As we trekked across Northern California I often thought, God is in this place. From the engineering marvel of the Golden Gate Bridge, to the majestic cathedral of Redwoods – from the splendor of Napa vineyards, to the granite cliffs and crystal blue water of Lake Tahoe – from a delightfully eccentric lady named Cece we met in Muir Woods, to the couple we shared a toast with at Mumm Winery in celebration of their 50th wedding anniversary; and in the precious lesbian couple that got engaged on the Jumbotron at a baseball game in Oracle Park- God was in every place and every face.
Tonight in North Carolina God was in the smile of a three year old girl coming down the slide with her Grammy.
YHVH belongs to no one and everyone, loves without condition or bias and is reflected in all of creation.

“And God looked upon all that He had made, and indeed, it was very good.”

There was a time when family vacations were just the four of us.
Now there are seven + the puppy, in our tribe.
Though I’ve heard of the perils of spending a week together, we have somehow managed to love our way around any emotional landmines.

We explored the shores and built birthday cakes made of sand and seashells. 
We anchored in the crystal water of Cape Lookout, floating on tethered tubes, soaking up the hot sun and cold beverages.
We were enchanted by the other-worldly beauty of the wild horses of Shackleford Banks.
We showered the salt off of us, cooked on the grill, drink wine, and laughed till we cried.

At KBs bedtime she insisted that everyone get up and dance to Frozen’s Let it Go.
Grammy and Auntie twirled her, and mommy and daddy waltzed beside them.
I tried to capture the moment on my camera but she looked over at me and shouted “put the phone down gandaddy and DANCE!

Soon we’ll be packing up and heading home in separate cars, traveling back to separate work days and dinner tables.
But the sights and sounds of this week are etched and treasured in the archive of my soul forever.

Tomorrow I won’t hear the sound of waves crashing in the surf or feel the sea breeze laced with salt blowing through my hair,
but I can always go back to that moment when a three year old gave me words to live by – put the phone down and dance…

 

I have no way of knowing the truth of what happened three decades ago at a teenage party, between Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford – Or whether or not he exposed himself to Debbie Ramirez at a Yale University party. I’ve seen enough episodes of House of Cards, Scandal, & Ozark to not be surprised by anything, while at the same time being guarded about the motives and righteous indignation of any institution. While the debate rages on regarding what did or did not transpire, and the statute of limitations on decency and morality, it has given me an opportunity to examine one of the personal indiscretions of my youth. For 40 plus years I have carried a burden – an albatross of guilt that I’ve tried to chalk up to childish immaturity. Over the years it has nagged at my soul and up until now I’ve been able to continually shove it down to my dark corners.

I’ll spare you the details of my psychological profile but suffice it to say that I was raised in a Christian home with loving parents and a close family unit that knew right from wrong. We were God, Country, and Family before we knew people could be any other way. I was raised in church and attended a Christian school from preschool through the 12th grade. Maybe it was natural rebellion, possibly a Napoleon complex, or maybe I was just a punk, but for whatever reason I devolved into a holy terror during my middle school years. I was smaller than everyone else, but what I lacked in physical stature, I made up for in attitude. I had influence and ego and was determined to use both to ensure my social status.

I guess every classroom has that one vulnerable kid who gets singled out to be the brunt of someone else’s insecurity. Victimized for nothing more than their very existence, bullied into submission by overwhelming odds and a system that betrays them by its inability to adequately protect those most at risk. I was too cowardly to inflict much physical harm, but I let others do my dirty work and was complicit with my sneers, my taunts, and even in my silence. I told myself that these were harmless pranks – nothing over the top… just your garden variety bullying – pushing, tripping, harassing, shoving the nerd in the locker kind of stuff. This is what 12-13 year old kids do, right?

The story is told in Christendom that when the martyr Stephen was stoned to death, the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young leader named Saul (Acts 7). This symbolism indicated that whether or not Saul cast a single stone, Stephen’s blood was on his hands. Likewise, I watched sadistically over the death of innocence, the loss of childhood hope and acceptance. I’m thankful for teachers who modeled grace, and kind-hearted family and friends who helped steer me to a new path. In high school my life changed, my values developed, my integrity became important, I met a beautiful girl. But those clothes that were laid at my feet… I packed them up discreetly and carried them with me.

Last week I finally had the courage to find, and reach out to this wounded soul.
I simply asked him if he was the same person that had attended middle school with me.

I waited 5 days for his one word answer – “yes”.

Part of me wanted his response to be “hey Phil, great to hear from you again…”
A bigger part of me wanted him to say “hey Phil, F*ck you, a**hole!”

I took a couple of deep breaths and wrote him back. I said, I don’t know if you remember me (I prayed that he didn’t) and I told him how sorry I was for the way I treated him. And then I asked him to forgive me.

He responded immediately with: “I do remember and will probably never forget; however, I forgive you”.

His words sliced my heart in pieces for I knew I had caused him lasting and irreparable pain.

I thanked him for his forgiveness, and added that it was more than I deserved or could hope for…

He simply said: “You are welcome”.

Mercy offered as restitution for guilt will take your breath, and overwhelm the spirt. The cynical will instinctively cry out for “eye for eye” but those who have been through the crucible of life whisper: Father forgive them, for they know not what they do…” THAT is humanity at it’s Godliest – that is what being “awake” looks like. This is who I want to be.

This narrative is not to be read as a presumption of guilt or innocence on anyone other than me.
This is my story to tell but It’s also your story. Each of us has been the victim and the victimizer, the accuser and the accused. We can give the gift of forgiveness, and we can be forgiven. This is THE cosmic redemption story. Dare we look into ourselves and acknowledge our darkness? Can we release the pain that we carry inside of us as the recipient and perpetrator of violence?

The Creator and all of creation waits for this most vulnerable conversation to begin – Forgive Me – I Forgive You – Thank You – You Are Welcome.

There are things that I want to say… things that I want you to hear. I only wish I had the courage to expose my heart to you. Melania’s jacket simply said “I REALLY DON’T CARE. DO U?” The answer is yes – yes I care. I wish I didn’t, but dammit I care what you think about me, my opinions, my faith, my family, my friends, my politics. I’m cursed with feeling deeply about things while simultaneouslycultivating an image of non-partisanship whose intention is to anger no one but leaves me utterly unhappy with myself. I lurk amongst the blogs and podcasts, the Facebook and Instagram feeds, in either a state of silent contempt or jubilant attaboys that no one ever hears. I’m greatly blessed to have people I call friends from all walks of life wearing labels that someone somewhere has assigned to them – conservative, liberal, gay, straight, religious, agnostic, seeker, some rooted in cultural ideology and others in a mindset of self discovery. As I attempt to learn and appreciate each nuanced perspective, I’ve concluded that in most life applications I must surrender knowing, for empathy.

While I intellectually understand the well intentioned affect that policies have for the safety and greater good of society, and even on my personal comfort and well being – I humbly and gratefully admit that it can be impossible for me to be objective. No one has ever ripped one of my daughters from my arms at a border. No unarmed child of mine has ever been shot in the back for running from a potential crime scene. I never had to know the feeling of being rejected by parents simply because of professed sexual orientation. I’ve never felt humiliated, underpaid, or sexually demeaned simply for being a particular gender. Ironically, in these real life scenarios, I’m the illegal alien. Try as I might to sneak across the lines of knowing, I can only imagine where life, and morality, and justice collide for so many. I do not apologize for my place in this world, nor do I offer any penance for thriving in an environment not of my choosing.

And while there are injustices that I hope to never face, I have felt my share of joy and sorrow, suffocating grief and overwhelming relief. I cradled my baby girls in wide-eyed wonder as they were delivered into the world. I held my mom’s hand as she breathed her last breath. I squeezed my wife and wept uncontrollably as the oncologist gave her the options to fight her breast cancer. I cried tears of unmatched happiness when we were told she was cancer free. I know what it is to be fully human and my spirit leaps when I see our common goodness. I believe in original blessing. I believe that we are created in the image of God. I believe that love keeps no record of wrongs. I believe in the healing power of forgiveness. I believe in the sweet salve of reconciliation. I believe in us. “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

It’s approximately 8:00PM on an arid Thursday evening. It’s been a long day, and it’s just getting started… The week began unbelievably good – people lining the streets shouting my name, making proclamations that they will soon enough renounce. So certain of who I am on Sunday, but now, not so much. My mind rapidly plays back 33 years of life in this place. Some things I have no memory of but I’ve heard the stories a thousand times. My inauspicious birth, nothing but farm animals to greet me. A megalomaniac despot killing thousands of baby boys, trying to get to me – imagine wrapping your childhood brain around that without some survivors guilt. Or try explaining to your friends that your dad is not really your dad and your mom is a virgin, but it’s all good because some angels told them it would all work out – sure, that will play well.  I’ve had a different kind of life, but I’ve known the deal forever, have always felt it in my bones… deep in my soul. But being different comes at a high price and the currency that’s used is brutality. I can’t help what I think, how I feel, how I connect with God, how I read people – I just do, it’s like asking me how I breathe… just in and out. Don’t think I can’t hear the whispers, see the sideways looks. Don’t let yourself believe that I don’t feel the loneliness of isolation that comes from your fear and distrust of me. I remember how I tried to fit in – working in pop’s workshop, attempting to be one of the boys, but knowing I’d never fit the mold. Somewhere along the way it clicked for me that in spite of my oddities, I have purpose, a transcendent calling that beckons me ever onward to the next thing, the next place, the next person. Yet here I am… in this place, this garden. My people, my confidantes who say they have my back, are physically with me but have checked out emotionally. I get it – I’m exhausted too, but while they sleep, my gut is torn open and I’m praying, and I’m absolutely begging God to intervene. I know what’s coming, it’s been spiraling out of control for a while. The back alley deals have been cut and the wheels of injustice are now in motion. My heart is pounding out of my chest and I place my right hand over the cadence to try and restore its natural rhythm. My left hand reaches to wipe the dripping sweat from my head and I’m jarred by the sight of blood. Reason wages war with panic, doubt grasps hold of certainty by the throat. God, if there’s any way out of this… please, please…please…there must be another way – but if there’s not… Oh My God…then so be it.

~~~~~~~~

During Passion Week my thoughts typically drift to two tableaus: The first being the garden scene that I tried to depict above, from my mortal perspective; and the second being the most cosmic yet universal death cry of all humanity – My God, why have you abandoned me? Within these horrific moments of unimaginable distress, I take comfort in the total humanity of Jesus. For why would I care to follow a man who only lived in the divine world of certainty? The profound beauty and power of these moments is in the utter vulnerability, the crashing doubt and confusion, the excruciating pain and suffering – yet finding the strength and the will to fulfill  the purpose of his life. This is a most perplexing and delightful mystery.

Western Christianity has fashioned a new god in it’s own likeness and it’s name is Certainty. I agree with theologian and philosopher Paul Tillich, who said “the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty”. In many circles, there is no longer room for questions, for debate, for mystery. We parce the Greek and Hebrew, while we study and repeat our favorite teachers and mentors, until certainty reigns supreme. There can be no common fellowship because you’re either with us or against us, you’re in or you’re out. Politics as well as cultural and social norms have had clear lines of delineation drawn. Those who dare to have an opinion or convictions that differ from their partisan tribe are quickly and viciously reminded of their place. Social media has helped shape the narrative of certainty by shaming non-conformity. There is a certain way to raise your children, a certain weight you should be, a certain way to dress, a certain way to vote – and sadly our shame turns us into acquiescent followers who soon espouse the same doctrine of certainty that once repulsed us.

The story of humanity as told through our sacred scriptures is of living by faith, yes – but by no means, certainty. The heroes of our faith were renowned for their courage and passion to follow their heart regardless of their doubt and questions. There is an ever present awareness or raising of consciousness that propels them through life’s journey.

The Apostle Peter is a great example of the struggle between faith and certainty. Peter was certain he would not deny his Lord, but he did. Peter was certain that Jesus would not forgive him for his denial, but Jesus embraced and empowered him. Peter was certain that he would never eat anything unclean to Jews or enter the house of a gentile, yet he was told in a vision to eat freely and to immediately visit a gentile centurion. While in Antioch, Peter was certain that he was treating gentiles appropriately but the Apostle Paul called him out publicly as a hypocrite.

Certainty has been a cloak that fits me well. Yet as I have aged in maturity and life experiences, there are ideas and ways of thinking that no longer hold me captive. I am secure in my faith and equally secure in my questions. Marrying Jackie changed my entire social and emotional construct. The birth of my daughters changed my self-centeredness. Travelling, and having diverse friendships changed my view of our interconnectedness. Becoming a grandfather turned my cynicism into renewed hope for mankind.

The Passion is a story for us and about us. It’s a drama of intrigue, struggle, pain, betrayal, fear, doubt and triumph. And though we tell ourselves that we understand the redemptive story, there will always be the “but why?”. So I choose to run toward the mystery within the question rather than the certainty masquerading as the answer.

Today has been designated as International Women’s Day, to celebrate the social, economic, cultural and political achievement of women.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been surrounded by strong, independent minded, strong willed, determined, compassionate, and loving women.
My grandmothers were pioneers who raised large families through wars and the Great Depression. My mom was one of six sisters who were part of the first generation of ladies who not only kept the household running but went into the offices, schools, and factories to provide a second income, and establish their own identity as true contributors to the great society.
It is no surprise then, that I was attracted to and fell in love with a woman who was not only beautiful in countenance but had an inner strength and resiliency that only comes from being an overcomer.
It’s appropriate that yesterday’s clean MRI at the Duke Cancer Center, validated that Jackie has been cancer free for 5 years. She is the epitome of a #survivor.
I am the father of two gifted and inspiring daughters who challenge and amaze me – and now a grandfather to a little girl who has discovered a corner of my heart that I was not aware existed.
Some of my best times and deepest conversations have been with female friends, who are able to share insights into their world that continue to enlighten me.
I work in an office with incredibly gifted women who take a back seat to no one in their abilities and creativity. Most of my clients are women, who are the best and brightest that corporate America has to offer.
I go to the gym and am surrounded by accomplished women who are fit and strong and have taken charge of their mind and bodies.
And I love Oprah, so there’s that… So today I proudly stand not only with the women in my daily life, but women of the world who fight the good fight for a voice that is heard, for equality in every institution, for respect and dignity that is due them. As a man, I reject the notion that my masculinity is diminished by recognizing the strength of the sacred feminine.

Consciousness: The state of being aware… or, seeing with spirit eyes that gaze beyond the physical into the interconnectedness of all things.

The current headlines and my newsfeed seem to indicate that humanity is unconscious – in a deep and apathetic slumber. At the macro level of life, we all operate within some severity of unawareness. At the micro level, I would argue that our creator endued each of us with the ability to learn from our experiences, adapt to new information, grow in our faith and belief systems, and ultimately live in harmony with ourselves and others.

Despite the wisdom and moral insights of our American founders, we are only several generations removed from women being granted the right to vote, or legislation being passed providing civil rights to African-Americans. Only recently have women felt empowered to speak out concerning sexual harassment, via the viral #metoo social phenomenon, which has led to career ending consequences for notable men.

In a frenetic three-week span in 1741, George Frideric Handel composed the oratorio, Messiah. It debuted in Dublin in part because “many Church leaders considered Handel’s music profane and subversive – because of his association with opera and the theater”. 277 years later, the oratorio is heralded as a masterpiece of art and faith.

These are all examples of humanity learning, growing, adapting, becoming more aware, stirring from their unconsciousness.

Martin Luther King Jr. said “Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

The current political and social climate has created dividing lines and alliances. In some quarters it’s us versus them, at all cost. And though Christmas boasts a refrain of peace on earth, good will toward mankind, the holiday can be a time of high stress and anxiety. Family and friends with diverse personas and world views, collide around a festive table where idle chatter digresses into eye-rolling, passive-aggressive, verbal sparring.  Our collective eyes have become dimmed with scales of unconsciousness.

Though hard to fully understand, I can agree with Deepak Chopra when he states “everyone is doing their best from their level of consciousness”. What I did, and thought, and believed when I was 18, changed dramatically when I became married at age 20. The birth of my daughters changed the way I viewed the world, forever. Witnessing my wife overcome breast cancer heightened my capacity for love, and empathy for those who continue the good fight. Holding my grand-daughter reminds me of my past parental mistakes, my flawed thinking, rigid mindset, and how far I’ve come in my awareness. Life, and circumstances, and people, change us.

My daughter and her husband took Kinslee to see Santa Claus on Saturday. They kept her entertained while in line for an hour. The moment finally arrived for her to sit on Santa’s lap and smile for the Instagram moment. Instead of her usual charismatic grin, she cried out in sheer terror. Kinslee had no awareness that this freakish looking man in velvet suit and long white whiskers was the embodiment of her Christmas morning delight. It would be nonsensical to have reacted to her distress in anger or frustration. Over the next year of her life she will hear and learn more about the tradition and magic of Santa, why he dresses the way he does, the milk and cookies that keep him jolly, and a naughty and nice list. With that new consciousness, she may decide she likes Santa… or maybe not.

From the ridiculous to the sublime – the epitome of being fully conscious comes from our Passion Story –  as Jesus says: “forgive them for they know not what they do…” So too, we must recognize, even in our pain, that those who hurt us are asleep, unaware of how egregious their actions are to themselves and to all of humanity, for we are all connected. This does not excuse or condone bad behavior or release anyone from consequences that derive from poor choices. However, forgiveness and mercy come more quickly from a perspective of understanding.  Some choose to remain asleep, refusing to be roused into awareness and the abundant life that is so near.  Most, like me, are on a journey to greater awareness, greater compassion, greater grace, greater understanding, greater truth, greater love.  When I recognize that my neighbor walks that same path of life with me, I can begin to shed the bedclothes that serve only to separate and differentiate, and open my spiritual eyes to see the commonality of our mutual frailty, and shared joy.

Merry Christmas!