We spent last weekend in New York City. A extravagant celebration of my daughter’s 13th year of life, and three days of I-wouldn’t-change-a-moment experiences. Including a relatively obnoxious one our last day.

We took the subway to Soho, a trendy artist neighborhood in lower Manhattan, to meet some great friends who just moved to the area for work. We met up at a little cafe just off the main strip. The sign read “Community Table,” an awkward pull-up-a-chair-and-eat-with-people-you-don’t-know concept for this introverted, Midwestern boy. But we played along. When in Soho…

Until I opened the menu.

“All of our eggs are served soft-boiled.”

“But I’d really like scrambled. Can you scramble a few up for me?”

“Um, no idiot. Soft-boiled only.” (OK, she didn’t call me an idiot, but it sorta felt that way).

Then my wife had the nerve to ask for toast.

“We don’t toast bread, plebe. I can bring you some plain bread.” (No she didn’t say plebe, but in a way she sorta did).

The food proceeded to come to our table in 20 minute shifts, but I couldn’t muster the nerve to protest. The waitress was scary. Obviously on an elevated level of culture my simple, scrambled-egg, Indiana upbringing couldn’t keep up with.

In risk of sounding as snobby as our waitress, this isn’t all that different than I’ve felt in some church circles in recent years. Like I don’t measure up. Perhaps some of it ties to my own insecurities, but there’s a definite overtone of emergent self-righteousness that makes me feel like I just had the nerve to order toast in Soho.

Over the years, I’ve grown to despise many aspects my conservative self-righteousness church culture. Defining true faith by an absence of swearing, abstaining from alcohol, (not chewing bubble gum), voting Republican, or never-wavering church service attendance. But the Fruit of the Spirit doesn’t read Prius, Democrat, and organic farming either.

The antidote for conservative piousness isn’t liberal piousness.

It’s Jesus.

But we all (and when I say all I’m first in line) have this uncanny ability to canonize our opinions. To violently swing the pendulum away from things that offend us. To find Scripture that backs up our personal preferences. And I’m just raising my hand today to say, “Stop it!”

Self-righteousness of any flavor smells awful. Kinda like a soft-boiled egg (but hey, that’s just my opinion).

Last week, I found myself sitting in the basement of Jared Anderson’s house in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He had invited me to a two-day songwriting retreat he was leading, and even though full-time music isn’t in my job description anymore, I felt God nudge me to go.

I’m so glad I did.

After dinner Wednesday night, Jared sat down behind a keyboard setup in the corner of his basement to share a few songs he’d recently written. Only problem? One of his children had run off with the sustain pedal (those meddling kids!). This is a pianist’s worst nightmare (like a politician without a teleprompter).

But Jared didn’t flinch. He plunged forward like a pro and led us in a new tune from New Life’s latest worship album. Even without a sustain pedal, it nearly did me in. I’ve had it on repeat ever since.

Here’s the “pedal-full” version. I dare you to listen to it without tearing up:

I thought there might be a few of you out there today who, like me, need a little reminder of who this God is that we claim to serve.

Difficult circumstances in front of you?

He’s the Great I Am.

Brokenness in your life?

He’s the Great I Am.

Big decisions ahead?

He’s the Great I Am.

Lean in. Lean hard. He’s the Great I Am. He’s got this (and He’s got you).

Dead, dormant, or perhaps cryogenically frozen. That would probably be the best description for a very special part of me:

Songwriting.

I’ve been in Colorado Springs since Sunday night. Spent Monday in the home of one of our City Community Church overseers and his wife. Tuesday with our partners at Mission of Mercy.

But the next two days are personal. I’m here to find something I lost.

Between 2001 and 2008 songwriting was a normal outflow of my life. My buddy Nathan and I wrote songs. A lot of them. A few were even worth keeping around. Over time, a culture of songwriting actually began to emerge amongst our church community. It was a beautiful era.

But a series of painful transitions and new responsibilities have left my piano mostly untouched for the last few years. It just hasn’t felt right. So when Jared Anderson sent me a personal invite to a two-day songwriting collaborative, I immediately told him no. Didn’t even have to think about it.

“I’m a pastor now, not a musician. Those days are behind me.”

Translation:

“I don’t want to face that pain. Please leave the giant millstone tied securely to that gift.”

That was an unfortunate form of self-protection. Songwriting goes far beyond recording albums and working with record labels. It’s an unmatched form of human expression. Glenn Packiam would even call it a spiritual discipline. One I allowed to be stolen from me.

I’m here to get it back.

Today starts two days of collaborative songwriting sessions with 25 other writers from around the country. I feel incredibly vulnerable. Anxious. Rusty. And I can’t wait to see what happens.

Has pain stolen a piece of your identity? Is there a gift buried deep inside that you’ve simply stopped expressing?

Go get it back.

Earlier this week I shared some thoughts on why change is so difficult for us. Our own sin and the wounds of others weigh down and swallow up the beautiful identity God originally intended for us. Then we try to fix ourselves.

I used my daughter to help illustrate this reality at City Community Church last Sunday. Her therapy starts next week.

Hope you enjoy this short clip:

Like many I suppose, I spent some time talking to God over New Year’s weekend. Beginning of the year prayer and reflection is almost as Christian as eating at Chic-Fil-a. It’s true.

As I gazed upon the challenges of 2012 – as a pastor, as a husband, as a father, as a church leader – the following words just seemed to uncontrollably gush from my mouth:

“Lord, reignite my imagination! Give me a picture of the future that both excites and terrifies me, and fill me with the courage to walk boldly into things that are beyond my ability to control or even completely understand.”

Whoa. That’s big for me. Dangerous. Like taking your hands off the steering wheel (or texting while driving). What if God actually answers this prayer? Shoot, maybe I should have thought this through.

But I’m filled with such hope! A new sense of anticipation. Yeah, some jitters. And a few butterflies (that feel a little like pterodactyls).

And I thought that maybe…just maybe…you might want to join me?