1 Corinthians 13:4-8

I thought "The Voice" translation was good:

Love is patient; love is kind.  Love isn't envious, doesn't boast, brag or strut about.  There's no arrogance in love; it's never rude, crude or indecent - it's not self-absorbed.  Love isn't easily upset.  Love doesn't tally wrongs or celebrate injustice; but truth - yes, truth - is love's delight!  Love puts up with anything and everything that comes along; it trusts, hopes, and endures no matter what.  Love will never become obsolete.

Tame the Ghost

Tame the ghost in my head that runs wild and wishes me dead.

This is my favorite line from the song Lovers Eyes by Mumford and Sons.

I know what this means. It strikes a chord with me.

That ghost is called many things - the past, the future, the devil, fear, depression, self-hate, Satan, evil, self, etc. Some days I feel like a slave to the ghost (like yesterday), and other times I feel that I've tamed it.

But, how often have I spent hours, days, and weeks trying to fight it and kill it off and eradicate it?

I need God to do that work, just like the songwriter pleads. Left to my own devices, my weapons are broken. They are of no use anymore, even though they may sound useful. Talk is cheap, and I'm starting to think that emotionalism is as well.

I need to surrender the fight. I can't beat it. I need to take all this energy I've been applying to sharpening up my weaponry, and redirect it to the Tamer.

I have a mind that requires extra precautions, extra work. What takes others a couple minutes to move past often takes me hours and days. All the irritations of daily life - the resentments and the fears - wish that I would just take a drink and die. The ghost in my head wants to see me dead.

So, along the lines of yesterday's post about surrendering the schedule is the surrender of fighting the ghost (or whatever negative is going on between my ears).

Jesus said, "Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

I've been spending so much time building up ammunition and strategizing and plotting the course to victory that I've gotten insane in the process. I've been playing God, trying to get rid of every little flaw by tackling it with more weapons, more work, and more energy.

But, doesn't surrender mean to die?

Doesn't surrender mean to let the ghost win?

Aren't I signing my own death warrant should I give up the fight?

My fear tells me yes, but that's just the ghost talking. The Ghost Tamer says, "Trust me, I can handle these bastards. Just get your weapons out of the way so I can do my work."

Maintaining emotional sobriety has two sides to it. On the one hand, I must do the work of keeping my side of the street clean - which means, I have to quit trying to clean the other side. That's somebody else's job.

Secondly, I have to do the work with an attitude of surrender - meaning, this isn't formulaic. This isn't mathematic. This is me doing what I'm supposed to do, and God doing what his will is. I don't get to produce the results any more than I can make someone else do what I want them to do.

I need more than anything to have the ghost in my head tamed, but I can't be the Tamer. I have to learn my part.

I have to learn that my insanity, my failures, my self-will that's run riot, can't be cured by more work or effort on my part. It's gotta be handed over.

This song's so powerful that I think it's good to listen to it after reading this post. It'll make sense if you're like me and can't seem to win the battle going on in your head. I need God in a big way and I'm willing to go to any length to let God tame the ghosts in my head.

Embracing the Unexpected

Yesterday, as I was sitting at Starbucks enjoying some down time and getting some stuff done, my phone rung. On the other end was a voice of panic.

The voices of panic seem to be really attracted to me here lately. I guess it's because I'm wired to jump into other peoples' chaos looking for some kind of spiritual experience. I prayed before I answered the phone, because if I don't it only takes one second for me to take what's being said on the other line the wrong way.

So, I paused, breathed, and answered.

I couldn't understand what was being said, except the part that said I need a ride.

So, I told the person I'd be there in a little bit. In the excited panicky state the person was in, I didn't understand exactly what I was getting into. I just took it as another opportunity to be open to plans other than my own.

It ended up being a good thing, I think.

The voice on the other line had plans to detox a mutual friend. So, I went and picked both of them up and took them to the motel for a three day detox. For comic relief, I picked up another friend who I thought would provide comic relief to the detoxing friend.

In all the craziness, I had a peace about the whole thing. I had a satisfaction in knowing that I was intentionally dropping my to-do list to be open to interruption - the panicky, freakin' out kind.

That's kind of how my days have been going for awhile. I make my plans in the morning, and they get blown out of the water by interruptions.

But, it's the interruptions, or, the distractions, that usually end up placing me in direct confrontation with a God who has plans way bigger than mine.

The author of James once said, "And now I have a word for you who brashly announce, "Today--at the latest, tomorrow--we're off to such and such a city for the year. We're going to start a business and make a lot of money." You don't know the first thing about tomorrow. You're nothing but a wisp of fog, catching a brief bit of sun before disappearing. Instead, make it a habit to say, "If the Master wills it and we're still alive, we'll do this or that."

There's always this tension between our plans and the interruptions to those plans.

How often do we make grandiose declarations to ourselves and others, insisting that we know our own futures, and we've got it all lined out? And how often do those plans change?

I'm not against planning at all. I carry a planner with me everywhere I go, and I make lists more than anybody I know. Planning is just a start, a drive to get me off my feet and headed in a certain direction. But, once the day starts, it's all up in the air. It's given to God. It's surrendered, if I choose to surrender it.

The way we plan and order our lives has everything to do with the heart.

Our plans represent our identity, our ambitions, and what we know. We know that if we stick to the course, then we're doing everything we can to reach our fullest potentials. But then, right in the middle of it all comes the frantic voice on the other line or the coworker who needs to talk.

We wonder, "Really? Aren't there ten other people you could have called?"

And the moment of surrender hinges around two simple words, "Yes," or "No."

For me to say yes means that I'm surrendering whatever my next thing was on the to-do list. To say no means that I'm sticking the course. It's not a matter of right and wrong.

But, I'm at a point in life where I need those interruptions. I need those opportunities to experience God in new ways. I need to be able to die to myself, and think about someone else.

Why did James write this?

He was trying to convey the message to his audience that the things of God are active here and now. They're not a year from now, a week from now, or tomorrow. They're here and now.

So, when we wrap our lives around plans for the future and forget that our feet are touching the ground today, we have the very real possibility of losing out on a God who is for us and with us and working for us today. We have the possibility of only seeing a God who is in the future, and not in the now.

What can we do to experience God now?

Make our plans and then surrender them by saying a quick prayer that goes something like this, "My time is not my own, but Yours. I'm merely a vessel, taking Your love wherever it needs to go today." Then, be ready for the interruptions. Be ready for the tug-o-war inside that wants to pull us in the direction of self.

Today's Action: Write out plans for the day. Surrender them. Embrace the unscheduled events by saying yes.

Heart Strings Attached

Yesterday, I was talking to a friend about a situation he was in where someone he knew and trusted asked for $100. He was torn up about it, and didn't know what to do or how to do it.

We talked about how loans are toxic, and how when we give loans we end up hurting ourselves because we're full of these expectation of the other person to pay us back.

And then

a month passes

and two months

and a year

and ten years

And we're still pissed off at our college roommate for not paying us back the $35 that we loaned to him so he could pay his share of the electricity bill.

And we end up deciding that we're never going to loan money again because we don't want it to end up like the last time. And we become hoarders of money, investors in our own futures, all for the sake of protecting our investments, but really based off the fear of that ever happening again.

But after all these years, we never even bothered to question our own affinity to loan money to other people. We never stopped to even think about the possibilities of giving gifts.

As I was doing my taxes this year, I gave myself a little pat on the back as I scrolled down my bank account earmarked with lines of financial gifts - from packs of cigarettes for my homeless friends to oil changes for friends who were jobless. In all, I'd given more last year than I ever had. I made it over the 20% mark in giving for the first time, and it felt great. It made me want to do more.

But, usually the self-applied pats on the back come with a string attached. It wasn't as hopeful as I thought it was.

And the truth was right around the corner.

I woke up one morning to find a handwritten letter from a friend of mine asking for money . . . again.

Immediately, I tore the sheet out of the notebook and started making a list of all the conditions he would need to meet in order to receive this money. I felt justified and right about it. Then, realizing how silly I was being, I wadded the paper up and threw it away. I wrote that he could have the money, but the insanity going on between my ears didn't get thrown away with the paper.

I went to work insane. And left work insane. And went throughout the day insane. And went back home insane.

And then I saw my friend. I was ready to pounce on him like a fox watching a rabbit, hungry for a kill. It only took a couple of minutes before all the conditions I wrote down on that wadded piece of paper came spewing from my lips. My anger burned, my voice rose, and I lost it.

I couldn't sleep that night and couldn't think straight. All I could think about was how I deserved better. It was his fault.

The next morning, I couldn't even remember what I or he said. All I could see was my wrongdoing. And what was it?

Although I'd given financial gifts numerous times to my friend, they all had strings attached. They were heart strings.

It's easy to say that we don't expect anything back, whether it's a gift of time or money or stuff.

But do our hearts say the same thing?

I ended up doing some intensive work on my resentment and fear in the situation, and came to the conclusion that I'd been giving out loans all along. There was always some form of expectation tied to my generosity. I expected the other person to do something for me, or to change, or to meet some made up rules in my head.

And when I didn't see those changes, I would try to make the rules even stricter. Except, I would never verbalize them, because that would make me look like an asshole.

I would keep them inside, for me to know only.

A few days later I went back to this person to make amends. I had extracted twenty (yes, twenty) fears and flaws in myself, and listed all the ways I'd wronged my friend. All these wrongs had stemmed from thing: I gave with strings attached, even though I verbalized it as a gift.

When we give, do we do it without strings? Or do we have all these past experiences and fears that fill our heads every time someone needs something we have? Do we secretly expect the recipient of our gifts to change in some way, or to pay us back somehow?

Some questions come up:
How do we know that we are giving with no strings attached?

A couple things. One, we realize that the recipient of our gift(s) is actually helping us just as much, if not more, as we're helping them.

When people need help, they're actually opening up a door for us in the way of growth. We get to give, and when we give, we're making an outward sign of an inward commitment to trust God.

Another question:
What's a practical way to "let go" of the gifts we give?

Pray. And, if that doesn't work, call a friend and talk it over. Get a referee. Then, give the gift. Chances are, the little time spent praying and talking it over will eradicate the strings that were connected to the good deed.

It's easy to talk a big game when it comes to giving, but making sure there are no strings attached is another story. If we're to experience peace in our giving, then we have to make sure that we're not giving out loans.

Is the love we give out actually a loan? Are the random acts of kindness we do for someone filled with expectation? Are we giving gifts, but inwardly treating them as loans?

Today's Action: Someone is going to want something from us today. Are we willing to match the request with a peaceful, stringless gift that expects nothing in return? Create a practice that will ensure that our giving is not tied to a litany of expectations, so we don't have to create any more chaos in our heads than is already there.

Dogs and Horses

The other day, I was watching the horse at the house next to my girlfriend's.

It was trying to make contact with the horse just across the fence, but they were separated. So, this horse kept standing up on its hind legs, almost as if it was trying to climb over the fence.

Every time it did this, the owner would send the dogs over to the horse to calm it down.

The dogs would come, and the horse would start running wildly, trying to get away from the dogs.

As I was watching this, it made me think of how, lately, I've been trying to get connected with my innermost self. I've been trying to stick to what I know. I've been trying to pave out time to work on my writing, and do the things that I'm passionate about.

Yet, as soon as I attempt to do so, the dogs come chasing after me. I start running like a wild man, trying to get away from the voices, and they push me away from doing the things that I want to do.

So, each day, as I fill out my planner, I include writing on my to-do list.

But, for the last three weeks my plans have gone out the window. There's been a detour every time.

And it doesn't help that lately I've had some insanity going on between my ears.

What I've found is, these detours from my plans have shown me a whole new way of thinking (and living). Self-sacrifice is doing those things that I don't want to do. It's knowing what my plans are for the day, but realizing that God may have something completely different on the agenda. What is humility but saying yes to those things I really don't want to say yes to?

I've needed the detours it turns out. I didn't know how complacent I was until I started getting out of my routine. I didn't know how much of a tornado I was being until I started telling people yes instead of telling people that I had stuff to do.

At some point I stopped doing the hard work of paying attention. I stopped living for the moment, and stopped taking stock of my day.

So, resentment, fear, selfishness, and dishonesty were going unchecked.

As an extremist, I don't do well at maintaining balance. But, somehow I've got to learn how to do the things I want to do as well as the things I don't want to do - not to throw one or the other out the window.

It's nearly impossible to do the things God created me to do without seeing through the filter of emotional sobriety. If I can't keep my side of the street clean and keep the demons in check, then it's gonna be hard to pour time into the things I love to do. But, it's gotta come first.

Romans 15:27-28 - Trading Goods

This is "The Voice" version:

I must tell you that they were thrilled to be able to help.  They realize that they are indebted to the believers in Jerusalem.  If the nations share in the Jews' spiritual goods, then it's only right that they minister back to them in material goods.  When this work is complete and the funds we've collected are delivered, I will make my way to Spain through your grand city of Rome and enjoy some of your hospitality.

It struck me as odd.  I didn't know one could trade spiritual goods with material goods.  I thought they weren't interchangeable - like spiritual goods would be free, priceless.  Paul got a road trip out of it... and the negative side of me says he mooched off of the people in Rome once he got there since he was delivering his "spiritual wares".

I suppose that can't be correct.  How would we pay our pastors?  It's worth it to me, I guess.  But I'm not buying spiritual goods, am I?  I've never thought of it as a transaction.

Shoot.  I'm sleepy.  I'll leave the half thought there.

Secret Service

I heard a guy say a few nights ago that an old man told him, "If you want to practice humility, then try doing something good without getting caught."

It's easy to respond to people who make their requests known, but it's another thing to randomly do something for someone else without recognition.

I'm always blown away by people who actually spend time thinking about how they can bless other people. They think of ways they can reach out, or write a letter, or send a card, without any strings attached. They just want to bless other people for no reason.

To me, it seems like a lot of work.

But, I look back at all the ways people have blessed me randomly - the kind notes, the meals, the prayers, the gifts - and it creates an anxiety inside of my heart to think of giving back.

Give to people without waiting for them to ask? What?

According to my love languages, gift giving is down there with physical touch. It's just not on my radar.

Almost a year ago, there were some strangers (to me) who volunteered to do some work on my car. They didn't know me and I didn't know them. As I stood there, watching as they poked their heads under the hood of my car, I couldn't believe that someone would actually want to take hours out of their day to help someone they didn't even know. They even went to the lengths of washing the car and making the tires shiny. In a way, it felt like they were washing my feet.

And these were average, beer drinking, hard-working, blue-collar men - worldly indeed.

I'm pretty generous when it comes to responding to someone's requests, but I can't even remember the last time I blessed somebody just for the sake of blessing somebody - especially without getting caught.

So, today I'm gonna try to do something good for somebody, and stay anonymous. Bless for the sake of blessing.

Today's Action: Be of secret service to someone. Do something for someone and expect nothing in return.

Trance

As I was sitting in the back of the treatment center last night, my heart fluttered with fear. My mind kept telling me that I wasn't as alcoholic as they are. Or, I'm not as good of an alcoholic as they are.

I didn't have to go through a detox. I didn't have to be homeless. I didn't have to go to the last house on the block, as this particular treatment center is called.

As I sat there listening to the ego-filled veterans give their spill on alcoholism, I felt twinges of pride and ego in myself rising up, resenting every word they had to say. They were so loud and boisterous, talking down to everyone in the room.

It was my friend's first night there. There weren't any beds open, so he'd be staying on the couch for a few nights until a bed opened up. All I wanted for him was to have good seeds planted between his ears. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to control what he heard. I wanted him to be safe and protected from the crazies.

I'm getting back to the basics myself. I've been in a sort of trance.

I wake up in the mornings, zip through my prayers, speed through the scriptures, and wonder why I'm drawing blanks. I'm wondering why I'm not getting anything out of what I'm putting in. I'm wondering why I can't be satisfied with the way things are. I'm wondering why churches can't be the way I want them to be. I'm wondering why the scriptures can't just lift me up and set me on solid ground. I'm wondering why I can't just be content and happy and joyful all the time.

My years of drinking have shown me what it looks like to live in a trance. I can easily get so caught up in something that makes me feel good, that it'll take all of me. It looks good at first, but then weeks or months later I wonder how it got so bad.

When I drink, I lose the intimate connection I have with friends. I lose the ability to trust God. I lose the desire to worship with a sincere and childlike heart. I lose the dignity that comes with having a full-time job. I lose the ability to wake up early to get the day started right. I lose the ability to realize what I'm doing wrong (or right).

Thank God I don't have to drink today, which means I don't have to lose these things today.

While I may not be walking on air (or water), I have the ability to expand on the things that mean a lot to me.

I get to go to work now.

Country Song

Wrote this today:

Diamonds and car keys
Hotties and jockeys
Newspaper junkies
And black market pills

Sunsets on shrimp boats
Hot dogs and queso
Salt, bait and fresco
Carnival thrills

Engine grew hotter
Forgot the water
I spit two pistons
On Highway Ten

Guess it don't matter
Fried or battered
You're mighty sweet
To sip the gin

Dreams of the Rockies
Stars and some silence
Rush of the road
Flying by us
My friend

Don't let things stop us
Devil may mock us
I want to run along
The Rio again

Why We Impose Rules on Other People

All day yesterday, my mind was a jumbled mess.

From the time I woke up, I couldn't focus on God because I was so focused on someone else.

My anxiety caused my heart to feel like it was skipping beats. My prayers weren't working. My ability to get into the solution was nonexistent.

And so, on my way to work, I sent a litany of text messages telling this person what they needed to do, how they needed to live, and gave them a whole list of conditions.

I was convinced that if this person changed, then my problems would go away.

I wouldn't be facing the inner turmoil I was facing.

The problem was that even though I gave all these conditions, and set all these incentives, and gave this person the list of rules, my problems didn't ease.

My turmoil didn't stop.

My heart didn't stop skipping beats.

My anxiety didn't decrease.

What I was doing was taking the problems that were inside of me, and using them as fuel to make someone else the scapegoat. If they just do this . . . and this . . . and this . . . then everything will be better.

It wasn't until about 7:15 last night that the lights finally came on. Through a friend of mine talking about fear and how we take care of it, I finally saw that all of my texting and correcting and controlling was a selfish justification of my own problems.

I ended up calling this person later last night to make amends. I realized that I had tried to put my burdens on someone else, and it wasn't right.

When we have disruptions going on inside of our hearts, the world says that we need to change our surroundings, find a quick fix, realize that we are the victims.

How many of us go for days, months, and years, thinking that the world and its people have wronged us? And left it at that?

How many of us have become so irritable and restless in certain areas, having never even considered the thought that it could have been our own creation, based out of our own fear?

I was afraid of being taken advantage of, or, being humble.

But, the phrase being taken advantage of is in itself a perspective.

It's a mindset.

And so, if I carry around this fear then it's gonna set the ball rolling to make decisions (based out of that fear). It may look like making personal, generalized concepts like "I'm never gonna give money to the homeless," or "I'm never going to let someone borrow my car."

And so, out of this fear of being taken advantage of, we create these lists of rules that everyone around us has to follow. That way, they'll know not to do that when they're around me.

In my case, this fear crept up, and it snowballed into chaos quickly. And, when I woke up yesterday morning I was having thoughts of burning this person's stuff and creating a burden to put over their shoulders, because . . . how dare they.

Who am I to discipline someone else and avoid looking into myself to see what the real issues are?

If I'm feeling like I'm being taken advantage of, then I've gotta find out why. I've gotta find out where my part is.

And my part yesterday looked something like this: I'm too afraid to let go of my money, my space, and my time.

Do I really trust God with what I've been given if I feel like I'm being taken advantage of all the time?
Do we really trust God with what we've been given if we feel like there's this constant feeling that people are gonna naturally take advantage of us every opportunity they get?

Humility in this case is being at peace with the concept that my stuff isn't mine. It's God's. I'm a temporary keeper of stuff, including money, housing, transportation, and bank accounts.

I'm a vessel designed to carry this stuff to others who need it. 

Today's Action: Give unconditionally today, and pray while I'm doing it.

On the Move

Throughout the old testament, we find story after story of people migrating to new places.

Abraham leaves Egypt.

Moses goes into Egypt, and then takes the Israelites out of Egypt.

Joseph is carried away by slave traders into a new kingdom.

David leaves Jerusalem.

The wise men leave their flocks.

But when we're reading about people leaving in the Bible, we're reading about how things were in those days. People lived in tribes, and tribes are constantly on the move. Change of geography was essentially the norm, because in order to survive, people had to go where the food, water, and shelter was.

But, there was also another kind of nomadic movement occurring.

Underneath the current of moving wherever the instinct of survival took them, they were seeking something different, something hopeful, and something invisible but so believable that it motivated them to keep moving and moving in the hopes of finding this new country.

One of the pitfalls of being a nomadic people was, they were vulnerable - both in the sense of lacking basic needs for survival, but also in the sense of being look down on by surrounding nations who were building their own kingdoms and trying to get tribes to surrender to their power.

And so, we see countless stories of these nomads being tyrranized by empires, turned into slaves, and rescued.

But, migrating for these people wasn't just about geography and finding what they needed to survive. If that was the case, they could have just picked an empire to be a part of, enculturated themselves, and made it work.

Instead, there were stories that were handed down through the generations of a God who called people out of what they thought was normal, and promised them a land flowing with milk and honey.

Today, we would call it heaven or heaven on earth or paradise or Utopia.

The main characters of the bible believed that there was a God calling them to search for this so called land, but there was only one problem. They couldn't see it, and most of them never saw it.

Which raises a question: Why would someone leave everything they know to search for a land they will never see?

For the people who embarked on this nomadic journey into the unknown, what they couldn't see was more inspiring than what they knew.

Do words like hope and ambition and aspiration pop into your mind when you think of that?

Have you ever left a job not knowing where you were going, but believing that what was in store was better than what you were currently experiencing?

All these stories of people who left their homes, their possessions, their cultures, and their gods, were built on a faith in something that couldn't be seen. They didn't know where they were going, but had heard stories about this fabled land flowing with milk and honey.

It was an adventure, a journey, a step into the desolate wilderness to try to see what the ancestors were talking so much about.

And what they encountered was a God who was completely different than the gods they'd grown up with. This God didn't demand sacrifices, but wanted to bless. This God didn't want to destroy, but wanted to restore. This God didn't stand lifeless as a statue, but engaged the senses through sound and sight.

But all of this leaving what was comfortable and moving into what was unfamiliar wasn't just a story about a geographical move.

It's a story about an inward realization, an inward journey into the unknown realms of God.

It's about completely unlearning everything that once seemed so familiar, and learning how to live by a different set of rules.

It looks like leaving everything that's comfortable and moving into something that's unfamiliar. But it also looks like deciding to take a journey of the heart and mind, and entering into a new territory of thinking and living.

Either way, it takes hope in order to have faith that the unknown is better than what is known.

Do you have this constant underlying tug-of-war in your soul telling you that there's something that you can't quite see, or grasp, or sink your teeth in to, that is better than what you're currently experiencing?

What is it?

Do we believe that the voice that's been calling us for years and years about a land that is better, a land that's flowing with milk and honey, is valid?

For Abraham, Moses, Jacob, and so many others, they believed in what they never got to see. But the point is, they journeyed in search of it. They were convinced that what they couldn't see was better and more adventurous and more life-giving than what had become monotonously familiar.

Faith Without Directions

Anyone reading the Bible for the first time or the thousandth time, can easily be overcome by seemingly impossible examples of faith that the narrators string together - Abraham, Moses, Paul, Elijah, and countless other characters who displayed levels of faith that just make me feel really small.

For Abraham, he listened to a voice that sounded much like what we would call "gut feeling" today - and it told him to leave everything and journey to a land he'd never heard of.

For Moses, he saw and heard a similar voice through the burning bush - and it told him that he would need to go back into the country in which he was wanted for murder - but with a different agenda: to deliver the Israelites from Egyptian oppression.

For Sarah, it was a voice that told her at her old age (90 years) she would bear a child. And, she laughed because the thought was ridiculous.

When we talk about faith, there are two kinds of faith. The one kind is the cause and effect kind of faith. The cause - being X, leads to the effect, being Y.

In this kind of faith, the the journey is known. The objective of this kind of faith is to calm the storm of needless worry. After all, if the cell phone breaks, the store is right down the road. And so, the point of this kind of faith is to trust God from point A to point B. As a result, we do the next right thing, and try to trust that God is going to get us to the next destination in the material realm.

There's another kind of faith too. It's direction is less clear, more muddled, and way more risky.

In this type of faith, there is an X, but no Y. The Y is invisible. The destination is unknown. The process is not common sense. The road is untraveled.

There are no material landmarks that we can see, because they are invisible.

It's as if the faith was initiated by a still, small voice that said, "Go here, but there are no details for you to grasp, nothing for you to see, nothing to hear, nothing to engage your senses."

I've gotten really good at having the former kind of faith, the kind that reduces worry when I know where point A and point B are. This is the everyday kind of faith that's required to face the problems that life throws at me. This faith eradicates the worries that can so easily entangle us while living life on life's terms.

But, what about the deeper kind of faith. What about those instances in which we heard the still, small voice that sounded much like our conscious, but as soon as we heard it we turned it off and convinced ourselves, "That's absurd! That's just my mind trying to trip me up. Everybody would think I was crazy for doing that!"

Evidence of this kind of faith is more common to us that we probably think. A good example of it can be found by taking a deep look at what we love to do. Our favorite passions are usually the thing we're most afraid of pouring our lives into. Why?

Because the process seems impossible. The chances of us really making it seem slim.

The still, small voice has been reminding us for years and years that we were made to make movies, but we can't see the destination. The landmarks haven't been put out for us. And so, we stay at the same job, dream the same dreams, and talk the same talk, because doing that seems real, and we can at least have our senses engaged.

I believe the kind of faith we all yearn for is the kind that doesn't have visible road markers.

We all know people who've "chased their dreams." Why do we call it that? Because what they were chasing was invisible. And everybody who watched them thought they were insane for doing it, until they did it, and then everybody admired them for their courage.

What about the missionary who leaves everything to go into the jungles of South America, not knowing the language or the culture? What about the cyclist who quits his six-digit salary job to start a bike shop, not knowing how he's going to do it? What about the songwriter who decides that she's going to work eight to five writing songs, not knowing how she's gonna make rent?

I've been relying on the kind of faith that engages my senses for a long time. And it's not bad, it's just elementary. It's part of growing.

But eventually, if I want to have my spiritual life enlarged, I'm going to have to learn to have faith when there aren't any signs pointing me in the "right" direction.

It's gonna look like Abraham, who took a step into the desert fully confident that the invisible God was leading him, not the visible roadmaps that he was so used to.

I believe this kind of faith is not removed from the deepest desires of our hearts - our greatest passions. Whatever it is, it's been calling us for years to step out into the unknown and to rely on this still, small voice that keeps reminding us of what we were created to do.

Today's Action: What is that deep down desire in our hearts, that thing that seems impossibly difficult, that passion that we've been too afraid to give too much thought? Are we willing to embrace the kind of faith that steps into the unknown, the kind of faith that takes action and doesn't know where it's going? Make a list of possible steps "into the unknown", steps that tap into what that still, small voice has been telling us for years. Maybe we'll start seeing the phrase faith is proof of things unseen come to fruition.

The Connection Between Being a Doormat and Being Humble

Last night, I was listening to a friend of mine call me out about something, and I didn't appreciate it. He was telling me that I'd been carrying around this air of bitterness.

When he finished telling me this, I turned it around. I recalled something he'd lied to me about, and used that to avoid having to face the truth of what he was saying.

The truth was, I had been bitter.

But, how dare he tell me that!

He was in no position to tell me what I was doing wrong, or so I thought.

What was really going on was, I was afraid of being a doormat. I was afraid of being walked on and being made to feel as if I was invisible and insignificant and a failure.

So, I turned his correction around and pointed it back to his flaws and his mess-ups.

I wasn't supposed to be the one with the problems.

As I was sitting in my morning meditation this morning, and rehashed the conversation that went down, I realized that I had misplaced being a doormat with being humble.

While in the moment I was afraid of being walked all over, looking back I realize that I was actually afraid of being humble.

Over the last couple years, there's been this massive, sweeping, almost faddish media outpouring from (out of all places) Christian outlets about creating boundaries to prevent oneself from being hurt in any given situation.

There's this waking consciousness that screams self preservation and drawing hard-line, black and white generalizations about what it looks like to help others and to help ourselves.

One of the undertones of this rising philosophy is that our problems are created by outside influences, like people and places and situations.

Out of this rising consciousness is where phrases like being a doormat came from.

But I disagree with most of what this consciousness proposes.

And here's why, using the example of my conversation last night.

What my friend told me immediately raised red flags, triggers for things like anger and resentment and defensiveness.

The undertone of this recently unwrapped philosophy is that I need to create walls to prevent myself from being hurt - or boundaries. That way, it is believed, I can be free to help others without getting hurt myself or hurting them.

The problem is, as human beings we have this uncanny knack for having selfish twinges every time we want to help someone out.

We inevitably end up having cracks in our boundaries.

And so, what our efforts in creating boundaries actually do is shield us from doing anything that leads us to taking actions that result in humility.

And humility is not being a doormat.

Being a doormat is the thought process that occurs before being humble.

He wants money again? I never signed up to be his banker!

And so, we say no because we don't want to because we don't want to be walked all over.

But the reality is, and I know this first-hand because I've had a hardened heart for way too long, that the feeling of being walked all over has nothing to do with anyone else but us.

At the root of this concept is the fear of not being in control of whatever's at stake - money, relationships, power, stuff, emotions.

Being humble is about advancing past the "doormat" train of thought. It's about realizing that my stuff is not my own and that there are areas in my life (usually the ones that are being threatened at the time) that I need to release control of.

In the moment of conversation with my friend last night, it was actually an opportunity to release my need to be right.

Yet, the "boundaries" part of me told me told me to hang tight onto what I thought was right to prevent myself from being hurt.

So, when people talk about being a doormat or building boundaries, they're actually talking about shielding themselves off from avenues of humility.

Humility goes against the essence of our human instinct. It goes against our will to survive, to make it, to feel accomplished.

Yet, there's so much insight and growth that is untapped because we tell ourselves, "Well, I'm not gonna be a doormat!"

When we run into opposition (mainly, people we don't get along with), we are running into mirrors of ourselves. We don't like them because they display something that's inside of us. And so, we create boundaries to keep us from having to see that mirror and having to endure what that mirror has to teach us.

Looking back onto the conversation with my friend last night, I realize that I had a boundary set up and I didn't even know about it. Instead of defending myself and turning it around on him, I could have listened quietly, through the fear of being walked on, and waited for the truth.

Today's Action: There will be at least one situation today where we have two alternatives: let the fear of being a doormat take over and control our actions or release control and be humble about it, even when it hurts.