Talking about Jesus with non-Christian friends is a lot like talking about sex with children. The parallel is imperfect, I know. Still, I'm surprised at how much insight can be drawn from such a comparison. Think about it with me.

First of all, conversations about Jesus or about sex are best done in the context of relationship. Not that open-air preaching or 7th grade health classes are inappropriate; they're just not the most effective. Such significant conversations typically work a lot better when nurtured by hours and hours of developing and observing a trustworthy relationship. Just like kids are naturally inclined to trust their parents for life's most important lessons (provided, of course, that the parents generally prove themselves to be trustworthy), non-Christians will be a lot more willing to listen to a friend sharing about Jesus if they're confident that the friendship is a real friendship: not just some bait-and-switch evangelistic technique. On the other hand, if some stranger just walks up and starts unloading on a non-Christian about Jesus, or unloading on an elementary school kid about sex, it just feels perverse and inappropriate. On rare occasions, such random interactions can work out all right -- especially when involving direct questions and audience-appropriate answers reflecting a sense of delicacy and propriety. But more often than not, the uninitiated can walk away from these out-of-the-blue interactions feeling violated and disturbed.

Secondarily, my experience suggests that Jesus-education and sex-education work best when given in small doses -- not in one awkward, overwhelming information dump. With our children, for instance, my wife and I started their "sex-education" very young -- with simple bath-time reminders about the privacy of one's private parts (aimed at protecting them from any kind of inappropriate touching). As they grew and became aware of their bodies, we spoke frankly with them about the proper names and functions for each part of the human anatomy. And when we sensed the time was right -- based on a subjective analysis of their mental development and social stimuli -- we deliberately filled them in on the more complete picture of how sex works and what sex means. With our children, this has pretty much meant "full disclosure" by early elementary school age: not too early in life, before they were really ready to handle such information, but not too late in life either, after they'd already figured things out for themselves through alternative sources of information (or misinformation). Timely, relaxed, contextualized, candid, and considerate communication has informed our children's sex-education each step of the way, and as a result we've never really had the awkward "moment of epiphany." Their awareness of sex has simply developed as the rest of their consciousness has developed. It's been great, honestly. But how often do Christians get to experience this same dynamic in their attempts at "Jesus-education" among their non-Christian friends?

Too often, we put too much emphasis on "The Talk." And too often, this happens too late in the relationship (if ever). Perhaps it's because this is how we, ourselves, first learned about Jesus or about sex -- but our minds naturally seem to drift towards this image of a single, solemn, monumental presentation of all the relevant information in one sitting. We get nervous about giving "The Talk," but eventually we psyche ourselves up for it and plow through it with little awareness of how the information is actually being received. Then, we give a little slap on the back, say "I'm glad that we had this talk," and then go on about our business without ever checking back in for further processing. It doesn't work well for middle-school children learning about sex, and it doesn't work well for non-Christians learning about Jesus.

Finally, the attitude of the initiated toward the subject sets the tone for everything. Those of us who are coming from a place of experience can make it seem really awkward and uncomfortable -- even as we're trying to say how natural and how great it really is to know Jesus, or to experience sex. It's in our non-verbals, as well as the language that we use to describe things. If the initiated individual is comfortable talking about the subject, then the uninitiated will also feel comfortable most of the time. But awkwardness breeds awkwardness, and sometimes these conversations can go so badly that we're emotionally-scarred for many years thereafter.

I don't always handle these conversations perfectly -- either with Jesus-education or with sex-education -- but I'm learning as I go. And if you ask me, learning is a very good thing.

I was a witness. The temperature hovered just above the freezing point. The wind whipped across  the harbor. Still, a young Iraqi refugee wanted to be baptized, to proclaim his newfound faith in Jesus. So we went to the Steenhoofd, in the docks west of Amsterdam's Centraal Station, and we cheered him on as he got dunked in the frigid waters of the IJ River.

I was there for moral support as much as anything -- back-up to one of our church's pastors-in-training who did the actual "getting-wet" part. But I was glad to be there. I love baptisms in Amsterdam. We've done them in the Nieuwe Meer (big lake just south of the city). We've done them in the reflecting pool on the Museumplein. We've done them in swimming  pools. We've done them in the North Sea. We've done them in bathtubs, even. Every location has its own charm because it's a part of a unique story that's being written in the life of a unique individual --  just like the stories of the Ethiopian official who got baptized in a roadside pond (Acts 8:26-40),  or the textile merchant who was baptized in a river just outside of Philippi (Acts 16:13-15).

After today's baptism, we gathered around the new believer and spent time praying for him. We thanked God and prayed for His blessing. But we were blessed already... by a new moment of God's grace imprinted on our memory

Our family had the privilege of bringing in the New Year in a very old place: Rome. These are some of my favorite pictures from the time in Italy.

After three lovely days in Pescara for GCE's Awaken conference, we took some time for our family to enjoy the old Caput Mundi. Our kids enjoyed themselves, but I found it challenging to impress upon them how remarkable it was that we were walking around in the cradle of Western civilization where some of the earliest foundations of the Christian faith were laid and where Caesars and popes have ruled throughout the centuries. I don't know how much we succeeded in getting them to appreciate the glory and grandeur of Rome, but I sure enjoyed it. The sense of history is palpable in Rome, yet it also remains a thriving urban center today in 2012. It was a very unique setting for the New Year's holiday (with an extra bonus of sun and mild temperatures during our visit, as well!).

During our time in Rome, I was impressed with the words of Psalm 31:14-15, where it says, "But I trust in you, LORD; I say, 'You are my God.' My times are in your hands."

This is my hope and prayer for 2012: that I will grow in trusting God and walking by faith, content in the knowledge that my times (as turbulent and chaotic as they may often seem) are in God's hands. I don't think I'm going to make any other resolutions this year except for an actualization of Psalm 31:14-15.

As you may have noticed from my weekend writing, I recently spent some time in a Benedictine (Roman Catholic) monastery. To the Conservative Baptists among whom I grew up, such a forray into Catholic territory might have been considered a step outside the faith: paying homage to Rome's Evil Institution, allowing a part of the money spent for my accommodations to go towards "statuary, and buying the souls of pagan babies, and buying diamonds for the Pope's shoelaces" (to quote from the ubiquitous Midwestern humorist, Garrison Keillor).

I, however, thought my time at the monastery was a wonderful experience which really brought me closer to God.

Granted: the Catholic monastic experience had both its joys and its difficulties. For instance, I genuinely enjoyed the push back to an appreciation of the simple elements of faith, seeking God, depending upon God, cutting myself off from distractions and focusing purely on God. And because of the monastery's focus on these elements, I ultimately decided to stick with the full cycle of the monastic rhythms (7 prayer services per day). At the same time, however, I noticed (and noticed some irritation at) the cultural differences I experienced.

The morning prayer services got to feel very long and laborious. Their liturgy used a very limited Scriptural pallette (almost entirely chapters from the middle part of the Psalms). And perhaps most notably, I felt bothered by the emphasis on formality and hierarchy, particularly in the daily celebration of Mass. I've never understood the apparently-varying levels of access to God's grace: first to the bishop, then to the father of the monastery, then to the other brothers from the monastery, then to other clerics from the church, then to other Catholic believers, and only then to everyone else (including me). I don't understand why I should be excluded from sharing in the Body and Blood of Christ (though I could have easily faked my way through the line, if I had wanted to). These things don't make sense to me.

Even so, I can appreciate the solemnity and ceremony of the Catholic culture of worship. I admire the way that their traditions tie in so directly with the ways Christians have been worshipping for thousands of years. I enjoy the multi-sensory worship experience, utilizing sight (beautiful robes, a simple-yet-magnificent sanctuary, a white haze of incense smoke), sound (singing, speaking, the clinking chains of the censer), smell (incense), taste (the Eucharist), and touch (standing, kneeling, sitting, holy water, and crossing oneself). Furthermore, I really appreciate the sense of holiness that pervades Catholic worship. At the monastery, all of the monks bowed deeply before the cross on the altar, both upon entering the room and upon leaving the room. The priests all bowed before the Eucharist at (what they believe to be) the moment of transubstantiation. They administer the mass from behind the altar, so that Christ gets top billing. And in this I can see that, for all their issues with formality and hierarchy, they've at least got that much right: Jesus is King. He deserves to be treated with some degree of reverance and respect -- probably more than our church in Amsterdam typically gives Him. So as much as I can be irritated by the cultural differences, I can also appreciate them and let myself be instructed by them.

In the end, I really came to appreciate the monks' rigorous traditionalism: wearing the robes, singing in Latin, maintaining the Benedictine rhythms... I felt glad, actually, that some Christians feel so strongly led to maintain these traditions. I do wonder, though, about the future of these traditions. I reckon that the youngest of the monks at the Benedictusberg was in his 40s, and a couple might even have been in their 80s. With only 12 of them on-site, how will the traditions continue into the future?

Why don't I take personal retreats more often? Such an experience -- like the one I just experienced at the Benedictusberg -- inspires me and renews my love for life and ministry. It provides priceless perspective and spiritual refreshment. And at just €30 a day (for three lavish meals per day, three coffee-and-snack breaks per day, my own private room, plus access to the monastery's sanctuary, library, and grounds!), such extravagance is really quite affordable.

Ever since getting back to Amsterdam, I've been encouraging my friends to consider taking personal retreats of their own. I know it takes some work to set the time aside and break out of our normal routines for such an experience (I, too, regularly feel the resistance -- even knowing how great such experiences can be!). Even so, I cannot more highly recommend a regular discipline of seeking special encounters with God!

Even though a personal retreat is, by definition, somewhat "mystical," I thought it might be useful to demystify the idea of a spiritual retreat (i.e. answering the question, "What exactly am I supposed to be doing with three whole days of being away from regular life, seeking God?"). This is the approach that I mapped out for myself, on this most recent retreat. It can be adapted to fit individual tastes and personalities (in fact, I myself reviewed and refined my own plan on the train ride down from Amsterdam to the borderlands between the Netherlands, Germany, and Belgium). Still, I went into my personal retreat with a handful of general goals in mind:

• To read through all my old journals. My collection goes back to 1999, so there's some significant ground to cover there, but I felt it was important for me to do this. As I read through the old journals, I looked for trends, scriptural inspiration points, and spiritual inkshuks through the years. I tried to get a feel for the overall arc of my life story, with the hope that this might help me to anticipate and follow any upcoming plot twists.
• To take long, meandering walks (international walks, even, in the case of this most recent retreat!). I wanted to soak the styrofoam cup of my soul in the oceans of God's presence.  I wanted to trade my anxieties, arguments, and emotional architecture for God's mind about me, the family, my church, and the world. I wanted to experience God's peace, even in the face of any disturbing, unsettling, unexpected truths that might be revealed in my life. I wanted to sync my spirit with God's Spirit.
• To re-read some of my "core material" from the Bible. For each individual, there seems to be certain sections of the Bible which regularly and repeatedly speak into that person's life through the years. For me, this "core material" includes Joshua, the Proverbs, Matthew, Acts, Romans... and maybe some of the other Old Testament history books. So going into my personal retreat, I determined to spend some time reading these parts of the Bible and letting myself be led down rabbit-trails of cross-references, as God would lead. I wanted to be inspired.
• To experience (however temporarily) the monastic life. Believe it or not, I was actually looking forward to spartan surroundings, early morning prayers, and a general atmosphere of silence and simplicity. I did have some anxieties about being in such a Catholic environment and adhering to such a right schedule (particularly worried that it might get in the way of my opportunities to go on long walks or spend extended time in solitude)... But even so, I wanted to go through the motions of monasticism. I sensed that it might be surprisingly refreshing... and indeed this sense turned out to be accurate.

Of course, in all this I realized that it was much less important to consider what I wanted out of these three days, as opposed to preparing myself for however God might have wanted to use the time. Still I felt that it was helpful to outline some expectations ahead of time -- and then submit them all, respectfully, to God.

I can understand that the monastic experience is probably not for everybody -- and maybe even not always what I would need for my own spiritual refreshment, depending upon the season of life -- but I have to say that it was quite satisfying for me this week. The prayer services provided me with time for reading the Bible and getting fresh input from outside my normal stream of consciousness. The shorter breaks between services provided me with time for personal processing (even while eating) and journaling (including reading old journals). The longer breaks between the services, especially in the late afternoon, provided time for long walks and prayer (I always seem to pray best when I'm walking). And the breaks between sunset and dawn provided time for more extended journaling and analysis of my journal archives, which are a kind of prayer and meditation for me. All of these activities felt like they were infused with a sense of prayer and meditating on God's Word, which is just what I really wanted for my three-day getaway: an extended soak in God's goodness and nearness.

In case you couldn't tell, I came back to Amsterdam with a rich feeling of satisfaction and gratitude -- and a hearfelt recommendation for others to experience the same.