In the middle of the fifteen minute slot focused on our daughter, we shared some concerns—not about the teachers, but how our daughter was struggling with a few ongoing issues. We weren’t casting blame, just describing a situation. And then, the most incredible thing happened.

“Mmmmm,” one teacher replied, nodding. “I have to own part of that.” She hadn’t realized how some of her actions, well intentioned as they might have been, were affecting our daughter. The conversation gave her fresh insight she felt implicated her in some way—but instead of getting defensive, she stepped up and took responsibility. Later on as we slid back into the car Shauna and I marvelled at her wisdom and humility. I can’t think of another time when a teacher has done that. Think of how many times parent teacher interviews revolve around parents pushing teachers to take responsibility for their actions, or vice versa. Before long, the blame game takes over.

Here’s an important principle: When people don’t accept responsibility for what is rightfully theirs, the blame game is nearly inevitable. Our sense of justice “requires” it. But the opposite is also true: It’s really difficult to cast blame at someone who’s already accepted responsibility. Want to win the blame game? Accept responsibility and step up.

What gets confusing is when responsibility for a thing is shared.

Shauna and I walked out of that parent/teacher interview with a list of outstanding assignments Glory has due this Monday or later this week. The weekend was ridiculously busy, so guess what? We forgot about the list until this morning. I remembered about five minutes before Glory was supposed to get on her bus. She spent the next twenty minutes doing some of the work, and then I had to drive her to school. Who’s to blame for this fiasco? Glory, or us?

Some might say, “Clearly, you are. You got the list of assignments. It was your job to remind your daughter and make sure she got them done on time.”

Others might say, “No, it’s up to your daughter. What is she in, Grade 7? She’s old enough to look at her agenda and take responsibility for her own work.”

Both are true.

I am not responsible to do Glory’s work, but I’m responsible to guide her toward doing it. This means I can’t blame her for not reminding me to remind her, and she can’t blame me for forgetting, because she was supposed to do her work.

Let me put it a different way: In church, I tell our worship teams it’s their job to lead the church in worship—to bring their heart, skill, and prayers to bear on their musicianship in such a way that people are invited to join them. That’s their responsibility.

But.

The congregation can’t blame the worship team for not leading them into worship, because it’s the congregation’s responsibility to worship no matter what happens onstage. The team can’t worship for them.

When it comes to preaching, it’s my responsibility to prepare a Spirit-anointed sermon and deliver it to the best of my ability while depending on God to do the heavy lifting. It’s your job to open your heart and accept what God is saying.

A few principles emerge from these examples:

1. No one is ever responsible for exactly the same thing as someone else, even when they share different pieces of the same pie. If we ever set up a scenario where more than one person is responsible for exactly the same thing, we’re setting them up for frustration and failure.

2. I am only responsible for my own attitudes, words, and actions.

3. Accepting responsibility snuffs out many conflicts before they have a chance to ignite by removing the need for casting blame.

4. The purpose of the blame game is to force someone else to shoulder all the shame so I can wash my hands and walk away, smug and self-righteous. But if I’m involved in something at any level, I am always responsible for some part of it. I need to figure out what that is.

5. And again, if I’m responsible for something, I should own it. If I drop a ball, I should call my own foul.

Because the only way to win the blame game is not to play it. And the best way not to play it is to accept responsibility.

Jesus, help me live this way!

What about you? Does this help you understand your own conflicts?

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Actually, that’s not quite right. “Getting” mad makes me think of pianos crashing to a sidewalk, falling out of a blank blue sky. Which isn’t entirely accurate.

It began as I read a recent blog post by Carlos Whittaker. “Los” doesn’t shy away from conflict, so he was blogging about the “Code Orange Revival” that unfolded at Elevation Church this past week or so. It was a great post. In my opinion, Elevation is a phenomenal church—not because they get everything right, not because I love everything they do and how they do it, not because I want to be Steven Furtick, their pastor—but because God is doing something special there, something that stirs my faith and pierces my heart. Like the 2,200 baptisms they performed last year over a two week period. Book of Acts kind of numbers (and yes, numbers matter).

Los led worship at the revival at some point, and his post referred to both the amazing things God was doing and the critique and controversy swirling around it. Which prompted me to watch a video cast he mentioned.

One of the speakers at the revival (it doesn’t matter who, that would miss the point) gave an important talk about making sure we get first things first—namely, the glory of God. It was a healthy, necessary corrective for a church that sometimes crosses the line between godly confidence and spiritual swagger. As an Elevation “fan” I readily admit and affirm this.

Of course, that’s my “next day” assessment. At the time, I wasn’t so affirming. In my opinion, this brother’s message got lost in a sea of unprofessional jabs delivered in an un-christ-like way. I should say that compared to this guy’s peers (in the Reformed stream), his snarkiness was pretty tame. But trust me when I say that to catch some of the jabs, you’d have to be a pastor.

I’m not going to say, “Ok. So at 12:31: Did you hear that? Low blow. And then here at 14:01…” Because again, that’s not the point. The point is, as I listened, the more agitated I became. My chest tightened, my pulse quickened, my brow scrunched, my blood boiled, and I had to walk away. I found our youth pastor in the sanctuary (a beautiful place to muse and fume), and offered some in-house jabs of my own directed at “those Reformed guys.”

A few minutes later I found myself back at my desk, hoping to feel vindicated. Nope. I was still agitated. But—and I need you to catch this—my angst had frothed up into discernible layers. Anger almost always has ‘em.

- Part of me was mad at the speaker for un-christlike behaviour and even misuse of scripture (choosing a scriptural emphasis while ignoring others to make his point in a way that made Elevation look bad). This layer of my anger had a genuinely “righteous” tinge to it because it was reacting to a low blow.

- Part of me was agitated because I knew that beyond my issues with his issues, he still had a point. I don’t like to admit people behaving badly have a point. But since I’m not perfect, I sort of need others to give me that grace, too.

- Part of me was afraid to admit he had a point because I don’t want to find out something I “believed in” isn’t as real as I thought it was. Like old the X-Files mantra says, I want to believe. This fear wanted me to write off the speaker entirely, to put him in a box and shut him up so I could keep believing what I wanted to believe. I was forgetting that something doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.

So…

When I admitted my anger had layers, and that each layer required a different approach to deal with it, I experienced peace. Not Cosby Show niceness, but the kind of peace you get when you’ve been working hard at something in the garage and you figure out how to make it work, bandaids on your freshly dinged knuckles and all.

It’s the peace that comes through biblical, Spirit-led discernment. It can all a spade a spade, enabling me to say, “this is wheat, but this is chaff.” It helps me to reject what is evil, while clinging to the good (Romans 12). It helps me face the darkness in myself instead of pretending the problem isn’t mine at all.

Million dollar hint: Anger is a multi-layered storm within yourself. When you’re angry, part of the problem is always you.

Thanks Los.

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Stop playing house.

Kids play house. Girls, mostly—but also hapless brothers roped into tea parties and role playing for half an hour. It’s fun to watch, and so revealing. Kids pick up on the roles we play, but often miss the heart behind it. The result, when they play house at least, are caricatures of the real us. They don’t know how to be a husband, a wife, but they can play a role. So they do.

But when we’re adults, we have to stop playing house, stop game playing, stop pretending, stop filling a role.

The single most epic realization of our entire married life hit me like a battleship square in the middle of our seven year itch. Quite simply, our marriage sucked. Not that we fought all the time or threw things at walls or cheated on each other. It was just that our marriage was lifeless. Like all the air had been sucked out of the room and we were turning blue, waiting to breathe again. Something massive was missing, and we didn’t know what it was.

Least of all me. I mean, I was a good husband. I was doing all the husbandly things a godly husband ought to be doing. I was playing a role, doing my husbandly duty. Jesus says love my wife, so that’s what I’m going to do. But “wife” is a role. A concept. Not a person.

One day I was sitting out in the back yard, praying for us. Seeking God about what was wrong with our marriage, wrong with me. I told God I loved Shauna, and in my heart I could feel him challenging that. And then, as if he were sitting across from me and leaning in real close, he spoke to my heart:

“You don’t see her the way I see her.”

I didn’t argue. The truth stung, but it stuck. “Then I want to see her the way you see her,” I prayed. And I meant it.

I’m not sure how the vision began, but at some point I remember a vivid image taking shape in my mind’s eye: Shauna, like God saw her. She was radiant, dressed in white, sparkling and glowing. Life oozed from her. Her eyes were bright, her countenance reflecting the glory of God. Somehow I knew I was looking at Shauna as she will look one day in heaven, when Jesus completes the good work he began in her.

The blood drained from my face. My jaw went slack. She was beautiful. My angel.

“She’s in there,” God said, referring to the Shauna I’m married to now. “All of that… is already inside of her, waiting to come out.” And then I sensed God inviting me to love her that way, to treat her that way, to join him in giving myself to her so that all this good stuff could be revealed. To love her with this picture firmly planted in my mind.

I no longer like the word “love.” Now I fixate on the word “treasure.” I’m trying to drop the role playing, and to join God in this holy work.

The difference in our marriage was almost immediate. God’s work sent us on a trajectory of intimacy, respect, and friendship that defies description.

So that’s my tidbit of the day. What about you? How do you see your marriage, your spouse? 

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Shauna would go out—shopping, socializing, errand-hopping, whatever. And me? I’d sit back on my keister, relishing the freedom of an hour or three to myself. Video games, a movie maybe. Even some quality time with God. Nothing wrong with that, except far too late in the game, an inevitable realization would always arrive, dropping into my consciousness like an anvil dropped on a steel floor:

She’ll be home soon. 

I would glance this way and that, taking in the status of the home front. Disaster. I’d done nothing for two hours, Shauna was coming home, and the place looked like a post-apocalyptic set piece. Which always brought the next realization home with crystal-clear fury:

She’s gonna be ticked.

I’d picture her face falling with disappointment. Her face tensing with frustration. Her lips sealing with silence. I’d picture her mad at me. And with that “madness… this is Sparta” attitude charging my frame, I’d go to work—cleaning like a madman, hoping to avoid a madwoman.

Shauna has always done more of the housework, but I know I need to do my part. So I found myself continually trying to figure her out—in particular, how much I had to do to avoid her anger. Which eventually became how little I had to do to avoid her anger. Or how little I had to put in to keep her satisfied.

The funny thing is, she rarely actually got angry like that, and when she did, I usually deserved it. Anger management mode is destructive; it enthrones imaginary tyrants in place of our loved ones. Ah, the games we play.

Well, suffice it to say I woke up one day with God’s help and saw that anger management wasn’t the most wonderful marriage foundation. That working frantically to avoid something is vapid, shallow, and dumb. That working to build something—uh, like maybe our friendship, or even just growing her as a person—was a far more noble goal.

I went through another stage, one where I did wonderful things around the house to make her happy. Happy so I could feel it. So she would be pleased with me. But again, that misses the mark. Marriage isn’t about pacifying or pleasing Shauna, especially when doing it to make life more pleasant for myself.

It’s about loving her, about building a home. So now, today, I do far more around the house than ever. Sometimes I do stuff because it will take the pressure off of her. Sometimes it just needs to get done and it’s right to do my part and then some. Sometimes I do it because I know it will bless her. Many of the things I do she’ll never notice, because noticing them wasn’t the point. Blessing her was.

Do I ever slide back into anger management mode? Sure. But as soon as I realize it, I back off.

Marriage tip #2 is this: Don’t let your marriage slip into anger management mode. Don’t look for how little you have to do to keep your partner happy. The point is going beyond—way beyond—because you love each other. To hit home runs on the love front whenever, and however you can.

What say you? Have you experienced this? And what “marriage tips” would you like to throw into the hopper?

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Shauna and I have been married eighteen and a half years. Today (and for many years now) we’ve enjoyed a rich, satisfying marriage. But it hasn’t always been this way, and the lessons learned while tripping our way up the trail are priceless. This week I’m going to share a few of those lessons and invite you to do the same. I’ll begin with a piece of advice handed to me eighteen years ago by a good friend who was newly married at the time. The simple fact that I remember this wisdom these many years later is proof that:

1. It stuck.

2. It was supposed to.

Here it is, in all its simple glory: “Always give each other the benefit of the doubt.”

Seriously, friends? This may just be the most practical relationship advice you’ll ever lay eyes on. Sure, you might stumble upon more poetic words, or latch onto a concept more inspiring. But more practical? Probably not. ‘Cause you know what?

- His clothes are strewn across the floor again, leaving his side of the bed looking like a battlefield where the fallen soldiers got raptured out of their uniforms.

- She’s stomping around the house. Her jaw is clenched.

- He hasn’t asked a single question about your day. And he just yawned while you talked about your coffee with your girlfriend.

- She’s backseat driving again.

- He sighed during an important conversation. What’s up with that?

- You’re out for a nice dinner, you bought her roses, and she says she’s lonely.

Life teaches us to cut to the chase, to draw conclusions and make decisions based on what we encounter. What we need to realize is, every conclusion is based on at least one assumption.

- Leaving his clothes out means he doesn’t respect me. What does he think, I’m the maid?

- Stomping again? What did I do?

- He hasn’t asked me a single question. He doesn’t even care about me!

- Mrs. backseat driver doesn’t think I can drive. What am I, twelve in her mind?

- He sighed. He might as well roll his eyes. I guess he thinks this is stupid.

- She’s lonely? I thought we were best friends.

Always give each other the benefit of the doubt. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make assumptions. It means we should assume the best. Assume positive intent. Assume leaving clothes out means I’m a beatnik, not disrespectful. Assume the stomping is there for good reason. Assume he hasn’t asked a question because he’s going through something or just plain tired. Assume she means “lonely outside our marriage,” not “You don’t do it for me.”

What do you think? What are some of your marriage lessons worth sharing?

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Long pause. You really should make this count, with the stakes being so high and all.

Stakes?

Yeah. See, ten minutes ago Jesus Christ himself had been sitting directly across from you in the other cozy chair. Leaning forward with a creator’s gleam in his eyes, he posed a question:

“How would you like to write the script for the next five years of your life?”

You laugh.

“Abram and Sarai laughed too, when I made them their crazy offer.” He smiles.

You smile too, until you remember the story, recall it involved a baby. “Uh, are you messing with my head?”

“Often, yes. But seriously. Open your laptop.”

“Right. Sure.”

Out comes the laptop. You open it. Fire it up. All ears.

“Now: I’m quite serious,” Jesus says. “I’m giving you the authority to write the script—in point form, obviously—for the next five years of your life. Be careful what you type, because when you hit ‘save,’ that’s it. It’ll be locked in. Your next five years will (among other things) include the bullet points you’ve just added. Got it?”

Breathless, you attempt a nod.

With that, he disappeared.

Leaving you staring at the pixelated screen, stomach in knots, afraid to type the next words.

—

Quite the scenario, isn’t it? What would you write? What would you dare? I have a few great ideas for my life:

“And then Brad won the twelve million dollar jackpot in the lottery—without buying a ticket of course, because Christians shouldn’t play the lottery.”

“Brad never had a migraine again.”

“His son, Noah, was apprenticed by Peter Jackson for the movie industry immediately following High School.”

“Brad and his family never got sick, were universally loved and cherished, and his church grew by 1000% (entirely conversion growth). Even more amazing, his children never had an argument and always did their chores without being asked. They became miracle working prodigies for the kingdom of God and converted half of the city using nothing but Facebook.”

And especially, ”His book manuscript was embraced and heralded as more powerful than the Shack, the Purpose-Driven Life, and the Prayer of Jabez combined. And changed the world in six months, ushering in a new era of peace and joy.”

I can think of a few things I wouldn’t include: Sickness. Struggle. Evil. Disappointment. Grief. Loss. Pain. Cancer. Death. Detours. Conflict. Failure. Not even bad breath.

And I certainly wouldn’t have scripted yesterday the way it played out. Yeah, I heard back from David Kopp, the editor from Multnomah I’m working with on this project (David is known as a gifted and successful giant in the biz). Yesterday he pitched my project to editorial. They loved my writing, my voice, my concept… but turned me down (in part, because my platform isn’t big enough). End of the road.

No, I wouldn’t have chosen that.

But…

Neither would I have written, “But wait… David so believed in Brad’s project, so believed in Brad that he offered to work with him unofficially to explore a new approach to the book and maybe pitch it again in the future.” So the road hasn’t ended, not exactly. I’m still partnered with a gifted mentor. It wouldn’t have written that, couldn’t have foreseen that. This is partly what the scriptures mean when they say God’s thoughts are not like our thoughts, that his ways aren’t like our ways.

As I reflect on this, my perspective widens. When I picture telling this story in the future, I can imagine relishing this plot twist: “Who would have thought God would use that closed door to direct me toward… which led to… and then…?” Come to think of it, the fairy tale bullet points for my life would make for a really boring read. The dead ends, the conflict, the risks—they’re all part of living a great story.

God’s authorial power and voice is brilliant, masterful, epic. I choose to go with him. To cooperate with the Author. To live in sync with his story and explore this good, perfect, and pleasing path.

No matter where it leads.

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Somewhere out there sits a board room table flanked with seasoned editors discerning whether the manuscript I’ve handed them will take another step toward becoming a Multnomah book. The meeting began at ten in the morning. It’s now 12:11pm.

So I’m waiting. Waiting for the news.

Hundreds of hours of dreaming. Hundreds more packed with writing, reworking, and sweating. Hundreds more wondering, waiting for this meeting.

Tick tock.

My faith sits in this moment, precarious. Should I let my mind relish the possibility of another giant stride towards fulfilling a dream? I did that for a few minutes, then caught myself. That would be delicious. But things could go the other way. The moment could be ripe for a “Hey, Brad. We really like your manuscript but we just don’t think…” I’ve let that one play out for a minute or two as well, just enough to balance the sweetness of my hope with the potentially bitter pill I may have to swallow.

Tick tock.

But I’m back now, trying to stay in the moment where I currently exist. Perched here, I feel more peace than I thought I’d feel. I think I’ll be okay regardless of whether this journey continues down the garden path or doubles back to the drawing board.

Because my faith, you see, isn’t in an outcome, it’s in a Person. I trust Jesus, not my personal wish list. Don’t get me wrong; if the manuscript is rejected, I’ll grieve. I’m a highly invested human, after all.

But ultimately, this thing is bouncing around somewhere beyond my reach, in someone else’s court. And I have to trust that God will speak to them, soften them, work through them. It’s hard, but faith is a choice.

A choice to abide with Christ in the hollow place found between dreams and disappointments.

Tick tock.

What about you? Where do you stand perched between a dream and a disappointment? What is God teaching you in the midst of the waiting?

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I also believe each and every one of us are crippled somewhere by at least one flaw, wound, or weakness big and hairy enough to sabotage all our strengths and giftedness put together. I call this our fatal flaw. 

King Saul, for example, was an incredibly gifted man. The guy had more admirable qualities than I do, that’s for sure. And yet a few fatal flaws in Saul’s character tanked his whole life.

Or take King David. God lover, poet, warrior, King… adulterer.

Or the Apostle Paul: Gifted, anointed, called, powerful, used by God… and proud.

Or Peter: Go-getter, radical faith, black-and-white… and a walking emotional roller coaster.

Or Moses: Epic faith, leader extraordinaire, prophet… with a short temper.

Could it be that if these giants of the faith had fatal flaws, that we do too?

Take little ol’ me for example: Passionate, creative, well-meaning… with a desire to be seen as wonderful that can tend toward people-pleasing.

Not all these folks allowed their fatal flaw to tank their lives. Some of us recognize our fatal flaw for what it is—dangerous, crafty, poisonous—and take steps to compensate for our weakness. So we seek out and embrace accountability. We seek out people to complement our weaknesses. We drink deeply of the grace of God and rely on his presence in our hearts to steer clear of our destructive tendencies.

But know this: There is a weakness inside you, a special sin, a character flaw that should never, under any circumstances be ignored or swept under the carpet. If you don’t have a combat plan to meet it in battle, it will cripple you eventually.

What about you? What’s your fatal flaw?

Do you know what it is?

If you know, what are you doing to prevent it from sabotaging all the good things about you? 

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Everyone.

I’m talking everyone from powder-puff Porn Stars to puritanical Sisters of Mercy.

Everyone. Me too.

It could be a glance, followed by another. Did I just see—? Whoah. Or it could be a “what-if” exploring forbidden territory, even for just a few seconds—undressing others, imagining things that don’t belong in our minds, hooking up, wondering what it would be like to be with him, or her. You know what I’m talking about.

Is it getting hot in here?

We strive for victory, but mostly live with defeat. Along the way, we lump “struggle” together with defeat, as though the presence of temptation is wrong in itself. The truth is, struggle is a good sign, proving we aren’t just caving without a fight. Just as courage isn’t the absence of fear, victory isn’t the absence of struggle.

On the other hand, some of our struggle persists because… are you ready for this?

… We want it to. We keep our indulgences locked up in the basement, ashamed to parade them around but unwilling to cast them out either. And we would never name or confess what icky things we’re spoon-feeding feeding down there in the rank cellar of our soul.

Have you ever thought of starting a “dirty thoughts” journal? Me either. That’s just gross, the thought of all that festering skank piling up in one place. No one must ever know what secret thoughts we think, what unholy paths our minds wander, or how often.

A dirty thoughts journal may sound perverse, but all of that junk is coming from somewhere, already growing and breeding in a dark, moist corner of our hearts. That should gross us out even more. And, I should add, it’s too late—God already has these books on the go, recording all our thoughts and deeds in real time, as we live them. Pretty nasty reading much of the time, I’ll bet.

Where to start?

Instead of wishing for less struggle, maybe we need more. More resistance. More Braveheart-worthy battle cries and lines drawn deep into shifting sand. More hills worth dying on and more Samurai leaning into their swords. More pray-ers wearing out their knees and flags being planted in rebel soil. More willingness to die in order to find the life that is truly life and more resurrection stories. More hardcore confessions and more radical accountability and more doing what it takes to choose purity in the face of carnality.

Why in the name of God do we believe that a fight to the death against dirty thoughts could be anything but messy, bloody, and ruthless?

I am living a life of victory over lust (Read part 1 of my 7 part blog series called  MY LUST STORY). But while back of that beast is finally broken in my life, the shadow of that struggle still lingers. It has lost most its teeth and claws and no longer dominates my prayers, but neither will I let down my guard, because I am human—fragile, fickle, and more often that not, just plain stupid.

Loved, treasured, welcomed, redeemed, restored, rescued, and gifted—but stupid.

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Perspective on Halo, life, and other things

Who am I? Please, not Whopper #2

What-ifs, plutonium, and me

Some fun at the retreat (video)

Check them out, make a comment or three, tweet, FB like, start a “Brad Huebert foundation” and have a spectabulous weekend.

Yes, I just made up a word.

I like it.

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