the one about Hotlanta

I was sitting on a couch across from three ladies; one of them held a digital audio recorder in her hand.

“I saw this picture of you with instructions in your hand and they were upside-down and you were like, 'What is this? How do I do this?' God wants you to know it's not complicated; it's really simple. You just ask, cause He wants to tell you. I feel like He's gonna give you clear instructions. You're gonna have a breath of fresh air...”

She was offering me a prophetic word from the Lord.

It was actually a lot less kooky than it might sound. Her eyes were open; her tone was very conversational.

I was at a place reputed for its nights of prayer and prophecy. After getting on “the list”—which felt much like getting on “the list” to a party—there was a time of prayer and free-worship. Then, the ministers pulled us attendees aside to a quieter room, sat down with us individually, and gave us insight into what they believed God was saying to us. I was grateful the prophecy was very open-handed and without pressure to accept or agree. Plus, they recorded every word and emailed it to me within the next few days, giving me the opportunity to give it another critical listen. I left with a positive opinion about the experience but it wasn’t like someone turned on the lights for me or anything. 

And yet, the whole thing was definitely percolating in my mind when I received one of those phone calls from my parents in South Carolina:

“Son…!” 

(It’s charming that my parents regularly forego using my name in favor of calling me “son”.) 

“Son…! We met a huge casting agent!”

Now, if you’re an artist in Los Angeles and your family lives far away, you know this is a familiar conversation:

“My girl friend Angie went to college with a producer out there.”

“We met a very cute actress.”

“I saw a commercial you were perfect for!” 

Unfortunately, these calls typically don't lead anywhere useful. But at least you know your loved ones still care.

Judging by the fact that the job title is a casting *director* and not, as my parents called it, a "casting agent," I expected this to be another one of those calls.

I was kind of wrong. The next day, I followed up on their lead with a phone call. His name is Russ and he was not, in fact, a huge casting director. However, he had cast some small projects in the Atlanta area and, of all the people my family had met and enthusiastically told me about, he was the most knowledgeable about the entertainment industry, being especially informed about the Atlanta market.

Within a few months, I was headed to spend July in Hotlanta, with overwhelming support from my job, actor friends and manager. Everything fell right into place. The plan was this: Because my parents plan on moving to Atlanta, I can be a “local hire.” I’ll go to Atlanta, take meetings with some agencies and choose the best fit while scoping out the acting scene. I was to stay a couple weeks with a fraternity brother and then a couple weeks with Russ.

When I arrived in Atlanta, it quickly became clear that my expectations were way off.

I met actors who are auditioning 10-20 times per month, married, kids on the way, buying houses with their survival jobs, and regularly booking work.

And then, in the space of two weeks, I was rejected by 7 agencies who said they no longer even consider bi-coastal talent.

I got genuinely depressed for a few days. I told the Lord that if all that happened on the Atlanta trip was getting closer to Him, then the trip was not a waste. 

I had to mean it.

Days later, I got the opportunity to pray with (and for) my dad at the Mall of Georgia. Of course, we included my career in those prayers. 

Within a few hours, I received a phone call from a casting director working on an Amazon pilot for which I had self-submitted.

“I saw your tape and showed it to our production team. I’m pleased to offer you the role of _____ .”

The role was only a one-line co-star. And I’d have to fly myself back to Georgia to shoot it. But it was an answer to prayer.

I was ecstatic.

This was the first time I’d booked a co-star as an actor. I’ve got some co-stars on my résumé that I booked as a dancer. But no one had ever paid me to say something onscreen. I’ve been out of college and working to make this happen over five years.

Naturally, I told lots of people.

Incidentally, the scene was a period piece set at a social dance. So in the following weeks, I did my research. I listened to every song mentioned in the script and scoured the Internet for videos showing the period-specific dances.

When I got on the plane at LAX to go back to Georgia, I was filled with so much excitement, so much gratitude to the Lord.

So this is what it feels like. This is what it's like getting on a plane to go shoot a pilot... God, You are so good to me.

And then, the most terrible thing happened.

I arrived in town, explored a little. Received my call time. Showed up and checked in with the 2nd AD. Filled out paperwork. Went to wardrobe. Went through hair and makeup. Went to set. Met a couple of the other actors. Spoke with the dialect coach. And I was standing on set when…

The director gave my part away to someone else.

To an extra. 

He made an in-the-moment decision based on who-knows-what. He told the 1st AD and the PA that brought it to the director’s attention, “Well, I hate to disappoint.”

I didn’t even get a chance.

I can’t describe the swell of the most intense negative emotions that washed over me as I watched it happen. 

Devastation. 

Anger. 

Embarrassment. 

So much embarrassment.

And in the moment, loss of faith.

I've blogged before about how the way in which we handle unanswered "why" questions shapes our faith. But this was on another level.

It's really difficult to shake the human need to place blame.

The first target of my blame was God. 

You're in control, right? So what the hell? This was so obviously an answer to prayer. To years of prayer. This felt like the first step of me walking into my calling, Lord. It seemed like You were finally beginning to make good on Your promises.

But of course He gently reminded me that He deserves no blame. He's a good Father. He is for me. I have no grounds on which to blame Him.

So I blamed acting.

Acting, how could you wound me this deeply? I love you -- enough to go to hundreds of auditions only to be rejected. But I don't love you this much, to put up with hurts like this. Do I have to walk away from this relationship?

But a couple days later, Bonnie Gillespie re-issued her "Just Once More" speech. Slowly, I realized that you can quit, but you can't walk away from who you are. Even furthermore, just because I got hurt doesn't mean the mission has changed.

So I blamed myself.

Jonathan, all of your sins and indiscretions cost you this. Until you can pull yourself together, you can't be trusted. You're not acceptable, and this dream will always be a carrot dangling in front of you.

Escaping your own blame is the hardest. Because the truth is: I should walk in obedience to God. And I should be ready for each assignment He gives me.

But God uses whom He wants, when He wants.

And I can never be good enough to warrant His gifts.

I can never get myself together enough to deserve His favor.

I can never perfect myself enough to win His calling.

Because none of it is earned. It's all given.

Jonah didn't earn the plant that shaded Him. And God wasn't wrong when He took it away. Jonah was still better off, having been shaded for a day. And even though the experience was disappointing, I'm still better off for having had it. I can still put in on my résumé. I'm still better off financially.

*sigh* Still learning to trust...

Aren't we all? :)

A mere mortal

From the City of Angels

Livin his dream

the one about Adoption

This year in LA, I reached a momentous life marker.

I have now lived in Los Angeles longer than I've lived anywhere: 7-1/2 years.

I mean, it's already a big deal that I've survived this long in the City of Angels (not an easy thing to do).

I mentioned this in passing to someone -- a stranger -- born and raised in LA. She replied, "Cool! You're an adopted native, then."

While slightly oxymoronic, the concept of "adopted native" quickly sank in deep. I was almost immediately awash in emotion.

That woman will never know how intensely I was touched. I will ever thank my Maker for

momentarily putting her in my path. My soul resonated with a truth that, until then, only my spirit had known.


Romans 8 says: "...You received God’s Spirit when he adopted you as his own children. Now we call him, 'Abba, Father.' For his Spirit joins with our spirit to affirm that we are God’s children."


I feel I've never been "native" to anything. Maybe this stems from my constant questioning of the definition of "home," and my cyclical world-weariness.

But "adopted native"... 

I'm into that. That's beautiful. When I think about it, it's one of the most welcoming things someone can say.

But the welcome is specially powered by the native-ness of the speaker. As much as I've felt like LA is my scene, I can't say this to myself. Another LA-from-wherever transplant can't say this to me.

In a moment, her passing sentiment affirmed to my soul:

"You didn't start here; you were an outsider. 

But I recognize that you belong here. 

Come be with us. And stay.

I want you here."

A mere mortal

Adopted into the City of Angels

Livin his dream