Try the Real Egg

This is an apology. I want to say that I am sorry - not just for me but on behalf of all my brothers and sisters – I am sorry that we have too often called the worst out of you.

What I mean is this: I seriously believe that you – and by you I mean you, as long as you’re a human being (and if you’re not and you’re reading this then fair play!) – I believe that you are wonderful. And I mean wonderful in the most literal sense: you are a wonder, you are something beautiful, something breath-taking, you are capable of doing profound and spectacular things way beyond everything they tell you in the stupid assemblies or the self-help books, way beyond anything you yourself could possibly hope for. I believe that you are not incidental or unimportant, that you are not unlovable but that in fact you are loved – right now you are loved beyond your wildest dreams. I believe that you are a creation of unparalleled potential and of infinite significance.

So firstly, I want to apologise, if you actually know me, for how often I forget that. For all the times when I don’t treat you how I would if I realised just how genuinely wonderful you are.

But secondly I want to apologise for myself, and for a lot of other Christians that you might have come across, for, like I said, calling the worst out of you. We have a tendency to start – whether it’s in a ‘talk’ or just a conversation about God – by talking about how sinful we all are, by trying to draw your attention to the worst parts of yourself so that you will see that you need forgiveness.

Now I’m not actually disagreeing with any of that – but I do apologise for giving the impression that we don’t actually like you. We do. Or the impression that we think we’re better than you. We’re not. What I realised the other day, is that much too often I’ve tried to shrink people so that God will look bigger. I’ve tried to make someone see the bad in themselves so that God will look better. And I realise now that God doesn’t need my help to be bigger or better.

Let me digress to an interesting fact and a cool little story…

An Interesting Fact:
Someone old once told me that in the war people used to eat powdered egg. It’s nothing on the real thing but it did the job. But they said there were some kids at the end of the war who had grown up on the stuff – who’d always eaten powdered egg – and when they were offered actual real life eggs they would say ‘Ugh no thanks! That looks weird, the powdered stuff is just fine for me!’ Because that was all they’d ever known and they were perfectly happy with it.

A Cool Little Story:

Don Miller tells a story about his mate Jason.* At some point Jason told Don that he was really worried about his daughter. They had found drugs in her room the other week, and she was dating a guy who smelt like smoke and only ever spoke in one word answers: “Yeah,” “No,” “Whatever,” and “Why?” She really wasn’t happy. And they’d tried grounding her, and forbidding her to see this guy but nothing worked, it just made things worse. And Don Miller said, “She seems to be living a terrible story.” Jason asked what he meant, and Don explained the idea that everyone basically lives as a character in a story. We like stories because that’s how our lives make sense – and we all understand ourselves in a certain role in a certain story, even if we don’t think of it like that. He talked about how good stories, stories that felt meaningful to read or to watch, all have certain elements. The character wants something, and overcomes conflict to get it. In better stories they have to take bigger risks, and in the best stories the thing they desire, what they’re aiming for, is something selfless – they sacrifice themselves out of love for somebody, or to change the world in some way.

Anyway, they chatted about this for a while and parted ways, and Don didn’t think much about it until he saw Jason again a couple of months later. Don asked how his daughter was and he said, “She’s better”, and he smiled. He said his family were living a better story now. He couldn’t sleep the night after that conversation and he’d thought a lot about what Don had said. He realised that his daughter wasn’t a bad kid, but we all need a story, and she’d taken the only story that was offered to her. Jason realised he hadn’t provided a better story for the family, a better role for her, and in that absence she had chosen a story in which there was risk and adventure, rebellion and independence – a role where she was wanted, even if she was only being used. So Jason decided to stop shouting at his daughter and, instead, to create a better story to invite her into. He did some research and ended up looking into an organisation that builds orphanages around the world. It sounded like a good ambition, something the family could try to do together. So he called the charity, and found out how much it cost to build one of these orphanages. And they didn’t have the money – they’d just taken out a second mortgage anyway – but he knew that a good story had to involve risk.

So he called a family meeting. He told his wife and daughter about this village in Mexico, and the orphanage, and all the terrible things that could happen if the kids didn’t get an orphanage. And he told them he’d agreed to build it.

They just stared at him as if he’d gone crazy. He said, “My daughter, her eyes were as big as melons and she wasn’t happy. She knew this would mean she’d have to give up her allowance and who knows what else.” She went up to her room without saying anything and didn’t speak to him all day. She was angry for a while.

But then a few days later, she came into her parents’ bedroom, and asked if they could go to Mexico. He said, “she crawled between us in the bed like she did when she was little. She said she could talk about the orphanage on her web site and maybe people could help. She could post pictures. She wanted to go to Mexico to meet the kids and take pictures.”

Then Jason said, “You know what else? She broke up with her boyfriend last week. She had his picture on her wall and she took it down and told me he said that she was too fat. Can you believe that? He told her she was too fat! But that’s done now. No girl who plays the role of a hero dates a guy who uses her. She knows who she is. She just forgot for a little while.”

***

OK, where were we?

I was trying to say, God doesn’t need my help to be bigger and better. The more I get to know what Jesus is like I more I think – Wow, he is incredible. He is so kind, so surprising, and honest and humble and powerful, his life is amazing - he is ridiculously good. And I think – I’m nothing like that. I’m pretty normal, I’m quite pleasant, but I’m nothing like that, and I want to be more like that. I want to be part of what he’s doing, part of his family, his purpose, his team, but I’m about as qualified for that as I am to be at the Olympics. But he invites me onto the team anyway. Which is cool.

When Jesus was walking around he didn’t have to tell people much that they were small. They met him, they saw him live, and they knew it already. They looked at who they were, and realised that even though it had seemed fine before, really it was powdered egg. They were doing their best, things were alright, they were happy enough. Why would they want anything different? But then Jesus comes along and offers them the real thing. And they take one bite, and they never want to see egg powder again.

When I really discovered Jesus for myself it was like that – it was like God pointed at who I was and what I was doing and said, “Mate, you know that’s just the powdered stuff, right? Have you tried a real omelette?” And all I can say is, the omelette blew my mind. You should try it.

And so I want to stop calling the worst out of you, trying to make you look at all the bad stuff in you - to be honest I’ve got enough of my own to be getting on with. Instead, I want to tell you that God is offering you something so much bigger, so much more real, so much more meaningful than even the best bits of ‘normal life’. He’s offering you a role in a massive, beautiful story. He’s offering you your role, in the story. He’s whispering to you:

“My friend, you have no idea just how much I meant you for, you have no idea who you are capable of becoming. You have no idea just how wonderful you were made to be. Do you want to find out?”

*This is in A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, which I would thoroughly recommend.

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Dive Into the Deep Water

I wonder what the conversion rate is for New Year’s Resolutions, on average. Do fifty percent make it past January? Twenty five? Ten? I don’t know. And I can’t test this on myself because I really can’t remember if I’ve ever made New Year’s Resolutions before – it is an unfathomable mystery. Anyway. I’m starting now, and I’m doing so in public. The public thing is for two reasons: firstly so that if any of you notice that I’m not doing them you can shout at me, and secondly so I can invite any one that’s up for it to try them with me. So here are my five resolutions. (If you don’t feel like you’ve got time to read them, just skip to number five, everything else fits into that.)

One.
Go for walks with people. Have tea with people. Go on adventures with people: climb trees, play frisbee, whatever. Stop worrying that people will think it’s weird if you knock on their door and ask them if they fancy a walk – it’s not that weird. Go out of your way to make time to deepen your friendships with the people around you.

Two.
During these adventures talk about ridiculous, pointless, hilarious things – talk about Rastamouse and the legitimacy or otherwise of eating Nutella with a spoon – but also talk about stuff that matters. Ask about what they hope for, what they believe about the world, about themselves, what it is they worry about, what it is that makes them happy. Ask why they get up in the morning and do whatever it is they do. Get to know your friends hearts, not just their sense of humour. Invite them to tell you their story, because everyone has a story.

Three.
Respond to these stories with love. Always. Don’t condemn, listen. And maybe listening is the loving thing you can do right now. But if they invite you to tell your story back, go for it. Be honest, and wholehearted. And if you have something to say that really could help, say it. Say it in love.

Four.
Invite these people to speak the truth to you. Invite the people you trust to question you, to call your bluff, to dig a little bit and challenge you, call you out to be who you could be, to have integrity. Let them grow you. Be vulnerable, because only when you’re vulnerable are you really alive.

I am very aware as I write this that it sounds horribly pretentious. But if you ignore all the arty short sentences the basic idea that hit me the other day is that we waste a lot of time in our lives being shallow with each other and with ourselves just out of habit. So that’s it really.

Five.
Go deeper.

Don't Listen to the Strawberry-Scented Bear: Why I Cried at Toy Story 3

I sincerely hope you watched Toy Story 3 this Christmas. If you haven’t seen it at all then, well, I weep for you. I also potentially ruin it for you, so if you’re planning to do the sensible thing and watch it soon, look away now.

Well then, if you’ve got this far I’ll assume that either you’d already seen it, or you took the frankly ingenious step of interrupting your reading of this blog to get it off Netflix and watch it straight away. If so, I applaud you. Anyway, here’s a blog about why I love that film so much, and why I personally have cried with happiness all three times I’ve watched it. It’s probably going to feel a bit ridiculous occasionally, but I reckon there must be something quite profound going on to make me cry this much, so bear with me…

Toy Story 3 is all about where the toys' loyalties lie, and who they’re going to believe. (See? I told you it would sound mildly ridiculous. Moving on though...) Woody says that Andy, their kid, really does love them and didn’t throw them away; Lotso the strawberry scented bear says Andy did throw them away, and good thing too because they’re better off without him. Now this is something I can relate to – and in fact so could many many people throughout history – asking the question: has God forgotten us? Are we better off without him?

And it’s really funny how well the film fits as a metaphor for the big question of life – do we believe that we belong to Andy (God)? Is his name really written on the bottom of our boots? Or not?

Lotso says so much of the stuff which that thing inside of us keeps telling us: 'You belong to yourself here at sunnyside, you're the master of your own destiny, you can have anything you want, get played with all the time, you don't need Andy at all.'

And the toys like the sound of this. So do we, to be honest. Rex runs with his stumpy little T-Rex legs right in front of the door, desperate for joy, for fulfilment.

And then he gets trampled on.

Because in Lotso’s world, the world where they belong to themselves and are the masters of their own destinies, no one cares about them. They get chewed and trodden on and used as paintbrushes and hammers and sat on and tangled up and thrown around because no one cares for them. No one knows who they are or how they’re meant to be played with.

But even once they realise that it’s not always shiny in Sunnyside, they can’t get out. In fact, Lotso tells them there’s nowhere for them to go. Their kid doesn’t want them. The only way out is the trash heap. And there’s this scene where they’ve almost escaped and then Lotso is standing on the big bin with the lorry approaching and it makes my spine tingle every time because Lotso is telling all the lies that the thing in our heads tells us.

“You’re a piece of plastic! You were made to be thrown away!” he says. You’re meaningless and worthless. “Ain’t one kid ever loved a toy really!” No one loves you. You’re not worthy of love, you don’t deserve it. How could anyone love you? You’re just an animal, you live and you die and none of it matters. You think somebody really loves you? You think you really mean something to them? “Don’t be such a baby.” See things as they really are. “We’re all just trash, waitin’ to be thrown away! That’s all a toy is!”

And then the big baby toy picks him up and throws him in the bin. Because all those things are lies. They are not true. We are not worthless, we are not unloved, we are not just waiting to be thrown away.

And now for the bit that really makes me weep, in the best possible way. All the way through the film, it’s seemed like Andy doesn’t love them, like he doesn’t care about them, like if they stay loyal to him, they’ll end up rusty and old in a dusty attic with nothing to do and no one to play with. But they decide that either way, they are Andy’s toys. They choose to stick with the one who wrote his name on their boots. They say, “We’re Andy’s toys. We’ll be there for him.” And then, the final scene happens…

Andy takes them to Bonnie’s house, and he starts getting them out of the box. He starts talking: “This is Jessie -- the roughest, toughest cowgirl in the whole West…” And as I watched the film for the third time, I started crying - again - and one thought went through my head:

‘He knows us by name.’

As Andy goes through all of the toys and plays with them, and tells Bonnie who they are, and why he loves them so much, I was just smiling and tears were rolling down my face because God knows us like that. He loves us like that. Jesus talks about it in John chapter 10 – we belong to him, and he made us, and he knows each of us by name, and he knows every little thing that he loves about us.

Lotso was wrong. They are not just trash waiting to be thrown away. They are Andy’s toys. They are special, they are cherished, and they are always, and forever, loved.

It’s soppy I know, but I really do believe that it’s true about us. So I suppose what I’m really trying to say here is simply this:

Don’t listen to the strawberry scented bear. Listen to Andy.

Yuri the Spaceman and Hamlet the Prince

Here's a little poem-y video I made about Christmas. Thanks to my brother for the nifty camera work, and to Andy Mort (Atlum Schema) for the music!

A Seasonally Inappropriate Blog

This is not going to be a seasonally appropriate blog. It’s not very Christmassy at all– instead it’s about what was probably the most profound and beautiful thing I’ve witnessed this term. Anyway, you’ll see what I mean later, and in the meantime I implore you to bear with my unseasonality.

 A guy called Bill Hybels tells a true story about a dad he knew. This dad’s son was going to prison, for a crime that he did in fact commit. He was guilty and he was going to prison for seven years. And this dad didn’t really know what to do, but he remembered reading Psalm 34 – and the bit in that psalm which says this:

“GOD is close to the broken-hearted,
        and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

And he stitched this verse into a piece of fabric so that his son would be allowed to hang it in his cell and read it every day. And the son did it, and he saw this verse every day. And over time he really started to think about it. He had a huge weight of guilt and shame about what he had done. But as he read the verse over and over again he realised that it didn’t mention anything at all about how a person comes to be broken-hearted. It doesn’t say that God is close to “the broken-hearted who have come to this point through no fault of their own” – it just says he is close to the broken-hearted. Full stop. Whatever the pain is – if it’s innocent and inescapable, or self-inflicted and wrapped up in guilt, if it’s coming from one devastating event, or if it’s been around forever and it feels like it’s never going to end, if it’s diagnosable or impossible to explain or both, or if it seems like it’s just a silly thing and it shouldn’t hurt this much – God is close to you. It might not feel like it and you might not even like the idea very much, but he is close to you. And this truth grabbed hold of this son in prison, and he knew it was about him - even him. And he came through those seven years and he was transformed; something melted and something was born inside of him; and he came out of prison devoted to the God who - he knew now - was devoted to him.

God is devoted to you. That’s quite a strange sentence to write, but I believe, and the bible says, and Jesus proves, that it’s true. Whoever you are and however much you feel like a mess, or however much you think you’re a legend: God is devoted to you. And when you are broken-hearted, he is right there with you.

And more than that, he really likes you. A guy called Don Miller writes about the time his friend first read one of the accounts of Jesus’ life, and when she’d finished it, this was what she said to him:

“I found Jesus very disturbing, very straightforward. He wasn't diplomatic, and yet I felt like if I met Him, He would really like me. Don, I can't explain how freeing that was, to realize that if I met Jesus, He would like me.”

One of the bits of the bible that I really love, that slaps me on the shoulder and says hello, is Mark 10 verse 21. This guy has come to Jesus, and he’s asking all the wrong questions and saying all the wrong things; he’s arrogant and in fact he ends up walking away and rejecting Jesus. But there’s this moment, where Mark just writes this:

“Jesus looked at him, and loved him.”

This love is, to be frank, completely unprovoked. There’s no good reason for it. Jesus just looks at him, and he loves him. And what you get from reading about what Jesus did and said, and how he died, is that actually, if you met him, he would like you. When he looks at you, he loves you.

And this brings us to the reason I’m writing this. This term, I have been privileged to see a friend of mine gradually get hold of this truth. This friend has received the reality of it bit by bit – like the bud of a flower slowly, slowly opening up as the frost thaws - but I’m telling you: it is a glorious thing to realise that God is close to you, that he likes you.

But now, here’s the thing that makes my heart ache as I type: I can see somebody reading this, and thinking ‘Yeah that’s really beautiful, it’s lovely that Mike believes that God loves me’ and then just leaving it at that. And what I’ve seen this term has made it more obvious to me than ever that that’s like someone telling you you’ve won the lottery and you just saying ‘Oh thanks mate that’s epic!’ and then never bothering to claim your prize. The second line of that bit in Psalm 34 is just as true as the first: “GOD is close to the broken-hearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” He saves us, rescues us from our brokenness. If you don’t feel like you are in any way broken, if you look in the mirror and look right into yourself and everything you think and do and feel and don’t think that there’s anything you would like to be changed, to be restored or renewed – well then I’ll write a blog for you another day. But if you do see something, if you do feel like there are bits that are broken, however big or small, then I’m writing for you, I’m telling you that God wants to rescue you.

***

A little boy is trapped. He was taken hostage years and years ago – so long ago he can’t even remember what the world outside the compound is like. The men with the guns killed his mother a long time ago. It’s been so long it feels normal even though it doesn’t feel right. And he’s terrified every time another person comes into his little room. And it’s never going to end. Until one day the CIA get a lead, and discover that he’s being held in this compound. And in the dead of night navy SEALs storm the compound and he can hear guns and shouts and he is very scared. And then men, men he’s never seen before, come into his little room, holding guns, wearing body armour.

One man shouts: “OK let’s get you out of here, come on, let’s go!”

But the little boy just curls up, shaking with fear in the corner of the room. He doesn’t understand. He knows that the men with guns hurt him.

And the SEALs don’t know what to do. And then one man slowly puts his gun on the floor. And then he takes off his body armour. And then his shirt. Until, like the little boy, he is half naked and shivering slightly from the cold. And then he walks to where the little boy is curled up, and slowly lies down beside him. The other men watch, mesmerized. He comes close to the boy, curling around him and warming him. The other men would never do this. The boy realises this man is different. He thinks that he is kind. And the SEAL speaks softly to him:

“We are Americans like you. We’ve come to rescue you. Will you follow us?”

And then he stood up, and offered the boy his hand. 

***

The point is this: beautiful as it is that God is close to us, incredible as it is that in Jesus he became like us so we could know him and learn to trust him; a good rescuer doesn’t stay lying down in the dark and the cold. He stands up and offers us his hand. And some of the most amazing moments of my life are the ones when I have seen people take his hand, and start to get up and get out. Maybe it looks like being able to talk about things that were always too dark and too heavy to get off their chest. Maybe it looks like not being afraid anymore. Maybe it looks like laughing more. Maybe it looks like breaking up with someone who was not good to them but they thought they could not live without. Maybe it looks like breaking the habit that controls them. Maybe it looks like giving stuff away and discovering the different joy of that. I could keep going because it changes everything – it turns the world upside down and inside out and breathes a delightful and difficult new life into every little corner of everyday existence - but I’ll stop for now. All I can say is that in my own experience everything that’s changed, especially the things that seemed a massive sacrifice, turned out to be a road into a deeper joy.

All I’m saying is that He is close to you. And He’s offering you his hand. And right now, through these words as you read them, He’s speaking softly to you and saying, “Will you follow me?”

So now it’s time for the Christmassy part of this blog. PRESENTS! I borrowed that story of the navy SEAL and the quote earlier from a brilliant, brilliant book by Donald Miller, called ‘Blue Like Jazz’. It’s full name is ‘Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality’ and it’s great because it’s just this normal guy writing wittily and creatively about how he’s bumped into and wrapped his head around the love of God. I love it – and if you like this blog at all you probably will too, because basically I’m just trying to write like Don Miller. And I have decided that if you would like to think more about what Jesus is actually like, and what it would be like to take his hand and follow him, then this book would be an interesting, enjoyable place to start with that. So I’d like to get it for you. Feel free to use it as a present idea for your Granny or whatever, but if not, just send me a message or an email (mikehood1994@gmail.com) that says “I would like to read ‘Blue Like Jazz’ and this is my address...” and I would love to get it for you. I’m not joking about this, I’m definitely up for it – whether I don’t really know you at all or you are my own actual mother (although Mum, I think we have a copy at home). So go for it. Or if you don’t have time for a whole book, just message me anyway with what you’re thinking or if you’ve got questions about stuff. Who knows, maybe I’ll write a blog about it...

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

 

Hecticallity

In the real world, when people say, “How are you doing?” you simply reply, “I’m good thanks”. In Cambridge, you say, “Yeah good thanks… busy.”

Last week I was busy. I was directing a play and the performances were last weekend, and I had also ended up running a 24 hour prayer event which actually ended up being 38 hours. And I also had a bunch of people who I care about who I needed to spend time with. And an English degree to be getting on with. What’s funny is that I told you that partly because I’m proud of it, because a part of me thinks it’s cool to be busy. I’m in demand. I’m dynamic. Shut up Mike.

Now all the things I did last week were good things (as in the play and the event and stuff, not every single thing I actually did, many of them were not good, obviously…) but there was just too much of them. The word is hectic. Life was hectic. Even though everything fitted into my Google Calendar alright it didn’t quite fit into my head. I was waking up tired, and going to bed stressed. I kept saying that everything was under control but if we’re honest no one was convinced.

And as far as I can tell, that’s a pretty common feeling in this uni, in the western world really. Running on empty and on energy drinks. And it’s like when we get like this for a long time, when we’re fighting to keep all this stuff under control we start to lose control of ourselves a little bit. I remember the day we climbed to the top of Mount Mulanje, coming down, gradually getting more and more exhausted and losing the will to control my legs, and just going faster and faster down this slope until I was almost running. And it was stupid, and I slowed myself down, or I tried to, but my legs were just so tired they were going wild. And I think it feels like that sometimes with our whole lives – it did for me at times last week.

It’s not that fun, all this hecticallity. So what’s the answer? What is it that our aching bones and brains are begging us for?

To rest, maybe. It seems a little obvious. To be restored. To be renewed, to be refreshed. I love the word ‘refreshed’, I love the shape of it in your mouth.

But how? How to be refreshed? Sometimes we just need to sleep. Fairly early on this term I wrote down some of Psalm 127 and pinned it to my wall: it has this great bit that basically says, “Relax. Whatever you’re trying to do, if God’s up for it, it’ll work, and if he’s not it won’t, in the mean time, get some sleep.” And there’s a tiredness that really just needs to stop and sleep, and let our bodies do some restoration work on themselves.

But then there’s another type of rest. A rest that’s worth getting up at 3am for. All week I’ve been enjoying people’s astonishment at the fact that real people actually chose to wake up and go and pray in our prayer room between 3 and 4 in the morning. And it does seem ridiculous, in the 7^th week of an insanely intensive 8 week academic term, for these sleep deprived people to willingly deprive themselves of more to go and sit in a room and talk to God. It seems ridiculous unless you’ve ever felt the rest that’s better than sleep.

One of the things that Jesus said that I always come back to and has a tendency to melt some bit of my insides whenever I do is this: (a ‘yoke’ by the way is the wooden thing that attaches cattle to a cart or a plough, it’s the thing that ties you to the guy you’re working for…)

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

And then the same idea again in the most beautiful words is written down in John’s gospel, in chapter 7:

            “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me… rivers of living water will flow from within them.”

I’m writing this at half past midnight, and my eyelids are feeling pretty heavy. But I feel refreshed. I feel refreshed because tonight I went for a drink with a guy I’ve got to know recently and said he’d read my blog and was keen to chat about God. I went there keen to help him to get to know God better, to encourage him to discover Jesus. And then I turned up, and as He so often does and I so rarely admit, God had done the job without me. He told me his story, about how in the last year God basically planted this unshakeable desire in him for something bigger than his normal life of friends and having a good time, and somehow showed him this new way that he was being looked at, that his name was being spoken by something bigger than another person, and that he was being embraced by something huge and beautiful. And he knows Jesus, and he’s now finding himself with this longing to give the joy that he has found to the people that he loves. And I don’t think I stopped smiling for about two hours.

And my friends that prayed for an hour in the thing last week all told me it was brilliant. All told me that they loved it. And when I stop and think about it that is crazy. But being with God, fixing our gaze on who he is and what he’s done, is impossibly refreshing. When we drink deep, we find a river of life welling up within us.

I’m going to stop writing now, partly because sleep is good, and partly because really this rest is pretty impossible to describe. It’s like fresh mango on a hot day. All I can really do is tell you how beautiful it is, and ask you to try it. Drink deep, and sleep well everyone. Goodnight.