Do you have a dream? Maybe something you’ve always wanted to do. Maybe something you’ve always wanted to be. Have you done it? Are you what you dreamed of being? Is live what you thought it would be?

If you’re like me, you probably have some aspirations unrealized. It’s not that I’ve fallen short of who I thought I was going to be. It’s more like the plans just kind of changed somewhere along the way. I’ve adapted to life. In many ways, I’m much more than I thought I would ever be. I am a faithful and devoted father and husband, something that has brought me more joy than I could ever imagine. In so many ways, I have been blessed beyond belief with the things that matter most in life. Some changes or adaptations have been better than I imagined…others, less. With the many realized, beautiful blessings in my life, I have also fallen short. I’m not a successful writer. I’m not a noted musician. I’m not a professional baseball player and I can’t jump buildings in a single bound.

As I reflect on my path, and how I’ve come to the place I find myself today, I wonder how much I’ve actually been proactive in my life versus how much I’ve simply reacted to the life that’s going on around me. I’d like to say that I’ve planned out every step of the way and it’s turned out exactly like my plan. Success! But that’s just not true. Life has happened to me. Bad things have happened despite my best efforts to avoid them. Good things have also happened to me, despite my efforts to sabotage myself. I think this is how God works. We have a plan and He has a plan. Sometimes they mesh and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes we listen to Him and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes God takes me places I’ve never dreamed of, sometimes I run the other way, and sometimes I just find myself reacting to the circumstances unfolding around me without actually being proactive either way.

In turn, like the life lived on auto-pilot, I wonder also how much our faith is acted on and how much is reactive. Do you practice your faith? To practice something implies action. To work at something, hone it and sharpen it. Are you active in your life? Do you have a plan? Are your dreams and aspirations God-inspired? Does your life reflect the glory of God? 2 Peter 3-11 gives some good advice for aligning your faith with your actions, for being intentional about living the life that God created you to live.

What do you practice? Guitar? Writing? Parenthood? Do you practice being a good spouse? A good listener? Do you practice your faith? Do you practice living life or do you find yourself reacting to your environment more than creating it? Too many questions? What’s your reaction?

Fences are so common place in American society today that I bet they are rarely even noticed. Oh, you might notice them when it’s time for you to build one.  Then, you become aware of all the varieties, height options, materials, styles, colors, and prices. Or maybe you’d notice if one was constructed because of you. I suspect that imprisoned criminals are very aware of the fences that surround them.

Have you given much thought to the purpose of fences? It seems fairly elementary. They are either erected to keep things out, or to keep things in. I’m hard pressed to think of any other purpose for a fence. Now they might be decorative and pretty, but the purpose is still the same; to sequester. Segregation is the sole purpose of most fences.

With that in mind, I’ve noticed lately that many Christian schools are surrounded by fences, many quite ornate and elaborate, but fences nonetheless. I wonder the purpose of these fences. Are they to keep in or to keep out? What do you think the “outsider” might see when he sees a Christian school fenced in and locked down? I wonder. I realize situations are more complex than a simple either/or, but I’d like to hear varied perspectives on this concept? Any thoughts?

Roy Mwesigwa is a native Ugandan, and a very good friend of a very good friend of mine, Greg Taylor. Roy recently visited the United States for the second time in his life, and I had the privilege of sharing some time with him while he passed through Tulsa. As a group of us shared a meal together at a local Chinese restaurant, we peered across the parking lot at a Wal-Mart. Roy was the first person I had ever met who had not been inside of a Wal-Mart, so after we finished our meal we escorted Roy on a tour of the super-chain. I should explain that it was only a Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market, the grocery-store-only, baby-version of the typical “super” Wal-Mart, so we found ourselves apologizing for this tiny version of the real thing as the glass doors slid open. The wide-eyed look of disbelief and painted smile on Roy’s face told us that he wasn’t able to mentally process even this mini-version of opulence, and probably couldn’t fathom the grander scale that we attempted to describe.

We started with the Red Box movie rental machine out front, explaining to Roy the many entertainment options at his fingertips. He seemed entranced by the machine. As we moved inside, Roy’s eyes met the high ceilings and I imagined a small boy in a blue blazer stepping into Santa’s Workshop, or Charlie taking his first look into the ominous Chocolate Factory. I didn’t see him blink once as he gazed in awe at aisle after aisle of choices; a pyramid of oranges stacked to shoulder height, piles of potatoes, tomatoes of all sizes, packaged breads of various colors and shapes, an entire row of soda choices, and another of only coffee and tea options. When we came to the refrigerated, dairy section, Roy asked me if each glass door that separated product from shopper was an individual refrigerator. I can’t explain his reaction when I told him to look closer, informing him that the entire bank of glass doors was simply the front side of a very large, refrigerated room filled from floor to ceiling with cold product. At this point, some shoppers seemed to sense that something different was happening and a few began to look at Roy with looks of strange curiosity.

I must admit that, while it was a complete joy for me to share in this experience with Roy, I also felt a pervasive sense of guilt coursing through my veins as I imagined the comparisons that Roy was making between the extravagance that we were showing him, and his lifestyle in Uganda. He asked if there were smaller stores that competed with the mega store. Someone replied, “a few, but Wal-Mart runs most of the smaller stores out of business.” Realizing that smaller, independently-owned stores are all he knows, a pinch of sadness now swirled into the amalgam of fun, exhilaration, excitement, dizziness, guilt and extravagance.

What we have at our disposal in America is nothing short of amazing when compared to the rest of the world. Still, if you pay attention to our headlines, it seems that so much of our privilege and luxury is lost in a sea of dissatisfaction, selfishness, and an overpowering sense of entitlement among Americans. I’m not bashing America. I’m very proud to be American but if we’re honest, we’d probably admit that we all take it for granted on certain levels. My experience with Roy, however, helped me to see a bit clearer the reality in which I live, and how it is much different than many other realities across the globe. Of course I knew this before meeting Roy, but there was something poignant about looking into his dark-brown eyes as he saw my world for the first time. At that moment, Uganda had a face, a voice, a personality, a handshake, a smile, and a name; Roy Mwesigwa. His last name means “honest man,” and the eyes of my new friend from across the world certainly spoke truth to me that day. Despite our differences, we are all in this together and I find myself, more and more, wanting to look into the eyes of my neighbors and see the world through their perspectives. We all have our own reality and we are all right where God has placed us, but through they eyes of our neighbor, we can go anywhere, allowing us to see beyond our personal experiences.  Where are you right now? Who is your neighbor? Where do you want to go, and what do you think God wants you to do with your reality?

As many know by now, a revised version of our president’s health care reform bill was passed a few days ago. We could debate various perspectives for or against the bill, predicted implications of the bill, consequences for the health care industry and our quality of care moving forward, but analysts on every channel are already spinning all of this in droves. Set aside, for a moment, your political affiliation and your feelings about government’s level of involvement in our lives. Instead, I’d like to view this discussion with a different lens.

First, I will admit that I have experienced two sides of health care. I have been completely without insurance and have absorbed medical costs as a result, and I have also been over-insured and benefited from sharing health care expenses. As a husband and a father, I do believe in the importance of having health care insurance, especially in this age of massively absorbent medical costs. However, is medical insurance a human right? What litmus should we use to define a human right? Is the health care issue in America a social injustice on the level of child sex trafficking or racial discrimination? There is little doubt that these are two issues that must anger God. In a world, however, full of such explicit inhumanities, I wonder what God thinks of America’s attitude and energy expended about our debate over health care rights. Are the lines between rights and entitlements beginning to blur? Have we finally crossed the line as a nation into full-blown opulence or are we finally addressing a real American oppression?

What I would like to know is if you feel Christianity has anything to say about what is and what is not a natural-born right. Does this health care topic intersect with your faith?

Forget the homeless, stranger for a moment. In some ways it’s easy to offer acceptance to that person because we can do it from a distance. What I’m interested in hearing about is how well you accept the people in your daily circle of influence? Maybe a more applicable question is, how well do you know them? The people you work with? The people you sit next to in class? Your neighbors? Your very best friends? The people you serve with at church? Your family? Here’s my answer, you know them only as much as they are willing to let you know them. If we’re honest, we all have areas of our lives that we choose not to share, even with those closest to us. Why? As I ask this question I think of a red-faced and furious Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men erupting with, “You can’t handle the truth!” Are you prepared to hear that your best friend was repeatedly molested by a family member as a child? What would your responsibility as a Christian be to that person, and would it be different if that friend told you instead that they had cheated on their spouse in the past?

Christians talk about acceptance and forgiveness, but don’t these concepts, in our lives, often have boundaries? I wonder if the limits to which we’ll share is relative to that which we’ll accept. I have some friends that are not afraid to peel back layer after layer of themselves, like an onion, and expose to everyone the depths of their souls. I have a certain respect and admiration for that kind of openness but, truthfully, it also scares me because I know that I am not always willing to reciprocate with the same level of openness. Fear of rejection, judgment and/or condemnation often keep us from sharing our hurts and struggles, leaving us bound to the sins, failures, victimizations and insecurities of our past and, at the same time, crippling our present. We are products of our pasts; good, bad and indifferent.

During a recent church service we incorporated what is called a “cardboard testimonial”. Friends wrote on one side of a piece of cardboard something that they’ve struggled with in their past. On the other side of the cardboard they wrote how God used that situation to change them. Nearly 20 people shared pieces of their stories in this way. The purpose of this presentation was to highlight the transformational powers of Christ in our lives. What we discovered was the potential for a deeper healing of the soul as a result of sharing our vulnerabilities with our community. Hurts, tragedies, and sins were offered for all to see, and it was beautiful to watch them received with the love and compassion of Christ by our body.

Can we actually live a life of freedom from the shackles of our past, and how can we help each other succeed? James 5:16 tells us to “…confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.” What if we really lived like this text asks us to? My questions, to this point, have revolved around how we accept others, but the bigger question is how willing are you to share yourself with your community? Can you really allow yourself to be seen? Do you believe that God promises deliverance from that which binds our hearts?

Below is a link to the cardboard testimony of another church. I dare you not to be moved as you watch this unfold. Also, as you witness the redemptive stories of others, I challenge you to consider the following:

What about your past is crippling you today? Are you willing to share yourself  so that your community can pray for you, and so God can heal you? We cannot heal what we cannot feel. Let’s use this space as our cardboard testimonial. I’ll go first. My cardboard reads on the front, “Struggle for Control in my life” and to highlight God’s transformation in me, the back of my cardboard reads, “Finally Gave Control back to God!”

What does your’s say?

At the end of last week, eight American missionaries were released from Haiti after having been detained on kidnapping charges for nearly three weeks.

In case you haven’t heard the story, a group of Christian missionaries traveled to Haiti after the January 12th earthquake devestated the area, with the mission of rescuing Haitian children by exporting them to the neighboring country of the Dominican Republic where their plan was to establish an orphanage for children of the earthquake. When these missionaries attempted to export 33 children without going through the proper channels, the local Haitian government arrested the group on charges of kidnapping.

Now, much can be debated as to the effectiveness of the Haitian nation and it’s government; their policies, economic conditions and solvency, standards, integrity and methods. Instead, what I’d like to consider are the actions of the missionaries. First, however, I would like to make one thing clear; I am not passing judgment on any individuals or the motives of this collective missionary group. I assume their intentions were sincere and genuine. Who wouldn’t want to help lost and frightened children?

My questions center around the methods employed by this group. Maybe they will eventually share their insights in retrospect of their actions. For now I can’t help but ask, were they right in what they were trying to do? Were they right in how they tried to do it? Did they intend to march into a foreign country, disobey all laws and establish their own rules in the name of Jesus? Does Jesus give us that authority? What does the non-Christian world see in the actions of this group? Should that even have been a consideration? Should the local government of the poorest nation in the western hemisphere trump Jesus? Was Jesus truly represented in the actions of these missionaries? What guidance can we find in Scripture about the intentions vs. the actions of this likely well-meaning group? Is it possible that religious arrogance got in the way of compassion? Have you ever struggled with finding balance in doing what you feel God calling you to do when it meant potentially crossing other established boundaries? I’ll say this, and then I’d like your opinion. One thing I know for sure is that it’s easy to take a side either way and determine right from wrong from our reclining chair. If I think in terms of my experience as a father, I know I would do just about anything to preserve the safety and dignity of my children. Is that God-given authority or is it something else? Is that how God feels about us? I know the Bible has account after account of God allowing humankind to suffer the consequences of our own mistakes (sometimes assimilated with the wrath of God). Consequences are real. What does any of this mean?

I know, I know, too many questions, but isn’t that where we often find ourselves… right in the middle of too many questions without enough answers? Okay, for the sake of simplification, I’ll whittle it all down to this one question:  As Christians, what are our rules of engagement as we fight for justice in a diverse world so sharply divided by competing rules, laws, ethics and morals? Your turn… ready, go.

This week I watched a mother bury her young daughter. I watched as the casket closed and she caught the last glimpse of her daughter’s body. I watched as a family mourned; a brother and a sister in shock, and a mother and a father in a haze of dark, surrealism. I hurt for them. It also reminded me of personal tragedy in my own past. I hurt for myself as well.  

This week, I also counseled a man whose wife had left him. Distraught, and with small children in tow, he is lost and frightened. I hurt for him. It also reminds me of tragedy in my own life. I hurt for myself as well.

I sometimes find myself reaching deep inside, desperately grasping for something to offer in these situations, something to ease the pain. It feels like treading water in hopelessness. For the sake of honesty, I must admit that I struggle with balancing a need to repair the brokenness in others, and embracing the reality of my limitations. I want to be a fixer-of-problems, and I sometimes find it difficult to live in this tension. In retrospect, many parts of my adult life have been defined by various levels of success and failure in dealing with this type of tension. I am a father who wants to guide his children in patience and love, but sometimes I fail. I am a husband who wants to always offer solutions, safety and compassion, but sometimes I fail. I am a friend who wants to always offer stability, but sometimes I fail. I am a child of God who wants to be used in the glorification of our risen Lord, but I know that sometimes I fail.   

I’ve come to believe that God calls me into the lives of others, but when I get there, I sometimes question why and what it is that I really have to offer. Over time, however, I have discovered a strange peace in embracing my limitations, and in admitting that I do not have a solution to every problem. It sounds simple on the outside of a situation, but defining my limitations helps to refocus my attention and strengthens my reliance on God. It also can allow others to find their limitations and deeper reliance on God as well. As I learn to embrace this tension, I am discovering tremendous opportunity for personal growth. I find hope in realizing that when I get to the end of myself, I’ll find God. I just need to step out of the way more. That is what I can offer and ironically, the more I engage life, the more I put myself out there, the more I stretch myself. That also means, however, the more I have to face the limitations of my own abilities. A strangely beautiful cycle and one that, for me, offers meaning and purpose, even in pain of loss and helplessness.   

Also, by engaging in the lives of others, I also see things that are holding me back from living the full life that God has created for me. I am both blessed and helpless at the same time. In the reality of others, I see my own reality. I believe that’s part of God’s plan for us. We are all part of a larger tapestry. I’ve known people that have retreated into isolation, both physically and metaphorically, in an attempt to escape reality, and it makes me wonder if true growth is really possible without passing through the lives of others, without sharing stories, time and space within community, even (and maybe especially) when it hurts.  I’ve learned that there is a huge difference in feeling helpless and feeling hopeless.

So I ask you, are you willing to embrace your limitations? Do you feel the tension between helplessness and hopelessness and if so, how do you deal with it? I really want to know. Let’s share some space.

I began following R.E.M. during my first year of college.  At that time, their steady rise to fame had just begun and I’ve been a fan through the years. That’s why a recent headline caught my eye quoting Michael Stipe regarding a friend of his, respected musician and fellow Georgian, Vic Chesnutt. If you haven’t heard of Vic you aren’t alone, I hadn’t either until December 26, 2009, the day after his death on Christmas Day from an overdose of muscle relaxers. I saw the story headline, but I didn’t have time to read it. 

Several days later, while in the middle of one of my favorite past-times of searching for new and quality independent-label musicians, one website I frequent suggested several artists based on my musical taste and there he was again; Vic Chesnutt. This time I followed the lead, pulled up digital versions of all of his albums and sampled most of them. Within an hour, I owned two of his last albums (is it okay to still call them that even though they are mp3 downloads?), “North Star Deserter” and “At the Cut”, both recorded with the backing support of a hidden gem-of-a-band by the name of Silver Mt. Zion and Fugazi guitarist Guy Picciotto. Considering my ever-obsessive interest in music, I was surprised that I hadn’t at least heard of someone with over a dozen albums throughout a 20+ year career.

Since downloading these two albums, I have hardly stopped listening to them and I have learned that Vic Chesnutt was an amazing wordsmith. His lyrics, often flowing like poetry, were meticulously crafted to tell some deeply personal stories, mostly soaked in tragedy and sorrow. Such was his life. You should know that Vic, in the early 80′s at age 18, was injured in a car accident while driving drunk. He lost most of the movement in his legs, a lot of the mobility in his arms and his hands were greatly compromised. So while his body was confined to a wheel chair, Vic relearned to play the guitar with simple chords and only a few fingers, and with a very limited musical structure to work with and a uniquely gritty voice, Vic spent the following 26 years rising out of his chair in the ether of his storytelling and musical genius.

His sound is rooted in folk with streams of other influences such as jazz, soul, and country flowing through it. His voice, sometimes rugged and graveled in a heavy Dylan/Springsteen kind-of- way while other times floating weightless in a beautiful falsetto, is usually accompanied only by the minimalist sounds of his lonely guitar. In his music are, naturally, stories of loss, pain, sadness and vacancy; an imprisoned perspective that few can entirely relate to. Yet, if we’re honest, his music is at the same time deeply accessible on multiple levels. The place from which his art stems is hauntingly and intensely real.

However, pointing you to the work of Vic Chesnutt is not the point of this writing, although some will undoubtedly (and wisely) seek his work. No, there is more to his story that I find fascinating. You see, he was raised in a Christian home and yet, from the age of 13, Vic was an admitted atheist. He writes about this dichotomy some in his music. One would have hoped that from his tragic accident, he would have reformed from his formidable lifestyle and embraced a new appreciation for life. That was not the case for Vic. His personal choices in life would likely be defined as unfortunate by many, battling alcohol and drug abuse for most, if not all, his adult life. There are stories written about him describing his drunken belligerence in the public music scene during the earlier part of his career. He was rather anti-establishment and as a result of near medical bankruptcy at the end of his life, he was outspokenlycritical of America’s health care system. He writes of watching his mother die a painful death from cancer, begging mercy from Jesus and Vic had a long-time preoccupation with death, attempting suicide 3-4 times through the years before his successfully-fatal overdose last month.  

You may not have liked the person. You may disagree with his viewpoints. You might not like his music. However, Vic Chesnutt was, if nothing else, brutally honest about life as he saw it and he openly acknowledged the complexities he saw in life. In the midst of the conflict and controversy surrounding Vic’s work, here’s what I take away from listening to his music. He makes me think. He makes me think about my position on social justice issues. He makes me think about my own spirituality and theology. He makes me think about my own mortality. He makes me think about the pain in my life and the pain in the lives of others. He makes me think about compassion and also about anger. He makes me think about being broken and the hope of being fixed. He makes me solidify where I stand in regards to my personal beliefs. All this from a crippled and indulgent atheist. So here are my questions. What would you do as a Christian about Vic Chesnutt? Would you protest his music? Would you even listen to it? Would you hear the stories and appreciate the realism or would you dismiss him as a bad influence? Would you embrace him as a human being or would you turn back into your comfortable circle? What is our role as Christians in God’s Kingdom? Are you intimidated by atheists? We know that Jesus hung out with outcasts, but do we really buy that we should too? What if we are the outcasts? Who do you hang out with? Who are you influenced by, and who do you influence?  

One of the last songs Vic wrote was called, “Flirted With You All of My Life”. He called it his break-up song with death. In it he reminisces about his preoccupation with death saying that he’s flirted with her all his life before coming to the realization and celebrating, ”Oh Death / Oh Death / Oh Death / Really, I’m not ready / Oh Death / Oh Death / Oh Death / Clearly, I’m not ready.” This song was released 3 months prior to his death by apparent suicide. 

Vic Chesnutt makes me think. What makes you think?