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It’s not so much that I enjoy sharing three things I liked each week with you as much as I enjoy sharing life with you. Each weekly post invites you into my life, and you invite me into yours by relaying to me how one or more of these items connected with you in a meaningful way.

So, let’s keep this going.

My first like for this week comes from Martin Laird’s book Into the Silent Land. In his chapter, “The Liturgy of Our Wounds,” he distinguishes between genuine repentance and preoccupation with sin. I found this distinction helpful, and here’s why:

For whatever reason, Christians sometimes confuse thoroughgoing repentance with incessantly replaying their past sins. Maybe we think this continual self-flagellation will prove to God and others that we’re truly sorry. I honestly don’t know.

But I think Laird is onto something when he warns that sorrow for sin can be (not that it has to be) co-opted by our mind games, and that it’s possible for preoccupation with sin to “become a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder” (130).

Here’s what we—or should I say I—need to remember: Genuine repentance turns Godward. True, self-examination is a biblical injunction (2 Cor. 13:5). And also true, there’s a “godly grief” that “produces repentance” (2 Cor. 710). But God’s grace is far more astounding than my continual rehearsals of my past failures. Turn to God, repent, make amends when and where necessary, and move on.

My second like for this week comes from Brett Stephens’s op-ed, “I’m Begging You, Never Write with AI.” While I’m sure many people (including Christians) will disagree with Stephens’s overall thesis, I can’t help but agree with his overall point: Constantly using AI to help us write papers, craft arguments, or compose emails is “mentally enfeebling.”

As someone who feels called to write and wants to improve as a writer, I can tell you: Writing is hard. It’s supposed to be hard. I’m not saying it’s wrong to use AI for certain things—of course not (though I won’t take the time to list those things here). But I want my readers to know that the words they read are written by me. Hence all the imperfections!

Finally, I liked Margaret Elizabeth Sangster’s poem “Oft for Our Own.” As you’ll see, the poem centers on the rather sad truth that we often reserve the worst treatment for those closest to us.

If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
the words unkind
would trouble my mind, that
I said when you went away;
I would have been more careful, darling;
nor given you needless pain;
But we vex our own
with a look and tone
We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening
You may give me the kiss of peace;
Yet, it might be, that never for me
The pain of the heart may cease.
How many go forth in the morning
and never come home at night,
and hearts have broken
for harsh words spoken
That sorrow can never set right.

We have careful thoughts for the stranger
and smiles for the sometime guest;
But oft for our own,
the bitter tone,
though we love our own the best.
Oh, lips, with curve impatient
and brow with a look of scorn
‘ Twere a cruel fate
were the night too late
to undo the work of the morn.

The three things I liked this week were a poem, a prayer, and an article.

First, I liked Malcolm Guite’s poem “Man Well Dressed.” It reminds me of that line from the Sovereign Grace song, “All Praise to Him,” where we sing, “All praise to Him, who humbly came, to bear our sorrow, sin, and shame.”

That old voice from the past: I was afraid,
For I was naked; and I hid myself.
And somehow I’m still there, lost in that glade,
Feeling exposed, ashamed, and, in my stealth
Still holding the fell fruit. He finds me as
My withered fig leaves fall away, and still
He clothes me, for the way of heaven is
Always to give and give to those who steal.

But now the skin I’m clothed in is his own,
He makes himself a garment for us all,
At once the bridegroom and the wedding gown.
I step forth from the thicket of my fall
Already dressed in every gift he gave,
Gathered and girdled in his circling love.

Second, I liked J. V. Fesko‘s editorial for the latest edition of Themelios titled, “The Council of Nicaea and Christian Character.” I’m particularly interested in this topic because its connection between theological formation and Christian character closely aligns with the argument of my thesis.

Third, I liked the Litany of Humility––a traditional Christian prayer of surrender that asks God to free us from the need for recognition, approval, status, control, and comparison, and to give us a heart that is content to live a hidden life of love and prayer. Here it is:

O Jesus, gentle and humble of heart, hear me.

From my need to be admired, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need to be loved and affirmed, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need to be praised, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need to be honored and respected, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need to be noticed and recognized, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need to be preferred over others, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need to be consulted and considered important, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my need for the approval of others, deliver me, O Jesus.

From my fear of being overlooked, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of being rejected, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of being criticized or corrected, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of being misunderstood, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of being forgotten, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of being embarrassed or humiliated, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of being treated unfairly, deliver me, O Jesus.
From my fear of what others may think of me, deliver me, O Jesus.

That others may be loved more than I,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

That others may be honored more than I,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

That others may receive the recognition I desire,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

That others may be chosen while I am overlooked,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

That others may be praised while I remain unnoticed,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

That others may be preferred to me,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

That others may become more fruitful, more respected, and more admired than I,
provided that I become the person you have called me to be,
Jesus, give me the grace to desire it.

O Jesus, gentle and humble of heart,
make me content to be known by you,
faithful before you,
and free from the need to be important in the eyes of others.
Amen.

Here are the three things I liked this week.

First, I liked Luke Faulkner’s “Reflections.” It’s a meditative piano piece I listened to while thinking, journaling, and turning through the pages of a notebook I use to catalog words and phrases I want to incorporate into my writing.

Second, I liked Malcolm Guite’s poem “Exalted Manna,” which you can find here. This one repays slow, careful reading. Here it is:

I love to lift you in the Eucharist,
For you descended to the depth for me,
You stooped beneath the whole weight of the world,
And held it as the nails drove through each wrist,
You held us all through your long agony,
Held all the taunts and curses we hurled
Held all our hurts deep in your heart for healing.
And when we lifted you onto your cross
You lifted all of us up to the Father
And made your outspread arms a sign, revealing
God’s all-sustaining love, that bears our loss,
Becomes our daily bread, calls us to gather
Each love, as manna in the wilderness.
So lift me as I lift you, lift and bless.

Third, I liked this observation made by Christian psychiatrist Curt Thompson in his book The Soul of Shame: Retelling the Stories We Believe About Ourselves. In context, he’s elaborating on how shame interferes with good listening. (As someone who wants to improve his listening skills, I found myself lingering over this):

Shame interferes with good listening at every level and every opportunity. How many times have I, while in conversation with someone, found myself only superficially attuned to what he or she is saying as I prepare what I want to say, sensing that if I do not get to offer my contribution I will feel a lessening? We all know this moment. We do not realize that shame is at work via the sensory networks by which I feel the urgency to speak rather than listen. In this way, shame is a shared process whose mission is to disrupt connection between people (88–89).

One might initially balk at Thompson’s observation, and think, My desire to contribute to a conversation isn’t necessarily shame-driven. But it’s also true that such a response could be shame-driven.

Here’s the question I’m left asking myself: Might it not be the case that the underlying feeling that I must say something, or I must contribute something valuable to a conversation stems from a sense that if I do not, I will become less valuable?

I’m wondering if somewhere along the line my nervous system learned that I have to be interesting, funny, insightful, knowledgeable, or impressive in order to secure my place in relationship with others. I think it did. Which indicates that shame has lassoed me in its grip somehow.

If that weren’t the case, then I would approach my conversations with the intent to encounter the other person, rather than seek to establish my worth.

Friday’s almost here, so let’s go ahead and press the release valve on the week, preparing our hearts and minds to relax into the weekend. To do that, let me pass on three things to help you trade your restless energy for inner stillness.

First, I liked (more like loved!) Ludovico Einaudi’s hauntingly beautiful piano piece “Wind Song.” Listen with your eyes closed. And if you’re especially battle-weary from this past week, you might want to take a listen to “Almost June” as well. It’s calming to the frenzied soul.

Second, I liked this video from The Upgrade with Makai Elías Calles on “The Best Journaling Habits for Your Brain, Backed by Neuroscience.” As a lifelong journaler, I found it helpful and have already started implementing some of these practices.

Third, I liked this paragraph from Adam McHugh’s book The Listening Life: Embracing Attentiveness in a World of Distraction. In context, he’s elaborating on the importance of understanding our conversation partners as opposed to evaluating them.

Listening for understanding and judging what we hear cannot coexist. If you are spending your energy evaluating and critiquing what the other person says, you do not have the mental space to listen. A listener’s job is not to stand outside of a situation and pronounce a verdict, declaring another person innocent or guilty, right or wrong. The kind of listening that I am advocating for is about entering into another person’s world, getting our feet dirty in the layered soil of their lives. A judge aims to be impartial; a listener is decidedly partial. Listening for understanding means taking the side of the other person, trying to see and think and feel as they do, creatively imagining yourself into their world. You aim to understand their world from the inside. You can tell when you are offering someone a nonjudgmental listening presence because [your conversation partner] will become increasingly open and vulnerable with you (149).

This doesn’t preclude offering counsel or speaking truth. It precludes offering hasty counsel and uttering poorly timed and/or unnecessary words. As McHugh rightly observes, “The most critical element in speaking truth is not content or conviction but timing” (173).

Maybe we should incorporate this petition from the prayer of St. Francis into our prayer time: “O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek . . . to be understood, as to understand.”

I wonder what a difference it would make in our conversations?

And while we’re thinking of prayer, perhaps we should ask God to replace our inner franticness with inner calm and our incessant need to talk with a greater desire to listen.

Until next time . . .

It’s not all poems, piano pieces, and probing questions around here. No sir (or ma’am).

I’m not pathologically serious. I promise. But I understand that some people might get that impression from me.

For that reason, I’m switching things up this week!

By which I don’t mean that I’ll be sharing jokes. I mean that I want to share three articles that are humorous. If you read them, you’ll laugh. And you should read them because laughter is good for you—and fun.

Here goes:

First, I liked this article “Why Aren’t Christians Funny?”  The title got my attention because I’ve long asked this question myself. Here’s where the author goes:

So why, then, aren’t Christians known for being funny? Somewhere along the way, we decided that holiness looks solemn, that humor must be carefully managed, and that taking God seriously requires taking ourselves very seriously.

Instead of doing that, we should heed Piera Legardi’s advice: Unzip your serious suit. Wipe the crotchety look off your face and have some fun for crying out loud. Laugh.

Second, you should read “Missed Connections: Cringe Edition,” co-authored by Hannah Lang and Grace Leugenberger. I laughed non-stop, and I may or may not feel compelled to write about some hilarious stories from my own life.

Here’s the idea behind the article:

“Missed Connection” posts litter the internet: people seeking to be reunited with a stranger they crossed paths with for a fleeting moment, before fate or timidity whisked them away and robbed them of the chance of a face to face encounter. It’s a meet-cute without the meet, leaving you to turn to the only recourse available that could possibly rekindle the vibes: posting on the internet, and hoping the good people of earth will come to your aid and connect you to your charming, missing stranger. . . .

In my experience, there is a flipside to the missed connections coin. There are the strangers you come across who you do not wish to date, but wish to check in on, or give financial compensation to, because you have unwillingly tangled them up in your own foolishness, your own embarrassing moments. Chance steals them away before you have the ability to explain or apologize.

Well, no more.

What follows is a call to arms, an invitation into the internet void to help us find those strangers. These are stories that need closure, years later.

Trust me, you’ll want to read this.

Third, I liked this funny article by Ted Kluck: “On Summertime: Family Is Equal Parts a Blessing and An Absolute Mess.”

A memorable section:

In my particular theological subculture, there’s a real push to get married as early as possible and start popping out babies every nine-ish months or so. This is good, I guess. I don’t know. I also know that there is a good bit of smug pride still attached to these ideas even though sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes mom looks elated with her brood, and sometimes she looks like she wishes she could die in her sleep. This, too, is normal. Smugness is fun, but it doesn’t get your son to potty-train and doesn’t get your daughter to stop texting the slack-jawed idiot she’s currently obsessed with.

Take a deep breath, unclench your jaw, laugh a little, and remember: God gave us the gift of humor because joy is part of what it means to be human.