As the plane descended into the airport, my first thought about Ibiza involved climbing the mountains and jumping into the sea. Ascending into the sky two weeks later, I was wondering if my return trip would involve some outdoor antics. Love the idea of rock climbing, but my upper body strength isn't as great as it used to be.. and I just may be too insecure to even attempt it. Even if I can find the footholds and hand grips, I don't know if I can pull myself up the rock face. The imagery of the side of the cliff stuck in my mind throughout the duration of my twenty something hours in transit.

Footholds? Reminds me of the lovely phrase: "don't give the devil a foothold". I've wrote about this before, and I will probably write about it again... I think I have some footholds and hand grips exposed in my life that need to be dealt with in the upcoming year. My time in Ibiza confirmed that, but also affirmed the fact that the devil is too weak to pull himself up the rock face.

Let me explain in a different way.... on the flight back, I was trying to watch some mindless movies to deter my thoughts. My choice: She's Outta My League. Funny, the film takes place near my home turf in Pittsburgh mainly at the airport. One sentence plot summary: an average guy starts dating an successful, attractive woman who he perceives to be out of his league and his insecurity about the incompatibility leads him to almost ruin the relationship. Like the guy in the film, I am extremely insecure and often worry more about the disparities in life than the possibilities. For me, I often feel like the tasks God calls me to are outta of my league.

In a previous entry, I mentioned three foothold areas that God and I am working on... artsy creativity, physical fitness, and self expression via personal appearance. If you want a healthy dose of exposure therapy for those three things, I would suggest clubbing. When they informed me that we were going clubbing at the world's most respectable nightclub, my initial thought was "*gulp* I can't do this. Love house music, love to dance, love people... but I can't do this, I am not good enough to be a clubbing person, life in Ibiza is outta my league. So, how do I get out of this? Or rather, how do I push through?"

That small foothold of insecurity could have led me to not go out with the team. It could have led me to going out and being miserable. It could have led me to missing an awesome opportunity to worship God in the midst of a sea of people worshiping music, alcohol, drugs and sex. Instead, I pushed through and LOVED every moment of it. Why? I loved  the experience because God created me with a love of music, dance and worship, but the footholds of my personal insecurity are generally just enough room for the devil to get a grip on my life and cripple me with fear.... preventing me from fully being the person God created me to be.

Upon my return stateside, I am already eagerly awaiting another opportunity to climb some personal mountains... I am also aware of that I need to destroy some exposed footholds and hand grips in my own life. Here is to ten months in DC, the place where I am most insecure, to continue to prove to myself that this calling on my life is not outta my league with God's help and guidance. After those ten months, we'll see where He leads me... I can only hope that it's to a place way outta my league so that I know that I am clinging to Him, being the person He created me to be.

Being the American that I am, I smirked every time one of the UK peeps asked "What's your favorite bit?"... such a funny phrase that reminds me of puppy chow, but nevertheless an adequate question. Bit is defined as a small fraction of the whole and anything I could write about the last two weeks would be just that: a small piece of a massive life changing experience. Since I know that even my master oration skills can not do my time in Ibiza justice, here is the first of a few bits and pieces of my time in Ibiza. 

Night 2: PR worker directs us to a passed out man sleeping under the serving window of a bar. Abby and I sat him up and attempt to wake him up. After several minutes of poking pressure points and some water on the back of the neck, he opens his eyes... looks at Abby and throws up all over her, and then rolls back over. I kneel down next to him and prop him up against my knees. He is still not responding, there is bloody vomit everywhere, and his breathing is slowing. His eyes are rolling and we do not know his name or anything about him. The Spanish police stop to ask us if we need help. Through broken Spanglish, we relay the message that our newly acquired friend needs medical attention. They phone the local ambulance (not the expensive private clinic like most authorities phone). A bar owner comes out and berates us for slowing his business because of the drunk in the street. The police ask him to leave and decide to stay with us to help ward off the crowd of scoffers. A drunken group of guys walk by, identify the kid, but refuse to help us get him home or to a medical center. They run off cursing the spectacle, abandoning their friend. Abby and I carry him a block to the main street with our police escort friends. On the ground, in the recovery position, his head in my arms we waited for the ambulance to take our new friend away. He'll never remember our names, but he may remember that someone helped him when everyone else left him unconscious in the streets, and I will never forget him or the police who waited with us.

Later that night, with sick still soaking the bottom of my jeans and the smell of vomit spritzed through my hair... worship continued as we celebrated in the club until sunrise. When I remembered that I was wearing a bit of our dear friend's rough night, I couldn't help but smile because I  know Jesus was smiling too.  This is His kind of community... one that selflessly serves the masses, faithfully ministers to the few, and jubilantly celebrates the One true God.

As my facebook status currently indicates, I walked out of church this morning. Standing there, I tried to worship God, but it felt so contrived-  like I was faking it. The music was familar and well played, but my heart was not in it. Too much head noise, too many distractions. The lights flickering from the stage, my annoyance at the group of girls commenting on how I was wearing jeans and a tshirt, the prayers intertwined with the song that sounded like they were straight from a Christianese Hallmark card, singing songs about fire falling down and being the hands and feet of the Gospel knowing that the words are seemingly empty... I could not focus. Nothing in worship changed from the last time I was there, none of these criticisms are new, but for some reason this morning I could not get through the emerging church "Sunday's coming" model  that every church has seeming adopted (catch the funny video reference on vimeo). I dropped to my knees hoping to tune out the distractions and hear God's voice...

"Why are you here? This isn't you. You want to love and serve me with all you have, all I have given you and this isn't the place for you. Here, you are caged. So why are you trying soo hard to fit here? Just leave. Get up, walk to your car, leave. We can talk on your way back. We'll start with your family. Love and serve there. If they see you like this, so passionate and wrecked and excited, they will understand. Go tell them what you have seen, how you have changed, what you desire... let's start there. Get up and worship me...."

So I got up, and as soon as I had the opportunity to sneak out without being distracting, I walked out mid-worship and got in my car. 4.5 hours later....after hours of worship through prayer, spoken word, spontaneous song, and a bit of dancing behind the wheel...

Through a stream of tears, I began telling my brother what God is doing in my life, what God is doing in Ibiza, what I hope God will continue doing in the people I met these last few weeks.  From the perspective of my brother who has known me my entire life and has not necessarily been affirming of what I have been doing recently, "Yeah, that all sounds cool. Sounds like something you'd do. Sounds more like you than what you are doing now. You're going back, right? For a few months, maybe a year or something? I can't see you there forever, well I can't actually see you anywhere forever, but I can see you living in Spain for a bit.  Just be sure to get some international calling on that phone."
 
Survey says: I have a strong feeling I'll be back in Ibiza next summer. The question is just a matter of the length and context of my stay on the island.

Words penned into my journal while watching the sun disappear over the horizon...
 

Last night, the smell of alcohol still on my hands, my jeans damped from sick... I turn to the Word... share a bit of truth, prophesied to the dry bones, trusting in their liberation... my words are His weapons... arrows targeting deception... my hands are His tools, lifting the downtrodden, comforting the shoulders of the brokenhearted... my feet, His vehicle... unveiling His glory and Good News to the nations in the streets... paving the way for the King. His bass fills my ears, my heart invaded by the rhythm of His grace... and this is Home... where earthly destruction meets heavenly beauty, where overindulgence meets selfless worship... here my heart finds its unexpected home... in the proximity or the place? perhaps a little of both... either way, as the sun sets, the lights rise again. as the sky darkens, their dawn breaks... and they'll emerge into the streets... and we'll welcome them home... into Your arms.

It began with dreams of sharing the Gospel in the streets. As the trees were shedding their leaves, my nights were filled with the ghosts of the alleyways. I saw myself standing on the corner chatting with a group of people about Jesus, laying hands on darkened buildings, and treading through the rain drenched European cobblestone.

Before the snow fell, I already knew.The front page of a new Moleskin, in ink... I penned: "Ibiza." As that last dot hit the page, visions of many years past invaded my mind. My secret European dreams.

Oh, I am living the dream. It may only be for two weeks, but this is Heaven on Earth. The mountains, the sea, the hand of God at work, moving with the rhythm of prayer and Spirit, praising Him through song and dance... this is it.

And, the more I am here, the more my heart knows I will return. To the cobblestone, to the pub, to the other side of the world. I cannot explain the allure or the burden, but I feel like I belong here. At the vortex of Spain and the UK, a crazy American is feeling at home.

For the first time in a long time, I feel complete.

"Seriously? $25,000... only 10-15% raised... only five weeks or so left and two of them I'll be in Spain... and I have no clue who to contact.... am I really going to make my budget by August 7th or at least enough of it to begin my internship?"

Last week at Reach the U (intern training), I found myself asking this question often. As the week progressed, I became more and more anxious... my greatest fear ruminating in mind: not having the funds I need on August 7th. I am confident that this internship is where I need to be this year, that my heart is truly at AU for now, that this is the beginning of a crazy life ahead, and that I will be an absolute wreck if things do not fall into place... and that my fears are irrational because God will provide.

Two months ago, our apartment's desk receptionist told me that she felt like the Lord is going to use my support raising process to plant the seed of faith that turns my family back to Him. I am beginning to believe that she is right...

Like  many other family functions, our Father's day picnic turned into a conversation about everyone's financial difficulties and more specifically about my lack of stability and wisdom in my career choice. "You will never come up with that money. The economy is too bad. No one will give because no one has money to give away." True, most people don't have money to give away, but God does. Besides a fraction of everyone's income should be given back to God through tithes and offerings. Some of my supporters are giving a fraction of their tithe to missionaries,an example of why supporting ministries is  not dependent on the economy. The conversation shifts to tithing and whether or not tithing is a cult practice or a religious legality. The concept of giving as a form of worship is unthinkable, and no one believes that God provides. "We do not offer money to the Church until our bills are paid and there is food on the table. God will not pay my bills. He doesn't care about that, and that isn't how He works." While the prosperity Gospel is the furthest thing from my mind, I do believe that God provides and that He should be the first priority in time, money, and resources.

And so, I declared my God does work that way and He most certainly does care. In fact, if you need an example of this, just wait until August 7th. I will call you then, and tell you that I have enough of my budget to begin my internship. Because I am putting God first in my life, He will provide the resources I need to serve Him. 

Like Elijah at Mount Carmel, I issued a challenge with the expectation that  God will make Himself known. I built the altar and am offering myself and all that I am as the sacrifice, I am saturating the wood with water by going to Spain, and I am fully expecting God to light a fire in the last few weeks. This support raising process will be successful not only because God wants me on campus, but also because God wants my family to see what He can and will do if they trust Him and make Him a priority in their lives. 

The verse of the summer is 1 Kings 18: 37:

Answer me, O LORD, answer me, so these people will know that you, O LORD, are God, and that you are turning their hearts back again.

As someone who lives my life through lyrics, I often wish that people could hear the music playing inside my head. If I listed the soundtrack to my life right now, you would understand. So here it is, the music between my ears.

Did you get that? Oh, you thought it would be a little clearer? Nope, because this is what it sounds like to me too. Seven songs by seven artists, a swirling pool of bits of broken records in my mind....