Oakridge Death Squad

Originally written back in my Oakridge days right in the midst of our ant infestation (2005 or 2006, I think)—it was really horrible. So many stories about that place…

Until today, our battle for survival was fought without the use of much in the way of deadly force. The ants would force their way into the house by whatever means they could; through gaps between window screens, through badly closed doors, and God only knows how many other ways. They would form a line of battle down the wall, across the table or floor, and overrun everything in their path.

Until today, they were the locusts of San Carlos. They were the aliens from Independence Day, simply devouring everything in sight and retiring fat and happy to their ant living rooms and easy chairs, secure in the knowledge that all we had to combat them was Windex. That’s right, Windex.

At a glance, it appeared to work. It seemed to kill the 6 legged menace. We’d spray them and they’d lie there, seemingly dead. But if not disposed of immediately, the dead would arise and begin their scourging anew (well, either that or the ants were the insectile version of Army Rangers–“no one gets left behind”).

Why Windex? I’ll tell you why. Deanna, it seems, has a profound sensitivity to chemical odors of any sort, and a pronounced horror of anything other than a sponge and tepid water coming into contact with the blessed sanctity of the house’s “cooking surfaces” and countertops (sometimes hard going when they are littered with pine nuts and little bits of Martian lettuce). So we spray Windex on the ants and they laugh at us.

Today, however, was different. Today I vowed to purchase a non-chemical based weapon of mass destruction–the new, plant-based Raid. No way could she deny us this, I thought. As I stood in line at Wal-Mart to pay for our wonderful deliverance, I heard the middle-aged African-American woman at the register to my right cry out at something skittering by on the ground near a cooler full of soda. “Oh, look,” she said. “He a alligator! He a baby alligator!”

I looked and saw a gray-green streak about 5 or 6 inches long run past me into the garden center like Quasimodo running for the Notre Dame cathedral. No, I thought. He a garden variety lizard.

“Baby got no tail,” she said to the lizard’s retreating, tail-less back. “He need one o’ them handicap signs. Little man in the wheelchair?”

I was tempted to try out my Raid on the lizard, but he reached the refuge of a large BBQ and disappeared. I put the escaped alligator out of my mind and paid for the Raid, ecstatic at the thought of our soon to be ant-free existance.

I arrived home with trembling hands, barely able to take the beautiful can from the bag. “Hey, Deanna,” I said. “Plant based Raid. Now we can kill the ants without fear of reprisal, after they retreat to the sanctuary of our cooking surfaces and countertops.”

“Plant based?” she asked. “Must be from blahdeblahblah.”

She picked up the can and examined it carefully. “No,” she said. “It’s from flahdeflahflah. I wouldn’t have thought that.”

Apparently not. Deanna, it seems, in addition to a degrees in plant husbandry and the equine arts, has also studied extensively in plant-based insect killing. Regardless, she pointed the can at a single ant and pressed the button. A small jet of blessed death reduced the ant to a withered, 6-legged corpse, but before she could move on to the next, a problem arose. “I just know this is going to give me a headache,” she said.

Don’t spray it then, I thought. Silly woman. Go look at horsies on the internet and leave the killing to me. “I’ll do it,” I said, and took the can.

I lifted my weapon and began to rain death on those little bastards. I was the Grim Reaper of the insect world, harvesting with my plant-based scythe and all fell before me. When the blood lust abated a bit, I saw there hadn’t really been that many ants in the kitchen and dining area. I had come upon a small expeditionary force. My cat sat in the den and looked at me with a stoned look on her face and began to eat Bella’s food. After polishing off much of that, she moved on to the cupboards and began looking for potato chips. I decided to open a few doors.

The ants in the kitchen and dining area that survived will not forget me. And I’d like to think their fallen brothers, when they reach their little ant Valhalla, will hoist a mug in my honor for defeating them honorably on the field of battle. And when their kinsmen arrive seeking vengeance, my plant-based sword and I will be ready.

Bad Disciple, Part IV

There’s a scene in the movie “The Breakfast Club” where the character Brian, played by Anthony Michael Hall, is trying to begin writing the paper assigned by the study hall “teacher.” He’s thinking, and talking to himself a little, and ultimately ends up sticking his pencil eraser up his nose while asking himself “who are you?”

Who are you?

I think this question is at the root of a great many problems, and certainly was at the root of a great many of mine. People talk all the time about having identity crises, and I think they’re absolutely right—a lack of identity can be a crisis. It’s a little hard to lead your life—any life—if you don’t know who you are.

How can a person really answer that question?

Who are you?

You can give your name, but are the two or three words on your driver’s license who you really are?

Aren’t they just words?

Who are we, then?

I think one of the most commonly asked questions in social situations where people don’t know each other well is “What do you do?” in reference to a person’s job.

Is that how we’re defined? By how we make money?

I’m a fry cook.

Or a lawyer.

Or a concierge.

Or a pastor.

Or stay-at-home mom.

Or brother, sister, husband, or wife.

Is that who I am? My name is Tom, and I’m a DoD contractor, brother four times, and husband of Jennifer, father of David and John.

Something is lost here.

Who am I?

What is my primary identity?

Is it any of those things I just mentioned? If it is, I think I’m missing a very big step.

I know that when I was at my absolute worst, before I knew Jesus, it would be a very fair statement to say I had no idea at all who I was. I went through several jobs trying to find one that suited me. I had several relationships where I barely scratched the surface of who the people were I was involved with, and I learned to medicate myself heavily with both food and alcohol because it made it so I didn’t have to think about who I was, or who I wasn’t.

But after the night I met Jesus, things became new, and different, and a little strange. I thought about Him (or tried to) before I did most things, or made big decisions.

Why?

Because, when I invited Him to be the Lord of my life, I became new. Born again, as they say.

I was a son, His son. Child of a father that loved me above all else; child of a father that died a horrible death, for me.

My identity became Him.

I, Tom, the DoD contractor, am a child of God.

That’s my identity, that’s who I am. That’s who I became when Jesus entered my life and my heart.

I think about that now, and it makes many of my…motivations for my past transgressions clearer. Not excuse them, but it’s something now to understand why.

I was trying to figure out not just who I was, but what the hell I was supposed to do with myself. Which led me to things that were…perhaps less than healthy, physically and spiritually. Because it’s a lot easier to sin when you have no center, no compass. When all you have to define your reason for being is a vague sense of moral relativism.

Even now, when I’m tempted, or when I sin (which happens all too frequently), the reason for it is that for the moment, I’ve forgotten who I am, and who my father is. My father on earth is Melvin L Wilkins, but my father in an eternal sense is Jesus, and none other.

But sometimes I still forget.

The difference now, though, is that I’m aware of the opportunity to repent. To turn away from my sin and toward Jesus.

I was born in San Diego, but in a very real sense, I was also born on a dock over a small, very calm tributary of the Colorado River. Or reborn, I suppose. That’s actually at the root of one of my most profound experiences during my time with CVCF Healing Prayer, which I have never mentioned to anyone save the three others who were there, not even my wife.

I remember struggling to hear from Jesus during my prayer session, and finally, literally, asking Jesus if it would have been better had I not even been born. I was, after all, an accident.

After that, I closed my eyes and fell on my face, weeping. And what I saw was the river where I’d met Jesus that first time. I saw the man that had been myself kneeling, crying in the same way I was crying during the prayer session.

Then I felt a comforting hand on the back of my neck. A strong hand—the hand of a carpenter. And heard a voice speak into my heart “this is where you were born. And I meant you to be here.”

So here I am today.

Who am I? My name is Tom, and I am a child of my Abba.

That’s my primary identity—before husband, or father, or brother, or anything else.

And I submit that if you’re a follower of Jesus and you don’t yet know what your primary identity is, you will never reach the fulfillment in Christ that can be reached once you do.

So ask yourself once more, who am I? And if the answer is “I don’t know,” then how do you find yourself?

Reaching for Daddy

My nine month old son taught me something about God not long ago.

John is a funny little guy. He’s been crawling a little while now, and has also recently started walking with the assistance of a walker that plays an assortment of old-school kid songs.

He gets so excited he almost runs, too, and seems to be developing the fierce independence of his older brother, who only asks for help as a last resort, and abhors reading instructions. John will totter around pushing his walker, or a chair, or anything he can get his hands on that will allow him to move.

I had my moment of clarity the other day when I noticed that when we put him to bed he usually just flops down on his side and sleeps whatever amount of time his little body dictates. Then he cries, and we make our way in to pick him up.

It’s a pretty easy routine.

I haven’t seen what he does when my wife goes to get him, but when I enter his room to pick him up from his crib, he’s usually standing and clutching the bars like a prisoner, while crying out as loud as he can for us to come and rescue him.

When he sees me, he usually reaches up with his little shaking hands, like he’s saying “Daddy, Help me!”

I think that’s what I’m usually like with God; I insist on doing things on my own way, and in a sense I push things around because I, too, am a big boy, and I know how to do things on my own.

It’s better than having someone carry you all over the place.

And then there comes a point where I forget that someone used to carry me, and carries me still. What my son taught me is that I don’t reach out my hands for Daddy to pick me up often enough.

When I lift John out of his crib, he usually shuts it off right away. Why not? Daddy has picked him up, and things are pretty good.

He’s safe, and knows he will be comforted in one way or another.

He trusts—in as much of a way as a baby can—that because Daddy has him in his arms, that things will be OK.

Why is it that it’s so hard for me to reach for those arms to pick me up, and comfort me?

My 6 year old even gets it better than I do. He’s got that independent streak of my wife’s, too, but when he gets to that place where the hurt is bad enough, or he is afraid, or needs wisdom about something, he asks for help.

What makes me think I have everything figured out?

I love my kids so much…

Bad Disciple, Part III

Sometimes it takes me forever to “get it.”

I had to travel to Colon, Panama for work last year, and it was probably the hottest and most humid place I’ve ever been in my life. It was an extremely long month of extremely long days, and I missed my wife and son so much it was like a physical pain. I had a routine, though, and it kept me going.

I read my bible for about 15 minutes—usually a chapter of something or a few Psalms. Then breakfast at 0630 in the hotel restaurant. After that, head out to the test—hoping the line at the canal wouldn’t be too bad. Also, I’d listen to worship music on my mp3 player anytime I got a chance. It wasn’t much, but it helped me to get through things away from my family and my church for 28 days.

But even with that, there were many things to take me away from my time with the Lord.

It had been a long day, and I was tired.

I had to get up early.

Or the guys wanted to do something that night, or that morning—it could have been any number of things.
Sometimes I would skip part or all of my devotional time, and I really felt it when that happened.
I had no one to blame but myself. So I just did my best to keep my “stuff” together and do my work. I knew the time would pass one way or another.

Two days before we left Panama, we were all in the van driving to work. I had my headphones on, as I usually did. It was great because we would inevitably get stuck at the canal for almost an hour, and also because it drowned out my annoying coworkers–and believe me, they would annoy Mother Theresa. Like usually happens, God knew better than me what I needed.

On this particular morning, the first song that came on when we stopped at the canal was this TobyMac song called “The Slam,” which is one I usually skip over. I never really thought much about listening to it: I didn’t care for his spoken intro.

This time, I stopped and listened to the words and this particular verse about John the Baptizer kept repeating in my head:

They came from the cities and towns all around

To see the longhaired preacher from the desert get down

Waist high in water, never short on words, he said

Repent, the kingdom of heaven can be yours

But he stopped in the middle of his words and dropped

Down to his knees and said, behold the Lamb of God

He’s the one, the slam, don’t you people understand?

You’re staring at the son, God’s reaching out his hand

God is reaching out to me. As He was to the people he interacted with during the three brief years of His ministry.

John the Baptist was really an amazing person. To start with, he fearlessly proclaimed the word of God, regardless of potential consequence. He also foretold of the coming messiah, the thongs of whose sandals he was not worthy to untie.

What I was thinking about was that not only did John recognize that a messiah was coming and the kingdom of Heaven was near, he recognized Jesus when He came. Not everyone did. Think about it. When Jesus came to the Jordan to be baptized by John, he probably had to walk through a crowd of people that had come to hear John. There were almost certainly Pharisees among them. But Jesus ventured through the throng, and was baptized by an obedient John.

Behold the Lamb of God.

I wonder, how many of us would recognize Jesus if He came in such a way today?

Think about it, just for a minute.

What if you were at church? What if your pastor was right in the middle of a sermon, and then dropped to his knees in the pulpit when some scruffy looking guy in jeans and a tee-shirt came in?

Would you recognize him, too? Or, to steal from Brennan Manning, would you think your pastor’s cheese was sliding off his cracker?

I wonder what I would do? I like to think I have enough discernment that I’d be able to recognize

the lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world

but I really don’t know. Of course, as a believer, I know how Jesus is going to come the second time. It won’t be like the first (see John’s Revelation if you want details).

My point is this:

I don’t know about you, but it’s my tendency to stare through people sometimes. Especially people I don’t want to see; like the people at the Jordan river that long ago day did not want to see some Nazarene carpenter.

I stare through people that want something from me I am not prepared to give them.

People that are hard to look at for various reasons.

People that annoy me.

People.

But here is the truth: Jesus came for those people just like he came for me. He came for the old, for the rich, for the poor, for the ugly and annoying. He came for the beautiful.

He came for the dirty, smelly guy outside the Chevron who follows you to your car to beg for change.

And He also came for me.

Should I not, as a follower of His way, be prepared to treat those people the same way He would? Should I not recognize them for who they are in the same way He recognized me for who I am when I asked Him to be part of my life?

Should I not see them as His children? And with that recognition, in seeing a person just a little bit of the way God sees them, am I not seeing His face reflected?

Am I not recognizing Him, and being recognized?

Am I not at last becoming the person God had in mind when He made me?

Harvard on the Hill

I didn’t date much in the 1990’s. Not because I didn’t want to, but mainly because I would become paralyzed by fear almost every time I tried to talk to a female—not as bad as Stan throwing up in South Park, but almost. I wouldn’t puke, but I’d do this nervous, talk-too-much thing, which may have been even worse.

Still, I had some friends that were really encouraging, and eventually, we made a deal that the next girl I met I was even halfway interested in, I would ask for her number. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and at that point I didn’t really expect anything to come of it.

This was back when I was at Grossmont College (aka Harvard on the Hill), and most of the girls I met were probably 5 or 6 years younger than me, and either had hair under their arms, or chain smoked and sat outside the library wondering when the next Lilith Fair was coming to San Diego. Whatever 19 or 20 year old girls did in the mid 1990’s.

Then the unthinkable happened. I met a girl named Shannon in a theater arts class, and I was immediately attracted to her. If you happened to see the M. Night Shyamalan movie “The Village,” she looked exactly like the blind girl (I can’t have been the only one who watched it). Anyway, we started hanging out during breaks and talking on the phone. And by the way, she asked me for my number. This was before cell phones, so I actually had to sit there on the couch with a really big handset. With really big numbers on the pad.

My friends were happy (and probably surprised) I’d gotten that far, and eventually, started to put the screws to me about asking her for a date. After about a month of this, I decided I was going to just go for it and ask her out.

So I did.

I have to admit I was utterly shocked when she accepted (I’ve always been one to expect the worst-case scenario). I intended to do the usual “dinner and a movie” cliche, but Shannon suggested that since one of the class requirements was to attend a play (three plays, actually), we’d catch one on campus (she had a Friday late-afternoon class), and then get dinner afterward. We decided I’d meet her at the theater, and then we’d go to dinner together.

I showed up at the theater a little early, and I was standing there examining the cast photos when I realized how un-romantic the evening was beginning to look. The play was the story of John Merrick–the Elephant Man.

Great, I thought. The freaking Elephant Man.

If that doesn’t get a girl in the mood for romance, I don’t know what will. Shannon showed up a few minutes later and I was nearly struck dumb by how incredible she looked. I believe the expression is “dressed to the nines.” I, of course, figured that since the play was on campus, I’d go casual–Jeans and a long sleeve shirt. My only concession to dressing up was tucking it in. I think all I could manage in the way of greeting was, “uh, hi.”

We made our way to the box office I reached for my wallet, realizing to my profound horror that it wasn’t there. I’d left it on the seat of my car after driving through an ATM. “Aw, crap,” I muttered.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I left my stupid wallet in the car!”

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiled. “You can get the next one.”

Cool, I thought. There’s going to be a next one. Still, I was uber-embarrassed. I looked like one of the Dukes of Hazzard, and I didn’t have my wallet. But, I figured, I could make up for it at dinner. I’d take her someplace relatively nice, and we could talk, and get to know each other better, and start planning the engagement party.

Wrong.

The play lasted until 1045, and by the time we got out after chatting with a couple of classmates, we realized two things: we were both utterly starving, and the only place open late that was anywhere close was Denny’s.

So we went to Denny’s, and over our burgers, we start having this totally in-depth conversation. Life, the universe, everything. Cool, I think—I’m really starting to like her. Then, we started talking about our favorite times of the year.

I told her mine was Christmas and she frowned. Then we started talking a little about religion, and I realized why (I know, I know. Never talk religion or politics on a first date). I told her about my brother, who’d been a fiery Southern Baptist, and an even more passionate hypocrite.

Her entire family had been Jehova’s witnesses for generations. She’d recently been questioning her “faith” and had fallen away from it some. I had no faith at all, so I could get that. But she still felt strongly enough about it to start expounding on its virtues. To start proselytizing.

I began to drift away on a sea of rhetoric, trying mightily to focus on the fact that this amazingly attractive girl seemed to be interested in me. She really was the most attractive person I’d ever been out with, until I met my wife in 2008. I paid attention for a while, but even though I wasn’t a Christian at that point, I knew enough of the gospel to know there was something awry.

So I fell back on my old high school defense mechanism. I started thinking about baseball. I nodded my head when it seemed appropriate, but I was really replaying the 1996 playoffs that the Padres had with Houston.

Just try to remember she’s beautiful, I kept telling myself. It’s enough.

I was at the end of the playoff series when I realized Shannon had stopped talking.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I think your religion is nuts, I thought. That little magazine you guys always try to get people to read? The Watchtower? Also nuts. But I think you’re pretty freaking hot, so I’m going to try and ignore that stuff…

What I said was, “I don’t know, really. It’s a lot to think about. Still dealing with my Baptist issues from high school.”

So I paid the check and we left. I dropped her off at her car with a hug and a promise to see her again, soon. I wasn’t sure about that, but I figured I could probably resist the brain washing a while longer.

There were actually two more dates. The next was lunch at Souplantation. After that, one more play, this time even more romantic–Oedipus Rex.

That was it. I didn’t think I could afford deprogramming…

Bad Disciple, Part II

I think I knew I needed glasses for a while before I actually got them. It was hard to admit, though, even to myself.

I would sit on the couch and have to squint at the Tivo menu to read what programs were recorded, and eventually, I would give up and simply walk over to the television and look at it from a foot or two away.

Another time, I had picked some friends off at the airport and after I dropped them off, I realized I could not read the small green street signs to navigate my way out of their neighborhood. I think it took me about 90 minutes to get home, and it probably should have been 15 to 20. I finally found my way to I-5, and ended up getting back on down by the airport–after I drove through Barrio Logan with the doors locked.

The point being, I could not see well at night, or at any real distance, and I knew it. Yet I resisted getting glasses because I’d had perfect vision my entire life, and it was not possible I no longer did.

Glasses were for old people.

Then I realized, I am old people.

So I went to see an eye doctor my friend recommended, and after I got my glasses, I could not believe how much easier things got. I could read the titles on the Tivo menu from across the street–never mind across the living room. I won’t even mention how awesome it was to see street signs without stopping and squinting. Not that it helped me much with getting lost–anyone who knows me can attest to that.

The short version is that once I finally broke down and sought help, I could see again.

I think that’s what it’s like when we finally let down our guards, and let go of our inhibitions and preconceived notions about God and just ask Him to help us see.

I can remember when I finally did that. It had just gotten so frustrating (not to mention nearly impossible) to always see things in black and white, when a part of me always knew there was way more to life than that. But I was looking at life based on a set of sometimes flawed values that I had accrued over a life jam packed with all kinds of nonsense. Most of which was created by the lies I allowed myself to believe about God, about myself, and about the people I was continually made to interact with.

Black and white.

You’d think it would be easier to see things that way–in convenient terms I understood the definitions for. And in some respects, regarding some things, it is easier. Evil is still evil, and always will be. God is still good, all the time, and always will be. Beyond that, many things in life are not so clearly defined. Jesus allows us the freedom to choose the path we will walk. And ultimately, how clearly we see the world around us.

To me, looking at the world after allowing Jesus into my life was kind of like the scene in the Matrix where Morpheus sits Neo down and talks about the reality of mankind’s existence.

MORPHEUS: We are trained in this world to accept only what is rational and logical. Have you ever wondered why?
Neo shakes his head.
MORPHEUS: As children, we do not separate the possible from the impossible which is why the younger a mind is the easier it is to free while a mind like yours can be very difficult.
NEO: Free from what?
MORPHEUS: From the Matrix.
Neo locks at his eyes but only sees a reflection of himself.
MORPHEUS: Do you want to know what it is, Neo?
Neo swallows and nods his head.
MORPHEUS: It’s that feeling you have had all your life. That feeling that something was wrong with the world. You don’t know what it is but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad, driving you to me. But what is it? The LEATHER CREAKS as he leans back.
MORPHEUS: The Matrix is everywhere, it’s all around us, here even in this room. You can see it out your window, or on your television. You feel it when you go to work, or go to church or pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.
NEO: What truth?
MORPHEUS: That you are a slave, Neo. That you, like everyone else, was born into bondage… …kept inside a prison that you cannot smell, taste, or touch. A prison for your mind.
Outside, the WIND BATTERS a loose PANE of glass.
MORPHEUS: Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.
NEO: How?
MORPHEUS: Hold out your hands.
In Neo’s right hand, Morpheus drops a red pill.
MORPHEUS: This is your last chance. After this, there is no going back.
In his left, a blue pill.
MORPHEUS: You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe.
The pills in his open hands are reflected in the glasses.
MORPHEUS: You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.
Neo feels the smooth skin of the capsules, with the moisture growing in his palms.
MORPHEUS: Remember that all I am offering is the truth. Nothing more.
Neo opens his mouth and swallows the red pill. The Cheshire smile returns.

Science fiction, of course, and it is just a movie. But we do allow ourselves to be both blinded and deluded by the world. It’s easy because there’s nothing about it you have to challenge—you can just accept “how things are.” You don’t have to challenge yourself, or change, or grow. You don’t stretch your boundaries—you cherish them. And in the end, you get out of life with a PhD in complacency, and not much else.

But that isn’t the truth. Life doesn’t have to be “that way.”

There is more.

The truth is, once you have Jesus in your life, and heart, and mind, you see everything by a different sort of light than you’re used to. Everything looks different: people, life, politics, even the “world.” Not through rose-colored glasses, but through lenses tinted with the blood of a Jewish carpenter.

I think if we look at things—at life—through Jesus, then we see them in the way they’re meant to be seen.
We see the truth.

Consequently, it seems to be in the act of looking around at everything else that we become blind, or at the least distracted. Once distracted, it’s easy to believe what you hear—about yourself, about God…about everything. We become too concerned with labels, and less with the people we’re attempting to fit into our little one-or-two-word definitions. And if they do not fit into the little boxes we’ve created,

Christian
Atheist
Democrat
Republican
Green
Liberal
Conservative
Good
Evil

then we close our minds to them, and they are simply wrong.

To me, one of the worst things about it is that we deem ourselves worthy enough to judge the worthiness of others in regard to anything, and then we become so smug in our rightness, we can’t see God at all anymore, and aren’t even aware of it.

God judges: and no one is worthy.

All have fallen short of the only judge that matters (Romans 3:10 and 3:23).

Who am I to judge anyone else’s commitment to Jesus? Who am I to hold it up to mine, and find it lacking? Am I perfect, or do I walk perfectly with Jesus?

Not even close. Not a day goes by that I don’t need His forgiveness for something, though sometimes I have to remind myself to ask for it.

What makes me think I can judge anyone else’s patriotism, or commitment to their family, or that my methods for disciplining my children are better than theirs? I heard someone say on the radio not long ago that where we see people as obstacles, Jesus saw them as opportunities for ministry. Man, do I wish I could do that.

The plain truth is that the world and the things in it are so bright they fall over our eyes and cloud our perspectives until we ask and ask and ask God to take them away, so we can have eyes to see—to see each other the way He intended us to, through his eyes. So we can look at His people–even if they don’t believe—and realize he died for them just as much as for we who now believe.

Maybe even more.

Because He came not for the well, but the sick.

He came to give His life as a ransom for many.

He came to give us eyes to see.

Concerts by Decade

I was talking to Jenny the other day about this concert we both would like to go to, and it got me thinking about how many bands I used to go see live. Man, I spent a lot of money on concerts. So I thought it might be fun to see how many of them I could actually remember—it has been quite a long time, though I didn’t see my first show until I was 20.

So I will list what I can remember, separated by decade.

1980’s (only 2):
Rush/Tommy Shaw from Styx opening
Whitesnake/Great White opening

1990’s (much harder):
Judas Priest/Megadeth/Testament opening
Iron Maiden/Anthrax opening
Guns N Roses/Soundgarden opening
Guns N Roses/Metallica/Body Count opening
Metallica/Suicidal Tendencies/Candlebox/Days of the New opening
Rush/no opener
Rush/no opener
Megadeth/Anthrax opening
Foreigner/Doobie Brothers opening
Matchbox 20/Shelby Lynne opening
Creed/Sevendust/Nickelback opening

2000’s (pretty hard, too):
Creed/Sevendust/Nickelback opening
Motley Crue/Poison/Cinderella
Ozzfest:
Ozzy/System of a Down/Rob Zombie/Black Label Society/Opeth/et al
Some Rock 105.3 thing right after 9/11:
Deftones/POD/Incubus/Linkin Park
Incubus/Some lousy band opening
Rush/no opener
Aerosmith/Kid Rock
Aerosmith/I don’t remember opener
Tom Petty/Blind Boys of Alabama
Spirit West Coast 2007:
Hawk Nelson, Delirious?, Todd Agnew, Salvador, BarlowGirl, Disciple, Leeland, MxPx, Starfield, Worth Dying For, Aaron Shust, Thousand Foot, Krutch, Stellar Kart, Family Force 5, Britt Nicole, Casting Pearls, Kutless, Seventh Day Slumber, Third Day, Tobymac
Third Day/Revive/Myriad opening
Chris Tomlin/Louie Giglio speaking/no opener
Third Day/Switchfoot/Jars of Clay/Robert Randolph
Spirit West Coast 2009:
Todd Agnew/Lincoln Brewster/Kutless/Newsboys
Casting Crowns/Matt Redman

2010’s (easy)
Fireflight/Silverline
Cloverton

Casting Crowns/Kari Jobe/Rend Collective@ spirit west coast

Alan Jackson/Queen + Adam Lambert, Garth Brooks

Third Day/Jeremy Camp, TSO

I may have left off a few—I am, after all, old….
Anyone who may have attended one of these shows with me, feel free to fill in the gaps…

Apart

The hardest part of writing anything for me has always been the beginning. After that, the words just seem to flow, which is not always good, but I figure better out than in, right?

So let me begin by saying that I was wrong about a great many things in my life. I won’t be able to list them all here, of course. I don’t want to crash the WordPress server. Nevertheless, I will hit the high points. Or low points, I suppose.

For most of my life, I had myself convinced I would be alone for…well, forever. It was an easy thing, because none of my relationships with women had worked out for very long, and I just figured I might as well get used to it–once anyone really got to know me, they would bolt. Happened several times.

And because I was going to be alone forever, it didn’t really matter how I lived my life, or whether or not I was healthy, or how I treated people.

When you have only yourself to hold you accountable, it’s pretty easy to rationalize anything, and any type of behavior. So that’s what I did.

I did what I wanted, and I treated others and myself shabbily, to say the least.

I was not a good and wise steward of my finances (even after coming to belief). I spent money as fast as I earned it, with no thought to any potential future. Why bother? It was just me.

God gifted me with a quick wit and a clever mind, but I didn’t use what I’d been given to glorify God in some way. Rather, I used my gifts and abilities to make fun of other people, for my own amusement, and the amusement of others.

You see, I’d found out pretty early on that it was easy for me to make people laugh, and if I did that by making fun of other people, the folks I most wanted to impress would turn their eyes on the people I mocked instead of me. I would pander to those people I deemed “cool,” or popular so they would like me, and if that happened, then I could imagine I was one of them. I could pretend I was popular and liked, too. Of course, coolness by association only lasts so long, and at the end of the day, I was little more than a jester with a sharp tongue, and no closer to being “cool” than I ever was.

My words glorified no one but myself, and not really all that much. I’ve talked before about my various vices and over-indulgences, so I won’t go really deeply into that here.

I will say that with the exception of drugs (other than alcohol), if it made me fit in better, and made me forget for even a little while that I was little more than a speck in life, then I wanted to do it, or say it, no matter who I demeaned, or in some cases, humiliated. I wanted to be seen, and if I was loud enough, or funny enough, or drunk enough, than I would likely be hard to miss.

Invisibility is both great and terrible. You want it because it keeps you safe from harm, but it also sets you apart from everyone, and all the things that you think really matter.

It took most of my life to realize that what really did matter was not something I could find by being loud, or funny, or sarcastic, at least not the way I was doing it. It wasn’t until 2000 that I realized I had always been seen.

It took years, and the death of a man I was only beginning to know to get me to go looking for truth (feel free to check out my page “Walter’s Camp” if you want to know more about that).

And the truth was the way I’d been living my life was no life at all. It was a…facade. I was too caught up in temporal things, and in trying to become part of a group of people who I thought had the answers to the questions I had, and could fill the emptiness through the middle of me, what I’d really done was set myself apart from the people who really could help me.

I’d set myself apart from God in pursuit of empty relationships with hollow people.

I told myself everything I’d been indulging in was OK because this life, here, was all there was.

I told myself I would never find happiness, or a family, and that I was better off without those things because they were only temporary, too.

I’ve never been so wrong about anything in my life.

And it wasn’t until I realized that and began to cultivate relationships with people who didn’t just want something from me, or a ride to the next party that things began to make a little more sense.

Truth is sometimes harder to believe than lies, because no matter what people say, I think it’s human nature to believe the worst of people, and sometimes of yourself.

Human nature would have us believe there can’t be a God because of how horrible things are.

Or that it’s ok to treat certain types of people differently from others based on how they look, or dress, or what they believe.

Or that if it feels good, and doesn’t hurt anyone, we should do it.

Human nature would have us fulfill every base want or perceived need we have at any cost.

It’s human nature that sets us apart from God, and God’s “not human” nature that forgives us for that deliberate isolation, when we are hard-wired for deliberate closeness with Him.

Maybe you feel that way–like you are apart from God. Maybe it feels like you always will be, because you’re too dirty to ever be made clean. Or it could be you’ve mistreated people terribly, or been mistreated even worse.

You are not apart from God–you never were.

Romans 8:31-39

31 What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? 32 He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? 33 Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. 34 Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. 35 Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? 36 As it is written:
“For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”[j]

37 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38 For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,[k] neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39 neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Bad Disciple

I used to think Christians had to be perfect.

I think that hindered my coming to faith more than any other thing, because I knew I never had a chance in that regard—I was a mess, and I knew it better than anyone. But the thought was still there: for most of my life, I thought a person had to live this perfect life to know Jesus, because that’s the way the lives of the Christians I knew seemed; at least to the extent that I knew them.

They seemed blissfully happy all the time.

They never seemed to doubt God, or His will for their lives.

They never had marriage, family, or friendship troubles. At least not that anyone on the outside knew about.

It was almost like they were ideals, rather than actual living people.

Even after coming to know Jesus, I would sometimes feel like I was posing, because there were times when I still felt down, or sad. There were times when it seemed God’s will for my life was not perfect at all, and that he might have even “had it in for me” in some way. I can’t tell you how many times I would get whiny and defensive with God, asking things like, “What did I do to deserve _______?”

This felt particularly true regarding my relationships with women, such as they were. It was difficult for me to see the hand of God in any of them. I suppose now that was because what I was looking for could not have been found embodied in a person—at least, not until I sought Jesus with that same fervor first. But what I did was make bad decision after bad decision, and then blame anyone and everyone else—including God—for the outcome.

And the truth of it all is that sometimes I still doubt God, even though my life is better now than it’s ever been. So my doubt often stems from when I see how things are going badly for people I care about, and I don’t know what to tell them about where God was when X happened, or why He didn’t answer their prayers the way they wanted. There are only so many times a person can mention “mysterious ways,” and really, no one wants to hear that, even if it is true.

I have an amazing family, and a wife that loves me in spite of all my stupid baggage. My kids are strong, and growing, and loved. I have the opportunity to be the father to them I always wanted for myself, and really didn’t have.

Yet doubt still creeps in. I doubt when I see what the world has become, and the terrible things that happen in it—things that would break even the strongest heart.

There were times when I doubted God had a plan for anyone, or that he was any more than a benevolent bedtime story.

I am not perfect, and certainly not a perfect Christian.

The thing is, there is something that tells me God can handle my doubt, my childlike petulance, and my outbursts of anger and unbelief, because He is bigger than any of my grievances, large or small.

I think that if I didn’t doubt, and if I didn’t question things from time to time, then I would be little more than a God automaton, wandering around praising the Lord in a monotone and handing out tracts at gas stations. I would have no idea what it was like to experience God in His fullness, or that such a thing is even possible.

And for what it’s worth, here is how it worked for me:

My doubts led me to thinking, and praying, and asking questions.

Asking, thinking and praying led me to scripture.

Scripture led me to truth.

Truth led me to Jesus, who was waiting for me.

What I want to say here is that I make no claim to having all the answers to your questions. I may not be able to assuage your doubt regarding God, and His will for your life.

There are probably hundreds of books out there right now that will tell you how you can have a better life, or get out of debt, or find a better you. They have all these tidy little formulas to achieve your goals, and to get where you want to be with the least amount of effort. You can learn how to see it and receive it, or name it and claim it.

I think that if you get somewhere or achieve something without any effort, what kind of satisfaction can you find in that? Because at the end of it all, faith is not easy. It takes work—sometimes a lot of work.

It seems to me that if you could break Jesus, and healing, and restoration down to a formula, then it would not mean as much. And in spite of what a great many people would have you think, I don’t believe hearts work that way.

What I want to tell you is don’t abandon your faith because of struggle, or because you doubt that a loving God exists.

Wrestle with God—Jacob did.

Ask Him questions. Cry out to Him for the truth that only He can bring. Talk to a pastor, or small group/bible study leader. Go forward during an altar call. Delve into scripture with a disciple’s heart—Psalms in particular are filled with laments, and the hurting crying out to God with unimaginable pain.

Most of all, pray.

MC Hammer may have been one of the cheesiest rappers of all time, but I think he had it right when he said “you’ve got to pray just to make it today.”

It’s true that we live in a fallen world, and faith is sometimes hard to come by. So when I read about writers and speakers like Rob Bell who call people into a dialogue about things that may be controversial, or simply just hard to talk about, I think maybe it’s a good thing. It sheds light on subjects many people probably think about but don’t have the rocks to mention.

Because I believe everyone has doubts, and questions. That’s right, even people of faith. I believe that if there are no struggles in your life—no pain, or hurt, or disappointment—then you’re deluding yourself, like those people with the plastic grins and the perfect lives I knew when I was a kid.

And I think it’s so dangerous when we get to a place in our lives where we think we’ve “arrived” spiritually, and there is little more we can learn or experience in the way of God. I think then we’re farther away than when we began. Faith is not a class with a nice certificate at the end—it’s real, and it’s hard, and sometimes it feels like it isn’t worth it.

It is worth it, in spite of how lousy things can be.

And there’s always more to learn, and understand, and question.

I think writers like Bell cause people to seek answers to those questions, and once again, I believe that’s a good thing.

I will say, though, that no writer, or pastor, or speaker can lay claim to knowing the mind of God other than how it is described in scripture, and when such men and women start putting words into the mouth of the almighty they will most likely run into a buzz saw of trouble.

I don’t know what Mr Bell says about Heaven or Hell in his new book, because I haven’t read it. I probably will read it eventually, but with the foreknowledge that he is but a man trying to stir thought in people, and hopefully to get them nearer to God. And he did stir people up—not just with this new book coming out. Bell has been a controversial figure for years, because ever since Velvet Elvis came out, he’s been stirring thought in people by making them approach their faith in ways they maybe never thought of before.

In my opinion, if this or any book draws people to look into the bible, and seek knowledge about God, then it’s a good thing, because I don’t believe God’s truth can be denied when earnestly sought—there certainly came a point where I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m hoping that if you’re getting close to that point, you won’t be able to either.

And if not automatically branding Bell and others like him as heretics (as so many in the blogosphere have) makes me one, too, then I guess I’ll just have to live with the label.

Like Tupac said, “only God can judge me.” Not that Tupac quoted a lot of scripture in his lyrics—I’m just making a point.

It’s not ours to dictate whether or not someone is worthy of…rescue, of salvation.

It’s not ours to condemn.

I don’t know about you, but I have no desire for that particular responsibility, and I certainly do not know the mind of God.

So what I hope to do here is just tell you a few things I’ve learned about God, and about how he relates to me. I’ll tell you a little bit of my story, and maybe you will be able to take something away from it that will make you think, make you ask questions.

Some of these posts that will follow in the coming days and weeks you might recognize from previous postings, and many are largely the same, but with a few changes made in a feeble attempt by yours truly for a more concise narrative.

I’m hoping this will make sense, because I feel like this story is one I have to tell, even if I have no idea whether or not anyone will care to spend time reading another person’s thoughts.

So what I plan to do is try, and see what happens.

See you in a few days.

Satellite

If I’m in the office working, I usually spend a good portion of the day listening to music on my phone—it conveniently doubles as my mp3 player, since my actual player was stolen from my car a while back.

I started off my day as I usually do, by setting the player to “shuffle” and letting my Blackberry play DJ.
Today, I started with 5 or 6 songs from P.O.D.’s CD “Satellite” all in a row.

Interesting.

It made me think of where and when I bought the CD (which I still have today). I picked it up at the Walmart in Parkway Plaza, on September 11th, 2001.

People used to talk a great deal about what they were doing that day when they heard of the terrorist attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Center. I was on my way to work, and heard about it on the radio. I started off with my usual morning show, Dave, Shelly and Chainsaw and then figured I’d flip to Howard Stern, since he was in New York.

Both shows were completely given over to news, and there was lots of speculation about what was going on and if and when the terrorists would strike again.

I got to my office, and someone had a boom box playing the news, and we listened to it all day. At lunch time, another Christian employee (I was a pretty new believer at the time) wanted to have a time of prayer, and I remember she had to go in her office and close the door. I regret that I didn’t go in there with her, but at the time all I could think about is listening to the radio with everyone else. Stupid, I know, but that’s where my mind was.

I got off work at the office, and headed to my second job, as a projectionist/assistant manager at Regal Cinemas Parkway Plaza 18 (I did 7 years in the booth there).

I was a little early, so I stopped off at Walmart to browse for a bit before I went to work.

I picked up the P.O.D. CD because I’d heard the song “Alive” on the radio, and thought it was pretty good. Plus, I knew they were from San Diego, and I thought it was pretty cool they’d made it sort of big, considering they were a Christian band with a positive message and lyrics that openly professed Christ.

The theater ended up closing for the day, and I sat in the booth for a little while and played the CD through twice, thinking about people jumping from windows in the World Trade Center.

Later on that evening, I had dinner with a friend at Claim Jumper, and everyone was talking about the towers falling. I remember my friend telling me her mother told her to fill up her gas tank because fuel was going to go through the roof.

And at the end of the night, I played my CD through again.

The lyrics really hit me, because while they did glorify God in many of the songs, they also depicted real life, and real problems. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the country was going to have a tough haul for a while. And I appreciated that the band didn’t pull a lot of punches, even featuring a song using several Points of view about a school shooting.

Over the next year or so, I played that CD more than any other, and I’m kind of surprised the CD still plays well.

A God thing, maybe.

Anyway, that CD got me through a pretty tough year, and was one of several factors that helped me to see God in a completely different way than I had over the first year or so of my salvation.

Take a listen to two of my favorite songs from that CD. Great lyrics: