ONE

092618
[Estimated reading time: 3m23s]

Many of my friends are married. I love it. I don’t like the jokes about comparing yourself to those whose careers and families are growing.

We often cut in half the scripture about “weeping with those who weep and rejoicing with those who rejoice.”

Having friends in the situations you’re expecting to be in someday can be a curriculum if you’re willing to pay attention.

When you meet Abigail, she’s not married to David. She’s married to Nabal the Fool.

And when she marries him, David is not yet king. He’s on the run from Saul.

She’s not where she’s going to be. Neither is he.

It’s one thing for David to be en route to the throne in caves surrounded by his mighty men; at least he’s understood by comrades. Abigail is surrounded by opulence yet fully aware she’s become one with a fool she’s better off without.

I get it, Abigail, I’m not where I’m going to be someday either.

In fact, if we examine ourselves, we might admit we’re married to some foolish, crude, and mean things of our own.

Nabal is unnecessarily crude and mean to David even after he’s done so much for him, protecting his flocks while on the run from Saul. You might make the same mistake I made: roll your eyes at Nabal’s idiocy and compare him to people you may know.

But what about the folks we rage against because we’re convinced they haven’t done enough?

Am I the only person who has resented the people around him for their shortcomings? Hey Nabal, I didn’t know your nickname was Arvin.

While Abigail is intercepting David, Nabal is doing something interesting.

Abigail arrives home to find Nabal “throwing a big party, celebrating like a king.”

Like a king. Do you see the irony in that?

Nabal is partying like a king while David, the real king, is running like a fugitive.

And here’s why I love Abigail: If she settles for the illusion, she could party like a queen. But she doesn’t—she sees through it. She tells Nabal the truth. And in so doing, she’s set free. Swiftly, God gets rid of Nabal.

I’ll address this to myself so it’s not as abrasive for you. But place your name where I’ve placed mine.

Arvin, is it possible you’re refusing to give the honor your future Groom deserves because you know it’ll demand you depart from the fantasy your more foolish half has been enjoying?

David was called to be king. Nabal was partying like a king.

Arvin, is it possible you’re enjoying your awareness of God’s call on your life, often pretending you’re already there because you’re afraid of what’ll happen when you let God kill the foolishness in your life?

Arvin, can you muster the courage Abigail mustered? Or is it enough that your friends/acquaintances like the version of you who’s a fraction of the man you’re called to be someday?

I get it, Abigail, I’m currently not where I’m going to be someday either.

In the inbetween, look at what Abigail does/says to David:

Regarding her husband’s belligerence: “I accept all blame.” She takes ownership.

Rather than shaming David for where he’s at, she affirms his purpose: “You’re fighting the Lord’s battles. And even when Saul tries to kill you, you’re in the Lord’s care, secure in his treasure pouch.”

The only time she mentions his past is in context of David’s future, reminding him of his victory against Goliath: “The lives of your enemies will disappear like stones shot from a sling.” (Can you imagine hearing this out loud from a sensible, beautiful woman? No wonder David proposed to her the moment he knew she was single!)

And lastly, she affirms God’s promise: “The Lord will surely reward you with a lasting dynasty. God will keep his promise and you will be Israel’s leader.”

I’m praying God makes me into an Abigail before he sends me my Abigail.

That’s the sort of wisdom you’ll get if you start paying attention to those who are enjoying the seasons of life you’re trusting God to help you enjoy someday.

In the meantime:

Allow God to strike dead the poser in you who’s already banking on the perks of the calling/destiny you’ll someday steward with character and grace.

Don’t be afraid of joining your Groom in the wilderness. There is no other divine route to your palace than through the brokenness of which your foolish half wants to remain ignorant.

Affirm what God has done, is doing, and will do in your life, even when it seems he’s doing nothing.

You’re not who/where you’re going to be someday, but you won’t get there if you don’t get this.

Stop Keeping Track
send me*

Stop Keeping Track

091618
[Estimated reading time: 3m16s]

He did nothing.

Nothing? Ah, what a man.

He fell on his face before God.

That’s all he did.

An imposter could not fake such surrender.

And men fight to become kings, and they’ll sacrifice anything to satisfy ambition.

But now, what will you do?

Today, I shall give ample space for this untelling God of ours to show us his will;

God shall be God.

I’ve stopped keeping track.

It used to be life-giving to pour my heart out.

When a dream came to fruition, I’d enjoy telling the story.

In deferred hope, I’d find empathy soothing.

But an adjustment has taken place.

I’m obsessed with David for this reason:

Who among us, if presented with David’s life, would let Samuel pour oil over our heads? Yes, I hear you—God’s got a plan for your life and it’s going to be global and biblical and huge and wonderful and a spouse and travel and etc. Listen to me, I’m not discouraging it. Smell me, you’ll find no hint of cynicism. I’m about all of it, too.

But suppose David read the story before he saw Samuel waiting for him.


God hardly told him anything. Most of the details were kept secret. What would he have done had he been given a list of every cave in which he was going to hide or spear he was going to dodge?

When I say I’ve stopped keeping track, I’m talking about caves and spears.

It used to feel exciting to discuss wild and crazy stories. Even in devastation, comfort came when I could tell a trusted group and we’d all laugh or sigh.

But the adjustment was that wild and crazy moved inward. On days when nothing wild or crazy was happening, the same internal tech-tonic shifts they’d engendered were still occurring.

This is where we realize how much of a gift our gift of communication is. God seems utterly content withholding his grace from our self-started mission of: “Explain Where You’re At So People Understand You.”

He never handed me a list of what it was going to look like, and even after I get glimpses of the cost of what I’ll so excitedly describe to you the next time you run into me somewhere, please know I have no idea what I’m saying. I will sound certain because I don’t know you well enough to trust you with everything.

The details are God’s secrets. And how does God keep secrets? He makes the events and the internal shifts thereafter utterly indescribable. So much so that you can tell the story and still not communicate the heart-hurt-joy-shock of it.

After enough caves and spears, you’ll stop keeping track, too.

I’m grateful for Adam, but I’m also jealous of him.

I’m jealous because he didn’t wake up in the middle of surgery when God was removing his rib. Can you imagine the confusion he’d feel if he looked up and saw the same God who just breathed breath into his lungs was now cutting into them?

Of course you can—what sort of private sessions have you had with God lately?

What calendars or countdowns have you highlighted and underlined before him in prayer, screaming: I thought this was what YOU wanted?!

But Adam doesn’t have that problem. Adam hears God’s promise of Eve, faithfully names the animals God brings him, and falls asleep.

When I say I’ve stopped keeping track, I’m talking about the animals and the scalpels.

I pray you have a community and dear friends or family who listen to you, but with a humility that’s deep enough to hope I’m wrong, I submit to you that God reserves the role of “Understander” for himself.

You try to find the words or journal in metaphors. You find a Bible story that reminds you of your own life—that’s all well and good.

But if you’re seeking God for who he is, I bet he loves you enough to ensure you’re genuinely incapable of sharing the secrets he’s cultivating in you until the appropriate time. I bet he won’t let you wake up while he’s removing your rib.

I bet he loves you enough to cut out of you the idol you’ve made of being understood by those around you.

I bet he loves you enough to reserve solely for himself the role of “One Who Understands Me.”

Save yourself some time and stop keeping track of the caves and spears and animals and scalpels. Rest where he says rest and Move when he says move.

Don’t worry, God is keeping track.

God will make up for all of it.

God shall be God.

Something Went Wrong.
ONE

Something Went Wrong.

090618
[Estimated reading time: 3m17s]

Mike Tyson was asked about the preparation process one of his opponents was undergoing. “People were asking me, ‘What’s going to happen? He’s going to give you a lot of lateral movement. He’s going to move, he’s going to dance. He’s going to do this, do that.’”

I’ll never forget Tyson’s response because I can’t afford to.

“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”

I’ve spent much of this year dwelling on the discrepancy between God’s actual plan for my life and how I think God’s plan for my life will play out.

I have a bunch of plans, but you can help me out by filling this gap with your version of what you think God wants to see happen in your life.

Go back a ways and recall the black-and-white portraits of the early 20th century.

Further back—the photograph capturing process took several minutes.

Imagine using one of those cameras today. The quality is undeniably worse than the camera on your phone.

The difference between your camera today and their cameras then—that is the discrepancy I’m talking about when it comes to God’s plans.

I’m trying to use 2018-Arvin’s perspective and experiences to interpret and predict and understand 2045-God-in-Arvin’s life. It’s irresponsible. It’s bound for failure. And worst of all, it tempts our idolatrous hearts well enough that we may actually miss our purpose.

We idolize our dreams so much, we risk never realizing them. If we’re not careful, we might re-enact the tale of the idiot who spent so much time taking pictures of his food that he starved to death.

How does God prevent this?

He sends Mike Tyson.

How does God shrink the chasm between your understanding of his plan and his actual plan?

Something goes wrong—and he lets it.

In fact, at times, it looks like what’s gone wrong was actually his plan going right. That’s something people clap for when I preach it, but I’m talking about devastating pain. I’m talking about being blindsided so badly, you have to pause and think, Okay, God—what’d I do to upset you? Surely, you’re angry with me.

The whole camera metaphor breaks down if you go back far enough.

The idea is that primitive cameras wouldn’t do as good a job as modern technology.

But go back far enough and you’ll arrive at when people would sit for portraits painted by artists.

See, here’s the thing about famous paintings, we value them based on the artist, not the person being painted.

I could paint a portrait of the world’s most beautiful, important, incredible person, and you’d say, “That’s cool, Arv.”

You wouldn’t lose your mind over it. Galleries wouldn’t beg to put it on display. It wouldn’t break any auction records at Sotheby’s.

I could argue, “But this is a painting of the most talented, most gifted, most incredible person on earth! How come no one wants to buy it?!”

I don’t know which version of the story about Mona Lisa is true—was she a real person? was Da Vinci painting a female version of himself? Was she kind? Talented? Gifted? Funny? Could she preach well? Did she please her parents the way she’d wanted to? How well did she achieve her dreams?

I never hear those questions. All I hear about that painting is that it’s priceless because of the guy who painted it.

That’s right, a painting of the most obscure figure is priceless all of a sudden because of the artist who painted it—not who he painted.

You’re wasting your time agonizing over becoming the type of person whose portrait is priceless—perhaps you should pay more attention to the artist to whom you hand the brush.

But I’ll remind you—paintings take longer than pictures.

And yes, they will be more expensive than your 19th-century camera-having-mind ever could’ve guessed.

En route to your destiny, you must meet your Mike Tyson.

You will face attacks on your reputation.

You will honor authorities in public when you’ve wept over their sins in private. You will encourage your shallow, short-sighted friend while he/she ignores your deep wounds.

You will lift your hands and worship God when you want to grab the rifle they left in their guest bedroom and end it all.

You will be informed of devastating news between sessions you’re preaching at—with the perpetrators sitting in the audience clapping for your sermons.

You will realize some of your fears.

You will get punched in the mouth.

Something will go wrong, friend. But your only job is to remain still—let the artist paint his painting. You can’t rush a masterpiece.

On Mentors
Stop Keeping Track

On Mentors

082718
[Estimated reading time: 3m22s]

You’ve probably heard of Søren Kierkegaard, the philosopher, theologian, etc.

The Danish author’s ideas on theistic existentialism were far ahead of his time. There’s even a Søren Kierkegaard Research Centre at the University of Copenhagen.

You probably haven’t heard of Poul Martin Møller. Møller was a professor who played a pretty big role in Søren’s life.

When writing about Møller, Søren lamented the world would only know Møller through the works he’d written instead of what Kierkegaard considered the most imperative facet of his mentor’s life: his character.

Speaking of mentors, I still remember the way I came to know mine.

Being a multicultural pastor’s kid armed me with the tools to be likable and impressive. But for some reason, one teacher of mine saw through it.

In one class, we were setting up a discussion on what guys/girls look for in each other. I’m so embarrassed to tell you what I wrote that I’ll have to recount it in third person:

When asked to tell his high school Bible classmates what he valued in a possible spouse, the Persian boy, desperate to be liked, handed his teacher, who read aloud the piece of paper on which the boy had written, “Authenticity! Makeup cannot imitate what God in all his wisdom created to be the physical appearance of a woman.”

You could see the cringe on his face before calling me out.

It was Møller’s ability to see through similar attempts at pandering and flattery, this time at the hands of self-absorbed Hegelian philosophers, that made Søren wish people would get to know the man’s character instead of what was written by and about him.

Søren wanted everyone to know his mentor’s ability to not only distinguish between what actually mattered and what didn’t, but also his gift at seeing the humor in what pretended to matter.

Møller transcended the spirit of his age in a way that made an irretrievable impact on one of the most notable philosophers of all time. You and I can read what was posthumously published from Møller, but according to Søren, we’ll never really get it. We’ll never realize the breadth and depth of Møller’s character, even if we’re simultaneously indebted to it.

“Why don’t you like me?” I asked that same teacher after he’d scoffed at my obvious attempt to get every girl to like me for being “deep.”

“Because, Arvin, you so badly want me to.”

And there it was. He called me out with such precision that I felt like the wind had been kicked out of me. I’d finally met a man I wasn’t able to fool with my prodigious semantics.

I asked him to be my mentor soon thereafter. Since then, we’ve spent years rebuilding the fragile Arvinian psyche from the ruins of utilitarian insecurity to the impressive-only-by-accident, grateful-to-be-me young man writing this. I can talk about Josh Nordean here because, in yet another way to show me what matters and what doesn’t, he definitely doesn’t read my blog.

The point I’ll leave you with is that you need someone who calls you out.

If it weren’t for the mentoring of the Holy Spirit, we’d only know Jesus the way we know (or don’t know) Poul Martin Møller. The breath, coffee, laughter, and experience of character shared between Kierkegaard and Møller—without which we’d never have heard of either of them—is gone forever.

But the obvious chasm between those who know a whole lot about God and those who seem to truly know God is as long, wide, deep, and high as the Holy Spirit himself. We can encounter the character and essence of Jesus himself through a Holy Spirit who, by definition, transcends whatever trends and tragedies serve as the spirit of our age.

We have a Holy Spirit who can re-enact and recreate for and within us the character of Jesus we’ll need if we’re to ever get this laughably severe life right, one willing to introduce us to mentors in settings that are both comical and desperate;

who—knowing the little young Persian boy fluent in Christianese who has fooled everyone in his life into thinking he’s a good kid about whom they shouldn’t worry is  inching rapidly toward his own mental breakdown and possible suicide—will introduce a Josh Nordean or Poul Martin Møller at just the right time.

If you haven’t met the mentor who’ll change your life yet, I’m not worried for you. Because if you don’t have a mentor, chances are you’re still unknowingly spewing your own version of flattery or false humility. And if that’s the case, sooner or later, someone who isn’t falling for it will call you out—and you’ll be grateful.

My Empty Plane
Something Went Wrong.

My Empty Plane

081718
[Estimated reading time: 2m52s]

For a time, I worked as a Christian film critic. That’s right, a critic of Christian films. Selah.

100% of the feedback I got from my editor was that my reviews were too negative, pointing out glaring plot holes and places where the story, dialogue, set design, overall reason for being made (besides the ever-reliable homeschooling parent’s money), didn’t make any sense.

One film outright changed scripture to censor inappropriate themes. An entire book about a prophet and his prostitute wife was reduced to a prophet and his wife, who meant well but had seductive eyes.

“Positive reviews boost sales, Arvin. Tell us what you loved about the movie.” And you know what, my editor was right. If you want someone to buy your product, positive reviews are a big help.

And then I open up to the Psalms, where time and time again, David declares God has forgotten him. Psalms 13, 22, 42, 77 and so many more seem to call God out for being unfaithful.

I wonder if God and David had the same conversation I had with my editor.

“Look, bro, I’m trying to put together a book about me. Your stuff is supposed to be right in the middle. But can you please lay off on the stuff about me forgetting and forsaking you? It doesn’t bode well.”

Positive reviews boost sales, David. Tell us what you love about God.

But God seems to have phoned it in when it came to reviewing David’s work before the final drafts were approved. Either that or…

he wanted that stuff in there? David’s thoughts about feeling forgotten and lonely, surrounded by certain failure and the end of every dream God had engendered are recorded on purpose?

Well, perhaps God was cool with it because he wanted to use David as an example of what one shouldn’t do?

Acts 13:22. “I find David to be a man after my own heart. He will do everything I want him to do.”

“Everything” includes writing about how he feels forgotten and forsaken, lonely and sure to lose unless God rescues him.

I’ve wasted a lot of time feeling guilty over feeling forgotten.

When I lost jobs I never should have had in the first place (Christian film critic, for example), or realized relationships I’d poured all of myself into were actually butchered with holes, or when projects I started and worked at tirelessly were cancelled because someone somewhere decided they didn’t believe in me, I blamed myself.

If you really were who you tell everyone you are, you wouldn’t feel forgotten and forsaken. You must be forgettable. You must be forsakable.

But if you keep reading, the Psalms that start out with David feeling forgotten tend to end with another affirmation of God’s unfailing love.

The journey to God’s heart may be narrow, but that’s probably because that’s all it needs to be. It’s so much less travelled than flights to fame and attention, who always seem delayed and overbooked. Flying private always seems to cost you more.

Highways and side streets can often be busy and loaded with traffic.

But if you make your way to an airport, you’ll notice there aren’t any coffee shops or billboards next to runways. If you didn’t know better, you’d think a compound made of basic buildings, giant fields, and barbed-wire fences was a prison.

And if you don’t know better, you might mistake feeling forsaken with being forsakable.

You might see others’ lives operating like the 405 or 101—packed tight with people and attention and advertising dollars—and think your giant, empty field of a life, with no traffic or billboards, wasn’t intended to do anything great.

You might feel like your obscurity is evidence that you belong in the prison you’ve interpreted your life to be.

If God was intentional in leaving David’s feelings in the Psalms, he may simply be disguising his runway in your life as a prison other people avoid.

I’m asking you to be encouraged. Pay attention to the second half of those Psalms. The fact that you’re the only one on your plane or walking through your plain doesn’t mean you’re not going somewhere worthwhile.

Hot Dog Doug
On Mentors

Hot Dog Doug

080718
[Estimated reading time: 3m59s]

A young man makes his way through a busy street to a job interview. Instructions were clear about credentials he should bring and who his interviewer would be.

To make sure the young man is thorough, the e-mail contains a post-script about stopping at a food cart outside the skyscraper where a man named Doug sells hot dogs.

He’s told to buy a hot dog for the interviewer. Eager to make a good impression, the young man buys a dozen hot dogs from Doug.

I was introduced to the Christian faith the same way I was taught history and science, with repetition. The Bible wasn’t just something I learned on weekends, but everyday.

Church was on Sundays and Wednesdays. School chapels once or twice a week.

Small groups on Sunday and Thursday nights.

That’s a lot of church. That’s a lot of Bible.

The interview goes well. The young man is hired. His 12-hotdog trick helps him stand out. He’s introduced to everyone in upper management except the CEO (on vacation).

He pours his life into his career, but his mom tells him to have fun (when he remembers to call her). He doesn’t have time for dates. He tried Tinder, but his college ex was the first girl who popped up—Bad omen! Bye!

A decade goes by.

Don’t get me wrong, my teachers were great. But I only cared about how many laughs I could get. My faults weren’t their fault—in fact, by their efforts I avoided more severe consequences for my narcissism.

Nevertheless, I met God the way I met math. So I treated them both the same.

This is a problem I have to solve. Get people to believe this by solving for X. If I get stuck, the answers are in the back of the book.

I learned I could get attention by doing well. I took AP classes and memorized large portions of scripture. I competed in scripture-delivery competitions. I passed my AP tests and won blue ribbons.

He always forgets to bring lunch. Thank God for hot dog Doug. When he forgets his wallet, Doug is clutch: “Don’t worry, son, this one’s on me.”

I mentioned the CEO was gone when the young man was hired, so you’ve likely concluded that, for the sake of a good twist, hot dog Doug is the CEO.

But remember: the young man doesn’t know that. He doesn’t have time to read Arvin Sepehr’s blog. He doesn’t have time to read much at all.

He’s trying to work his way to the top.

Another ten years pass.

I never rebelled like the other kids. Substance abuse didn’t seem appealing enough to me. The pleasure seemed too…easy.

My vices were worse—manipulate my way into an empire that writes history with me as the hero: I was Frank Underwood, not Charlie Sheen.

My teachers’ creed: “God loves you and has a plan for your life” was lost on me.

I mean, it’s proximity was convenient, but that was all.

You likely know what happens to a kid like that. 20 years in, I was forced to question why I’d been working so hard at what I’d been working so hard at.

Which is exactly what the young man started to do—question his life, career, and whether or not he should keep eating those hot dogs when they’ve forced him to buy bigger suits several times.

I outgrew outfits  as well.

The costumes offered by the American Dream, Christendom™, and a pseudo-rebellious Kanye West-John Bevere hybrid iconoclast all got too tight.

In search of a more honest role, I started looking for clothes that fit. Another thing I have in common with…

…the young man who was once so certain of himself and his goals. He goes into that office unaware that his morning hello with hot dog Doug is what ultimately determines the trajectory of his life.

Years later, the remains from God crashing, evacuating, and demolishing the grand-opening of the Arvin Sepehr™ I’d crafted for the world had been cleared.

I was done deconstructing everything I’d learned.

It was time to start believing something again. I relearned what I’d unlearned.

On the day of his retirement, the young man isn’t young anymore. That’s the day he finds out Doug is actually the CEO.

He’s befuddled to discover the small and obscure hot dog cart is helmed by the same person who started the lucrative company to which he’s given almost every day of his life for 20 years.

It’s baffling when something obscure reveals itself as the only reason you’ve ever had a purpose. Who can blame him?

I can’t. I was just as baffled when “God loves you and has a plan for your life” revealed itself as the only reason I’ve ever had a purpose.

After 20 years of hard work aimed at God-knows-what, it turns out the solid ground my childhood teachers had been standing on was the only platform I wanted to live on as well.

I mocked the phrase in my cynical years, but I outgrew those costumes. Not everyone was so lucky, many refused to grow.

After 20 years of hard work aimed at Doug-knows-what, the old man didn’t want to sit at home. He had a better idea.

On his first day of retirement, the old man made his way through the same busy street, but he went little slower this time. He had to. He retired from his job and started carrying his purpose.

He made his way next to hot dog Doug with his own cart, this one full of ice-cream.

I have my opinions about over-churching kids, but my teachers and pastors really believed that God loves me and has a plan for my life while raising me. A couple decades later, I believe them.

I'd Rather Stay Awake
My Empty Plane

I’d Rather Stay Awake

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[Estimated reading time: 2m58s]

I met Jesus, Santa, and Uncle Sam around the same time.

If you walked into a coffee shop and saw me with two other people, you might associate us with one another. If you shook all 3 of our hands and heard our names back-to-back-to-back as we shared coffee at the same table, you’d might think we were there together.

The danger with this is that when you see the 2 people I was with in an alley stomping a homeless man to death, you’d have reason to associate me with that behavior as well.

That’s what I think has happened to Jesus. And while I don’t think you’re walking around believing in Santa Clause, I’m shocked and saddened by how often Uncle Sam appropriates Jesus’ mission by pretending to be a part of it.

Imagine I did believe in Santa. I get married, have kids, and introduce them to the story of a man who flies around the world in one night, delivering presents to good boys and girls.

But if I actually believe in Santa, I won’t bother to go out and buy them gifts because I’m convinced Santa will show up in the middle of the night and bring us all gifts.

It’d make for one sad morning as we wake up to lukewarm milk and an empty tree. My reputation would be tarnished as my children wake up to utter disappointment.

That’s precisely what waking up from the American Dream has felt like.

Imagine I did believe in the American Dream. I get married, have kids, and introduce them to the same work dynamic the Industrial Revolution decided was efficient enough for the 1900s. I tell them to serve God and attend church since this is a Christian nation.

Imagine their terror when they wake up to realize the systems they’ve been asked to support are as lukewarm and empty as the Christmas morning their father’s beliefs created for them.

Won’t they associate their father with the behavior of their Uncle Sam, who means well and helps certain people, but has also been known to stomp helpless people in back alleys?

What should I do when my kids realize their Uncle Sam’s Christian-facade is as legitimate as Santa Clause?

“It’s a simple cycle,” Uncle Sam might tell my son.

“These black men sell drugs that compete with the opioids I’ve given myself permission to sell. By putting them in jail for a very long time, I get my competition off the streets.

Meanwhile, my buddies who own private prisons benefit from partnerships with my other buddies who run large corporations. Since we pad their jail sentences to be longer, we pretend to help them decrease the length of their sentences by giving them jobs we use to replace thousands of well-paying American jobs for pennies on the dollar!

I make billions of dollars off the backs of unsuspecting addicts whose doctors/insurance companies I incentivize to push my opioids while my buddies make billions of dollars off the backs of modern day slavery!”

Rather than making this about politics, I have reason to suggest that before you replace Santa with Uncle Sam, you consider the questions your children will have to ask when they see their parents’ Jesus standing silent and complicit in the back alleys where Uncle Sam stomps out his competition before labelling them criminals.

They might stop believing in them both just to make sense of it all.

Chances are many of them already have.

I like Santa and appreciate the fun provided by the narrative, but I’m not expecting an old white man to show up with gifts based on my behavior throughout the year. If I did, my family would suffer.

With Uncle Sam, I’m grateful to have grown up in this country after we escaped the certain death awaiting my dad in Iran. I appreciate the narrative of the American Dream, but I don’t believe in that anymore either. Once again, I’m not expecting old white men to make my life better. If I do, my family and friends will suffer.

When it comes to the American Dream, I’d rather stay awake. I think that between Santa, Uncle Sam, and Jesus, only one of them actually has gifts to be delivered to the world, and someone needs to wrap them. Why not me?

Turned Down to Turn Out
Hot Dog Doug

Turned Down to Turn Out

071818
[Estimated reading time: 3m11s]

The Pony Express was a brilliant idea.

But I can’t help but wonder: how would the person who invented the Pony Express react if he met the person who invented E-mail?

This person is passionate about efficient communication, right? How could they not be excited?

History proves progress is not that simple.

There’s a famous story about the executives at Blockbuster laughing when a gentleman pitched a partnership idea between their company and his mail-service but soon to be utterly online film/tv rental company. Today, there are only a couple Blockbusters left (somewhere in Alaska). The man they laughed out of the room? Reed Hastings. His company? Netflix.

1 Samuel 1. Hannah is married to Elkanah. So is Penninah. Penninah’s had several children with Elkanah. Hannah…hasn’t, and she really wants to.

You know what happens next. She goes to the Temple, prays so fervently for a baby that Eli the Priest accuses her of being drunk when she’s really just desperate for God’s help. God delivers her a baby—Samuel.

Samuel grows up to be the prophet through whom God anoints King David.

And it’s David who later writes in the Psalms, “The sacrifice you want is a broken spirit.”

Centuries later, we’re still celebrating a God who revealed his heart to David so we’d know that he’s less about sacrifices and more about hearts broken from bursting with desperation. We’re better for knowing this. It’d be a shame if we were still walking around trying to sacrifice our way to God’s heart.

But if we were in the temple the day Hannah showed up to pray for a baby, we might not celebrate her broken spirit the way David later taught us to.

Without the advantage of millenniums of interpretation, conversation, and church camps that spell out on felt boards the precise answer you’re to memorize for every problem in life, you might resemble an intern from Blockbuster.

You might be so pre-occupied with the religious elite that you agree with them because of their reputation and power.

God’s after a broken, desperate spirit. That’s precisely what Hannah brings with her to the temple. Eli the Priest, however, makes the mistake the Blockbuster executives made.

You might be tempted to ignore the sins committed by Eli the Priest’s sons because of who their Dad is. You might be thoroughly aware that what they’re doing is wrong, but because of their proximity to religious authority, you overlook it and join in the mocking of Hannah.

You might misunderstand desperation for drunkenness.


You might turn down what turns out to be just what God intended.

The whole thing points to an important conclusion:

When you’re wholeheartedly pursuing God and his will for your life, you will be misunderstood, even (and especially) by the very people you’d expect to celebrate with you. They will misunderstand. They might even accuse you of stuff you’ve never been about.

I’m convinced God does this on purpose. Even though we’re better for showing honor and respect for our leaders, it’s not up to us if God wants to use our lives as an example to them regarding his sovereign ability to do whatever he wants.

If we ignore this, we might believe people who have power and authority instead of the God whose power and authority handed us the destiny we’re meant to encounter despite their misunderstanding and accusations.

This isn’t permission to be rebellious and cynical, by the way. After God heard Hannah’s prayer and she gave birth to Samuel, she brought the baby to the very priest who’d accused her of being a drunk. She honored his authority while disregarding his errors in judgment.

I can’t see how our generation will invoke the God-ideas we’ve been given without this brand of tender yet tenacious wisdom.

2 more examples.

Kanye West played a completed, poignant “Jesus Walks” for several executives who passed on the song and passed on him. Can you imagine how they felt when a song they turned down turned out to be what “Jesus Walks” has turned out to be?

The second story might give you an idea.

Several years ago, a group of film students were treated to a Q&A with the CEO of Universal. When asked about any regrets he’d had about his career in running a film studio, his response is one I hope you’ll consider the next time God inspires you to see a destiny not everyone else is quick to understand or celebrate.

After a long pause, he said, “I wake up every morning and immediately remember that I said ‘No’ to ‘Titanic.’”

present
I'd Rather Stay Awake

present

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[Estimated reading time: 3m10s]

I’ve spent two decades asking God for his presence. You hear it invoked at the beginning of church services, sermons, etc. It’s become a refrain: “God, we ask for your presence.”

It sounds like Christianese rhetoric. The cynic in you mocks the whole thing. But sincere hearts can’t afford to care. When you encounter transcendent moments resulting in what one theologian simplified as “ontological lightness,” you’re too alive to mind the jokes.

But this isn’t about the line between cynicism and sincerity. If you’re living the Christian life, you travel back/forth on that line enough as it is. No, this isn’t about theology or social semantics.

I have one thought to submit to you, one subtle change.

Asking God for his presence, for him to be with you as you live makes a lot of sense, but where is this in scripture?

I’ve been observing this long enough to notice something is slightly off, there are a couple notes being played by mistake and one note we’re not hitting.

My goal isn’t to change the way you talk about God’s presence. The real chasm I’m asking you to cross has to do with how you think about yourself in relation to God’s presence.

—Off-Notes—

Look at what David said:

“The one thing I ask of the Lord—the thing I seek most—is to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life.” Ps. 27

“I will live in the house of the Lord forever.” Ps. 23

“Those who are transplanted into the house of the Lord will declare, ‘there’s nothing but goodness in him.’“ Psalm 92:13,15

David’s deepest desire is to be in God’s house. But where is that?

First off-note:  “He’s talking about church.”

David wants to dwell in the church all the days of his life? If that’s his goal, the guy failed. I often hear people use these scriptures to signify the importance of loyal church attendance. I’m not anti-church attendance, but I don’t think that’s what this is about.

Second off-note: “He’s talking about heaven.”

Many underline the importance of focusing on heaven with these scriptures as backup. With an undercurrent that suggests, “Your life on earth should suck, but then heaven will be great.” But, what about “all the days of my life”? This isn’t about heaven.

—The Missing Note—

If all that weren’t confusing enough, Paul shows up with this:

“We are God’s house.” Eph. 2:20

“I will live in them.” 2 Cor. 6:16

David’s talking about going to/living in God’s house.

Paul says we are God’s house.

The note we’ve been missing is what you hear when you combine these ideas. Add “Pursue God’s house” to “You are God’s house.” Pursue…yourself?

The one thing I ask of the Lord is to live in myself all the days of my life? I will live in myself forever? Those who are transplanted into themselves are the ones who’ll declare, “there’s nothing but goodness in him.”?

The note we’ve been missing is this: God’s already as present as he needs to be. The one whose presence you need…is yours.

How many times have you checked your phone without it even ringing today?

How often do you spend an hour on something without being distracted?

When was the last time you’re body and mind were in the same place at the same time?

It seems the “Put Down Your Phone—Be Present” movement we’ve attributed to millennial thought has already been trademarked by scripture. Perhaps we shouldn’t be asking God for his presence so much as we need God’s help being present ourselves?

The shift is subtle in verbiage, but it’ll turn your thinking all the way around. You’re not a self-sufficient entity inviting God’s presence into your life, that would suggest some semblance of stability apart from God’s presence.

God’s presence is what’s been holding your molecules together this whole time. Those moments where you feel “ontological lightness,” or whatever phrase you’ve used to describe “the presence of God” isn’t actually when you feel God’s presence. It’s when you’ve abandoned whatever worry or lust or text or distraction you had your mind on and became as present yourself as you’ve asked God to be.

I’ve been mistaken: I’ve spent two decades asking God for his presence when God’s actually been asking me for mine. I’ve been asking him to be here, when the one who really needs to get here is me.

abandon, pt. 2
Turned Down to Turn Out

abandon, pt. 2

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[Estimated reading time: 3m2s]

I asked for this.

I forgot I did, but I asked for the predicament I’m in. To remember that is the first step to realizing it is God’s mercy, not his judgment, that’s brought Christendom™ to its rightful place on the verge of irrelevance.

I use the word Christendom™, trademark symbol included, because it’s a safe, accurate word for what I’m trying to describe.

If I said, “Christianity is on the verge of irrelevance,” I’d be wrong. Christianity isn’t on the verge of irrelevance. In fact, if you’re paying any sort of attention to the world, you already know the bullet points soon to underline our society’s need for knowing Jesus as he is meant to be known.

Christianity and Christendom ™ are not the same thing. I use Christendom™ to describe the amalgamation of strange interpretations and actions misunderstood and mistaken in attempt to live out one’s Christian faith.

Christendom™ is the well-intentioned energy spent on cutting off the ears of every poor bastard since Malchus.

It’s the soil surrounding the roots of those who’ll censor themselves from using cuss words in public while subtly uttering the-n-word in sans-African-American settings. You know who you are 😉

Disciples of Christendom™ trash mainstream media and music for fear that Jesus’ allure is as sensitive as their own ego.

It’s the spirit of monopolizing God to ensure no one falls in love with Jesus deeply enough to see him glorified in a setting/manner other than what’s been thoroughly investigated and deemed safe far in advance.

I could go on, but I’ll sum it up like this: When the leaders of the Christendom™ of Jesus’ day encountered Jesus, they had him killed. And if you’re paying attention to the statistics of people my age who’ve abandoned the God they grew up with, Christendom™ is still wreaking havoc on the heart of God.

But back to where I started: I asked for this.

I asked God for whatever it was he wanted for my life when I was 13.

12 years later, I’ve yet to feel at home with any group or in any setting. I either don’t know whose team I’m on or I’m embarrassed by those who claim to be on my team.

Iranians think I’m American while Americans think I’m Iranian.

Non-Christians are baffled by my life choices while Christians suggest I could be fixed if only I’d join their small group.

Millennials mock me while Baby Boomers tap my knee and wink while offering a condescending, “You’re young. You’ll learn.”

And finally, Christendom™ has humiliated me while Jesus keeps chasing me into those settings/manners that were deemed inappropriate for younger Arvins.

I’m not complaining because I have no one to blame but myself. I asked for this. I wanted to become Arvin, and the price thereof has been everything I thought I had to offer the church and the world in the first place.

I’m saying this because the people who tell me they read my blogs tend to also share their own perplexing, eyebrow-raising experiences of Christendom™ that’ve left them wondering how Jesus can be who he says he is when the people who claim him are never who they say they are.

It’s complicated and vexing. It’s disturbing and nuanced. But most of all, it is merciful and necessary.

Weren’t we the young people who came of age being told God has a plan for us? Didn’t we run to the altars of those churches and stadiums where we knew we’d seen and heard something real? Why else have you been waking up to read your Bible and pray, trying to hear God’s voice, and hoping you’re not wrong when you act on what you heard?

You asked for this.

Every worthwhile, fruit-bearing move of God (read your Bible, read history) demands this pruning period that’s far more than we bargained for.

And since you asked for this:

I humbly submit that you abandon Christendom™ and cling to Jesus—because his romancing has never appeared as alluring as it’s about to appear in the next couple decades. As the pillars of society leap closer to falling over and screaming, “Uncle!”, it’ll be you, the ones who abandoned Christendom™ for the sake of knowing God, who’ll be tasked with teaching them the word they mean to exclaim is not “Uncle!” but “Father.”

abandon
present

I’m Arvin Sepehr (pronounced like Pepper with an “S”).

My family and I escaped from Iran after my Dad’s friends (Pastors, like him) were killed and he was made the next target.

Iran. Turkey. Cyprus. New York. And currently, Oklahoma.

I create things that tell my Story. Most recently, these things have taken the shape of books and films, but the mediums expand as my Story does.

Contact me@arvinsepehr.com