One of the many gifts of writing a blog is the chance to share my growth in my walk with Jesus. What a great trip it's been since I said yes about six years ago. I stray with posts about teaching and sometimes even politics, but the very fact remains is the journaling, the account of one's man's thoughts as I drift from obedience to sin and back again.
Part of this overall growth has been the time I get to take for study. Each class I get to take is like I'm back in school, digesting new information and sharing the knowledge and my questions and doubts with other believers. If a man calls himself a Christian but does not open his Bible, how good is his word? Now the method of that reading is always up for debate. I have those who feel their devotions are their form of study. Some find their reading through classes and book studies, like myself, while others read on their own, sometimes Bible reading plans and sometimes not. Regardless, one of the many testimonies I can give another man is the impact study has brought forth in my own life.
This past month I've been reading a book called, "Limitless Life" by Derwin Gray. Among the men's study, my own personal readings and observations, I can say that I'm glad I purchased the book a year ago at a youth ministry convention after hearing Derwin Gray speak. I remember describing the book to a friend after reading the first few chapters. "It's nothing new," I had said, "more for baby Christians, but I do like the writing."
Baby Christians. One thing about the Methodist church is how we PowerPoint and itemize our spiritual gifts, our servanthood and our Christian growth. I think it helps our informational society find their niche, it helps the achievers graph their progress like some spiritual spreadsheet. Now, I fall into this trap too. I wanted the labels because anything sounded better than "Sinner". I wanted to belong to something greater than myself.
So I was quite pleased with myself on being a "Baby Christian." 1 Corinthians 3:1-5 even talks about spiritual infants who need milk before they can take on solid food. I've always eaten myself through an endless amount of literal and figurative buffets. It was time I went on a sin fast (kind of like Slim Fast, right? One scripture a day you lose the weight of sin!). I dove into Genesis studies, a Bible in one year plan, multiple studies and any kind of service I could get my hands on. I wanted the entire Christian package simply because I didn't quite understand what being a Christian was all about.
Later, when I was given the task of facilitating a men's class, we labeled the synopsis as a study for Spiritual Adolescents. It was for those ready for the next step. I too found it a seamless transition into the next phase of my life. I had been on a few mission teams, had served in the youth program and had my share of mountaintop experiences. It felt like a natural progression that could be quantified and measured. Pin a badge on me, I was growing in Christ.
Then the bottom fell out. The course our men's group just finished, "Fight" by Kenny Luck came with a gut punch. Amid the conversations of spiritual warfare and the tactics the devil uses to undermine our faith walk, I was struggling in secret. Temptations were gaining significant footholds. The intimacy I craved with my wife was playing second fiddle to my work, worries and selfishness. Work was a struggle and even the times I served, it felt hollow. I felt myself unequipped and inadequate. Welcome back, sin, I hardly knew you were gone.
Around this time I came across this article, "The Damaging Myth of Relationship not Religion." When I first read it I wanted to write a rebuttal. Of course it's all about a relationship with God, right? Who needs religion and all its rules? Isn't that why leaving the Catholic church felt so right? No more rote prayers, no more kneeling, no more checking my calendar to see if I've confessed enough to warrant communion bread. But amid my rough draft rebuttal, something changed. I looked upon my own Spiritual Spreadsheet and realized I had traded in the rules of Catholicism for the labels of a Methodist, the Great American Christian.
You see, I always understood the message that God had been pursuing me all my life. I was the one running. We are all called to be "royal priests" with Jesus being the head priest. I didn't need anyone to intervene on my behalf, not a miniature statue of the Virgin Mary or a rosary for my prayers to be answered. Everyday I have a chance to say "yes" to my savior and obey, submit and follow his ways. But with that relationship, religion must come in too. Not the rules and dogmatic decrees, but the truth that when we say "yes" to Christ we are inviting the covenantal process to follow. Amid all the excuses of why men don't go to church and all the reasons why we hate church and the hypocrites that line their pews, the real religion, the covenant between God and us, calls us towards a deeper relationship. I have found that deeper relationship amid the walls of my church. There is where we network, where we can serve, where we find other like-minded people who are struggling just the same. I'm thankful for the relationship AND the religion.
Now if I could just shake off this Pharisee feeling.
So back to "Limitless Life." While you can do your own research on Derwin Gray, the short is that he's an ex NFL player who is head pastor for Transformation Church. He's about as engaging as they come, and the Lord has blessed him with a heart for multi-cultural ministries. For the first few chapters, I felt as I had read similar material from Max Lucado or Bill Hybels. But about halfway through I ran into some significant soul searching on my purpose (you purpose-driven life bashers can see me behind the bleachers if you want to fight it out later, I'm ready to defend myself), my calling and to be a contributor instead of a consumer.
In the chapter titled, "From Worker to Worshipper," Derwin asks the reader to answer a few questions. Take a minute and let these sink in. Can you fill them out? Like me, do you find yourself redrafting and erasing, looking for the right words?
Q1: How do you want to be seen in ten years?
Q2: What do you want to be known for in ten years?
Q3: What do you want your family to be like?
Q4: What makes your heart sing?
Q5: Who in your life will tell you the truth about yourself?
Dear reader, I hope these blogs are not only a way into my heart, but as a way to walk this walk with someone with the blemishes of our pasts. But I do believe that when we shine a light on our sin, to be reflective on our own hard-heartedness, God responds. God will move into our hearts if we let Him. He wants permanent residency.
My relationship allows me to open the door to that request. My religion keeps me from kicking Him out when I don't like what he's done with the décor. These conversations with you are my ways of understanding it all.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
That Oddness of Sin: Confessions of a Former Racist
Let me first start off by saying that I am a former racist. I told my fair share of jokes that used the "n" word (on a similar note, I kept quite a few Mexican jokes in my repertoire as well). I laughed when friends of mine used racial slurs. I used some myself too. When the news was on, or when I watched COPS on tv and they were chasing some idiot, my first thought was based on their race. It was always my first assumption.
I've told many of you, and those blogs are all open record, that my house wasn't always politically correct. While we weren't mean-spirited about our racism, we treated it as a joke. Much of our ignorance was from our lack of knowledge. We really didn't have any black friends. We had classmates and co-workers, but when it came to who we hung out with on a weekend, we were always with family or people who had the same ethnic background as myself. I was raised with two images of black families, the one on The Cosby Show (how ironic does that sound now with all the allegations?) and the fractured families on Boyz N The Hood.
By the time I reached 5th grade, my two best friends, Jeff and Omari, represented the blackest I had ever been. It was a big deal that I had actually been in their homes, or had them over to my house for a sleepover. My mom didn't disinfect the house when they came over, nor did she treat them any different. Besides the fact that Jeff's mom drank a bit more than most other moms I knew, nothing was much different.
As I grew into junior high, my football teammates were black. We all joked about the color of our skin, the white boys too. They were allowed to use the "n" word amongst themselves and my white friends would tease them and ask them why they could use the word but they couldn't. We referred to all of our friends by color too. I didn't just hang out with Richard, it was my white friend Richard. My best friend in high school referred to me as a spic. I called him other words too. A joke among pals.
But race and color has always been on the peripheral. I remember my 9th grade football year, when the black guys on the team had running arguments and threats with the Mexican members of the team. When we had our helmets on we were a team, win or lose. The minute they came off, the colors blinded any common ground.
As I grew into high school and later in college, the jokes subsided. If it's possible to grow out of racism, then that's what happens. In elementary you are with the same neighborhood kids, but as junior high melted into high school, neighborhoods merge. The same friends moved onto other interests. You say something wrong to someone you don't know, it could end in disaster. The bus rides home in high school always seemed to end in some kind of verbal threat based on race. Every confrontation was a potential race war. You couldn't argue with anyone, white boys included, without having to fight their entire lineage.
While my misconceptions and biases had already been formed by the time I became an adult, it's socially unacceptable to spread garbage. Looking back, you realize that when you have an ignorant thought about another person that is based on the color of their skin, it feels wrong. Laughter can't always shake off that oddness of sin. Romans 2:15 reminds me that "our conscious also bears witness" in that even for unbelievers, the Holy Spirit resides in all of us. We have no excuse. Wrong is wrong. We can choose to follow the tug of our hearts and change our ways, or we can turn off that Holy Spirit-ometer and continue towards our deaths.
So I sit just as puzzled as I was the year of the Rodney King riots, and during the OJ trial too, as the city of Ferguson literally burned down around the protesters. There's more of an immediacy to today's events. Twitter brings a constant feed of thoughts and consciousness as the events unfold. Bloggers, journalists and tv crews camp out and write a narrative for the viewers to digest. News isn't even news any more. There are only agendas.
Another verse from Romans came to mind as I'm reading countless articles about the Ferguson case, trying to put myself into the shoes of the officer, into the shoes of Mike Brown too. "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn," says Romans 12:15. The loss of a child, even one with a criminal disposition (let's be honest, Mike Brown was probably no altar boy), is not to flippantly handled with the like button of a Facebook post. There's hurt going on in that community.
Apparently, other cities around the country are feeling the same thing. In Oakland, here in Columbus, New York and Houston, protesters have taken to the streets in a plea that their voices be heard. It's not just a coincidence. I began to view the incidents of injustice as a reflection on my own experiences with law enforcement, and more importantly with the factors that help support the ongoing myth (or reality in some cases) that of a broken system that continues to keep the poorest people poor.
While I learned that just saying "yes, sir" or "no, sir" to a cop kept me out of trouble (see the #CrimingWhileWhite tweets, they point to some of this) not everyone follows that same advice. The new wave of law enforcement aggression has now reached a perfect storm as it clashes against the disrespect of the people they serve. Do you expect those that did not grow up with meaningful role models, or positive male influences to submit to searches or to comply? Along with a flurry of movies that nail home the edict of bad cops and corruption, it's no wonder that these confrontations are occurring. Many people have reiterated that Michael Brown's actions got himself killed. Don't rob a store, they said. Who fights a cop for his gun, they say. When a cop asks you to move, why don't you just move out of the way? Aggression, male ego, pride and machismo. These cocktails don't make a good batch of anything.
I'm done blaming either side. The empathy of those in power, those that don't even live in the same environment in the Fergusons across the country add to this sentiment. Even as I sit among my peers, none of the teachers who work in my building live in the same district as the children they service. While the white teachers aren't to blame, they live even farther away than the many black students they teach.
Many teachers I know will probably find that last paragraph a bit disingenuous. Many years ago, our principal, an African-American, gave the staff a book to read. "Black Students, Middle Class Teachers," by Dr. Jawanza Kunjufu. You should have seen the faces in the staff meeting. White teachers were revolting! Many felt it as an insult. "I teach black kids," they basically were telling me. "That should count as enough."
And I think right there is where we have the problem. Just being a teacher doesn't absolve me from serving in other areas God is calling me, challenging me in which to act. But I've met teachers who basically checked the box on that issue. Teaching doesn't mean I have understood all there is about diversity. I still feel just as clueless about the everyday lives of African-Americans as I do aliens on Mars. But if my classroom is any indication, their parents lives aren't probably the posters of what we would call the American dream. Kids who rattle off the names of rated "R" movies, kids who make smoking weed gestures, kids who call one another bitches, kids without school supplies, clean clothes or the look of rest in their eyes. Parents are doing their best, and who are we to judge from afar? I'm not working nights, leaving my kids at home. My income is enough for our household, and my career is somewhat secure. I haven't worked fast food since I was 19. I have moms who work fast food as their primary source of income. You think they want to be pulled over by a cop, knowing their license plate is expired?
Lots of folks find it easy to tell me that they "worked" for everything they have, and I don't doubt their sincerity. Try finding those same jobs today. While I worked for what I had too, there was much more divine intervention and Godly coincidence than the sweat of my brow. The minority scholarship phone call to the academic advisor as I walked in for my appointment to enroll in college at OU. The close calls I had drinking and driving with friends in high school, two that involved cops that never reached more than a stern conversation. Mr. K, who in my eight grade year personally saw to it to see to my well being when my attitude kept me inside school suspension. You know who really worked during my non-belief years? The Holy Spirit. The ones who answered the nudges of their heart to assist me are the ones who were reaching for me from afar, pulling me out of my own abyss.
So where are those people in Ferguson? I believe they are there too. I find stories about teachers working in the library to catch students up with the lessons their missing. I hear of Oath Keepers who are guarding some of the business on the streets from looters. I hear of college students who are cleaning up their own streets during the day, the same ones being trashed by out of town protesters and the tear gas canisters of the police.
So why don't we hear more of their stories?
The Ferguson riots are not the last time America will see their streets burn. Electing a black president just seemed to separate us even more. That's not a knock on just whites. Because of our agenda-driven world, each people of color have their own goals to reach. Immigration. Health care. Etc. Etc. If each agenda gets "fixed" are we really helping everyone? All we have created is bubble majorities instead of helping the minorities. Majorities that live in their bubble world and see the problem with America as the other person's problem.
On a final note, many have asked, where are the churches? Where are the spiritual leaders? I believe they are there in Fergusons all over the nation. The problem is, the youth, perhaps some cops, the system have all turned off their Holy Spirit-o-meters to stun. We're too busy reading a twitter feed, too busy patting ourselves on the back for our simple good deeds, too busy looking outside the curtains of our suburban homes when we hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. We're locking all the doors and battening down the hatches. There's no one home. There's no one to help. I'll pray for you, I hear them mutter, as if they will save the world.
And the town continues to burn around us.
I've told many of you, and those blogs are all open record, that my house wasn't always politically correct. While we weren't mean-spirited about our racism, we treated it as a joke. Much of our ignorance was from our lack of knowledge. We really didn't have any black friends. We had classmates and co-workers, but when it came to who we hung out with on a weekend, we were always with family or people who had the same ethnic background as myself. I was raised with two images of black families, the one on The Cosby Show (how ironic does that sound now with all the allegations?) and the fractured families on Boyz N The Hood.
By the time I reached 5th grade, my two best friends, Jeff and Omari, represented the blackest I had ever been. It was a big deal that I had actually been in their homes, or had them over to my house for a sleepover. My mom didn't disinfect the house when they came over, nor did she treat them any different. Besides the fact that Jeff's mom drank a bit more than most other moms I knew, nothing was much different.
As I grew into junior high, my football teammates were black. We all joked about the color of our skin, the white boys too. They were allowed to use the "n" word amongst themselves and my white friends would tease them and ask them why they could use the word but they couldn't. We referred to all of our friends by color too. I didn't just hang out with Richard, it was my white friend Richard. My best friend in high school referred to me as a spic. I called him other words too. A joke among pals.
But race and color has always been on the peripheral. I remember my 9th grade football year, when the black guys on the team had running arguments and threats with the Mexican members of the team. When we had our helmets on we were a team, win or lose. The minute they came off, the colors blinded any common ground.
As I grew into high school and later in college, the jokes subsided. If it's possible to grow out of racism, then that's what happens. In elementary you are with the same neighborhood kids, but as junior high melted into high school, neighborhoods merge. The same friends moved onto other interests. You say something wrong to someone you don't know, it could end in disaster. The bus rides home in high school always seemed to end in some kind of verbal threat based on race. Every confrontation was a potential race war. You couldn't argue with anyone, white boys included, without having to fight their entire lineage.
While my misconceptions and biases had already been formed by the time I became an adult, it's socially unacceptable to spread garbage. Looking back, you realize that when you have an ignorant thought about another person that is based on the color of their skin, it feels wrong. Laughter can't always shake off that oddness of sin. Romans 2:15 reminds me that "our conscious also bears witness" in that even for unbelievers, the Holy Spirit resides in all of us. We have no excuse. Wrong is wrong. We can choose to follow the tug of our hearts and change our ways, or we can turn off that Holy Spirit-ometer and continue towards our deaths.
So I sit just as puzzled as I was the year of the Rodney King riots, and during the OJ trial too, as the city of Ferguson literally burned down around the protesters. There's more of an immediacy to today's events. Twitter brings a constant feed of thoughts and consciousness as the events unfold. Bloggers, journalists and tv crews camp out and write a narrative for the viewers to digest. News isn't even news any more. There are only agendas.
Another verse from Romans came to mind as I'm reading countless articles about the Ferguson case, trying to put myself into the shoes of the officer, into the shoes of Mike Brown too. "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn," says Romans 12:15. The loss of a child, even one with a criminal disposition (let's be honest, Mike Brown was probably no altar boy), is not to flippantly handled with the like button of a Facebook post. There's hurt going on in that community.
Apparently, other cities around the country are feeling the same thing. In Oakland, here in Columbus, New York and Houston, protesters have taken to the streets in a plea that their voices be heard. It's not just a coincidence. I began to view the incidents of injustice as a reflection on my own experiences with law enforcement, and more importantly with the factors that help support the ongoing myth (or reality in some cases) that of a broken system that continues to keep the poorest people poor.
While I learned that just saying "yes, sir" or "no, sir" to a cop kept me out of trouble (see the #CrimingWhileWhite tweets, they point to some of this) not everyone follows that same advice. The new wave of law enforcement aggression has now reached a perfect storm as it clashes against the disrespect of the people they serve. Do you expect those that did not grow up with meaningful role models, or positive male influences to submit to searches or to comply? Along with a flurry of movies that nail home the edict of bad cops and corruption, it's no wonder that these confrontations are occurring. Many people have reiterated that Michael Brown's actions got himself killed. Don't rob a store, they said. Who fights a cop for his gun, they say. When a cop asks you to move, why don't you just move out of the way? Aggression, male ego, pride and machismo. These cocktails don't make a good batch of anything.
I'm done blaming either side. The empathy of those in power, those that don't even live in the same environment in the Fergusons across the country add to this sentiment. Even as I sit among my peers, none of the teachers who work in my building live in the same district as the children they service. While the white teachers aren't to blame, they live even farther away than the many black students they teach.
Many teachers I know will probably find that last paragraph a bit disingenuous. Many years ago, our principal, an African-American, gave the staff a book to read. "Black Students, Middle Class Teachers," by Dr. Jawanza Kunjufu. You should have seen the faces in the staff meeting. White teachers were revolting! Many felt it as an insult. "I teach black kids," they basically were telling me. "That should count as enough."
And I think right there is where we have the problem. Just being a teacher doesn't absolve me from serving in other areas God is calling me, challenging me in which to act. But I've met teachers who basically checked the box on that issue. Teaching doesn't mean I have understood all there is about diversity. I still feel just as clueless about the everyday lives of African-Americans as I do aliens on Mars. But if my classroom is any indication, their parents lives aren't probably the posters of what we would call the American dream. Kids who rattle off the names of rated "R" movies, kids who make smoking weed gestures, kids who call one another bitches, kids without school supplies, clean clothes or the look of rest in their eyes. Parents are doing their best, and who are we to judge from afar? I'm not working nights, leaving my kids at home. My income is enough for our household, and my career is somewhat secure. I haven't worked fast food since I was 19. I have moms who work fast food as their primary source of income. You think they want to be pulled over by a cop, knowing their license plate is expired?
Lots of folks find it easy to tell me that they "worked" for everything they have, and I don't doubt their sincerity. Try finding those same jobs today. While I worked for what I had too, there was much more divine intervention and Godly coincidence than the sweat of my brow. The minority scholarship phone call to the academic advisor as I walked in for my appointment to enroll in college at OU. The close calls I had drinking and driving with friends in high school, two that involved cops that never reached more than a stern conversation. Mr. K, who in my eight grade year personally saw to it to see to my well being when my attitude kept me inside school suspension. You know who really worked during my non-belief years? The Holy Spirit. The ones who answered the nudges of their heart to assist me are the ones who were reaching for me from afar, pulling me out of my own abyss.
So where are those people in Ferguson? I believe they are there too. I find stories about teachers working in the library to catch students up with the lessons their missing. I hear of Oath Keepers who are guarding some of the business on the streets from looters. I hear of college students who are cleaning up their own streets during the day, the same ones being trashed by out of town protesters and the tear gas canisters of the police.
So why don't we hear more of their stories?
The Ferguson riots are not the last time America will see their streets burn. Electing a black president just seemed to separate us even more. That's not a knock on just whites. Because of our agenda-driven world, each people of color have their own goals to reach. Immigration. Health care. Etc. Etc. If each agenda gets "fixed" are we really helping everyone? All we have created is bubble majorities instead of helping the minorities. Majorities that live in their bubble world and see the problem with America as the other person's problem.
On a final note, many have asked, where are the churches? Where are the spiritual leaders? I believe they are there in Fergusons all over the nation. The problem is, the youth, perhaps some cops, the system have all turned off their Holy Spirit-o-meters to stun. We're too busy reading a twitter feed, too busy patting ourselves on the back for our simple good deeds, too busy looking outside the curtains of our suburban homes when we hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. We're locking all the doors and battening down the hatches. There's no one home. There's no one to help. I'll pray for you, I hear them mutter, as if they will save the world.
And the town continues to burn around us.
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