insulated

After coming back from two days up in a deer stand, out in the woods overlooking the Mississippi, in the midst of the wind, the cold November rain (insert GNR reference here), the dawns and dusks, I came to this realization:

It is just so easy to be insulated.

Insulated. Not literally. Metaphorically.

It's so easy to be metaphorically insulated.

Here's how I get insulated:

Work. I'm a pastor. I live that vocation. Rarely am I not engaged with it (except for times out in the woods, like these past couple of days). I'm thinking about people, about how to do church, about who's doing what, about struggles, about vision, about values and church culture, about theology, about sermons, about communication, about staff dynamics, about elders and deacons, about musical style, and I could go on and on even longer than I already have.

I become insulated--surrounded by churchy things--so much so that it's sometimes difficult to engage with things outside of it.

Here's another way I get insulated:

Personal comfort. I lay on the couch. I eat what I want, when I want. I exercise when I want, and don't when I don't want to. I get insulated in my personal comfort to the point where things that just aren't as comfortable (but perhaps good for me) get pushed away.

And another way I get insulated:

Academia (for lack of a better word). I can think in lofty terms, write in lofty terms, keep up with the news, with current events, with trends, with opinions, with idealism. I have that vein in me. I enjoy reading about what people are saying, thinking, feeling, joking about when it comes to this country, our politics, our economy, the state of Christianity, the state of the evangelical church in America, it's relationship to the rest of America, etc. Sometimes I get insulated to the point where I go to an ivory tower with all of the other academics--people who think, talk, and write in the way that I do, at the expense of those who do not.

When did I come to this realization? Well, it was at about 5:45 am Wednesday morning, in the pitch dark, roaming the hills of Lansing, IA, unable to find my treestand, having slept for one hour the night before and just finished driving another two. And I thought to myself:

"Why do you like to do this? You're cold, you're tired, you're frustrated. Just go back to the car. Take a nap. Wait for it to get light. Then, if you feel like it, get up into the stand."

And then I thought:

"You're being a baby. When did you get to be a baby? When did the stuff in you get to be so soft, so easily overcome?"

So, I did what is incredibly difficult for an older brother to do: I walked to where I knew my younger brother was sitting, had him climb down, and show me to my stand (and yes, I heard about it for the rest of the weekend, and I'm sure I'll be hearing about it for the rest of my life).

But the alternative was worse. It was to settle for being soft. To be defeated. To become how I had been insulated.

Now, on the back end of the trip, I'm energized. I've regained some perspective. I've started back down a good path--one toward reclaiming some parts of myself that just plain get lost in the insulation of life. It's good to be gentle, but not good to be soft. It's good to be sensitive, but not good to be weak. It's good to be in church, to be comfortable, to be academic, but not good when that's all you are, and that's all you can relate to.

How do you get insulated?