This is cross-posted at the Institute for the Study of Asian American Christianity’s blog.

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Reflection on John 20.19-23

And the end of a weekend conference, a student came up to me and declared, “I must not be very Asian.”

The first words that came to my mind was: Is she crazy? She was clearly Korean-American, not only in looks but also in custom and culture. But the words that came out of my mouth were more pastoral: I asked her why.

She said, “Well, I don’t suffer from a lack of self-esteem and I don’t have issues with my parents. So I must not be very Asian.”

It’s too easy for Asian Americans to define ourselves by our weaknesses. In our cultures, it’s easy to be tough on ourselves. It’s instinctive to counter an offer of praise with a retort of self-criticism. It’s natural to focus on the one bad grade on a stellar report card. And this very inclination may cause us to emphasize Good Friday at the expense of Easter Sunday.

Good Friday can almost feel cathartic, right? I can come to the cross with my faults and sins. I can ask for forgiveness. And it has been taken care of on the cross. It’s all about my weaknesses. And rightfully so. But Easter? Often, the resurrection is just proof that Good Friday worked. Since Jesus rose again, then our sins are truly forgiven.

But Easter is also so much more. It’s an invitation to life! The Scriptures say we died with him, for “we have been crucified with Christ.” With his resurrection, “we also live with him.” We actually live with Christ, and Christ lives in us. We participate in both Christ’s death and resurrection. And so, we don’t merely look back at what Christ has done for us, though we’re deeply thankful. On Easter, we also look forward to the new life God is springing up in us.

Because he lives, we too can truly live.

It’s 5:38a, and I’m up. I’ve been up for the past two and a half hours, ever since our son’s last feeding. When people ask me what being a new parent is like, I say that it’s like the morning after a great, all-night party: I’ll grip my head between my hands and rub the sleep out of my eyes, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. So, bleary-eyed, we have a good time — all day and all night. And this party clearly doesn’t end in a day.

Isaiah’s seven days old today. He had his first smile on Day 4 — and his first frown. When he’s smiling, Jinhee and I think he’s happy to see us. When he frowns, we think that he’s just testing out his facial muscles. It’s funny how we can rationalize just about anything.

I’ve surprised myself as a parent. I’m the over-concerned, hyper-scheduling one, while Jinhee’s relaxed and taking it day-by-day. I really thought our roles would be reversed. But when Jinhee had trouble producing colostrum, I was worried. When he lost 10 ounces in the first day, I fussed over every feeding while inserting a little tube into his mouth to provide formula. When he slept only an hour before wanting another feeding, I wondered what we were doing wrong. So I demanded that she pump after every feeding, even though her milk had already let down and she was sore from his constant sucking. I thought, we just need to get on top of this. Jinhee had to sit me down: “You just need you to relax.” She’s proven a gifted mother, and it’s time for me to accept my lack of maternal instincts. And with her words, she’s shows how excellent a wife she is as well.

We both want what’s best for him. And when he’s hungry, he lets us know at rocket-ship decibels. At least, that’s what it sounds like to us.

A few days ago, while we were still in the hospital, Jinhee left to take a shower. We weren’t thinking: she left right around his predicted feeding time and within a minute, Isaiah was crying for food. It was terrible: I knew exactly what he wanted, but couldn’t figure out a way to get it to him. He cried until his voice was hoarse. All I could do was hold him close to my chest, and whisper in his ear: “Mommy’s coming, Mommy’s coming.” But that wouldn’t soothe him at all. I knew that Mom would come back. Soon. And he’d be alright. But it was hard for him to see beyond the moment. After all, he’s just a baby. And for me, those ten minutes couldn’t have ticked by any more slowly.

It made me think: I’m sometimes a little baby, wanting some food. But instead of milk, I want … well, it could be anything. Unmet expectations with ministry, family, friends, faith. It really could be anything. And I want them fulfilled now. Not later. So I cry out. Yell until I get hoarse. But He constantly whispers to me: “Daddy’s coming, Daddy’s coming.” He knows exactly what I want and need, and he asks me not to worry. And he’s got perfect timing, though it often doesn’t line up with mine. So I try to trust him. After all, I’m just a child too. And it’s good to remember that I have a great Dad.

About a month ago, I stood over a kitchen’s granite-top cooking island with a dozen other men from our church. Normally, I’m not a fan of kitchens. It’s too much a place of preparation: someone has to think ahead about what to cook, then go to the grocery store to find the right, freshest ingredients; then, cut, chop and dice, simmer, braise and broil — all in the right order. It’s too much like work, and I’m not even getting paid.

But since Fabrice was teaching, I had to go. My wife had been using guerrilla tactics: “I know it’s not for a few weeks, but I think you should go to the cooking class.” “Are you planning to go in a couple of weeks?” “I’m glad that you’re going next week.” “Are you excited about today?” I guess she really wanted me to learn. Should I’ve been offended?

Jinhee’s insistence came because Fabrice is a world-class chef. He usually greets us at the doors of our church with hugs, a huge smile and a French accent. But he’s also prepared dishes on the famed Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris, and had the privilege of serving then-President François Mitterand. In a country that’s deservedly snottish about their culinary mastery, he was in the major leagues of cooking. And about a month ago, he was willing to take a few novices under his tutelage.

I came late and missed how he prepared the mussels. But when I had a bite of a scallop — the size of a half-dollar coin, but an inch thick — flaked with fennel seed, sea salt and a little pepper, which was then pan-seared in olive oil, I knew there must be a god. And that Jinhee was the wisest woman on the planet. I was in all-out worship when I tasted the broiled sea bass, resting on a bed of leeks, pan-fried corn and sweet onions mixed in crème fraîche. Then, I almost shook with ecstatic utterances when he also grilled a roast of Wagyu — America’s version of Kobe beef — and placed them on a sauced bed of greens. I was caught up into the third heaven when the stuffed, roasted apricot and some blueberry comport landed on my tongue. I might not be a fan of cooking, but I love to eat. I know I’m not being fair, but Bon Appétit!

Fabrice kept everything simple so that we might be able to reproduce it in our kitchens, though I have yet to try one of his culinary masterpieces. I’d be defiling his creations with any attempt. That’s what I tell myself, at any rate. But when I’m forced to be in the kitchen, I’ve picked up some of his habits. I sharpen my knives before any cutting, like he did. Jinhee’s been trying to get me to sharpen the knives at least once a month, but now I’m sharpening knives perhaps three or four times a night. Fabrice never told us to sharpen our knives that much. He just did it. And I copied him.

The grill, as opposed to the kitchen, is sacred ground. It’s no accident that altars of old cooked the sacrificed meat. So when I’m grilling a peppercorn tri-tip steak out on the patio with a beer in hand, I’m tempted to take my shoes off. And while I’m there, I broil steak at a high temperature at first, searing it to lock in the moisture. Then I turn it every two or three minues, to keep its juices within. Fabrice wouldn’t have thought to teach me that, but I followed him to the backyard to see him with the grill. Then I asked him about what he was doing, and learned a lot about cooking meats. All because I was there to watch. In fact, if I only had access to what he prepared to say, I would’ve missed out on a lot of learning.

I recently read about the same type of learning, except in a completely different context. It came from a book called The Inner Game of Tennis. He said that we don’t learn to play tennis by telling ourselves how to correct our game: like, keep the racquet head low and swing up, or swing up on the serve. People pay big dollars to get great coaching, but it rarely changes their game. According to W. Timothy Gallwey, if we try to correct ourselves, we’ll have unnatural swings. Instead, he says we should watch someone who can really play. And then try to play afterward, without berating ourselves. Our bodies will naturally learn and adjust, because it learns so much more than just by listening to someone else’s instructions. Now, I watch YouTube clips of Federer before I play, but I have yet to beat my tennis partners. One day though, one day…

Now I see how brilliant Jesus is, especially as an educator. He told his students to “Come, follow me.” Back then, when a rabbi asked his disciples to follow him, they were meant to do so… literally. In one account, while a pack of disciples were following a rabbi, one wandered off a few yards. The rabbi made them retrace their steps — over five miles — and start over, a detour costing the day. He didn’t want them to miss anything. In another account, disciples followed their rabbi to the bathroom. That kind of learning seems a bit intimate to me, but it speaks loudly of dedication. Or a lack of privacy.

I think we need more following these days. Like Fabrice, he doesn’t even know the wealth of things he could tell me, like about sharpening knives. To him, it’s second nature. Every great cook knows this. But I didn’t, and he wouldn’t have thought to tell me. I learned, because I was following. I was there, watching. And it changed the way I do things. What if we moved our conversations out of the coffee shop and into real life, and we watched our mentors, observing how they dealt with an unmerited honk from an unruly driver, or how they handled the dilemma of laying off his workers to keep the business afloat, or how they treated their husbands. Perhaps we would learn less about what we might do, and let the things we learn actually change us.

PARIS, France — Bonjour! Jinhee and I had enough frequent flyer miles to send ourselves to Paris for week, clearly pointing to the fact that we’re workoholics. Who says there’s no upside to bowing down in front of the idol of productivity? Our chance to wolf down crepes and croques is what many are calling a babymoon: the one last hurrah before little Choungito arrives.

While in Paris, definitely visit Notre Dame de Paris. It’s breathtaking — we took no less than 60 pictures of it or in it. The cathedral stands at kilometre zero — the place where all distances in France are judged from. A paradox: at zero distance stands a monument which speaks of infinity.

And there are more: sincere worshipers partake the communion at the noon mass, while tourists shuttle around them flashing photos. Under the ancient flying buttresses in the sacred nave, flat screen televisions dot the aisles. Sections are set aside for silent prayer, while teenagers flirted loudly with each other on its edges. You could light a candle as a prayer (aren’t they pretty?), but it’ll cost you two or five Euros, which is really the monetary equivalent of my arm and leg since the Euro is so strong. And at some point — in perhaps the largest of contradictions — the mass used to be relevant: it’s in French instead of Latin. But now it’s irrelevant, and older form lost in an after-modern age. Some would argue that it was never relevant. So now, only a dozen of so penitents receive the bread and wine under a cavernous hall that could fit thousands. While in Notre Dame, it’s easy to feel bewildered.

But aren’t we all cathedrals of contradictions? Am I the only one: an almost blasphemous mix of holy and unholy, sinner and saint, secular and sacred, irrelevant and relevant? It’s just as confusing within me as it is within Notre Dame. It’s a good thing that faith isn’t based on me: Easter weekend reminds me that Jesus is the pioneer and perfecter of faith. It’s based on him, not me. And as he rises out of death and confusion, he offers brilliant light in my darkest places.

I sat down in one of those silent prayer sections in front of the painted glass, teenagers still flirting behind me. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, my heart was still.

The sonologist said he was “showing off,” so we knew beyond doubt that we’re having a son. He’s already an exhibitionist. That’s my boy.

But he also held his fists up to his face, and buried his head into the placenta wall so that we couldn’t get a good look at him. He was already avoiding the paparazzi. If he had a cell phone, he’d be using it already and ducking into his Benz. So he’s no ordinary exhibitionist, but a shy one too. Or a famous one. Clearly, he’s in tension. He’s going to need psycho-therapy right when he takes his first breath.

Yes, it’s a boy. But so what? You wouldn’t think that knowing the gender of the six and a half inch blob in Jinhee’s stomach would change much. I mean, it’s either a boy or a girl. Or something in between — that’s been known to happen. Or an alien. He already looks like one, and many people said that he looks like me — then I must, by the transitive property, look just like E.T. Anyways, we’re only 20 weeks in, only half way. So, knowing shouldn’t change much, right?

Oh, but it does. On hearing the news, Jinhee moaned and writhed near the ultrasound machine. She wanted a relationship with her first child to be just like the one she had with her mom, and then have a son afterward. Sons don’t think about their families after they leave, she reasoned: they care more about their own wives and children. But she’s feeling better now. She reminds herself all the good things about having a son: Dad can pick up more of the responsibilities and he’ll be cheaper to raise — boy’s clothes cost less. That’s my wife.

I can’t see him yet. He’s hidden by skin, placenta and amniotic fluid. But it is now a he. In that hospital room, I grinned and my heart started to buzz. It’s the same feeling you get from your first kiss. Or a Starbucks overdose. I wanted a daughter first as well, but had a feeling for the past month or so that it would be a boy. And now that I know, he fills out from the flat, 2-D character that looks like television static. He’s not just an idea. Instead, he starts to take on shape, color and texture.

Now I can see: we’re throwing a baseball to each other. Or we’re racing to the end of the block, and I’m letting him win. Or I’m watching him play lava tag on the jungle gym with the other kids. And he’s running circles around them. (Competitive? Me?) Or I’m cheering him on as he rides his first bike. Or we’re hiking at the Torrey Pines reserve, and talking about the color of the sky or girls or faith or whatever. And if he’s anything like me when I was a kid, I’m really going to have my hands full. As Justin Timberlake sings, “What comes around… goes back around.” My wife will now have to take care of two boys — ah, add another reason for having a daughter instead.

Knowing makes him less an apparition, and more flesh, blood, sinew and bone. The more you know, the more connected you feel. Remember when your friend first told you something she never told anyone else? Or when your father told you story about when he was younger, and you felt that you’d passed some rite of passage from boy to man, girl to woman, from child to friend? In some sense, you can’t even feel connected without knowing — whether by words or in spirit. To love, you need to know.

Then it dawns on me: God’s knows us. And he’s just as excited about us. More so, even, because he loves far better than I can. And as Father, he anticipated the births of his children. He was thrilled at our potential and possibility. He was intoxicated with images of what our relationships could be, with him and with each other. He beamed, and also felt the full, tight swelling in his chest when he thought of each of us. He knows better than any of us can, and that makes me want to worship.

I’m sure heartbreak will also come. But I can’t wait for my little bundle of talk illustrations to claw out and announce his arrival with a shrill yawp.

Then we’ll take him immediately to the therapist.

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Have any name suggestions for our future son? Post ‘em; we’d love to see them. We do have one viable candidate, but we’re not telling yet.

We’re literally on the eve of Christmas, with the clock just past twelve. My parents are probably sleeping by now at my brother’s place, in the room next to his newborn, Carter. (Ain’t he cute?) We’ve no snow here in San Diego and lots of the ordinary, but after we finally turned off the TV and let my mom’s home-cooked meals digest, and we started to laugh and swap stories, I felt one thing: we are family. (Sure, queue up Sister Sledge. I don’t mind.)

Earlier today, Jinhee and I were in a church that we dearly love and singing a Christmas hymn, “O Holy Night.” And when we were singing the third verse, I started to tear up and my cracking voice couldn’t keep up with the lyrics:

“Truly he taught us to love one another;
His law is love, and his gospel is peace;
Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother,
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we;
Let all within us praise his holy name;
Christ is the Lord, O, Praise his name forever.
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!”

And as I looked around at the worshippers at my church, I realized one thing: we are family.

I love my family, the one that bore me and trained me to live. They nurtured me and guided me, and loved me as best as they could. And with the birth of my nephew Carter, I’m feeling a blood-bond with him that has wrapped its cords around me. Add that my parents are down here in San Diego and I can eat my mother’s grand cooking and hear my father’s exuberant laugh, and you read the words of a person thankful for his family.

But we are also part of a larger family: when Jesus was told that his mother and brothers were looking for him, he said, “… whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” And today, we celebrate the beginnings of a new family. Through Jesus, I have brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers all over the world today. And my siblings and I are trying to do what Jesus was doing — loving each other and healing the planet. Because Jesus taught us to love one another, and his law is love and his gospel is peace. Slaves are our brothers and sisters, and in his name all oppression shall cease. He’s setting up a new Kingdom, a new community, a new family. And Jesus is calling us to be more like Dad. And to thank Dad. And that’s Christmas. And to all of those who consider themselves students of Jesus, here’s one thing I know: we are family.

I’ve been playing a lot of tennis these days. (Check out my new racket on the left.) Sure, I played a lot in high school, but I belonged to the Bad News Bears of tennis. We were one of the worst teams in an inner-city league in Seattle — before the days of Venus and Serena. So to say that I’m playing lots of tennis today to recapture my glory days would be a gross exaggeration. I have no glory days to speak of.

But it’s been fun. And tennis is one of the few sports where practice can be more fun than the real game. Just going out there and hitting the ball back and forth is sometimes more gratifying that the double-fault ridden, approach-shot sailing games I’m usually a part of. Practice is more enjoyable.

And it’s here that I realized a huge difference between practice and the game. In practice, my partner hits the ball to me. I try for long rallies, and there’s no score. It’s nice. But during a match, my opponent hits the ball away from me. He’s trying to pass me, or make returning the ball the most difficult thing. So balls vary in direction and depth, pace and punch. Nothing is easy to hit. So it’s no wonder I prefer practice from the real game.

But practice isn’t tennis.

Our faith can often be the same way. We often like practice — such as going to a retreat and listening to a great speaker, or studying Scripture with excited friends, or praying together into the wee hours of the night. When we’re with other followers of Jesus who are excited to be there, and it’s enjoyable and fun. Practice can be a blast.

But when we’re out in the real world, and we’re faced with an oppressive boss, or a driver who seems intent on clipping our front bumper without a signal, or a family member who can’t shift out of the gear of criticism, or a friend who’s downright hostile about your talking about spirituality, or even worse, when we drown in the news of mothers who drown three of their kids, or children sold off as sex slaves, or civilians dying at the hands of murderous butchers — we realize that we don’t like playing matches. People keep hitting the ball away from us.

Yes, practice is supposed to make us better players. So practice is important. But tennis was made for the game, and our faith was made for real life. Tennis, anyone?

A friend and I were walking on the beach a few weekends ago, and she told me about her daily life as a medical resident. Unlike the folks on “Grey’s Anatomy” who walk in through the hospital doors during daylight, she said that she often didn’t see the sunshine. She came in before sunrise. And each day, she had the lives of patients in her hands — that’s pressure. But she got through the day. Barely. Then she left the hospital way after sunset. And she wondered where God was in it all.

I can’t think she’s alone. I’m in ministry, a profession where God is supposed to be quite involved. And yet, I practically act like a card-carrying atheist as I go through my day, answering emails, counseling students, training staff — it all can happen without a sense of God in my daily life. So if ministers can feel that way, then I’m sure that most of the living population — even those who attend Sunday church services devoutly — feel like God is quite far away and disinterested in what we do for a living.

But a co-worker of mine reminded me that Jesus calls us to “remain” in him. Older versions of the Bible say “abide.” It’s the sense of sticking with someone, no matter what. Through thick and thin. Or perhaps, in our day and age, through car and cubicle. So, remain in Jesus. In fact, he’s always around us. Christians are walking temples, places where God chooses to live, places where heaven and earth intersect. That’s who we are. As C. S. Lewis once wrote, there are no ordinary people.

So each moment, I’m trying to learn how to abide. I’m a slow learner. But more than spending an hour with Jesus before the day starts, and then forgetting him for the other 23, perhaps we can find ways to remind ourselves that Jesus is with us — all the time. We need to abide. So when I’m stuck in meetings I don’t want to be at, I just remember to abide. “I’m abiding in Jesus right now,” I’d tell myself. And I smile, knowing that the heavens rush around me.

Today was supposed to be the first day. Finally. After three months of stalling.

On Sundays, I go to church. And at the end of our service, anyone can come up for prayer. My pastor has always encouraged me to pray for others during these times, but I’ve always balked. Sundays, I reasoned, are my day off. As a vocational minister, I’d like a day when I’m not doing ministry. I just want to come. To relax and enjoy. To receive and not give. To rest from my labors.

Plus, prayer drains me. Some people are just plain lucky: they love praying. For these folks, prayer is heart-beating inspirational stuff. They get recharged from it. For me, praying is about as inspirational as lint. No, not all of the time. Sometimes, I get a glimpse of something transcendent. But most of the time, I’d rather answer emails — and for me, that’s no small statement. But, like medicine, I know it’s good for me. So I do pray.

But Sundays are a completely different matter. I need boundaries, don’t I? Nevertheless, while I was sitting at the end of a Sunday service three months ago, I felt like I should go up to the front and pray for others. And I promptly squashed that idea, like a mosquito. No way. But a question gets lodged into my head, “Who in the Bible limits the healing of others to certain days?” Ouch. I knew the answer. Pharisees. Religious leaders in the Bible who lived by rules and boundaries better than anyone. And thus by implication, I was one of them.

I was becoming a professional. Amateurs love what they do, like Sudoku or surfing. It’s the stuff you do on your day off. Professionals do it as a job. And by telling God that something was off limits, I was the professional. Sure, some people need to have stronger boundaries. They really do. But for me, my boundaries were up too high. And it’s no wonder that Sunday services were leaving me feeling a bit numb.

So after three months of stalling, today was supposed to be the first day. (I know, I wasn’t too quick to be obedient.) I would submit, and pray for others. But I was offered clemency: there was no prayer ministry today. We broke up into small groups instead. So I escaped for yet another week. But it’s funny: even though I didn’t actually go up and pray, the willingness put me in another place altogether.

I wasn’t just a customer at a church service today, but a participant. Not only was my body present, but so was my heart and spirit. Worship felt fresh and new. The sermon felt like ice-cold Coke on a hot, humid day. Dying to myself brought new, resurrection life. Ultimately, a willingness to obey knocked me out of the driver’s seat, and I found that I enjoyed the ride that much better.

So if you go to our church, I’ll see you next week. Let me know if I can pray for you.

Yesterday, I got a big dose of perspective. I didn’t know I needed the medicine, but it did start helping me heal.

It came when I had a chance to study some of the most beautiful literature ever penned with some friends. The author wrote to a highly gifted community that was prone to showing off or being overly critical, and wanted to show them a better way. In his words, it was “the most excellent way.” (Though not in a Bill & Ted kind of way…)

He said that no matter how gifted you might be, even if you’re able to comprehend more than a Nobel Prize Laureate, or if you’re able to write Pulitzer-prize winning novels, or if you’ve spent your life eradicating malaria from the world or found a cure for AIDS, or perhaps you’ve directed the movie that gives meaning to all existence for all who call earth home — if you’re able to do all these things, but do not have love, then you don’t have an iota. Zilch. Nothing.

See, if I’m honest, I want people to know me by my gifts, my strengths, by what I have to offer. But in the quest for competence, I think I’ve become more jaded. It’s too easy to question other people’s motives when they rise to the top. It’s far too easy to pick and find the one glaring flaw that disqualifies the best they bring. Being brutally frank, if I really want to shine, I can’t have others shining more brightly.

But I don’t want to be that person. That same piece of literature said that love “believes all things.” I want to believe all things. I want to look every person in the eye, and with all my heart tell them how much I believe in them. I want to trust and hope in the best that everyone has to bring, and believe in the future. I want hope to drown out the notes of cynicism that have come in and tainted the music. Hope, belief and trust are finer melodies.

I know, a bit cheezy. Perhaps too idealistic or romantic. But then again, perhaps it’s not a bad way to live after all.

MOUNTAIN VIEW, CA — Many years ago, I gave a talk called “the Art of God-Watching.” It’s the craft of seeing God’s fingerprints on everyday life. It takes some training, but once we have some competence, we can start to see burning bushes even along concrete, gum-stuck city sidewalks. Yes, each moment then can be a heart’s cry, lifting up over the car horns and carbon monoxide and soaring up to the heavens. Each day could be filled with Mozart-like inspiration.

Yesterday, a friend of mine said that she wanted to be inspired by her boyfriend. I want to be inspired too — not by her boyfriend though. (Just wanted to be clear.) I want to be inspired by life — “in-breathed” as the Latin etymology suggests. But she wasn’t. And I’m not either. Yet we’re both in need of a deep, living breath.

Inspiration, unfortunately, is too often like dry sand through fingers. Sure, more effort means I can keep it in my hands longer, but at some point, the sand spills out between my fingers and I need to grab a new, fresh mound. So I’m tempted to write inspiration off completely, understanding the need for perspiration. But that 1% of inspiration still fuels the other 99%. So bring the bucket and a pail of water — let’s build sand castles. Perhaps it’ll stick.

Today, I need to recapture the Art of God-Watching, allowing divine moments a chance to walk up to me, reach underneath my rib cage and seize me up hard by the spleen. Perhaps it’s the rustle of an elm in the summer breeze, or the slight chill of an air conditioner on a scorching day, or the whisper of a love who still thinks about me from across the oceans — but in it all we can thank God for the little delights that circle around us. We just need to take the time to see it, to marvel and be thankful.

A few years ago, I was conned into playing Risk. It’s a painful game for me — I always lose. It’s because I happen to be the owner of a trash-talking mouth. If I’m doing anything competitive, then my tongue gets me into trouble. I really can’t help it. It’s my own form of Tourette’s. So in a game like Risk, you might as well put a giant bulls-eye on my forehead and tell everyone to shoot. And since this game is a 3-4 hour commitment, I don’t just lose, but I lose slowly and painfully. I hate this game.

But playing with non-competitive people makes it even worse. My friend James really didn’t care if he won or not. But he loved taking someone down with him. So, he attacked at will, without rhyme or reason. As a result, the tenor of the game changed: we had to curry his favor. If he decided that he would send all of his green troops against my little yellow formations, I knew I would be done. The other three players knew this too, and all of a sudden, for a player who didn’t care if he won or lost, James found himself with a great deal of power. When he didn’t care about winning for himself, he had incredible influence to sway the board.

This afternoon, I finished the first chapter of a book written in the 60′s called Dedication and Leadership by Douglas Hyde. He was a member of the British Communist Party for 20 years. But after he left the party, he gave an address to Catholic leaders explaining why the Communists have had a much greater influence than the Catholics though they were 14 times fewer. According to Hyde, the Communists were not smarter, nor did they have a more compelling ideology. Instead, the average Communist had more dedication — the kind that made him willing to sacrifice time, energy, paychecks and even their lives. They were dedicated to doing something — anything — for Communism, 365 days a year.

Their example cuts to the heart. What would it look like for Christians to be willing to sacrifice time, energy, paychecks and even their lives? What if we were dedicated to doing something — anything — for Jesus, 365 days a year? We often hold too tightly to our comfortable way of life. I know I do. Sacrifice? Can we talk about that over a cup of Starbucks? But seriously, if we stopped trying to win (most stuff? biggest house? widest fame?) the game of life by our culture’s rules, perhaps we could actually influence culture instead. If we “died” each day, perhaps we would help others find life. We would also find life for ourselves as well — a meaning and purpose to live by each day.

If anyone understood dedication, Jesus did. He put everything on the line for the cause, so much so that he endured a hellish and tortuous death. His life wasn’t above the cause, so he laid it down. Willingly. He made the ultimate sacrifice. And he moved the world.

If we, like James, stopped trying to win the Game, perhaps we would begin to shape it too.