Jesus...The Man

Jesus. What images form in your head at the mention of his name? I was reading in John this morning, attempting to send my heart into Easter mode. I confess it doesn’t always get there. I wanted to enter into the defeat of what it must have been like to see Jesus slaughtered and buried. I came away in awe, not about the loss of hope, but instead about the man Jesus was. I don’t mean man as in God in human form, but the kind of man that would be bragged about sitting around a campfire or in a locker room. Stud. Warrior. Hero.

In chapter 18, John describes in detail the arrest in the garden.

Then Jesus, knowing all that would happen to him, came forward and said to them, "Whom do you seek?" (John 18:4, ESV, italics mine)

I love those italicized words. Jesus is in complete control. He knows not only what’s going on, but is wholly intent on entering into the pain and chaos. He even initiates it all. “Whom do you seek?” I can only imagine the weakness in Judas’ voice as he replied. Upon Jesus’ answer, the Pharisees and soldiers collapse. Again Jesus speaks. “Whom do you seek?...I told you that I am he. So, if you seek me, let these men go.” Within hours of death, Jesus offers no attempt to protect himself, only those behind him.

Compare this example to the first man in another garden. When the Enemy slithers in, Adam doesn’t know what’s going on. He is not in control. He is there, but without a hoe or shovel in hand. He makes no move to act or speak. He is silent. He is weak. He does not protect Eve, but lets her take the fall. He is the definition of self-protection. He shows no strength, and the chaos overwhelms him.

Now my heart is ready to celebrate. Adam is not the defining sculpt of a man. I meet, see, and am Adam everyday. My heart longs for Jesus. Oh to be in the care of such a King. Adam is ruled by chaos. Jesus rules over the chaos. Thank God. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews. Life is available because of a man, a stud, a warrior, a hero.

For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. (1 Corinthians 15:21-22, ESV)

Forgetting the Gandalfs

Every morning he slowly departs his black truck, parked just to the side of the road, and makes his way to his spot on the corner. After fitting his orange reflector vest around both shoulders, the gray haired man is ready. Holding a wooden STOP sign in his dangling left hand, he looks up to greet the first to approach the four way stop. Each morning I drive up from behind him. As my car brakes (because the real stop sign in the ground commands me), I can’t help but look his way. He smiles and waves, just as he does to other cars that pass. He looks happy. Maybe he is. I hate it.

I don’t know his situation, and it’s probably very wrong for me to judge him. But each time I see his hunched body, the orange vest marked “Pedestrian Crossing” hanging on him, and his gray hair shining in the morning sun, I get sad and angry. Essentially, this is what our culture offers a man in the late stages of his life: a chance to wave to morning commuters. In such a season of life when a man should be giving back, counseling, and directing those less experienced in life, we stick him on the dusty shelf and attempt to make him feel purposeful (or we smile at him while he plays golf). And all the while we are thinking, “Move over, old fella, let the young guns have a shot at running this world.”

I long (and the culture does too, though they don’t know it) for a society like the one exemplified in The Last of the Mohicans. Nathaniel, the hero of the drama, has just been forced to allow the beauty of the film, Cora, to be taken captive by the evil Magua. Magua and the Native Americans he is with return to their village with Cora, her sister, and a British general. Before any decision can be made on their lives (Magua would kill all three if up to him), the tribe’s wise man must be consulted. The whole village gathers around him, eagerly anticipating his powerful opinion.

It would be exceptionally better to grow up in a society such as this, where age is valued and each gray hair represents a sliver of wisdom. To know that your domain and influence will only increase as your hair loses color. Instead, culture tells us that if we are not retired and on the golf course by 55 or 60, then we should get out of the way so the slick newcomers can run things. I can’t imagine the guidance and wisdom we have missed out on by grooming the elderly to wave at the important drivers on their way to work where they will make a valuable contribution to the world.

The glory of young men is their strength,
And the honor of old men is their gray hair. -Proverbs 20:29

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.

Poker's The Mouth

On ESPN SportsCenter there was an up close profile on a professional poker player, a guy named The Mouth. Maybe some of you have heard of him. I haven’t, until now. His story goes that he got involved with poker and gambling in 1993, and now his lives for it. He’s lived for it 13 years. During that time, he has lost over 4 million dollars, not to mention going to jail at least once. It was hard to pay total attention to the story because I was getting dressed for work. However, one statement caught me:

“Playing poker is better than sex. It is the strongest drug in the world.”

Wow. I’m a guy. I know the place sex holds on most male priority charts. Poker? Everything I was thinking, trying to find words as the show went on, searching for any words that might paint the real story right (the one of the heart), he simply spoke for me. He did as good of a job reading his own soul than anyone could have. I felt sorry for him. He gets it. He understands. And yet, he doesn’t know his way out of the dark hole; nor does he want out.

“If they had had internet poker while I was in jail, I would not have ever cared to leave.”

That paints a vivid picture for me. Chains. The darkness of a cell. Damp. The lack of human connection or relationship. Shutting others out. One phone call every now and then. I know the pull of a drug. I have lived just like him, not with poker, but with other things. I’ve spent time watching men throw money away week after week to bet on the latest college football games, only to be hundreds of dollars in debt. Addiction. What a thrill it is to experience just a few moments of ache-free living.

Another word comes to mind, one that seems to loom in a realm deeper than addiction: Adventure. We were made for it, you know. Whether we look for it in good places or bad, the design for it leads to the desire to pursue it. I have the opportunity to spend time with a good number of 11 and 12 year old boys. On average, it takes about 0.5 seconds to recognize the design and desire for adventure in them. I hear stories…blowing up fireworks, hunting for deer, shooting BB guns at each other in the back yard, riding four-wheelers (they never fail to let me know how fast they are going)…the list could go on.

I wonder what sorts of games The Mouth played when he was 11 or 12. Were his choices of adventures pure and fun then? When did he pick up his first deck of cards? Surely the first game of UNO was just for fun. Did he know the well he was digging when he bet his first dollar? What happened to his friends along the way as he kept digging? What damage was done? Does he have any friends now?

Picture Jesus sitting down to play a game of cards with him (I know some can’t fathom Christ playing cards). Not for money, just for fun. What would the table conversation be like? I said before that The Mouth knew himself just as well as anyone. But not Jesus. Would The Mouth know what to do when Jesus offered him a taste of adventure that is more real and true than the broken well in which he lives?

What's In a Name? (Part 5)

As I take a look deeper, it seems that living to offer life to others through personal sacrifice is the real way to make a name remembered. And in comes the paradox: the only way to live in such a way is to be caught up in service to something greater than yourself, thus not living for your name at all, but someone or something else’s glory. So to aspire to become great is to start out defeated before ever beginning.

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.

Playboy Sex Nudity Nude Women Love Adult XXX

“Every man who knocks on the door of a brothel is looking for God”
-G.K. Chesterton

“The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust in them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers.”
-C.S. Lewis

This blog is really an experiment. An experiment about the heart and its longings. It was posted to satisfy my curiosity, but who knows what God might do with it in you. During the last month, two blogs were published on this site that contained these words in their title, “Playboy, Michelle Manhart, and Adult XXX.” It was astounding to me that that this humble little blog received such an incredible amount of views on those days. Desiring Life averages 5 views per day. On the “Playboy’s Michelle Manhart” day, I think it reached close to 267 views. There were no pictures. Only words in a title.

Immediately I thought of the G.K. Chesterton quotation above. “Every man who knocks on the door of a brothel is looking for God.” The thought only comes into clearer focus with the help of C.S. Lewis. Our actions reveal our search for Life. Whether it be through eating, work, ministry, money, marriage, pornography, or sex.

I have become more and more convinced that Jesus really is the answer to every desire we have. If Christ is the image of the invisible God (Colossians 1:15), and it is God who created beauty and fashioned us to be sustained on him, then we might do well to at least think about that. The claims Jesus makes about himself all reflect our desire. The woman at the well. The rich man asked to sell everything. The disciples. The blind man at the pool. All those parables about treasure and a pearl. But what about for the man searching the internet for sex and nudity, or for the woman posing on the XXX sites?

I find it fascinating in John 7:37-38 that Jesus waited until the end of this feast to say what he does. I imagine myself and my fraternity brothers in the days leading up to a football game and the all-night party to follow. Anticipation and excitement grew with each day. People around campus would talk about it. Guests lists would be filled out. The band would arrive and set up. The kegs were brought in. After the game, the fraternity house would slowly and steadily grow louder and louder. The girls would come, scantily dressed. It seems Jesus knew the best time to offer Life to people. He waits until the end of the party, when the realization that the promising satiating activities of the night before prove to be liars.

“If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’”

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

A Quote for Action (not Thought)

"The strength of masculine energy is its power to attack." -The Wild Man's Journey, Rohr and Martos

Scary Movie

I hate scary movies. Never liked them. Never watched Nightmare on Elm Street or Jason. But, I saw a really scary homemade video this morning. It has the potential to keep me from sleeping at night. I know what you’re thinking…Blair Witch Project. Nope, worse.

This video was made by two guys, one with the camera and the other with a mic. They walk around a city street stopping pedestrians and bikers to ask them this question: “What does it mean to be a man, and how does a male become one?” They stopped all kinds of guys ranging from teenagers to senior citizens. One guy was walking with his significant other and refused to answer the question, hurrying past the camera. He wasn’t the only one. You could hear the quake of insecurity in their voice; you could see it in their demeanor.

Very few had answers. This absolutely baffles me. We males spend our entire lives seeking validation and entrance into manhood, even from the time we are 5. But who defines it and who tells us when we are there? Those who did risk answering mentioned things like responsibility and interacting with the community. One guy said masculinity meant “cruisin’ chicks.” Pretty deep stuff, I know. Another 60-something year old said he became a man when he turned 14 because he lost his virginity and worked his first job.

Tell me this nightmare is only a movie.

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