Cupcakes for Lent.

It was just one cupcake. 

It wasn't even a good cupcake. It was a grocery store cupcake--prepackaged--and as I licked the buttercream icing off the plastic basketball decoration, I felt the twinge of shame. As I wiped the buttercream icing off of my nose and licked it off my finger, the twinge turned into a tidal wave.

It was only a few days after Ash Wednesday, and already I was failing at Lent--failing hard. 

Our house was bedecked in purple and green for my roommates's Ninja Turtles birthday party. Our dining room was filled with friends, and our table was filled with treats. I knew from the second I laid eyes on those cupcakes that I was a goner. It wasn't even a fight. Just days earlier, I had vowed to give up sweets for Lent...but these had basketballs...and buttercream.

I polished off the cupcake in three bites, like a ravenous hyena. I wasn't even all that hungry. Just minutes earlier, I'd eaten four slices of pizza. No, I wasn't hungry. I saw the cupcake. I wanted the cupcake. I ate the cupcake.

Then I saw the cookies. I wanted a cookie. I ate the cookie. Then I ate another cookie.

And so went my Saturday evening. 

As I got ready for bed that night, I thought about the approaching Sabbath. Sundays are always feast days, even during Lent. They are days when we break our fasts and keep the feast as we celebrate our risen Savior. But as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I decided that I hadn't earned the next day's Sabbath feast. That cupcake haunted me...symbolizing my shame.

It seemed simple, really. I had fallen off the Lent wagon, sure, but if I just kept my fast on Sunday, it would make up for my failure. I'd be all caught up and ready to go for the following week. The math added up, and my conscience was eased...for the moment.

As I lay there, I remembered that observance of Lent was not a direct biblical command. I may have been guilty of gluttony, but I wasn't "guilty" of breaking Lent. That wasn't the issue. Perhaps I was actually guilty of using Lent as a means of self-justification or self-improvement...a way to haul myself up the stairway to heaven and show God how devoted I am. That wasn't my goal...not at first. But I'm a self-justification junkie, and it's far too easy to fall back into the habit. 

Maybe it was for the best that I didn't keep Lent perfectly. Maybe it's better for my sanctification that I fall flat on my face, reminded of how weak I really am--how vain and foolish my ideas of self-sanctification really are--reminded how one grocery store cupcake is all it takes to knock me off my highfaultin' hobby horse.

But the problem of Sunday still remained. Would I forgo the feast to make up for my broken fast? The more I thought about it, the more I realized how absolutely backwards that was. This balanced-bank-ledger thinking flowed directly from my secret belief that I can clean myself up and present myself as reasonably pleasing before a holy God.

That's not the way the Sabbath works. Sabbath rest is not our wages for a good week's work. Sure, we all probably have a "working for the weekend" mentality as we go about our lives, but the Sabbath comes on the first day of the week. We can't forget this. Last week's foibles and failures are in the past. Sunday is the fresh start. The rest precedes the work; the feast comes before the fast. That's what sets the Christian gospel apart from all of man's attempts to win favor from heaven. The Christian gospel starts from the presupposition that God's favor cannot be won, even on our best days. Our salvation was won, bought with a price and sealed for eternity, long before we ever made our first decision...long before we made our first mistake...long before we made our first Lenten vow...and long before we ate our first cupcake.

Sunday is a feast day, regardless of the status of your fast. Keeping a perfect Lent doesn't make you any holier, and skipping the Sunday feast doesn't bring you any closer to God. If anything, it pulls you further away from Him as you retreat back to your fantasy world of self-sufficiency. No, observing Lent doesn't make you a better Christian, but it's a pretty good reminder of just how far you fall from the standard. Even if you keep your fast perfectly, you will likely fall short of focusing fully on God and adequately reflecting on your weakness and brokenness. Pride will probably creep in, or distraction, or anxiety, or bitterness, etc. etc. You may even spend a couple hours writing a blog post about Lent instead of spending time in prayer.

But Sundays are still feast days. During Lent, they point us ahead to the Easter feast, the ultimate celebration of Resurrection, and the victory that was won on our behalf. They remind us of the good news that we can't earn our seat at the table of the great Marriage Supper of the Lamb. We can't earn our seat, because it's already been reserved for us. 

So even if you broke your fast yesterday, my friends, feast today. Feast boldly. 

Even if you wolfed down a grocery-store cupcake on Saturday, savor the rich and delicious wedding cake of the gospel on Sunday. 

I Love You, Man.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

We're really good friends,

And I love you,

Man.

                

It’s February, y’all. Love is in the air. Chick-fil-a is selling heart-shaped chicken biscuits. I do love Chick-fil-a chicken biscuits.

Even better, the Chick-fil-a by campus is giving away free chicken biscuits on Tuesday mornings in February. No purchase necessary. If that’s not love, I don't know what is. It's certainly better than the McDonald's "Pay with Lovin" campaign, which still sounds slightly illegal. 

All fast food aside, though, it's Valentine's Day, and even though my college-nightmare has come true [26 and still single], I'm doing just fine. Okay, stop...pause. This is not one of those "I'm single, but it's okay because I'm dating Jesus" posts. I promise. Bear with me. 

No, the reason I'm doing just fine on Valentine's Day is not because I'm doing Olive Garden and the Spongebob Movie with Jesus tonight. Yeah, I'm single. Yeah, that wasn't in my master life-plan as a Samford sophomore. But despite my lack of a date on Valentine's Day, I'm not without love. I love my friends. 

Okay, so I've always had friends, and yes, I've always loved my friends. But what I've been learning over the last couple years is how to actually talk about that love. I may have always loved my friends, but I've never had any idea how to say it or talk about it...certainly not out loud. That gets tricky, right? Can guys just say "I love you" to each other? I mean, I have said it before, but it always made me break out in cold sweats.

Of course, I know I'm not the only guy to struggle with saying "I love you" to another guy. Everywhere you look in pop culture, you see men who are uncomfortable expressing affection with one another. In one episode of Fox's "New Girl," Nick is appalled when his roommate and best friend Schmidt brings him home a cookie, simply because he was thinking about him.

 "You don't think about me?" Schmidt asks Nick.
"Why would I think about you?" Nick responds.
"Because we're friends, we're not animals."
"We're men, Schmidt. The only time a man is allowed to think about another man is when that man is Jay Cutler."

I could keep listing example after example from modern movies and television where male friendship is lampooned or depicted as little more than "a retreat into thoughtlessness, crudity." Of course there are exceptions, "Sherlock" being one shining example (and thankfully, this "New Girl" episode does have a good ending), but our popular media as a whole still demonstrates our society's belief that men aren't cut out for close, intimate friendships.

I think Eric Metaxas hits the nail on the head when he writes:

“You see, to the modern eye, all close love is sexual love. Deep friendship, especially between men, gives us an uneasy feeling. This leaves modern men with a tough choice: They can risk being pegged as gay for forming deep friendships with each other, or they can give up on making friends and just have ‘bros.’” 

Readers, meet my fear. Fear...my readers.

See, herein lies the complication for me: I am same-sex attracted. I do have friends that I find attractive. Where does that leave me when it comes to friendship? Where does that leave me in expressing that friendship? Because I do love my friends. I love them a lot. It's not the same kind of love that I would need to feel for a future wife. It's not eros. But it's still love. Very much so. It's love...even if our culture doesn't have a category for it. Even if our churches don't have a category for it. 

It was hard enough to say "I love you" before my friends knew that I am same-sex attracted, but after I shared that part of my story, it only seemed to get more complicated. If it felt awkward before, now it felt unthinkable. How could I say "I love you" to one of my friends if he knew I was same-sex attracted? Wouldn't he wonder if it meant something more? Wouldn't he think it meant I had a crush on him? Wouldn't it ruin everything?

I didn't want to ruin everything. 

From the research I've done--and from many, many conversations with other guys--I don't think I'm alone here. For same-sex attracted men, like myself, there is a lot more fear about expressing healthy, platonic affection for our male friends.

Of course, that isn't to say that same-sex attracted men are the only ones who struggle expressing affection or simply saying "I love you"to their male friends. I recently did a very unscientific online survey of around 80 men about their male friendships, and one of the questions asked about saying "I love you" to male friends. Even among the opposite-sex attracted men who said they told their friends that they love them, there was a great deal of anxiety and confusion.

One guy in Alabama wrote that saying "I love you" to a friend "feels weird" except "when one of us is really suffering." Another guy in Tennessee said that he has a best friend who will say "I love you" to him, but he sometimes hesitates to say it back. "I do love him," he writes, "So I don't know why I don't [say it out loud]. Maybe I have ideas of men that I shouldn't say that. Maybe I feel weird saying it even though I do feel it."

Can you identify with those responses? 

I've noticed that whenever I do say "I love you" to a friend, I tend to follow it up with "man" or "dude."man or bro or dude when saying "I love you" to a friend--was mentioned often in the survey responses. One guy on the survey called it a "distancing word," and I thought that was rather profound. Maybe it softens it, or takes the edge off. It's the subtle signal that separates it from romantic love, a more sophisticated version of "no homo." (Don't get me started on "no homo.")

They are distancing words. Love is a scary thing. Love involves vulnerability. Saying you love someone opens you up to rejection. What if they don't love you back? Or what if they do love you, but they would never say it that way? It makes sense that we want to distance ourselves from that, to leave some protective space, a buffer. But should we?

I don't think there's anything wrong with saying "I love you, man" or "I love you, dude." I'm not on some crusade to get rid of the "distancing words." But I do think it's interesting that we feel the need to use those words in the first place. It goes back to Eric Metaxas' point, that modern society views all close love as sexual love. "I love you" feels romantic. "I love you, man" clarifies that it's not. The simple fact that the clarification is necessary is a sign of our society's larger problem--a problem voiced so well by Carrie English in her excellent short essay, "A Bridesmaid's Lament":

"There's no denying that weddings change friendships forever. Priorities have been declared in public. She'll be there for him in sickness and in health, till death do they part. She'll be there for you on your birthday or when he has to work late. Being platonically dumped wouldn't be so bad if people would acknowledge you have the right to be platonically heartbroken. But it's just not part of our vocabulary. However much our society might pay lip service to friendship, the fact remains that the only love it considers important – important enough to merit a huge public celebration – is romantic love.” 

Ain't that the truth. 

So whether or not someone sent you flowers or took you to a fancy restaurant tonight, whether or not you are married or dating or single, remember all of the people you love, and those who love you. Valentine's Day is a day that we celebrate romance--either the romance we have or the romance we want--but tomorrow, consider telling your friends you love them too.

Consider telling a friend, "I love you"...and maybe just leaving it there.

I Need to Keep Listening.

I wrote this about a year and a half ago, in the wake of the Trayvon Martin verdict. It seems all the more appropriate now. As I read back over my words, I'm convicted that I have not listened very well over the last few months. I've a lot more talking and "convincing" than listening and learning. I can still echo my words from the summer of 2013: "As I reflect on the aftermath of the Trayvon Martin [Mike Brown, Eric Garner, etc. etc. ] verdict [or lack thereof], I'm [still] realizing just how much I don't understand." 

-------------------------------------------------------

It was a little after 9:00 on a cold, Chicago winter night. Our RUF group was spending a week serving, learning, and living on the city's South Side with a local ministry, and we had just finished dinner at a couple's home. As we walked the few blocks back to the ministry's office, a woman came around the corner. She gave us one look, and, in a low voice, she warned, "You boys watch out. There's a cop back there."

I was confused. Watch out? For a cop? Why did we need to watch out for a cop? In fact, I felt safer knowing that cop was there, because...well...you know. We were a group of white kids wearing expensive clothes walking through a black neighborhood late at night. Surely we weren't the ones the cops should be looking out for!

But then it dawned on me. I remembered what the ministry staff had told us earlier that week. White kids from the suburbs do come to this inner-city neighborhood on a regular basis. They come to buy drugs.

It suddenly made sense. I wanted to turn around and chase down this woman. I wanted to say, "Wait a minute! You have it all wrong! You think that we're here to buy drugs...just because we're white? As if that's the only reason we'd ever be in your neighborhood?"

Those words that I wanted to say, those perceptions and assumptions I wanted to correct...it all stuck with me for a few days. It made me uncomfortable, but as I reflected on that discomfort, I realized that it was temporary. It was limited. It was localized. At the end of the day, it didn't really impact my life.

In just a few days, I would be leaving this neighborhood and returning to my life in the majority. I would return to no longer worrying about society pre-judging me and my motives by the color of my skin. Store clerks would not watch me any more closely than anyone else when I went shopping. People would not lock their car doors when I passed by. Overzealous neighbors would not follow me with a gun when I walked around my neighborhood.

My mom never had to have the talk with me about how to avoid being seen as a threat simply by existing somewhere. I've never thought twice about getting into an elevator with a white woman...or anyone, for that matter. When driving through the gate of my Christian college after midnight, my friends and I could hold up slices of cheese instead of our Samford ID cards, and the security guard would simply wave us through, chuckling.

As I reflect on the aftermath of the Trayvon Martin verdict, I'm realizing just how much I don't understand. 

It's one thing for me, as a white man, to say, "this isn't about race!" It's another for me to realize that for thousands of my fellow Americans and brothers & sisters in Christ...it is most definitely about race. It's one thing for me, as a member of the majority, to say, "I don't care what color you are! It makes no difference to me!" It's another for me to realize that many of my fellow Americans and brothers & sisters in Christ care very deeply about what color they are...that it makes a very big difference to them.

It's one thing for me to say, "Justice was served! It was a trial by a jury of peers! Let's accept the decision and move on." It's another for me to realize that, regardless of the trial's legitimacy, the verdict does nothing to calm or assuage the deep-seated fear and pain of these fellow Americans, my brothers & sisters in Christ. If anything, the verdict confirms those fears, it intensifies the pain, and my callous words of color-blindness only spit in their wounds. 

If I'm going to love my brothers and sisters of different races, I don't need to explain and argue to them why I'm not prejudiced. I don't need to tell them why my words weren't intended to be hurtful and why they should give me the benefit of the doubt. I need to be quiet. I need to reflect. I need to pray. I need to cry. I need to sit beside and stand in solidarity. I need to listen. I need to listen a lot. I need to keep listening until I think I can't bear to hear anymore, and then I need to keep listening. 

Then...maybe then...I can speak.

I don't understand prejudice. I don't understand race relations in America. I can't understand the depth of pain and fear and anger generated by George Zimmerman's not-guilty verdict. I don't know what a black mother feels now every time her teenage son walks out the door.

But I can't be content to sit here in this lack of understanding. I must listen, I must ask questions, and I must learn. I must be willing to admit that I've been blind, that I've been callous...that I've been wrong. I must let myself be shaped by the love of our Savior, love that isn't color-blind, but love that sees and values the beauty of diversity he created...diversity that leads us to greater unity. 

There's a lot I don't understand about racism and racial prejudice, but I want to learn. Before I speak, I need to listen. Before I claim my innocence, I need to consider where I might be complicit...or even guilty. I need friends of different races and cultures who can tell me their stories, who can teach me, who can show me different aspects of the gospel that I've never seen.

When we do this, whether or not our beliefs or political positions change, we will be able to engage in the conversation in a way that truly reflects the love of our Savior. When we discuss the Trayvon Martin case, we won't just think of a generic "them." We will think of names and faces and stories and tears. We will think of people we care about so deeply that their pain becomes our pain.

Christians are called to identify with the outcast, to stand with the oppressed and seek justice.

We're called to weep with those who weep, to mourn with those mourn. Right now, the African-American community is mourning. It's hurting. What will our response be, people of God?

Let's start by listening.

We Must Do Better.

Them.

Simple word, but it packs a punch. 

They. Those. Their.

We use these words everyday without any concern. They're basic, 3rd-person plural pronouns, after all, merely indicating objects or people that are in some way other than oneself. 

These words are basic building blocks of language, seemingly harmless--and most of the time they cause no problems. But have you ever considered what it would feel like if you were only ever described by these pronouns? If you were always "they" and "them" and never "we" or "us"? What would that do to you? You may not notice at first--it may be that subtle--but I imagine that after a while, you would begin to experience that otherness, to feel it. 

Pastor Scott Sauls in Nashville let me post part of my story as a same-sex attracted Christian on his blog a couple weeks ago, and I've been overwhelmed by the feedback. Many of the messages are short expressions of gratitude and encouragement. I've also received my share of criticism and misunderstanding...from both sides of the "issue." (I'm learning to have thick skin and a soft heart...which is a hard combo to master). I truly appreciate each of these messages, but the ones that have touched me most are the stories--the "me too" stories. Many of these stories involve struggle with same-sex attraction, but some do not. Every story is unique, but every story also seems to have something in common--a sense of longing to be known, to be understood. Every story is characterized by a deep desire to be truly known and truly loved, which, Tim Keller says, is "a lot like being loved by God." 

One such email arrived in my inbox a couple nights ago. Its powerful simplicity left me stunned. Its tragedy left me heartbroken. I'll let you read it for yourself (with the author's express permission, of course).

Hi Stephen,
I'm 17, and was raised as a Christian and believed in God for as long as I can remember. Still do. But, I'm also a lesbian. And I know all this stuff about remaining celibate to honor God, but I just can't be at peace with that. I can't want that for my life. With all due respect, I admire you for being able to do that, but I can't seem to resist temptation like that. If I have to choose between God and marrying a woman, I choose God. But I want both. I don't want to go to hell for being with a woman, but I don't want to get to heaven to hear God say I could've married one anyway. I don't know what to do right now.

I don't know this young lady. I don't know her friends or family. I don't know her church or her context. All I know is this: She was raised as a Christian, and she is attracted to other women. From her email, it seems she only sees two options for her life: she can either be lonely and go to heaven, or she can find love and go to hell. Like I said...my heart broke. 

My heart broke for her, but it also broke because there are so many others who believe these are their only two options. This story is way more common than you may suspect: the story of the kid who grows up in the church, believing and doing all the right things. The kid begins to realize he's different than his peers, and he inherently knows that this difference must be hidden. He can't talk about it with anyone...least of all other Christians. Why not?

Remember those 3rd-person plural pronouns? Most of the time, when homosexuality is discussed in the evangelical church, it's discussed in terms of "they" and "them." It's "those people" out there. "They deserve God's judgment." "They have an agenda." "We must stop them." Even if it's a message of love, it's still "We must love them." 

You'll hear the common sins and safe struggles spoken about from the pulpit in terms of "we" and "us." Jealousy. Greed. Anger. Lust. Pride. All the usual suspects. When we talk about these sins with "we" and "us," there's a sense of our common brokenness. We may not all struggle with this particular sin, but we know there are those among us who do.  There's a sense of belonging that begins to eat away at the shame. Maybe you can talk about this after all. Maybe you can let someone else bear your burden with you. Maybe it is safe to let other believers into your life, because they are on your team. 

But if you only hear your story discussed in the Church in terms of "them," chances are you won't believe you're really on the team. As you hear "bold" and "true" statements of condemnation issued toward those people and expressions of solidarity and support for our people who are opposing those people, you'll begin to wonder just exactly which team you're really on. You can stay on the team you've always known, the team you love, but the price must be a life of secrecy and isolation. Or you can leave your team and find a better fit, but that price must be giving up all that you've known and loved and believed...and you'll always have that nagging fear that you're wrong. 

Church, this is not the gospel. This is not the good news that Jesus came to embody, the hope that must characterize His Bride until He comes back. Our doctrine and teaching about homosexuality might be sound and biblical, but if our own children are growing up in fear and isolation, believing they must choose between God and Love, then Church, we must do better. If our own children see this as their only choice, what must those outside the Church think?

Maybe we've done a good job of explaining the sinfulness of homosexual relationships, but what about explaining what it actually looks like to follow Jesus as a same-sex attracted Christian? It seems the picture we've painted is a bleak one, characterized by loneliness and a lack of intimacy. As the very Body of Christ, the Church should be characterized by intimate, loving, grace-centered friendships, for married and single people alike. In the Church, singleness should not mean a lack of intimate relationships. Maybe our main failure as the Church has not been our teaching about homosexuality but rather our teaching about the Church herself!

You probably don't know the girl who sent me this email, but I guarantee you know a girl or a boy who could write an email just like this one. You probably know a few of them. They sit next you in the pews on Sunday morning. They're active in the youth group. They have watched movies in your living room and eaten your food and swam in your pool and you might never know who they are. You probably wouldn't have guessed about me either.

If I may be so bold, may I ask you some questions? 

How do you speak about homosexuality to your friends, your church, your community, and your family? How do speak about it on social media? Are your words seasoned with grace and humility or are they characterized by arrogance and disdain? Do you talk about it as an issue to be dealt with...or people with stories to be heard? Do you only use 3rd-person plural pronouns, or do you remember that the people you're speaking to may be struggling with this themselves?

Read that email again. What if this young lady is your student or parishioner? What if she is your friend...or the friend of your child? What if she is, in fact, your daughter? Take a moment and think. Does she know that you would still love her if you knew her full story? Does she know you wouldn't reject her?

Maybe she does know. Maybe you've told her a million times that you will always love her. But maybe the real question is: does she believe it? 

As we proclaim the Truth of the gospel, may we always do so in a way that also communicates the sacrificial love and compassion of our Savior. 

The Real Enemy...

"Katniss, when you're in the arena...remember who your real enemy is."

The real enemy? When you're in an arena full of people trying to kill you, who isn't a real enemy? Katniss was on the way to her second appearance in the Hunger Games, where she was sure to be the prime target of the other former victors, and her mentor, Haymitch, was talking about "real enemies." 

If I'm Katniss Everdeen, I'm coming out swinging. I'm shooting my arrows first, asking questions later. I've seen too much carnage. The Hunger Games only have one survivor.

But Haymitch was right, wasn't he? At the end of the day, the other competitors were not Katniss's real enemy. Sure, some of them were trying to kill her (certainly a qualification for "enemy" in my opinion). However, even the "career" tributes from District 2 were not her real enemy...and she wasn't theirs either. The real enemy was the Capitol--the oppressive government that created the Hunger Games in the first place. It was the sadistic system that annually required all 12 districts of Panem to send two teenage tributes to fight each other to the death.

Katniss's real enemies were not the other tributes...not even the ones who were trying to kill her. No. Katniss's real enemy was the Capitol, the power that played them all against each other. While all the tributes fought and killed one another in the Arena, year after year, the Capitol was the real enemy of all of them.

This picture stuck with me from Catching Fire, the second book in the Hunger Games trilogy--this picture of men and women fighting each other in a bloodbath, fighting for their very lives, forgetting that they all share a common enemy. This picture stuck with me because I think it's pretty similar to where we are right now in the Culture Wars. 

Make no mistake: despite some seemingly holy intentions, the Culture War is no holy war.

At the end of the day, even if a winner does emerge from the battle, like the Hunger Games, the carnage left behind is irreparable...and there will just be another fight the following year. More fear. More blood. More victims. The victor survives, but no one really wins...no one, that is, except the real enemy behind it all.

Enter "God is Not Dead," the movie...stage right.
This movie, now in theaters, appears to be one more shot fired in the Culture Wars, and a particularly vindictive one at that.

Christian college student Josh Wheaton goes off to college and is told by the atheist Professor Radisson on the first day of philosophy class that he must sign a paper saying "God is Dead" or receive an F. He refuses, which according to the movie's website, provokes an "irate reaction from his smug professor." The professor challenges Josh to a head-to-head debate where he must present "well-researched, intellectual arguments and evidence" for the existence of God...or, again, fail. And we can probably figure out what happens from there.

Okay, to be fair, I haven't seen this movie. I've only seen the trailer. So I stand ready to be corrected if my take here is wrong. However, let's remember that the trailer is produced by the same people who produced the movie. They select the clips and the quotes to include. One would imagine they'd put their best foot forward in the trailer. Well...see for yourself:

This is war. It's on. The faithful vs. the unfaithful. The believers vs. the unbelievers. The Christian faith is under attack, we must fight back. “This is something God wants me to do," an exasperated Josh explains to his girlfriend, "I can’t just turn away from it.” This is a war that God has commissioned. 

But did He? 

We often hear the verse quoted from 1 Peter, "always [be] prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you." Yes, we should be prepared to make a defense...but neither should we forget the rest of the verse! "Yet do it with gentleness and respect." It appears from the trailer that Josh was prepared to defend his faith, but gentleness and respect? In the last scene of the trailer, we see Josh up in his professor's face, yelling, demanding, "WHY DO YOU HATE GOD?"

Put yourselves in the shoes of someone who does not believe in God. You've just watched this trailer for "God is Not Dead." What question are you asking yourself? Perhaps you're asking, "Why do Christians hate me?" 

"But there really are professors like that!" some will say. "There really are antagonistic atheists, especially on college campuses!" Yes, indeed there are. (Although I highly doubt that requiring freshmen to recant their faith in order to pass a class would fly in any serious institution today.) But yes, there are antagonistic atheists, and there are professors who try to convince their students that God is dead. There are also Christians who belittle and demonize atheists. There are Christians who make movies that misrepresent them. There are Christians who yell, "WHY DO YOU HATE GOD?" 

Atheists are not our real enemy...neither are Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, or other Christians we happen to disagree with.

"Okay, but they're fighting us!" They might be. Some certainly are! Many, I would argue, are largely indifferent toward us...when we're not yelling at them, that is. But what of the ones who are fighting us? What about those antagonistic college professors? What about the activists who want to label Christian doctrine as hate speech? What about the other tributes in the Arena--the ones trying to kill Katniss?

We must remember who the real enemy is.

Paul tells us in his letter to the Ephesians that we are not fighting against flesh and blood, but rather, against "the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic power over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places." (6:12) And what of our "enemies" here on earth? Those who hate us, who demean and belittle us, those who would even seek to do us harm? Jesus is clear: "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you." (Luke 6:27-28)

We are not trying to defeat people. We're not fighting against people, even if they are fighting against us. We are called to love, and there is no greater love, Christ tells us, than someone laying down his life for his friends. Christ laid down his life for us when were his enemies. Are we not called to follow his pattern of self-sacrifice? I love this line from a hymn and its description of the Church's mission: "Our call to war: to love the captive soul, but to rage against the captor; And with the sword that makes the wounded whole, we will fight with faith and valor." Amen.

When will we see the college professor not simply as the "antagonistic atheist," but as the man, created in God's image, who loves the pursuit of knowledge and truth, who has been gifted with great intelligence, who loves and takes care of his family...and who needs Jesus? When will we see our neighbor not as the "weird new-age lady," but as the woman, created in God's image, who loves our planet and our fellow creatures, who has been gifted with great creativity and passion, who works hard for the peace of her community...and who also needs Jesus?

Enter "Noah"...stage left.
I've seen a number of Christians decrying the "Noah" movie that's also out in theaters right now. They list many things wrong with it, but one argument I keep seeing goes something like this: "the movie is made by a self-avowed atheist! How could an atheist make a good movie about the Bible? It's seeking to undermine Christian teaching, and thus, we should fight against it." Yes, it's true. Darren Aronofsky doesn't believe in the God of the Bible. Yes, his screenplay departs from the biblical narrative in a number of very significant ways. However, I think he made a powerful movie. There were some large theological holes, sure. (The rock people were more-than-a-little hokey.) But ultimately, in Aronofsky's "Noah," we see the depths of human sin, we see God's divine judgment of that sin, and we see God's mercy to those who really don't deserve it. We see Noah wrestling between the concepts of justice and mercy. Is that not the gospel? Certainly not the complete gospel, but at least a glimpse of it? Instead of decrying the fact that an unbeliever made a movie that departed from the biblical account, can we not rejoice that an unbeliever made a movie that demonstrates some of the most basic themes of the good news to mainstream audiences? Can we admit that someone who doesn't believe in God can still make a movie that we can learn from?

Because of its artistry and its themes of justice and mercy, I won't be surprised if "Noah," a movie by an unbeliever, starts far more gospel conversations than "God is Not Dead," a movie made by Christians...a movie that can't seem to decide if it's an evangelistic device or self-congratulatory diatribe. 

Friends, Professor Radisson is not the enemy. Darren Aronofsky is certainly not the enemy. Our real enemy is the Devil, who would much rather us focus our firepower toward our fellow humans. He is the one we fight.

However, unlike Katniss, we fight with the knowledge that the real enemy has already been defeated. We fight with the full assurance of the outcome. We take courage, and through love and self-sacrifice, we fight to show our "enemies" here on earth that our real enemy is the father of lies, and Christ offers freedom.

The words are Haymitch's to Katniss, but they could very well be Paul's words to the Ephesian church and to us...

"Katniss [Christians], when you're in the arena [the world]...remember who the real enemy is."

Lord, Have Mercy...

"If only God would take away this same-sex attraction, I'd be a pretty good guy. Still sinful, mind you! Depraved since birth! But really--overall--pretty darn good. (See? "darn." I don't even cuss!)"

I wish I could attribute this quote to someone else...I really do...but I can't. I've never said this statement out loud. I've never even thought it--not consciously, at least--but this sentiment ran very deep in my psyche for years. There was even a point where I decided God had given me this burden to keep me humble, because otherwise, I wouldn't have a whole lot to confess.

What a bunch of shit. (Okay...so I do cuss).

My same-sex attraction was always my "go-to" during silent confession time in church. I knew I only had about 30 seconds of silence before the assurance of pardon, so I'd slip it in real quick. "God, I confess my attraction to other guys. I'm screwed up. This is not your will for me. Please forgive me. Amen." Or something  like that. Sometimes I'd be a little more eloquent, and sometimes I'd also confess more specifics, but in general, my personal confessions of sin usually revolved around my sexual orientation.

It was a lot easier that way. It's my obvious "thorn in the flesh," right? In many ways, it was like I'd just made peace with it...like the eccentric uncle who lives upstairs that you just have to put up with because he's always been there and he's not going anywhere anytime soon.

I have been taught and always believed the doctrine of total depravity. I believe that we are born in sin, unable to choose Christ on our own. But how convenient...I always had such a nice, clean-cut way to view my depravity: I was the guy who liked other guys. That's messed up, right? So messed up. Wow. Glad I understand my sinful nature! When's lunch?

Last February, I sat in my little church with the green carpet waiting for the Ash Wednesday service to begin. Now, I'll be honest, I had grown a lot over the past couple years in understanding my same-sex attraction. I'd begun to understand that while my orientation is a tragic result of the Fall, my attractions themselves are not the sinful part. The sin is my lust, just like it is for everyone. I'd also begun to see how lust was just the tip of the iceberg--that my idolatry was stretched far wider and rooted far deeper than just my sexual attractions.

But as I headed to church that chilly Knoxville evening, I was looking forward to my first Ash Wednesday since admitting to myself that my sexuality didn't work the way it was designed to. After finally being honest with myself about the extent of my same-sex attractions for the first time, wouldn't I be that much more in touch with my brokenness when I took the ashes? It would be so moving...so raw...so powerful.

So there I sat, the piano playing softly in the background, waiting for the service to begin. I remember the atmosphere in the sanctuary was somber...but hopeful. I silently looked over the order of worship, reading and internalizing the words of the hymns.

I felt at peace.

Then he walked in. The guy that everybody knows...the one who never seems conscious of where he is or how loud he's speaking...the one who can take even the most solemn of occasions and turn it into a joke. He saw me, smiled, and started heading my direction.

I no longer felt at peace.

He plopped down next to me and immediately started asking questions...loudly. He started telling me about his day...so, so loudly. He seemed almost giddy about being there. Did he even know what this service was about? I smiled--it might have even been a  warm smile--as I quietly wished he wasn't there, that he had just stayed home.

The service began, and he quieted down. But then, as we were reciting the corporate confession, a baby starting wailing, shrieking. The piercing cry sent a shiver down my spine. There I was--having a moment--and this child...no...those parents thought this child needed to be there wailing in the sanctuary with us instead of the nursery. They probably thought it was cute. I tried to focus on the confession while I quietly wished the baby wasn't there, that he was back in the nursery where he belonged.

As the pastor started the sermon, the parents finally took the baby to the nursery. Peace. I listened to the message about our sin, our brokenness, and the hope that is found in the Cross. Then I realized that my friend wasn't there. Why wasn't he there? What, did he have something better to do? Something more important? I knew he wasn't working. Did he think he didn't need to hear about his sin, his brokenness, our hope found in Jesus? Was he too good for an Ash Wednesday service? Too proud? Too Protestant? Really, it was pretty typical of his whole attitude lately. Oh wait...there he was. He must have slipped in late. Oops. I smiled, smugly. I was glad he was there, but I was more glad I was there first.

Now you're probably waiting for the part where I had some epiphany, where the ashes were placed on my forehead and, all of a sudden, I realized the anger that was in my heart. There was no such moment. To be honest, I was perfectly aware of my hypocrisy...right there in the midst of it...the whole time. As I was wishing that guy wasn't there, as I decided that my life in that moment would be better without him...I was hating him. By Jesus' standards in the Sermon on the Mount, I murdered him. I knew exactly what I was doing. I tried not to. I tried to love him. I managed to pretend love on the outside, but inside...I just couldn't.

My heart sank.

It was the same with the baby. Ironic how I'm all in favor of babies when they're in the womb, but when they're crying in church and disturbing my "moment," I wish they weren't there. I hate them, and thus, I murder them.

I judged my friend when I thought he had skipped out on the service. I made up reasons why he probably wasn't there. Never mind the fact that he actually was there, and never mind the fact that I had been late to church dozens and dozens of times--usually because of a long line at Starbucks. This time though, I judged him, and I felt prouder of myself for obviously caring more about my brokenness than he did.

Once again I realized, as I sat there in a sanctuary full of God's people, full of people marked by the sign of the Cross, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, all admitting their brokenness and placing their hope in Christ...as I sat there in the midst of that beautiful picture and couldn't shut off my heart's faucet of hate, I realized my sexual orientation was the least of my worries.

The root of my sin isn't finding the wrong sex beautiful. It's that I don't find Christ beautiful. My problem isn't "loving" the wrong people. It's that I don't really love anyone at all. 

So no...there was no great epiphany moment. No clouds opening or angels singing. That night was nothing new. I had been there before, and I have been there many times since. I was simply reminded once again just how deep my brokenness runs, that my sexual brokenness is just the icing on the cake. I'm not just the guy-who's-attracted-to-other-guys.

I'm the guy-who's-attracted-to-other-guys who also lacks patience...and hates babies...and judges his friends...and stretches the truth just a little bit in some details to make his stories more dramatic. [artistic license, right?]

I remember driving home after the service and sitting on my couch upstairs, the ashes still on my forehead. I looked in the mirror and saw the faded remnants of a smudged cross.

That ashen cross, that mark of hope in the midst of depravity, of beauty in the midst of brokenness...that mark reminded me that I'm the guy-who's-attracted-to-other-guys, who lacks patience, hates babies, judges his friends, stretches the truth, and so on and so on and so on...but most importantly, that ashen cross also reminded me that I am the guy who is loved by Jesus more than he'll ever be able to fully imagine or understand. I'm the guy who by the grace of God has a story with way more beautiful things to talk about than just his brokenness. 

Life is easier when we can put our sin in a box, label it with a marker, and stick it up in the attic. But our sin and brokenness won't all fit in boxes. It won't even all fit in the attic. It's not that simple and clear-cut. It's just a mess...a mess we can't even fully comprehend. Pack one box away in the attic, and inevitably, you come back downstairs to find a whole lot more.

On Ash Wednesday, the ashes remind us that we are broken. The cross reminds us that we are helpless on our own. Our mess is too big for us even to fathom, let alone deal with. We need a Savior who is far bigger than our mess to come take care of it. We don't just need a renovation...we need to be made new. 

Friends, whether or not you attend an Ash Wednesday service this year, I encourage you to imagine the cross, smudged in ash on your own forehead, marking you out as a child of the King. Marked in your brokenness.

From dust we came, and to dust we will return, but one day, our broken bodies will be raised up with Christ. We will be made right.

Yes, my sexuality will be redeemed, but far more importantly, I will finally know Love...and know Him deeply. 

Kyrie, Eleison...Lord, Have Mercy
Christe, Eleison...Christ, Have Mercy.

Learning to Love Myself...

Thank you to everyone who read my last post, and thanks especially to those of you who sent me feedback. I really appreciate it. In light of some of your responses, it seems like a follow-up post may be in order...and perhaps a little clarification.

In my last post, I shared my struggle to love myself as Jesus loves me...especially my kid-self. At the end, I wrote that learning to love myself probably started with loving that little boy. As I reflect more on what that looks like, I wonder just how loving it was for me to post that picture and some of those childhood memories for everyone to see.

As a 25-year-old man, I have no problem with you all reading  what I wrote on Wednesday night. All of those memories are in the past. We can look back now and smile, maybe even laugh. I'll smile and laugh too. Who wasn't a little strange as a kid? However, I have to ask myself...if little Stephen was sitting next to me right now...how could I ever explain to him why I did what I did? 

Why did I do it? I wanted to make a point about love. Sure. I wanted to share what was going on in my own heart in hopes that it would encourage some of you in a similar place. Okay. But why else? Why did I pick out one of the most awkward childhood pictures I could find? Why did I wrack my brain trying to remember embarrassing childhood moments--moments that often earned me ridicule as a kid--so I could share them with the world-wide-web? 

Maybe in my honest effort to start loving that little boy, I was still trying to publicly distance myself from him as much as possible. "That was him," I wanted you to see..."but this is me. He is not me." 

Instead of only pointing out all the awkward parts of little Stephen's childhood, why didn't I also point out the cool and awesome things about him too? Honestly, there really was an awful lot to love about him. 

He was a phenomenal artist, and his masterpieces won plenty of art contests. He also loved to write. He'd write skits and stories and even novels...illustrated novels! He loved to perform. Whether it was for the family at Thanksgiving, for the school talent show, or as Mr. Bundles in a local production of Annie, little Stephen loved the limelight. Starting with a tape recorder and working up to a video camera, he and his friends would produce and star in countless radio shows and movies. They took three regular teddy bears and gave them names, voices, personalities, and their very own entertainment franchise. He was fascinated with Star Wars. He memorized all three original movies and knew the names and back-stories of every single character, major or minor. (He was also especially gifted at doing impressions of Star Wars characters.) Little Stephen dreamed of either being a movie star or President...but either way, he wanted to be famous. He was never all that good at physical activity or sports, but he always loved the Florida State Seminoles. Some of his favorite memories were going to FSU football games in Tallahassee with his family...and he was loyal to the end, win or lose. He was fascinated by history and loved all of his family's vacations to places like Washington D.C. and Colonial Williamsburg. He enjoyed school and got good grades. He was well-behaved and sweet and sensitive, and teachers always loved him. He always loved his teachers too.With his interests being so different from most other kids, it was sometimes hard for little Stephen to make friends, but when he did have friends, he loved them well too. He never had any siblings, but he always loved his cousins like they were his siblings. He had a very tender heart, and he never liked to see anyone upset or sad. He had a way of making people laugh. 

There's more that could be said, but that's a start. It feels a little strange and unnatural writing out cool things about my kid-self, but I guess it's the least I could do. It's funny, because most of these cool things didn't really make me cool back then. Some of these things kept me isolated, feeling different and strange and awkward. How easily we believe those lies we hear as kids. They're incredibly difficult to root out. Many of those lies still have their roots in me today...evidenced by my last post. Since when did different or abnormal become bad? Since when did God create boys and girls with cookie-cutters? Our God loves diversity. He creates diversity. I believe He hates it when we try to squelch diversity. 

One last comment on my previous post, and this comment will apply to all my future posts as well. Friends, I'm a feeler...a strong feeler, in fact (INFJ, baby). I'm wired to feel things very deeply, and I believe that's a good thing. Granted, we can't all be feelers...but good heavens, we certainly can't all be thinkers! [shudder] All this to say that my feeling impacts my writing. I write what I feel. I write what I feel because I like to write that way, but I also write what I feel because I believe that's a powerful way to connect with people on a deeper level. Of course, this means that what I write is not always necessarily what I think. When I wrote in my last post that I hated that little boy in the blue shorts, I should have clarified. I'm afraid many of you understandably took me at my word. By writing that I hated my kid-self, maybe it seemed I was somehow endorsing or settling into that hatred. That couldn't be further from the truth, but I see how many of you might have read it that way. 

My goal with this blog is to be real with you guys, and maybe even to encourage you all to be real with yourselves and real with other people. I don't actively, consciously hate my kid-self, but you know what? Sometimes I feel that anger. Sometimes it burns inside me, and instead of stuffing it down and pretending it doesn't exist because anger is bad, I think it's far better to name it for exactly what it is. I'm saddened by that anger. I often need to repent of that anger, but if I don't name that anger, it will only build and continue to control me. 

What are you angry about? What are you afraid to admit that you're angry about because you're not allowed to be angry about it? This is the anger that will control you, and one day, it might destroy you or those you love. Tell someone about that anger. Be honest with yourself. Be honest with God. Give that anger to Him. David certainly did just that in the Psalms. Don't pray for distraction or numbness...a mere absence of anger...pray for healing. Don't tell yourself you shouldn't be angry. Admit that you are, and lean into figuring out why. Repent if necessary. Maybe even be willing to admit that you are right to be angry about something. Evil is real. We see evil all over this world. We do evil, and evil is done to us. All of this should rightly make us angry, but in our anger, we must trust in a God who is far angrier about evil than we are. He weeps over it. He hates it. 

He defeated it. 

I'm sorry if you find this post to be self-important or over-dramatic. Maybe you saw nothing wrong with my last post...that's okay. In fact, that's good. I still stand firmly behind the message of my last post.

But as I seek to follow my own advice and learn to love myself, I felt like I owed my kid-self an apology for using his shame to garner laughs...for dealing callously with his pain in a public forum. That wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to me. It was an affront to the loving Father who created that little me, fearfully and wonderfully...the Father who never stopped loving me, who never saw me as anything other than His. To deny that child dignity would be a great sin. That's why I wrote this follow-up post. I hope you understand. 

Grace and peace to you, folks. Thanks for reading.