Below is a riff on the ancient story1…

There once were a people whose greatest fear was being insignificant.

So they decided to build something great to make a name for themselves. Notably, they decided not to build with the traditional option of stone.

Stones are notoriously difficult in their size and shape and you have to work with the unique contours of each one to bring them together side by side, one atop another.

Plus, they’re weighty.

Stonemasonry takes real time, real effort, and real skill.

Fortunately for these people, they had figured out how to make bricks. Bricks are light, easy, fast…and uniform! You can lay them one alongside another in predictable, easy-to-scale patterns. Anyone can do it.

Imagine how high we can now build!

And oh how the people did imagine.
And then act on their imagination.

As one people with one language and mass-produced bricks, they harnessed the gift of complete uniformity and made a tower so high that it honestly felt God-like what they could do now.

Ease. Efficiency. Optimization. Speed. Trajectories that only move upward-and-to-right!

Intoxicating, this stratosphere.

Intoxicating was the right word, too.

The higher they went, the more their efforts choked.

For they discovered there existed a Deeper Gravity that worked upon them and would not allow their pride to reach fulfillment. This Gravity crumbled the brick tower and scattered the people all over the earth.

Each human community now like a stone.
Unique in their size and shape and language.
Each weighty with their own traditions, mores, and gifts.

And… each community now needing to work with the unique contours of the stones next door if they were to build something true and good.

A harsh thing, this Deeper Gravity, one could read.

But actually, this breaking of the bricks and scattering of the people was the way in which this Gravity returned a fundamental gift that they had forgotten; namely…

That the people themselves were made as uniquely crafted stones.

And their greatest joy and purpose would be discovered in working with the unique contours, jagged edges, and weighty substance found in one another.

In fact, the ancient story promises that when the people groups did this well with one another, they would confer unto one another a God-like power which was called ‘a blessing.’

To be sure, such work would rarely be easy.

For the word ‘blessing’ originates from a word that means “to kneel.”

How difficult to hear for a people who fear insignificance. (Can kneeling really be the way!? We want to build upwards!)

And yet, it was true: for the God-like power of blessing to overflow in life and work… a humbleness would need to characterize how they interacted with one another.

Listening.
Hospitality.
Forgiveness.
Honesty.
Generosity.
Navigating by Faith.

—

Admittedly, I’m getting ahead of myself…

The real version of the ancient story from Genesis 11 ends with the people generally scattered and confused after attempting their brick-stacked tower to heaven.

It would take time before they (re)discovered that God-like power is received and conferred not via bricks but blessings.

And…

one could argue…

…we are still in the (re)discovery phase of that story.

For AI feels very brick-like in its wondrous low-cost, high ease, uniform ways in which we can build into the stratosphere with our content, corporations, and communication with one another.

And, to be sure, it would be unfair to write off AI as “all bad” - for it is quite helpful in a host of important ways, and its ongoing impact is surely much more nuanced.

Even so…

…at a foundational level, it is worth noting that the higher we climb upon the rocket ship of AI, the more it becomes easy to forget that the fundamental blessing, the fundamental power, and the fundamental joy of our very being exists in the space where humans work in connection with other humans.

One stone alongside another.
Navigating jagged edges.
Appreciating contours unlike ours.
Discerning the next, precise cut.
Learning from angles we never thought of.
Refining hard spaces.
Delighting in smooth surfaces that took decades to hone.

And when you meet people who seem exceptionally gifted at the craft of knowing, empowering, and generally blessing other stones - it feels magnificent.

Look! is it not something how they…
listen
serve
appreciate
forgive
advocate
create
trust
inspire
love?

Grounded and God-like, the energy experienced when we are a blessing, one stone to another.

National Geographics

My Netflix account is all too happy to feed me exactly what I want to watch. Same for my social media accounts. And my Google search results. I am constantly given an opportunity to buy, watch, or engage with options perfectly curated for me.

What a gift!

And… how small.

We get reduced to all of our previous decisions and interests and politics with little opportunity to expand, be surprised, or be deeply challenged (aka grow). We avoid confronting that which is trying, difficult, or other.

Grandma’s stacks of National Geographic declared another way far before data-driven algorithms came to dominate.

Grandma knew the gift of taking in a wide variety of images great and small, strange and striking, renewing and revolting. She turned every page of her monthly National Geographic, marveling at just how wide, deep, and full this world is – and never once believing the subscription might stop next month because they had finally exhausted the whole universe. Ha!

Quite the opposite, she kept every copy. In part, yes, because she was a child of the Depression, and so everything was kept.

But also I sense some part of her enjoyed how those stacks of National Geographics were a visual testimony to the infinite wonder, confusion, and complexity ever around us. And within us.

In an age of algorithmic narrowing, Grandma’s stacks of National Geographics serve as a sign for a well-lived life.

Stack-of-National-Geographics wisdom in practice today?

• Meet the neighbor you’re sure judges you.

• Try improv though public speaking terrifies you.

• Take up piano lessons even though you have no patience for anything.

• Travel somewhere surprising – it may require a plane or a pen, just depends on whether you are going far or going deep. Maybe take the pen on the plane and do both. Regardless, go all in on discovery.

• Embrace awe, paradox, and a humbleness that knows there you could be wrong, they could be right, and there’s always more to it, regardless.

—

Jazz

You know those 1940s and 50s swing-y, brassy standards? My grandma had those on in the background of her living room all of the time.

Growing up, I didn’t care for it. I liked my rock and roll and my pop music… and though I couldn’t have put it this way, I know it was true: a big reason why I liked my music is that it was just easier to understand. My music was in 4/4 time - a simple four beats per measure. Easy rhythms to follow. All the same basic chord progressions. It’s a sound that immediately pleases the ear.

We live in a time where easy pop music dominates not only the airwaves but our sensibilities. We know one another by our easy yard signs and easy bumper stickers and easy slogans. So much gets reduced either to something that is “music to our ears” or an absolute insult to all things good.

Frequently, it’s…

Yes or no.
This or that.
Good or evil.

Complexity?
Imagination?
Nuance?
Jazz?

In more than one way I think it’s fair to say jazz has fallen on hard times.

Thank goodness I still remember the sound of Grandma’s living room – and what it proclaimed.

Her jass standards were often complex and the rhythm hardly intuitive at first. This chord with that chord was not an obvious choice.

Which speaks to the roots of Jazz itself.

Historically, jazz emerged in the late-19th and early 20th century - especially in and around New Orleans where you had people whose roots were African, French, Caribbean, Italian, German, Mexican, American Indian, and English. And the African American musical traditions began mixing and blending with these other traditions, ultimately bringing forth these remarkable, unlikely, and striking juxtapositions that spoke deeply to the heart.

A beautiful thought that my younger self had no patience for.

That first changed when I arrived at seminary planning to serve as an Army Chaplain one day, and it somehow struck me as a good idea to take my Christian Ethics class from a professor who was a Mennonite pacifist.

Prepare for the military with a person committed quite centrally to pacifism – sounds like a very big… contradiction. No?

Or was it jazz?

It was a confusing, challenging, and deeply inspiring experience. I was a much better chaplain for it, and... it proved the first of many times in my life where I discovered the deep wisdom of John Stuart Mill’s observation made nearly 200 years ago when he spoke of what makes for the very best kind of education one can get.

He pictured “placing human beings in contact with other persons dissimilar to themselves, and with modes of thought and action unlike those with which they are familiar.”

He explained that such settings and interactions are “one of the primary sources of [human] progress.”

Mill was interested in Jazz.

Two chords that are distinct, if not disparate and oppositional, yet nevertheless played together.

Sometimes it doesn’t work. The dissonance is overwhelming.

But… sometimes - with enough improv and patience - a sound emerges that is so enchanting and unlike any other moment in life that it moves people to silence.
Or dancing.
Or joy.
Or community.
Or all of the above in the same moment.
That’s jazz.

In these days that so easily reduce us to pop-like stickers, slogans, and slander, Grandma’s living room jazz serves as a sign for a well-lived life.

Jazzy wisdom in practice today?

• Find conversation with someone much older. And much younger. And much different.

• Find conversation with someone super similar, and find even there where there are spaces and ways so different and distinct.

• Find partnership that totally surprises everyone involved.

• Lead the conversation with curiosity aka questions.

• Pause before responding. Honor the space required for improv to work.

• Be slow to leave the band. Bad notes get played a lot before the magic happens.

• Practice forgiveness. It’s the hardest kind of music there is, but it’s the most unforgettable bridge available.

• See if your notes don’t get better for having riffed beyond the easy stuff.

—

The Cardinals

Distraction is dogma these days.

We are continually pulled from our email to a text to a video clip we just have to see to endless scrolling on the phone because a mix of tiredness, FOMO, and little hits of dopamine keep us going.

We start one project then pivot when we hear a ping.

We read the same paragraph four times because our mind keeps racing back to the to-do list. Read is probably overstating it. We mainly skim.

And we listen to our podcasts at 1.75x speed while watching the navigation screen on our car and vaguely listening to what our 4-year-old wants to say in the backseat.

Regularly, we are only slightly present to any one thing because there are just so many things.

Success, then, is about poorly multitasking on all of it at once.

In time, we discover our constant distractedness has a profound cost.

We grow tired so much more quickly when our mind continually switches from one task to another all day.

We accomplish far less than if we were just able to focus on one or two key priorities.

We fuel our days with a strong drink of anxiety, which runs like a V-12 engine that has no ability to drop below 75mph for every task it undertakes until, much sooner than we imagined, the wheels fly off, and we crash. Hard.

Grandma had another way.

Immediately to the left of my grandmother’s black leather living room chair was a sliding glass door out to the porch where she had placed her bird feeder.

And I cannot tell you the number of times I would come into that living room to visit grandma and there she would be with lips curled upward, marveling afresh at a cardinal or two.

For many years, this made even less sense than jazz.

I liked sports, I liked being on the move. I did a good dozen extracurricular activities in high school. If ever I was going to sit down, I would at least watch the television.

But watching a bird be a bird?

Not a chance. Nothing could be more boring.

And yet, I was wrong. Grandma knew something that I could not nearly appreciate for a long time; namely, that deep attention is its own kind of wealth. For truly, the only moment we ever have is this one - and what a singular gift when we can give our full presence to it.

In these days that so regularly invite distraction unto exhaustion, Grandma’s cardinal-watching serves as a sign for a well-lived life.

Cardinal-watching wisdom in practice today?

• What if we let go of the ‘what ifs’ we carry from yesterday and the ‘what ifs’ we worry about for tomorrow?

• What becomes possible when we simply attend to the gift that is before us? The work? The person? The cardinal?

• What if by slowing down the only moment we ever have actually helps us speed up our most important work?

--

We live in an age that can so easily reduce us to our smallest selves, a simple sticker, an empty blur of busy. It takes curiosity off the table. It takes genuine community off the table. It takes deep aliveness off the table.

Let me commend to you, instead, my grandma’s 1990s living room.

Note the National Geographics.
Turn up the Jazz.
Watch the Cardinal.

(mid-90s grandma, my mom, and a kid you may recognize - even as he apparently has no time for the camera)

The truth shall set you free.

I should’ve known all along, right?

The 10th anniversary of 9/11 fell on a Sunday on which I would be preaching. Weeks before that moment, I could readily sense a divide in the congregation over how that day should be remembered and what it means to honor it going forward.

Some felt strongly that justice must be served - and that meant a strong, ongoing military response to the Taliban and anyone who supported them. Patriotism meant backing our troops.

Others felt that the US was not innocent on the world stage and took to a critical eye toward examining our own motives while raising their voice about getting out of the war. Patriotism meant questioning our country.

Mixed in all of that was how to think about the victims and the terrorists of 9/11 as people of faith:

How do we rightly honor the memory of those who died and those who grieve mightily to this day?

What does justice look like at this point?

And what in the world does love your enemy mean if your enemy has struck with singular cruelty, depth, and breadth?

—

I was sitting in The Dancing Goat coffee shop in Decatur, GA, mulling all of this over, when I pulled out of my bag a hardbound LIFE Magazine photo book my dad had given me three months after 9/11.

Inside the cover, my dad had written the following:

Bobby,

I believe that September 11, 2001 is the defining moment of your time in history. This book is one I hope you refer back to over the years of your life because everything changed on 9/11. Since we are all so close to the event, we can’t see how our lives have been affected. But they have and someday it will be clearer.

Dad

I then took in a few pages of the book, and felt the tears fill my eyes afresh. For all the talk about ‘never forget’ back in those days, it was, in fact, quite easy to forget. The photos drew forth not only memories but fresh grief and confusion and pain.

And in that moment of tears, I began typing without reserve. I told the truth. I started not with this side or that side or this way of thinking or that way of thinking. I simply told the story of that book and my response:

Christmas 2001, my dad gave me this book put together by LIFE magazine – a compilation of photos and testimonies from 9/11. In it, he left this note (the one above, which I read aloud at this point).

Is it clearer yet? Judging by all the disagreement surrounding the 9/11 memorial and what it should look like and who should and should not be there today, judging by the incredible amount of remembrance activities going on this past week throughout the nation – I’d say we are still very much in a place where even as we remember, we are still trying to make sense of it all.

The full meaning of 9/11 is not clear even as its impact is undeniable.

For my part, I took my dad’s words to heart and looked over this book for an hour the other day. And I was surprised at how hard I cried. I truly did not expect any of it. I cried at the tragedy of it all, the stories of heartbreak and most especially the moving stories of heroism. And, I cried because like all of us, I can’t make sense of it all.

—

Ten minutes before typing these words I could never have imagined beginning this singular moment of leadership communication with - essentially - I don’t know as the lead in.

And yet, it was honest. It felt right. It felt faithful to the Truth even as I could not wholly grasp it.

Notably, this 2011 sermon exploring the intersection of memory, justice, and forgiveness marked the first in what became a pattern for me when it came to the Sundays on which it was particularly difficult and fraught to preach: I often looked to the past for a way forward.

I sought my dad’s gift to draw something forth amid patriotic tension.

Likewise, I sought the church’s archived sermons from the 1960s and 1990s to discover a way forward amid racial tension.

In that case, I let a pastor’s voice from 1969 and then another pastor’s voice from 1994 lead the way into my sermon on December 7, 2014.

To be sure, this meant my own unique voice was muted at the outset of this sermon.

Perhaps I was too young to trust my own voice alone at that time.

Perhaps I was wise enough to know that the voice of these former, beloved pastors carried more weight than mine at that point.

Perhaps I simply felt that reminding the congregation of our shared history around challenges of racism helped open the door for further conversation on an otherwise nearly off-limits topic for the pulpit.

Likely, it was some mix of all three of those.

Here’s how that sermon opened, the lines spoken with a subtle shake in my voice as I dove right in without any sort of preamble or explanation for a sermon introduction that was highly unique for me - and them:

On June 29^th 1969 Dr. William F. Summers, pastor of Grace Covenant at that time, preached a sermon I recently read in our archives room. He begins by telling an old tale of a couple of men who were walking along when suddenly one of them is shot in the hip by an arrow.

The man who has been shot looks down at the wooden arrow and muses, “I wonder what kind of tree was felled to produce this arrow?” And then his attention moves to the feathers and he asks, “I wonder what kind of bird produced these feathers?” And finally his friend says to him in exasperation: “Pull the arrow out!”

Right, deal with the wound. You’re missing the bigger thing, the pressing thing.

Dr. Summers began in this manner because the remainder of his sermon would be about the Black Manifesto that had just been published. Some of you may remember that Manifesto well – a document calling for the overthrow of the government, calling for white churches and Jewish synagogues to make significant monetary reparations to African Americans.

Controversial to say the least. And even leading black organizations of the time, like the National Baptist Convention and the NAACP – even they distanced themselves from this highly charged document.

Dr. Summers concurs, but he puts it this way: “But even though we may feel we can and must reject the (Manifesto) as such, not for a moment can we let ourselves feel that we can reject the black man and his plight. There is something of paramount importance that we must deal with right now, we who are the church….It is not a question of being liberal or conservative.”

In other words, he didn’t want people parsing out all the particulars about the Manifesto and missing the far deeper wound that even gives rise to someone writing a manifesto. And the remainder of his sermon explores racial reconciliation.

Fast forward to October 2, 1994. Dr. Tom Cutting, pastor of Grace Covenant at that time, preached - this time on World Communion Sunday. Also found in our archives. He spends the entire sermon talking about impoverished race relations in Richmond. At one point he says, “World Communion Sunday 1994 – is there a word from God for our broken lives?”

Fast-forward once more to December 7, 2014. Is it possible I could simply read their sermons today and one might not even know there was a time difference?

Because these past few months and certainly the past two weeks have brought forth a flurry of anger and sadness and tension on all sides of this country with regard to race and justice.

It has brought forth, as well, unfortunate fire and violence and vandalism as recently as last night and this morning. And the division seen around us is being felt not only in our society, but very much in the church as well.

Was it courageous?
Was it timid?
Was it true?

I look back at the words today and see ways I was hiding and fearful - and a feeling of cringe exists in that for me today. And, also, I hear ways I was bridge-building and prophetic.

I also recall the energy of the moment itself. Beneath the slight shake of my voice I felt a unique vibrancy growing within me.

In fact, with each sentence, I sensed the congregation picking up an energy that made clear that this would not be a normal Sunday sermon. And they were leaning in for it.

Anxiously, excitedly, or confusedly - I could not say in the moment. But if you are in front of people regularly enough you know when the room is leaning in. This one was way in that morning.

And, at root, I think it was this: amid the wild mix of fear and wisdom and shaking and strength that co-mingled within me, they heard something true. The resolve I had made to be as genuine as possible, I sense, was mattering a great deal in this very moment.

For, even if one stands terrified and anxious before the truth, there nevertheless remains something undeniably and almost magnetically compelling about it.

Indeed, even if our minds forget completely about the truth, our leaning-in bodies simply cannot: the truth shall set you free. The truest parts of all of us ache for that at every level of life.

—

The truth shall set you free unlocked both the typing and the telling of those early, challenging sermons - and a number of more difficult ones that would come. Of course, that did not mean the task became easier from there.

Harder, actually.

For as magnetic as the truth is to much of our being, that same truth is a searing kind of Light. It is searching and relentless and stings. Like a mosquito that will not be satisfied until it gets blood-level real with you. Or more like a whole infestation of them. Great for pollinating future vitality, but my gosh…

This is likely why I did get a solid mix of gratitude and pushback on this sermon. Not just from others.

But from myself.

Turns out, the one preaching is the one who feels the heat of truth most squarely.

Freedom, as they say, is not free.

And so just after delivering one of the most terrifying and powerful sermons of my life, one in which I named clearly the gaping wound of racism that has been bleeding forth from this nation since its inception, it struck me… if anyone in this room needs to change, it’s me.

Turns out taking up the robe of leadership does not lift you unto lofty heights of glory; it drags your knees and forces one reckoning after another.

For as long as you wear it.

But alas, the leader must be walking the road of freedom if any are to know its searing, singular gift.

I’d ask Google what key leaders and notable pastors were saying about the protests. About Russia's invasion of Ukraine. About Roe being overturned.

I would search conservative-leaning publications and progressive-leaning publications to try and feel the emotional tenor of the nation - and also my specific congregation, which was always a solid mix of red and blue persuasions. I wanted to be sure that the way in which I stated things, quoted people, and drew conclusions always honored as wide a swath of people as possible.

Strategic EQ, some might say. Truth is, if I was in a Googling mood, it was a sign that anxiety was coursing through me. I was not listening for the Truth, I was looking for likability. The old " don’t-cause-a-stir “ wound never goes down silently.

Sometimes, my anxiety would draw me into a good couple of hours going down the Google rabbit hole of research. My sermon notes in my Word document were filled with twenty pages copied and pasted from reputable voices.

Eventually, embarrassingly, I would remember that preaching is not simply speaking to or about the moment but speaking a Word of God in and through a particular text from the Bible. I’d then scour three or four Bible commentaries about the Bible text that would be read on Sunday. Then I’d add a few more pages of notes to my Word document.

As for the actual sermon itself?

It had barely an opening paragraph.

In fact, the more acutely I felt anxiety ahead of Sunday, the more often I had none of my own prayerfully-infused words speaking to the text, the anxiety, or the acute societal challenge at hand. I was totally blank. What I had, instead, were pages and pages of notes about what others were saying, thinking, and doing.

The wisdom I did still seem to possess in these moments? I could feel in my bones how empty it felt typing the sentiments of others.

“As renewed theologian Walter Brueggemann observes…”
“As the Editor-in-Chief of The Christian Century/Christianity Today notes…”
”As The Atlantic recently stated…”

Scholarly. Researched. And not me. Not the deeply imperfect voice who had been called to take up the robe of leadership in a particular context at a particular time.

Secondhand sentiments risk little and therefore give little. And far before I could articulate that, I felt it coming through my uninspired, labored typing.

I eventually discovered that oftentimes in these moments, the most important thing I could do was close the laptop entirely. Drop the infinite digital. And, instead, enter a very small, sacred, and often overlooked place called The Archives.

—

From 2013-2019, I served a congregation in the heart of Richmond, Virginia that had an Archives Room just off the main sanctuary. Inside was a wide-ranging collection of the congregation’s most cherished items and memories drawn from its 100+ years of existence.

“I’m going to the Archives and won’t be available for the next hour,” I told the Office Administrator on December 8, 2014. At that point, I’d been serving the church for about 18 months, and a visit to the Archives was rare. That day, however, I felt an inexplicable pull to get there.

Walking in, I inhaled the musty, old-furniture smell combined with the lightness of a room well-kept and regularly dusted. The sun’s easy rays peeked around the curtains that long-time member Marjorie Adams customized and settled on a sign-in registry just inside the room, making clear the caretakers of this space wanted to recognize the formal gift of visiting something so unique. Sadly, the registry did not have many names. I failed to add mine in that moment because I had yet to appreciate how singularly important the space was.

Instead, I stepped toward the round wood table at the center of the room, sat in one of its chairs, and quietly took in the room.

There were beautiful, member-created paintings and drawings of the church building itself adorning the walls. Amidst those and a few, colorful tapestries was one of the most striking pieces: a photograph taken and enlarged of the moment, just after his August 1998 memorial service, when the casket of Supreme Court Justice Lewis F. Powell, Jr. was taken from the church’s sanctuary, down the front steps, and into a hearse.

Beneath it, photo albums lined a heavy bookshelf, the binding of each one naming the years and events captured within the life of the church: “Candlelight Service 78-84,” “Summer Camps 65-75.”

Alongside the bookshelf were numerous wood-framed, glass-enclosed cases lining the sides of the room with a wide range of items: ceramic plates designed to commemorate the 75th anniversary of the church, burgundy pew hymnals from the 1950s, and even the original silver communion set used when the church was first founded.

At first, no one aspect stood out to me.

Rather, I only slowly recognized that this room was far more significant than I had first imagined. Indeed, I am confident that if one is taking up the robe of leadership for such a time as this, they need to find their own version of the Archives. It’s an often overlooked, profound, and behind-the-scenes space that completely changes how you show up when the public moment arrives.

For me, the singular gift of this space first made itself known by the quietude my racing mind experienced as I settled into the chair. A prayerfulness, even, descended.

It proved deeply grounding being surrounded by not just the history, but the attentive care that had gone into this level of preservation. More, moments ago I had enjoyed near-infinite access to all the information known to humankind. And it was an anxiety-ridden, depleting exercise. Twenty pages of notes, zero words of heart.

In the Archives, the options were quite limited. I could take in the history of one particular church located in one particular part of Richmond, Virginia, for one particular span of years. The room was exceedingly limited.

Which was part of its singular gift. It whispered to me, Bobby, it is in this particular place, this particular history, and these particular people to whom you are called to take up the robe.

And there was great peace to be known in receiving afresh the granular gift of local. For if love is ever truly expansive, it is first and always local. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us is how the Christian Scriptures name that centrally.

That gentle reminder about my local context became the first step toward my conscious embrace of the fact that whatever came forth on Sunday, it could not be second-hand. It could not be a litany of questions and insights gathered from voices around the world. It had to be a word from among, to, and for the people whose lives stand on the shoulders of those these archives honor.

In time, a second gift of the Archives also emerged quite powerfully: the Archives have an immense tangibility.

Hundreds of items filled the space - some silver, some wood, some ceramic. Some of the papers were nearly 100 years old and significantly yellowed. Some were forty years old with letters typed in the omnipresent Courier font of that day. The rug was lush, the doorway heavy, and the photos faded and warm.

Another way to put it? There were no screens. There was nothing digital. There was nothing abstract.

Everything was real. Sensory. Actual.

I did not have words for it at the time, but increasingly I gravitated to this space precisely because I myself felt more real, alive, and actual in a space so concretely constructed.

I did not speak any words aloud in that moment, but I could feel the truth of this sentiment arise in a way it rarely does drowning in the digital: I have a voice.

Did the Archives remove all anxiety? No. But it grounded me, and no real courage begins before a grounding of some sort.

Did the Archives make taking up the robe of leadership any less daunting? No. But it gave me a sense of peace about nevertheless doing so with and for this particular community.

Did the Archives provide clarity and answers for the sermon itself? Actually… yes.

As I sat in the center of the room slowly scanning the glass-enclosed cases on December 8, 2014, my eyes trained upon two large boxes. “Sermons” the boxes said. I walked over, took off the lid of one of the boxes, and saw that inside each was dozens of original sermons from nearly every pastor who had served the church since 1915.

These were the voices, then, of those who had taken up the robe through two World Wars, a Great Depression, Civil Rights, Vietnam, and more.

And a thought crossed my mind that felt like a very different direction from scouring for the latest online:

How might the voices of yesterday speak wisdom into today?

What I liked about this thought was this: I knew the voices of yesterday could not speak precisely to the challenges of today. I would not be going to them looking for pithy quotes and summaries about the particular moment in time before us. Instead, what I wondered is how hearing their voices speaking of Scripture in the context of their impossible times might help me find mine.

And I began pulling one sermon after another from the box. Old school Googling. And within minutes, I found myself holding a slightly yellowed sermon with tiny tears along the sides of the pages, the date centered atop the front page: June 29^th 1969.

Quickly scanning down the first couple of paragraphs my eyes caught the words “protests” and “riots” - and immediately I knew I held something quite sacred.

This particular congregation had been here before.

At some level, I knew this could be in the cards.

Their marriage had faced challenges in recent years, but I always believed in the best possibility. They were going to be just fine, and the easy rhythm of school, sports, and nightly family dinners punctuated by 2 or 3 family trips a year would go on… forever.

Right?

When they let us know about the divorce, I let out a primal scream I had never made before and have never made since. Truly, my soul felt a profound tear. How could it be that my parents would not be sitting together for my baseball games? For our post-game drive to Dairy Queen? Wait. How would Christmas morning work?! When people talked about the experience of divorce as akin to losing a limb, I nodded knowingly.

The story eventually evolved in surprising ways, but most immediately, one of the unconscious and powerful effects on me was this: I developed a deep aversion to seeing things fall apart. Especially relationships.

When classmates grew loud with conviction among friends or in the classroom, I grew quiet. When someone would ask, Bobby, what do you think? amid a highly charged debate, I remember the knots in my stomach. It was a particular tightening that seemed to tell me I needed to stay quiet, stay safe, and maybe my calmer energy could help us all find a nice equilibrium faster.

So I deflected. I learned to ask a question as my form of response to charged moments. I simply did not want to stand vulnerably in the fray of a possible explosion in which everything rips, breaks, and tears. Too much pain.

I carried this sensibility into my pastoral leadership. Not overtly. Not even as something I recognized at the time. The way it came through was in a largely positive manner. I found that I deeply embraced the idea of the church as a place where diverse backgrounds and perspectives could gather, find, and even celebrate common ground in Jesus.

One time early in my career, a long-time Presbyterian member said to me after a Sunday service, “Bobby, our granddaughter who grew up here is marrying a Baptist — can you believe!? They seem to like this non-denominational church in the city. It’s not for us. But… you know what? We’re all Christians, after all.”

I nodded with a smile. “That’s right.”

We’re all children of God. I heard some version of this often. And I loved it. Wearing the large, contour-less clergy robe felt like its own declaration that all of our differences could be subsumed into one, spacious truth.

And, because I cherished this conviction about unity amid diversity, I did my absolute best to avoid sermons that touched down into the raw spaces of difference and division. No one comes to church to lose a limb.

The problem is that rips, breaks, and tears are continually happening in this world and in our lives. And while we can turn a blind eye and act like we don’t see what’s happening, it quickly becomes a form of avoidance. Escapism. Fear. Sometimes we choose to live there because - integrity aside - it just feels safer.

Inevitably, though, the searing pain of life, family, or society itself cries so loudly that it cannot be avoided.

—

On the late evening of December 3, 2014, I remember sitting in our living room in Richmond, Virginia and watching live video of massive crowds in New York City chanting with pain and passion the last words Eric Garner ever spoke, “I can’t breathe!” These were among the many protests breaking out around the country after a grand jury decided not to charge the New York City police officer whose chokehold killed Eric Garner.

Each gathering likewise shouted the same thing in unison over and over – echoing Garner’s final plea for help and turning it into a rallying cry on behalf of Black people around the country who have known systemic oppression and marginalization.

I looked away from the television screen and back to the sermon I was preparing for December 7 - just four days away. I had decided to tackle over-consumerism - that systemic villain annually seen quite clearly at Christmas. It was a sermon about Christmas lights and the Light of Love and remembering the reason for the season. A sermon, I’m confident, I would have forgotten about completely shortly after giving it.

I tried for a few moments to move it toward completion, but the television wouldn’t let me go.

What, I wondered, does a white pastor who serves a church in the capital of the former Confederacy have to say in this moment about the intersection of racism and law enforcement in America? Is there a Word from God amid the metaphorical and literal fires ablaze across the country?

But before I could begin to navigate those questions, the knots had already arrived.

I took a few deep breaths to regain focus, but the churn was relentless. I went for a walk. Even so, the unease within held strong.

I have a pretty good sermon already going. Do I have to give it up? Maybe I can add a brief section that speaks to what’s going on?

What I was experiencing was a form of heightened anxiety - one I had known from time to time, dating back to my teenage years. Those knots were and continue to be precisely how my body reacts when I find myself not just facing something of significant discomfort, but when a big part of me is trying to avoid going toward the discomfort.

Eventually on the evening of December 3, I embraced the fact that I needed an entirely new sermon. There could be no ‘small addition’ to part of the current sermon. The collective fervor, anger, and grief were so palpable that there was not a single person in the nation - let alone the congregation I served - who was not feeling the tremors. Anxiously, people were looking for leadership in and through a uniquely grievous reality of racism normally avoided entirely in predominantly white churches like the one I served.

I myself needed that leadership! And yet, I was the one called to wear the robe.

Which meant I needed to go directly toward this nation’s most fundamental wound that has sat gaping and real since its inception. And there’s no way to go toward something so tender, terrible, and layered as that without ripping, breaking, and tearing the polite sense of unity and connection that an old-fashioned Christmas sermon would surely have given. Limbs would be broken.

—

But also, limbs and bodies were already breaking in the streets.

And the lamentable truth is that it took deep, visceral, soul-searing cries of others for me to confront the gaping wound of our nation.

What I didn’t realize was how squarely this moment also had me face my own childhood wound - this acute desire to keep the peace, please everyone, and at all costs avoid a break. I hardly knew that was what was happening at the time, however.

What I did know was that my original sermon would no longer work. December 3, 2014 proved the first time I discarded an entire sermon and wrote a new one within just days of preaching.

Given all that has unfolded in our nation and the world since then, I ended up doing that very thing many more times. Massive events have shaken our collective emotional and spiritual core numerous times to such a degree that sticking with the Sunday plan would have been a deep betrayal of the moment. More, it would have betrayed the very real need that people have for someone to take up the robe and say something real into the impossible moment.

—

None of us shows up to our leadership moment as a blank slate. Our history shapes us deeply, the wounds most especially. Oftentimes, we are completely unaware of this. All we know is that we have certain convictions that matter a great deal to us:

Surely we can all get along.

Noble as that bridge-building impulse can be within me, it also masked a significant wound underneath - a wound that time and again has sought to avoid difficult conflict, topics, and pain at all costs. A wound, then, that - left unaddressed - would keep me from ever taking up the leadership robe so desperately needed.

Indeed, for me to truly take up the robe of leadership required that I let go of my desire to keep the peace I so cherished. The emotional and spiritual charge of the topic itself guaranteed I couldn’t hold onto it. It was, then, a profound unknown for me.

And, if you are facing an impossible moment and the knots within are real and the robe of leadership quite clearly sits before you, what you have is not, most fundamentally, a crisis — but an invitation.

Take it up, and you will heal. Yourself and those you lead.

—

By December of 2014 both of my parents had been happily remarried for some time, and I now had two step-sisters and two deeply caring step-parents (and eventual grandparents) because of it as well. Through their divorce and remarriages, my parents evolved into stronger, more joyful, and more peaceful people - gifts I could honestly have never imagined. In fact, I had thought they were pretty great in my childhood but, goodness, what a profound change through something so decidedly painful.

Perhaps they were far more courageous in navigating that divorce than my teenage self was able to see or admit.

Perhaps, too, their story was quietly whispering to me in that December moment:

The knots are an invitation.
Go toward the wound.
You won’t lose a limb.
You’ll gain your life.

I confess, however, standing in the pulpit on December 7, 2014, I heard no whispers. I shook.

The first Sunday that I showed up to help lead a traditional worship service with my robe on, I felt like a fraud. Sure, I had completed seminary, passed my ministerial exams, and been formally called to serve a particular congregation, but I still felt so small inside that massive robe. Who am I to wear this?

More, I didn’t like how distinct the black robe made me. Everybody else arrived on Sunday morning wearing regular clothes. I preferred the idea of showing up in khakis or blue jeans and a polo shirt. I just wanted to be one of the people. No better, no worse, just blending right in.

At social gatherings outside the church, I’d often introduce myself and then move quickly to ask the other person a question. And then another. And then maybe offer some commentary about what they were saying before asking yet another question. It was my way of delaying the moment when they would ask, “So what do you?”

For as long as possible, I wanted to remain normal because as soon as I would say, “I’m a pastor,” it felt like they saw a robe on me. They apologized for any foul language they may have used, and frequently they were far less sure what to talk about. At that point, I would double down on normal. I would talk sports. I would talk weather. I would talk The Office. Anything to suggest, Look, I’m like you!

The problem is this: at the end of the day, I was not, in fact, like those in my congregation. Not because I was extra holy, extra smart, or even a little extra good. Not at all. I was different because I held a unique leadership role – I was among the small cadre that the community had set apart to speak God’s Word. To preach, as they say.

This was a centrally important task every Sunday, but it became especially important on days and seasons when things got tough. Where people were dealing with really hard things. Sundays when the nation and even the world itself felt uniquely unmoored. Then – especially then – there was a deep need for me to don the robe and do what only a few of us had been called to do in that setting: speak a word of holy truth into the impossible reality.

That call was especially memorable for me on the following Sundays:

• The Sunday of the 10th anniversary of 9/11.

• The Sunday when nationwide protests were unfolding after the officer who killed Eric Garner was not charged with murder.

• The Sunday after Dylan Roof murdered nine members of Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, SC

• The Sunday after Donald Trump was elected President in 2016.

• The Sundays I preached my farewell sermons from congregations I loved.

• The Sunday when it became quite apparent we would not be meeting in-person for some time due to Covid-19.

• The Sunday after George Floyd was murdered.

• The Sunday after January 6th.

• · The Sunday after Russia invaded Ukraine.

• The Sunday after nineteen children were murdered in their classrooms in Uvalde, Texas.

• The Sunday after the Supreme Court struck down Roe v. Wade.

There was a heightened emotional tenor on these particular Sundays. A mix of anxiety, anger, grief, and deep uncertainty felt far more visceral than on most other Sundays. Which also meant that people gathered with a uniquely keen desire for a word from God. For direction. Answers. Comfort.

Someone had to speak.

Also, I should say plainly: not every impossibly challenging Sunday during my pastoral days is represented above. On some of those weeks, another pastor was scheduled to preach and so spoke into the moment. I was, on those Sundays, much more like one of the people in the pews. What I discovered is that this, too, is instructive: the robe does not fall on everyone at once. It falls on the one who has been called to carry it in that particular moment, in that particular room.

--

Today, it feels like most weeks every single year are like one of those Sundays.

Last year, I opened a keynote with 250 marketing professionals in higher ed with a simple question: “What’s one word that describes your week so far?” A woman raised her hand and said, “beleaguered,” and then the crowd let out an audible wave of ‘yeses’ and head nods.

It’s a word that literally means “surrounded or hemmed in by a military.” It conveys a sense of being trapped, overwhelmed, and feeling threatened in every direction. When I then wrote about this moment in my weekly newsletter the next week, I received numerous email responses all essentially saying, “Yes. Beleaguered names my reality, too.”

Constantly, our sense of national and global stability is under threat from the rapid growth of technology, the whims of world leaders, and the volatile animosity between any number of people groups and parties around the world. While we don’t know where things are headed, it frequently feels like tectonic plates are shifting beneath us. Old alliances are breaking. Once trustworthy brands are suspect. The market feels ever-jittery because we, ourselves, feel that way.

Then, of course, there are the massive challenges around the rise of AI’s undeniable impact intersecting with our epidemic of loneliness. In a time where fears around keeping or finding a job are acute given AI’s potential, few know where to turn for help. We’re isolated, lonely, and painfully realizing that our social fabric is threadbare compared to what it once was. This fact alone leaves us feeling especially exposed to the omnipresent threats. Beleaguered.

Can someone speak to such a moment? Provide direction? Comfort? Answers, even?

Historically, there is no shortage of people who step toward leadership in times of heightened anxiety. Instinctively, they recognize the vulnerability people feel, and they stoke that fear. Over and over, they sound the alarm about just how bad the surrounding ‘army’ is out there.

Those people.
That party.
Those monsters.

Their use of dehumanizing language is the most obvious sign that fear-stoking is their strategy for keeping and growing their following. For the larger and more ardent their following, the more easily they accumulate their ends without question. If it costs lives on the other side, so be it. That side was less-than-human anyway, goes the unspoken (and sometimes spoken) logic. And, sadly, leaders of this ilk arise in every generation of humankind.

While we may rightly critique this kind of leadership as morally repugnant and wrong, the very practical problem is this: it’s deeply attractive. To many, it feels like an answer. It feels like safety. It feels like someone who’s in control of all the chaos. Eventually, this kind of leadership feels overwhelming and inevitable as it commands the attention of major donors, major deals, and the major airways. Frequently, it also gains significant military strength.

There are, of course, other leaders who could emerge in such times. Big and small voices alike who name the truth in a different way. Leaders loathe to use fear as a motivating tool and far more inspired by the idea of what is possible through the likes of creative love, generosity, and mercy. But frequently, such leaders are deeply tempted to blend in.

This too shall pass.
Someone will step up soon enough.
This can’t go on forever.

Heather Cox Richardson notes that one of the key signs a society is on the brink of authoritarian takeover is this: most people say aloud or within themselves four simple words: “Someone will fix it.”

And so… quietly, reservedly, and anxiously we wait. Surely, another will take up the leadership robe for such a time as this. Surely, it cannot be only those who trade in fear, lies, and cover-ups. Surely, the pendulum will swing here shortly.

But…

What if the people who need to take up the robe are you and me?

What if the ones who most naturally say “Who am I to wear this robe?” are actually the ones this world needs most?

What if our days in jeans and polos are over?

For the next few months, I’ll be offering weekly pieces most especially for the person who is wondering Is this me?

The person who has oftentimes found it difficult to believe that the leadership robe was theirs to wear, but they also find that they can no longer justify handing it to someone else.

These pieces are for the person who today may or may not hold a formal leadership role, but they nevertheless recognize that authority is not bestowed upon position alone. They recognize most fundamentally that leadership is bestowed upon those called. Those inexplicably drawn. Those who feel a fire growing within and know they must speak, must lead… but how?

How to do it well?
How to do it wisely?
How to do it courageously?

If this is you, and these are your questions, I welcome you to this journey on which you do the simplest and most difficult thing in the world: take up the robe.

Below is a piece I wrote on January 29, 2021.

I was a pastor then, and I was reflecting on what it’s like to prepare a Suday sermon. Preachers will likely connect to some of this in a unique way, but any who have ever attempted most anything creative, challenging or meaningful will also likely hear something. Enjoy Bobby’s World from five years ago.

—

Sunday morning usually begins around 6 am, though it is not unheard of to begin at 430 or 5 am.

It is definitely not unheard of, actually, to see the first hour or two of Sunday. That midnight to 2 am time slot are prime hours for working and re-working the sermon that is to be preached just a few hours later.

All to say, it is fairly normal to have no more than 3-6 hours of sleep on Saturday night into Sunday morning. It is really quite exhausting, and I dislike it greatly. Plus, it almost guarantees that I will need to nap on Sunday afternoon and miss time with family.

Why not just finish the sermon earlier!? Get it together!

Trust me, I have tried.

I have successfully cleared entire Wednesdays of every last obligation.

“Today, I shall write the Sunday sermon!” I declare within as I take my seat before my MacBook. With my coffee to my left, my headphones situated just so upon my ears, and my calendar truly free - I let my fingers fall upon the keyboard. I offer a quiet prayer. “Lord, lead me.” Or “Lord, open me.” Or even. “Lord, help me.” And then I enter The Zone.

Ha! I wish.

I would not be writing this book if it was that easy to get to The Zone.

I’d be raking in the coaching bucks helping creatives of every stripe find their own four-part process for ensuring easy, regular, and full access to The Zone.

Could you imagine the musicians I could get to know if I could promise them a season pass the The Zone so they could make their next album!?
What about film writers?!
What premiers would I be granted access to?!

Since - after all - I was the one who first granted them access to The Holy Of Holies in which they wrote with depth and beauty. Unencumbered. For days on end.

If The Zone exists, it has a very long, meandering, and honestly rather dull entryway. I imagine my home state, Ohio, in the late fall.

The sky is gray every day. The grass is a dull, yellow-ish brown. The air is a dry, cold, and even a bit heavy on the lungs. Never take someone to Ohio in the month of November if you are hoping to convince them to move there. In every direction, it stretches with a gray, dull heaviness.

Most of my Wednesdays are spent in a land not unlike November in Ohio.

I begin by not tying at all.

Sure, I have read the Bible passage I am preaching on. I have looked at a commentary or two at this point. I have even said my prayer! (And preacher though I may be - it has not been beyond me to hope that my prayer would and even should serve as a kind of Sacred Season Pass into The Zone. God laughs….)

But again, nothing comes out.

Partially this is because I am not interested in relaying information about the passage. I am interested in saying something true. Something real. Something honest. Which is to say, I know I could write all kinds of theologically correct ideas. I could simply pass along various historical and contextual tidbits about the passage.

But I have come to find that this approach feels like a betrayal. I do not want to be preaching sermons if I cannot speak something true, real, and honest. Usually, then, this also means it must be vulnerable at some level because I cannot preach something that is not true, real, and honest for me.

Have you ever searched out something true, real, and honest?

I assure you, such beauty is not easily identifiable when standing in yellow-brown grass under a gray sky. In such a setting, every idea seems lacking or off-course. The truth is I have spent upwards of 5 or 6 hours in one single coffee shop on an appointment-free Wednesday only to leave with almost no progress on my sermon.

I have a Word document filled with commentary notes and a half dozen attempts at an introduction. Those attempts are basically an array of promising stories or metaphors that may have something true, real, and honest to commend, but at the moment they remain so partial and doubtful that they go nowhere.

It bothers me a great deal that wide-open Wednesdays have failed me time and again.

In fact, it has bothered me so much that I have actually spent good money to fix this problem. On two occasions in my preaching career I have hired a coach, and in both instances I asked them to help me formulate a plan for finishing my sermon by Thursday of the week I would be preaching.

“I’m stuck in gray-sky Ohio for far too long each week. Can you get me to the springtime by Thursday?”

Both coaches did a great job helping me craft a plan.

The best plan that we crafted involved me finding people to listen to a completed sermon on Thursday. In other words, I needed to build in some kind of accountability to where people would expect to hear the final product on Thursday - and not Sunday.

So, I asked the church’s Office Manager if she might be willing to listen to my sermon on Thursdays at 11am. I also asked the church’s Thursday office volunteer if she might be up for doing the same.

Both agreed to try it - once.

And guess what? It worked! The flourish of spring beauty rising forth on a Thursday was resurrection to my soul! My goodness - what shall I do with a Friday and Saturday suddenly free from the entrenched gray skies of that eternal entryway?!

The two of them agreed we could try again, but surprise, surprise - I wiggled my way out. That next week I just didn’t have anything quite ready for Thursday. Nor the following one either.

And with both of my coaches, I ran out of money to continue, and so the pressure they provided also ceased.

But, Bobby, you are self-sabotaging!? You don’t need coaches! Did not you taste and see the glorious gift of springtime on Thursday!?

To which I respond with my own questions:

Filmmakers - what helps you actually finish your work?
Artists - yours?
Writers - yours?

And I wonder if our answers are not all exactly the same: the hard, firm, unyielding deadline.

That is surely the most uninspiring and unholy reason anyone could give for how my sermons actually come together.

We would like to think sermons come together out of a deep sense of gratitude for the gift of preaching God has given us as pastors. Or out of an unquenchable desire to speak of God’s holy and good word. Or even just out of a desire to be faithful to our calling week in and week out. I don’t know that that isn’t there for me.

But if I’m honest - and I really am trying to speak only an honest word - it is the pressure of the Sunday deadline that brings forth the sermon.

And I find that I usually need fairly acute and painful pressure to be exerted upon me before some kind of diamond emerges. Which is to say, I find that I often need wait until the very last minute in order to feel the kind of pressure that kickstarts a heightened sense of urgency and willingness to explore.

And the thing is this: it’s not that the pressure somehow squeezes me out of Ohio in November and into a glowing green of Huntington Gardens in Pasadena, CA. I wish!

We spent four lovely years living but a mile from those Gardens, and if that were the continual terrain upon which my creativity could trod, perhaps the issue would not be finding something true, real, and honest to say, but simply picking one for the moment! But again, the pressure of the deadline does not change the scenery one iota.

What it does is force me to start picking up every single dull rock lain sullenly upon the brownish-yellow grass. “Anything under here? What about this one?”

One at a time.
Rock after rock.
And also the grass itself.

The pressure will have you ripping at grass that is obviously ugly, done, and dead - but what if there is a green blade in here!”

It’s foolishness. The preacher knows better. But again, the pressure releases a furious energy within and you cannot help but keep tying idea after idea, trying this route and then that route. Just. Keep. Going.

And then…

(And this is what the joy of preaching is about)

After picking up dozens of rocks and tearing away at dead grass for something true, real, and honest…you find this slice of green lying low in thin in the underbrush.

How in the world is this here! In Ohio! In November!

But yes, there is the whispy, delicate end of a vine.

You have no idea how long or thick the vine might be. You really have no idea in which direction it might wind. But at a level still deeper than words, you sense that this vine and words of Scripture you have been tasked to declare have an organic connection. And if you can just let this vine lead you, it will wrap around the word and the words will wrap around it, and two shall become one.

One time the end of the vine was a fleeting, vague memory about the 5th grade drum section always speeding up the songs.

Another time it was the experience of watching The Pirates of Penzance in a small, Chicago theater where theater-goers were allowed to take seats on the stage itself.

Still another end was the simple advice my physical therapist once gave about how muscles work.

Yet another was a time two or three months into our marriage when I poured myself a glass of water before dinner without asking if Michelle might also want a glass of water.

It really is hard to express just how profoundly ordinary these moments are.

Rocks - all of them!
Dead grass lying fallow in the past - all of them!

But somehow the pressure of the looming deadline forces the eye to explore so vigorously that eventually what was surely lifeless is actually a green thread - and if you pull on it, it has great strength!

Have you ever pulled a vine from the ground?

It will rise with your force, but it will not break so easily. It invites, instead, that you keep pulling if you want to find the root. And so you pull and you pull. You find this vine is embedded snugly just below the surface. It has wound around roots and trunks. And the longer you chase it, the thicker it gets.

How rich with life! How strong! How lithe!

The great themes of Faith, Hope, and Love (and more!) reside deep in the hearty sinews. The whole of it will wind and wind until finally you are holding a few feet of ample, dirt-caked Green.

Granted, the sky is still an alloy gray with ominous clouds wafting. The air remains weighty. Winter is surely peaking just around the corner. But also this vine right below the surface of it all!?

And all you know is that you have to share this. To show this. The words of Scripture wrap around it and it around the words.

There is The Zone.

—

There is no such thing as an eternal springtime of the soul in which creativity prances along plucking that which is true, real, and honest over and over with delightful ease.

Or, if there is any kind of Zone at all, it unfolds by way of whatever panicked, helpless feeling that descends upon the soul when the pressure is painfully acute. For some, the pressure comes by way of a diagnosis. Impending death is pressure.

For others, it comes by way of a threat or ultimatum.

Some can hire coaches to bring about the squeeze.

Many like myself need the deadline. We need the very real weight of others’ expectations. The painful squeeze we sense growing all-the-worse should we fail. It is so vain, such thoughts. So selfish, such motivation.

But I am telling you - there is simply nothing like acute and significant pressure to force one to find that Sunday vine. And, a dozen-plus years into this whole thing, I continue to find there is always at least one (and usually only one, actually) in that expansive yellowish-brown.

I suspect if you're reading this on a Saturday evening, I’m somewhere right this very moment tugging on that vine. The pressure finally forced my hands to get dirty and try anything.

If you are reading this very early on a Sunday morning, I have a delightful mix of caffeine and joy as I trace the widest parts of the vine under the looming pressure of the worship hour.

If you are reading this at 8:17 am CST, then I am 13 minutes from ‘go time’ and you better believe I am still threading that vine back and forth through my heart looking for one more twist, bend, or even flower I had not noticed but might texture the whole thing that much more.

For reasons still unclear to me, I ended up dropping the iron weight into its spot at an angle that also managed to pinch a significant portion of my ring finger.

“Ah!” I yelled to no one.

I knew in an instant that, at the very least, my fingernail was going to be black and blue by the next day (it was).

Because iron is an unforgiving substance, no?

There’s a reason we have phrases like…

Rule with an iron fist.
Iron sharpens iron.
That’s an ironclad agreement.

We are making clear just how unyielding, unbreakable, and relentlessly strong something is.

—

It is striking how often Jesus speaks of the elemental aspects of the world.

His teaching is never ethereal.
Nor does it require multiple degrees to understand. Or any degrees, really.

You are the salt of the world.
You are the light of the world.
Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.

Salt.
Light.
Water.

The simple elements that, at their core, are ways of helping us understand what it looks like when Love gets to work in this world.

SALT

Salt is small. It’s humble. It is so easy to overlook yet, goodness, you ever fogotten salt on your meal? You know immediately when it’s missing.

Beacuse salt is what brings out all the flavor.
Salt takes what is dry, dead, and dull and draws forth goodness, nourishment, and even delight.

Jesus-like salt happens anytime people live in the way of love.

It’s usually small. It’s humble. It is so easy to overlook yet, goodness, you ever seen a family gathering, a community, or even a whole society forget love? You know immediately when it’s missing.

Thank goodness for the quiet ways salt persists and draws forth from impossible terrain goodness, nourishment, and even delight.

Like the Vietnamese Buddhist monks currently walking 2300 miles across the country through rain, snow, and ice storms alike as a collective witness to another way to journey the terrain. Another kind of possibility. In a sentiment, a way of peace.

LIGHT

Even the smallest modicum of light transforms a dark room. Honestly, a sliver of sun creasing through the bottom of a doorway is more than enough to signal the promise of an entirely different reality at hand.

Jesus-like light happens anytime people live in the way of love.

It’s usually small. It’s humble. But goodness, have you ever witnessed even the smallest act of genuine care, truth-telling, or sacrifice? Is not that sliver of the Real Thing more than enough to signal to everyone in the room that there really is an entirely different reality at hand?

Thank goodness for the quiet ways light shines in the darkness.

Like the Minnesota neighbors in recent days using camera phones to shine light upon propaganda and providing in-home classes for children afraid to show up to school and delivering formula and diapers for families fearful to step from their homes.

WATER

Water is made known in tiny drops and massive waves. Achingly small puddles and impossibly deep oceans. We ourselves are mostly made of water.

It’s everywhere, and yet it always captivates us most when it’s Moving. Winding. Racing.

Carrying and shaping at once.
Relentless and inviting at once.
Sustaining life both within and without its body.

Jesus-like water happens anytime love is put into motion.

Such water is potent in every corner of creation, but it always captivates us most when it picks up speed and begins both carrying and shaping, pressing and inviting, nourishing alike those on the inside and those on the outside.

Thank goodness for the quiet ways water persists.

Like the leaders who - for all their profound anger and frustration and desire to make a better future - refuse to dehumanize those around them when it all becomes near-impossible even as they also refuse to lose sight of their calling unto the ones who have no voice. At once, they both carry the weight of civil leadership even as they shape a deeply humane vision of leadership.

IRON

Like us, Jesus lived in a time of ironclad ways and assumptions about how the world works, whose right, and who wins.

And Jesus never went straight to the Ironclad Emperor on Ironclad terms.
Sword to Sword.
Shield to Shield.
Strength to Strength.

Rather, he unleashed Salt.
And Light.
And Water.1

In the short-term, iron swords, iron laws, and iron pride likely laughed. They have long known how even a brief encounter with but a few pounds of their raw power will leave a notable mark.

Sometimes the iron encounter is made known externally via militarized might, money, and intimidation.

Sometimes the iron encounter is made known internally via the prison bars of resentment, regret, and fear that hold us - and that we assume will hold us all our days because, of course, did you see what the bars are made of?

And sometimes it’s an awful mix of ironclad outer realities and ironclad inner realities and it all feels incredibly… heavy.

But goodness…

You ever seen what steady Salt, Light, and Water eventually do to iron?

Rust.
Corrosion.
In time… the flaky remnants of the once-defiant iron drift away.

Each flake falling unto the soft soil of a new spring.

Which really is Love’s final gotcha.

Because it’s not only the fact that easily-overlooked Salt, Light, and Water ultimately prove far more powerful than the iron-strong laws, ways, and assumptions touted as unbreakable by each generation.

It’s that this Elemental Trinity is so powerful that they take the impossible iron itself and - with a grace that arrives like a massive dumbbell dropped straight onto the heart of our moral sensibilities - plant said iron right into the eternal story.

As essential nourishment and beauty for the New Season.

—

This is the real world.
Governed by the elements of Love.

The Apostles’ Creed (“I believe in God the Father Almighty…”)
The Words of Institution at the Communion (“On the night that Jesus was betrayed, he took bread, and giving thanks, he broke it…")
The Lord’s Prayer (“Our Father who art in heaven…”)

Why these parts?

Because they are the parts that have been there since the beginning. The ones we hear in childhood over and over again if we are raised in the church. The ones we should know waking or sleeping and everywhere in between.

They are fundamental DNA to the faith. So how could a minister possibly mess up on this part?!

The unspoken expectation of perfect, polished, and strong leadership around these parts made me anxious.

One time, the anxiety got to me.

Halfway through the Lord’s Prayer my mind went blank, my throat tightened, and I could no longer find the words for the prayer that I was leading alongside the congregation.

Fortunately, they kept going as my voice stumbled and went silent over the microphone.

But you better believe they let me know about at the door after worship. Mostly, it was good-natured ribbing. Even so, it was clear that that would be the primary thing remembered on that Sunday.

Can you believe the minister forgot the Lord’s Prayer!?

That same conversation, it seems, is in full force once more this very day.

You noticed this?

Perhaps it would be helpful to step back and remember the prayer itself as a way of illuminating the nature of our forgetfulness these days.

—

The Prayer begins with a stunning word for our times:

Our…

Because the Prayer is fundamentally communal. It transcends denominational, theological, ethnic, and geographic differences. There is no us/them. It’s a “we’re all in this together” prayer.

—

Then Father.

Not because God is masculine by nature. Indeed, plenty of Scripture envision God as a female caregiver. Others as an animal or a rock or a lighthouse. And still others, yes, a father.

The point of ‘Father’ is to name clearly God’s relationality. We are connected as family to this God. It’s a relational faith.

Which then also makes clear it is not a faith built upon abstractions, ideologies, or flag-waving in the right direction. It’s a relational encounter - both with God and with the body of God on earth.

—

Who art in Heaven…

A way of acknowledging that the God to whom we pray resides both quite near and quite far.

Heaven is the space where the fullness of God’s way unfolds in beauty, goodness, and justice.

What does that mean, practically?

This is where Jesus helps us quite a bit. On his time on earth, he made clear heaven is when…

• Outcasts are welcomed

• Mercy triumphs over judgment

• Forgiveness melts finger-pointing

• Grace vanquishes the weight of shame

• The lion and the lamb lie down together

• The last is made first… and the first last

• The poor, the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner are given special attention and care

• A Roman officer is praised for his profound faith

• The lost are found and given a party and even the bitterly self-righteous have a warm, standing invitation to join the party

Among other things.

Seen heaven recently?

—

Hallowed be Thy Name

A line that is far less about somehow making God’s name holy, and it is especially not about forcing ourselves and others to say it rightly or post it rightly on social media, a courthouse, a classroom otherwise.

Instead, it is far more about recognizing and reflecting the holiness of that Name in our lives and the world.

It’s like wearing a particular uniform, having a certain job title, or having a certain last name - and desiring to live up to the highest-and-best of that uniform, title, or name.

You’re an officer, now act like one the exhortation used to go when I was a young lieutenant in the Army. Heeding this exhortation would be how one would hallow the rank.

Thus, when we pray “Hallowed be Thy name,” we’re asking that our lives be living reflections of God’s goodness.

—

Thy Kingdom Come on Earth as it is in Heaven…

Here we name that the crux of the Christian faith has nothing to do with escaping from the mess of this world or somehow attaining to an ethereal place in the confines of a remote community or a heavenly perfection in the Great Beyond.

Just get me out of here!

No, quite the opposite.

At the center of this universal prayer is an urgent petition for God’s kingdom (see above on what that looks like) to land clearly, fully, and inescapably right here in the midst of the mess we call earth.

Right here. Right now.

In that.
Over there.
In them.
In us.

—

Give us This Day our Daily Bread…

Another petition making clear our humble, ongoing need for God.

There are no self-made people. There is, instead, a recognition that everything from our first breath to the gifts we employ for our livelihood to our breath eternal - it’s all a gift.

Centrally, this includes our daily bodily welfare and all varieties of manna that tend to that.

And, notably, this part of the prayer does not ask for more than we could possibly need or want. It casts anxiety-induced hoarding aside, ever-trusting for daily provision from God and/or God’s body on earth.

—

And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors…

Some use trespass language here. Some sin. All of it can feel a bit vague at times, even for those who pray it regularly.

Even so, the bottom line is that we recognize we have failed God and others. And others have failed us.

Repeatedly, egregiously, and concretely.

And the only way unto new freedom, joy, and love is not stuffing it down.
Or acting with vengeance.
Or pummeling oneself or the offenders or both.

Quite the opposite, the singular and on-going path forward is forgiveness.

Notably, there is a symbiotic relationship between our forgiving and being forgiven.

Indeed…

You want to know the degree to which you have experienced the depth and goodness of real forgiveness?

Note the degree to which you have forgiven others.

This part of the petition also makes clear that the Prayer’s opening “our reality” remains fundamental - and that our shared, collective, in-this-together reality is held, healed, and even strengthened unto greater joy via the singular practice of forgiveness.

Not pure action.
Not right convictions.
Rather, forgiveness… that is our glue.

—

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Once again, not a prayer to escape or avoid pain. Nor a prayer seeking to find an easier, faster, or more efficient way.

Rather, it is a prayer to remain faithful to the narrow way of Love come what arrows may sling.

Notably, the temptations from which we seek to be delivered are rarely the big, ugly ones that are easy to spot a mile away.

Reflecting on this portion of the prayer, the late Eugene Peterson writes, “Temptation is… more often a subtle shift toward autonomy, a forgetting that we live by every word that comes from God.”

Which is to say, the great temptation involves a ‘can-do’ spirit that believes its intellectual ascendency, AI-powered genius, military prowess, and old-fashioned grit will make sure the right things/our preferences happen.

Oppositely, the prayer leans into a profound-and-humble dependency on the power of God - a power known most practically and substantially on this earth whenever and wherever Love is made known in action.1

—

For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

The prayer now ends not in exhaustion, quietude, or fresh resolve to do more… but in praise.

An honoring of the fact that when we take stock of all of our lives, the headlines, and this world…

… all that is right, good, and worthy has to do with God’s realm.

…all that is truly right, good, and worthy will be accomplished via the singular power of God aka Love.

… all that is truly right, good, and worthy will be accomplished in a way that makes God’s joyful, generous, and truth-saturated character shine all-the-more clearly.

It is striking and humbling to recognize that the ultimate end is not found in being right, strong, or better… but in awe. Praise. A sublime goodness where words alone fail and so music is a must.

Glimpsed awe recently?

—

Why take the time to unpack the Lord’s Prayer?

Because, quite frankly, a lot of us have forgotten it.

Not the words.

The substance. The aim. The practice.

Indeed, this very day, we have far too many leaders regularly espousing the Christian faith in word and imagery in speeches, attire, and social media and yet…

… dehumanizing individuals and entire people groups with callous, dismissive, and belligerent language.

… harnessing rhetoric to create strong us/them, good/bad dichotomies that are both false and dangerous.

… consolidating power and lording it powerfully, cruelly, and unjustly over others within and beyond our borders.

… acting in an on-going spirit of vindictiveness.

… tearing families and communities apart with indiscriminate cruelty while playing loose with due process.

… pinning blame continually on the other side with no sense of introspection, humility, or self-confession.

… weilding the power of the courts routinely with little or no thought to forgiveness, or true justice.

… brazenly seeking self-aggrandizing glory.

… accumulating stunning wealth while dismissing the rising and debilitating costs that the vast majority of people are facing.

… telling lies and made-up facts with constant ease and regularity.

… posting videos glorifying military prowess while praying the Lord’s Prayer.

—

And this list feels quite incomplete.

Because President Donald Trump and his administration’s assault on the basic aim, hope, and practice of the Lord’s Prayer is daily, thorough, and loud.

To be sure, I do not name these things without putting myself under judgment.

I have failed to live into and up to the Prayer’s aspirations every single day.

I have found loving my enemies to be profoundly difficult - and some days I don’t even know how that can unfold once a deep anger takes hold. It’s humbling.

More, I recognize that while I may not have the power or position to seek the precise forms of fame and wealth that those in political power are prone to seek - I do know those impulses quite well within myself and cannot escape knowing myself as one who all-too-easily accumulates, forgets my neighbor, seeks aggrandizement, and dismisses those who appear to be of no help to me.

As well, I do not for a moment think that Democrats, Independents, or other people and parties around the world are somehow without significant failings of their own - some of which are named above.

This is not an easy us/them thing.

In fact, it is critical to note that matter how we name the most challenging offenders (enemies?) among us - we must name quite quickly that as people of faith those are precisely the ones we are called - of all things - to love. For the moment we name-and-claim our obvious superiority is the moment we ourselves begin to dehumanize the “lesser” people around us… and our soul unfurls in the direction we once decried.

None of this is easy.

Rather, this piece simply recognizes that in times of heightened crisis, confusion, and chaos, there is a deep need not for something new and novel, but a collective remembering of something ancient, anchoring, and true.

Like the Lord’s Prayer.

I shake my head when I look back at the anxiety I experienced in trying to ensure the sacred words were said with complete polish each Sunday.

It all feels small and distant.

Today, the old anxiety has morphed into an urgency.

An urgency not to forget the heart of the prayer.

An urgency to recover the clear truth of the prayer.

An urgency mostly to live the actual substance of the prayer with deep courage - even with very little clarity about…

… the contours of the road ahead,
… how long it shall go,
… or what it may yet cost.

Of course, such unknowns have always been central to the path true Love always takes.

Which means that if we step in this direction, we hardly step alone.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me.

Talk about total and complete efficiency!

And who doesn’t want more of that?

Indeed, a significant part of the AI fascination centers on the promise of warp-speed efficiencies.

To what end?

Early in my family’s travel to Japan this past December I ordered an ice cream cone and began walking until…

…10 steps later I saw this sign above.

I had forgotten – nobody in Japan eats while walking. There is no such thing as eating on the go.

Even if you buy ice cream from a small vendor where there are no tables – the expectation is that you remain standing next to that vendor.

And you eat there.

Because food there is not merely calories unto (yet more) capacity.

It is a gift to be received. Respected.

Indeed, in Japan the very process of eating is endowed with great honor – and the presentation of the food itself makes that clear everywhere you go:

(No such thing as a mere “matcha tea latté.” There, it arrives beautifully presented.)

All of it was quite lovely and inspiring on one level. But if I’m honest, I initially found myself irritated every time we purchased a small snack or an ice cream cone because I really did not like having to slow to a complete stop.

There were so many sites to see and things to do in such a short time… we don’t have time to slow down!

“Bigger bites,” I urged our youngest during one of our motionless eating stops.

He did not oblige.

Which was wise, ultimately.

(Yep. We just stood there while they worked those behemoths of sugar all the way down)

Because every single time we ate our snacks in 10 minutes of utter inefficiency, things still happened.

New observations were made.
Fresh giggles arose from our two boys.
Insights about the most recent site we visited gained new clarity.

Time itself took on a deeper quality.
A richer quality.
A uniquely human quality, actually.

—

As you continue stepping into 2026, complete with your fresh resolve to do better, do more, and do it regularly…

… what if you worried less about ‘better,’ ‘more’, or ‘regularly’ and instead went with this:

Present.

Present with your meal (and the company).
Present with your workout.
Present with your walk.
Present with your work.
Present with your freshly named-and-claimed priorities.

And…

What if many of your better, more, and regular aspirations end up happening for you anyway this year?

How in the world could slowing down actually speed things up, Bobby!?

On our third day in Tokyo, we arrived to the train platform at 3:45pm for a 4:01pm bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto. We were boarding by 3:56pm, and the train began moving at precisely 4:01pm. We then hit speeds of 177 mph for the two-hour ride.

For those who want, need, and love stunning levels of on-time efficiency and speed, Japan is heaven. Their trains are an absolute marvel.

And… they are also acquainted with the gift of completely inefficient spaces that honor what makes us wonderfully and uniquely human.

And I, for one, cannot help but sense that there is a direct correlation between the deep humanity they collectively practice and the significant technological speeds they collectively reach.

Almost as if our highest-and-best toward the goals we most desire is achieved not by turning ourselves into 24/7 efficiency machines, but instead by allowing ourselves to be wonderfully…

present,
grateful,
observant,
creative,
connected,
humans.

We were looking at buying a used fridge on Facebook Marketplace– a solid arena for second-hand purchases but also a place with plenty of scams to watch for.

“Ok…” she said as her eyebrows raised, not fully agreeing or disagreeing with me. More like, “This one is in your court.”

And so I kept messaging with this guy who had a decent fridge at a decent price.

How old is it?
Any issues?
What model?

The answers came back via replies that felt legit. He even added the price included delivery and getting the fridge installed in our house.

That’s a good deal, I thought.

When can I see it? I messaged.

We worked out a Wednesday evening after he got off work.

That Wednesday evening I drove to a UHaul storage facility located in a rougher part of town – the location of the fridge.

As I turned into the parking lot, a new message came through my phone: I’m by the loading docks behind the building.

In the movies, this is the scene where the bad thing happens.

In real life, I took my car in that direction, parked, and saw a young man in his late 20s or early 30s with a kind smile emerge from the docks.

“Hello. I’m Jorge.”

“Bobby,” I smiled as I shook his hand as he began leading me over to the storage unit with the fridge.

“I’m sorry my English is not good, but I am working on it,” he then added.

“Actually, it’s quite good,” I replied, surprised he couldn’t hear how clear it really was. “How do you practice?”

“Mainly Duolingo on my phone. On work breaks and stuff,” he replied.

“Wow,” I replied, impressed. “How long have you been doing that?”

“Six years. Ever since I first arrived to Chicago.”

He went on to share that he works for a company that’s in the midst of upgrading a bunch of condos. He’s helping his boss sell various appliances that had been in the condos, including the fridge I was looking to purchase. “He’s letting me keep a percentage of whatever I can sell – and I’m saving it so I can one day send my son to see my home.”

He then took out his phone and showed me the deep green mountains of his home in Mexico, including a photo of his neighborhood. It had the same muted majesty of the Pacific Northwest.

“And how old is your son?”

“He’s 18 months,” Jorge replied as he flipped quickly to a couple sweet photos of his son.

The conversation then paused for a couple of minutes as Jorge brought out the fridge from storage, plugged it into a hallway outlet, and made clear that it was in good working order.

We then agreed that Friday night after he got off work would be a good time to deliver it.

“What do I owe you to hold this?”

“No money,” he said. “I trust you. You can pay once it’s delivered and working in your house.”

As we then began walking back toward the loading docks, the hum of the U-Haul lights filling the silence, Jorge’s story about coming to the United States six years ago began to surface. Unprompted. More like how rivers move because they can’t do otherwise.

“We would only walk between sundown and sunrise. For 56 days…” he trailed off.

“It was six of us,” he soon resumed. “And one time had lost cell service for a long stretch and had no way to know where we were. Plus, we were really tired. The rest of the group said we needed to turn back. I disagreed and said we had gone this far – we had to keep going.”

“So,” he continued. “They started back and I went forward. And then five minutes later I saw my phone found cell service, and my map was working.”

The group, he explained, saw him waving and yelling wildly, and started toward him. “I told them I had cell service, and so they joined with me,” he smiled.

“Then,” he added, “later that night it began to snow. It was beautiful…and it was terrible. By the middle of the night we were trudging through snow up to here,” and his hand moved to a spot a few inches above his ankle.

“At one point someone said we should stop, but I knew inside that if I stopped I’d never start going again…” and then Jorge paused.

His eyes looked up and went wherever they go when one thinks back to a time when they genuinely wondered Is this it?

“When the sun began rising, we found an area to sleep under a tree. And the youngest among us started to hallucinate. He was a teenager, and he was saying crazy things. I reached into my pocket, and I had one chocolate left. I put it in his mouth… and he started to settle.”

Jorge looked down.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done…” and then his face reddened and tears fell.

From both our faces.

“I don’t know why I am telling you this,” Jorge then said, sheepishly. “I don’t…” and he stopped. His heart too full for words, his hand now extended toward me.

I took his hand.

And then hugged him, backed away, and put my hand on my heart and said, “Jorge, I’m honored. Your courage, your kindness, your strength… I’m honored.”

I then turned toward my car parked under the dark shadows cutting the lot.

—

What a gift to have a fridge faithfully storing on-demand abundance.

Heavy, sleek, and quiet – it holds the weight of our daily nourishment. And more.

Our bodies give thanks.

Our souls, however, can gain no nourishment there.

Wild and rugged by nature, the soul gains nothing from that which is solid, safe, and secure.

The soul grows only insofar as it is exposed to the elements.

• It grows in the space where you must risk losing your home… to find your home.

• It grows in the space where you must discover movement in the very terrain that may prove the last you walk.

• It grows in the space where your final morsel invites not clutching but kindness.

• It grows in the space where you decide the possibility of connection and healing is worth the risk of exposure.

--

If this day we lament the empty soul of our organization,
the tired soul of our community,
the torn soul of our nation,
or perhaps the malnourished soul within…

… it is understandable, no doubt, the inclination to reach for fridge food and ingest a momentary salve.

But also…

… what if the emptiness, the tiredness, the torn-ness, the aching malnourishment is, in fact, an invitation?

What if all the soul-suffering before you this moment is an invitation to step toward an unknown that has been nudging?
Beckoning?
Calling?

And if that is too wild a thought for this moment…

What if you took a few moments to remember those in your lineage who braved unknown terrain for a better future?

(Close your eyes. Can you feel their pride?)

And give thanks for their courage before borders unknown.

Perhaps invite them to draw you forward.

And, also, we need not look only to those who have gone before us.

Because I promise you that this very day all over this country…

…behind Facebook Marketplace posts and

….beside UHaul storage docks and

…within the early framing of new condos going up on Main Street…

…there are lives pulsing with more soul than any single church, denomination, or faith community could ever hold.

Meet them.

Let yourself feel the honor of standing before such a gift.

And receive afresh the sacred nutrients that always arrive when we step beyond ourselves.

Some days it was pretty boring - obvious that the instructor’s job was to get through military-mandated slides by reading them verbatim and thus ‘ensuring’ the content had been transmitted to us chaplains-in-training.

Other times it was riotously fun. Some instructors reveled in bringing their full sense of humor to the training. And since most of them were chaplains full of grace, this was a beautiful thing to experience.

Then some days were heavy, none more so than the day an instructor arrived to train us on the psychology of killing and then, alongside a Senior Chaplain, have us unpack the ethics of life, death, and killing.

Most of the details of this particular training have faded from my memory these twenty years later.

I have not, however, forgotten how uniquely somber everyone became for this particular one.

As well, I have not forgotten one of the central points the instructor made that day: “Killing is not natural for the vast majority of the population,” he said. “And that’s a good thing.”

“And,” he went on when explaining what has to happen to train a military for armed conflict. “The only way to change that is to train a person to see the enemy as less-than-human.”

He then took us through a series of slides showing us the various names used by warring nations toward one another in the past 100 years.

Rats.
Monkeys.
Snakes.
Roaches.
Other names, too, that were not animals but decidedly sub-human.

“You have to find a way not to see them as human,” he underscored. “It’s the only way to train a normal person to kill.”

My stomach felt queasy.

Logically, I had long understood how grave injustice may call forth an armed response.

But my body was having none of it.

I felt myself looking to throw it all up, and I recalled having the same feeling when I watched Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan six years before this moment.

The opening half hour of that movie is a stark recounting of the D-Day invasion - and no matter how heroic and necessary we now understand that day, the film also made clear that the lived truth was a terrifying, disorienting, and grievous thing.

Eventually, my attention circled back to the training, now with a muted sadness anchoring below my attentive posture.

I didn’t have words to articulate the source of my sadness, but years later I realized it was because the reflections around sub-human language stood in such significant contrast to the training I’d received the previous two decades of my life.

For two decades, the church had trained me formally and informally, in theory and in practice about one of the most singular and foundational truths in the entire faith: how to think about humans.

And the bottom line was this: We are made in the image of God. Acutally, we are made in the image of a supremely good, creative, and loving God (a significant step of faith for many, I readily understand).

Which is to say, every single human being bears the very stamp, presence, and light of a good God - however much stress or sin or evil or all of them at once may cover over, inhibit, or infect the goodness of that image.

And if God is, by definition, infinite in God’s layers, ways, and love… then so, too, does each human being have infinite layers, ways, and even love somewhere, somehow within.

Another way to put it?

If every person somehow reflects the very likeness of an infinitely complex and love-without-bounds God, it would be impossible to characterize or even talk about another person as just…
One thing.
One failure.
One problem.
One side.
It would be especially impossible to talk about another human as an animal. Or less.

Such discourse would painfully betray the heart of the entire foundation.1

Talking so plainly about the ways humans have flattened other humans into one-dimensional animals - this was the source of my sadness that day.

And it has become a recurring sadness in recent years.

For on my best days, I believe deeply in the difficult and joyful truth that every person I see, encounter, avoid or otherwise is made in the image of God.

What possibility exists in them!?
What surprise is just beneath their surface!?
What new brilliance might soon emerge!?

And at very same time, I feel like that posture is entirely unpalatable to more and more people every day.

Animal language has readily become our taste these days. Indeed, I myself cannot avoid terrible thoughts about those whose ways can be so nakedly cruel.

And now, of course, recent events make clear we are in open season toward the animals in our midst.

Delicious, too, I sense is the taste of such a season for those who hunt from a place of righteousness and truth. (And who among us does not believe they come from that place?)

How does such a season end?

I can say this much.

As both a long-time pastor and a chaplain, I was given the privilege of getting to know a lot of veterans up close over the years.

And while many around them lauded and celebrated their service, I assure you a good number of them carried a painful and occasionally debilitating weight - sometimes numbed by alcohol, sometimes avoided through busyness, sometimes processed via counseling and forgiveness and reconciliation.

Sometimes all of the above.

And nearly always, the weight they carried related in real measure to what they had seen or done in a setting that arose because too many people could or would only see one another as animals.

The weight they carried, I often felt, was an invitation to future generations that goes something like this: If at all possible, try another way.

To be sure, sermonic reflections about Imago Dei theology surely pale before today’s moment.

And honestly, even the most ardently impassioned, courageous, and well-meaning responses of our time continue to fall flat. The fear, anger, and hunting have us deeply intoxicated. As my friend recently and powerfully lamented, our intoxication has become an addiction, which is as painful as it gets.

Even so, I can say this to people of faith:

We do not choose the times into which we are born.

And so the truth remains: there is no better time than now to step by faith than today.

For the local, lived, neighborhood-and-workplace level remains the single best place to begin (again and again) seeing those around us as made in the image of God.

Most especially those we might call them, or enemy, or any number of sub-human descriptors.

For the scandal at the heart of our faith is this: we follow an enemy-loving God who died for the enemies who did their animal-worst upon this God.

This God even called them - called us - children of God.

And if we’re saying ourselves, Ok, very practically, how then shall we step in the way of this enemy-loving God?

Try these three steps:

1. Pray: (deep breath) Jesus, help me to see this person as you see this person.

You might wisely add… and help me see myself as You see me.

(It is difficult to give what you have not received.)

2. Move: Then speak, act, and pray toward them in light of that prayer. Individually and corporately.

3. Let Go: The timelines around success and failure are not in our hands. Faithfulness unto the narrow way of love. That is the call. That is all. That is everything.

Such love may open in the form of…

Patient love.
Angry love.
Grief-filled love.
Forgiving love.
Need-some-space love.
Reconciling love.
Justice-seeking love.
Vulnerable love.
Truth-telling love.
Creative love.
Confessing love.
Tough love.
Tender love.
Senseless love.
Shocking love.

But one way or another, love is the path.

For it is love and love alone that has, does, and will always be the singular thing that restores the sacred image in them.

And us.

—

The crowd of voices was not far from me.

I could hear them even if I couldn’t see them.

All I could see was the mix of red-and-black foliage that lay above me as I scooted along by my back underneath its canopy. I knew that if I could just steer my body toward the voices, I wouldn’t get lost. And I’d have a better chance of not being caught by AI, the ambiguous but very real enemy somehow on the hunt.

Each time I steered toward the crowd of voices, however, I found it was not enough. I never could get my body fully toward the crowd - a group that included my own family.

Eventually, I arrived to a portal-like opening alongside other tired souls seated on tree stumps. Most of them had phones without chargers. I had neither.

—

I don’t recall a more terrifying sense of loneliness than this moment.

The ominous AI enemy afoot.
The strangers with dead and dying phones.
The realization that I was utterly powerless to find my way to my wife and boys - or even know where they were.

I thought immediately to the times I have read about inhumane immigration crackdowns, never letting myself fully feel what it would be like to find myself separated from my family without any idea about their whereabouts or how I might ever see them again.

Then I thought how I could not bear to watch Life is Beautiful (1997) again.

I watched it a good dozen times when it first came out, but now the thought of watching people torn forever from one another with no idea where each other might be… this seemed a pain unbearable to process.

I awoke with my jaw throbbing.

Had I been clenching it that hard? That long?

I felt my feet hit the wood floor, and I noticed the muted comfort I took in seeing the overcast morning light, the laundry strewn on the floor, and the IKEA shelving unit yet to be built.

Then I went to the basement and did a 30-minute yoga workout in a semi-list area.

It was an unconscious choice. I more found myself arriving to yoga, and it was the first yoga I’d done since moving from Texas to Illinois nearly two months ago. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I last let my body feel the distinct possibility of slow-but-true improvement.

A timely feeling, no doubt.

Because right now my dreams are a thick maze of impossible canvas.
And motion that goes nowhere.
And technology that turns on humanity.
And people together and completely apart.
And people painfully seperated without ability to bridge their distance.

My dreams, sadly, are not drawn from another world.

—

And so yes, yoga gave me a timely modicum of agency.

But also, in writing my dream, I see clearly the other call at hand:

Cultivating, living into, and receiving afresh…

real and
diverse and
surprising and
familial community.

The kind that - even before unyielding forces and low battery life - simply cannot be untethered.

And for a good while, I had no idea the magnitude of what he had done.

It began when I was invited to apply to be part of a pastor cohort through a new ministry organization, Macedonian Ministry (MM). I would join alongside 10-15 other local pastors for three years of monthly meetings in which a lead mentor would facilitate conversation among us around the pressing topics of church ministry.

We would kick-off each year with an extended retreat, and then the capstone to our three years together would be a trip to the Holy Land.

The time commitment was certainly significant, but fortunately, the financial investment was not (more on how that was possible below).

So I applied, was accepted, and showed up to the retreat.

There, I learned that the same MM organization that was funding our group (and funding the eventual 2-week trip to the Holy Land) was doing the same for dozens of other groups around the country. Their goal was to revitalize the church through revitalized pastors.

(To this day, that ministry continues that work. Now called The Ministry Collaborative, they have formed over 100 of these cohorts around the country.)

That cohort saved me in some of the most challenging times I’ve known in ministry.

That cohort raised me to new levels of creativity and courage.

That cohort gave me opportunities for deep belly laughs and hard cries that are hard to come by as a pastor when most of the time you’re holding holy space for others.

The trip to the Holy Land nourished my soul, broke my heart, and awakened a new sense of what neighbor means.

I’m a very different person (and pastor) – a much better one, actually – precisely because of this cohort, this trip, these colleagues and friends.

But none of it ever happens without that stranger I mentioned above - Tom Cousins who died this past week at the age of 93.

Tom was a real estate developer and philanthropist in Atlanta, GA - and also a lifelong Presbyterian.

In the second half of his life, Tom had two goals: to break the cycle of intergenerational poverty in America and renew the church. You can read (link above) about how some of that took shape.

Suffice it to say, one way in which his goals unfolded was via the significant leadership, financial, and spiritual investment he made when founding and sustaining the MM organization that - quite notably - covered expenses from…

staff to
mentor stipends to
retreat center rentals to
everything involved in taking dozens of pastors to and from the Holy Land, including giving us generous accommodations and ensuring we received spiritually-nourishing, thought-provoking, and timely tours of the sites and area.

And here’s the thing: I met Tom Cousins only once. We briefly shook hands at a church service we both happened to attend at the same time. That’s it. But truly, we never knew each other.

And yet…

… he was faithful to a powerful vision that was bigger than his lifetime could hold.

And in walking toward that, the ripple effect was profound.

His generosity changed my life for good. And, by extension, it changed the lives of those I served for good.

And the truth is, this kind of thing is everywhere.

We need only take but a few moments to pause and recall the dozens of people we never knew but whose efforts, whose faithfulness, whose courage, and whose love has nevertheless forever changed us for good.

• A neighbor from 20 years ago who noticed the lack of a stop sign at a nearby intersection was putting children at danger when crossing the street and so they petitioned and got a sign and prevented the worst.

• Legislators who helped enact GI Bill legislation so that a parent or grandparent could be the first one in our family to go to college.

• A donor whose funds ensured scholarships that changed the direction of countless lives.

• A mechanic who noticed a couple of other things on our vehicle, tightened them up, and kept us from a highway disaster.

• The person who owned your house 33 years ago and made an invisible-to-most repair to the roof that would have otherwise led to horrible flooding and worse amid recent rains.

• The volunteers who hold babies in orphanages, their touch communicating a warmth with profound implications for the baby’s well-being in every stage of life.

• The people who planted trees in your neighborhood 40 years ago and whose shade and beauty and fruit are a continual gift.

—

How deeply interconnected our lives are, no?

Who is coming to mind for you right now?

Who are the people who have forever changed your life and honestly… they probably have no idea? They were simply being faithful.

Of course, it goes the other way, too.

If today you find yourself amidst all kinds of…

uncertainty and
doubt and
pain and
challenge and
nevertheless…

You are stepping forward in courage
in service
in love
and honoring your gifts and energy best you know how in your corner of the world…

Then there is no doubt in my mind – countless are the people whose lives are being changed for good through you.

And you will likely never know.

And, oddly, there’s a kind of encouragement to be known in that.

This idea that our way of showing up in the world is doing so much more than we can ever know or even measure.

Imagine that?

"I can only make sense of my unaccountable good fortune by assuming that it means I am under special obligation to make good use of it." - Marilynne Robinson

Holy Land 2015

She offered it genuinely, but my issue was this: I’d waited in a fairly long line to get to this moment, and behind me were ten more folks waiting to get their rental car. Any measure of small talk chit-chat was bound to slow the utmost measure of efficiency that everyone wanted.

“We’re moving here, actually…” I heard myself say. The honest answer. We’re moving from Georgetown, TX to Chicago, IL this summer.

“I’m meeting the moving van to help get everything into our new house,” I finished.

“Well, welcome!” she smiled.

“Yeah… I’m from Cincinnati originally. The Midwest kinda feels like coming home.”

Apparently I had become the small talk chit-chat person risking the wrath of all behind me. I let my sentence trail off, however, signaling the end of my thoughts – and the beginning of a car rental business only portion of the conversation.

The woman then opened her eyes wide. “I’ll tell you, my sister and I talked about this once and we agree 100%: if we ever move again, there’s one rule - three of everything. No more, no less.”

She saw my confused look as permission to go on, now dropping the car rental processing entirely and letting her hands join in to help offer her highly animated insight.

“Look, think about it. We only use three of anything we own. Forks? You use the top three in your drawer. Nothing below that. Ever!” she shouted with a high-pitched exclamation point.

“Coffee mug. Bet you got dozens. How many do you use? That’s right! Three. Three!” Now she was rolling.

“My husband has all these t-shirts. Know how many of em’ I see on him. Three. Three! Why don’t you wear you smiley face t-shirt? I asked him the other day. Whaddya mean? He says. And I go, because you gonna wear that one anyway. It’s one of your three!”

She paused. “You see. Seriously. We only use three of everything we have. And last I moved all I remember are the boxes and boxes and boxes. Way more than three of each thing.”

She shook her head then resumed, “Just three. Make it so much easier.”

I nodded and smiled, “So true. I can’t argue with that logic at all.”

“The Power of Three,” I call it. “I should make a t-shirt with that on it,” and her eyes looked up as if to consider if she really might do it.

“You should,” I said. “And then make clear to everyone who buys it, this is one of the three t-shirts you’re allowed to have.”

She liked that, and even though she had resumed getting my car rental secured, she seemed utterly oblivious to the very real line still awaiting her.

It stressed me out every time I sensed a grumbling behind me. But her? Totally at home with the Power of Three vibe.

Simple.
Just the right amount.
Far less baggage.

Maybe trying out the Power of Three on possessions changes the way we carry ourselves in other parts of life?

“You have an intermediate car,” she said, returning to the rental business. So, a Ford Fusion or maybe an Avalon. “You gonna need more room for this move?”

“The moving truck has our stuff so I don’t need more space,” I replied.

She nodded, and immediately I regretted not taking the chance to say, “But if you’ve got a free upgrade…”

“How is your own car getting here?” she asked as she finalized my reservation details.

“Oh… we’re shipping it,” I said.

“I had a customer here just last week,” she said, animated afresh. “From Phoenix. Had a car he was shipping to Chicago. Real high-end. And when it arrived to Chicago it had 3000 miles on it that were not there when it left Phoenix.”

Her eyes got big, and she continued “And ooh… he was hot. He was so hot. He was here at the counter telling how this had all just happened to him and he was angry capital A!” she exclaimed as her head shook back and forth in humored pity for the guy.

Then she added, “Said the moving truck was investigating it but I told him there’s nothing to investigate. They drove that car All. Over. The. Country!”

I shook my head.

“Three,” she then smiled. “See…he shoulda had three cars, not one. Ha!”

She then handed me my paperwork and pointed me toward the parking garage.

“Your parking spot is J16. Welcome home,” she smiled once more.

I thanked her, turned into the garage, and walked to J16 where I found a mid-size SUV awaiting me.

And I wondered once more if there isn’t something to simplicity, to less, to lightness...

Something that opens one’s whole way of being unto the kind of…

• presence undeterred by the long lines,

• humor more substantial than stuff,

• generosity that bestows favor with ease and likely rests easy at night knowing a different kind of treasure continues to fill unto overflowing.

The Power of Three.

The long-time pastor who resides in me could not help but smile as I got situated in the mid-size SUV. Because every single time she said “The Power of Three,” I had not been able to think of anything other than “Trinity.”

Which, honestly, didn’t feel too far off.

I felt deeply blessed arriving home.

And the car rental experience was no small part of that grace.

I had just asked a couple hundred communicators/storytellers at the inaugural Longhorn Communicators Network event what one word described their day thus far.

People had responded so far with…

Great!
Overwhelmed.
Busy.
Productive.

But when beleaguered arrived - something shifted.

I heard a few affirming ‘uh huhs’ and a number of knowing head nods.

Beleaguered - originally it’s a word that describes a city surrounded by an an army (be = ‘around or about’ and leger = ‘camp or army’). Nowadays, we talk about it as being under persistent trouble or stress or feeling surrounded, overwhelmed.

Wow.

The response immediately reminded me of what a client shared with me a couple of weeks ago when he described his leadership reality this way: “The Visigoths are at the gate.”

What I am discovering is that - for many - there is another layer to the stress, anxiety, and overwhelm that has characterized much of modern life.

Now, there’s also a weightiness.
A sense of threat.
A sense of trouble.

What is one to do in such times?

Much could and should be said on this, but for now I’ll simply invite you to the place I invited the folks at the University of Texas last week in my talk, “Root to Rise.”

To the trees.

Nothing about the trees is remotely hurried, rushed, or beleaguered.

Among them, there’s a quiet...

an expansiveness…

a strength…

a beauty…

a generosity…

a stunning level of surprising life this time of year.

Sit before some trees for even a few minutes it becomes quite clear that though the trees have no hustle (at all) about their way of being, they sure know a whole lot about what it takes to grow something of enduring beauty and strength, nourishment and hospitality.

They know a whole lot about what it takes to grow something that forever changes the landscape for good.

The common denominator to all of these trees that bring about such flourishing - even across landscapes once barren, desolate, and even beleaguered by the worst of humanity?

A strong root system.

Look, I see no near-term end to the many troubles and challenges that surround and threaten many of us in our day and time.

What I do see, however, is the distinct possibility for a different kind of leader to emerge in this time.

One whose day is not swayed to and fro by…

every headline,
market movement,
and workplace fire.

Rather, these leaders know their singular and most important work…

…day after day…

…is to root down into…

1. Who they are at their highest and best.

2. How they are gifted.

3. Where they are called to act on their gifts for such a time as this.

These leaders nourish this gift and calling above all else.

And they do it alongside other trusted trees because, as you know, a thriving forest is all about strong, mutually nourishing roots.

How would you assess the health of your root system these days?

What helps you nourish your roots?

Any ‘signs of spring’ in your life right now - the external growth emerging from inner grounding?

And if all of that is hard to consider and things feel dead, dry, or beleaguered… you know the other gift of a thriving forest?

When one tree gets sick, other trees begin sending nutrients via their roots.

Automatically.

Notice any nourishment coming your way via the gift of another?

Notice any inner promptings to send some nourishment to another today?

That’s the wisdom of a growing forest at work.

I was in the middle of leading a group of business leaders in an improv exercise where I invited them to collectively practice telling a story using “Yes, and…,” the fundamental rule of improv comedy (and a helpful introduction to leadership and storytelling insights).

Thus far, their story had involved stampeding elephants, wifi outages, and even a little acoustic music. One truly never knows where an improv story will go.

However, never in the many times that I have done this exercise have I ever had someone say, “Then God showed up.”

Until this time.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it took an extra couple moments for the next person to chime and add a “Yes, and…” to the story because - in a professional gathering of business leaders - where you do go with that?

—

And yet, a recent insight from famed therapist Phil Stutz invited me to wonder if that woman had not said the most relevant thing anyone could have said in an improv story filled with mishaps and messes.

Stutz believes there are three absolute, non-avoidables in life (try as we may to avoid them, and boy do we ever):

1. Pain.

2. Uncertainty.

3. The Need for Constant Work.

“The three domains in aggregate,” Stutz says, “make up the face of God…. (for) God does not enter your life in a way that’s comfortable. God enters it in the form of these challenges.”

Most of us spend a good bit of time setting aside, avoiding, or trying to go around anything that smacks of much pain, uncertainty, or hard work.

Can we just not deal with this?
Can we just have clear, full-proof plan?
Can we just purchase our rocket ship to success?
Can we not have to focus and show up so regularly?

But what if… what if the very things we seek to avoid above all else (pain, uncertainty, and the need to put in the work) are, in fact, what it looks like when God shows up?

What?!

Wild, I know.

But given how many leaders are navigating pain, uncertainty, and work on every possible front, I can’t help but wonder if that woman’s riff on the story - “And then God showed up!” - was not the most true thing anyone could have said.

By Stutz’s definition, God is abundantly present for those leaders!

Same for you?

If so, then the question inevitably becomes: “Ok, what does one do when the Trinity of Pain, Uncertainty, and the Need to Work are showing up big time? Where do you go with that?”

Improv.

Embrace it.

Name it.
(“Yes…I see you clearly.”)

Face it head on.
(Avoidance is its own all-consuming exhaustion)

Walk toward it.
(“…And here I come.”)

Walk THROUGH it.

(Image from True and False Magic by Phil Stutz)

Because THROUGH it is where we gain a profound sense of possibility.

THROUGH it we discover the kind of gifts for which there is no ROI metric because ROI does not know what to do with the likes of Infinite. Peace. Power. Freedom.

—

At the same time, let’s be honest… going through it is terrifying.

Which means…

…if you find yourself preparing to improv your way through one or all parts of the Unavoidable Trinity, my advice is this:

Improv with another.
Improv in community.

Sure, others cannot do our work for us.

But goodness, their presence in the valley of the shadow is, I believe, another remarkable way God shows up.

I know what feedback means. At the same time, I’ve learned that receiving a tough word is often necessary for growth. And so I leaned in.

“Yes. Absolutely. What’ve you got?”

It was just after my Friday morning Toastmasters meeting had ended, and the woman who was about to give me feedback had first complimented me on the thoughtful and helpful evaluation I had provided for one of that morning’s formal speeches.

I received her compliment with gratitude, especially as she is someone whose been in the club for a couple of years, and I readily trust her input.

On this day, though, apparently there was more…

“I noticed, Bobby,” she began as I braced, “that when you were speaking, your evaluation went past time.”

And she was correct.

When giving a formal speech evaluation at Toastmasters, you are given three minutes to speak. At the three-minute mark, a red light comes on in the back of the room, and it’s the signal that you have now gone overtime.

You’re done.

Get off the stage.

“And,” she continued, “as your evaluation went past the three minute mark, your head began nodding ‘no’ and your body slumped a little even as everything you were saying was really good and helpful. Did you feel that, Bobby?”

“I didn’t know I had done that,” I replied. Truly, I had no idea my body had done that.

“I didn’t think you did. I imagine it was unconscious,” she continued. “But it was like you were saying one thing - a really good thing - and then also feeling within yourself the opposite.”

A strange warmth of embarrassment welled behind my face. It was unnerving to feel suddenly so exposed, especially in an arena (speaking!) where I often feel quite comfortable.

But truly, I had no idea that even though my words were full of confidence and insight… my body relayed another message once the red signal declared that I…

Had not honored the time.
Had broken the rule.
Should have done better.

She then looked me in the eyes, and no part of her was judging me for having gone over the three-minute mark or critiquing my inability to wrap my wisdom into a tighter window of time.

“I just want you to know,” she concluded, “that you are a gift to this club and have incredible insights to give about our speeches.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I hear that.”

Our bodies keep score.
Our bodies know the truth.
Our bodies hold the truth.

And you know who is often the last person to see the truth we’re carrying?

Us.

We are terrible at seeing ourselves.

It’s others around us who first notice the…

Slump of our shoulders.
Or our arms folded.
Or our leg shaking.
Or the heaviness on our back.
Or the strain in our voice.
Or the sag in our being.
Or the tightness of our smile.

Occasionally, though, someone comes along who calls it out and - rather than judge it, shame it, or whip it into shape - that person names to us the deeper truth:

It’s clear that your body is listening to an ugly, taskmaster of a voice who tells you time and again you are not good enough, not smart enough, or not enough period.

A taskmaster who tells you to determine your worth based on the rules, the metrics, the income, the access, the zip code, the reputation.

A taskmaster ever-reminding you that even when you do everything ‘right’ its not enough.

But you know what…

That voice is a lie.

That voice is not the truest and highest and most important Voice in you.

The truest, highest, and most important Voice in you is the One who declares you to be a gift with urgently important and creative gifts to bring into this world.

What if you let that Voice live?
What if you nourish that Voice?
What if you heed that Voice?

And see if the shoulders do not lighten.
See if the head does not raise.
See if the feet do not ground.

See if it doesn’t feel like freedom from head to toe.

—

Ok, that’s not precisely how my Toastmaster friend said it to me, but undercurrents of the fundamental truth were there in the exchange.

Then, moments later, I picked up my bag, stepped out of the doorway of our Toasmasters meeting room, and walked to my car.

I don’t recall if I carried myself differently the rest of the day. What I do remember quite clearly is that the very first thought that arrived to my mind when I got into my car was this: I have to write this down.1

And I began typing this story moments later.

Is it good?
Or bad?

Does it follow the storytelling rules?
Or break them?

Too long?
Too short?

Doesn’t matter.

The whole process felt like freedom.

I wonder…

Is it possible you might offer that kind of gift to another today?

And if you’re not sure to whom you might give the gift, perhaps you start with the hardest challenge of all:

Begin before the mirror.

For much of the book, he explores what he considers the chief signs that a family, organization, or nation are suffocating in chronic anxiety. (And yes, “suffocating” is the right word. The Latin root word “anxiety” is “to choke, narrow, or tighten.”)

• The Need for Certainty Goes Up – Nuance, mystery, living-in-tension, and paradox are out-the-window.

• Imaginative Gridlock – We can only envision the truly terrible thing that is about to happen. Other possibilities or potential are ridiculous at best, and largely they cannot be conceived anyway.

• Blame Becomes Endemic – Friedman notes how chronically anxious societies are full of people constantly pointing the finger at the top (people in positions of leadership and/or influence) or at the very bottom (the most marginalized, least able to fight back).

• Tribal Fervor Increases – The need for certainty is found in ‘circling the wagons’ – and tightly so. There is no greater sin than to question, leave, or build a bridge outside of the tribe.

• Over-Emphasis on Data and Technique – Fearful of getting ‘it’ wrong or making things even worse, the hunger for data ‘certainty’ and technique ‘guarantees’ goes sky high.

• Defensiveness Increases – Curiosity is out the window, walls are high, and fortifications are added every time it seems someone is questioning or attacking our castle.

• A Failure of Nerve on the Part of Leaders - Amid the avalanche of anxiety, leaders increasingly avoid conflict, over-function to ‘save the day,’ seek a ‘safe’ consensus before doing anything, and capitulate to the loudest (most anxious) voices in the room. In short, leaders lose clarity about what matters and the courage to act in light of it.

Seen any of that lately?

Here’s the kicker… Friedman wrote this in the early 1990s(!) when he saw these characteristics taking hold of America.

At the same time…

Given that Jesus himself addresses anxiety directly right in the center of his most famous sermon, perhaps the truth is that humans everywhere throughout time have continued to deal with this particular suffocation.

By the way - in that sermon I mentioned - do you know what Jesus counseled in the face of crushing anxiety?

“Go consider the birds…”

Seriously – with the world falling apart and the Roman Empire crushing down on reality, Jesus tells people to go bird-watching.1

Also, he adds…

“Go check out the flowers in the field.”

Seriously – amid those people doing those things, Jesus counsels flower-watching.

What?!?!

And yet…

Ever noticed what happens when you…

• Spend time outside?

• Take the focus off of all of your projections about all the terrible things you can conceive and instead return to the moment?

• Observe the natural world of creation itself speaking… chirping… waving… inviting…persisting…dying…rising?

Does not a measure of breath return to the body in these moments?
A new sense of grounded-ness anchor your being?
Fresh connections and creativity and courage open within?

—

“The opposite of evil is creativity.” - Phil Stutz

—

It is not an accident that the Latin root for “Breathe” is “Soul or Spirit.”

When the chokehold of anxiety is released by new breath…

Our soul rises.

Our spirit enlivens.

Fresh creativity cannot help but emerge.

Professionally, personally, and societally… we are navigating the acute-and-painful realities that unfold when chronic anxiety takes hold.

Which means that the very last thing we need is leaders ever-swept up in that anxiety and perpetually swayed, sunk, and unnerved by every new headline.

What we urgently need - the thing of first priority, actually - are leaders who are…

Breathing.
Inhaling grace.
Exhaling their souls’ undeterred force into the challenges of our time.
Showing up with an indomitable spirit of life and love and creativity and justice and hope.

Leaders with nerve, as Friedman would put it.

—

If you knew the single most important thing you could possibly do today for yourself and those mired in anxiety (and worse) was to (re)discover a deep, powerful breath within… what would you do?

Walk?
Exercise?
Write?
Music?
Dance?
Pray?
Create?
Yoga?
Laugh
Serve?
Cry?
Coffee with a friend?
Bird (or flower) watching?
Stop ruminating and go do the thing?

How might you be the urgently-needed breath of fresh air among…

Your family?
Your community?
Your team?
Our nation?
This world?

(This piece was originally published in the BHL Coaching weekly newsletter)

What I especially liked is that it allowed for enough music to where I could buy three CDs that I actually wanted to listen to and then 3 CDs that would make me look cooler for having them even though - aside from a few songs here and there - I really didn’t take to most of the sound.

Pearl Jam. Nirvana. Lauren Hill. Dr. Dre. Green Day.

Cool kid choices.

I should buy three from this list.

And so I picked three for the sake of cool.

The fun really began, though, when I picked the CDs where I knew I’d like nearly every song on the album, which almost always meant I was picking the music of my parent’s generation (though typically not the ‘also cool’ Classic Rock options).

The Beach Boys. Lionel Ritchie. Greatest Hits of the 60s and 70s. Gladys Knight. Stevie Wonder. Jimmy Buffet.

I chose three.

I then sent in my penny alongside the most eclectic, nonsensical six choices Columbia Records ever received and waited two weeks for my musical abundance.

Upon arrival, I set aside the cool options, tore open the Bobby options, and got them spinning in my CD player for hours of personal, no-one-is-allowed-in-this-room enjoyment.

Because, my gosh, can you imagine the ridicule - or complete rejection! - were any of my middle school peers to realize I could sing every lyric of Lionel Ritchie’s Back to Front album?

—

Of course, inevitably a few friends figured it out. Or, maybe it’s that I let a few friends in on my taste. Or maybe it was both.

What I am sure of is this: Alison Heck was one of the few friends in my life who knew me for who I was and actually embraced the quirkiness. I mean, yes, she thought it was funny that I took so much joy in the music of my parents’ generation.

And also, when I turned 18 she threw me a surprise birthday party in her family’s basement in which she decorated it like a beach party (in Ohio in the middle of December).

Beach towels strewn along every square inch of the floor.
Beach decor on the walls.
Colorful leis provided for every guest.
And, centrally, the Beach Boys cued up and blaring in the background moments after a couple dozen friends yelled “surprise!!!!” as I made my way into the basement. And, yes, I was genuinely shocked.

Speaking of…

It still feels like a profound shock that Alison is no longer with us as of a month ago. The cancer took her fast - like five-weeks-after-diagnosis fast.

Among my many griefs about her death - including the fact that she was married to one of my very best friends from childhood and college and so now he and their three children carry an impossible grief, an approximation of which I feel even 1100 miles away - is the fact that I didn’t write down a few more “Alison” stories from over the years.

(Alison in the middle)

Between elementary, middle, and, high school classes, marching band, youth group, and college… we shared an immense amount of time.
And conversation.
And laughs.
And tears.
And a best friend (in her husband, David).
And yet, now 2+ decades after our college graduation I have only the thinnest of specific memories around Alison.

However, among the handful of memories that still glow with great clarity is how she threw that party. I recall not only the ‘all out’ nature of it (totally an Alison approach to fun, faith, and life in general), but also the fact she threw a party that would not have worked for most of my peers.

• It was a distinctly Bobby party.

• A party where the music choice alone made clear that I was embraced and even celebrated in my quirkiness.

• A party where the very throwing of the party required that someone pay enough attention to my life to recognize what would really be a perfect celebration.

Ever had a friend like that?
Ever felt deeply known in the spaces of your strangeness? Your quirkiness? Even your shame?
Ever felt embraced in all of it?

Rare is such grace.

So rare, so rich, so powerful, in fact, that when a person dies two decades after you last shared regular life with them, it is the singular thing that continues to shine with wondrous clarity.

(this was not the party, but perhaps a leftover lei in use…)

—

Two days I ago I attended a men’s group I’m part of. The last time I met with this group was the day Alison died. I wept sharing the news with them.

This time, I brought gifts. Specifically, I brought each of the guys a book that I felt spoke uniquely to who they are and the season of life they are in.

They were blown away at the thoughtfulness.
The surprise.
The generosity of me taking the time to think intentionally about who each of them is and then honor that with a highly contextualized gift.

And, yes, it felt good to give that kind of gift.

Also…

…after having recently been reminded what really makes life worth living and what actually endures when it’s all said and done…

..the gift-giving felt like the most natural thing in the world.

—

Grace Alison gave me in abundance.

Grace - through me - she continues to give.

And if I were to define it, I’d put it this way: grace is a wonderfully strange, incredibly nonsensical, and deeply urgent gift. And it might be the most important music anyone could give or receive in our time.