Growing up, I used to think a relationship with Jesus was a lot like being a spiritual cell phone: I plug myself in for enough time each day, and hopefully I'll have enough charge to make it until the next day.

But one day I realized that a relationship with Jesus was probably more like being a lamp. Every moment is a choice to either stay connected or to unplug. And to the extent that I stay connected, I do what I'm created to do.

So I was lying on the bed of my room, watching this TV show called Mad Men on my laptop, when one of the characters said something that hit me right in the gut.

(Quick explanation: Mad Men is a show about the Madison Ave. advertising execs of the 50s who revolutionized their industry ... I've only seen half of one episode so I can't really give much of an opinion, but the first 27 minutes have been really good).

So here's the quote from the main character that got me:

'advertising is based on one thing -- happiness. And you know what happiness is? Happiness is ... the smell of a new car. It's freedom, from fear. It's a BILLBOARD, on the side of the road that screams, with reassurance, that whatever you're doing ... it's okay. You, are, o, kay.

His speech hit me so hard I went back and watched it again. Then again. And all I could think was how sickeningly, absolutely right it was. About how so much of the stuff I buy is to reassure myself of ... something. How there's this lurking sense of inadequacy, this desire to put on some alternate identity that drives us to -- as it said in the movie Fight Club -- 'work jobs we hate so we can buy [stuff] we don't need.' (I love what I do by the way ... so don't read to much in to me using that quote)

And none of this is a new thought so much, but it is a good reminder. And, while this wasn't intentional, thinking about this during the Christmas season probably is a good idea. I just wonder how my life would change if I really examined why I want the things I want.

That's it ...

I wrote this for a spoken word piece during our high school weekend service. It went right before our student band singing "Mary Did You Know".

Do you see what I see?

Or so the Christmas song goes, asking a question then not waiting for the answer.

Do you see what I see?

Lying in the middle of a manger – a bundled-up baby lying in hay, or so they say, and we already know exactly how the story goes – a tidy scene with shepherds and angels and Mary and mangers.

But do you see what I see?

How no one quite knew what to do with this tiny little baby born in Bethlehem. How he provoked anger and awe and confusion and questions. How this tiny little baby made wise men want to seek Him and King Herod want to kill Him, and angels to proclaim Him. How shepherds flocked to bow before Him and how Mary and Joseph sat and watched and wondered how this fragile child – born in afterbirth and umbilical cords, incapable of words, but wailing and feeding and sleeping in a feeding trough - could possibly be God in the flesh.

Do you see what I see?

How Mary and Joseph raised Jesus in a town where people whispered and gossiped and guessed who the REAL father of this bastard child must be. Because who could believe, that He was conceived, the way Mary said. No, far more likely that she was in another man's bed. Illegitimate this Jesus. What could God ever do with someone like Him?

Do you see what I see?

How a 12-year-old child, discussed and debated the Pharisees – these experts in endless decrees, the holy ones of Israel. "How cute" they may have thought. How gifted, this young boy Jesus. Quite a future for this one they may have said. Not knowing that the child they now admired, they would one day want dead.

Do you see what I see?

How He turned fishermen and financiers, lepers and lawyers, Pharisees and prostitutes, into those who would change the world. How he alienated people preoccupied with power, and pride, and the promise of wealth.

Do you see what I see?

How no one still knows what to do with Him.

n  Was He a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord?

n  Is He the hope for the hopeless like the shepherds thought?

n  Or is He a fool's hope for the weak-minded like some say today?

What do you see?

n  Is He the King of Kings, or an imaginary, inflated fable?

n  Is He God in human skin, or is He just a good man?

n  was He beat for our sins and bruised for our rebellion?

n  By the lacerations made across his back by an iron-tipped whip, are we really healed?

What do you see?

                … when you look at the baby in the manger. Who is he?

n  A fuzzy feeling?

n  A Christmas tradition?

n  An outdated myth?

Or Immanuel – God with us. The infinite in human skin born a man. An invasion into the realms of sin, sent to suffer and die, then live again.

Do you see what I see?

And unlike in the song, this time the  question requires an answer. … from all of us.

So … what do you see?

Weird name. Very, very good movie. It's only in limited release right now, but it's intense, and romantic, and tragic, and compelling, and beautiful. I loved it. If you can find a place showing it, then I highly recommend it. I also recommend knowing as little about it as possible going in, which is why I'm not going to describe the plot now.

If you go see it, tell me what you think.

I used to think God's plan for my life was like directions a friend would give for getting to his house. He'd write them in felt-tip ink on a paper napkin, and assure me the directions were accurate and pointing the right way.

But the problem I've always had with napkin directions is that I tend to mess them up. I miss one turn because a street sign wasn't marked, or I wasn't paying close enough attention, or I thought I knew a shortcut. And the next thing I know I'm off course and the whole plan is scrapped and I'm in some scary neighborhood where I'm rolling up my windows and locking the doors and trying not to pee my pants in fear.

Which illustrates the real problem with napkin directions -- they're an all or nothing endeavor.

I stay en route ... or I don't.

I get to my intended destination perfectly ... or not at all.  

This is why I love GPS navigation systems. Their greatest advantage over napkin directions (other than the soothing, friendly voice) is that even if I miss a turn it can still get me where I need to go. Sure, it'll take longer. And I'll use more gas. And I might have to pull an awkward u-turn or something. So it's not like there aren't consequences.

But no matter how much I screw up the plan, the GPS system is still capable of getting me from where I'm at, to where I was always intended to be. Which is why having those systems is so comforting -- it makes me a lot less scared of making a mistake.

We are tightrope walkers, all of us, standing on opposing platforms, the abyss of our uncertainties and insecurities and fears plummeting beneath us. We stand -- solitary and separate and safe -- with a wary eye on the un-netted chasm and its gravity that pulls proportional to its size.

And slowly we tiptoe out from our platforms, hesitantly and shakingly, taking time to balance and reassess and doing our best not to look down, not to stare too long into our own weakness, knowing that to do so is to eventually tumble in.

And all the while we hope that the tightrope walker on the other side, whom we've really only seen from a distance, is doing the same. We hope that we won't look up and find we're exposed and alone and unsure how to get back on to solid ground. We hope instead that we'll meet each other halfway, still teetering over an abyss, still risking and afraid, but somehow knowing it's better to traverse the abyss together than to have stayed in safety alone.

This evening I sat at the beach and watched as the sun turned tragedy beautiful.

For the last few days there's been a fire raging in Santa Barbara and Corona, destroying homes, forcing the evacuation of a city, and pouring billowing smoke up into the sky. This smoke, carried by the seasonal Santa Ana winds, has spread over the greater Los Angeles area and from just about anywhere in the city you can see the smoke's tendrils choking out the sky.

But tonight on the beach, as the sun set beneath the haze and beyond Catalina Island, the horizon lit on fire. It was almost as though the sun -- in putting on this performance -- was acknowledging the tragedy that made the beauty possible. The sun didn't hide the tragedy. It didn't pretend like it had never existed. But it worked something breathtaking out of it.

The last 24 hours of my life have been painful. Nothing that I can compare to the pain of people who have been evacuated by the fires, but painful nonetheless. And  I feel like I could mask this pain. Or dull it. Or pretend it doesn't exist. But instead, in my own imperfect way, I'm letting the pain burn and do its work. And I'm holding it up to Jesus ... and hoping He'll make something beautiful out of it.

(post-blog update: He did.)