Starting Starting Over Over

I'm coming back to blogging! Yay!

But it's different now. I'm not looking for pity and I'm not wallowing in self loathing. Sure, I still hate myself sometimes, but who doesn't? And I still hate being personable sometimes, but so do you. So there. The point is, I'm back.

Why did I leave? I had to. I was asked to stop blogging by someone that I trust and am submitted to.

I'm not going to lie, I hated it at the time. But it was good for me. It helped me evaluate my motives. I'm the first to admit that I'm a bundle of contradictions and dysfunctions. The hiatus helped me sort out improper motivations like: pity, shock, repressed anger, adrenaline, etc...

It also helped me identify healthy motivations like: creativity, thoughtfulness, connecting, and adventure. For me the work has been to deal with the unhealthy issues while fighting for the potential to develop something that I genuinely love and feel gifted in.

Now, I'm thrilled to announce that I'm starting fresh with the provisional approval of the wise man I mentioned earlier. I've got one month to demonstrate that I can write for the right reasons.

So I'm starting with a total makeover. New approach. New title. New website. New goals. It's not just about me and my journey anymore. Sure I'll share lots of personal stories - I can't help it, I'm just that self centered. But I want to be more about exploring questions that nobody's asking. Digging in to angst that we all feel, but rarely admit.

Rather than making this a private journal that everyone can read, I want an interactive debate. I want people to challenge me. To disagree with one another. To offer wisdom.

We'll have fun. We'll be funny, irreverent, occasionally offensive, but certainly sincere. I have two goals:

1. I'd like to offer an engaging forum where we can explore life's questions, challenge our own paradigms, and revel in the fact that there is no such thing as a tidy answer.

2. I'd like to take a crack at becoming a full time blogger. If I could make a living writing I'd be pretty much the happiest guy in NY. Obviously that will take time, hard work, a little luck, and a LOT of help from my friends. People tell me blogging success comes down to a core of dedicated followers who regularly chime in, retweet, spread the word, and all that crazy social networking stuff.

So, without further ado, I want to introduce you to my new blog:

Frequently Unasked Questions!

www.fuquestions.com

Tell me what you think! :)

Hiatus

I'm taking a break from public blogging. I'm not entirely sure how long it will last. There are currently some questions about its impact on me and others that need to be resolved. Thanks for reading, and I'll let you know when I come back. :)

Until next time...

Preaching, Surfing, and Organized Crime

When I see leaders on stage I immediately esteem them. Not everybody does that, but I do. Always have. The way I see it, if pew passengers want you to tell them how to live differently, then you obviously have your junk together. At least most of it.

Maybe that's why I aspired to be one of those guys. My problem is that I'm not that good at life. I get overwhelmed by everything. Ask me to do laundry while I'm already washing dishes and you'll blow my motherboard. Real life for me is sort of... real.

But the guys on stage look so perfect. Bright lights shimmer off their wrinkle-free clothing; subtle symbolism for their wrinkle-free lives. They've never lost their cool. Always react to emotionally charged situations like professionals. They remind me that I too can aspire to a sparkly, wrinkle-free life.

Actually, they never said that. They told me about trials and character. I simply misunderstood because of how easy they made it look. Like those darn surfers. How do they glide on a tsunami like it's a moving walkway? Life never looks difficult for preachers and surfers. They seem to sail along, just in front of the waves. Nothing unmanageable enough to wrinkle pants or cause a splash.

But I wonder about unintended consequences. Like how Prohibition was supposed to suppress the alcohol trade, but essentially funded organized crime. Can that effect happen in church? I wonder if an unintended consequence of polished leadership is hypocrisy/legalism. It's easy to mistake a well-spoken man with ideals for a spiritual specimen. Why not presume he lives life in perfect adherence to his principles? It's easy to imagine him smiling through a house fire. He's perfect.

We rarely see an example of sincere imperfection on public display. But if you're near enough to the leaders, it's often beautiful. In my experience the closer I've gotten to the men on stage the more I've seen their authenticity. It's great to hear them belch after dinner. It's relieving to witness an occasional bad attitude. And it's inspiring to see real character in action.

But guess what I'm learning? They're not going to light farts on stage. They're not going to stub their toe and let a cuss word slip. And they definitely aren't going to stay up till 3am on Saturday night watching Lethal Weapon reruns. They're speaking the next day, for goodness sake!

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. We want people worth following. We don't need them to expose their issues. Then we couldn't see past their carnality to let them help us with ours. It sucks when a pastor tries to connect with people by painting himself as a jerk. We lose respect for him. Even Jesus didn't let it all hang out. He had different levels of disclosure. John got his breast. The twelve got the rest. And the crowds got blessed. I'm cool with that.

So would Jesus have a problem with my blog? I wonder if He'd think my disclosure could hurt others. Or be concerned that people won't respect me years from now. He didn't bare his soul for the multitudes, why should I? People could easily judge me, and some probably already have. They could decide that because I was a wounded goofball in 2010 that I'm not to be trusted in 2012, or... ever.

Multitudes are finicky I guess. Just look at what happened with LeBron James. With one act of immaturity (publicly leaving his team), he went from being the most lovable NBA star to the most hate-able. And you better believe that 20 years from now people will still be talking bitterly about 'The Decision'. Isn't that crazy? Lifelong bitterness towards a kid for being insensitive? Mark my words, it will happen. Crowds cannot be trusted.

On the one hand, maybe we could use a little more transparency so we don't presume perfection. But on the other, full disclosure seems to create disrespect even more quickly than a good image engenders hypocrisy. And where's the balance for me? I can't go back to pretending I'm wrinkle-free. That facade messed me up. It paved the way for organized crime. I have to slowly iron out my wrinkles. Practice on my surf board in the shallow water. But I may want to reconsider my self-sabotaging strategy. I'm not looking to make the entire city of Cleveland openly root for my destruction. Or all of Christendom. Who knows what the future holds...

The Academy

Late in the summer of 1992 I enrolled in an elite college prep school. An eager Jr. High candidate, I was blissfully unaware of the humiliation that awaited me, or the repercussions it would have on the rest of my life.

The sun had begun it's descent when our aging vehicle rumbled to a stop in the parking lot. We stared up at the solemn brick building. Shadows from the nearby forest already extended into the well manicured lawn. Nestled among rolling Western New York hills there would be a spectacular display of fall foliage in a few short weeks. Mom parked the wood-paneled minivan next to a BMW and pretended our clunker was it's equal. We belonged here, mom reminded me.

Having been home-schooled most of my elementary years, enrollment at The Academy was a departure from the norm. I was leaving the shelter of a country community and commuting an hour each day to attend a boarding school with international and inner city kids. Today, in the Dean's office, I would sign off on my first heavy dose of the real world.

Perhaps the most shocking Jr. High surprise was that the girls magically became women between their sixth and seventh grade summer. Sharing the halls with dazzlingly beautiful females was hardly a confidence booster. Especially because I was eye level with their navels.

Unfortunately I had more than just height and innocence working against me. I had a wardrobe specifically designed by Steve Urkle to help draw a maximum amount of negative attention. As if it wasn't enough to wear my pants at my nipples and my golden geek-bar glasses, I also employed a perm as part of my acceptance strategy. One of several poor choices.

Another poor choice was the note I passed to Joanna in History class. She didn't even bother to check the 'NO' box. She simply simply shook her head emphatically, her eyes wide with terror behind over-sized, eye-magnifying lenses. Jasmine, the class feminist/vegetarian, sized me up like a bad piece of meat each agonizing march to my locker. And Marcea's flirty smile evaporated each time I looked in her general direction. But Elizabeth destroyed me more than them all. She was everything at once. She was taller in 7th grade than I am today. Smarter in 7th grade than I am today. And in my little mind, more untouchable in 7th grade than any human alive.

Sweet adolescent girls, without any malice and without any words, unwittingly wrote the template for a recording that plays in my head every day. It goes something like this: You're worthless. You're ugly. You're unlovable. And you don't fit in.

For years I struggled under the weight of my lot as a hopeless loser. But inside I burned with indignation and resentment. "I'm better than you," I whispered through clenched teeth in their general direction. "Someday you'll see." Long after we moved away I fantasized about a future where I would become famous and those same girls would chase after me, clamoring for my attention.

I was 16 before a teenage girl noticed me. By the time I realized she'd already moved along. I felt empowered anyway, but I was bitter. "I'll show those girls," I thought, "I'll tease them. I'll make them like me, but they can never have me. I'm too good for them." It was a decade of payback.

Through high school, college, and graduate school I sought to validate myself and silence the merciless recordings about my worthlessness. I honed my flirting skills, developed scary intuition, and became every woman's emotional dream guy. I didn't realize my motivations at the time were so twisted, I just knew that I loved feeling validated.

Now that I'm married and my plans to change the world have ground to an abrupt halt, I'm faced with some ugly realizations about my actual motivation. Could it be that my desire to change the world is an unquenchable thirst for my classmate's approval? Could it be that some of my brokenness is tied to unforgiveness toward those young ladies? Sadly, I say yes.

And with strange serenity I offer the weirdest apology, and the most unrequested forgiveness of my lifetime. I'm sorry Jr. High girls for being bitter and angry all these years. I was wrong. And I forgive you for hurting me. It really hurt bad, but you probably didn't know. And even if you did, you might have been just as insecure as me. I'm so sorry. I hope your lives are everything you dreamed they would be back when we shared the halls of The Academy.

Creation, Christians, Smart People, and God

So I have this friend. He's probably read the Bible dozens of times more than me. One of those thinker guys with cool erudite glasses. And he's entirely convinced that the Creation Story is just that - a story. He thinks it's a poetic narrative (three actually) adapted from another culture's god-fable. In his view anyone who thinks it's actually telling us that God created the world is missing the whole point.

The other night while he was talking my mind revved like an ancient car engine trying desperately to turn over. Then it exploded. God didn't create the world? Everyone agrees about this? I'm the only fringe person left that hasn't come around?

It's hard for me to swallow! I mean, I'm the first to admit I don't have my theological ducks in a row, but no Garden of Eden? I feel like a kid caught without homework at pop quiz time! And frankly, I haven't cared to study. I treat the Bible like I treat a birthday check from grandma. Take it to the bank and hope it cashes. I enjoy believing the Bible is God's infallible, inspired Word, and that the stories in it are true. Why would He screw with us by writing a bad check?

But when I'm in the ring with an academic, armed with quotes and books about why it's ridiculous, I dunno what to do. It sounds like he's got an army of intellectuals and mainline denominations backing him up. I'm sort of stymied. What do I say? "Based on the picture books I've been pouring over since I was 5, you're wrong! So there!" I don't have a leg to stand on. With a simple eye-roll* I'm reminded that, oh yeah, I'm one of those ignorant folks who doesn't double check his facts. Or his checks.

But you know what? That's not good enough. Just because smart people tell me I'm dumb doesn't mean I should take their conclusions at face value either. In fact, I'm kind of skeptical of intellectuals as a group. I don't mean to over generalize, but it seems that the academic community likes to pat themselves on the back for being clever, while ignoring the fact that they're only seeing life though one small looking-glass: science.

And as much as it disturbs smart people, science is not without limitations. It simply cannot answer all the questions. It can't quantify the soul or my conscience. (I find it personally amusing that the word 'conscience' when divided into two words, sounds like it can trick science: Con Science. Useless, but cute. Maybe an overzealous believer can build a worldview around it. Or at least a T-shirt.)

It's funny that Christians get a reputation for narrow-mindedness but when respectable scientists claim God is imaginary it's regarded as wisdom. To me that's illogical too! I can agree with God not being objectively provable like I agree with Hitler that Germans are special. But I don't think I'm alone in my sentiment that Hitler failed to consider other important facts. Similarly, I think a scientist that tosses out anything that cannot be scientifically proven is equally extreme.

So yes Mr. Scientist, I agree that you can't measure the specific gravity of my soul. But that doesn't mean it's not an objective part of life. It just means your science sucks. Ok, not entirely. What it really means is that you only have one side of a ten sided coin. That's right, I just said a ten sided coin. Did that blow your mind? You can't reduce the mystical out of life. It's silly of you to try. And it's silly of you to insist on proving everything empirically!

On the other hand, it seems that there are some fair questions I've never asked. At this point I have no trouble accepting the fact that I may know much less about God than I thought. Maybe I've convinced myself I know Him because of classes and altar calls rather than true discipleship.

I guess the silver lining is that it makes me realize how freaking awesome God is. As the days pass I see with increasing clarity that He is the one carrying me through my crap. And even though I often feel profound sadness at my fraudulent relationship with Him; I'm finding that it hasn't been a total lie because I'm still hanging on to Him like He's hanging on to me.

Still hearing a lot of condemning voices in my head though. And I'm still filled with pride and selfishness and rebellion. And I definitely have doubts at my ability to actually surrender my life to His control. But I'm trying. Every day I'm trying. And He keeps giving me more days. And overall, I think He's smiling at me, which is nice.

So, uh, God? If you really did create the world can you zap my friend with a little lighting and let him know? Nothing that will hurt or anything, just a little zing to remind him that you're pretty much the Man. Otherwise, Big Bang me on the head so I'll know.

*Mercifully, my friend doesn't roll his eyes at me.

Persuasion

What's the deal with persuasive people? They're scary! Have you ever been around someone impressive and thought, "I'd believe anything you said right now!" You know who's like that? The Most Interesting Man In The World from those beer commercials. He could talk me into randomly amputating a limb.

Que the grainy video footage of a strapping man feeding baby eagles on a perilous cliff-face. The slide-show continues with equally impressive clips. Mexican theme music fades and a strikingly handsome older gentleman looks directly into the camera: "I don't always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis."

Yes. Yes, me too. I want to be like you. I want to be the second most interesting man in the world. I shall drink your beer. Everyday. Alone in a broom closet, because I'm not allowed to drink. I'm a missionary. If you can call it that. My mission field is the Unreached Paper Groups on my boss's desk. It's uncharted territory. Just the kind of adventurous work the second most interesting man in the world would do. But I digress.

Anyway... I'm having issues with the power of persuasion. It's the verbal version of emotional worship. Ever been to a stilted worship service? You can sense that you'd better end up on the floor weeping whether or not God knocks you over. Don't yell at me I know it happens; I've led it! Unless I'm the only worship leader who knows the two-chord-crescendo. Here's the formula:

2 chords + 1 repeating word + 5 minutes of escalating music = breakthrough!

I didn't invent this, right?

I never was a musician, but man could I talk. At least in my mind I'm eloquent. Once during a floundering job interview I told the restaurateur that if Michael Jordan wanted to play for his basketball team he would hire him regardless of the roster. "I'm the Michael Jordan of serving!" I shouted in my most authoritative voice. That's me being persuasive. And cocky. And desperate. Didn't get the job. Maybe I'm not as good as I think.

But some people are crazy persuasive. Today my buddy almost had me convinced that infanticide was a good idea. Persuasive. Especially considering the fact that I just fell in love with my first niece. Good effort; poorly timed.

The problem with persuasive people is that they can also be easily persuaded. And that's been bugging me. I know this the same way I know about worship tricks. Because I was a professional persuader. I owe people years of their lives back for twisting their arms to go overseas. Not entirely true. Most of them loved it and are still going back. But that's because they're amazing.

I used to be known as the guy who could talk people into anything. Now look at me. I can't even convince myself to shower. And I'm wondering about all the persuasive people that inspired me to reach for the stars. They helped me believe. But who persuaded them to be persuasive? And what if they were as screwy as me?

It's made me seriously reconsider persuasive power. When a guy on stage is speaking with enough electricity to cause a blackout, is it because he REALLY believes it, or is it misdirection so we don't notice it's full of holes? I for one, was great at the old 'yell-my-way-through-the-weakest-point' technique. If I ever get on stage again, which I hope never happens, I'll whisper just to make sure I'm not tricking people into agreeing with me.

It's not that I think spiritual leaders are fakes. It's just that I'm realizing you can't pedestalize them. Because then when somebody screws up, like, say... me... for example, it sort of makes you wonder if you can really trust anybody. Especially persuasive spiritual people.

I still think about this Bible School kid all the time. Man, did I let him have it. I twisted his arm in every direction about why he needed to come to China. I used guilt. I called him proud and immature to his face. (This is funny because I'm proud and immature.) The real reason I wanted him? He was good looking. No kidding. I thought if a good-looking popular kid came to China it would validate me as a leader. Turns out I'm still trying to make up for that latent Jr. High rejection. Which is swell and everything; except when I'm visiting my residual insecurities on unsuspecting college kids who think I'm an awesome leader. What if the poor kid listened to me? Geez!

It's hard not to wonder how many weird motivations leaders have when they're being all powerful and stuff. If I was that screwed up, it stands to reason that some other people are too. So what does that mean for us? Does it mean that we can't trust people? Does it mean that we shouldn't allow ourselves to be persuaded?

I don't think so. I don't totally know why yet, but I feel like isolating-autonomy is never the solution. I do however, think that important decisions are worth a second or third opinion. Just don't ask me. I'll be drinking Dos Equis in the broom closet with the Unreached Paper Groups.

Stay thirsty my friends.

Come Home?

Today is a weird day. My wife left me. Not forever. I hope. Just for work. She's flying to Ireland to watch her bosses kids while they renew their wedding vows.

Yep, my wife is a nanny. Yep, her bosses are from a different socio-economic strata than we are. And yeah, they are kind, cool, generous, amazing, attractive, smart... did I say amazing, people. And... how do you say... literate?

It's not like I think they actually read my blog. But, you know, theoretically, they could. Which makes this a perfect platform to drop hints. Not that I need to. Pretty much the only thing I'd tell them is that sometimes Danielle's body hurts her more than she lets on.

I'd ever-so-politely request that they strap her down from time to time so she doesn't permanently injure herself. It's not their responsibility or anything. It's just that she's kind of like the Energizer Bunny on steroids. Except if the energizer bunny had jumped off the Empire State Building a few times. Seven surgeries is brutal! And as an overprotective husband who kissed his wife goodbye for two weeks, these are bits of information that I want to leak any way possible.

See, I know my wife pretty well. And while she is without question the toughest and most optimistic girl alive, she has absolutely NO ability to hear what her body is telling her. It's like her bones speak French and her mind only understands English. Her ankle yells that it wants to fall off, and her back threatens to crack instead of lift a child for the 73rd time that hour. But she merrily continues, noticing only unintelligible ramblings in the background. Later I translate for her: "Babe, that popping sound... it was your back. And it was cursing at you."

I'm not breaking new ground here. Not throwing her under the bus. She already knows this, and we laugh about it at least weekly. We laugh because we both have blind spots. And she picks on me too. Like the joke she left on the dashboard of our car yesterday. It's a neon sticky note which reads "How's my driving? Call 1-800-I-LUV-YOU". Touche. Apparently she wants me to slow down while she's gone.

Yep, I speed. Yep, she knows it. And yeah, we joke around about it as much as we joke about her masochistic tendencies. But for both of us, there's that... ahem, (awkward cough) element of truth to our comedy. She really isn't a fan of me averaging 4 tickets a year (which I'm currently on pace for), and I don't love it when I see her eyes bloodshot from all the pent up physical pain.

Needless to say, we're worried about each other as we say goodbye. Obviously our primary emotion is more like "Holy crap, how am I going to survive two weeks without you!?!" But a close second is, "If you kill yourself while we're apart I am SO going to break your kneecaps later." Yeah, we love each other a lot. And we both pay the price for our bad decisions. (Read: $400+ to NYS Department of Motor Vehicles.)

Blind spots are a crazy thing. You can even know about them and still struggle. That's another reason why I'm missing her. She protects me. She knows my weaknesses and helps me navigate through raging emotional storms. Often she sees them brewing in the distance long before I can. She even tells me when I'm hurting and don't realize it.

Almost every other day we sit down on our pleather couch with massive rips in the seat cushions and she gives me a play-by-play of what I'm feeling. I stare back in wide eyed amazement! "So that's what this yucky feeling in my tummy is?!" She's like the husband whisperer.

With her gone I'm apprehensive. What if a storm comes? What will I do then? I've got this weird floating feeling like a boat without an anchor. I'm lost. Floating at sea. Speeding in my car again. Eating at the bar again. (Not really, but it rhymed.) Avoiding myself and my scary feelings.

Come home Babe. I promise I won't tease you about your ankle. Come home!