Brett Tilford

I’m a liberal Christian. If you could hear me utter this in person you’d realize that it’s no boast, but nor is it an apology. I’d like to think of it as more of a confession. Something I glance side to side and lower my voice to say to a friend over coffee. “A what?” they ask, not because they can’t hear me, but because I’ve whispered it like a church mouse. “I’m more of a liberal Christian” I squeak, the corners of my mouth pulled back to my ears, eyes squinty, teeth clenched in a forced smile (this is something I call wince face. I make it when I’m confessing something. It’s not very attractive.) Now at this point one of two things happen, either they have no idea what I’m talking about so I have to clumsily explain it, or they know exactly what I’m talking about and they groan and wince right back at me: not with fear in their eyes, but with pity.

This post, dear reader, is the wince face coffee confession we’ve never had. I am compelled by the idea that I need to confess and that you need to understand.

I used to believe in a God I could talk to. He heard my prayers in the morning and my songs of praise in the evening. He was closer than the air I breathed. I had a passion for Him, an intimacy with Him. The most important thing in my life was to be in a relationship with Him. I also had a knack for being on stage, so from about the age of 14 I led people into his presence with singing and his courts with praise. The wonderful community church I grew up in placed a very high priority on our contemporary worship time. I played base guitar but, after our worship pastor left, got a promotion of sorts to being one of the lead singers. We raised our hands and swayed to the music, feeling the Spirit sweep through the room. It was emotional, we worshiped until we had tears in our eyes most days. It was exhilarating, those times in the Spirit – almost transcendent, like walking on the clouds. God whispered in my ears during those times – of that I was sure, well at least pretty sure. Sure enough to go over and give my friend an encouraging word from the Lord. Sure enough to tell the people over my microphone what I was discerning. It was usually about big things, like Revival. I was captured by the idea of Revival. I’d read about oversees missionaries who had something we didn’t. You see the wind of the Spirit blew in special ways in places like China. People were being saved by the thousands every day. The Spirit was certainly up to something. Soon it would be our turn. If we’d pray a little harder, believe a little longer, then our church, town, State, and eventually the country would be awash in revival. I was going to be a big part of it too. I was told countless times that I was going to be an important leader to “bring this generation back to God”. My generation was something that concerned me very deeply. I was sketchy on the details, but my generation basically meant all young people, both churched and unchurched, who didn’t have a relationship with God like I had. They needed this intimacy more than anything. It was the only way America would be brought back to God.

Revival, my generation, intercessory prayer, the Spirit, fire, miracles, undignified worship, abandonment, passion, and intimacy with God: these were the buzzwords of my young Christian evangelical faith. But I had a secret, a secret I’d scarcely admit to myself. For all of my talk, I was experiencing very little, if any, of these. I wasn’t convinced I had a secret relationship with the divine. I was plagued by doubt, but I blamed myself. I hadn’t fasted enough. I hadn’t spent enough time with the Lord – soaking in His presence like a warm shower. My personal worship times weren’t long enough. Clearly the problem couldn’t be with God, who like the popular song said, is a “God of Wonders beyond our galaxy – holy, holy”. No that couldn’t be it, it must be me, so I redoubled my efforts and left for Bible College.

My freshman year I prayed longer than I ever had. Not as long as those Christians in China who could pray all night, but a torture-some long time for me. I also played piano and worshiped longer than I ever had – just doing my best to soak in His presence. This would be the time of my break through – the semester when it all became real.

I remember lots of tears that semester. Not because God spoke to me, but because He didn’t. Were there times when I “felt His presence” or “experienced God”? Well, if you’d asked me then I’d have said, “yes” because it had to be a yes – I couldn’t bare the thought that this was all a sham – that I was alone – that I would never experience the intimacy with God that everyone else seemed to experience. I’m sure this makes me sound like a terribly emotional person and a downright fake, but you have to know it was deep waters for me. My faith was so central to who I was that, as I mentioned earlier, I would scarcely have admitted this to myself, much less my friends and family. It was a tough year. I still refer to it as my “forgotten year” because I went out of state for school so I was mostly alone outside of some extended family who lived in the area.

My forgotten year: the year where I left to find God and came back disappointed. So what did I do next? Well I took the obvious step and went into full time ministry as a youth pastor at a church called New Hope. “Why the hell did you do that” you ask me? Well, I still loved God, I wanted to serve Him, it was a great church and while at a deeper level the seeds of doubt had started to take root, at a conscious level I was still full steam ahead.

You see, the paragraphs above make everything more neat and tidy than it actually was. This is me looking back, analyzing myself in hindsight and doing my best to recall everything as I experienced it – an impossible task of course so cut me some slack (see my wince face coming back).

Being a leader in any church is an interesting phenomena because in many ways you believe for the people. You’re a sort of fill in for when their faith runs out. Throughout high school my doubt was held at bay by the leaders in my life – they were the pillars upon which my faith could stand secure – even when I was tossed about by tumultuous seas. The irony is that by going on staff I became one of these people for others and I got to know personally some of the folks that had served as pillars for me. You know what I found out? They’re astoundingly wonderful people, but they’re human beings through and through. They have their own struggles and worries. They don’t float on cloud 9 all day.

Full time ministry was a slow 4 year process of coming back to earth for me. While I still talked and walked a version of faith very similar to the one in my teen years, it became more mellow. Increasingly I wasn’t quite as fiery or sure of myself as I’d once been. I was immersed in the Bible many days a week preparing for sermons and there were parts that were quite different from the faith I’d grown up with, parts that made me uncomfortable because they didn’t fit with my version of faith.

I was also attending the Criswell College (a conservative Bible College in Dallas) at this time and I was being introduced to the intellectual side of our faith. I remember the most awkward day in school was the day we learned how the Canon (N.T. Scriptures) were put together. It was all so human sounding to me. I think it played into this skeptical side of me, the part that had been birthed in my first year of college. If I was so wrong about my highschool version of faith, If I’d fundamentally jacked up what it meant to know God, if i had misunderstood what it meant to follow Jesus back then – what was I wrong about now?

I was ripe for change.

It was around this time that I came across two books that changed my life forever. Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller and A New Kind of Christian by Brian McLaren. These books gave voice to my frustrations and fears. Each chapter was like a counseling session. I can remember sitting on my bed with tears running down my nose and dripping on those hallowed pages. But more than anything they gave me hope again. Hope that I could discover a different version of faith than the one I’d outgrown.

From Blue Like Jazz I began to learn to let go of the fear that had gripped my religious life – especially the fear of what other people thought of me. Here was a man who drank alcohol, said curse words, and went to a godless secular college just because all of his leaders said he shouldn’t. And when he got there, instead of telling the students what wicked sinners they were and how they deserved the hell they were going to get – he apologized to them. Literally setup a confessional booth where when sinners entered, ready to confess their own sins, the tables were turned and the priests apologized to the sinners. Apologized for the ways the church hasn’t been the best reflection of Jesus’ love through the years, apologized for the historical atrocities committed in the name of God, apologized for how Christians had treated them on campus: judging and rejecting them instead of loving them for the beautiful (albeit imperfect) people they were. It was glorious.

In the book A New Kind of Christian I found a mentor in Brian McLaren. Here was a man in his fifties, who was a former Charismatic (like me) and a former pastor (soon to be me) and he was asking questions about faith that I had always thought, but had never dared to ask because I was too scared. The most important thing he gave me was permission. Permission to ask fundamental questions about what it all means – and by it I mean the Christian faith as a whole. He was the first Christian writer I ever read who believed in Evolution. EVOLUTION! Are you kidding me? He questioned whether everyone from other religions would go to hell. He questioned the inerrancy of the Bible? He had friends who were Catholics and he actually spoke of them with respect (unlike every conservative Bible College professor I’ve ever had). He had friends who were theological liberals (far more so than he is) and he spoke with respect and appreciation for them to – even as he disagreed with them (again, unlike my professors). At the end of the day, Brian McLaren gave me permission to be intellectually honest and it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life. Once you see someone bravely saying, “You know what, I simply can’t conceive of a loving God torturing people for millions of years in hell. If that’s who God is I don’t want anything to do with Him.” That’s powerful.

These books were a conversion experience for me.

Now I know many of you are quite disappointed in me by now because I’ve articulated a journey that has me going from “I want to be a generation changer for God” to “EVOLUTION! Are you kidding me?”

I know what you’re thinking because I’ve been there before. I had the strong faith in God. I believed He whispered in my ear. If the Bible said it, it was good enough for me. I wanted to be a missionary for Christ’s sake (literally, I’m not using the Lord’s name in vain). Granted, I was about 16 years old, but still I’ve been on the side of the Truth.

You see, I know what you’re thinking and that tempts me. It temps me to give you a rational explanation for why I’m a liberal Christian. It temps me to delete the saga above and replace it with the post I started out writing which was titled, “Biblical inerrancy: 10 contradictions in the Bible that give fundamentalists fits”. I want to convert you to my way of thinking. This makes me feel better about myself. I’m much more happy when there are hundreds of little Brett Tilford’s running around with my version of faith. But it’s weakness on my part, and mostly pointless for me to try to convert my conservative evangelical friends – they’d never relent on a rational argument alone and hey, I don’t blame them, because neither would I.

This post is a confession of sorts so here goes nothing. I agree that in many ways (heck maybe most ways) my liberal version of Christianity isn’t as good as the conservative one I grew up with. That was a faith that people could really rally around and get pumped up about. It was the truth – delivered straight from the hand of God himself. I can’t compete with that. All I have is a weak faith that’s stumbling and bumbling along. It’s easy to judge and dismiss as just a bunch of liberal tripe. Fair enough. I agree it is tripe. I agree that in many ways I’m making this up as I go – granted I’m reading and doing my best to make wise decisions – but by asking some of the questions I’ve asked I realize that I’ve jettisoned myself from the authority of the church and the authority of the Bible. I think this is what frustrates people about me sometimes. I know they’re thinking, “Brett do you realize what you’ve done?! I can’t believe you’ve left the faith for this liberal tripe” and my answer is, yes. Yes, damn it. I know what I’ve done. I know much of my faith is Brett Tilford concocted tripe. But what I’m thinking in the back of my mind is this: the only thing worse than a stumbling bumbling – man trying his best to reach the divine – version of faith (aka liberal christianity) is a stumbling bumbling – man trying his best to reach the divine version of faith that doesn’t realize it’s stumbling and bumbling at all! (aka conservative evangelical christianity).

One idea I’m trying to communicate through all of this is that for me, the case is closed on the Protestant Evangelical Christianity of my youth. I’ll never return. As I stated above, this is for both intellectual and experiential reasons (this post focused on the experiential aspect but my previous and future posts will likely be intellectual so I’m trying to bring some balance).

So for now, although I realize it’s a weak faith and tentatively held, I’m content to attempt the construction of my liberal version of faith – knowing that for now – it’s all that stands between me and no Christianity at all.

I’m reading two books right now: the first is Systematic Theology: An Introduction to Biblical Doctrine. It has chapters devoted to big words like “Ecclesiology” and “Soteriology”. It has clear definitions, labels, points and sub-points and is written quite matter-of-factly. God is “x”, church is “y” and these beliefs = orthodoxy. God and faith are like an 11th grade anatomy class: thoroughly dissected, labeled, and defined.

The second is Historical Theology which was made to be read alongside the systematic book. This is filled with stories about why certain important theological people (Augustine, Calvin, Jonathan Edwards. etc.) came to the conclusions they did. Here are a few examples, which while overly simplistic, still echo the stories I read in the history book.

Martin Luther was a tortured monk, terrified by the thought that the justice of God would send him to hell, terrified that he couldn’t measure up – could never be good enough. It was from that psychological basis, for better and worse, that he embarked on his voyage to understand the book of Romans.

Jonathan Edwards was part of a revival that seemed to be completely out of his control – he just showed up and people started freaking out, repenting, and passing out. These experiences had a profound impact on his Reformed theology – a theology that emphasizes the sovereignty of God and minimizes the will of man, in the process of salvation.

Charles Finney was a revival preacher who worked hard at his craft. Unlike Edwards experience, people weren’t falling out of their seats begging to be saved from the get-go. They had to be persuaded and cajoled to come forward and participate in the workings of the Spirit. With these experiences in mind he tended to emphasize the will of man in the process of salvation.

All of these people read the Bible and attempted to base their theology on it, but clearly their experiences played a significant role in what parts they emphasized and how they interpreted those parts.

I think this is the reason systematic theology feels a bit suspect to me. I’m left wondering how we made the leap from messy narrative to pristine unquestionable truth. Reading the systematic book lends to overconfidence, until the history book rips back the curtain on the awe inspiring Mr. Oz of systematic theology. It’s then that I realize we’re all immersed in our own histories, struggles, and experiences and these have a profound impact on our theological reflections.

In response to my previous post: are you gay affirming, the question has quickly arisen, “What about the Scriptures? Where is the gay affirming position found?”

In the context of a conversation about homosexuality when the question is asked, “What about the Scriptures?” Old Testament verses, like Leviticus 20:13, that have harsh words for homosexual sex, are usually what one has in mind. There are books written on the topic that have differing interpretations of those scriptures (e.g. one argument I’ve heard is that those verses aren’t referring to committed monogamous homosexual relationships) but I agree that the deeper question this topic poses for the conservative branches of the church is, “what is our view of Scripture and will we be willing to cut loose from our more stringent standards if we feel they’re perpetuating injustice and ignoring the highest law – love?”

With that question in mind, the rest of my response won’t really be about homosexuality per se but actually about how we view the Bible, because I believe the question behind the question is this: “Brett, what is your view of the Scriptures that would allow you to ignore certain verses in the Bible and write a post like, are you gay affirming?”

In response to that question I’d say this: through the years the church – even the most theologically conservative churches – have had to reinterpret (sometimes quite creatively) our understanding of particular issues. Many of these items seem downright silly or crazy to us today. For example, one of the first questions of this kind is recorded in the early chapters of Acts, when the question of circumcision arose, “Will these Gentile converts have to become good (circumcised) Jews to truly follow Christ?” Recognize that there is a mountain of Old Testament Scripture that would answer, “Of course! This is a central mark to delineate the people of God. It’s absolutely essential that we follow all of Scripture – we can’t pick and choose which verses to follow and which to ignore.” Of course, we know that ultimately Paul won the day with his argument about a “circumcision of the heart” but if that interpretation seems ho-hum and theologically conservative to us today, it’s only because of familiarity.

A more recent example is the issue of slavery, with the question arising, “Do not the scriptures say, ’slaves obey your masters?’ And the answer, as awkward as it seems to us today, is “yes.” Of course, we know all of the cultural baggage that surrounds that verse and we could likely cite other scriptures that would argue for the equality of all men under God (which is why we could pretty easily debate it with any person at a coffee shop – assuming we could even find someone who would try to justify slavery on that basis – hopefully not). Today, it would seem not only utterly ridiculous but downright immoral for a church to hold racist views on the basis of a verse like that, but again, recognize that’s because we live in the 21st century – churches were split over questions like that.

Other examples include women wearing head coverings in church and the freedom of the faithful to get tattoos (the scriptures clearly command the former and abhor the latter). Again, I understand that we have all of our cultural reinterpretations of these verses, but I can’t emphasize enough that these were the types of issues that got pastors fired and incited flame wars on twitter and blogs around the world.

What’s interesting is that even on the topic of homosexuality I don’t know of one conservative Christian that would actually hold to a “pure” biblical interpretation of a verse like Leviticus 20:13, because of course that verse doesn’t let the people of Israel off with a simple, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” interpretation, but it commands the offending person’s instant death. My only point in bringing this up is to show that in the same way you asked me, “Brett, where in the scriptures is the gay “affirming” viewpoint found?” My answer to you would be this: the same place that the seeds of the “gay welcoming” viewpoint is found – in the law of love and the command to embrace and empower those on the margins of society – which in this case is the LGBTQ community.

As a “welcoming” Christian, you’ve already started down the path of reinterpreting what the scriptures have to say on the topic. My only encouragement would be to go a bit further.

“Are you gay affirming?” I believe this is the question for the church in the year of our Lord, 2011.

To their credit most churches have moved beyond the gay bashing & homophobic tendencies of previous generations, but it seems we’ve stalled out. By that I mean, we haven’t made the move from gay accepting to gay affirming.

Gay accepting invites people to come as they are but demands that they change. It views homosexuality as a sin that any truly godly person will eventually move beyond (or die trying).

Gay affirming sees no sin, demands no change and actually celebrates gay individuals and couples.

The terms themselves “accepting vs. affirming” may seem like splitting hairs but the descriptions above show the gulf between the two.

In the meantime church leaders continue to be quite flabbergasted by gay couples who attend their church, ask to meet with the leadership team, are told that the church is “gay accepting” – which when asked to clarify reveals the description above – at which point the couple storms out of the meeting never to return. “Why did they have to be so rude? Didn’t they understand that we accept them?” the leader bemoans. Of course if we put ourselves in their shoes for a moment we see the hypocrisy of it all.

Imagine that the year is 1970 and you and your spouse are a bi-racial couple. You’ve been visiting a local church for a few weeks and, knowing the controversy your union sometimes makes, you schedule a meeting with the elders of the church just to make sure everything is on the up and up. You arrive to smiles and small talk until finally the real question comes up: how do they feel about your marriage and are they willing to not only accept, but encourage and celebrate your union? Now the smiles are gone as you’re told in carefully chosen words that while you’re certainly free to attend the church, because after all they’re a very progressive and welcoming bunch, a marriage like yours isn’t well, God’s “best” because it’s clear in the Scriptures that God didn’t intend the co-mingling of races. However, they quickly add, everyone at the church is working through their own “issues” and so you’re welcome to come and do the same.”

That’s not a welcome – it’s a slap in the face.

You see, it’s one thing for a pastor to stand before her congregation and say, “We’re a church that’s called to love people just like Jesus would – that means all people – regardless of color, gender, or sexual orientation.” This is a statement that causes the faithful to rise to their feet in thunderous applause (e.g. Bill Hybels this week).

The bigger, and I would argue more courageous step, is for an evangelical pastor to stand before his congregation and say, “I want to extend a personal invitation to every gay, bisexual & transgender person in our city – we love and accept you as you are and we demand no change in your sexual orientation to become not only a valued member at our church, but a leader as well. We also reject any interpretation of scripture or understanding of God that views a person’s sexual orientation as sin. We are not only gay accepting – we are gay affirming.”

Right now we’re content to pat ourselves on the back for being gay accepting. In reality that takes little courage and doesn’t make anyone blink an eye (accept maybe the stodgiest of oldtimers).

In the name of love and justice, it’s time for me – for us – to come out of the closet and announce that we are gay affirming.

Introduction

Years ago I was captivated by Paris Reidhead’s fiery sermon Ten Shekels and A Shirt which he delivered in the mid 1960’s at a missions conference. In it he gives a harsh critique of both fundamentalist and liberal Christianity by accusing them both of a sinister humanism. It’s a brilliant speech: clear, funny and extremely persuasive. It strikes that delicate balance of philosophy, theology and story that has an incredible effect upon it’s audience. Truly masterful. I’ll do my best to summarize his thoughts below before moving onto my letter of critique, but of course it’s best if you read or take the time to listen to his sermon yourself before proceeding (10 pg. PDF version here and 45min audio version here).

The Main Point

As I said above, Reidhead accused the modern Protestant church of an insidious humanism which he defined in the following way, “humanism is a philosophy that declares the end of all being is the happiness of man.” What’s interesting about his argument is that he accused both the liberal and conservative branches of Christianity of this pagan embrace – though as we’ll see, they come about it in different ways.

Liberals and Fundamentalists

Although it’s a bit simplistic, Reidhead described theologically liberal Christians as people who have given up on knowing anything definitive about the spiritual world. They can’t really say if there’s a heaven or a hell. They can’t say if Christ was truly raised from the dead or if he was in any way divine. They can’t say if the Bible is really God’s word or if people need to truly be saved. But they can agree that there’s something to be said for lofty thoughts, poetry, and inspiring rituals. So that’s enough “Christianity” for them to encourage people to come to church on Sunday morning, be inspired, drop a few dollars in the plate and then go their merry way. At the end of the day, they’re powerless to give people any assurance of happiness in the life hereafter, but they can make you more comfortable while you’re alive. As Reidhead states, “It meant simply nothing more than to try and put a little sugar in the bitter coffee of the journey and sweeten it up for a time.”

Reidhead understands fundamentalists as a people at the other end of the theological spectrum. They believe in a literal heaven and hell. They believe in the authority, inspiration, and inherency of the Bible. They believe in the deity of Christ. They believe that he was crucified, buried and raised on the third day. These are the fundamentals of the faith, as they see them, and so they hold to them unswervingly.

Summary

But remember the atmosphere of the age is a humanism that, “is like an infection, an epidemic—it just goes everywhere.” And so, while liberalism and fundamentalism couldn’t be further apart from the standpoint of beliefs, they both unconsciously embraced the humanistic spirit of the age as a guiding principle.

With their emphasis on social justice and alleviating human suffering (i.e. ending war, racism, poverty, homelessness, etc.) Reidhead understood liberal Christianity to be saying, “our goal is the happiness of man while he’s on earth.” And in the same vein, with their formulaic “fire insurance” offer of salvation: a salvation that implored people to believe in Jesus so they could go to heaven, Reidhead understood fundamentalists to be saying, “our goal is the happiness of man when dies.”

Either way you spin it, Reidhead argues, it’s humanism and “IT’S THE BETRAYAL OF THE AGES!” He literally yells this on the audio version and it’s quite a compelling moment. I remember nearly clapping out loud the first time I heard it.

My Faith

Of course, today I have quiet a different Christian faith than I had all those years ago: sitting in my apartment as a young youth pastor, enraptured by this sermon from a man I’d never heard of before. Which is why, although it’s been nearly 20 years since Paris passed away, I often think about how he might critique the version of faith I hold now, and in turn I consider my response.

He’s like a grandfather that I greatly respect, yet have come to disagree with. While I don’t hold a strong allegiance to either the liberal or fundamentalist camps that he critiques – I do have an understanding of faith that’s very “human centered” – a faith that Mr. Reidhead would almost certainly accuse of being humanistic. With that in mind, here’s a letter to my beloved spiritual grandfather, Paris Reidhead.

My Letter

Dear Mr. Reidhead,

I’m a huge admirer of your work and the candor and clarity with which you write and speak. It’s rare to find someone so thoughtful and filled with conviction as yourself.

There’s much we can agree on, however when it comes to your critique of humanism, and liberal Christians specifically, I feel you miss an essential insight. You argue that liberals are so focused on alleviating human suffering and bringing heaven to earth, that they’ve left the gospel, truth, and even God himself far behind. Where my critique lies is that this statement ignores the strong tradition in both the Old and New Testaments that testifies to the idea that the best expression of a love for God, is a love for human beings – especially the downtrodden and marginalized within society.

This can be seen within all of the OT prophets, but in many ways it crystallizes in the example of Jesus who spent his life serving “the least of these.” There’s no clearer picture of this than in Matthew 25 where the sheep and the goats are divided, not on the basis of a confession of faith, but on their unwavering commitment to something you would call “humanism”. These are people who, moved by human suffering and the plight of the poor, became Jesus hands and feet in the world. In this judgement day type scene, God doesn’t question the motives of those who fed the hungry and clothed the naked and he certainly doesn’t label them despicable humanists who have left the Him far behind. Instead He presents the somewhat paradoxical idea that at the very moment of being utter humanists – people committed to the flourishing of mankind above all else – they were actually the ones who, as you might say, were “born from above”, or in our more popular lingo – were saved.

What’s interesting, is that the seeds of this view of faith are found within your sermon: in those moments where you rail against a faith that is transactional and selfish – a faith that wants nothing more than to avoid hell, gain heaven, or have a better life for oneself. You’re right to critique a faith that sounds like two people trying to make a deal with God. But where you go wrong is attempting to paint missionaries like Albert Schweitzer and others of his ilk with the brush of a people who’s love for mankind and the “sanctity of life” have overshadowed their love for God. If it’s true that God is love – then He is the source of love no matter where it’s found. In your zealous attempt to uphold the glory of God I’m afraid you’ve setup a false dichotomy between a love for human beings and a love for God – this ultimately causes you to label as goats those that God would call sheep. You’re right to critique a selfish man’s faith, but you’re wrong to critique any person (fundamentalist, liberal, or even atheist) who, either consciously or unconsciously, is seeking to be Jesus’ hands and feet in a very needy world.

Perhaps we can chat about this in person in heaven one day – assuming, of course, that I make it (don’t worry – you’re not the only one who feels my entrance is questionable).

Your Spiritual Son and Enduring Admirer,

Brett Tilford

There’s No Place Like Here: Brazenhead Books from Etsy on Vimeo.

An inspiring story about doing the thing you love – even if it’s not the most lucrative. Beautifully shot and edited to boot.
Anyone want to open a secret book store with me?