I have launched a side-blog that is called Very Short Stories.  These are twitter length short stories and I will probably update them a bit more regularly than this blog.

So without further ado here is the first entry: The Curve

My wife, Alicia, and I traveled to St. Louis yesterday to attend our friends Elizabeth's and Michael's wedding.  My wife is shooting some candid photos and helping out with her creative super powers.  I will be shooting the video of the wedding and am providing general handy man services.

Alicia wanted me to hang a poster in the gym/reception area, and as I was standing high on some really janky rolling stairs unit I saw a shadow flitter out of the corner of my eye.  It is a well known fact that there has to be some element of crazy on a wedding day.  The first thing that ran through my mind was, "I sure hope that wasn't a bat."  The only thing worse than a bird flying around is a freakishly frightened animal with both talons and razor sharp teeth that have little other purpose than to transfer and concentrate all of the illness inside of millions of bugs and then insert it into your body.

Luck would have it that it was only a bird, a frightened bird that seemed to do nothing but fly around and wonder how in the world it ended up where it was.  Some of the girls and Elizabeth were getting some food ready in the kitchen for the reception, and prepping to do the flower arrangements.  They provided me with a hand towel with which I proceeded to try and capture the bird Steve Erwin style, crawling under tables after it, etc.  Eventually though it found the open door to the kitchen where Elizabeth and Alicia were and started flying around and around, at one point it landed on Elizabeth's hair (still in curlers at this point).  Finally it settled down on this picture frame, and I was able to pounce on it with the towel and gently hold it.  There was a door that led from the kitchen and into a small lounge and then a patio door to the outside world.  I was able to release the bird safely and it flew into some nearby trees.

Being a guy I was pretty proud of myself.  It's not like I shot a bull elk or a bear while fending off a pack of ravenous wolves and a really feisty badger.  In our modern world anything that connects a man into his inner warrior is something to be lauded, even if it was only catching a 3 ounce female purple finch.

Warning, this video is not for the faint of heart....

(HT: The Daily Dish)

Today there are countless Iranians protesting, and some dying for the right to have their voice counted in free and fair elections.  I am not of any illusionary belief that democracy is a God ordained institution, however it is by far the best thing humans have ever come up with for self-governance and it sure beats the theocratic fascism that Iran's conservative Muslim leaders are now fully revealed to be in favor of.

I have friends that have served bravely in the military and they are willing to die for their country and fellow citizens; even to die for another country and her citizens.  The earliest Christians and the underground church today are persecuted and martyred for their faith.  But is it really worth dying for?

The question of death and life and viewing some measure of worth as being associated with it is an interesting phenomena.  Is your earthly existence less valuable than your right to vote?  Is your hand being intact worth some tangible amount which once is met you agree to have it lobbed off?  Is there anyway a well fed white mid-westerner whose most dangerous experience was a brush with a 5th grader on the tetherball court after recess can identify with and say that they would indeed die for anything?

The things worth dying for are often identified as existing 'outside' of ourselves, they are bigger than our own footprint.  Will we die to save the life of another?  Will we throw ourselves on the grenade tossed before our friends?  Will we stand in front of the tanks and bullets thrown at us by extremist governments with terroristic visions of domination?

Do we have a faith in a God that sent a son that had something valuable to do, something worth being killed for?  Is the hope of reconciliation of God and his creation worth dying for?  I ask these questions because I don't think most Christians serve that God.  They have faith in the God of the Sunday morning concert, the God of the felt needs, the God of the 'feed me' consumption of targeted Christonomic Americanism.  That is surely not something worth dying for, because there is nothing 'outside' of ourselves to die for.  That is a Christian faith that is personalized, and internalized.  It is filtered, packaged, and made 'just for you' so that you can feel as though you are somehow being Christian by listening to it, reading it, or watching it.  That is the ingrown and inbred faith of 'Christian Yellowbooks' and only letting your kids play with other Christian kids.  It is a faith that is stained with red, white, and blue.  It is a farce, a false religion, a heretic gospel, and I won't die for it.

So what will I die for?  I will die for a Christ that is fully God and fully man, that was really born of a virgin, that was really a historical person, that really died on a cross, and really raised from the dead and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty!  I will die for nothing less.  I will die for a faith that causes me to embrace a radical and trinitarian love that is eternally focused on the well-being of others at the expense of my flesh.  I will die for a faith that transcends consumerism.  I will die for a faith in which all I am and all I do is but worthless unless it is bathed in the shadow of the cross.  I will die for a faith with teeth, that stands up for it's beliefs in the face of syncretism and pluralistic pandering to a culture bent on diluting everything to a pale grey.  And in paradox I will only die for a faith that is so radical in it's love for the other that we will be accused of being drunkards and harlots, sinners and tax collectors.  In short I will die for nothing less than the Kingdom of God come to earth through the incarnated hands of Jesus Christ.

Do you have something worth dying for?  If you don't then what are you living for?

If, after my lack of writing, you are still subscribed to this blog than I say thank you.  Let me bring some context to my pause.

In my life I tend to routinely go through times of learning, processing, and production.  I have been spending the last few months learning and processing quite a few things that I am sure I will have to 'get out there' in some form soon.

That being said, there is only so much time in the day, and blogging has fallen down the list as I have intently focused on cultivating my relationship with my wife, kids, etc.

On a leadership side of things, I am a little more than half-way through a sabbatical from doing anything other than being present at Trinity Family.  I appreciate everyone for respecting my decision to pull-back, re-evaluate, and in the coming weeks re-emerge in a different direction.  While I have greatly enjoyed and been challenged to grow as part of the leadership these last two years it had the ironic side effect of distracting me from my relationship with God and my family.  As passionate as God is about his kingdom, I reject a mentality and work ethic that teaches an unhealthy balance in it's leadership.  God built us for relationships first and formost; the politics of leadership, and putting on a fancy show on Sundays are pretty far down the list in my book these days when it comes to where we need to be headed as a church.

So grace and peace to all of you.

Some nights as I am putting my three year old son to bed and we have said our prayers he gently asks me, "tell me a story about you a little boy."  To be honest it's hard to think of stories sometime that I think he will find entertaining, or interesting.

Maybe the first time I rode a bike solo, or the time me and my mom went innertubing on a snowy hill on the backside of Pike's Peak.  The time my dad, cousin and I climbed to crater lake.  Once I told him about trying to steady myself against a fall during a hike in the backwoods of the Rocky Mountains only to plant my hand squarely on a cactus.  The time I lifted the front handle bars of my bike off of the ground to jump a curb and the front wheel fell clean off.  There was the time me and the neighbor boy down the alley walked the 5 blocks to 7-Eleven across main street and played Altered Beast forever, which was against the rules due to the distance and the 5 lane main street crossing.

There are stories I would rather not share too.  The time I got punched in the gut so hard all the wind was drove out of me and I fell backwards over myself.  The time in elementary school I threw a rock in anger at the third grade girl that wouldn't leave me alone and it cut her eye.

My son loves all of the stories.  He loves knowing that I was once like him.  He loves the connection to some place in our family history; that even before he was there was a story giving his life meaning and context.

I remember standing outside of the Nazarene Church in Longmont, Colorado at the age of ten.  I was looking into the blue sky and playing with my friends Andy, Andrew and Jason.  The thought crossed my mind, "only six more years until I can drive a car."  I was in a hurry to grow up, to taste the freedom that age brings.  But as I grow older it's hard not to envy my son and his childhood.  To tell him to remain a little boy for as long as he possibly can.  To play with hotwheels and legos, and eat too many donuts when mommy and daddy aren't watching closely.

Just like the clear as day memory from when I was ten, a memory over 20 years old, my son will have his own memories and his own stories.  When he has a son or a daughter I have no doubt that some night he will recount, 'Stories about he was a little boy."  The legacy and story, the narrative will carry on.  It will continue to provide context and meaning to my grandchildren, their children, and the ones after that.

What are the stories we remember?  What are the stories we would rather forget?  What is the legacy we leave and how will the stories of our childhood be remembered by future generations?