here comes advent

December starts tomorrow, Advent starts Sunday...

Don't forget this book (mostly a diverse collection of reflections)!

Or, for those interested, you can find something from John Piper (mostly a daily personal devotional) or The Village church (mostly weekly devotionals with several options for families or groups).

And if some of these seem too cumbersome and you're just looking for a simple list of scripture references to read each day, you can look over my shoulder.

Band of Brothers

Free from slavery! Adopted into a family! God as your papa! Christ as your brother! Co-heir of the creator of the universe!

Sounds like an offer one can't refuse, and yet as mentioned in the last post, many often do. And one more reason one might opt out is because of something included in the fine print.

"The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him." Romans 8:16-17

"Jesus said, 'Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life.'" Mark 10:29-30

Before you go turning the family of God into a sentimental gathering in a Thomas Kinkade cottage on top of a cozy mountain with the sun setting beautifully each night, read the fine print. Yes, this family offers solid security and unconditional love, and it therefore is a source of deep joy. But this family isn't all warm fuzzies and convenient comfort. It's not all hugs and happiness, kitties and bunny rabbits. 

Because remember: you come into this family by way of a man who was misunderstood, rejected, mocked, and tortured on a cross. He had no home, didn't live with the upper echelons of society, and obviously didn't really feel the need to follow their norms either. He had his mind set elsewhere other than the here and now, and it showed in surprising ways.

If he were your brother, chances are you'd be embarrassed. Chances are you'd kick him out of the house and tell him to get a real job, tell him he's crazy and irresponsible, tell him he's wasting his time and your money.

But wait. If you want to be in the family of God, he is your brother. And if he suffered and was persecuted as a result of obeying his Father--you know, the one who is now your Father--chances are you're going to be in for a bit of suffering and persecution too.

Is that gonna be OK? Or would you rather go build your own Thomas Kinkade cottage? 

(But what does it profit a man to have all the warm fuzzies in the world yet forfeit his soul?!)

Suffering and persecution will never be easy, and we aren't more spiritual if we try to pretend they are. But that solid security and unconditional love, knowing that our Father is all powerful, for us and not against us, has our best interest in mind, knowing that our Older Brother went through far more suffering than we ever will for our sake, and knowing that our brothers and sisters have persevered through their fair share as well, all of that is what keeps us going, and even at times with a bit of joy and hope and peace.

And when something deep from within our hearts keeps crying out to God, "Papa!" even and especially in the midst of painful suffering, that's when we really know we are in fact a part of this family, this band of brothers.

No Thanks Dad, I Prefer Slavery

"But now that you have come to know God, or rather to be known by God, how can you turn back again to the weak and worthless elementary principles of the world, whose slaves you want to be once more?" Galatians 4:9

Obviously my thoughts have been taken by ideas of our adoption into the family of God, He as our father, Christ as our brother, us as heirs, acceptance and security and confidence and rest and freedom and joy. I'm rather convinced that the idea and its implications are inexhaustible.

When we revel in the truth of it all, refusing our adoption seems entirely foolish. But that's exactly why Paul was writing to the Galatians, and it's exactly what continues to be our problem today. And if the idea of adoption is inexhaustible, I'm beginning to think so is the consideration of our refusal. That is, why do we as humans prefer slavery? 

Why do we prefer to see God as our judge? Why do we hold ourselves to rules and regulations? Why do we create extra rules and regulations? Why are we so easily convinced that God doesn't really actually love us, doesn't really actually forgive us? Why do we feel as though we need to continually earn and re-earn his approval?

No thanks Dad, I prefer slavery. 

Maybe because that's the way we love.
Maybe grace makes us uncomfortable. Our pride tells us we need to earn our keep.
And we surely don't want to extend grace to others. They need to earn theirs, too.
Maybe the love from our earthly fathers was more anger and tolerance than love.
Maybe it's easier to trust our own works than a love from someone we can't see, a love we can't always feel. 
Maybe it's a safer bet.
Maybe because that lie--that tinge of doubt that questions God's love--is the root of all our sin, and so it perpetuates.

It's foolishness. So what makes us do it?

I recently heard a man named RW Glenn give his thoughts on this "sinister" twist:

"There’s something satisfying about believing that God isn’t loving, because it justifies all my rebellion. After all, who can blame me for rebelling against a hateful, wicked dictator? But if he really is loving, then I have no excuse. There’s still part of us that resists believing in the love he has for us because it gives us a back door to get out of our obedience to him and justify our rebellion."

Maybe it's an easy out.

cross reference: the prodigal god

A Spirit of Adoption

The father was paying at the cash register of the farmer's market. The son was playing around his legs, ducking under the counter. A boy about the same age came running up to join in the fun. But before they could get started, the son had something to say. He caught the boy's attention, pointed toward the man, and with a proud smile announced, "That's my Papa." He could barely express himself being only two years old, but he could already introduce his dad with confidence and pride.

"And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'" Galatians 4:6

Adoption is more than a judicial decree or a legal document. There is a spirit of adoption that runs much deeper than oaths and swears and certificates. According to the law, there is no difference between a biological child and an adopted child. That's pretty profound when you think about it. But who cares what the birth certificate says unless the parents see it the same way? Who cares unless the same deep love is shown, the same great affection is present? This where the real wonder of adoption takes place. To change a certificate: that's law books. To accept a child fully as one's own: that's adoption.

cross reference from my favorite movie, an adoption that's not quite really an adoption:


That God adopts us could remain a cold concept on the pages of systematic theology and Bible doctrine textbooks. Who cares, unless the Spirit enables us to cry out to him in the same voice and the same name that Jesus himself used. The real wonder of adoption is when we speak of the creator of the universe and proudly grin with confidence, "That's my Papa."

The real wonder is when the assurance and security that comes with a relationship like this one begins to transform everything else in our lives.

A strange, generous, good Judge

There is no jury in this courtroom, only a judge. Why? Because he's not just the fairest and wisest judge there is, he is fair, he is wise, and he is right. He is in himself the definition of those terms, and so he has absolutely no need of 12 angry men to help him out.

The defendant stands before him, and there is nothing but countless evidence pointing to his guilt. Far beyond a shadow of a doubt. Guilty as charged. Easiest trial in history, case closed. (Just another reason we don't need 12 angry men.)

And when the judge is set to deliver the death sentence, a surprise. There is none, at least not for the defendant himself. It's announced that the judge has taken the initiative to call upon a substitute who has agreed to take the punishment.

But the judge doesn't stop there. He takes the perfect, clean criminal record of the substitute, and replaces his name with the defendant's. Not just no punishment, but a clean record. As in, he didn't do any of the bad, and he always did all of the good. As far as this judge is concerned, the defendant is now a fine, upstanding citizen.

Already astounding enough, but the judge doesn't stop there. He steps off the stand, grabs the defendant by the hand, and escorts him gently from the criminal court down the hall to the court of the orphans. Knowing crimes were committed due in part to lack of a loving family, he's not about to throw this guy back out on his own. But another surprise: the judge isn't just officiating the adoption, he's the one adopting. The judge himself will be the father.

He's the one adopting you, he welcomes you into his family. The stately man wearing the robe takes you home after a day at work, changes into casual clothes, and wrestles with you on the living room floor amidst giggles of joy. The judge is not just your father, he's your papa.

And though it strikes you a little strange at first, you've never been happier, you've never felt more free, never more accepted, never more at ease. You belong. You're secure. You are loved.

"God sent forth his Son to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'" Galatians 4:4-5

The Law was a Babysitter

"So then, the law was our guardian until Christ came." Galatians 3:24

Mom and Dad go over the instructions, give the lay of the land, leave some phone numbers, and say goodbye with kisses on heads. "Be good." It's fun at first, being with the babysitter, because she's spunky enough and likes to play, and it's kind of exciting to be at home without Mom and Dad. We pass from one toy to the next, cars, coloring, hide and seek, a movie.

But it's all short-lived. Because when we try jumping on the couch, she tells us to stop, and the tone of her voice is different than the one she was using during hide and seek. When we pull each others' hair, she gets angry. And when we refuse to go to bed, forget it. Patience runs thin. She shouts. We don't like her rules, and she doesn't like us bending them. I can't explain why, but it's hard to be a good boy with her around.

We lay in our beds awake, unhappy, waiting, listening for the sound of a car in the driveway. In a matter of hours, the babysitter we loved has left us longing for Mom and Dad to come home.

Not because they let us jump on the couch; they don't. Not because they let us pull hair; we don't even try it when they're around. But because even when they discipline us, we are confident in the love we know, a love that can only exist between parent and child, a love that's been proven time and time again in their faithful care of us. It's a love our babysitter naturally lacks.

The law was a full-time babysitter that left us yearning for a Father. 

"God sent forth his Son to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons." Galatians 4:4-5

Vintage Tags

The art of tagging was different back then. It was quality over quantity. A certain level of investment, commitment, hard work. And skill: anyone can wield a spray can, few can master a mallet and chisel. Riskier. More permanent. Beautiful.

Delinquents take note, we could learn a thing or two. When your tag lasts 10 times your current age, you're getting somewhere.

Earnest Announcements

On the train to Paris I had a strangely vivid daydream of boldly standing up and addressing the entire car:

Bonjour Mesdames et Messieurs, pardonnez-moi s'il vous plaît, je sais ce que je fait est bizarre, mais je veux tout simplement vous annoncer que Jésus Christ est vivant, il sauve, il veut une relation réelle avec vous afin de vous donner généreusement de sa grâce immense. Si cela vous intéresse, je serai là et nous pouvons en discuter ensemble, et sinon, je vous souhaite une très bonne journée.

The fact that it was this clear, this vision, probably meant it was something I really was actually supposed to do.

But I didn't.

But what if I did? What if we did?

Not so much as people gone mad, just as people genuinely earnest. What then?

(mix tape:) sleepy time

I made a bedtime mix for a little boy named Jacob. It was something I had meant to do for my own sons, but the kind of thing you only get around to doing when you want to celebrate someone else's son. So, despite it technically being for Jacob, I have a feeling we've benefited from it even more in our household, and probably me more than my sons. I consider it kind of wonderful having a collection of songs that have always calmed me, all together in one place. If you're bored on Spotify, you might want to consider compiling it...

Amiina - sexfaldur
Do Make Say Think - a tender history in rust
Six Parts Seven - sleeping diagonally
Sigur Ros - vaka
Page France - the belly in the fish
Iron & Wine - upward over the mountain
Sufjan Stevens - romulus
Jose Gonzalez - heartbeats
Bon Iver - re: stacks
Damien Jurado - ohio daytrotter session
Pedro the Lion - be thou my vision
Joshua Stamper - how thy desires e'er have been
Sufjan Stevens - redford (for yia-yia and pappou)
Amiina - kolapot
Sigur Ros - heysatan
The Album Leaf - streamside
My Brightest Diamond - i have never loved someone

But since making it, I've discovered some missing songs. Take note, Jacob! All three happen to have nature themes, and what more perfect way to fall asleep?

Fleet Foxes - blue spotted tail
So peaceful and dreamy!


Welcome Wagon - nature's goodnight
I've never been able to make a chord organ sound this soothing!


Feist - cicadas and gulls
Is there a better lullaby voice in all of show business? 

Questions a 4 year old has for Mr. Sufjan Stevens

Is that me? Or someone else?
Is that Noah? Is that Timothy?
His name is Gavin? Do we know him?
Is Gavin a boy?
Where is his family? Is he on his own?
Is he in his diaper? Why is he dancing in his diaper?
He's at the beach?
Can we fly a kite sometime?
You wanna watch that again?

safety not guaranteed

to go it alone or to go with a partner.
when you choose a partner, you have to have compromises and sacrifices, but it's the price you pay.
do I wanna follow my every whim and desire as I make my way through time and space? absolutely.
but at the end of the day, do I need someone when I'm doubting myself, and I'm insecure and my heart's failing me? do I need someone who, when the heat gets hot, has my back?
I do.

An Odd and Satisfying Inheritance

A few weeks back I went to the store and came home with a giant bag of horse manure and sack of bird seed. Only the essentials, of course, the manure for the compost bin we had started and the bird seed for the feeder we had hung. I've spent the weeks following with a bit of a complex, convinced I am the only 29-year-old on earth thinking about manure and bird seed. I've worried about how I will spend my time in retirement if I cover all the most exciting options so early on in life. I've wondered how in the world this has happened to me, this fascination with compost and ornithology.

But I'm familiar with the world of compost piles and bird feeders, it's the world of my childhood, where Tuesdays were my dad's day off and a day off meant a long day of hard manual labor outside, clearing dirt and mowing grass and planting flowers and harvesting vegetables. If this was a day off, I've worried that he'll spend retirement by working 60 hour weeks outside. I've wondered how in the world this has happened to him, this superhuman drive to work hard at cultivating the earth around him.

I got some unexpected answers this evening.

I felt an inexplicable urge to head out to the back yard to finish a digging job I had started. Nothing major, just clearing a small strip of grass to make way for an iris bed in hopes to spruce up an otherwise dilapidated terrace. It didn't take long for my boys to spot me out the back window, and before I knew it, the older one was pushing his way out the back door, sweatshirt half on, bare feet, and his brother was trying to make the escape right behind.

After getting some shoes and putting the sweatshirt all the way on, I handed him the spade and put him on root, rock, and worm duty while I kept hacking away at the grass with the hoe. We found a 12-inch long nightcrawler and he jumped up and down shouting, "Throw it in the compost!" The sun had set and it was getting dark quickly. "This is hard work," he told me with a tone of satisfaction. He liked my tool better than the one he had and begged for a turn, watching in admiration. We quickly finished the job and wiped the mud off our shoes before dinner.

And I told him again about Great Grandpa and how much he liked this sort of thing.

I quickly realized that, with a solid tool in one's hand, with a bit of mud under the fingernails, with the crisp air at dusk, with the pride of cultivation, and with the regard for one's father who models it all, if this kid is starting this young, there's a good chance he will succumb too.

I feel the need to have my own compost pile because I helped my father maintain his. And my father feels the need to spend his day off gardening because he helped his father do the same. And so if my boys happen to grow up to plant flowers and sow gardens and feed birds and enjoy every minute of it, it will be because they had a Great Grandpa with a tenacious Pennsylvania Dutch work ethic who did just the same and passed it on down the line.

In the past couple of years I've had to entertain the question of whether or not I prefer to live in the city or the country. I've always thought it was a difficult question, especially because of the way my pulse quickens when I walk through the city. But something tells me, as I drive through 30 minutes of beautiful vast farmland before finally arriving at our new house, that the country is really where I'm meant to be. It's where I feel at home. A genetic inclination to buy horse manure at just 29 years of age only confirms the matter.

Grandpa won't get to see my humble plantation and the strong boys who have been helping me tend to it. But if he could, I have a feeling he'd smile wide and affirm our work with a phrase in Pennsylvania Dutch, then burst out laughing at himself and our looks of confusion.

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men -- Colossians 3:23