Promises

Letters to My Adult Children: On Blame & Privilege & Seeking the Best

There is an interconnectedness to life, to be sure. I believe we have eternity to figure out Chaos Theory and we still won't be done. The whole concept of it boggles my mind. Ultimately, it argues that I cannot help but be affected by the choices and actions of others. Knowing this to be true, most of the time we try not to be assholes. We try to do right by others. I hope that is one of the lessons you learned from your Mom and me very early on. The most famous but, less clear version of this reads, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." 

I know that my choices, when you were young, to betray your Mom and you, still have profound impacts on how you navigate life. But, please hear me. In the same way that I cannot use the fact that my mother sexually abused me to excuse my rancid, narcissistic choices that hurt you; you will be wrong if you choose to use my choices -- that did very real damage to you -- to excuse any poor choices you make in life. They are your choices. 

You see, a lack of privilege is never an excuse. In fairness, there are multiple kinds of privilege. There is "personal privilege." For example, people who were not sexually abused by their primary attachment figures have privilege that I'll never know. People who were not ripped from all that they knew culturally and were transplanted as toddlers into a culture that was foreign and confusing for them, have privilege that I and nearly every third culture kid will never understand. Conversely, as a 6'3" tall, not-ugly man, I have privilege that a 5'4" man or an unattractive and unintelligent man will never know. 

Though the lines are blurry, there is also "systemic privilege" Systemic privilege is privilege which is systematized. Men have privilege over women in our culture. We live in a patriarchal society. It is hard to deny this simple fact. Some of this is strictly biological. Men tend to be physically stronger than women. There are things we can lift, reach, carry, haul, and move that women simply can't. We are physically more intimidating than women. Probably because of the physical strength differential, men have subjugated women throughout history. This is systemic privilege. Other examples of privilege are race, sexuality, and economic privilege. Let's briefly acknowledge the historical reality of each:

• Race -- The subjugation of Black people is not news. Europeans bought slaves from African slave traders, imported them, and used them to create wealth for themselves. Those Europeans passed their ill-begotten wealth onto us, their descendants. The generation that immediately proceeded mine then passed Jim Crow laws that made it next to impossible for the black community to gain an economic foothold. They did this to protect us -- their children -- from being threatened by those that their parents had enslaved. Later, we legalized abortion, placing abortion clinics in black communities, and convincing the black community that they would be better off if they killed their children. Despite any arguments to the contrary, abortion was born in racist ideology and eugenics philosophy. Finally, we created a drug war that was designed to imprison black men and steal fathers from their children. The drug war allowed a prison industry to develop where white people got rich by imprisoning their black neighbors, all for victimless crimes. There is no way anyone can deny the historical systemic racist policies we legalized and institutionalized. I have not included the fact that we excluded black men who fought and died in our country's wars from the GI Bill and housing programs or the redlining practices that stopped blacks from buying properties they wanted and which allowed banks to charge them higher interest rates on any loans they took out. I also didn't include stories of how we simply killed successful black communities. Our nation institutionalized racism. This is systemic racism.
• Sexual Identity -- A homosexual lifestyle was outlawed in many states until well into the 2nd half of the 20th century. Indeed, homosexuality was listed in the Diagnostics and Statistics Manual as a pathology until the mid-1970s. People could be fired for or not hired for jobs simply because they had a same-sex attraction. The system was rigged against them. This is a systemic privilege. Straight people didn't have to worry about being fired for liking members of the opposite sex and men typically didn't have to worry about philandering costing them their jobs. Women did, however. The system's and culture's rules were stacked against the homosexual community
• Economic Privilege -- OJ Simpson was found not guilty because he was wealthy and was able to use his wealth to work the system. Harvey Weinstein and Jeffrey Epstein walked around as free men even though they were clearly sexual predators and needed to be imprisoned, simply because they had money. Lori Laughlin received a much lighter sentence than someone without means would receive for the same crime. Money gets people out of trouble and ostensibly is a license to break the law. Money buys access to politicians. Money can create wars and blackmail communities. This is perhaps the biggest area of systemic injustice in America. Justice is supposedly blind, but the wealthy always figure out how to tip the scale. The law is not upheld equally. This is systemic privilege.

I point these out because there is injustice in the system. Not everyone starts at the same place in this race we call life. This is not in question. You have certain advantages being born to your Mom and me, growing up in a home where you knew you were loved and both of us were involved in your life. You didn't face economic hardship, but neither were you handed everything on a silver platter. You also had disadvantages: Your Mother and I divorced. For the first years of your life, I was caught in active behavioral addiction. 

As you move into life, you have choices. You can blame me (or some other outside factor) for your struggles, "My Da was an addict! What do you expect!" Or, you can acknowledge the reality that you are the child of an addict, take appropriate cautions, and move on with your life to make up for the deficiencies I gave you. You are not limited by my choices. You are only limited by the choices you make in response to those choices. I believe strongly that you actually have a leg up because you grew up in a recovery home where you were taught a new way to live that other kids didn't have access to. You learned about acceptance and the importance of honesty. Those are items of privilege that I gave you that remain hidden from typical lists of what privilege is. We were able to have and are still able to have conversations that other families only dream of. That is the best kind of privilege.

Critical Theory argues that all of life is about power. Power = privilege. Critical theorists argue that there will always be a struggle for power between the privileged and those without privilege. The trouble with the theory as Woody Allen pointed out in his 1973 comedy, Sleeper is that as soon as power is achieved by those without it, there will be a new struggle between the newly disenfranchised and the newly powerful. Critical Theory ultimately makes power into a "need." I don't think it could be any more wrong. We don't need power to achieve what we truly want. We need connection, and connection often requires us to give up our power to maintain a connection to the other whom we love. Only when we get this paradoxical truth will we truly find that which we truly seek. 

Sheryl Crow wrote, "It's not having what you want; it's wanting what you have." ("Soak up the Sun," C'mon, C'mon, 2002). And, in the end, that is what I pray for you: contentedness-or peace (knowing it's all good and being able to rest); joy (knowing its all good and having the ability to enjoy it with others); love (a long-term connection to another where you are understood, accepted, and desired, and where you return the same); and, hope (knowing in the depths of your soul that you and the ones you love are gonna be ok in the end).

You can't get there if you blame life, others, God, or the universe for the state of your life. You can't get there if you view life through a comparative lens of what others have vs what you have. You can't get there if you give your power away and assume that you can't have what you really want. 

Ultimately, Please don't seek the lesser goods: power, being right, control, material possessions, privilege. Rather, seek the great: Peace, joy, love, and hope. When you find them, you will end life complete, whole, and satisfied.

Letters to My Adult Children: On Riding With Pabs

Pabs and I ride together. It is the number one way we play. I remember the very first ride we took together. She was on her FX07 and I was on the Goldwing. We weren't very far from the condo when a car pulled out in front of Paula. I was pissed. My commitment to non-violence was being severely tested. You know how I ride. As we entered Multnomah Village, there is a light and it was red. The car stopped at the light behind another car. I pulled around him and got off my bike. It was the middle of the summer so I was undoubtedly in a sleeveless teeshirt, tats showing and I think I still was rocking my long hair. One thing I liked about my long hair was I looked a lot scarier than you know me to be. Can you imagine being the driver with tatted, long-haired me pulling around him at the light and getting off my bike to stare him down? Don't mess with Pabs. She is my life. I didn't say anything. I just stared, and he waited. I think I knew right then that my primary job when we ride is to make space for Paula. That is how we ride. I make space for her to ride safely. It is how I try to live. I make space for Paula wherever I can.

That means that if we are tooling up the road and a car pulls up and tailgates Pabs. I drop back and she takes the lead and I back the car well off. 

I remember chasing the Harleys down the freeway in Montana, and when it is straight, they tend to fly. So we are all doing about 85-90 MPH down the freeway, east of Missoula, passing cars in the slow lane. Colleen is leading, Jim is next. I follow him and then Paula is taking up the rear. Suddenly she reports and I see a lifted pickup pull up on her -- tailgating her pretty badly. OK, so I am noticing a pattern. I got a little pissed. I said, "Babe, pass me and switch," so we can stay in formation. She did. I let off my throttle. I think I slowed all the way to 50, creating some distance between the bikes and the truck. I turned around and glared. Then I throttled up to leave the lifted Dodge 2500 and rejoin my friends.

Riding in Portland traffic is never one of our favourite things to do. You know how the if you take the Ross Island Bridge the road winds into downtown Portland. It is kinda funky and Pabs and I were stuck in a lot of traffic. When we ride, we are talking a lot, probably more than when we are in the car. And we can be silly together. On this particular day, words escaped us at the time, and so we created our own lingo. On this day, we created the term, "Hootie-haw." There was a truck in the left lane. We were in the right. I was riding the lane lines and Paula was riding the shoulder line. She was at about four o'clock to me. The truck had space in front of him and there was a tiny gap between his front bumper and the bumper of the car in front of Pabs and me. So, I pulled in front of him and took my hand off the accelerator, widening the gap. Paula then shot in front of me into the lane. We did our first, "Hootie-haw." Now we just have to say, "Hootie Haw" and the other knows the maneuver. Hootie haws are nearly always done to the left because someone is not moving fast enough in the fast lane. They end up slowing up even more than they wanted to go. Such is the cost of cruising too slowly in the fast lane or the middle lane as the case may be.

Though neither of us likes traffic, it has taught us how to communicate more effectively. We need to make sure that the other sees what we are seeing as we ride together. So, she might say, "Let's get in front of that red truck up there." All of a sudden she has let me into her thought process. I will often ask, "Do you want to pass them?" She will tell me, yes or no. Then we can move in concert with one another. 

All these examples transfer to how we communicate at our best in regular life as well. When we know what the other is thinking, rather than assuming we know what they are thinking; we don't make the blunders that we might otherwise make.

We still fail. I get impatient much more easily than Pabs. I want to be able to see and I hate sucking diesel fumes. If there is a truck or van in front of us, I will want to take the first opportunity to pass. Paula can be much more content to lay off and fall back, not pushing it. Sometimes I want to pass, and she doesn't Very rarely she will want to pass when I don't. It has happened but I always follow. She doesn't. Then we have trouble. 

I'm sure that translates somehow too, but I'll let you figure that out.

We've had five bikes together. We currently have three. Here they are:

This is Paula's FZ07 and my 1986 Honda Goldwing InterState 1200.

This picture was taken across Lake Cour D' Alene from Harrison, ID on our trip to Banff/Canmore, Alberta. Paula was riding her silver 2010 Honda NT700VA, that she purchased to tour with me. We still own it. It is a fantastic bike. 

I remember that first day, we rode the back roads to a friend's house on the west side of Lake Cour D' Alene. It was exactly 400 miles. It was her first-day road tripping. It was way too long. Now we try to keep our days under 250 miles, just so we don't have to push so hard. We were smart enough to take a day off before pushing north. But man, we learned a lot that day too. It poured on us as we crossed the continental divide, and before we got there we rode for at least 20 miles on heavily grooved pavement that was under construction. While not pleasant and something that wouldn't bother us now, this was Paula's second day of road tripping and it was not fun for her at all. We never did see the tops of the mountains that trip. When we crossed back a few days later, it was pouring with rain again. We didn't take our rain gear off until Ravenstoke, BC. Now that is a cool town! By the end of that over 2000 mile trip, Paula was a different rider, and we'd figured a lot out about how we interact and communicate as we ride. So, every year we take off again on a different road trip to chase and create some more beauty together.

Here are our Triumphs, taken at the McClellen View Point in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, Skamania County, WA. Paula rides a 2011 Bonneville America. It is an 869cc bike. I ride a 2010 Thunderbird 1597cc bike. It is my dream bike. I hope I will be able to keep her the rest of my life, even if I purchase other bikes to be my daily riders. Also, notice the UW sticker on Paula's helmet. You can take her out of the UW, but you can't take the UW out of her. I guess they did pay tuition for four years as long as she hit golf balls for them. And, boy, did she ever! I married an amazing woman. She is officially my Ninja Badass (#NBA)

Letters to my Adult Children - On Being Anti Death - March 2020

I live my life as a rebel for love. I fight death. But not mere physical death. For physical death does not have to be the enemy of love. No, the death of which I speak -- who is my enemy, and who will one day be completely destroyed is called, “Shame.” Shame is death by another name. It is always accompanied by “self-serving,” and, can’t be fought through the politics of power and control. It can only be defeated by love and self-sacrifice. It can only be defeated by a gaze that communicates, “You are valuable. You are loved. That won't change.”

For many years I've labeled myself “pro-life” even though I don’t always vote a “pro-life agenda.” I am pretty outspoken in my condemnation of the "pro-choice" defenders. People wonder how I can be against abortion, call myself pro-life, and not push for abortions to be illegal; and, I answer that though I label myself pro-marriage and think adultery is evil; I don’t think adultery should be illegal. And, that though I am pro-sobriety, clear-headedness, and relational connectedness; I do not think that alcohol or illicit drugs of any kind should be illegal. So, it follows, given my invitational nature — I invite people to the good, rather than to try to force them to it — that I can hold abortion to be an abomination and not fight for it to be illegal. There are too many evils like this to name — things that destroy people and relationships that I have no desire to outlaw. I believe people need to have the freedom to choose good over evil, rather than be forced to it. I’ve written about this to you extensively and don’t think I need to repeat myself here once again.

Within the last year or so, Tony Kriz and I were talking about the “pro-life” debacle — people who stand against abortion politically; who try to make the choice to abort a child illegal and who are also war hawks, pro-gun, pro-death penalty folk. Tony told me that he’d adopted the label, “anti-death,” for himself. I took it as an invitation. Slowly, I began to refer to myself the same way. I now say, “I am anti-death.”

Tony’s and my conversation occurred in the context of Paula and I walking this horrific end of life road with her parents. As you know, Miggy — “007” — is a brilliant man and nuclear engineer who is now stuck inside his body and his mind. He cannot speak. He cannot toilet. He cannot feed nor dress himself. Neither can he walk. We need to thicken anything he drinks so that he does not asphyxiate. This is not a life he would want or chose. He has a DNR that is incredibly strict. Mike would prefer not to be alive at this point. If we were a tribal people, he wouldn’t be. And yet he is. We keep him alive against his will. The life we give him is actually death for him.

Dementia and Alzheimers were your Gramgee’s biggest fear. She wanted to be dead rather than to live with losing her mind; yet, that is how she left the planet. I am beyond grateful for a doctor who cared enough to not to prolong her life any longer than she cared to live because while I am convinced her last months and years were God's great gift to her, she was miserable in the end.

When we got toward the end of Dad’s life we had a choice on how to proceed with his cancer treatment. We chose to attack the tumor aggressively. Weekly I took him to his radiation appointments. And, while the radiation wasn’t fun, it allowed him to maintain his quality of life. He and I still played and took short trips together. We still went out and enjoyed Timbers games, etc. But, the radiation was not a cure. The doctors thought that taking the tumor out surgically was the best medical course, so we followed their counsel. I would not repeat it, nor do I want it for me. For while we may have prolonged Dad’s life a little, we destroyed his quality of life. His last 9 months were miserable. He practically lived at OHSU. His life was sucked out of him. I wish I could have a mulligan on Dad’s end of life. We’d play it completely differently than we did. The choices we made during those days are some of my biggest regrets.

People often think me morbid to say I want to exit the planet on the back of my bike, but I want to die as I lived. See, death doesn’t scare me in the slightest. I told Thomas last night on a FaceTime that I am ready to go whenever. though I have no death wish. There is a lot of life left to live, I am content to exit whenever it is time to go. I would be lying to say that the process of dying doesn’t scare me though. It petrifies me. I certainly don’t want to exit the way Gramgee did, nor the way Mike and Char are. Waking in glory is my hope, suffering along the way is my nightmare. If there is a redemptive feature to it, it eludes me.

All of that brings us to a discussion of this incredible time period we are all experiencing right now. I have not lived through anything like it. There have been times like it in history, but none that any living person has ever experienced. The pandemic of 1918 and the Black Death of the middle ages were similar in the annuals of human history. But this is completely unique and new. It is as if a giant “pause” button was being pushed. We are being forced to live a year of Jubilee (See the Old Testament commands around this) even though we’d never choose it for ourselves.

I along with millions of others, are taking actions right now to ensure that you, in particular, Maggie — and the countless others like you who have health challenges — are not put into positions where you have to fight for lives not yet fully lived. For though I may be ready to enter glory at any time; and though, I may see the reality that Gigi and Miggy would prefer to stop breathing and exit this planet; I am not ready for you and/or TL to do the same. You both have lives to live. You are my greatest gifts to this world. And much h of the hope of life I hold is to leave you to the world when I exit the stage. There is no greater gift I can imagine giving the world than the two of you. No amount of money or profit; nothing I build or create can compare to the gift that you are to this planet.

I’m joyfully choosing to give up my ability to move around and enjoy my life the way I want in order to make sure others have a chance to continue breathing. Some don’t want to give up these freedoms. They are saying, “I want to live the way I choose to live. Don’t tell me how to live. It is my body, and my choice.” It is ironic how the catchphrase of the pro-choice movement is now being used to spread even more death.  And while one of my social media friends complained about that reality and attempted to deny any parallels to abortion saying this is a completely different thing; her arguments were inane, factually wrong, and harmful and hurtful.

For too long, the pro-choice movement has sounded the refrain, “My body, my choice.” Don’t tell me that I can’t live the way I chose even if it costs another human life. I shouldn’t have to have any consequences for my actions. Men, not wanting responsibility pushed abortion further. There was now another escape of responsibility; men became abortionists and began pushing a “pro-choice” agenda. There was an additional benefit to ridding the world of unwanted brown babies, now that machines and industry didn’t need their cheap or free labor — we truly could get to a place of survival of the fittest, the poor and the downtrodden could be controlled simply through population control, and a marketing genius made it all sound as if it was a woman’s choice.

Now the oligarchs have repurposed their slogan and are now arguing that “opening the economy” is more important that the health risks of 2% of the population (think of how many millions of lives that is!); that people need to be “free” to chose to live the lives they want rather than be held captive by a disease that threatens others’ lives. It is a similar refrain to the war hawks who are willing to kill thousands “over there” so Americans can have the kind of life we want to have “over here.” It is the kind of refrain that allows us to separate mothers from their children at the border, putting their kids in prison, so that we don’t have to worry about being overrun by brown-skinned people who may cost us a few dollars to feed and clothe. Why should we? They don’t even speak English.

The real issue, whether it is abortion, or war, or immigration policy is an insipid commitment to pursuing death rather than life. The death of which I speak is bigger than mere, “ending of breath.” Death is a commitment to self without regard for another. Death, as I am defining it here, is the denial of relationship. For there is no life without love. The mother who kills her unborn child by having an abortion must deny any relationship to that unborn child. The oligarch who pushes the politician to order a pilot to drop a bomb on the oligarch’s enemy; or a seaman to launch a missile to do the same, has to deny a relationship or connection to the families they kill when the bombs and missiles land, killing indiscriminately. The populist who says the parents of the kids at the border that we threw in prison, should never have brought their kids here in the first place, has to deny any kind of relationship to those brown-skinned children in order to throw them into those prisons. The Russian policeman who arrests the dissident to send them to the Gulag has to deny the horror to which they are sending them. We have to deny relationship to live the way we want. The tribesman who captures and enslaves one from a different tribe to sell him into slavery has to deny any kind of relationship to him. In order to perpetrate such evil, we have to first deny relationship and therefore humanity. In so doing, we create a culture of death. I will stand against that culture with all my being. It is why I stand as a rebel for Love.

 

Letters to My Adult Children: On Journeying Toward Death - Spring 2020

Maggie and Thomas,

This is the ride I signed up for; that I knew it was coming, and yet, it is still unfamiliar and passes through a canyon of death who provides echoes of the past that sweep over me as I ride through.

Late on the evening of July 4th, 2014 I asked Paula to be my wife. They set off fireworks to celebrate the event and they have on the anniversary of that date ever since. As we navigated what our wedding was going to look like and how we were going to pay for it, we needed to have a conversation with her folks where Paula got really vulnerable. Some of my first impressions of her Mom weren’t great; she was the power broker in the family. She was used to getting her way and dictating what was said and unsaid -- even what her family was allowed to feel. The day we had that conversation with her folks was the day my relationship with Char forever changed.

I don’t remember exactly what was said, but Paula's fears of the conversation materialized and she began to cry, racing from the room in tears. This made Char really uncomfortable and she demanded that Pabs stop crying. At that moment I did something she wasn't used to. I kindly but not nicely stepped in and spoke to Char in ways I’m pretty sure no one ever dared to speak to her. I loved her but also stopped her, putting up a boundary that needed to be erected, protecting my fiancé from the vitriol that never should have been uttered. Simultaneously, I made sure that Char knew I loved her, but what she was doing, saying and demanding was not OK. Without shaming her, I made certain she knew she was wrong. From that moment on, Char and I became besties.If I could lovingly stand up to her, I could create a safe space for her daughter to thrive.

How I grew to love that woman! We learned to laugh together and I loved to tease her. She always tried to tease me back and loved the playful banter we shared. I knew she was losing her marbles. All the signs were there. I had been here before. This was different but familiar all at the same time. I traveled a similar road with Gramgee when she transversed the Alzheimer’s plain. I already knew many of the tricks, and I quickly relearned them as Paula learned how to distract, and redirect; crack a joke and make Mom laugh.

These days, I try to get to see her between appointments; she is just up the street from my office, about a four-minute ride. It has gotten harder and harder though as she sinks lower and lower, disappearing into a pit of despair.

To her, I’m not nearly as funny as I once was, and she can’t understand why I simply don’t take her home to be with her pets. Her confusion is no longer simply forgetfulness, rather it is delusion and hallucination. She is living in a world crafted in the ecosystem of her anxiety and shame. This is a cycle of life I wish didn’t exist.

Our medical advances help us stay alive while internally we fade and die. We breathe too long these breaths of death that merely fill us with hopeless dread.

Two days ago, as I visited Mom, the TV droned on in the background and as usual COVID 19 was on the tongues of the talking heads. Mamma’s comment was, “I wish I could catch that.” She is so ready to be done. She is ready to find a resurrected life somewhere other than here where she isn't confined to a chair or a bed; where her memory doesn't desert her and leave her forlorn.

Bearing witness to Char is only part of the journey for me though, I also get to watch my wife wriggle in discomfort that refuses to let her go. She loses thoughts and ideas under the duress of having to grieve and heroically carry the weight of her parents’ journeys. She has sat with her Mom in the Pit of Despair for so long, that the despair has invaded her -- soul-sucking the light from her eyes.

This beloved wife of mine can find no respite. There is nowhere for her to run, nowhere to hide and escape. There is no drug that can make her well. There is no safety from the onslaught of a loved-one's slow and torturous death. I can’t lift the veil. Doing so would break the sacredness of her journey, so for now, I too have to grieve the temporary loss of my partner and friend.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, we find moments of joy together along the way. We are too good of friends for those to be taken from us. We function and make it through, but this journey my wife is on, though sacred, is taking her to the very gates of hell, and it is a slow burn. That burning of her heart sears my soul as well. These are painful days.

This is why I hope to go out on the back of my bike. But then again, your Gramgee told me that her greatest fear was Alzheimer's and it ended up being God’s good gift to her. I don’t want to be kept alive. If I wander off to die alone in the wilderness, please let me go, it would be a kinder death.

Though I have no intention of leaving the planet anytime soon; there is still too much life I want to live with Pabs and with you; I’ve been ready to go for a long time now. It feels like I’ve done what I was placed here to do and from here on out it is all gravy. It feels good to be at peace with my soul, with my God, and with His creation. It feels good to not have regrets and to be free to love and live without fear of messing up the future. It is a place in life I hope and pray you discover early in your lives and enjoy for as long as possible, for it feels like this is what we were created for. It is not free of pain, as you can see. Right now, life hurts like hell most of the day — but it is good and it is rich, and it is full, and it has meaning.

I think the reason Gigi’s and Miggy’s journeys are so hard to witness is it feels as if their meaning is being ripped from them. I think that is my fear for the end of my life — that meaning would be ripped from my chest and stolen from me. I have to choose to believe that what appears to be the case isn’t; that their lives and the number of heartbeats God has given them is pre-ordained and held in His hand. It is hard to believe some days… like today.

Letters to My Adult Children - The First Among Heroes

Yesterday, as I was driving to pick up TL for racketball, "Hero" by Steve Taylor came up on my playlist:

 

I began thinking of my work, my story, my desire for a Ph.D. and my need to hone down my topic. I don't remember when I first heard Taylor's song, it was a long, long time ago. It immediately struck a chord with me. Growing up, I always wanted to be a hero. As an adult, I always wanted to be your hero. I wanted to be a hero to everyone close to me. I knew that if I could be a hero, I'd be loved; I'd not merely be me.

So, I've gotten lost in stories of heroes. As I got older, my heroes became more nuanced. And, my understanding of the "hero's journey" has also become more sophisticated. Joseph Campbell identified the Hero's Journey back in 1949. Writers have used his template to create hero stories ever since. While countless people have written on this topic, I am using the template from the people at the Reedsy Blog (https://blog.reedsy.com/heros-journey/) to make writing this easy.

As I drove to pick up TL, I began to think of the Hero's Journey in light of the Jesus story and many other Biblical Stories I grew up idolizing. My phraseology in the last sentence is incredibly important. I idolized the stories. I unconsciously defined salvation as, "becoming a hero." I had to be a hero! My graphic novel bibles took me to places of fantasy around the biblical stories. Now I wonder, if these incredible stories end up being twisted in our souls and are given death by Evil to create more shame than light.

The hero's journey starts in the ordinary; what Reedsy calls, "the mundane." It is the phrase, "I was born a poor child..." Jesus was born in a manger and laid in a cow trough. King David was rejected and was a shepherd doing the most humble of tasks. Moses was born to a Jewish slave family and hidden in the weeds. Gideon was cowering from fear. Ruth was a Moabite of no repute. Rahab was a hooker. Mary was a simple girl betrothed to a carpenter or stonecutter.

After humble beginnings, there is, " a call." In the Jesus story, this occurs at his baptism, "This is my Son, with whom I am well-pleased." Following the call, there is traditionally a rejection of that call. Think of Gideon and his requirement of a "fleece." The Jesus story doesn't have this traditional "rejection." However, think about how the different writers set up His story. Everyone knows he is the Messiah from his virgin birth, royal lineage. Questions arise though when Herod sends troops to kill all the male children under two. Remember Moses' story and Pharoah doing the same thing? Mary, Joseph, and Jesus become refugees, escaping to Egypt. So, there is that interruption and threat to the call. But then, after the call, Jesus doesn't start teaching and calling his own disciples immediately, He goes into the wilderness where he fasts for 40 days. At the end of His time in the wilderness, Satan comes and tempts him three times. These are temptations that we use to reject our own calling. Only Jesus doesn't reject the call because he is the "first among heroes." As I am thinking about this, I am thinking this is one of the first places that boys trying to be a hero in the vein of Jesus begin to face their own shame, and then begin living out of their shame.

The next step in the Hero journey is to meet the mentor who will help the hero overcome and then there is an event where the curtain is pulled back and they enter into the arena, seen as the hero that they were born to be. In the Jesus story, the mentor is the Holy Spirit who descended on Jesus like a dove. She becomes the connection point for Jesus through the rest of the gospels.¹ John makes note of Jesus' stage entrance. This is the famous event where Jesus turns water into wine at the wedding. The miracle serves as an announcement to the reader, Jesus has accepted his role as a hero

Stage six is typically the bulk of the hero story. It is where they find allies, discover their enemies and the obstacles they must overcome and develop the close friendships that will help them cross the lexicon. In the Jesus story, this section involves the calling of the disciples and the Pharisees and Sadducees' introduction as the villains of the story. It involves Jesus casting out demons and healing the sick, the lame and the blind. It includes his teachings and personal interactions. John's gospel is different here because his longest section comes next. 

The next section is where the hero approaches his biggest fight, drawing close to their own personal crisis. For Jesus, this is the last week of his life, where he knows he is about to die and he doesn't like it one bit. In the Church, we remember this time in Jesus' life as Holy Week -- the week leading up to Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. You have to feel this movement. It is where you come face to face with your humanity and brokenness. It is the part of our story where we have to choose to walk through our fear. It is the place that courage is most seen and felt. In many ways, it is the place where we see ourselves becoming or failing in the hero journey. the question here is, "Will he push through? Will he make it?" It is not the moment of crisis, but the foreboding before the crisis.

In the Jesus story, the crisis comes in his arrest, trial, betrayal, and crucifixion. This moment is the reason for his existence. In it, there is no glory -- only defeat and hopelessness. This complete defeat is perhaps the reason the Jesus story stands above all other stories. He dies defeated. And, with his death comes complete despair, emptiness, and darkness.

But, in a hero's story, there is a moment of triumph. In the Jesus story, it is resurrection - an empty tomb. The restoration of hope and life, not just for him, but for the world he came to save. He wins!

Or, does he? In hero stories, there are roads left to travel. There is often an awakened enemy or incompleted business. In the Jesus story, the gospel writers - indeed the writers of the rest of the New Testament believe that much of this road is to be walked by those who follow the crucified, risen Messiah. We are told that we are his reconstituted body that is to finish the work he set out to do. We are to be his hands and feet for a broken world. So, in the Jesus story, we are in this part of the story. The story is still being written. Complete resurrection won't occur until we experience it personally. Once we have, Jesus is promised to return to create a new world void of pain, suffering, and death.

Why does this matter at all? In my thinking right now it matters because as we tell the story boys, in particular, are left yearning to be a hero they cannot be. We all want to be just like Jesus. Those of us who feel this calling most, often become pastors. The struggle is that we know ourselves to be frauds; and/or we work to create our own deaths in order to imitate Jesus' hero journey. We have to fail and be resurrected to be like him. So we unconsciously destroy ourselves to become the hero we know we are to be. This twisted idea of wanting to be a hero in the mold of Jesus comes from a place of shame rather than a place of holiness or a desire to be in relationship. We call out for resurrection, hoping to be found worthy of being the hero we long to be. Listen to the echoes of this in the words of Todd Agnew:

1. Please note that the Spirit is nearly always referred to by the biblical writers with female words in both Hebrew and Greek. Sometimes it is hard because in English we don't have feminine and masculine words like in Spanish or Hebrew or Greek. If a man is my friend and I speak Spanish, I refer to them as "mi amigo." If a woman is my friend in Spanish I refer to her as, "mi amiga." In the same way, the language used around the Spirit is nearly always feminine. The language around the Father is nearly always masculine. So when I refer to the Father, I use masculine terms; when I refer to the Spirit, I use feminine terms, and when I refer to the Trinity I use the newly resurrected and minted, "they." 

 

Letters to My Adult Children: Look for the Good - February 2019

In 1994,  a weird and wonderful spiritual event began. The BBC labeled it the Toronto Blessing and the name stuck. For many, it was the stuff of a horror show. For others, it was a movement of the Spirit of God they had prayed for their whole lives. People got on their hands and knees and barked like dogs or fell over while convulsing violently. Others experienced miraculous physical healings. The conservative church watched it in horror. Mainline churches were bemused. And charismatics and Pentecostals flocked to it as if it were Mecca. they hoped to be a part of something they saw as a miraculous movement of God.

During that time, an intellectual, mainline Presbyterian minister named Bob Ekblad who spent much of his life working with the poorest of the poor in Honduras and then, upon returning to the USA, worked with men just-released from prison was invited to go to Toronto to experience the phenomena with a family member.

It wasn't his thing. He really didn't want to go. He was a social justice guy and the Toronto movement had little or nothing to do with justice. Toronto was about a supernatural experience of God. For some reason, Ekblad ended up going. Before he went, he spent some time praying and was impressed that though he might see 100 things he couldn't stand, he needed to look for "one good thing." He listened and went to Toronto keeping his eyes open for one good thing. And, while there, the Holy Spirit moved in him in ways he couldn't explain.

He was changed because he looked for the one good thing. He still works for justice, among those on the margins, but now when he lays hands on people to pray with them, there is a power that can't be explained any other way than that it comes from God.

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I was at Hillsdale College in the fall of 1986 when Dad surprised me with a phone call. Remember this was before cell phones. We stood in the dorm's stairwells to talk to our family and friends on the payphone. There was one on each end of each floor in the dorm. My dormmate said, "Hurry, it is some sort of emergency." 

Dad explained that he and Mom rushed home to Portland from Idaho, canceling one of their evangelistic missions, because Mom was in incredible pain. Once home, the doctors performed emergency exploratory surgery and discovered tumors in Mom's abdomen that were pressing on her spinal cord and major organs. Dad told me that they were the size of my fists -- bigger than a softball. They closed her up because it would have been too dangerous to remove the tumors given their proximity to her spine and vital organs. In another week, Mom & Dad were scheduled to be in Vermont for more meetings. Dad wanted to cancel because Mom couldn't go. She didn't want him to. He needed to go. We arranged for me to fly out to meet Dad in her stead since the dates coincided with my fall break. My fraternity pitched in money so I could buy the emergency ticket.

There wasn't really much hope for Mom. The doctors told her they would do what they could and scheduled a catscan in order to pinpoint the radiation that they would shoot at her. They weren't talking about a cure. They were talking about doing the best that they could. The tumors they had seen during surgery were simply too big. The catscan was scheduled for the Thursday I arrived in Vermont to join Dad. The week before Mom called their pastor, Dwight Steele and asked, "Do you believe James 5?" Now, James 5 tells sick people to call for elders to pray for them in order that they may be healed. Conservative Baptists typically didn't believe in the miraculous, and typically didn't follow through on Jame's teaching.

Being crafty, Mom knew Dwight couldn't say no to her question because he couldn't say he didn't believe Scripture. In essence, she tricked him. And to his credit, scared as he acknowledged himself being, he studied, prayed and called the elders together to pray for Mom on the Wednesday night before her catscan (the day before I flew to join Dad). Mom had to wait a long time top be prayed for that night, because Dwight questioned each of the elders, looking for uncovered sin in their lives before finally calling Mom into his office to pray for her. I don't know what anyone expected out of that time together but the next day, over my Dad's objections that there would be no news, I called Mom to find out what was going on. She announced, they can't find the tumors, they are gone. "The report says that there is a slight swelling of the lymph nodes,  and we can't rule out the possibility of lymphoma." Mom was healed, in part, because Dwight was faithful.

That same man, a longtime pastor at Montavilla Baptist Church completely screwed up when it came time to deal with me and my sexual sin and double life. His handling of the situation couldn't have done more harm to me, the church or the gospel if he'd wanted it to. He was in over his head, couldn't acknowledge it, and reacted rather than responded to the news of my sexual betrayals. He became so intent on trying to read Scripture literally that he missed its message and ended up twisting it so that it said what he wanted it to say. This gave him a license to publicly read a list of my sins during a "worship service." His friend at Portland Foursquare followed his lead, also reading a list of my sins out publicly. I think he'd still argue he was right to have done so. In case you were wondering, he wasn't. He chose the action because of his shame rather than my sin.

My family had been at Montavilla Baptist since 1969 and Mum and dad were universally loved. Mom and Dad were power brokers in the church and potential threats to any pastor coming in to shepherd the church. Pops knew that Dwight viewed our whole family as a threat. And he warned me to be careful. Dwight could be caring and fantastic as well as vindictive and cruel. Out of his respect for Dad, he went with Timothy, Dad, and me to pour out Mom's ashes at Ecola State Park, caring for us in amazing ways. Later, he allowed me to preach at my Dad's service and helped me make wise decisions surrounding that service so that I didn't alienate Timothy further and cause a wider schism between us. And then he'd do something crazy like take the elders of the church without seeking any discernment to Timothy's house to perform an exorcism because I stayed there. If there were evil spirits in the house when they prayed, it had more to do with my brother's choices than mine. He was seeing a dominatrix at the time. So Dwight practiced evil, and stupidity as well as kindness and love, all at the same time.

In my anger, I could only see his evil. In the wake of my blow out, he was one of the hardest of all the Church patriarch's for me to forgive. I seemed to be incapable of holding the good and the evil that resided in the man. And for me to heal, I needed to be able to do precisely that. I needed to see and remember the good as well as the evil that always seemed to blind me to the good. He was not as evil as I made up in my mind that he was. I had to consciously look for the good. I had to consciously choose to see it. SOmeone said, "there is a little good in the worst of us and a little bad in the best of us." My job is to see the good while acknowledging the evil. It is in that balance that I find freedom.

The biggest example of this is Mom. You know her story. She was an early pioneer in the women's movement in the church. She was the first person - male or female - to produce a weekly Christian radio show across Europe, She was a noted Christian women's speaker. She was a better preacher than most of the men of her day -- certainly better than Dad. Her Bible study notes are amazing. She was a poet and a performer. Hundreds, if not thousands of people found life, meaning, freedom and authenticity because she was a faithful warrior, fighting against the darkness, And, she sexually abused me in evil and horrific ways.

In spite of the horror of that, for me to be free, I need to see the "and" that allows for the good in her, Just like in the story, I told you about Dwight. I will begin with the good before citing the bad. I have to, in order to be sane. I chose to look for the good so that I can be free.

Without knowing it, most of my work in recovery has been the work of recognizing and holding the "&." I hold that my Mom was an amazing, wonderful woman who chose to act evilly. I hold that Dwight was a good man who chose evil. There are countless more stories I could tell. You have stories to tell as well.

I believe that God uses evil, pathology, and narcissistic people for good in other peoples' lives. God uses seemingly crazy things to impart His power. In discovering the good I find freedom. I look to find the image of God in the shit. When I find it, I find hope. Calling forth the image of God from the shit creates the Kingdom of God. that is why seeing the "shit and magnificence," in Paula was part of my wedding vows to her. We do well together for a lot of reasons but one of them is that we can hold the "crap and glory" (her phrase) and shit and magnificence (my phrase) that we see in ourselves and in the other.

So, for me, to be a Rebel for Love - A rebel for the Kingdom -  means that I do this work. I look for the good in the midst of the shit. In some crazy ways, this starting point is the fuel of my freedom. But I think that needs to be held for another letter.

For those who know better, these days need you to be better

In my second year of grad school, our Therapy professor introduced my cohort to the work of Margaret Crastnopol who studied and wrote about psychic micro-trauma. She spent two hours with us presenting a paper and then took questions about her theoretical construct and how we could better work with those with our clients who were cracked or broken because of micro-trauma in their life.

Her work naturally follows in the wake of a similar book on micro-aggressions, by Derald Wing Sue who wrote, Microaggressions in Everyday Life. While micro-traumas are not necessarily the result of micro-aggressions, they are connected. Micro-traumas are the bi-product of recurring small traumas. One helpful metaphor is Chinese water torture. For micro-trauma functions in a similar vein. It is the result of repeated, ongoing small traumas; indifference; low-level emotional, spiritual or verbal abuse; prolonged emotional abandonment; or unintentional, recurring micro-aggressions. Dictionary.com defines Micro-aggressions as,"A subtle but offensive comment or action directed at minority or other non-dominant group that is often unintentional or unconsciously reinforces a stereotype and/or,the act of discriminating against the non-dominant group by means of such comments or actions." 

I fear that many of us are suffering micro-traumas as a result of this completely inane election cycle. And I believe that social media is only compounding the problem. It has become a hotbed of micro-aggression. People's feeds resemble their personal culture and ideologies. Anything outside of their worldview is unwelcome. Using this standard, when people post hateful things, those posts reach the level of being micro-aggressions.

It is people on the political right who distrust academia who seem to struggle with the construct of micro-aggression and micro-trauma the most. Surprisingly, though, micro-aggressions are not limited to the conservative right. We see them within many of the reactive movements that stand against the abusive, systemic powers that conservatives support.

This mutated election cycle, with all of its craziness, has led to not only micro-aggressions but full on assaults on whole demographics by people from both sides. We are truly a fractured nation. What caught me off guard is the scope of the assaults that both sides seem more than willing to perpetrate against the other.

If you look to the right, Mr. Trump and his talking heads apparently enjoy attacking those who oppose them. Let's face it; their strategic offense is offensive. The only way to avoid their ire is to agree with them or avoid them. On the stump, Mr. Trump has lumped hard-working illegal immigrants with rapists and murderers. There is no room in his worldview to obey biblical commands to welcome the alien and the stranger. Likewise, his misogyny is on display nearly every day at every rally he attends. One doesn't have to read too far into the text to see he would have thrown the first stone at the woman caught in adultery, and that he would never have spoken to the woman at the well (except to command her to serve him). He is intentionally and strategically offensive. He is unapologetic and generates tribalism among his followers that is at best, frightening -- and at worst. lethal. 

What surprised me recently, however, is that the other side (though not as course and blatant) is just as deadly and intentional in their attacks on their enemies. When Secretary Clinton referred to half of Mr. Trump's supporters as "deplorables," she not only created a circle of hate; she created an apologetic for it. For, it is not wrong to hate deplorable things. Her allowance of hatred of the deplorables opens the door for all sorts of propaganda that twists and distorts the truth, further inflaming Mr. Trump's supporters. She continues to create an atmosphere that is unwelcoming and damning of anyone who dares to challenge her. This one misspoken phrase reveals much of the character and strategy of the Democratic party.

My Facebook feed is full of articles attempting to argue that it is impossible to oppose Secretary Clinton without being a misogynistic, racist, gay-hater. No longer is it merely Mr.Trump's supporters who are all those things. And now, it is anyone who opposes the former Secretary of State. In me at least, it has backfired, making Mr. Trump more palatable; and that realization disgusts me. I don't want shit ever to taste like anything I'd want to eat.

It has been common in this country to dehumanize your political opponents. There is nothing new in that. I may not like it, but I've grown accustomed to it. What feels different in this election is the attempt to dehumanize the followers of your political opponent. While conservatives blast the intelligence of the progressives (which is irony at its best); the progressives (I will no longer call them liberals -- for the word denies them entrance into its fraternity) blast right back. They do so more subtly and with longer words containing more syllables, but they do it nonetheless. Each side is attempting to dehumanize the other. 

The thing that most breaks my heart, however, is when my classmates and friends from my seminary who sat in lectures with me about micro-aggression and micro-trauma; who worship the same Jesus who we read about in the Holy Scriptures, violate their call to heal. They do so by tearing down those who disagree with them; dehumanizing them and making them, "less than." I want to believe that their micro-aggression is unintentional and that if they realized that they were creating micro-traumas in people, they would stop.

As people who claim to follow Jesus -- who urged anyone who would listen to him to repent and live in the Kingdom of Heaven; we are called to be Kingdom people. I don't care if you vote for Mr. Trump, Sec. Clinton, Gov. Johnson, Ms. Stein, Sasquatch, or my wife (her campaign slogan is: "No bad beer," BTW). For nearly all of us who live in Oregon and Washington, our votes don't matter. Our States' electors are already set. There is no urgency in this part of the country. We are still going to have conversations with others -- in particular with those whose hope rests in the temporary government of the USA. The way we have the conversation reveals how much we love our enemies; how willing we are to trust Jesus when he urges us to turn the other cheek. It reveals to which Kingdom we belong.

We are to be "salt and light." We are to care for the orphans, the widows, the aliens, and strangers (see refugees). We are to beat guns into plowshares and turn weapons into art which gives life rather than taking it. We are to feed the hungry, turn the other cheek, care for the grocery clerk or the gas station attendant who serves us. We are to bring life, joy, hope, peace, faith, and self-control to our world. It kinda needs it right now, don't you think? 

As long as we are focused on tearing down the intelligence of our political opponents, our focus is not where it needs to be. We can and need to demonstrate to the world how to disagree with each other and still love and respect one another. We can (and are called to live in the Kingdom of Heaven while we navigate this world's, wars, hurricanes, tornados, mudslides, earthquakes, raging fires, hunger and poverty,, racism, militarism, consumerism, individualism, and even elections. 

I recognize that there is a certain irony to this post. I hope in its current form there aren't any unseen micro-aggressions left. I think I also removed all the outright aggression as well. I don't want to shame anyone into trying to love better. Though sometimes I try. 

I don't write to discourage people from supporting their candidate of choice, or following their conscience and not voting at all. I write, wanting the conversation to shift, love to come to the forefront, and Christians to remember -- not only that they are royalty but that they are already residents of the Kingdom of Heaven.

"A real reason to not allow women to teach men," he says with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek

I hope you like Satire... Shouting out to Beyonce here...

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This morning a colleague in A.C.T. International posted a link from a group that I'd never encountered before.: The Berean Research Organization. The thoughtless idiocy of the link he posted made me curious and so I tracked down the culprits who wrote it. Surprisingly to me, it was written by a woman. It is surprising because of the underlying hermeneutic of the piece disallows women from teaching a man in any way. So writing and disseminating this way out teaching should be off limits for a woman. 

I love that irony... Two women: Amy Spreeman and Marsha West head this project. On their page, they propagate vile, putrid, hateful, anti-scriptural, and Satanic views. (I just said that, and I meant it; for nothing is more contrary to the written Word of God, and the Living Word of God -- Jesus -- than their fearful hate and an apparent need to control the God of the universe.) I like to believe that it was women like these two that caused Paul to say some of the things he did about women teaching in both 1 Corinthians and the pastoral epistles. 

They state that: "Berean Research exists to help Christians discern and equip themselves to keep themselves and their brothers and sisters from falling into deception." Fear is the generator of their mission. If fear weren't an opposite to love, I probably wouldn't mind their outlandish arguments, but John is explicit, "perfect love expels fear" (1 John 4.18). Their mission is intentionally counter to the Scriptures they purport to protect. I don't know why this is true. Their hermeneutic teaches that it is true because they do not have strong enough men in their lives to give them a sense of safety and so they live in a perpetual state of fear. I do not know if this is true, I am merely trying to follow their hermeneutical pathway.

In an apparent lapse of any logical thought, they base some of their thinking on the belief that the True Church didn't begin until the Reformation. They urge their readers to disregard anyone who claimed to follow Christ before the mid-16th Century because apparently neither Scripture or the Holy Spirit were aroung before printing press and the Reformation. Everyone before was misguided, was all wrong, and evidently damned.

Paula noticed that I typically don't get this angry about wonky theology. She is right. It is bizarre for me to get so worked up over idiocy. My posture is very different than normal. It feels akin to when I stand up against abusive husbands and pastors. And it should, for that is exactly what I am doing here. Though, in this instance the abusers are women. May I always stand strongly against those who abuse -- especially Spiritual Abusers. In cases like this, may I mirror Jesus as described in Matthew 23, who stood against the Pharisees. May my words be as strong, but no stronger than His words, for they are directed at exactly the same crowd (albeit a different gender) living in a different millenium.

It is useless to point out the flaws in these two women's epistemology -- for they seem unaware of the consequences of their thought. They are unaware that they are making symbols into concrete reality, and are thereby creating idols for themselves and those who follow them. Indeed, they worship the symbol rather than the God to which the symbol points.

It is also fruitless to Illustrate the implosive nature of their hermeneutic. They clearly have no interest in the Living Truth, Jesus or His Word.¹ They only have an interest in controlling Him² and making Him less threatening to their theological agendas and emotional needs. They are described by the author of so many of the Proverbs as "foolish women." Please don't listen to them.

I wish I knew how to love these women, for I fear for their souls. They are so out of touch with the Holy Spirit and the Word of God. If I figure it out, I will let you know, because if their eschatology is correct, they are going to have literal hell to pay come Judgment day. 

A Prayer for me and for them:

Lord, please show me how to love the Pharisees of today no matter their gender. I swear that is the hardest thing you ask of me. I need your help.

May they be swallowed whole by your love and crushed by your grace. May they discover that their only hope of salvation is found in you rather than their interpretation of your words. May they discover the Savior they have so clearly missed; and may love rather than fear become hallmarks of their lives. Lord, also protect the foolish who follow them, not knowing any better. Protect them from the fear and the hate their teachers propoate. May they discover how big you are and the safety and comfort of your imminant transcendence.

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¹ I make up in my mind that they will struggle with even the phraseology of referring to Jesus Christ, the Eternal Son of God as "the Living Truth," even though it is completely Biblical. In this instance, though the symbols match their symbols exactly, the usage of them is unfamiliar and therefore dangerous. I may be wrong about this, but my fear about them is consistent with some of their other complaints about the Biblical commands to fast (Joel 2.12, Mt 6.16-18, Mk 2.20, Lk 5.36, Acts 13.3) and meditate (Josh 1.8; Ps 48.9; 119.23, 27, 47, 52, 117; 145.5). But apparently they don't like Scripture when it disagrees with their world view. They'd never admit that. WHen it happens, they interpret the bits they don't like away, making them irrelevant for today. We might as well cut those parts out of our Bibles.

² It follows. See the curse in Gen. 3

Thanks for help along the way

The past three years required me to spend over 40 days either in a cage (car) or on my bike commuting over 31,000 total miles to that little fishing village to the north of Portland to attend classes. I also spent over 100 nights with friends who allowed me to crash "at their pad." I owe a lot of thanks to a lot of people whose generosity made my degree affordable

Mary, Joel, River, Orien, Anna & Cannon, Maren & Ben, Alicia, Kevin, Cam and Kristen, Judy, Lori & Todd, Victoria, Maria, Jacqueline & Jack and Jay; I can't repay you guys. Your gifts of time and yourselves -- your apartments and homes -- food and fellowship. Wow... May you be richer in the Kingdom because of your faithfulness. May you know His smile, exercise His faith and know His joy. May all His blessings be yours. Thanks.

I also want to thank Rebecca and Nichole for the times we were able to carpool north together. Nic, who often kept me company when I was able to pick him up in Tacoma to ride north --  Buddy, our journey together at the Seattle School is truly a story to be told. I look forward to traveling with you a long way, wherever the Lord takes us to live and work in His Kingdom. I also need to thank the Washington State Patrol for only pulling me over and issuing me two tickets (both while I was driving a cage). And the City of Seattle who issued a lot of parking tickets but only got paid for one (wife's car).

And then yesterday, I didn't mention some important people at the school when I spoke of endings: Paul Steinke -- may I ever get to refer to you as my abbot. Your wisdom and love have empowered Paula and me to new paths and hopes. You are a gift to the Kingdom and those under your care. Cheryl Goodwin, I would have only passed half of my classes if it weren't for your patient work with me to teach me to research. You give librarians everywhere a good name. You made the library one of my favorite places to be. Your very presence gave me confidence. Presence matters -- you are living proof of that. Kristen Houston, thanks for helping me navigate courses, think through options and make wise choices. Thanks also for bites of chocolate whenever I came to see you. Dan Tidwell, you are a man I wish I knew better. I can't clearly identify all that you gave me. Somehow, as I heard your story, as I listened to your passions and poured out some of my questions and hurts, I knew you got it, and you get it. I could and should include you with the three early AI's I list below, but you get your own line item. Thanks for becoming my friend.

Vanessa, Tim & Chris: you are the heart and soul of teaching students your craft. You helped the soul artisan in me learn how to enter in, and experience and offer people freedom and voice. Borrowing from John Bowlby, you taught me how to, "Feel things, I was never given permission to feel, think things I was never given permission to think, and do things that I was never given permission to do." In so doing, you empowered me to do likewise. Without you three, I'd know a lot and not be able to do much of anything. Thank you. May your blessing of me be passed on to those I am privileged to serve.

There is a whole other group of people that often go unnamed. They are the Assistant Instructors -- the graders of the papers -- the sages of the classroom -- the answerers of all questions -- and the solvers of technological issues. 

Mallory, Hailey, and Dana -- the three of you made me better as I struggled to be an old man in graduate school. I write better because of you; I think better because of you; I have more confidence because of you. Those are beautiful gifts to be given. Carin, Joe, Mike, Elise, Phil, and Katie,  -- you took the work my early AI's began and pushed me further. I am grateful beyond words. And all of you entered into my story and blessed it and blessed me. 

I get to carry you each with me into what is now the back-half of my life, and I am grateful

Endings

Today is my last day taking classes at the Seattle School. I had the last class with the man with whom I came to study. This is the last time that I get to sit in class with my friends, learning from them. It is a day of sorrow and joy. It is a day where I need to embrace saying goodbye. I've spent three years in these hallowed halls. I've laughed and cried here with women and men that I've grown to call friends. This place has given me so much. There is no way to adequately express my gratitude for the men and women who've taught me:

Dan Allender is the man who drew me north. I don't know if I've ever met such a brilliant human who is simultaneously kind beyond measure. O'Donnel Day shaped my understanding of the basic construction of the human mind. She continually surprised me with gentle strength that helped me understand things that I thought were well beyond me. Roy Barsness taught me how to love my clients in life changing ways, and he redirected my theological metaphors so that they can give more life. Steve Call taught me to be gently curious and patient. His calming manner regulates entire rooms of people. Dwight Friesen daily revealed Jesus to me, and in so doing gave me a living example of who pastors are called to be. Chelle Stearns and Ron Ruthruff introduced me to new theological friends. They gave me the freedom to explore and helped me make interesections between theology and psychology. Stephanie Neil and Christie Lynk taught me ethics repeating nearly every week --  "Don't do meth and don't sleep with your clients and you'll be fine." No one teaches ethics like they do. And that is true well beyond their running joke. I've listed only the faculty that directly impacted me, changing and growing me. I haven't listed my classmates who challenged me, walked with me, and never letting me hide. They are who I will miss most. They are who have molded me the most.

If that isn't enough, next week I will say goodbye to all of my clients at my internship site. It is an abrupt and unexpected ending. It is not easy to tell them I am going, and their tears break my heart. I'm also saying goodby to staff and my supervisor and my fellow interns who have worked with me side by side. I have to say goodbye to the case managers and the chaplain who daily pour out their lives for these men and women who live on the margins of society. 

We're taught at the Seattle School, and I believe it to be true, that we need good endings to have good beginnings. Death always precedes resurrection. Life comes out of death. In this season, I am learning to end. It requires that I remember, celebrate, and grieve the life I've been blessed to live these past few months and years. I get to look ahead to the hope I hold and plan how that future might become reality. 

We don't know how to end well. Ending well is hard. May I do that which is hard, and finish well.