"What is it?" "It's a book!" "Ohhh!"

"Nobody reads anymore.  What are you doing Philip?" - voice in my head I call "Stinky-Face"

I can't say how many times I've heard someone say this to me.  Maybe they're not as annoyingly direct as Stinky-Face, but I hear it over and over, yes and alas, over.

"Of course," people say, "I guess you can write for videos and, um, instruction manuals, except for IKEA of course."  Give me a break, are we really that far gone?!

With the drastic changes in communication going on, perhaps there is some truth in what people say, but in my not-so-humble opinion writing has been around for a while, and I don't think it's going anywhere.

If nothing else, if all else fails, if the whole world goes back to grunting and clubbing each-other with Blackberrys and I-thingies, people are going to read and write.  Why?  Because it's challenging, fun and life giving - like breathing and eating.

It is hard to put thoughts down, but if we don't, and we have a writer's bent (I think many more people do than we think - if you're actually reading this you probably have a writers bent btw) we're simply going to burst.  Then words are going to spill out of our guts all over the place and it's going to be an ugly mess.  I know I won't want to clean it up.  "Yuk, is somebody missing their spleen and the word 'cantankerous'?"

When we all get Google-ized, and computer chips are implanted in our brains with the ability to reference anything, any book or movie ever done, our brains are still going to have to do the hard work of processing. And my guess is, people will get such migraines from this that they'll rediscover the magical rectangular thingies made of paper.  There will be a colossal world-wide sigh when people rediscover books again.

I've heard the statistic that 60% of today's college graduates will never read a book cover to cover again.  But I'd argue that 60% of college graduates are going to be really, really sad.  And at least 60% of people would say they feel unfulfilled.  Hmmm...

I'm kind of a hypocrite I guess, as I don't write the old fashioned way.  I write on my tiny little computer, fingers buzzing away, hearing the delightful little clicks of my key-board and just rejoicing in seeing my thoughts take shape and turn into these beautiful black and white objects on my screen.  I've been told that writing with pen and paper is more tactile and more satisfying.  Honestly, I'm not sure I could handle anything more satisfying, writing-wise of course.

So while mediums and tools will change I'm sure, there will always be work for writers.  Maybe we'll be called something else, and we'll get paid less (that's probably not possible) but we'll always be writers.  Why?  Because God created us to create.

And there's one more thing I wanted to mention before I sign off for the day in blog-a-world.  If there's even the tiniest itch in the back of your brain saying you should write, BEGIN!  Do it quick because with humanity's luck we're going to have these Google chips go in right where you're feeling that itch.  No seriously, begin and make the worst mess you possibly can.  The messier the better.

Why?  Because there are people out here like me, who are getting tired of what Stinky-Face has to say, and really want to read your stuff.  I know I do, no matter how bad it is.  So if this inspires you and you start a blog, which is easier than getting a speeding ticket, SEND IT TO ME!  I want to read my friends stuff!  For a good book to get you started, and it's only $3.99 online, buy "You Are a Writer (so start acting like one)".  Of course I haven't finished it.  But I only feel fulfilled about 40% of the time anyway.

  

God's Country

"'He tried to tell you long ago,' said the man; 'but you would not look.  He had only got canvas and paint in those days, and you wanted to mend your roof with them.  This is what you and your wife used to call Niggle's Nonsense, or That Daubing.'

'But it did not look like this then, not real,' said Parish.

'No it was only a glimpse then,' said the man; 'but you might have caught a glimpse then, if you ever found it worth a try.'"

- Tolkien in "Leaf by Niggle."

I put the book down, with tears welling up in my eyes and a burning in my chest.  "I've got to write about this 'glimpse'," I thought.

In the story cited above, Tolkien expresses truth in such a way that the reader gets a taste of The Taste.  What I mean is that in his little story, "Leaf by Niggle," which I'd never heard of until a friend put me on to it, Tolkien touches something more deep, more profound and more MORE than I'll ever know.

In my brokenness, I can't help but long for something.  In my victory, I can't help but long for something.  In my everyday, I can't help but long for something.  (Hey, and my names "Long" after all.  Har-har!)

I was talking with Melissa a couple of days back as we were riding our bikes through our neighborhood on a unusually refreshingly cool Floridian evening.  As we watched the gentle orange-ish hues of the sun-light at dusk bathe our neighborhood, I couldn't help but just let it out, "Most Christians have no idea about heaven."

And we don't do we?  We picture harps and clouds and big pearly cities and stuff, but it all seems so alien, so foreign and uninviting.  I mean, who wants to lounge on a cloud for eternity and sing?  Won't your throat hurt and won't you get cloud sores?

No, heaven has got to be something wholly different, yet at the same time something wholly the same.  I know this.  As certain as I'm alive, I know this in the very fiber of my bones.  Deep down in the marrow.  It's essential Philip - the good one.

I know that what drives all good art comes from this, a deep and reverential awe and longing for the real, "a glimpse," as Tolkien expressed.  All good desire, all good acts, all, comes from an actual place that is real.

CS Lewis wrote a ton on this, so I'm just rewording what I've read years ago.  But I'm thinking, until we Christians quit thinking of heaven as some place where we'll basically be high all the time, out of our bodies, and singing lame praise and worship songs forever, we're not going to be able to get away from a picture of heaven that just plain sucks.  (Personally, I can't think of anything worse than singing some praise and worship songs forever.  That would be my own, very personalized hell.)

Until we get a clearer vision, or at least a foggy but clearer suspicion that everything that beauty and goodness touches in this world is only a taste of what's to come, we'll not really want God's Country.

My belief, and I hope I'd die for it, is that God is the source of all good and all beauty.  My job as a human being is to reflect God as simply as a daisy reflects the hugely immense and powerful sun.  And as God's rays hit my petals, to reflect, "Could this warmth and light be real?"

This is what keeps me going on days when I hate myself, hate Christianity and hate the world.  Perhaps, just perhaps, everything that wounds my heart will find both a balm of healing in that land and then explode into true love and true passion.

We don't talk of heaven enough.  And I think it's because it's become a lame cartoon in our minds.  Dare to dream that your dreams won't seem to even touch it when you see it, but they will touch it.  So dream.

And won't heaven be a feast?  Loosen your belts Christians, and open your eyes!  Also we might want to put some good paintings up in our pasty white-walled churches.  Just a thought...

Gospel Pain

“I’ll just be praying that you believe the gospel.” – some Christian jerk

The irony of the good news is that it involves intense pain.  There’s no way around it.  Christians aren’t supposed to be happy and joyous all the time.  I believe that sometimes they should be in despair.

This thought has been forming in my mind as I’ve been chatting and getting to know a pastor/church-planter/friend of mine.  He informed me that one of the worst things you can tell a believer, when they’re in pain, is that you’ll be praying that they believe the gospel.

Why?  I think it’s because there’s a huge disconnect for many of us Christians.  We think that the gospel is primarily about us feeling good.  In fact, when we became Christians we were probably sold on the idea of being happy and fulfilled through the gospel.  While this is true, we’re about to know happiness and fulfillment down a path we really don’t want to tread.  A path full of thorns and various and sundry pointy objects.

I’m tempted to add a fifth law to the Four Spiritual Laws.  Here it is:  “Now that you’ve accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord, expect to experience pain in your life like you’ve never known, for God is going to have to break your self-reliance before he remakes you.  Bear with the pain though, for it’s worth it.”

Suffering is biblical.  Doubt is biblical.  Depression is biblical.  Anxiety and woe is biblical.  Even fear is biblical.  Pain is biblical.  If you don’t believe me, just pick up the Bible and flip to ANYWHERE!

Kind of depressing no?  I’m reminded of the story of Eustace in the book “The Voyage of the Dawn Treador,” by CS Lewis.  Eustace was a very selfish individual.  He’s described in the book in such ugly terms that you really can’t help but hate him a little.  In the story he finds a great treasure, a dragon horde, and a beautiful arm-band that just begs to be slipped on his greedy little chubby arm (I really didn’t like him when I read the book).

As the story goes, the arm-band is magical and he grows into a dragon.  He becomes on the outside what he’s become on the inside – a beast.

Eustace realizes that the magic is coming from the arm-band and he furiously tries to claw it off, but he can’t do it.  In the height of his frustration and pain Aslan comes to him and offers a solution, he will heal him.  Sounds good right?

Aslan’s solution is a painful one: he wants to skin Eustace.  And he doesn’t just skin him once, he skins him over and over, until Eustace, the real Eustace emerges and the arm band slips off. 

Now I want you to know that I totally butchered the story, as I’m going from memory and sermon illustrations.  It’s kind of like telling a story third-hand.  But I’ve got to tell it because I believe it’s what God does with his children.

God doesn’t desire us to be in pain, he just knows that there is no other way to go.  There’s no other way to grow.  There’s no other way to become the people he made us to be than to experience pain.  Welcome to deep, flesh-tearing, gut-wrenching pain. 

I believe that this may be a reason so many leave the faith.  Many leave because they’ve been sold a bill of goods that doesn’t include pain and angst.  So when they despair, when God feels distant, when their doubts cloud their thoughts, when they see more sin in their life than before they became a Christian, they walk.

And why not?  They’ve been sold on a lie:  A lie that life is all good when you’re a Christian.  A lie that you finally have all you’ve ever wanted when you become a Christian.  A lie that you will struggle with sin less, and love God and others more, all the time.  A lie that while you may suffer, the suffering will be far outweighed by God’s promises (true but not always true in the moment).  A lie that your suffering will make sense.  A lie that God will heal you quickly.  A lie that you will never again be in want.   In sum, a big bunch of lies.

Believing the gospel means embracing not only the potential but the reality of great pain.  I don’t see any way around it.  If we’re going to change, and, as my pastor-friend put it, “We just loooove sin,” we’re in for some serious pain.  So here’s to pain.

Here’s to pain being a path to something better.  Here’s to suffering as the Fifth Spiritual Law.  Here’s to the broken, who are just fed up enough with feel-good Christianity and self-help spirituality, that they’re willing to try something really reckless – placing themselves in the hands of real God, who deals in reality (and who seems to be running low on anesthesia btw). 

Now I want to qualify this.  I believe God is as gentle as possible.  He doesn’t enjoy seeing us in pain.  But he knows how to cut out the cancer that is killing us. 

Like Jesus, may the hope set before us spur us on to say yes to pain.  May we deal in realities.  May this be our joy.  May we actually believe the gospel of pain – har, har. 

(Written while I was feeling relatively brave.  Most of the time I REALLY don’t like this side of the gospel.)

Just Like Jesus

"They tell how you turned to God from idols to serve the living and true God..." 1 Thessalonians 1

I could barely breathe, the more "air" I sucked into my lungs the darker the patches behind my eyes became.  I needed to sit down, or throw up or something.  I had just completely spent myself riding my bike, trying to get in the fastest lap I could and I'd made the mistake of riding at 4PM, in central Florida, in late spring.  It wasn't my fastest lap and it was a bad idea.

But there's something intensely good about spending yourself completely.  I believe that it could be true that it is what fuels every human's life.  We are made to spend ourselves, to pour ourselves into something or rather someone other than ourselves.

I've been learning a little more about recovery from idol worship lately (not that I'm getting all that much better at not worshiping my particular idols).  Good ole' Keller says that we can't find the solution to idol worship until we find something bigger, something better to worship.  I totally agree.

But this still gets me stuck a lot in dealing with particular idols, inconsistencies or imbalances in my life.  I think I've got to repent of these idols and simply turn and all will be well.  And I guess that could work, but as a friend of mine has often quipped, "We don't really turn and run from hell, we sort of back away step by step."  My friends approach goes against what I think of as a "Biblical" approach.  I often think we've got to turn away, turn to God and be done with it.

However, a problem arises when our idols are in fact good.  They are something that we may even simply feel false guilt over.  I wrestle with wrapping my brain around what to do.  Of course, I'd really like to assimilate God and my idols and worship them all as one happy family.  Bad idea.

So recently I've been trying to ask God to give me insight and help me find what the intentions and inclinations of my heart are.  Simply put, I can't do this, I've got to have God for this.  Also simply put, I really, really like my idols, so I don't want to let go, and my guess is God's going to have to pry them from hands one grippy finger at a hand.  The good news is that at least they're not cold and dead fingers, yet.

The "confidant victorious Christian" (whom I really don't like) will blanch at this.  "Get on with it Phil, turn or burn baby!"  But I think it's more realistic to say that we won't be successful at defeating idol worship until we ask God to help us be honest with ourselves and with him.  Along with this honesty I ask for courage and help to stop, turn and begin worshiping in the right direction.  God's got to "captivate" my heart, woo it and bring it into alignment with his.  And I've got to accept that as long as I'm on this earth, idol worship is going to be an ongoing problem in my life.

But I hope to spend myself completely in God's direction, to better know the hope, the truth and the person of God.  Just like Jesus.  The good thing is "he is faithful and he will do it."
 

Writing

I was driving this morning, listening to light rock (which always makes me feel cool - even though I know it must sound so absolutely lame to other drivers) with the windows down, tapping my fingers on the wheel and feeling the air billow through my perfectly groomed blond locks when the thought hit me, "What am I?"

I get asked all the time what it is that I do.  And I typically respond with "I write, I am a writer."  Then I swivel around in a perfect pirowet (I misspelled this word so badly that I can't even correct it) break into song about books whilst birds begin their chirping, until I get the inevitable blank stare that says "I prefer my Kindle".  

But every time I say I'm a writer, even though I'm spinning around and singing and stuff, I feel kind of like a liar. Maybe I'm a liar-writer.  But to call yourself a writer just seems pretentious doesn't it?  It sounds like my opinions count more than other peoples.  Of course I believe this most of the time, but it doesn't give me the right to go around telling people, or gasp, blogging about it!

It's just not the case with me, that I'm a real writer.  I suppose I'm a writer, or at least a blogger.  But I've never actually been published anywhere, at least to my knowledge.  I love to fantasize that in some country I've never heard of, my blog posts are being carefully printed, bound and ordered along a Dewey-decimal system (which is one of the mysteries of the universe) and are currently forming the back-bone of a great revolution.  One day libraries of my own work will be burnt, as people put their lives on the line to defend my powerful ideas, sticking their hands into the fires to retrieve my precious morsels of unearthly wisdom.  I know it's happening somewhere.

But at work here in Orlando, I'm asked to write up discipleship stuff for Student Venture, so I guess that counts too, though it's a little less romantic.  And I wrote a lot in college and seminary (of course professors made me do it), I'm always quick to bring this up when singing and twirling, so they can know that I am so legit.

But if I go back to high school, I have to admit that while I wanted to write for the newspaper because I just knew I was profoundly deep and enlightened (at least while I wasn't trying to figure out how to make a new noise with my armpit) I didn't because I thought writing for the newspaper would land me solidly in Geekville, in the Land of Nerdious.  Of course it probably would have.

So rather than writing, I threw myself into soccer.  It was so cool and it was my life.  As my parents will tell you, I spent hours and hours and hours training.  Unfortunately for me, while I loved working on skills and things that I could show off with, I really hated the difficult stuff of training.  Say sprinting, long runs and sit-ups, those are icky things that should be left for amateurs who sweat a lot.  They made me feel like I was going to throw up and who wants to throw up?  Not me.

Of course I did find a strange fascination for push-ups and pull-ups that has carried over into adult-hood.  It's kind of embarrassing, but I liked how big they made my chest look and would pause whenever I passed a mirror to admire and examine my triceps.  They were my glory.  Of course, when I looked at my 9th grade gym teacher with his shirt off, I was always a little worried that the bigger and stronger I got, the higher my chances for having really saggy bosoms in the future would be.  Currently my kids love my bosoms, and are constantly pinching my nipples, so so far this fear has been totally unfounded.

Funny that I would have grown so enamored with my upper-body since I was trying to become the world's greatest soccer player.  "Wow, look at his glorious pectoral muscles when he strikes the ball."  My goal was to feel my chest bounce when I ran (too much information I know!).   I blame my condition on genetics. I was blessed with "thunder thighs" so I never had to work on my legs for them to be absolutely riveting and glorious.

So, as you see, being a writer is not about your ability to use words good, at least not for me.  In my background, other than reading a lot, I was pursuing all the wrong venues to become the next Shakespeare.  In fact, in the high school lunch room I was probably pitying the next Shakespeare, sitting all by himself.  Although I had my times at that table, which is another hard story for another hopefully not so hard day.

But what makes me a writer, aka pretentious snob, is simply the willingness to share myself with you.  I have a desire to be heard yes, but I also love the idea that in some way that through my wrestlings, strivings, failings, wanderings, meanderings and meaningless-random-musings-thingies, my life will be transmitted and I'll be building something, possibly a kingdom.

I hope it's not simply my kingdom, although I know I put a lot of effort into that.  I am absolutely floored when I hear that something I shared helped someone.  I think, "Man, I'm just rambling, and you found that really helpful.  Writing is crazy!" (of course along with that thought, my very next thought is "Of course!  Why doesn't the whole world think I'm amazing?  The world is so messed up!")

And there's something in writing that forces me to take stock of where I am.  Like taking my temperature, say, anally (just kidding).  No it's just really helpful to seek honesty and truth and to begin seeing where you're lying to yourself.    

Also as I often wrestle deeply with depression and melancholy, writing rarely if ever gets me depressed.  It almost always lifts me.  And I think it's because while I am putting down my own thoughts, I'm forced to see them in black and white, and it helps me to see the ridiculous as well as the true.  And then there's the fact that God does speak, and he guides my words sometimes.  Yes you heard it here first, I write the infallible words of God!  No, not yet anyway.

So if you're wondering what I do, or why I write, and why I wince when I say I'm a writer, there you go.  Also I'm hoping this will encourage you to take up a blog or a journal (they're infinitely cooler - plus people will wonder what in the world you are doing with that flat object and stick. Then they'll come up to you grunting with their Lattes in hand, and start asking "Ook, ook, is that the new i-thing, ook ook?") and start creating.

My advice, for what it's worth (which is about $3,013.58) is to focus on making a mess until something else takes over.  That's what I do and it seems to work for me.

Although, since I get nothing but praise from my family, I have the sneaking suspicion that I could be like one of those contestants on American Idol who has absolutely no clue that in other parts of the world where there are more fragile ecosystems the tonal quality of their voice could kill off entire species (like one of those ridiculous orange frogs.  They are so ridiculous!  I for one don't believe in them).  Of course if you've read this far, you either just like watching what sort of train wreck this post will become, or you perchance actually like what I have to say.  I'll imagine the latter and be on my merry way.  

"CLANK!"

Another day another rumble.  And I don't mean a old-school gang fight like in the musical that I can't think of right now - you know the one the, the one with the Jets and Sharks.

No, another rumble in my chest.  It's not the coffee, it's not the heart-burn, it's something other and something older.

It's the dissatisfaction I have with days that are, "for all intense and purposes" (this phrase always seems like a long and awkward one to me), just right.

Right now I'm sitting next to the fountain in our Campus Crusade for Christ's headquarters, in hot but beautiful Orlando, having just had my coffee, had my bible study, just sent off a few emails and just shared a short presentation.  Now I have lunch to look forward to, an afternoon of researching and writing, swimming with the kids in the afternoon and something new from the store to put on my bike.  Ahhh, life is just about perfect.

But it's not.  This side of heaven (sounds like a line from the TV series "Seventh Heaven" - I hated that show!) nothing's going to be perfect.

So what am I, as a believer in a imperfect world, going to live, say and do about it?  Am I supposed to mope?  Am I supposed to preach?  Am I supposed to simply put my head down and stick to my daily tasks?

No I think there is something deeply good about accepting imperfection.  About a month ago, my brother-in-law and I were on a bike ride that roamed the hills of Lookout Mountain, GA.  The weather was perfect, birds chirping and all that, and I was looking forward to the sound of our tires blending with the sounds of speed, nature, and the smells of our sweat (yes even this) and effort mingling and with the smells of dirt, oak, pine and a slight hint of skunk (if you're outside - there's always a slight hint of skunk, if you breath deeply enough).

Aaron and I were even blessed with absolutely perfect, crisp spring weather.  Everything was geared up for the perfect ride, accept Aaron's gears.

For some inexplicable reason, Aaron's bike decided that that was going to be the day she (yes bikes are people too) was going to really act up.  Every third pedal stroke or so, the chain would slip and shift, making this loud "CLANK!"  Not only did this slow Aaron down, but it was an audible yank out of our perfect world of speed and nature.

Now Aaron did an amazing thing.  He didn't say any naughty words.  I can't say the same for me.

But this ride taught me something about deep, not intellectually deep but emotively deep, about satisfaction wed to the imperfect.  Was I willing to let go?  Was I willing to allow the clanks to remind me of a better place, a world without "CLANK!" to come alive and burn in my chest?

Now this is the Christian walk, or the Christian bike ride, Godly contentment beside Godly dissatisfaction.

I've heard others talk on this, but it's usually in the corporate model of the "go-ra-ra let's change the world" kind of stuff.  What I'm talking about is consistent itch, or dissatisfaction, that makes the Christian yearn for more.  The old CS Lewis stuff of pipes and contemplation.

More of God.  More redemption.  More knowledge and understanding.  More experience.  More time.  More love.  More compassion.  More, more, more.   A more that is a humble "more please", with palms upward, like a child with sticky gums asking for more caramel pie (of course he'd never say "please").

This is what I'd call good greed, good dissatisfaction and perhaps the fuel that should guide us and remind us of where we are, who we are and who we look to.  So here's to being discontentedly content.  And here's to having a good-ish day!

Together

"For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name." - Ephesians 3

I looked over at David who was intensely focused on his McDonald's hash-browns, tenderly biting in to them and rolling them around in his little mouth in an attempt to devour whilst not burning.  As I watched David eat, something that I can only describe as a peculiar father-feeling swept over me: with this little guy by my side we could take on the world.

While I've got to admit that it was sort of a ludicrous thought, there's something to it.  Familial bonds can be just that strong.  They can and are world changers.

David and Teya really look up to me.  They absolutely adore me and observe everything I do.  While this might  be ego inflating, it's really humbling as half of the time at least I have no idea what I'm up to.  But like the two little groupies they are, they invite me in to everything they want to do.  What an honor!

After our sneaky McDonald's run this morning (Melissa raised her eye-brows in dietary disaproval when she found out), David and I motored around the local skate-park.  David has this little bike without pedals (pictured above) that's freed him to really feel how a bike coasts, and he's taking it to whole new levels as he zips up and down the ramps.

With his little body hunched forward and a fierce grin he just "let's her rip"!  He must feel safe with me around, knowing that he gets to imitate Dad (the Dad who is awesome BTW) and that Dad will be there if he has a really rad wipe-out.  He loves to crash.

This togetherness we experience has got to be a key to what God intended for family.  Heck, it's what he intends for us in him.  There are so many parallels in all this that I'm trying to sort out where to go...

Ah, here it is:  At my very best I am a dim but real reflection of God as a father -  a father desiring that David not be concerned that he's obeying my rules (though that's important for his own sake) but that David love life because I am by his side.  As I ponder this, I realize that God calls himself Father precisely because he is that - the ultimate Dad.

So when I get home and David begins punching me in the mid-drift and I swivel my hips to avert disaster and Teya comes running just absolutely begging to play Legos or Barbies or Draw or Paint or Tea-party, I've got to say, "Hold on, what's going on Lord?  Is it possible that you can love me more than I do these?"

"Absolutely, I love being together!"