Geri, Meet Facebook

With only four days left in Budapest, we are saying our fair share of "goodbye's." Everyday we wake up, sometimes in a panic, and think, "Ok, did we say 'bye' to 'him' or 'her'...Oh! And what about 'them'?" It's as if we have some sort of sick Christmas list where we cross off the people to whom we've bid adieu. Last Sunday my friend Geri came over to wish us well on our journey and share some French press coffee with us. Geri and I have had many conversations about many topics--politics, hiking, European culture--but I never imagined our last conversation would revolve around friendship within Facebook.

Geri and I have been practicing our respective English and Hungarian speaking skills over coffee with each other for almost a year. Since my Hungarian is about as solid as the Euro and Geri is a beginner-level English speaker, we've both needed the practice. But this Sunday, with much-needed help from caffeine, we spoke freely and with ease about what it means to be a friend in Hungary and on Facebook.

"I don't understand," Geri said while shaking his head and hands simultaneously, "I have a friend, I see him on street or at home, why this cyber world?" Hungarians and Americans define friendship differently. The analogy we often hear and use is one of a peach and a cantaloupe. Americans are like the peach: Easy to access on the outside, but once you get to the core it's much harder to break in. Hungarians are like a cantaloupe: There is a hard outer shell that's difficult to break through, but when you do it's sweet and much softer inside. So you can see why, once you're in, Hungarians take friendship seriously and don't call just anyone their "friend."

Given our fruity analogy, it's easy to see just how American Facebook really is. Everyone can be your friend, in fact you can have thousands of friends--the more, the better! You can sink your teeth into everyone's soft outer skin, "liking" their music, movie or political preferences. It's a hyper-extension of the person behind the keyboard who is constantly updating and refining their internet avatar. Just how real is the person you see on Facebook? Well, that's a question that both Hungarians, philosophers and anyone who has ever thought about dating a potential Facebook "catch" has asked.

It's not that Hungarians aren't on Facebook, because many are, it's just not for Geri. "Where is life, it's right here...You and me." Geri was making his point about the present and it's place in a friendship. Through out our Sunday morning coffee date, Geri made his case for "real friendship" versus "hyper-real friendship." It wasn't an annoying or overbearing attack on something new, like an old man would complain about a new street that brings too much traffic through his neighborhood, it was simply an appeal for life to be enjoyed right now, in the moment.

Instead of refining his circle of friends as those who are "close friends, family" or just "coworkers," Geri prefers to cultivate close friendships over coffee, attend family birthday celebrations and get to know his coworkers at work. What I love about Geri's detachment from Facebook is how genuinely real it makes him. When we're talking about how much we love the coffee we're drinking, he doesn't whip out his smartphone to tell dozens of pseudo-friends about it. Whenever Geri celebrates Christmas with his family in twenty-some-odd days, he won't leave the table to tweet about the outstanding goulash his Mama made. Geri is simply here, with his friends and family, not "out there" promoting his avatar on Facebook or Twitter.

Geri has taught me a lot about being grounded. "How many friends do you have in the US," he asked me just before he left. Because I know Geri, I didn't feel the need to impress him with some great number. "Three, maybe four close ones," I answered, constantly reevaluating in my mind the ones I can truly call friends. Geri simply nodded his head, finished the last of his coffee and smiled.

Hospitality and the "Pop-In"

Hungary has taught us how to be spontaneous. The other night our friend Dáni Hamar came by to pick something up and hang out for a few minutes. As we stood in our entry way, talking about the change in weather and the boat trip we recently took together, Dáni’s brother, Dávid, called. It turned out Dávid was just down the street and Dáni wanted to know if his brother could pop in for a minute.

Now Let me pause the story here. Honesty is a quality we both admire and sometimes loathe in our Hungarian friends; it depends on the situation and what they are being honest about. But that night, as Dáni hung up the phone and waited for his brother to arrive, he made an honest inquiry about whether we could host the two Hungarian brothers for dinner. His boldness in asking us to host a meal on such short notice was both endearing and exciting!

Luckily for the brothers Hamar, Allie had already planned on whipping up some Tex-Mex for the evening. So there we were, two Americans rushing around the kitchen, eager to show our Hungarian friends that we too can be hospitable. When Dávid walked through the door, Allie was preparing chicken tacos with beans and rice, while I took the cork out of our best bottle of wine. We all stood in our kitchen, sipping wine and laughing as we told stories and waited for our impromptu supper.

The meal was a hit! Allie hit a home run, which is no surprise to anyone who knows her. Through out supper our conversation was only interrupted by, “mmmm” or “Ha! This is so good--Nagyon finom, Allie (very delicious, Allie)!”

Afterwards, we sat with our elbows on the table and reclined into more casual conversation. I kept thinking, “This moment was brought to you by ‘Spontaneity’.” And it’s true, because if we had said we were too busy or didn’t have enough food for everyone, we would have missed this moment. Nights like that one make me incredibly thankful for Hungarian spontaneity, honesty, hospitality and their appetite for life.

Cold War Kids: Mine is Yours

One of the drawbacks to living overseas is IP restriction. For example, if you want to watch a late-night movie on NetFlix or listen to free music on Pandora, you will find an unnerving message awaiting you: “Due to licensing restrictions, we cannot allow you to watch/listen to this awesome site you once greatly enjoyed in the US--have a terrible day.” The first time Pandora recognized my European IP address and slammed its cyber-door, I scrambled to find alternatives for sampling new music. Thankfully, I stumbled upon Jango.com and there found the new album by the Cold War Kids, Mine is Yours.

The Cold War Kids were wedged in between Cage the Elephant and The Black Keys on Jango’s “alternative” station. Their “alternative” sound is exactly why I love CWK. Lead singer Nathan Willet’s unconventionally high voice and penetrating melodies are a perfect match for guitarist Jonnie Russell’s jagged riffs. The Kids from Long Beach, CA manage to channel Southern blues with triumphant soul searching and pulsing rhythms. Though they've not yet won awards for their creative efforts, their latest album establishes CWK as an unsuspecting talent with stories to tell.

In Mine is Yours, Willet and company get much more personal than their last two studio LP’s. Songs like “Louder Than Ever” and “Mine is Yours” portray a journey away from love and back into its arms again. Instead of detached, third-person storytelling, Willet sings about “I” and “you.” In “Louder Than Ever,” he reflects, “I was takin’ you for granted, you were holding the reigns, but I can hear you louder than ever.” The simple switch to first person opens up CWK for inspection and allows listeners to connect with Willet’s winding path.

When I listen to Mine is Yours, I hear someone who has traveled the globe, tapped into the full spectrum of human emotions and lived to sing about it. And after the last few years, it's a surprise to many that CWK is singing at all. Following the huge success of their first album (Robbers & Cowards), the Kids received scathing reviews for their sophomore album (Loyalty to Loyalty). The effort was criticized as sloppy, loose and devoid of any real substance. In an interview with RELEVANT Magazine, Willet admits to selling his own bandmates short by closing himself off and "not stepping out and saying something" in their earlier efforts.

The darkness, confusion and even criticism of their second album seems to have laid the groundwork for something more authentic. The result is a weathered, yet brighter, musical expression, one that I can respect. The song "Finally Begin" betrays the wounded heart of an artist who faces the cold, cruel world and is left with a decision. "Do I open up my arms wide and learn to trust again or keep my eyes to the floor and just look out for myself?"

It’s risky being an artist. Art asks you to put yourself “out there” for the masses to either empathize or criticize, understand or scorn and various shades in between. I appreciate CWK’s boldness in sharing their experiences, especially since they were at first hesitant to do so. It takes a lot of guts and talent to use music to tell a story, especially your own. Even so, the Cold War Kids' emotional investment on this album gives us something deeper than story, where narrative and experience intersect: real life.

Bence, meet Starbucks

Two weeks ago I met my friend Bence for coffee. The last time we met, we watched the Dallas Mavericks beat the Heat in a replay of the NBA Finals. Since our prior meeting had us feeling “quite American,” we agreed to meet at a newly-built Starbucks for a cup of Joe.

Inside the Starbucks at Király Utca (“King Street”), Bence was eager with curiosity. “I’ve never had Starbucks before, so this will be a first,” he said in a barely-excited rhythm fit for 9:30am. Unbeknownst to Bence, his morning was about to get very interesting when Hungarian and American cultures would engage in an awkward head-on collision.

Bence reluctantly dished out the money for over-priced coffee and was then asked, “And what’s your name?” The question caught him off guard and in a double take he replied, “tessék (“excuse me”)? He had already given too much money for coffee that ranks about average in Budapest, but Bence wasn’t sure he wanted to give his name to Lady Starbucks as well. Asking for someone’s name is just as personal as asking, “How are you,” and it doesn’t happen here as a passing gesture. All the same, he relented and the strangely friendly barista scribbled his name on the cup.

“What was that about,” Bence turned to me and asked. Now I had some explaining to do. Because my wife was once a fully-indoctrinated Starbucks barista, I was able to draw from my well of Starbucks corporate and consumer culture.

I explained that most Americans don’t sit down for a three-hour cup of coffee (which is common in Hungary) and so asking someone’s name puts a personal touch on an otherwise impersonal transaction. Cue the blank stare. I went on to tell Bence about the “third place,” a setting that isn’t home or work but a place where “community happens.” “You see, Bence, Americans go from home, to car, to office and so they need a place where they can actually interact with one another,” I said as we made our way to an air-conditioned lounge area.

I could tell that Bence’s head was still spinning. In Hungary, community is one of the primary values of the culture. We often have people apologize to us for being able to “only” spend two hours over tea, coffee or a beer. Even when you are growing plants on your balcony, everyone in the building will have an opinion on how they should be watered and taken care of. As opposed to America, one must work hard to separate themselves from community in Budapest.

Eventually Bence settled into his comfortable chair and enjoyed his first Starbucks coffee. We had a great conversation, talked about sports, music and international politics. But the best part of our time that morning took place when we left the American coffeehouse. For the next two hours Bence led me on a walk through the city. Much like our meandering conversation, we wandered about and simply enjoyed the cool, morning air.

Bence taught me that I don’t need a building to have community. All I need is people, time and genuine interest. As a timesaving, on-the-go American, I have gained a lot from Hungarians. And if we leave Hungary next year, I hope I can take back with me Bence’s high appraisal of community. I hope I can still schedule coffee appointments with no agenda or impending meeting. I pray I can make space for people to interrupt my schedule, even if it means paying four bucks for over-roasted coffee—for community, it’s worth it.

Video: "You're Never Giving Up"

This song has been wrecking my heart for months now. Ever since I've found Jonathan David Helser's music I've been in touch with someone who uses worship music to sincerely connect with the living God. As someone who is now leading worship, it's a constant challenge to put my heart out there and have it be something genuine that I am singing to God and leading other people to worship through.

Because the past year and four months has been one in which I have often questioned, "Is God really here for me; Will He leave me this time," this song has broken me with the reminder of God's unending love.

Watch the video above and let me know what you think. What spoke to you about the song? Which words touched your heart?

Listen to the King

When the NBA Finals kicked off, I swore I wouldn’t be one of “those guys” who cheered for the Mavs simply to spite the Heat. Though Lebron James has done enough to make people criticize him from afar (see here and here) and the Miami fans are rumored to be the worst in the NBA (according to Charles Barkley’s trustworthy opinion), rooting against a team--or player--seems to suck the fun out of sports and replace it with bitterness. Even with all of this well-reasoned basketball moralizing, I caved in by Game Six and caught myself hoping for a Heat loss.

I turned sour towards the Heat after I saw a video with Dwayne Wade and Lebron mocking Dirk Nowitzki. I don’t watch a lot of Mavs basketball, but while we visited our family in the Dallas I was able to catch the Western Conference Finals. Dirk played incredibly and with great character, doing little, if any, trash talking. So when it was reported that Dirk played sick and with a fever against the Heat in Game Four of the Finals, I was impressed! The Heat, not so much. Apparently Wade and Lebron thought his sickness was a little feigned and that the media blew it out of proportion--hence the video linked above.

Whatever their reason for poking fun at Dirk, the whole incident was arrogant and, in Dirk’s own words, “childish.” So I decided from that moment on to cheer against the Heat (oh yeah, and for the Mavs). What was I looking for in a Mavs win? For Wade and Lebron to be put in their place, to learn their lesson and recognize the higher road of integrity. In two words: too much.

I became like so many sports fans who put entirely too much stock in a game. In wanting “justice” for Dirk and heaping contempt on Wade and Lebron, I was acting no better than the European soccer hooligans I hear so much about, who fight and maim “football” players--on the home or visiting team--for winning or losing. All of the negative energy is tied to an unmerciful and unforgiving attitude. So I cannot help but wonder, what does my so-called defense-of-Dirk say about me?

When the Heat finally lost Game Six, Lebron was asked if it bothered him that so many people were hoping he would fail? He answered,

“Absolutely not, because at the end of the day, all the people that were rooting on me to fail, at the end of the day, they have to wake up tomorrow and have the same life that they had before they woke up today...They have the same personal problems they had today.” (Brian Mahoney, AP)

I believe I’ve just been told. The uncrowned king has a point. All of us sports fans who hang our entire hopes and hate, cheers and boo’s or dreams and despair on professional sports need to get a life: our own. Lebron exercised outstanding wisdom by sending the hate he so often received back to its rightful owner. My hatred for Lebron, any athlete or team says a lot more about what’s inside of me than it does about someone’s sports performance.

Another King once said, “[O]ut of the overflow of [the] heart [the] mouth speaks.” And, “[H]e who has been forgiven little loves little.” I must admit that I’ve had a tough week and Lebron James made for a perfect whipping boy. On him I could hang my condemnation because it felt good to hurt other people when I was hurting. The times when I am most harsh on my favorite or most hated sports icons are usually those very times when I myself feel hated or condemned.

Lebron is right. I still have this aching heart and imperfect life, even after a Mavs victory. Sports is great for entertainment, but in terms of therapy it can only indicate which problems we have in life; not solve them. Jesus is also right. My reactions to these sports events are a telling barometer for where my heart lies. In the meantime I will continue to watch and enjoy sports. More importantly, I will continue to be thankful for the King who was and is willing to take my scorn, abuse, blows. For the One who through life and death revealed my hatred and then was gracious enough to begin healing it.

Why all the blood?

This morning I opened my laptop and began surfing around the internet, searching for something interesting to start my day. Every morning I look for an exciting and revelatory news headline or an encouraging sports score. "Wow, Syria is protesting...the Astros won, just six more games to .500!" What I didn't expect this morning, largely because I forgot what day it is, was a gruesome picture of Jesus staring at me from the cross.

The shot-in-the-arm I was looking for in my dawn, internet surf session was more like a shot in the gut. "Well, that's kind of a downer," I thought. And then it hit me, "What's the cross all about anyway; What's the point in Jesus being betrayed, tortured and dying; Isn't this 'Good Friday' thing a little over-the-top?"

The thing that bothers me most about the cross of Jesus is all the blood. I hate blood. I can't be around it, I don't like talking about it and I certainly don't like seeing my own. I once convinced a professor to turn off an in-class video of a woman giving birth because I had turned white and put my head between my legs--the blood and flowing liquids were just too much for me.

Even though I'm a Christian, I confess that sometimes it's hard for me to understand why Jesus had to shed his blood--and so much of it. Why did he go through the scourging and have his flesh torn from his body? Why did he willingly receive a barbed crown of thorns on his head (Everyone knows head wounds bleed easily)? And why did the Son of God, "God with us," go through a merciless Roman crucifixion? Jesus' blood would have been smeared all over Jerusalem. His divine DNA trail would have been easily followed to the place of his death outside the holy city.

A week ago I was walking to church when I had to step over a large, fresh pool of blood on the sidewalk. I have no idea how it got there, but its owner was long gone and the blood was slowly moving down a slope into the street. Throughout my entire week I had to walk down that same sidewalk. Each day I watched as the red blood made a path, turned brown and stained the concrete. I kept wondering, "What happened to this person last Saturday night?" If Jesus was looking to make a lasting impression with his death, there's no question that he chose the perfect means to his end.

So, like I asked at the beginning, why? In my clean, sterile, controlled little world, the shedding of blood interrupts everything. Suddenly I'm uncomfortable and can't keep from asking "why?" Inherent in my question is a desperate plea for sanity, for justice, for things to be cleaned up. Part of me simply hates the sight of blood, but a deeper part of me hates why it was violently forced from someone's body. To understand the "why" behind violence, we must learn to see it in ourselves.

It's too easy to remove myself from headlines about a violent "Ivory Coast Civil War" or the deaths of "800 Egyptian protestors." Most days it's hard to see how such tragic events relate to me. It's easier for me to scoff at "barbaric" acts of violence and separate myself from "those monsters." But when I face up to the innocent blood I shed daily, my perspective changes.

I am in traffic, my blood begins pumping and I fire a murderous gesture or comment at anyone who dares to interfere. I am at work, and I cut the throat of anyone who stands in my upward path to the top. I am on the bus, the doors fling open and I thrust my shoulder into the people who won't let me get off before they try to get on. The truth is, I do everything I can to protect myself and my world--even if it means using violent force.

Jesus knew we needed to see the physical manifestation of all our violent acts. He knew we needed to see the shed blood in order to understand the severity of our crimes. He understood that not everyone would understand, and some people would reject the cross outright. But if it weren't for the most innocent, beautiful and miraculous of men suffering at the hands of sinners and holy people alike, we might have gone on thinking everything was alright. If it weren't for the bloody crucifixion of Jesus, we might have stayed in our plastic-wrapped worlds, content to ignore our pain and the pain around us. Jesus' spilled blood made quite a mess, but it's the only way we can come clean.