My Own Omaha Beach

I walked Omaha Beach after reading Stephen Ambrose’s D-Day. The experience stands as one of the best days of my life. I felt called there on that day. So much history, heroism, and courage lived on that beachfront. So many stories I want to taste. Enter into. Touch. I began the day hoping to find something there. Hoping to enter into the reality of what happened in a more real way. Leading up to my tour, I had studied maps, listened to stories, read books, and watched movies. But alas, by day’s end I was let down. No amount of time spent on the beach could fulfill the yearning to understand, know, touch, and live the significance of June 6, 1944.

Recently I visited the neighborhood I grew up in, a place where a lot of great things happened. But also the place where my soul was torn and wounded. And that was why I went. To seek to understand more clearly what happened there. Before arriving, I peered off into the direction where I knew the house to be. Still miles away, I felt as if I was looking at a map. I know my house is there. And the neighborhood. And the place where I ran with my dog. Then it hit me: This was my own Omaha Beach. The destruction that seared its way through my heart, like a machine gunner’s bullet, happened there. It could all be mapped out. When all was over, I was left bleeding on the beach. Barely able to move and too scared to try.

Revisiting my neighborhood was much like walking in Normandy, France. Hard as I tried and bad as I wanted to, it was impossible to re-enter the past. Vivid memories did return, as well as some healing, but I left knowing I couldn’t bring the past back. Like Norman Maclean at the end of A River Runs Through It, I felt as if I walked the streets like it was the river of connection and redemption.

We each have our own bloody beachfront. The place and time where life was ripped from us. I found myself wondering what it would really be like if we knew one another’s stories well enough to return to each other’s Omaha Beaches; to look upon them with the same awe as I did the battlefields in Normandy. We would recognize the incredible significance of what happened there, when the heart was seared and the vows were made to never open those places back up.

What's In a Name? (Part 4)

I was convicted one day. I was reading through Scripture and came to one of those places in the Old Testament where there is a list of names. Try 1 Chronicles 9:10-13, for example. Read aloud, it sounds something like this: “Jedaiah, Jehoiarib, Jachin, and Azariah the son of Hilkiah, son of Meshullam, son of Zodak, son of Meraioth, son of Ahitub…and Adaiah the son of Jahzerah, son of Meshullam, son of Meshillemith, son of Immer…mighty men for the work of the service of the house of God.”

I don’t really know these guys' stories; maybe I could find out more if I did some research. What struck me was just that: No one knows who these guys are. Aside from the seminary professor in class, nobody brings their names up at the dinner table or talks about their greatness over coffee. These guys have their names printed in the Word of God, the most famous book in the world, and yet hardly anyone has done anything but skim over their names. Their names are not remembered. They did not achieve “household name” status. And yet, they are labeled as “mighty men” in the Scriptures. What more could any man want?

My flesh wants so badly to become a household name. Something in me foolishly even thinks I could become that. Even if I did though, would it last longer than my generation? Is it worth living for my own name?

What's In a Name? (Part 3)

When I look back on what I’ve learned from history, two main categories jump out at me in relation to the remembrance of names. The first is those who try to increase the size of their name, usually by means of gaining and forcing power on people. The other is those whom, like Steve, develop a dislocated heart for a certain cause or persons and spend their life sacrificing for them.

My friend Ted brought my attention to Troy, which illustrates this so well. Brad Pitt’s character, Achilles, spends the entire movie fighting and living for personal pleasure. He is a mercenary, caring only for his own well-being and what others will remember him by. As a mercenary soldier, he has a decision of whether he wants to fight in each battle. There comes a point in the movie when an oracle warns him that if he leaves to fight in the movie’s last battle, he will make his name great, but will surely die. He does not have to think about it long; he boards the ship to seek his own renown.

Then there is Achilles’ rival, Hector, a true king. Hector is forced to battle through circumstances he could not have controlled. He fights valiantly, not for himself, but for his family and the people he is called to protect. I want to be Hector. 99% of the time, I feel like I am Achilles. I am embarrassed when I really reflect on how much energy I spend pondering how to make my name remembered for my own sake. Most of the time, this all happens subconsciously. But it is there.

What's In a Name? (Part 2)

During the next hour, I attended a session that was a notch less than engaging. However, one story stood out to me. There was a student in school that struggled with getting to class on time. When it became a routine occurrence, the teacher confronted him. Although the student understood the importance and consequences, his behavioral pattern continued for the rest of the year. It was not until this student came back years later that the teacher understood why it had happened. The student was gay, and thus, singled out as a prime target for both verbal and physical bullying. By hiding in his locker while the other students changed classes, this boy was able to avoid the abuse at the cost of being tardy, a relatively small price to pay. The teacher’s name was Steve Ham. Steve was so crushed to hear the student’s story, wishing he could have known when he would have had the opportunity to intervene. Steve used this experience as motivation to change the entire school system’s perspective towards bullying. I can’t imagine the number the students who were rescued by Steve’s action.

Steve Ham. What’s in the remembering of a name? When Steve set out to open other’s eyes to the problem of bullying, he was motivated not by making his name known, but by what he could offer other people. The story was convicting. How many of us work long and hard to enlarge the recognition of our own name? How much energy is spent working towards maximizing the number of times our name is repeated by others? I confess that I want to see my name on a book. Where do you hope to see your name? On a certain desk in the corner office? On a trophy? On a blog that you hope more than 2 people will read?

What's In a Name? (Part 1)

What is in a name? I was recently at a conference and as one of the speakers told story after story, I began to flip through the program guide for the weekend. Towards the back of the quite thick program, there were advertisements for books centered on similar content of the conference. Next to each book was the name of the author and also a small picture; you know the kind, like ones in a grade school yearbook. Something in my heart yearned and turned as I flipped through this section. Frankly, I had no desire at all to read any of the books, nor write a book on similar topics. But, I wanted my picture on one of the pages, next to a book I had written. My mind immediately began to throw around ideas worth writing about. What would people want to read that I could write about? Now, very little of this has to do with me wanting to meet someone’s need or thirst with words of life. Most of it revolves around strategizing to get my picture and name next to a book so that some other guy can flip through a program as he sits through a conference.

An Hour with a Gandalf

If you visit any major airport, you will have plenty of chances to see airplanes ascend into the sky. They are just beginning their journey. For a commercial airliner to accomplish its purpose, it must land at its destination, preferably on time. It must arrive.

I haven’t “arrived” yet. Not in traveling, but in life. It seems that in the back ours minds, there is this hope that one day (this side of heaven) we will fully become who we always dreamed of becoming. We think it will happen once we land that dream job or gain certain recognition or finally begin to offer our energy and time sacrificially in the way we once witnessed our heroes do. They have incredible impact on people. When I have the kind of impact they do, then I will have “arrived.”

With this somewhere in the back of my mind, I sat under a mentor of mine yesterday. I think of him as a spiritual guru. Every white hair on his head is an indication of the wisdom he holds. He knows and understands the heart better than I know the alphabet. We were discussing manhood and a book I had just finished reading, The Wild Man’s Journey. The author, Richard Rohr, conducts “Rites of Passage” retreats, designed to spiritually initiate men into a deeper masculinity. My mentor began telling me about them. Before I could ask any questions or comment, he began talking about applying. Not me applying, but him. He is over 55 years old.

As I left our time together, it hit me. I envision myself “arriving” when I become a guru like him. Then I will be an expert on life. Rather than focusing this last paragraph on my own foolishness, let’s talk about his humility. My attempt to put words to the weight of this man’s life is futile. He could be directing and teaching retreats, speaking to other young men on the process of becoming a man. He could be authoring his own book on initiation and rites of passage. Many people I know would be happy to possess half of his wisdom. Yet, the guru is humble enough to know that there is always something more to learn.

“I do not think much of a man who is not wiser today than he was yesterday” –Abraham Lincoln

“When a leader stops learning, his development as a leader ends.” –Howard Hendricks

How Anger Could Advance the Kingdom...

I am angry at you. Freaking pissed. It takes everything I have not to jump out of my seat and punch you square in the face.

I wonder what you are feeling right now. My guess is defensive. I caught a vision this week of something that could be life changing. And it has to do with you being angry at me. And me being angry at you.

Follow with me for a moment. We are wounded people. All of us. Each person has places in their heart that they are afraid to reveal. Those places have been bullied in middle school, abandoned by fearful fathers, and abused by the world (to name a few). Someone once said that it is the image of God in us at which Satan aims his sharpest arrows. The result? Look around. We are walking wounded. And much to our disappointment, the moment we accept Christ does not immediately heal our broken places and free us to live fully for the world to see. Instead, it is only the starting point of a journey that invites us to take step towards healing and threatens us to remain shattered.

As we grow in Christ, we begin to increasingly understand our individual stories. We see our crippled places and the ways that our wounds limit us. Much of the time, it is fear that the enemy uses to hand cuff us, blocking us from revealing our reflected glory to a world that needs to witness it so badly.

If we are wise, we know we need to live in a community of friends. But more often than not, our friendships stay at a surface level. And when they do go deep enough where we know each other’s stories and they know ours, they still usually only reach the level of genuine encouragement. When anger does surface in the relationship, it because someone’s feelings were hurt or their needs weren't met.

But what if our anger went to an even deeper level. What if you knew my story so well that you knew the ways that I lived in fear due to being crippled, and when you saw me live that way, you became so righteously angry that you told me. Could you get so angry at me for not offering something that God has marked me with? Would you have the courage to tell me?

If our friendships looked like that, I cannot imagine how it would advance the kingdom. Rather than living small lives, being held back in fear, we would likely fear more the anger of our good friends and live boldly, offering Jesus in us to a hurting and dying world. Upon hearing that you were freaking pissed at me, I would be called out in love.

Air Force's/ Playboy's Michelle Manhart

Before I begin, you must know that I hesitate to reflect on this. I have the utmost respect for those in the military and often think myself unworthy to stand in their presence. This story caught my attention and caused me to ask some questions.

Air Force Sergeant Michelle Manhart recently posed nude for Playboy. The issue will be coming out this week and thus the Air Force’s disgust is making headlines. The whole deal strikes me as paradoxical.

She’s expected to prepare our military, developing physical and mental strength in trainees. When they graduate from her leadership, they should be tougher, more focused, and the archetype of strength. Yet, amidst this, she goes off, poses for Playboy, and thus offers her airmen a chance to throw themselves into weakness. The epitome of weakness for a man is to be captivated by a nude magazine, drawing from the beauty before him and the fantasy in his mind, all without having to offer any of his strength or sacrifice. It feels powerful, yet it saps his strength. It is false.

Aside from the irony in that, I listened to Sergeant Manhart, who I now want to call Michelle, on the news and sought to see her heart in all of this. It strikes me that she is living in an incredibly small story (as we all often do). She has a military job to do in effort to protect you and me. But she abdicates this role for a smaller one on a stage where she is at the spotlight centerfold of things, literally.

Where’s her heart in this and what is its pull? She says,

“This has been a lifelong dream of mine, being in modeling, getting into acting…Growing up and looking into the modeling career field, I thought Playboy is definitely the cream of the crop. Everything about Playboy is just beautiful...Not even for a second do I wish I hadn't done it. I am living out my dream.”

Her longing to be gorgeous is there. And it is valid. The core of her wants to be seen, noticed. Valued and appreciated. But my God, how far have we fallen? Playboy’s skewed version of beauty has become our society’s pinnacle. Indeed the extent of our distortion is revealed in Manhart’s statements. If we are ever going to be restored in our man-heart and woman-heart that God gave us, we will have to recover eyes for real beauty.

www.trainingground.com

In his book Healing the Masculine Soul, Gordon Dalbey states,

What does my own culture offer as a validation of manhood? The driver's license at sixteen; freedom at eighteen to join the army, attend pornographic movies, and to buy cigarettes and beer. The message is clear: Becoming a man means operating a powerful machine, killing other men, masturbating, destroying your lungs, and getting drunk.

We're all lost males, all of us, cast adrift from a community of men, cut off from our masculine heritage- abandoned to machines, organizations, fantasies, drugs.

Where does a young man go to find different answers to what Dalbey describes? Can he find it in the church? Can he find it at school or on an athletic team? Maybe within a fraternity once he gets to college? Does it have anything to do with God?

I think it has everything to do with God. I've met someone who deeply desires to see young men become authentic by bringing them into community, into mentoring relationships, and into life. To find their stories, their hearts, and their God. He sent me his new website and I am glad to pass it on: www.trainingground.com

i know a man...

I know a man who, to me, is a normal man. He possesses an incredible heart and I would love to one day acquire his passion for life. He is human to me. I have stayed at his house and eaten at his table. His wife cooked for and served me. I met his kids and spent time laughing with them as a family. We watched Jack Bauer save the world together on Fox’s 24. I am proud to call this man my friend.

I just discovered tonight that my friend is a marked man in some countries throughout the world. Certain groups of people would gladly kill him because of the threat he poses. He is not in the military, nor is he a spy. He preaches the name of Jesus; he trains and equips other pastors to do so. To those who want to exterminate him, he is dangerous. I think it is awesome. Not only because he offers Jesus to others and risks his life constantly for a kingdom to come, but because he calls me his brother and invites me into his house to serve me. I also think it is awesome that you don’t know his name, probably never will, and that he doesn’t care if you do or don’t; he lives to see another name glorified above his.

When I watch 24, I want to be Jack Bauer. But, in reality, I have eaten at the same table with the spiritual equivalent, and that is way better.

Starbuck's

Why am I here?

I am not talking about Earth or existence. I am talking about a similar place… Starbuck’s. I was driving home from work when I received a message from my wife. She had a friend who was dropping by to talk. All of which meant that I had suddenly had an hour and a half to play. What to do? Starbuck’s. Why? I don’t know. Because that’s where writers are supposed to go.

I go home first to change out of my work clothes. What should I wear…decisions, decisions. Not a tie, easy decision. Jeans or Adidas pants? Jeans, ‘cause they would fit in more. What? Fit in more? Did that thought really just pass through my mind? Now I’m embarrassed.

I was joking with a friend the other day about meeting him at Starbuck’s, except, one without the Star. That would make it…Buck’s. I picture the whole coffee shop image vanishing and an older cowboy in a button down flannel shirt (chest hair showing) and jeans on, sipping on some specialty drink made of hot chocolate and Jack Daniels. His pop-belly is more than noticeable and he serves breakfast all day. Buck’s.

Sitting at Starbuck’s, I wonder whether I would have wanted to type here if it was Buck’s. Hmm..nope. Ouch. That’s convicting. I am here because of an image. I paid 4 bucks for a coffee to sit and make myself feel like a deep thinker who has a lot to say to the world through my erudite, intellectual, and cultured words. Maybe I would be better off with Buck, sitting at his table, actually being myself, and eating his grits and bacon…especially if he’s a good editor.