The car crash cuss or when youth ministers run over people with cars.

The car crash cuss or when youth ministers run over people with cars.

When I was in high school, our youth minister used to take us skiing in New Hampshire every winter. One year as we pulled into the mile long driveway of the house we rented, the sky opened up with thick sheets of snow. There were already a few feet on the ground, so in a matter of minutes everything was engulfed in white.

Two friends of mine, Anthony and Sean, got out of our van and ran up to the youth leader’s pickup truck which was loaded down with all of our luggage. They convinced him it would be fun to do a little car skiing by hanging from the side mirrors. They were able to slide along, using their shoes as skis, because the snow on the road was so thick.

It was a hilarious site, the kind of thing that when you’re in high school feels important and fun. (It was like a moment out of Dawson’s less attractive Creek.) But after a minute, my youth leader swerved to one side of the road and brushed Anthony off against a small tree. He was only going a few miles an hour but it was still funny to see a small evergreen seemingly grab Anthony from his spot hanging on the mirror.

Sean was next but it didn’t go exactly as planned. When he hit the tree my youth leader side swiped on purpose, he fell at an odd angle. Instead of landing in the woods like Anthony, he slipped back toward the car. With a sickening bounce, the rear axel rolled over him.

We skidded our van to a stop and ran to where Sean lay screaming in the snow. He was grasping his knee, which had taken the brunt of the damage. It wasn’t bloody. There wasn’t a bone sticking out but he was definitely in some horrible pain. As he yelled, he started to curse, which given the situation was fairly understandable. Out of circle of people around Sean I heard one of our youth leaders say, “Sean, language.”

Yes, a few tons of Ford truck and luggage had fallen on Sean. Yes, he was laying in the snow horrified that his high school wrestling season was over. But at the end of the day, he really shouldn’t be swearing.

I’d love to poke more fun at that youth leader, telling a hurting person not to drop the f-bomb is ridiculous, but sometimes I do the same thing. That is, I focus on the sin and not the pain, the symptom and not the cause. The mistaken and not the motive. For instance, a friend recently told me about some interaction he had with a prostitute. He was hurting about the whole thing, clearly the interaction he created was not born of happiness. (I think sin is rarely an act of celebration and is more often a medicine.) But as he talked, I had a hard time getting passed the word, “prostitute.”

You might hear that word a lot, but for me that was unusual. It paused me, stopped me in my tracks and made it hard to hear everything that followed. It’s nice to think that all sins are equal, that my rude behavior to coworkers swings the scales of sin in the same way that going to a massage parlor does. But I have a hard time living that principle out.

I still have a class system of wrong and right deep down. I wish I didn’t, but it’s there and I don’t think I’m alone. I once heard a minister say that before he spoke at a church he was visiting, one of the senior staff came up to him and said, “Hey, there are two guys in the front row holding hands. Maybe you could say something about that.” His response was, “You’re right. Maybe then I could say something about anyone who is divorced or has ever lied. I’d like to get them out too.”

That’s where I am, but it’s not where I want to stay. That friend with the prostitute is just like me. He’s a prodigal son that is coming home. He might have spent his inheritance differently but ultimately he needs exactly what I need, which is forgiveness. And there is such a perfect picture of this when the father greets the son. Does he ask for specifics? Does he search out for words like prostitute or cocaine, things that secretly I put more weight to than my garden variety sins like lying? No. Here is what he said:

“This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

That’s so simple it’s gorgeous. There is only dead and alive, lost and found.

No degrees of separation, no sliding scale of sin.

Just before and after, then and now, gone and here.

Normal

Normal

A friend of mine once told me that although his father beat him, he wouldn't deem his childhood abusive. For him, it was perfectly normal for his father to punch his mother in the face. That’s what dads did in front of 8-year olds when they were mad.

Clearly, my friend is an extreme example, but I think on some level, we all cobble together our own warped definitions of what “normal” means. Maybe yours doesn’t contain a violent father. Maybe yours isn’t anywhere near as neon wrong as his was. I don’t know your story, but when I dug into mine, it’s easy to see the pieces that weren’t all that normal.

For instance, I experienced some abuse in high school. (Not within the context of my family. My parents are awesome.) I didn’t give it that name at the time, but when it came out in counseling that was the label it got. I probably told that story to a hundred people, never once thinking they would find it odd. I told it in part because if I could laugh it off, if I could paint it with bright colors, I could delay the sting. But I also told it because it felt normal to me. I didn’t have a precedent for anything else. What happened was part of my story and my story represented 100% of what I thought was normal.

I think that ultimately, what God likes to do in our lives is get us to experience a new normal. A normal bigger than we can even imagine. A normal that makes no sense, like the welcome home party for the Prodigal Son. In his mind, it would be normal for the father to make him a servant when he returned to the farm after a period of wild living. Everything he knew pointed sharply to that reality. But instead, he got a party. Instead, his expectation of normal was broken apart and put back together.

There’s a new normal available, but I think you have to let go of the old one first. You have to get out of the pig pen like the son did and walk back home. To admit that you’re normal isn’t. Your ordinary wasn’t. Your common can’t be. And when you do, the only thing you’ll find waiting is a party. And that’s the best kind of normal there is.

Shrimp nets, waiting rooms and today's dreadful meeting.

Shrimp nets, waiting rooms and today’s dreadful meeting.

I worry more than you. I know, right now some of you think that’s impossible, but it’s true. Promise. My level of worry makes you look like Cool Hand Luke, like the calmest person on the planet.

For instance, did you lose thirty pounds before your wedding out of sheer terror? I did. Did you wake up every night in a cold sweat for three months? I did. Were you living in a trailer home in a retirement community slowly becoming like an old person with a rocking chair, foot massager and unusually strong affection for the show “Everybody Loves Raymond?” I was, but that’s beside the point.

I heart worrying.

Over the years, I’ve become like a Doctor of worry. I have a waiting room and anytime I feel the big, scary emptiness of peace descending upon my life, I go out into it and interview a few new worries. “Ohh, two people unsubscribed from the Prodigal Jon’s mailing list, interesting, that’s an OK worry. Not going to be able to attend our small group’s couples retreat, disappointing some friends? That’s not bad, but wait what’s this? A coworker is upset and wants to have a meeting with me and my boss. Bingo, this is the one.”

That is where I find myself this very morning. In a few hours I will have that meeting which makes me want to throw up a little or maybe a lot. This coworker is right, I probably have been rude or had a bad attitude with her. That is another, perhaps bigger issue to address, but this is about worry. So I sit here early in the morning with that future conversation dominating my thoughts.

Why do I do it? Why worry? Two reasons: I want the distractions and I want to get high.

Worry, is like wrapping yourself tightly in a burlap blanket. It’s uncomfortable, it doesn’t feel good, but it still cocoons you from the outside world. Instead of focusing on my marriage and the relationships in my life that require real work, I can focus my time and energy on this morning’s meeting. Instead of dealing with real big, gross issues, I can magnify this little one and get lost in it. I can create a black hole that will drown out all the real issues.

And best of all, when this massive worry does not come true, I’ll get a little endorphin rush. I’ll feel excited and a little bit intoxicated by the sense of peace that sweeps over me after my catastrophic vision of the future does not come to fruition. But it’s a short lived high and I am forced to immediately start interviewing another worry.

So how can I stop worrying? The truth is that I hate when people say to me, “You’re having a problem? You should read the bible more.” That’s such a pat, empty answer but in this case, doing what a Bible verse suggests has actually helped me.

In 1 Peter 5:7 it says:
Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

I used to think that just meant saying, “God help me with all this worry. Ugh, I am afraid of this meeting this morning. Amen.” But then I started to think about what “casting” really meant.

When I was a child, we used to vacation at Sunset Beach in North Carolina. We’d always rent a house on the canal so that we could fish. Sometimes we’d use a small net to catch shrimp and minnows for bait. The net was about ten feet wide when flung open correctly and had small weights at the bottom that would sink in the water as soon as it hit.

It looks easy to do. When you see someone that is good at it, this tight ball of mesh net will open and flare into a wide circle that cuts through the air and covers the water. But when you don’t know how to do it, the net stays closed, and a heavy clump of uselessness hits the water.

I decided that verse was not asking me to just casually throw big clumps of worry at God, it was asking me to cast them, to spread them wide and really look at what I was giving him. Like a master with a net, I needed to be deliberate in my confession of anxiety, to take my time. My prayers became longer and more honest as I detailed out what I was really afraid of:

“Lord, I’m having a hard time working with this person. I feel ineffective. I don’t feel good enough for this job and I am afraid when they tell me what I’ve done wrong I will rush to agree since I don’t really believe in myself. Take this anxiety Lord, take this meeting and make it yours not mine for I am powerless and fearful of ever leaving your hand.”

Do I still worry? Yes, but by casting my worries out in detail, most of the time I am able to see they’re not that big. They’re just not as scary as when they’re hidden in shadows.

I don’t know what will happen this morning. I still feel a little sick to my stomach about the whole thing. But I threw a net last night and I threw a net this morning. I no longer have to carry these worries around. They’re somewhere out in the ocean that is God. And that’s all the reason I need not to fear.

Update:

Meeting was great. My coworker was kind and courageous in sharing her concern with my attitude. And she was right. I was being a jerk to her. I need to work on my attitude because I can’t stand the idea that I write blogs about God and then treat the people in my life like that. All in all it was an experience I hope to learn from.

Mario Lopez I am not.

Mario Lopez, I am not.

Recently Mario Lopez, Slater from the show Saved by the Bell, was supposed to take part in a charity night for Casa Seguras, an organization that helps victims of domestic violence and their children. He was forced to cancel though because the wildfires in California impacted his family.

Unfortunately that wasn’t true. Turns out instead of going to help the charity he decided to attend the Playboy Halloween party. One of the trash news programs showed him dancing in some sort of skimpy leather Speedo, kissing his muscled arm anytime the camera came his way.

The first thing I thought was, “I could become that guy in about 10 minutes.”

Maybe I have low expectations of myself, but I haven’t done very well with success in the past. I am a lightweight for approval, and when I get some it usually intoxicates me pretty quickly. A compliment, a good comment posted on something I wrote, an encouraging phone call all have me desperate to pat myself on the back and essentially tell God adios.

One thought that I have used to temper that scenario is that “unless I’m good, God won’t give me good stuff.” I think that’s pretty common in a performance driven society. You earn incentives. Bonuses are given at the end of a year, not the beginning. Everything is evaluated.

Everything is measured. Gifts are not free. Praise is produced not given.

But maybe that’s wrong. I listened to a Joyce Meyer book on tape once and the reader mentioned the book of Joel. I thought she had mispronounced Job because I didn’t think there was such a book. (I am not a very good Christian.) Anyway, in the book, there’s a great example of the rhythm of God. Here’s what Chapter 2:25-27 says:

25 “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—
the great locust and the young locust,
the other locusts and the locust swarm
my great army that I sent among you.

26 You will have plenty to eat, until you are full,
and you will praise the name of the LORD your God,
who has worked wonders for you;
never again will my people be shamed.

27 Then you will know that I am in Israel,
that I am the LORD your God,
and that there is no other;
never again will my people be shamed.

Those verses are beautiful and I’m tempted to just camp out on the idea that God felt compelled to repeat the phrase “never again will my people be shamed.” That is gorgeous, but there are five really simple words I want to point out.

The words are “I will” and “Then you will.” By themselves they’re not that extraordinary, but in this context they become flares to a lost people. The thing I love about them is that they explode my notion of an “If then God.” See, I sometimes feel that God will publish my book if I am good enough. If I am holy enough, am a good enough father/husband/Christian, then I’ll finally connect with a publisher. If I was reading my bible enough then this weekend when I ran into Andy Stanley, mega pastor, he probably would have published my book right there in the hall.

God doesn’t work that way though, does he? We get the good stuff first. We get a party just for coming home. We have plenty to eat and then we praise. We have wonders worked in our favor and then we know that he is the Lord our God. I heard a minister once say that God’s gifts are so great they’re almost wasteful. I agree.

Give up your if then God. Don’t try to manufacture praise, let it flow naturally out of the goodness that gets poured over us.

And I promise I won’t become Mario Lopez.

The poet with no voice.

The poet with no voice.

I saw Maya Angelou on TV the other day. (If the question is, “were you watching the Martha Stewart show?” The answer is sadly enough, “yes.”) She is perhaps America’s most treasured living poet and is known the world over for her ability to write and speak.

What was interesting about the short interview was that at one point in her life Angelou had not spoken. In fact, from the ages of 7-13 she was a voluntary mute. Not a word escaped her lips, even when an elementary teacher tried to slap her face hard enough to make her speak. You see, Angelou was molested as a child. When the man passed away, she thought she had killed him with her voice. So from that point on she did not speak.

There are probably a million good ideas within the sadness of this tale but the one that struck me most was the lesson about gifts. Angelou’s strongest passion, the thing she would call her reason to be, is her words. She is a public speaker, an orator that has moved presidents and even nations at times. And yet for six years she did not share a single word.

Her gift was stolen. Perhaps only temporarily, but it was stolen nonetheless. Maybe you’ve got a gift too that has been stolen. I think that happens more than we like to admit. Maybe there’s some hurt associated with that gift. You’re a musician that could never please your father so you gave up the piano. An artist whose work caused pain somehow so you gave up the paint brushes. I don’t know how it happened to you, but because my name is in the address of this blog, I’ll tell you how it happened to me.

I used to use my words to interact with girls online. I used to post funny things, or insightful things in hopes that my approval addiction would get fed in some way. I even started sending out long, bibly emails to friends from church in hopes that they would tell me how holy I was. I misappropriated my greatest gift in a selfish desire to numb my wounds.

After a while, I realized what I was doing and decided to never do that again. The easiest way was to simply stop writing. I might have scribbled in a journal, but the swirling and twisting storm of words that seethed inside remained silent. My gift was stolen. There were too many thorn bushes planted by my one talent. I didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

I eventually couldn’t contain it any longer and asked God if I could write again. I asked him if he was cool with me writing, given my less than proud past. The answer was pretty simple. I felt like he said, “Do you know what I do when you write? I sing.”

So here’s my blog. And there’s your gift, waiting to be used. Don’t let it be stolen. You might have damaged it and bruised it in the past. Someone close to you may have tried to snuff it out.

But it’s there. Tired of being silent, desperate to sing.

Friends help friends throw up.

Friends help friends throw up.

In college, if my friend Carsten thought of something gross, he’d throw up.

Now clearly, if he smelled something gross he’d have the same reaction, but it was the throw ups that resulted from thinking that proved to be the most entertaining.

He was a big, goofy German with thin balding blonde hair and a linebacker’s body. In high school his parents went out of town for a month so he did an experiment. He urinated in the same toilet for 30 days straight without flushing. He didn’t throw a party. He didn’t get drunk. He didn’t break anything. He simply went to the same toilet for 30 days. When his parents came home they had to throw the toilet away.

This was the kind of thing Carsten was known for, but it was his weak stomach that made him famous on campus. If you were ever at a party that was boring, all you had to do was tell Carsten a story about rotten food, within minutes the party was exciting again. It happened dozens of times but my favorite was the night we drove by the paper mill.

Usually, if you didn’t want Carsten to throw up, you could talk him down. If you berated him enough, “Oh stop, that’s not even that gross. It smells fine. Give me a break,” he would calm down. But that wasn’t going to work that night in Pensacola, Florida.

By the time I tried to talk him down it was too late, he was already dry heaving. I yelled at him, I pleaded with him, but momentum was clearly not on my side. He grabbed an open bag of candy corn from the floorboard and put it over his mouth in hopes that it would block out the smell. (Since candy corn is so fragrant and what not.) Seconds later he screamed, “it’s getting through the corn, it’s getting through the corn.”

Within minutes we had to pull over on the side of the road so that he could empty his stomach.

I think about Carsten sometimes when I face temptation. He had a visceral, full body, completely committed response to things he thought were gross. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t casual. It was big and loud and final. And it doesn’t feel like how I respond when I’m tempted by something.

I’ll usually hold the fire for a few minutes. I’ll usually explore just a little, or taste just a tiny. I’ll take my time. Sometimes I’ll seek it out. I’ll be the one setting up a tent in the parking lot of the paper mill all the while pretending that I’m trying to avoid temptation.

More often than I’d like to admit, I react to temptation a lot like I did in the eighth grade.

There are certain chapters in my life that my friend in PR would advise I be careful about sharing. He’s smart and most times he’s right, but sometimes people blog their ideal self and not their real self. The truth is that my real self used to spend Saturdays in the eighth grade at the dump digging around in trash and looking inside tractors in hopes of finding porn.

There were even a few snowy days when I brought my sled, thinking that my parents would find it perfectly natural that I was sledding down mountains of trash. Although my approach to temptation is perhaps less obvious now that I am 31, it’s often just as stupid. I keep secrets. I create shadows. I try my best not to have a Carsten reaction to something that I know should make me sick.

I hope God will show me how to throw up more. I hope that he’ll give me a weaker stomach and a stronger heart. I hope that the next time you face temptation you’ll act like Carsten instead of going sledding at the dump.

The itsy, bitsy ax murderer.

The itsy, bitsy ax murderer.

I’ve never been murdered but I thought I was going to be one night a few months ago. I was asleep in my bed, probably dreaming of growing taller and dunking on a Duke basketball player, when I heard a voice softly singing. I woke up and became instantly sweaty, which I think is my body’s only natural defense mechanism. It wasn’t either of my daughters, the voice was far too high pitched for them. It was sickly sweet, as if it were an adult trying to sing like a little girl. Worst of all, it was crackling and broken and full of static like one of those voice scramblers that all modern kidnappers seem to own these days.

But there it was, softly, potentially deadly, floating into my room, “Itsy, bitsy spider, went up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out …”

It carried on for a few moments with me growing angry that my wife won’t let me sleep with a machete. I tried to imagine how I was going to fight this killer, who I was convinced would be wearing a red flannel shirt and unlaced brown work boots. Then, once I had woken up a little, I realized the sound was coming from our bedside monitor, not the foot of my door. That’s why it sounded so crackly. And it wasn’t an ax murderer, it was baby Tad, a freakishly large stuffed frog that if rolled upon in the middle of the night will just burst out in song.

What was actually a sweet child’s song got turned into a murderer’s anthem when played through an old baby monitor at 3 in the morning. The way the song was filtered completed changed the way I experienced it. The troubling thing about that is I go through much of my life with similar filters in place.

For instance, when my wife tries to give me any feedback about my writing, this is what I hear, “You are a horrible writer. This might be the worst thing ever written. This makes Weekend at Bernie’s 2 read like Hamlet. Seriously, I am dumber for having experienced this.” That’s stupid, I know, but for some reason I have a “wife should always be a cheerleader and never criticize” filter on that relationship.

At work, I have the “I’m about to get fired” filter firmly in place. I’ve been fired twice, once from the carnival, but for some reason I still think that any time anyone closes a door to have a meeting they’re about to talk about firing me. I thought that way when I worked at Bose as a writer. On the day I quit to move from Boston to Atlanta they told me that I could still have my job and just work out of Atlanta. They loved me and I still thought they were plotting my demise. I am ridiculous.

I think the biggest filter, the one that’s so easy to wear, is the one that makes you think God is going to be like your dad. Since God is often called the father it’s an easy one to put into place. If your dad was strict, then so is God. If your dad kept score, then so will God. If your dad was drunk on rage, then God will be that way too.

It’s so hard to have a clean slate God, to approach the Lord without expectation or exaggeration or filters. He’s a difficult dude to grasp and sometimes putting him in context, as your dad, your friend, your whatever makes him a little easier to understand.

But filters can turn good things into ax murderers and God into a jerk. So be careful, take the time to figure out what filters you have in place. And maybe next time you hear “Itsy Bitsy Spider” you won’t get sweaty.