The Healthy Jolt of Figurative Near-Death Experiences

I was in the midst of yet another work crisis when I emailed one of my subordinates an urgent request to pull together some information I needed to address a fire drill. As I sent the email from my car during my morning commute (honest, I did so when the car was at a complete stop at a traffic light), I glanced and saw that the email didn't go through.

Message Not Sent. Your message has been rejected by the server.

Irked, I went into my Outbox of my iPhone and re-sent the message. Again I got:

Message Not Sent. Your message has been rejected by the server.

At this point, I started to get a little nervous. Is it possible that my e-mail access had been turned off? Is it possible that I had been... No, they didn't, did they?  Am I going to be greeted by security and human resources when I got to my office? I know that things had been tough at work, but really? The scenarios raced in my mind.

When I got into my office, I tried to log into my computer and ominously, I got this message:

Your account has been locked. Please contact the IT helpdesk for more information.

As I called IT, my brain multi-tasked into numerous different directions. I was thinking of what I was going to tell my wife. I was angered at being dismissed in such a slipshod and unprofessional way. I was thinking of the people in my network who I was going to be able to talk to around next steps. In some ways, I went through an ultra-concentrated version of the 7 Stages of Grief. Since I had already gotten fired, I didn't bother bargaining, but I quickly ran through anger, depression towards acceptance and a "hey, this is for the best and I'm actually a little relieved " form of hope.

Of course, all of that emotional energy was wasted when I called the IT helpdesk and the fellow on the other line matter-of-factly said, "Hmm... I'm not sure what happened here. It's unlocked now, sorry about the inconvenience." And when I had more or less normal conversations later on with my human resources counterpart and my boss, I came to the realization that my morning was much ado about nothing.

But it wasn't a complete waste. To me, it was a healthy jolt which forced me to wrestle with how much of my own identity I placed in my work. It reminded me that any vocation or job is a temporary season without any real security. Rather than trying to grip the hold on the job tighter and scheme to manipulate circumstances and respond out of fear, I resolved to take a step back and remind myself of the basic credo I've always told others: "Do your best and work with integrity and let God take care of the results. Whatever needs to happen God will make happen."

I've read that some people who go through near-death experiences often respond by making the most of their everyday, recognizing that life is fragile and each day is precious. Others respond with a sense of invincibility, reasoning that they're playing with "house money" as they've already cheated death once and any extra day is gravy. While my experience wasn't nearly as traumatic, it's certainly helped me to put work and my attitude towards work in its proper place.

Flawed Parenting and the Kids Who Somehow Survive

Before I had children, I would shake my head upon hearing about kids getting in trouble. "Parents," I'd think to myself. "If the kid had better parents, he wouldn't have been in this situation." After all, if parents would just follow the Brady Bunch model of parenting - comprised of dilemma, discipline plus sage and stern advice from parents and ending with resolution and hugs at the end - society would be a whole lot better for it. It wasn't that complicated, just follow the above formula and you'd get kids that would be happy, healthy and well mannered.

Of course, my illusions around the effectiveness of formulaic parenting ending quickly once I became a parent. I was reminded of this when I read an article mourning the loss of three young men in a tragic car wreck. I appreciated the tone, grace and wisdom of the article, which stated the following: "Any adult who looks at this horror and doesn't say, "There but for the grace of God . . . " is deluded about what tempts their own kids (or kids' friends). Or about what their own youthful years and peers were like."

The teenage mind is a wacky thing, and I know this because I was one, and heck, I was actually a well-behaved one. But like every teenage kid, I did some stupid things out of sense of invincibility and brashness. Much like those teens who lost their lives in the tragic car accident, I liked to drive fast, and there was a day when I was enjoying zipping around a local mountain road in my '82 Honda Accord. Unfortunately for me, I failed to navigate a turn as a short school bus was approaching and ending up fishtailing. But by the grace of God, I didn't fishtail into the bus or fishtail off the side of the mountain. Instead I plowed into the side of the mountain, which caused considerable damage to my vehicle (to the point my rear view mirror broke off and ended up in the rear seats with the force of the collision), but I managed to walk away from the wreck.

Of course, I'm not advocating absentee or irresponsible parenting. Parents should absolutely love, teach, discipline and nurture the hearts, minds and souls of their children. But there simply isn't any black and white correlation with how kids respond. In the most literal sense, the outcomes emerge very much by the grace of God.

I think about this for my own children. My wife and I deeply love our children, but at the end of the day, after much parenting and praying, we release them into the hands of a God who loves them more than we do. And by the grace of God they go.

Fatherhood and Grace

A couple of months ago, a sister of a friend was soliciting "words of wisdom" to be part of a surprise scrapbook to commemorate the birth of their first child. After some thought, I passed along the following to my friend who I've known for a long time, having met at a college Christian fellowship:

One of the great gifts of parenthood is that it provides a unique glimpse in terms of our own Sonship through Jesus Christ. There's something profound about holding your newborn child (and I've been blessed with three of them) and feeling such a powerful love which, frankly, the child has done nothing to "earn". The baby can't speak, encourage and clearly is unable to physically help me in any way. But a parent has such intense love simply because the child is his or hers. And it's a wonderful reflection of an infinitely more intense and faithful love that our God extends to us, who are even less deserving than that helpless child. And we give thanks because He loves us, and through Christ has made us His own.

Interestingly, parenthood is also a humbling reminder of how much our love fails to reflect the lavishness and abundance of God's love, particularly in areas such as grace, patience and mercy. Last week, one of the pastoral interns at our church delivered a terrific sermon in which he shared an anecdote in which his toddler daughter continued to utilize a playground set incorrectly. Frustrated that his daughter was walking up the slide and down the ladder, he scolded her and said, "Next time I'm not going to catch you and when you fall, it'll be your fault." His candor and vulnerability in sharing this was redeemed in the sense that he used it to teach the congregation a stark example of what God's love is not like.

Sadly, I responded that afternoon by doing something really similar. Taking my three kids to the pool that afternoon, I was fed up with them whining about my refusal to play certain pool games with them in the deeper end (I had tried to explain to them that I needed to keep an eye out of my youngest) and stormed, "Look, if you're going to complain and be ungrateful, we can leave right now!" My chastened children stopped complaining and quietly slinked away.

Frankly, to desire children to use a playground set correctly and to not whine aren't misguided, per se. But there's a certain dark edge to human correction in which vindictiveness and frustration seep in. The remarkable thing about God's correction is that it's done without either, and that even in the midst of our sin and error, He is patient and slow to anger. These are attributes which I need to continue to aspire towards.

Even within devout Christian circles, I wonder if we falsely attribute aspects of human discipline to God. For example, when experiencing hardship or loss, we may be prone to think things such as "Well, God heard me complain about my job and now He's gotten me fired," or "I got into a car accident because God was angry that I missed church this past Sunday." Again, it's not that God doesn't discipline those He loves - the Bible is pretty clear about this - but it can be dangerous to personalize circumstances, especially when the human versions of discipline are often so tainted.

I am grateful that the discipline I receive from God is purely loving - without taint of frustration, impatience or self-interest. And I am spurred to try to do likewise with my own children.

The Thief Called Depression

Since the emergence of social media, I don't think I've seen any death cause such an outpouring of grief as with Robin Williams' this past Monday. What I found interesting was the universality of the reaction across all types of people from all walks of life. For example, when Nelson Mandela passed away this past December, those friends who were more geopolitically aware or passionate about racial justice offered tributes with photos and quotes on Facebook or Twitter. But when Williams passed away, I found a remarkable consistency of grief and sorrow from people who would otherwise probably have nothing in common. People of all different races, religions, political leanings all reflected sorrowfully about how a certain clip from a movie of his deeply touched them, and how his humor - sharp without being mean-spirited - often served as a reliable balm in the midst of the drudgery of life.

My wife wondered aloud about what made him such a beloved personality. My hypothesis was that even though the vast, vast majority of us didn't know Robin Williams personally, it just felt like we did. He was such a magnetic and effective performer that people couldn't help project the characteristics of the characters he played on the actor, himself. For example, it was easy to believe that Williams was Mrs. Doubtfire, the loving dad that would do zany things just to be with the kids he loved or that Williams was Mr. Keating, the teacher that loved his students too much to allow them to live lives that were anything less than extraordinary. There was a kind, yet vulnerable, fun-loving joy to almost all of his characters (yes, "One Hour Photo" and "Insomnia" are exceptions here), and we all assumed that if you took a gestalt of these characters, you'd get Robin Williams.

We all know now that this wasn't the case. Sure, many of us who regularly flipped through magazines or newspapers were aware that he had some issues with substance abuse. But did anyone actually see him being clinically depressed, much less taking his own life?

With Williams' death has come a good deal of thoughtful discussion around depression. I remember my first experience with depression many years ago with a friend at church, and I did my best to be supportive. Thankfully, I had the good sense not to exhort my friend to "suck it up" or "pray and trust God more", though I'm sure that this horrid direction is sometimes still given by well-intentioned people who are sadly misinformed or mistakenly equate a clinical condition with "having bad day". Like many who are depressed, this friend had good periods and bad periods, but sadly took his own life after many years of battling. And there have been other friends who are living with depression. And some of those have taken their lives, and others who are still bravely fighting on.

I don't have depression (at least I don't think I do), so I can't claim any deep credibility in the matter. But what I do believe is that it's a horrible, horrible disease. Like any disease, there isn't (or at least shouldn't be) any stigma. A person with depression deserves no more scorn or judgment than a person with colon cancer. Like any disease, there's a hope that it can be maintained, Lord-willing over the course of a lifetime. And like any disease leading to death, the anger of those left behind should be directed to the horrid disease, not the afflicted for being "weak" or "selfish".

Robin Williams is gone, having left a legacy of laughter and comedy. It would be ironic, and dare I say redemptive, to see his death become a catalyst in educating all of us around this disease. Perhaps that would be fit legacy to honor the man who touched so many, to find ways to support those with the same condition that took his life.

The Magnetic Pull of Home

A week and a half ago, the sports world was jolted with the news that LeBron James, the best player in the National Basketball Association, would return to his home state Cleveland Cavaliers after a four year stint with the Miami Heat. To quickly recap for non-sports fans, James, who hailed from nearby Akron, had been drafted by Cleveland and had spent the first seven years of his career there before becoming a free agent in 2010. After being wined and dined by a number of hopeful teams, he proceeded to announce his choice on national television. With his words, "I'm taking my talents to South Beach..." he incurred the wrath of basketball fans everywhere (except Miami) and particularly Clevelanders who felt it was unnecessarily cruel to bolt his home state team in such a public and humiliating fashion. The owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, Dan Gilbert wrote a scathing open letter which among other things, blasted James as "cowardly", "narcissistic" and "self-promotional". Cavaliers fans held bonfires where his jersey and likeness were torched. For four years, he wore the proverbial black hat teaming up with two other superstars to go to the NBA Finals each year and winning the championship twice.

With such success over that four year period and such an acrimonious divorce with his former team, it came as a bit of a shock when the news came that he would be returning home. And he did so, in an amazingly thoughtful and heartfelt essay penned with Sports Illustrated's Lee Jenkins.

The essay covers his reconciliation with Dan Gilbert and how much he enjoyed his four years in Miami. He talks about his desire to win as many championships as possible. But what he makes clear is that he wants to go home. Some would argue that his decision is irrational, that the rancor and hatred from Dan Gilbert and the Cleveland fans as he departed essentially nuked the bridge of return. Others could point at an unproven team with a history of futility would tarnish his legacy and prevent him from earning the additional championships necessary to propel him into the same stratosphere of glory as Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Magic Johnson and Kobe Bryant. He left a brilliant basketball mind in Pat Riley (with six championship rings) to hitch his wagon with a General Manager and Head Coach with less than three months combined of NBA experience. So why in the world would he do such a thing?

As he stated plainly, "This is what makes me happy."

He has reasons, sure. He wants to raise his growing family near his hometown. He wants to bring a championship to Cleveland and he wants to see the people of northeast Ohio to be proud of where they live. And he wants others to follow his example and stick around to make a difference. But as he says, "This is what makes me happy."

I can relate with that. Home often has this irresistible pull which draws us back to it, even against reason and rational thinking. In the same way LeBron chose the struggling rust belt of northeast Ohio over the glitz and glamour of South Beach, home draws people from prestige to provincial, from higher to lower "quality of life", from lower to higher costs of living and from temperate to uncomfortable climates. Home draws people from sophistication to simplicity, from beauty to blandness and even from leisure to struggle. Like many matters of the heart, it's not easily understood.

Shortly after I came to Houston, I wrote a blog post about the concept of home. I still believe I'm where I should be today. But like LeBron and anyone else who lives apart from the place where they (in LeBron's words) would say: "It’s where I walked. It’s where I ran. It’s where I cried. It’s where I bled. It holds a special place in my heart," there will always be that pull.

The Horrible Darkness of Perceived Injustice and Entitlement

I've had to rot in loneliness. It's not fair.

It's an injustice, a crime.

I will punish all of you for it.

I'll take great pleasure in slaughtering all of you.

If I can't have you, girls, I will destroy you. 

And all of you men, for living a better life than me, I hate you. I hate all of you. I can't wait to give you exactly what you deserve. Utter annihilation. 

These are excerpts from the chilling video left by Elliot Rodger, the young man who proceeded to stab to death three of his roommates before going on a shooting spree in which he killed three more people. Besides the shock and sadness in the wake of the tragedy, the event has predictably re-ignited the debate around gun control, mental health and our culture of violence. I've also read thoughtful essays around the issues of misogyny and the role of race.

For me, one of the things that I've thought about was the force and clarity of Elliot Rodger's conviction that what he was doing was a proper and legitimate act of justice. I saw the video on YouTube, and what was frightening was how articulate and determined his "farewell speech" was. This wasn't a goofy and nervous individual who was muttering gibberish and talking to himself while smearing himself in peanut butter, but a person who came to the clear conclusion that God / the world / humankind had shafted him and he was going to re-balance the scales of justice.

And then a sobering thought came to mind: Are we more similar to Elliot Rodger than we'd like to admit?

I find that all of us are prone to a skewed view of justice in this world, specifically one which overwhelmingly lends bias to ourselves or our own points of view. It's common to chafe at the irritating characteristics of other people while turning a blind eye towards our own short-comings. We hold our character flaws in euphemistic terms while shaking our head at the indisputable evil in others. For example, we are "passionate" while others are "aggressive"; we are "confident" while others are "arrogant"; we are "meticulous" while others are "controlling"; we are "discerning" while others are "judgmental"; we are "friendly" while others are "phony"... and of course, we have righteous indignation while others are are simply irrationally and unjustly angry.

We are prone to being inaccurate in adjudicating justice when it comes to ourselves. Elliott Rodger is certainly an extreme example, but I'm convinced that he died completely thinking that he was clearly an innocent victim in his life of sexual frustration and thus entitled to retribution. Of course he was absolutely wrong, but in his own mind clouded by a combination of mental illness and evil, I doubt he recognized it. And that same combination of mental illness and evil precipitated his interpretation of the fair "sentence" after his verdict, namely the killing of random men and women.

I'm confident that for the overwhelming majority of us, our sense of injustice won't manifest itself in such abominable ways. But I'd submit that there are cases of perceived injustice and the entitlement to retribution which are also extremely destructive, both to ourselves and to those who surround us. Maybe we need to take a step back during those times when we're most outraged to better discern our own heart motives and the benign intentions of others. Maybe it'd be helpful to talk to a trusted friend or pray earnestly about why feel such a strong sense of injustice. Is it injustice or is it wounded pride? Is it an issue of fairness or an issue of not wanting to lose?

Of course, there are times which people are legitimately wronged and we need to call out and confront evil and sin. I'm not advocating ignoring those situations. What I'm suggesting is that approaching those situations with a great dose of humility and recognition of our own brokenness would go a long way in terms of the ultimate goals of reconciliation, peace, understanding and relational redemption.

Learning Character on the Diamond

My son Daniel recently finished up his second season of Little League here in Texas, and in addition to sharpening his skills and acumen on the baseball diamond, there have been some key character lessons he's been able to glean from this past season.

Some of those lessons are fairly common in most athletic or artistic endeavors. For example, practice leads to good performances. There's an importance in persevering even when things get rough. A team which supports each other performs better than one which is wrought with infighting and finger-pointing.

There are some other more lessons that I think he's picked up, as well. For example, Daniel was pretty much cemented in right field for most of the season, with an occasional stint at second base. Why? Daniel's one of the weaker fielders, and you place them accordingly. The coach wasn't malicious about it, but I realized later in the season that Daniel knew exactly why he was placed in right field (He actually told me "Dad, we need to put our best fielders in the infield. And I'm not that good right now."), and he wasn't wounded but matter-of-fact about it. Instead of sulking, he worked hard with me to ensure that he could be the best right fielder he could be, playing catch with me and working with the coaches to get better. I couldn't be prouder of his self-awareness, his focus on the benefit of the team and his willingness to keep trying.

Two weeks ago, I think one of the best character lessons took place. Our four-team league entered the playoff stage, and his fourth-seeded Indians faced off against the top-seeded Yankees, who had lost only three times during the season. Surprisingly, Daniel and his mates jumped out to a huge lead against the Yankees and eventually after a final rally, they ended up leading 20 to 1, at which point the coach discreetly at the on-deck circle told Daniel and his teammates to purposely swing and miss at every pitch until the end of the game. Absent a league mercy rule, the coach took it upon himself to end the game himself.

When I asked Daniel about what happened, I tried to instill upon him the moral behind his coach's actions. I explained to him that there are times where actually "failing" is a good thing, because it's for the benefit of another person. Now granted, it was pretty clear in this case that continuing to milk walks and swing for the fences leading by such a large margin would be an egregious act of running up the score, especially for a Little League game for nine-year-olds (and to be fair, this wasn't a Hallmark Channel situation where the team forfeit their right to the championship game so they could advance the team with the kid who had cancer, or even the true story of how an opposing team 'negated' a technical foul for an opposing player who had recently lost his mother). But the principle of being less as a means to benefit others is an important one. It goes to the premise of altruism and sacrifice, when choosing the "less optimal" thing for yourself is the right thing to do. Daniel will have plenty of times in his life to choose the right thing in those sort of situations, and many of those decisions will be difficult.

As a side note, Daniel and the Indians went on to the Championship game a few days later and proceeded to win it all, 10-4 over the Red Sox. As Daniel was fortunate to be one of four kids in his league who were on back-to-back championship teams, the next character lesson will be realizing that winning championships in baseball isn't a entitlement.