My wife and I eagerly took in Donald Miller’s new movie, Blue Like Jazz, on our date night last week. Don probably doesn’t need a “save the date” for Oscar night, but the story was moving. Challenging. Sobering. And artistically well done.

(In fact, if any of my non-christian friends want to take in the film, I’d love to meetup for a coffee conversation afterwards. My treat. Seriously, call me).

Three days later, I met with a campus ministry leader here in Indy that vulnerably shared his own story of leaving the faith in college and returning only after a serious bottoming out. A massive crisis of conscience and faith that literally took him to the brink. It was eerily similar to Miller’s screenplay, and not unlike many of the stories I hear over lunches and coffee shop tables every week.

Church was forced on me.

Church people are (oblivious) hypocrites.

Church avoided the uncomfortable questions I was actually asking.

Church was just my social connection.

Church taught me information about God, but that’s about it.

For far too many, until the crap hits the fan, until the bottom falls out, until they make an absolute mess of things – until they have a crisis of faith – they never really know God for themselves. They may be connected to the culture, but they’re disconnected from Christ.

Personally, I never really had one of these Blue Like Jazz periods. Or did I?

I was a by the book kid. Don’t rock the boat. Play by the rules. So for me, a crisis of faith didn’t manifest as an 8-month rave party. (What can I say, even my breakdowns are safe). But just because I never spent a year sowing wild oats doesn’t mean faith and me didn’t duke it out.

And I’m starting to believe everybody should.

My daughter is 13. She’s starting to look more like a woman than a little girl. And to make things worse, she’s smart (she just won a school award for her cognitive reasoning skills…God help us). How can I, as a pastor but more importantly as her daddy, walk her headfirst into her own crisis of faith? Yes, I’m serious.

How can she start tackling the hard questions she’s inevitably going to ask?

How can she take on her doubts?

Now.

With me.

Slowly. Intentionally.

Together over the next 5 years, instead of alone in some college philosophy class.

So that her faith becomes more than a way of life I’ve hung around her neck. So that it becomes her own conviction and not just a mimic of mine. Her own thought through, lived out, real and personal relationship with Jesus Christ. That kind of strength only comes from stepping into the tension.

Is it possible to force a crisis of faith without creating a heavy bag of regrets you’re forced to carry through the rest of your life?

What do you think?

We dedicated a bunch of kids yesterday at City Community Church. And we could’ve dedicated more. Lots more. I’m starting to think the Central Library Cafe is spiking the java with little tax deduction incentives.

If you dare to drink the water, don’t say you weren’t warned.

As my wife and I were prepping, talking, and praying about what this beautiful moment should look like within the context of our church’s weekly gathering, I couldn’t get a key verse of Scripture out of my mind:

So God created human beings^[a] in his own image.
In the image of God he created them;
male and female he created them.

Genesis 1:27 NLT

My good friend, mentor, and personal counselor, Jim Falk, will tell you (with deep conviction) that nearly every issue he deals with in his practice ties back in some way to this verse of Scripture. Sin breaks our connection to the Father. In our brokenness we embrace lies. In our deception we lose site of the foundational core of our identity.

At that point life always seems to get a little messy.

The truth? We were created as image bearers of God. Of God! You know, the Creator of the Universe. Formed. Fashioned. Knit-together. Known. Valued. Loved.

Our prayer for these beautiful children yesterday was really pretty simple:

Regardless of what life throws their way.

Regardless of their social hierarchy or socio-economic status.

Regardless of their insecurities.

Regardless of their successes or failures.

Regardless of their grades. Their looks. Their seat at the school lunch table.

Regardless of who their friends, pop culture, or even their own families convince them that they are.

That they will forever hear the sweet voice of the Father whispering (shouting!) that eternal reminder of their true identity: “You were created as an image bearer of God!”

My prayer for you and me today is no different. Let’s not forget who we are.

I got a tough phone call yesterday (on a day I blogged about grace, figures).

From a church shopper.

I don’t normally mind church shoppers. It’s a natural thing when you’re moving to a new area or entering a new season of life. You want to know more about a church community before you take time to visit. But this guy had an ax to grind (and he was chopping wood).

I won’t bore (or give much credence) to the details, but let’s suffice it to say he had some serious issues with a couple of well known, and at least by me, well respected pastors with a national platform. He wanted assurance that City Community Church didn’t align with their “heresy.”

(For the record, we don’t align with any heresy. But he still probably needs to keep on shopping).

I’m a big believer in truth (it’s not relative). There are obvious imposters out there. Dangerous ones. Scripture warns of them (2 Peter 2:1-3 among plenty of others). But sometimes we get our panties all in a bunch over rampant misinformation, “canonized” personal preferences, and just good old fashioned arrogant condescension.

I’ve done it.

You’ve done it.

We all need to stop it.

First of all, before you go condemning another Christian leader, make sure your facts are straight. In case you haven’t heard, the internet is wrought with misinformation (who knew?) and poor interpretations of things people have supposedly said. I question our impulse to condemn, but if you must do it, at least do it with accurate facts.

Second, there’s room for all kinds of church expressions. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Small churches, traditional churches, mega churches, urban churches, organized churches, contemporary churches, suburban churches, house churches, organic churches. Different church expressions reach different kinds of people! I think all of us (including my big-ol-guilty-hand in the air) can respect that, right?

And lastly, let’s all stop pretending we’ve got it all figured out (leave that to the meteorologists). If God resists the proud, wouldn’t it make sense to assume that arrogantly insisting you know everything about Him is a pretty sure sign that you don’t?

Let’s become humble (and loving) pursuers of truth.

Let’s cripple the high horses.

Following an April 1 motorcycle accident that uncovered a scandalous extramarital affair and potential mis-use of university funds, Arkansas football coach Bobby Petrino was fired. (No April fools).

Tiger Woods, already a polarizing personality after embarrassing infidelities surfaced in 2009, is becoming even less easy to root for after throwing clubs and swearing like he was cast in a Tarantino flick during last week’s Masters Championship.

Chicago White Sox skipper Ozzie Guillen found himself treading in hot water following an impromptu celebration of Cuba’s murderous dictator, Fidel Castro. We’ll see if he can keep his job.

All the politicians must be thrilled that the sports community is hogging the embarrassing headlines this week.

As I watch these stories unfold, there’s an innate tendency to try and find myself amidst the turmoil. Sure, these guys made some asinine and self-indulgent choices, and now they’re living into the repercussions of their decisions. You jump off a cliff, gravity takes over. It’s a fact of life.

But am I more worthy than Bobby Petrino because I’ve been faithful to my wife? I don’t know. Am I? It’s an interesting question.

“For we have all become like one who is unclean [ceremonially, like a leper], and all our righteousness (our best deeds of rightness and justice) is like filthy rags or a polluted garment; we all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away [far from God's favor, hurrying us toward destruction].”

–Isaiah 64:6 AMP

Even as a life-long follower of Christ, it’s so easy for me to define my worth by my behavior. If I’m gentle with the kids, gracious to my wife, kind to my neighbors, (not out soliciting prostitutes), and generous with my money, I feel pretty good about who I am. At least better than those who’s dirty laundry is being splashed all over the tabloids.

But as my favorite apologist (aka Christian ultra-smart guy) Ravi Zacharias likes to remind us:

“Jesus didn’t come to make bad people good but to make dead people live!”

Behavior gives us a scorecard. A point of comparison. A pedestal to elevate our pride or a hiding place to wallow in our shame. Or as Max Lucado put it in his brilliant children’s tale, our box of gray dots or yellow stars to stick gleefully or condemningly on those around us.

Grace gives us life.

Behavior isn’t unimportant (or free of consequences), but it’s not the foundation of God’s love and approval. Jesus is. Whether you’re more Bobby Petrino or Mother Theresa, you’re problem isn’t that you’re bad or good, it’s that you’re dead. Only Jesus can make us truly alive. Are you?

The grace and mercy of God. Now there’s a real scandal for you.

What do you think?

Somewhere along the line I forgot how to play. Or maybe I just decided to quit. I don’t know.

Life became serious. Important. Efficient. Practical.

I have these faint memories of endlessly skipping rocks across the neighborhood creek, shooting plastic army men with giant rubber bands, 12-inning kickball grudge matches that reluctantly ended when my dinner was cold, and building forts with couch cushions and throw blankets. But they seem silly now. Childish even.

Nothing makes that clearer than a good ol’ Griswold family vacation. I just returned from Spring Break week in sunny Destin, Florida with my wife, our 3 kids, my mom and dad, and some dear friends from Louisiana. Portions of our day probably sounded something like this:

“Daddy, come swim in the ocean!”

Uhhhhhh, that water’s freezing sweetie. And, you know, things live in there. You guys enjoy. I’m gonna sit under the umbrella and read for awhile.

“Daddy, let me bury you in the sand.”

Why don’t you bury Emma buddy, I’m gonna hit the condo gym for an hour.

“Daddy daddy, get in the pool with us!”

I’m getting a lot of sun guys. Let me finishing talking to your mom here and put on some SPF70 (aka liquid t-shirt) and then I may hop in for a bit.

Before you commandeer my dad of the year trophy, we did all these things. A lot. But my instinctual hesitancy gave me pause and made me think. Why do I naturally balk at play?

Am I selfish. Sure.

Am I lazy. Probably.

But I also think I’ve simply lost the joy of playing. Of disengaging. Of spending time recklessly. Inefficiently. Relationally. For nothing more than the fun of it.

Why?

You know I’ve never been one to cynically trash our culture, the new media, Facebook, Twitter, our 24 hour connect. But I do think it’s worth looking at how undisciplined engagement can impact the things that are most important to us. My brain is used to uninterrupted input and non-stop stimulation.

The conversation dull? Check Facebook.

The ballgame hit a lull? Click on the breaking news link.

Meeting boring? How about Words with Friends?

Even if the entertainment I’m engaged in isn’t entertaining enough, I can instantly access something more stimulating.

But I wonder if the art of play isn’t curated amongst the lulls. Painted in inefficiencies. Sculpted with the boredom that we seem to fear so much. Yes, fear.

When I play with my children, it opens their hearts to me. Gives me access to the deeper places I really want to go. Cultivates the respect I need to lead them well. The love I long for. Maybe play is the gateway for all great relationships?

How do we cultivate the art of play?