What’s in a Name?

I’ve had the great misfortune of bearing many nicknames, most of them not of my own creation. But I suppose that’s the purpose and power of a nickname: it’s given to you as a moniker, but even more so, a marker of your essence. It is the shorthand, the blurb so people can get a sense of you and your story. There’s always a story.

One of the more traumatic nicknames that was pinned on me was Kopee. It is the Korean word for nosebleed and it stuck with me for quite some time. Now, in a vacuum, it’s pretty innocuous; at worst, it is aesthetically unpleasant. But the genesis of said name was hardly that. It all began when we would kill time before service started. Some days we would play basketball or a rousing game of Cops and Robbers. But on other days, we’d play this cruelly game, concocted in the cauldron of all our twisted minds, called Peg ‘Em. The goal is plastered right in its name: to peg others. Thankfully, we’d play with a plush tennis ball, but even that would sting when hurled with murderous intent. There were a few rules, but that was only to keep the insanity at bay. Otherwise, the 30-minutes of gladiator-like free-for-all was our warmup before we went to worship God. The juxtaposition!

I am not what you call the nimblest of creatures. I am the lagging antelope that is preyed upon. What I lack in physical prowess I make up for in witticisms. In the colosseum that was the church’s parking lot, my humor did not serve me well. I could have easily sat out and played my Game Boy Color, but the only thing that eclipsed my aversion to pain was my yearning to be accepted. And so I played.

I would be remiss if I did not admit that Peg ‘Em provided me with a sense of exhilaration. The very thought of near misses to my temple as I mouth-breathed my way to safety was a literal breath of fresh air from the stuffy confines of my normal habitat. In that moment you feel invincible. Until you don’t. Even as I am typing this, I can vividly recall the moment: the game was almost at its conclusion and I was ecstatic that I was beginning to curry favor with the older, cooler kids in their oversized ECKO shirts and K-Swiss sneakers. The frenzy was still hyperactive when, in the corner of my eye, I saw one of the kids, David, grab the ball. One of the arbitrary rules of the game is that once the ball is picked up, everyone has to stop. Thankfully, I wasn’t the closest target so my labored breathing became a sigh of relief. David winds up like he’s about to heave a bullet. He’s out for blood. He launches its and the bright green blur hits the side of another kid’s head. The velocity was so high, though, that I didn’t have time to celebrate nor react; it had ricocheted off the intended target’s head and directly struck me on the nose. It was kind of like one of those scenes in a cartoon where there was split second of shock before a blood just gushed out of my nostrils. It wasn’t just from one side either; it was a double barreled bloodshed. Afraid that I had stained my pristine B.U.M. Equipment sweater that I had just got from K-Mart, I ran to the restroom. I returned with two crumpled of tissue paper, one in each olfactory cavity. Now, you might be thinking, what’s the harm? Accidents happen and a nosebleed isn’t that embarrassing. It wasn’t the act that was the source of trauma but the subsequent title of Kopee that had become my new name.

Wait, what?

I tried to own it. For awhile, I even set my AIM Screen name to be Kopee2000. You look at the forensics of the situation and it shouldn’t have caused me this much angst but it did. It was just a name, after all. It’s probably my people pleasing proclivities, but I never really voiced my discomfort with it. Like an oversized suit, I didn’t wear it well. Maybe I took myself too seriously. Maybe I was embarrassed. But the new digs weren’t just a name for me but a reminder. A Truman Show-like replay of that moment.

But now, when I think about Kopee, I let out a hearty bellow. I laugh because of the level of insecurity during my peak angsty prepubescent days. I laugh because, after allowing it to breathe, the optics of the situation is quite hilarious. But I also laugh because I realize, what’s really in a name? Let me drop some Shakespeare:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.” (Spoken by Juliet, Act II Scene II)

I find the obsession over names in the Bible so fascinating. Whether it was Jacob demanding for a new name or parents naming children as a (passive) aggressive point (i.e. Leah naming her first son Reuben, meaning “Because the LORD has looked upon my affliction; for now my husband will love me”, Gen. 29:32), it strangely resonates. I think we all have an innate desire for the grand. We want to live up to something, perhaps fulfilling and exceeding our wildest dreams. And a name might seem significant. But in the end, my name is nothing more than just that. The real value is in the person that bears it.

Ironically, I have had only one nosebleed since that moment. And that one doesn’t even count because it was from vigorous nose picking. And so Kopee, and other nicknames (good and bad), don’t carry any more weight. They’re fun stories and a great way to laugh about the past, but when I ask myself “what’s in a name?”, I know that it is simple rhetorical. Anecdotal transforming into proverbial. Very on-brand, right?

Thanks for reading.

From the Rejected Pile

I recently submitted this piece only to be cordially rejected; I appreciated the “all due respect” vibes given but also, it’s rejection. But if I’m going to put some thought into words, I am determined to get some milage out of this danged thing. And thus out of the ashes will rise a phoenix (but more like a crabby pigeon, if I’m being honest).

–

Advent can mean different things to different people who experience life in different cadences. I dare not posit in broad strokes but I think it’s safe to say that we are all exhausted by the chills from the frigid tundra that is this pandemic. Advent no longer feels like a celebratory anticipation but a groaning of capitulation. We are all weary wanderers with no wondering left in our wake. 

But let me expand on this idea of an Advent state of mind. It is a rather sad state of spiritual affairs when we relegate Advent to a mere calendrical event. If we think about what Advent signifies, shouldn’t our entire Christian existence be marked by a heavy dose of Advent-type anticipation? Shouldn’t we constantly be a people that is so disgruntled with the world but delight in what is to come? Yet Advent is so jumbled up with the festivities that come with a secularized Christmas that it has now been reduced to a sad game of Spot the Difference. 

At the risk of sounding like a spiritual sommelier, Advent is best experienced when paired with the ever-sobering apocalyptic time that is 2020. I believe they call this a vintage year. But it’s true; the seemingly irreconcilable juxtaposition of the hope of Advent and the carnage of 2020 perfectly encapsulates the tension of the believer. It is a confluence of despair and delight. It is the difference between giving up and persevering. Existing in tension is neither easy or pleasurable but it is on this razors edge in which we are called to carefully walk. 

No one likes tension because everyone likes resolution. No one likes dissonance (unless you’re a fan of jazz). We are creatures that fawn over symmetry and aesthetics. And thus, an extended period of tension is not just unpleasant–it’s excruciating. But one of the unsolicited lessons that have been repeatedly reinforced to me this year is that I cannot tie the loose ends of dissatisfaction on my own. I would double-down on this notion and call it a certain grace in which we can see the fallacy of self-reliance, or self-engineered redemption. Oh if we would be so blessed to see the folly of ourselves! 

But what can we do in such a helpless state? 

In Fleming Rutledge’s sermon titled “Advent Begins in the Dark”, she gives meaning to this necessary time of waiting: 

We can still feel the tension in the atmosphere of the parable [Mark 13:34-37]. Were it not for the master, the household would have no reason for existing; yet he is away. The expectation of his return is the driving force behind all the household activity, yet often it seems that he will never come. Everybody has been told to be in a state of perpetual readiness, yet sometimes it seems as though it has all been a colossal mistake…We do not know why God delays so long. We do not know why he so often hides his face. We do not know why so many have to suffer so much with so little apparent meaning. All we know is that there is this rumor, this hope, this expectation, that the Master of the house is coming back.

(Rutledge, Fleming. Advent: the Once and Future Coming of Jesus Christ.)

This quote reminded me of something a brother that I have been discipling said to me as he reflected on the year: what have I done during this time of pandemic? This question immediately brings me back to another story: the parable of the talents.

During the time that the master is away (which is described to be long), there was an expectation to be faithful. Not to be confused with being useless busybodies, but to be faithful in the allotted talents. What strikes me the most is mindset of the third servant:

[24] He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed, [25] so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here, you have what is yours.’ Matthew 25:24–25 (ESV)

And the master’s response? A harsh rebuke on the wickedness and slothfulness of the servant. It’s interesting to me that the first assessment here is wickedness. Slothful I get. Irresponsible, most definitely. Wicked? Parables are meant to be, well, parabolic to heighten the pedagogical effect, but oof. But then the gun is pointed at me: what do I have to show for my time in lockdown? The only thing I can think of is mastering the french omelet. “Look master, while you’ve been away, I know how to make this supple omelet with layers of custardy goodness! Enjoy!”

What do you have to show for the time of the traveling master?

But this is where we must live in the tension. Similar to how Advent is a beautiful collision of the despair of today but the hope of tomorrow, we, too, live in that tension of being justified but also being in the process of being sanctified. We aren’t to be inconsolably discouraged by the lack of spiritual rigor these past few months but rather, we are to be inspired that the challenge to follow Christ is still there. The master has not arrived yet and there is time, but more importantly, grace, to dust yourselves off and make much of what has been given to us. But here’s the third level tension of it all: though the ultimate efficacy of our indefatigable efforts may be in question, we are still called to be faithful and active as a helpless expression of our waiting. I don’t know why God has called us to this type of life but I’m not complaining; I’m honored to be a participant of this drama, even if the part is third three from the left with falling foliage.

Advent forces us to trust because we cannot trust anyone or anything else. Hence the waiting. That is all we can do. But unlike the whimsical waiting of the world, Christian waiting is dripping with assurance. Hope is hardly a blind wish but the future tense of faith. And therein lies the Gospel rub: when you look back at this year, know that any growth is hardly a product of your fastidious faithfulness but rather the initial investment made by God to graciously give you the talents in the first place. In other words, it is God’s talents that produces the talents. And incredulously, God will call that good and faithful work. Oh what grace!

And that is why we wait and prepare. Waiting is both a simultaneous expression of our need of Christ and a doxological declaration of the power of Christ. The tension of Advent is this: though we mourn over the shattering of shalom we rejoice over the mending of its shards. We lament over the fallen world but we find hope in the inevitable restoration. But we know that this tension will be resolved. This extended cosmic coda will be no more. After all, the wait is only as good as the payoff; hope is only good if it is fulfilled. Though it may seem paradoxical it is only in this suspended state of tension, this already-but-not-yet type of expectancy that creates a longing for the eventual coming of our King and makes it worth the wait.

Thanksgiving 2020

I know I’ve already written a Thanksgiving post but I want to strike while the inspiration iron is (relatively) hot. Who knows? It might be another six months before I pen more words.

This Thanksgiving is probably the saddest one to date. I’ve had some pretty sad ones during my time in seminary. The Thanksgiving break was too short to justify a trip back home and cooking a feast for one is just irresponsible. Also, I had just enough dignity to refrain from inviting myself over for a Thanksgiving dinner. Those frigid Thanksgiving nights were filled with a sinful amount of Stovetop, Rom-Coms and memorizing Greek/Hebrew vocab. And yet, today is the saddest of them all.

Perhaps it is because I wasn’t able to see my family this year (and probably won’t be able to see for another). Perhaps it is because my wife is working consecutive 36-hour shifts, though that sounds like it’s breaking some kind of labor law. Truthfully, I think 2020 has left an indelibly dingy tint on all things. It is fitting, nay, poetic, that I am in this sort of headspace, having just eaten my Thanksgiving dinner (a Big Mac), in my car accompanied by the dulcet tones of Luther Vandross. You have to be in some sort of mood where a Big Mac triggers you into looking at the imperfect yet perfect analogy of the Christian life. I’m in one of those moods.

But yes. The Big Mac, for me, is a metaphor for my Christian psyche in 2020. Stay with me.

To be honest, I don’t remember the last time I ordered a Big Mac. It is definitely the most iconic and maybe American sandwich on the menu. Yet the McChicken is a better value buy and the Filet-O-Fish is the superior alternative. But there’s something about the Big Mac that just stands out. I guess it helps that it literally towers over the other burgers. With that said, what it markets itself to be and what it is are two vastly different things. You don’t have to look very far from the advertised image and the real thing to know that while you weren’t outright hustled, you also aren’t getting everything that you were promised.

The wilted lettuce and tang-less pickles are unspectacular ingredients to an even more sunken sum. And the small modicum of”Mac Sauce” that you get is just enough lube for the monstrosity to pass. And you don’t feel great post-consumption. You feel ill and a deep sense of regret, if not self-loathing. You try to wash it down with the Coke, but it’s too late and the deed is done–you and the Mac are now one.

The disappointment that is the Big Mac is an apt comparison to my thoughts as a believer. 2020 was so full of hope and anticipation. It seemed as if all the raw materials were there to make it a great year. Even the number “2020” is aesthetically pleasing to look at. Yet, here we are, at Thanksgiving…in 2020. In this moment right now, I hardly feel like giving thanks. If anything, I want to festinate with the conclusion of whatever this is. To use Michael Scott etymology, I don’t want to be underwhelmed; I want to be a little whelmed.

But you know what the one thing the Big Mac does well? It brings me back to a simpler, much happier time in my life. It is like a time machine where I didn’t have to count neither my calories nor my steps. A restoration of innocence, if you will. And for the moment, I am re-living the days where I was yet muddied by my barrage of my thoughts or damaged by my vitriolic and vapid self-vituperation. The lost days of careless and cacophonous cachinnations. Just as quickly as I travel back to a more primitive version of myself, I return to the scene of the crime–present day.

This is why I believe the Gospel to be the saving grace in all of this; if I weren’t a believer, these recurring existential episodes wouldn’t just be exhausting–they would be a bottomless abyss of despair. But when I look at sadness incarnated in the form of a Big Mac (or 2020, same thing), I am reminded that this is not how it’s supposed to be. The Big Mac creates longing and a yearning for more, for something eternal. For something purer and more satisfying.

It is hard for me to fixate on better days, or for the days of yore, when I am convinced that I am living my best life now. If I believe these days to be the Golden Years, what incentive do I have to long for something more? I know it seems a bit macabre to consider the worst Thanksgiving (and year) to be a reason for giving thanks, but strangely, it has reminded me that all is vanity. It has reminded me of my humanity, the transience that is existence, and the hope of a better day.

It will probably be another decade before I willingly eat another Big Mac, but I am thankful for the provisions of Christ. So what if I don’t have turkey and all the fixins? I’m ok with it. As sad as the Big Mac is, I am thankful that my Ikigai, the Japanese concept for “the reason for being”, was and is never found in myself but in Christ. If it takes another “Big Mac” to do that, praise be to God.

To a simpler time.

Giving Thanks

It seems as if there is very few things to give thanks for in 2020. The obligatory articulation of what we’re thankful for will feel even more forced at the dinner table this year. Yet, here we are: Thanksgiving 2020. It reads oxymoronic. Maybe just moronic.

If giving thanks is already so hard for people (like creating a day to force contemplation), then it feels infinitely harder as a Christian. For starters, the act of giving thanks should be constant and not conditional (1 Thess. 5:18). Take that in for a moment. Swish it around like the delicious Marintelli’s apple cider you only drink this time of year. If we are to have our sights on the things that our above and if our salvation is the spring of perpetual joy, then giving thanks shouldn’t have the ebb and flow that it actually does in our lives.

But we knew that. We know this.

When I see a large discrepancy from what I know and how I live, I don’t just feel discouraged or even hypocritical; I feel helpless. I feel like I’m always stuck between a rock and a hard place–in perpetual suspension in between orthodoxy and orthopraxy.

And so consider this my attempt to make an effort to go agains the tide of myself and the unending undulations of the temptations to withdraw:

An underrated and oft-overlooked section of the Bible is the greetings and thanksgiving portions of the Epistles. It’s like the credits of a movie without a post-credits scene. It gets glossed over like green bean casserole in the canon of Thanksgiving must-haves. I have never seen these parts of Scripture tattooed or used as a caption with an unrelated picture of their preferred vehicle of pretentiousness (like lattes or something). But I have been really dwelling on these rib tips of Scripture. In a year where real, authentic connection is thinned out and digital, superficial connections are established, I find myself missing relationships. There’s something magical, dare I say spiritual, about breaking bread and arguing about the most overrated things in life (my favorite topic of conversation). They say that absence makes a heart grow fonder and my heart is at a level where I almost want to rescind all my bemoanings about socializing.

But consider this: the Apostle Paul makes it a point to give thanks. Unlike shortsighted versions of thanksgiving where we offer up our pious platitudes for trite, material things, Paul gives thanks for the people.

[4] I give thanks to my God always for you because of the grace of God that was given you in Christ Jesus, (ESV) 1 Corinthians 1:4

[15] For this reason, because I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, [16] I do not cease to give thanks for you, remembering you in my prayers, (ESV) Ephesians 1:15–16

[3] I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, [4] always in every prayer of mine for you all making my prayer with joy, [5] because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. (ESV) Philippians 1:3–5

[3] We always thank God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, when we pray for you, [4] since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus and of the love that you have for all the saints, [5] because of the hope laid up for you in heaven.(ESV) Colossians 1:3–5a

[2] We give thanks to God always for all of you, constantly mentioning you in our prayers, [3] remembering before our God and Father your work of faith and labor of love and steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ. (ESV) 1 Thessalonians 1:2–3

[3] We ought always to give thanks to God for you, brothers, as is right, because your faith is growing abundantly, and the love of every one of you for one another is increasing. (ESV) 2 Thessalonians 1:3

I feel kind of bad for the Galatians because they don’t have a Thanksgiving portion and the Thessalonians got two. They just got the brunt of Paul’s wrath, seems like. But what stands out to me the most was just how effusive Paul was of his gratitude of the people in his life. We know that circumstantially, Paul could have complained. He could have bragged about how much he is suffering for the Gospel. He could have chided the co-laborers. But he doesn’t. He gives thanks for them. In some cases, he always gives thanks.

But the most amazing thing isn’t the the extent of his thanksgiving or the prowess of his grateful heart. What causes the apostle to be grateful was the faith of the people. It was enough so that it spurred him to write so explicitly about it. And as I reflected more on this reality, I was reminded yet again how my life and my ministry is so riddled with grace. And riddled is the perfect word choice; how can it be that God is so gracious to me? It is confounding beyond all reason. Yet, God has filled my life with so many people that have grown in their faith. I feel like a bystander with the moniker “pastor” plastered on like a bad name tag. And though ministry (especially college ministry) seems like a never ending turnstile where I incubate eggs for four years before I send them off to the “real world”, I can see why Paul was so thankful even though he himself went through many trials.

And so if you’re reading this, I want to express my deepest gratitude for you. Whether we have a robust relationship or we’ve barely exchanged three words, I am thankful for your faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. May your light shine brighter in a world that seems to only grow darker.

Year 2

After dabbling in the medium that is Medium™, I think I’m going to just keep writing in the good ‘ol faithful. I was enticed by the potential readership boost that Medium could offer but in the short time, the difference was negligible. And I’d like to think that I write for therapy and the craft as opposed to influence (though I would not be mad at a J.K. Rowling narrative right about now). The grass isn’t greener if you just keep faithfully watering your side.

I don’t want to make a habit of writing a post every year that passes by, but I think it’s helpful, at least for me, to take pause and reflect on the year. I rarely do it because there’s so much on my plate and the tyranny of my schedule does not allow for such luxuries, but I also realize that if I don’t, I can quickly forget the lessons that I’ve learned, the growth that I’ve experienced and the blessings that God has bestowed unto me. Consider this my annual physical, but spiritual. Yeah, let’s just call it an annual spiritual.

Sophomore season is always going to be less romantic and more grueling, at least in the context of ministry. The scales have fallen off the eyes of your parishioners. Your flaws are less endearing and more plaguy. In baseball, you’re considered a hall-of-famer if you fail 70% of the time. To be fair, I am my own harshest critic leaving myself no room for growth and grace. It really is a self-defense mechanism; I’ll self-flagellate so that I can beat everyone to the punch. But as I peer beyond my own crushing and self-imposed burden, people have been kind. They have offered up life-giving words that dissuade, momentarily the crushing words of my own damaged psyche. I think that’s what they called grace. And I am thankful for that. If you have ever offered a word of affirmation, you have ministered to me more than you know. You’ve successfully played the Uno reverse card and have blessed me tremendously. I know I don’t do it for the “reacts” but I also know that whipped cream is never a requirement but makes the strawberry shortcake eating experience that much better (well, only if said whipped cream is whipped from scratch for confectioners sugar).  I suppose that’s a longest-winded way of expressing my gratitude, but I suppose that’s too on-brand and a fitting way to re-enter back into my old space.

I also wanted to share three lessons that I’ve learned this past year.

1. Contentment is a daily struggle

I used to think that unrest and dissatisfaction came upon me like a thief in the night. Perhaps it is a really distasteful experience or a sudden epiphany that would take full residence in your mind, but I always thought of contentment as a euphemism for settling. One professor even called contentment the virtue that took the amount of work that is least celebrated. When was the last time you were complimented on your display of contentment? Follow up question: did you take it as a backhanded compliment?

Like watering a plant or flossing you teeth, if you don’t take daily heart checks, one can easily fall into the pit of discontentment. Weird flex, but I am somewhat of an expert at the art of meticulously criticizing, especially of the unsolicited variety. You pair that with an ardent passion for being contrarian and contentment becomes more pipe dream than possibility.

I see this in my own personal journaling and prayer; the tenor in which I write/speak of my own experience is drastically different than my first year. My first year, I was deeply entrenched in the honeymoon vibes. I was being effusively thanked for my work. I was in a place that seemed to celebrate my prickly personality. I was living the dream. But as the buttresses of my self-esteem and identity were disappearing, I found myself suddenly questioning my place and fit. My Garden of Eden became my Garden of Gethsemane.

And so the beauty of year two was the ever-growing discipling of finding my contentment despite the tempestuous turbulence of my own heart. And unlike the water of a plant and flossing (which I fail to do in strange and unapologetic fashion), I am trying to fight for contentment.

2. Proud Moments

When Tim Keller says something along the lines of fruitfulness, not faithfulness, is the measure of success, it’s hard not to crumble like a dry biscotti (redundant I know, but it is for effect). I don’t have any kids of my own but I can see the pride gleaming off the parents in their overexposure of their kids and their seemingly insignificant accomplishments. Social media is now the equivalent of your mom cracking upon the dust-accruing albums you she wouldn’t show the girl that you had a crush on.

In my second year, I am able to see, in greater focus, the ways in which God is working in the people that I have been entrusted with. Another year means another front row seat to God’s sanctifying work in people, which becomes a this wonderful cycle of replenishing my hope in Christ. You see more benchmarks. You see a little more return from the investments of those Bible studies where only one student showed up.

This might sound patronizing, but I get really excited when someone asks/answers a question related to the faith. And I have experienced a bit more of that this year. You see the glimmer of inquisitiveness, a small sampling of care, and like the spiritual gold miner that I am, I rejoice over those moments. This joy is not self-centered either; I rarely use it as a confirmation of my own pride in my calling but a deepening of my faith of the ultimate curator and creator of all of this. I pray and hope that as I spend more years here, I can have more of those shining moments.

3. The beauty of the grind

The connotations of grinding is hardly positive. It is the word choice of someone that wants to come off as persevering in light of an arduous task. I’ve just finished a book by Cal Newport titled Deep Work: Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World, and I cannot recommend this book enough. It’s so good. But he writes this about work:

In our current culture, we place a lot of emphasis on job description. Our obsession with the advice to “follow your passion”…is motivated by the (flawed) idea that what matters most for your career satisfaction is the specifics of the job you choose. In this way of thinking, there are some rarified jobs that can be a source of satisfaction—perhaps working in a nonprofit or starting a software company—while all others are soulless and bland. The philosophy of Dreyfus and Kelly frees us from such traps. The craftsmen they cite don’t have rarified jobs. Throughout most of human history, to be a blacksmith or a wheelwright wasn’t glamorous. But this doesn’t matter, as the specifics of the work are irrelevant. The meaning uncovered by such efforts is due to the skill and appreciation inherent in craftsmanship—not the outcomes of their work.

Now, I would nuance this by saying that the outcomes of my work is deeply important, even eternal in nature. But the point he is making is, at the very least, is thought provoking. I am guilty of being fixated on the celebrity pastor. I fawn over such influence and readership. I envy the likes and shares. But what is happening and what is being conveyed in my jealousy?

Trust me; the glamor of ministry has long been wiped off. The new car smell is definitely gone. What is left, then, is no longer a desire for the aesthetically pleasing but to strive in my own growth as a pastor. Unlike that of a blacksmith or a wheelwright, however, this craft goes far deeper than just sharpening my theological Ginsu knife set or honing in on my homiletical skills. What is more valuable is character refinement. One could argue that character is the best, most ubiquitous tool in a pastor’s tool belt. But pastor or not, the call to pursue godliness is not unique to the call of ministry; it is the call of the Christian.

It is not a glamours thing, then, this idea of sanctification. We are forced to reckon with our idols. We are forced to confront our fears and insecurities. And the story ends, like one of those crime episodic TV shows, in the same way: Lord, I can’t do this. Change me. Make me more like Christ.

It is in this beautifying process, this transformation from dirt to diamond, that I have enjoyed my sophomore season even more. It was a harder year but I am better for it. I am excited to embark on another year, probably through a Zoom call or something.

 

Content Pusher

Ever since COVID-19 shut down the possibility of physical congregating, my church has been trying to creatively minister to our members.  Never, in a million years would I have foreseen myself do a podcast and write a weekly article for a church.  Yeah, I have my personal blog, but this is my own creative baby; I don’t need to have it go through any rigorous distilling process.  Typos and passive voice are its endearing features!

But I just wanted to give the opportunity for anyone that needed an extra dose of encouragement these days.  We’ve been podcasting for over a week now and it’s not the worst!  Thankfully, it’s not just me; the other pastors will be taking turns rocking the mic, spewing how edifying contemplations.  Please check us out!

I’ve also been writing articles for our church, which has been a really great experience.  I think it’s great because I’ve only written two and I don’t have the curse of seeing the stats/clicks. Like a message in a bottle, I can chuck that sucker into the ocean and never be bothered by who reads it or not.

But I did want to just share some thoughts on this strange time of waiting.  And by share, I’m just going to copy and paste it here because I’m feeling pretty tapped out.  But I hope that you can find some ways to invigorate your spiritual health.  If you’re reading this and we haven’t talked for years, I pray that you’ve been well and you’re still loving the Lord.  If you’re reading this, and you’re my mom, hi mom.  Either way, may you be encouraged, especially during this Passion Week.

–

The Olive Leaf

I confess that I’m not a natural “creative” type and so titles and names are the bane of my existence.  But, after much thought, I decided to call my weekly journal “The Olive Leaf”. For starters, its foliage/botany connection presumes profundity and erudition.  More importantly, however, I think the allusion to Genesis 8 is an apt one.

[6] At the end of forty days Noah opened the window of the ark that he had made [7] and sent forth a raven. It went to and fro until the waters were dried up from the earth. [8] Then he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters had subsided from the face of the ground. [9] But the dove found no place to set her foot, and she returned to him to the ark, for the waters were still on the face of the whole earth. So he put out his hand and took her and brought her into the ark with him. [10] He waited another seven days, and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark. [11] And the dove came back to him in the evening, and behold, in her mouth was a freshly plucked olive leaf. So Noah knew that the waters had subsided from the earth. [12] Then he waited another seven days and sent forth the dove, and she did not return to him anymore. Genesis 8:6–12 (ESV)

We are now in our third week of mandated social distancing and it has left us scrambling to search for some semblance of sanity.  Normalcy is redefined and the menial is magnified. I cannot even imagine the cabin (or ark) fever that Noah must have endured. He was the original Tiger King.  

The olive leaf was a sign that the waters have subsided but the earth was not quite ready to be inhabited. The waters may have subsided but the present reality is still hard to deal with. It is in that tension that we hope to encourage you.

Waiting, as we know, builds character but it can also build frustration.  We try our best to patch up the leaks, not allowing the pent up rage to spill out onto our family and friends, but it is tremendously challenging.  

I cannot wait until the day I can worship with my fellow brothers and sisters at Christ Central.  I cannot wait to resume our familial participation of the Lord’s Supper. I cannot wait to sing worship songs with one voice.  But until then, I need something to hold me over. I need a reminder.  

And I hope that this, along with the podcasts and daily prayer challenges, can do just that for you. We are inundated with tragedy. We ingest the morsels of bad news on the daily.  However, in the deluge of said bad news, we want to offer up even better news: Christ has died and rose and we are forgiven and redeemed! There is nothing better. No bad news can expel the light of the Gospel.  There will be a day when the waters will be completely subsided. Even when the eye of this particular storm passes (and it will), we are providentially comforted by the reminder that this too shall pass and that we look forward to the day when all things will be made new.    

Music Monday

In my preparation for a (virtual) Bible study for my youth students (the Book of Psalms), I’ve rediscovered my passion and need for songs.   It gives me words when they fail me.  My plan is to offer up three songs, every Monday, to evoke hope or at least to allow for deeper contemplation of things that really matter.  Not all songs will be “Christian”, but also, I’m not curating a three-song playlist for the sake of rocking out.  Also, if I do include a worship song, I will deviate away from the “bangers”, so to speak.  In an age where there seems to be an acute overemphasis on musicality (and aesthetics) while there is also a  precipitous decline in quality writing, I want to recommend songs that might be unfamiliar.  But the unfamiliar, in this case, can be good.  New songs force us to look at the lyrics.  I just want to recover a bit of intentionality in our approach, even as something pedestrian as music.  Peep the ‘list.

1. “Jesus I My Cross Have Taken” – Indelible Grace

I never tire of this song.  The richness and depth of these lyrics resonate with me in whatever season I find myself in.  This song is my proverbial macaroni art; it’s a declaration of our discipleship yet one glance at my own life and I realize I have my deficiencies.  Yet, even in my feeblest attempts to follow, there is much grace in my journey to be like Christ.

Lyrics that rock me:

“Go, then, earthly fame and treasure,
Come disaster, scorn and pain
In Thy service, pain is pleasure,
With Thy favor, loss is gain
I have called Thee Abba Father,
I have stayed my heart on Thee
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather;
All must work for good to me.

2. “The Heart of Worship” – Matt Redman (ft. Martin Smith)

First, you have to listen to this specific version of the song.  There’s something soothing bout Matt Redman and Martin Smith collaborating together.  Also, you have to love the bridge that I rarely hear anymore (when it’s sung).  I think this song hits a little different in the season where things have literally been stripped away.  No physical gatherings.  Simplicity in our liturgy.  It’s just us and God, really.  And yet I’ve noticed, especially with the praise team, a more authentic worship experience.  I don’t know if it’s their facial expressions (which could also double as a grimace), but it seems as if we’re truly going back to the heart of it all.

A good reminder:

“I’ll bring you more than a song
For a song in itself
Is not what you have required
You search much deeper within
Through the way things appear
You’re looking into my heart”  (has a tinge of Amos 5:21-24 vibes)

3. “Let That Be Enough” – Switchfoot

There’s something comforting about a redeemed nihilism, like that of Ecclesiastes.  It’s a paradox of both knowing the vanity and fleeting nature of life yet trusting and fearing God.  Also, it’s a very subtle note, but I love that the chorus is phrased as “let me know…let that be enough.”  Too many songs make such declarative resolutions with so much finality, but the nuance of these lyrics make it almost prayerful: I’m not there yet, but “Let me know that You hear me, let me know Your touch. Let me know that You love me, let that be enough.”  I know that Jon Foreman’s voice isn’t the greatest, but I can appreciate his earnestness.  It’s also ambiguous enough that non-believers can appreciate this song because it speaks to the universal void in all of us.

Random Ruminations: Digital Preaching

Even in the digital ecosystem that we exist in, I never thought I’d ever preach to a screen with students peering back at you.  They were certainly there, but it also felt like they were distant.  I’m used to this beautiful call and response, especially with my college students, where I feed off the energy.  It’s exhilarating.  That experience was definitely absent, especially when the main thing I’m looking at is my visage, all the while questioning my motives for growing a poor excuse of a beard.  But enough with the pleasantries; I know why you’re here: the quick hitting, bite-sized ruminations!

1. I couldn’t tell you the genesis of my proclivity to see the world in shades of gray, flippantly dismissing the possibilities of other colorful, more vibrant hues.  But I went in expecting five or six live viewers.  7:30 rolls around and a few students trickle in.  The dreaded sound of small talk pervade the digital meeting room, but again, I’m expecting an intimate crowd (on a non-intimate platform, of all things).  7:35 hits and I have lost all will and desire to talk about COVID-19 anymore.  At this point, there’s the six or so that I had anticipated and I’m good to go.  I’m euphemistically content.  All for God’s glory, right?  I read the passage, as I should, and I open up in prayer.  Doth my eyes deceive me?  The number “skyrocketed” to 18!  Triple my loftiest of expectations, and so there’s an extra pep in my step.  With added sprite, I continue on and people keep trickling in.  At one point, I think we had 30 in the room.  All listening intently (or maybe I’m just white noise, I don’t know), I was so blessed by each and everyone participant.  It’s not so much the quantity of viewership that has got me feeling so elated, because, well, that’s conceited.  Rather, I was so touched by the intentional decision for some to log on, sit through a not-short sermon through an unorthodox medium to receive spiritual sustenance.  I think this is what hope feels like.  I like it.

2.  I do like the fact that I can pretty much wear basketball shorts as I preach.  This is a game changer.

3.  Shout out to some of the alums that joined in on the festivities.  Again, this speaks solely to their hunger for the Word, but it was such a blessing to see them.  Even though our time together was saccharine, I had them only for a year and they all moved away upon graduation.  This is the bittersweet tension of being a college pastor; you invest and you establish relationships, but you are constantly forced to have this Kingdom perspective, to equip and let go.  Catch and release. Rinse and repeat.  And to compound the issue, I’m the absolute worst at keeping in touch.  Seeing their faces brought me back to the large group meetings from last year and I was all the more assured that God is still watching, keeping and tending to His sheep.  As many Christian influencers would say, as they take an unsolicited selfie with “Eat, Pray, Love” DIY decor in the back, my heart was very full.

4. Let me preface by saying that I have a wild imagination and while it can keep me entertained, the unbridled bronco that is my perpetual pensive posture leaves me asking myself, “why are you the way that you are?”  And so I wondered to myself, post-sermon, what some of the viewers that chose not to allow the camera were doing while listening/watching?  Were they eating their dinners while watching?  More importantly, what kind of food were they eating?  Noodles?  Sandwich?  Steak?  Sushi?  Or were they playing a video game and listening to me as background inspiration?  Perhaps they just had a large pimple on the precipice of exploding and they did not want an unwanted guest to the party.  I don’t know.  I’m just curious.  Or crazy. These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.

5. The really weird thing about digital preaching, or at least through Zoom, was the intermittent chatting that happens.  It’s nothing incendiary, like “boo!  Your third point doesn’t make logical sense! LoL but good job!”, but it’s just a new wrinkle that I have to get used to.

6. Another weird thing about preaching through the video chat was the awkward moments when I would make a joke and see people laugh but not hear anything at all.  I get it though; I do appreciate everyone muting themselves to minimize distraction but it’s just strange.  You can’t react to a joke, unmute yourself, and laugh for my sake.  Again, weird wrinkle.

7. I’m thinking about switching it up next week.  I might have some background music.  Like soft piano jazz.  Or perhaps wear a fedora. Some even requested that I lead praise.  Let’s not get crazy.  No one wants to see that.

8. I recorded myself and I still hate the sound of my recorded voice.  But I watched it, like an athlete reviewing his tape to improve.  I also hate it when I mispronounce a word.  I just want to jump out the window and never speak ever again.

9. This was me on Wednesday:

10. How do you avoid the palpable awkwardness once you finish preaching?  This is not an opener of an essay on the art of being able to land the homiletic plane smoothly; this is a legitimate question.  And what is the proper hand gesture as I leave?  Peace sign?  Do I give them the gangsta deuces (knuckles facing out and landscape) or upright bunny ears?  Wave?  But how fast?  Or just an ok sign?  I don’t know why but I’ve been saluting a lot but it’s really because I don’t know what to do with my hands.  And like this post, I’m having a hard time ending.

But all imperfections and self-terrorizing menial thoughts aside, it was a wonderful experience.  I think people were pleasantly surprised!  Using words like “overall”, “pretty”, “first time”, I’ll take it and continue to improve on it.  At the end of the day, I’m preaching the Gospel to those that are eager to listen and I’m more than ok dealing with the conjured up image of a student eating Peking Duck as he is watching.  Like reverse mukbang, but, you know more spiritual.  More Jesus.  Always more Jesus.

The Digital Age

I’ve never had worship quite like this; sitting around like a producer of an NPR show, something like the Tiny Desk Concert series, and hoping nothing goes awry, I felt anxious about the whole ordeal.  It’s like the feeling you get when a barista fills your cup right at the brim, held up barely by the surface tension, and at the very precipice of spilling over your new Air Force Ones, or whatever footwear is in these days.  You just held your breath that nothing went wrong.  This wasn’t your normal Vlog or an ASMR food blog; this was an invitation to worship together, digitally.

I’m not here to provide commentary on the COVID-19 situation nor offer up a “7 Biblical Ways to Respond to the Virus Situation” article (since, you know, 7 is the holiest numbers).  The virus fatigue is very real.  I’m here to just best articulate my doxological experience this morning and how it was the greatest dispenser of hope in recent memory.  Think of this as your spiritual Purell, so to speak.

–

I needed this virus.

Don’t hear what I’m not saying: I’m not sadistically clasping my hands, thanking the virus for what it is.  Include my remarks about the horrible nature of this disease in the same bin as “water is wet” and “fire is hot” bin.

I’ve felt myself drift a bit.  Over the years, I’ve allowed myself to lose a little bit of the reverence, the wonder over the worship experience, and perhaps even the heart of it all.  Like a piece of tattered driftwood being carried out to sea, rocking to and fro aimlessly by the merciless waves, I’ve found myself no longer on the beautiful shore but barely hanging on, asking myself “where did I lose my way?”

Perhaps that is a bit of an overshare; after all, who really wants full transparency from a pastor?  But trust me, redemption is coming.

I don’t know if it was just years of professionalizing Christianity, or having unhealthy tunnel vision with respects to ministry, but for me to ask the introspective question is telling of just how far I’ve gone.  Perhaps it was too late.  If you’re not sure you’re in a rut, you’re probably in a rut.

The optics of today’s worship service was anything but “spiritual”, or whatever you want to call it.  With all the technical nomenclature being thrown around, run throughs like an episode of SNL, and no physical congregation present, it could have sapped the moment of its poignancy.  It’s purpose, even.  But it didn’t.  It was rather powerful.

The virus has forced unprecedented cancellations and “social distancing” (which I have been practicing since 2005).  It should have killed any momentum we had as a church.  It should have demoralized our members.  It should have severed any ties that we’ve had, even if we were to worship digitally.  And yet when the lights were on and 10 o’clock hit, we were greeted by many of our church members patiently waiting to worship.

The virus wasn’t going to stop us from worshipping this morning.  It didn’t.  It couldn’t.

I did miss the visceral, incarnational experience of it all.  The off-key singers attempting harmonies.  The robust liturgy.  I’ll even miss communion.  But I can safely say that it was the best, most reviving worship I’ve had in a hot minute.  You’d think that worship in a digital space and age would be sterile and austere, but it wasn’t.  The intimacy in the immediate was welcomed and even though I didn’t see the people, the outpouring of thanksgiving and gratitude renewed my hope our church and in The Church.  It didn’t hurt that we ended our day at noon either.  What do I do with all this spare time?

A couple of other peripheral thoughts:

God’s sovereignty is seldom brought up in regular discourse.  When it is invoked, it’s used in parallel with unfortunate situations.  “I didn’t get the job but *welp*, God is sovereign!”  It’s like the default doctrinal punt of the Christian.  I think that’s a big problem because it’s reflective of the theology that is pervasive but this virus situation has forced me to ponder more about God’s sovereignty.  And it’s one thing to bracket His overarching cosmic prowess with your circumstances, but I’ve come to appreciate God’s sovereign plan even more in light of the COVID-19 situation.  I’ve read articles on just how deep the depravity of Man goes (over toilet paper, of all things).  I’ve witnessed the hopelessness that is being put out into ether, on the daily.  I can feel the resounding question of “How Long O Lord?” being asked by many (though not in those words).  And it’s forced me to reckon and reconcile with the bleakest of moments knowing that God is in control.  Not that I cede any of it (because what can I offer that’s not been given), but the gravity and magnitude of this situation has made me see just how encouraging and magnanimous God’s sovereignty is.  I’ve seen a lot of people post with the hashtag, #wegotthis, but how foolish?  God’s got this.  And the big-ness, if you will, makes me appreciate His watchful eye all the more.

Finally, this experience has made me more sensitive and aware of the ways some of the persecuted church might have worshipped.  For them, this is all they know.  We were riddled with anxiety, unsure of how it’d go over, but I can imagine churches and its leaders, faced with possible arrest (if not worse), salvaging whatever they can just to worship together.  I was able to appreciate the entire Church, near and far.  And to come full circle, this is why my worship today was so indelible; it forced me to see all these churches making worship a priority despite the chaos, a true and honest pursuit of discipleship.  You see, the cruciform nature of discipleship can be neutered by the tyranny of the mundane.  You can take the edge off with programs and aesthetics.  And today’s stripped down, barebones, and sober posture was a powerful reminder that while everyone is preaching a message of self-preservation motivated by fear, I needed to hear the message of self-surrender motivated by hope.  I don’t know how long we’ll have to worship in this digital format, but I know one thing: our worship will not be stopped because God will always be worthy of it all.  Maranatha!

 

 

 

 

 

Faithful

I love the Lenten season because it forces me to be (more) deliberate about my contemplation.  For someone who is perpetually pensive, this is great; who doesn’t like a double portion of reflection?

In what seems to be a providential yet whimsical endeavor, I’ve been listening to course lectures from my seminary.  I really miss it.  Maybe not so much the social aspects or classes that I didn’t really want to take, but I do miss that time of almost irresponsibly spending all my hours thumbing through books and soaking it all in.   It was like a four-year book club with myself and good St Louis BBQ.  It was my version of the proverbial being at the feet of Jesus moment.  I never wanted it to end.  I think I’m the only one, really.

I’ve noticed a few things upon listening to some of the recordings.  First, I’m astonished at how much more I can understand.  I vividly remember feeling like a million theological bullets whizzing by my head as I tried to maintain the pretense that I belong. What is ontology?  Who are these random names? My copious notes (an overly vigorous smashing of keys) was my expression of my deep insecurity.  But now, as I listen, I nod as if I am listening to an old friend wax poetic on theology, not that they’d ever consider me a friend.   In other words, these seminary courses are a lot more palatable a second time around.  It’s like rewatching Inception or Interstellar.  Second, and this is tied to the first, in my pleasant shock of being able to understand the elevated nomenclature, I was also assuaged of some of the concerns that I had about seminary in its relation to my calling.  Seminary was like stumbling through a dark room with a box of matches; I’d have momentary glimpses, but the match would soon go out and I’d trip over a box.  And perhaps that was, in retrospect, a much needed and wonderful peripheral purpose of divinity school.  I just like saying divinity.  I like the mouthfeel of it.

During one of the lectures, the professor talked about the glory of God and how it was one of those church-y words, which has, over time, been misused and misapplied by many Christians.  Nodding like a malfunctioning bobblehead, I scribble down my amens in an illegible mix of print and cursive.  And all of these things, my Lenten reflections and my own hyper vigilant observations of church discourse, formed an estuary of a larger thought: the faithfulness of God and what it really means.

The thought seed of all of this was planted in my preparation of my Romans 9 sermon.  It was quite the behemoth of a task, trying to fit the doctrine of election in a 30-40 minute sermon.  And even though I am pretty tied down to my manuscript (something I’m trying to do less of), every so often I’ll have a momentary inspired thought and I’ll weave it into my sermon.  In one of those moments, I shared how we have a grossly minuscule scope of God’s faithfulness.  This can be problematic, synonymously using God’s faithfulness and profitable outcomes, because what is being said of one’s theology when life is anything but ideal?  Is God any less faithful when life is plagued by inconveniences?  Does it wax and wane like the tide?  Even worse, is God’s faithfulness contingent on my pious obedience?

And this is personal for me because I know that in a vacuum, worship is the act of ascribing worth, but if our semantical use of “faithfulness” has an ebb and flow and if it is merely seen in the context of beneficial outcomes, then my worship, too, will be inconsistent at best and unbiblical at worst.  And I say it’s personal because I’ve lived it and still live it.

Faithfulness is only that until it isn’t.  It is only as good and true if the promises are never broken.  Once it’s marred, you can’t ever categorize anyone to be faithful.  So it is this progressive wait and see game, kind of.  But think about how we use faithfulness with people.  Show up.  Be steadfast.  Don’t mess it up.  It is incredibly euphemistic, if not patronizing.  It’s almost like there is a tinge of anticipated disappointment, knowing that everyone is an addict, just twitching to get the next high in the form of their idol.

But that is why it’s even more impressive and important to view God’ faithfulness, not in the temporal windows of good things, but to view it in His overarching attribute.  In other words, God’s faithfulness is not just a record of His perfect adherence to His promises, but it’s just who He is.  That is, then, the source of ultimate assurance.  And if the pinnacle of God’s faithfulness, if the deepest expression of it is in the person of Christ, then I am all the more challenged to have a more proper view of God’s faithfulness.

–

I’m preparing for a third retreat in as many months, and I’ve been kind of retreat-ed out like five retreats ago. But this college one is sort of like a nice benchmark for me.  I’m not a sentimental guy but this retreat marks two years since I candidated for the current post that and I’m at.  It’s weird because I’ve gone from guest speaker vibes to “I’m so comfortable with my pastor that I’ll roast him, well-done”. It’s been a blur and a trudge.  And it’s unfortunate that I only realize this in retrospect, but God’s faithfulness has been conspicuous.  This is not just a theological truth but a lived-out testimony.  I have no business being here, and early signs of my pastoral ministry had a steep negative trajectory, like a fighter plane that had been gunned down, 1917-style.  I thought I’d be another statistic of someone who mistook zeal for calling and drop out of ministry.  But to be able to proclaim Christ at the same retreat (same location!) two years ago and resuscitating my conviction to shepherd is God’s faithfulness revealed.  But the thing is, if I never got the call back, if I never got to do ministry again, I would like to think that in the innermost caverns of my heart that I could say that God is faithful.