Passion

So I'm in the hunt for a new job, possibly even a shift in career direction, and to that end, I'm starting to push on doors to see what opens. Nothing solid yet, but I'm still at peace, and looking forward to the next big thing.

But it's curious timing, in the midst of this whole "midlife" thing. I'm frequently asked, "What's your passion?", the question hinting at the old saying, "Find the work you love, and you'll never work a day in your life", or some variation of the same. The belief is that we could all be doing something we love, something we're passionate about, in order to feel fulfilled.

It's an appealing theory, but is it realistic? I, ever the pessimist, wonder, "What if you just really don't know what your passion is?"

A local resident cleaning fish on Romblon Island, RP.

I realize that pursuing one's passion is only an option to a tiny percentage of the world's population. It simply cannot be universally applied, given that only in wealthy nations, and only among the middle-class and higher, is "pursuing one's passion" even a possibility.

I've just returned from a 20-day trip to the Philippines. Visiting that beautiful nation really messes me up. I love the lure of the islands, and the agricultural landscapes of the countryside. I also enjoy the grinding cityscape of sprawling metro Manila, and the gracious Filipino hospitality in every place. Like most non-Western nations, it is a land of contrasts. I browsed in shopping malls as nice as any I've seen here, and I walked through slums that turned my stomach and broke my heart. I met comfortably wealthy nationals living in spacious homes and I met some very poor people with few possessions to their name. But even then, how odd to see small homes, shacks really, perched beachside, in places we'd pay handsomely for a 1-week getaway (if we could get there easily and stay in sufficient comfort). The residents wake up every morning to a view most of us have to settle for as a desktop wallpaper.

Making a living from the garbage dump in Tondo/Balut, Manila, RP.

The most difficult, however, was a walk among garbage dump scavengers, hardworking men, women and children who manage to survive by combing through a mountain of trash, finding anything they can sell to the recyclers, down to small bits of plastic, glass and metal.

And I thought, "No one here has the luxury of 'pursuing their passion' at work."

Kids always find a way to play.

And still, I saw smiles. Not everywhere, and more so among the children, but I saw them. And I realized, there's more to life than simply finding a job that fulfills. And there's more to work than serving your passion.

The problem is not that some have passion and others don't, it's that passion gets lost. It is possible to let a job, a crisis, or an institution wring passion right out of us, until we forget that we ever had any. The garbage dump scavengers I saw could live with passion, but for most, their need to survive has squeezed it out.

I'm not trying to create passion in my life - I'm just creating some space so passion can breathe again, can find life and rise to the surface.

So it likely won't be passion for an occupation, unless that occupation allows me to pour myself into that which feeds greater passion, realities like true relationships, for example, or the opportunity to meaningfully care for people. A pastor, mechanic or assembly-line worker can all live with or without "passion", regardless of their occupation. We find fulfillment not IN our work, but we may find it THROUGH our work.

Passion: what's yours?

Tipping Point

I think the best and worst of midlife is exactly in the name - it's MIDlife. We no longer have the energy of 15 or 20 years ago, but we're not yet seen as too old to be irrelevant (I hope!). No one expects me to fly like a 22-yr-old, but my head can still be in the game with lots to offer.

But here's my question: What's the Tipping Point between being mentored and being a mentor?

When Beck and I were church planting in Chilliwack, Canada, some 10 years ago, I frequently had to deal with the "you're too young to be a pastor" comment. (It may have been six or so years ago that people stopped saying that. It might have been the grey hair, or receding hairline that increased my perceived age-eligibility for the pastorate.)  But I've now reached the age where the people I have the opportunity to shepherd are mostly younger than me. 

That means I'm often expected to have answers or be able to offer direction simply because I'm older. It also means young people look at me and think, "You're an old dude." Old enough to mentor.

Yet I don't feel very old, and and I long to receive mentoring and spiritual direction from older, godly men. Young enough to be mentored.

And my peer group - well, we're trying to navigate the complexities of midlife together. 

So I feel I'm at the tipping point now, about to cross from "mostly asking advice" to "mostly offering guidance". I'm wondering, is it really an either/or matter? Can I have it both ways?

I guess I am looking forward to a final day when this will be true:

"When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. Now we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely." 1 Corinthians 13:11-12.

Golden Oldies

Here's another Midlife Concern: when a 20-yr-old song is played in church, and you feel warm fuzzies, does that define you as middle-aged?

This is not me.
But yes, I had a mullet.

We enjoyed a great church service yesterday, partly because - to my pleasant surprise - we sang an old Vineyard song we used often when I led music as a Bible College student. Honestly, the last time I sang that song, the mullet was still popular! But our worship team played it well, and I found myself surprisingly drawn in to worship by the tune.

And this is unusual for me, because I'd be happy to sing a new set of songs every week, and I'd love to sing a few OLD songs - the kind that are printed in those books that are now usually just used to lift and level the video projector! (The majority of church-goers I've interacted with over the past 10 years have probably never opened a hymnal in their life!)  But I'm not typically fond of sort-of old songs.

Until now.

And that concerns me. Because when I first served as a music minister, in my mid-20's, the 40-something choir members I led liked some "old" songs. They didn't seem to mind singing songs like "Seek Ye First" (Karen Lafferty, c.1972). To me, 40-somethings seemed old, and it didn't surprise me that old people liked old songs. After all, old people are sentimental, right? Right, and now I'm there.

Oh my, can this really be happening?

Scripture encourages us to sing new songs. Several times the Psalms say, "Sing a new song", and Isaiah 42:10 affirms that, saying, "Sing a new song to the Lord! Sing his praises from the ends of the earth!"  I've always loved U2's 80's concert closer, "40", from Psalm 40, with the lyric, "I will sing, sing a new song." (Which in itself is remarkable, that a 3000-yr-old lyric becomes a new song with a new tune!)

I think what made the old tune work for me yesterday is that is reminded me of a meaningful spiritual time in my life (okay, some sentimentality), and it had been dormant long enough to feel fresh again. Yet most importantly, the text of the song rang simple and true, a Biblical testimony. It was - and is - a good song. And I was able to sing it with new desire and purpose. The song is old, but God's work in me through it can be new, always new.

So I'm going to choose not to "feel old" because I relished a 20-yr-old song. And no, I don't want to sing it frequently. I still prefer the new over the old. But I'm thankful for those Golden Oldies that can make an old message fresh again.

(For those who wish to comment here or on Facebook, what are the "old" songs that mean something to you and why?)

Living in the Tension

One of the realities of this life-stage we call mid-life, is the tension between the desire, perhaps the need, for stability, versus the importance of preserving one's values.

When we were young, we pursued what was important to us, without a great deal of concern for stability or security. What we studied, what we drove, how we dressed or the music to which we listened were ways we expressed not only our preferences, but our values, what was fundamentally important to us, even in small ways. For example, at 20 I accompanied my brother to a boutique shoe store in downtown Vancouver, and bought an expensive pair of  Doc Martin shoes, specifically because I knew of NO ONE ELSE who wore those shoes. My college peers mocked me, but my shoes proclaimed - "I am unique" - and while it was money I couldn't afford to spend, I was glad I did.

Even in our early years of marriage and parenting, stability was a non-issue. Adventure, education and experience were precious, and worth the price we paid. My oldest son celebrated his first five birthdays in five different settings, because of the risks we were willing to take in relocating for schooling and employment. Our values of education and church experience trumped stability.

I'm willing to admit that my status as a last-born child and a sanguine personality (you can ask me why that matters) has delayed my desire for stability, but at this mid-stage in my development, I can admit that security is a concern for me.

The question is this: will I compromise my values for stability?

When I think of the Biblical examples I love - Nehemiah, the Apostle Paul, and of course, Jesus - stability was not their first priority. As Jesus said of himself, "Foxes have dens to live in, and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place even to lay his head" (Luke 9:58).

But they didn't have kids. Or the pressure to take out a mortgage. They didn't need a reliable vehicle, or a secure garage for that vehicle, and there were no 401K contributions. They didn't have to steer their kids through the right high school classes to get into the correct college. You get the point.

So it seems inevitable - we embrace security, and do our best to live out our priorities from a stable home base and perhaps vicariously through the lives of our kids. Some of the idealism of youth collides with the midlife reality of bills and backaches.

But there's another word we might substitute for stability, a word that causes my stomach to churn, just a little. That word is comfort. It could be that what I call stability is really about being comfortable.

This past weekend my pastor announced my resignation from my current occupation of associate pastor at Mountain View Church in Fresno, California. My resignation decision was the result of a year of wrestling through my desire to make better use of the gifts and abilities I've been given, versus the desire to preserve stability for me and the church, by continuing in the role I took on a few years ago.

Finally, I had to admit "stability" was partly the "comfortability" of staying in a role that might be better suited to someone else. I don't yet know what I'll be doing in a few months, but I (together with my family) am taking the step of faith in trusting God that he'll put me in a setting where he can use me. Doing what honors our values must supercede doing what is comfortable, easy or stable.

I know this tension is different for each person. After all, stability is its own value, and I'm thankful for the stability of people who stay and serve consistently in one setting, be it a mechanic, doctor, pastor, or teacher. I certainly don't advocate everyone leave jobs and neighborhoods for the sake of adventure.

Values and stability don't need to be the opposite ends of a continuum, a sort of sliding scale of compromise. And yes, there are times in life when we have the freedom to pursue one more than the other.

Yet I know I don't want to sacrifice what is right for what is safe. Even at this time in life, what is valueable must always overrule what is comfortable.

Defining the Edges

Do you have any family activity traditions over Christmas? Ours puts more emphasis on the "tea" than the "active", but for many years we've loosely observed the tradition of working on puzzles over the season, a practice inherited from both my wife's and my families. We're currently in the midst of a 16-puzzle challenge, but in spite of a strong start, success is looking doubtful. Time is running out.

Like most puzzlers, I'm sure, we start by assembling the edges. A few evenings ago, as I matched up a tiger's stripes, the slowly emerging picture struck me as a metaphor for this thing we call midlife. Even though much of the image has yet to come together, and individual pieces make little sense on their own, the mystery of what we will see is being revealed because the edges are defined.

Here's what I mean: as a young person, you had lots of opportunity, and for all your inspired confidence, you really had no idea where life would take you. The edges were not in place. Anything - theoretically - was possible.

But at this point in life, the edges are set. Your personality, your preferences and abilities, are all essentially locked in place. I've come to accept that I'm not going to be a rock star, famous movie producer, or the next Bill Hybels. My puzzle edges have all been placed, the boundaries established.

The upside to this potentially depressing state, is that midlife affords us the needed clarity to focus on what we do possess. Any puzzler knows "the zone" - getting on a roll where the shape, color and texture of each piece almost seems to place itself. In the same way, knowing what we can't do, or don't do well, is as helpful as being certain about what we can do. Truthfully, most of what we've done in life can now be done better and faster by someone younger, quicker, smarter.

So instead, with edges defined, the pieces being assembled in what seems to be an accelerating pace, we should have the freedom to clarify and pursue our unique image. The  time for guessing "I wonder what it is?" has passed. The picture is emerging.

Oh, but the best is yet to be. For I am not the puzzler, I'm the puzzle. The One bent over my jumbled pieces is my Maker. Just this morning I read in Philippians, that "God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns" (Phil 1:6).

That's a promise I cling to. The Christmas break is nearly over, and our puzzles, finished or not, will go back in the boxes for next year. But my Maker has a plan, and because each piece makes sense, he will finish the challenge, in his good time.

Moments in the Middle

"I love these moments," said my wife, as she sipped her tea and I crafted my second Americano of the day. It was Saturday morning, the to-do list was waiting, and I was already behind on my "should-do" list (that guilt-generator in my head that loves to remind me of what I haven't accomplished!). We chatted about the comfort of our many years together, and marveled at the countless blessings we enjoy. Marriage small talk. No agenda. No planning of the day's activities or arranging of chores. Just a moment in the middle.

It was a sweet moment, as though time stalled, simply by being at peace with slowing down to be together. And then, as unexpectedly as it arrived, the moment slipped away with the buzz of the clothes dryer and the chime of an incoming text message. The dog needed attention and I was off to an appointment at church, and with all that, life was back in motion. It ended up a busy weekend, without much chance to connect as it passed. But oh, that lovely moment in the middle.

Those moments happen in all the best relationships - a surprising conversation in the car with my kids, a shared laugh with a colleague, or a kind Facebook post from a distant friend. It is a treat every time.

A variety of Biblical thoughts came to mind that day. Paul wrote the Thessalonians and said, "Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands...then people who are not Christians will respect the way you live..." (1 Thess 4:11-12). My previous day's Bible reading included Psalm 39: "Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be...each of us is but a breath...I am a traveler passing through."

I guess I shouldn't be surprised - but I still am - that the most precious relationship moments are unplanned and unexpected. You've no doubt at times made elaborate efforts to spend inspired moments with a family member or loved one, only to be disappointed with the result, while another time catching yourself laughing deeply at something spontaneous, even ridiculous. Oh, I know the spontaneous moments are a by-product of intentional and meaningful times together, but how sweet the moments in the middle.

Should I expect it to be any different in my relationship with God, my heavenly Father, the lover of my soul? The Psalmist wrote, "My heart has heard you say, 'Come and talk with me.' And my heart responds, 'Lord, I am coming'" (Psalm 27:8). It's the informal and unplanned moments that can mean the most.

You and I deepen a friendship with God with time spent with him. But we need to slow down at times and be open to those delightful spontaneous moments.

Because even a relationship with God needs those moments in the middle.

Not a Bridge to Nowhere

This might almost be an epiphany, but I'm okay with calling it an "aha".

It started about a week ago, as I reflected on some significant milestones. Ten years ago this month Beck and I started working on what would become Promontory Community Church in Chilliwack, Canada (www.mypcc.ca - check it out). And January will mark five years since we left Promontory to try new challenges. Both were highly emotional times, marked with stretching highs and cavernous lows, yet completely worthwhile and, hopefully, all to the glory of God.

But the revelation struck me last week as I met with a couple seeking some marital spiritual direction (what I do really can't be called counselling). I noticed that one or both parties seemed to be dreamily lost in the past. They were spending their days looking over their shoulder at an idealized rendition of the past, and I realized in doing so they were missing out on the best of both the present and the future.

And here's my "aha moment": it's a bridge. A what? A bridge, life is a bridge. In youth, there's nothing but a long stretch of future, but further on, there's a lot to look back on. Right now, I'm somewhere out in the middle.

When we lived in BC we would occasionally visit the Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge in Vancouver. Stepping on the bridge is fun and scenic and all things wonderful. But if fear of heights is an issue, or the swinging sensation of a suspension bridge is a problem, somewhere in the middle a person might look back and say, "I'm not so sure about this."

It's obvious to say that everyone has a past. Some spend their lives trying to forget it, while others try to hold on to it, depending if it was painful or beautiful. That's obvious. But I've also seen friends cling to a painful past because they fear the future, or because they simply cannot imagine a future any better than the glorious past. Either way, it is at best aimless, and at worst, hopeless.

The backward look only lets a person see what they've already seen, and that from an unrealistic perspective. They fail to embrace the present or anticipate the future, missing the best of what God has today. It's not a bad thing to glance back to check progress, but we can't stay there. And standing still is not given as an option. Time only goes one direction.

The Apostle Paul understood the need to look forward. He had a past that some applauded, but it was an  embarrassment to him. Maybe that's why he wrote in Philippians 3, "Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us." And to the Colossians he wrote, "Think about the things of heaven, not the things of earth" (Colossians 3:2). The writer of Hebrews said that Jesus endured the cross "for the joy set before him" (Hebrews 12:2). All forward-facing.


So if life really can be compared to a bridge, I don't want to spend my life looking at where I've been, only to be surprised by the destination ahead. And I don't believe God wants us to set up a permanent home on Memory Lane. It was God, after all, who promised his people "a hope and a future" (Jeremiah 29:11).

There is tension, is there not, between honoring what's been good, even while gazing ahead? How does one decide what to preserve, and what to release?

It strikes me that one should carry forward whatever helps to move boldly on into the future God has. Past relationships that have honored God and nurtured your walk with Him? Save those. But past memories and connections that leave you unaware of - or worse, dissatisfied with - the present, can only give you a backward-looking crick in your neck? Time to re-think what you do with those.

So that's my "aha" moment. I'm asking myself, "In which direction am I looking?" Because my bridge-walk is one with purpose, and I don't want to miss out what God may have for me today or in the days ahead.