Words Have Weight

Thoughts from a young husband, father, and pastor

when hope was born

Valor, my son, was born under trying circumstances. I have spoken about this in many contexts. I’m certain I’ve alluded to it on this blog. It was traumatic for me, pushing the boulder of anxiety down a mountain that I cannot seem to level off. I cannot describe to you how, when I tell the story of his birth, I can remember the walk to the recovery room from the NICU so vividly, feeling again the heart break, the despair as I figured out how to tell my wife that our son was going to die.

He’s fine. He’s great. The story ends well. But I carried the scars in my body from that walk. I still do, I guess.

When we were able to catch our breath after Valor was born, we said, “We’re done. We can’t do this again.” I wrapped my head around the completion of our family-building. Two girls, one boy. Just like the household I grew up in. This was nice.

I started saving up for a big 10-year-anniversary trip. Life was launching into a new phase.

And then the pregnancy test came back positive.

And I cried.

Like I buried my face in a pillow and I cried a little bit. I then kept my face buried there as I tried to wrap my brain, my heart around this news. I just couldn’t face doing this all over again.

I couldn’t face the fear.

But face it we did. One boring day of pregnancy at a time (which is obviously much easier for me than for my wife).

And then delivery day came. And we went to the hospital. And things started moving quickly, like I tried to tell the nurse would happen. And then she was pushing. And no one rushed in to tell us something was wrong. And then the baby was here. And no one came to see why the baby didn’t look right. And then the little girl was right there with us. And then the doctors kept saying, “Everything is great.”

And then all her scores were great. And her hearing test was great.

I kept waiting for the catch, the trap door of terror to open up. I kept waiting for Valor’s birth to happen all over again.

But before  I knew it, we were going home with a new, healthy baby. Another member of our family.

Hope Joyce was the name we had for a girl when Valor was born. Valor was the only baby we didn’t find out the gender. So we had two names ready. Hope was the one that we had picked out. But it wasn’t time for Hope to be born yet. Instead, we needed Valor to be born to teach us… so many things.

Terror. Gratitude. Joy. Insanity.

We needed to be taught valor.

But Hope was born at the right time. When I wasn’t expecting her, when I wasn’t ready for her, when I wasn’t looking for her, Hope was born. And Hope has been the sweetest addition to our family. I cannot imagine us without her. Her smile is the sweetest smile that any of our kids have had. And as gently as she came into the world (well… as gently as that can happen), she has sort of seasoned our life with very gentle grace and beauty.

She is not perfect. She is the worst sleeper we’ve ever had. She’s very stubborn about it. LOUDLY stubborn.

But in general, her personality has been a very gentle, very healing, very beautiful presence in our life.

And this is the way of Hope, isn’t it? A quiet, radiating presence in our lives that comes when we don’t think we have the muscle for it. It’s just this insistent, beautiful thing that worms into our hearts and refuses to be shut out. I cannot imagine my family without Hope. I cannot imagine my life without Hope.

God has been patient with me throughout my life. He has been gentle. I am so, so fearful that my very-good-life is going to fall apart. I have this fear all the time. And much of that is rooted in mistrust of God. I have no reason for that mistrust besides the darkness I see in the world.

God has never directly confronted my mistrust. Never come in the whirlwind and argued his case. Never shouted me down. Never pummeled me, like I feel he should.

He has answered me with Hope. He has answered me with quiet, enormous smiles and gentle eyes. He has cast Hope at me again and again to say, “I am good and I will do good to you.”

“I am good and I will do good to you.”

“I am good and I will do good to you.”

I don’t believe it all the way down to my bones yet. But I have Hope that some day I will.

I have Hope.


learning to fly

I decided, somewhat haphazardly and not altogether intentionally, to shut up during Lent. Shutting up is a good spiritual practice for the season. 

A few weeks ago, I had some road trips I needed to do, so I used the OverDrive app on my phone to get some audio books from the public library (if you didn’t know this was a thing, you’re welcome). Actually, I checked out two. One was The Hobbit, because I know that’s a winner, guaranteed to keep my attention. The other was The Wright Brothers by David McCullough. I’d actually wanted to read that book one way or another for some time because, upon seeing it on a bookstore shelf, I realized that I knew next to nothing about the Wright Brothers. Something about bicycles and Ohio and Kitty Hawk, North Carolina and *POOF* humans flew to the moon. My knowledge was pretty bare and I was intrigued. I’ve read McCullough books before and figured he would shed an interesting light on them. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be well enough entertained, but hey. If I wasn’t? That’s what Bilbo Baggins was for.

Turns out, I didn’t need a backup. I was absolutely mesmerized by the story of the Wright Brothers.

In my opinion, I don’t think we pay enough attention to their particular blend of genius, determination, and courage. And make no mistake, their achievement (machine-powered flight) took all three. They never had college education, but they had a genius for solving mechanical problems. Combined with that natural mechanical mind was a dogged determination to solve problems, no matter how much study and experimentation was required. And because we’ve been flying for more than a century now, it’s easy to forget that flying is insane and scary. Large things carrying humans end up floating in the air. But because no one succeeded before, there were plenty of stories of those large things falling to the ground very rapidly and breaking those humans into irreparable pieces. There was a lot of risk involved.

But the brothers put their heads down and got it done. They did what no one was able to do prior to them. Their thoughts on flight and manipulation of machines helped to spark a revolution that, just a few decades later, would result in jet engines and commercial flights and, yes, the moon landings. Remarkable.

In the middle of this fascinating book, McCullough’s voice (which was particularly charming, if you’re interested) read out a quote from Milton Wright, the brothers’ nephew. When I heard it, I leapt back and listened to it again and again.

“History was being made in their bicycle shop and in their home but the making was so obscured by the commonplace, I did not recognize it until many years later.”

This quote describes the brothers’ reality for many years. They were viewed, for years at a time, as absurdly passionate weirdos attempting the impossible. And even after they succeeded, years went by before pretty much anyone noticed or cared or believed.

But I was struck by the words of Milton Wright on another level. Something marvelous was being accomplished in incremental fashion in the most mundane, ordinary way possible. Humans were in the process of flying while these two men put together and took apart small models in their bicycle shop. As they worked on wings and steering systems. If you walked in on their shop at any given time around 1900, you would not think anything remarkable was happening. Their own nephew confesses as much.

Several years later, though, if you were one of the thousands that congregated with the large crowds and gasped in awe as they made loops of a cow pasture, you would say that you’d never seen anything more extraordinary.

And no one could see it in the shop. No one could see it in the making.

This image has stuck with me as I have thought about spiritual formation. I find myself to be the most frustrating person on the planet. I don’t know anyone as well as I know myself, and the fickle, stumbling, bumbling fool that I am drives me crazy. I am more failure than success. If you asked me, I could tell you that I would like to be a very different person. I even know what I would look like. I could tell you what the extraordinary reinvention of myself would be like. I would be patient and open and forgiving and friendly and warm and self-sacrificing, amongst many other virtues. There would be a Copernican revolution of my character and I would be… better. So much better.

We often want life transformation to be the flip of a switch, an instant change, a transfiguration into something better and brighter. And for some people, in some specific ways, this may happen. Crisis may produce radical change in one part of their life. But for everyone else and in most ways imaginable, we all know that life change is not like this.

Formation is hard and slow work, often obscured by the commonplace.

This may be the first thing to accept about spiritual formation if we intend to reach our intended aim of life transformation. For Christians, the target is pretty clear: the character of Jesus and the fruitfulness of his Spirit-abundant life. The “how do we get there” is what plagues us. The journey is, quite literally, that of a lifetime. It’s a journey with no arrival promised in this life. We are aiming for the impossible. If you’re like me, this feels hopeless. It feels like nothing is happening in us. It feels dry and slow and… blah.

But when you enter into the workshop and you go to work everyday and you allow yourself to be worked on everyday, the commonplace of your life, the cumulative power of the barely-altered ordinary slowly starts to work away at your character. If you intend to be a follower of Jesus, you intend to hear and obey his teaching (Matthew 28:20), you should be encouraged that, as you get down to work everyday, working out this life in your own life (Philippians 2:12), you should take heart that monumental things are being done in the midst of the grind of your life. In fact, there is a patient Craftsman not deterred by the short time horizons that you may put on his work. He is busy in your life (Philippians 2:13).

“The making was so obscured by the commonplace…”

Let that be an encouragement to you and a call to you. Be encouraged that, in barely perceptible ways, God could be up to very serious, very big things in your life. Let it also be a call to you, as it has called to me, to give yourself over to the work of life with God. His particular genius and determination and courage should bleed into your own heart to apply the genius and determination and courage of the Spirit. If you are like me, you may be quickly discouraged by the seemingly minuscule progress in your life. Very often, big things are done in small measures. You are today participating in something that, in 10 years, may make you gasp in surprise and gratitude at the grandeur.

Jesus wants to do big stuff in the life of his people. You can be sure that he’ll finish what he starts. Even if it seems like it’s taking forever.

The dream of flight is worth the wait. And the work.

immigrant or criminal

You may have heard the news but the issue of illegal immigration is kind of a thing right now. The President issued an executive order that emphasizes enforcement of existing immigration laws, which translates to focus on deportation of all illegal immigrants.

Enforcing laws is actually what the executive branch of the government is supposed to do in this country. It has not been uncommon in the last couple of decades for Americans to view the Executive as the one who generates policy/law. Technically, that’s not what the Executive is for. It is supposed to execute the laws (notice “Executive” and “execute”) that Congress passes. The Judicial branch helps to interpret those laws, when there is such a question, but the Executive is there to do the will of Congress. And Congress’ laws about immigration are the ones that the President is looking to enforce.

At face, the President is doing his job. This is exactly what he should be doing. To some degree, responsibility should be cast back upon the legislative branch if the people do not approve of the laws being executed. Congress is responsible for changing those laws.


There are more facts that cloud the analysis of Constitutional faithfulness of what’s going on right now. Most distressing is the way that immigrants (legal or otherwise) have been cast by the current administration as a suspect and dangerous, invasive force. If you love President Trump, you can protest all you like that these orders only target illegal immigrants, and especially prioritize illegal immigrants that have committed crimes here (beyond the laws they’ve broken to come in illegally). No one else is being demonized.

If that’s really what you think, I admire your dedication to the President’s cause. But I don’t think your fellow supporters are all getting the message. I’d argue that this man took uncommon, violent action to express a common sentiment that is stoked by President Trump and his people: “Get out of my country.” Illegal immigrants are a convenient icon for this sentiment because they have, indeed, broken the law to move here.

And look, there’s no way around that. People who have run or swam across the border really have broken the law to get here. And the law really is clear about what should happen to them. They truly are criminals. I’m a pretty black-and-white person and I just don’t see any way around that. And as a person whose grandparents fled here legally from Cuba, I can testify that it is not impossible to legally immigrate.

But I think you are making a serious mistake if all you can do is pin frustrations and fears on illegal immigrants and refuse to see them as anything other than criminals.

Often, illegal immigrants have highly commendable motivations for doing what they’ve done. They are desperate to care for their families. Whether they are afraid of gang violence in Central America or they are desperate to earn a better living or secure a better education for their children, their desires are commendable. And the vast majority of illegal immigrants that I’ve known are incredibly hard-working people who are not looking for any kind of handout. In fact, they’ve worked hard to try to pay their taxes. And they’re often working hard at jobs that no legal resident wants. They are doing hard manual labor at lower-paying jobs. They do it better and harder than the white people that complain about their presence and would never want the job those Hispanics have. These “criminals” have children who grow up here and deal with the stress of trying to have a normal, responsible life without making any trouble or being found out without papers. And they’re all doing it because they want to pursue that quintessential “American dream.”

I’m not saying they’re not criminals. I’m not saying the solution is that the border should be open and there should be no consequences. I do think we should secure our borders and control the flow of immigration (though the fascination with a big wall is silly to me). I think any responsible nation should do that. I’m not at all saying that no one should be deported or that I even know who should be the ones that are deported. It seems to be a wise strategy to deport undocumented immigrants who have committed violent crimes. That’s a great place to start (though it seems that the language of this executive order makes it easy to move out from there… and quickly).

Where I’d like us to start is to maybe just pause in our hearts and say, “These people have committed a crime by sneaking in. But they are not just criminals.”

These are people. People who have good, American dreams. I’d go so far as to say that the desire to provide a better future for your family is a Godly desire. Can you imagine being so desperate to provide for your family that you were willing to sneak across a desert, live in an apartment with lots of other people, just so you could send money home to your wife and kids? That’s a level of desperation that many of us will never feel, and we should feel compassion for people that live that reality everyday.

We Christians should also acknowledge that we are often talking about our brothers and sisters when we talk about immigrants (legal or otherwise). And they are scared. Even if you are deeply committed to the execution of these laws, you truly feel these laws are just and right, you should at least acknowledge that we are talking about our brothers and sisters often being the recipient of these actions. And that family identity transcends national identity. Our Christian identity is more central than our national identity.

Maybe I feel this a bit more poignantly because my last name is Rodriguez. Maybe the years of names that people thought it was ok to throw at me because we were friends makes me all-too-aware of the kinds of antipathy towards Hispanics that is acceptable in many parts of our society. If my friends thought it was ok to laugh about calling me “wetback” (and I know they weren’t harboring any hatred in their jokes), people I don’t know probably are pretty comfortable about being derogatory like that for real.

I don’t know how to fix the problem of border security in this country. I truly don’t. I don’t know how you make room for people and who should stay and who should go. I just know that we can’t allow people grasping for power to trick us into thinking that immigrants, even illegal immigrants, are just criminals. They are more than that. They are fathers, mothers, children, grandchildren. They are often some of the bravest, most family-oriented, hardest-working people you’ll ever meet. If you’re dead set on kicking them out of the country because they don’t have a visa, I can understand how you’d arrive at that position.

Please just don’t forget that they’re people. I hope we can at least tell them to go with a tear in our eye. I hope we’re not doing it with glee. I want to believe we can still see them as bearers of the image of God. I really want to believe that.

But I’m having a hard time actually believing.

to love

1 Corinthians 13 is one of the most famous passages in the Bible. People who generally have no time for the Bible will make space for the reading of 1 Corinthians 13 in their wedding. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast” etc. It’s nice. It has a rhythm to it and it speaks very truly about love.

It’s even more lovely in the larger context in which it is meant to be read. Paul has spent the previous chapter speaking of gifts that God gives the Church by the Holy Spirit. The Church in Corinth (like portions of the Church today) seem to overemphasize some gifts or the others. The gifts that really get hairs raised, the spines tingled, those are the ones that the Corinthians seem to like. Prophecy. Tongues. Healing. Paul says that those (and every other gift) are indeed very good gifts given by the Holy Spirit, but there’s no hierarchy just because one seems more supernatural than the other.

Except there is a greatest gift. Paul says it’s love. Mundane, awe-inspiring, easy-to-find, hard-to-keep love. Love is the greatest gift. And not just any generic kind of love, but Spirit-given, Spirit-enabled, Christ-centered love. That kind of love is enduring and is a gift that will have no end (unlike some of the other gifts that the Corinthians are obsessed with).

There is no more intense school of love for me than the school I live in: my home. This is not to say that those who are celibate (by choice or by circumstance) cannot know or be sanctified by love. The love of friendship is powerful and important. But for me, I am most persistently brought to the task of loving when I at home.

So, in the Spirit of 1 Corinthians 13:

Love is the language my wife speaks, the underlying the current of who she is. My wife can silently express what her verbose husband cannot touch with a million words, simply by laying her tear-streaked cheek on the shoulder of a friend. Love is the treasure she passes out to me and to my children and to her friends, not as if it is a precious thing that has gained its value by being in short supply, but as if it is a thing easy to find, easy to manufacture, though few have seen a love like hers. Love is the song she was born to sing.

Love is striving to learn patience for four children who have a knack, a sense for the moment when they must all ask or demand or request or cry for something so that they can, jointly, wield the force of a mob out of control. Love is wanting to learn patience so that they will not believe that the desperate sighs and exasperation are the only thing we feel for them. Love is the kindness of a child who is not trying to be kind, but does not know any other way. Love is a son at rest in your arms as he wakes from his nap, trying to gather himself for the assault on the last part of the day. Love is your daughters who want to delight in being delighted over.

Love is a family with a husband and a father that is far too often irritable and selfish but still leaps to greet that flawed father as if he’s done no wrong. It cannot help but believe that the force of that love will one day wear down his rough edges, the angular mirrors tilted at himself, and make him a man who will one day not sigh so loud when he’s asked to do something so simple as play a game or take out the trash. And love is what allows that family to treat him as if that day has come even if, sadly, it has once again tarried.

Love is what makes ten years of marriage fly by in a flash of friendship and stretch out like a bottomless well of holiness. It is what made a family to begin with but also calls a husband and wife to leave that family for a few hours, a day, a week at a time to be reminded that love has many stories and some will last longer than others. Love is shouting, demanding to know what is really going on and surrender, acknowledgment that our hands are bloody with the damage we’ve done to our beloved.

I have read a thousand, a million words. I have learned to write and to speak better than many. But I will not be satisfied with a book deal or my ten thousandth sermon if I do not speak the simple truth of love to my family and know that they understand it. You can take away my fingers for typing and my voice for speaking, but if my family knows they are loved, then I have accomplished something worthwhile on the earth.

To be caught up in the drama of love, to love and be loved, is at the heart of what it means to be human. And the degree to which we fail to be good lovers is the degree to which we fail to bear God’s image. Can I accept the love that my family gives to me in generous delight and hear that there is still a greater love which knows me better and loves me truer? Can I respond to this Love with a love of my own, a teacup thrown at a tidal wave, and give myself in self-forgetting surrender to the power of a tide that has already swept me out to sea?

You can keep all the gifts you’ve ever given me. Love is what I crave. Love is what I’ve been given. And Love is the greatest of all of these things.

Love never fails.

but what about the truth

A couple weeks ago, some posted a link to the video from Shawn Spicer’s first press briefing from President Trump’s White House. Now, I thought the whole tone of the thing was pretty bizarre. I can’t imagine this is the best way to start a four year working relationship. The tone of this press conference and others has, of course, been brilliantly lampooned by SNL. I hope everyone can laugh at the sketch because… well… it’s pretty funny.

Anyway, I’m sure Mr. Spicer was just doing his job as requested. What I found so bizarre about that original press conference was the time devoted to the size of the inauguration crowd. I have never been President of the United States, so I can’t say for certain, but I can imagine a few more important things I’d need to address on January 21 besides how many people were there to see me sworn in. I was just so confused about why this was even an issue.

And to be fair, I thought it wasn’t that unlikely that NBC or CNN might use less-than-flattering images of the inauguration because, well, they probably don’t like President Trump. But what started out as confusion and amusement, changed for me to alarm as I realized that this wasn’t going to be an actual refutation of the size of the crowd. Now, remember, I think it was meaningless how many people showed up. Who cares? You’re the President! But if there was an overhead shot showing how full the National Mall was, put up on the screen and show everyone they were lying. Instead, there was a parade of facts and a shot from a different angle (that wouldn’t be able to show how many people there were) and then shouting and chastising and that’s it.

Why was this alarming?

Because, as far as I could tell (and can tell to this day- correct me if I’m wrong), the administration went out of its way to lie about something as stupid as the size of a crowd. At the very least, they didn’t feel the need to actually provide real evidence about this silly thing they wanted to argue about. This is horrifying because someone in power is aggressively lying about something stupid. I keep thinking back to that day a couple weeks ago because I’m haunted by the choice to lie compared to the stakes of it all.

If you’ll lie about this, what won’t you lie about?

Look, politicians aren’t known for their truth-telling. Liberals like to claim that “facts tend to be liberal,” but that’s a load of garbage. Liberal politicians lie. Conservative politicians lie. We’ve all kind of accepted this to varying degrees. But this administration is taking things to a whole new level. The other day, President Trump chose to pass on a familiar lie about how terrible the murder rate is compared to 50 years ago. It’s simply not true. But the administration doubles down on it and becomes belligerent about it. Andrew Sullivan wrote a post about how maddening this habit is getting.

Full disclosure: I started writing this post and saved it a day or two before I read Sullivan’s thing. Since I started my draft, more craziness has unfurled. For example, today, President Trump tweeted that the New York Times lied about him and said he hadn’t talked to China since November. Now, he could have read some version of something that failed to mention this, but the current edition (and print edition, from what I’ve seen**) of the New York Times has a story whose first line says that they spoke. This is either a phenomenal reading mistake (accompanied by a strange Twitter-reaction) or a choice to lie about something that’s easily disproven. And this is only one example of what’s happened in the past couple days! Take as another example the whole thing with Neil Gorsuch’s comments that were reported and then publicly called fake news, even though they weren’t.

**edit: Politico explains what happened. The President read an older printed version, and then later print versions + current online version has been corrected. Now the Times should have noted this correction, whether it was through the fault of their reporting or because the events happened after publishing. Either way, the correction should be noted. But it should also have been noted by now by the President. I’m striking some of the above because of the explanation for events. Note: This is called a correction. It’s what happens when you’re wrong about something. You don’t pretend like the truth is otherwise.

Lying really bugs me. My kids know this. Part of it is that I feel like you’re telling me that I’m stupid when you lie to me, and that you don’t think I can figure it out. That’s a really stupid reason to be bothered, really prideful. But it’s true.

But lying also bugs me because I was brought up to believe that the truth matters a lot. And I don’t mean the “your truth” version of truth. When people say “I’m just speaking my truth,” I want to scream. You don’t get personal ownership of a version of truth. You can’t publicize to the world what you decide is true. What’s true is true is true is true. It does not matter if you are my child or a friend or a colleague or a professor a neighbor or the President of the United States, the truth is the truth and we are all subject to the nature of truth as an objective reality.

Call me black and white or whatever you’d like, but I absolutely hate it when the nature of the truth is impugned. It drives me crazy. And the nature of truth has somehow now become a political issue.

Let me be very clear: This public lying is not a political opinion issue. This is not something you get to vote on based on the D or R next to your name. Public lying like this should be universally condemned by Congressmen, Senators, justices, media, and by citizens everywhere along the political spectrum. This is not a political issue. This is a moral issue.

Specifically, Christians should be vocally opposing this distortion of the truth. Politicians cannot think that we approve of twisting the truth and outright distorting it to consolidate their power base to present themselves as both politician and arbiter of what is true. Media bias bothers you? Me too. The answer is not to lie to get things straight. The answer is to demand truer journalism. Don’t like politicians from your opposing party telling untruths about you? Great, me too. I’m on your side about that. But the answer is not to lob retaliatory lies on Twitter and pretend to be a truth-teller under the guise of shouted “FAKE NEWS” charges.

We have to keep telling ourselves, our communities, our kids that the truth really does matter. That no person owns it. And everyone is subject to it no matter their power and influence or what their opinions are on policy issues or anything like that. We have to speak up for the truth.

It matters. It matters a great deal. And we need to think and talk and act like it actually does.


admission of wrong

I think my time with Facebook has just about run its course. I won’t delete my account because I know people can use it to get in touch with me. I know that I have photos I can access on there. I have used Facebook in the past to have meaningful, substantive conversations with people with whom I deeply disagree on important issues. I am very grateful for that.

Maybe the best function of social media for me is the links I get to really wonderful reading material. Whether it’s a link to a book or an article, I really benefit from those links.

There are real benefits to social media.

But the costs have become so high. For one, the most obvious tax is on my time. I give too much of it there in moments where it is meaningless to do so. I want constant distraction for no good reason. I have four children. There’s no real need for distraction or time wasting. Not like that.

The more difficult issue for me, the thing I have come to really hate, is the increasingly partisan world of social media shouting.

I am an advocate for advocating. I am truly for stating what you think and why. In fact, I think people do far too little of that. But President Trump’s presidency has lit this wildfire of shouting commentary that I’m already tired of and we’re only two weeks into his presidency.

I’m already tired of every single action being greeted with ear-piercing shrieks. I was sick of it from conservatives under Obama and I’m already sick of the reverse of field. Just as annoying is all of the conservative “Oh just get over it you big babies” when I just spent 8 years watching/hearing conservatives commit to opposing literally every single thing the president did and complaining that “we want our country back” and yadda yadda yadda. It is the blackest of all pots calling the kettle black.

What I can’t stand more than anything, though, is the increasingly obvious power of confirmation bias. Everyone has seemingly divided into teams and all data is always interrupted to convey that their team is always right. The echo chamber… it’s real. And loud. I never imagined that Earth would be able to house so many infallible people. Donald Trump is doing some deeply disturbing things and every single question you raise about it is explained or dismissed away. There are never any problems. It’s all an illusion concocted by “the liberals.” There are very legitimate reasons why many Americans felt angry at Democrats and PC culture and those people are all (millions and millions of them!) brushed aside as uneducated fools who got duped. No one is ever wrong.

I’m not here to lecture on this because I know I hate being wrong. Maybe more than hating being wrong, I truly cannot stand admitting that I am wrong. I had to do it at 5:30 this morning before I even left for my workout and I was so disgusted about it. I had to tell my two-year old that I was wrong and needed forgiveness. Ugh. So repulsive.

Social media can provide some iron to strike against and make you sharper. But it can just as easily give you gasoline to throw on your fiery opinions. More and more, it seems that we reach for the latter. When people have honest, respectful exchanges, I’m surprised. When requests for information are made, you have to couch it in the gentlest of language for people to understand that you’re not being snarky, you’re legitimately curious.

I am a born arguer. I like to explore ideas. But there’s another side of me that is ultra-competitive that just wants to be right. And I’ve found that social media feeds that second side of me more than the first.

I don’t need that. I really don’t.

I need to be better about admitting I’m wrong. I need to more clearly and faithfully say that I am not always right. And social media does not help me with that. It feeds my vices. It is poisoning discourse and it is acting like poison to me.

I feel some sort of responsibility, some delusional temptation to be there on those platforms and be different (which I’m successful at sometimes and fail deeply at at other times). But this is self-delusion. This is crazy belief that I can be different from everyone else. I can’t, though. I’m just like everyone else. I think that whole world is fracturing apart into little island republics full of infallible rulers who speak ex cathedra. I want to be on such an island.

I can’t do it, though. I just can’t. I know the truth of the matter.

Right now, I can’t be a part of the social media world. Maybe I’ll figure something out or become the kind of person I need to be to be there. I just shouldn’t dabble there any longer.

I am wrong far too often. And there’s no place to be wrong anymore. The sides have been drawn and I can’t pick a team.

I have to take my ball and go home.

I’m wrong for this place.

If you need me, shoot me an email. Comment on this blog. Even send me a Facebook message. I’ll get those still. Text me. Call me (Yes. You can even call me). I’ll pop in and out randomly to make sure I haven’t missed something that was personal to me. It’s not like I’ll never see Facebook or other social media again. But I hope to be absent for a good while.

Farewell, social media world. See you on the other side.

lists: heaven, smiles, and baseball

I have gone quite a long time without writing here. Some of that is down to holidays, of course. But something is going on with me and writing that I have been thinking about for a few weeks and I have not quite gotten sorted. I’m not sure what the resolution is going to be. I do know that silence has a momentum all its own. To avoid the momentum of silence, I’m writing a mishmash of bullet point things that I have been thinking about with very little weight behind them. I’m sure, dear reader, that you have not missed me and have not been wondering what I was thinking. But in case you were…

-Tim Raines just got elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. This makes me very happy. He should have been elected a long time ago. He’s the second best leadoff hitter of all time and he was very good, historically good, at stealing bases. Baseball writers can be rooted in the most insane, archaic argumentation, but they finally got this one right.

-My daughter has a remarkable smile. All of my kids have been different as babies. But Hope has been the smiliest and her smile has been… sweeter. I can’t really describe it. She smiles with her eyes in a way that is exceedingly precious. Especially as she often does it with her two hands clenched directly under her chin. She does this all the time, sometimes smiling so hard, her whole body jolts with her delight. Having a baby can be a real pain, but they sure do know how to make you want to keep going.


-I had a dream about heaven. I never really dream. Not memorably. And when I do dream, I usually can wake up and trace the reasons for major parts of my dreams and see why my brain came up with that. The other morning, I was dreaming that I was waiting in line with one of my children (I don’t know which one) to go grab some food off a few high tables. We were dressed nicely and had small plates in our hands. Then everyone with whom we were waiting was walking off towards this field that had more tables scattered everywhere. People had their plates in hand and were lounging in the grass (in their nice clothes) under trees and near this outdoor amphitheater with a stage and screen. It was very chill. The only way I can describe it is that it was like a big outdoor wedding reception. But all of a sudden, for whatever reason, out of nowhere, I had a very real sense of how deeply God actually loves me, how much Jesus actually does approve of me and is not disappointed in me. The emotion, in my dream, was so intense that I wept uncontrollably for a time, shaking with the force of it. I realized that this was happening to many people around me. All of a sudden, I just… understood… that this was heaven. The only way we could understand love this purely was because the Story was resolved. Then, people’s stories, stories transformed by loved, started appearing on the projector. I remember that the first story was that of two friends, a black man an a white man, in Maine. I only got part way through their story before I woke up. As I processed through it all, the feeling of a wedding reception and the theme of heaven made more sense. I’m sure this is not exactly like what the end of all things will look like. I don’t think that was the point. The love was the point. I have no idea why I had this dream. I never have dreams. I never have really memorable dreams. But this one has stuck with me for more than a week now. It’s the sweetest dream I think I’ve ever had. Well, this one and the one I repeatedly had as a child where I could suddenly fly. I’m not much of a mystic at all, but there was something undeniable about this dream.

-More and more, I find Facebook to be sad. Everyone knows it’s often a waste of time and social media often serves to make people depressed. But I am getting more and more sad watching my fragmenting social group speak into echo chambers, to people that agree with them, and often slanderously, vilely about the people not like them. Horrible, garbage sources of “information” are used as clubs to beat the Other and make the wielder feel great about themselves. And, horribly, I’m tempted all the time to walk around correcting everyone, as if A) It will do any good at all and B) I’m the embodiment of the Holy Spirit. I feel guilty vacating the space because I don’t think good things happen to any segment of society when people who are committed to the common good (everyone’s common good, not just the common good of those we agree with), start leaving. I can’t say I’m an angel without biases, but I try to be a bridge between various groups. I have, I think, seen some success with that goal. But I’m tired of the trying, really. And I’m sad at the fragmentation I see. Very sad.

-I’m very glad that my son’s life was spared. Most people who know me know Valor’s story to one degree or another. I thought he was going to die when he was born because he looked like he was going to die. He was fine after a week in the NICU. He’s actually been a remarkably healthy kid, even compared to his sisters. He is an unmanageable terror, at times. At church, he regularly provides entertainment for people behind us (which is the whole church), because he is insane and we are just trying to contain it. But he makes me laugh like pretty much nothing else in this world. And I am so unreasonably proud of my son, for who he is with his craziness and fierceness and his tender affection for his sisters. I am, of course, proud of all my children. But the past couple of weeks I have had many moments to reflect about how much I find him delightful. I’m sure the next couple of weeks will provide reasons for each of my other kids. But I’m so delighted with my son (even when he is throwing the mother of all temper tantrums, which is not uncommon).

-Books are great. Seriously. Reading is a wonderful joy. If “reading just isn’t for [you],” I get that. But read anyway. You will be better for it. I promise. Over time, reading will be more for you than you realized. If you have a dyslexia or ADHD or some other condition that makes it difficult for you to read, listen to audio books. Something. I don’t know. That’s not my field. But reading is wonderful.

-Extended family is wonderful. Erin and I are the only people from our families that don’t live in regular driving distance of our parents, siblings, nephews and nieces, etc. We are kind of on an island. We love the people around us. We have great friends here, a great church. But as I get older and as every holiday trip to Atlanta or Michigan ends (and this is true of both my family of origin and my in-laws), I realize how incredibly lucky our siblings are to live near one another, to have family. I feel the loss of that both for myself and especially for my children. There will never be any easy resolution to that. Never. And some part of that makes me homesick without a cure.

-I’m not smart with money. I’ve been trying to get things like savings and retirement and life insurance lined up. I’ve had all of these things to some degree. But I’m trying to get a bit more on track to be ready for life as I age. And for my kids so that they are very marginally less in debt for school. I don’t know a lot of things. I’m not saying I invested in penny stocks and am trusting that this will be my lottery ticket. I’m just saying I don’t know very many things. And I’m not great at saving. Hopefully my kids will appreciate that I’m doing my best. If they don’t, then I’m granting the Rodriguez scholarship to myself and they can figure it out on their own.

-I’d like to go back to school. I have no idea what to do with this desire. Institutions, finances, exact area of research. None of this. So I’m not going back to school. But I really want to. Maybe one day I really will take that Rodriguez scholarship.

-I live in a beautiful place. It’s tempting to get used to these mountains and let them be in the background. But it is beautiful here and I am forever grateful.

-Anxiety is exhausting. It’s so annoying to be beating back anxiety all the time. It’s so annoying to tell people I’m having a hard time. It’s hard not to think about whether I’ll soon be anxious, because that kicks anxiety up a gear and makes my heart do all kinds of funny things, which makes me more anxious. You try not thinking about the pink elephant in the room when you walk around all the time with a sign that says “pink elephant.” It’s annoying and I don’t even have terrible anxiety. I still would like it to go away, thanks.

-I enjoy teaching. I taught three classes last semester. It was a lot. It was tiring. I am only teaching one class this semester. Forced to choose, I’d probably choose to teach three classes. I legitimately enjoy the students. It’s a real privilege to get to do this. I try to appreciate every semester that I’m allowed to do this. It has made me a better student myself. And college students are the subject of all kinds of memes about “those damn millennials,” but these people are going to run the world soon. And they are massively talented. So lay off the millennials. My students will figure it out. Give them time. Yes, push them to do better. Please do. But they’re pretty great.

These are just some of the things that I have been thinking. There’s more in this whirlwind. But we can save that trivia for some other time.

the death of culture

I’m going to riff on something here that is outside my pay-grade. I’m not going to tell you how all the things must be fixed. It’s my own personal blog, though, so I can do what I want.

We elected Donald Trump. I’m not going to get into who he is or stuff like that because I’ve already done that. People are still trying to figure out how and why that happened. We could just listen to The President/Donald for the reason: He’s the Best! He’s going to MAGA (which I always say in my head like it’s the “cawcaw!” of a crow)! He’s going to Drain the Swamp!

That last bit is what I’m interested in, though. The sentiment that Washington is a swamp that must be drained of all corruption. There’s good reason to believe this, of course. Lobbyists have far too much influence, I think (uncontroversial opinion alert). Long-term politicians (left and right) work the system to advance their careers instead of getting things done for the country. Party pragmatism trumps (ahem) progress for the country. It’s not hard to see the swamp imagery, or the need to see it drained.

But there is a pervasive sickness that is growing stronger and stronger in America and throughout the West. Data says that Americans don’t distrust only Congress or The-Swamp-That-Is-DC. Americans increasingly distrust all institutions. Financial. Journalistic. Religious. Anywhere that power and expertise has traditionally been warehoused and supervised, Americans are more and more turning their noses up. At least according to Gallup’s polling. Those confidence numbers are very low.

Anecdotally, I would back up the data with numerous conversations I’ve had with people, both online and in person. My go-to example is that of journalism. Maybe it’s because journalism has a special place in my heart that I think should be true for everyone. I worked on a very good high school newspaper that won awards and stuff. I really enjoyed working on that paper and believed what my teachers taught me about the power and the necessity of the Press. Increasingly, though, more and more people just flatly reject major sources of journalism as actual news sources. The New York Times? A joke. Completely untrustworthy. Gimme dat Breitbart. Wall Street Journal? Conservative toilet paper. Hello, HuffPo opinion piece! People have (usually rightly) detected the biases of the NYT or Washington Post or WSJ or whatever and then said, “That means they’re basically blogs.”

But newspapers and even cable news networks are not blogs. They have actual editorial processes and procedures. There are actual laws they can be held to regarding libel and slander. They’re supposed to run corrections when they’re wrong. They employ people who are professional journalists. Blogs are… blogs. They’re not equal sources of news. They’re just not.

Now, is there bias in the news? Of course! Bias is inescapable. To be human is to be biased. And the New York Times and others have enormous blind spots and tendencies to favor candidates and all of that. That’s all true. But we are in the place, culturally, where we so distrust institutions that we are willing to throw big journalistic names away as being in the same category and possibly less trustworthy than garbage factories like

I think this kind of ethic has put us in a very dangerous place. I think we are running around and setting our institutions on fire. In so doing, I think we’re burning down the house around us. I think we’re killing culture.

Institutions have a valuable function in society. I think we are all aware of the dark side of institutions, the lust for power that is primarily concerned with self-preservation. Let me grant all of that. But I want to say that institutions do serve culture, they don’t just hold it back. Institutions, the Elites, when functioning properly, bring expertise to bear on their various realms of influence. At the heart of our distrust of institutions is, I think, an individualistic self-confidence that allows us to dismiss the necessity of experts. This very medium, a blog, which will most likely be accessed through social media links, teaches us all to think that there’s basically no difference in my opinion and some man or woman on this or that major platform. The only difference between me and them is the size of the audience.

When we are in a place where we believe this, though, we dangerously skip the valuable processes implicit in institutional power. Theoretically, institutions throw up barriers to membership in the halls of power. While this can be racist, exclusionary, snobbish, etc., it also serves as a screen for stupidity and inexperience and thoughtlessness. You have to actually power through the process to be a part. Mediating institutions can erase the pretenders, the charismatically vacuous.

There has always been an anti-institutional strain to being an American. We value individual effort, individual governance. The stuffiness of British culture is something we mock and moved away from on purpose. And there’s a lot of good in that instinct. But we are, I think, experiencing the very dark shadow side of that gift. We see an increasing willingness to believe nonsense just because we like it better. We distrust everyone, no matter their expertise, that we perceive as being part of The Swamp, which, obviously, must be fundamentally opposed to my interests.

And, again, I know there have been plenty of reasons to distrust institutions. The Financial markets acted against consumer interests in the financial collapse of 2007/2008. Governing officials lined their pockets and looked the other way. Journalistic outlets pick sides and under/overreport things that they shouldn’t. Churches have literally raped children and hidden it. The evidence list needed to fuel anti-institutionalism is long. I get that.

My suggestion would be that we should be very careful with what we’re doing. I don’t think we should be kicking the pillars of society down because they’re doing a bad job. I think we should rehabilitate them. My suggestions, very broad and probably not very helpful, would be the following:

Consciously examine the power of confirmation bias. We are hardwired to believe the things that agree with us. But ask yourself: “Do I believe Breitbart because they are better at news gathering, or because liberals annoy me?” “Do I believe Salon on matters of theology because evangelicals are stupid?” Ask yourself these kinds of questions in every area of institutional mistrust: Political. Medical. Journalistic. Financial. Religious. Are you rejecting the report from the Other because it’s a poor argument, or did you decide to reject it long ago because of your predetermined conclusions?

Consider the virtues of institutions. It is worth re-training yourself to consider what positive power there might be in institutions. What good is there in these processes? Are there processes? Is this purely inherited power with no basis in merit? My point here is that anti-institutionalism is in the air of our culture, both on the right and on the left. It is a worthwhile thought experiment to question the prevailing narrative.

Demand that institutions become trustworthy, not that they burn down. This would be my sincere hope in all of this. That trust would be given to these mediating institutions. If we are living as perpetually paranoid people who only live in echo chambers and only distrust those in power, who only see The Swamp, we will actively tear down the markers of civilization. We will be better off if we see institutions not as hopelessly corrupt, but as worthwhile cultural artifacts that need rehabilitation. What might a rebuilding of trust look like in our towns? Our states? And eventually our country? These are games of the imagination that are not inconsequential flights of fancy. They are vital to our future.

Like I said at the top, these matters are over my head. I don’t have solutions. I have concerns and suggestions. But I think we had better get busy thinking about these things for the sake of the common good. If we are to flourish as a society, we will need good institutions that will check and hone power, rather than just hoard and self-propagate.

Now stop reading my blog and go read a bunch of books about this. There’s actual experts out there. I’m not one of them.



I knew I wasn’t the only one talking about this kind of stuff. Here is someone who is more of an actual expert talking about this kind of stuff. I didn’t read this until a few minutes after I posted the above. So… more proof that I’m not an actual expert!

The Moment

I was told that going from two kids to three was the most difficult jump in parenting. At that point, you’re playing zone defense against a team with more players. If you can survive that, you can add as many as you want. Just throw an extra crowd into the burgeoning crowd of children. That’s what people told me.

Those people were lying to make me feel better.

The jump from three children to four has been far more difficult than I could have anticipated. Apparently, I am a man who can handle three children.

To repeat: I have four children.

I have exceeded my natural limitations. Almost daily, I have been reminded how true this is. I come home and my atomic-energy-fueled two-year old son is careening around the house in laughter/maniacal deviousness/rage-tantrums/emotional meltdowns fueled by hunger. Occasionally, all of them at once, which, I know, doesn’t seem possible. My daughters independently have pressing questions that must be answered immediately. That, or they have to point out the piece of candy that I have hidden from said psychopathic two-year old, which he feeds off of to redouble his efforts. While this mayhem is happening, my newborn is screaming because… well… just because. And she’s a quiet, nice newborn. But they all have this sense for The Moment.

The Moment is when my insides are coming apart at the seams and I have nowhere to turn for shelter. At that very Moment, I am also in charge of being a father to these four beings. This is The Moment. Maximum demand. Minimum competency.

Children are wonderful and can make you happier than just about anything or anyone else. But I was made with a natural capacity for three children.

I repeat: I have four children.

In some sense, The Moment is what parenting is all about. The Moment is also what marriage is all about. What life is all about. The Moment is hard and can absolutely break you. It will break you.

The response for many people is to avoid The Moment. Just don’t put yourself in that position where you reach that breaking point. Or medicate yourself away from The Moment, either with legal drugs or illegal drugs or experiences. Or sit in counseling and try to work out what it means. Probably the most common of the above is avoidance. More and more people my age are avoiding marriage and family precisely because it’s hard. “It’s just not for me. I like my/our life as it is.”

Make no mistake: Having kids will break you. Getting married will break you. Deep and lasting friendship will do the same, if you invest in them.

What I’ve realized these last weeks with four kids is that my own limitations and faults are nearly uncountable. Now, this is entirely disgusting. I don’t like these moments when I’m aware of how deeply flawed I am. But I’ve also realized that these moments are very, very good for me. I need these times where I am told by my screaming two year old and my chatty daughters that I very deeply want the world to revolve around me.

Newsflash for all readers: The world does not revolve around me. And it doesn’t revolve around you either (sorry if I spoiled the story for you).

What I am bumping into in my Moment with my chaotic world on fire around me is… the truth. The truth is that sometimes I want to scream because my kids will not do things my way, which has nothing to do with any objective standard of how things should be. I just want them to do it my way. I am often staring at my screaming two year old and thinking/feeling (sometimes doing?) the exact same thing for just about the same exact reason. And I get even more furious because I see myself as a giant toddler who has all the rage and none of the cuteness.

I want my kids to do the right thing, the wise thing and I am so, so chastened by how many times I have had to apologize to them and to their mother. I hate apologizing. Being right is kind of my thing. Apologizing means I was wrong. I hate being wrong. I hate lowering myself.

Sometimes, my kids wants me to play games and read silly books. I hate being silly. Do you know why? I hate looking foolish. I hate the idea that someone may be watching and may laugh at me. You know why? Because I am addicted to the thought that people will respect me and think much of me. I am a poser, in other words. I’m faking respectability. I am lying about how worthy of respect I am even as I wrap up a lecture to my five-year-old about how she shouldn’t lie and make up stories for attention so she will be respectable.

This is all stuff on the other side of The Moment.

Four kids make me have The Moment again and again and again. Operating beyond my competency is exposing all these weaknesses.

And this is why it’s probably so good for me to have four kids instead of three.

I am far too willing to believe my silent narrative that I am a god, worthy of acquiescence at all times. You should give way to me on the road. You should behave like I expect. You should do things my way, on my schedule, to my liking. Every time. I am very willing to believe this.

But The Moment pushes me out of fairy-tale, self-delusion land and into reality. I am a mere mortal with limits and limited control of what’s around me. I am basically a giant toddler who throws fits. I strut and pose and pretend that no one knows that I’m lying the whole time. Did I mention I throw fits?

And more than anything, The Moment teaches me that I need grace. I need so much goodness given to me that I so do not deserve. I am a broken and sinful man who needs people to treat me far better than I deserve. I can tell myself a thousand times that I do not believe that I am just like the people I judge. Having four kids teaches me that I’m right: I’m actually worse.

These past few weeks, I have been able to see my son’s gaping mouth and crocodile tears and breathe deep through my rage and say, “I know how you feel, buddy. Me too.” And I have to give him grace as much as I can because I know that I need more grace than I’m giving. I’ve had to honestly confess my faults and failures to my kids, admitting that I am not omnipotent, divine, or even really all that good. The Moment has broken me again and again to be reminded me how deeply I need repair.

The Moment is about me being exposed. And The Moment of absolutely insanity has been about Jesus. Jesus being present in my failure. Jesus reminding me that He’s better than me and He can manage my failures. Jesus reminding me that He has unlimited stores of grace. Every time I think I’ve blown it beyond repair or that I am so depressed by my insufficiency, Jesus gets to tell me again and again that He is the Repairer, He is Enough.

I cannot handle four kids. I cannot handle The Moment.

So Jesus has me right where He wants me. He’s got me. Teaching me this message for years on end. I am not enough. I need Him. And He has more than enough grace for me.

I’m so thankful I have four kids. I can’t handle them. And I’m so thankful for that. I’m thankful that Jesus can handle me, the giant toddler. My Moment with Him won’t break Him like it does me. I’m thankful for that.

But also, yeah. I’m thankful that my vasectomy is in a few weeks. I’m thankful for these moments, but I’m not a crazy person. Well… mostly.


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