@ Sea With Justin McRoberts

I met Stephen Roach a number of years ago at an event he curates called the Breath and the Clay. It's a conference, an Arts and Faith Conference in North Carolina. And I'd heard about the Breath in the Clay through artists who had participated in the conferences, as presenters. And then some folks who had attended the thing. And, and all of them had something similar to say about it, that it was not just different, but different in this particular way, that they left with a sense of belonging in the world of the arts, that less, less than leaving just equipped as an artist to make their art, or less than just feeling inspired. More than that, they left feeling they had a place in the world of the arts. And that's such a vital aspect, I would suggest great art, of great culture, and of life. Not just feeling equipped, internally, but feeling a sense of belonging in place in my world, and in my particular culture. We've become friends since then we chit chat off and on. And I've been looking forward to this interview for a long time, namely, because over the last 18 months or two years since the last breath in the clay event, Steven has spent a considerable amount of time investing in his own health and his own place in his own life and his own in his own culture, that he's actually spent the time to attend to who he is, as he does what he does. That I think is the engine behind great art lives and great careers. So I was thrilled to do this conversation. I enjoyed it.    I think you will too.

Welcome to the At Sea podcast. I'm your host, Justin McRoberts. The emphasis I've placed so far this season on the practice of poetry actually positions us to have some conversations well to continue some conversations that I care a whole lot about. Really specifically beginning with this episode of Focus, concentrated focus on the intersection and overlap between psychotherapy and religious practice. As someone who's benefited both from therapy and spiritual direction, this intersection is a place I experienced a great deal of life while also coming to a great deal of very complex and really interesting questions about what it means to be me, what it means to be human, what it means to have relationship what it means to be a person of faith. One of my favorite people working in that intersection at that intersection is KJ Ramsay. KJ works at that intersection as a therapist and an author who talks profoundly about issues of faith. And it just so happens, has recently produced a volume of poems and prayers, which makes such a beautiful bridge into the heart of this conversation about what it means to be fully human. To value that which is beyond our understanding and to dig really deeply and thoughtfully into the things we can and should understand, like brain chemistry. I thoroughly enjoyed this conversation, and I think you will as well. Check it out. Links for KJ RamseyWebsite - https://www.kjramsey.com Latest Book - The Book Of Common Courage

Among the many gifts I got early in high school was an F I got on a paper from an English class, a paper that the teacher said was too poetic. What he didn't mean by that is that I had written great poetry in the wrong place. What he meant really, in large part, is that it was really poorly written poetry. A lot was going on for me at the moment. One was I really wasn't actually prepared to write the paper he suggested I write. I didn't actually do the assignment the way it was assigned. So there was that I was a bad student. Secondly, a lot of my literary influences weren't literary in the academic sense. They were. They were poems. They were Lyrics by Morrissey or Robert Smith of the cure any number of folks in the new wave kind of genre of music, and I was deeply influenced by their words because I felt their words. And the topic of the paper. I don't remember specifically, but I wanted to feel it when I wrote about it. It had to do with what you wanted to be when you grew up. And for me, at the time, I was a freshman. That was a feeling question. It wasn't an idea question. It wasn't a mathematical question. It wasn't a reasoning question. What I wanted to be when I grew up was a feeling question. It was something that was attached to my emotions. And the words that I would have normally used in an academic setting. It just really didn't do it for me. So I reached for poetry. I know this now, as a 49-year-old guy, I wouldn't have articulated quite like that as a freshman, but I'm pretty sure that was what was going on is, yeah, I'm supposed to write this paper about my feelings and dreams. It feels too boring to write it like an essay. I'm going to write it like a poem. That totally worked for me emotionally. It did not work for me at all. Academically, I got an F on the paper. I think I ended up with a D or a C. In the class. That anecdote, as silly and goofy and hopefully as funny as it might be to you, also reflects a tension I have often lived in, not just as a writer, but as a person when it comes to the particular uses of language for particular things. proper grammar, and getting the words right to speak correctly. I think it doesn't just have a place; I think it's vitally important. Learning the rules of grammar is important. Part of what makes learning the rules of grammar important is that I know intentionally when working outside of those rules, that that realm of poetry is at least as important as learning the rules of grammar and getting it right. One of the reasons I'm spending so much time talking with poets during the season. And referencing people's poetic work because I think the world of poetry and the practice of poetry might help to unlock a little bit of what's missing in our communication with one another. I've watched a conversation between two very like-minded persons about a topic that they, for the most part, really agree on devolve into vitriol and disgust and insults. Because a wrong word was chosen because of the wrong phrase or because of a word in the wrong place. And the emphasis on getting the right word, the correct word became more important than the person on the other side of the word that we stopped in those moments asking the question, what might this person mean by it? Which is a question about the person, and we instead get locked up on the fact that that would not be the word I would choose. They didn't say it or do it the way I would. We miss one another. When a relationship, in general, much less than a broad cultural scale, becomes about getting it right. Part of what poetry does is it invites us to move through conversations to more patiently, slowly, and attentively look at, listen to, examine, and take in the language in front of us, whether that's the language we're using or the language someone else is using in conversation with us. And not to investigate that word, according to some scale of its rightness, but allow the possibilities, the word opens up to open up the possibilities in relationship. At one point in Jesus's work life, he was asked by one of his disciples, Why he spoke to people in parables. If you know the work of Jesus, you know that a lot of the time, he would tell a story about a field or a farmer about sowing seeds. Instead of telling the story straight or telling the truth straight, he would use analogies to use imagery. And one of these folks who spent a lot of time lives and why do you speak to be Put in parables. This is from the NIV, it says, he replied, This is Matthew 13, he replied, Because the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of heaven has been given to you, but not to them, whoever has will be given more, and they will have an abundance, whoever does not have even what they have, will be taken from them. This is why I speak to them in parables. And then quoting from the book of Isaiah, he says, Though seeing they do not see through hearing, they do not hear or understand it is fulfilled in them from the prophet Isaiah, you will be ever hearing but never understanding you will be ever seen but never perceiving. Now, I'm going to assume that you've had conversations like this in which you are speaking, and the person who is listening to you isn't actually listening. They might be looking at you, and they might like have an ear open to you, but they're not really listening. They've maybe decided what you're going to say. Or maybe they've decided how they're going to feel about what you're going to say in any number of options outside of actually attending to what it is you're saying, which is why I really love what Jesus says. He says, Listen, I speak to people in parables because I'm challenging them to listen. You are actually doing the work of listening. And because you're doing the work of listening, you'll continue to receive more of this, which is how relationship works. And by that, I mean all relationships, interpersonal relationships, corporate relationships, societal relationships, administrative relationships, and cultural relationships. It's all predicated on Listening, paying attention, and not just to the words used, but to the people using the words. Poetry asks us to slow down and attend to the words, not just themselves, but all the possibilities. Those words open up between us and those we are conversing with. Again, there I am at 15 years old, trying to find words that actually match what's going on in my guts. And absolutely, Mr. Griswold was correct that using an academic paper to work that out was not the right place. But it was the right thing for me to be doing. And the more time I've spent in areas in my life where the right words, academically, even societally, just don't actually match what's going on in me or around me or between me and other people. The more stretching, invitational practice of poetry has allowed me to create space in my own psychology and, yes, in between myself and other people. Which leads me to this. I honestly can't see the next season of life here where I live in the United States, becoming less nuanced, becoming less complicated, culturally, racially interpersonally. I think it's going to get weirder. And the weirder it gets, the harder it will be to connect with one another if we're expecting people to jump through all the right hoops in order to communicate with us. So how do we become better listeners at think reading some poetry on occasion, somewhat regularly, and maybe even getting into that practice of finding some space in our lives to maybe write some poetry to get outside of the language we're used to using in our academic, relational, religious spaces, and create a pattern in our own minds in which words don't kill relationship but open up the possibility of it

I don't remember the exact details surrounding my introduction to Gregory or his work. I do remember that upon my first reading, I was captured. In fact, one of my favorite live performance moments ever was sitting with my friend David dark, who's also been a guest on this podcast several times, at a reading of Gregory Orr's at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Mass., and having one of those shared when I grew up, I would like to be like that moments. I could say quite a bit about his work in order to set this up. Instead, I would like to get you directly to the interview he reads from a most recent volume of his towards the tail end. And I'm so glad that he did. I think you will be too. Enjoy this.   Links for Gregory OrrWebsite - http://gregoryorr.net Latest Book - Selected Books of the Beloved

On most Sundays, I get the privilege of gathering in my house with a group of preteens and reading through bits of the scripture and talking about them. And then praying together, it's a thing we call the good news Club, which borrows from a tradition we've gleaned from. One of my favorite parts of these gatherings is that we don't just read from one translation of the Bible. We actually crack open three or four different translations and interpretations of the Bible and read the same story, the same text, and the same bid, including the Jesus storybook Bible and the message we read from the NIV. We have an NRSV. We have like a bunch of different texts and translations. And it's been a kick to pay attention to the ways these sometimes first-time Bible readers will notice the difference between word usages, that in this version of Mark, this person uses this word. And over here, they use this word. It's the same story, the same moment, different words. The practice is less about developing a taste for or a particular preference for a specific translation. It's about language, and not only is it okay that there are different words used to describe the same thing, it's, in fact, necessary and important because the reality of God is bigger and broader than the language we use to describe it in the same way, that the language we use to describe and relate with one another, is smaller, and less nuanced, and less beautiful than the reality of one another. See, words don't define reality. They express and sometimes define our experiences of reality. Which is part of why I'm spending the time I'm spending to chase down books and interview poets this season. Poetry, as a practice reading and writing, has the power to help loosen my grip on language. And perhaps more importantly, it helps me loosen the grip I think I have through language on reality. It brings me to this. See, in the past, I would get hung up on the words we use and the ways I thought that those words missed reality. I couldn't capture all of what I meant by Christian with the Word Christian. I couldn't capture all of what I meant by God with the Word of God. I couldn't capture all of what I meant in a word. And so I wanted to stop using certain words like the ones I just used. I didn't want to use the Word Christian anymore because I didn't want to get tangled up in what you might think I might mean when I used the word, and then that just got exhausting. So my emotional posture shifted, and I decided I would redeem words that meant something to me. And that process and effort also got exhausting. So I've shifted again, and nowadays, I'm trying to be less of a word, cop, period, and just become a better poet. Poetry disorients and then reorients me to the language I use and the language around me. And the most important part of that process is actually that disorientation, the work of detachment and detangling, not just from the words themselves, or even the meanings I've attached to those words, but detangling and detaching myself from the control I think I have over reality, by way of my words, and by way of the meanings I've invested in them. Back control keeps me from seeing you as you are as opposed to seeing you the way I've decided you are. And it keeps me from encountering God as opposed to the way I wish or want God to be. And here, I think of a series of words that I found useful for detangling myself from words. God rid me of God, a prayer by Meister Eckhart. See, I don't want to try to abandon the words I've learned to use, or I don't want to try to entirely revamp my vocabulary to be more open unstead. I want to let go have the grip I think I have on reality through the words. I use poetry as a practice moves me towards that open posture, to be more receptive as a human so that I can receive you as you are so that I can receive God as God is and know that my limited words can only point in the direction of the nuanced, complex and abundantly beautiful reality of you. And if God, words don't become less powerful, by way of the poetic practice or less meaningful, by way of poetic practice, no instead, through poetry, I develop a far deeper respect for language, so much so that I simply refuse to use words like a tool of control. The poetic practice teaches me that words can be a way to say there's more here than I could begin to even imagine pinning down what I'm about to say. But I hope that with these carefully chosen words, I might point you in the direction of the reality I've experienced, a reality well beyond my capability in word to control or even a name.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry, I could not travel them both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth, you might recognize that as the opening stanza to the Robert Frost poem, The Road Not Taken. It's the poem that ends, Two roads diverged in the wood, and I took the one less traveled by, and it has made all the difference. It's probably even more familiar. I remember being exposed to that poem. It was probably the first poem as a whole poem that I was actually taught or read really fully exposed to. I think I was a freshman in high school. And as I was exposed to and read and saw this poem, really for the first time, two things happened in me that I recall. One was a kind of, I guess, embarrassed response poetry, poems. They were written by and for hyper, emotive, weird people. And that if you were into poems and you liked poetry, then you must be a hyper-emotive and weird person. I was on the football team. I ran track. I was a guy. That was the one thing happening in my brain. The other thing happening in me was that I was really resonating, and I really liked the poem. And I really liked the rest of that section in our English class about poetry. Something about the very intentional use and shape and reframing of words actually resonated with my soul. That tension resolved itself over the years, till the beginning and even later in high school, as life got weirder and required more complex and deeper emotional responses. Poetry became an actual feature in my life as something I attempted to write. But definitely, I started reading more poetry all the way through college. And to be entirely honest, really, in the last decade or so, the more I've spent time, intentionally on, in my own inner universe, and done my best to come alongside people working in the arts and working in religious spaces where life is hard and complex and weird and strange. Poetry has not just become a useful tool or a powerful practice. It has become a really safe, generative, and transformative aspect of expression. It's a beautiful part of my life. I listened to Scott Cairns's read and lecture at the festival faith in writing. I believe it was in 2016. And not just not only was I struck by his writing and the way he read the things he wrote, but I was also really captured by the way he talked about his work. That's one of those. It's one of the aspects of art-making that oftentimes inspires me. So someone who's excellent in their craft and has the ability to talk about what they do, how they do it, and why they do it. I've been thinking about and hoping to catch Scott to talk about the power of poetry, the essence of poetry, and the necessity of poetry for a really long time. And so I'm really glad I got some time to sit down with him. I enjoy this conversation. I think you will as well. More info on Scott Cairns  Hearts and Minds Bookstore

Welcome to the At Sea Podcast. I'm your host, Justin McRoberts.  I'm recording this on December 21, 2022. It is the winter solstice, the day where I live that features the least amount of light. The night is longest. And I'll be honest with you, I'm not feeling great. I don't know if I quite have the flu yet, but I might. Because my daughter does. And I found that out a few hours ago. It's been really since Sunday. She wasn't feeling well on Sunday. She was feeling not so great on Monday, so she didn't go to school, then she didn't go to school on Tuesday, and then today, Wednesday. She certainly did not go to school. She has been very sick. Last night, when she went to bed, it was mostly just cold symptoms. That was sniffles, and it was a little bit of a headache. And then she mentioned that one of her ears wasn't feeling great. Oh, I thought. And not too long ago, her being in bed by herself. She woke up and started vomiting. Her brother came downstairs to let us know that she had, in his words, puked everywhere. So we went ahead and cleaned up what we could clean up. And if you're a parent, you're probably not as grossed out as others would be because kid puke is different than other puke in some way. And then, as I was settling her back in and tucking her back, she asked me if I would stay because she was scared. Sure, absolutely. I got my pillow and a blanket. And I laid down on the floor, and I did not sleep really much at all. She woke up every 1015 minutes. She was uncomfortable. She was nauseous, and she threw up a few more times. And I'll be honest with you, it wasn't a pain in the butt to get my back hurt. And, like I said, it didn't sleep, and my shoulders hurt. And you know, I'm almost 50 sleeping on the floor is not my forte. But there was this gift that I was experiencing, especially in the darker, later, deeper hours of the night. I get to be there for her. I get to be the person in the room. When she doesn't feel well. And a scared. I wanted to be there. So it was a kind of a joy. Speak speaking of joy. In a few days, we, in the Christian tradition, celebrate Christmas, this magical and miraculous celebration of God becoming a person, and I do get it. There's that I'm aware of the sort of kerfuffle of sorts around Jesus not being actually born in December. I've heard it's June. I've heard other things. And that's fine.  I'm not at all saying that that conversation is unimportant in the grander sense or in some grand sense. I will say, though, on a personal level, I'm not all that moved by it. See, what I don't really care about when I come to religious faith or religious practice are things like exactly where Jesus was born or what the exact date was. I am instead drawn to religion, religious faith, and religious practice. With questions more like when it is darkest when it's hardest, when it is coldest. Is God not just there? But willfully and joyfully? There when my life is not okay. When I am not okay. In my wife, is God with me? And IS GOD WITH ME joyfully? And happily and willfully. We've had a few conversations with Caitlin. Over the last few days, and certainly, today, as this sickness has gotten worse and keeps dragging on, she understands she's sick. It's just something that's part of being human. There are going to be days when you don't feel well. And sometimes those days run into other days and become weeks. There are just times in life when you don't feel well. And what she has wanted, honestly, more than medication is to just be around people. That's what she's wanted. Does she want the medication? Honestly, she doesn't like the medication cuz it tastes like crap. It really does. It's awful. I can't believe we haven't fixed that yet. But more than medication, she wants to know that people are going to be with her in her room overnight, on the couch next to her during the day, that if she's not going to feel well if that's part of what it means to be human, then will you live that with me and again, this is part of what makes so much poetic sense that we celebrate the incarnation of God. In a time when for a lot of us, things are coldest, and the nights are longest. Not just because we feel more comforted, but like good religion does, it points us forward that if we want to be loving and caring people, when it gets harder when it gets darker, and when it gets colder, what the people around us are really going to ask is, are you going to be there with me? Will you show up when it gets bad? Will you show up in a way in which you risk getting some of what makes me sick and bearing some of what brings me down.

It's possible, if not likely, that if you are remotely pop culture aware and spend any time on social media platforms, you'll see news about or posts about the death, the passing of dancer, DJ, choreographer named tWitch. I was struck by the moment I heard about his passing. A fan of his, I've liked his work, I've liked him on TV. I've liked his posture online otherwise. I was saddened by the fact that h e's only 40 years old. And I felt the thing that I read that Jen Hatmaker wrote in her public post. She said this line that struck me and sort of set this thought in motion, she said he was suffering, and we didn't even know pain has never been easier to hide. Some of what you might have seen, which is what I have seen, is folks confessing or saying out loud, like, you know, he seems so happy. It's so shocking. And it's always shocking. When depression or anxiety, when mental health issues surface. A lot of the time, it's a surprise; we're shocked. We're even to some degree scandalized. We didn't know that that was going on in someone's head in someone's heart. And especially when it comes to light that someone has been thinking about ending their own lives, much less when someone tries to end their own life. It's surprising, it's shocking. And it shakes us, I would hope. It shakes us when someone chooses to end their own life. Shared some of his own thoughts along the same lines. This notion that he was suffering and we didn't know pain has never been easier to hide. On the one hand, that's so true. You don't really know what someone is up against. You don't really know what's going on in someone's head. And then Carlos adds this caveat to that. He says, Yeah, but you do know that it's just hard sometimes for anyone. We do know you don't know the particulars, but you do know or maybe should assume that everyone is facing something. See, in these moments, when we are publicly engaging with or talking about depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation, I hope we don't become more fearful of depression or anxiety. And the threat is to those around us and even to ourselves. I hope we don't become more afraid of the things that steal life. I do hope, instead, that we become more patient and kind, more long-suffering, more thankful for the raw gift it is to no people at all, including knowing their darker corners and the darker corners of their souls because that is one of the gifts of knowing someone knows that they are up against something, and valuing even their struggles. So what if instead of becoming more fearful of depression, and anxiety, and suicidal ideation, we actually change our posture towards one another. Because no, you don't get to know the specifics of what someone is going through in their lives. But we really should assume that they're going through something. And that it's hard. It is one thing to say I want to be someone who helps people carry their heavy things. It is another thing entirely to actually do the work of carrying those things for other people. It is an entirely different thing to become the kind of person who moves away from transactional relationships and begins to consider the gift is to be alive and to share in being alive with those around us, including those around us carrying heavy weights. We are, as of the day of this post, right about the middle of the Advent season, a season on the Christian calendar which we anticipate the birth of Jesus in the incarnation of God. And in a conversation with friends recently about the incarnation. We talked about the humanity of Jesus, we talked about what it looked like what it meant for God to be human. And one of the folks in the group pointed out this moment, and if you read the gospels, you know this moment. If you don't, I'll try to highlight it quickly that at some point in the life and ministry of Jesus, a lot of the people who were following Jesus stopped and just left. He had said some things publicly. So that I think we're confusing the pressure on him with from religious powers and political powers started scaring people off, and hordes of people who are following Jesus left, and he turns to the disciples, and the phrase in the scriptures is, are you going to leave me to? What about you? Are you going to leave too? And this person in the conversation said, you know, there are a couple of different ways to read that. And one is the way I grew up reading that it's it's a test like, Okay, well, everyone, everyone else left, what about you? Will you stay? Are you going to be faithful, like it's a test of the disciples? The other reading is that he doesn't want them to leave. Because they're his friends. And he kind of needs them emotionally. And instead of, are you going to leave me too. It's, what about you? Are you going to leave me to later on in the life of Jesus, right towards the tail end when things get hardest? He invites these two friends, these two disciples of his, to stay with him as he prays through the night, knowing that he's about to be arrested, he's about to be crucified. He knows this is the darkest moment in his life. And he invites these people. We call them the disciples. He invites these friends of his to stay with him as he prays to the night, and they keep falling asleep. And the way the writer of Matthew records this moment, he says that he awakened Jesus, Jesus awakened Peter, and said to him, could you not stay awake with me for even one hour? Again, is there a challenge to Peter to become a better person, bear, and more faithful friend, likely possibly? Is there also, though, the desire in Jesus for his friend to be with him when it's hardest and darkest? See that human reading of Jesus doesn't just normalize the need that you and I have for other people, and actually lifts that up and says, part of what it means to be a whole person is to need the people around you, especially when it's hardest and darkest. And if that's the kind of humanity that we are called to by the person of Christ, then maybe that's the kind of humanity we want to or ought to actually approach other people with, that the issues people are facing and the weights they are carrying, are not just obstacles to a more fulfilling experience of other people, but they are in fact, invitations to help the people around us carry their wounds and their shadows the way we would like the people around us to help us carry ours that it is, in fact, a gift to share in the struggles of those around us. So while it can be sometimes impossible to know the exact details and the exact nature of the details of someone else's struggle, we can assume that they are as human as we are. So may it be so of us that we don't become more nervous about or ashamed of or afraid of depression and anxiety. Instead, may we become more patient, more kind, more forgiving, more long-suffering, less transactional, and more purely thankful. For the raw gift is to no other people at all. May we live at a slower and less utilitarian pace in relationship to other people, and may we celebrate their full humanity, which includes their limitations and struggles and dark corners, the way we are taught in the Christian tradition to celebrate the humanity of Jesus.

I'm recording this introduction a few days after Thanksgiving. And if you're listening to this when the episode comes out, it'll be roughly a week, maybe a week and a day or so after the Thanksgiving holiday, which is to say this is the holiday season. And between Thanksgiving and maybe some things that happen in between. And the Christmas holiday is a season during which we sit down at a table with neighbors, with friends, with family, with people who share different ideas hold different ideas about how the world works. Usually, what we mean by that is they hold different religious or different political perspectives. And the rule the cultural rule has become you don't talk about politics. You don't talk about religion. At the dinner table, and specifically during the holidays, I see story after story or anecdote after anecdote on most of my social media platforms about nightmare scenarios or nightmare fears, things happening during the holidays, around politics, and religion among family members and neighbors, etc. You don't talk about religion and politics during the holidays. And as much as I understand, and I really do, because I've certainly been in the scenarios in which a political or religious conversation was problematic relationally just really disappoints me, and it saddens me. In fact, I find it a little bit boring. And I long for conversations and places for conversation in which politics and religion are not just on the table, but welcomed, invited, where we can have real-life differences about real life, things that really do matter, which is why I was thrilled to sit down and talk with Keith Simon. Key Simon is the co-author of a book called Truth over tribe pledging allegiance to the lamb, not the donkey or the elephant. He is the pastor of a church. He's a thoughtful and caring individual. And he's someone who, like me, is aware of his own biases, is aware of his own history, and is aware of the unfortunate and massive gap between far too many people who don't feel the capacity, the ability, or the willingness to share in some of the ideas that actually drive their lives. I enjoyed our conversation. I think you will too. Check it out.

In 2002, I wrote and recorded a song called love.  And I've been waiting to write some kind of follow-up to that song pretty much since I released it. It was a song that meant a lot to me at the time because I was trying to publicly and personally redefine the word and my experience of the word love for myself. And for people that were interested in paying attention. To me, it was this hopeful attempt, I guess, to push back on the idea, or the constant suggestion that love was a feeling. And that just hadn't been my experience. Certainly, there have been feelings involved, as it were. But love, while it included feelings was just more complex, it was more difficult. It was harder, it was Messier. It was just bigger. And I wanted to write something that actually spoke to maybe the more difficult and messier and poetic slash practical elements and aspects of love. And so I wrote this song that is, as it's recorded, both Sung and screamed, which was part of my experience of love. Here's a clip of that song and how it comes off as it's recorded.  Now, among my existing listeners, love as a song had some legs to it folks really resonated with the song. To some degree, I know they resonated with the energy of the song in this sort of like middle space between folk, and rock. But I think actually, no, my listeners really resonated with that particular expression of love. At what point shortly after the album, that that record was on was released, the song was covered by a rock band, like an actual rock band, and I think actually found a bit more of a home sonically, with this band, they were called Kids in the way. And the way they interpreted the song, it was definitely more full-throated, it was definitely more screaming. And there were electric guitars and drums and the whole mind, and it definitely felt more like that's the spirit of the song. But I've got to say that the peak moment of that songs life, and, and the place it found its home in at least in what I meant by it. When I recorded it came when I was asked to sing that song at a friend's wedding. Now, you just heard a clip of the song and how it comes off. Like I said, it's sort of screamed and sung at the same time. So imagine, if you will, sitting at the wedding of a friend of yours, and watching the ceremony proceed as it normally does. And then coming to the moment of communion, where the pastor or the preacher, whoever is facilitating the moment, invites the crowd to take a few moments of reflection, while the couple takes communions. Normally this very low-key, almost contemplative moment in the ceremony. But that was the moment that my friend asked me to step up to the mic and play that song. Now, I've got to be honest. And if you've been around me long enough, you know, I've definitely had some moments when what I was doing up front, musically just didn't go over with the crowd that I was in front of this was something entirely different because it wasn't just a matter of distaste, there was utter confusion among the attendees of this wedding. And then, during the reception, this friend of mine who had asked me to play that song, during his ceremony, got the chance multiple times to answer the question, because people came to him and said, Hey, was that song he was supposed to play? Did Justin just pick a random song and play it instead of something more appropriate to the moment and what he said was that that had been his experience of love. And he wanted there to be a moment in his wedding ceremony. That said, this is what love sounds like and feels like when it's been real. For me, that was a peak moment. And that songs life, it was also a peak moment in my understanding of the practice of the expression of in the experience of love.  A few years ago, I was asked to lead songs and teach at a church community that I was actually somewhat unfamiliar with. It's a thing I don't do very much, but on the suggestion of and the request of a friend. I planned a few songs to lead and I planned a teaching around their requested topic, which was the love of God. Now, they had suggested and requested that I turn in my notes and my slides ahead of time because they were unfamiliar with me and they wanted to make sure they knew what I was going. So I turned in my notes well ahead of time, and I turned in the slides for the songs that I was doing, most of which were traditional. And again, if you've been around me at all in the last several years in See me song lead. I prefer to lead older traditional songs. And this one particular song that I had included in my setlist, they really wanted to do a different version of It's a song called Nothing but the blood of Jesus. It's a very traditional older him like song that's relatively familiar with folks who are part of the Christian tradition. What they said, though, was that they wanted to do their version of this song. And again, because this is a traditional song that's been sung, and led for many, many years by many, many people in many different contexts. It's a traditional classic song and wanting to do your version of a classic song is like saying, I'd like to do my version of Nikes. Yeah, that's called a knockoff.  Well, when they sent me the lyrics back to the song, their version of this song, they had replaced the word blood with love, so that the song said nothing but the love of Jesus rather than Nothing but the blood of Jesus explaining that they did not like the violent imagery associated with blood. And at first glance, I understood Oh, yes, I get that that's a little bit gross to be singing about blood. But then I actually thought back to this moment, when, during my friend's wedding ceremony, at a point in which we were supposed to have a contemplative moment, during communion, to reflect on the love of God for them, they asked me to sing a song that actually shook the room a little bit about the nature of love. As they stood behind me eating the body, and drinking the blood of Jesus, I sang a song that was a bit toothy-er, a bit messier, a bit more violent. In his epistle, John writes that this is how we know what love is that Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters. When John goes to redefine what love is, he actually references the violent moment of the cross. And I honest to goodness, think there is something really important about that definition of love. That certainly there are feelings involved, that certainly it can be a thing that feels good and brings light and joy and happiness. But that if love is to truly be love, it has to meet our humanity, in the whole of our humanity in both our high peak glowy fascinating, glittery, big-eyed, sparkly moments. And in the utter, destructive, terrible depths of our existence, our practice, it has to meet us in both our glory. And in our depraved violence, if that's the kind of love we're talking about, I'm in. And if it's not, if it's something more sentimental, that's fine. It just doesn't meet me as a whole human. If the love of God is to truly be the love of God, for all of humanity, must it not, in some way, speak to the violence that is also true about our nature, which is why I love the image of the cross as an expression of love. It's why I love the life of Jesus on the whole, including the cross, as an expression of love. Are there adorable, cute, big-eyed puppy-like moments? Certainly, there are. And there is also the cross in Oakland, California, just by itself. Last year, there were 125 murders. And that's a small chunk of the nearly 17,000 murders that took place across the country. And then earliest statistics from this year suggests that there are at least 16 gang-related violent crimes perpetuated in Oakland every single day. And that's part of what it looks like. To be human and to belong to the human race. So as I see it, if love is to truly be the kind of reality and power the human heart desires, and not only can't turn a blind eye, to our more violent nature, it has to look at that nature, square in the face and say I can handle that has to look at least in part, like the cross. So 20 years after the release of that first song called Love, I finally found some words and a melody to really communicate those thoughts in the song is called that's love. Not the most imaginative title, but it works. And I don't screen this time, but I think the energy is still there. It's still a thing I want to see. It's still a thing I want to be Leave about the love of God that is available to me and then helps me make sense of and make something good out of what it means to be human

I’ve long lived with Seth Godin’s suggestion that art is anything you make that forges a connection between people.  Over time, and in that light, I’ve also come to recognize that the depth and sustainability of my professional art life has a lot to do with the particular people I am connected to in/through my work.  Which brings me to my now 12yo son, Asa.  Asa wrote a lot of the melody for the song “Graduation” and is the main vocalist on the finished track. It was the thought of connection with him on this project that really moved me to do it.  Of course, there were many points of connection throughout the whole process (and definitely now, after is release). But what provided the project’s core energy was specifically sharing the writing and recording process with my son. So, on a personal level, the life in and behind this EP is rooted in the love I have for that remarkable young man, Asa.  And, on a broader scale, I think being able to name/identity specific people is what makes it possible for an Artist (of any kind) to do what they want to do long-term. Ideas and artifacts can be thrilling. They just don’t give real life.  But regardless of how effective or well-received or profitable an idea or artifact might be, that experience simply pales in comparison to the deeply grounding experience of human connection.  I risk a bit of overstepping here when I say that we’ve been in a season during which it seems like everything is on fire; that every “issue” and every conversation carries with it the utmost importance. And because of that urgency, not only you should not only know about all of it in detail, you also must see the right details from the correct angle and then (this is key) care about the right things to the correct degree and in the right way.  It’s too much.  So here’s the somewhat scandalous reality I’m living with now:  If what I say I “care about” doesn’t have actual names of actual people attached to it, I’m either faking it or I’m at least a little bit wrong. Because the human heart doesn’t live on the energy of ideas or even the urgency of causes. The human heart runs on relationship and connection.  Too much of what we mean by “Church” or “religion” became about ideas and artifacts.  Too much of what we mean by “Politics” or “Justice” became about ideas and artifacts.  And too much of our experience in all these areas has been very, very disappointing. So May my disappointment  in myself and in others  lead me to hope and work for change  rather than to the desire  to isolate or distance myself. And may that change mean a smaller and more personal experience of our own lives. For the sake of the very specific people around us and for our own, very specific souls. 

It used to confuse me when, as people talked about relationships, romantic or otherwise, they would refer to the relationship as, like a third entity, there was the person and a person, or a few people. And then there was the relationship that they're in like it was this other thing. You, me, and then the relationship. But it turns out there's actually something to that. Sometimes what's being referred to by the relationship is this idea of what we should be or what we could be like, if we did this. Well. Sometimes it's a good thing, specifically when that vision is a shared vision. And we're in lockstep and headed in that direction, trying to become that vision, that ideal of what a relationship looks like. But sometimes, the relationship we're referring to and feel responsible for isn't at all reflective of the actuality of the connection between us. It doesn't help us love each other or even see each other. I can see this clearly. And so often when the relationship we're speaking of is with the church, or just with church, capital C church, circumstances change, so to expectations, heck, the particulars of the social and interpersonal contract, we've entered into change as well. In the end, belonging, like love, is a choice rather than a consequence. This is how we know what love is. As the writer John, Jesus Christ laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters. Why are you here? Because I choose to be because I'm yours. Because your mind. That's where it gets kind of complicated with the word mine. At the beginning of adolescence, I learned, or I thought I learned, that being possessive was one of the worst things that someone could be in a relationship being possessive was associated with jealousy and suspicion, judgment, and control. It was an entirely negative thing to be possessive to be as, as a boyfriend or girlfriend, or even friend. And yet, the older I've gotten, and the more I've lost relationally, I've grown in the desire to be bound to others, by far more than either my force of will or my effort or bound to others as a reward for my performances. I've longed to know that, even as things change, sometimes dramatically and sometimes sadly, I'm still worth belonging to. I'm worth belonging with. I'm worth someone saying, "You are mine." I don't entirely reject the lessons of my early adolescence. Still, at the same time, there certainly is something to being identified by someone as essential as part of their life, regardless of any and all things. I really resonate here with the biblical imagery of Christ and Christ's bride. And at the same time, I'm really challenged by this other biblical moment. I am inspired and moreso honestly scandalized. By the way that the writers of the early New Testament, a few of them constantly come back to calling Judas Iscariot, the one who betrays Jesus, one of us. They claim him as ours. Here it is in the book of Luke 22nd chapter. Now, the Festival of Unleavened Bread, which is called the Passover, was near the chief priests, and the scribes were looking for a way to put Jesus to death, for they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas Iscariot, who was one of the 12. He went away and conferred with the chief priests and the officers of the temple police about how he might betray him, which is Jesus to them. And then a completely different writer at a different time. They've got Mark 14th Chapter. Immediately, while he was still speaking again, that's Jesus, Judas, one of the 12, came up accompanied by a crowd with swords and clubs, who were the chief priests and the scribes, and the elders. Now he who was betraying him had given them a signal whoever I kiss, he is the one sees him and leads him away under guard. There's no mistaking here that Anytime he's referenced, it's clear that foes acknowledge what he's done, that he betrayed Jesus. He did it with a kiss. It was awful. He sold them out for money. There's no getting around that description of Judas as actions. And yet, this is just to have four or five instances in which folks who are writing about the story of Judas use the phrase, one of the 12. I am scandalized and inspired and moved and challenged by that. Yes. They say he's the betrayer. He's also ours. And that kind of associate of belonging, that kind of commitment to someone, does not have to come along with, In fact, it doesn't come along with the denial of their wrongdoing, much less turning a blind eye and saying, Oh, that's not who they are, or excusing any sort of misstep or injustice or betrayal. It doesn't come along with any of that. It does, though. Reframe those missteps. Reframe those injustices, reframe even those betrayals that, yes, that is part of who they are, that they have done those things, that they have said those things, and they've lived that way. And part of what makes that so tragic is that there's so much more to them, including the fact that they belong to me. And I to them, yes, this is true of them. Also true of them. They're one of ours. And that doesn't come with forgetfulness. It also doesn't come with forgiveness. But maybe that's the kind of posture, the kind of commitment, the kind of relationship that actually makes something like forgiveness possible. That in order to want it bad enough for you to do the work that it takes to actually move you and me to a place of forgiveness, much less restoration. I have to want it. Like I would want it for myself. And maybe that comes with calling you mine

I've never really enjoyed fighting. And while I know there might be some folks who come to a different conclusion, depending on their experience of me, the reality is that while I certainly did Hone some skills in the art of argumentation, I've always actually hated what it's cost me to fight. Which brings me to the question, what is worth fighting for? And the truth of the matter is, for the most part, I've lacked a really clear or wisely discerned answer to that question. I could reason the question on a large scale and say things like racial justice is worth fighting for, affordable healthcare is worth fighting for, or clean water is worth fighting for. But when it comes to answering that question, on the scale of my life, my limited life, things get quite a bit foggy here. I've boiled some of the important bits of wisdom I've gained in this area of my life down to these two short poems. The first reads some battles should be lost. That is, sometimes, the best way forward. Losing battles has opened me not only to the wisdom and goodwill of others who are not like me but softened me internally. And now I'd rather listen. Even when I think I'm right, even through someone's rage, to see and to hear and experience what's truly at hand in this other person, because through all the push and the pull over all these years, I look back now. And I see myself sitting across from some brilliant humans with whom I have some disagreements about things that mattered to them as humans. The second bit of wisdom grows from there, and the poem reads, The most regrettable losses of my life are battles I ignored while fighting the ones I shouldn't have been fighting. This came into my life by way of a mentor's advice. During a season in which I was thoroughly exhausted from many battles, he told me that just because there's a hill doesn't mean you should die on it. Maybe you shouldn't even climate unless you know someone up there already. So maybe you've been in or around a large room when the energy of that room shifts to the tension and the shuffle of a fight breaking out. Part of how I learned to know that something was important or worth my attention was that there was anger and strife around it. Tech, that's how the news works, right? Everything has a tinge of discord, or at least as a light threat to it. And that's how we know that it's important because tension, anger, and violence communicate importance. But to add to the strange analogy, I just started with while I'm across the room trying to break up a fight between drunk roommates, acting a fool, and being stupid. I've left the people I initially committed my time to the people I know. The question 'what is worth fighting for?' has taken me on two parallel paths on the one through wins and especially losses. I've become an I am becoming a very different person—one who just isn't fascinated by or drawn to the energy of the war or the fight. I mean, I know I can fight. I've done it a lot. I just don't want to unless I know it's worth it. And even winning doesn't make it worth it. Relationships, and people make it worth it. On the other path, I'm embracing the limited nature of my energies and my time on the planet, that if they're battles worth fighting, if there are wars worth getting into, part of what will make them worth fighting is that there are names real names attached to those battles and in those wars.   The loss and the disintegration of the religious community I called home for nearly 20 years came with a long list of complicated analyses and reasons, and diagnoses. It was ideas and methodologies. Over time, the need or the desire to make sense of what had happened took a backseat to the deep comfort of sharing that life experience with other human beings. As it turns out, it is the shared experience of life with other people that makes any plan or any idea worth executing, to have fought for a good plan or a beautiful idea. And last and then, on the other side of that last battle, to look up and more fully see the people I've been fighting with, and fighting for, or even fighting against. It has often been the sting of loss that snapped my mind. And that kind of clarity and pain can sharpen the mind and demand focus on what matters. I don't think I'm alone in that, which is why I wrote the song war stories. I think there are a lot of us right now stumbling and wandering, bleary-eyed, around the empty spaces of our last battles, the places where our good plans and our beautiful ideas used to exist, and I think it might be enough that we're in that space together. After all, what was the intention of having made the plan or sharing the idea to begin with? If not to gather with other people with whom we agreed and, yes, with whom we disagreed, wasn't connected with other people, the hope to begin with? What if, in order to more deeply and humanly connect, our hands had to be empty of ideas, and of plans, and of quote, things to fight for? What if we had to fall out of love with our schemes and our methodologies in order to fall in love once again, or for the first time with the people who make those schemes and methodologies and causes worth anything at all?

My social landscape does not look the way I expected it to a few years ago. Some of that comes on the heels of religious difference or political disagreement. And as sad as that stuff can be, it's also a bit cliche and predictable.   If I'm being honest, what's been harder, is recognizing that the more I've grown into who I am, and the more distance I've experienced between myself and people I was once connected to - those connections have been harder to let go of, as has been the familiarity I had with my former self. I felt some of these things before I was experiencing something like it in 2004, when I first heard the song, let go. And on the other side of a very strange season, marked by both grief and newness, I found myself liking where I was in life, and also tasting the bitterness of saying goodbye to what had been true, and had been comfortable before. So it is again today, and maybe you resonate with that feeling, I have a feeling you might. So is there beauty in the breakdown. That's what I'm counting on, in my relationships, my friendships, and that hope is part of what moved me in part, to track my interpretation of the song.   In the same way, my religious landscape does not look the way I expected it to a few years ago. And some of that comes on the heels of a healthy and fruitful process of growth and maturity. In fact, most of it actually comes on the heels of such maturity and growth, it's a good thing, that I'm experiencing some distance from what I used to think what I used to believe. Part of that maturation process has come with knowing that in order for God to truly be God, I have to let go of my hold on how I think God works and who I think God is. And I need to mean that prayer of Meister Eckhart in which he writes, God, rid me of God. The struggle here, though, is that I built a fair amount of life around some of those earlier conclusions and assumptions and knowings of God and I also developed some significant emotional practices. In response to what I knew about God, I don't want to be one of those folks who's trying to make Jesus king by force. But it has been difficult, it has been hard to let go of what I used to believe what I used to know and how I used to relate to God because of how much life I built around. What used to be, is there is beauty in the breakdown. That's what I'm counting on. And that hope is part of what moved me in this season to track my interpretation of that song.   My political landscape does not look the way I expected it to a few years ago. I have this key memory of a mentor of mine, saying to me about choosing a party, that yes, it's a conflict and it's a bit of a choice. And it comes with some contentious feelings within your own soul. So he says Pick a party, one that you resonate with maybe a tad more deeply, even though you will never feel fully at home in a political party then be a faithful and lovingly critical part of that party, while being aligned to the principles of the kingdom, which is bigger and deeper and broader and more beautiful than any party platform. And I've tried to do that. I've wanted to not just be a good neighbor, but also to set a tone of neighborliness in an environment that favors rightness and victory instead. But, and the nature and depth of sheer awfulness between human beings over the last few years has left me in a state of relative disorientation. It's not that I don't know who my neighbor is, it's that I don't feel like that word. Or the reality it points to means the same thing, or in some cases means much anything at all, to people around me. Even some of those people that I consider neighbors.   The practice here has been recognizing my experience of other people and the ideas they are moved by as exactly about my experience, to heed some form of wisdom and recognize the limitations of my perspective in relationship to the social world around me, the neighborhood around me, the systems around me, I can only know so much I can only care so much I can only see so far. And to believe that there is a capital S Something capital M more a something more Twitch, all of this striving and arguing and battling, eventually does come home. To believe that there is beauty, not just after, but in the breakdown. See, that's what I'm counting on. And that's part of what has moved me in this season of my life to track this interpretation of this song. It is a song in which I receive and hear a promise. That in the moment of the breakdown, as things are falling apart, as my expectations fall by the wayside, my plans disintegrate before my very eyes as I'm even leaning on my own coping mechanisms, instead of dealing with the reality of life changing in ways that I didn't want it to that there is a hope. I hope without specifics, I hope that there's something better if I can simply let go, of what I wanted, of what I had planned for, and what expected.   Jesus tells the story, this parable, it's one a lot of us are familiar with. It's called the parable of the mustard seed. And this that's the way the editors denoted this particular story in parable. And in Mark, the way it reads is, again, he said, What shall we say the kingdom of God is like what parable show use to describe it. It's like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on Earth. And yet, when it is planted, it grows, and becomes the largest of all garden plants with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade. And the elements of this parable for me that just keep coming back are twofold. The one is that it's a really small seed. And it's really easy to make this really cute oh house precious an idea that just this tiny little seed of faith, this tiny little seed can do so much. It's cute until the reality of one's life as actually boiled down to a very little bit of knowledge, a very little bit of hope and a very little bit of any smidgen of plan you might have been holding to begin with, it's a very different thing, when the hope you have for the future really is that small. But the parable takes it even further. Because what Jesus says is yet, when planted, because even that seed, even that little tiny thing that I hold in my hand, I have to put it in the ground and let it go. And trust it to a process that is beyond my knowledge, beyond my power and in many ways beyond my imagining. And that if I can do that, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade.   These plans I've made and these expectations that I've held to many of which I've built my life around, I'd held to and planned on from good intention. I've wanted to feel cared for and I've wanted to care for the world around me. And the season has come over the last few years in which if I really do want to feel held, I have to let go of the things that I'm holding in order to be held. And if I really do want to care for the world, I have to release the control I have over all these aspects of my life so that I can see those aspects of my life held by the one who holds all things together. I've had to let go and trust that there is a beauty in the breakdown beyond my even wildest and most deeply caring imaginings.   That's what I'm counting on.   And that is why in part, in this season of my life I've chosen to track this interpretation of the song

When I first started playing music professionally, it wasn't the beginning of a dream. It wasn't the culmination of a wish from my youth, not really. I thought of playing music. I thought it would be cool. But it's probably most true to say about that moment, the moment in which I decided to see what it would be like to have a career in music was that it was another step. And a long trajectory of vocational decision-making that wasn't about a particular career. So it wasn't about I really want to play music, or I really want to perform.   It was always about connecting with people.   And finding the best way to do that for me, before I started playing music professionally in 1998, I'd been on Young Life staff for about five years. And during that stretch from 1993, to 1998, I also picked up some jobs as a teacher. I was looking for ways to connect with people to give myself away with the best of my gifts, my talents, and my energies.   Over the course of time, that made it kind of easy to let go of some of the musical orientation of my career, as I started being hired for retreats as a speaker and then started passing myself on as a coach. And as a spiritual director. It's always been about connecting with people.   And as I've grown in my ability, my capacity or even in my skill, to actually make those connections, as a songwriter or as a pastor, or as a coach, or as an author, something magical has happened because one of the persons I connect with most deeply in the better work I make is me.   And maybe that sounds weird to say. I hope it doesn't. Maybe that actually resonates with you that one of the persons I become more familiar with, one of the persons I learned to like more, one of the persons that actually is helped in my better work is me.   In my better work, I recognize and get to celebrate the work that God has established in me. I get to notice and pay attention to the work that God is doing in me. I get to see me in a context of the story being written in and through my life. The art making, for me, began as a way to bless other people, to make other people laugh, to help other people to inform, and to inspire other people. And along the way, I have learned to be blessed. And to laugh, to be helped to be informed, and to be inspired, even in my own process of making. Which brings me to the most recent project; I've put together this five-song EP that I'm calling a sliver of hope. You might have heard an artist or someone who coaches artists or someone in the art world say, "Make the work that you need to or want to see in the world." These songs are the songs that I wanted to hear. These are words and melodies, and expressions that I've needed. And so I've put them together because I feel it in me. I need that sliver of hope as I pay attention to the world around me and in me and how so much has changed dramatically. And how unsure the future is, I found myself giving up on the idea of a plan. I don't want to look for a big fat plan and the strategy and a methodology. What I want to see, what I'm looking for, is the seed of a future, a future that is surprising, a future that grows organically. And because of care rather than strategy, a future that has life in itself and isn't dependent upon machinery to keep it alive. I'm looking for that sliver of hope. And so I've written a series of songs about the desire in me to not only let go of what I've had in the past so that I can make room in my heart for the future, but also what might be necessary for me in order to actually participate in that future, including the kinds of relationships partnerships institutional and personal that I will want, and want to share that future with. So I hope that this particular work does connect with you. That is part of why I've made it. It's part of why I wrote the songs. It's certainly why I'm making them public. But also, these are songs I needed. These are songs I needed to hear. These are words I needed to be in the world, as has been the case since I've been aware of it. I got to discover something established in me as I put the songs together, something God's been up to. I'm also attending to things that God is working on in me and working those things out in song. And I think you'll hear that. I think you might even feel that as you engage with this new project, and maybe you'll resonate with it for the same reasons that I made it. The big plan laid at my feet that says this is how things go from here on, and here's the evidence of things working out exactly the way they're supposed to be, what I really want and what I think you might want to and maybe that's why you would come to a project like this or a podcast like this. I just want to see that there is a seed of hope for a future beyond my imagining and way more beautiful than my designs.

So I've been really enjoying this new feature of the podcast, taking a question from my Monday q&a sessions at Instagram, and digging just a tad deeper into one of those questions, specifically, those questions when you seem to resonate with those questions and my response. This past week, I got a question that I've been around and asked a lot as a question by somebody who asked "Why do churches struggle with attendance?"  It's like I said; it's a question I've been around for a long time. I pastored or helped pastor church for 20 years, and questions about attendance and why people show up or why they don't show up. Pretty regular, comprehensive conversation, especially as time went on. At some point during my tenure as a church staff person, we were looking at numbers gathered by experts in church culture, church attendance, etc. And the numbers that jumped out to us were that while the population of the United States of America had grown by something like 11%, church attendance had fallen off by something like 25 to 27%, I don't remember the exact source.   But those numbers stood out to us as we're having these conversations early on. And what the numbers did was force or invite, forcefully invite a pretty serious set of questions that led to a good long season of self-examination. And during that season, the question about church attendance became far less general and way more specific to us. Because what we discovered during our soul searching was that particular cultures, particular cities, and particular people's reasons for attaching themselves or detaching themselves for showing up, for not showing up, for never coming for never coming again, tend to vary from moment to moment, season to season, sometimes year to year or week to week, and certainly culture to culture. They were highly specific reasons. And there were commonalities between stories we were hearing from other pastors in different parts of the country. But the particulars were actually really important because, after a moment or two, we didn't want to try to deal with a trend. We wanted to care for the people in front of us. That's what we came to; over the course of that season of self-reflection, I didn't want to fix the problem of church attendance. I didn't want to solve the riddle of why people were not going to church in general.   In general, I wanted to know how to care for the people in front of me, how to care for how to minister to them, and how to be a pastor to the folks right there. In the city that I belong to, it became specific because it's supposed to become specific. The general question about church attendance as a broad trend can be helpful only to a certain degree, and then it just becomes really distracting. And in that distraction, too many of us get suckered in by these grand narratives about what's going on. And some of those grand narratives are flat-out dangerous and ugly, which leads me to this. You may have heard it said that this is a generation of people who are leaving God, who have turned their back on God, who no longer desire the things of the kingdom, which puts the entire onus on what might be happening in the hearts, the mind lives, the bodies, the households of the people who no longer show up to the particular product we have been doing out since the 1930s that we now call church the issue is with them, there's something wrong out there that they don't show up here. I would like to flip that script. What if we're not talking about people turning their back on God? What if we're talking about people who no longer see God in particular ways that our particular expression of church describes, hosts, or celebrates, and that what isn't happening is that they're leaving God and no longer want anything to do with the things of the kingdom or the things of God, but instead, these are people who are looking. And if they've turned their eyes anywhere, they have turned their eyes into spaces where they hope, sometimes actively, sometimes unconsciously, they hope and expect to be met by a God who is everywhere, God who is not limited by the particular expression of a particular culture of people who have been doing church in a particular way since the 1930s 1940s.   What if what we're bearing witness to is a kind of awakening, a challenge and an invitation, a somewhat forceful invitation? For those of us who have lived in and desire and desire to live in church leadership to take a step back. And instead of asking the question, what is wrong? Ask the question, what is happening? It's a more hopeful question to ask the question of what is as opposed to why isn't the way it was the question of where are people headed, as opposed to why are people leaving, it does two things for me really, specifically, as a human, as a Christian, as someone who desires longs to actually lead people that actually presented an image of the people that I want to love, as mature and whole, and real and complex? People who are worth spending our time on as opposed to mindless consumers who just need a better pitch so that they might come back? No, what if there's something truly good, beautiful happening in the hearts, the minds of souls, the bodies of households of these people, and they're on the search for a way to connect with God that makes sense of what's happening in their lives?     Also, if God is everywhere, and God is everywhere, doesn't that free me from the responsibility of creating a place that is sufficient for clarifying the work of God for someone? Instead, I can be more like Philip, who, in the eighth chapter of Acts, comes alongside the chariot of a man from a completely different culture with a completely different language and who is having a unique experience of God right there in the chariot, and who stood there long enough to listen to pay attention to what was happening in the chariot, before then being invited into that chariot that foreign space to which Philip had previously not belong? There wasn't Phillips chariot. It was The Eunuch's chariot. It was the Ethiopian's chariot. And as he sat in that chariot and asked questions about what the unit was experiencing in reading, he was then invited into that Unix process because God was up to something before Philip showed up. What if the challenge in this moment is not to figure out what we're doing wrong in our institutions, in our spaces, and in our methodologies, but instead to figure out what good true, and beautiful thing is happening in the world around us, that people are being drawn to that we might come alongside some of these chariots and ask questions about the wild and loving and endless and perfect work of the Divine manifesting itself everywhere.

You've probably had the bad experience that I had recently, that I'm about to tell you a story about, in which when your mind is already focused on something. You're already thinking about something regularly, and you start noticing it or connections to it everywhere. That happened the other night while I was reading a book to my daughter to help get her to sleep. I am in the process of editing and finishing this book called Sacred Strides, which will come out in 2023, about belovedness, about discovering my belovedness through both rest and work. My daughter, who's five right now, picked a pair of stories for me to read. And one of those stories was Lobos Classic Collection, The Adventures of Frog and Toad. I don't know how familiar you are with the stories, but they're brilliant. They're hilarious. They're well written, and there's wisdom in the stories that sneaks up and pinches me every once in a while, including this moment. So the story specifically is called the garden. And in that story, Toad notices Frog's garden, and it's going really well. And he asks how he, too, can have a garden. He wants a beautiful garden. So Frog, in all his generosity, hands, Toad some seeds and tells him that like once he plants them, he'll have a garden, and then he uses the phrase quite soon. So Toad immediately runs home to plant those seeds. And then, just as immediately, he starts yelling at those seeds to sprout and grow. And predictably, they don't. Frog comes running in response to all the noise that Toad is making because he's screaming at the seeds. And very kindly lets his friend know that you can't scream at the seeds. "You're going to scare them." So he tells them in a number of ways that he needs to give those seeds time to grow. But then Toad does the opposite. And it goes through any number of ways to try to get those seeds to grow on his own with his own efforts, he reads them by candlelight, and they don't grow. He sings to them, and they don't grow. He reads them poetry, and they don't grow. And no matter what he does or how he performs, he simply can't manage to get the seeds that he just planted to grow. He does, though, in his efforts, managed to wear himself completely out, and he falls asleep. Eventually, he's woken by his friend frog. And it looks to the ground and finds that, as promised, those seeds had sprouted and began to break through. And then the conversation goes something like this at last shouts, "Toad, my seeds have stopped being afraid to grow." And now says Frog, "You'll have a nice garden too. Yes, Toad." It was hard work. See, that's pretty much how my journey towards belovedness in work and rest went. I was committed really early on to newness and to growth. Because I came through the doorway of evangelicalism, and I'm thankful that I did. My initial practice of faith was galvanized by an energized and by the desire to build to make to pass on to communicate. That's where all the energy was.   And that desire to work well and effectively was a good one. But I misread the invitation See, I've been handed those seeds of the reference, the story of time and talent and passion, and invited into a process that would actually provide a loving home for my entire soul. And not just the use of my talents and my gifts and strengths, I came into the doorway of usefulness. I was told and taught that it was essential and good to pass on what I had been given, and it is, but I wasn't invited into this just to be a good instrument for the machine. No know my strengths and talents get to participate in the good work already having like seeds planted in the ground, I get to participate, I get to share but actually get to participate and share. I don't get to make it happen - No matter how I perform, no matter how I execute, no matter how loud I am. I can't shake seeds awake and into growth that aren't ready and whose time has not come. What I get to do is they get to share in that process, I share in the story, and I get to share in the work that is already at hand. This is a massive shift for me in my life, and it's the one I am now trying to pass on as best I can and books like It Is What You Make Of It. And the upcoming book called sacred strides. That there's a word Already at hand that you and I are invited into to share in not because you're useful, although you might find yourself really helpful times, but because you're actually beloved, what I've come to believe in and through the practice of work, and rest, is that the one who holds all things together has invited you and I into this beautiful process of things being reconciled, made right more whole, and into a story that actually does have a good end - that I don't have to function with the anxiousness of proving myself, much less the anxiousness of having to get it right, less all things fall apart. What I'm beginning to hear in the work, and in the rest, is a voice that doesn't say something like, "Come on, we've got work to do, we've got to get it done, or this is all going to hit the floor." I hear something more like this, "Slow down, wake up a little bit, and see what's already growing. Because that's how I've made this all to work, and I want you to join me in it. No, I don't want you to stop singing, and I don't want you to stop reading or playing or writing. I want you working while knowing that your work is a way to share in this life with me, with yourself, and with those you love. I also want you to know that when you don't work, either because you can't or because you've happily chosen not to that, you still share in this life with me yourself and those you love me the growth and newness in your soul and in mine, as well as the growth and newness in the soil that you and I work on." Be an expression of an outpouring of who we are, rather than an anxious response to what needs to be done. We are beloved ones, invited into a work of love by one who loves us.

I want to spend a few moments dissecting and maybe even dismantling this phrase. This idea that comes up in coaching conversations and has come up for a long, long time. In my 20-plus years in pastoral ministry as an artist and is the phrase work-life balance. I've got a lot of issues with this. And not just theoretical, but more so as a practical reality. So I'll start where I'm going to end and basically say that there is no such thing as a work-life balance, and more to the point, that the ideas that lead us to talk about work-life balance are not just toxic, they're destructive, and they're anti-human.  So, I don't like the phrase.  First of all, because it puts a line somewhere between work and life as if there's this thing called life that we're living. And that work is a thing that gets in the way of life; I've actually had conversations with artist friends who will actually flip this terminology on its head. And they'll talk about how life gets in the way of work. And what has been meant by that? And way too many conversations is that being a dad gets in the way of making art or being a husband or being a neighbor or that being anything other than a working person gets in the way of work.  So life gets in the way of work; it puts life anything else that doesn't work somehow in competition with life. Now with a lot of other folks with folks who work at nine to five jobs and cubicles, sometimes the way this conversation goes is that work is this necessary evil that I have to do to support my quote-unquote, life. And folks who live in that place for too long and wear themselves out. I don't think there is such a work-life balance because I don't think there is a division between work. And life work should be an outpouring of our whole lives. And life should be this menagerie of experiences, obligations, freedoms, and expressions enriched by the work we do with our hands and our time with talent. I bristle at the notion that work and life are somehow a competition or are separate things. They are intertwined. They're not opposites. They're in relationship with one another. The word balance is the other massive hang-up I have with this phrase work-life balance. I don't think that's a reality at all. I think that works in mathematics. I think it works with physical objects. But with a human life, I don't think balance is a healthy goal at all, not even close.  Instead, I think about our lives, priorities, obligations, freedoms, and expressions. They work in seasons. I actually hear the word balance. When we talk about life, when we say work-life balance, what I actually hear a saying oftentimes, is that I intend to or want to somehow keep all of my relationships, all of my obligations, and all of my commitments equally happy all of the time. And that kind of commitment or dream or idea will tear you to shreds and leave you miserable, and leave most of the things in your life have done or done poorly. Instead, I think there are seasons for full investment in things at the cost of other things. In other words, and this is a really, really rough example. But there are times when I have to look my kids in the face and say I'm going to be gone for ten days. And I don't get to be a full-time present dad because I'm somewhere else in the country or in the world, doing a work of my life that I hope enriches the world that I belong to. And that I'm called to for that, "season" for that ten days. So that two weeks, I can't be both places at the same time, that is a season in microcosm during which I have to be focused somewhere else. Now, panning back out. I actually think that happens over the course of years and over the course of months for sure. When there are times, and there are seasons when it's actually important for you and me to look at what is happening in front of our faces and say, "This is the season in my life during which I'm going to have to focus on this particular aspect of my life at the cost of others. I have to invest in my work during this season of my life. Yes, at the cost of the time I would spend with my friends with my family, with my neighbors."  And there's a time to say that during this season, "I'm going to give myself over more completely to my kids, to my neighbors, to my loved ones, and to my friends to my community at the cost of the work that I could get done during that same time." I don't think It's possible to do all those things all the time, equally well, on every single day. I think it happens in seasons. And as I've moved away from the idea of balance towards seasons, I found myself much healthier, much happier. And doing all of the things that I actually do with my time, my life, my talents, and my relationships far more joyfully because I recognize the season that I'm in, and I get to plan for the seasons that I know are coming.  Here's what I mean by that.  Right now, we're coming towards the tail end of the summer. My summers, because I'm a dad of a 12-year-old and a five-year-old, during this broad season in my life, during which I get to be a dad to a 12 and five-year-old, while my summers just are not productive work times. And because I recognize the broad season as a father, and the particular season, summer, I just don't pressure myself the way we might have; if I was trying to achieve balance, I'm just not going to get as much done. What I also know, though, is that there is a season coming because I know my patterns, because I've been living in seasons during the fall and definitely as the winter sets in, where I'm going to be able to take whatever ideas pop up during this time. And they're going to have their time, their attention. Because during the fall and during the winter, my emphasis changes. And during the winter, I get to take a deep dive into some really interesting projects. I know that I'm going to have that time. So because I know I live in seasons, I'm not bummed out that during the summer, I'm not being as work productive. And then in the winter, I know I can be more project-focused, I can dig deep into some creative idea that I've been maybe dreaming about, and have tension about through the summer and early fall. Because I'm living in seasons, I know that there's a season coming for the things that I want to do, regardless of what that thing is. I want to spend time with my kids and have those days when they know that they have me all day long. And I'm not going anywhere. I have nothing else to do but have fun with you. I also want to give myself over completely to the projects and the ideas that dream in my heart, my soul, and my mind because I want to make beautiful works in the world. And I get to give those projects as ideas, actual time, because I know there's a season for them. If I was living with the promise, the expectation of a life-work balance, I would steal joy from all aspects of my life, instead of giving all aspects of my life their due time in the season

Mike Adele is a very talented singer, songwriter, and producer from Canada. And full disclosure a dear friend of mine, he's also which is a gift to me, a client. He's someone I've had the privilege of coaching over the last couple of years. And as I am with many of my clients, I'm really proud of the work they do, the work they've done. And the way they have over the course of last year and a half to two years navigated the COVID-19 pandemic. It's been a tough time to be an artist. In the early spring of 2001, Mike was touring down the West Coast, in a van with his wife, and they popped in here actually, in my neighborhood hung out with my kids. And we had a great afternoon. And we recorded this conversation that was about navigating COVID As an artist that was about navigating life, post marriage as an artist, and because of this was just then pregnant about navigating life as an artist, with a child in tow and incoming and all the complications, and difficulties and opportunities that come with all those things.  Then, a few weeks after that conversation, on that tour, Mike suffered a stroke. Now, as would be the case for any professional having a stroke changes the trajectory of your life, especially depending on the severity of the stroke reorients the way you talk between your brain in your body and specifically as a guitar player, as a performer as a singer, Mike had to learn to walk again, much less learn to play the guitar again, that stroke not only ended that tour threatened to end his career. Now, there's a part two to this. You're gonna listen to that conversation right now that we had before that stroke happened in the dreams in the drive the things that make me a fan of Mike Adel, and his music. And then you have the opportunity to check out part two of this story of Mike's not in this podcast. But in the documentary film that Mike is releasing called casseroles and flowers, about being on the road about all those things that we had talked about during the conversation and then about not just navigating, but renegotiating a life after a stroke as a professional artist. It's a beautiful film.  He's a beautiful musician. I hope you enjoyed this conversation. And I really hope you check out that documentary film.

Last week, I introduced a new element to the podcast; namely, bringing part of my Instagram Q&A sessions to this space and providing a longer answer to some of the deeper or, in my opinion, more pressing questions. On Monday, during the Q&A, this question really stuck out to me: “How do we manage over-pouring ourselves when there is an unending well available?” It might be worth noting here, particularly for listeners who aren’t as familiar with some religious terminologies, that this “ unending well“ is a reference to some of the teachings of Jesus in which he promises a kind of well within those who follow him and know him. For instance in John chapter 4, Jesus says “whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.“ Now, while the dilemma of giving oneself away “too much“ isn’t just a consideration for the religious, I think that Jesus‘s teachings here have quite a bit to say, which I’ll come back around to. The fear or concern of overextending ourselves is actually a conversation I have quite a bit with the clients I coach. Among both artists and ministers, burnout is a really common theme and an overlap between those two vocations. I don’t know what the numbers are for those who claim to the artists but I do know that a recent study of ministers found that over 60% of pastors polled identified burnout.  That’s really sad. Part of what I’ve come to believe is that the primary question here doesn’t have as much to do with “how much“ I’m giving myself away; it has more to do with where and to whom or to what I am giving myself away. I’m going to assume you’ve had similar experiences in this way;  I can tell you for certain that there have been times when I have given considerable amount of my energy to a particular group or person in a particular context and then left feeling energized and full. Not that I wasn’t tired, per se. I just wasn’t worn out. I didn’t feel wasted or used. Conversely, I have been in situations where I’ve offered far less of myself and left feeling exhausted, wiped out, and really low. The difference is context. In one scenario, my soul resonated with the culture and the people in the work. In the other scenario, I felt more like an instrument being used rather than a person who belongs. Now, finding ourselves in somewhat transactional and utilitarian contexts Is pretty much unavoidable; that is the shape of most industries and, if we are honest, a whole lot of relationships. And that brings me right back to the initial question which was “what does one do?” First, as I noted, I think this feeling or experience can serve as a kind of benchmark moment in which I can make an honest evaluation of the places and people to whom I am giving myself (and namely the better parts of myself). It can be an invitation to self-knowledge rather than just a problem to be solved. Once I can see it that way, and start to do the work of evaluating my work life for the places I am “pouring myself out,“ that is the place where having a coach or a spiritual Director can be really helpful. For a lot of us who experience burnout, the line between what is truly joyful work and what is simply obligation with decent compensatory rewards is either too thin to notice or may be completely eroded. I’m a relatively high responsibility person and I want to do well by those who ask me for my time or my talents or my energy or my resources. That said, I will only live so long and I don’t have an endless supply of those things. Which brings me back to that teaching of Jesus. I don’t think the invitation here is that, once you are “in Christ,“ you have an endless reservoir of energy to tap into, regardless of what it is you want to apply that energy to. I think the invitation here is to actually be “in Christ“ first; to live and relate an offerer oneself the way Jesus did. It is absolutely worth noting that Jesus did not give himself way to just anybody at whatever point. He was strangely and often mysteriously selective. Remember that he chose 12 people to live that three years of life with. Note, also, that he didn’t “pour himself out endlessly” but chose a particular season (that 3-year period I just mentioned). Also, there were people he chose to not engage with and whole towns he decided to avoid because of the cultural, emotional, political environment. Also, and most vitally, note that Jesus regularly rested. He left at times and made room to be entirely by himself, connected to his Source and separated even from the most life-giving of his relationships. In other words, I think a significant part of what makes this all problematic is the idea that I could, if I were healthy or more religious or more efficient or whatever, be endlessly available and have fewer or no limits. The invitation and opportunity here is to live more like Jesus, who waited until somewhat deeper into his life before he applied the best of his energies to the work in front of him, chose a small group of people to do that with, and took regular breaks from that work along the way. I am currently in the process of writing and editing a book on this very topic because i think the temptation to limitlessness and utility is as powerful as ever and I’d like to help. The book will be called “Sacred Strides” and I hope it helps. I hope this episode helped, too.