Sunday, after the service, there was a core group meeting to talk about money and the budget. 

2 things about that, before we get to the point. 

The Bridge has a core leadership group. Of course, it does. It’s not awesome to have anything too centralized, without accountability, without different opinions, backgrounds, ideas. No one person should shoulder all of the responsibility. In fact, no 2 or 3 or 4 people should – there should be a team, like the Avengers. (Well, maybe not exactly like the Avengers, but you get the idea.) 

The Bridge has a budget. For so long, I stayed away from religion like it was a new Coldplay album because, in my experience, it had nothing to do with God or spirituality, and everything to do with business and wealth and excess. The Bridge began with that in my heart and mind, and every penny that was offered to the community was given away – there were no expenses, no salaries, we were free to direct our money to those in need. It was beautiful and easy. Then, we moved into our current building and accepted necessary operating expenses. Just like at your house or job, the lights don’t stay on by themselves. It’s a pretty big crack in the naive idealism of my youth, but with the proper perspective and responsibility, it can still be beautiful, even as it’s ease has disappeared. As we grow, there is more opportunity for gifts. More relationships mean more passion, more mission, more action, more spaces for support, with our prayers, energy, time, and money. Our orange offering box is an invitation to participate. And responsible stewardship, like anything valuable, doesn’t just happen by accident. It takes intention, and some meetings to assure that the beautiful vision of the Bridge stays sharp.

Now. We had planned this meeting in February, and it has been my primary focus since then, worn around my neck like a chain – sometimes heavy, but always present as a reminder. Many  times I was distracted from other things, it was because I was deep in prayer and reflection. Were our finances in step with our vision/mission? You know, they say that if you want to know what it is that you really believe, you can look at your calendar and your checkbook. Were ours consistent with what we said we believed and valued? More times than I can count, I left other things unfinished, because this issue was (and should have been) my priority. I laid awake nights, asking God for guidance, to lead me into rooms I never intended to go. (My avoidance was absolutely ridiculous, I might add. Looking away, pretending something uncomfortable isn’t there, is not now and has never been a very good strategy for life.) He did, He always does.

For 5 months, I lived like a student preparing a gigantic project. I imagine we all did, to some extent. Sunday afternoon, we turned that project in, submitted our paper, the fruit of so much labor. And she WAS beautiful.

But here’s the point, my wife and I came home afterwards and shared our comments and observations for an hour or 2, then… Nothing. I didn’t get started on the next thing. I didn’t begin anything new. I didn’t work at all, as a matter of fact. I just took some time to decompress from 5 months of building, took some time to appreciate what we’d built, together.

Mostly, we don’t take those moments to be where we are, even for a second. We aren’t usually content and satisfied. We continue to climb the next mountain, achieve the next goal, cross off the next item on our to-do list. Why is that?

The preparation, the creation, was 5 months of hard – sometimes excruciatingly hard and frustrating – and to simply move on to the next thing seems so disrespectful of the journey. I’m a different man now, and every step in becoming should be celebrated, or at the very least gratefully acknowledged, with the attention it deserves.

Kate Swoboda has a website called Your Courageous Life, and in one of the articles, she writes, “Instead of being “bad people” who whine, moan and complain, we are actually people who are trying to handle a lot of feelings. Maybe those responses are an attempt to release an overload of those feelings.” This is exactly what I’ve been thinking, trying to find the words to say out loud.

I am a work in progress, tip-toeing towards becoming a man who extends grace, to you, your friend, my neighbor, and to me. (Not the Grace that saves, that’s obviously not mine to give – instead, the grace that stands, trusts, and consents. The grace that holds your hand and walks through hell with you. The grace that walks in when everyone else walks out. The grace that… Well, you know what it feels like when you know that you just have to confess something, to get something out into the light, and it’s scary, and embarrassing, and you feel the crushing weight of shame? The grace that disarms those emotions, looks at you with love, and speaks a fresh word.) This is the man I’d like to be, it’s who I believe I am created to be. 

That journey comes to an abrupt halt, because too often, I simply cannot extend that grace to me. The voices in my head tell me I am less than, that I am lacking, not enough of whatever. Not that I am ‘trying to handle a lot of feelings,’ but that I am fundamentally flawed. The voices are the same that worked tirelessly since junior high to deceive me, to back me into some very dark spaces that had no exit.

I recognize this got heavy, fast, but that’s ok, we’re friends, right?

So.

Two weeks ago, on a Saturday morning at 5:30 am (!!!), I participated in a HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) hot yoga class with my sister. She meant it as a beautiful spiritual experience we could share, a sacred space, like the best church service. It wasn’t. It was inhumane. Pure torture. The room was set to a million degrees and the sadistic instructor, a gorgeous woman named Lee, was bent on destruction.

The class was an hour long, and I was a beast. A warrior. I was a finely tuned athlete who was capable of EVERYTHING, who would domesticate the assault, aggressively transferring its power to me. The Man.

This is the full truth, it happened just like I said, until I had to leave the room. I couldn’t jump again, my limbs were jelly, my heart pounded like a jackhammer, I think I may have cried a little, the room spun faster and faster, I wondered who would care for my friends at the Bridge for the months (years?) of recovery.

Once I crawled to a seat outside, my body quickly rebounded, and just as quickly, my head rang with the familiar noise. “You call yourself in shape? You are nothing, pathetic, an embarrassment.” Here’s the thing, though. I didn’t believe them, even for a moment. 

True, Lee won. And that’s ok. I almost made it – after a minute or 2, I returned to the room just in time to cool down. If I could’ve only lasted a little longer… But that’s ok, too. If I would’ve stayed, I would’ve missed the most important part. Failure. Well, maybe the failure wasn’t the most important part, but the REAL most important part couldn’t have happened without it.

I said Lee was bent on destruction, and she was, but I think maybe it wasn’t me she was looking to destroy. She opened the class with a quote, “Yoga is the practice of tolerating the consequences of yourself.” My self has a truckload of consequences, I guess all of our selves do. And maybe tolerating those consequences (whatever they are) looks like quieting/ignoring/annihilating the voices withholding grace, telling you that you are anything less than enough, less than lovely, less than a beloved child of the Living God.

Lee won, and I did, too.        

Last night, we lost again and our season came to a crushing end. In shades of the single most heartbreaking moment in sports history, when the New England Patriots went 18-0 before losing to the hated New York Giants, we didn’t lose all year and then dropped the first 2 in the playoffs. 

The team that eliminated us was a nice group of boys from ELCO (who we beat twice during the regular season.) Sigh.

I’ve been sitting here, looking at this screen for quite a while, and I guess I don’t have much to say. Last night, after the game, I said all I could through choked emotion, to our boys, “I will miss you.”

(If you’ve ever read any of these posts, listened to a message, or talked to me for longer than 2 minutes, past my uncomfortable attempts at small talk, you know exactly what I’m going to say. You could write it yourself. Nevertheless, here we go.)

I’m sad it’s over. 

But as I am reflecting on these days and months, each of the games, the boys, the coaches, the high fives and handshakes, the smiles, the challenges, the bruises, the cold, the heat, the lessons learned (for me as well as for them), the parents, the effort, all of us different people now than when we began… As I reflect on this, I can absolutely say I was there.

I was there, for all of it. 

Sometimes, I didn’t feel like going. Maybe I didn’t feel good, or was tired, or annoyed, or whatever. But when I got to the field, I gave everything I had – which was me. I opened my heart and soul, kept my eyes open, thought of nothing else, was fully present. And how often can you really say that? 

I think a life lived well is one where we are where we are, with our eyes and hands and arms and hearts wide open. Where we never have to wake up and say, (as Jacob did, in Genesis 28:16) “Surely God was in this place and I was not aware.” I was aware, and as sad as I may be right now, I sure didn’t miss it.

Sometimes, things end and we look back, saying, I wish I had taken the time, been less distracted, said that thing, listened more, held her hand longer. Those are emotions and regrets I have known and mourned. But not this time. I was there.

This is a different wave of emotions, and I can now realize what a blessing, what a celebration, our being here (truly being here, now) is. 

I love them all, it was very good, and I will miss them.  

“How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?” – Tyler Durden

“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” – Mike Tyson

Last night, our baseball team got ‘punched in the mouth,’ metaphorically speaking. After an undefeated regular season, where they proved themselves the best team in the league, they lost in their first playoff game. My boy pitched and gave up more runs in the first inning (2) than he had given up all year combined (1). Baseball (and all sports, really) is so wonderful because it can be just the best, complete euphoria in one moment, and rip your heart out, stomp on it, and leaving it lying on the floor the next. 

So. They lost, and I don’t mind too much. Sure, I’m shocked and more than a little disappointed, but there has always been something more to learn here. It’s easy when things go right, everyone can pitch a 1-2-3 inning, go 4-4. The thing I’ve always been concerned with is what happens when you lose, when you’re in a slump, when you give up a home run. What do you do then? 

The passage that’s taking me apart lately is in Romans 5: “Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope”

Suffering is also translated tribulations, or trials, and that sounds so big and dramatic – but it’s really anything that goes wrong, an obstacle, an illness, a loss in a playoff game for a 12 year old. It’s any and all fights, anytime you get punched in the mouth. And life does it to us all the time.

And it absolutely reveals who we are. 

So, who are we? This team will find out – it’s a double elimination, our season isn’t over. We had a plan, and now we’re going to have to have a new one, but this one is much more interesting to me. I can’t wait to see how these boys respond. We are coaching baseball, and that’s important, because baseball is awesome, but the best coaches are (far more importantly) teaching capital-L Life. I don’t pretend to be one of the best coaches, but what I can do is invite these boys into the bigger story, one where this game is preparing them for THAT day (you know THAT day, right?) That day, when the worst-case is reality, when you are buried under an avalanche of pressure, anxiety, pain, drowning in your own tears – when life suffocates and constricts. Now what?

What I’m learning in Romans (and in Fight Club) is that suffering reveals who we are, but it also refines us, shapes us into who we will be. The stressors and tests are too gracious, doling out numerous opportunities for growth, punching us in the mouth, knocking us down, over and over, offering us the chance (and the choice, especially the choice) to pull ourselves up.

Last night, my oldest had a bit of a tough night on the mound (like everyone does), and he also made 2 stellar plays at 3rd base, and had 3 scorched hits.

My youngest made 2 (very uncharacteristic) errors, struck out, and never wavered for a second, in himself or his teammates.

I’m very proud of them, it takes character to lose with class and honor, giving everything and never giving up. But there is another whose character I can’t shake. 

This boy, after giving up 2 home runs, stood, visibly shaken, tearful, on the loneliest place in sports – the pitcher’s mound, with everyone watching. But he stood, and came right back with strike one to the next hitter. 

We may lose tonight, or tomorrow, and not win the championship I would’ve sworn was ours – the best team doesn’t always win. And maybe we were never the best team, after all, despite the wins. 

But I’m more convinced a championship trophy doesn’t matter. It is in that boy, gathering the strength to remain standing, that we all prevail.  

Last week, a traveling Russian preacher rolled into our service 45 minutes late, walked the aisle, took his place next to me and addressed us all. This guy (who may have been crazy as a bedbug) was certainly bold, unembarrassed, outrageous, but I never felt that what he did was rude or disrespectful. 

I do, however, think his ‘literature’ is. He handed out packets of papers to most of us on his way out. Papers that were scattered and random, as if he stumbled across the cut-paste function on a computer and compiled verses with no purpose, no thought to organization or continuity, incoherent ramblings that ended with phone numbers and first names. Who are they? Who knows?

I’m not going to call, obviously, but that doesn’t change the fact that his visit sure feels like a holy disruption.

Every other week, for the last few years, we had locked our doors once the service started. Once, we neglected to do that, and we were exposed.   

This isn’t going to become a discussion on physically locking doors – that is, perhaps, for another time. But we plan these services, we consider order and topic and ideas and how best to remove the barriers we’ve all built between ourselves and God. We lock the doors to try to eliminate anything that might distract (and feeling unsafe sure might). But when we lock doors, there is a cost. What else are we keeping out?

In our lives, we often plan away any hint of the unknown. I suppose it’s human nature. How many times have we stayed in toxic relationships because, though it may be painful, at least we know what it is? That, somehow, the familiar is preferable to the risk of the exotic and strange. So, we choose to walk a clear, wide path, avoiding the rough, unkempt wilderness. Where does faith fit into that wide path? In our desire for comfort (or at least the uncomfortable routine) and safety, what do we lose?  

The unknown carries with it a (very real) threat of danger, choosing to lock the door can ease our worry. 

Are we called to lives free of danger? If we could eliminate all hazard, would we? Is that/Should that be our highest aim?

Whether in our lives, our country, or our church, there is a cost to building walls, locking doors to keep others (people, experiences, emotions) out.

When was the last time we tried something new? When was the last time we failed?

In September of 1998, I met a woman who had, months earlier, emerged from a long relationship. She had made the very rational decision to steer clear of another, but as we spent more and more time together, it became as obvious to her as it has always been to me that I was awesome. And she was faced with the same choice we all are, every day. To lock the door, or not? She didn’t want another broken heart, but what if this story had a different ending? It might not, most romantic relationships end, and end badly (as a character in Cocktail says, “everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end.”) Anyway, 3 years later, we got married.

I met with a friend last week, and he told me a story. He moved to a new part of the country, found a church he began to fall in love with, and some of the men invited him to their weekly pick-up basketball game. He has always been an athlete, but hadn’t played basketball for years and years, was now over 40 years old, maybe he shouldn’t play, he hadn’t shot a ball in forever, embarrassment loomed large, and injury was a real possibility. To lock the door, or not? He played, and tore his calf muscle – couldn’t walk for weeks.

I’d love to make a great, big, profound point, but I can’t. Maybe we lock the doors. And maybe we don’t. 2 of my favorite verses in the Bible are Proverbs 26:4-5, 

“4 – Don’t answer the foolish arguments of fools, or you will become as foolish as they are. 

5 – Be sure to answer the foolish arguments of fools, or they will become wise in their own estimation.”

That’s right, they’re the exact opposite! Consecutive verses, one saying to “Be sure to answer the foolish arguments of fools,” the other saying, “Don’t answer the foolish arguments of fools.” Sometimes, things get pretty complicated, right? Right. 

I guess the big, profound point is:

Locking the doors keeps out traveling Russian preachers, 

BUT locking the doors keeps out traveling Russian preachers.  

Amen.