The Banzai Chronicles

Do not take to heart all the things that people say, lest you hear your servant cursing you. Your heart knows that many times you yourself have cursed others.

—Ecclesiastes 7:21-22

Over the past few months, I've realized that a common thread in my relational struggles is trying to figure out how to take people seriously. Not that I don't; rather, I try, but regularly find that I'm hearing something different from what they may be saying or meaning (and to further the confusion, those two often aren't the same thing). Much of the time, I hear what it would mean for me to say what I'm hearing, and that's rarely the same. And though I don't want to be vain (or at least don't want anyone to believe I am), the truth is that, because of a heap of counseling training, I'm probably better equipped to listen than most. So when I hit a wall in the process, simple tips, tricks, and techniques rarely have much to offer.

What does it mean to really hear people, and how far am I really called to go in the effort? On the surface, it seems like one of those always-good, always-right, always-noble pursuits, but that assumption is worth examining rather than swallowing whole "just because." Right away, I have to acknowledge that I'm limited, which means A) I can't do everything, and 2) what I actually can do will also be imperfect and limited. That's a basic ground rule for life on Earth, one which clearly applies in listening. It doesn't preclude trying or being faithful—I'm called to trust in God's grace more than I trust in my own perfection.

With that understanding in mind, and in light of the Teacher's musing above, I have to admit that I can't figure out how to take people seriously much of the time, and that it's far from a universally good pursuit over which I should constantly exhaust myself. Being tired isn't the only cost, either—so often, I'm angry when I hear people say they value something, then live in an entirely different fashion. The more I try to take what I hear from people seriously, the more my nose is rubbed into that gap. And I hate it. Hate it.

None (or at best, few) of us are who we'd like to believe ourselves to be. I'm certainly not. Could it be that truth and grace sometimes (perhaps often) calls us to not take seriously what we hear from others? How do we do this in a way that's not dismissive, or is that simply the cost of our not speaking truthfully to one another (and indeed, to ourselves)?

Also, there's the question of scale: how many people should I try to hear at all? Of these, how many should I work to take seriously? The obvious starting point is "not everyone," but our culture still suggests I can do more than may be possible or good. At risk of being too "meta," online journals and blogs are great examples of this trend*: we can publish and read thoughts far outside the context of full relationship (or even personhood), then try to discern their meaning in the absence of relational cues (even with those we know), with as many "people" as we can jam into our browsers. When does that stop being scalable, and when does it stop being good? And how does intimacy factor in, knowing that our writings may reflect us at our most filtered and deluded, even when we might want to view them as authentic and raw?

No answers, just open questions, along with the slowly dawning realization that I may be regularly fighting the wrong battles on far too many fronts.


*I first met my wife through LiveJournal, so I'd be hard pressed to view this situation through a Luddite lens (can Luddites have lenses?). But I have to, have to consider the realities and their implications.

barlow_girl and I returned from the church retreat at Fort Flagler yesterday evening. Came back a bit early in order to staff things on the home front at this morning's worship service; since there's only one service today because of the retreat, it potentially has a lot going on, particularly with kids (there weren't a ton of them at the retreat, which means they may all show up this morning). Both of us were on the go pretty constantly from setting up Friday to the time we left yesterday, so getting back home we a pretty big downshift.

Coordinating the retreat gave me some flashbacks to my career in higher ed. We had a housing snafu that grew in part from one of my early decisions, and while we had more than enough beds, we weren't able to meet everyone's expectations. Tried to get more people satisfied by asking people to extend one another grace in different ways, but that's so tough, because if what's being asked is truly to be grace, I (and everyone else) have to respect others' decisions and avoid the temptation to judge whether they're being gracious—especially if "grace" is measured by whether I (or anyone) got what I wanted. That's not grace at all. Also had to try to hold the line at subtly (and not so subtly) treating single and married people differently—that's no good and just won't fly, no matter how normal it might seem. The normalcy of such treatment is a problem to be nipped in the bud.

Funny how comfortable we can be within our cramped personal dramas. On the way in to the retreat, one carload of people had their car hit by a tree (not the other way around), crushing their windshield and making it undrivable. Thank God everyone was OK—they even came to the retreat—but one would think that would provide perspective to the rest of our "problems." Regrettably, that didn't always seem to be the case, and that's sad.

Regardless, the retreat seemed to go well, and I had some good conversations and learned a lot in the process of keeping things going. We may have another in the spring (my next research project), so those lessons may be applied sooner rather than later. Also had someone volunteer to coordinate a future retreat, which sounds promising.

Grace doesn't cost me anything. Responding to grace does.

Our time in Portland visiting barlow_girl's cousins has been sweet. Since we're only here for a couple of days, we purposely didn't come with a "see and do" agenda—for me, it's too easy for that to be a distraction from actually spending time enjoying the people we came to see. So we've been pretty relaxed. Yesterday we took a road trip (more of an expedition in some respects—travel with a three-kid family is a considerable endeavor!) to Multnomah Falls and finished out the day with dinner, some porch time with the eldest daughter Tatiana, and a late-night game of Ticket to Ride. This morning we're headed to explore the local farmers' market, then we'll take the train back to Seattle in the afternoon.

Some great talks also about the church, the gospel, community, friendships, and what it looks like to follow and trust God in these things over culture (Christian and non). One of the things I'm finding most refreshing and enjoyable about the Prestons is their lack of pretense. I don't think I realized how much my own life, relationships, and context are sometimes fairly dripping with the stuff and how nastily corrosive it can be on so many levels. It kind of turns my stomach when I think about it too long, so I want to be more active in rooting and keeping it out. Grace doesn't just apply to the cool kids—it also applies to the everyday people we might be afraid of being (or afraid we already are). Being with people who can let go of that pretense is glorious in the full sense of the word.

This Saturday is a little less full than last—in the morning, I have a diaconate meeting and barlow_girl has a book club meeting (which means you can hound her for an update to her book list, since she just finished another), then a couple of afternoon and evening possibilities (a friend's bon voyage party and another friend's gallery opening). Somewhere in there I need to squeeze in some laundry, lest I face future events pantless. The (hopefully final) turn to summer weather seems to have spirits up here, and that's always welcome.

Speaking of reading (well, I did speak of it, even if it's a few sentences back), I've been a huge slacker in Bible reading and prayer lately. Don't know what my deal is—of course, sometimes things just slide, but I know there've been plenty of times when it's occurred to me and I willfully push the thought aside. There's plenty of rebel in me still. At ManTime last week, Ian shared a helpful thought (which I won't adequately capture) about grounding oneself in God's love—that He sees a Christian as Christ has made him and loves him with that love, rather than seeing him on the basis of his behavior. No doubt one can go overboard with this perspective, but it's worth considering if I really believe that the death and resurrection of Jesus means what I say it means.

Was about to post an excerpt from tonight's Morning and Evening only to discover I posted it last year. I still need to be reminded of the same things because I still need the same things.

Enjoyed I Am Legend for what it was (a big budget Hollywood blockbuster). Understanding its limits, there's a scene that stuck with me because of the larger story it reflects.

( Cut for spoilers—most of this is in the trailer, but isn't it nice when people have enough consideration for others to bother with inserting an LJ cut? I know I wish it were more common… )

The offer of salvation from the One who can give it is likewise often met with snapping jaws and violence. Though we know we are broken and diseased, we want our own way, lashing out at life and light. We create our own "order," rejecting health and hope, except as something to devour and destroy for our own ends. We are so much less than we are created to be, and it seems we're committed to making every effort to keep it that way. Because we no longer possess the capacity to imagine anything better than our own desire, our rage often becomes focused on the One who offers salvation.

One of the wonders of the gospel is that even this was part of His plan—He knew we would destroy Him, and He made our violence an integral part of His mercy. That's a kind of hope and grace I cannot fathom, much less undo.

Our plans to go to San Francisco for Michael & Susan's wedding had to be scratched, which was a big bummer for both of us but couldn't be avoided with barlow_girl's work. The bright side (not always my forte) is some unexpected time margin I can use to recover from my cold, catch up on a few dozen things, and even possibly relax.

Sometimes having surprise margin puts me in a reflective frame of mind, perhaps because I haven't already loaded all the space in my schedule with busyness. Today, I'm probably pushed further in that direction by some major developments in the lives of those close to us—hard consequences of far more terrible actions. And so I'm faced with questions, good questions, and the space to consider them:

• How do we decide how we're spending our lives, in whatever measure those decisions have been entrusted to us?
• How do we stop hiding?
• How do we open ourselves to be changed by God and to community with others?
• How do we walk free of everything that would entangle us—not just the "bad" sins, but also our continual diversions and infatuation with our own "goodness" and "rightness"?
• How do we lead well and follow well?

The life I'm imagining isn't dull; it's alive and vibrant. It's not full of religious jargon and an answer for everything. It has forgiveness and grace enough for the hugest of sins, so that we can both reveal them and face them in all their horror—no more denial out of fear of repercussions. We tell the truth and call things what they are. Our relationships are more than just vehicles for good times and mutual amusement, and we find our joy increased rather than lessened thereby. We engage. We love. We serve. We worship. We are a blessing to the world, even when it rejects us.

My life has been purchased with too precious a price not to strive for this.

Along the same lines as this morning's previous entry, the cover quote for the upcoming Sunday's Order of Worship hit close to home:

Those who remain alone with their evil are left utterly alone. It is possible that Christians may remain lonely in spite of daily worship together, prayer together, and all their community through service—that the final breakthrough to community does not occur precisely because they enjoy community with one another as pious believers, but not with one another as those lacking piety, as sinners....However, the grace of the gospel, which is so hard for the pious to comprehend, confronts us with the truth. It says to us, you are a sinner, a great, unholy sinner. Now come, as the sinner that you are, to your God who loves you. For God wants you as you are, not desiring anything from you—a sacrifice, a good deed—but rather desiring you alone.

—Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together

Back live, now from my new MacBook Pro. It's ridiculous how much it lifts my spirits to be online and mobile at once again.

The weekend rocked. We celebrated St. Patrick's Day at Nikki's, where I spent time with my good friend Jameson. Sunday was our church's soirée at Canlis, which far exceeded our high hopes. Around 250 people attended, well-dressed, relaxed, and a little awed to be celebrating so extravagantly. It was such a compelling, tangible picture of grace. Practically, so many of us believe that, even at the height of our relationship with God, we're just ok—perhaps the equivalent of a moderate night out. But God loves us richly, in a way that should humble us and perhaps even make us blush. It felt good to celebrate with others in that spirit, not as an escape from our lives or a boasting of some individual or corporate achievement, but as nothing less than an embodiment of God's extravagant grace revealed to us in the gospel. That's beautiful.

(An added bonus: you can see video of our pastor sabering the champagne open here. It was so fun!)

Just up from yet another dream trying to fix the past. There are a few places I gravitate back to when I do this, probably because those memories are so much clearer than others I might wrestle with. One of the things that rattled me a bit this time was how willing I was in the dream for barlow_girl and I to pick up and leave our life in Seattle—upon awakening, I'd never want us to do this. But maybe there's part of me that just wants redemption of what I think is broken, regardless of the cost to today.

This weekend, we worked a bit on laying the groundwork for Amy to move in here once we're married. While it's fun to think about, it's also a bracing shot of what it practically tastes like for us to die to ourselves while becoming something new. In so many ways (and this is by no means an original observation), marriage seems to be about grace. It is, of course, a gift given out of God's grace, and we also believe it to be a reflection of His grace to His Church. Further, it brings us to a place where we have to face our need of His grace, to the end of ourselves and what we can do in our own strength. As a single man, I've had plenty of places where I could retreat from that truth, but marriage assaults those strongholds and brings me face to face with my unvarnished self. It's far from the only thing God uses to do this kind of sanctifying work on us, and certainly not a necessary one, but He does use it uniquely and clearly. And I don't pretend to understand it all—like many other aspects of God's grace, at some point it is simply a mystery to which I must submit myself. Because it's true.

Tonight we're off to a wine tasting after work at the Canlises (of Canlis Restaurant fame). It feels a little odd to briefly slide into a lifestyle for which others might aggressively strive and grasp, but that's just another picture of grace. It should be a lovely time with friends, and it will be fun to learn more.

Last night, barlow_girl shared a thought-provoking quote from Marilynne Robinson's Gilead (loaned to her by shemaiah and reviewed here):

"This is an important thing, which I have told many people, and which my father told me, and which his father told him. When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation? If you confront insult or antagonism, your first impulse will be to respond in kind. But if you think as it were, This is an emissary sent from the Lord, and some benefit is intended for me, first of all the occasion to demonstrate my faithfulness, the chance to show that I do in some small degree participate in the grace that saved me, you are free to act otherwise than as circumstances would seem to dictate. You are free to act by your own lights. You are freed at the same time of the impulse to hate or resent that person. He would probably laugh at the thought that the Lord sent him to you for your benefit (and his), but that is the perfection of the disguise, his own ignorance of it…I am reminded of this precious instruction by my own great failure to live up to it recently."

It's been a good thing to consider today.

Read one of my favorite stories from the Bible this morning: Luke 7:2-10, about Jesus, the centurion, and his servant. I've mentioned the story before over the years, noting what it reveals about worthiness, grace (quoting Brennan Manning), and authority. I was going to write about it again, but anything I'd have to say would be a rehash of these (I only have so much material in my head), particularly the last, which also connects well with the Tim Keller quote I posted yesterday. Authority is huge—even grace doesn't make sense without it.

I got a nice rainy Seattle day for my birthday today. Since it's Saturday, I had a yummy apple pecan scone from Irwin's (they don't make them every day). And better by far, I've got a surprise field trip with barlow_girl coming up within the hour. Surprises and secrets tend to fall apart around me, so I've been making a concerted effort not to figure it out. Whatever it is, it'll be great.

As it is necessary to repair the waste of the body by the frequent meal, so we must repair the waste of the soul by feeding upon the Book of God, or by listening to the preached Word, or by the soul-fattening table of the ordinances. How depressed are our graces when means are neglected! What poor starvelings some saints are who live without the diligent use of the Word of God and secret prayer! If our piety can live without God it is not of divine creating; it is but a dream; for if God had begotten it, it would wait upon him as the flowers wait upon the dew. Without constant restoration we are not ready for the perpetual assaults of hell, or the stern afflictions of heaven, or even for the strifes within.

—Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Morning and Evening (2 January, Evening) [emphasis mine]

So it turns out there's another kind of anxiety dream—the wedding dream. Who knew? Note to self: bring tuxedo to wedding.

God has so much work to do on me it's ridiculous. Even if He had nothing else to do in the universe other than to work on me, it seems like it would be enough to be a God-sized job and keep Him plenty busy. And yet, there's an arrogance threaded through any humility that thought might contain, which is yet another part of me that needs changing. I'm more amused than bothered by that irony.

I'm amused because, deep down, I know I'm free, even when I'm not living that way. God's authority is borne in power through His very Word, so once He has declared something, so it is. That makes me forgiven, clean, holy, righteous, beloved—a Son. That's enough to keep the weight of my sin from crushing me. It has already crushed Him, and I'll not pretend that didn't happen in some misguided attempt to bear my own punishment. Not that my choices are without consequence, but whenever I'm ready to stop pretending and live in the reality of His declaration, it's there waiting for me to turn around. Whenever I'm ready to live in His love, the Father waits to embrace me. No matter what I feel.

Gratitude is an excellent antidote to sin in my life. Living out of my own strength and losing myself in my own junk both lose their appeal when I'm grateful. barlow_girl and I talked a bit about gratitude last night over dinner (stemming from a book she just finished), and its importance has been sinking in more deeply ever since. I have so very much for which to be grateful; I don't think I'd ever stop being amazed if I simply kept my eyes open and my heart honest.

The blessing I most need from God is His Spirit opening my eyes and softening my heart to how richly He has already blessed me.

I'm really hard on people, but I'm outgrowing it. A little. Sometimes.

Maybe it's just a matter of having a little more heart. My standards aren't changing; I still believe what I believe. But the kinds of inconsistencies that drive me up a wall in the abstract are usually just foibles I tend to accept in people I know and love (and those they accept in me). I still hope we will all be delivered from our self-centeredness, and I have good reason for that hope. In the meantime, I can at least ease up a bit and stop being such a mean bastard. It makes me miss a lot.

Feeling my wits about me a bit more this morning. God is using Lent and life in general to highlight the gap between who I'd like to be or believe I am and who I truly am. If my response to this is only something along the lines of "I need to do better," I am missing His point entirely.

The big deal, I'm realizing (freshly, perhaps, because this realization involves basic truths that are by no means new to me), is coming to stand in the very place where Jesus has accepted me. That's the vantage point from which I can begin to see the glorious expanse of His grace. If I don't see how He has come to me, where I truly am in my most unvarnished state, I'm missing the miracle of the gospel. Looking at Him from any other place lessens what I can see of Him and disconnects whatever I do see from my life and heart—from those places that desperately need His healing presence.

This is subtly but vitally different than that horrible catchphrase, "I'm just a sinner saved by grace." I'm not just anything at all. I am who He has declared me to be. He has the authority to do that, to trump and override everything that might otherwise be true about me. And He has done so. I'll not sell that short.

He put another parable before them, saying, “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a man who sowed good seed in his field, but while his men were sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat and went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared also. And the servants of the master of the house came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? How then does it have weeds?’ He said to them, ‘An enemy has done this.’ So the servants said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he said, ‘No, lest in gathering the weeds you root up the wheat along with them. Let both grow together until the harvest, and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Gather the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’”

—Matthew 13:24-30

Some of Jesus' parables continue to puzzle me; others, like this one, bring perspective and even sense to a seemingly senseless world. I have as much peace as one can with the presence of evil in a universe where, even embattled, God is sovereign—He is God, I am not—but it's easy for me to miss or forget the role of His sovereign mercy in the way things are.

Even though I worked yesterday, a day of no commitments should be more than enough to recharge the batteries. Looking forward to tomorrow doesn't hurt, nor does a holiday on Monday.

In non-sequitur LiveJournal happiness, I just discovered the option in the userinfo that allows me to replace posted pictures on my friends list with links. I've been experiencing picture overload lately, so this is a great find.

Then the king sent, and all the elders of Judah and Jerusalem were gathered to him. And the king went up to the house of the Lord, and with him all the men of Judah and all the inhabitants of Jerusalem and the priests and the prophets, all the people, both small and great. And he read in their hearing all the words of the Book of the Covenant that had been found in the house of the Lord. And the king stood by the pillar and made a covenant before the Lord, to walk after the Lord and to keep his commandments and his testimonies and his statutes with all his heart and all his soul, to perform the words of this covenant that were written in this book. And all the people joined in the covenant.

Before him there was no king like him, who turned to the Lord with all his heart and with all his soul and with all his might, according to all the Law of Moses, nor did any like him arise after him.

—2 Kings 23:1-3, 25

Josiah cleaned house. Following generations of wicked king after wicked king, his discovery of the law and how far Judah had strayed broke him. He had the law read to the entire community, and under his leadership they repented. He spends the rest of the book destroying the host of idols, priests, and worship practices that had arisen as substitutes for living in the boundaries of God's covenant.

One of the surprising aspects of the story for me (though notsomuch when I consider present-day realities, internal and external) is that the substitutes for God were everywhere—in fact, a huge chunk of them were housed in the temple. Idols to multiple gods, male cult prostitutes, horses dedicated to the sun, altars—you name it, it was in there. That's a brutally honest picture: so many of us would never dare to outright depose God, but we are quite willing to raise up other substitutes alongside and above Him. As long as we make mention of Him, we imagine our worship and our substitutes can coexist.

Josiah didn't just tear things down, however. His repentence is rooted in remembering:

And the king commanded all the people, “Keep the Passover to the Lord your God, as it is written in this Book of the Covenant.” For no such Passover had been kept since the days of the judges who judged Israel, or during all the days of the kings of Israel or of the kings of Judah. But in the eighteenth year of King Josiah this Passover was kept to the Lord in Jerusalem.

—2 Kings 23:21-23

One of the major truths our church has been learning to engage is that salvation precedes obedience. The Passover is God's reminder to His people that He chose them and He delivered them. It is a past which roots their faith and promises a future which gives great hope. Judah had not only disobeyed, they had forgotten their story, God's story. They had forgotten who they were.

I'm not just writing academically here. As I do, unfortunately, in other relationships, I repeatedly act like a jerk in my relationship with God, then wonder why I feel like garbage. The truth that changes me (and promises to change me over and over again) isn't that I need to do something (though it does call for a response and lead to action). The truth that changes me is who God has declared me to be—that He has chosen me and delivered me. Things just stop working when I try to live a story other than this one, and thank God for that grace. It's starting to sink in.