Articles & Posts
Christmas, Christmas Time is Here
I had my first Christmas miracle today! I was in and out of the DMV in less than 20 minutes having secured the new license plates I needed! (The originals were stolen off of Sam’s car). I’ve been praying lately that I would see God in new ways. Praying for a spirit of wisdom and revelation to know his love more deeply and truly; to see into the spiritual realm more clearly and to walk with Jesus more intimately. The shortness of the DMV line was a gift. I see that. The heart rocks God continues to shower me with are gifts. I see them as revelations of God’s unconditional love for me. The ease and depth of conversation around the dinner table with my family…love it. Recognize it as a gift from my Father’s hand. Needing to fight for our sleep, love and pray through a weight of oppressive warfare, battle through a pervading sense of disqualification…haven’t seen those as gifts. Standing against the seemingly endless accusation from the enemy; not enjoying that. Needing to call child protective services, listening to my friend cry as she tells me of her husband’s betrayal, learning of the latest drug bust for herion at my son’s school…having trouble recognizing Jesus there. But he is there. Jesus not only reigns. He is reigning. Not only did he live, he is living. He came. He is coming still. Now. Today. In all moments. And soon, He is coming in the moment we are long awaiting…on a powerful white steed, with justice in his heart, and a flaming sword in his hand. Halleluia. Many of those I care for are in times of deep trevail. They are needing to stand against the world’s tide and the enemy’s assault and rely on God in ways that are difficult but ultimately so very good. Gee wiz, we all are, aren’t we? And sometimes, it gets confusing and tiring. But the fruit, oh the fruit, of pressing into Jesus in the midst of the sorrows of life is pure gold. Not only for the good of our own deepening faith but for the fellowship of believers cheering us on and the eyes of the world that are always watching. Like Joseph, we will come to say, the enemy meant it for evil, but our God – the God of the resurrection – meant it for our good and the saving of many lives. The injustices and suffering in the world are beyond vast. Heartbreaking. Overwhelming. Mind boggling. You know this. This earth has deteriorated horrificly. And it was to this world that Jesus came. Thank you God for coming! And the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which shall be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born FOR YOU a Savior who is Christ the Lord!”. (Luke 2:10) His coming, his love, his pursuit, his triumph, his great goodness is the Christmas miracle that we celebrate; that opens our eyes, that keeps us breathing and moving forward. And so I decorate my house for Christmas and I still my heart to make room for the Prince of peace who has come and is coming again. I pray. I wait. I yearn. I ache. I hope. I believe. I ask. I seek. I bow. I worship. I surrender. I receive. Come Lord Jesus. Even so.
Stasi Eldredge
Doubt Is Not Humility
I don’t even remember the issue we were talking about—it had something to do with Christianity—but I do remember my friend’s response. “Gosh, I'm not really sure," he said. And I thought it a humble and gracious posture to take. Only, it's been five years now. And he's still saying, "I'm not really sure." He has landed in that place. Now I see what happened. He has chosen doubt—a posture very attractive and honored in our day. Doubt is “in.” Listen to how people (especially young adults) talk. “I don’t really know…I’m just sort of wrestling with things right now…you know, I’m not really sure….” And if, in the rare case, someone actually says what they believe, they quickly add, “But that’s just the way I see it.” As if confidence is a bad quality to have. Certainty is suspect these days. For one, it doesn’t seem “real,” or “authentic.” It’s human to doubt. So it seems more human to express doubt than certainty. We end up embracing doubt because it feels “true.” But there is also guilt by association. Dogmatic people—people certain they know what’s what—have done a lot of damage. Particularly dogmatic religious people. Good people don’t want anything to do with that, and so—by a leap of logic—they don’t want to be seen as having strong convictions. Certainty is not something they want to be associated with. I’m thinking of this quote by Alan Bloom; referring to a fundamental assumption the postmodern makes, he says, “The true believer is the real danger. The study of history and of culture teaches that all the world was mad in the past; men always thought they were right, and that led to wars, persecutions, slavery, xenophobia, racism, and chauvinism. The point is not to correct the mistakes and really be right; rather, it is not to think you are right at all.” And so Doubt, masquerading as humility, has become a virtue. A prerequisite for respect. People of strong conviction are suspect. Now, I appreciate the desire for humility and the fear of being dogmatic. But let us remember that conviction is not the enemy. As Chesterton said, "An open mind is really a mark of foolishness, like an open mouth. The object of opening the mind, as of opening the mouth, is to shut it again on something solid." Enter Jesus, who is always so wonderfully counter-cultural. He knows humility. But doubt (this will be a great surprise to many people) is not something Jesus holds in high esteem. “Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27). Hmm. I think we've stumbled onto another vital expression of not letting ourselves be corrupted by the world (James 1:27). We breathe this cultural air; we take in its assumptions. So let us remember this truth: Doubt is not a virtue. Doubt is not humility. Doubt is doubt. Jesus understands doubt, and he wants us to get past it, not embrace it, for heaven's sake.
John Eldredge
Peace with Hormones
Maybe hormones aren’t as bad as I think they are. Maybe they are my friend. I would like to declare a truce, better still, I’d like to make nice. To that end…a little note of appreciation to estrogen, testosterone, and progesterone. The likes of which make me crazy. Sometimes. But maybe I need to be thankful. No, really. Men, you can read this if you want but this baby is for women. Yay women. Go women! I have been getting my period for over forty years now. WHAT?!? Forty years. Geez am I old. Anyway, I have been getting my period since I was eleven years old. So then why am I so surprised when it comes? I have a killer headache for a day or two before the onset of my period. Certain places are tender. I want red meat. Preferably with cheese. Chocolate in large quantities would be good too. I have feelings…emotions…and then woa! OH! Well, that explains a lot. Who knew? Well, for one, my husband knew… When I am near or around, say close to menstruating, the world in general and my world in particular is a dark place. I have no friends, no joy and no hope. These symptoms I have come to recognize at least as passing. I make no huge decisions during these hours. It would be best if I did not come over to your house to your prayer meeting, sales meeting, party, whatever during these hours. I have learned this. But there also is some truth that surfaces in my heart when my hormones are raging. All of my feelings are not false. They are intensified. (This is the making nice, appreciating, hormones-aren’t-so-horrible part.) The injustices of the world beg attention, my attention. I am moved to act. This is when I write the editor or my Compassion child. Writing the oh so belated thank you notes happens now, too. The hurt I feel at being judged and misunderstood by others goes beyond irritation to sorrow. A sorrow that I know I share with every other human being. A sorrow that incites me to pray for others. During this time of the month, the desire I feel inside as a woman for relational intimacy rises and will not be quenched by anything other than relational intimacy. Not red meat. Not chocolate. Not even movie theater popcorn. And this is difficult remember because in these moments I have no friends, no joy, and no hope. During my cycle, I begin to wonder if I am always so self absorbed. Or is it merely my awareness that increases? My hormonal awareness of myself and others. (But mostly of myself…shoot.) It can become a time of grace. Really! It can! Extending it, offering it and receiving it. I turn to Jesus. And where did he go by the way? How far must I cry out for him to hear me? The faithful friend, the companion, the one who is closer than any other sometimes feels so dang far away. And then, hoorah, faith kicks in. Jesus didn’t go anywhere. Whether my estrogen level is off the charts or dipping below the equator, Jesus is right here!!! And HE GETS ME. Perfectly! All the time! He understands. Oh thank God. And he aches too. For me and with me. He feels deeply all the time. ALL THE TIME! Oh, to be that alive! I’m not sure I could take it. But I am growing in taking it. I am alive. With all the emotional roller coaster experiences and deepening faith that that entails. And perhaps I am never more keenly alive than when my hormones are raging. So thank you gang. Really. Truce. Today, right now, I look to Jesus. I ache for him. And I eagerly cry out for his return. Come Lord Jesus! And menopause coming maybe wouldn’t be so bad either. Told you this was for women.
Stasi Eldredge
Of Course
My son told me recently that at his Christian college a student has chosen to fly Buddhist prayer flags off the dorm balcony. Perfect. Of course they did. It is a classic picture of the culture at this moment. A self-revealing snapshot. Too many years ago to count, Alan Bloom came out with a celebrated (and prophetic) book called The Closing of the American Mind. In it, Bloom - a university professor - observed that the last value held by college students in this post modern world is tolerance. A value held passionately. Almost religiously. Those college students grew up, had children of their own, and shaped the culture we have at present. We are so steeped in the tolerance=compassion=human rights=all faiths have goodness to them=the important thing is to be sincere mindset now that a Christian student flying Buddhist prayer flags is met with this sort of reaction: "It's kinda cool." "It's not big deal." "It's a symbol of tolerance." "It's a way of standing with the oppressed Tibetan people." It is, in fact, very naive. The flags contain prayers (mantras) and symbols to gods other than Jesus Christ. They are, in fact, an invitation for demons to come and take roost. By your permission. But doesn't my saying so seem just a little...too obsessive? I mean, c'mon. Lighten up. As proof that we are so accustomed to the laid-back paganism of our times, notice than on the whole we are more uncomfortable with someone saying, "umm...that's demonic" than we are with a Christian student flying Buddhist prayer flags at a Christian college. It would be a very uncomfortable community exercise to ask, what does James 1:27 mean for this culture right now? "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world" (1:27). We are really, really big on the social justice part right now. That is super cool. Very "in." But we are unsure if we want to deal with the second half of the passage. That part is not so cool at the moment. So, the prayer flags summon away.
John Eldredge
What Do You Go By?
As a very young boy I was given the name “Little Craig” to distinguish me from the other “Craig” that lived across the street. Since he was two years older he was accurately called “Big Craig”. At such an early stage in life it was fitting; however, a couple of years later “Big Craig” the son of a horse racing jockey seemed to have the name I should have had. I hated being called “Little Craig” as I towered over “Big” Craig… Thank God he moved to “The Little Apple” when I was in Third Grade. In Junior High and High School my buds and I would spend every weekend or break we could patroling a teenage wasteland. We scrounged the local beach communities surfing and losing brain cells while living off gathered Coke bottles and 25 cent burritos at Taco Bell. I’m pretty fair of skin. I fried myself in the Southern California Sun and was named by a couple of my “good” friends “Tomato”… for obvious reasons. I hated that name. It always felt like a put down on a physical attribute I couldn’t change. In seminary I wanted the name “Doctor All-Wise-Theologian-Life-Changing-Verse-by-Verse-Bible Expositor”. Sometimes we never get the name we desired and later we’re glad that’s the case. Presently my corner of the world includes a “Goose”; “Senator” (a spiffy and sagely legal negotiator); and a “Rose” (a name God gave a woman in our community. There’s “Little Buster” (a name bestowed upon Morgan by “Big Buster”), I know a great cook some refer to as “Stewie” (a reference to Martha Stewart whom they say she cooks like).There’s a couple of “Ass Clowns”… so named in an online post by a critic. Ahhh… I almost forgot “Stink Eye” (I probably shouldn’t tell that story here!) There’s Kurt who’s been going by Pablo for 27 years (he flunked Spanish in 8th grade), “Jimbo” (His name is Jim… he battles with his weight and is also referred to as “Jumbo" by some). While in college I worked at a kids camp named “Indian Village” for a summer. The Staff each had an “Indian” name. I was “Smoking Buffalo” (because of clouds of buffalo colored emissions the food delivery truck I drove spewed). A young Gal I worked closely with had not yet been tagged with a name…. so one day she asked a group of 6th grade boys what her Indian name should be, they huddled, looked at her, huddled again an began laughing; breaking from the circle they bestowed upon her the name that stuck all summer… and ever since, “Moose Lips” (38 years later she’s a well adjusted grandmother who'll turn her head in a crowded mall to someone yelling out "Hey Moose Lips!"). I consider as friends a “Poet” putting heart and beauty into words in Oregon, a “Sasquatch” who’s changing lives in Pennsylvania, a “Prophet-Sage” from Palo “Alto and... when it comes to names, my personal favorite is a rat-sized mangy haired terrier mutt with bug eyes, a smoker’s bark and bluff charge named “Killer”. Everyone has been given a name or two. Some fit, some don’t; some names we bear are desired others embarrassing… sometimes crippling. Often our names become the script of our life. What names have you been given? When my first grand daughter was born the family counseled together to inquire about the name I wanted to go by as her grandfather. I decided I’d go by the name “Captain”, and so it was settled, Jacqueline Ruby would be the first of a quiver full of grandchildren to love, honor and respect me with the name “Captain”. There are names we desire and there are the names we’re given. My habit around Jacqueline Ruby was to surprise her by popping out from around a corner or from behind a couch with an engaging fatherly “Ah… Boo!” She’d laugh and with smiling eyes beg me to do it again and again. So, the story goes that while my forever and wonderful first born daughter is wiping the Gerber’s Mixed Vegetables and Chicken Liver food off Jacqueline’s chin as she sits in her High Chair, Jac points to my picture prominently centered on the fridge door and declares “Aboo!!” “Captain” may be the name someone else goes by but in the McConnell Clan I’m thrilled to be known as, and respond to “Aboo”. Now, let me add, though others make the connection, Jac had no knowledge of the character from Disney’s Jungle Book named “Aboo” who was a thin haired middle aged warrior-monkey with droopy eyes, odd sense of humor with a smoker’s laugh and a bluff charge also known as “Craig”. God too has a name for us. What do you go by? - Craig McConnell
CM
Craig McConnell
Healing the Past
I had a remarkable and unexpected opportunity this last weekend. I'd gone back to southern California to visit my aging parents. My dad is in a nursing home know and it was good to see him. My mom needed some help around their old house as well, and I was glad to be able to fix some things for her. But the unexpected gift came as I drove around the neighborhoods in which I grew up. I found myself praying through my past. The loneliness of my junior high years. The rebellion of my high school days. As I drove around I would remember a person or an event, and simply invite Jesus into it. It was extraordinarily redemptive. It felt like Jesus and I were walking back through all sorts of things from the past, and as we did I could feel the emotion or the old way of looking at things, and I could invite Christ into it to make it his own. I think God actually does this more often than we know. He'll bring up something that will trigger a memory - we might have a dream, or visit an old haunt of ours, we might see an old friend or sometimes all it takes is just a certain smell like cut grass or a donut shop and bam, we are back in some period of our life. In those moments, invite Jesus into it, into that period in your life. And linger there for a bit, allowing his Spirit to show you what to pray. I found myself asking his forgiveness for the sins of my youth (Psalm 25:7) and the cleansing of that felt very important for my life and freedom now, in the present. (So many of these things retain a kind of hold on us, decades later.) At other moments I found myself inviting Jesus into an old relationship and what I found there was his love re-writing my past, coming into it. But most of all, I found myself expressing gratitude for how he has truly saved me. The contrast of my life from then till now was stunning to me. Change and sanctification take place so gradually that we often don't see how far we've come until we look back. It is a powerful thing to redeem the past, bring it under the rule of Jesus and invite him to fill it. I think this is why he will bring it up in the present through some reminder of days gone by. When he does, invite Jesus into it, give it to him, let him heal or affirm or cleanse or redeem or return to you some gift of life he gave but you lost over time..
John Eldredge
Scoreboard!
A good friend of mine's son (let's call him Andy) is an excellent soccer player. He's gifted, he's talented and he works really, really hard at it. He began playing on local leagues as soon as he could run and boy howdy can this young man run! Andy's on the high school team now - a key player leading their team to play stronger and more consistently than in several years. You get the picture. This guy is good. At a recent game, the opponent (on Team B, for bad guys) directly facing Andy had a brilliant strategy to discourage him. Though Team B was losing and losing badly (9- 1), the player was hurling taunts endlessly at Andy. "You're not playing very well." "You're an embarrassment to your team." "Your coach is mad at you." "Your coach is going to take you out." On and on it went. Andy's response? He would say, "Scoreboard." That was his only reply to his opponent. Scoreboard. Look at the scoreboard. We are winning. Your words don't change that reality and they won't change that reality. I've got nothing to say to you. Andy had to stay strong in the game. He later confessed that staying in the truth was a battle. Rejecting the opponent's accusation and focusing on what was before him required both determination and stamina. Sound familiar? Our opponent is tireless at hurling accusations at us; at taunting us. "You're not doing this very well." "You're an embarrassment to the Body of Christ." "God is mad at you." "You're disqualified." On and on it can go. Our response is not to take in the accusation or even engage in the dialogue but just to say, "Look at the Cross". Jesus has won it all. For me. I am in Him. I am loved. I am secure. I am forgiven. Always. (THANK YOU,GOD!) Or else, maybe the next time the enemy's accusation comes our way, we can just say, "Scoreboard!".
Stasi Eldredge
Jesus Really
Stasi and I ran into an old acquaintance this last week. Someone we hadn't seen in what felt like eons. My reaction was somewhat surprising. I wanted to throw myself on the ground and thank Jesus for delivering us from that view of God. (Now, that would have been a little awkward to do in their presence. So, I waited till I got home.) By "that view" I mean a view of Jesus and Christianity that is so very widespread in the church. It goes something like this: You can't really know Jesus intimately. He is about more important things. But you must revere God from afar, because he is so high and lifted up and you are nothing. Humility is best expressed as self loathing. Godliness is available apart from intimacy with Jesus. It involves morality, mostly. But more so, holding the correct positions. Knowledge about God is mistaken for knowing God. Righteousness is purely external, behavioral. The heart is never to be looked at. Jesus is never someone you could hear laugh, or who would be concerned with the longings of your soul. In fact, Jesus isn't used much; "God" is the preferred person whom we address. Using Jesus is simply looked upon as too casual. I once held to that. And I shudder. As George MacDonald wrote, "Good souls many will one day be horrified at the things they now believe of God." You understand, I trust, that there are many views of Jesus out there in the church. Some are closer to the truth than others. You also understand, I hope, that a false view of Jesus is worse than no view, because if you think you hold the right thing you never go in search for him really. A dear friend heard a sermon recently that basically went like this: You can't really know Jesus, because he isn't like your friends. He is vastly different from us. I think the attempt was to invoke reverence. But the teaching is from hell. You can know Jesus intimately, better than your friends. Or what in the world was the incarnation for? Jesus came for the very purpose that we might know God. Be intimate with him. Everything else is a sideshow. And so the very best thing you could ever pray is "Jesus, I ask you for the real you; take away every false Christ and show me the real you."
John Eldredge
Burglarized
Lori, our two daughters (who were 8 and 11 at the time) and I were out mid-day doing something… Cheer leading practice? Shopping for wardrobe updating deals at GAP? Picking up NKOTB’s new CD? A little time on the beach? I don’t recall. Returning home I scrape a hub cap pulling the mini-van up to the front of our house and notice that our front door is open. Huh??? As I walk up the front walkway and then up to the front porch I'm suspicious, nervous and very confused. Something is wrong. There are moments when some event that is so outside our experience of life confronts us and freezes our brain’s processing ability. Zzzzzit... errrkit... buzz... shiiiii ...clunk… you have to reboot at break neck speed… What is this? Pillows by the front door… overturned chair… it wasn’t like that when we left was it? NO! Huh... what? I pause at the front of the door with a confused look that’s turning into one of shock-fear-rage… our home has been ransacked? Burglarized? I gasp in disbelief, shock… Why? When…. Are they still inside? I ask Lori to go in to check things out while I stay with the kids. I'm kidding!!! I walk in telling the family to stay curbside… I grab the first thing that’ll serve as a weapon; it happens to be a ruler sitting on a stand by the door… the house is trashed. I now know what the word violated means but I can’t come close to describing it. We call the police and take a first pass at damage assessment. All dresser drawers have been dumped, closets emptied, the floor is covered. The Stereo is gone. Lori’s jewelry is gone. It’s only a moment later that the weight of the loss hits Lori. She weeps deeply over her mother’s heirloom jewelry being stole… to the despoiling pillaging snake it’s a few quick bucks, to Lori it’s something of her mother she can still touch, it’s generations of memories taken forever. Vile marauders from hell! A bunch of stuff is gone. The final insult was that the creeps even took my 8 year old daughter’s pink piggy bank! (A small satisfaction came knowing that upon breaking open her porky bank the punk ass thief would only find some change and an I.O.U for most of the cash… I’d robbed it about a week earlier! Hey… there wasn’t an ATM close by!) A full inventory of all that’s been lost from any violation, robbery or otherwise takes much longer than you realize. We reported to our insurance company all we could materially identify but then a week later Lori says, “Honey, grab the camera as were walking out the door to go to a picnic”. I go to the closet where we keep the camera. It’s gone. Oh, they stole that too! A month later we’re having company over and are trying to find a silver platter… we’re looking everywhere accusing each other of not putting it where it belonged after its last use… Ahhh… the slim took that too. The police said the intruder was only in our home a few minutes but for a long, long season it seemed as if they were still there. Often it seemed like there were a dozen sleazy red beady eyes looking through the windows or from around a corner snickering at our loss, our pain and our fear. It was as if these pirating rodents were mocking the security and peace we once enjoyed as a family; celebrating their intrusion into our minds and setting into motion an anxiety every single time we return to our home. “Is it safe… is someone inside… have we been crapped on again? Are they prowling about, scheming to rob us of everything they haven’t already… or to steal all we’ve acquired since… our new stereo, camera… a silver tray or another night’s sleep?” I've often thought back on this trauma. It was horrible. And I realize it wasn't the first time nor the last. A lot got stolen from my childhood and youth through various wounds. Things like "family", innocence, identity, security, fathering, a whole lot of brain cells (circa 1967-1972)… so very much. I remember a poker game… several good friends sitting around playing poker having a beer and then something is said/implied… unintentionally it strikes a wound, a deep wound…assumptions and agreements are made. Those good friends haven’t played poker together in 6 years. Something got stolen. What's been stolen from you over the years? Recent accounts I've heard: A 12 year marriage. The husband’s wound and script for life leads him to the conclusion: “She’s too much work!” and his every attempt to love be strong, be present seems to have only failed. So, to preserve the “peace” he gives up the battle and messiness and goes passive, doesn’t care, and finds another lover on the internet or on a business trip. Something was lost, something stolen. A colleague at work who became a friend in all kinds of missions and mischief… leaves. The transition is hard but the commitment is to stay in touch… there’s too much history to walk away from. Something happens and he burns all his bridges. Every single one. Something prized, something special is stolen or lost. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. - John 10:10 The thief will take everything he can from you! The good news is that he can be stopped. He must be. And there is a life, that no matter what else gets taken, cannot be stolen from us. Ever. No way! - Craig McConnell
CM
Craig McConnell
Burritos
I love a good burrito. Warm, home-made tortilla, carnitas or barbacoa steeped in their own juices for hours, fresh salsa, rice, beans, guacamole - o man, I'm making myself hungry just talking about it. If you've had a really good burrito, you know what I mean. Here's the problem: you can get something called burritos at any gas station these days. They typically come frozen and you're supposed to put them in the microwave to resuscitate them. Now, they look like a burrito...kind of. They smell like a burrito...kind of. But they are not even close to the real thing. And yet, they are called "burritos." It says so right on the plastic package. Burrito. This is where we are with the Gospel now. You can pull into any church or ministry and be offered something called "the Gospel." And there's just enough Jesus words to make it sound like the Gospel...kind of. It looks like Christianity...kind of. It smells like Christianity...kind of. But it isn't even close to the real thing. And yet, it is packaged and marketed as Christianity. So here's a simple test: Does it do what the Scriptures say the Gospel will do? Does it heal the brokenhearted? Set captives free? Does it draw people into a genuine intimacy with God, where experiencing his presence is normal? Really? If not, dump it like a gas station burrito. Go get the real thing.
John Eldredge
It's in the Details
Last weekend was a Captivating retreat up at Frontier Ranch in Buena Vista, Colorado. It was, in every possible and impossible way, simply beautiful. God is SO faithful! Oh, how he loves it when his women pay such a cost in time, money, effort, battle...to gather to seek his heart. And he comes! He came gently, powerfully, heavily. And he came intimately. I'm just getting some stories in now...one woman whose favorite breakfast is french toast asked God if he would give her a special love gift of french toast for breakfast. How she smiled Sunday morning when she came in to the dining room to plates overflowing with french toast. Another woman was being wooed by Jesus to remember how close they had once been - how sweet their relationship - and inviting her back to his heart when we played her all time favorite worship song that held memories dear to her heart of her Lord. A song she hadn't heard in years. She wept. Actually, there are hundreds of stories. Literally. Women who so deeply longed to hear the voice of God in their spirit - and did. Felt his deep affection. Encountered his love. Worshipped him with a passion, intimacy and sweetness they had never experienced before. Will never be the same. He came for me in heart rocks. He's been wonderfully extravagant with them! He even gave me a heart cloud with wings on either side of it! I love how personal, how sweet his gifts to us are. How is he coming to you? Ask the Holy Spirit to open your eyes to see and receive his loving pursuit - his intimate gifts, just for you. He is a God of details. :-)
Stasi Eldredge
I'm Back!
hi gang. I'm back. From my sabbatical. (In case you were wondering "where the heck has he been?" I've been on sabbatical for the past several months.) It was really good. I was in desperate need of rest and restoration - physically, emotionally, spiritually. And I don't do rest well, so God had me get to the point where I simply had to break away. A few years ago I was watching a special on the Iditarod and was absolutely intriuged to learn about the sled dogs that can run such a ruthless race. That sled dogs are the most physically fit animal in the world. That they love to run, live to run and the problem with that is...they don't know when to stop. The men and women who win the Iditarod have calculated down to a science the best way to run their dogs. Now for the part that blew me away: they have discovered that the perfect formula is to rest the dogs more than they run them. (That was completely unnerving o a guy who loves to run, lives to run, and doesn't know best when to stop.) Of course, the dogs won't adopt this formula on their own. They have to have good masters who make them rest. Otherwise, they'd just run themselves ragged. (Hmmm. I am a sled dog.) It brought new meaning to the 23rd Psalm: He makes me lie down in green pastures, he restores my soul. We all want the restored soul part. But it only comes when we accept the lying down part. So, God makes us...if we will cooperate. Anyhow, that is where I've been. Seeking rest and restoration. And, its great to be back. I have SO much to share, I hope to get back into a regular rhythm of blogging. Meanwhile, where does your soul need restoration? And how are you seeking God's plan for that?
John Eldredge
Craig McConnell
Turning thirty (several years back) was an incredibly hard and pivotal time in my masculine journey. One interpretation of my life was that: things couldn’t be better. I have a beautiful wife, two remarkable kids, and meaningful work. But the deeper reality revealed disappointment. My life wasn’t where I thought it would be at thirty. I wasn’t all I hoped to be, or thought I should be. It started with a simple question to God. “God, what should a man’s life be about in the thirties? What should mine be about? What are the pitfalls?” No answer came. For two weeks I sought God and only received silence. And then came His response. “Make a list of men you respect and trust. Start with the oldest men you know and work backward. Put the question in front of those men. Go with ears to hear. I will speak to you.” Thus began a remarkable and rich expedition of the heart. At first I began sending out letters and gathering responses. Through letters, phone calls, and conversations over meals, kings and sages began to pour out their heart to me. Why did it surprise me? It had always been there in the Scriptures but I never “saw” it: Where no counsel is, the people fall; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety. My son, if you accept my words and store up my commands within you, turning your ear to wisdom and applying your heart to understanding… you will find the knowledge of God…Thus you will walk in the ways of good men. (Proverbs 11:14, 3, 2:20) The ancient proverbs say, “When the student is ready the master will appear.” Little did I know I was coming to the Father as a student, and he responded as a teacher. Just as the sacred scriptures promise, I have begun a journey on a path of life, initiation, restoration and discipleship. Over living out the fruit of these conversations with older men, the blood, sweat and tears materialized into 75 pages of counsel. I feel compelled to share what I’ve learned with other men in their thirties that are after the gold that is available to them, from the Heart of God. Through the wild and supernatural ways of the Father leading, he called my bluff and invited me to lead a retreat designed exclusively for world changing men in their thirties who wanted more. And from that, this blog was born. My hope is to continue to share the treasures I have found, through life giving pieces over time. Below is a piece of counsel brought to me (over a cigar, laughter and tears) by my good friend, mentor and supervisor Craig McConnell. I don’t think there is a man in this world that gives me more shit. But the good news is, he makes up for it every once in a while with a bit of wisdom here and there. And even when all else fails, at least he buys me beers… You can learn much more from him and connect with him through his blog. What I appreciate is that much of what he proposed was framed as sets of paradoxes in stable tension. His suggestion was that the thirties has much to do about acknowledging and living in these tensions. Craig and I have spent many hours of many days unpacking these ideas, living them out in the messy realities of daily life, and most importantly, discovering together the divine truth behind them. I want to share it with you, for your enjoyment, to take to your Father, to ponder over time. Like a great wine these simple words have aged well, getting richer by the year. Thanks Craig for believing in me. Thanks for believing in us… men in their thirties.
CM
Craig McConnell
A Convalescent Hospital
My husband’s father is in a convalescent hospital. He believes he is at home. Believing this puts his heart at rest. I just got back from spending a week visiting Bob. John’s mom was on a much needed respite and well, it’s a long story but for part of the time, to put her own heart at ease, she needed me to come. Visit Bob. Play cards. Water her plants. Bring in her paper. Make sure he was okay. I was so happy to be able to do a little something for her but honestly, a bit apprehensive about my time with Bob; aka Robert, Papa, Mr. Eldredge. Would he know who I was? This man who has greeted me for the last thirty years with “Hello Gorgeous!” regardless of my appearance? Probably not. My time was hard, good, painful, exhausting, poignant and holy. We did play cards. We did puzzles. One day I fed him lunch and on another day he knew who I was. There were some tricky moments involving the toilet. There were times when he asked, “What do I do now?” and times when he winked at me mischievously over a good poker hand. My heart broke. I don’t think you can visit a convalescent hospital and not have your heart break. I was in awe of the care givers…of the friends and relatives of other patients that were there when I came and still there when I left. I was grieved by the loss…of vitality, communication, health, memory. And I was keenly aware of what was not lost. Dignity. In Bob’s most vulnerable moments, he possessed his dignity. The same dignity I saw and felt in every single person there – patient and health worker and visitor alike. Regardless of their state. There is something precious about being in need. Something intangibly good about serving one who is in need. My father in law lives for now in a little hospital in a quiet neighborhood filled with sparsely decorated rooms furnished with hospital beds and wheelchairs, where most of the “tenants” will never leave. It is a home turned hospital where confusion resides next to suffering and soft food is served with mercy. I am so thankful to have had the time with him. I am utterly spent from it. And I was only there 8 days. Now I know a bit better how to pray.
Stasi Eldredge
The End of Summer
“Love to you as you embrace and mourn your changes today.” This was the closing sentence to a little note I received via email today. It caught me. Yes. That is what I want and need to do. I can’t pretend the changes aren’t happening. I don’t want to refuse them and lose what God has for me. But I do mourn them. I am both sad and grateful. The end of summer brings with it not only back to school sales, an abundance of grasshoppers and the final burst of glory via the prolific sunflowers that fill every open space but many goodbyes. I do not like goodbyes. Not at all. I like hellos. To me, one of the pleasures of Heaven is that it will be one big HELLO! No separations of any kind ever again. I just returned home from driving our second son, Blaine, off to college. Our oldest, Sam, left a few weeks ago as he is a senior now and a Resident Assistant this year and had training to attend. An earlier goodbye. I didn’t even cry. I’m getting better at this (I thought). I didn’t cry when I said goodbye to Blaine either! I think it helped both of them to be free from feeling that their growing up is causing their mother pain. But I will confess that when I left him and went inside my hotel room, I collapsed on the floor and sobbed. For quite a while. Pictures flashed through my mind of my sons in elementary school – in class photos – during family hikes – laughing – even some hard moments. Tow headed. Curly headed. Little boys. I am not the mother of little boys any more. My sons are young men. All three of them. And I love them. And I am grateful to God both for who they are and for who they are becoming. I am actually glad for them and the season of life that they are in. But dang. Oh just to be able to hold on to a moment for longer than a moment. I was intentional this summer to be present to the moment. To be here. To be here now and to drink it all in. That was a good choice. Even so, I am increasingly looking forward to Heaven…to time out of time, to no separation, no misunderstanding, no disunity, and no more goodbyes. But for now, I bless my sons. And I’m going to cry a little bit more. And yes, embrace and mourn my changes today.
Stasi Eldredge
A Park Bench
Over the last several months I hit a bottom, probably not The Bottom, but a true and new bottom for me… an immobilizing of my heart, passion, soul, relationships and spirit. I feared my state. I could share the back story but that’s not the story. This is the story… I’m at my desk on the computer trying to paddle upstream without a paddle and accomplish something that would bring a little relief or validation to my soul when a Staff Member steps in to say something about something and disrupts my "Sisyphean challenge" to accomplish anything that might pass as a contribution to the ministry of Wild at Heart.* I think she was sent by God to pierce the fog of my life and leave behind some sort of a “grace-bomb” with a fuse set to go off two minutes after she exited. She exited and before I could re-enter my striving to be fruitful, I had an unsolicited and seemingly random vision or picture from God. Here it is… I’m sitting on a park bench stretched out like a warped board slouched with my legs extended out in front of me and my head resting on the bench’s back railing. It’s a beautiful park with large grassy areas separated by a walkway slaloming between huge mature shade trees. I’m checked out, not really present staring off straight ahead over the horizon at nothing. Though I’m cognizant of my surroundings there is no conscious thought. I was in that state in which you don’t ever wink or swallow, there’s no measurable brain activity and barely a pulse… you are alive but not present. That’s me! Somehow this old bench is bearing all my weight and the shit-load of all that’s weighing on me. I am certifiably detached from life. It’s mid-day and there’s a warm breeze blowing just enough to rustle the leaves of the Cottonwood that’s shading me. The scene cries summer with the air full of pollen, gnat tornadoes and the musty scent of fresh cut grass. In the background is the sound of sprinklers machine gunning water over a flower bed… chit-chit-chit-chit-chitachitachitchit. Straight ahead, a little to the left, is an old park table with four young women enjoying their Grande coffees and the reunion they’re having. To the right is a young brother and sister on their bikes playing some form of follow the leader where the leader tries to lose the follower (kinda of like the Pastor I worked under at a Southern California Mega-Church). Almost 90 degrees to my left a bunch of pigeons are trying to enforce a clear pecking order while scrambling to eat a handful of feed someone threw out for them. I’m taking this all in but unmoved by any of it. It’s clinical; I’m an observer of life but not a participant in it. As my vision pans right, back from the birds to resume my vigilant dazed and confused gape I notice or sense something peripherally… right next to me. It’s a person. I can’t hide my being startled by this out-of-no-where stranger who’s suddenly sitting eight inches from me on our shared little bench. It’s a man, an older man with weathered but not leathered skin. Actually it’s God. Oh my God, it is God! I don’t know how I knew, but I knew (it’s kinda like living in Los Angeles and passing one of a gazillion Mexican restaurants… you intuitively know that this one serves a great combination plate though you’ve never seen it, been in it or heard of it. You just know!). Now this whole picture/vision seemed to be unfolding in a millisecond and in the next millisecond I notice my bench friend, The One True and Eternal, Just and Holy, Powerful and All Knowing God hasn’t yet said a word or even made eye contact with me. Furthermore, like me, he is slouched and staring straight ahead. And then I notice there’s a tear forming and then falls from the corner of his eye. Huh… he’s very human, common… real. Fully God truly man. One of the things that struck me as odd throughout this picture or vision is that my posture doesn’t change, I don’t sit up straight on the bench or fall on my face… my demeanor and countenance remain the same. Though God is stretched out eight inches from me I am, outwardly unfazed! Equally as unexpected is that he’s un animated, silently slouched on a park bench apparently killing time. If you were to have walked by us and seen us you may have muttered under your breath the commentary, “Get a life!” There we were, the two of us sharing a bench for what felt like hours with nothing said, no eye contact… just sitting and staring off into nowhere. His tear and silence were the most stunning part of the picture. He didn’t say anything?! He was silent and that was okay. That he said nothing said so much. He was just there, next to me… with me... and I was in his presence and... he’s crying. He was silent, but his tears said everything. From his tear I knew that He knows all that I’m facing: the losses and pain; the struggles and terrors; my failures and ache to live and love well. I could tell He knew, and knowing that he knew everything about me, my life and this season… brought a tear to his eye. He’s crying with me, for me, over me. The tear is everything! He didn’t offer affirmation with deeply validating words, “Craig, you have lived so well in this difficult season. Well done my son… you’re so on the right track… I love you! Keep it up”. That he didn’t offer that seemed to say I didn’t need it. Wow! He didn’t call me out either. There was no exposing of another deeply rooted profoundly governing historic and systemic sin that explains my struggle to live and love well from a heart of true adoration and worship of God. That he didn’t go there seemed to say so much. So, so very much. Apparently there was something more important than going over all of that. I cannot explain all this picture/vision of God and I sharing a park bench meant and had for me, but a mere moment in the presence of God felt as if time stood still… It was as if I was in his presence for hours and hours. And in those moments everything lifted. In his presence I was in a zero-gravity-of-the-soul state. The poundage, burden, pressure… the crushing of heart, soul, spirit and desire was lifted. There was no sin; no idolatry or fear; no loss or tears: every desire we have in life-this-side-of-heaven was gone… the longings and groaning for life and all we were created to have were, in his presence satisfied. Nothing lacking, nothing missing, nothing wanted… nothing but pure, full, expansive and deep satisfaction, joy… life itself is what I had in his presence. The whole “My burden is light” thing made sense for the first time ever. With the weight I carry, that you carry, lifted we can breathe, live, laugh, worship, dance, love… In his presence is life, everything changes because you are in His presence. Well, as it always does in the here-and-now the picture, the vision these moments with God transitioned... it ended and I was sitting alone in my broken desk chair like any man whom God has visited. Stunned, surprised, wanting to fall on my face in worship… I spent the next hour and then hours over the next week unpacking the beauty, power, affirmation, hope and life of these moments. Almost immediately I was aware that while nothing had changed with my life everything had changed with life. My cancer hasn’t disappeared, nor the anger a couple dozen people have so powerfully expressed toward me, my pesky neighbor hasn’t moved, the financial issues remain, my internal battle of withdrawing continues, an old friend still prefers being an ex-friend and my freaking car is now acting up. Nothing has changed with difficult circumstances and challenging relationships of my life. But having been on that bench and experiencing all that comes in being in his presence I have been introduced to something very new, though I’ve probably taught it eloquently for years... Being in the presence of God changes everything. Everything! You do not see life the same, in his presence. The very, very real troubles of life look very, very different in his presence. Somehow, in his presence worry, fear, hatred, weakness and pain cannot exist. You see yourself most clearly in his presence. Everything I yearn for in a world that is so violent, parched, deceptive and unforgiving is found in the presence of God. (I have often sought God’s words, voice, counsel, understanding, guidance and validation. Each of those are valid and necessary pursuits to go to God with. What’s new for me, in this season is to simply pursue him and all the other things will be taken care of). I can't tell you where I spend most of my time but it isn't in the presence of God... I can tell you that one moment on a park bench with him is better than a thousand elsewhere. Oh God, extend the times we're together. - Craig McConnell * Note: Some of my best friends have an eye for grammar that I lack. While I may leave them breathless, at times, from my inclination for run-on sentences, I still maintain that a good winding is a legitimate literary style.
CM
Craig McConnell