What We Get Wrong About Grace

Grace is simple, yet we still get it wrong. More often than not, we tend to believe that grace is available to everyone with some exceptions. How we qualify those "yes, but" exclusions vary. However, they usually fall into one of two categories.

The first group thinks: "Grace is good enough for me, but not for you." This line of thinking is why we are skeptical when death row inmates claim a religious conversion prior to execution. This is why we have a hard time celebrating ex-cons and parolees who express a new-found faith in God. This is why many Christians think homosexuality is a threat to the sanctity of marriage. It is why they stand on street corners with explicit signs to protest abortion. It is why they hand out tracts trying to scare people into attending church. It is why many Christians are wary of drug addicts, gang members, homeless populations, and people suffering from mental illness. Those with this view of grace want Christianity to be safe. They don't want their sacred walls to be threatened. They want heathens to clean up their act before coming to the foot of the cross.

Luke Skywalker, at the end of Return of the Jedi, spoke against such bias. When referring to Darth Vader, Luke said, "There is still good in him." How could it be? This dark lord could not possibly be good. He slaughtered the younglings in the Jedi temple and participated in the genocide of the Jedi knights. He murdered both allies and enemies in his quest to squash the rebellion. He ordered the destruction of Alderaan. He killed Luke's mentor Obi Wan Kenobi. Every shred of evidence available to Luke Skywalker should have shown that his dad was an evil man beyond the reach of redemption. There is nothing in Vader's resume that made him a worthy recipient of grace. Yet Luke believed in something more than what facts alone could prove. Vader's wrongs didn't matter. Despite his violence and reign of terror, there was something inside Vader that was good enough. Luke showed Vader the undeserved gift of grace.

The second group believes: "Grace is good enough for everyone, but not for me." We hear this rationale when someone jokes about how they would spontaneously combust if they ever stepped inside a church building. This is why people lament 'God could never use someone like me.' We insist we're such a mess but forget that everyone else is too. This failure to accept grace festers inside the church. We will gladly tell anyone "Jesus loves you," then wonder 'does Jesus love me?' We cycle through self-destructive thoughts that we are unlovable and the worst inhabitant of this wretched hive of scum and villainy.

We hear this sentiment permeating pop music. In Beck's breakthrough single, he sang "I'm a loser baby so why don't you kill me." Wheatus was a one-hit-wonder with a song declaring "I'm just a teenage dirtbag." And Radiohead created an anthem for guys like me with their song Creep: "I wish I was special. But I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." It's no wonder that I identify with the latter of these two categories. As Nick Hornby wrote in High Fidelity, "Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"

I often malign myself as exempt from the grace I believe is available to everyone. It is possibly due to my melancholy disposition or my self-deprecating sense of humor. Or maybe I still have doubts. Even in human interaction, I afford others more grace than I do myself.

In recent years, I discovered (and subsequently embraced) a Latin phrase that has helped me reshape the way I see grace: felix culpa. Literally translated 'happy fault' or 'blessed fall,' the term derived from St Augustine who explained how God thought it was better to bring good from evil than to prevent the existence of evil. In other words, it is of greater benefit for us to experience God's grace when we sin than for us to have never sinned.

Kings Kaleidoscope recorded a song with the same name and it has become one of my favorite records. It is equally primal and vulnerable. Vocalist Chad Gardner admits his flaws, "I'm a torn man ... " then gives it a purpose, "A fortunate fall, my sins are stories of grace to recall." Every time I hear the song, I'm inspired. I see myself in the lyrics as the song continues, "And still I'm a wicked, wretched man, I do everything I hate. I am fighting to be god, I seethe and claw and thrash and shake. I have killed and stacked the dead on a throne from which I reign. In the end I just want blood and with His blood my hands are stained."

Perhaps grace is something most needed when least deserved. Perhaps grace is better in reality than in theory. Perhaps grace is a matter of fortune found in our own faults and flaws. What I know is that I do not fully understand the hows or whys about grace. And I know that I frequently get it wrong. My hope is when telling my story, it speaks just as loud as the closing phrase of Kings Kaleidoscope's Felix Culpa, "Grace upon grace upon grace upon grace."

What’s so Difficult About Grace?

Bono once said the concept of grace is what attracted him to Christianity. In an interview with Kichka Assayas, Bono said, "The thing that keeps me on my knees is the difference between grace and karma. ... At the center of all religions is the idea of karma. You know, what you put out comes back to you: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, or in physics; in physical laws every action is met by an equal or an opposite one. It’s clear to me that Karma is at the very heart of the universe. I’m absolutely sure of it. And yet, along comes this idea called Grace to upend all that ‘as you reap, so you will sow’ stuff. Grace defies reason and logic. Love interrupts the consequences of your actions. ... I'd be in big trouble if karma was going to finally be my judge. I'd be in deep $#!%. It doesn't excuse my mistakes but I'm holding out for grace." (Read the full interview in the book Bono: In Conversation with Michka Assayas)

Grace, in the way the bible describes it, is a beautiful thing. It is this grand idea that anything, no matter how heinous could be forgiven. Not only is forgiveness available to all who seek it, there is nothing anyone can do to earn it; we must only ask for it and accept it. We don't have to try to be extra good, we don't have to jump through hoops, we don't have to perform any acts of penance, we don't have to spend the rest of our lives feeling guilty for the errors of our past. Grace is just there, freely given, no questions asked.

Even secular culture recognizes the alluring power of Grace. Amazing Grace is one of the most famous hymns ever written. If you attend a funeral for a police officer or a firefighter, chances are good you’ll hear it played on bagpipes. People who have never set foot inside a church building could sing the entire song. 20th Century Fox used the hymn as background music in their Super Bowl Trailer for Logan; the screen flashed with images of rifles and adamantium claws while a hauntingly beautiful voice sang those familiar lyrics, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that save a wretch like me.”

For many Christians, it is difficult to take grace seriously. We see it as too abstract to fully comprehend it. Or we reinterpret it as if it is nothing more than wishful thinking. Free grace? Too easy. Our human brains want to make it more complicated than it really is.

It is as if we have forgotten what the bible actually says about grace.

“There is no difference between Jew and Gentile, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus. (Romans 3:22-24)
“The law came to make sin worse. But when sin grew worse, God’s grace increased. Sin once used death to rule us, but God gave people more of his grace so that grace could rule by making people right with him.” (Romans 5:20-21)
“At the present time there is a remnant chosen by grace. And if by grace, then it cannot be based on works; if it were, grace would no longer be grace.” (Romans 11:5-6)
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)
“I do not nullify the grace of God, for if righteousness comes through the Law, then Christ died needlessly.” (Galatians 2:21)
“But God’s mercy is great, and he loved us very much. Though we were spiritually dead because of the things we did against God, he gave us new life with Christ. You have been saved by God’s grace.” (Ephesians 2:4-5)
“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” (Hebrews 4:16)

We have scripture. We have testimony of great theological thinkers throughout history. We have powerful and moving sermons. They all preach the same message. Grace upon grace. Yet we still get it wrong.

Let’s Be Honest

Years ago, I attended a corporate luncheon with a few coworkers for some team building and skill strengthening. The seminar speaker was a renowned author who had published a few books about professional leadership. The topic he spoke on that day mirrored the subject of his most recent book in which he proposed we need to have a healthy ego to lead productively.

His big idea was how ego is a spectrum. On one end, you have over-inflated sense of self; it is an assuredness that comes across as cocky or egotistical. On the other end was extreme humility that borders on fake. He described the lower end of the spectrum as something born from either a desire to perform so that you’re seen as humble or from such sever insecurity that you believe you’re worth nothing. The speaker argued both ends were unhealthy and only weak leadership start from those polar forces of ego. Instead, he urged us toward a middle ground. Somewhere between overblown confidence and faux-humility is where a healthy ego resides.

This was a hard concept for me to grasp. I was raised to be a good Christian boy with years and years’ worth of Sunday school lessons are permanently fixed in my memories. Lessons like the beatitudes that taught us how the meek will inherit the earth, or the Proverb that says God mocks the proud but shows grace to those who are humble, or Paul’s letter that instructs us to do nothing conceited but act in humility and consider everyone as more significant than ourselves. There’s another proverb which has been seared into my psyche: Pride comes before the fall.

The church of my youth reminded me over and over. Don’t be vain. Don’t be conceited. Pride will destroy you. Be humble. At the same time, they were also inadvertently teaching me other lessons, stuff that’s not quite biblical. These were more destructive lessons that were a result of trying to teach us kids how to be humble in a self-centered world. These were lessons from the theology of total depravity: you’re worthless, you’re incapable, you are completely corrupt, and there is nothing good about you.

That’s heavy stuff to dump on an impressionable mind. As a Keanu Reeves character might say …

Now that I’ve grown up, I recognize some broken thought patterns in need of repair. This idea about having a healthy ego is one of them. It’s obvious we don’t need to go overboard with confidence in our own abilities. No one likes an egotistical jerk. There’s a reason that personality is often portrayed as the villain in movies. But what about being humble? If the bible instructs us to remain humble at all times, can we still have a healthy ego and demonstrate humility at the same time? If we examine what it means to be humble, we can see a clear difference between artificial and genuine humility.

With the rise of social media, we have witnessed the creation of a new form of boasting called ‘the humble-brag.’ The process of a humble-brag is to point out a huge accomplishment while simultaneously describing it as if it is no big deal or something anyone else could do. It’s the Christianese way of fishing for compliments while looking like we’re giving credit to God. We say words like “It’s a total God thing” while hoping people praise us for how awesome we are. Outside of social media, we do the same thing when complimented. We shrug it off. Instead of thanking people for their kind words, we tell them they’re wrong “Oh, I’m not that good.” We think we’re being humble, but we are not. What we’re really saying is that the talents God gave us are not a big deal. False humility is pride in disguise.

So let’s make it a big deal. There is a reason humility and modesty is synonyms. To be humble, you must be moderate in estimating your own abilities and accomplishments and the reason you exist. Let’s be modest. Let’s find that happy medium between annoying arrogance and the humble that isn’t humble. Let’s be humble for real by embracing a healthy ego.

The speaker at the lunchtime seminar said the way we develop this healthy ego is to fully know who we are. We need to understand and be wholly confident in what we can do and admit those things we cannot do. A healthy ego doesn’t brag in its strengths and it doesn’t overcompensate for its weaknesses. A healthy ego knows exactly who and what it is. A healthy ego is brutally honest and shines a light on both pleasant aspects of our nature and those areas that need some improvement.

Let’s be honest. Rather, I’ll be honest. Here is my healthy ego.

I’m short, a little on the chunky side, and I’m not particularly attractive. My teeth are messed up, my hairline is receding and turning grey, and (on most mornings) I wake up with aches in my neck or back.

I am not athletic. I am not mechanically inclined. I am not a handyman, although can fix most things if I can find a how-to tutorial on YouTube.

I am a divorced single father whose time is split between hanging out with my kids, earning an income, and volunteering at my church.

I have an insatiable wanderlust but do not have the budget to satisfy my longing to travel. I love to sing but I’m tone-deaf. And I enjoy playing the guitar but performing music is not my strong suit.

I am not a great conversationalist but I am a phenomenal story teller. Because I’m a perpetual student in constant pursuit of study, I am knowledgeable in a wide range of topics from history to theology to philosophy to theoretical sciences to politics to arts and entertainment. I have learned to use my learning and ability to spin a good story to prop up my lack of conversational skills. It’s difficult to lose me in conversation regardless of what you want to talk about.

If my kids are to be believed, I’m the best cook. If my son’s youth pastor is to be believed, I am a great dad. If my friends are to be believed, I am a damn good writer.

I am fully aware of who I am and who I am not. I know I’m not going to earn a modelling contract or win any popularity contests. My advice is useless if your car breaks down or your hot water tank malfunctions and floods your house. So, I play to my strengths. I study because I want to learn more. I cook because I like to eat. I love my kids because no one else on earth can take my place. And I write because it is what keeps me grounded.

This is my healthy ego. I won’t brag and I won’t fake being humble. But I will be honest about what I’m capable of doing.

Growing Old

The question caught me off guard: “Do you want to die young? Or grow old?” No small talk. No preparation. It was as if I had stepped into the middle of a deep philosophical conversation and was expected to keep pace with those who had been engaged in the discussion for hours without me. I felt like Donny in The Big Lebowski, butting in and it was a matter of time before Walter was going to tell me “You’re out of your element.”

The spotlight was on. The question was asked and all eyes were looking at me, awaiting an answer. I provided the quickest and most neutral answer I could think of: “Neither.” Although, I said it as a confused question, so it came out more like “Neeee-thurrrr?”

“Ah” came the reply. “So somewhere in the middle. Good choice.” Is it possible to accidentally win on a trivia game show? If so, I’d probably be that winner.

It is true though, I don’t want to die young. I want to live to see my kids graduate high school and college. I want to see them fall in love and get married. I want to meet my future grandkids. Growing old though is open for debate.

One of my biggest worries is that when I grow old, I’ll be one of those cantankerous old farts, standing on my porch yelling at those kids “Get off my dang lawn.” I don’t want to be that old dude but I fear it is inevitable. I’d rather be one of those adorably goofy old guys that everyone adores, the kind younger people look at and remark amongst themselves “he’s so cute.”

If I can age graciously, if I can become the latter of those two options, then I would welcome growing old with gleeful abandon. I would take the dance floor with my cane and fragile hips to show those youngins what they have to look forward to. I would tell stories of what life was like before iPods, Facebook, and Netflix. I would flirt with all the single female residents in my nursing home. If I can grow up to be that man? Bring it on.

However, that situation is unlikely. The elderly version of me will probably have more in common with Dennis the Menace’s curmudgeonly neighbor, Mr. Wilson. I fear my future self and other old geezers will be reenacting the feuds of the characters played by Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men.

I don’t want to be that kind of old guy. I don’t want to spend the twilight of my life cranky, bitter, and pining for the good old days. If that is my fate, then I don’t want to grow old.

Maybe neither is the best answer. I don’t want to die young and I don’t want to grow old if I’m going to be the perpetual grouch. So somewhere in the middle. Please stop me before I become the man I don’t want to be.

Or maybe the best answer is to remain forever young. All I need to do is find the fountain of youth. Perhaps I could follow Woody Allen’s approach: “I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.”

friends

When I was growing up, there was a tradition in my parents’ church. Anytime a member of the church was moving away or leaving to take a ministry role somewhere else, there would be a special music presentation. Another member of the congregation would sing a song from Michael W. Smith. If you were raised in a conservative church during the 80s like I was, you can probably guess where this is going. It was the perfect union of schmaltz and forced optimism that was typical of CCM in the Reagan era. From Smith’s 1983 debut, the song was ‘Friends.’

No matter how old I get or how long it’s been since I last heard the song (some time in 1999), I will never forget the lyrics of the chorus: “Friends are friends forever if the Lord's the Lord of them. And a friend will not say never because the welcome will not end. Though it's hard to let you go, in the Father's hands we know that a lifetime's not too long to live as friends.” If I ever live long enough to make it to live in an elder care facility, this is one of those songs that will periodically get stuck in my head.

Back in Marysville, this song was my church’s way of saying goodbye. It was how we let people know that they would be missed and if the worst were to transpire, they could always come back. It was the Nazarene equivalent of scribbling “I’ll never forget you, don’t ever change” in someone’s high school yearbook. But the sentiment was appreciated.

Life doesn’t promise ease and comfort. Despite our grandest tactics to the contrary, crisis will arise. From medical emergencies, to car repairs, to the heartbreak of complicated human relations. Sometimes, catastrophe is inevitable. As they say in the corporate world, life happens.

We should make every effort to plan for the more unpleasant realities of existence. Save money and set it aside for emergencies. Routinely change the oil in your car and rotate your tires. Get health insurance. Write a will. Yet there are things that can’t be mitigated. And when those events happen, no amount of financial or strategic preparation can protect us.

However, there is another buffer essential to our well-being to help in times of trouble, speaking words of wisdom: a good friend.

Through adolescence, we’ve heard similar messages from parents and teachers and youth pastors and counselors: choose your friends wisely. I once heard in a seminar that we are the sum total of the five people with whom we most frequently spend our time. Both lessons preach the same lesson: our best friends will either drag us down or lift us up. I didn’t heed those lessons when I was younger, but now as an adult I am much more diligent in choosing those I pick to be on my team, my squad, my crew. In recent years, I’ve become increasingly intentional in my choice of friends.

After the past couple weeks where I experienced three consecutive but unrelated disasters, the value of a good friend became more apparent. During that time, the four people who I have considered the best friends I’ve ever had stepped up to lend unimaginable support and encouragement. It has been a relief to know that I have their back and they have mine. It makes me wonder why I waited so long to find friends like these.

My heart is filled with gratitude for these individuals who have entered my life. The sentimentality is unavoidable. I can’t help but hear the keyboard riffs, key changes, and Michael W. Smith’s silky tenor “A lifetime’s not too long to live as friends.”

unelectable

My kids had an interesting question for me: "Dad, if you got elected to work for the government, would we have to move?"

"Well," I answered, "it depends. If I was elected to city council or the county commission, I wouldn't go anywhere. So we'd stay here. If I got into the state legislature, I'd have to go to Boise while in session and live there for a few months during the year, but I'd still live here. If I became a state representative in the federal government, it would be more interesting and I'd do a lot of flying back and forth between here and Washington DC. I'd also have to travel around the state a lot."

"Oh."

I continued, "However, such discussion is purely hypothetical and purely irrelevant."

"Why?" They asked.

It is encouraging they have (at this stage of their lives) enough faith in me to think I could win a seat in an elected office. They think I'm smart enough and that my ideas are worthy of consideration in deliberating law and government policies. Their confidence in me won't last forever, but I cherish it while I have it. However, I will never run for any political office. Not because I'm uninterested but because it would be a fruitless endeavor.

"Because," I said, "I am unelectable."

"You are?"

"I am." their over-inflated belief in my abilities humbles me. They wanted to know why so I explained. "I am too conservative for the Democrats and I'm too liberal for the Republicans. Socialists would not approve of my libertarian tendencies and Libertarians would not appreciate my socialist leanings. Politically speaking, I don't fit in anywhere. No party would accept me, which would make it impossible for me to run for any elected position."

There is a reason I describe my political persuasion as potpourri. I am the purple voter. Anyone who sees me as something other than a true independent is an extremist within their own party. Maybe that means I have more in common with the average American than the people who inevitably end up on ballots each November. Perhaps that makes me completely unelectable.

Yet, if the election of Donald Trump has taught me anything, it is that anyone - and I do mean ANYONE can become president.

Fear (In Practice)

Modern society is a peculiar creature. We live in a world where everyone is afraid but no one is willing to admit it. Instead, we hide our fears in the shadows, pretending they either don't exist or can't be seen. This creates a dysfunctional society. Even my 12-year-old knows such cultural rules are not healthy.

Scientists have been studying the effects of secrecy. The white bear experiment in the 80's demonstrated how trying to avoid specific thoughts make us think more frequently about that which we don't want to think about. James Pennebaker has written books on communication and the secrets we keep. He studied victims who experienced violence at a young age, finding health issues were common when they got older because they kept their trauma secret. His book Expressive Writing: Words That Heal specifically focuses on writing as an aid for healing after physical or emotional trauma. Pennebaker argues in favor of divulging personal secrets because there are tangible health benefits. In the bible, the book of James says we should “confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another so that you may be healed.” And Proverbs says, “He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, But he who confesses and forsakes them will find compassion.”

Clearly, our culture is more than just a little messed up. If scientists, psychologists, therapists, theologians are to be believed, we could all be a bit healthier if we were open and honest about our feelings. The things that scare us. Our worries. Our anxieties. Our doubts. We're not there yet. But if we want to change how society functions, someone must go first. That person will probably look weird. Their actions will be thought of as abnormal. When everyone fakes being fearless because admitting your fear could make you seem weak, those that flaunt their fears will look bizarre and perhaps even foolish. Yet, someone needs to go first.

Allow me to be that weirdo. Why? Well, as John Reuben said in his song No Regrets, “I'm secure enough to admit my insecurity.” Also, I'm not Superman. I'm afraid. A lot.

I'm scared of insignificance. This has been my greatest fear for as long as I can remember. I'm afraid that my efforts will count for nothing. That in the end, who I am and what I do won't matter.

I'm scared that my appeal wears off. I'm afraid that people like me when they first meet me, but once they get to know me, I'm not that interesting. Once you get to know me, there’s always going to be someone more charming, more dashing, better looking, wittier, funnier, more athletic. Once you get to know me, you'll discover you don't need me, like Christopher Robin outgrowing his stuffed bear Poo.

I'm scared of success. What if I actually succeed at my goal of writing professionally? I'm afraid that if I get a publishing contract and become a bestselling author, I would not know how to manage my finances and I would not be able to handle strangers recognizing my name and face everywhere I go.

I'm scared that my good enough isn't really good enough.

I'm scared that I will never be able to lose the weight that I need to lose and my health will suffer because of it.

I'm scared that my divorce has left irreparable scars on my kids. I'm afraid that they will grow up to repeat my mistakes.

I'm scared that no one will show my kids the love and respect I think they deserve. I'm afraid that I can't protect my kids when I'm not with them.

I'm scared for my two younger children. I am afraid that they will face injustice, discrimination, and hatred because of their Native American heritage.

I'm scared of running out of gas while driving. The low fuel warning light fills me with anxiety and I actively try to avoid seeing it turned on.

I'm scared of creepy kids. Movies like Children of the Corn or that episode of Doctor Who with the kids wearing gas masks who keep asking “Are you my mummy?” chill me and frighten me more than any other fictional monster or villain.

Image courtesy of BBC One.

Most of the time, I am just like everybody else. I hide it. I put on a happy face and get through my day. I work, I play, I take care of my kids. Like the saying says: fake it ‘til you make it.

But I am done with the charades. I'm scared y'all. I can't keep pretending to be OK. The cracks are showing, I might as well admit they're there. I'm a mess. I'm in a glass case of emotion. However, I'd be willing to bet you are too.

We are all scared of something, Maybe it's time we admit it.

Fear (In Theory)

Phobias are common. Everyone is scared of something. Some have a fear of heights or the dark. Others fear failure or death. I once knew a girl who was afraid of mismatched straws; the sight of two differently colored straws in the same drink literally caused her feelings of anxiety. We give our fears fancy names: arachnophobia, enochlophobia, podophobia. As if nomenclature is the first step of conquering that which scares us.

In comics, Bruce Wayne feared bats (chiroptophobia) so he donned a bat suit and became the Batman to strike fear into the criminal underbelly of Gotham. Elsewhere in the DC universe, Jonathan Crane sought revenge on the bullies that taunted him through adolescence by invoking their fear; he was obsessed with phobias. Years later, he got a job as the psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum and conducted fear-inducing experiments on the Arkham inmates. With degrees in psychology and biochemistry added to a constant desire for revenge, he created a blend of drugs and toxins to concoct a fear-gas that he would use to exploit those things his advisories feared. Under a mask, Dr. Crane is better known as the Scarecrow - a deranged super-villain (and my personal favorite) in Batman's Rogues Gallery.

The late 70s and early 80s popularized the slasher movies - a subgenre in horror. In these movies, masked or disfigured madmen stalked and murdered young and beautiful people. Michael Myers is an unkillable boogieman in Halloween. Freddy Krueger wears bladed gloves and haunts the dreams of the teens, killing them in their sleep. The hockey masked Jason Voorhees hunts the counselors of Camp Crystal Lake with machete. Each of these villains struck fear into the hearts of their victims.

It permeates pop culture. From the pages of Stephen King novels to the classic literature of Bram Stoker and HP Lovecraft. We see it in survival horror video games and Halloween costumes. Fear is the driving force in film from big budget blockbusters to creature feature b-movies. Of the greatest motivating emotions (anger, love, heartbreak) fear seems to be the most powerful. It is deeply primal and preys upon our instincts. Terror prompts our fight or flight responses.

A few weeks ago, I had a long conversation with my oldest son about how middle school is a breeding ground for fear and insecurity. He was frustrated how so many of his classmates are so mean to other students and how those he considers friends can act in ways that are out of character to humiliate each other.

We discussed social hierarchies and those unwritten rules that dictate group dynamics. We discussed human biology and child development through the various stages and how our minds and bodies change as we grow from an infant to a toddler to a kid to a tween and teen to a young adult to a (hopefully) fully functioning adult. We talked about humanity's history from tribalism to modern civilization. We talked about how cultural norms are formed and cemented and how difficult they are to break. We talked about how gender biases and ableism and stereotypes influence the way people behave.

I painted a picture for him to explain why our neurology once viewed those who were bigger and stronger as protectors of our tribes. They defended us from thieves and rival tribes and the dangers of nomadic lifestyles. When people began to settle into cities, those bigger and stronger members of society became our soldiers and providers. Despite centuries of progress our human nature still defaults to old biases to govern who are the popular kids and the outcasts, who we admire and who we avoid. Our brains still make assumptions and snap judgments to determine those in our circles who are bigger and stronger and those who are weak and powerless.

Christian also understood that he's reached the age where our psyches are most fragile. Being a tween is when everything changes. Bodies are going through puberty and experiencing hormones and emotions that they've never encountered before. Personalities evolve. Voices and appearances morph. At the same time, these kids transition from the routines of elementary school into middle school. There are more teachers to remember, more books, more students, more homework, locker numbers and locker combinations, stricter rules, chaotic class schedules. There are added pressures to perform academically and fit in socially.

Everything is new and strange and intimidating. Biologically, mentally, emotionally, socially, it all creates an environment where the most natural response is a feeling of insecurity. When we're feeling insecure we fear exclusion and isolation. In middle school, ostracization is the worst of fates.

I asked Christian what we do when we feel insecure. He comprehended that we over compensate. We hide our insecurities. He knew that's what we do, but he couldn't understand why. If everyone feels this way why don't we admit it? In his mind, it should be the most normal thing in the world.

My answer didn't satisfy him. Admitting our insecurities makes us feel weak. It makes us feel less than. In a world where we look to the bigger and stronger in our peer groups as the best, none of us want to look weak. So we fake it. We try to act tough in hopes of climbing the social ladder. Our fears make us act ridiculous. Common sense is ignored in our desire to fit in and be accepted. Christian thought this reasoning was absurd. In fact, the words he used were "That's so unhealthy."

Can't argue with the kid. It is unhealthy. There is much about our culture is unhealthy. We are walking a tight rope between acknowledging it's just the way it is and admitting it doesn't have to be like this. Christian wanted to know how we fix it. How do we change our culture so that people are freer to admit our fears and insecurities? Wouldn't our society be healthier and better if we could be open and honest about our feelings without the illogical social rules that currently restrict us?

I don't have easy answers for him. Or any answers. What I do know is that change is difficult. After all, change is another thing many people fear. If anything is to happen to create the cultural shift Christian desires, it will take a lot of people acting counterculturally. Whoever goes first is going to be thought of as strange and weird.

We need people who are not afraid of being weird.

Make Money, Save Money

You might see something a little different on the blog. Christian was excited to see it because even as a sixth grader he knows enough about the starving artist that he doesn't want me to be one.

So I decided to try something new. This blog has existed in one form or another for almost twelve years and I've done it without ads. Now if you look in the top left of the page and underneath the newest post, you'll see advertisements. Or above and underneath if your on mobile. Or not at all if your browser has an ad-blocker (in which case you can pretend this post doesn't exist).

Does that mean I've sold out? It is possible. But what is for certain is I am taking baby steps to turn my work into something more than a hobby. That starts with a tiny effort to generate some extra income. Even if it is only enough to buy a single cup of coffee at Starbucks every other month. Besides, I can't save money if I don't make money.

ps: if you see an ad that is horrendous, annoying, or offensive, please let me know.

Loose Change

To the stranger who was trying to pay for his breakfast and morning coffee with a pocket-full of nickles and dimes and still came up short: I see you. I watched as you exited the gas station with your head down and open your truck door to dig through the crevices between and underneath seat cushions. I could read your expression of worry and frustration. The cashier voided out your transaction while your pile of coins sat on the counter in front of her. I paid for my coffee then asked how much more you needed to make your purchase. It was only 49 cents more than what you already provided.

I rarely carry cash on me, and I save most of my quarters for laundry money, but I couldn't be my normal self as I watched you frantically search the cab of your truck for a few more loose coins. I had quarters in my pocket, so I got you covered.

Some people might view you with indifference - if they even notice you at all. Some might look at you with pity. But I didn't. I saw you much the same way I see myself at 7am: a man in desperate need of caffeine. More than that though, I want you to know you're not alone.

I've been there. I know what it is like to struggle, to barely be keeping it all together. I know how it feels to scramble, making sure that every penny counts for something. I am familiar with that ache of insecurity wondering how I was going to pay for everything that needed paid.

My prayer is for you to know that whatever you're going through right now is temporary. I pulled two quarters from my pocket in the smallest of economic gestures, but you still have a life time of burdens on your shoulders. It's OK. And even if it's not OK, it's going to be OK. Some day, you will walk into the gas station to pick up your morning coffee and something to eat and you won't have to count out small denominations of loose change to pay for it. Some day, you'll be comfortable buying yourself breakfast without worry or stress.

That day is coming. When it happens, I hope you will notice someone struggling and remember what it was like. I hope in that moment you will find your own way to let them know they are not alone, you know how they feel, and their troubles will not last forever. And I hope your tiniest act of generosity will fill you with joy and you will come to realize the same revelation I had this morning: that the struggle was worth it.

Dear Church, Please Stop

In J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit, Bilbo accompanied a band of Dwarves on their quest to reclaim Lonely Mountain from the control of the dragon Smaug. To reach the dwarven home, Bilbo's party had to pass through Mirkwood - a dense, dangerous, and gloomy forest. There were only two paths through Mirkwood; Gandalf instructed the party to take the hidden Elf-Path because the main route (the Old Forest Road) was too far to the south, inconvenient in both time and resources.

Along the way, Bilbo and the Dwarves got distracted. One became enchanted. The rest wasted all of their arrows in failed attempts to hunt deer. Hungry, discouraged, and hallucinating, the group strayed from the path and got lost. Unable to find their way through Mirkwood, they were captured by giant spiders then imprisoned by wood elves. They had a plan but lost direction. Due to their own folly, they depleted their food supply, nearly lost their lives, and risked failing their quest.

As Christians, our mission is clear. At the end of the gospel of Matthew, Jesus instructed his disciples to make more disciples, to travel to all nations, baptizing them and teaching about Jesus. Paul instructed the Corinthian church to adhere to a ministry of reconciliation "not counting people's sins against them" so the world could be reconciled in Christ. That is our quest. Our Lonely Mountain is to deliver the gospel to the ends of the earth and restore the broken relationship between humanity and God.

However, I fear the modern church has (like the heroes in The Hobbit) strayed from the path. Our culture is Mirkwood and we have become enchanted by populist ideals of American exceptionalism. We have wasted our efforts and arrows hunting down the American dream of comfort and prosperity. We are now facing giant spiders of political idolatry. We may be captured by irrelevance. We risk failing our quest.

I have some ideas. Granted, I could be wrong but this is what I've observed.

We became too consumed with being theologically correct that we have forgotten how to be kind.
We are so busy defending our doctrine to consider if our doctrine is sound.
We worked so hard to make our worship services safe for us that we have made them unsafe for for the unchurched.
We tried to make a nation of disciples rather than making disciples of all nations.
We focused on the promise of eternal life after death and many of us forgot to live an abundant life before death.
We shouted down anyone who disagreed with us so frequently that our words and our actions rarely aligned.
We demonized those who didn't share our beliefs to the extent that we have alienated our mission field.
We were quick to share blatant falsehoods that supported our biases then forgot how the truth will set us free.
We embraced the double whammy of ignorance and arrogance as if intelligence and humility were a source of shame.
We spent so much time building churches that we failed to be the church.

Our witch hunts turned us into monsters.
Our moral authority left us morally bankrupt.
Our evangelism become an inquisition.
Our hopes were replaced by paranoia.
Our compassion soured into contempt.

Then we wonder why people are hostile to our message. We wonder why young people are abandoning the church. We wonder why "unaffiliated" is the fastest growing religious demographic in America.

Have we abandoned the greatest commandments? To love God with all of our heart, soul, and mind; and to love others in the same way that we love ourselves? Have we given up on the instruction of Jesus to love our enemies, to bless those who curse us, to do good to those who hate us, and pray for those who mistreat us? Did we quit caring for the poor, the hungry, the stranger, and the prisoner? Do we no longer see Jesus in the least of these?

Dear church, please stop.

It is time to revolt. I refuse to accept a culture where God's people no longer bear the fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I will rebel against Christians who do not clothe themselves in compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. I will not forget that Jesus came to save the world and not condemn it. I believe the God who once said "come now, let us reason together" is the same God who called us to do good and seek justice.

So dear church, if you're not willing to welcome and care for the immigrant as the Bible commands, please stop. If you won't engage in the pure and undefiled religion of meeting the needs of orphans and widows, please stop. If you worry more about the welfare of the healthy than you do the sick, please stop. What you're doing is no longer working. We cannot continue being jerks for Jesus.

We need to do something new. Thankfully, our God is a creative God capable of things that have never been done before. Jesus told us "A new command I give you, love one another." Through the prophet Isaiah, God said "Behold I'm doing a new thing." The same old strategies we've been using aren't working, so let's embrace the new command. Let us love. As for the new thing God was doing in Isaiah? "I will make a pathway in the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland."

Dear church, we do not need to be lost in the wilderness and wastelands. God has given us a path through our Mirkwood.

Terminators Not Included

If, at some point in the distant future we discover the secrets of time travel and invent unstoppable murder robots that look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, today is the day that future humans will try and prevent from happening.

Before we begin to debate if the past is immutable, discuss the elasticity of time, and argue if such actions would create a causal loop or a grandfather paradox, let me assure you - all that discussion about the theoretical specifics of breaking the space-time continuum is irrelevant. Regardless of what humanity invents in the decades and centuries to come, I am without doubt that history books will not look back at this era with kindness. At some point in time, I am sure my grandkids will want an explanation: how did we allow this to happen.

How did this happen? Why did we elect to be president someone so obnoxiously arrogant, insultingly brash, disturbingly unprepared, and monumentally unfit for office? How could we have ever been OK with coronating the most unpopular candidate of the modern era?

I have been wrestling with those questions since the results of November's election became apparent. I don't have good answers. Not confident I ever will. I can't fix the past, even if I had a Cyberdyne T-800 and a method to send it back in time. But I do have the opportunity, perhaps even the moral obligation to fix the future.

In recent months, I have made my opinion of our new president abundantly clear. Since Trump rode down his golden escalator in June of 2015, I have mentioned him in eight different posts on this blog. Three of those are specifically about him, two of which I described him as an ass. Now, as he is to assume his presidential role, those of us who have been critical of him for the past nineteen months are left with two choices: resist or resign.

While there is part of me who hopes to see Trump fail so miserably that his ego will never recover, I also realize a fumbling leader is bad for America. And I could throw myself into eager support in hopes of some jingoistic attempt to end the polarized divisions in our country, but I refuse to normalize Trump’s aberrant behavior. The gangrenous underbelly of America’s worst citizens might now be emboldened by the hateful rhetoric of Trump’s campaign, but I will not ever accept racism, homophobia, misogyny, and mockery of the disabled to be acceptable.

But what have I to fear? I am a straight, white, Christian, male. This nation tends to favor guys like me. If Trump’s past actions are a good predictor of how he will act in the future, then the next four years should be utopic.

Here is my reality though. I have friends who are gay. I have friends that are not white. I have friends that are not Christian. I have friends who are women. Many of them are somewhere between concerned and alarmed. Many of them are understandably anxious. While it would be a great relief for President Trump to be an improvement over candidate Trump, we have no evidence to support such a change in character is likely. I cannot in good conscience celebrate that which causes my friends to mourn.

I am not comfortable embracing doom. While it would be every geek’s dream to see a zombie apocalypse come to fruition, it’s clear I would not survive. (I’ve failed to practice cardio.) Nor am I willing to support oppression. This leaves me in a precarious balance between fighting and flailing.

So, what will it be? Resist or resign? Protest or surrender? How do I fix the future?

From now through the day Trump leaves office, I will be watching closely. Any policy, proposal, or action that benefits the lower, middle, and working classes, I will applaud. Anything Trump does to support education, repair our crumbling infrastructure, create domestic stability, and improve foreign relations, I will gladly demonstrate support. However, should Trump make any attempt to restrict our rights to free press, free speech, or the freedom of religion, I will object. Should Trump do anything that causes harm to the LGBT community, discriminates against Mexican or African American populations, or perpetuates violence against women, I will be vocal in my opposition.

They say those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. It is possible that we are repeating the failures of a previous generation. My goal is to teach my kids (and someday their kids) the error of our ways so that future generations never repeat the mess we’ve created for ourselves. And maybe, if we’re lucky, there will be no need for them to send us a cybernetic assassin to prevent all of this from happening.

Regardless of what happens over the next four years, whether Trump turns out to the best president ever or the worst, I can promise one thing. I will never hesitate to forfeit my privilege for the sake of those who do not have privilege. I will be an advocate for the underdogs, the left out, and the left behinds. I will be an ally for those who are weak and weary. I will speak for those who have no voice. I will be a safe place.

Bubbleworld

I have great respect for Mark Wahlberg. Although, I am not a huge fan of his acting career. He has roles in some films I thoroughly enjoyed like Three Kings and The Italian Job. However, it's been a few years since I have been excited to see one of his movies (2013's 2 Guns which was a disappointment) and since then it seems most of his work is either based on recent true events like Deep Water Horizon and Patriots Day or cash grabs like the Transformers sequels. Over all, his on-screen work doesn't impress me. But in his personal life, he seems like a decent guy. He's a devout catholic and a devoted dad who is teaching his kids that they're lucky. In an interview with USA Weekend, he said he wants his kids "to know that not everyone is as fortunate and how important it is to work hard and give back." Wahlberg is also active with charities benefiting youth and homeless women.

He might be a model citizen now, but he wasn't always a saint. His teen years were marred by drug use, violent crime, and gang activity. He harassed and assaulted minorities in racially motivated attacks and spent some time in jail after being charged with attempted murder.

With his wayward younger years behind him, Wahlberg is deeply religious and adamantly liberal. He was a supporter of Obama's reelection campaign in 2012, donated money to several candidates for the Democrat party, and has been vocal in his support of same-sex marriage. Last November, he was interviewed by Task & Purpose Magazine where he said that celebrities shouldn't talk about politics. In recent weeks (since Meryl Streep's speech at the Golden Globes), a quote from the Task & Purpose interview has been frequently shared through social media - predominantly (and ironically) by people who skew to the conservative end of the political spectrum.

There is a lot of irony here. A celebrity that is vocal about his political ideals claiming celebrities shouldn't talk about politics. A person who lives in a bubble accusing others in Hollywood of living in a bubble. An actor criticizing others for how they earn a paycheck even though his paycheck is earned in the same manner. The words of a die-hard liberal being passed around by conservative voters as if it was from the voice of God.

Yet I understand what Wahlberg was trying to say. The interviewer was asking him about the surprising results of Trump's election and Wahlberg's answer was an attempt to explain how so many of his peers don't understand the typical American. He was providing a rationale behind the grandest of ironies - how a populace tired of coastal elites who are out of touch with society voted for a coastal elite who is out of touch with society. Those who live in a bubble have a hard time understanding what life is like outside of the bubble.

The magazine interview contained more from Wahlberg that clarified his perspective. Because of his tough past, he understands what the real world is like for the common person. Thanks to his successful career, he also understands what life is like inside the bubble of Hollywood. He has lived life both inside and outside that bubble. Not everyone has had the same opportunity. Many of Hollywood's biggest stars were born into either fame or wealth. Many of them have been pursuing their dreams since they were kids or got their breakthrough as a child star. Their lives are contained within the 30ish square miles of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Malibu. The closest some of them have been to a Midwestern wheat field or a slum apartment was on a soundstage. For most people, it is easy to look at famous faces and see that they don't understand what it is like to be us.

Wahlberg has a valid point, but it brings up some other concerns. If we truly believe that celebrity opinions don't matter, then why should we give any credence to Wahlberg's opinion? Is this a case of confirmation bias? Do we only care about celebrity opinions when they align with our own? Not all celebrities were always celebrities, so at what point do their opinions cease to be important? Are their opinions less valid the day after they find fame than they were the day before? What makes my beliefs and experiences of any greater value than a professional athlete, musician, or movie star? What if famous people have just as much right to possess an opinion as the average citizen? What if you and I have the same rights to voice our opinions as celebrities?

I have met a few famous people. I've had conversations with authors, artists, film producers, comedians, and rock stars. In all those interactions, one thing was apparent: they are just as human as any other person walking the face of this planet. Like anyone else you encounter on a day to day basis they have hopes and aspirations; they have fears and pet peeves. They might eat at more expensive restaurants, live in bigger houses, and wear fancier clothing, but they are as capable of experiencing joy and sorrow as anyone. The biggest difference between them and me is the size of our platforms. If I share my thoughts, it will reach 100 people. They share their views and millions will hear. I am allowed to speak my mind. Freedom of speech demands celebrities be afforded the same liberty, even if I don't like what they have to say.

Most celebrities might not be able to understand what it is like to be me, a single father and part-time writer. Yet I don't understand what it is like to be them. I will never know what it is like to spend a thousand dollars on drinks at a swanky Los Angeles nightclub - my eyes double in size when I see that my mojito cost eight bucks. I'll never attend a party in the Hollywood Hills - my idea of a good time is a game of Quelf with a few close friends. I can't imagine what it would be like to pay hundreds of dollars in a boutique for a single pair of shoes - most of my wardrobe was purchased at a thrift shop. Hollywood A-listers might not be able to relate to me because they live in a bubble, but I can't relate to them because I live in a bubble too.

In fact, we all live in bubbles. Mine is suburban life; I have lived most of my days in the suburbs of Seattle, Boise, and Spokane. I wouldn't have a clue to what life is like for a celebrity, but I would not understand what life is like for a kid growing up in inner-city projects either. Or someone who has lived and worked on a ranch for their entire life. Or someone who lives in a community dependent on one or two factories on the brink of closure. Or in a mining town. Or a city along the Mexican border.

We all live in bubbles. Someone who has never left the five boroughs of New York City will only understand life inside their urban bubble. They wouldn't begin to understand what it is like for the kid who grew up in a cornfield outside Yankton South Dakota. And the kid from the farming bubble doesn't know what it is like to live and work in the resorts around Aspen Colorado. And the ski bubble resident doesn't know what it is like to rely on catching lobster along the coast of Maine. We all live in a bubble and the only way to understand what life is like in someone else's bubble is to get out of our bubble.

The best explanation I have heard to explain how Trump got elected is the belief that those in the bubble of Hollywood elites and liberal media are out of touch with the American heartland. So middle America voted for an absurdly wealthy man who lives in a literal gilded bubble.

Maybe Trump isn't the problem. Maybe he is the logical conclusion of issues that existed long before he ever announced his candidacy. Maybe the biggest dilemma is how we don't understand each other. All of our racism and xenophobia and hatred is a result of spending too much time in our own bubble. We came to believed our fear of others was justified. We fed our fears and created enemies out of people who are just as much American as we are.

I don't think Mark Wahlberg's quote from Task & Purpose was a condemnation of everyone in Hollywood. He was demonstrating how he's more uniquely aware of life outside of of fame. How? Because he grew up in the bubble of a rough neighborhood on the south side of Boston. He spent time in the bubble of prison. He sorted through his troubles in the bubble of a Catholic parish. And he has worked and thrived inside the bubble of Hollywood. Wahlberg understands both the life of luxury and what it is like to struggle. He knows because he left his bubble.

If we want to heal the divides in America, if we want to survive the next four years of Trump's presidency, if we want to elect better leaders, we should probably follow Wahlberg's example. We need to burst our bubbles. We need to spend some time outside of our little worlds. We need to get out of our comfort zone and experience other slices of American culture.

When humor fails

Every day, when the final bell rings at Christian's school, my oldest walks one mile to the school his younger siblings attends. There he waits for a few minutes until their classes are over and I pick all three kids up in one location. Or, at least that is how it usually works in warmer weather.

I don't mind making him walk to and from school when there is snow on the ground, but I don't want him walking when the the temperatures are in the low teens or single digits. Since the last week of school before Christmas break through today and potentially into next week have been cold enough to discourage his status as a pedestrian, I have been dropping him off in the mornings. I still give him the option to walk after school but also let him know that he is free to call me if he wants me to pick him up.

Today, right on schedule, my phone rang and I saw his school's name flash onto the display. I answered.

Me: "Hey kid."
Christian: "Hi. So, um ... I was calling because ... "
Me: "You wanted to let me know you were going to walk to your brother and sister's school?"
Christian: "No."
Me: "Because you wanted to borrow my teleportation device?"
Christian: "NO!"

Like most dads I know, my goal is to be a good dad. I want my children to grow into functioning and productive members of society. I want them to know that I will be there for them whenever they need me, whether it is to celebrate their success or to support them when the road is rough.

Yet I aspire for something more. Sure I desire to be a good dad, but also wish to be a funny dad. The kind that can make my kids laugh. The kind my kids' friends think is cool even when my kids find me embarrassing. Most days I feel like a success. I enjoy my time with the kids and the smiles and laughter they bring light up my world. My oldest is unquestionably sure I could find a second career as a comedian.

Sometimes I fear, however, that my attempts to be funny are mistaken for my serious face. The moment when Christian called this afternoon to ask for a ride was one of those times where my humor and my lack of humor where indistinguishable.

Of course I knew Christian wanted me to pick him up on the way to get his siblings. I knew his intentions when he called, before I even answered the phone. I don't own a teleportation device so that comment could not have been a logical or serious suggestion. But for a bizarre few seconds, Christian thought I was completely somber. He was getting impatient with my repeated failed attempts to guess what he wanted from me.

It all turned out well. I assured him that yes, indeed, I would pick him up from school. When I arrived, I found him out front waiting for me, reading a book, lounging underneath the cold winter sun. Like this:

He said it was surprisingly comfortable.

Later tonight, he asked me if it was time for him to go to bed. I told him, "You must ask yourself, it it a good time to go to bed now? Or if now is a good time to go to bed?" That one made him laugh. My work here is done. Thank you, goodnight.

Glass Cutters

Marcus was my first artistic friend. Granted, it is hard to brag on the artwork of four year olds but I remember his skill exceeding the rest of those in our age group. We were in the same preschool class which was inevitable since his parents and my parents attended the same church.

He was always doodling pictures of monsters and he had imaginative stories to accompany each piece. His parents would frequently invite me over to their house for lunch after church and the earliest memories I have with him were in his yard re-enacting epic sagas of his invention.

He was also a big Star Wars fan. One day, for show-and-tell, he brought in a Millennium Falcon playset. It was one of those huge plastic beasts large enough to fit action figures inside of it, with removable panels to see the cockpit and other sections of the interior. Back in 1983, it was the holy grail of Star Wars toys and cost more than my parents would have ever spent on a gift for me. I had a Han Solo action figure. And Chewbacca. But Marcus had their ship, their home, the place where they belonged.

From that moment on, I thought Marcus was the coolest kid my age. In 1987, he was the first in my circle of friends to see The Monster Squad and Spaceballs. Afterwards, he told me about all of the most salacious parts of each movie and the phrase "Wolfman's got nards" quickly became an inside joke.

Unfortunately, geography drew us apart. He and I were districted for different elementary schools, so once preschool was over we would only see each other at church. We both developed friendships with classmates that we interacted with more frequently. A few years later, we attended the same middle school, but by then we rarely interacted.

Over the years of our childhood, his personality changed. Once the most comical and outgoing of my peers, Marcus grew to be more introverted and soft-spoken. By the time we were teenagers, he didn't speak much. At a rewards ceremony for our wrestling team when we were in ninth grade, Coach Iverson praised his skill on the mat and gave the most accurate description of Marcus's personality that I've ever heard. Coach said, "When Marcus joined the team, I didn't know much about him. But after working with him every day for the past few months, I still don't know much about him."

Even in youth group, Marcus maintained his brevity. He and I didn't hang out much but he was always someone I respected because of our shared status as youth group misfits. Like me, he wasn't one of the popular kids. Due to his quiet and unassuming persona, he was often overlooked or ignored. He did not go to any of the youth camps or retreats but he would show up for other events like attending Mariners games or parties held at the church.

At one of our white elephant Christmas exchanges, he brought a big heavy box that everyone assumed would be the best gift. Instead, it contained a large rock (miniature boulder) that he dug up out of his yard. Even in silence, he was a practical joker.

Once a year our youth group held an all-nighter. My favorite memory with Marcus happened at one of these all night parties.

On a Friday night, all of the teens gathered around dinner time at the church where we played group games that only 90's era church kids would understand and snacked on the type of foods potheads buy when they get the munchies. One of the leaders led a quick devotional then we piled into church vans to travel to our first destination: the Family Fun Center in Edmonds. We spent the evening with mini-golf, batting cages, and arcade games until closing time. We returned to the vans and headed off to the next location.

Around midnight, we arrived at a gym facility rented out from a local campground. Inside was a basketball court, volleyball court, a couple ping-pong tables, an air hockey table, a foosball table, a collection of Nerf footballs, and several of those rubber balls once used for dodgeball. We were trapped there until 5am and no one was allowed outside.

I don't know which of our youth leaders thought it would be a good idea to herd a bunch of sleep deprived teens into a gym in the middle of the night and expect them to be sporty for five hours, and I don't know if they would do the same thing today. What I do know is when we left the gym, most of us were exhausted and would have preferred bed instead of breakfast.

Sleep would have to wait because our leaders took us all out for breakfast. During the 20 minute ride in the church vans while we drove from the middle of nowhere to the Denny's in Everett, half of us dozed off and the rest were were silently staring out the windows like zombies.

We typically held these all-nighters in late January or early February. That meant the mornings were cold and frosty as we climbed out of the van and stumbled into Denny's. The coldest of our all night excursions happened during my junior year of high school and it was on this trip where Marcus uttered one of the funniest statements I have ever heard.

The van he and I rode got to Denny's first; our leader made us get out of the vehicle and wait in the parking lot for the other van to arrive. We stood there, shivering, complaining of the low temperatures, and observing our breath form clouds as it escaped our lips.

Then Marcus spoke: "My nipples could cut glass."

All conversation ceased. Everyone turned and stared at Marcus. For some of the kids in our youth group, they had never heard Marcus say more than one or two words at a time, let alone a complete sentence. Furthermore, our church was extremely conservative. Mention of certain body parts was taboo and the nipple was one of those parts of which we shouldn't speak. To describe nipples as being as hard as a diamond or tungsten steel was definitely verboten. His comment broke the ice - literally and figuratively. Suddenly, no one cared about the cold. We were laughing by the absurdity and audacity of what Marcus had to say.

When we were four, Marcus gained my admiration for his Star Wars fandom. When we were sixteen, he cemented my admiration for saying things no one else was brave enough to say.

Why do I share this story now? Because it is that time of year. The nights are long and the air is frigid. For those of us in North Idaho, this is the season where single digit and negative temperatures are normal. Through the years, that one out-of-nowhere comment has stuck with me. And last night, in my apartment, it was the only way I could think to describe how cold I felt. My nipples could cut glass.

It is not a phrase of my design. I am neither funny or creative enough to create such a remark on my own. I can only thank my childhood friend Marcus for his inventive eloquence.