Jerome Daley's Blog, page 5

Shoshin.

I’m always looking for convergences…and I experienced one today. First, Kellie sent me a song to listen to: “You are Worthy” by one of our favorite artists, Will Reagan. One of his lyrics says, “I’m just beginning to love you. I’m just beginning to know you.” Do you relate to that? In my better moments, that’s exactly how I feel! I’ve spent 53 years seeking to know and love God—and I am literally just beginning.

The second event came in re-reading one of my favorite books, Soul Making: The Desert Way of Spirituality. Author Alan Jones tells of his visit to the Coptic monastery of Saint Macarius, founded in AD 360 between Cairo and Alexandria, Egypt. His host Father Jeremiah took delight in sharing food and gifts and a story. Reportedly, one of the young men approached Marcarius back in the day, “Abba, tell us about being a monk.” The aged saint replied, “Ah, I’m not a monk myself, but I have seen them.” To which Father Jeremiah quipped, “I am not yet a Christian, but I have seen them!”

There is something about the authentic humility of knowing ourselves as true beginners—in faith and in life, no matter our age or experience—that positions us for revelation…and relationship. I think it’s a taste of the Great Mystery that brings me to my knees: something so vast and beautiful that I can feel the awe of it but scarcely even describe the experience.

Maybe it’s a bit like walking out on the beach (where I am visiting now), looking out across the swells, and saying, I know the sea…but all we’ve done is waded into the shallows or played in the waves. Yes, we have tasted a precious bit—but we hardly know the 320 million cubic miles that make up the oceans and their treasures.

The Zen tradition has a word for this, Shoshin, usually translated as “beginner’s mind.” It’s an attitude of openness, eagerness, and lack of preconceptions—the qualities that describe a beginner. Or a child.

And “child” is exactly the word Jesus used to describe this quality. All three synoptic gospels record Jesus’ mysterious insight: “Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” Did anyone listening to him understand that our access to the life of God is not a matter of accumulating knowledge but of a playful, enthusiastic delight in encounter?

Jesus got more explicit in a public prayer, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children” (Mt. 11:25). And he worked the concept out in more personal fashion in conversation with Nicodemus, the educated but curious Pharisee. He stumped the scholar with talk of being “born again,” of starting over in the school of the Spirit. Again…and again…and again.

Many believers make the mistake of reducing “born again” to a singular event, yet this is meant to be a way of being, a way of life. A constant starting afresh in the newness of spiritual discovery. Are you ready to be a child again?

 

ThriveTip

Take everything you think you know about God and yourself and this world, and learn to hold it loosely, expecting God to surprise and astound you…and even turn what you think on its head. There are only two alternatives to life on this earth: fossilizing internally in the certainty of all you believe, or actually growing and changing in constant revelation from a teachable heart. Lord, grant me the latter!

Takeaway

Embrace the simplicity of a chid.

Narratives.

Kellie and I were driving the mountain road between Damascus, VA and our home in Boone, NC recently when a motorcycle approaching from the other direction started waving his hand in an up-and-down motion, the classic symbol for slow down. Kellie responded first, “What’s he talking about—I’m driving the speed limit!” I responded next, “He’s probably warning us that something is in the road ahead; we need to keep a sharp eye out.”

“Or he could just be a control freak,” Kellie offered next.

“Or there could be a police car ahead with a radar gun,” I suggested.

And then we both laughed because it was such a classic example of our personality narratives in action. By personality Kellie is a challenger, so her instinctive response to an obstacle is to speed up! It’s a beautiful blend of confidence and courage that is generally aimed toward something that feels unjust or oppressive. By contrast, my personality is marked by caution and community-building, so when I run up on an obstacle, I definitely tend to slow down, assess for risks, and try to herd everyone together for protection. There’s a beauty to that too—and I’m starting to learn to appreciate my strengths (and even my weaknesses) after so many years.

Have you noticed the immense truth here? None of us confronts a situation unbiased! We all see through a personality-filter that colors our perception of reality. The transition from perception to conclusion internally is so fast and so transparent, that we generally think we see things the way they really are. But here’s the truth:

We see things the way we really are.

And this is crucial to recognize so we can learn to pause long enough to notice our filter. It’s not that we have to remove the filter, and I’m pretty sure that’s not even possible…but what I also know is that it is possible to get in touch with our propensities and defaults enough to question our own conclusions. And perhaps draw in some other perspectives before we attach too tightly to what we assume is true.

Circumstances happen to us every day—conversations, activities, encounters. Some we instigate and some are instigated by others that affect us. Events are just events…until we apply meaning to them. We link our perceptions of an event and the people involved, of ourselves and of God, and then we create a story that interprets those circumstances and attempts to attach meaning. So we walk away from any given circumstance, and we evaluate whether it as good or bad or somewhere in between based on our internal narratives. And then we generally think that the narratives we have woven are the truth. This is a mistake.

Usually our narratives contain part of the truth. By definition, our narratives never contain all the truth. And sometimes our narratives don’t contain any of the truth! Can you see how that works?

This is why folks sometimes talk in terms that drive evangelicals nuts, talking about “my truth” and “your truth.” Truth is truth!, they proclaim. It’s objective and not up to you to decide!

Well, yes and no. I believe that truth really is objective, a fixed set of points that are trustworthy and established. And I am also convinced that none of us has access to the whole array. “For now we see through a glass, darkly,” Paul observes (1 Cor 13:12), and I would have to agree. So does this place us all on shaky ground? Not so much as we’ll see below, but it should introduce some humility and the awareness that we need each other to get the whole picture.

If it’s not our grasp on objective truth that secures us, then what does? It is our grasp on a Person—or rather the experience of being grasped by God that secures us! Not even the scriptures can secure us because although they are true, our perception of the truth in them is once again quite limited, as any student of church history can attest. The differences in Bible interpretation over the centuries have covered a great spectrum, by equally committed and learned followers of Christ. The scriptures are a tremendous gift of God, but only our relationship with God has the power to secure our lives, which is an enormous relief. The alternative is that we have to perceive it all correctly and interpret it all perfectly, and I dare say no one is up to that task.

Kellie and I never did discover what that motorcycle guy was trying to tell us, but it was a great reminder of the personality filters we apply to our experience of reality. It’s not just personality, by the way; we also carry filters based on culture, experience, and generation to name a few…but those will have to wait for another post.

 

ThriveTip

Do you know what your personality filters are? If not, try exploring your type on the Enneagram or some other assessment. Or simply have an entertaining conversation with your spouse on the topic! Above all, let’s learn not to take ourselves quite so seriously nor our perceptions quite so definitively.

Takeaway

Keep exploring your perception filters.

Lean in.

I woke up a couple mornings ago with a vivid recollection of a dream; the details were already fuzzy, but the emotional content remained strong. I was among a small group of people, and we were being asked to consider the problem of homelessness together. I found myself backing away internally, feeling overwhelmed by the scope of the problem and inadequate to offer any solutions.

But the facilitator, sensing my reluctance, urged me to stay lean in. “If you’re just willing to hold the problem wholeheartedly, to feel the pain and tension embedded in this crisis, and to feel your own vulnerability in the face of the brokenness it represents…it will begin to change you.” And I woke up.

Life is chock full of painful situations. Perhaps not all operate at the same scale as homelessness, but we are confronted by them nevertheless. An unsatisfying career, a broken relationship, a dying relative, a painful dynamic with your spouse that you can’t seem to fix. A long list of sufferings, small and large, parades in front of our lives day by day…and that’s before we get to the tidal wave of pain reported by newscasters. What to do?

The more personal and perplexing the problem, the more we are tempted to distance ourselves from it emotionally. It’s human nature—and we’re good at finding ways to dodge the uncomfortable feelings they elicit. We jump back into the familiar demands of work; we distract ourselves with the next episode on Netflix; we may reach for an extra shot of whiskey or an elicit relationship…all to avoid a source of pain.

For myself that morning, the pain point was a difficult relationship where I felt a conflux of negative emotions from powerlessness to frustration to an almost panicky urge to flee. And into that anxious space I felt God appeal to my heart: don't run away, don’t resist. Instead lean in! Pain will be your teacher if you allow it.

I began to look at the hard questions: What is it about me that makes this relationship so difficult? How is my false self rising in response to anxiety? What would a true self response look like? How does God want to form something good in me out of this painful situation? 

And it happened. As a result of leaning in, I felt God deepening my capacity for compassion, offloading false responsibilities, and embracing a wider scope of grace—both for myself and for others. And none of that might have transpired without the painful situation I was so eager to avoid.

 

ThriveTip

Ready to try this for yourself? At any moment in time, there is probably more than one painful situation confronting your soul. Pick one. In fact, pick the one that you are most inclined to resist. What would it look like to “lean in” to that situation? What is the question God is asking you about it? Where is the life and the learning in this dilemma—how can it be your teacher?

Takeaway

Don’t run away from the pain.

Oxygen.

I aspire to live each day of my life out of three core convictions: 1) That my identity and worth flow from being lavishly loved by God, 2) That my security is grounded in the abundance of God’s provision for every need, and 3) That God’s power to work all for good allows me to trust and surrender to whatever is given in each circumstance. Pretty much everything I am writing or speaking these days is infused with these simple but profound truths.

I was running (slowly) up a mountain yesterday…and breathing was much on my mind. Years ago a colleague of mine would frequently use a metaphor to describe the abundance that surrounds us every day. He would say, How many of you wake up in the morning worried that there won’t be enough oxygen to breath that day? It was a humorous and effective lesson: everything we really need is available to us. “Daily bread,” right?

As I was running, however, I became keenly aware of every runner’s reality—the direct relationship between your ability to access oxygen…and the pace you’re trying to keep. It felt like an extension of my friend’s old storyline. Is there enough oxygen to breath? Absolutely…if (and this is a big if) you are running at the right pace. And the converse is also true: If you’re not getting enough oxygen, then you’re probably running at the wrong pace! As in, faster than you are meant to go.

So how do we even know what is the “right” pace or the “wrong” pace? Often we try to set our pace by the example of those around us, particularly those we admire. But this is problematic since, just as there are no two physiologies the same, neither are there two souls the same. Pacing is a very personal matter, and comparisons with others aren’t terribly helpful in the running of our daily lives.

Okay, so if pacing is personal, the question still remains—What’s the right pace for me? And the answer—as it occurred to me on the mountain yesterday—is deceptively simple. Your personal pace should match your ability to take in the oxygen. In other words the supply of spiritual, emotional, relational, financial (etc) resources available to you in this present moment must be sufficient for what you are trying to accomplish. And if they are not, you’re simply running too fast and you need to slow down until that equilibrium is established.

Moving fast is the idol of our current culture and isn’t likely to change anytime soon, so if you have any motivation or vision in your life at all, you’re going to feel the temptation to outrun your resources. I’m reminded of a line from the cherished Psalm 23, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.” What a powerful image! Like puppies, these two qualities that symbolize God’s abundance are following you everywhere you go. But…you can outrun them. Move at too quick a pace, and you distance yourself from accessing the goodness and mercy your soul craves. Not enough oxygen. (Sorry for mixing my metaphors.)

What do you think about your pace right now? Too slow? Too fast? Or is it Goldilocks—just right? Seriously, how is your oxygen working for you?

Honestly I had to admit last week that my air was too thin. I was not thriving. I was outpacing my oxygen; the provision was there but I couldn’t access it because I was trying to do too much. Move too fast. It was humbling, but I had to tell my individual clients that I was taking the month of June off from coaching in order to recalibrate my pace. I can’t help them thrive if I’m not thriving myself. And the same is true for you, whatever your context: If you’re not getting enough oxygen, you can’t empower those around you who depend on you.

When you’re running physically, this reality self-calibrates. Once we get beyond our ability to metabolize our oxygen, we will slow down! Your body will enforce it. In life and leadership this truth self-calibrates as well…but it takes a little longer. Eventually we will experience a breakdown of some kind—emotionally, spiritually, relationally. So if we want to avoid that kind of damage, we have to pay attention.

Paying attention is the first and most vital spiritual practice of life. Running the mountain yesterday was a great opportunity to pay attention to body and soul. What will you do to pay attention to your oxygen level today?

 

ThriveTip

Grab your journal and take an hour in a quiet, beautiful location—maybe a local park or retreat center. If you can’t snag an hour today, put it on your calendar now for sometime this week. Talk with God about how you are or aren’t thriving at your current activity level. Write down your insights along with any adjustments you might need to make to your pace. Remind yourself of the Big Three: You are beloved, There is enough, and You can surrender to God.

Takeaway

Don’t outrun your oxygen.

Gentle.

Some mornings my eyes flutter open at the usual time, and I’m ready. Other mornings the eyes feel glued shut and body immovable. Yesterday was one of those…when Kellie walked into the bedroom (yes, she was already up) and said, Ashley has a flat tire and can’t get to work and Jeromy is already at work. Can you go help her? Ah, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak…

Last night Kellie and I had our usual Daily Examen where we sit down with a glass of wine and look back over the course of the day for the movements of God. In all the ups and downs of the day, how was God showing up…and how were we showing up? The unexamined life is not worth living was Socrates’ famous quote. I’d put it this way: Paying attention to your life IS life. Not paying attention is to sleep through your life.

After I got Ashley’s tire changed—which involved a cinder block and a sledge hammer by the way—she was trying to buckle our grandson Briar into the car seat in my Jeep. And Briar was having none of it! Usually all smiles and delight, he turned into a wriggling fuss monster. (After all, he is almost two.) As I watched, I felt my back stiffen. Ashley was an hour late to work and didn’t have time for this nonsense. I wanted to—gently but firmly—force his little arms into the straps and let him know who was boss. Heartwarming, isn’t it. I’m usually a better grandfather than that, but those were my honest thoughts at the moment.

Instead, I watched Ashley in awe. She was amazing.

Cooing gently, she was fully present. If she was anxious about work, I couldn’t tell. Started with the usual: Don’t you want to go with Poppy and play with the ball? (No.) Poppy has your toy car keys that you love. (Not interested.) When the resistance didn’t abate, she lifted him out of the car seat and hugged him close. His distress was real, and she soothed him with unhurried kindness.

In a moment, she tried again. Not exactly pacified, he nevertheless allowed himself to be distracted with the little puffy stars he likes to eat. Do you want to put some of these in your pocket? (Yes.) Do you want to hold the can? (Yes.) Finally he softened and submitted to straps and buckles; five minutes later he was asleep as we drove up the bumpy dirt road toward my house.

That was my God-moment of the day, I told Kellie in Examen. I’m not sure I can explain it, but I felt like I was standing on holy ground watching that exchange. Something there showcased the Father’s heart and the way he works with us. Never forced, always patient. Kind. I Corinthians 13 kind of stuff!

I think it impacted me so strongly because I’m not always very gentle with myself. I tend to force myself into the straps and say, in effect, Toughen up kid. Stop being such a whiner! Even greater damage is my tendency to project that harshness onto God, which is bolstered by a lot of bad theology out there.

At the heart of Jesus’ mission was helping us understand and relate to God in a healthy way, and I am constantly amazed at the narrative he used to describe God: the endlessly enduring, lavishly affectionate, passionately tender Father to the prodigal. What was required of the prodigal to receive such love? Confession, a full accounting of his sins? Nope, the Father cut short his self-incrimination. What then—proof of his determination to be a good son in the future? Not in this story! Repayment? Not hardly. What Jesus showcased here was a boundless forgiveness that required nothing of the son except to turn his feet toward home.

Jesus showed us that God has a name, and that name is love. Surely God is at least as gentle and patient as what I saw in Ashley yesterday. It was a glimpse past the veil of my earthbound judgmentalism—my tendency to demand recompense and sacrifice—and I’m still savoring the memory. It’s a taste of heaven, and I’d like to hang out there more. How about you?

 

ThriveTip

So how awake are you to your own life? How do you pay attention to the echoes of grace that call you back into the Father’s embrace? The simplest way I know is some version of the Daily Examen. Take a look at this model, and then make it your own! When you notice the movements of God as a daily practice, you will be amazed at how it changes you.

Takeaway

Follow the Father’s example and try being gentle with yourself.

Wretched?

How many times have we sung the old favorite? “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.” And how many times have we owned the label wretch without question? In today’s blog I take a rare foray into the realm of theology and its practical implications for healthy life and leadership.

The reasoning often goes that we can’t appreciate the Good News until we first hear the Bad News. That we can’t know grace until we acknowledge our wretchedness. But I'm not so sure. True grace always comes to me like blessed water on a parched tongue.

Let’s look at the images that Jesus used to convey the weight of grace. A lost sheep. A lost coin. A lost son. All of these items that were lost were precious to begin with. None of them wretched. Thus the urgent search to restore them to their place of belovedness! Even the prodigal in all his self-profligating, father-dishonoring, character-abasing behaviors was no wretch. He was only ever the beloved son. He acted wretchedly and eventually felt wretched about it, but he was not a wretch. The distinction is crucial.

The theology of wretchedness takes a keen eye to unravel because it is wrapped around a kernel of truth—the truth that humans are truly and tragically lost (in the most fundamental sense of that word) and in desperate need of being found. We need a savior, and we are the objects of a restorative grace nothing short of amazing.

The place where the theology of wretchedness departs from the truth—in my opinion—is in its degradation of the human condition. It takes our human fragility, vulnerability, and disorientation…and extrudes it to the fullest measure of moral corruption and wickedness. These theological seeds get planted so deeply in the human psyche that an intrinsic shame is forged, as it were, to our very DNA. And often persists as an insidious, unconscious identity of unworthiness, even after we have been “found.” I frequently observe this in those I coach as well as in my own soul.

There are verses in the Bible often read in the light of wretchedness. Jeremiah 17:9 says, “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” This metaphor-laden prophecy from Jeremiah speaks to the disorienting nature of lost-ness—we don’t understand our own hearts, much less the hearts of others, and we are easily deceived by our illusions and appetites. Yet of course we are not beyond cure because Christ is in the very process of curing us! This is a far cry from the “desperately wicked” verbiage of the King James version.

And just one more passage today. Quoting the Psalms, Romans 3:10-12 says, “There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands; there is no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one.” This poetic hyperbole flows out of David’s brokenheartedness over those resisting God’s ways…and even over his own faults. But the worthlessness he ascribes to humanity does not yet fully reveal the Father’s heart as shown in the life of Jesus.

I regularly pass an old country church on my drive into town, and it has the requisite sign out front with pithy sayings meant to be inspirational. Although surely well-intended, the messages tend toward cloyingly cutesy (“Seven days without prayer makes one weak”), religiously irrelevant (“God wants full custody, not just weekend visits”), or passively aggressive (“And you think it’s hot up here?”). But occasionally I see one that is LOL witty (“We’re all ‘bout dat grace, ‘bout dat grace, no devil.”), whether the theology is spot on or not.

The current signs reads this: “Jesus knows you and still loves you.”

On the face of it, this is a true and encouraging message…but can you hear the subtext? The word “still” conveys an underlying message that being known is a bit shameful, that although you suck (the modern equivalent of wretched), Jesus is a big enough guy to love you anyway. You don’t deserve it, but if you play your cards right, you’ll get it. This doesn’t sound at all like the reunion I see in the Father’s effusive embrace of the prodigal.

This theological flaw even bleeds over into our modern worship songs. One of my favorites sits at number one on the CCLI Top 100 right now: Reckless Love. It’s a moving, heartfelt anthem of grace…but notice the theological parasite that tags along: “I couldn't earn it (true), and I don't deserve it (not true), still You give Yourself away. Oh the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God.”

Earning and deserving are radically different concepts. No child should ever feel like they need to earn their parents’ love. They couldn’t earn it…and don’t need to. Love is bestowed. So do they deserve to be loved? Heck yeah. Every child deserves to be loved by virtue of their inherent worth as a human being. And as children of God, every man and woman deserves the love that is lavished upon them unconditionally. Which is why we also need to jettison the theological baggage of the term “adoption.” We aren’t adopted into God’s family; we were born there! Born into Love, lost from Love, and then found by Love. It’s really that simple. And that important.

While this post may seem like fussing over doctrine, this is much more personal to me—and vital to our journey through life and leadership. Insecurity around my fundamental worth leads me to a grace-depleting drivenness; I experience the emotional force of this imposter almost daily. As beloved sons and daughters—never once a wretch—we must live into this true identity of worthiness before we can break free of our compulsions toward proving, performing, and pleasing. Grace is always a life-saver and a game-changer…but it comes incrementally. Let’s savor the next increment today!

 

ThriveTip

Take a few minutes to journal how you feel about your children. If you don’t have children, write what you imagine you would feel about a son or daughter. Now imagine God journaling his feelings about you—not disappointment but pure delight, no matter whether you are behaving badly or brilliantly. You belong. You are beloved. Own it!

Takeaway

You are worthy, not wretched.