Craig's Blog

Still in The Booth

I’m sitting in the sound booth through the second session of our Advanced Conference listening to John speak. At some point my mind wanders… I’m musing* about “teaching “and God nudges me asking, When did you enjoy teaching most? Immediately it was the college level theology courses I regularly taught at my church in LA. I’m grinning ear to ear enjoying the memories of waxing eloquent on Christology, Anthropology, and Harmitology… I’d hand out my 70 page syllabus chock full of enticing insights, perspectives, implications… oh, and a ton of footnotes noting alternative views with their pros and cons, rabbit trails, sources, exegetical notes etc. etc…. I loved it. It was thorough authoritative clarity on the cardinal doctrines of the faith… full of footnotes. And with big warm eyes and in the voice of a loving father God says, “Yeah… you were hiding” Pause. Silence. My smirky smile shifting to a furrowed brow, mouth open, questioning look. “You loved it so much because you “found” validation there. Your syllabus and footnotes was all about you answering your question about having something to say…. Your syllabus was your God” I remember while in seminary dreaming of getting a PhD. in theology. The “Queen of Sciences” as many refer to it. Doctor Craig McConnell would undoubtedly/unquestionably/most surely have something to say. Right? Wow… so 30+ years have passed since bone head greek and some of my best memories of teaching are being exposed as a godless quest for life… the abandonment of God and all He provides for the in-truth mousey affirmation of man. Footnotes! Footnotes were my broken cistern… my god, my mistress in hiding. I was feeling “it”… the shame of looking to footnotes over and instead of the self revealing, sovereign immutable, triune God …. Great… so I’m speaking to 433 men in 8 hours and I’m marveling at the times and places God “shows” up to deal with some issue of our soul. And then again I’m not surprised at all. He’s always present… longing to be our God. – Craig McConnell *(I’ve always viewed myself as a “pastor teacher” loving the ongoing influence my life has upon those “sitting” under my tutelage over time. It’s been one of the things I’ve missed doing most over the last several years)

Craig McConnell

Saturday Before Easter

Errands done, garage straightened up, work project finished, yard work done, emails checked. It’s snowing, cold… breezy. I’m leaning back in my desk chair… Tomorrow is Easter Sunday… inhale, exhale. Lord, shift my heart to Easter. My mind goes to the resurrection. No sooner do I say “resurrection” under my breath and I’m in tears. There is no order or sequence to these vignettes, combined they are but a glimpse of that instant moment in time when there is no more time… in the twinkling of an eye… when I will be raised/changed. I will be on my face in tears or adoration… no, I think I’ll be on my feet with arms victoriously thrust up with my heart bursting in praise … or maybe just still… finally still and silent… I could see myself thrown into His arms, silent, in tears, finding the words that have been groanings deep within all my life. There is so much to say here… I will see my father, Al McConnell for the very first time… there is nothing more I can say in this moment here. I will see my mom… free from grief/pain. Lori and I will gaze into one another’s eyes like never before… our daughters, their husbands, their children and their children will be on some dance floor that’s like a jeweled sea dancing, dancing, dancing some kind of previously-unknown-heavenly folk dance that has us all holding shoulders, kicking up our feet, singing in Hebrew, with colorful hats, shimmering garments…in some ever growing family circle laughing as we wobble all over. Lori and I will wander through some crowded banquet hall of heaven with a never empty glass filled with the finest wine. Like a massive wedding reception (only with good food and a great DJ), the hall is jammed… we don’t walk, we bounce off countless groups of re-united families and friends; bumping into Nanny & Pop, Jim Schulz, Grandma & Grandpa McConnell, my dad…old friends, old knuckleheads and “nobodies” from every era, age and continent… There a campfire in a moonscape alpine valley with the men I’ve served with over the years… A whole lot of stories you wouldn’t expect to hear are being told… but finally a lull in the conversation comes, and someone summarizes it all, “We made it… We did well”. Okay… it’s at this point that my writing cannot keep up with my heart and mind’s kaleidoscopic impressions. I’m flooded with emotions, pictures, images, passages, quotes, faces, stories … 20 minutes pass. I cannot describe all my heart yearns for at the mention of “resurrection”. I cannot fully express all my heart wants to say to Christ. That day will come. He IS risen! Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory." "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. -1 Corinthians 15 -Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

God in the Booth (part 2)

I’m sitting in the sound booth during the first session of our Men’s Advanced Conference listening to John Eldredge. At some point my mind shifts from John and whether or not the canvas bottom “Directors” chair I’m sitting in will collapse to my speaking the next evening. I’m unsettled… antsy about the direction/content/illustrations/relevance of my topic. Actually it’s deeper than “antsy”; I was feeling the pressure to make a difference in these good men’s lives. The squeeze gripping me was for God to show up in some weighty way sweeping us up and into some degree of a stunned paralysis of awe. In my saggy seat I’m thinking I won’t deliver. I’m pretty certain I won’t come through… change that to can’t come through. For most of us shame/self-contempt is our backdoor friend. Shame is that one we wouldn’t admit to knowing yet flirt with throughout the day. It’s really an affair of the soul we refuse to break off. Shame serves a twisted purpose… comfortably immobilizing us, explaining our unpredictable world, numbing the mythic longings of our heart and justifying our script of small-story-victim-hood. Yet sheathed by contempt’s husk/coat is something beautifully pure, good and godly… a longing, an identity authored by God. There is a kernel. The longing for God to come is shrouded with the shame of “Who are you kidding. You! You? You’re a schmuck… You’ve got squat to say… nothing. Zip, zero, nada, nichts!" Now… that’s a slanderous perversion of the truth. Yet, I choose to believe this shadowy mistress of mine time and time again despite her ruinous affect upon my life. She leaves me passive, disengaged, hiding behind props and techniques, tickling ears, pleasing men, internally enraged at God, others, and myself… cursing the success of others while wishing my life of impotence would quickly end. I’m speaking tomorrow… and surely aware of both kernel and husk. And then God, the forever and always present God, who has been sitting next to me all this time, leans over, clears His throat and points out a defining agreement that I’ve made and lived by: Something more than who I am and what I have is required of me. I’m simply not enough. Now… that’s a slanderous perversion of the truth. Believing that, accepting that ancient script of diminishment explains why I’m so antsy about tomorrow night… so unsettled… my failure is inevitable. Internally I’m scrambling to minimize my certain losses. This isn’t a man pawing the earth anxious to enter the arena and fight to the death for a noble cause. Nor is it a man standing tall among a group of weary sojourners in a season of fear offering words of hope, life, strength and direction. This is Little Craig playing third base in the All Star game with a one run lead in the ninth inning, two outs and the bases loaded hoping the batter doesn’t hit it to him. My godless agreement/affair with shame comes to the light… my hussy doesn’t look so good in broad daylight. I understand the attraction but now it feels so very wrong... the magic is gone, the price too high, the damage too broad… this isn’t the life I want to live! Will you break that agreement, Craig? (Note: God has a way of overlaying messages to us. Simultaneously I’m convicted of my sin of adulterous unbelief while, in the same breath hearing an invitation to another way of living. It’s like a father who is firmly disciplining his child with an authoritative, “No, you can’t get your way on this issue” while at the same moment, everything in his eyes is saying “I love you so incredibly much”.) I do, I do, I do (the last time I said that many “I do’s” was on my wedding day). I break all agreements I have made, I take back all ground given to this lie. Christ, I ask you to… I give you permission and access to purge this hell born script from my being. May the kernel… the life, calling and the fullness of my identity come to life! Oh may my life bring Your life to others! Again, may I offer... God is close. He is next to you wherever you may be. There is no place you are He isn’t. He’s at work… do you see Him? (to be continued) - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

God in The Booth (part 1)

One accented theme woven into my life and world view is the forever and always presence of God. God is close. He is next to you wherever you may be. There is no place you are He isn’t. “Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?" declares the LORD. "Do not I fill heaven and earth?" - Jeremiah 23 You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. …Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. - Psalm 139 No place. Right now, where you sit reading this… perched on the corner of the very desk/table your computer sits is the God of Whom it is said that neither earth nor even the highest of heavens can contain. Whoa! What does that stir up in you? (to be continued) – Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

A Moment in Time

It was evening. I was eight, my younger brothers and sisters had just been put to bed, mom and dad wanted to talk with me alone in the family room of our home. Time stopped, winter began, and the earth’s rotation was altered, never again were there “blue moons”, innocent summer days lying on the grass imagining shapes, characters and creatures in the billowy clouds above. The neighbor’s dog became mean, my younger “brothers” and “sisters” weren’t really brothers and sisters… my family became opaque, a faded hue, less real. My bedroom became smaller and darker; now there were nightly burglars/murderers and malovent strangers perusing my windows terrorizing me waiting for the opportunity to do me harm. Learning of a father who died I died as my mom had. My father was drafted and killed in the Korean Conflict. My mom was 21, I was three months, 14 days old. The concussion, the trauma of God allowing her lover, a fine and godly man die left her lifeless… about 6 rows from the front, on the left, in a pew alone, crying most every Sunday. She remarried. A retired naval officer became my dad; he adopted me and changed my name from Craig McConnell to Craig Barnard. I was too young to remember any of this and the secret was neatly kept until the evening I was called into the family room and heard “Craig…your dad isn’t your father. Your father was killed in a war when you were born. I married your dad when you were little…and he loves you very much”. And for this little guy all the adventures of boyhood in our Southern California baby boomer neighborhood were indelibly changed. It’s inevitable; we’re all wounded in some way. And the scar remains and with it some message that becomes the script by which we live. As a young boy the first draft of my script(the message) was, “I’m different. Everyone else has a father… their real father...what’s wrong with me.” What was the first draft of your script? As life unfolds the message goes through numerous edits while staying true to the theme. For me the second significant edit came in adolescence. Living disoriented with the pain and loneliness of not having my “real” father coupled with a variety of in-securities centered on the abiding question, “What’s wrong with me”, and a culturally affirmed rebelliousness it was pretty easy to provoke my dad (the 20 plus year naval veteran who didn't take any crap). And so, in the intersection of the hall and his bedroom, he grabbed me, shook me and for the first of several times told me, “You are nothing but a seagull. All you’re good for is sitting, squawking and shitting”. I believed him. No significant re-edits were needed following this. I have absolutely nothing to offer… I sit, squawk and shit. Period. That script has held up well… Jump ahead several decades… which feels like a couple of lifetimes… we (Lori, my daughters and me) live at the beach. On our part of the Southern California coast there is a section of bluffs rising up overlooking the beach and ocean. Regularly I would park near by, walk over near the edge of the bluff and yap with God. I don’t fully understand it, but it was easy to be still, reflective and expectant there… my favorite time was early in the morning and especially when it was socked in with fog. The pounding surf, the salty moist air… the cool sand… ahh a cup of Joe, my journal and/or bible… it most always was a transcendent time. One morning I am there. In the presence of the Lord… enjoying a meandering conversation. It’s overcast; cool… nobody is around, nice size surf… I can hear the harbor fog horn in the distance, the beach is empty, I’m leaning back into an old rail fence, and I’m sporting what I dearly hope we will wear in heaven: flips, old jeans, sweat shirt… a cool hat…. Heck I’ am in heaven! Disrupting my communion is black lab puppy that comes bounding up to me. He nuzzles me in twisting gyrations, tail wagging with big dark eyes inviting me…“Hey, wanna play?” He cold-noses me and is full of life… begging, insisting, demanding that I enter in and romp with him. He’s a lab pup…”come on… live a little!” I’m annoyed…what’s he doing here? Where’s his master? (There is nobody around). Actually I get a little snarly with this intrusion into my transcendent oneness with the Creator of the Heavens and Sea. I mean, every single access to the beach in LA County has a sign posted that reads, “NO DOGS ALLOWED ON BEACH!!!” I try and scare him by arching my back like a big… really big old alley cat hissing, “Get outta here dog, SCRAM!!!. After a gentle nudge with my foot ... he gets the message. He’s gone, freeing me to return to intimacy with the God of grace and creation. Little did I know I nudged the God of grace and creation gently with my foot… because it seemed like a mere moment later I’m looking down on the sandy beach at the lab. He is on the hard sand at waters edge dashing through the surf jumping frolicking, prancing… doing what labs do. I find myself smiling and enjoying him from my bluff above. Whatever God intended a lab to be and do he was being and doing. Having a ball. He’s in and out of the water, digging a hole, running wild and chasing birds. God was so present in that moment… and I found myself…. Praying, “I wish I was a lab.” (One of the great things about Labs is that they cannot read the signs… the signs that say, “No Dogs on The Beach"... You can’t do that… you’re a seagull”. This lab had no script. He was simply being and doing what God created labs to do. Free, alive, simply living as God intended me to. Yearning, longing, hope and desire from the deepest regions of my soul… aged for decades they surfaced in a groan, a smile and my prayer. It was God… inviting me again into life, into freedom. In that moment, and ever since, I’ve got a clear picture of the life I want to live. Ignore the script handed me and live the script God has written on my heart. To simply be Craig McConnell… running on the beach… alive, free. And your new script is…? - Craig McConnell Notes: * There was something about my brothers and sisters being “half” brothers and sisters that sinisterly took root in my soul at that young age and it all too often expressed itself in a unloving distance/coolness… a “Big Brother” meanness in my relationship with them most of my life. Oh how I wish, knowing what I now know, I could relive… re-relate with those in earlier years I missed. I became a Christian at 21 and reconciled with my dad. As the years have gone by I have so much compassion for him and his best attempts to father me while profoundly wounded himself. He was a good man... and I miss him.

Craig McConnell

Little Much

So this guy interrupts Christ perturbed that his brother is unlawfully withholding his portion of the family inheritance… I’d be pissed too. Someone in the crowd said to Him, "Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me." But He [Jesus] said to him, "Man, who appointed Me a judge or arbitrator over you?" Then He said to them, "Beware, and be on your guard against every form of greed; for not even when one has an abundance does his life consist of his possessions." - Luke 12:13-15 Do you see it? This guy comes with a legitimate complaint about his brother expecting the Peace Maker to do his thing. But Jesus refuses to go after the offensive law-breaking-inheritance-withholding brother. Instead of confronting the obvious sinner, Jesus goes after the heart of the apparent “Victim”, the perturbed brother, warning him of the issues in his life… greed, the idolatry of material security… One of the justifications I make in failing/refusing to offer my strength, love… or gifting is because of the offenses of others. You don’t love me, I don’t love you… neener neener neener! The often legitimate faults/failures/sins/defects/abrasive-relational-style of another is my justification to not be the man, the lover God intended me to be. The man I truly am. And so… while railing against others He often allows me to rant and then with sympathetic warmth interrupts me saying something along the lines of, “You know what really disturbs me about the whole situation?” Still miffed* and expecting His affirmation of the injustice done, i ask, “What?”. Without hesitation He responds, “You”. “Your hiding/sin… your little boy approach to life.” And then the invitation to learn and know in a much deeper way, His great love, forgiveness, delight in me and call to live a holy, loving life. (How many times i have learned this lesson… over and over, each time on a little deeper level? AGHHHHHH………) “…he who has been forgiven little loves little." [And he who has been forgiven much loves much… ] Read Luke 7:36-50. And why don’t you love? – Craig McConnell Notes: * “Miffed” = A self protective editing choice… personal synonyms would be: enraged, vengence seeking, calling-down-lightening angry…

Craig McConnell

March 1st

Its morning. In my favorite rotund leather chair with a wonderful cup of Sumatra I’m browsing through last year’s journal. February 21, 2008I’m less concerned, maybe more accurately less “demanding” that I find the community I long to be a part of. My concern now is offering life… authenticity… God… creating community where I am. A little later in my journal this Annie Dillard Quote: “I would like to learn, or remember, how to live.” Other than refilling my cup, not much has happened since. I’m wandering in and out of prayer and longing. Father, I would like to learn, or remember, how to live. What’s your prayer today?

Craig McConnell

Agitated

On Tuesday I’m agitated. I step into a colleague’s office to vent. He spins around in his desk chair and welcomes my orneriness, listening, risking a couple of bold questions (one wrong question and I could make life miserable for him… How easy, even “wise” it can be to avoid honest, caring engagement with one another! Is it because we fear the consequences?). He’s now confronting me… and something happens… church breaks out! You know, all those exhortations on how we’re to love, relate, build up one another, fight for one another and offer the life and grace of the Gospel to each other… church! Well it was happening Tuesday in office #9 between 10:30 – 11 AM with a guy I work with. God fills the room. It’s heavy, it’s thick… I’m convicted of my demanding-ness, an arrogance that expects others to see/interpret/understand a set of circumstances as I do. My goodness… don’t they get it? I’m offering the wisdom of ages. Tested and true, my perspective is informed by things they don’t know… can’t know… Where’s the respect of total submission to their elder? In fact… they’re fighting me!@??? And the lights go… I see something ugly, unloving, mean in my response/attitude to them. My co-worker says a few things but doesn’t have to say much, God is there: convicting, forgiving and inviting me into a life lived differently. It was the community I yearn for. Last Thursday I’m in the cab of a truck driving across town with an acquaintance. He shares a battle he’s fighting… it’s ruining his marriage and family. I make a few observations about his life, particularly his relational style and how others experience him… we’re getting into some “stuff”. I suggest we pray and invite Christ into our time as he drives… and church breaks out! You know… the reason we meet on Sundays and midweek… to worship, grow, be encouraged and encourage one another. So, at 40 MPH a huge childhood wound surfaces and the agreements he’s made as a result. A whole lot of dysfunctional/sinful life passes by him. God speaks… we’re both in tears, amazed and stunned by the power and beauty of our time. I get out of the truck with my 40 lb. bag of dog food and he drives off with a strength, resolve and grace he didn’t 15 miles ago. It wasn’t Sunday. Heck we’re just driving down Austin Bluffs and church breaks out! It was the community I yearn for, the community I was designed for. What’s ironic is how much of it I truly do experience! Really! The church I long for jumps out from uncommon places in unplanned moments with random sojourners… it’s so God! Yesterday it breaks out in a phone conversation, last week through a friend’s poem, another’s comment on my blog… God is providing so much of what we yearn for. Do you see it? Sometimes it even breaks out in church . I’m sitting through a service led by a stunningly self absorbed Pastor using every gimmick in the book to rev us up and into some small story… I’m a little agitated… and church breaks out… God comes and speaks to a question I’ve been pondering over for months. I’m smiling, engaged, worshipping and graciously wondering about the “preacher’s” story/journey and compassionately remembering when I was him… hoping and praying that church would break out. May it! Enjoy it! - Craig

Craig McConnell

Gather

Lori and I are currently in a 12 week group hosted by a local church leader… Is there anyone who wouldn’t want to regularly meet with a few others who are curious about you and your story; are pursuing God passionately; who listen well, love courageously, and are willing to get messy offering their beauty and strength in humility/grace? I think that’s a bit of what God intended for “small groups”. Yet what has your experience of small groups been over the years? For most of the 36 years I’ve been a follower of Christ I’ve been in some form of a “small group”.* Some were mythic in effect, texture, and draw. God came… we saw Him in each other, called Him out…we were different. Many, too many other groups were “stinkers”. Some end by design, others end with a bang, some with a whimper… some never end… they just go on and on and on and on. We ache for a community that’s elusive… we ache because we were designed for it, and to go without it is, in the spiritual realm, like going without water. It’s hard to find. It’s real easy to give up. It’s easy to sit through a small group passively… it’s really not what we’re looking for but we don’t want to rock the boat, rain on someone else’s parade… be critical… and as the weeks drag on our hearts, while circled by “friends”, are parched thirsting for a life Christ directs us to community to find. And after the adrenaline wears off, hope retreats, and the enormous energy to make this group work fades you find yourself in that familiar place… comfortably numb. “It is a tragedy to live in un-spiritual community. It is an even greater tragedy to live in un-spiritual community and be satisfied and to think that it is spiritual. There are many Christians relating in ways that only marginally require the Spirit, and who aspire to nothing more.” – Larry Crabb We can’t live in this Story alone. Nor can we pretend to be satisfied by that which doesn’t. Don’t “settle” nor be arrogant. Don’t rage against the program, pastor… nor be passive. Give no place to cynicism. Stay alive! Keep desire alive! (Do you get the sense of my current personal battle?) Cry out to God. Pray; find a few to meet with…gather… just be yourself; worship; offer; listen, love, love, love… fight for the life you yearn. And Christ will come! For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them."- Matthew 18 - Craig McConnell *Some groups were limited to select members, others random groups of people, we’ve been in loosey-goosey-sloppy-agape groups, new member/believer/married…, parenting, parenting teens, marriage, stewardship, The Serious Study of the Word of God Group (one of my favorites… you know what Paul meant in Romans 8:1 but you can’t name 4 people in the group), sit in circles and share (you know this group right? You can see the broken marriages, abuse, wounds, addictions, shame and you spend the evening going around the circle answering the question, “My favorite dessert is_______”), support groups, evangelistic groups, seeker friendly groups, therapy groups… all sizes, shapes… experiences. And even in the “stinkers” God comes for me; exposing, speaking, loving, directing!

Craig McConnell

"Lost"

Lost What open armed freedom to be lost in you A holy communion shared between two Yet reaching out, further up and farther in Open lines of glory, the kingdom within I am lost in you Secretly bound to you Breathtakingly found in you I am lost in you Lost in you Moments of mystery, rolling me ahead Through forests of fear, mornings of dread Into wide open spaces, face breaking grins My soul is unfolded, you live within my skin – Jill Dyer Jill, a lyricist/poet ally responded with this original piece to a previous blog i wrote… and referred to being “lost in God”.

Craig McConnell

A Hero of Mine

One of the heroes of faith for me is my friend Janie. I will always remember the day she shared her grief with me. Her losses were great and would overwhelm/crush/smother/demoralize anyone. Everyone. I sat across from her in my office. I’m the pastor, the one charged/ordained/called to remind people of God… to point them to Him. In those moments of raw heartache and anguish all my rote answers seemed hollow, impotent, canned, cliché. I knew Janie. I knew the details. I wanted to offer her something substantive, real, O God I wanted Him to show up in some way that I couldn’t. By the way… so many of the “rote”/cliché answers I couldn’t offer as a 42 year old pastor I can offer now, though altered a bit, because of the journey I’ve lived… a younger man cannot talk of God the way an older man may. Read my blogs in another 15 years if you really want some sagely insight! So there she sat… wronged, despairing, despondent, lamenting with alligator tears and in broken voice said, “… and in all of this I have never known God’s loving heart as I now do.” I sat there paralyzed by her story… a story I knew nothing of. The story of a God who is there, really there, always there. I’ve found Him since, but I’ve never forgotten how Janie reminded me of Him and pointed me to Him. – Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Like a Saint

Hey, it’s not uncommon to fight off a little cold right? For a week I was snorting, sneezing, sniffling… tossing and turning through the night; downing vitamin C, guzzling water, doing the Zicam… and praying like a saint. Like a saint! For a week. As a deer pants for the water brooks, so my soul pants for You, O God. I want to live well; a holy, devout, abiding, intimate, conversational relationship with Christ in any and all circumstances; a life walking with God, passionately worshiping Him and courageously loving others. It’s when people or life is onerous that I’m most drawn to bury that desire and settle for a well scripted small story… Craig always healthy; full head of hair; bronze skin and a pair of Von Zipper’s on, is with his stunningly beautiful wife on a warm beach sitting in a pair of Adirondack chairs (One a rich brilliant yellow, the other a deep fire engine red). Flanked by the best of friends and family), a menagerie of animals: giraffes, bear cats, a lion laying next to a lamb, wallabies and Labs… and maybe birds; bushels of grain, fruit and a good-hearted dinosaur… (picture Sgt. Pepper's Loney Hearts Band album cover). Next to Lori and I are our delightful daughters, I have a granddaughter on each knee enjoying ice cream cones as they repeat over and over, “You're awesome Aboo”. My two ruddy strong son-in-laws stand and ask, “Oh, grand Father-in-Law we ask for your spiritual direction that with equal perseverance, sacrifice and soul work we might, one day, live the life we see you living… what advice do you offer us?” And then, just as I’m about to answer, a herald beckons me to a phone where a circle of international financiers, politicians, beach volleyball players, pastors and Monarchs are wanting my help in interpreting the times. You get the picture? Oh my gosh… it’s really a puny story in which I’m the main character and life is about me, me, me. (Oh… add a car that works and a new beefy stereo). But… that was a couple of months ago, this is the new Craig and I’m living large in this grisly cold-sinusitis. I’m proud of myself. Typically when I'm sick I forget God and get bitchy... but not now, not here, not me! I'm in the zone I wish I lived in… I'm so deeply aware of His presence as my Sustainer, Father, Wonderful Counselor, Provider, Life, Comforter and Strength. The truth is that most of the words you would use to describe God seemed real-time true… except for “Healer” (but even in that I sensed His sovereignty... something I didn't yet know was going on). And so I' pray… morning, noon and night a medley of worship, warfare, truth, delight, desire… I like how I’m living. For a week. BAM...THWACK ZAPOLA…WHAP… I get an upgrade, super-sized… my cold has morphed into some dastardly flu with a gnarly fever... incessant cough, sleeplessness, aches. I'm either on the couch, in bed or putzing about in a ripe fleece, my red plaid pajama bottoms topped off with my homeless-Mohawk and 7 day beard. You are kidding me! What's next... boils? Now, I’m praying the full work and triumph of the work of Christ over my life, body, home, domain, family... I’m bearing down and loving God...I'm yapping up a storm with Him. I had been "suffering" well expecting that my viral/bacterial plague would naturally run its course but now that I was 12 days "into it" something began to wane. Note: I kept thinking of the hell several friends have gone through for months/years in chemo or fighting some horrendous disease/illness... wondering how they did it. I know, I know I'm a whimp. "Suffering" over time exposes how deep our roots have bored into God, My roots appear to be on the surface as discouragement begins to set in and my prayers in some very subtle but essential way shift…. The words and tone didn’t change noticeably… but something is changing… Sitting is uncomfortable, so is standing, lying, kneeling. One moment I’m convinced Lori opened every freaking window in the house and turned on the AC…I’m freezing and there are not enough quilts in this overpriced, quickly depreciating low light boring house. 20 minutes later I’m living proof of global warming… “Man it’s a hot one, like 7 inches from the midday sun…” * I’m in a parched land with a parched people in this miserable presumptuous neighborhood full of wackos who for some reason call this 2 bit cow town “home". Do you see the slow advance of the "bitchy" thingie? I don’t want anything to eat!!! And there’s nothing to eat here anyway! There never is, and why is Whole Foods so expensive, and Safeway's produce is second hand produce picked over by shoppers in California and sent to Colorado for those of us stuck in this overgrown New Jerusalem where absolutely no one practices the religious values they profess. I can’t read and TV stinks... Real Housewives of Orange County, Biggest Loser, Hannity, MSNBC, The View... they're all carnival barkers with a stale shtick. Even music doesn’t play well, not even Ashley Cleveland’s rendition of Gimme Shelter… it all sounds like bumper music to a low ratings mid-afternoon Icelandic Soap Opera… the only thing that does sound good is one loud listening to Hendrix's dark Hey Joe Live… Speaking of marriage… “Where is she?” Can you sense a shift... I'm barking at Lori now! Apocalyptic endings are becoming attractive... I'm rooting for the end of the world, for a random steel girder to fall through my bedroom ceiling and take me out... I'm ready to give the dog away, sell my silver, drink that good bottle of wine I've been saving and live in a Costa Rican jungle (small story again!).I’m lying in bed seeing animals in the shadowy shapes of the pine trees outside our windows, (bear, raccoons, a lizard with a captured fly in its mouth, buffalo… then people, crusaders, firemen, Joseph Stalin.. (I’m reliving the summer of 1969). I'm taking water;losing heart and steam... yet still praying... a little, kinda, sorta, barely... not really! So, last night i down my antibiotic, a 12 hour expectorant gel capsule, a one finger shot of cough suppressant, and a sleep aid and hit the sack. With about 14 minutes before I fall asleep or overdose I thought I'd read a bit. I spot my Bible, pick it up and the thought crosses my mind to fling it open and read whateverer page opened (for the record this is not my practice, I think the last time I did this Jimmy Carter was president and I was about to become a rigid dispensationalist). My Bible falls open to Luke 18... I staring at verse 1. Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up. I close my Bible without reading any further... and begin to pray like I don't recall every praying before in my life! Now I know the rest of the story about the Widow, because of her persistence, gets what she's after... but that's not the point God's after with me! Immediately I know the point is for me to pray and "not give up". It's sooooooeasy to give up! Heck I'd given up! And in one of those nano second downloads from God so very much becomes clear. Yes, He's been in this... and so has the Adversary. In a smiling fatherly voice, that's music to my soul, I hear God's affirming words that I have lived, fought and prayed well in all of this... "Well done" echoes through my being. He's pleased... and invites me into an intimacy that perseveres... The life I long for has nothing to do with pleasant circumstances, loving friends, health, stereos or cars that work. Life is found in Him... in those intimate, passionate and sometimes desperate times on the bed, in the hospital, wondering how I'll ever get out of debt, or if my prodigal child will return. Life, communion with God, abiding, intimately bound to God... So much of that is what I was enjoying and was now waning. Until those words... Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up. Ambien be damned I launch into my extended versionn of our Daily Prayer with interspersed worship, extended repentance and warfare and listening ….. I was locked and loaded, praying like a mad man... no, take that back... like a saint! Focused and free from distraction God was showing me a life-shaping wound that's haunted me since I was 21. Agreements I've made are surfacing... I'm actually lost in God. Wonderfully lost in His presence muttering and groaning core passions, sorrows and hopes... crying, laughing and still. For hours. This morning I woke up… still woofing, weezing... feeling horrible but living like the man I want to be…. and praying like a saint. Like a saint! - Craig * Rob Thomas & Santana, Smooth... great summer song

Craig McConnell

Slurring Speech

I’m standing alongside Manhattan Beach Blvd. December 23rd waving greetoriously* to sore seated commuters in holiday traffic who are hoping they’ll make it through the intersection during the next green light… to hope again at the next intersection. I’m waving, smiling, doing a holiday jig and blowing kisses while the drivers are either, with fixed glaze avoiding all eye contact with me, looking past me with laser-beam dismissal or waving with ear-to-ear grins joyously. Have I mentioned yet I was in a classy, far out five star Santa outfit?** The responsive-warm-ones hailed me with cheer, some yelling out, “I always knew you existed… I love you Santa…. Merry Christmas!” Horns were honked. Little children froze in their car seats and shyly covered their mouths when mom pointed me out to them. Women gawked. Grown men:dock workers, military satellite intelligence officers… phone book distributors, accountants, and two geeky plumbers ALL gave me their version of the beefy nod and wave-with-hands-gripping-the-steering-wheel. There I was… anonymous… in a Santa outfit… getting the same response a rock star, Obama, General MacArthur, or a superhero would. I’ll admit it, I was soaking it in. Loving it, milking it, working it. After gigging rush hour traffic, Lori (Mrs. Claus AKA “Santa’s Helper”) and I head to a friend’s home to make a surprise appearance at her Christmas party. For the sake of brevity I’m leaving out the in-route stories of dropping into my daughter’s Pilates Studio for a photo-op working out (as best I could with a pillow cummerbund); running into a Vietnamese Nail Salon to give the shy staff hugs and offer up a robust “Ho, ho, ho!” in my distinctive pirate accent; and hanging out of the car window like my Lab Retriever wishing everyone the very merriest of seasons. I pop into our friend’s party, spread a little cheer, hand out a few gifts and pose for pictures with every woman in the place. Everyone loves me, I’m Santa… I’m digging it. The next stop is a set up/staged appearance for our two granddaughters: Jacqueline (3 ½) and Annie (2). The plan was for Lori to ring a few “reindeer” bells near the house which would flush the kids out onto the lawn with the anticipation of maybe seeing Santa in the neighborhood. From the front yard they would see “Santa” moseying down the street. The plan was that, in the dark, they wouldn’t recognize that it was me/grandpa/”Aboo”*** in a costume, and I would greet them by name with a heartfelt “Ho, ho, ho!” (minus the pirate accent), promise them some gifts, squeeze in a “Jesus is the reason for the season” and then graciously move on to tend to my reindeer and head to New Zealand. So… as planned I’m five houses down the street approaching my granddaughters who are huddled together on the sidewalk whispering to Mrs. Claus, Mom, Dad, their Auntie and friends/family (similar to watching wildlife move about from the edge of a meadow at dusk). I’m about a house away and I see my older granddaughter leap into her mother’s arms… she’s scared to death! It strikes me that with my Santa boots, Santa wig, Santa hat and Santa shoulder pads I’m probably 6’8”. I’m Hulk Hogan or Keith Richards in red velvet, a monster with a fake beard and a fuzzy hat about to pounce on her. My buccaneer “Ho, ho, ho” didn’t help! She buries her head in the crook of her mom’s neck crying, “I don’t ever want to see Santa again… I don’t like Santa”. So much for my super star status! Meanwhile, the younger one, Annie, runs up to me… front and center, two feet away, and beneath red curls her full-moon eyes are gazing up at me in total wonderment. By the time I looked down and noticed her she’s in full stride, boldly standing there in exhilarated-run-together sentences with fast-forward age appropriate slurring of speech she gushes out, “Santa, Santa, Santa, I love you... you’re awesome Santa, Santa, I love you, love you, love you” and somewhere in all of this I heard the word “Tink” mentioned. I knew she was referring to Tinkerbelle, for she had been talking of nothing else for 64 days. She wanted Tinkerbelle! Tinkerbelle anything: sweat shirt, doll, coloring book, ring tone, dress, DVD, shoes … anything “Tink”. Standing in the presence of Santa, her young heart free to express itself safely, she gushed searching for and finding every word she had that could speak of her adoration… and desire. It was desire… yet her marveling reverence was predominating. It was a moment she wasn’t going to miss and I didn’t want to end. Annie was putting it all out there. It was innocent, it was sweet, and it was as pure as anything in this life… the perfect meritage of love and longing. I said goodbye, they all headed indoors, I headed up the street looking for a sleigh. Alone I started weeping. So in love, so very, very happy and longing/aching for my first moment in His presence in exhilarated-run-together sentences with fast-forward age appropriate slurring of speech… – Craig McConnell * So… is it really a crime to create new words? ** While I was in Australia with the Wild at Heart Team Lori and her girlfriend Leah spent a snowy week designing and sewing the certifiably authentic Santa outfit. We’re talking a work of beauty… the whole enchilada… lined coat, white gloves, fur topped boots et cetera. ***When my daughter was expecting our first grandchild I got the harebrain idea that the kids ought to call me “Captain”. I thought it would be respectful, fun… Craig…unique. The best laid plans of mice and men… So, Jacqueline was born and a few months later she decided I ought to be called “Aboo”… it stuck.

Craig McConnell

The Christmas Letter

This is the 2008 McConnell Christmas Letter I’m writing this Thanksgiving Weekend in the South Bay. We’ve been with our daughters, son-in-laws, granddaughters and friends enjoying ourselves and one another. Awaiting our flight to LA in the Colorado Springs airport we heard our first Christmas Carol of the season and naturally a stocking full of memories took center stage… Our girls were little, the colored lights on the tree bigger… the cavalcade of brightly wrapped presents unending… candles, wreaths. Grandma’s etched glass candy dish of M&M’s… the smell of the turkey and/or roast and au jus filling the house (and neighborhood). Telling the Story of Christmas, humming and singing carols, laughter… and of course the pressure of choosing the right gifts and the desire to give more than we ever could. We remembered and wept over Christmas’ past and crackling fires encircled by family no longer with us... there’s nog and the never-eaten fruitcake… watching A Wonderful Life… and of course the Christmas Eve dash to get to church on time, assemble the bikes/etc. and purchase the always-forgotten AAA batteries. And then we pondered Christmas’ yet to come… how big will this family be, what will this generation’s celebrations include/look like? Where will they be? What memories have we yet to create… and what traditions will our children and grandchildren write up in their Christmas letter? Somewhere in all of this we wondered what we’ve pondered for several Christmas’ now… have we yet understood and experienced Christmas fully? Might there be more significance to this holiday than we’ve grasped? As much as we anticipate, enjoy and celebrate the coming of God amongst us and the Story of His invading this world to rescue and offer the life we have all yearned for… hoped for and now may embrace I’m not sure we see clearly all that Christmas means/brings/holds. It’s still a bit opaque. Foggy. The music, lights, tree and all the magic moments speak of something beyond them. They are the elements of a sacrament. They are not it… but they speak of it. All this to say… we welcome Christmas! More than ever we’re listening, awaiting, watching with arms and hearts wide open for all God has for us in this season. And we hope His best for you! May He come in a hundred different ways for you: may you find Him next to you in a long line at Best Buy; jumping out of a holiday newsletter/card or a bowl of punch; saddling up next to you as you sing “O Holy Night”; or perhaps late at night as you sit quietly gazing at a tree all aglow lost in your own memories. May you know His love and your place in His heart, may His rescue and life be yours! Our picture is a family shot taken at Jared and Meagan’s (our second daughter) April wedding in Palm Desert. The newlyweds entre into married life has been notable, indeed, exceptional. Delightfully in love they’re enjoying their little nook/apartment at the beach. They’re both working hard as a Pilates instructor in Manhattan Beach (Meagan) and in advertising for Luxury, Life & Style Magazine in Hermosa Beach (Jared). Their smiles bring a from-the-bottom-of-your toes-to-the-tippy-top-of-your-head smiles to every stinking person they know. Lindsey (our first daughter) is standing with her husband Vladimir…. I mean Jon (he really took one for the team in this family picture). They’re living in a very large story in Redlands, CA, where they are birthing a church. We’re amazed at all that’s required of both of them in this massively opposed undertaking… and how very, very well they are living up to it. Lindsey is a stunning young woman/bride/mom and Vladimir… I mean Jon, is a man/husband/father/pastor who has what it takes. The entire family could not be prouder of them! Together they are raising our two youngest angels: Jacqueline Ruby (4 in Feb) and Annie Marie (turned 2 in Sept.). It’s very tempting at this point in the letter to include 67 photos of each with page upon page of stories of the joy they bring us all! Lori and I continue to live in this huge Story we’ve fallen into. We’re caught up and into something we never could have constructed ourselves… it found us, lured us… and here we are in Colorado lost in a mission with a tribe of gloriously gifted apostles, prophets, teachers, brave hearts, knuckleheads and a guy from Pittsburgh. And though we ache for so much we do not have we have tasted a joy that is full, inexpressible and full of glory. Come again Lord Jesus! May this be a merry season for us all! – Craig & Lori McConnell

Craig McConnell

Mute

Once again I’m struck by my inability to express in words something I’ve seen, felt, touched or heard. On a 747 at 47,000 feet, somewhere over the rainbow between Los Angeles and Sydney Australia, I’m hoping to describe a few men’s experience of the Boot Camp we just finished. I know it’s easy to be cynical reading glowing reports from the field of lives changed, dramatic conversions and profound miraculous works of God. In years past I’ve been on “Missions” that barely resemble the written accounts/reports following them. Read enough of them and you wonder, who doesn’t make those claims as their “come on” for fund raising, validation or ego stroking… Heck I’ll admit it...I will, at times, use a little hyperbole here and there… adding a little “color”, but in this case I’m really trying to be true/accurate. In my initial attempt to write out some of the stories shared with me my words seemed abridged, deficient…”off”. My word pictures seem like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk… or like my 4 year old granddaughter’s crayon portrait of the family – though beautiful in expressing her heart, and a memory to frame for the office or file in the grand children’s artwork 2008 banker’s box, it doesn’t really resemble the family…. I’m not that thin, Lori is much cuter and our Labrador Retriever, Sonoma, is a dog with 4 legs not a spider with seven… Men cried grasping for their own unreachable words to describe what God did for/in/with them. Smiles unseen for decades surfaced/returned; hearts lost were now found, ears heard God for the first time - Imagine a 70 year old man for the first time facing the defining wound of his life… and hearing his Heavenly Father say, “Good on you son, I am proud of you” (an Aussie phrase). A band of prodigals found their way home, a clique of Pharisees delivered. Gratefulness and appreciation for our coming and offering was almost to the point of embarrassment. So many used the phrase “for the first time” as a preface to their story of the weekend. Hearts hard softened, young boys posing as older man grew up in some unseen region of their soul… the wolf hidden as a sheep was exposed, horrifically godless systemic agreements with the Liar exposed and expunged…. faith birthed/renewed. For many hope returned (for themselves, their marriages or families), for others some important/timely/foundational questions – prerequisites for a walk with God were faced honestly… (it’s at this point I fall asleep for a 5 hour segment of the 13 hour flight whispering to God, “How do I say all this… what words can capture your majesty among us?). Waking… sort of, I coincidentally… sort of, come across a thought of Augustine as he ends an attempt to describe the inexplicable virtues and supremacy of God by saying… What can a man say about you my God, my life, my holy joy? Woe to him that that does not speak, and the mute are the most eloquent. While I had to try and find the words to describe all God did, I’m more eloquent in my stunned holy silence. In His presence I am mute. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

It's About God!

I am in Australia with the Wild at Heart team about to begin our four day Boot Camp. A good part of the day is spent preparing my heart and words for the sessions I lead. I often suffer from a spiritual amnesia: forgetting much about God... his faithfulness to me through the years... his heart for me... who I am and all that he's called me to be and to offer to others; and so I peruse my journals for stories and truth. This particular journal entry jumped out. I've recognized and felt that the presence of God trumps our giftedness, skill, wisdom and best efforts to minister and/or speak for him. I can't count the times I've said, "You could be speaking on world geography and if God shows up people will be blessed, healed, saved... transformed." This weekend exposed that I really haven't believed that to be true. In seminary I had a class on preaching that involved ten of us preaching at/to one another for a couple of semesters. We’d evaluate, react and encourage one another’s content, style and organization. At the end of the term the prof gave each of us our final evaluation verbally in front of the class. A classmate, Anthony, was not an articulate or engaging speaker. He knew his material; was genuine; soft-spoken had a string bean stature and obese insecurities. The prof told him that he was actually, in the larger scheme of things, in a good place as a young preacher adding, “Whereas Craig has natural skills and abilities that will make him a good communicator he will be prone to rely on his own abilities and not God. You Anthony, have no margin. You’re not a natural communicator and the absence of those gifts leaves/parks/rivets you in a place of on-going dependence upon God. And Anthony, that’s the best place to be as a preacher.” Looking back I realize I took my professors remarks regarding me as a form of validation. His comments lit the path to a validation I was starving for. I was talented. I am good at something! A man with a doctorate… a seminary prof thinks I’m a natural!! Eureka! What was offered to me as a warning, as sagely counsel, I took as direction/an invitation to life. Life apart from God. I was young, naïve. Foolish. My appraisal of Anthony was that he wouldn’t make it as a teacher/preacher… I couldn’t see God matching his against-all-odds work through Moses, Gideon and David in Anthony. So, Friday night I’m speaking on “The Centrality of the Heart” and “The Masculine Heart” to a group of 200 reserved Presbyterian men. It was a less-than-stellar session. A film clip I planned to use was botched by the tech guy, I slogged through a point or two, lacked energy, was slurring my speech… it was definitely not a home run, it was a sliding double. As is common for me after a muddled/unhinged session like that I was growling. At God. Why isn’t this easier? I’m putting myself out there for you… dealing with the deeper issues of my heart; battling the warfare; refining, tinkering, editing my sessions constantly; praying, consecrating myself and all I have to you… and it seems like it’s always a one star result.* I’ve got intercessors praying for heavens sake! Though I’d love to see signs and wonders I’m not expecting that… it just seems like there ought to be more… and it ought not to be so hard. I mean really!?!%$#? How many willing vessels do you have out there working their fool-ass/buns off to bring the transforming power and truth of the Gospel to others? At myself. I’m such a smuck! Why can’t I do this? What is it about me that makes this so hard? It seems to come much easier for others with less talent, less mature, less self-aware and readily available. My God, watch the parade of whackos on some of the "Christian" television programming… they seem to have some sway with God... What’s wrong with me? I may not be a sea gull, but I feel like an auk, tern or sandpiper.** I will never realize my deepest dreams and desires for my life. (Believe me this is the condensed version). There’s a silence. My growling stops and God pops out of nowhere. In a medley of God’s voice and some older-true-self voice saying… How astonishingly self absorbed I am! I finish my session and I immediately go to, “How did I do…? Did I deliver God on a silver platter? Are they stunned into repentance and yearning for God? How’d I do? How’d I do? How’d I do?” Silence. And then the voice that was disruptive, convicting, hopeful and liberating… The vital question/issue really isn’t how I did… it’s more along the lines of “did God show up for the men?” And in a twinkling of an eye a whole lot of stuff becomes clear. I’ve been in an eddy concerned about my performance… subconsciously replaying, reviewing; critiquing my points; illustrations, pace, my connection to the audience and their engagement; evaluating, re-evaluating, no audience reaction or response is insignificant… everything is data to adjust, edit and craft the session that will bring the kingdom of God to everyone graced to be under my tutelage. The truth is I never really viewed myself as more than a journeyman communicator and I realize I have no margins. I need God to show up… I haven’t learned what ongoing dependence upon God looks like. I can talk about world geography and if God shows up people will be healed, saved, transformed… I can talk about the Centrality of the Heart with everything I’ve got and if God isn’t in it I might as well have been talking about geography. Christianity 101. At some core level I’ve been more focused/passionate about… committed to my being anointed/blessed than I have been on God showing up for the men. How incredibly self absorbed I am! I’ve considered myself as indispensable… necessary to the process of their transformation and, as a result bore the weight that “I must come through”… Lives depend upon it. I depend upon it! I remember Anthony. I am Anthony. In that moment, as is often the case when God exposes and then invites, some reorientation takes place. I abandoned my agreement/connection/rooted-ness on my consuming self-absorption, my priestly indispensability. And somewhere in my Christianity 101-adolescent self I enjoyed myself, God and speaking to a group of wild eyed Presbyterian men more than I have in a while. Craig McConnell * Using the Michelin awards guide of one to three stars to indicate quality. ** I'll have to write about the significance of the reference to being a "sea gull" at another time. In brief my dad, in anger, referred to me as a "sea gull... all you're good for is sitting, squawking and shitting". Needless to say it was a wounding label that I have nothing to offer.

Craig McConnell