2025-03-11T17:56:54+00:00

1982

March 11, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

The site is asking me what animal I would compare myself to, and this is something I’ve never considered. I guess I’d like to be something big, strong, and awesome, like a lion or a gorilla or something like that. What does that say about me? I wonder if it says anything good. Probably not. It might say I only value physical strength or predatory dominance, but I don’t. At least not consciously. Maybe prompts like this are designed to unconsciously reveal the conscious. Or maybe they’re just trivia. Who knows?

I like to watch The People’s Court, and now since we don’t have cable, I watch on YouTube. This is an infinitely better situation. There aren’t commercials, so cases are very short and tidy, in and out, easy peasy. Yesterday, I happened upon a case from 1982, presided over by Judge Wapner. In the hallway, Doug Llewelyn was a young man, and Rusty was our trusty bailiff. It was terrific, but the coolest part of it, by a wide margin, was the inclusion of 1982’s advertisements.

I saw McDonald’s offering a Christmas tree ornament, some kind of canned Danish ham called Dax, long distance phone calls (!!!!), and holiday jazz festivals at a mall in Rochester. I’m under no illusion that society or culture were perfect, but I do have the familiar twangs of nostalgia. It happens when I see original GI Joe or Star Wars toy packaging, or hear tv sitcom theme songs. The opening notes from Diff’rent Strokes or Facts of Life take me right back to my living room, holding a cassette recorder to the tv speaker. Thriller is brilliant, but it gains layers of depth with the memory of all of us sitting in our neighbor’s house for the world premiere of the music video, then trying to pretend I wasn’t a little scared to walk home.

I was 7 years old in 1982.

I wouldn’t want to go back there, necessarily. The Angel isn’t there. My boys aren’t then. Almost all pop art now is preferable. I loved “Mickey,” by Toni Basil, I still do, but, sheesh, it’s not exactly an artistic masterpiece. We just watched the 2nd episode of Daredevil, released last week, and it might be. I really like the internet, am very happy to Google in half of a second instead of consulting the Encyclopedia Brittanica at the local library.

What it was then is simple. That’s what I miss. Maybe it wasn’t actually simple, you’d have to ask my parents or other grown-ups about that, but it was simple to me. We played together, hung out together, drove to the mall to sit, talk, and watch people. These things are simple, easy, and filled us in ways our cell phones just can’t. “Friends” or followers aren’t friends. A Zoom meeting isn’t the same as face to face across a table, reading expressions, tones, and emotions.

I don’t want to snap Zoom or Instagram out of existence. I don’t want to bring back the overt racism & misogyny of the ‘80’s. You can’t take my Amazon Music from me, or my Disney+ (even though the monolithic corporations that created the AI that knows me more than my own mom are a giant part of the problem). I might want to just build a sort of hybrid.

1982 wasn’t paradise, any more than 2025 is, but there are certainly elements of heaven in every moment. These elements, I sometimes think, have been lost only because we weren’t paying enough attention to fight for them. Malls are mostly gone, and sure, they weren’t everything they are in my head, and we can agree the loss of a collection of stores isn’t anything to mourn, in and of themselves. But they facilitated something much much deeper, much more significant than retail transactions. They gave us a space to be, a context where we could gather.

When we exist only in our homes, we become avatars and screen names instead of flesh and blood. We become carefully curated characters, and real life becomes virtual. Hate becomes imaginary, and the ability to empathize is left behind because we/they are somehow less than human. The truth about 1982 is that it’s infinitely harder to cling to the idea that others are monsters when they’re enjoying a holiday jazz festival next to us, each with a shared free tree ornament from McDonald’s.

[That was supposed to be the end, I liked the last line that ties all of it up nicely, I am satisfied. But what I’m thinking now is that this is probably just more imagination, more nostalgic romanticizing. We had monsters then, too. Maybe it wasn’t infinitely harder. Maybe mall and jazz festivals weren’t the answers. I wonder what is…]

[That was now supposed to be the end, but there’s one more thing: even if we don’t know what the answer is, we can’t stop asking the questions, and searching for new answers. The only way we lose is if we give up. That’s the end, for real this time.]

How Did I Get Here?

March 4, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

The site is asking me, if I were writing my autobiography, what my opening sentence would be. Hm. Probably, “How did I get here?” Or maybe, “Where am I?”

I’ll turn 50 this year, in a few months, and with more years behind me than ahead, and can look back at the twists and turns and false starts and the forks in all of the roads. I’m not sure any of them make sense, by themselves, but looking around, there does seem to be a certain wisdom – NOT in my choices or planning (my participation looks more like a confused fumbling in the dark) but by a gentle hand that led with a looong leash that allowed me more freedom than I deserved, the freedom to hurt people (myself more than any others), the freedom to do the worst of all possibilities.

I made tons of terrific decisions for the wrong reasons. How? Or Why? Who knows? Not me, I don’t know, but I believe there’s One who does know, and it was His gentle hand in mine, His arms that held me in my broken-ness, His whisper in my ear, that brought me to this site prompt, today.

So, where am I? Here. And I think I got here by following what small flicker of Light I could see or feel. In my youth, I tried and tried to block that Light, to cover It up, to run away from It. But It could not be extinguished. It lit the way for 20+ years, through school, college, then to The Angel, and thankfully, I was smart (or lucky) enough to hold on tightly to her, then these 2 boys, then a faith community so deep and loving, then then then.

I guess how I got here is grace. That’s simple enough. And absolutely True. Just grace. Undeserved favor. (Which we all have, by the way. We all are loved beyond reason or limit. There is not now, and has never been, anything special about me, in that department.)

So, yes, “How did I get here?’ This is pretty fun, because I know that the Here I am today isn’t the Here I will stay. The story will change and morph, I’m nowhere close to a finished product. I guess, now that I’m thinking about it, the biography isn’t really mine at all.

2 Kinds Of People

February 28, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

A senior in high school, my youngest son is navigating the college process. He is a very sharp young man, an extraordinary basketball player with a terrific GPA and a truckload of talents and gifts, so he has a wide variety of options. That, however, does not mean that his decision is without stress or anxiety, so we were very happy when he was able to choose an institution and release that weight.

Drew University in northern New Jersey was the early front runner, by a country mile. Everything about them was subpar, to my superficial eyes – the unprepared, hurried tour was a waste, the facilities were in disrepair (compared to all of the others), etc – but they offered a program to study in New York City that comfortably set it apart. We ordered t-shirts and informed family that he’d be a Drew bear, or ranger, or whatever.

Drew slowly fell back to the pack, through their inattentiveness. They were mostly uncommunicative, and when they did connect, seemingly put out and bothered to have to answer any questions. But they did have a stellar business program and that NYC opportunity, so they remained ahead, though the margin was not quite as wide.

We visited many other schools, some of them were great, some not so much. Lycoming College (I have no idea what the difference is between a college and university – I imagine it’s easy to find, but I really couldn’t care less. What is true is that there are universities and colleges and there is little noticeable difference between the 2) nosed it’s way into the no. 2 spot, but still, the space between Drew and Lycoming was huge. We scheduled visits on consecutive days in October, after which, he would make his decision.

Honestly, we figured the first (Lycoming) was a formality. He was going to be a Drew bear. We arrived at 8:30ish to find the basketball coach standing outside, waiting for him. This coach would be our guide, spending the whole day with us. We met with professors, prospective teammates, and admissions (where he was awarded a gigantic scholarship), finally ending with basketball practice and formal meeting in the coach’s office. Everywhere we went, on campus, the administration knew and correctly pronounced his name (something the doctor’s office where he’s been a patient since birth can’t yet figure out). The players on the team went out of their way to welcome him. The entire day could best be described as a celebration of my son. He was cared for and clearly valued. The coach asked us to text when we got home, like he was our dad, and when you’re entrusting one of your most prized blessings to another, you want a man who asks you to text when you get home.

As Drew fell back, Lycoming made a deeply compelling argument. As much as we loved Lycoming, the next day was Drew, and it was still theirs to lose.

Again arriving at 8:30ish, this time to an empty silence, we were on our own to find admissions for our appointment. Also again, he was awarded a gigantic scholarship, but this time it was with little significance. Just a folder slid across a desk. They asked for questions, woodenly answered, and sent us on our way to tour the campus by ourselves and, later, find our way to practice. My boy asked for a detailed breakdown of classes in his major, which they quickly, carelessly sent to his email… but of course, the attached document was for the wrong major.

Drew is a little over 2 hours away, so we drove 2+ hours there, sat for 30 min, and immediately returned to the car for the 2+ hours home, and on that drove home, we informed the coach that we were Lycoming Warriors.

There are 2 different kinds of people in the world, Drew’s and Lycoming’s. Lycoming affirms your humanity, treats you with dignity and respect, waits for you outside, makes time to share a meal, and values who you are. Drew condescends, is busy, impressed with itself, is sooooo very important, and might make time. Drew is better than you.

And, as is always the case, the Drew’s are arrogant and self-obsessed…and convinced of their inadequacy, in every way. Their fragile ego is afraid of your greatness, so they hide behind pretense and a curated image. Lycoming’s are humble in their excellence, secure enough to make you the focus. Lycoming believes you are awesome, and wants everyone, everywhere to know it, too. Drew cares only about Drew, Lycoming’s interest is in others, in building a beautiful community and world that is based on shared experience. Lycoming asks what they can do for you, Drew wants to know what you can do for them. Lycoming listens, Drew waits to talk. Lycoming loves, no matter what, Drew might like, as long as you’re useful.

The world needs more Lycomings in campuses and grocery stores, on the road, and in office buildings & churches. We already have plenty of Drews.

No Subject

February 25, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

The site is asking me what word I’d excise from existence, and it’s actually a pretty fun, interesting question. It’s also one I couldn’t care less about, now.

You see, I finished the new Netflix documentary (called American Murder: Gabby Petito) on the murder of Gabby Petito and the suicide of her murderer/boyfriend Brian Laundrie. Apparently, there is “backlash” over something in it. It could be anything, really. I have found that wherever something exists, there is someone who is outraged about it. But that’s our culture, isn’t it? We get more attention (what used to be called “ratings” but is now “views”) with a higher volume – on our opinions, emotions, and voices. So we’re MAD, RAWRRRR!!!!!! Something feels a little askew when we’re angrier about the documentary than the deaths, but what do I know?

This couple – perfect on social media – began a YouTube “vanlife” vlog when they bought a tiny white van and hit the open road. He was abusive, I guess she thought that was ok, and then he killed her & left her body in the woods. He, then, drove home to his parents house, who promptly hired a lawyer and refused to talk to the police. They obstructed all investigations, while another’s child lay dead. The culture reached a fever pitch, as news of gabby’s disappearance blanketed all news outlets. She was young, pretty, and white, and if you don’t think that matters, I don’t know what to tell you. Anyway, under all of the guilt, stress, conscience, and publicity, Brian walked into the woods and shot himself, and his parents had to search for their own son with the same law enforcement team they so recently fought.

I also recently watched the new OJ Simpson documentary, where a domestic abuser eventually murdered his ex-wife. (We can now drop this “alleged” nonsense, can’t we?)

I don’t pretend to know what every abused person feels or why they stay, if they believe it’s ok, or that they deserve it, or if they don’t have any other options, or if the abuser lies to convince them it’s ok, they deserve it, or they don’t have other options. I know we have some pretty misguided understandings of what love is. OJ certainly didn’t love Nicole, and Brian Laundrie didn’t love Gabby Petito, no matter how many times he cried and told her he did.

I’ve been too close to too many of these violent, destructive relationships. I’ve cried more tears than you could possibly imagine. Well, maybe you can, you are, likely, well aware of my hyper-sensitivity and nature as, what is currently being labeled, an empath. I feel everything all at once. So, when I watch this sort of doc, it leaves me torn & exhausted. I see the parents eyes and know the toll this has exacted upon their fragile hearts. (We don’t see Brian’s parents, but they have lost their son, and even monsters hearts break with this kind of pain. – As I write that, we all know they’re not monsters, they’re myopic and selfish, but not monsters. They’re parents, and parents sometimes get things so wildly wrong, it’s impossible to know what they could have been thinking, don’t they?)

I finished coaching youth sports, and have had many hours of thought, many conversations on what I’ll do now. We all need to be in our communities, loving each other, or we begin to assume we are alone & unloved. This is an assumption we cannot allow. But what will I do? Who will I see? Where will I go?

And I’d like to go into the domestic violence field, to care for the battered while they hopefully can heal, learning different stories about worth & value. If I were Batman, this is where I’d give my time and attention – finding OJ’s, Brian’s, Gabby’s, and Nicole’s in time, working to end cycles with fresh words and forgiveness. However, the idea of a man in those spaces is mostly forbidden, probably for good reason. Just because I am trustworthy doesn’t mean everyone is.

I don’t know what my point is. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe this is a very good example of not having any idea what the revolution looks like, but knowing where it starts. We all know where it starts. With love. (Real love, agape love, not the hollow meaningless hi-jack & redefinition we’ve been sold) This looks different in every situation, but it has always been the answer. We go one at a time, changing the world in baby steps. It’s slow and maddening, but we didn’t create this mess in an afternoon, it’ll take time to reclaim our humanity. But it’ll be so worth it.

Puzzles

February 18, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

I love to do jigsaw puzzles. I also love to listen to music, read, write, lift weights, watch documentaries, throw/catch baseballs, kiss and lay like spoons with the Angel, post on this website, I guess there’s not really an end to a list of things I love to do. I used to love making mixtapes, but they don’t exist anymore (which is terribly disappointing). Anyway, I find that puzzles are a space where the volume gets turned down on the world, and I can patiently focus.

Last night (while laying like spoons with the Angel, which I love), I wondered if I was getting significantly dumber. I lose more board games than I win nowadays (I my oldest son demolished me in a Boggle game 34-2 last week…34-2!??!), sometimes can’t find the words I know I want to use, forgot to pay the heating oil bill for 3 weeks, and my taxes still sit undone on my desk. I used to be very, very good at Boggle. Now, apparently, I can barely make 3 letter words at all. My explanation (rationalization, justification, hollow excuse) is that, while I don’t cry as often as I used to, my overwhelmed heart mainly stays silently inside, moving furniture and making a mess of me. I still feel the emotions, but they manifest differently, which might be using more and more capacity of the whole of me that I am finding some things, like winning word games or remembering which average cult documentaries I’ve already watched, difficult to navigate. Puzzles help to process feelings and breathe.

Kaizen is a principle where small, almost imperceptible, changes add up over time to complete transformation. Here’s a good example: If you eat a family size pack of Oreo cookies, and you don’t really want to anymore, you might try to cut out Oreos. This is not always a terrific idea, because (in simplistic terms) we miss it and go back . Kaizen says we eat a family size pack minus 1. We won’t ever miss 1 cookie. And then, we eat that pack minus 2. In this way, we build new roads in our minds until we’re eating the 1 or 2 cookies and not missing the rest. (This is the opposite of getting fit/healthy by just taking a massive axe to all of the carbs, sugars, and breads while planning 3 hour workouts every day…and failing by day 3) I find 2 puzzle pieces that fit and that’s a small win, in an ocean of 2000. But I keep finding 2 that fit, and eventually, a beautifully crisp picture takes shape. It’s like culture or government or anything. We can’t re-create the entire world today, we just find 2 pieces that fit until it’s new. We wake up & discover there are new roads in our collective mind.

We can’t reconnect in our marriages all in a moment or a day, we simply show up in a small way now, then another way tomorrow, and soon we have this awesome Spider-Man scene that I finished yesterday and is on my table now. We don’t begin a lasting prayer time by locking ourselves in a room for 2 hours each morning at 4am. Instead, we start with a minute or 2 today, and again, roads are built and the whole puzzle comes into view, and we are praying like crazy.

It’s a method I use to clean out the mess in my head/heart/soul so I can continue to show up in the way I want to show up, in the way you (or anyone) need me to show up, to build new roads and re-wire the world. It doesn’t matter if I get more than 2 points or know the right words, it only matters that I’m playing and listening. It doesn’t matter if my feet are cold, it matters that they’re where they’re supposed to be. Nobody cares if we can hold a tune, it only matters that we sing.

Apple Cider Vinegar

February 13, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

Earlier this week, at the end of year basketball banquet, a mom of one of the boys asked me if I had seen the Netflix series Apple Cider Vinegar. I told her I hadn’t, but the picture and title sounded like something I’d like. As a matter of fact, she was right, an Australian woman who created a social media empire based on a complete lie (that she fought with brain cancer and won) is exactly something I’d like.

I am the target market for quirky documentaries and “based on” true stories, the odder the better. A perfect example was one called Chicken People, about farmers/groomers/owners who raise chickens to compete with each other. If you’ve seen Best In Show, the Christopher Guest mockumentary about dog shows, then you have an idea of Chicken People. It was so awesome, and I hoped the algorithm would respond with an endless flow of films about all different types of lifestyles that are a little (or a lot) out of the norm.

This is not that kind of show. Yes, it is quirky. Yes, the main character is an attention-seeking media whore, who will do and say anything for you to know who she is. It’s funny, in parts, and features surprisingly great writing & acting.

The 6 episodes unfold patiently, gently revealing a big beating heart. It gives you a perspective, jarring as it twists into another, then punches you right in the belly with another. Great documentaries don’t take sides, but instead present the people as they are, multi-faceted and complex, leaving us to decide. That way, our judgment exposes us more than the subjects. They’re mirrors. We watch them, but we learn who we are. Can we hold the truth that we are all of these things?

Very rarely are we 100% of anything, and this Belle Gibson isn’t, either. Of course, she’s a monster. Liar. Manipulator. Thief. But she’s also still the 12 year old who ran away from home, broken, insecure, lonely, depressed.

I’d suggest that she is only the framework from which to tell a different story. This is a story about couples, families, deep relationships, and the sharp, wiry tentacles of cancer that hold them (and us) together. It’s a story about hanging onto hope when all strength is gone, amid terrible loss. About death. And life. And especially, enduring, perseverant, love. The kind that isn’t in movies. Not the gauzy romance of meet-cutes, it’s the long, hard, hospitals, funerals and weddings, graduations, Tuesday dinners love that loves even when it’s hard and nobody feels like another step together. It’s about real love, where the roots go all the way down, through the earth into the soul of the divine. It’s about devotion and faith. The joy and gratitude that only comes from the sort of pain that makes you feel like you might die yourself. Where we show up, and keep showing up, forever and ever, amen.

I loved it more than I can tell you. I want you to all see it. I want to write a letter to the creators, or buy them a nice sweater. I cried so hard, so loudly, and so much, it hurt a lot. I’m exhausted and have a pretty vicious headache now.

Then I sent a text to the Angel, and I prayed. I prayed thank you for these gifts, and the tears that come with great, full lives. I prayed thank you for the pain of a broken, totally connected and soft heart. And I prayed that you know true beauty, that you know these kinds of tears, this heartbreak, this gratitude, and this love, too.

The Honesty of Authentic Presence

February 11, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

10ish years ago, my sister and I had a fight on the Ocean City boardwalk. I don’t have any idea what we were arguing about now, but it made everyone uncomfortable and the rest of the family all wished they were somewhere else. Or probably that we were somewhere else.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned, but last night, my youngest son had his last high school basketball game. I’m not going to go into details about that game, (or any other game, for that matter), or my feelings for/about him. But this is the sort of event that can make a man like me very sensitive, mushy even, for quite a while.

Studies show that human beings generally recognize 3 emotions: happy, sad, and mad. Of course, this isn’t anywhere close to enough, and it’s not that we don’t feel different emotions, we just lack the vocabulary to accurately communicate those emotions. Last night was bittersweet. I was proud, disappointed, joyful, overwhelmed. I was happy, sad, and mad, at different times. Sometimes at the same time. It would have taken 1,000 hands to hold everything I was feeling.

Several times during Sunday morning’s sermon, I realized & acknowledged (in my head) my tone and my turbulent spirit. As I taught about the second chapter of Titus, I realized how much of these moments were colored by this game, this program, church dynamics, politics, relationships, how I slept, what I ate, even what shoes I was wearing. Everything comes to the party, and it should, because everything matters.

Our services begin with a silent prayer, where we come as we are, bringing what we carry, to the feet of Jesus. It is embarrassingly misguided to pretend that we can come any other way, as if we are blank slates unaffected by the world around us. The prodigal son’s words to His Father land differently after you have children. The story of Israel is different from opposite sides of empire.

And I think that’s an absolutely intentional requirement of a life of faith. One of the most important observations I learned in seminary that totally changed my life is the honesty in every word of the Scriptures. Whether it’s in Lamentations, Habakkuk, Psalms, Titus, or any other book, God doesn’t want our sacrifices if they aren’t real. He has no use for fake plastic hypocrisy. He doesn’t want our pretense and our loud, grandiose assemblies if He doesn’t have our hearts.

He has mine. And so do you. Sunday morning, you get my awe, my reverence for the God Who rescued me, my study, prayer, interpretation, faith, AND my broken, confused, euphoric, sometimes wildly contradictory spirit. My careful conclusions and my dumb jokes. My cold, broken hallelujah.

Last night, I was disgusted at the basketball program while I wept for the people in it. I never want the season to end, and I’m so happy it’s over. I think there are lots of things that Jesus needs to transform in me, and I know He loves me in a way none of us can fathom, as I am. I get so many things wrong, and I am forgiven. I don’t want to stay this me, but I really like this me. Last summer, I told the baseball players I coached that I was finished, and I was relieved & thrilled to be done, and so sorry I thought I might crumble.

Being fully present, authentically ourselves, in true relationship with Our Creator and each other means all of this.

I chose a picture for this post. It’s last week’s senior night. I’m happy and sad, proud, hopeful, and he might be holding me up because I love him so much I might die. What it is, really, is a picture of gratitude. God gave us each other. And to stand next to for all of it, this God gave me the Angel.

I told you about Ocean City because, while everybody else wished to be somewhere else, I didn’t (and I bet my sister didn’t, either.) To be as close as we are requires us to bring everything we are to this amazing party. I’d love to go back to that night, when my boys were 5 and 7, and it was summer and the ground wasn’t covered with ice, but I don’t need to, I was there, then, fighting with my sister, loving every moment of this beautiful life I have been given. And if I could/would go back, I wouldn’t have been there last night, and I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.

Gurus

February 6, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

It’s an icy day here, the schools are closed for something called a Flexible Instruction Day (which means there is virtual busy work to do so that the day counts towards the total), and I’m not going anywhere, so I figured I’d fill you in on some things.

There’s a new Max documentary called Cult of Fear, about the Indian guru Asaram Bapu. I don’t have to tell you how much I love cult docs, do I? This checks all of the boxes for a disturbing cult story – violence, murder, sexual assault, unchecked power, greed, money, and the blind faith of followers. The guru and his son are in prison “until their last breath” because of the courage and tenacity of some young women (victims and police) and principled men who would not accept what their ashram had become. My favorite line came at the very end, when a man summed up the victory as a fight “where every warrior performed their duty with complete conviction.” Awesome.

Of course, the cult still has 40 million members, so not everyone performed their duty with conviction, but enough to be encouraging to warriors who are wrestling with the status quo and the temptation to give up because, after all, “what can I do?” Well, the truth is, apparently, quite a lot.

Then, last night was senior night at the high school basketball game. My youngest son (who I brought home from the hospital at 6lbs only yesterday!!!) is an excellent basketball player, and now has 1 more game in his high school career. 2 things abut this:

The season began as a celebration of his passionate hard work to prepare and the fruit of that work. He was better every game and was willing his team to victory almost every night. Until an injury took 3 full games and affected the rest, after his return. He is, maybe, 50% and they’ll miss the playoffs, which were a foregone conclusion without the injury. He has handled the disappointment with class and grace. At home, I see & feel his wounded heart, but he continues to show up in every way for his teammates. He has placed his personal points goal secondary to getting his teammate his personal achievements.

That was the first thing, and the second was… Well, let’s just say the adult leadership he has had has not been awesome… I’ll bite my tongue until it bleeds and say no more about that.

Guru means “mentor, guide, expert or master” in Sanskrit. (Maybe we can omit the regrettable “master,” and just use it to mean mentor or guide? I will if you will, too. We all need Sanskrit terms in our lives.) So, who is guiding us through our lives? Have we chosen carefully? If we’re sliding down the face of a cliff and we reach out for something to grab onto, do our hands find that with deep, deep roots? Or will it easily pull out, providing the worst kind of aid?

It matters who and/or what we choose to follow. The people who were under the teaching of Asaram Bapu & his son were led astray. They weren’t necessarily wrong or evil or anything, they just happened to choose 2 someones who were. My boy was placed into a situation where the leadership was, um, less than ideal, and at the same time, he is becoming exactly the kind of man who you would be lucky to have as your guide. I guess the point is that we weren’t made to do any of this alone, and it is of the utmost importance who we choose to do to be our gurus & partners. I’m more grateful than I can tell you for mine.

Cherry Pie

February 4, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

This will probably be a little lengthy, and might get a little NC-17. We’ll start with the post I just wrote for the church site:

“In the 2nd chapter of Titus, the word sober-minded was used, and that doesn’t sound like too great of a catch phrase. No one is probably getting a “sober-minded” tattoo, or using it on their dating profile. We don’t throw it around easily in conversation, it seems like an adjective that was used often in the late 1800’s, and not much since. See? The Bible is hopelessly outdated, right?

But the term, as it was written, suggests a person that “knows the value of things,” and as I look around, live and breathe, I can’t think of a characteristic that is more necessary and less common.

Have you ever reached out to someone about something that is heavy, that is taking a toll on your heart, that is painful or wildly significant, that we aren’t meant to carry alone? It’s an unbearably vulnerable space, and we wait. Then, the person, obviously uncomfortable, makes a joke. Or answers their phone. Or changes the subject. Your authenticity is discarded and disrespected. That person, who made you so sorry you reached at all out and especially sorry you reached out to him/her, has no idea of the value of things.

Not only do they not know the value of the circumstance you entrusted to them, but they do not know the value of your open heart, not do they know the value of a human being. This last one is, sadly, the real loss. We treat each other as disposable, as means to ends, as items to be used, for what they can bring to us, instead of recognizing who they are for no other reason than who they are. We are, to each other, too often, tools.

We have things to do and boxes to check. We have been sold the idea that our productivity is more important than our relationships. We have lost the value of things.

When I see people show up to weddings in t-shirts (a more and more common occurrence), I always shake my head. I speak to my boys of “time and place,” and now I know that I actually mean, “sober-minded.” A wedding is different than a ball game is different than bedtime. When we go to the gym and go through the motions, we have forgotten how extraordinary it is that we have been made in such a fantastic way that we are able to do these amazing things with our bodies. Instead of worship, it is a torturous obligation. When we kiss our wives or hold another’s hand without thinking, as simply routine, we have missed the value of this shocking intimacy. What could be more wonderful than the soft, slow, unhurried kiss of your beloved? Or more loving and trusting than another person offering their hand to you, searching for care and closeness?

Right. We’re, of course, talking about Genesis 28:16, “Surely God was in this place, and I was unaware.” When we lose the value of things, we are consistently unaware.

Last night, we drove an hour to what is likely to be the very last away high school basketball game for my youngest son. Do you know how many away games we’ve traveled to? A lot. Do you know how many times they were a nuisance? If that answer is equal to or greater than 1, we were ignorant of the value of things.

I think the concept of “ordinary” is the language of a culture that does not know the value of things. Maybe Paul’s letter to Titus is exactly what we need. Maybe we need more “sober-minded” tattoos, so we can all remember kisses and away games, remember to be grateful, so we can remember to stay present and wake up to our lives and the overflowing blessings all around us.”

Now cover the kids ears. 2 days ago I heard the Warrant song, “Cherry Pie.” True, this isn’t a classic, in the sense that it is a particularly great song. But it is a classic in the sense that we all know it, you probably smiled when you read it, you probably can hear it in your head right now. It means exactly what you think it does, Warrant was never very subtle (not much of the hair band era was) or nuanced. Anyway, there is a line that says, “put a smile on your face 10 miles wide.”

I am a married man, so there is a physical act that my wife and I alone can enjoy (which is the subject of “Cherry Pie,” which is the reason we’re discussing it), and over the course of my life, I have seen, heard, read, and thought more about that act than almost anything. So, one of the things I notice is that there is a certain pressure to, um, finish, and without that… Well, wherever there is pressure, there is weight, which can steal focus and joy. We go somewhere else in our minds, our attention is split any number of ways.

When I marry couples, I give very strict instructions to not try to memorize their written vows. Write them down. Because a wedding is one of the most profound experiences of our lives, and if we drag along the pressure of memorizing the words, the ceremony ends and we discover that we remember little, if anything, of the moment.

The value of the thing Jani Lane of Warrant is singing about is not the finish, it is in the connection, intimacy, love, exclusivity, the dace between souls expressed through our bodies. It is selfless giving & receiving, it is pleasure, this blessing, and to reduce it to (roughly) 15 seconds of release is to miss the most significant parts. And if those 15 seconds don’t come (newsflash for those raised on popular culture and pornography: they don’t always, even in the best circumstances), we can feel other ways that don’t include 10 mile wide smiles. What a sad illustration of Genesis 28:16.

And another illustration of the modern lie: that we are only what we produce. That our worth is based entirely on our performance. That the value of things we have been taught since birth is hopelessly warped and twisted. Warrant had it right, maybe for different reasons than I think they did, but right nonetheless.

The point is to be there. Here. Now. Wherever we are, whenever we are. Whether it’s a cherry pie situation or church, tears or 10 mile wide smiles. This life we have been given is too beautiful to miss.

Gongoosmos-ing

January 30, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

What do I complain about the most? That’s what the site is asking this morning, and that’s almost too prescient. I wonder if the site prompts are different for everyone, and this AI algorithm is listening through my phone/tablet/tv set for who I am and what is, specifically, on my mind. Because I have been complaining this morning, and it happens to be what I complain about the most, in this season of my life.

I’m calling this post Gongoosmos-ing, because gongusmos is the Greek word for complaining, used often in the Bible. (I add the -ing because we can do whatever we want – I’ve never pretended to be a Greek scholar, I just love the word and want to use it.) It’s used to describe the behavior of the Israelites after they have been liberated from Egyptian slavery, and as they walk in the desert, they gongusmos. It’s the words uttered (or muttered) that are simply the outflow of the heart. “We deserve better,” that sort of thing. They lose sight of the blessing, or any hopeful vision for the future, exchanging it for an entitled sense of misplaced arrogance. We have been given less, we are lacking something, it sucks, and I’m going to tell you, tell everybody, about it again and again.

But some things do suck, right? The trick is to figure out the kind of perspective that can see the suck in a redemptive way, looking for solutions (this sucks, what can we do about it to make it not?), instead of just seeing the suck as static and impossible to affect any change (this sucks and will always suck).

I’m going to be honest with you, here, in a way I may regret. Maybe some things shouldn’t be aired in public. But maybe that’s it’s own form of despair and resignation to the toxic “it is what it is” status quo mentality.

(I’m going to use sports, but as we have learned, this isn’t only about youth sports. Not by a long shot.) We’re at the tail end of my son’s high school basketball season (maybe I’ve mentioned it;). The referees are embarrassingly inept. If the things that happen on the court, the way the players punch and push and harass, are within the rules, they should not be. (To be clear, they aren’t. When I say ‘if,’ I don’t really mean if.) It’s hard to watch a game. I gongusmos about that, and I’ll tell you why in a paragraph.

There are 2 sides of youth sports coaching. First are the x’s & o’s, wins and losses, the actual game, teaching positions, skills, plans, strategy – where the players learn the game and grow in it. The second are 3 C’s: character, connection & care – the players spend so much time with the coach, they are taught much more than the game. They are taught sportsmanship and all of those characteristics that come with becoming men and women. The best coaches have both. They relate and win, the players trust them and play for them. They exit the program as better versions of themselves in so many ways they may not understand. They just know they’ve been cared for. The vast majority of coaches have just one. They either win OR they’re the men/women you’d want your child to spend the time with. The worst have neither… I gongusmos about that.

Woeful officiating and shameful coaches have the same symptom and consequence, they communicate the exact same message: “Who cares? It’s just sports, it doesn’t really matter. We can’t do better, we’ll take what we get, and throw our hands up in a bizarre kind of aggressive indifference.” And maybe. It is just sports. (The fact that it is the American religion is a topic for another day.) Maybe it is so ancillary to the human experience, that devoting an ounce of attention to the (sometimes) miserable state of affairs is misspent energy.

However. The real message we are communicating is that it’s not the sports that don’t matter, it is the kids. (I cringe to say the familiar refrain, “it’s for the kids,” because the people usually self-righteously screaming it are obviously lying. Oh well.) The idea that my son (and your son and the 2 boys that quit 13 games into their senior season and the boys that cried after each devastating loss) deserves whatever we can throw at them is violence to their spirits.

Maybe we’re all so anxious and depressed because the world is a mean place where the people who should be fighting for us aren’t because it’s too much trouble. Maybe our kids don’t trust anyone because we’ve all proven ourselves to be so untrustworthy. Maybe this isn’t gongoosmos-ing, it’s shouting into the crowd in an attempt to incite a revolution. The revolution that reclaims the worth and value of every person. The revolution that stops sending the message that you aren’t enough, aren’t important enough to demand better, and starts sending a different announcement, that you ARE. The revolution of radical love. And maybe we could start to prove it with our skin and bones and decisions.

Maybe this is all gongoosmos-ing. I guess it all depends on if we can turn these warped tables of our own apathy over and rebuild this whole broken system.

Love With A Capital L

A journey towards living an inspired life of love in the modern world

Tag: Spirituality