Learn their names.

This is Reilly during our Oregon road trip

Reilly is likely the greatest man I've ever met and ever will meet. Growing up together, he was constantly getting me involved in his crazy capers, and every ounce of whimsy and spontaneity I have is a byproduct of his influence on me. Yet perhaps the greatest thing about Reilly is the way he prays. He prays for huge stuff, and his prayers always seem to result in him being thrown into adventure. My favorite example is the time he sent me an e-mail telling me he was moving to Cambodia for 8 months to work at an orphanage - he flew out within a matter of days after praying about it. Every time I talk to Reilly, he asks me: "what are you praying for BIG?" I rarely have a decent response for him.

A few years ago, I worked out of one of my company's workshop and warehouse locations, and to say it was in the bad part of town is putting it way too lightly. Fulton Industrial Boulevard is as rough as it gets - I dare you to google it. I did in preparation for this post, and one of the first results was a recent news story about two gang members being charged for sex trafficking girls as young as 14 on that street. You probably won't be able to read the article without crying, but it's what I witnessed every day during my commute. I would see the prostitutes stumble out from the cabs of tractor trailers or out of the many sleazy motel rooms, the evidence of meth addiction showing on their faces, and often times carrying a crying baby in their arms. This reality confronted me every single day, and it constantly chiseled away at my heart.

Reilly built a corn maze in CO with homeless people once

Tired of feeling guilty for not doing anything to help these women, I decided to tell Reilly about them and ask him to pray for them. I figured Reilly would tell me a special rosary prayer for me to recite so I didn't feel bad for them anymore, or perhaps even tell me about an organization I could give a few dollars to. But that's not how Reilly prayers work. Instead, he proposed: "Why don't you learn their names?" This was clearly the most preposterous idea I'd ever heard. I explained to him the roughness of this crowd - these were not high-end escorts by any stretch of the term, and they likely had pimps, pimps with guns, standing nearby. Yet he was insistent: "How many people do you think actually learn their names? I think that would be really special to them." This is how Reilly thinks - even before thinking about their material needs, he's wondering what would make them feel special, without any regard to my safety or comfort whatsoever.

Reilly as the best man on my wedding day

Two days later, my truck (yes, I actually drove a pickup truck during this season of my life) needed gas. So after work, I pulled into one of the gas stations on Fulton Industrial. Within 5 seconds, one of the prostitutes was walking towards me. Time slowed down, and as sweat gushed from every orifice of my body, I pondered what her initial marketing statement would be. As she approached me, she asked "Can I come with you?" (that was not one of my guesses) as she simultaneously reached for the crew cab's rear door handle. I responded "No thank you" in my politest voice, and hit the lock button as fast as humanly possible. She turned to walk away, but I asked her to wait. I stuck out my hand, and said, trembling: "My name is Jay, what is yours?" She returned my handshake with great skepticism and answered: "My name is Victoria." I asked Victoria if she was hungry, and she said yes, so I bought her a few items of her choice from the convenience store while the shopkeeper stared at me judgingly. Every time I needed gas, I would stop at that station, sometimes running into Victoria again (and addressing her by name), sometimes meeting her colleagues. They eventually got tired of the gas station food, so we started walking over to a nearby McDonald's to share a meal together. Each time, I would rush home, excited to write down their names and begin praying for them.

I think God has a special place in His heart for prostitutes, and the Bible is full of stories of God selecting hookers to carry out His most adventurous works. Perhaps He just knows the immense amount of pain their profession causes them, and wants to show them He created them for something so much greater, or perhaps they're the only ones who have lost enough of their pride to be capable of such adventure - I don't know. Regardless, I think my favorite prostitute in the Bible is Rahab, who God chose to help Him with one of His all-time greatest capers - the battle of Jericho. It's too grand of a story for me to do it any justice in a blog post, but I encourage you to check out the book of Joshua to see the full picture. Before the battle, Rahab hid Israelite spies in her house, and when rumors spread that spies had been seen in her area, Rahab sent the authorities off on a wild goose chase. When the spies are wondering why Rahab risked her life in order to protect the spies, she tells them the God of Israel is greater than any authority in her country. Quite the statement of faith considering she was well aware she would be executed when the authorities found out she lied to them! Yet instead, Rahab and her family members were the only residents of Jericho to survive the battle, and she was remembered as a hero for generations. Centuries later, even the brother of Jesus described her as "righteous" (James 2:25), and the writer of Hebrews includes her among the great juggernauts of faith such as Jacob, Joseph, and Moses (Hebrews 11).

I'm sorry for the way I've presented God. All too often, I've preached a small gospel. I've spouted a god of boredom, a god of Republicans, a god of money, a god of comfort, a god of rules, a god of a weird Christian sub-culture, and a god of self-righteousness. Yet that's not God at all - it's just what humans do to make a god who's convenient to them. The God of the Bible is one of epic adventure, of ridiculousness, and of preposterous ideas. He's the God who could choose kings to do His work, but instead chooses Rahabs, Victorias, and broken people like me.

This week, I find myself in the prostitution capital of the world. As I walk on the sidewalk, every 100 yards a different person attempts to give me a flyer advertising whores delivered to my door. As I try to fend them off, I'm reminded of Victoria, and I realized something awful: I can't remember any of her friends' names. My office moved a few years back, and now I commute to a nice, cushy place in the suburbs. Accordingly, I've reverted back into living a small, suburban gospel and praying lackluster, small prayers. It's time for me to end this post - I need to call Reilly, I need to start praying big, and I need to start planning my next great caper.

What I'm listening to during this post:

Love Does.

"I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, 
but now I'm more afraid of succeeding at things that don't matter."

Bob Goff's words reverberated in my brain like a gong struck with the full force of an Albert Pujols swing. I'm only halfway through his book Love Does, yet already Goff's firsthand accounts of whimsy have resonated with the cries of my heart. You see, if Mark Twain were writing about my life, he'd probably refer to this season as the "Gilded Period." Sure, there's a lofty title and trappings of grandeur acting as a thin layer of gold, but underneath is just a hunk of worthless iron. I'm not convinced the things I'm striving for really matter.

 Last week, I found myself in Las Vegas for a big meeting. It was the kind of meeting you spend months preparing for, the kind where the people who control the future of your livelihood evaluate if you're really worth all the money they're spending on you, the kind where you show up a full day early just to go through a complete dress rehearsal. Fortunately, our preparatory run-through ended at a decent hour, so I went out looking for adventure on the streets of Vegas.

with Dave & Alex

A few weeks ago, I found out on Facebook one of the high school friends of one of my college friends (how's that for a connection?), Dave, would be in Vegas the same time as me, celebrating his birthday with his girlfriend and other friends I'd never met. So naturally, I invited myself to his party. I know that sounds a little crazy, but this is my modus operandi when I'm on the road for business. The way I see it, if the company is paying all this money for me to be in a different city, I may as well make the most of it by building relationships with people I wouldn't normally get to see. Most of the people I call to hang out are either just acquaintances or friends I haven't spoken to in years. I'll never forget the shock in one high school classmate's voice when I called him - I'm pretty sure he was googling me as we spoke, trying to remember who the heck I was - his tone clearly communicated: "I haven't seen you since the 12th grade, and even then we weren't close friends!" In spite of all the initial awkwardness, the visits have made work travel infinitely more fun, and they have a good track record of being the perfect catalyst for turning an acquaintance into a close friend.

Such a beautiful group!

This past Thursday night was a different case altogether, and it was extraordinary. In addition to enjoying catching up with Dave, I was immediately enamored with his friends. I quickly found Alex and I shared an affinity for firearms (much to the chagrin of the girls, who clearly didn't find guns to be an appropriate dinner conversation topic), and sat on the edge of my seat as Beth told me about her work in helping people with disabilities live fuller lives. Liz's blend of sports and trade organization PR sounded like the coolest job ever, and I was glad Yijun had fresh New York cocktail bar recommendations for me. As for Sam, well, I'm still laughing at her awesome dance move, which I affectionately dubbed "The Standing Caterpillar" and I'm 100% certain any photo of her and Dave together would make it to the top spot on Reddit's "aww" thread. These were some of the most amazing people I'd ever met on my travels, and I wanted them to know it - genuinely.

Las Vegas is the gilded city of America. It's coated with glitz, glamour, and astounding facades, which make you forget it's all just built on a big pit of dry sand in the middle of the desolate desert. Sure, the Venetian features a man paddling a gondola on a canal through their lobby, but the pungent chlorine aroma reminded me I certainly wasn't in Italy. In a city where a counterfeit definition of beauty is used to extract money and fleeting happiness from its temporary residents, I had to let this group of wonderful people know they weren't gilded at all - they were the genuine article.

In Love Does, Goff claims the words spoken about us shape who we are, and thus "God speaks something meaningful into our lives and it fills us up and helps us change the world regardless of ourselves and our shortcomings. His name for us is His beloved." While profound, I still thought calling my new friends "beloved" was a little intense, so instead I decided to spend the rest of the evening telling them how beautiful they are (yes, both the guys and the girls). I told them how beautiful their jobs are and how they should be proud of their work, and I told them how beautiful their friendship is and how their group appeared to be the pure embodiment of joy. When we left a club full of people putting on a facade, I told them they were the most beautiful people in the place and how no one could take their eyes off of them. I had never spoken truer words - and I hope my compliments reflected the sincerity with which I said them. I'm sure compliments are a dime a dozen in this town, but hopefully they're a little more powerful when they come from someone they know is happily married and has no ulterior motives. Nonetheless, I continued saying them, and the night was amazing. I didn't make it back to my hotel room until after 2am, and even then I felt I had ended it too early and called Dave to see if they wanted to keep on partying. They wanted to sleep instead.

I'm not attractive enough to be in this photo.

The next day, the meeting did not go as well as I hoped it would. Some of the work I had put diligent effort into was completely disregarded, and some colleagues made comments that were very hurtful to me. On a normal day, this would throw me into a downward-spiraling buzzkill, but not today. I couldn't help but think the words of encouragement I gave my new friends and the hope that the words would "speak something meaningful into their lives" actually mattered way more than this presentation. As soon as the meeting was over, I called Dave because I wanted to see them again.

We sipped beers on his hotel room's balcony, and again I found solace in their wonderful company. Our conversations made the day's worries completely dissipate, and I wanted to stay all night. Yet I couldn't - there was somewhere else I needed to be, and I had to take the midnight flight out of Vegas to Atlanta.

My friend Harrison was getting married the next day, and there was no way I was going to miss that wedding. I had more meetings in Las Vegas on Sunday, meaning I'd get less than 24 hours in Atlanta, and wouldn't have time to recover from the brutal red-eye flight, but I didn't care - Harrison is a great friend, and I love him. My coworkers were shocked to hear this, and one even said: "Why in the world would you give up a free weekend in Vegas where you'd have a chance to network with all the senior executives to fly through the night, be groggy all-day, and get back on another long flight, just to go to a wedding?!" My answer was simple: Love does.

I would not have missed this wedding for the world.

I don't want to be gilded anymore, and I don't want to be focused on succeeding at things that don't matter. I'd much rather be known as the guy who flies through the night just to celebrate with a friend or by any of my new friends knowing they're not only welcome at our home in Atlanta, the red carpet will be rolled out for them any time they'd like to visit.






What I'm Listening to During this Post:

I want a multi-generational story.

A scene from the Passion facade

La Sagrada Familia is the most breathtakingly beautiful cathedral I have ever stepped foot in. As I walked towards the entrance, I was immediately confronted by the pain of the cross as stone statues seemed to express emotion even better than my own human face and brought the passion story to life. Once inside, I was greeted by a forest of massive columns, each one with arms raised in praise as they supported the cavernous ceiling. After spending weeks writing and rewriting this paragraph, trying desperately to come up with words deserving of describing this glorious building, I'm giving up - I'll let the photos do the talking from here on out.

Sagrada Familia was designed by Barcelona's famous architect and favorite son, Antoni Gaudi. Throughout Barcelona, Gaudi's work is prominent and constitutes the majority of the top tourist destinations in the city, but Sagrada Familia was his magnum opus - the greatest work of his life. He started designing the cathedral in 1883, and it's still under construction today - a masterpiece over 125 years in the making. Gaudi is buried in the basement, and as I looked at his grave, I pitied him. How sad it must be to die with your greatest work left unfinished, grossly unappreciated, and without even the solace of knowing if it will be continued after you're gone or scrapped altogether. Yet perhaps that's just how the greatest stories are told.

The ceiling inside La Sagrada Familia

Voddie Baucham is one of the greatest preachers I've ever heard. A towering black man, his commanding stage presence delivers his wise and deep insight into scripture with an efficacy like no one else. Every summer, he was invited to a church I used to attend to do a sermon series while the main pastor was on vacation, and one year he decided to teach on the book of Jeremiah. I wasn't particularly excited about his upcoming sermon on Jeremiah 29:11 because I expected it to be boring, old hat stuff. The verse reads: "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" and I'd heard it paraded out in countless sermons and testimonies - always used as proof that God wants nothing but rainbows and lollipops for your life. In the tenets of lucky rabbit's foot Christianity, Jeremiah 29:11 is an oft used favorite.

As Voddie read the verse in his bellowing voice worthy of an R&B singer, the warm and fuzzies built up in the hearts of the audience. Then, he made a bold statement, directly contradicting everything I had ever heard before. Voddie increased his volume level by 3 notches and his intensity level by 10 and exclaimed "that promise wasn't made to you!" He went on to put the verse in context - the Jews were in captivity in Babylon at the time it was written, and if anyone even bothered to read the preceding Jeremiah 29:10, they'd learn God had no plans to deliver them from captivity for 70 more years! Kinda robs the verse of its sugarplums and feel-goods, doesn't it?

Voddie Baucham

No, the promise of the verse certainly was not directed at any one person, and you can't claim it as your own. God made that promise to the Jewish people, and He didn't get them back to Israel for 150 years - long after everyone who originally read Jeremiah 29:11 was dead and buried. I've come to learn God is often willing to sacrifice the comfort and fleeting happiness of individuals in favor of multi-generational masterpieces. Do you know how Gaudi died? At age 73, Gaudi was walking to church to pray when he was hit by a tram. The collision merely injured him and rendered him unconscious, but his clothes were so raggedy, people mistook him for a beggar and left him for dead on the streets of Barcelona.

Me inside of La Sagrada Familia

While that may sound depressing, from what I've read about Gaudi, I don't think he would have preferred it any other way. Gaudi had no intention of completing his greatest work in his lifetime - La Sagrada Familia was always intended to be a legacy. A legacy that would not only inspire young architects for generations to come, but also give them an opportunity to be a part of the story - adding new facades and towers to Gaudi's original design, making it all the more majestic along the way. As for the Jews, the Babylonian captivity was probably the greatest thing to ever happen to their faith. It lead to the development of the Hebrew script, the canonization of the Bible, and making scripture critical to their daily life. The way the word of the Lord has thrived in the millennia since is part of the magnificent legacy God promised to the captives in Jeremiah 29:11 - a greater "hope" and "future" than anything they could have ever dreamed up.

My Dad and me

I started this blog six months ago with a simple premise: I want a better story. Yet that's not good enough anymore - I want a multi-generational story. I want to be a part of a Sagrada Familia so grand it takes generations to write it. As I've written before, I'm scared to death of kids. Yet this lesson God is teaching me in this season of my life is making me reevaluate how I think of children, how I view my finances, and how much my personal comfort actually matters.

My father loved Jesus. After becoming a Christ-follower in college, he dropped out of engineering school and transferred to Bible college (much to my grandfather's chagrin). He spent the rest of his life sharing the Gospel with a world in desperate need of it. When I was six years old, he died of a heart attack at the ripe, old age of 32. Yet even in the midst of the sharp pain and grief of death, he left behind a lasting legacy that's still being built upon today. He didn't live to see men such as Geof, whom he mentored, grow up to be amazing men of God, nor did he get to experience the glory of my friend Andrew coming to know Christ, yet they're all part of his legacy, his magnum opus. Everyday, I'm thankful for having the privilege of continuing to lay bricks on my father's Sagrada Familia.



What I'm listening to during this post:


Want to watch Voddie's sermon on Jeremiah 29:11? Here it is:


2 More photos from our visit to La Sagrada Familia:

La Sagrada Familia

A view inside one of Sagrada Familia's towers

I want to be wanted.

This blog has been no stranger to candor. Perhaps it's just easier for me to write my honest thoughts than it is to discuss them, forgetting that when I click the "publish" button, my honesty is released to the freedom of the interwebs. Or perhaps I just get so sick of the mundane, how's-the-weather chit-chat, I long for real communication - deep and bare naked. In this vein I share my deepest struggle: I want to be wanted.

Before you start humming Cheap Trick's "I want you to want me," allow me to elaborate. I want to be the friend who my friends can't wait to introduce to their family when they come to visit. I long to be the friend who people look forward to hanging out with on weekends. I dream of being the husband whose wife brags about him to her friends. When people give me genuine compliments, when I hear of people speaking fondly of me when I'm not around, when people tell me they miss me, it absolutely warms my soul.

For better or worse, this desire drives many of my decisions and ways of thinking. I put too much stock in the number of "Likes" I receive on Facebook and how many people have read my blog on any given day. I buy cars I believe others will want to ride in. I over analyze when an invitation is not extended to me. I give away copious amounts of free alcohol so that others will want to come to my house. I wish I could say all of my motives were completely selfless and benevolent, but the truth is many of them are driven by my desire to be wanted.

My friends and family do a superb job of making me feel desired, and I greatly appreciate them for it. Yet at my job, it's a completely different story. At a recent business dinner in Chile, a colleague told me (after a few drinks, of course, when honesty is at its peak) "You'll never get anywhere in this company because you don't have a technical background" (perhaps he forgot the past two CEOs of our largest competitor had very similar career paths to mine), while another said "Man, Jay, you sure are getting fat - if you keep gaining weight at this rate, you'll be 400 lbs. by the time you're 40!" After that dinner, I went back to my hotel room broken and disheartened. The Head and The Heart's song "Heaven Go Easy on Me" came up on my iPod, and as it played, I just prayed the lyrics aloud.

Cover of The Head and The Heart Album

There was a manager at my company who I admired and looked up to. Yet about a year ago, he gave me some career advice I decided not to take, and ever since, he's refused to speak to me. We happened to be at the same conference in Amsterdam recently, and when I approached him, saying "Hi, how are you?" he silently nodded his head, did an about-face, and walked away stoically. When I told one of the senior managers where I was going for vacation, he responded seriously: "You shouldn't be able to afford that, we must be paying you way too much." There's nothing like having upper management tell you you're not even good enough for the stuff you have - your possessions are worth more than you are. Heaven go easy on me, please - I beg of You.

I spoke with my friend, Javier, in Chile recently, and he encouraged me by telling me to read chapter 12 of Paul's first letter to the church at Corinth. You may recognize that reference because it directly precedes 1 Corinthians 13 - the "love chapter," which you've heard read at 96% of the weddings you've attended. I often wonder if couples would choose that passage for their nuptials if they read the rest of the letter. In chapter 5 we learn that someone in the Corinthian church was having a sexual affair with his step-mom (Woody Allen has nothing on the first-century Christians). In chapter 6, we find out there was so much bickering within the church that the members were constantly suing each other in court. Corinth was a trade hub between Asia and western Europe, and as such, had people from many different nationalities. The church there had plenty of Jewish Christians, but it also contained many gentile ones. These people believed in Jesus's resurrection and wanted to follow Him, but they lacked the knowledge of the Old Testament scriptures the Jewish Christians had. They were uncircumcised, and longed to feel wanted in a community considered a simple off-shoot of Judaism at the time.

Which brings us to chapter 12. In it, Paul tells everyone in the church in Corinth not only are they wanted, but the skills they bring to the table are crucial to the strength of the church. He says they all "form one body - whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free." As one body, "if one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it." Here's Paul, an apostle and highly revered person of the faith, and he's telling everyone in the church, from those who have the Bible memorized to those sleeping with their step-mom, from those who are rich to those who are slaves, they're equal in God's eyes. Paul goes on to explain how God has given each person skills which are critical to the Kingdom of God. Oh, how the people of Corinth must have felt wanted when they read Paul's letter! If only I could replicate that feeling and take it to work.

Right now I'm reading a book recommended to me by my friend, Brittany, titled About My Father's Business, and it's all about how to share your faith with people at the office (without being dubbed the "weird, over-the-top religious guy"). It proposes some great ideas on how to love your coworkers and take the feeling of "I'm a wanted and needed part of the body of Christ" to the workplace where so many of us desperately need a larger, more fulfilling purpose. I planned on sharing a quote from the book and saying how all my insecurities of feeling unwanted at work had washed away since reading it, but that would be disingenuous. Honestly, it still hurts when someone at work tells me I'll never amount to anything, and it stings when they tell me I'm morbidly obese, too.

Here's what I do know: you are deeply wanted by God. He has given you some amazing talents, and He wants you to use them. The fleeting marketplace may not value those skills as highly as others, but to Him, they are the utmost of importance for eternity. Your local church is hobbling around without a foot because it's missing you. It doesn't matter how much of the Bible you know, or what you've done in the past - you are needed, you are wanted, and we can't survive without you.


What I'm listening to during this post: "Turn That Finger Around" by honeyhoney

I have a brother in Chile.

My Barros Luco con palta

When I found out last week that I'd be making a last-minute trip down to Santiago, my mouth immediately began to salivate at the thought of eating delicious Barros Luco sandwiches covered with Chilean avocados and washing them down with perfectly crafted pisco sours. Then, my very next thought was "I can't wait to see Javier."

Javier and I first started working together on a market intelligence project in early 2010. We hadn't met in person, but would frequently connect over the phone or instant message. A few weeks into the project, an 8.8 magnitude earthquake rocked central Chile, killing 525 people. Upon seeing the news, I immediately called Javier to make sure he was okay, and was relieved to hear he and his family were safe. We continued to discuss the destruction in Santiago, and I told him I was praying for him and all of the people of Chile. And that's when our relationship changed.

wreckage from the 2010 Chile earthquake

A few months later, I had the opportunity to travel to Santiago, and met Javier in person for the first time. He took me to a Peruvian restaurant, and over dinner he told me how much my prayers meant to him. He said when I told him I was praying for him, he could sense the sincerity in my words, and he asked me about my faith. Javier told me he, too, is a Christ follower, and it formed an immediate bond between us.

As we continued to discuss our faith, I became more and more amazed. We had grown up in completely different cultures, speaking different languages, watching different TV shows, eating different food, having different political viewpoints, and yet we were brothers in Christ. We shared the same worldview, the same love for others, the same struggles and temptations, the same beliefs in a loving, personal God, and the same need for grace. Javier taught me an important lesson that night: Jesus was not an American.

Javier with his fiancee

I know that sounds like a ridiculous thing to believe in the first place since Jesus never even stepped foot in the good ol' US of A, but it's a trap I've found myself falling into far too often. In the States, we envision Jesus as this handsome white man, when in reality, he was from the middle east, and thus his appearance would probably make him have a difficult time getting through our airport security. We paint Jesus as this great campaigner for the Republican Party, and politicians have morphed him into a pawn for their viewpoints for centuries, when in reality, Jesus didn't seem to care about politics at all. Even when I think about missions, I associate them with Americans bringing capitalism, universal suffrage, and Coca-Cola to distant shores, instead of simply sharing the gospel, the news of the faith once, for all, with people everywhere.

As Javier shared more with me, I saw how our cultures place different obstacles in front of Jesus. In America, we have imbeciles such as Pat Robertson making outlandish claims in the name of God (I think my favorite was his claim to being able to leg press 2,000 pounds), and we've created an entire sub-culture with specific rules about the music you have to listen to, the books you have to read, and the bumper stickers you must emblazon your car with in order to be a "true Christian." In Chile, a common barrier is people are more concerned with being Catholic than they are with following Jesus. That's not a criticism of Catholicism (Javier himself is a Catholic), but rather a criticism of how we often get so caught up in rituals and how our culture defines religion that we completely miss out on a relationship with Christ. The need for Jesus is universal, but the cultures around the world vary greatly, as do the cultural obstacles placed in front of Christ.

Last spring, during a brief visit to Athens, Ashley and I had the opportunity to visit Mars Hill, also known as the Areopagus. It was on Mars Hill where Paul preached to the Athenians, as recorded in Acts 17. During the sermon, Paul quotes the local poets and discusses the specific idols worshiped by the Greeks. He took the time to understand their culture, and thus was able to present Jesus in a way they could understand. He didn't have to alter Jesus or his message in any way, he just had to put him in their context. As I stood on that big rock, I reflected on Paul's message, and thought about how I need to stop pushing my white, American, capitalist, Republican Jesus, and rather just engage the culture around me and share the Jesus who does not put up obstacles to a relationship with him. I just want to share the Jesus who is relevant to all cultures, who died for all peoples, and who connects us all to the God who created us.

Ashley and I on top of Mars Hill in Athens

I'm thankful for the time I'm getting in Chile this week, I'm thankful for what Javier has taught me about the cultural universalness of Christ, and I'm especially thankful for these delectable avocados. Yet I know my ministry isn't here. I don't know the language, I can't quote their poets, and I don't understand the barriers their culture has placed in front of Jesus and how they should be broken down. But Javier does. So I will continue to pray for him and encourage him in any way I can, and I will continue to thank God for giving me a brother and dear friend in Chile.

What I'm listening to during this post: "Portraits" by the Wheeler Brothers

I value authenticity.

If you've been reading my blog or following my Facebook updates, you may be tempted to believe that I have it all together. After all, I untag myself in the photos I don't like, only write posts that paint me in a positive light, and I strictly control the information I release to the interwebs. Yet if you've spent any amount of time at all with me in person, you know there are quite a few missteps and shortcomings notably absent from my timeline. Every day I become more and more aware that I am a flawed human being in desperate need of grace.


I've lied, I've cheated, and I've lusted after that which isn't mine. I've been gluttonous with the pleasures of this world, I've sent others on the most treacherous harbingers of guilt trips (I'm especially bad at that), and I've been an all-around horrible witness of Jesus Christ. Now if your first reaction to reading my list is to compare it to your own inventory of past transgressions, then please stop. First of all, it's hardly an exhaustive list - rather just a sample of ways I've screwed up within the past 48 hours. More importantly, that's not how God looks at our sin. Thankfully, He doesn't rank us according to some complicated demerit system - we're all in the same boat here.


I think the difference comes in how we deal with our sin. Do we dig a hole and bury it as deep as we can, or do we expose it to light and deal with it? Do we bog ourselves down with guilt and regret, or do we accept the grace God so freely gives? Do we continually fall into the same stupid trap, or do we make a clean break with our old ways? 


When I was in college, there were a few Christian guys who I greatly admired and grew quite close to. A few years after graduation, I was shocked to learn that they were leading double lives, and were involved in some destructive behavior, unbeknownst to anyone in the Christian community. What's funny is their sin isn't what hurt me - it's college, everyone makes some bad decisions! - what really made my heart churn was they felt they couldn't discuss it with me. It made my seemingly close relationship with them, something I had highly valued, feel like a complete sham. 


On the other hand, I had some other Christian friends who were more open with their struggles, and they were promptly ostracized from the community. Not surprisingly, they fell deeper into their struggles and some left the faith altogether. When they stopped believing in God, the ones who had shunned them took it as validation of their judgement, saying "see, I told you so." Meanwhile, my response was simply "can you blame them?"

As I've written before, Dietrich Bonhoeffer is one of my heroes, and I like his diagnosis of this problem in the church:


"It may be that Christians, notwithstanding corporate worship, common prayer, and all their fellowship in service, may still be left to their loneliness. The final break-through to fellowship does not occur, because, though they have fellowship with one another as believers and as devout people, they do not have fellowship as the undevout, as sinners. The pious fellowship permits no one to be a sinner. So everybody must conceal his sin from himself and from the fellowship. We dare not be sinners. Many Christians are unthinkably horrified when a real sinner is suddenly discovered among the righteous. So we remain alone with our sin, living in lies and hypocrisy"…"He who is alone with his sin is utterly alone."

Bonhoeffer's words struck me because I've always longed for a community where I'm not alone in my sin, and where others aren't scared to share their struggles out of fear of being ostracized. Yet now I've found an amazing community, and I'm finding it's still not easy to be candid about my vices.

Some of the great people in my community group

On a Saturday evening a few weeks ago, I messed up pretty bad. I hurt people I love, left them to clean up the mess I made, and had to suffer some consequences. Yet I couldn't stand the thought of being alone in my sin, so the following Monday evening, I sheepishly confessed my sin to my dear friends. Their responses marked a stark contrast to the kind of pious fellowship that Bonhoeffer warns of - they were filled with words of encouragement, empathy, and promises of future accountability.


A week later, I was still feeling some guilt about my actions, and my friend Brittany quickly scolded me. "Jay, guilt is NOT from God; you need to get over this!" she exclaimed as our friends all roasted marshmallows around the fire. She was right. I may have tattooed the word grace on my arm a year ago in Copenhagen, but sometimes I still need a verbal reminder of it from friends who are more concerned about my future than my past mistakes.

A photo of my tattoo - the Greek word for grace

While this kind of encouragement, accountability, and reminder of grace is quite wonderful, it still isn't enough for my friend Sarah. At a recent gathering of our community group, she brought up how it's really difficult to share your struggles with a room of 14 people, especially when it's mixed company. She recommended we split into groups of 2-3 people (of the same gender) occasionally so that we could create a better environment for authenticity. It was one of the best ideas I've heard in a long time, and I'm excited to see the fruit it bears.


The fellowship I have with my Christian community is the greatest thing I have going for me in my life right now. We throw parties together, we pray earnestly for each other, and we just plain have fun together. Yet what lies at the heart of what makes our community so awesome is the authenticity, and the encouragement, accountability, and living, breathing example of grace that flows from that authenticity. My prayer is that all of my friends pursue and find that kind of fellowship, in whatever form it may come, so that they no longer have to be alone in their transgressions.

Sarah and her husband, Justin, roast a heart-shaped marshmallow by the fire.

What I'm listening to during this post: "Empty House" by Delta Spirit

I want them to thrive.

I'm not a big fan of kids. In fact, the little booger eaters frighten me. Even after 6 years of marriage bliss, the thought of having children makes me squeamish. I'm just not ready to trade my life of late nights out with friends, traveling the world, and generally doing whatever I want for one of constantly cleaning fecal matter and pretending to ignore cries more shrill than a screaming pterodactyl.

I always refused to hold babies, but Matt made me hold Reed.

Yet even against my loudest objections, some of my closest and most beloved friends have begun to have kids of their own. At first I thought they had simply failed to take the necessary precautionary measures, but to my horror I learned they are procreating voluntarily. While I am still bewildered by their motivations, I'm surprised to admit I've come to love their little ankle biters. Much to my chagrin, one of my new favorite pastimes is magically turning a cardboard box into a fighter jet that I help 2-year-old Reed pilot at Mach 2 throughout his house until his mom grounds us out of fear for her toddler's life. To make matters worse, I also have a church family that I cherish and care deeply about, and it's riddled with rugrats - and even scarier, teenagers! However, without fully knowing why, I've developed a strong desire to see these kids   succeed. And not just the cheap, get-a-decent-job-a-house-a-nice-car-and-a-moderate-amount-of-credit-card-debt kind of success, either. I'm talking about the changing-the-world kind of success. On the long list of things I want, seeing the children of my friends and my church absolutely thrive is right at the top. Yet I'm still wrestling with what the means for me, a childless guy in his late twenties whose biggest hobbies are pipes, firearms, whiskey, and extremely hoppy ales. Not exactly the recipe for a youth pastor.

Reed now at age 2

My friend Joe told me about a book he read recently titled Sticky Faith. The authors of the book did a study of the youth who grow up in the church in America, and got some shocking results. Of the kids who grew up active in church - going to church every Sunday, learning Bible lessons in Sunday School, memorizing verses at VBS in the summer, going to youth group, praying before every single meal with their families, doing all of that "Christian" stuff - 65% left the faith after graduating from high school. So if you have 3 kids and you're doing everything right, teaching them spiritual truths and leading by example as a humble servant of God, guess what - chances are only one of them will ever darken the door of a church again after getting their diploma. Something has gone horribly wrong - our model is broken.

The good news is 35% do stay in the church after turning 18, and those 35%'ers have something in common: they're all terribly boring...just kidding. Actually, the Sticky Faith study showed that the kids in the 35% each had 7 Christian adults involved in their life. Not co-parenting in their family and disciplining them, just involved in their life. When Joe was telling me this, I immediately started thinking about my already packed schedule, and how many kids I see every week sprinting feverishly around our church like squirrels on cocaine. "It's impossible" I told him, "there's no way we can get 7 adults for every 1 kid." "I don't care about possible - it's necessary" he responded.

While I struggled with how in the world we'd get 7 adults to be involved in the life of each kid, I started to remember all of the amazing adults who invested in me when I was growing up. Nelson Scott helped teach me how to play guitar, was always ready for a jam session at full volume, took me to concerts in Virginia Beach, and even convinced me to start playing in front of the church. Dave Faith was a postman who was also a roller coaster fanatic and could've been the third Blues Brother. In the summers during middle school, he used to pick me up and take me to Busch Gardens to ride coasters all night. On one particularly slow evening, we rode Drachen Fire 12 times in a row without ever getting out of our seat. (I'll never forget the first time he invited me after church one Sunday. When I started writing down my address so he'd know where to pick me up, he said "No need to do that - mailmen know where you live." I always loved his wit). Dave Hileman is one of the deepest thinkers I've ever met, and he always challenged me with what I believed. He didn't just answer the questions I had - he actually gave me more questions to wrestle with! I know that sounds counterintuitive for the man who baptized me, but for Dave, sowing seeds along the path was not an option - he would only use the finest soil, even if it required conflict along the way. I still think of him every time I read CS Lewis or Dietrich Bonhoeffer. The truth is, I didn't have 7 adults closely involved in my life - I had closer to 20. They were all men who had careers, packed schedules, families and children of their own. Yet for some reason they all believed I was an investment worthy of their time, and for that I am extremely grateful.

I was having lunch with a coworker recently, and she told me the reason 65% of kids leave the church after graduating is because their parents had just brainwashed them, and once they got to college and got an actual education, they realized it was just a bunch of nonsense. While I appreciate my colleague's candor, I certainly don't think I was brainwashed (I know, I know, that's exactly what someone who was brainwashed would say, but hear me out). These men never proselytized me. Heck, they hardly ever even talked about God unless I brought it up. No, what they gave me was something far greater - a front row seat to their lives. I saw their faith in action - in the way they treated their wives, in the way they raised their children, in the way they handled disagreements. I saw it in the way they worked, the way they dealt with their vices, and the way they used their resources. And that gave me more perspective on a life of following Jesus than any other Sunday school class or church activity. In them, I saw true greatness, I saw adventure, and I saw them thrive.

It's taken over 10 years of maturing to fully appreciate what these men did for me and there are some I still need to call and thank profusely. In addition to that, I want my gratitude to shine through my actions - I want to be one of the 7 for a few of the kids in our church. I'm still struggling with how to do that, but my friends are helping me figure it out. My buddy Justin has the spiritual gift of basketball. He used to play for the almost-upset-Baylor South Dakota State Jack Rabbits, and every Tuesday, he shoots hoops with a few of the high schoolers at our church. I tried doing that, but found out I play basketball about as well as a politician   cuts the deficit - I can flail my arms around, but nothing ever actually happens. Instead, God has granted me the spiritual gift of a love for Taco Bell. Last week, I took a few of the guys who were as disinterested in basketball as I was to try the new Doritos Locos Taco, and great conversation abounded. No, I didn't follow some formula to proselytize them, I just encouraged them to thrive. Still, I hope, and I believe, Kiere and Alejandro will be in the 35%.

What I'm listening to during this post: "The Fighter" by The Fray

We like to party.

Last Saturday night was legendary. 70 of the most beautiful and amazing people in all of Atlanta gathered in our humble townhouse for an early St. Patrick's Day party, and it was astonishingly fun. Green cupcakes were baked, bread bowls filled with delicious spinach dip were cut to look like shamrocks, and plenty of U2 songs were added to the playlist. Kegs were tapped, bottles were uncorked, unique cocktails were shaken, and fine cigars were lit. Eventually, our entire neighborhood was lined with cars, and every common area was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Many people there didn't know each other beforehand, and countless friendships were started that night. The smiles were wide, the laughs were hearty, and the welcomes were warm.

My friends and I throw a lot of parties. I guess we just have so much to be joyful about, and we enjoy sharing that joy with others. So we do that the best way we know how - we open up the doors to our homes, we invite others to join us for meals, and we celebrate the beauty of living life to the full. The notion that the Christian life is one filled with rules, regulations, and boring rituals is a complete farce. Jesus said he came so that we "may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10).  In fact, he spent so much time eating and drinking with people that the religious leaders of the day accused him of being a glutton and a drunkard! (Matthew 11) I think Jesus would've had a blast hanging out with all of the wonderful people at our parties.

Brittany passes out some green cocktails

I like the way Robert Hotchkins, a theologian at the University of Chicago, put it: "Christians ought to be celebrating constantly. We ought to be preoccupied with parties, banquets, feasts, and merriment. We ought to give ourselves over to veritable orgies of joy because we have been liberated from the fear of life and the fear of death. We ought to attract people to the church quite literally by the fun there is in being a Christian." What grabs me most in that statement is "liberated from the fear of life and the fear of death" - because I think that's the source of our joy, and it's what we find in Christ. 

In reality, my friends and I don't have it all figured out. We've been beat up, burnt out, and dragged down. We've been laid off, cussed out, and turned away. But in Christ, we've traded in a life of keeping up with the Joneses for one of freedom and purpose. We're not naive, we know there is pain in this world - that's why we spent the day after the party fixing up a local school, and spent the previous Saturday cooking and serving dinner at a local homeless shelter. Yet even in the midst of that pain, our joy perseveres because we know this life is not the end of the story. And that is why we party.

What I'm listening to during this post: "I love this" by Jamie Cullum

I went to the red light district.

Amsterdam's red light district, known as De Wallen, is one of the strangest spectacles I've ever seen. While most cities' red light districts are filled with violent crime, broken glass lining the sidewalks, run-down motels that charge by the hour, and prostitutes who look nothing like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, De Wallen is actually quite charming. White swans gently paddle on the canal that cuts through the middle of the street, picturesque brick buildings share the same quaint architecture as the rest of the city, vendors sell sweet stroopwafels (my favorite Dutch treat), and the prostitutes - well, some of them actually do look more like Julia Roberts. They pose behind floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed in provocative lingerie, and tap on the glass to get your attention, then ask you to join them inside.

De Wallen at night

Yet this comparatively peaceful image of the world's oldest profession is deceiving, and one of the greatest fallacies of Amsterdam is that since prostitution is legal, all of the working girls are there by their own volition. In reality, authorities estimate that between 50% and 90% of window prostitutes in Amsterdam are there against their will (source article). Many of them are trafficked from eastern Europe and sold into sex slavery, while others haven fallen into the "loverboy" trap - they fall in love with a man who gets them into debt, then convinces them that prostitution (with him as their pimp, of course) is their only way out. In one interview I read, a prostitute said she did it simply because she had "problems" and the money is good. Knowing all of this, I went to De Wallen to pray. I prayed for the girls in the windows - that they may be freed from the bonds of slavery, that they may know they are valuable and loved by God, and that they may be able to utilize the wonderful talents God gave them to find a fulfilling career that has nothing to do with pleasuring gross old men.

While I was waiting at the gate to catch my flight to Amsterdam, I was happily surprised to see that my colleague, Lourdes, was on the same flight. Lourdes is someone who I greatly respect and admire. She grew up in Peru, where she eventually became a professional bull fighter. Later, she got into the mining business, one of the most male-dominated industries in the world, and worked her way up through the company, overcoming numerous cases of discrimination along the way, to become a highly acclaimed executive. She's smart, she's tough, she's beautiful, she drinks tequila straight up while remaining as sober as a nun, and she's a master of the bossa nova on the dance floor. If Dos Equis were ever to do an ad campaign featuring "the most interesting woman in the world," they would have to cast Lourdes for the part.

Yet when Lourdes approached me that evening, she shared some somber news - her father had passed away the previous week. She had flown back from the funeral in Peru that same day, and was about to get on yet another long, arduous flight. To make matters worse, the gate agent had just announced that our flight would be delayed by at least an hour, meaning we wouldn't leave Atlanta until after midnight. So I asked Lourdes if she'd like to join me for a drink in the lounge, and she accepted. I, too, know the pain of losing a father, so I wanted to give her the opportunity to tell me about her memories of her father - that was always the best grieving medicine for me.

Lourdes told me that her father grew up very poor. As a teenager, he went to live in the jungles of Peru. The government was building new roads there, and he worked on the construction crew. Yet he knew his talents extended beyond construction labor, so he took accounting classes through the mail. After long, grueling days of working with pitch black tar in the scorching heat of the jungle, he would diligently read about the thrilling topics of assets, liabilities, and owner equity, and complete his assignments. He eventually started his own accounting firm, and became very wealthy.

Lourdes said her dad always had a gift for working with numbers, and just needed to nourish it with those accounting courses. She went on to claim: "I think God is fair - He gives us all gifts, we just have to use them." Lourdes told me that her gift was business intuition - she's able to envision how business deals with play out in the long term, and she uses that information to make more wise decisions. She doesn't know where it comes from - it's just a gift. And while she didn't have to take correspondence courses to develop her gift, she had her own set of struggles - constantly having to prove herself and fight prejudices every step of the way.

As I strolled down the streets of De Wallen and prayed for the spiritual gifts of the prostitutes, I thought of Lourdes, her father, and myself. I thought of how many gifts I have been given by God that I should nourish, but haven't because I am too lazy to take the correspondence courses or fight the prejudices. Instead of pursuing the things I could be truly great at, I settle for the mediocre skills I'm comfortable with, simply because they pay more. In short, I'm just like the hookers behind the red lights - tapping on the glass and selling myself out to whomever will finance the debt of my earthly desires.

In Matthew, Jesus tells a parable about a wealthy man who is going away on a long trip. He has three servants, and he entrusts each of them with a sum of money to look after while he is away. He gives one servant 5 bags of gold, 2 to another servant, and the final servant gets 1 bag. The servants who received 5 and 2 bags, respectively, each invested the money so that by the time their master had returned, the principal had doubled. Yet the servant who received 1 bag was scared to use it, so he dug a hole and buried it. When the master returned, he was very pleased with the first two servants, and gave them even greater responsibilities in his household, but was furious with the third for being lazy and not using the talent he was given.

Too often, I see a lot of myself in that last servant. I'm intimidated when I see others around me have more natural gifts than I do, wondering why they have 5 or 2 bags while I only have 1. I'm afraid to take risks or really send my talents to the crucible for refining out of fear of what the heat may do to my comfort level. And it's not just limited to what I do for my occupation, either - it spreads to my ministry, too.

In his book The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning writes something about this parable that really convicted me: "The third, who prudently wraps his money and buries it, typifies the Christian who deposits his faith in an hermetic container and seals the lid shut. He or she limps through life on childhood memories of Sunday school and resolutely refuses the challenge of growth and spiritual maturity. Unwilling to take risks, this person loses the talent entrusted to him or her. 'The master wanted his servants to take risks. He wanted them to gamble with his money.'"

I can't stand to be the third servant anymore - I'm ready to gamble. I'm closing down my window on De Wallen, and I'm following Lourdes's lead. I'm going to utilize my talents to serve the Lord, even if it takes a few correspondence courses and fights with prejudice along the way.