Author Archives: Rich

The Most Unlikely Disciple

(This blog is adapted from the first chapter of Rich’s soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This book follows the life transforming work being done for over 20 years at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment.)

“For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” Luke 19:10

My wife, Sue, and I had just moved to Corvallis, OR. This was our first assignment in the campus ministry we had recently joined the staff of. We had chosen our church home and were starting to make friends. I was both hesitant and hungry to form new relationships.  One Sunday I noticed a guy smoking cigarettes in the parking lot in between services. I was immediately drawn to him and started talking to him. Instantly, Dennis and I became buddies.

What was I looking for? Was I looking for a rebellious smoking brother? No, I think I was looking for authenticity. I was looking for someone I could trust to be him or herself. I had noticed that once people, including myself, placed their faith in Christ, they slowly became more secretive about their struggles. They seemed to feel the need to foster the illusion that they were pure and perfect. I often found people outside the faith to be more open and honest about how they were struggling and hurting.

Christians often stress the difference between themselves and non-believers. There are a number of words used to describe those who are outside the fold—unbelievers, non-Christians, seekers, sinners, and those who are lost. Those who go to great lengths to emphasize the distinction scare me. It has often been my experience that those who think they are found are often the most lost. Those who think they are lost know it and are open to help.

Christians, like any identified group of people, naturally want to delineate themselves as a unique and distinct tribe. We are like animals and seek the security of forming packs, gangs, clans and tribes. Unfortunately, one of the side effects of this clannish tendency is that we feel compelled to emphasize why our clan is superior to all those around us. Tribalism offers security while fostering division, distrust and enmity. We become quick to judge who is inside and who is outside our community.

The story of Zacchaeus in the Gospel of Luke (19:1-10) speaks to this human tendency.  Jesus was walking through Jericho. His fellow countrymen hated Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector, because he worked for the Roman occupiers and was compensated according to the amount of money above and beyond the taxes he collected.  He was extremely powerful and wealthy. He was seen as corrupt, immoral, unprincipled, and a defector. His old gang, known as the JJ’s (Jews of Jericho), despised him.

Jesus was walking through town and Zacchaeus desperately wanted to see him. In addition to being undesirable, he was of small stature and could not see above the crowds. He ran ahead and climbed a tree in order to see Jesus and possibly get his attention. Why would this guy be so interested in Jesus? He would seem like the most unlikely candidate. He had what everyone wanted—position, power, and lots of money.

As Jesus was walking by, he looked up in the tree and saw Zacchaeus. He called him by name and said that he needed to stay at his house. Zacchaeus immediately came down and enthusiastically invited Jesus to come to his house. Zacchaeus was so moved, he repented of his evils and declared his intention to make amends to all those he had cheated.

What a sudden turn of events. Zacchaeus was now in good shape while those around him were dying. How could the tables have turned so quickly? Of all the people to show kindness to–why would he have to give grace to Zacchaeus? He’s a reprobate and a traitor. The disciples liked Jesus’ message of compassion and forgiveness; however, they wanted Jesus for themselves and their community.

Zacchaeus was the most unlikely disciple. But, was he really? We all long to belong and be loved and accepted. We are divinely designed—hard wired—with a hunger for intimacy and community. Even though Zach apparently had everything, he more than anyone knew he was lost and lonely. He was starving for deeper and more meaningful relationships.

His strategies for finding satisfaction had failed. He was unashamed of his hunger for relationship with Jesus. Instead of hiding, Zacchaeus hurled himself toward Jesus. He knew his ways were not working. He was ready to give up everything in order to taste the bread of life.

May we never forget that we too are lost. Let’s all go climb a tree and cry out to be seen by a God who knows our hunger. He also knows our name and wants relationship with us regardless of what we have done. Let’s tear down the walls that divide us and rally around our universal hunger for intimate and authentic relationship with one another.

Listen to the words of the Apostle Paul, who too was tempted to judge others instead of showing mercy and grace.

You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. Now we know that God’s judgment against those who do such things is based on truth. So when you, a mere human being, pass judgment on them and yet do the same things, do you think you will escape God’s judgment? Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance? Romans 2:1-4

Memories of My Friend, Missy

The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing… not healing, not curing… that is a friend who cares. Henri Nouwen


I grew up loving animals and nature. I felt most at home outdoors—walking in the hills or sitting in a tree. I believe God introduced me to his unconditional love through my relationship with dogs.

 

My twelfth birthday I received the most amazing gift ever—a Golden Retriever puppy I named Daniel the Lion-hearted. Danny instantly became my best friend and loyal companion throughout my challenging teenage years. Danny did what great dogs do—he introduced me to loyal love. Danny lived for ten years before he lost his battle with cancer. The day I knew I needed to put him down was without a doubt the most difficult day of my young life. It was so upsetting to have my last act of love for Danny be to end his life. My heart broke and unleashed the expression of a lifetime of buried pain.

 

Love hurts. Caring is costly. It is no accident that it was 18 years before I got another dog. I used to blame my wife, Sue, for not letting us get a dog; however, I now realize I was unconsciously protecting my heart from the hurt of loving and losing again.  It was in February 1996, almost 28 years after adopting Danny that I fell in love with Missy. She was the opposite of Danny in a number of ways—she was a tiny little Maltese girl and he was huge Golden Retriever boy; she was petite and loved to be held and he was athletic and loved to wrestle. She was anxious, neurotic and extremely talkative and he was laid back, peaceful and relatively quiet.   She was a minute Maltese weighing 80 ounces and Danny was a beast weighing 80 pounds.

What they both shared in common was their care for others and their loyal love for me. They both understood how hungry I was for their attention, affirmation and companionship.

 

Missy and I formed a pact–I would faithfully look after and protect her and she would draw out the expression of my tenderness and vulnerability. This unspoken covenant began when I would sleep on the kitchen floor with her as she was grieving the loss of her brothers and sisters. Appropriately, Missy’s life ended in the way it began, with me laying on the floor with her in the early morning hours as she was struggling to stay alive.

 

Once again, my heart is healing from another breach. Missy is dead and I think my heart may have ruptured. I am thankful I have learned a little about grieving and have been fitfully preparing for this inescapable day. It took a courageous and tenacious confrontation by my son, Phil, to penetrate my denial about Missy’s demise. I knew she was dying; however, I dreaded the thought of life without her by my side.

 

As I was wrestling with the inevitability of her death, I was continually praying and asking God to let her die in her sleep. I found myself fantasizing about her breathing her last breath at my request and humbly sharing with others about my compelling faith. What I now understand was that I was not ready for her to die. Missy was at peace—it was me that needed to find the faith that I could survive another loss of love. When I found the faith to trust that God was my BIG Missy, then my eyes were opened and I knew I could do what needed to be done.

 

I believe a miracle was performed—it was a transformation in my heart. I embraced my responsibility to do what Missy needed me to do. Loving is often counterintuitive and costly. With Sue by my side and the care of my family, I had the support I needed to end Missy’s life. It was a wonderfully dreadful experience. I treasure the memories of my last days, hours, minutes and final seconds with Missy.

 

I am surfing the waves of grief. I am expressing my feelings as they surface. I am learning how to be with others more courageously and authentically. Missy is still by my side, running, talking, and being with me moment by moment. I am seeing all the Missy’s around me.

 

Grappling with God – Introduction

(This is an excerpt from the introduction of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This introduction speaks to the hunger within all of us to make sense of ourselves and seek the unconditional love offered by God. This book gives an account of the life transforming work we do at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment.)

 

Growing up, I had always felt that I was a bit unusual. On the one hand I was strong and tough, rough and rambunctious. A high-energy child, I loved being active in the outdoors and playing sports. More than one adult would have labeled me as wild. At the same time, there was this other part of me: sympathetic and tender-hearted. I was a natural caretaker and defender of those who were vulnerable and hurting.

Just recently, my ninety-four-year-old mother gave me an end-of-the-year report she had saved from my nursery school teacher, who had this to say about me when I was four-years old. “Richard likes active, outdoor play and is very definitely a leader of his group of friends… Because he is so ‘rough and tough,’ it is surprising to see how easily he becomes crushed when he feels rejected or has to wait too long for a special toy.”

These two sides of me seemed opposed, especially as I got older. How could I play sports fearlessly if I was also inclined to be a caregiver? How could I protect myself behind a macho image if I let with my tender heart show?  This dichotomy was uncomfortable, and I found myself wrestling with who I really was and what it meant to be me. Sometimes my wrestling was of a more literal sort–such as the day I thought I broke my brother Charlie’s ribs.

When I was eight years old, Charlie, who was fourteen years my senior, left for a four-year tour of active duty with the U.S. Navy. The day he left was the saddest day of my life. So imagine my excitement when I was 12 and Charlie came home on leave. I couldn’t contain my exuberance at seeing my brother, who in many ways had been a second father to me, always taking time to play with me when I was a little boy.  I idolized Charlie, who in my eyes was this macho military guy, and I couldn’t wait to show him just how much I had grown.

He hadn’t been home more than ten minutes when we started to roughhouse on the driveway. At one point, I picked him up and threw him on the ground. Charlie didn’t get up right away. The pain in his side was excruciating. He was sure he had broken one of his ribs. Instantly, I felt ashamed for hurting my brother. No matter that Charlie assured me it was an accident, that we were just playing and he was fine, I felt responsible for his pain. As my tender, caregiver side came out, I not only wanted to make Charlie all better, I detested how physical I had been with him. There just had to be something wrong with me.

The tension between being tough and tender has always been a troubling part of my DNA. I was never completely comfortable with either part alone. To be so caring and open toward others was just too vulnerable. To be a real warrior, capable of inflicting punishment on my opponent on the playing field, denied my gentler side. It took me twenty five years and much growth work to unlock another contributing factor to the puzzle that was me: the abuse I had suffered in childhood, the memories of which I had buried deeply within myself.

In order to make peace with all of me–to understand and accept myself just as I am–I needed to experience unconditional love. Long before I could open myself up to that type of experience with another person, I had to allow it to come from the source of my being-ness: God.

Although I had grown up attending church with my mother and always believed in God, it was not until I was in my teens that I was introduced to the possibility of having a personal relationship with God. The idea intrigued me and quickly drew me in. The more I came to know about Jesus, the more I could see parts of myself in him. Jesus, to me, was a hero and a savior, the kind of guy who could really “take it,” whether it was standing up to the bullies who wanted to hurt and even kill him, or lasting forty days in the desert while facing seemingly unbearable temptations.  While Jesus was unquestionably strong, physically and mentally, I also saw in him a huge capacity for tenderness. He offered people safety, security, and rest. He welcomed the little children and forgave the sinners without punishment or shame. At last, I had found someone to whom I could relate, who was tough and tender at the same time. In Jesus, I began to make sense to myself.

 

Faith, Day by Day

(This is an excerpt from the eleventh chapter of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This chapter introduces the importance of living by faith day by day. This book gives an account of the life transforming work we do at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment.)

…I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances

Philippians 4:11b

 

Living by faith is not an easy road. Becoming more Christ-like stretches us in uncomfortable places, beyond our boundaries and over the thresholds of our old limits. We can no longer afford to be shut down in any part of our lives. To be like Christ is to be alive in all of it, in the joy, the pain, and the sorrow.

To live by faith is the process and purpose of this book, bringing together each of the stages of growth that we have discussed. We acknowledge that we are created to live in community; that our connections with others and within ourselves reflect the state of our relationship with God (and vice versa). We need grace and truth to open those places we’ve hidden inside where fear, sadness, anger, unworthiness, rejection, abuse, and abandonment have kept us from connecting fully with others. With grace and truth, we accept ourselves and each other just as we are.

Seeking to become more spiritually mature, we recognize the importance of our feelings. No longer satisfied to live in our heads in a world we think we can control, we risk feeling and expressing what’s in our hearts. Feeling more deeply our fear, sadness, and anger, we become more honest with ourselves and others, including God. Admitting our fears empowers us to develop the confidence to be open and vulnerable. Acknowledging our sadness and hurt, we affirm our hunger to connect with others. Learning to access our anger and express it responsibility, we assert ourselves in relationships without damaging our connections with others.

With purpose and intention, we embrace our responsibility to chose how we are going to live and who we are going to be. We give ourselves a sense of direction as we explore such questions as: where am I going, why am I here, what are my gifts, how am I going to give back… We commit to use our abilities and talents to love and support one another.  And, we know that questioning is necessary on the path to becoming more spiritually mature; that the paradox of abiding faith is also to have doubt.

No matter how far we’ve come, we remain works in progress. We continue to stretch and grow, experience setbacks and comebacks, and keep moving forward toward deeper truth, more authentic expression of our feelings, and greater connection within ourselves, and with others and God. In short, we grapple– wrestling with what it means to be human, to be in relationship, to be loved unconditionally by God.  The more we grasp and the tighter we hang on, the more God engages and invites us to fight the good fight.

In my book, Grappling with God, I will share about the time when my physical strength and athletic ability, which I had always prided myself on, suddenly slipped away from me, and I became more vulnerable than I had never been before. Watch for the early release tool kit offering a sample chapter and other resources to help you grow in your faith and love for God.

 

Faith and Doubt

(This is an exerpt from the tenth chapter of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This chapter introduces the importance of doubt and questioning in the development of authentic faith. This book gives an account of the life transforming work we do at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment.)


“Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.” (John 20:25)

 

 

Here is the paradox: true faith—deep, mature, and abiding—is full of doubt and questioning. This is not an easy truth to swallow. After all, many of us associate doubt and questioning with a lack of faith, with nonbelievers and skeptics. True believers, we tell ourselves, accept things without question. On my journey to deeper faith, however, I found the opposite to be true.  Spiritual maturity is not believing only what we have been told because someone older and wiser has said it is so. Faith must be tested, wrestled and grappled with through questioning and doubts, until it becomes one’s own.

When I was a young Christian, a teenager of sixteen who had declared himself to be one of Christ’s own, mine was a simple faith. In the Young Life youth group, we met together to pray, sing, and study the Bible. My faith was experiential, defined by what I experienced within this loving and accepting community. I was full of questions. I didn’t know anything so I hungered for answers. In this state, I was truly like a child with an insatiable and sincere desire to know Jesus and become a better Christian.

It was a blissful, innocent time when a tiny faith seed had been planted in my life. That phase, however, didn’t last long. I wasn’t satisfied with just being a new Christian. I wanted to know the Bible, to expand my mind so I would have the answers. I didn’t place any priority on feelings. As I saw it, emotions were too close to the appetites and longings that could get someone like me into trouble. I decided to supplant what I felt with what I knew, becoming a voracious student of the Bible. This endeavor continued for years.

In my first year in ministry, I obtained the reading list from friends who were in seminary and devoured an entire year’s coursework on my own. I toted around thick books on theology, which I consumed like popcorn. I committed scripture to memory and learned the “right” way to interpret it. I devoted myself to Christian apologetics to prove the validity of the Christian faith and counter any worldly doubts or arguments to the contrary.  I wore my knowledge like armor.  I was a warrior who could win over most challengers and slay cynics with the sword of “truth.”

My goal was to master my understanding of Christianity, replace all doubt and answer all questions. I trusted only the Bible and those whose expertise in interpreting the scriptures was greater than my own. Unwittingly, though, I became a master of dogma. I understood theology, knew the Bible inside and out, and could quote scripture endlessly. Although I could explain doctrines and knew the creeds, it was not the same as personal faith. Dogma is someone else’s teaching; like a legal position on a certain issue. Dogma is knowledge devoid of relationship.

My perception of God was as limited and narrow as my view of the world. I didn’t dare question any of it for fear that at any moment I would find myself on the wrong side of God—just as I had worried as a child about doing anything to draw my father’s anger or my mom’s disapproval. Questioning was neither safe nor profitable.  What I thought God wanted me to do was trust what others said was true in the Bible and doubt everything else.

Even when I was in my thirties and began to surround myself with intelligent, thoughtful people who challenged my beliefs, I was terrified to look honestly at what I believed. I thought I should be through with doubting. My role was to answer others’ questions, not to spend a lot of time formulating my own. If the Bible said it, I believed it and thought I was responsible to defend it. If I felt a twinge of discomfort over something in the Bible—for example, God telling Abraham to murder his son, Isaac, or the genocide of every Canaanite man, woman, and child when the Israelites invaded the Promised Land—I searched to find an explanation until I was satisfied.

Cloaked in my knowledge, I hid from my feelings and from myself.  I tried to hide from God, too, hoping to stay under His radar; appeasing Him with good works, but never to draw too my attention to myself. This behavior went against what I said I believed. I knew from scripture that Jesus was “the way, the truth, and the life,” (John 14:6).  I could cite chapter and verse that proved God loved us, that every hair on our heads is counted. (Matthew 10:30) But I could never imagine a God who would be big enough and patient enough to allow me to doubt, question, and challenge Him. I was much too afraid of being punished and ostracized by the community to seriously embrace my doubts.

Watch for the release of Grappling with God and continue reading about my struggle to deepen my intimacy with God and meet my hunger for more of Him.

 

Pursuing Your Purpose

(This is an exerpt from the ninth chapter of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This chapter emphasizes the power of discovering and passionately pursuing our purpose in the service of fulfilling our life project.)


Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. (Phil 3:12-14)

 

When I was a young boy I found an identity and a sense of security in athletics. Every football season I played as hard as I could, and more often than not I was rewarded with recognition for my accomplishments. By the time I transitioned from junior high to high school, however, I realized that football was not going to sustain me. The sense of community I derived from the team ended with the season. By late November or early December, I was alone again with no social connections.

What I experienced as a teenager, I realized much later, was a kind of existential panic; struggling socially and wondering what I was all about, what mattered to me. As I pondered these questions my life confused me. On the field, I was the roughest, toughest player, yet elsewhere I was the one people would come to when they had trouble. How could both parts be true: the hard-hitting football player and the sensitive kid? Only much later could I see that this two-sided conflict revealed my deep sense of pain and loss that stemmed from my upbringing. Unconsciously, I identified with those who had troubles and sorrow, although I could not fully feel or admit to mine. And, the only place I could act out my anger was on the football field. Unable to see that truth about myself, I vacillated each year from football to loneliness.

In February of my sophomore year in high school, a couple of guys who were also athletes on the wrestling team invited me to come to a group with them. I was blown away! It had been two years since I had been invited anywhere. Of course I said yes; I would have agreed to anything.

Their invitation was to Young Life, a Christian youth group. It was a straightforward “Jesus loves you” gathering with prayers and guitar playing. From that first meeting, I felt loved and accepted. Here was the sense of belonging I had always wanted. I spent the next couple of months participating in every Young Life activity I could: retreats, workshops, and Bible studies. By June, I had a profound experience which led me to make a commitment to become a lifelong follower of Christ.

My connection with Young Life was stronger than anything I had felt before. Not with the Boy Scouts, where I had become one of the youngest Eagle Scout in northern California. (Once I earned that distinction, I quit because I had accomplished my goal. It never occurred to me that scouting was a community.) Not in football, because I knew that the team and I would part ways at the end of every season. Not even within my family. Through Young Life I found my life—what I was all about. In other words, I found my purpose.

An Unchanging Purpose

Over the years, my purpose has not changed: to experience and then to radiate and share the love of Christ. How I’ve lived that purpose has evolved as I’ve grown and matured in experience and understanding. When I was in college, my vision of what it meant to be a disciple of Christ led me to devote about 25 hours a week directly to some type of ministry activity. (Given the fact that I was also a varsity athlete, it’s little wonder that there wasn’t much time left for my undergraduate studies.) After I graduated from college and following a brief stint of working as a carpenter, I went into the ministry. Through that experience I discovered another way to live out my purpose, with passion for helping people to overcome the blocks and obstacles that prevented them from taking in the love of Christ and maturing in their faith in God.

At the time I was unaware of what was driving my passion to help others. It wasn’t until years later that I could see how I was trying to heal myself from the abuse I had suffered in my childhood. Because it was hidden in my unconscious at the time, I projected myself onto other people who were deeply wounded. I tried to assist them in expanding their faith in God and experiencing a more meaningful relationship with Christ as a way of healing myself.

I began to understand how we could know in our minds that God is loving; however, if we did not feel loved by our own parents we would have great difficulty really believing that God could possibly love us. We cannot trust God if first we don’t acknowledge how violated we felt by the injuries—physical, emotional, psychological, or spiritual—inflicted by trusted caregivers. What we were taught and understood with our minds cannot override what we came to believe in our hearts as children.  In the end, we would default to what we felt was true as children and reject what we would later be taught as adults.

The work we do at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment is to help people make sense of their lives. We support them in making a more meaningful connection with themselves that allows them to experience their feelings and identify their deeper core hungers. As we are able to recognize our hunger for love, authenticity, truth, community, and intimacy, we are able to increasingly participate in a genuine community of faith. We make it a priority to support others in making peace with God and letting in His unconditional love for each of us.

 

Choice and Intention

(This is an exerpt from the eighth chapter of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This chapter emphasizes the need to appreciate our magnificent power of choice and intention in the service of fulfilling our life project.)


Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles (Acts 2:43)


All of us have choices. We believe at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment that we have been gifted by God with the power and the capacity to decide how we are going to live our lives. Even in the midst of circumstances that are not of our choosing, we have a choice in the matter: what we want to experience and how we want to show ourselves to others.

For many of us, this requires a shift in thinking. We may consider it to be the pious and even in the polite thing to preface our plans and dreams by saying, “If God wills.” Too often, however, we use the concept of “God willing” to give ourselves an out. We are off the hook for what happens to us, positive or negative, because we give all the credit (and therefore all the blame) to God. A far more spiritually mature and empowering stance is to take responsibility for our lives, for our choices and for our intentions of what we create, consciously or unconsciously.

At any moment, we are always a choice away from where we want or need to be. This doesn’t mean that we can magically declare our lives to be free of problems or hardships. On the contrary, living life fully may require some serious sacrifices and even more challenges. Nor does taking responsibility mean punishing ourselves for what we’ve done or failed to do. Instead of retreating into shame, we choose consciousness and aliveness: being aware, attending to what is happening in the moment, and fully feeling our feelings.

As we stretch ourselves to living bigger, bolder lives, we do not need to worry about exceeding our boundaries with God or stepping on His toes. As Jesus modeled for us, life is to be lived full-out with no holds barred. We do not have to become less in order to make God (or anyone else, for that matter) feel better. God wants us to take the initiative in our lives.  In the words of Francis Cardinal Spellman, we “pray as if everything depended upon God and work as if everything depended upon [us].”

Becoming spiritually mature, ours is an inter-dependent relationship with God, trusting that He will provide everything we need, while we take responsibility for everything we need to do. This brings us to the essential question: What we you choose? In the Old Testament, Joshua issued the same challenge to the Israelites: “But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your forefathers served beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land we are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.” (Josh 24:15).

As spiritually alive people, pursuing greater connection in our relationships with ourselves, with others, and with God, we believe that serving the Lord requires that we become responsible and accountable for our choices. Living fuller lives as Christ-followers, we move out of reactivity and victimhood, as we discussed in Chapter 7, and become empowered. Instead of acting like victims or lashing out as persecutors, we get out of the drama triangle. Now, in this chapter, we take the next step. We see that what we experience is the direct result of our choices and intention. Put another way, the outcome of our lives reflects how we choose to live and the intentions that we put into action in our relationships and interactions with others.

 

The Gift of Love

Do not neglect your gift, which was given you through prophecy when the body of elders laid their hands on you. 1 Timothy 4:14

Sunday, May 22, 2011, I was officially ordained as a minister of the Gospel of Jesus Christ at Christian Life Church. My family, friends, and the community of faith from the Center for Christian Life Enrichment surrounded me with their love and support. It was an experience I had dreamed of and will forever treasure as one of the high points of my life. My daughter, Lauren, said it was as if I was at my own funeral listening to people acknowledge me and what I meant to them.

 

I began my message with a story about my big brother, Charlie, who is 14 years older than me. Growing up, Charlie was like a dad to me. I looked up to him and treasured the times we spent together. He consistently made an effort to include me in his life, teaching me to play football, hike, shoot, and fish. He was a powerful athlete and loved football like I did. As a result of his unending conflict with my father, he enlisted in the Navy when he was 19. Watching him leave was the saddest day of my childhood. At the time, I felt abandoned by him and did not understand why he couldn’t take me with him.

 

I recalled a time when he returned home and I was wildly excited to see him. I’m sure I was like an ADHD kid on steroids. We were playing around on the driveway and I started wrestling with him. I grabbed him, spun him around, and tossed him on the ground. I am sure I jumped on him as well for good measure. Suddenly, I saw Charlie holding his ribs and moaning. Somehow in the process, he had gotten hurt. I was stunned. How could Superman be injured? I felt like Lambert the Lion unsure of where my strength had come from!

Instantly, I went from feeling excited to feeling terribly scared. Fear that once again I was “too much” and shame that I had hurt my brother who I loved were threatening to overwhelm me. A trip to the doctor confirmed my brother’s diagnosis—broken ribs. I was mortified. This scene illustrates my conflicted sense of self—on the one hand, a rough and tough boy from birth and on the other hand a deeply sensitive guy who was extremely concerned about the feelings of others.

I recently returned from a visit with my 94 year old mother. She gave me a mid-year report she had found from Wirtabel Harris, my nursery school teacher. I was four years old. She wrote, “Richard likes active, outdoor play and is very definitely a leader in his group of friends…because he is so “rough and tough”, it is surprising to see how easily he becomes crushed when he feels rejected or has to wait too long for a special toy.” This tough/tender tension is part of my DNA.

When I was preparing my ordination message, I suddenly realized that this inability to reconcile my conflicted sense of self was part of why I was so drawn to Jesus. I saw in him the same tough and tender dichotomy.  Jesus was a courageously tough truth-teller who was willing to stand up to anyone regardless of position or status. He was also the most compassionate and tender-hearted physician of the soul. I saw myself in Him and believed that He would help me to make sense of myself.

 

It was in Christ that I found the incarnation of everything I was longing for. He became my hero and my savior. Jesus was the embodiment of strength and tenderness. He was my source of safety, security and rest. Jesus was the basis for me mattering—I believed He took the initiative to seek me out and invite me into a personal relationship with Him. It was in Christ that I had the hope of having all my hungers satisfied. It was through my relationship with Jesus that I found meaning and purpose. My call was not only to a relationship with Him—it was to a life of sharing God’s unlimited and unconditional love with the world.

This was such a special day because I was surrounded by those I love who were affirming God’s work and call in my life.

 

Responsibility

(This is an exerpt from the seventh chapter of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This chapter emphasizes the importance of living by the principle of responsibility.)


 

Living responsibly stretches us into new ways of thinking and acting. It is not always easy, and we will fall back into our old ways of victimhood time and again. When we feel too vulnerable or we are unable to deal with our sadness or fear, we will probably act out. When this occurs we must be careful not to victimize ourselves by being too self-critical. We take responsibility for what we’ve said or done, make amends if necessary, and move on. No matter how often we miss the mark, our efforts become their own reward. What is most important is engagement in the process. This is a core value at the Center for Christian Life Enrichment where we strive to live authentically practicing living by principles such as responsibility.

A few years ago, my father had a serious stroke at the age of ninety-three. He had always been a very strong man who had survived numerous illnesses including cancer, diabetes, and alcoholism. Nothing, it seemed, could knock him down. Therefore, when my brother, Bob, called me on a Tuesday afternoon to tell me that Dad was in the hospital, my immediate reaction was that he would recover. I simply did not take this episode that seriously.

When I called my wife to tell her what had happened, I suggested we leave for California on the weekend to spend a few days with Dad. By then, I thought to myself, he would probably be back at home. My perception changed, however, when Bob called me back a few hours later. Tests performed at the hospital showed that Dad had suffered a catastrophic stroke. Now I knew I had to get to him as soon as I could.

Fortunately, Sue was a step ahead of me and had already become investigating flights that would get us to California before the weekend. We booked two seats for a Thursday afternoon departure. On Thursday, as Sue and I left for the airport, I had peace of mind, knowing that soon I would be with Dad, which would comfort both of us. Over many years of personal growth work, I had been able to process and clear up old hurts and resentments, which allowed me to love and accept my father just as he was. I did not have unfinished business with him.

We arrived at the airport with no trouble on Thursday. We found a parking place and made it through security easily. At the gate, however, we learned that our flight was delayed for two hours. Even this unexpected delay did not dampen my optimism that I’d have some time to spend with Dad. All I wanted was a few moments with him, to hold his hand and talk to him.

While I was at the gate, Bob called me on my cell phone to tell me that Dad’s condition had deteriorated further. Still convinced that I would make it there before Dad died, I asked Bob to hold the phone up to Dad’s ear so I could talk to him. I assured Dad that I would be there in four or five hours. Although my father could not communicate, other than to make unintelligible sounds, I knew he heard me.

Comforted by the knowledge that Dad had heard my voice and understood that I would see him soon, I waited patiently at the gate. Then Bob called again. The moment I heard my brother’s voice, I could tell something was not right.

“Dad has passed,” he told me.

My first response was rage. “Passed?” I thought to myself, feeling a wave of anger rip through my body. “What a stupid word. We don’t talk like that. Dad didn’t pass! What is he, a car on the highway? He died. Dad is dead!”

Despite these reactionary thoughts racing through my brain, I kept up a normal conversation with Bob. I asked him how Mom was doing and told him that I’d keep him updated when I knew more about our flight departure. When I hung up the phone, however, I was immediately aware of just how much anger I felt. I was enraged and wanted to retaliate against someone for how badly I felt. The obvious target was my brother—the “messenger” of the news I had not wanted to hear.

Instead of acting on these feelings and impulses, however, I stayed with them in order to gather the insight they offered. As Sue and I wanted for the flight, which was delayed for several more hours, I ruminated on what I was feeling and why. I realized that my anger had nothing to do with what Bob said to me and his use of the word “passed” instead of “died.” Rather, I had entered into the grieving process, which was new to me personally. Never before had I experienced the death of someone so close to me. Since I was in the initial phase of grieving, my anger and sadness were understandable. There was another dynamic at work here as well. I recognized that I also felt guilty for not being there when Dad died, and I felt jealous that Bob had been the one to be with him. I was shaming myself for being the brother who moved away instead of being like Bob who lived near our parents. In short, I was a victim of my upset, Bob’s word choice, and my own guilt and shame.

As I untangled the knot of feelings inside me, I recognized the choice presented to me. I could choose to be a victim and, in response, to punish my brother for how I was feeling in an attempt to feel powerful again. Or, I could choose responsibility, which meant feeling all of my feelings, including the ones that made me uncomfortable, and expressing them responsibly. In other words, I could dive into the “Drama Triangle” through the point labeled “victim,” or I could take a higher road to what I call the Responsibility Triangle.

 

Befriending Fear

(This is an exerpt from the fourth chapter of my soon to be released book, Grappling with God: The Battle for Authentic Faith. This chapter emphasizes the importance of learning how to feel, express and integrate fear.)

 

For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.” (Romans 8:15)

 

Fear is uncomfortable for most of us. When we experience fear, we recoil; it’s a natural response. It’s hard to take a step willingly toward fear, especially when there is an alternative route—even if it means retreating. Going back is often more appealing than stepping forward. By refusing to confront our fears, however, we shut out the possibility of having a bigger life with more experiences that stretch and challenge us beyond the tidy borders of our comfort zone. Although there are times when we should heed our fears, such as when there is a very real and imminent danger, too often we are submissive to our fears. Doing so keeps us small and limited. As “slaves again to fear,” as Paul wrote (Romans 8:15) we banish ourselves to scarcity, instead of dwelling in abundance. At the Center for Christian Life Enrichment, we are supporting everyone in our community to feel and express their emotions, especially when they feel afraid.

The way forward is to become comfortable with fear—what I call “befriending fear.” Exploring and expressing our fear allows us to discern between a real danger and a limiting belief that may very well stem from childhood. But first, we have to feel our fear, which is something many of us have avoided for years. Many of us have become detached from our feelings; we’re so shut down that we’re numb inside. Therefore, in this chapter and subsequent ones we need to be aware of what it means to feel a particular feeling, such as by paying attention to our bodies. Physical cues such as a knot in our gut, our hearts racing, or tightness in our bodies tell us what we are feeling even when we can’t register them on an emotional level.

When I was a young man, I was in such a state of denial about my feelings that I could not admit the amount of fear I had. Instead, I buried my fear by doing the exact opposite. I was drawn to highly physical and even violent sports, such as football. I played fearlessly. When I or a teammate got hurt, I became even more aggressive. Assuming the hurt inflicted was the result of malicious intent, I responded as if I were in a life-or-death scenario; only one of us was going to survive and it was going to be me. I didn’t stop until I exacted revenge.

Looking back, I realize that I was scared most of the time—not in the sense of biting my nails and cowering in the corner. Rather, I experienced a sense of dread that existed at a low, but ever-present level all the time—a kind of hyper-vigilance intended to protect me from ever getting hurt again. My basic survival instincts overrode even the moral and spiritual teachings about being loved that I had learned and embraced as a new Christian.

I couldn’t see at the time how my outlook on life—that people were dangerous and wanted to hurt me—was affecting my relationships with others and with God. I might be able to say “Jesus loves me,” but I was still living as if God was out to get me. Deep down, I was afraid to really trust anyone, especially God. This was a place of extreme scarcity.

Much of this was happening on an unconscious level. I didn’t know I was in near-constant fear because I didn’t know what fear actually felt like.  I had become so shut down to my emotions that I did not equate the churning in my gut or breaking out in a cold sweat as physical signals that I was experiencing fear.

In time, as I became more aware of my fear, my first instinct was to find out how to get rid of it! As far as I was concerned, all this fear served no purpose in my life. So I tried to make a “dirty deal” (meaning, “I will do this if you will do that”) with God. As I saw it, if I did enough personal growth work, went to enough counseling sessions, and attended enough retreats, God would take away my fear. To my surprise, the exact opposite happened. The more personal growth work I did, the more conscious I became of all my feelings including fear. The more I felt my feelings, the more alive I felt. The more alive I became, the more I felt my feelings. This cycle of my feelings leading to more aliveness and vice versa eventually allowed me to escape the scarcity of my life and led me to the promise of abundance.