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:

I want it to cost me.

I grew up attending a small church in Virginia. I realize here in the buckle of the Bible Belt, any church with fewer than 1,000 attendees and less than a million dollar budget for stage decorations is considered small, but this was a proper small church. There were probably 100 or so parishioners, and they were some of the most genuine, salt of the earth people I've ever met. They were barbers, mail carriers, engineers, photographers, carpenters, and line workers at the local Anheuser-Busch brewery. They were men who literally built and maintained the church building themselves—they had the scars on their hands to prove it. Like all churches, it was made up of imperfect people who had squabbles and petty disagreements, but nonetheless they earnestly sought to bless the community with the resources God had blessed them with.

We didn't have the resources to send our teens on overseas mission trips, but we did support missionaries as much as we could. We tended to support ones who were nationals of the country where they were doing ministry so they would know the language and culture and be able to relate to the people. One Sunday when I was in middle school, my Sunday school teacher, Danny, read us a letter from one of the missionaries we supported in India. In the letter, the missionary asked for prayer because his old motorcycle had finally bitten the dust for good. He had used the motorcycle to travel to different small villages and serve the people living in them, sharing the Gospel along the way. After his motorcycle died he started using a bicycle to travel to different villages, but it limited his range—he wanted a new motorcycle but couldn't afford the $800 it'd cost. After reading the letter, Danny shared his preposterous idea with us—he thought we should buy the missionary a new motorcycle.

After much lively debate among the prepubescent youth, we finally accepted Danny's challenge and proposed to organize a spaghetti dinner to raise funds for the motorbike. The plan was to sell $10 tickets for the dinner, use the money from the ticket sales to procure the spaghetti dinner ingredients, host the meal, and hope to have $800 in profit. Danny agreed to our little scheme, but added one stipulation: we could only sell tickets to people in the church. As the middle schoolers saw their market potential dwindle drastically, they immediately threw objections at Danny. "Why? I know people outside the church who have much more money than anyone here—they'll probably buy tickets just to get me off their front porch, and won't even come to the dinner!"

Danny's response made such a profound impact on me that it still guides my decisions, 20 years later. He said as Christians, we're called to love and serve our neighbors, and to be a blessing to those who are not believers. If we were to guilt trip our neighbors into paying for a ministry they didn't even believe in, we would be forcing our beliefs on them in a horrible, guilt-driven way—the opposite of being a blessing to them. He applied the same principle to the supplies for the dinner—we couldn't beg businesses for a handout, we would pay full price with joy. After all, supporting this missionary was our calling, and we shouldn't take a cop out on our calling by guilt-tripping others into giving their resources when we should be the ones making sacrifices. Sure, we were welcome to invite people from outside the church to the dinner, but we needed to pay for their tickets out of our own pocket.

I believe in loving people genuinely, uniquely, and without ulterior motives, and I think hospitality is an exceptional way to do just that. We strive to make our home a place full of laughter and lasting relationships, where people from many different walks of life can be loved individually for who they are. A place where stories are told, honest discourse happens, perspectives are gained, and the Gospel is shared. We consider this our ministry and our calling. Over the years, this has taken many different forms, from cooking homemade french fries in the dorm kitchen in college (causing a few grease fires) to inviting coworkers over to our tiny apartment for frozen pizza and wings when we were first married and had no money, to throwing parties for 100 people when we had more resources and friends who shared our mission. All have been amazing experiences, and all have had a commonality: they cost us personally. 

Feeding and entertaining people is expensive and hard work, and we have to make sacrifices to do it. We've put off home repairs and decided against replacing aging furniture and appliances, and I went 18 months without buying a single article of clothing, all because we believe hospitality is worthy of the investment. So when we invite someone into our home, we're telling them we highly value their company and think they're worth spending our time and hard-earned money on. We've found this personal cost and lack of expecting anything in return has added rich levels of authenticity to our relationships. If we were to ask non-Christian businesses to foot the bill for our ministry, not only would we be forcing our beliefs on them by guilt-tripping them into paying for a ministry they don't believe in, but we'd also be robbing our relationships of the authenticity that comes from self sacrifice. We'd go from being a blessing to the community to a net drain on the community. I believe this principle applies on a larger scale as well and has disastrous consequences when it's ignored.

A party at our house

I spent much of 2010 and 2011 in the great Nordic country of Sweden, where God is dead. Seriously—Sweden has the highest population of atheists per capita in the entire world. Yet as I walked through the streets of Stockholm, I saw many beautiful church buildings, and they were all in business—lights on, service times, full-time pastoral staff—the whole nine yards. I asked one of my Swedish colleagues how these churches could afford to keep their doors open when no one was coming in, and he told me "it's simple—they're funded by taxes." He went on to explain how even though the vast majority of Swedes are atheists, they still go to church for baby baptisms, weddings, and funerals—y'know, to get their tax dollars’ worth. As the church traded discipleship on stewardship for easy government money, it went from being a blessing to the community to just another state agency, and pastors became bureaucrats. The church passed responsibility for the poor over to the state instead of serving them with their own resources, and it’s been in decline ever since. No wonder so many Swedes are atheists—I can't blame them.

I know many Christians with grandiose visions of how they'd like to make the Kingdom of God tangible here on Earth, and I think they're great. I also think Jesus set up a wonderful model for helping these visions come to fruition, called discipleship. As we follow Christ and act as self-sacrificing stewards of the resources we're given, we welcome people into the narrative and point them to Jesus. As those people fall in love with the epic Gospel of God's creation of the world, its fall due to sin, its redemption through Christ, and its ongoing restoration through the Holy Spirit, they'll want to be a part of the restoration. I think inviting others to serve the community alongside you is an essential part of discipleship, but going straight for their wallet without participation seems like a dangerous shortcut. Discipleship takes immense amounts of time and is arduous, but it’s the most worthy investment you can make, and circumventing the process through handouts and government funding will cheat you out of the beauty of seeing someone coming to follow Christ. If you have so little faith in discipleship that you'd rather guilt-trip non-believers into paying for your mission or, even worse, take the money from them forcefully through taxes, then pick up a hammer and help Nietzsche put a nail in God's coffin. All you're doing is coveting the possessions of others, and it's killing the church. We should be so focused on serving the community that we render state programs unnecessary, not becoming another corporation looking to suck on the teat of big government . I'd rather die with my goals unfinished and my vision unrealized than become the next Sweden.

Sweden leads the world in atheism.

By God's provision, our spaghetti dinner raised more than $1,200. Not only was the missionary able to buy a new motorcycle, but he was also able to pour the additional funds into the impoverished communities he was serving. We didn't covet the resources of the megachurches and snark at how they could've bought 3 motorcycles with their weekly coffee budget alone. We didn't daydream about what we could've done if we had just received a government grant. We didn't go and brag to non-Christians about what we had done, either (except for this non-authorized public post 20 years later, sorry guys). We merely made personal sacrifices with the resources we had been given and thanked God for letting us be a part of His epic story.

What I'm listening to during this post:

I want to be different.

Recently, someone very close to me was lambasted for getting a tattoo. Family members hurled insults at her, questioned the soundness of her judgement, and worst of all, accused her of openly defying God. The last part scared me a bit because I take the brazen disobedience of God pretty seriously, and my skin also has some ink on it. Worried my trip to a tattoo parlor in Copenhagen two years ago had somehow condemned me, I asked her where her accusers were getting their biblical argument. She asked them, and they couldn't name any verses, but they were certain some preacher at some point in time had told them tattoos were evil. So I looked for myself, and shockingly, I found something.

Leviticus 19:28 says: "Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord." I also discovered I am duly screwed because, much to my chagrin, the directly preceding verse says: "Do not cut the hair at the sides of your head or clip off the edges of your beard" and I prefer to keep my facial hair nice and trim. Yet given the number of god-fearing men I know who are clean-shaven, I had a hankering suspicion these verses needed some context. I love the Old Testament, and I think it's immensely relevant to God's grand narrative and where we fit in that story, but sometimes we have a habit of splicing together verses with no context and create our own religions in the process. Sometimes we pervert God into some kind of genie meant only to bring us toys and constant bliss (Jeremiah 29:11 is probably the most infamous example of this), and sometimes we twist scripture to judge others. Both scenarios are pretty horrible, in my opinion.

According to Jamieson, Fausset, and Brown's Commentary Critical and Explanatory on the Whole Bible (first published in 1871 by 3 British theologians, their commentary has been well-respected across denominational lines for many generations), beard-scaping, self mutilation, and primitive tattooing were all practices Egyptians followed in accordance with their idol worshiping religions. A squared-off beard was said to honor an idol god, cutting your flesh was a "propitiatory offering to the deities who presided over death," and imprinting your skin with an idol's symbol via hot iron or ink was also a way of honoring that idol. The Israelites had picked up on these traditions while under Egyptian rule, and had continued practicing them even after God delivered them out of slavery. This wasn't kosher with the Lord, who calls Himself a "jealous God" and doesn't want His people frolicking about with false idols. The Jews were God's chosen people, and He wanted them to be different. He wanted them to stand out, in obvious and physical ways, as a beacon of the Most High.

my tattoo

Since the shapes of beards and tattoos are no longer associated with idol worship in our current culture, I don't believe they are forbidden by God. However, this didn't bring me much comfort. My mind kept going back to the underlying issue of God wanting His people to stand out from the crowds of non-believers, and the question "What makes you so different, Jay?" haunted my psyche. Some Christians set themselves apart by only using polite language, but I think Cards Against Humanity is hilarious. Other Christians abstain from using alcohol and tobacco, but I host a weekly drinking and smoking party. Some Christians put fish emblems on their cars, but I'm afraid my driving habits would draw disdain towards that symbol.

When I reflect on how I should be different, I remember a dialogue in the book of John where Jesus knows He's about to die on the cross, and wants to share some final lessons with His disciples. He tells them:  “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:34,35). Frankly, I used to find this passage offensive. For some reason, I thought it implied people who weren't disciples of Jesus were incapable of loving one another, which contradicted my personal experience with scores of wonderful, charitable, and loving people who aren't Christians. Yet now I realize I was just misinterpreting Jesus's words. He wasn't questioning the capabilities of non-Christians, but rather commanding the love of the disciples to be different and extraordinary.

I love smoking pipes with friends.

Earlier in John 13, Jesus demonstrates His extraordinary love by taking the role of a servant, even though He is God, and washing the disciples' filthy feet. So when Jesus says "As I have loved you," I think the disciples got the point - their love needed to be so different, so amazing, that it would set them apart from everyone else and be the reputation that let others know they were followers of Christ. We see examples of this humble, sacrificial, and different love throughout the early church - from Christians voluntarily giving away their possessions to willingly submit to communal living (Acts 4:32-36) to lovingly praying for and forgiving the people who stoned them to death (Acts 7:54-60). I fully believe their love was so different and so amazing that people knew it couldn't come from human will alone, and had to be of God.

I want my love of others to be genuine, unique, and extraordinary. I want my home to be a place oozing with love, where everyone knows they can come and be cherished. I want to find a way to serve every waitress who serves me. I want my love to be real and without agenda. I want to love others so well that no words of trash talk ever come from my lips. I want to treat all of my possessions as temporary blessings from God for me to use to love others. I want to love my colleagues so much that I put their career development over my own. I want my love for others to be so humble and so sacrificial that people know it isn't coming from me, it's coming from Jesus. I want to be known for my love, but I don't think I am, and that is the most tragic sin I've ever confessed.

What I'm listening to during this post:

Look for the crazy.

The beignet is a marvel of culinary ingenuity. Many people have fried pastries before, but somehow the French came up with the greatest design (it feels weird to type those words). Fortunately, French immigrants brought this treat to the South, where, naturally, it was perfected. The beignet masters inject just the right amount of air into its delicate layers, giving it a unique consistency, not nearly as dense as a doughnut, yet with way more substance than a cream puff. This treasure is then liberally garnished with enough powdered sugar to make you think you've stumbled into a party at Charlie Sheen's house. They are one of the most delectable things I've ever tasted.

HoneyHoney rocking out

When my friend Peter declared his desire to consume a beignet, my pavlovian instincts kicked in and my mouth immediately began to water. My friend Sarah expressed her excitement in a different way, throwing her arms up with the excitement of a college coed who had just met her favorite music star and exclaiming "BEN-YAYS! YES!" The three votes had formed quorum, so there was no way around it - we had to acquire a dozen. The only problem was it was 1:30am on a Saturday night, and there was only one place to procure beignets, the French Quarter of New Orleans - more than a 7 hour drive from our current location in Atlanta. Fortunately, we found a 2 lbs. box of Goldfish crackers and 5 loaves of energy drinks in my pantry, and figured it was the perfect amount to feed us for 1,000 miles. With Peter behind the wheel, all 8 cylinders of Justin's car roared to life, and our journey began.

My friends are crazy. They do the kind of things society tells them are foolish. They take the bland picture of the American dream - mindless wealth acquisition and keeping up with the Joneses, and laugh in its face. They invite danger into their lives, and love with reckless abandon. I'm writing this from my bed, which is currently just a mattress on the floor because a few days ago Sarah called and said: "There's a family in need. They need a bed, so I offered them yours. Ronnie's bringing his truck to pick it up at 4pm." Unfazed, I responded "see you then," no questions were necessary. We give each other's stuff away - we're crazy. The idea of driving through the night after partying for 12 straight hours - tailgating, then cheering on the Atlanta Braves, then getting 2 friends in wheelchairs up an 80-year-old staircase because we couldn't stand the thought of not having them with us for HoneyHoney's electrifying concert - was crazy. Yet as we crossed the border into Alabama at 3am, we knew there was no turning back.

A gas station in Montgomery, AL at 4am

All night long, the car was filled with laughter and amazing conversation. Not only is everything funnier when you're sleep deprived, but it also seems like whatever nice shell you're used to wearing in public is also completely worn away, leading to nothing but refreshing candor in your discussions. We talked about what we'd like to get out of life, and we brainstormed ways we could love our friends more deeply and sacrificially. We shared with each other who we needed to advocate for, and we were honest about where we needed to spur each other on. The conversation was so rich that it made the time melt away, and before we knew it, we were pulling into Biloxi, Mississippi, as the sun rose ever so slightly.

Never in my life did I think I would have a debate with a hotel receptionist about which night I was checking in for, but in this surreal universe of crazy adventures, I found myself pleading with the graveyard shift manager at the Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino to give me the drastically lower Sunday rate. Surprisingly, she was immune to my charms and we ended up paying for the most expensive 3 hour nap in history. While Peter went straight to bed, the adrenaline coursing through our veins was too much for Sarah, Justin, and I to ignore, and we immediately proceeded to the casino. There we discovered two important things: 1) Yes, they do serve unlimited free beers at 6:30am, and 2) if you place really small bets, you can turn $20 into 3 hours of gambling fun. I never did make it into the bed we paid for.

A wide-awake Justin plays blackjack

By 9:30am, we were putting our minor diversion behind us and returning to our main mission of beignet acquisition. At 11:30am, we were sitting at Cafe Beignet, our stomachs gurgling with anticipation (or perhaps the sounds were the result of not sleeping and only eating Goldfish) as numerous plates of beignets were placed before us. As we bit into those delicious pastries and my red beard became invaded by powdered sugar, we knew the trip was worth it. Not because the beignets were that good, but because our time together was even richer. We simultaneously looked at each other, burst out laughing, and persuaded one of the passersby to take our photo. We were crazy, and we loved it.

When people tell me they're a follower of Jesus, I always look for the crazy. My friend Dylan spends all of his vacation time and money on helping street kids in Nicaragua get an education. My friends Stephen and Holly are passionate about being positive adult role models to kids in the community they're not even related to. Sarah is constantly tutoring and providing for kids who don't speak English in their home so that they can thrive in this country. Peter, Justin, Sarah, and I decided our friendship was worth driving all night for. My friends sacrifice their time, their resources, their comfort, and their security, voluntarily lowering the standard of living they could afford to have, all to live the kind of adventure that serves others and takes Jesus up on His offer to "have life, and have it to the full."

Beignets acquired!

When I don't see the crazy, it makes me wonder who people are following. A local pastor, family heritage, cultural traditions, a close friend, or even Oprah, perhaps? Whoever it is, it can't be Jesus. As many times as I look, I can never find a biblical basis for living a normal life. When I flip through the written accounts of Jesus's life, I find nothing but crazy. John lived on locusts and wild honey (Matthew 3), Peter and Andrew completely and immediately abandoned their source of income to spend more time with Jesus (Matthew 4:18-22), and Jesus commanded His followers to love their enemies and pray for those who persecuted them (Matthew 5:43-48). Those examples are only from 3 chapters - the exhaustive list is longer than the drive from Atlanta to New Orleans!

The crazy life is not easy. We get hurt when the people we strive to serve continue to make bad choices. We get burnt out when we're so focused on the adventure we forget to take a rest (leading to our own bad decisions). We're forced to deal with conflict, and can become jealous of those who seem to be content with sweeping it under the rug. We get frustrated with each other, but we forgive quickly and help pick each other up. We know the struggle is worth it. Give me crazy, or give me death.

What I'm Listening to During this Post:

I am a broken man.

Me and my Dad

I'll never forget the first time (and only time to date) I rode in a police car. I was six years old, and it was a cool autumn Sunday night. As I walked out of my church's weekly gathering for kids, I was greeted by Dave, a close family friend who was also a sheriff's deputy. Dave told me my parents weren't able to pick me up, so he would be giving me a ride over to my friend Gregg's house to spend the night. It seemed like an odd scenario, but somehow Dave's familiar and soothing smile resting underneath his bristly Tom Selleck mustache told me everything was going to be alright. I hopped in the front seat (it was okay for 6-year-olds to ride shotgun then) and imagined I was Dave's partner, off to help him apprehend the dangerous criminals of Williamsburg. I asked him if I could turn on the siren and flashing lights; he nodded and showed me where the switch was. I saw him smile at the sight of pure joy on my face, but I could see he was holding something back. He already knew what I wouldn't find out until the following day - my dad was lying in a hospital bed, dead from a heart attack at age 32.

I've always known I wouldn't live to see 30. That firmly held belief at the back of my mind has been the longest-standing effect of my father's death. Sure, he had lived to 32, but he also finished the New York Marathon the previous year. The chances of me finishing a marathon are about as good as the Pirates winning the pennant, so I knocked off two years (I'm quite the armchair actuary). While such an outlook on life may seem morose, I never thought so. To me, it was just a fact to be dealt with, and I dealt with it by packing as much life as I possibly could into an abbreviated lifespan. I first piloted a plane at age 14, and had soloed one by 15. I enrolled in my first college math course at age 16, and by 17 I was studying full-time at the university, sacrificing the fun that accompanies high school senioritis. I was engaged by age 19, and by 21, I had graduated from university, gotten married, went on a honeymoon, moved 600 miles away from home, started my career, and purchased my first house (5 of those 6 events all occurred within a period of 6 weeks). I travel to new, exciting places as often as possible, I have a life insurance policy 5 times the size the average for my age so my wife won't have to worry, and I share everything I own with my friends because I'm keenly aware my stuff has an ever-approaching expiration date.

Getting married, exactly one month after turning 21

My acute awareness of my mortality never seems to dissipate because every day I am reminded of how I share my father's thorn in my side: I am an admitted glutton. The glorious aroma of juicy hamburger meat combined with sizzling bacon and thick cuts of cheddar cheese, accompanied by a heap of fried potatoes, is intoxicating to me. With popular shows such as Man vs. Food and The Biggest Loser, we've made a spectacle of overeating in this country, but I have nothing but empathy for obese people. It's a nasty addiction, and it takes incredible willpower to overcome it. I begin each day with utter depression when I see the girth of my belly in the mirror, then somehow can't manage to stop my car when it steers itself into Chick-fil-a for a healthy breakfast of fried chicken - fully aware of the latter causing the former. Last week I went to Wendy's with some friends, and after scarfing down a double cheeseburger and fries (with a Diet Coke, of course), I had to ask them to physically remove me from the restaurant because I was still hungry and desperately wanted to go back to the counter to order a baconator. Sure, I'm overweight, but it's only by the grace of God that I'm not 400 pounds (yet). As I constantly struggle with and frequently succumb to this intense desire to consume disgusting amounts of the kind of food Michelle Obama warns us about, I can't forget my looming pre-30 death sentence.

Me in my natural habitat

Perhaps this twisted worldview of fast living is most pronounced in my career. When it became clear my first employer out of college valued years of service above performance when it came to promotions, I resigned immediately. Once I began working in more of a meritocracy environment, I incessantly sought new ways to add value to the company, never paying any mind to what my actual job description was, which led to a slew of promotions and new opportunities. Surprisingly, this progression wasn't driven by greed or blind ambition, but rather my desire to pack a full career into the 9 years I'd have after university. Now I find myself responsible for business development across 2 continents - not a bad gig for a 27 year old. My favorite part of the job is mergers and acquisitions, and being able to manage an acquisition from valuation to integration over the past 10 months has been the greatest experience of my career.

Anything Chrysler touches turns to crap

M&A is one of the strangest concepts in business, and economic history is filled with epic acquisition fails (Daimler-Benz and Chrysler, AOL and Time Warner...need I continue?). Imagine a courtship where one party woos the other, explaining how they can't live without the other and how they're willing to pay an enormous dowry just to be together forever. Then, when it's time for the wedding, the party paying the dowry becomes completely dominant, explaining to the other how everything about them is better, and how their new spouse must conform to their standard in every way - from the color of their shoes to the type of paper they use. It sounds like a recipe for a tumultuous marriage, but this is how most acquisitions work. It's my job to navigate these stormy waters without ending up shipwrecked and bankrupt.

Somehow, Chris is making it all a little easier. As the CFO & COO all-in-one at the company we’re acquiring, he’s run a damn good business. Yet he’s been a team player from the start, acknowledging the great potential of what our companies can only achieve if we are combined. I’ve been astounded by his willingness to sacrifice his autonomy, his title, and his position atop the food chain, all for the good of the business. He’s always quick to provide any needed information and constantly offers up fresh ideas for success. We ensured he would stay on after the deal was finalized because we know with him at the helm, our little marriage is bound for greatness, standing in stark contrast to all of the acquisition failures of the past.

Sharing laughs on the day we signed the acquisition

However, what makes Chris truly unique is his ability to form friendships. He took a genuine interest in me on a personal level from the beginning, and we became fast friends. Chris always has a way of making integration meetings less stressful and more enjoyable by bringing up our shared love of motoring and lightening the mood with his quick wit. We laugh heartily over dinners, even debating the nuances of African Cameroon versus Connecticut Shade cigar wrappers. He noticed I always wore french cuff shirts, and knows of my affinity for firearms, so one day upon my arrival at the office, he handed me a gift: cufflinks made from genuine .40 cal casings. His thoughtfulness bowled me over, and I’m still trying to figure out how to thank him properly.

Last night I received a tragic call - Chris had died, suffering a massive heart attack at a very young age. I spent all of last night and most of today trying to wrap my head around it, to no avail. I'm trying to pick up the pieces of our business and figure out what it means to be a leader in this kind of situation, but I have no answers. I miss my friend. I wish I could pull an anecdote from the Bible to make everything feel better, but I can't.

I went to the gym today for the first time in a long time, thinking that if I just tried a little harder, perhaps I'd be able to thwart the disease that took the lives of my father and my friend. Yet as I lifted weights until my skin turned as red as a Maine lobster and swam laps until I wheezed like an 80 year-old smoker, I couldn't help but think my efforts were in vain. I realized my lust for greasy foods and my irrational desire to cram 70 years of life into 30 were merely symptoms of a greater problem - I am a broken man living in a fallen world. I may eventually obtain a body figure I can be proud of, and maybe I'll even manage to cross everything off my bucket list before the undertaker shows up at my door, but I don't think there's anything I can do to actually save myself.

Bebo Norman

My mind keeps going to a line from a song written by Bebo Norman following the death of one his friends: "'Cause 'it was not your time' that's a useless line; a fallen world took your life." Whether Chris died yesterday or 30 years from now, it would've caused the same amount of pain for his loved ones. It's not an issue of timing, it's an issue of living in a fallen world that isn't as it was meant to be. Creation is beautiful and good, but it has run amok and is in decay. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

Tonight, I cling to the hope that this is temporary. I long for the day when things are returned to the way they're meant to be. Tonight, my soul cries out for restoration.

What I'm Listening to During This Post: