o little, run down, glass town of bethlehem.

Today, while singing the same old, same old Christmas carols in church, I was struck by how mechanical the songs had become to me. Here I was, singing these beautiful lyrics about the revolutionary birth of Christ and the new life he brought, and it didn't mean a thing to me. Everything was cardboard, all I had to do was move my lips and sing along. About the time I realized this, we started singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem." The classic lyrics I had sung all my life were suddenly set ablaze, lighting up with random sparks and fireworks that danced across the lines with an intensity that took me aback. It was usually only a few words in each verse, and yet it felt completely new to me, like I was singing it for the first time.

O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.

For me, it was those last two lines that were the bullet. It's easy to see God in shattered fragments, encompassing only certain aspects of our lives. For me, it's easy to lose sight of him when my fears are hitting home hard. During those moments of uncertainty and insecurity and panic, I like to zoom in on my problems and zoom out on God, drowning out his voice and what he wants me to do, because it usually involves... you know... facing those fears. For others, it's incredibly hard to stay focused on God during those times of hope and joy and excitement, when life is alive with bright colors and beauty, and things just seem to be going right. Sometimes, we get a bit too complacent, and like to think that since life is so great, we can get by just fine without God. Either way, this song makes it very clear that in Christ, all of these aspects of our hearts collide onto a backdrop of grace and unending love. All of the hopes we hold dear, all of those annoying fears that burrow under our skin, all of the shiny bright and oozing black parts of our hearts - Christ is big enough to meet all of it. No matter what season of life we're in, Jesus is there, filling up the cracks and sustaining us with his peace.

How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessing of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

This is a much quieter verse than the others, sneaking under the radar, just like the birth of Christ. I'd never really noticed that it mentions how God gave us this gift silently. There were no curled ribbons, festive lights or candied apples. There was the reek of cattle shit and the piercing screams of a newborn baby. Even as he grew older and began his ministry, Christ never preached under neon signs with fireworks for effect. In fact, after most of his miracles, he specifically asked them not to tell anyone else. Later, he was brutally slaughtered on the cross, the most humiliating way to die. Christ never made a huge show of himself. He reflected all glory straight back to the Father and never stopped preaching and living humility, even though he's the only one who truly deserves the worship and glory and flashing neon signs. Reflecting on God's silent gift to the world encourages me to give back by taking up my cross and continually emptying myself. As the lyrics say, we are meek souls, scared and small and confused, but when the dear Christ can enter in, when he can move in past all of those scars and expand, we begin to see ourselves less and less, gazing instead on the beautiful face of God, his humble-manger-bed, bleeding-cross-scars and all. A wondrous gift indeed.

O holy child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell:
Oh, come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!

I think the problem I have with most Christmas sermons is that I take such an eagle's-eye-view on the Christmas story. Mary, Joseph, the stable and baby Jesus remain so impersonal and distant, petite figurines in a glass Nativity scene, always lodged in some sort of untouchable realm of Christmas. This verse reminded me that when Christ Jesus was born into the world, thousands of years ago, in a distant land, he was able to reach across all time throughout all the world to give everyone the hope of new life. Not only was he born once into this world, he's also being constantly born in the hearts of each and every Christian! That once far Nativity set was suddenly smashed to glass shards, slicing up my heart with the real and gritty Christmas story, the one that didn't end in a manger, but the one that will never end, the one that happens every day. Every day, we are given the opportunity to realign our thoughts with Christ, who has been born in our hearts and is continually growing, always active and moving.

That is why he came. It's why we're reminded every year of his lowly birth and spend one whole month in anticipation of celebration. For although his physical birth was a one-time event, his continual birth in the hearts of Christians isn't. His birth is alive, it's one that breathes and grows and can never be contained in a glass Nativity set. It's a truth that will live on for eternity and one that should always remain at the forefront of our minds and attention.

Let Christ come up close and abide with you this Christmas. Because he's so much more than glass.

scattered jigsaw puzzle dreams: part two.

So, there I was, still convinced that the Oscars were calling my name like perfect, golden sirens. At this point, I can almost see God rolling his eyes and chuckling to himself. "Well, looks like those two weddings weren't enough to wake him up to reality. Time to pull out the bigger guns."

Those bigger guns came in the form of one of my close friends, whom I randomly asked out of the blue one day, "How did you know what God wanted you to do with your life?" Expecting some huge, life-changing answer, I was taken aback by the simplicity of his answer. He went on to explain to me how he had always assumed God would eventually just light up his future with a big neon sign. Turns out, he never really got any huge confirmation from God, but rather small little nudges here and there. The rest was just sheer and utter trust. And I realized then that God is pretty strategic in these matters - he gives us enough nudges for us to realize the path he's pushing us toward, but leaves just enough loose ends so that we're never too comfortable, and are always having to fall back in real, authentic trust.

After that conversation, my heart opened slightly. I was suddenly more willing to maybe focus on the ministry aspect of film making  rather than the Hollywood aspect. Maybe God could have a starring role in my films, rather than get stuck as that random extra on the far left corner of the set. Fast forward a few months, and I'm back working at summer camp, with the added duty of documenting the summer. You know, all of the big events. With, like a... a video camera.

Ensue the all too familiar state of sheer dread and frustration. No matter how hard I tried, hauling the camera around with me was always such a nuisance! I hated the stupid thing. However, it wasn't until about halfway through the summer, when I had the opportunity to chat with one of my dear friends who came up for the week, that everything changed. She told me all about her college, and about the different ministry degrees they offered and their huge focus on reconciliation. They really stressed reconciling people as Christ reconciled the world, through conflict resolution, peace meditation, social justice, etc.

And suddenly it hit me. Once again, Jesus just jumped out of my mechanical heart with his classic sniper rifle and blasted the robotic piece of cardboard to pieces. All this time, all of the tiny little nudges finally made sense! The scattered jigsaw puzzle dreams no longer needed to be shoved relentlessly in a futile attempt to fit them together. Now they came together in perfect harmony, connecting to form a living, beating heart. It was still completely raw and covered in blood, but it was real, pumping real blood like electricity through my veins. It was shocking in its strong voltage, but I had never felt more alive.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I had time to collect my thoughts and really just surrender the shattered fragments of my mechanical heart to God. With that surrender came a new nudge, a nudge away from films and toward ministry. I still have no idea what kind of ministry that will be, but I do know that it will be focused on reconciliation. I love the idea of bringing people back together, toward Christ, as complete equals. Finally, after two years, God was finally able to bring down my little boxed house and open my eyes to the beauty of His plan for me, versus my plan for me. My head's still reeling from the complete 180 turn-around. Sometimes I still think God just occasionally looks back at those two years of close-mindedness and flat out belly laughs, shaking his head and saying, "After all this time, now you listen to me! You silly, silly boy."

Now, I know that not everyone's going to have their dreams completely destroyed, only to find themselves on a totally new path for life, but I believe there's a deeper theme running throughout this story, one that binds us all together in our sheer lack of it: trust. No matter if you've been planning on nursing school since the age of three, or are graduating college still completely unsure of what you want to do, God calls for nothing less than our complete and utter trust. It's a truly terrifying thought. For if we're really honest with ourselves for a split second, we'll realize that no matter how many plans or goals we carve like stone in our minds, God will always be bigger than every single one of them. Plans and goals are not inherently evil, but the moment they grow bigger than God, they're nothing but dead trees in the eye of a hurricane. But when God stays fixated in the center, when he's given the opportunity to expand in the midst of our scattered jigsaw puzzle dreams, they will flourish like oaks of righteousness, bathed in sunlight and cleansed by the rain, sprouting up to bless others under the shade of their branches. It's unnerving letting God get that big, because it also means that we have to get that much smaller and relinquish our need for constant control. And let me tell you from experience, the moment that happens, all bets are off. You never know what God's got planned up his sleeve next. And that's almost as exciting as it is scary.

Almost.

scattered jigsaw puzzle dreams: part one.

I was going to win an Oscar. It was inevitable. I'd wanted to be a filmmaker my whole life, all I had to do was go to California, have a bit of faith and pixie dust, and I would be the next Steven Spielberg.

So, here I was, a senior in high school with my entire future planned out. Ever since I can remember, the idea of movie making has entranced me. The lure of Hollywood seduced me, and it wasn't long before I was conjuring up stories, screenplays, homemade films - anything to catch just a glimpse of the glamour and glitz I always associated with Hollywood. There was just something about storytelling, about having the ability to transport people into another world, if even for a few hours, that was absolutely magical to me.

And don't get me wrong - I still love weaving stories together. I love having to use my imagination to create different worlds, creative plots, and vivid characters with their flaws, dreams, quirks and regrets. But this dream of mine had been ingrained in my system for so long, it had become like a mechanical heart, pumping robotic blood and oxygen to every part of my being. I was never really aware of it, I just knew it was there, knew in the back of my mind that I would always be a filmmaker. There was no need to pray about it or even ponder any different options. This had always been who I was. God would never take that away from me.

But everything mechanical will break down over time. About two years ago, I was given the opportunity to film the wedding of two of my very dear friends. This was it! My big break! Spielberg was going to catch just a clip of my handiwork and I'd be in! Into the big leagues. Just. Like. That.

Turns out, I really didn't enjoy filming it at all. It felt like nothing but a heavy burden, and I remained in this stressed out, tense mood the entire time. Looking back, I can tell you why that was. But back then, I would've just brushed it off and said that I didn't know. It definitely wasn't because this whole filmmaking business just wasn't meant to be. Cue to one year later. Two more of my friends are getting married and alas! They want me to film the whole ordeal. Completely forgetting about the stress of the last wedding, I excitedly obliged, knowing that this time Spielberg would have to get me into Hollywood.

And once again, the whole time was nothing but one huge stress-fest, and I just felt this continual load of pressure that I couldn't shake off, and I was dreading having to go back home and edit the footage, and I was freaking out that the camera angles weren't good enough and... yep. It was definite deja vu. But again, I would never have accredited this to God slowly, yet surely chipping away at my mechanical heart, trying to get me to see beyond this safe little vantage point I had had since the age of three.

Needless to say, the point of this story is that God rarely ever keeps us in our tidy, pre-packaged cardboard boxes that seek to push him out of the picture. Because once that happens, we're left with nothing but a pile of scattered dreams and far-fetched goals that won't fit together, no matter how hard we push and twist their frayed jigsaw puzzle ends. I thought I was safe. I thought that I knew myself better than God knew me, which eventually led to the shocking conclusion that I really don't know anything about life. I had this whole future for myself built and ready to go. All I had to do was press start. Unfortunately, it was a life completely void of God's plans, of God's goals for me. I think I knew this all along, I just refused to listen to God's tiny little nudges here and there. I was mad, because a part of me knew that God was starting to pull away the bricks of my little boxed house, and I didn't like the vulnerability. I didn't like the prospect of having to venture out into the unknown depths of God and his craziness. But that's what we're called to do. Nothing about trusting God is safe or easy or comfortable. It forces us to face our own brokenness, and amidst all of that rubble and failure, we can catch a glimpse of real trust.

to be continued.

blowing down our brick houses.

In my last post, "picking scabs and bleeding f-bombs," I ended on a rather unresolved note, discussing the danger and fear that come along with real transparency with people. Now, danger and fear probably aren't the most appealing terms to be applied to friendships, but I'm not one to sugarcoat things. Transparency means letting down our shields, it means blowing that horn and watching our walls fall, in hopes that when the debris finally clears, our friends will still be around to help us up.

But what if they don't like what they see? What if they don't want to be my friend anymore? What if, after seeing me in my vulnerability, they just walk away? What if? What if?

The truth is, I can't reassure you that these things won't happen. They very well could hate the real you (I know, I'm sure you're feeling real encouraged right now). But that's not our problem. Christ doesn't call us to play it safe, to sit back in our own little brick houses, reassured that no one can get in, because that also means that we can't go out. We can't go out to do the ministry Christ has called each and every one of his followers to fulfill. I'm sorry, but we've got to blow our houses down and trust that God will direct our paths to solid friends that accept us for who we are.

These aren't truths easily accepted. There are fears and insecurities that burrow down into everyone's deepest crevices, a poison that expands with its bountiful supply of lies. Lies that try to rip us away from true, Christ-like community. It's a broken record of seductive whispers and shattered promises. There's no fulfillment, no satisfaction in anything but personal safety and maybe some temporary happiness. Holding back our real selves from other people is not only a boring way to live, but a selfish one.

Now, I don't plan to end this on an unhappy note. As I sat in bed a few months ago, reading through my devotional with a monotonous insincerity that had become way too comfortable, I was struck by the following phrase in its momentous simplicity:

Nothing can separate me from your love, Jesus.

I will say it again: nothing can separate me from your love, Jesus. I realized then that it didn't matter how many friends walked away, it wasn't important how many times we're stabbed and cut off and separated from human bonds, because the bond Christians have with their Lord and Savior is inseparable and never failing. I know this isn't any huge or jaw breaking news, but it was just the sentence I needed to reinforce what I had known all along, but had never really believed. Suddenly, friendships didn't seem as heavy anymore, because I saw the inevitability of pain and hardship in them. I saw how futile it was to grasp at these straw ideals of constant peace and comfort in relationships, because nothing could ever match the peace we've received through our Lord Jesus Christ.

This is an uphill battle - believing the truth of that statement, that is. It isn't something we fight off once, and are then freed to go about the rest of life unscathed by the broken-record-whisper-lies. At least for me, they linger in the back of my mind, a faint residue that smells of mold and can grow back like a fungus in seconds. There are still plenty of times when I want to curl up in my own little inside cardboard world, just to temporarily stave off the danger and fear of stripping down to the bare bones, where it's just me and my soul and whoever else cares to look on and be my friend. But I believe the pain that comes with re-opening our wounds for others to see is far more beautiful and worth it than the pain of being alone in our empty shells. 

It's time to put in a new broken record, one that repeats the truth, a truth so loud and dangerous, those pathetic whisper lies can't help but curl back in fear.

Nothing can separate me from your love, Jesus.

picking scabs and bleeding f-bombs.

I used to flirt with friendship (I'm referencing friendship as a general concept, not individual friends. I didn't walk around flirting with all of my friends, cause that would've just been... awkward). I would see the f-bomb coming from a distance, and, not wanting to give too much of myself away, I'd wave and wink and maybe give it my name, knowing fully well that I wouldn't follow through on anything. It was safe and shallow and reassuring. Reassuring that no one was able to see the real me, for if they did, they wouldn't even want to flirt anymore. This was the life, right? Flirting is fun, it's dangerous and sexy and makes you feel alive.

But that's just it. I didn't feel alive. I was dead, wasting away, always wanting more than just that far-away wave that revealed about .000001% of who I really was.

That all changed two summers ago. I worked at a Christian summer camp with a group of about ten other staffers, day in and day out, dawn to dusk, for three whole months. Obviously, you get to know your co-workers pretty well. Soon enough, they morph from mere co-workers to friends and then friends to brothers and sisters. There was no room for flirting from afar - this was up close and personal. This was raw and gritty and in my face, nearly suffocating me with the sheer power that true, deep friendship had. It's like God just decided to take a few grenades and drop them straight into the heart of my cardboard perspective on friendship. Hey, it was already dead anyway. He just cleared away the ashes so that it was safe for me to step out and actually begin to show my true colors.

I believe that the best kinds of friendships are the ones that make you bleed. The best kinds of friends are the ones that get you to open up, and to pour out not only the bright and cheery parts of your heart, but those dark and desperate parts too, the spots covered in scabs that will bleed pools of crimson immediately upon picking.

But that's just what happens when a real friend comes into your life. They pick those scabs off and are with us as we bleed, humbled and naked and vulnerable, not to mock us or coil back in disgust, but to be a support through the pain and then help us stand when the bleeding's finally stopped and our legs are all wobbly and we're dizzy. It's only then that true growth can start to happen.

Christ-centered friendships are called to be so much more than stupid flirt-fests that never get past the outer skin. We are layered, complex and intricate beings, each with an incredible depth that tries to mirror even just a split-second-shadow of the depth of God. Which makes sense, seeing that we're created in his image. And he obviously didn't make us to go at uncovering that depth alone. For I've found that when I help someone else scale the rocky depths of their heart, hanging onto them tightly as they fall and get cut up and reveal their open wounds, I also understand a bit more about myself. It's a beautiful parallel system that God created here - friendship isn't only about one person learning all about another. It's about two people coming to terms with their identities, together as friends, but also as individuals. We often learn the most about ourselves by learning about other people.

And it was that, that real transparency with people that ended up being so much scarier and dangerous than flirting ever was.

stuffed in the trunk.

All right, it's time for a story. Once upon a time (aka not so very long ago), I decided to drive down to see my friend a few hours away. At the same time, I thought I'd be helpful and plan out God's itinerary for him. Ignoring all of the fears and insecurities I have often struggled with in relationships, I assumed that since God works everything together for the good of those who love him, the time spent with my friend would be happy and easy-going and light and void of any pain. So yeah. That's how it was going to go. God didn't really need to have a say in it, because I can read his mind, which enables me to always know what's best for me.

Right. Back down in the place we call reality, I learned the hard way that God rarely ever goes by our pre-made plans that seek to squish him in the trunk with all of our baggage and leave us in control of the steering wheel. Before we can even leave town, we've crashed and it's over. All in all, the time with my friend was joyous and refreshing and awesome, but also extremely challenging, raw and downright vicious at times. God took all of my problems I tried so hard to stuff in the trunk and he hit me in the gut with it. And then he hit me again. And then I fell over and he hit me yet again. It forced me to confront the sticky, uncomfortable aspects of my heart, which in turn forced me to be naked and vulnerable, which in turn led me not only to a deeper, more authentic place with God, but with my friend as well.

"And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose." --Romans 8:28

I pretty much took advantage of that verse by twisting it to fit my selfish, human definition of 'good' and attempting to make it resemble at least a tiny sliver of God's definition. You see, it wasn't until after visiting my friend that I truly grasped this concept. At least for me, I tend to see good as whatever makes me happy, comfortable and relaxed. Because that's the whole point of life, you see - my happiness, my comfort, my relaxation. Me me me.

And yet God calls us to something greater. God calls us to strive for his holiness, his perfection, his joy. The complete opposite of our self-absorbed hearts. It's not comfortable for us to look at that as good. It's not usually happy or relaxed, either. No, it hurts to have to let yourself go and surrender everything you are to the Lord. It's uncomfortable to admit that you can't go at it alone. It's tense and awkward and scary, because we aren't in control for once. I have a tendency to see good as a feeling, something that's fleeting, and if I'm not feeling good, then God obviously failed on his promise to work everything together all so I can have a nice feeling in my stomach.

But that goodness, that agape love is so much more than a feeling. It's not something that comes and goes like the wind, or something that can be ignored and jam packed in the trunk. No, it's something that takes up the whole car, bursting forth with such power and passion that we no longer have enough room to be in the front seat. Now we're the ones in the trunk, letting this grace-filled Breath of Love Light take the front and center stage.

That's a concept so utterly selfless and so not about me me me, that it's hard to grasp as 'good.' Because it means that a large chunk of that so-called 'good' is going to suck. It's going to be rough, and often times painful. But it's also going to be beautiful, because God knows no other way to be. His Love ends up being our good, because it's all that really matters in the end. When all else fades away, and the earth is stripped bare and our up-and-down-roller-coaster-feelings disintegrate, Love will remain. It will stand like a giant tree, planted in the dry cardboard our hearts so often resemble, and yet somehow manage to thrive, waving its branches back and forth in a celebration of praise and victory.

Yes, this is how God works things together for our good.

Jesus and his sniper rifle.

I suck at reading the Bible. Actually, it's more like I suck at remembering what I read in the Bible. I can go through a chapter of Scripture and mark it up with all kinds of highlighters and notes and question marks, but the moment I close that leather-bound cover, it's over.

So it was in this place that I began to read Romans 5, uttering a short prayer beforehand that God would really just speak to me through what I read, that it would be so much more than words in need of highlighting, but truths that would sink into my heart and saturate its dry landscape. On your mark... get set... GO!

I only got through two verses.

I was caught off guard by the sheer power and ferocity with which verse 2 hit me, like Jesus had just jumped out of the page with a sniper rifle and shot me with what could only be a God-given revelation.

"Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God."  --Romans 5:2 

It was that italicized part that was the bullet. For it's not like this is some obscure verse that I'm now trying to spread to the rest of the world. No, this verse is repeated in church services galore, anything that mentions 'grace' in Romans has practically become like John 3:16. But notice what Paul says about grace here - we're standing in it. 

I often tend to think of God as a grace-hoarder. Sometimes without even knowing it, I assume that God just sits in heaven with all of this grace, looking down at us with smug superiority and picking and choosing when he'll give it out next and to whom. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll make the cut. But if I screw up again - whoops. There goes my entry in the lottery. Maybe next week. 

But according to this verse, that's not how God works. No, according to Paul, Christians are already standing in his grace. We're in it! It surrounds us, envelops us, covers us, fills us, paints us into glorious watercolor creations with the blood of Christ. We are breathing in his grace! It isn't some far off, unattainable speck in the distance, or some high and lofty gift hiding away in heaven - it's right here, in our midst, walking with us as we trip and stumble through life's rocky, often times bloody path. 

So next time we fall down, we won't have to wonder whether or not God's chosen us to win the Grace Powerball. We need only turn back to him and use his strength to pick ourselves back up, where we're already standing inside his grace. 

And that's a truth so vivid, so gloriously bright, not even the neon stroke of a highlighter can contain its splendor. 

based on a true story.

The Inside Cardboard World
A Poem

-----------------------------

You fit into their mold
Like that, your soul is sold
Their artificial smile
Wears down after a while

You're going down into a place
With perfect bodies void of grace

Follow all their laws
Or else nail you to a cross
Don't blink or make a sound
Til you're asleep under the ground

Your faith has become their new mess
This is so much more than a test

Now you're just a cardboard face
With a plastic, see through fragile base
And the grace you once saw from the outside
Is now wrapped up in a heart of robotic lies

Hold your lung's last breath
Pray for a quiet death
You can't make up your mind
Wide paths are now blurred lines

Dive in head first, if you dare
Sinking fast, your conscience tears

Now you're just a cardboard face
With a plastic, see through fragile base
And the grace you once saw from the outside
Is now wrapped up in a heart of robotic lies

Fantasy's reality
This isn't what we're made to be
Step onto the battlefield
Bleed to death, new life revealed.

Now we're just cardboard faces
With plastic, see through fragile bases
And the grace we once saw from the outside
Is now wrapped up in a heart of robotic lies

-----------------------------

welcome to suicide.

The title of this blog came from a poem I wrote a while back for a talent show at church (I'll get around to posting it on here eventually). Recently, more so than ever before, God's just been choosing random times to reveal little things to me. Revelations about a certain Bible verse, subtle realizations about myself, or just an interesting perspective that I've never seen before. And seeing that most of these tidbits come to me when I'm alone, I never really get the chance to tell anyone about them.

So, that's why I created this world. It's pretty bare, without much color or flashiness or neon signs that light up the way to the next strip mall. But there are seeds planted beneath the fading cardboard, seeds that are growing into beautiful trees that cast out their branches like guardian angels. And the world's citizens aren't very formal, and they don't dress up in much more than a T-shirt for church. But beneath the fading clothes beat hearts that yearn for authenticity, hearts that don't want a professionally dry cleaned suit to cover up the blood. The blood that comes when they pour out their all in honest surrender, a constant suicide that gives God an opening to squeeze through the wounds and expand. It is here, in the midst of these oddball-outcast-bloody-screw-ups and giant trees planted in cardboard that I'm going to talk about whatever God puts on my heart, in hopes that it means something to someone somewhere.    

Welcome to the inside cardboard world.