, and creations. If we can do it on our own, we dont need him.

When we fail, we face shame. As one of the young men pointed out, when you watch a game, when a player misses the last second shot, or field goal, he looks down. He shrinks, and moves inward, and closes up. Shame. Failure takes us to shame. Being exposed. Feeling inadequate. Adam and Eve feel naked, and ashamed, after their sin, and they hid.

Failure takes us there. Hiding. Staying away from all those places that might produce that shame again. We live safe lives, with little risk.

Since shame is experience in the presence of others, we feel failure in the midst of people, and in a crowd, or with a friend. We avoid it. And the last thing we want to do is expose that, and ask for help, from others, and God.

I can do it on my own. And for many of the guys, that has been how they have lived their life. I will do it on my own. I will not trust others. Or I am afraid to let others lead me. I think that is the beauty of what failure brings a man. His need for help. His need for God.

Ultimately, the scriptures are about God's restoration of humanity. Success, and victory is the theme of God. We will reign with Him, as co-heirs. I think the path there, is through failure. We come to be those co-creators, and co-builders, as we begin to find our identity is in our belovedness of God, as his sons (Romans 8)

Nice Church.

I walked into church, a few years back in the middle of opening worship. It was this large metal rafter auditorium. Full of sights and sounds with lights shining in front. Everyone was praising Jesus. Hands in the air. I took a few moments to collect myself. Then started singing. Praising Jesus. Raising my hands. Experiencing God.

But then I just stopped. The music in my head faded away. Not sure why, but I opened my eyes, and I looked up at the stage, and all the lights, and all the young people around me. I just started watching the guy singers, and looked around at all the guys around me. Song after song I starred.

It was an array of sea foam, and pink colored shirts. Stylish hair, and frosted tips. The black square glasses. And tight shirts, and pants. It was like a giant starbucks gathering. And the truth was, I kinda fit some of that description too. The more sensitive understanding kinda guy. The good guy. The guy great at conversations. I was the guy girls liked to hang out with, and talk. I cared about what I looked like, the type of clothes I wore. I didn’t do those other men manly things. Not a man’s man, whatever that really meant. I had never really wanted too either. The whole hunting and fishing. That wasn’t really my thing. And I knew it was definitely not what made you a man. Man beating their chest in the woods. No thanks. I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

But I couldn’t sing anymore. All the boyfriend Jesus, Jesus, stuff.

Everything felt girly. The dudes on stage. The type of music. This building. These outfits. I didn’t even know what was happening. I didn’t want to raise my hands anymore. I didn’t want to sing at an octane beyond me. I wanted to check my pants, see if my balls were intact. I wanted to punch the dude next to me. I wanted him to punch me.

They started talking about small groups. And getting together to talk at people’s houses. They were bringing together community. I felt it rise in me. The hope. This was the answer. It could happen here. But I had kinda done that already. And although it sounded perfect, and Christian, and served a good purpose. and the right thing to do, sitting in some room with metal folding chairs, and tables, I just wanted to vomit.

The more they talked, the more this urge came to walk up to the front of these worship guys and mess up their hair, and have them mess up mine. I wanted to slap them around a bit. I wanted to unplug their guitar, and plug in a power tool, and start making music with hammers and drills, though I did not own one myself. Maybe we could borrow one, or rent it from home depot. But we were probably not going to get it from any dude here. There had to be something more than this as men. As far as praising Jesus, and always being happy, and looking cool, and wearing these oufits, and having accountability groups about porn, being these sensitive, and nice guys for God. There had to me more than wearing the newest shirt, understanding our feelings, and having good conversations at Starbucks.

All I knew is that I didn’t feel like a man. I never had. And being here was not helping that.

We sure didn’t look like men, and we definitely weren’t singing like them.

I wanted to make an announcement, “Men. Yes, men. Some of you hiding in those outfits you were told you needed from GQ. Yeah, I got one too. What if we take off these designer shirts, and designer jeans, and these nice guy personalities, and walk down this carpeted aisle, and out of this square air conditioned building, and run outside, strip down naked, and roll around in the mud and scream.”

I didn’t do it, though. I was too nice a guy.

Work. Kitchen work.

"Some say that the man's task in the first half of his life is to become bonded to matter: to learn a craft, become friends with wood, earth, wind, or fire." - Robert Bly

We spoke to the young men this week about work.

They have been working for a few weeks now, laborious, and hard, and long hour construction jobs. It is not easy. Nor are they hours they have to wake up for, to get there on time. It is hot. There is plenty of hardship.

And they are really impressing us. They want it. They want initiation. To feel hardship. and pain. One young man said he would have never had this experience outside of this place. To be around other men, blue collar, who are far from his world. He grew up on a golf course, and caddy'ing. Went into the financial services out of college. But he missed something.

There is this mysterious thing, Christ calls us to, in descending. "Until you become the least." "You must become like these little children" "The first will become last, the last will become first." "Picking up our cross" There are all these places we must go, often down, to understand how to move up.

The descent. The humilitation. "The way down and out"

Robert Bly writes, "For young men who have graduated from privilieged colleges, or who have been lifted upward by the expensive entitlement culture, their soul life often begins with this basement work in the kitchen."

We must start at the bottom, and work our way up. Its a sign of maturing, of process, of growth. And yet, we rarely go that route. I struggle so much in that. I want to move ahead, pass around the hardship, the sweat. Ascend into glory, beauty, and success. And yet, its through. Through the pain, the sweat. The adversity. It's how God makes us men.

But we don't want to go there. The curse on Adam, is you will work by the sweat of thy brow. There is something connected there to earth. To physical labor. To futility. The curse is God's way of pushing us into hardship and suffering. In order... to find Him. To understand the Cross. The sufferings of Christ, to take up our cross, our sufferings, and belong to him.

I think its why a young man needs to be bonded to matter, in craft, or through wood, earth, wind, or fire. There is something about the natural world, we need to find out about. What we have inside of us. To feel pain, to feel our bodies, and use them. To experience the glorious parts of the curse, and the obvious hard things.

But we move on. To the risen Lord. The resurrection. Its a beautiful thing. But getting there, is through. Not around, as Cory Smith expains. As men, we must learn how to navigate into those places. And maybe be pushed there. I know I needed, and still need that. I dont want to. I need to be nudged in that direction.

Remember the disciples a few days before Jesus heading to the cross. Quarelling amonst themselves about who will sit at the right hand of God. They wanted power and position. Not all that bad. Some of it being good. But Jesus said, the way up, is first down. the least.

One of the young men heard from his father the other day, and after explaining his job, working for a day labor company, and how hard it has been, his father shed some tears. I can't interpret all that happened, but there is something in a man, that knows we must go through those places, in order to rise up, and be men. Our fathers often tried to get us to work hard, put in the hours, work a hard summer job, but so often the response was why? And when you are young, its pretty hard to convince us otherwise. Not to mention the entitlement culture that says, you dont have to go down. there are ways around. you can move up. you can pass that road.

It is my deep hope that somehow we are able to help in those places, even that many of these fathers have encouraged their sons in. My father was that way. work hard. spend a summer feeling real hard work. but did I want to do that? why Dad? Do I have to? It seems so easy to go a different route. I had to learn the hard way. I guess, so many of us do.

these young men are choosing that path. and I feel so honored to be with them. and watch them learn from these discoveries. and the stories that come from their work. they are entering the futility of the curse, and they are being blessed by it, becoming men.

Fight Club.

I am reading through Chuck Palahniuk's, Fight Club. It was made into a movie, starring Brad Pitt. The movie is dark, and yet enlightening, and so far, so is the book. It speaks to the rage of the young men we are around, and I know myself. Along with the confusion of what to do about it.

Here's a quote...

"My father never went to college so it was really important I go to college. After college, I called him long distance and said, now what?
My dad didn't know.
When I got a job and turned twenty-five, long distance, I said, now what? My dad didn't know, so he said, get married.
I'm a thirty-year-old boy, and I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer I need."

Isn't that our dilemna. We are angry. We are often more boyish, and uninitiated, and unfinished than we want to admit. No wonder this character goes off to fight club. He has never had a father leading him, walking near. It can be too easy in our culture for fathers to come from a distance with their sons. Advice. And tips. But truely what we need is our father, and fathers around us, and Our Heavenly Father.

I have found most young men just launch into whatever next "season" is supposed to come. Get a job. Get married. Settle down." All these things being good. But few of us discover, what we really want... our father. Love. Guidance.

I think that is what happens to so many young men out of school. the pressure, and expectations. with little real world experience, and wisdom. they launch out for these things, only to come out 30 years later, empty, and in a crisis. may God help us rescue, and restore these young men to see their need for guidance, fathering, and the one who saves us from gaining the whole world, but losing our soul.

Boxes.

I spent the morning writing this about a backpacking trip from a few years back...

As I sat over this mound of accumulated gear, it hit me that I probably needed to use it. There really was no real purpose of collecting it, if I didn’t at least have either a story to tell, or something to show for it. (what kind of motivation is that anyways) I think I bought it to use it, but the more I got the more I wondered what this little wonder lust was really about. After a few days of thinking of a place that I might launch out into, I decided on Lost Creek Wilderness, right outside of Divide, CO. It was a few hours away, down the highway and into some mountains.

I collected all my things, electronic GPS, gear, gear, gear, and took off.
Although I had probably 5X more than I needed, I really didn’t know what I actually needed.

And so I just kinda kept adding to the bag. Boys Scouts motto, “be prepared.” And with heading into an area I had never been, knew nothing about, never backpacked, and despite all my gear, was really not prepared for what was to come.

Pulling up, I felt this sense of fear and doom. What was I about to step into? As I left my car, I felt like I was leaving my comforts. What was out there? Miles down the trail? Would I know what to do? Would I even come back alive? Would I have brought the right “thing.” I started noticing tracks on the ground, bear? Or little rabbit? Not sure again. Looking up, I saw clouds differently. I had always seen them as fun, trying to make them into Jesus face, or something. But out here, it was about surviving. Is that a cloud that will rain? Or is that a cloud that will pass me by? I was going to need much more than a Jesus face in a cloud to get through this.

What am I supposed to look for in a rain cloud? Miningitus, or Columbus, or wait, no cumulus? I am not sure.

Simple things like opening my bag of peanuts brought with it questions… am I sure I want that next bite? What if I need that down the road. Could I find a stream ahead, or should I conserve this sip of water? Choices, and more choices. And I was barely a mile down the trail. Everything felt so heightened. So important.

What about the weather tonight. Would it get really cold? Or stay nice in this sun? I just didn’t know. I couldn’t read the map, or the land. I had never had to. My life was through weather channels. And information feed to me through google and my parents. Cold- put on jacket. Hungry-go to fast food. Those were the voices I followed in my head.

I had always been told in advance what to expect, about weather, and about life, college, and a career. I wasn’t anticipating, or preparing for anything. If I really needed something, well, it was just a half block down the road at Walgreens. I had every luxury I wanted. I had been following that line for awhile. Right behind the guy in front of me. Butt to head. Like a tourist horse ride.

It was the same way with the seasons of life. Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. What did those really mean for me? I mean, there was an occasional need to put on a coat, scrape the ice, but a real season. I did not feel it. Not in my perfectly digitally controlled environment at home, and at work, and surrounding. My car stayed the same tempt, the stores I went in, and my home. The only seasons I felt was the short trip of about 5 seconds between all three.

All this to say, I was not connected to something. Could not feel, or experience the earth, and God’s order of things. I did not know what to bring backpacking, because I had never needed to. Everything just kinda came prepared. My lunch had been packed since I was a boy. Then fast food on demand for what I was feeling, in that moment. I was just a little baby suckling on the bottle. Whatever was given to me, I took. No questions. The weatherman says its gonna be warm, great, I will wear shorts. Never knowing why, or even caring. I didn’t need to.
And the lessons I learned about the unpredictability of things? Fear. Good gosh, man. You are exposed. Bad things could happen. Anything in the future that was up for a question, not known.

Well, we insured it. I insured my house, in case of a fire. My car in case I had a wreck. The ring of my wife, in case the diamond fell out. Insurance if I got sick, and then life insurance if I was to die. Anything unpredictable, became managed. No reason to worry, or live each day. It was covered. And I remained a boy because of it.

And so here I was… somewhere in the woods, with lots of questions. And no one there, and no google there to help. Everything I had hoped I needed was shoved somewhere down my overloaded backpack. I was a man, lost in wilderness. I guess I even picked it. Lost Creek Wilderness. Good lord, this was not turning into what I had hoped. Not sure what to do, I just kept moving, and wondering if insurance was going to cover this.
I could not describe it better than Eustace Conway’s description of our world of boxes that we live in.

They live in boxes. They wake up every morning in the box of their bedroom because a box next to them started making beeping noises to tell them it was time to get up. They eat their breakfast out of a box and then they throw that box away into another box. Then they leave the box where they live and get into a box with wheels and drive to work, which is just another big box broken up into lots of little cubicle boxes where a bunch of people spend their days sitting and staring at the computer boxes in front of them. When the day is over, everyone gets into the box with wheels again and goes home to their house boxes and spends the evening staring at the television boxes for entertainment. They get their music from a box, they get their food from a box, they keep their clothing in a box, they live their lives in a box!

Yahweh.

I just listened to an amazing explanation of the commandment, you shall not take the Lords name in vain. Its about 15 minutes... and the explanation of yahweh, and how it relates to breathing in, and breathing out... absolutely an amazing revelation of God.

http://www.networknorwich.co.uk/Media/Player.aspx?media_id=19465&file_id=21638

The Truth - Big Bulls 10

I wasn’t bred to hunt. I had never wanted to. Never had any reason to go kill. Well, the occasional ant burning with a magnifying glass but nothing in a food category. And there was definitely no real interest in any form of sitting in a deer stand. Waiting for deer to come.
In high school I would make fun of my friend, Jeremy who liked to hunt. I was living in the redneck south, and so, well, we have a lot of rednecks. And he was one of them. He came from a long line of them. Hunting went deep for all of them. It’s tradition in their family to hunt. He hunts on the same land where his family moonshined years ago. He’s a whiskey drinking, boot wearing, skoal in the back pocket, George Strait-kinda guy. And I was not. Never had any intention to be one.

I was a bit more sophisticated. More white collar. I liked golfing. And tennis. A chai latte, with no foam please. Oh, and extra hot too.

Hunting was not in my DNA, and the way I saw it reserved exclusively for the people of the world who had trailers, and who liked to put old cars as yard ornaments in the front lawn. The word buckmaster, makes him drool. I’d be happy with a Bobboli pizza. I dismissed Jeremy, went on to college, got married, moved to Colorado, seemed very fine with how things were turning out, apart from my past, and all that sort of stuff. I didn’t see my need for rednecks, or this hunting thing.

It was a few months back when my friend, PJ, invited me to his house. “I want you to watch a video.” Guys only. Ok. I was not expecting what came next. Or how I would react to it.

The video was “The Truth, Big Bulls 10.”

Sounded either really dirty, or an unknown passage of scripture. I watched as what appeared to be Bubba, and his buddy filming an elk hunt in Colorado. It was homemade, and had all the expectations of some southern drawls that I had known so well. But as I started watching, I kinda got into it. There was a pretty nice herd of elk. Huge antlers. They get that big? “Oh, wow, he’s calling that in?”

The men were in the middle of beautiful land. Nothing around them. But these giant bull elk bugling and calling them. They slowly got closer. I inched into the screen. Waiting. Watching. And wondering what’s next.

Then there was silence. A shot. And then all of a sudden, the men were staring at each other. These big burly men turned to little school girls jumping at each other. They were frantic. Trying to squeeze in places that should not be squeezed together, especially men. And these type of men. It was like… what is going on? Should we turn this off?

They were jumping up, hugging, holding each other. It was weird. Almost freaky. One guy started crying. Telling stories in the camera about the trip, what he was feeling. They moved closer to the bull, and it all began all over again.

I wanted to laugh, and yet I felt like I had just witnessed something deep. And as weird as it sounded—spiritual. I don’t know what it was, but there was something in it. Something I started thinking about.

I wanted to hunt.

Tears of the Son.

I was blessed to be with my small group a few nights back, and experience many of their tears over parts of their past, and as they unpacked their story. We believe that a man is called to show both strength, and mercy, and often in the movement towards masculinity, we forget emotion, feelings, and suffering, and showing all of that is walking into the masculine.

I loved what Charlton Clarke, one of the two counselors with us, shared to our group. Sharing your heart, crying is one of the most masculine, manly things you can do. Gosh. Isn't that missing in so much of our understanding of a man.

A man named Richard Rohr says, show me a young man who can weep, and an old man who can laugh.

I am in the presence of brave young men. Eager, and hungry to know their story, and the God who is still writing it. I feel I am on that journey myself. To cry... says... I can't make it better. I can't change what happened. And it hurt. It affected me. I needed something that did not come. Not to blame. Not to push our anger towards someone else. But to sit, and experience the suffering, and sorrow of our sin, a fallen world, and what often happens to us as a result. There was beauty that night, strength in weakness. Tears of sorrow, for joy coming in the morning. I love these young men, and their brave hearts to explore who they are.

Dan Allender says at the length we mourn and weep, is the extent we party, and find joy. and I feel excited to see where we will continue to experience those two extremes, and all that is in between.

A comment about fishing...

I felt honored to receive this comment from a man who has blessed us with his fishing store, and some amazing fishing gear for this program. I don't know if I have ever heard such wisdom. ALthough I am not there yet, I do relate to catching big fish and many fish. And that makes sense, considering where I am at in life, I suppose.

And if there is ever a picture of our 20's and 30's and 50's, and where we take our life, and what we finally discover is true. A real metaphor. Here it is. Maybe fly fishing tells the story of our lives more than we know, and maybe that is why our guide Ron has requested when he is old and crippled, that we would just take him down to the river in his wheel chair, and fish.

Dave's comment...

When folks begin to fish all they can think about is catching that first fish.


Then as soon as they catch that first fish they have to catch another...


Then it becomes about "how many" fish and I caught 20 or 40 or 80 fish!


Then it becomes about "how big" and catching that +20 inch fish, then the +25 then the +30....


Then it becomes about "the exotic" either fishing in some exotic place or catching something unique.


Then there seems to be a shift and it becomes more about the fishing and less about the fish... just getting out and catching "a fish" becomes the only goal just to prove that you still have what it takes.


The final stage has very little to do about the fish other than they are there. Catching is just a bonus. Fishing becomes larger that any fish and more that any quanity. Being out with the smells, sights, and sounds is all that becomes important...

A time to renew the soul and hear Gods voice.


I love the ending of a River Runs Through It. Some of the most poetic words, and haunting desires.

Hearing from God about fly fishing.

The days here in Hilton Head have been marvelous. Beautiful days of a light breezes, and little humidity for this place. Glorious weather to sit on the beach, take bike rides, and enjoy the peaceful life that greets us each day.


I decided to bring my fly rod here to South Carolina. Unsure of what to fish for, never doing it out here. Just hopeful. The other night I woke up at 2 a.m. I am not like this kind of person, casually waking. Going in for some coffee and a read. But, I just knew there was something I was supposed to be up for. God stirring something. I am starting to learn the difference between, I can’t sleep. And God is wanting to speak to me. Something in the spirit. I knew, or at least had this feeling it was that.

And so I woke up.

And before long, I heard… “Go fish.”

I found it quite odd. It was late. Dark. Nothing moving outside. But I grabbed my fly rod, put on the fly I had made the day before, and went to the back porch, and down to the water way just 10 yards from the backyard. And I fished. In my head, I am thinking, I am fishing because God wants me to. I am thinking one thing. A big one. Something is out in that river that is going to be large. And so, I had naturally grabbed my net. God wants to wake me to give me a gift. Something very large as a gift. But a few minutes into it, nothing is happening. I am a bit confused. and well, disappointed.

But as I settled in, I started feeling the rhythm of the rod. I mean, really feeling the rod. Its movement. Listening to the sound of the whipping back and forth. Line going through the air in the night breeze. The zing of it. I could not see my back cast. Only feel it. And hear it. The line loading each time through the eye lits, back and forth, back and forth. In perfect rhythm. It was dark. So dark, I could not see where my line went into the water, only feel it. All I can say is that for the first time, I felt things I hadn’t. I wasn’t focused on a spot on the river, or if anyone was watching, or if I was moving my rod right. It was just this moment, where I stepped into a new place. A new rhythm really, all my own. All the men before me, the adventures, experiences behind me. Just me, this river somewhere that I could not see, and what I felt like was God that called me here.

And so, trying to get ahead of God, and know what he was up to. I thought, this is it. The moment I land one. Its beautiful. I am ready to tell that story. Experience it. Take it in, maybe cry on the shore with the fish. But nothing. I moved down a bit. Then across a bridge to get in some deeper water. Almost trying to make it happen. Help God out. Maybe he meant over here. Or there. Down here? Gosh, its getting late. Where is he? Where is my fish? Its 4 a.m. now.And then I heard it. The voice, small one. But as loud as clear and in focus as the whipping of my rod.

“You are a good fly fisherman.”

Whoah. For real? I mean… I am feeling it. Really less self conscience then ever before. And, ya know… wow. So great, now lets find it. I kept thinking… that is not it, is it. What about the fish. The big fish I woke up for. Where is it? Over in this direction? Maybe one more cast… but I realized why I wanted the fish. So I had proof. So I could say, I caught a fish, and I am good. I know what I am doing. I can tie a fly. And fish in the dark. I really didn't even take in those words. I just moved right into looking for the fish again. Waiting for what a good fisherman gets... fish.

It wasn’t until the next day, when I realized why. God wanted to tell me that. Not you are good, and here is your prize. I have been digging into this place of perfection in my life. God has been. After me in it. For me, that is what I wanted to hear. “You are so good, you got this fish. I wanted to give to you.” I was expecting a reward of a prize. The words... that well... it was nice. but what does it get me?

Its crazy, because I have been doing a lot of outdoor things, fishing, hunting, and I tell you, I am learning so much. How to walk in the woods, call a turkey, tie a clouser minnow, and track a deer. Things not like me. Not in my previous nature. But I haven’t any luck in getting anything really, besides some fish.

But, I think, that is some part of what God is doing. Can I be a good fly fisherman without holding up a prize? I hope… and can I be a good fly fisherman without landing a prize Red Fish? I think that is what God is saying…

“Xan, you are a good fly fisherman.” Not because you get trophies. But because you just are. Gosh, really? That almost sounds like... well... love. and not about performance... but, about who I am. and what I am. You love me God… because I…. well, do this or that, and a few more of this. No. I love you, Xan. Because I just do.

Dang. I am only trying to receive that. And those words from God.I love what God is doing. I really need that. To believe his words, his voice. and what is happening. Not by results. But by his process. and just by believing him.

Jesus. The son of Mary.

I was watching a documentary about the missing years of Jesus. 12 to 30. For real. That is a long time to go missing. Or not written about. To get 3 intense years in the scriptures, and 18 that are just nowhere to be found. It leaves the mind to wonder… this report was great. It really was. So many great scholars. From universities, mainly protestant and mainline. Weighing in on the topic. One thing that came up was the tight knit communities. How during Jesus time, the town of Nazareth was small town. I am talking real small town. Ya know the small towns that know everything about their neighbors business, along with a few thoughts of their own? Well, think an even tighter community, and even more talking. This is Jewish, family, traditions, close knit, and lots of relationships happening between everyone. They relied on each other. The estimate is Jesus was born into a town of 500. So… we assume, everyone knew their business. Close. Tight.

 

There is an interesting story there. When Jesus comes back at 30 in his ministry. Everyone knows him. One gospel refers to him as the carpenter. When you grow up knowing him for assumingly 20 or 25 years as that, its hard to see him as anyone else. The Christ? The savior? Gosh, there is an understanding of why it was so hard for them to believe Jesus was the messiah, and the king they were waiting for through the prophets. He was just the guy they used a few years ago to fix their roof. Or add an additional room. This guy, running around town claiming to be the Son of God? It could be hard. Breaking those experiences.

 

What is unique is the story in the gospel about Jesus coming back to the town after travelling around at 30 with his pose, those disciples. Jesus was getting some attention, and being noticed. Growing in celebrity status from village to village. But what is unique is a text in the scriptures about how they respond to this in his hometown. In their Jewish culture, they were supposed to identify with their father's household. It was their custom. My wife would be considered… Jayne the daughter of Jeff. And I would be the son of David, and so on. The household would bring the association through the man. Well, what the teaching brings out is that Jesus is not identified this way. He is considered "the son of Mary."

 

There is a bit of an argument of why those words. But one common belief is because the town knew something was up with Jesus. And Joseph. The husband of Mary. And the father of many other children, was not the father of Jesus. We know that the Holy spirit revealed itself, and through an angel to Mary, and to Joseph about the baby, being conceived through the Holy Spirit. But God didn't tell the town. Or anyone else. We just kinda assume people knew this, for what Jesus becomes. But they don't. and they don't even get it years later, when he is walking around town and going into other villages claiming to be the Son of God. In one account in the gospel, it speaks "isn't this the carpenter?" They know him well. But for other reasons. Not his Messiah complex. But his earthly living. He is just a worker. Named for what he did for those missing 18 years.

 

I have been wondering a lot about how we learn to deeply know the Father in heaven. And one thing that hit me through this is that Jesus at some level, was born under incredible controversy in the town. Imagine the gossip. The women talking, and sharing their tales of what might have happened. Maybe they thought Mary had a rendezvous with another man. Or even, just to have gotten a little close, before their wedding night. Whatever came, you can bet the town carried that gossip better than US Weekly, and the paparazzi. This is small town living. Imagine all the housewives at the time, walking around town sharing the news of how Jesus was born before 9 months of Jacob and Josephs marriage. And all those weird fights and confusion they had about that time. Don't think the town wasn't wondering, and talking behind their back.

 

Here is the amazing part of the story. And the part we forget. Kinda like as we think back to World War II, we already know the outcome. America invades at Normandy, and it goes well. They move in, and we know we will win. But they didn't at the time. And there were many questions, many fears that the war could be lost. Much was up in the air. But that's hard to understand now, knowing all the facts. But they simply did not have that information. And that really changes everything.

 

It's the same with Jesus. They had a different perspective at the time. When he is born, and what the time doesn't reveal yet, is that Jesus is the Son of God. We don't really know what that would have really been like. To be born the town controversy. To have all these unknown and mysterious labels surrounding your birth. To be the talk, like a Jerry Spring episode of a paternity battle. Who's son is this? Know one really knows. And I bet, the person who was even a bit confused, and had to live with this was Jesus. Imagine him at 5. 9 years old playing with friends. Fishing down at the Sea of Galilee. He must have heard the news. Some kid just straight up asking… our parents wonder who your father is… We heard it wasn't Joseph. When did the Spirit reveal this to him? When did his mother? Joseph? The scriptures aren't very clear. And I wonder about that. Was that what really made Jesus know the Father. Really seek out, and explore who he was. He was the one man faced with more questions about his family. And who he was. More than any other person. Where did that search take him? That longing to understand… almost like that is what God had him bear. Seek out at the temples, and as he read the Torah, and the Holy Scriptures. It was all there. Who he really was. But it had to be revealed to him, over time. I bet God wanted him feel the weight of it, for so long. God wanted him to seek it, explore, and really deeply long to interact, and know who he really was. Until one day… after all his study, his prayers, and growing in wisdom and stature. He began walking in this. Deeply. Abiding. Resting. And living out this identity as the Son.

 

He was perfect and sinless. So he was pure at a young age. But he was still a boy. A boy who deeply longed to know his Father. And that came. It probably was a process. Growing into it. And understanding what his role was, as God's son. The sacrifice that he would be called on to make.

 

It makes more sense when you hear of the story of being near his hometown, when he is teaching the people. His mother Mary, and all his brothers and sisters arrive. The whole town is like… Hey Jesus, your family is here, do you want to go talk to them. Shut this down, to be with them? And Jesus says, who are my brothers and sisters? He is saying, those who know God, who abide and do the will of the Father, those are my family. He had to find that out the hard way. By truly searching that out. He finally understand that those around him, gathered, were his true family.

 

I love this, because truly, if there was ever a man who felt orphaned, abandoned, or had a father wound… who really needed to know His Father, Jesus went through it. It is everyone's deepest longing. To know their father. To be loved by their father, to be delighted in, and enjoyed. It's the story of the Prodigal Son. We need that so deeply. And of all the people, it was Jesus that had to take that journey.

 

And although we look at it with passing, as if Jesus knew all along. But I think its why the baptism really was so impactful to Jesus heart. For a man who spent his life as a boy, surrounded in controversy. With confusion, and fear of the town not knowing who this boy was, and whose father and house he was born… "son of Mary." That day when he arose from the river, the words, and the longing of his heart was spoken, not just in a dream to his parents. But out loud, and to all those around who witnessed it. Audibly. And clear. "This is my son, with whom I am well pleased." I can't imagine what those words did to Jesus. His father has spoken. Named him. His own. And his delight in him. The whispers of controversy, were silenced by the voice of the one who finally could reveal to the world, who this fatherless child… really was. His own.

 

And Jesus didn't just kinda act confused. Or pass it off like did anyone here that? Or brush it aside, because it was too much to take in. He received it. Because after all he had been through, he knew. And yet this was the confirmation he needed, that every man needs to hear. It is true. You are a son. Adopted into the family of God. He lived in that identity. As Gods chosen son. The one true son. And the most beautiful part of the gospel, is that his sacrifice gives us that right. That heir. To be called sons of God.

Fishing for something.

I am away for a few days vacation at sea. Well, on the beach. In our backyard is a waterway system that leads to the sea. I knew this coming, and so I decided to bring my fly tying vice, and some feathers, and thread, and other really feminine stuff along, if it wasn’t for the fact I was tying with it. It is quite odd, what you tie with. Pretty much go into joanne fabric or Michaels crafts, and the same thing a women might use to decorate with, somehow that, and a hook, and some fancy ways to tie it, you get a perfect looking fly. I am not making this up.

I have been learning to tie a few flies for trout in Colorado. But this is new. Saltwater. My friend, Timm, helped me grab the pieces I needed for before I left. And so, yesterday, I tied a few pieces of dyed buckskin, beads, thread, and I made a skinny clouser minnow. It is fun to throw out something you tied on your own. In looking at the fly, I actually am thinking I could use my wifes blonde hair to tie one as well. I can’t think of a more sexist or less racy feminist thought than catching a fish with your wife’s hair. But, I don’t believe that is at the heart of it. Gosh, I hope not.

So there I was in the backyard, on this beautiful water system going up and down the area casting. I was feeling quite proud. Confident. And like I really had a clue at things. Other men, construction workers looking on from the condo next to us. Kinda displaying the talent. Casting a bit further. Showing off.

So, a few yards down an old lady comes out. Intrigued as well. Wow. What are you fishing for?
Hmm… in trying to turn the question to my gifts, I somehow just responded, this is a clouser minnow. Proudly knowing it was me that tied it. Oh no. What are you fishing for, she said again.

Oh, yeah know. Pause. Um. Well, I actually don’t know.

It kinda threw out all the wind from under me. I am trying to catch something. I just haven’t a clue what. And then as I kept casting, it made me realize, how do I know this is the right fly? Or the right area of water? And then it made me wonder if that is why I am even out here. Yeah. I want a fish. But I think I am having as much fun, tying something, practicing my casting, and enjoying it. Maybe something in the grace of it, and the experience of doing it on my own. Trying at least.

There is more to go. I need a guide. I am looking into that. I know now, I cant do this on my own. But there is some beauty that I am in part, picking up the rhythms of fishing. Of casting. And tying. Now, I just need a guide. As that older lady mentioned, to help me know what I am fishing for. But what I should have said was, “its much more than just a fish.”

E-MASQL8 PLUS

Cory and I were meeting with a friend, and marketing genius, Jon Dale. jondale.com when we ran across this ad on the back of a magazine. Jon was going to put it up on his blog, and I thought I would throw it up here as well. ADHD anyone?