Duane S. Montague

You are More than What You Have Become

I watched The Lion King the other night. It was the first time I’d watched the movie in years.

(I know that sounds weird coming from a true Disney fan. People usually assume all you watch are Disney films. I don’t. I actually want to like the movies, and as Shakespeare once noted: “familiarity breeds contempt.” I find the more I watch a movie I really like, the less I like it. But I digress.)

The movie is truly one of Disney’s greats. It seems a little unfair that the Academy Award for Best Animated Film category was created so late that Disney’s Bronze Age of animation didn’t get the Oscars they deserved (The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King are far superior to the first winner, Shrek), but luckily their legacy lives on in a myriad of ways. Sadly, some of that legacy gets diluted by the very marketing arm keeping the characters alive so many years after they first appeared. (Oops, I digressed again.)

The Lion King is a clear and blatant ripoff of Hamlet, and some people say it is a blatant ripoff of a Japanese film called Kimba, which tells the story of an orphaned lion who becomes king. (Which is a lot like Hamlet, and well, a lot of other stories where orphans become king.) But what it lacks in originality it makes up for in great voice acting, beautiful traditional Disney animation, one of the greatest opening sequences of a movie ever (featuring the best song in the film, Elton John’s “Circle of Life”), and a truly inspirational scene.

Simba has rejected what his legacy says he should be. His role in life, to be the next king, has been usurped by another (his murderous uncle), and instead of fighting for his rightful place, Simba adopts the philosophy of “Hakuna matata,” or “No worries.” He now looks at the past this way: “Sometimes bad things happen and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He disappoints Nala, his childhood friend and sweetheart, by not being more like his father.

What Nala doesn’t realize is that Simba is acutely aware of his inadequacy. He knows he is not living up to his potential, that his father, Mufasa, would not be proud of the way he is living his life. He tries to blame it on his father, shouting at the nighttime sky, “You promised you’d always be there for me. But you’re not!”

A visit from a crazy old baboon, who claims to be able to show Mufasa to Simba. Simba follows him to a pool, and Rafiki points into the water. “Look down there,” says the baboon. Simba looks down and sees only his reflection. “No, look harder,” says Rafiki. Again Simba looks, and now he sees not his own reflection, but a reflection of his father. “You see?” says Rafiki, “He lives in you.”

Wind howls, the sky darkens, and in the rumbling thunder, Simba sees his father in the clouds. Mufasa speaks in a low but powerful voice: “Simba, you have forgotten me.” The young lion argues, “No! How could I?” But his father is firm. “You have forgotten who you are, and so forgotten me. Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become… Remember who you are. Remember….”

The words brought tears to my eyes as I thought about their power.

How often do we forget who we are? As a child of God, I am the son of the King. But do I remember? Or do I choose to live my life believing “Hakuna Matata?”

No worries for the rest of your days. A problem-free philosophy.

But is it problem-free? We were created to live lives of responsibility of meaning. “No worries” doesn’t exist when you have realtionships. Sure, you don’t need to worry about everything that happens in your life, but choosing to “put your past behind you” and just moving on is no way to live. You need to see where you’ve come from, learn from it, so you can be what you are meant to be.

How often does God need to say to us, “You are more than what you have become!” We sacrifice our identity as children of God for lives of leisure and ease. Our homeland is a difficult place where we must battle against an enemy and stand for what is right. That takes work. Much easier to stay in a place of pleasure, entertained and enjoyed than to fight against an enemy who has robbed us of our identity and whispers in our ear, “What have you done?”

Simba runs away because he has been convinced he is guilty. We run away because we are guilty. God comes to us and says, “You must remember who you are.”

Who are you? Who have you become? And is that the person you were created to be? Simba wakes up from his life of ease and realizes his place is to fight for his father’s kingdom. To not be content while the enemy continues ravaging and destroying. How I pray that I hear God’s words to me, “You are more than what you have become,” and do the same.

Interesting to note: when Simba stands up for who he truly is, those who advocate the life of pleasure and comfort suddenly see that the world is something to fight for, too. Not only does it change his life when he becomes who he was meant to be, it changes the lives of everyone around him as well.

That’s the way God intends it to be.

With Special Thanks to the Red Baron

I have a fondness for the Red Baron.

Not the actual, World War I flying ace whom Snoopy so famously battled for years in the Peanuts comic strip. I think he was actually a pretty rotten dude.

The Red Baron I have a fondness for has a special place in my office. As I moved into my office at New Life, I realized how important the Red Baron was to me and ensured it had a place of honor, right above my desk, always in my line of sight, reminding me of so many things.

Doesn’t look like much, does it? And yet, this little bit of wood and wire is one of my most treasured possessions. If you look closely at the Red Baron, you’ll notice that he is actually grey. His propeller has long-since fallen off. And for some strange reason, he has the letters USAF written on his tail–which is strange, since the Red Baron was certainly German.

It’s a not very-well made wooden plane that never flew. And it was one of the best Christmas presents I ever receievd.

My grandfather, Gerald Woodhouse, made this Red Baron for me. And that in itself says it all. Granpda Woodhouse never made anything. He wasn’t skilled with his hands. He wasn’t good with building things, and what he did build usually fell apart, since construction doesn’t hold up with just good intentions.

And yet…this, of all things, has stayed intact and together for nearly 30 years. I’m not sure why.

Until I look at it and realize how much it stands for. I believe it’s stayed together–and deserves a place of honor in my office–because it says a lot. My grandfather was an amazing preacher. He served God for nearly all his life in Youth for Christ, as the pastor of churches both in San Diego and here in Seattle. He could open God’s Word and search it for truth and share it in such a way that listeners were inspired to serve God with the same zeal and zest for life.

The plane reminds me to soar with the gifts God has given me. I believe it’s my grandfather’s way of speaking into me, to remind me that my role at New Life is not a job, it’s a call. It’s the wind that lifts me out of just a career and into something greater. The plane reminds me that it dosen’t take a lot of fancy gimmicks or flashy excitement to create something that will be cherished forever. God’s amazing power and awesomeness is as amazing as His simplicity. The Gospel is summed up with one phrase, “God so loved…” and that stands the test of time when all the methods and things we try today go away.

The Red Baron reminds me to use whatever I have to accomplish the purpose God has created me for. The Red Baron reminds me that there is so much more than just what I’m “good” at, there’s what I can do. The Red Baron says to me, “Keep it simple. Find joy. Share God’s love.”

Thanks, Grandpa. I’m so glad you made me that toy all those years ago.

Those Who Spoke

Just was reminded of the importance of speaking into someone’s life. There are people in each of our lives who have said the right word, spoken encouragement, in a moment that we may not have known at the time, but would impact us for the rest of our lives. There are people who have done that in my life. I would like to just say thank you to:

Glenna Frederick.
As my favorite teacher in high school, Fred frequently reminded me of the fact that God had created me with talent so it could be used for something more.

Bryan Peterson.
Mr. Peterson and I didn’t get along very well at first. But eventually, he became a mentor in many ways. One of the most important things he said to me was, “You have talent. Add some discipline to that and you will go far.” Sadly, this is a lesson I am still consistently having to learn.

Loren Wiebe.
Mr. Wiebe was the director of the Biola Chorale. He encouraged me to embrace a deeper understanding of my faith, to encourage me to go deeper in my search for God. He also taught me a lot about appreciating the wonder of the Cross of Christ. His version of “Spirit of God,” which we sang at every Chorale concert, reminds me to “wean [my heart] from earth” on a daily basis.

Laurie Connolly.
My boss at the Writing Lab, and one of my favorite English professors, Laurie helped me believe strongly in my ability to write. She challenged my ability like no one before or since.

Elizabeth Pelham.
Elizabeth directed a couple plays I performed in at Overlake Christian Church. She was passionate about asking bigger questions through art, and challenged me to not accept pat answers as the resolution to the world’s trouble.

Dave Morgan.
My boss at Overlake, Dave was someone who I did not fully appreciate at the time. His passion for people and his love of relationship-building I originally saw as being too nice. Now I see it was how he survived on a church staff for more than 20 years, with people who loved to serve with him. His wisest words to me: “As far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Bam.

Troy Jones.
My senior pastor and new boss at New Life, Troy has already spoken much into my life in the six months I’ve been on staff. The zeal with which he honors the past while looking to the future encourages me to realize that people are what make all the difference. It’s not talent, it’s not ability, it’s your relationship with people that truly matter.

There are probably a few more. As I think about them, I will let you know. 🙂

This Changes Everything

When I was five, I wanted to be a fireman.

When I was ten, I wanted to be a lawyer.

This would have been me. Without the skateboard. Maybe shoes.

When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a playwright.

When I was seventeen, I wanted to be a journalist.

I’ve wanted to be a lot of things in my life. I’ve been a lot of things in my life. Since my first job, entering people’s names into a mailing list via typewriter at Evangel Bookstore in Bellevue, Washington, I’ve been many things.

Christian bookstore clerk. (As a high school boy, I loved arguing with people who would come in looking for a Bible and demand the King James Version, since that was the “original language.” I also enjoyed when people would come in asking for a particular book about sexuality for couples. They would ask, “Do you have The Gift of Sex?” and I would say, “Not yet. I’m not even out of high school.” Yes, I at one time I actually believed that was funny.)

Writing Lab Tutor. (At good ol’ Biola University. I worked in the Writing Lab for three years and loved tutoring students who needed help with writing papers, etc. It was right in the heart of the English department–my major–so it felt like being home when I was there. I got to be chummy with my favorite professors and help Korean students learn the joys of articles and Western logic.)

Assistant Director at A+ Learning Center. (My first job, post-college. I remember in the interview the co-owner of the place told me that he goal in life was to make a big pile of money and tell the world to, well, eff off. “You should aspire to that, too,” was his sage advice. Sadly, I did not heed his words and have not made a big pile of money. I did, however, enjoy the job, which was more tutoring and teaching. I enjoyed the high school kids, loved working with them on papers and comprehension, but I did not enjoy teaching phonics to four year olds. After one particularly trying day, when I made faces at the little boy who could not understand the sound “c” made, I knew I had to quit.)

Greeter at The Disney Store. (This was not my official title, but this was what I did for nearly all of the Christmas season as a seasonal hire in 1993. I loved it. I stood at the front of The Disney Store at Southcenter and said, “Hi, welcome to the Disney Store!” as people came in. I won the “gregarious greeter” award that Christmas and eventually was offered a part-time job.)

Lead Cast Member at The Disney Store. (My transition into full-time Disney employment was as one of two full-time non-managers at The Disney Store opening in Bellevue Square in 1994. It was a great year to be part of Disney, what with The Lion King brand-new in theatres, a new store design, better costumes. And I got to train all the new employees in Disney Traditions and Guest Service. Loved it, and eventually did this job at the Disney Store at Northgate.)

Assistant Manager at The Disney Store. (Started at the Northgate Store, where I worked with incredible people like Alice and Julian, and eventually moved to the Alderwood Store, where I learned retail management from two of the most amazing women, Stacey and Katey. Loved it, love working there, and loved being part of such an amazing company. I eventually went back down to Northgate and won the Disney Spirit award, for being a “living testimony” to everything that makes Disney “Disney.”)

The Disney Store watch. I have three of these.

Creative Director at Overlake Christian Church. (From retail to church work was a big switch. I made a huge number of mistakes. Learned a whole bunch. Was able to write and produce musicals and work with amazing actors, singers, dancers, and musicians. But man, did I learn a lot about people skills from my boss. Dave taught me so much about the importance of people and relationships. I didn’t realize it then, of course.)

Marketing Manager for Worldwide Partner Group/High Performance Computing teams at Microsoft. (Big change back to the “real world” from church work. Loved the freedom to work as I pleased, whatever hours I wanted, and with all the Diet Coke I could drink. Did not like being a cog in the wheel, a replaceable entity that would not be missed when I was gone.)

Creative Director at New Life Church. (Back into church work, at an amazing place with a truly wonderful staff and leadership team. They took me in spite of myself, loved me and saw what God has been doing in my life instead of what I have done. Blessed to help create the church’s new identity and to speak into everything from children’s ministry to small groups, Sunday mornings, and more.)

It’s funny, because everything I’ve listed here is a job. And yet, when I started this post, I said, “When I was five, I wanted to be…”

What we do and what we are are not the same thing. We so frequently confuse our profession with our position. Our value and our worth become intertwined with what we do for a living, and yet God says to us that is not the case. We are something, we have value, because He has placed value in us. He has created us for a purpose, He has gifted us for a reason, and our worth comes from the fact that a loving Creator put certain passions and purposes in our hearts long before we were born.

I had an interesting, humbling, and altogether amazing conversation yesterday. It reminded me that God puts value on what we are, and helps guide what we are into what we should do. He put a passion in my heart years ago that I thought was gone–or if not gone, shut off and kept quiet. But He has reopened that passion. He has spoken into me through others that my purpose has not yet been fulfilled.

This changes everything.

After today, my life will never be the same. My passion will soon be my position. And all I can do is ask the God who gave me that passion, and the people who have fanned that spark back into a roaring flame, to stand with me and guide me and direct me. I believe I am up for the challenge, only because I know God will go before me and say, “This is the way. Walk in it.”

More info to come.

9/11/02

The first attack on mainland America since the War of 1812, September 11, 2001 is a day that should never be forgotten. Like December 7, 1941, it is a day which “will live in infamy.”

I remember the day so well. Work stopped. We were glued to our televisions, to the internet. We spent the night at a friend’s house, watching the news reports together, crying with the reporters, with the people wondering where their loved ones were, if they had made it out safely. We knew in our hearts that things would never be the same again.

A year later, the church where I was on staff decided to honor 9/11/01 with a special service. Called simply “Remembrance,” the goal of the evening was to honor those who had died and give hope to those who looked for answers. Working with my friend and co-worker, Kevin Vander Weide, I produced the service with the implicit understanding that it was to be a night not of “hooray for America,” although we certainly wanted to remind people of the greatness of this country. In my heart, I wanted to honor and remember more than anything. Looking back now, I’m saddened–because even one year after the terrorist attacks, I was afraid America would forget. It seems that in many ways, I was right.

The stories I wanted to tell were what Aaron Brown of CNN called “people stories.” 9/11 is full of them: hijackers and terrorists, office workers, pilots, flight attendants, firefighters, policemen, politicians, families. How could I do justice to the memory of these people’s stories with just an hour and a half service? The task was daunting, and I knew there was no way all that I wanted to say could be said.

In the month leading up to 9/11/02, I spent a lot of time researching the stories.

I talked to Pat Hamman, chaplain for the city of Redmond, and heard his story–how he went to NYC right after 9/11 and worked with the priest at the little church that stood at the base of the towers. An old church, with much history already part of its life, the church had become a shrine, a sanctuary, and the stories Pat told were heartbreaking. Families never giving up hope. Rescue workers looking for any sign of life, any sign of humanity, and doing everything the could to honor the fallen. A cross, left in the middle of the ruin through the amazing twisting and falling of steel, offered hope–and gave the workers a place they called “God’s House.”

I heard the stories of a kids’ art class who created a book full of pictures expressing joy, sadness, hope in their own response to 9/11. All the proceeds from the book were given to children who had lost a parent when the World Trade Center fell. These kids, no older than 12, saw something deep in the events of that day–looked into their own hearts and knew they had to do something. Not in response to a call from the government, from a teacher, or even a pastor. These kids responded on their own because they knew something had happened on 9/11–something that had made their world bigger–causing them to think more of just their own comfort or happiness.

How to honor the fallen of that day? To read the names of the 3,000 who had died in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington, DC, would take more time than we were able to give. Instead, we chose to take the time to show all the names of the men and women who perished in the attacks. We put their names on the large screens in the church, simple white text on a black background, and while we looked at the names of the fallen, the orchestra played “Hymn for the Fallen,” which John Williams had composed for the movie Saving Private Ryan. In the six minutes of music, we would show the name of every person who had died on 9/11.

To do that, however, required that I find all those names. And then type them out, get them into our presentation software. No problem, I thought. This would be easy. Just cut and paste.

It wasn’t that easy. Because the websites that listed the names did more than just list the names. They linked every name to a story, and suddenly, as I worked on the project, it became more than a project. Every name was a story, every person had a picture, a family. The list disappeared and instead what I saw was lives. Lives that had been cruelly and horribly lost. Fathers. Mothers. Sisters. Brothers. Aunts. Uncles. Grandfathers. Grandmothers. As I read, I wept. As the music of “Hymn for the Fallen” played, I could no longer see just 250 white names on a black background. I saw the faces that went along with them, remembered the anguish in the voices of those left behind.

Even as I type this today, 7 years after that first anniversary, I cannot hold back tears. Whenever I hear “Hymn for the Fallen,” I don’t think of Tom Hanks, I think of Welles Crowther. He was a young man who rushed back into the World Trade Center. He went back in. He’d escaped after the first plane hit. He’d made it out. But he was not content to stay there and let others die. He rushed back in to help. Not a firefighter, not a rescue worker. Just a guy who worked on the 104th floor of the South Tower. He went back three times to rescue people he’d never met. Three times. His body wasn’t found until March 2002. He was buried with honor, as he deserved to be.

And Welles Crowther is just one of 3,000 names. There are 3,000 stories of that day, and countless more stories of those left behind.

I was committed to making the night as timely as possible. We didn’t finalize anything until moments before the service started. I wanted to show pictures of what had happened around America that day. I wanted to ensure that we realized we weren’t alone in our grief and remembrance. Some of my favorites were a National Park ranger placing a flag at the top of Mt. Rushmore, a long collection of flags lining the beach beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. I think two of my favorite pictures in the days after 9/11/01 were of a huge biker dude painting the words “God Bless America” on a broken brick wall, and the giant sign at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas empty except for the words “God Bless America.”

I sang a song that night–an adaptation of Michael W. Smith’s “This is Your Time.” We tweaked the words a bit to make it about people like Welles Crowther. “To rush in and help, to put life on the line–for them there was one choice to make. This was their time. This was their dance. They lived every moment, left nothing to chance. They swam in the sea, drank of the deep, embraced the mystery of all they could be. This was their time.” I had been sick and unable to sing all day. As I sat on the front row of the church, waiting for my time to sing, I was overcome with emotion. I could not hold back tears, and I think, in that moment, God gave me something more of Himself.

I stepped up as Pastor Rick finished speaking and began to sing. My voice was a little shaky and I messed up the first sentence. But suddenly it got stronger, and I ended up singing pretty well. I think I could hear my own response to the question the song asks, “What if tomorrow, what if today, if faced with life’s question, oh what would you say?”

I would not forget what happened on 9/11. I would not let my children, two of whom hadn’t even been born yet, forget what happened on that day.

While 9/11/01 was the day that changed the world, I think 9/11/02 was a day that changed me. That was my time.

The Island: Eternity in Their Hearts

Robyn and I watched an interesting movie last night.

Directed by Michael Bay, the king of explosions and light exposition, the film was surprisingly deep and brought up many questions about identity, humanity, and what makes a person a person. No, I’m not talking about Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen, although that film does raise many interesting questions, including why the Transformers put their deepest darkest secret in the same place the Holy Grail was placed and how such an intrepid explorer as Indiana Jones didn’t recognize the fact that Optimus Prime’s relatives were buried in the same place, just a little more to the left.

And this film was also not The Rock, which only raised questions as to why the only man who ever escaped from Alcatraz (who also happened to be Scottish) looked so much like Saruman the White before a shave and a haircut.

No, the film was the vastly underrated The Island, starring Ewan MacGregor, Scarlett Johansen, Sean Bean, and the guy from the Dex commercials.

The movie starts out following the life of one Lincoln Echo Six, a man living in a very futuristic society, where everything is taken care of for him, what he can he eat is prescribed for him by a computer that analyzes his morning “business,” and who only wears white. (Another reason why you know it’s futuristic. People in the future only wear white jumpsuits and wear white Pumas.) He has everything taken care for him, yet he is unhappy and feels like there should be something more to life. He has struck up a friendship with a beautiful young woman, Jordan Delta Two, and although society does not allow them to have “proximity,” they are clearly close and enjoy each other’s company. In the society live nearly 2,000 others, all like them. They are the last survivors of a horrible contamination that has destroyed the earth. The only place left on earth that is beautiful and sustains life is a placed called “The Island.” Everyone who lives in this society hopes to win the lottery and be allowed to go to the Island to spend the rest of their days in endless bliss.

Warning: Spoilers Below. If you have not yet seen the movie, go back and watch it, and then come back and read the rest. Unless you really don’t mind having the premise of the film and its major plot points all ruined for you. That’s your call, not mine–so, like I said–warning: spoilers below.

Of course, like any utopian society, there are problems with this one and eventually Lincoln and Jordan discover that not is all that it seems. The Island, in fact, does not exist. The contamination never happened, and the entire population that they know has been scientifically cloned to provide organs, babies, and more for the super-rich. The clones were never supposed to be anything more than organ donors and baby factories, yet they have become thinking and feeling humans, whose only memories are those implanted in them–at least, that’s what the science that created them thinks. The doctor who runs the operation sees them as “soulless” and “not human,” and yet…

Lincoln shares the humanity of the man he is cloned from. He remembers what that man remembers, has that man’s abilities, etc. But beyond that, deep within him is the feeling that “there is something more.”

As society debates health care, as I read about scientists able to make monkey embryos combining the DNA of two mothers and one father, as we debate the merits of stem cells, I wonder, if this isn’t the question that we all wrestle with. It’s easy when we see others as only “others.” But those others have feelings, longings, desires, and are wondering, “Isn’t there more to this life?” The scientist who created the process can’t fathom that his “creations” could have that question. They are programmed from “birth” to be and do exactly what he wants. But there is an inherent flaw in his design: humanity was not created in a test tube. Humanity did not evolve as part of a process, a scientific model.

Humanity was created by God who has stamped His imprint into each and every one of His creations. And in that creation is the desire to be part of something bigger, to feel something more, and to know the purpose for which they exist.

The Bible calls that “eternity in their hearts.”

Science, as represented in the film by Sean Bean (a marvelous actor who too frequently plays villains or villainous types), looks to itself for the answer to eternal life. It promises people the chance to live forever, to stop the break down of the human machine. But the human machine will always break down, and as the film points out, there is an inherent danger in the scientific process: the unexpected. In the case of the movie, the unexpected is the fact these clones develop real memories–30 years of memories in 3 years–beyond what they have been programmed to accept. They feel more than they are supposed to, and their quest to know “what is outside” mirrors the entire human experience to know “why.”

When Lincoln and Jordan first see the world with their own eyes, a world they never knew existed, their journey to humanity becomes even more pronounced because they see that what they’ve been told is a lie.

The enemy tells the same lie to the world all the time. There is nothing beyond what you see here, you can trust me, your existence is a mundane one and you have no greater purpose than what I tell you. The journey to the outside world, where the air is real, where earth has feel, smell, and texture, tells Jordan and Lincoln that what they’ve known is a lie. They can see for themselves that they are human and part of a much bigger world, a bigger story, and that the promised paradise, the Island, is not heaven at all, but hell. (Which is probably what Michael Bay was trying to say by blowing up so much stuff. Or maybe he just likes big explosions…)

Race for Your Life. Literally. — Futuristic LA Still has Bad Traffic

Is it the greatest movie ever? Hardly.

But I like when Hollywood films try to do more than just blow something up. I like it when movies make us think about bigger questions.

The Island is one of those movies. What does it mean to be human? Isn’t there something more to life? And what about the moral and ethical questions when science begins to play God? It’s like Brave New World with sexier characters and cooler chase scenes. So, watch The Island and look at the deeper story behind the effects, the explosions, and the good-looking actors (except Steve Buscemi, who is not good looking but is always enjoyable). Ask yourself, is eternity in their hearts because it was placed there in the cloning process, or because that’s exactly how the Creator designed them?

Plan Your Escape from what you’ve always known. You Have Been Chosen for something more.

(Interesting how the marketing for this film points out to those bigger questions. Probably an accident.)

Not a Door

This is not a door.

The label on the “not a door” clearly states the fact.

And yet, I’m inclined to disbelieve the label in some ways.

This clearly was, at one time, a door. There are hinges, a door frame, and that bright blue thing with the label on it is what I would call a door.

The only thing this not-a-door is missing is a handle. Where the handle once was is now a metal plate, which must mean that it (the metal plate) is what makes it not a door.

Clearly there is a deeper meaning in this Smurf-blue former door. What caused it to have a change in state? Perhaps there’s a shelf now blocking the exit, or an extra office was needed and the door was covered up with some drywall. Maybe this door was the way employees sneaked out of work early and a frustrated boss mandated the door permanently closed. I doubt if the door chose to stop being a door. It didn’t wake up one day and say, “Hmm…I’ve ceased to be useful. I’m gonna remove my handle and step out of life.”

I’m not sure.

But I know that when something is created for a purpose, when its purpose is thwarted, when it ceases to serve the reason it was created, it stops being what it was created to be.

You and I were created for more than just existence. We were created for a purpose. As a Christ-follower, I know that part of my purpose is to plant seeds of faith in the people I meet every day. Part of my purpose is to grow roots deep into scripture and spiritual disciplines and relationships with others. Part of my purpose is to bear fruit in the world by serving others and going out into a world that desperately needs to hear: you have a purpose.

The world is full of people who no longer know why they’re here. Like a door that is not a door, they fill a space on the planet until they are removed. The junk of life is piled up against them and they no longer feel like they are connected to something–someone has posted a sign on them that says, “Not a person.” “Not a human.” “Not important.”

My purpose is to remove that sign, open up that door, and to help people find that they do have a reason for existence, that they are important, and that they have value.

Opening this not-a-door will take work. The hinges are dried up, the handle needs to be replaced and whatever stuff may be stuck behind it needs to be removed. And once that is done, it can fulfill its purpose again.

And when the door is opened, the light will shine through.

It’s All About Faith

It’s all about faith. It’s all about faith!
The beauty of belief in the hidden things!
It’s all about faith!

This is a song the kids learned at VBS this year. I love this song and what it says, as I’m one of those adults who tends to not look at life through the eyes of a child–through the eyes of faith.

Tonight, the kids were singing this song and dancing around our bedroom. It was great, especially to hear Autumn sing the song as close as she could. She got out Audrey’s old Hannah Montana guitar and started rocking along with the song as it played on iTunes. That in itself was pretty awesome. But even better was that when it was all done, Autumn asked, “What is faith?”

I told her, “Faith is the assurance of things that we hope for, the conviction of things not seen.”

Robyn said, “You might want to choose a more three-year-old friendly definition.”

So I said, “Autumn, faith is knowing something is real even when you can’t see it.”

She thought for a minute and said, “Like what?” and Robyn said, “Like Jesus!”

“Oh, he lives in my heart,” said Autumn. Which struck both Robyn and I as unusual, since we’ve talked about it several times with her. She wondered about it quite a few times this year, but every time we brought it up, she said she didn’t want to do it yet. So when she said he already lived there, we wondered when she had done it. “Oh really? When did that happen?”

“At VBS.”

“Really?” I wondered if she could have–since on the last day of VBS, I had talked about heaven and the joy we can have when Jesus lives in our hearts and given all the kids an opportunity to accept Christ as their Savior. But I didn’t think she had–typically she would have told us about something like that. So I asked her, “Did you pray with Daddy at VBS?”

“No.”

Oh. So she hadn’t done it. “Do you want Jesus to live in your heart?” Robyn asked.

It's All About Faith. “Yes,” Autumn answered with a shy grin.

I smiled, my heart was leaping with joy, and I said, “You know, Autumn, when Jesus lives in your heart, he takes away all the sin and bad things and replaces it with His love and peace and joy–”

“And faith?” she asked.

“And faith,” I said. “When Jesus lives in your heart, you know that He will be your friend forever, and that He will be with you always. Do you want to pray with Mommy and me and ask Jesus to live in your heart?”

She nodded, and we all prayed. It did my heart joy to hear her little voice repeating the words I said, “Dear Jesus, thank you for loving me. Thank you for dying for me. Thank you for living again. Please forgive me of my sins and come into my heart. Please be my Savior and be my friend forever. I love you, Jesus. In Your name, Amen.”

Robyn and squeezed her hard, hugs of joy. She smiled at both of us and jumped up and started singing, “It’s all about faith!”

I told her all of heaven was rejoicing, that the angels were shouting, “Yay, Autumn!” and though that may not be absolutely spot-on doctrine, it’s what my little girl needed to hear. A reminder that her personal decision was a mighty wonderful thing to celebrate, and that this day, August 23, would forever be a day we would remember with her. I had faith on the day she was born that someday she would come to know the Savior who has made all the difference in my life. I’ve had faith over the past three years that God would present the right moment and that we would be responsive to when she was ready.

And now I have faith that God will take her from this moment, where her innocent heart opened to receieve the greatest gift ever offered, through every next moment of her life, and that Jesus will truly be her friend forever, the Savior who loves her, and that He will guide her along the paths of righteousness. (And help her to be a little less of a stinker, albeit an absolutely beautiful and adorable stinker.)

It’s amazing, but my three year old reminded me of something I so frequently forget: It really is all about faith.

Road Trip 2009: The Seventh Day

We awakened early on the seventh day. We were nearly an hour outside of Yosemite, and we wanted to be there shortly after the park opened.

I was the first one up, ready to go quickly, and by the time the rest of the family was dressed and fed, it was only 8 am. I can’t believe we managed to do it, but somehow we did. The business men who were eating the breakfast in the hotel dining room didn’t seem to mind my loud family, and they only looked slightly askance at us when Autumn saw the pool through the window and announced, “That’s where I almost died.” Nice.

Everyone was tired on the trip out to Yosemite, so I drove in relative quiet. Robyn fell asleep, which was good. We climbed steep and winding roads with sheer cliffs on the passenger side. Every time I saw an elevation sign, I cringed for her. When we hit the 3,000 elevation mark and I caught a curve a bit faster than I meant to, I thanked God for keeping us on all four wheels and at the top of the mountain. The trip brought back many wonderful memories of my many Yosemite trips at Biola with the Chorale. I could picture the drive out, the stop at the park to enjoy lunch, and smiling at the memory of finally being one of the ones lucky enough to drive. It was great to have so many old memories to relive, and to make new memories with my family that would keep this amazing National Park part of my life forever.

We drove into the little parking lot beside the park sign and took the obligatory photos. We then got back on the van and watched a couple who couldn’t put down their cigarettes long enough take their picture as well. Smokey says, “Only you…”

The Ranger at the entrance station had on nice glasses. Robyn insisted I comment on how cool they were. She smiled at us, but I’m not sure she understood the compliment as it was intended.

The air around Yosemite smelled delicious. Piney, earthy, a bit smokey. The sky was mostly blue with only a few passing clouds–that seemed to pass like crazy overhead–and I was enjoying the curves of the road with the sights of the trees and occasional glimpses into forested valleys. I had many experiences at Yosemite beyond Biola. I remember being there when I was young, with my family, and riding the summer outdoor bus for a tour along the valley floor. I remember Yosemite Falls. But it was so great to be seeing these places with my own kids.

We drove through the big tunnel and there was the spot. We had had many Biola Chorale pictures taken there–and it’s a wonder we didn’t lose someone into the valley behind us. I remember it being so much bigger–the picture spot–but it’s clear we took up a lot of space. We had already decided to stop there on our way out for a picture, especially since we wanted a bit clearer skies, so we drove past. Down through the tunnels, along the walls of the valley, just relishing the look of the stone and timber, the sound of the rushing river below us.

There was also some great family comedy going on at this point–at least I thought it was funny–but I can’t write about it here. You’ll have to ask Robyn and I leave it to her to decide if you get to hear the story or not. Suffice to say, it was not very enjoyable for some, but highly laughable to me.

Bridleveil Falls was the first place we stopped on the valley floor. So much smaller than it was in the fall or winter, yet there it was, falling from such a great height. We hiked out to the base of the falls–it was amazing to see how well we all did, especially the littlest ones, in getting around. Autumn never complained, she was so excited about seeing everything. August just sat in the Baby Bjorn and looked happy. So it worked out okay. 🙂 From there it was a trip to Curry Village to relive the memores of Chorale Retreates gone by. The cabins were still there, and I couldn’t help but remember the night I stayed in one with Kirk Petersen and Peter Lo. Peter was an amazing bass singer studying theology at Biola, and he had a tremendous snore. It kept both Kirk and I awake–and of course, when Peter fell out of bed, that made it even harder to fall asleep. What a long couple of nights that was!

I was half-tempted to make the family do a relay like we had done around Curry Village when I was in college. Maybe something inspired by the Olympics, or The Brady Bunch or Little House on the Prairie. But I didn’t.

We went to the Visitor’s Center–a place I’d never visited during all of my years visting Yosemite in college. It was amazing! We found the appropriate pins to add to the kids’ National Park pin collections, got the stamps in their passports, and really enjoyed exploring the history behind Yosemite. I started to watch a great movie about the place but was the one currently wearing August in the front pack, and once he got restless, I had to leave. As the rest of the family watched the film, I walked around the Indian Village re-creation and was astounded by how much I had never seen or heard about a place I had been so many times. Eventually the family joined us and we rode the bus back to the Odyssey. We drove through the rest of the park, stopping as often as we could to take pictures and marvel at the smells, the sounds, the grandeur of such an amazing place. Around every corner was another spectacular sight–would it be the Three Brothers staring down on us, or the majesty of El Capitan?

We had to leave for earlier than we would have liked. We had a long drive ahead of us to Red Bluff, and we wanted to reach there before midnight. As we drove up the mountainside out of Yosemite valley, we vowed to come back. It is that kind of a place. It’s one of those places God has given us to remind us of what nature tells us–that the heavens declare the glory of God and that the earth proclaims the work of His hands.

Road Trip 2009: The Sixth Day

We said goodbye to the City by the Bay. It was a fun time, and we will probably come back. There’s no way we saw all the historical sites we wanted to see.

Before we left though, we had a visit to make. Our hotel was just south of the Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno, and my mother had given me the name of my great-grandfather, a Corporal in World War I, who was buried there. Walter E. Montague, who died in 1957, long before I was born, was buried in the northeastern corner of the cemetery. Robyn and I, plus the kids, hiked the many many rows of white marble gravestones to find Walter’s final resting place. We finally found it and were humbly moved by the simple white stone and the markings, denoting his name and rank and where he served in what was known as “The Great War.” I had never met him, but I found myself in tears looking at his stone, seeing my children stand around it, and realizing just how amazing life is. We paid our respects to the man and his service and walked quietly back to the van.

From there, it was another trip across the Bay Bridge, because our other choices were much much longer, and Robyn wasn’t enjoying the bridges anyway. Our destination: The USS Hornet Museum in Alameda. My dad’s ship when he was in the Navy, the Hornet is a famous aircraft carrier for many reasons. CV-12 was commissioned during WW2 to replace an older version of the Hornet, which was the original ship that Jimmy Dolittle launched his famous airstrike on Tokyo from in 1942. In fact, the dock where the ship now resides is named in honor of Dolittle. The ship itself is famous for its many battles (The Battle of Midway, for example) and also for being the ship that picked the Apollo 11 astronauts out of the sea after the moon landing in July 1969.

I had never seen my dad’s ship up close and was blown away by the size and majesty of the air craft carrier. It was truly impressive. The kids were excited to go on board, too, but after Robyn and I watched Autumn nearly dive head first into Alameda Harbor because she was daringly walking too close to the edge and pulling too hard away from us as we yanked her back, we realized an on-board visit would have to wait until she was older. And with August in the front pack, it was going to get to be a long journey through the ship. We took a few more photos and told the kids we’d come back when Autumn was less daring. If that day ever happens.

We then drove around looking for a new National Park in honor of “Rosie the Riveter” and the American Homefront during WW2. Unfortunately, without telling anyone, they closed the visitor’s center as they prepared to open the next phase of the park and the park’s headquarters were now in a very unsavory part of town. We got lost several times and finally decided to pay homage to Rosie and the rest of the US Homefront at a later date. One less National Park along the way, a lot of wear and tear on the GPS, and finally ending with Autumn having to go to the bathroom so badly that we all fell into a state of panic until a restroom was finally found in Emeryville, home to Pixar. Which we should have visited on this day instead of doing the trip twice. Oh well.

The next stop was our hotel in Oakdale, California, and we headed out of San Francisco inland. We saw a lot of broken down wind turbines that were supposedly generating green energy but really just looked broken down and not maintained and pretty much spoiled the views along the hills. But that, of course, is not the point. The next day was going to be Yosemite National Park, and we decided to get a good night’s rest so we could get into the park nice and early. We swam in the pool, ate dinner, and enjoyed the 90 degree weather.

Autumn decided to be a little too brave here and jumped farther from the stairs than she should have. I jumped from my chair and into the pool, lifting her out by one arm after seeing her blonde head sink under the water. I was panicked and frightened, but after she coughed up the water she had swallowed and calmed down, I knew she was fine.

She said, “Daddy, your pants are wet and your phone is on the ground.”

I said, “That’s because I jumped in to save you.”

“You did that for me? Why?”

“Because you’re my child and I love you. I would do anything to save you.”

After a moment, she said, “I love you, Daddy. Can I get back in the pool now?” Holy cow. A father who was watching his son swim and was clearly of military background, said, “Your little one’s a real soldier.” Yep. And that’s what I’m afraid of. But she was fine and I was okay, even though I was a bit shaken up.

The night was peaceful and quiet, and I knew the alarm would be going off early. John Muir and Yosemite valley were calling.