Not inconsequential

I hope people talk about me behind my back. I don’t mind if I make the dinner conversation agenda. If people are talking about me, at least I know I'm not inconsequential.

I was at a restaurant the other day eating a sandwich. The three ladies at the table beside me were having salads and their friends for lunch. Apparently their dining is a low-carb, high-gossip affair. I tried to ignore the stories of who is getting a beer gut, who is sleeping around, and who is more fashion challenged than them, but they were chewing with their mouths open. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t know them. I’m sure I’d end up on the menu eventually. I don’t want that kind of talk about me.

In years gone by, kids wore bell bottoms or parachute pants and aspired to be astronauts, firemen, and teachers. Ask kids born under the YouTube moon what they want to be when they grow up, and they will simply say “popular.” Paris Hilton-esuqe. Any publicity is good publicity, as long as you are in the news. I don’t want to be popular. I don’t want that kind of talk about me.

I'm not aspiring to be vicarious verbage for saladivores that are too fearful to live interesting lives of their own. I don’t need people to bring me up in conversation because my career involves oxygen tanks or water hoses. I don’t want to generate discussion by my sordid antics. I want people to talk about me because I’m not inconsequential.

I want to be relationally consequential in the lives of my friends. When my friends sit down to eat, I hope my name comes up. I hope they say, “Steve called today.” Or, “We all had a great time. Steve and his family were there, too.” Or even, “Man, Steve told the dumbest joke today.” I hope you find value in the interaction of our lives, and that in some way I communicate how valuable you are to me as a friend. I hope that over time God leverages my life to make an impression on you that doesn’t fade as the next moment overruns the moment we shared. If you’re talking about me, at least I know I’m not inconsequential.

At the table

I find myself enjoying the little conversation circles that form around Facebook status updates. It’s as it we’re all sitting down together for lunch conversation in a huge virtual cafeteria. I’m surprised not only at the number of responses that are elicited from the most inane statements, but also the diversity of the individuals responding. I may not know all the players when I’m sharing my wit, concern, or commentary on someone else’s status, but I know the diversity of my own friend list. And frankly, some of the people that enjoy banter under my thumbnail picture would never speak to each other in public. It’s unfortunate, but true.

At my virtual table sit people from around the world. Their worldviews are even more diverse than their geography. Political, social, and spiritual perspectives run the gamut. Some are drive safe cars, listen to whatever music is on the radio, and do what they are told. Others live aggressively, tattoo frequently, and defy categorization. People from all these corners pull up a chair and chat from time to time online, but they’d never do it in real life.

I think if one of my conservative Christian friends knew they were chatting with a homosexual person, they’d politely excuse themselves from the table. If a broadly thinking Ivy-leaguer knew he was exchanging thoughts with a fundamentalist homemaker, I fear his interest in the conversation would wane.

I wish these sorts of conversations could happen in the daylight of face to face. If we could resist the temptation to sit with our own kind long enough to have a conversation with others, something valuable might develop. Dialog might wade from the shallows to the deep end, and maybe we would begin seeing each other as people crafted in God’s image. We might not change one another’s views on being human, but we might break off some of the barbs we use for sparring.

When an agenda has a face, belligerence fades. When an orientation becomes a person we know, “those people” become neighbors. No one agrees with everything neighbors say, but believers in Christ know what we’re supposed to do to neighbors. (Love them.) If we did what Jesus taught, I think people would be a bit more interested in what He had to say. And that would make for good table talk.

Touch sensitive

Have you ever noticed how universally we human beings are wired for touch? It’s something we can’t live without.

I was recently involved in a church service that concluded with a meaningful and emotional prayer time. A couple of guys I know had left their seats and knelt at a designated place to pray near the front of the room. Friends and family joined them, and they enthusiastically hugged, patted them on the back, and stood arm in arm. Among other things, it was a powerful experience of community.

Not too long ago I was at a club listening to some friends rock the house. By the time the third band hit the stage, I noticed something. Friends in the club enthusiastically hugged, patted each other on the back, and stood arm in arm. Among other things, it was a powerful experience of community.

I started grad school as a lone duck. My move to the Midwest took me far from my network of friends and family and added my face to the anonymous crowd of a large city. I lived alone. On occasion my voice would crack when I would speak. That’s when I would realize that I hadn’t spoken for a day or two. It was in those lonely times that I noticed how touch sensitive we really are: A handshake from a colleague. A touch from a cashier returning change. A squeeze on the arm from a friend.

I’m amused by people that panic about technology-enabled, virtual interaction threatening physical community. They sell fears of a society too consumed by cyberspace (old term, coined by William Gibson) to meet IRL (“in real life”) in “meatspace” (new term, source unknown). A century before, their ancestors said the same thing about the "devil’s telephone". We’re touch sensitive. People will always seek proximity.

Any foundational firmware that has been hard coded into our race can be leveraged for good and ill. Touch is no exception. Contrast the handshake with the punch. Contrast the healing touch of a nurse with the grope of a deviant. Contrast the beauty of a new life growing from the intimacy of lovers to the ragged destruction of rape.

In a day when touching sparks investigation and litigation, we tend to keep our hands to ourselves. In general, "hands off" is a good thing. And in the age of swine flu, it’s a sanitary thing. But I wonder if the return swing of this pendulum might also be a good thing. Or maybe I just need a hug.

Twenty-two years

Twenty-two years ago tonight I made a decision that has altered the trajectory of my life more than any other choice I have ever faced. I chose to move from a head knowledge of religious information to a relationship with God Himself. Rather than merely knowing about Jesus, I accepted an invitation to know him personally. I'm not sure if it's possible to quantify how different my life would have been had I chosen differently, but I'm glad I chose to take a step of faith.

Since that humid August night during the reign of mullets, I've kicked the tires of my faith quite a bit. I have wrestled with doing the right thing when the wrong thing was the greater short-term gain. I have dismantled and inspected my belief system in ways that seemed to defy good sense, considering my vocation. I've daydreamed of what life might be like if I walked away from faith. I've earned degrees in religion. I've publicly defended issues I've privately questioned. I have been given the ironic title of "elder" while in my twenties. I've seen role models crash and burn, not following the very directions they taught me. I've watched my faith morph as I changed from a boy, to a man, to a husband, to a dad. I've seen the love of God turn upended lives right side up. I've done things I'm not proud of. I've loved and despised being called "pastor", sometimes in the same moment. I've had my faith stretched beyond any possibility of returning to its previous size. I've watched a man die senseless death and felt his new widow sob "why, God?" on my shoulder. I've spent countless hours saying things about God and wondered if anyone would remember a sentence of it the next day. I've strummed wood and steel to sing about this Jesus that knows me so well, yet loves me so much.

All in all, it has been quite a ride. I'm not looking, but I know there are no better offers. Christ is the savior of my entire life, author of my best agenda, and healer of my deepest brokenness. Thumbing through twenty-two years of memories reminds me that a life of faith isn't necessarily easy, but "easy" rarely describes things that really matter.

Change is the only option

A true stroke of South American genius are the multi-speed highways of Argentina. I don't know how widespread this legal enforcement of common sense is, but I wish the U.S. of A. would take note. In a multi-lane highway, each lane has a different maximum speed assigned. The further lanes left you go, the faster the speed limit. The right lane might be going 85 km/h (52 mph), while the middle lane was throttled to 100 km/h, and the blessed left lane would be going 120 km/h (75 mph). Different lane, different speed.

Change is much like these multi-lane, multi-speed highways. You are going to change. Not changing is not an option. The only question is "at what speed will you change"?

A conservative or fundamentalist person says, "I won't change. I'll cling to the old tried and true." Unless they are still wearing animal skins for daily dress, they have been part of change. They get shoved along as the world changes around them, but they will change. Eventually everyone will own a flat panel TV. Good luck trying to find a tube CRT. You have to change eventually.

The middle lane is occupied by people that don't dig their proverbial heels in quite as much as culture changes. They aren't charging ahead like the lane to their left, but they recognize the futility of fundamentalist friction more quickly than the "that's the way it was and we liked it" crowd to their right. Most people you meet will live most comfortably in the center lane.

The left lane lurches with lead-footed pursuit of progress. They are driven by the optimism of evolution, not the comfort of the familiar. While a right-lane person champions the caution of low velocity, the left-laner finds acceleration to be the mode of choice.

I mostly find myself in the left lane. I am convinced that God is active and working in His creation, and that He intends to take it somewhere. That somewhere is a better place than now, so I accept the RSVP to partner with God to move culture forward. My stance toward life is shaped by this. I would rather be a lead foot than a lead weight.

Ant flicking

A few days ago, the beautiful weather had this magnetic attraction that pulled me outdoors. I took some work with me to the riverfront park, and I found a quiet spot on the ampitheather stage to do said work. At one point in my reading, a large ant came strolling towards me. Not wanting to be explored by the six-legger, I gave him a convincing flick with my index finger that sent him tumbling a couple yards from me. The trauma I inflicted changed his stroll to a panicked, zig-zagged run. Somehow this amused me. Unfortunately for the ant, his escape route went near me, so I flicked him again. He rolled, righted himself, and tried to evade me. Intoxicated with power, I flicked him a third time. Fortunately for the ant, he ran the opposite direction this time and vanished across the concrete. At that moment, I had a sobering thought: I'm glad I'm not God.

Check your culture at the door

Unfortunately, much of my experience of church has been “check your culture at the door.” It’s as if they had bouncers posted in the entryway with plastic boxes for us to put our real life in for safe keeping while we were in the house of God. These metaphorical guard/clerks would hand us a tag with our number on it so that, upon leaving, we could collect all our music, movies, TV shows, comfortable clothes, and opinions and reassemble our lives in the parking lot. Inside the church, we’d talk about those “evil” people out there, how bad TV and movies are getting, and how Jesus is going to come back to kick their butts (although we’d never use that word inside). We’d strut around and crow about being on the “winning team” and being holy people. Then we’d leave the building and plunk down our eight bucks to see the same movie everyone else was seeing.

Back when I pastored a traditional church (stop laughing, it happened), I did a nontraditional thing and took a survey. Part of that survey inquired about favorite TV shows, radio stations, and so forth. We learned something interesting: Our favorite shows were the current number one shows. We listened to the same radio stations as those people “out there”. Yet for some reason we acted like it smelled like roses when we…well, you know.

I understand that group identity is maintained by its unique cultural elements, and this alone isn’t necessarily a negative feature of the church. But I believe there is something fundamentally wrong with our hypocritical (yes, I used the H-word) attitude towards our own culture. I could look at this issue from countless angles, but for now I’ll leave it at this: Why should we check our culture at the door of the church?