Some people make me uncomfortable. They say hard things. Offensive things. Their very presence makes me bristle. Raises my blood pressure. Makes me flat out angry.

And it’s good.

They’re called prophets. A term we don’t hear thrown around much in pop culture today (unless they’re referencing some crazy in a sheltered compound with a chalice of red kool-aid and 300 blank-eyed followers). But I believe the prophetic gift is still alive (Ephesians 4:11), and at times the brokenness and deception in our lives will be violently accosted by very difficult truth. Painful truth. Prophetic truth.

The Old Testament prophets were nut jobs. Often outcasts. Recluses. They’d marry prostitutes or walk around naked to visually illustrate the sins of God’s people. Their call was to repent. They weren’t easy to ignore, but they were pretty easy to marginalize.

I undoubtedly face the same impulse when encountering a prophetic voice today. They like to point at things in me that I don’t want you to see. That I really don’t even want to see myself. I prefer to move them to the crazy line and get on with my life.

But there’s another kind of voice that can sound strikingly similar. That also leaves you bristling, irritated, and maybe even a little PO’d (for a whole other reason).

The cynic.

Haters. Full of self-righteous condescension, a sharp tongue, caustic wit, and an uncanny ability to make you feel like a pile of dog crap. And here’s the difficult thing about The Prophet and The Cynic…

…sometimes it’s really hard to tell the difference between the two.

I’m a pastor, so I live and breathe in “church world.” Admittedly, this can become it’s own subculture of competing philosophies and debate. The tension between prophet and cynic is one I wrestle with every day (at times even in my own soul).

The Western Church could use a good kick in the pants. A cold bucket of wake-up reality check. We’ve bought into some idolatrous (and perhaps even dangerous) lies. At times, we’ve even misrepresented the Gospel. We need the prophetic voices to radically and urgently point us back towards the truth.

But some of you so-called prophets need a gut-check of your own. You’re not oracles, you’re just haters – finding visceral satisfaction in expressing your animosity towards things that may have hurt you, that make you envious, or that simply don’t line up with your own personal preferences.

You’re just negative people. Nothing’s good enough for you – ever right or worthy of celebrating. When you’re not bashing mega-churches, worship styles, church structures, or the latest comment made by some well-known spiritual leader, you’re angst turns towards the idiot repairman, the forgetful waitress, your overbearing boss, or the ridiculous common area mowing schedule of your neighborhood association.

You’re not a prophet, you’re just a whiner with verbal acumen. Having a condescending opinion might make you a great ESPN analyst, but it doesn’t qualify you as the voice of God.

How do we know the difference? I fear mistaking prophetic words for the ramblings of a cynic. But I also fear gravitating towards the emotional woo of a hater assuming I’m hearing from God. So here’s a simple thought:

The prophet is motivated by redemption.

The cynic just wants to feel right.

What do you think? How do we discern between the two?

It’s always the pastor’s kids.

When God was dolling out the gene pool, he knew this compliant, follow the rules, don’t rock the boat, “my worst college rebellion was putting dish washer detergent in the campus fountain” guy needed some spice. So He sprinkled a little Austin on my life sandwich (with a divinely playful grin no doubt).

I could start a new blog dedicated to his daily antics. His hilarious (and uncomfortably honest) questions. The notes his teacher sends home from school. My natural reaction is to do what all the “good little kids” do to the mischievous ones.

Tattle on him.

But I haven’t figured out who to tell.

He’s fearless, and a lot of days he takes us to the outer edges of our own parental insecurities. But in the midst of the chaos, there’s one undeniable reality about our 6 year old corporate negotiator to be:

We absolutely love that boy.

And I really sort of admire him, too (even when I want to send him to live with his grandparents). His determination. His persistence. His courage. His “I’m gonna do this until you have the guts to stop me” approach to life. I honestly wish I was more naturally wired that way.

As I was praying for the Aus-man this morning, I felt some divine leading.

Stop praying against his strong-willed tendencies. Stop praying he conforms. Stop praying for timid compliance. Those things might make parenting easier (and the eyes of other parents less judgmental), but they won’t make your son more Christ-like.

Stop praying he weakens.

Start praying for meekness.

Meek isn’t a word we use much today. “LeBron James takes the Bosh pass meekly to the basket for a quick two points!” Or at least one we use 100% accurately. Meek sounds “weak.” But that’s not necessarily true.

Meek can actually be defined as “controlled strength.” It’s a term most used in equestrian circles to describe a stallion that has been broken for battle. He’s not weak. He’s not timid. He’s not afraid.

He will simply utilize his strength in whatever way the Master leads.

If I’m honest, some days I just want Austin to be easier to parent (not the purest motivation for a loving father). God wants him strong, confident, powerful, tested, and ready to embrace the Kingdom life he was destined to live.

Surrendered not compliant.

Passionate not predictable.

Meek not weak.

Criticism is a native language for human beings. We learn to chuck stones straight from the womb. Some of us are more subtle. Some are full on connoisseurs. (Some of us are bloggers). All of us do it.

To each other.

Our politicians.

Our favorite sports teams.

That idiot columnist.

And perhaps most tragically, to ourselves.

As we journey forward in this life, we learn new things. We gain fresh perspective and uncover new understanding. By definition, that process starts to make us unsatisfied with where we’re at.

Critical.

And a healthy dissatisfaction can be the perfect prescription for change. To lose some weight. To be more vulnerable with our spouse. To start saving a few bucks. To enroll in college classes. To quit texting while driving (or flying airplanes).

But if we’re not careful, criticism can trigger shame and spiral us into the abyss of unworthiness and hopelessness. Of self-disdain that holds us captive instead of propelling us forward. Shame swallows grace.

To grow, mature, and transform, there must be periods of gut-wrenching and soul-searching. Where God shines his light into the darkest rooms of our soul. It’s uncomfortable. But that overwhelming sense that something is wrong might just mean something is very right.

Today’s revelation will always make yesterday’s response seem silly, stupid, and maybe even a little embarrassing. That’s normal. What you do with it from there will make all the difference.

Shame=Stagnant.

Repentance=Transformation.

So have a little grace today. For your noisy neighbor. That idiot weaving in and out of traffic. (I’m still asking God if politicians are optional). But maybe most importantly of all, find a little grace for yourself.

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.