I believe in discourse.

What our porch looks like on Pints & Pipes night

Thursday has quickly become my favorite day of the week. Around 8pm, I set out a batch of my homemade guacamole, pour a test taste of my "fruit-infused water of the week," and light the outdoor fireplace. Soon enough, people begin to stroll into our basement for an event we affectionately refer to as "Pints & Pipes." As the name implies, we spend the evening imbibing on superb draft beer while puffing on black cavendish and other fine tobacco. Yet those things have become secondary - Pints & Pipes is really about relationships and discourse.

Supplies for a recent Pints & Pipes

The art of discussion seems to be lost in our society today, and I want it back. I read with fascination about how our nation was founded on ideas hashed out through lively, productive discourse in taverns, fueled by rounds of locally-brewed beer until there were no wicks left on the candles. Somehow we've traded that kind of open, respectful discourse for shouting our views at each other on television, and I think it's a travesty worth combating. Pints & Pipes is my dog in that fight.

In my assessment of the issue, my key observation is people have deeply-held views formed by their cultural upbringing and limited personal experience, and are unwilling to consider neither empirical evidence nor counter-cultural beliefs contrary to those viewpoints, even while thinking they like discourse. For example, I was once curious about Mormonism in high school, so I read a book written by an orthodox Christian that explained how Mormon beliefs conflicted with the Bible and were merely the invention of one man's imagination. I wanted to have enough knowledge of Mormonism to look smart, and maybe even be able to quote a few lines from the Book of Mormon to use in arguments against them, but I was only willing to learn from a viewpoint consistent with my pre-existing beliefs. No wonder my opinion didn't change! I believe this flawed way of thinking is prolific, and it leads to us seeking out bullets to fuel our existing arsenal of beliefs without ever questioning if we're carrying the wrong weapon. In order for true discussion to happen, there can be no sacred cows - we have to be open to our current beliefs being wrong.

My photo of the Mormon temple in SLC

A few years ago, a colleague and I spent two weeks conducting business reviews of our operations in the western USA. Our plan was to fly into Salt Lake City, drive 4 hours to Elko, NV for a 3 day review, spend the weekend in Salt Lake, then drive 4 hours to Rock Springs, WY for another review, then make our way back to SLC to fly home to Atlanta. About two hours into the drive to Elko, the topic of religion came up, and I learned something new about my colleague - he was a Mormon. I frantically looked out the window, but saw nothing but desert - there was no way out, this intense religious conversation was about to happen whether I liked it or not. I immediately started flipping through the rolodex of facts in my brain, trying to recall as many jabs as I could from that anti-Mormon book I read. Yet just before I shot my first zinger over the bow, I had a realization: this could end poorly. Riding in a rented Chevy Impala is uncomfortable enough - spending the foreseeable future alone in silence with someone I'd exchanged harsh, belief-bashing words with would be untenable. So I chucked my agenda out the window onto the Bonneville Salt Flats, and just asked "How did you form your beliefs?" Our conversation continued for three days straight.

Every petrol head has to stop at the Bonneville salt flats!

When I let my guard down on staunchly defending my beliefs and instead focused on understanding my colleague's perspective, I was immediately intrigued and had to know more. Every time we got in the car, I asked him more questions - about the history of the faith, about how his beliefs affected his world view, and what he thought made his beliefs stand out against all the other faiths of the world. I was fascinated by his viewpoint, and he gave me truckloads of information to mull over. He spent the weekend visiting his relatives in Utah, so I was left on my own in the Mormon capital of the world. I spent those days reading as much as I could, I visited the Mormon temple, I conversed with former and current Mormons in restaurants, I watched a few Mormon programs on television, I sipped on Polygamy Porter at the Wasatch Brewpub (not LDS-approved!), and I even went to a Mormon comedy club (actually really funny). In the end, I had some major misgivings about the religion, found many of their beliefs to be contradictory, and determined there was no corroboration for Joseph Smith's claims. Yet when I hopped in the passenger seat of that awful Impala on Monday morning, I was able to communicate these misgivings to my colleague with a very liberal dose of respect, love, and understanding, and was even able to share my beliefs with him without any raised voices or animosity. I wasn't repeating words I had read in a biased book like a weird Jesus drone, I was sharing my wrestled-with beliefs - and I think my authenticity was evident. The discussion was natural, and didn't result in any awkward silence. He's become a mentor to me at work, and I frequently seek out his sage advice - I hold him in extremely high esteem. We've continued our discussions on faith many times since then, and his views seemed to have changed significantly since that long road trip. I'm really glad I considered changing my belief system that weekend - I know my faith has grown exponentially because of it.

Our discourse had such a profound impact on me that I have sought to replicate the experience as many times as possible. I'm writing this from Madrid, and literally just returned from a very late (by American standards) dinner with a Spanish coworker. During our mealtime discussion, he mentioned he was one of the "new Catholics." When I asked him what he meant by "new Catholic," he responded: "We're pretty much like the old ones, but we really like sex." I ended my questioning there and prayed to not hear any more details. Nevertheless, these open dialogues on faith with people around the world have been eye-opening for me, and the diverse perspectives have strengthened my beliefs by forcing me to seek out earnest reasons for believing what I do. I longed for my friends in Atlanta to have these kinds of experiences, and since I couldn't fit them in my suitcase, I decided to bring the discourse to them through Pints & Pipes.

One Thursday, we debated the origins of morality, and the next week we discussed whether science conflicted with belief in God or not. Another time, my friend Peter shared his experience of growing up in Kenya, and talked about (and showed graphic pictures of) how most Kenyans growing up in the slums of Nairobi went to their graves without ever knowing that some of the most beautiful beaches in the world were a mere few hours' drive away. Just as we were all getting filled up with pity for these people living in hell when paradise was only a few kilometers away, he said: "It really reminds me of America, and how people here are so willing to settle for a mediocre suburban dream when epic living is knocking at their door - it's a shame" (the whole room of 40 people expressed a collective "ouch" as that honest statement hit home). Another Thursday, my friend Mike, a Palestinian Arab, discussed growing up in Israel during the 50's & 60's. His mother tongue is Arabic, but he's also fluent in Hebrew and English, and he's a professing Christian. His multifaceted and rich perspective on the Middle East rendered us absolutely speechless (I still wish I had recorded that meeting of Pints & Pipes). He was even open enough with us to share about the painful time someone burned a cross on his lawn (he was living in the USA at this point) during the Iran hostage crisis (even though he wasn't Persian, and wasn't a Muslim, but that's beside the point). These amazing discussions have changed my life immensely, and I hope they've impacted my friends, too. Each Pints & Pipes session costs at least $100-$150, but I think it's a worthy investment because I firmly believe this discourse is desperately needed in our community.  

Guess which of these beautiful people is Peter

The way I see it, Jesus claimed to literally be the truth (John 14:6), so if I earnestly seek the truth, I should find Him there waiting for me. I shouldn't be afraid of facts or thoroughly listening to the perspectives of others, because if Jesus isn't there at the point of truth, then He must've been a sham and I should move on with my life. If you're ever in Atlanta on a Thursday evening, I hope you'll join us for a pint or a healthy pour of fruit-infused water. We'll make you check your agenda at the door, but we'll intently listen to what you have to say. Who knows, you may just be able to make a strong enough case to make me finally drop this Jesus following nonsense.

What I'm listening to during this post:

I can't cut it.

I fell asleep on the tram the other night. This happens far too often - it's only a matter of time until I wake up to find myself in Belgium at 1am, robbed of my wallet and shoes. As the streetcar twists its way around Amsterdam's canals, a prerecorded voice announces the stops, and like a dog who obeys his owner's commands without understanding what the words mean or being able to pronounce them, I listen intently to ensure I don't miss the stop near my hotel. In between the speakers announcing Nieuwezijds Kolk and Prinsengracht, the conductor rings the tram's bell as we cross through an intersection. The bell is gentle, but we all know what it's really saying - "Get out of my path, you stoned, pot-smoking tourist!" All of these sounds orchestrate into a symphonic lullaby in my ears, and the gentle rumbling of the tram over the old tracks rocks me to sleep.

The other night, my slumber was startling interrupted by the speaker declaring the one Dutch word I know: "Zuid" (it means "south" and is pronounced like "Zowd"). I quickly punched the stop request button, scanned my chip card, and exited the tram. It wasn't until my feet had hit the pavement that I emerged from my stupor and realized Zuid was the stop for my office - my hotel was another 2 kilometers away. As I began my long walk back, a rain cloud burst above, absolutely drenching me. As the water seeped through my blazer, it was as if everything was going wrong, but all I could do was emit a joyful smile. 24 hours earlier, this joy would not have been possible.

2013 has been the most difficult year in the record books for me. I could go into detail, but I don't want to turn this post into a pity party. Also, I've noticed that when you bare your soul on a topic you've been struggling with, there's often a tendency for peers to belittle your struggle by comparing your life to someone whose situation is worse than yours. For example, I once confided in a friend that I had a rough week at the office, and his response was "hey, at least you have a job to complain about." I don't see any difference between that response and me telling a friend whose parents are going through a difficult divorce "hey, at least your dad is alive, mine's dead!" It's not compassionate, it's hurtful. Not to mention it's moot - many of the reasons I've had a tough year are people close to me are in situations worse than mine, and I haven't been able to help them as much as I wish I could. So I'll just sum it up by saying I've spent most of the year at what I thought was the end of my rope. After one particularly difficult week in Amsterdam, I spent the drive home after the long flight shouting at God. "I can't take any more!" I yelled at Him through the sunroof. Thirty seconds later, an uninsured motorist who had lost control of her vehicle t-boned the new car I had purchased a mere two weeks before. Apparently He thought I could take some more. Needless to say, I'm ready for 2014. I'm already preparing for our New Year's Eve party because I can't wait to stick 2013 on a pyre and set it ablaze like in a viking funeral.

I've tended to blame this year's troubles on money. First, I thought if I just had more of it, I could fix everything. Then I felt guilty for wanting more money, so I figured my lust for money must be the problem. Perhaps if I could just take out a scalpel and remove that desire from my heart, then surely all my angst would disappear. A few nights ago, I was struck with a bout of insomnia (which often happens when I fly to Europe and my body hasn't adjusted to the time difference yet). So at 3am, I passed the time reading my Bible, and praying for God to help me abolish my love for money. As I sat there in silence, God spoke to me. Not an audible voice, but rather a gentle whisper emanating from my chest and implanting words in my brain, saying: "This isn't about money. This is about your pride."

Before I continue, I'd like to acknowledge how absurd it is for me to claim I heard from God. I'm sure my unbelieving friends would have some very reasonable explanations for it - maybe even biological or psychological explanations for why it was just a message from my subconscious. Yet before you lump me together with the mentally ill and those who commit atrocities while claiming "God told me to," allow me to offer up a few observations of what these "communications" have had in common, and what have set them apart from my usual mind wanderings and daydreams. I don't hear from God on a frequent basis, and there's no pattern for when it happens (I don't do seances, or anything else to provoke them). When they do happen, they're succinct, always in accordance with Scripture, and affirmed by wise people. The messages don't necessarily align with what I see as my best interests, but rather typically cost me something (resources, how I spend my time, etc). They've never been prophetic nor predicted the future. Yet they've always stood in stark contrast with what I want, and point me down a road that is tougher, but worth it.

Some of the $10k worth of damage done to my new car

This instance fit the same pattern, and the message was spot on, whether I liked it or not. Money is a much easier issue to deal with - what I didn't want to admit to myself is I had found my identity in earthly success and not in Christ. I had become known as a man of international mystery, a man who threw lavish parties, and a man who was willing and able to share with his friends in need, and I loved that identity - perhaps even idolized it. When a friend asked me for prayer for a friend of hers who was going through a rough period, I didn't just pray for her, I bought her a plane ticket so she could go visit her friend in need. I loved writing those kind of checks - I found my identity in being a blessing to others. Yet in 2013, I've dealt with issues my checkbook can't solve. I could write a check for all the therapy my friend with a traumatic brain injury needs, but it would bounce. Even Warren Buffet's checkbook couldn't save my other friend from a frivolous yet still painful, reputation-damaging lawsuit. It was high time for me to recognize my identity of being this benevolent benefactor who could bless everyone's lives with hospitality and fix all my friends' problems through my own efforts was an illusion - I am no one's savior. I had to bury my pride and place my burdens at the feet of the Healer, hanging my head while whispering "I can't cut it."

Artist depiction of St. Peter

Recently, my friend Joe taught me about Peter, one of the disciples of Jesus in the Bible. In the Gospels, we see Peter as a headstrong, never-say-die follower of Jesus. When officials come to arrest Jesus, Peter draws his sword and chops the ear off of one of them (John 18:10). When Jesus predicts that Peter will deny Him three times, Peter is offended and claims to love Jesus more than anyone else (Matthew 26:33, Mark 14:29). Of course Jesus was right, Peter did end up denying knowing Him three times, and we see Peter's pride in his identity as the most zealous of the disciples slip into a feeling of dire failure. To add a little salt in Peter's wound, after Jesus dies on the cross and is resurrected from the dead, He goes to Peter and asks him: "do you love me more than these [referring to the other disciples]?" Peter responds: "you know that I love you" and Jesus follows with "Feed my lambs" then asks his question again. Peter responds the same way, then Jesus repeats His question a third time. Peter gives the same response a third time, and Jesus reiterates "Feed my sheep" (John 21:15-19). Sure, it's a beautiful dialogue, with Jesus making Peter say he loves Him three times to contrast his three denials, and Jesus reaffirming Peter's call to ministry, yet it's even richer when you look at the Greek, in which the New Testament was originally written.

The Greek language has four different words for love. When Jesus asks Peter if he loves Him, He uses "agape," which means unconditional love. However, when Peter responds, he uses "philos," which means friendly or brotherly love. It's as if Jesus is asking Peter: "Do you love me unconditionally, more than all the others, as you said you did?" and Peter is responding "Lord, you know I at least love you as a brother, but you know I can't say agape. You know I denied you, you know I messed up, you know I can't cut it." Yet Jesus is resolute, and reaffirms what he said about Peter before: "you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church." (Matthew 16:18) We know this is how history played out - we know Peter was one of the most prolific leaders of the early church. Yet we also know the growth of the church can't be attributed to Peter's zeal and strength, but rather to his inability to say "agape" with a straight face, to his admission of "I can't cut it," to humbly lay the burdens he couldn't control at the feet of the Lord while dedicating his life to following Jesus's simple command: "feed my sheep."

Agape in Greek

As the cold Dutch rain pierced through my expensive blazer, I realized I could dress myself up in fancy clothes, but storms would still fall on me nonetheless. I realized I could travel to foreign countries and take on the appearance of a jet setter, but I'd still fall asleep on public transportation, just like the homeless people in America. I realized I could search for all the job security I'd ever need, but I still would never have enough to fix everything. I needed to follow Peter's example and humbly accept God's call to serve Him while humbly admitting I can't take the credit and shout "agape." I gave up my burden, and it was freeing. I couldn't cut it, my pride and old identity were slowly dying, and it made me erupt with joy.

What I'm listening to during this post: