Spray on faith.

Spray on faith.

There is a new housing development near our neighborhood. They have about one hundred houses and people are starting to move in on a fairly regular basis. The other day while we were driving by it, my wife pointed out something interesting.

Instead of buying new pine straw for the landscaping that rings the property, the development decided to paint it. Instead of doing something new and true, they simply gave the old, sun worn pine straw a darker shade of paint.

I've never seen that before and maybe it's better for the environment. Maybe, instead of using real pine straw, painting it is a clever way to recycle it without wasting anything. I'm not a yard guy so I am admittedly not a pine straw expert. But something about doing that reminded me of faith.

I think that at times in my life, I have been guilty of spraying my heart with "holy spray." Instead of doing something new and true, like laying fresh pine straw down, I instead just do things that look holy on the outside. I spray myself with big, long prayers or visible acts of kindness that are done in front of other people so that they will think I am a good Christian. I put on a great show, but underneath my actions is old pine straw that is getting worn out despite the new layer of paint.

Worse yet, I think people that aren't Christians can tell when we do this. Much like my wife pointing out the colored pine straw, they can see that all we have done is change our surface. They see that we are faking it and much like DC Talk once said, the hypocrisy of it all chases people away from the Lord.

I don't have a solution for this, as I've just noticed it, but I do have a prayer. I pray that this week, at work, at home, in what I write, in what I do, I will lay down the new and true, instead of just putting a coat of paint on my life.

The good luck algorithm.

The good luck algorithm.

I recently had the opportunity to hear an MIT professor speak at a conference. The topic of her discourse was casinos and it was terribly fascinating. Honestly, some of the things she told us were pretty startling. There was one idea in particular that I have been unable to shake and that is, the "good luck algorithm."

You see, casinos gather reams and reams of information about the people that play in them. They study the ergonomics of the slot machines, the impact of different lighting systems, the number of times a certain type of person will play a certain type of game, etc. But the scariest thing they measure is something called your "pain point."

That's a phrase they use to describe your threshold for abuse. A pain point represents how much money you can lose before you'll get up and leave. A pain point represents how taken advantage of you will be before you exit the casino. A pain point represents your breaking point.

Why do they measure it? So they know when to start the "good luck algorithm."

Here is how it works: When you hit your pain point, casinos see that happening and will set in motion a process to win you back. Suddenly, as you walk down the long carpeted hall to the exit, someone taps you on the shoulder "randomly." They say, "excuse me, we just wanted to thank you for being such a loyal supporter of the casino. Would you like a free steak dinner and a coupon for five turns on a slot machine?" You smile a little. The pain starts to melt away. "Hey," you think, "maybe this place isn't so bad after all." You walk back in and start to play again.

The reason I mention this story is that I think the devil works the same way. Not that casinos are demonic, but that the devil has his own algorithm, the "bad luck algorithm." When things are going well in your life, when things are moving along smoothly, suddenly someone taps you on the shoulder, "Hey, Mark, is that you? It's me Pamela, we dated in college? Wow, it's been so long, you still look great. Haven't lost those college muscles." Or maybe it's just the opposite, in the midst of a really challenging time, you see the chance for some momentary escape. A sign for a strip club suddenly feels larger and more inviting than it used to. The chance to buy those shoes and never tell your husband about the money suddenly materializes. Some temptation dances it's way magically across your field of vision. In an obvious way. In a subtle way, it doesn't matter.

Wherever you are, remember, the tap on your shoulder is never accidental. It's never coincidence. It's never "just one of those things."

It's the bad luck algorithm. And if you're not careful to tell God you need help with the math of your life, the odds are going to be stacked against you.

What the barber taught me accidentally.

What the barber taught me accidentally.

I am not fancy. You might think I am, but I am not. I shop the clearance section of Marshall's, eat 97 cent Totino's pizzas and get my haircut at "Fan Favorites." That's not really the name of the store but in order to share what I am about to share, I needed to switch it up a little.

Things are kind of crazy right now. Some cool stuff is happening on the book end. Some really awesome, smart people are asking me for advice. Some opportunities I have always dreamed about are opening up. But, amidst all of that, is the temptation to get drunk on the idea of doing something "big."

I will undoubtedly share this on stuff christians like someday (and feel like I have written about this idea before), but for you faithful few, here is the idea I am talking about. I often think that in order for my faith to "count," I have to do something "big" for God. I have to change the world. I have to win a whole country to Him. I have to shake the very foundation of the earth with what I am able to accomplish.

The problem is, when you think that way, you start to define your faith and your life and your worth that way. If no one ever reads my blogs again, then I am not a good Christian. If the book does not get published, I have failed God. If I don't ever speak at the Catalyst Conference, then this was all a waste.

But recently, a barber at Fan Favorites changed that for me.

Fan Favorites is one of those sports-themed places where 98 televisions are blaring ESPN and there are sports posters all over the place. The other day I went in and the woman cutting my hair started to tell me about her life. In a matter of minutes, she told me that her husband of 30 years had left her 6 weeks ago. The pain and hurt in her was palpable and although I certainly didn't push, she continued to share. From a voice that sounded gray, if that's possible, she told me about how things fell apart. She told me the sadness. She told me the regret.

When she was done, I told her the best marriage truth I had ever heard:
The one thing men want above all is to know that they are enough. That their masculinity, their power, their value, their strength is enough for their wife.

The one thing women want above all is to know that they are not too much. That they can be as big and as beautiful and as powerful as God made them without overshadowing a man who is too fragile or insecure.

I didn't tell her to fix her marriage or what the Bible says about divorce. I just shared an idea with her, but when I did, it was like a fuse was lit.

"Yes!" she said, "He didn't want me to go back to school. He didn't want me to have my own friends or outside interests." She paused, "Since we've been apart I have started taking care of myself and have lost weight and started to make new friends." She started to get happy and by the time I left, this once shy, pain stricken barber was shouting to me when I was at the door, "You look great. It is a great haircut because I am a great stylist!"

I didn't change her life. She and I didn't figure out divorce or come up with a plan that other people should follow. This post isn't really even about divorce. This is about realizing that for God and for us, it's about people. Not selling books, not selling out speaking gigs, not getting big or successful. It's about loving on people.

That's what I felt like God said in that moment, "See Jon, I'm glad that more people are reading your sites, but that's not what the goal should be. The goal should be loving on people. That conversation with that barber is every bit as world changing as writing a book. Don't ever underestimate the power of a personal conversation."

And that's what the barber helped me learn.

Michael Jordan and the Prodigal Son and Me.

Michael Jordan and the Prodigal Son and Me.

I met Michael Jordan one summer while he was golfing at a country club in Pinehurst, North Carolina. My uncle and his family lived on the golf course and I was spending a few weeks there before I started the seventh grade.

When word spread that Jordan and a gang of other important people in the clubhouse that morning we all went down to get a closer look. This was before Jordan became human. Before the gambling and his father’s murder and the failed baseball experiment and the infidelity. Jordan was a God at the time and I had a Nike swoosh mark shaved into the back of my head to prove it. I told everyone in Pinehurst that summer that I had my haircut that way as a tribute to a friend in Boston that had been shot and killed for a pair of Air Jordans.

I’m not sure why I lied like that. In the ninth grade after I shaved stripes in my left eyebrow (insert your own Vanilla Ice joke here) I told everyone I knew that my neighbor Kerri Kapapolous had done it while I was asleep. She yelled at me in front of my whole world in the cafeteria during lunch. For at least a week I spent my lunchbreak in the school library pretending to read the paper because when it was unfolded and held upright in your hands it offered a pretty good hiding place.

Maybe I’m like Samson, razors bring out the worst in me, but Michael Jordan didn’t know any of that. Neither did Dean Smith or Dr. J, who were with him.

They all signed the back of the shirt as well as a couple of random rich looking white guys. If I ever become a random rich guy and I’m having dinner with Lebron James and some awkward eighth grader comes to the table and asks me for my autograph cause he assumes I’m famous too I hope I’d say “You don’t want my autograph kid, I’m just a random rich guy.”

Later that day with the autographed shirt safely tucked in a drawer I went back down to the clubhouse. It had been 3 or 4 hours and I wanted to see if I could get Jordan’s autograph on a piece of paper to frame.

The party had already finished golfing and all the fans had gone home. I saw Jordan walking to his car in the parking lot. I ran out after him and said “excuse me Mr. Jordan, can I please have your autograph?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned, a golf bag resting high on shoulders that towered over me. With a look that froze opponents across the planet he said “didn’t I already sign you kid?”

Life is Limited
In the real world, in parking lots in Pinehurst, North Carolina, life is limited. Your hero turns to you and tells you that he’s not going to give you another autograph. Your hero tells you he remembers you and that you’re not getting a second signature, the only thing you want that day. That stupid summer, with a lopsided swoosh mark growing back in the back of your head and a mouth full of lies.

Sometimes I think God is like that. Bothered by me, tired of my requests for his time, even if it’s just 3 seconds for him to sign off on some prayer I’m saying or need I’m sure I can’t live without.

He’s on his way somewhere important after a round of golf with Moses and Elijah or Elisha whichever one plays. I’m chasing him down in the parking lot. He turns with his big God golf clubs and he looks down at me. And he says in that massive voice of his “Didn’t I already forgive you kid?”

Forgiveness is the thing I ask for the most. In my head maybe I know that God’s forgiveness is eternal and inexhaustible but in my heart I feel like he’s going to run out of them. That he’s got a limited supply. And I’m burning them up, one by one, sin by sin.

The Day After the Party
I’ve read the story about the prodigal son more than anything else in the Bible. If you’ve messed up life like I have it’s a pretty good read. I think when you get arrested they should read you that to you right after your Miranda rights. Imagine you’re in the car handcuffed and the cop in the passenger seat is just up there with the NIV version. I think that’d be a nice way to take a little sting out of going to jail.

Part of the reason I’ve read that story so many times though is that I think there’s something missing from it. I feel like there’s some verse or passage that I might have skipped that makes the whole thing make sense. It seems too good to be true. The prodigal son takes his inheritance, blows it on fast living, ends up in a pig pen and then gets a party thrown for him when he returns home. I’ve always wondered what the day after the party was like:

The first rays of sunshine crept across the floor and landed on a pile of party favors being swept up by a servant. A welcome home banner was being taken down and across the house the sounds of morning reverberated.

In his old bedroom, the prodigal son rolls over and slowly opens his eyes. He’d dreamt it so often, dreamed of this place so often he didn’t believe it was real. Those nights in the dark, curled under a bush or beside the barn when his money was gone and his hope with it, he’d wondered if he’d ever know safety again. He sat up, surprised to find himself there, laughing at the memories of the night before. The feast, the party, the ridiculousness of it all. His family that celebrated his return as if his absence had only increased their love for him, amplified it. There was a knock on the door. He had a door again, that was something he had missed.

The head of a servant peered in:

“Sir, your father is waiting for you in the kitchen.” This servant didn’t go to seminary either and didn’t seem that concerned that in Biblical times “kitchen” was definitely the wrong word to use.

With a yawn and a scratch of his head the prodigal son got up. He put on his clothes and made his way to the kitchen. There at a small table sat his father.

“Sit down son.” He said, motioning to a chair across from him.

“Thank you for the party father. I never expected that and …”

“Son, we need to go over the list.” His father said, interrupting him.

“The list?”

“Yes” he replied, touching a large pile of blank paper with his hand. “We need to make a list of all the money you spent, all the mistakes you made and all the people you hurt. Then we need to figure out how you start repaying your debt.”

“I had a plan father. I had plan when I was walking home but when I saw you running I didn’t think I’d need it. At the party I forget what my plan was.” The son said, with a voice of shame and sorrow that had taken but a brief hiatus during the previous night’s celebration.

“Well, you’ve got the rest of your life for it to come back to you.” The father said taking out a pen and writing “family inheritance” at the top of the list.

I would say that most of my life this is how I would have written the second part of that story, the directors cut if you will, an alternative ending that was too harsh for the version they released in the Bible.

The father’s anxious sprint toward the lost son doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how life works. People pay for their mistakes. They don’t get a party for them. When you return home from wasting your inheritance on the world your father says “didn’t I already bless you kid?” End of story.

Forgiveness
I don’t understand forgiveness and it’s always depressing to me when I read a book that tells me that’s the first step of the Christian walk, believing that God forgives you. If I can’t get past that first step than the rest of it, all the rest of it remains completely closed to me.

It’s not that I think I don’t need forgiveness. I just don’t understand how it’s possible. If I can’t earn it, than it’s out of my control and I’m powerless.

I remember the first time I ever knew how outrageous and insane real forgiveness was. I had gotten myself into some serious trouble at work. The kind of trouble that’s so big and ugly it makes you ashamed that there are people in your life close enough to you to get some of the trouble spilled on them. I wanted to push everyone away, to expel people from the planetary system that was me and just go float somewhere and die.

I called my wife on the phone and told her as much.

“I’m sorry you met me.” I said through angry, frightened tears. I was desperate for her to go, to pull away from me so I could inflict pain on only one person. The person I felt deserved it the most. Me.

“I love you.” She yelled through the phone.

“How can you say that? That doesn’t make any sense.” I responded.

“You don’t get to decide who I love. I love you. That’s my decision. You can’t take that away from me. I love you. I choose to love you.” She repeated words like these over and over again. She attacked me with love that day. And forgiveness I didn’t deserve. Forgiveness I couldn’t earn or make sense of.

I was overwhelmed that day. And I think that was such a thin sliver of what God’s forgiveness is like, how big and nonsensical is love is. I heard a minister once say that his forgiveness, God’s grace is given wastefully. He pours it out on us in such abundance that it’s almost wasteful.

The tenth party
I have to confess that most days I still think there’s a list God will ask me to work through the day after he throws me that welcome home party. I have a hard time understanding how something can be true and illogical at the same time. And so much of God is that way.

But some days, when I least expect it, in ways I can’t control, I believe a different day after for the prodigal son.

The first rays of sunshine creep across a dusty road and grate against the eyelids of the prodigal son trying to sleep uncomfortably on a bed of gravel. His teeth felt dirty, his mouth and hands stained with the red of cheap wine. A long scratch ran across his cheek, a shoe was angled beneath his head for a pillow. How many times did this make he thought from the part inside him that still remembered returning home. He was doing so well, things were so happy but his never agains always seemed to fail him in the end. How long would he be gone this time?

Miles away, an anxious father stands by the front window of his house.

“Sir, I checked his bedroom and the barn. His things are missing. He’s left.”

“I know.” The father says with sad eyes.

And then with slow steps he walks to a large closet and motions to the servant.

“Help me with this Welcome Home Banner.” He said pulling one from a pile of a thousand.

“Today could be the day he returns.”


(I wrote this about a year ago and took it down off my blog but a few folks asked for it to return. So despite it being really long, I put it back up.)

Why I am back in counseling.

Why I am back in counseling.

Last week I started seeing counselor #3 for the first time in about a year. The reason I am going to see him again is that for reasons beyond my understanding and ability, the site stuff christians like has exploded. And to tell you the truth, I fear that without surrounding myself with wise counsel, I will become an arrogant jerk. Or more of one, since some days I am already there.

Arrogance is one of those traits that we sometimes give a free pass. We say someone is "driven" or "focused" instead of calling them prideful. But I read something in 2 Timothy that challenged me this morning. Here is what 2 Timothy 3:1 says:

But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days.

That's a little scary sounding and for good reason. In the Old Testament, when things were terrible, people did horrible things. They murdered pregnant women, ate their children to prevent starving and killed each other for false Gods. So when the verse warns of terrible times it's difficult not to think of a particularly dark and bloody future. But here's what the next verse says:

People will be lovers of themselves,

Wow. I thought that threat of "terrible times" would be punctuated with an example of something horrible. Murder. Genocide. Cannibalism. Certainly those things are available in other parts of the Bible, but Paul didn't pick them. He picked arrogance. Out of the pantheon of sin, the one he referenced first as a sign of the last days was that "people will be lovers of themselves." In the next few verses he further drives home the point by calling out the words, "boastful, proud and abusive."

That's why I am in counseling again. It has been a joy and an honor to be part of stuff christians like. And soon I am going to announce some really cool things that are coming down the road. But I hear the siren's call of arrogance. I hear the temptation to think this is about me and not about God. I see love letters written from me to me. And I realize that alone, I am not strong enough to ignore them. Alone, I will help usher in terrible times with my arrogance. Alone, I will fall again and again.

That's why I am back in counseling.

What this weekend holds.

If past behavior is a predictor of future behavior, I am not good at making decisions. I will make many, many bad decisions in the future. I will fail. I will choose the wrong door. I will go for option 3 when clearly option 2 was where God was waiting.

But recently I read something in 2 Timothy 2:4 that shook my snowglobe so to speak. It was not some massive revelation. I did not hear the pitter patter of angel wings in my ears. I was not instantly enrobed in a beam of heavenly light. I just realized something that I think you might realize too. Here is what the verse says:

"No one serving as a soldier gets involved in civilian affairs."

Feel free to insert your own "I'm in the Lord's army joke," but I think there's something else to this idea. I think that when you look at this a little closer, a simple truth jumps out:

In the wrong activity, all the options are bad.

Sometimes I get so focused on making a good decision that I don't take the time to even look at the affair. I worried about which job God wanted me to take in Atlanta for the longest time without even asking him if it was the right time to move. The reality is that every job was the wrong choice because at the time, the move was not the right affair. The move was a civilian affair. The move was something I shouldn't have even been involved in.

It's easy for us to casually drift into circumstances where we have to "make the most of a bad situation." Where we choose the lesser of two evils. The dating relationship that is better than the horrible one, but not really that great. The lie that is the whiter of the two, but still a lie.

I think instead of analyzing our options we need to pull things back and ask, "Is this the right affair?" I think we need to pause and say, "Regardless of my decision, should I even be involved in this activity?" Because the best of the worst is still less than the best can be.

It's time for beauty.

It's time for beauty.

I recently wrote about feeling convicted to throw away my copy of the movie, "Fight Club." I wrote that for years I threw it away only to buy it again. And the post got a lot of responses. People had lots of different opinions about throwing things away in general and Fight Club in specific.

I didn't do a very good job explaining why I might not need to watch Fight Club, but Paul does. Here is what he writes in Philippians 4:8:

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Forget Fight Club, I think this verse is bigger than that. I think this changes the filter with which I look at the world. You see, I judge things by their potentional to hurt me. I look at movies and books and friendships and magazines and conversations and think to myself, "Is this poison?" Will this thing or person damage my walk? It's a "how can I not fail" way of looking at things.

But Paul flips that idea on its head. He says I am wrong. He says, the question is not, "Is this poison?" The question I should be asking is, "Is this art?" That is, is this something so lovely, so excellent, so pure that it will elevate my walk with God?

It's not about sorting through the snakes until you find one that isn't poisonous. It's about seeing the sunset and the things that are beautiful and true and powerful and bigger than me.

I like the book Fight Club. I think it says something powerful about men and our needs and where our culture is headed. I recommend that book all the time to Christians. But if I ran the movie, with the nudity and the sex and the violence and the destruction through the Paul beauty filter, what would I find?

I'm not sure.