Southward, ho!

In true nomadic style, we up and moved again. Possibly because of the pandemic. More likely because relocating has historically been a way of life for me. I tried to resist those urges. For years I tried. So far I cannot resist trying out the new and relegating what was to fond memories.

We had some great memories in Republic. We also had some pretty bad ones. Ronnie dying is one of the bad. The sense of community was one of the good. The worst was the amount of passing that took place due to the Big Virus. I nearly joined the departed. It kind of soured a lot of our experience.

Everyone who knows me well knows that I prefer sub tropical climates. I found out that I had the credit and the income to purchase a home where it stays warm, mostly. I did. Most of the technical stuff, as well as the physical moving stuff, took place while my bride and I were still under the devastating effects of the dreaded Covid. It was an ordeal and an adventure all combined.

So here I write from my office in sunny central Florida. It is the cold time of the year. Cold here is relative, and relatively short lived. Back at our house in Washington it is 15 degrees and cold. Here it is 50 degrees and we feel that as cold. Two weeks ago we were in the backyard swimming pool. Not today. That’s ok.

If you follow, and so few of you do, I just wanted to update you. I am getting back into my writing head space. I have to push back the urgency of what seems necessary but really isn’t. It is a work in progress. If you haven’t as yet given up on the simple celt, please stick around. I always try to keep it interesting. At least the locations are always different. Who knows, next time I write we might be in Bora Bora.


Winter fest was fun. Warm, a bit above freezing, but cold enough to keep it wintery. Because of the recent warm weather the city went to where they had all the snow stacked that they had removed from the streets previous and placed it strategically on the main street as needed for the events. They hauled it all away, then hauled it back for the occasion.  Job security.

Our event was the snow sculpture competition. We had some friends who were recent additions to our tribe make the trip down from their mountain nest to help out. Being the local barber, I made the plan for a giant mustache with curved up ends. Our two families had a great time grooming the stack of snow into a reasonable facsimile of a handlebar mustache.

I had only recently moved to this small hamlet tucked deep in the gold filled mountains of Eastern Washington. I felt had become overwhelmed in our previous life on the coast. I had opened several businesses, managed a growing staff, and was busy building my status as a motivational speaker and trainer.  One day we just sort of bagged it all and moved to a small, dare I say minuscule, little town in the mountains.  Being away from the busy crowds and lifestyle of the coast had been refreshing. In fact, I felt better than I had in years.

This was the first time I had ever seen our little town busy. Where there were seldom more than a handful of folk walking the main drag at any given time.  I ha d a small shop on the street and spent days there doing my work in front of the big picture windows looking out and down the main drag in town.  Even at it’s busiest there were hardly more people out there than could fit in a large van.  Now there were a few hundred. As my wife, kids, and a friend walked the sidewalks looking at the booths I felt uncomfortable. At first it was a mild anxiety, but over the next fifteen minutes or so it grew into an inner rage that I was having to fight down. There were too many people. They were too close. They were close behind me, which was the worst of all. I began to panic.

The center of the blocked off street had only a few folk milling around and I escaped to there, breathing, almost panting with relief.  My wife looked at me a little funny but it didn’t look like a big deal so she went right back to enjoying the day. Inside, it was more than a big deal, it was huge!

We managed to enjoy all that Winterfest had to offer. We didn’t win with our gargantuan cookie duster, but we got a lot of encouraging comments. We went on to share a delightful dinner with our friends, family, and extended family, later that evening, but my response to the crowds left me questioning.

In the next couple of weeks I did some inner searching as well as some internet searching. It was then I discovered my secret, I had enochophobia. Enochophobia is what they call a fear of crowds.

Enochophobia made sense. I thought about my life, the things that made me think I was somehow abnormal and defective. I loved live music but I hated concerts. I loved faith teaching, but hated going to church. I could wait patiently for hours but I hated being in line. People, crowds of them, made me miserable.

Enochophobia. Enoch was an Old Testament fellow who had so much love for God that he never died. Enochophobia makes me die a thousand times over when I am around too many people.

I think I am a rare version of extroverted enochophobe. I really like, care for, even love folk. I love having people over for dinner, small groups, and jam sessions. The more there are, though, the more uncomfortable I become. There is a tipping point where my extroverted energy becomes overtaken with my crowd anxiety. Trouble is it changes from situation to situation.

It took me moving away from the crowds to realize those very crowds were a great cause of misery. I couldn’t be happy because I was almost always either uncomfortable or on the verge of it.  I am a little perturbed that I wasn’t aware before. Maybe I could have done something about it. Maybe counseling, acupuncture or electric shock therapy could have helped. My nature opened doors for me that my anxiety would never allow me to enter through, or if I did it would not allow me to remain.

Without really knowing why, I was given the cure, or at least the medication. At the urging of The Spirit I moved away from the crowds and the press. I was planted in a community stuck in the 1950’s. I was told to become faithfully rooted in this little hamlet where crowds are rare, community is common, and where love is the cure.

I don’t know if my mountainside medicating will ever cure my enochophobia.  I don’t even know at this point that I am interested in a cure.  Like I said, I feel better than I have in years.  I suppose the occasional crowd that springs up can be managed.  Maybe I can pray or ask for prayer.  Maybe I will just be, and enjoy being, and let things be as they are.  Maybe, just maybe, that little phobia was put there for a reason, to mold me, to make me, or even to send me.  Who knows, I may have just been born for such a time and such a place as this.20190119_1234365379708117099613349.jpg

What is a Barbershop?

barber pole ferndaleWhat is a barbershop? Mind you, I am not referring to the little unisex hair place that hung a barber pole outside its door hoping to lure in a few men to round out their daily payroll, or a local salon.  I am talking about a barbershop. I am talking about the kind of place your grandpa went.  Hopefully your dad was lucky enough to spend time there as well. What is it that makes it that place special. What makes it a barbershop?

As intangible as it might seem there are qualities that make up a barbershop. For those who’s senses are attuned authenticity can be apparent in an instant.  You can often tell the moment you walk inside and are greeted by the smell of bay rum aftershave, barbicide and talc. Pause a moment , let your senses drink in the sound of conversations, some whispered some loud, and even some laughter. Clippers buzz, shears snip with their gentle click clicking and the pop of the drape shaken out as a new guest ascends the manly throne of tonsorial supremacy.

Each barbershop is different. While there may be replication there is always revelation. A barbershop, a real barbershop, cannot be duplicated. It is as different as  many children of the same parents. They may look similar, but each is a treasure chest of personality, special ability, strengths and weaknesses. They may sound similar, smell similar and look similar, but like snowflakes and faces, no two are exactly alike.

There are those who have tried, but once exact duplication takes place the intangible magic that is the barbershop disappears, the salon slowly creeps in. It covers, smothers, and takes over its host. What started as a living breathing example of classic Americana is quickly transformed into a franchises. No heart. No soul. Simply a gathering of automatons cutting off men’s hair to the end of payment, driven by volume, preying upon the next pour soul who is doomed to this purgatory or even hell only because no one has told them the good news;  man-topia is real, accessible, and they are welcome there.

What is a barbershop? It is like the old Celtic Monasteries. It is people gathered around mission. It is a reflection of the community around and in, presided over by a loving Abbot and cared for by tonsiary monks, apprentices and masters.  It is a gathering of all the folk from as far as the news will spread. It is nobleman and proletarian equal, as the floor is always level in the barbershop.  It is at its core hospitality, a depository of thought, and a dispensary of good will as well as good looks. What a barbershop really is, is community.

What is a barbershop? It is you. It is the sum total of all those who come in. Some  may take away more than they leave, and others may deposit extravagantly, but it is a mixture of all the men who come and engage, granting others a fifteen minute audience of their own unique value, allowing that to be blended into the pot of humanity that is The Barbershop.

The Community Phenomenon

img10How this became, what it is, and how it fits into God’s plan.

My wife and I have the privilege of presiding over a wonderful expression of community located in the old downtown area of a mid sized city in the Northwest.  It is nearly everything that I ever had a vision for in all the years that I have given myself over to visions.  It is rewarding on personal, professional, and spiritual levels. I want to write a book, sell a million copies and spend winters in Hawaii, but I really cannot take credit for any of this.  If anyone had given me instructional steps in order to arrive at this destination I would likely have never followed them.  I am pretty sure that this wonderful place and community that has risen up has been orchestrated, without much help from me, by the loving and creative hand of the living and loving God.

To start with, my early experiences as a Christ Follower were in and through expressions of community. More specifically, I first became a Christ Follower when I spent time with a group of crazy in love with Jesus types who chose to live in the same place, sharing their lives with each other and the people they came in contact with.  They loved me, lived out their faith openly, and eventually invited me to live with them.  That is where I accepted Jesus and first learned what it meant to be His disciple. That experience is indelibly etched into every part of my mind.

While community is a major part of my spiritual DNA, I have not always cooperated with it.  For years I allowed myself to be controlled by others desires.  I wanted approval and acceptance.  I had experienced it through community even before I became a part of community and I was hungry for that.  Outside of community, and I suppose inside some, acceptance was based upon a level of performance.  Rather than being a part of a living and vibrant community I allowed myself to be led through phase after phase of hoop jumping in order to receive what I craved. I had some success but it felt like I was performing rather than living inside the real.  I left my barbarian  roots and became domesticated, like a tiger trained to perform in the circus.

It has been said that a person cannot consistently behave in a manner inconsistent with who they are.  I paced back and forth inside the cage of my domesticated Christian life and longed for the wild. Eventually I blew up my life. Nearly every person close enough to be in the blast zone chose to remove themselves to a safe distance.  I stood willingly at ground zero and allowed myself, the person that I had become, to be blown to bits. With no one left to influence I embarked on a season of healing.  My own toxicity was exposed and I was slowly being nursed back to health.  I made some choices in the early days that were deliberately crafted to allow myself to be fully engaged and fully compliant to whatever God might have in store for my future. I gave up my commercial driving career and trained in the simple craft of cutting hair. After a couple of years of recovery, one in which I stayed mostly hidden from anyone I may have known before, my core DNA, my hunger for community that could only be sated by meaningful connection, began to emerge.

After a bit of time working with other barbers I opened my first barber shop. I opened it inside a sporting goods store appropriately named Mayberry, after the small town in the 60s TV sitcom, The Andy Griffith Show.  It was the owner’s desire to create the same small town atmosphere that he grew up with.  He sold a variety of goods from clothing to sportswear and from toys to fishing poles. He even had a soda fountain inside with inexpensive old fashioned milkshakes.  With the addition of my barber shop his vision was complete. Now all that was needed was the community to begin to show up.

Inside my little corner shop I kept my head low and worked hard at becoming the best barber I could possibly be.  Over time my old, affable personality began to surface.  People began to come into the shop just to enjoy a visit as well as to get a haircut. My overhead was low, graciously low, so I was able to charge less than most of my competitors.  That helped get the word out but there was something more that seemed to be drawing folk in.  We were doing well inside the shop, outside, not so much.  The store was big and open with high ceilings and a concrete floor.  There were other places nearby that sold virtually everything that was offered and because of their longevity were often able to offer them for less money.  The soda fountain was intended to be a break even business to draw people inside to shop, as was the barber shop, but people would come to the barber shop or sit at the soda fountain and often times did not purchase any store items.  Things were tight for the store owners and their vision wasn’t panning out like they had hoped.

Things were going so well for us that we decided to expand our business.  Since the store was unwilling to rent us any img12more space we ended up signing a five year lease on a 1200 square foot building in an old part of town.  We moved in and decorated, added some additional rooms for treatment options and opened up a salon.  It was a disastrous move.  From the very beginning the people that we hired took advantage of our divided attention between the two business.  Our staff began not showing up for appointments, helping themselves to products we purchased and using them to earn money at home, and simply pocketing cash payment and writing those appointment as no shows.  It was my first time ever having to fire someone.  I didn’t like it.  It wasn’t fun, but it was necessary.  Now I had a commercial building with a lease and no one to work inside.  We closed the doors to the business and contemplated our next steps.

After having the new location closed for over a month I decided to reopen it as a second barber shop.  I had a barber that had been working for me since the previous year and my stepson had graduated from beauty school and was working in the shop doing a great job. Since it seemed that everything was in place I did a little bit of redecorating and began to cut hair in the new place.

Things in the new place were painfully slow.  I barely made overhead for the first couple of months.  I was open four days per week and worked the other three days of the week in the old shop so that I could continue to pay rent and food at home.  It was during a lull in the action at the old shop when the owner of the store took me aside.  He told me their business was loosing too much money and that they would be closing the doors.  I asked how much time did had before they closed the doors and he told me, “Three weeks”.  In any other setting that would have been a death sentence for our business.  Three weeks was not enough time to even find a suitable location, let alone set up, furnish, and let your clientele know about the move.  Providentially we didn’t have to worry about that. What seemed to be an anchor on our moving forward now turned out to be a lifeboat!

Things began to pick up pretty soon after we moved full time into our new location.  We had five times the room that we had previously and we moved around and tried different variations.  Our goal and vision wasn’t just for a barber shop.  That longing for community stuck deep inside my wife’s spirit and mine as well.  We talked out and vision cast various ways in which to be missional in our community.  We thought of ways to empower small group ministry using our facility. We thought of giving the open space over to youth ministry.  We thought about opening a coffee shop and using that to reach out missionally to our community.  All the time I was shifting and moving things around trying to find ways to best practices for reaching out and creating community.  All the time I was trying to find the right thing to do, God was busy just doing.


Within one year of opening the new shop as a full time barber shop things were starting to pop.  We never spent a dime on advertising.  We just didn’t have it.  Even without a marketing budget or strategy, people began to talk about our shop. People were giving us kind and encouraging reviews on the internet, making us the top reviewed shop on Yelp, Tripadvisor and Google.  King 5, a Seattle TV news organization rated us number 5 in all of Western Washington the first year and number 8 the second.  That was competing with shops in cities like Seattle, Tacoma, Olympia and Everett.  One after another guys would come in to get their haircut for the first time.  When asked how they heard about us they would often tell us that a friend, or a room mate, or a coworker had sent them.  People talked about us in the community.  Guys would notice other guys haircuts and ask where they got theirs done and they would send them our way.  Business was growing.

I am not a businessman, I am a doer.  My wife and I both love showing hospitality and I also love cutting hair.  The craft as well as the interaction fires all the right neurons in my brain making it the most rewarding activity I had ever participated in.  I am energized by the conversation and the connection between myself, the barbers that work with me, and the wonderful array of diverse men, and a few gals, who come and sit in our 100 year old barber chairs for some tonsorial ministry.  It seems to be working.  People come in and more come in each week.  Now that talk isn’t just about the quality haircut, it is about the feel, the vibe, the sense of community they feel.  Our latest configuration of the shop puts the barbering in a 300 square foot area in the back and makes about 800 square feet available for common areas.  It is becoming a place where people like to be, a place where people connect with us and with each other.  Somehow, in spite of my best efforts, community began to happen and it happens daily.

Back before I blew up my life, back when I was following what I knew was the call of God to become a pastor, I had a pretty clear vision of what being a pastor meant.  It meant that you were the guy that stood in the front of the little box with the cross on top and taught people from the Bible.  You met with them, listened to their problems and offered some Jesus ways to health and wholeness.  It all looked pretty much like every other pastor I had ever seen.  After the “big bang” I felt, and was told, that I was not longer qualified to be a pastor.  That was ok with me.  I loved Jesus a whole lot, but I was pretty well ticked off at his fiance and didn’t want much to do with her.  Barbering was fine with me.  The hours were more predictable, the customers much more agreeable, and the pay was better too.

Had you asked me at any given point while I was an official pastor what I wanted to accomplish, I would have given you the following list;

  1.  I wanted to be a friend to sinners, perhaps influencing them to consider Christ for the first time
  2. I wanted to engage the newly converted, influencing them to become full on, crazy in love disciples of Christ
  3. I wanted to influence disciples to consider giving their lives over to the mission of Christ outside of the box
  4. I wanted to be influence by and influence the movers and shakers out doing the work.

During any given week I will spend 15 quality minutes with those who haven’t surrendered to Jesus. We talk about everything under the sun, establishing a base of trust.  When the time is right, when the need is there, when the heart is soft, I point them toward Christ.  I have prayed for the terminally ill in my barber chair.  I held the weeping and grieving as they cried out their despair in that same chair.  I have offered advices, direction, and a hundred different stories to the newly converted and seriously committed disciples of Christ.  Interns and beginning vocational types have sat in my chair to receive prayer, encouragement, and perhaps an insidious thought or two sparking a hunger to perhaps think outside the box.  I also get to spend the time with the leaders of more than a dozen churches ranging from 50 to 5,000 members.  I make their hair look great and share what is on my heart.  They share back and we are both encouraged or challenged.  In all I would have to say that my regular congregation and visitors are so numerous that I have become more of a success as a pastor behind the chair than I ever had behind the pulpit.  Church happens, ministry happens, and I don’t have to make it happen.  I simply pick up my clippers and my comb and I jump right in to whatever God is doing on a given day.  It is an amazing thing to take part in.

I used to tell people that no matter how far you stray, the center of God’s will is one decision away.  I think about Israel in the desert. The followed the pillar of smoke or fire that was the Presence of God whenever and wherever it moved.  Each and every day they walked outside of their tents and there was enough food for the day.  It didn’t matter how much they gathered our how little, it was always enough and it spoiled if you tried to save any for the next day.  Each day was a matter of trust.  One decision, the decision to follow.  I don’t know what the future holds for my family.  An old neck injury has caused loss of feeling in my right hand and a great deal of pain on those busy days.  My volume is down, but my spirits are up.  We may look outside the tent one morning and see that the presence of God is moving.  We are committed to follow this adventure until the chapter closes on our individual adventures and opens to the adventures of our children.  We have had two precious little boys during our journey into this life we now live.  We also have two grown children as well as a number of surrogate children who we offer love and share our lives with.  We want to remain passionate about following God wherever He leads and joyful in wherever He stops.  There are people out there to love.  For now we have a community.  It didn’t really seem possible to me at the beginning this is what was going to become, but it is an amazing thing to be a part of.  I have great company on this journey.  My wife, Angela, is the first one to make me believe I didn’t have to live my life they way others thought I should.  She hitched up her wagon for the ride and makes sure that I am always looking beyond what is and into what might become.  My boys are full of life and personality.  They are both growing up in the barber shop, surrounded by the community of creation that is all around us.  I hope that they will become to love God and love the people that God loved so much that He gave His one and only Son.  I believe for them to be a gift to their generation.  I will keep you posted as the journey continues.

Evolving Missionality

I never really got the whole being “called” thing.  I got the part about the longings and the barberleanings toward vocational ministry, I just never connected preaching the gospel with living the gospel until much later in life.  I had a “called” experience when I was around ten years old.  It was clear, it was supernatural, and it was completely foreign to my life experience.  I had lived my young life neck deep in a typical, non-religious, red neck sort of way which disregarded sin and consequences.  Since it was what I knew it was what I lived.  The church, at least at that time, didn’t communicate well how to embrace the alternative life of living for Jesus, they just said to do it.

Upbringing and wiring sort of worked against me getting the whole thing of living and looking like someone who was called to pastoral ministry.  Still, whenever I was asked anything about what I wanted to do or to be I would usually reply that I wanted to be a pastor.  The response was most often a snicker or two, but that really didn’t matter.  I knew somehow deep inside of me that God had at one point in time communicated directly with my spirit and told me that I was to become a pastor.  When I finally began to connect that the Christian lifestyle was decidedly different from the one that I was leading I began to attempt to live like a Christian was supposed to live. I went to church, wore a tie, spoke more like the King James version of the Bible than some hick from the Colorado high country.  I was successful for extended periods of time, but most often it seemed that living correctly didn’t fit well.   Not only didn’t it fit but it also didn’t feel like the real thing.  From time to time in total frustration I would take off my Jesus suit and kick around in my regular clothes.  After a while I would feel guilt and shame and I would reluctantly put on my Jesus suit again and try to appear, at least from the outside, like someone who belonged in ministry.

A few years back I was looking over my life and was frustrated at the lack of mentorship in my life   No one really wanted to come along side of me and help me find the way.  Most of what I thought was acceptance was generally using me for what I had to offer with the promise of mentorship, but those promises never really materialized.  Once my usefulness was used up or there were other useful options I was discarded.  I resented that until I realized that my Jesus suit never really gave anyone access to the real me.

I finally, painfully, became a church pastor.  I had struck up a truce with my Jesus suit and even though it was obviously not a good fit I still wore it well enough to be accepted, at least in some circles.   I was trying to fit in with the religious crowd.  First and foremost I needed to find acceptance in the higher circles of denominational dominion, then I had to find religious folk who would allow me to be their pastor.  I managed to squeak through after several years of hard work.  My pastoral ministry hardly lasted a decade before I flamed out at high altitude, spinning out of control into the earth.  I shattered my dreams of fulfilling the “call” and effectively burned up my Jesus suit.  Now what to do with the rest of my life.

The religious folk that I had put so much trust in never even showed up at the crash site.  I staggered away and tried to piece together a life.  In that process I took up the simple art of barbering.  That was followed by owning my own shop, expanding into two that finally morphed back down into one.  I managed to do this wearing my own clothes.   I recognized Jesus suits when other people wore them and I kept that whole crew at a distance.  I loved Jesus a whole lot, but I really didn’t care much for His girlfriend.

Early into owning my own barber shop I found out that hurting people actually came to barber shops more than they came to churches.  I found myself just being there for so many broken men.  I comforted some after the loss of a wife, congratulated them on the birth of their babies.  We celebrated holidays while I gave some their very first haircut, and others their very last.  I even started praying from time to time over the men who sat in my 1940s era barber chair.

Life became simpler.  I was fathering a step son who eventually followed me into barbering and raising a toddler who thought (and thinks) his daddy is pretty cool.  I was learning for the first time in my life that I could trust my wife and that I didn’t have to be threatened by her.  I fell in love!  We shared meals with people we met, lifted a pint or two, and we shared how blessed we are to be allowed this life and how Jesus makes it all work for us.  Now my wife and I are awaiting our second child together and our entire goal is to raise that child to love Jesus with a crazy kind of love.

I have been following Chris Morton.  He doesn’t know me, but I read his stuff.  It isn’t polished super blog stuff.  It is gritty and real.  He isn’t a pastor of a big church, at least not the last time I checked.  He is working and living and leading a small group of Christ Followers.  He taught me recently that I have found my call.  I am now “missional”.  I guess what that means is that I live a real life, wear real clothes, am crazy in love with Jesus and I actually do care about the condition of the people around me; people that Christ died to save.  If you had asked me early on if I was “missional” I would have said yes, but my mission was to build church, not be Church.  I now realize that God isn’t looking so much for more super preachers, but is looking for barbers, bartenders, mechanics, roofers, and you, to live life simply with two (actually three) goals in mind;

1.  To love God with everything you’ve got

2. To love yourself

3.  To love your neighbor (think all of humanity) with the same sort of love

I don’t know if a more formal role is in my future.  I want to teach again in some fashion.  I want to help people discover vision, not just give them mine.   Perhaps there will be a congregation or maybe not.  I am sure that whatever I do with my future it will look a lot more casual than it used to.  I sent my Jesus suit out to the cleaners and never went back to pick it up.  I like being me, and I really like being me crazy in love with Jesus.  Yes, I even like being me and loving you like I love me.  It’s hard sometimes, but always worth the effort.