I’ve been mentally arrested lately by the thought of having lost Christ in the hustle and bustle of Christianity.

In both my introspection and observation, I’ve discovered a startling Jesus deficiency. Oh, sure, His name is slapped on nearly every page, sermon, and lecture—the registered trademark of the Christian brand. But the real substance of my religion, the vine, appears to have been replaced by well-meaning, religious tendrils.

For a guy who professes to “follow Christ,” how much of my faith is all about a system? Do I follow Christ only in as much as I follow a religious system of regulations and traditions that He merely launched and others fine-tuned?

Is my faith centered on achieving a better life? Peace, joy, happiness, feng shui, whatever? Or, is it all about the reward at the end of a long workday? Eternal tropical paradise; fluffy clouds, harp glissandos, and Philadelphia cream cheese? Do I simply put up with religion for the postmortem pension?

For many, Christianity is about a moral code—behavior modification—and a sound, logical network of beliefs. Our focus is on generating the self-discipline and will power to bow under the weight of a highly detailed orthodoxy and a standard of “right living.”

By and large, none of these foci are inherently bad—most of them have their place in the context of being Christ’s disciple. But I fear for many (myself included), these things have become idols, and have replaced the Man Himself as the beating heart of our religion. To “follow Christ” implies trotting along behind Him, His movements and actions being our frontal view. It implies a tight relationship—brother to brother, mentor to manatee, friend to friend—where we study closely the way He talks and smiles, the way He eats…like a child imitating every nuance of his father’s mannerisms.

To draw from the disciple picture, and from the unpaved roads Jesus walked in the ancient near east, I should be eating His dust. Tagging along so closely behind Him that, if He were to stop walking suddenly, I would bump right into His back. Christianity is just another worthless religion—or code, or lifestyle—if I am swallowing anything other than the dust Jesus kicks up as He goes about His father’s business.

With the upcoming move foremost on my mind these days, I’m mulling over a conversation Alison and I had with some good friends earlier this week.

They were asking us, in mentor fashion, why we are moving to Pittsburgh. We had just outlined several of the difficulties inherent in the move, all of the unknowns and the risks we are taking. I suppose we must have painted a fairly bleak picture, because their response was an eyebrow-raised “So…why are you moving?”

And perhaps it was because we were with a very mature, older couple, but for some reason my knee-jerk response was to be completely dishonest. I don’t mean out-and-out lying, exactly. But I started giving all these lofty, noble exaggerations of why we’re moving. Reasons that are absolutely part of our desire to move, but nowhere near the main impetus. “Well, you see, we have this unquenchable passion for herons, and we’re going up there to rescue Pittsburgh’s rapidly diminishing heron population.” “We have our hearts set on adopting at least 15% of Pittsburgh’s orphan population.”*

I didn’t notice the growing discomfort on the faces of our friends as we outlined the (grossly aggrandized) selfless nobility in our moving apologetics. Finally, though, honesty reared its hideous head and I said, “Really, we just want an adventure.”

Our friends breathed a sigh of relief.

These, in my opinion, are very good friends. They were convinced that moving to have an adventure was a much healthier reason than moving to rescue orphans or enlist in the Pittsburgh Peace Corps.

Not that selfless, servant causes are poor excuses to make a big move! The real issue here is honesty. I was homilizing all these exaggerations of why we want to move, only because I felt pressure (internal, no doubt, and perceived external pressure) to have some Mother Theresa motivation for making this big change. But, honestly, what I want most is an adventure. And with that adventure I foresee all sorts of growth, serving opportunities, humbling events, challenges, and life lessons. But it is the newness, the expedition, the “undiscovered country” that most compels me.

And maybe adventure really is a lame reason. But it’s the real reason.

*These are fictional accounts. Any resemblance to an actual reason given is purely coincidental.

As all four of you already know, Alison and I are soon abandoning the seasonally monotonous Florida for the temperament melting pot of Pittsburgh.

There are many reasons for our move, to be sure, but a massive one for me is the aching hunger to once again live in a place with seasons. Sharply delineated, blustery, passionate, gloriously dissimilar seasons. I grew up looking forward to each season in Colorado, savoring each autumn and then slowly experiencing an increasing appetite for the chill of winter. But, as with most things we take for granted, I didn’t appreciate the true glory of seasons until I came to a place without them.

The most obvious benefit of spring, summer, fall, and winter are the different weather types and characteristics of nature unique to each one. Spring is such a welcome, verdant thaw to the bleakness of late winter. Summer really gets things cooking, and there’s nothing better than driving with the windows down and film music cranked up on a pleasantly sunny day. Fall takes the edge off summer and the leaves off the trees, putting a deliciously pumpkin hue on the world and a crisp breeze in the air. Winter brings romantic snowfall, holidays, and an excuse to sip hot drinks and wear warm clothes (and, let’s face it, we all look better in warm clothes). These benefits are huge, and almost feel like they’re out of a storybook to a kid living in a state perpetually stuck on “Stifling.”

But the other thing I love about seasons is their cyclical partitioning of life in general. This was more overtly true when I was in school—when autumn smelled like no. 2 pencils, winter meant Christmas and two delirious weeks without homework, spring came in through the classroom window like a distraction, and summer meant break, break, break. But seasons are a vital part of every healthy life. (I think of Ecclesiastes’ “a time for everything” passage.) The sun, moon, and tides of the ocean give silent affirmation that life functions well on a cycle. There are seasons of hard work and seasons of relaxation. There are seasons of grief and seasons of euphoric joy.

Just like nature runs on a cycle with repeated, identifiable features, we transition through different phases at different times. These phases are healthy and necessary; the variety gives spice to life while the repetition of the seasons lends a comfort and safety. Laughter is born out of sorrow; pain gives joy its searing pleasure.

These human seasons transpire regardless of whether the leaves turn orange or Christmas actually yields a “winter wonderland.” But I have found that my internal/emotional seasons are aided and complemented by similar changes in the outside air.

Three weeks from today, I will start chapter three of What’s the Wurst That Could Happen?: The Tim Greiving Chronicles (based on a true story).

Chapter one opened on a snowy December day in Denver, Colorado. It told of a young boy, born to the hardworking son of German immigrants into a life of prosperity and healthy alternatives to brand-name soda. Young Timothy overcame great odds (such as premature astigmatism, homeschooling, and a proclivity for sweatpants), and grew up to become a lanky, mane-haired youth with aspirations to be the next Peter Parker—or Michael Jackson, depending on the day.

Chapter two saw Tim leaving the comforts of his country home, and attending college at a small liberal arts school in the swamplands of Florida. There his esoteric, mildly amusing gaucherie won him the coveted positions of sophomore class president and traffic inventory specialist at DKS Transportation Solutions. It was in this chapter that Tim, while playing the part of Perchik in a production of Fiddler on the Roof, first laid eyes on the adorable blonde who he would eventually marry and whisk off to an internment camp for revolutionaries in Siberia.

Which brings us to chapter three, wherein Tim and Alison pull up (resistantly protracted) stakes from the marshes of Florida and embark on a two-day voyage to the land of three rivers: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. What new adventures await them in this mysterious and once soot-covered city? What horrors lurk beneath the gossamer ice of unemployment? Will they finally doff the shackles of bureaucracy and expose the government’s century-long coverup of the existence of extraterrestrial life?

Tune in next week (well, actually, August 7th or so) for the thrilling continuation!