Pause. Listen. Play

Sometimes we think listening for God means we must listen for some omniscient booming voice, a cross between an echo and Marlon Brando in Superman.  Some people do have some great stories.  Mine have always been the indirect kind, the right song getting into the car after share group, meeting that certain person, good conversations and being convicted at church.  It can even come from books we are reading and movies we see.  It's also being more intentional and being open to listen.  I don't want my moment with God to be on the downward spiral of some benign event.  I want them to come in the mundane, the ritual, the part of life you least expect.

God spoke to me in the form of 4 fifth grade boys who were destined to be separated due to their past year's behavior.  Each time one of them morphs their face into some ball of pouty immaturity, He speaks.  Or when one steals a homework, erases the name and enters his own in hopes of getting credit, He speaks.  Or when they perform outside of their expected zone of failure, He speaks.

God spoke to me at the gym last week, when some random stranger with chiseled arms stepped out of his way to give me a hi-five as I lumbered through a set in the circuit.  It's been in the form of text messages from friends.  It was in the voice of my mom. He lies in the heart of my sister.

Tonight He spoke to us in a movie.  My son and I have been pausing through segments from "Life of Pi" over the past week.  The kids ask so many questions when we are watching something at home I'm pausing to get through it all.  Eventually we get to the meat of the intro, when Pi begins to find his foundations in God.  His mother is a Hindu and he's shown sneaking through a comic book like adaptation of Krishna.  Later, he meets Christ through a series of encounters with a priest.  He cannot understand how God loves the world of sinners but he finds himself enamored with this Jesus character.  Later, he finds the ritualistic prayers in the Arabic tongue to his liking and begins to incorporate Muslim practices into his daily life as well.

During dinner, his scientific father and disapproving brother chastise him over his juvenile theology.  Cruz chimes in, "They should just leave him alone."  He sounds a little like the boys' mother from the film.  Cruz, of course, sees everything through a Jesus prism.  He does not know about the world's other religions that will surely try to contradict his views.  But he hears "God" and knows it to be His.  One in the same.  Clear cut.

So the movie gets paused.  I give an elementary synopsis of Hinduism and Cruz jumps into asking me if I was always a Christian.  i love these questions.  I tell him I knew God existed, I knew what Jesus did in only a definitive verb-like sense, but not what it meant to me personally.  This past summer he accepted Jesus into his heart at summer camp.  I told him it was something like this that occurred some years back for me.  You can't just know of God.  You have to bring him into your heart.  You have to want to be like Jesus.  (Meanwhile, my little girl is telling the entire house she is definitely a Christian because she wants to be like Jesus everyday.)

I don't even know the segueway from one conversation to the next.  But my wife came in next from the kitchen after being asked the same questions I had been answering.  I know that in her faith walk there was a time of acceptance and a time of doubt.  Much of that doubt stemmed from a suicide in her family.  It would be disrespectful to bridge that sentence with that story.  It's not mine to tell, but I can reflect on the impact the story had on my children.  Reycina, to her, all is black and white.

That's just stupid.

My son is the questioner.  He has to see the logic in the actions.  He cannot go from point A to B without all the connections making sense.  I know the leap from what drove his deceased Uncle Terry to take his own life will not be understood by a 4th grader considering the family that loved him undeniably still wrestles with that question.  But the topic brought forward more conversation about the words we choose and the feelings we generate sometimes conflict with God's overall plan.

Doubt.  Just one seed grows like a mustard tree.  Unlike faith, doubt can course through your veins like some disease only a filmmaker could fathom.  Scanners.  In the end battle between good and evil, the Scanners, from an old science fiction film I loved by David Cronenberg, literally stood before one another trying to melt one another's minds using nothing but glances and sound effects.  Doubt battles faith each and everyday.  I'm a true believer of it.  It sometimes festers in me.  I prune one seed of doubt and the devil plants another.  Jesus pulls me free from the vines and I go and step into the briar patch once again.  Doubt about which direction.  Another movie comes to mind.  Tom Hanks at the end of Castaway.  In a movie full of great moments and grand decisions, he can't realize figure out if he should follow the girl of his dreams.  Seriously?  That's Jesus looking at my movie.  He's released it from the pause button and shaking his head and wondering why i'm still in the same place.  Seriously?  When does this movie ever begin?

I know my life's greatest hits are in his Netflix queue.

Anointed with Syrup

There's one story told to me this past week that I have to share.  As a writer (or at least I like to think of myself as one) I like to leave these stories last in the story.  During my poetry phase, I was taught that the last image of the poem is sometimes the most crucial.  I always tried to follow suit with my short stories and attempts at chapter fiction.  Even these blogs follow a similar format.  You write what you know and in the style that comforts you.  But the story was integral to how I viewed a lot of moments this summer, and these last few weeks as well.  Sweet, syrupy and childlike.

I met a friend of mine who moved away after a divorce a few months back.  We met through coaching and because our daughters were best friends.  He was my Emmaus sponsor and a friend during the baby Christian phase of my life.  I'd go to him under the guise of listening to him tell me about his marriage and I always felt like I learned something about myself in the process.  He wasn't afraid to deliver the hard truths to me even as the world around him was crumbling.  God placed him in my life at the right time, and I have been carrying a sort of friend-guilt along the way when he moved to Georgia.

To understand the story is to understand the man.  His mother has a recent stay at the local retirement home as her battle with dementia and Alzheimer's had began to strip her of her personality.  So, moving to Georgia meant moving her again, along with his older brother who was barely able to hold a job because of his mental handicap.  My friend brought me into the story by reminding me that God always has a sense of humor (his favorite quote is upon reaching heaven, God will say, "I sure had some fun with you") and that a mind disease like dementia not only takes away memories, but robs you of sensations too.

Like the taste of syrup.  Imagine that sensation of anything sweet being gone from your memory.  The plasticy punch of a lollipop, the crumbled chocolate and flour of a cookie, the cold fruit taste of jelly.  Momma H, as I'll refer to my friends mom, didn't want syrup on her pancakes.  Her mind has no recollection of the word, much less what it felt like to taste.  So my friend takes a fork-full, dips it in syrup and holds it up for her to eat.  She bites, and a child's eyes awaken at the taste of syrup once again.  I remember my own kids sitting on their high chairs, that great time when they can start eating table food, and the messiness of their cheeks after an all-out onslaught on birthday cake.  That was probably the face on Momma H as she poured the rest of the syrup on her pancakes.  

I haven't had the misfortune of seeing a loved one unravel one memory at a time.  I am a child of divorce, but as a child you have different memories and feelings as one would a husband.  My mom had always been pretty forthcoming about her divorce, but not so much my dad or step-dad.  I imagine asking them to divulge any other details would be like pulling a scab from a wound.  Listening to this story about Momma H was another friend too, one who lost his wife to cancer a few years ago.  Divorce and death, 2 wives lost to time and disease.  Literal and figurative, the memories now flashbacks in a man's mind, or on the faces of their daughters.  

So here I am, nowhere near a divorce, or God-willing a death.  I feel like a young David in the Bible miniseries I watched this past summer.  In it, David is anointed with honey poured onto his forehead.  It drips down his face in this glorious metaphor of having God in your life.  Just blessing upon blessing poured out.  24 new kids in a classroom--honey.  One daughter in college and my other stopped crying in the morning on the way to the bus stop--more honey.  She told me no more tears because she's holding her fear inside.

And my son.  Too many pizza rolls doomed his appetite.  I nixed playing football for many reasons, one being he's going to be flattened by some man-child kid whose dad is some Al Bundy-like ex high school football star.  After telling him he doesn't have enough weight on his bones, that bottom lip of his quivers.  I know at that moment he wants nothing more that to be accepted and valued.  I bring him over after dinner and try to console him with the promise I accept each day I say "yes" to God.  In that instance it's honey on his forehead.  Anointed with the syrup.  Nothing could be sweeter.  

Marathon Man

One of the great movies my dad introduced me to as a kid was Dustin Hoffman's "Marathon Man."  It's one of the many 1970's ear thrillers that still hold up today--see The Anderson Tapes, Dog Day Afternoon, All the President's Men, The Conversation, Three Days of the Condor for more--and one of those movies that gets seared into your memory banks.  The one scene you're probably thinking about, if you've seen the movie that is, is when Laurence Olivier has Dustin Hoffman strapped in a dentist's chair.  He's ready to begin the torture scene of the decade (today's horror movies have it all wrong, using torture scenes like pornography) and utters the phrase that still gives me the willies--"Is it safe?"

I'm making a huge leap now.  Feel free if you want to stop reading, but I figure if you're reading this you've been with me on similar blogs where I rip my heart out and leave it on your feet.  But the Indiana Jones-ing of my beating heart--bonus Kali Mar points if you get that reference!--led me to this point.  It's also from some recent studies, life experiences and that tug God places on your heart from time to time.  Actually it's like he's standing next to me revving up the drill and asking me, "You want safe or you want a new life?"

Over the past few years as I lived out the life of a baby Christian, life as I knew it was "safe."  I lived in my cul-de-sac not having to really know my neighbors.  I stepped into a Life Group that doesn't really challenge me other that getting my reading completed every few weeks.  I worked alongside a teaching partner that would just as well leave the door closed than to work together and that was okay with me.  My kids go to a safe school and they ride their bikes in the neighborhood without the feeling of dread and menace my school students might have after 5pm.  I can easily espouse on life and politics and anything in between from the confines and safety of my computer on Facebook, twitter and instagram.  The most fear I have from my daily life is whether or not I'm going to eat, and if you know me in person, you'd think I need to lose a few meals as it is.

But I don't think God is calling me to be "safe."  Looking at the Bible and studying it like I have, there's nothing safe about being a Christian.  Abraham was called to sacrifice his son?  Safe?  David, chain mail hanging from his smaller frame and all, slayed Goliath.  Was that safe?  Moses in the desert for 40 years and never once stepping into the promised land himself.  Not safe.  On and on and on, God's call for our very best doesn't have anything to do with safety and comfort.  This doesn't mean he wants you to be homeless and swatting away lions as you walk the streets. But God calls for us to be awkward.

So this summer has been bearing the fruit of stepping out of that comfort zone.  Oklahoma mission trip.  Junior high work camp.  Emmaus walk.  Even my daughter's boot camp commitment was not safe whatsoever.  While she was sweating in 90 degree heat in South Carolina and "getting smoked" her friends were taking pictures of their trips to Europe, Hawaii and the beach, taking those annoying belly-n-feet POV shots on Instagram.  Hashtag your life sucks cause you aren't poolside with me.  That's safe.

Last Sunday I slept in and did not go to church.  This is safe for me.  No having to get up, no getting the kids ready or worrying if they ran ahead of us before checking them in.  No going to junior high table talk to sit with my young men.  No nothing.  I didn't even watch on-line.  So then this Sunday rolled around and the topic of discussion is Presence.  Are we simply church consumers?  We purchase God on Sunday and check the boxes.  We go through the motions, pick up a cookie and punch for the kids.  We smile, we wave at a friend and that's the culmination of our response to God's greatest sacrifice.  Consumers want that safety.  Consumers don't want to commit to anything.  They don't serve, they don't study, but every Sunday they sure look good filling up the seat.

There are also the social contract Christians.  Their commitment is umbilical only to those people who can advance them.  They like the events and the social aspect of church.  They will only study with their click.  They won't serve without their friends.  If affections or attitudes change, this type of person moves on to the next group.  It's all for show.

I'd like to think I'm in this next group--those seeking a covenant.   We go to the very edge of ourselves to seek the living God.  We don't have to be asked to volunteer because we don't see any other way.  We love to study because we know it's essential ton our growth.  We join mission teams because we want to live and reveal the kingdom.  If it wasn't for someone taking a chance on me, I would not be where I am.  The standard I have for myself has placed me among this group.  I can't say that I have "arrived" simply because my standards are high.  The consumer standard is the lowest.  "At least I'm here (at church)" is basing your life to a pagan.  Don't you want your standard to be Moses?  A disciple?  Jesus?  That's what we strive to be, isn't it?

The men's study I'm being challenged to lead starts September 4.  I have 3 guys signed up.  3 out of a congregation of more than a thousand.  3 guys.  Seriously?  The safe way to handle this situation is to cancel the class.  Not even starting one in the first place would be even safer.  Satan knows that part of my pride is on display here.  Saying no to a study is akin to saying no to me.  And my fellow men love to give me excuses.

I'm having changes in my job.  It's the night I work out.  I'll look into it.  

There's some men I can't even ask because they aren't ever around.  Yeah, her husband doesn't come to church much is something I hear quite often.  That's the safe husband.  Others stand in the lobby, posturing like they do when they watch their kids' sporting events, arms crossed, sunglasses on their head, looking at their watches as if they have so many appointments to attend to.  They have that, I-don't-read-much look.  As if opening the Bible somehow reminds them of Mrs. Rottencrotch in 4th grade, asking to popcorn read aloud as the class made fun of them.  Of course, not asking them is also safe, isn't it?

Reading through scriptures I get the sense that there was nothing safe about being a first century christian.  We get a sense reading through the epistles Paul wrote to Timothy.  Timothy served the church in Ephesus, and from what I gather, leading converted Jews and gentiles to Christ was in itself a daunting task.  There were those that used the law for their own advantage.  Women were assuming control without the study needed to live the life of a pastor (for those reading this that feel Paul is some chauvinist I have plenty more for you to read to dispute those claims).  And amid these words I find my standard.

Temperate.  Self-controlled.  Respectable.  Hospitable.  Able to teach.  Not prone to drunkenness, not violent or quarrelsome.  A manager of his family and with a good reputation.

I'm going through this list and seeing two things--failure and future.  Failure of the standard, because I'm a sinner and will continue to sin.  But the future is the one that God's calling me to.  Failure is safety while the future is unmistakably heart wrenching.  Which one do I want?

This week too is not without its surprises.  Our youth pastor is returning home to their roots in Louisiana.  Hearing the news I was not saddened.  Selfishly I want to be witness to their talent and energy, the wisdom and their presence.  But this is our temporary home.  We aren't designed to live among this broken world just as our youth pastor was meant to be here in Reynoldsburg.  He didn't "fit" at times among some of the safe.  His family, beautiful and talented and God-loving, aren't meant for this world.  They are God's people.  They go where He wants to send them.  They sat in the dentist chair as God went to drilling.  Hell no, it isn't safe.  I wonder if God is trying to tell me the same thing.  Does he want me to seek men outside the church?  Does he want me to seek them elsewhere?  If God's appointment cleaning was tomorrow would I answer with a thumbs up?  Safe or unsafe.

I think when we cry we cry tears of selfishness.  We cry because we want others to see we are in pain.  I used to eye roll the girls in school who cried at the drop of a hat because the only thing tears did was bring them more people to hold them.  We cry because we want to hold onto what we once had, a loved one, a parent, a child.  Believe me, I cry like a baby.  I cry for those reasons I just listed and more.  I'm sure I'll cry when I say bye too.  But God is not sitting around giving us the Kleenex.  He's in the no-tears business.  He's in the kingdom building business.  Count me in.

Blast Zones

Next week will begin the all out assault on everything educationally related.  My wife and I don't return to school officially until the 14th, but the days pass quickly in August.  There has been so much going on this summer personally that has me fired up for life, when typically I kept everything compartmentalized.  Family here, work here, church here.  I'm beginning to understand that the dream God has for us is not just on one facet of our lifestyles.  He wants it all!

Teaching has always been something that I could count on to work based on my ability.  That's the problem.  When you rely on something tangible to give you purpose it eventually betrays you.  The promise of pride, the successes and dreams that go along with your career and the comfort it gives when it works can easily be ripped from underneath you.  That's pretty much where teaching has been for me this past year.  It's like the carpet has been ripped from my feet leaving me to fall on my ass.  Where's that promise of success?  Where's the trophy?  Where's the feeling it once gave me? I'm on my ass and it doesn't feel right.

This concept was brought to my attention during junior high work camp.  Satan's scheme is to betray you.  He hates us, really.  You think Satan wants you close to God?  You think Satan wants you transforming the hearts of the kids God is entrusting you with?  Those schemes contradict the dreams God has for all of us.  We are a performance based culture.  Capitalism is the backbone of our economic system.  We've been fed this Horatio Alger storyline since we were kids--the self-made man.  We all want to be James Dean in "Giant," striking oil in a vast Texas landscape, only so we can punch Rock Hudson in the face and kiss Liz Taylor.  But we drill and drill for riches that never come.  You probably think it's silly that I had these movie-inspired dreams for my classrooms over the years.  The one where the test scores increase and I walk down the hall in triumph (Stand and Deliver) or the one where  all my returning students come to recognize my glory days (Mr. Holland's Opus).  Every year I have that one kid you want to toss off the roof (Stand by Me) and the kids who you hope will be standing on their desks reciting poetry (Dead Poet's Society).

That was me those first 5 years.  Soccer team, the endless nights, the early mornings, the home visits and the lunch bunches.  Eventually that led to me changing schools, and there were plenty of burnt bridges along the way.  When I came to my current location, I couldn't see the potential in me because of the plank sticking out of my eye.  Over the course of several years, you begin to think why isn't it fun. Where's the urgency?  I can blame the administration all I want (and believe me, I did) but the dream God had for me was missed in my quest to pursue greatness without allowing Him to tag along.

The promise teaching once gave me now mocked me.  Every time a kid acted out when I had a substitute teacher, or the one parent I failed to call even when I should have, the every-other-week parent complaints.  All these incidents piled up.  This wasn't the promise teaching had for me, was it?  I didn't ever strive to be that teacher who counted the days before the next holiday, the next weekend or the next summer vacation.  I didn't want to be that teacher who sighed every Monday, the one who complained in the lounge about some broken kid whose rearing by similarly broken adults was somehow unbearable to be around.  The one who fell asleep in meetings or the one who didn't seem to have time for the most troubled, the most annoying or the most clingy.

And then this summer happened.  I found clarity in an Oklahoma wheat field.  I found peace in the eyes of Miss Jaunita who now has a home to comfort her.  I found life in the presence of some extraordinary young men and ladies who I worked alongside with this summer.  I found depth among the men at my table during this last Emmaus walk.  I found myself.  God tapped me on the shoulder and I responded.  God had been tapping me on the shoulder all along, but Satan's scheme had other ideas. For the first time ever in my career, I actually thought teaching wasn't where I belonged.  And perhaps that's not where I'll end up.  But what I do know is that God has placed me in the ripest of environments.  I may not be able to preach but living the life will be just as important.  It's that blast-zone of influence.

So next week begins the note taking and planning.  I'll trove Pinterest for ideas and I'll begin to make phone calls.  If I sigh at work it will only be because I'm not raking through wheat to find debris thrown about by a tornado.  The challenge is realizing the wreckage is sometimes right in front of me.  I pray my heart is broken enough for me to respond.

Scraping Away the Barnacles

Water can be cruel.  It surrounds everything and can take on the form of any container.  Bruce Lee said something once eloquent about water, but after swimming through the Scioto (at least I think it was the Scioto!) river last week the only quote about water would best be reserved for an obscenity.

The idea to canoe was not mine by far.  As part of the Junior High work camp, the kayaking and canoe portion of the day was a scheduled reprieve from the work day we had been doing.  The first thought in my journal that morning was how worrisome I was.  I joke about how "my people" aren't akin to being around water (despite the irony of the numerous wetback jokes and crossing the border quips I grew up with).  Coupled with my size, I'm about as graceful as a hippo in a bath of jello.  The life jacket looked like an orange scarf around my neck (the strap went just below my right man boob) and the kayaks looked like they were made for pigmies.

Dalton (this summer has also been great because I've spent most of it with my "second son") and I settled on a canoe and it wasn't 10 minutes into it that we flipped.  Our boat coasted away from the both of us and I found myself floating in the middle of the river looking for a sandbar.

I ended up on the right side of the bank across from Dalton and I tried to swim back upstream to him.  Bad idea.  I just continued to float down river.  Eventually I went back to the right and waited for any sight of the boat.  One of the junior high kids seemed to have stopped it, but the sight of him laying on top of the canoe while it continued to float wasn't a great omen.  Josh, one of our senior leaders, jumped out of his kayak all Aqua-man style and went after our wayward boat.

I first floated down stream holding onto the kayak.  At one point, I found myself alone.  The fear of embarrassment subsided some, so I decided to try the kayak in hopes of reaching the party.  Somebody probably has my attempt to board the kayak on some redneck funniest home videos.  My legs were hanging out of the boat like slabs of ham as I sunk into the seat.  The first move I made with the oar I flipped again.  Of all the luck, I'd be the one casualty:  Obese man drowns in 1/2 feet of water!

Seeing no one on either side of me, I dragged the kayak back to the sandbar, dumped the water out and threw off my life jacket.  I saw the corn field just above the shore line, and somewhere beyond there was the road we came in on.  I started to walk towards the field.  The thought in my mind was to give up right there and then and meet everyone back at the rendezvous point.  I'd give everyone a laugh about what happened, blow off the stress and embarrassment like I typically do, just to save face.

The shore line extended onward, so before hiking up to the field I figured I'd keep walking the bank until I'd get to the boat.  Once I got to the next bend, I still saw no boat.  But I did hear voices.  Distant, but a call nonetheless.  I had a decision to make.  Float onward with the kayak to find the boat (I kept thinking, could I float for 3 hours downriver to the end?), walk into the mystery of the corn, or just sit there and await help.

This summer had not been one of quitting.  This was the summer of Living and Revealing the Kingdom (LARK), dammit!  I didn't give up in Oklahoma, when the heat and unforgiving wheat field tempted me otherwise.  When the emotions were more blinding than sweat, when that ache punctured my ribs as I walked up that road where the elementary school once stood.  There was my daughter in boot camp hundred of miles away in South Carolina, battling her own fatigue and mind games.  But she prevailed too.  So, what was so unnerving about that muddy, murky river?

I thought about Miss Jaunita, whose house we were serving this past week with the junior high kids.  Had she given up?  Miss Jaunita, widowed and home bound.  The only company she had most of the day was her pet poodle Diva, her home nurse and the Avon lady.  She crutched around the house on one leg while the home she grew up in slowly crumbled around her.

So armed with paint, lumber and plenty of juvenile energy, we took upon the task of rebuilding her wobbly wheelchair ramp.  We repainted her room and ripped up the carpet to reveal the original wood floors.  Moss and fungus had begin growing on the deck in that it created a slippery, hazardous layer for Miss Jaunita to ever enjoy her back yard scenery.

So we scraped (our power washer was more of a sprinkler head) the green away and repainted it a vibrant red.  There were moments during the week when we found ourselves on our hands and knees peeling away layers.  Same thing with the carpet.  Ripping it up left small chunks of padding that had stubbornly attached itself to the original wood.

Scraping away the barnacles from ones life was where I found myself again.  Despite knowing that God had washed away my sins, the reflection in the mirror reveals old scars, bruises and imperfections.  But it's my eyes that see it, continues to see it despite the devotions, the bible studies or the prayers.  It's the sin that sticks.  Like quitting.  Pride should have kept me away from the sandbar, but the spineless part of me has always been stronger.

Eventually I was reunited with the boat.  We took an extra passenger and the remaining trip was one made surrounded by parents and friends.  We flipped a few more times too, at one point Dalton and I were sailing the boat backwards, but we made the tour.  We were witnesses to another day of God's immense beauty, the hills that extended upwards in rocky slants, the bugs that skated across the surface, and even the menacing curvature of the water as it rippled and splashed.

At the very end, on out last turn, we saw the group ashore.  I don't know how long they had been waiting on us.  A clap began from somewhere, and there we were, greeted by a group of friends.  Had I given up, I'd have missed the ceremony.  I'd have missed the group of crazy Christians welcoming us home.  We must have looked the same to Miss Jaunita on our last day, trying to squeeze ourselves in the frame of a camera lens.  The cool thin about God's kingdom is that there is room for us all.  We're being clapped home even when we don't realize it.

The Awkwardness of Brown

There's awkwardness in being brown.  The only time I really notice that I'm Hispanic is when others point it out, when someone mispronounces my name and when people feel they can tell me their true thoughts about African-Americans because they consider me "safe" enough to tell.  Not dark enough to be untrustworthy and light enough to relate.

Growing up in Houston, I was more self-aware of my skin color.  Everyone stayed in their designed cliques (see my blog from last week when I talked about church cliques).  Even the cliques had their own cliques.  Darker skinned black kids did not hang out with lighter skinned black kids (the "high yellow" as it was known to me then) and the lighter skinned black kids were safe enough to hang with the white kids.  Among Hispanics, it was the wanna-be gangsters guys who were dressed like extras in one of Vin Diesel's house parties in Fast and the Furious.  The girls wore dark purple lipstick and their bangs were so sprayed they could have deflected bullets.  I didn't know enough Spanish to truly hang with the gangsters, and I wasn't ethnic enough to hang with the outcasts.  Most of the Hispanics in school probably felt I was a stuck up preppy kid who dreamed of being white--and they weren't too far from the truth.

There was awkwardness when my grandmother told a group of black men who ventured into our street that there weren't "any of your kind" and to leave before she called the cops.  There was awkwardness when the Ealy brothers would school us 8th graders on the difference between nigger and niggah.  There was awkwardness when fellow football players would cry foul on how blacks would somehow take over the world and dry the government coffers from their use of food stamps.  Awkwardness every time I balked from helping someone translate their requests.  Awkwardness when I moved to Ohio and everyone in Zanesville thought I was from the Middle East.

There's more division now than ever before  Growing up I began to see the demand of groups of color who wanted to distinguish themselves as above rather than apart.  There were the Hispanic Democrats and Hispanic Republicans.  My friends seemed pissed about the Negro College Fund commercials and I wondered when I'd actually see someone who looked like my family on screen other than a butler or a landscaper.  I used to cry foul when the census bureau only drew the colors of the American landscape with blacks and whites.  Even when the seeds of pride burst forth from my crusty veneer, someone was always around to warn me about immigration and illegal aliens.  

When I became a teacher there was a renewed interest in being brown.  My students had great questions that came from the truth in their lives.  Nothing felt awkward and differences were now celebrated.  I wanted to learn from my kids as much as they were getting from me.  On a typical day I will joke about being ashy, how black people don't like to actually swim at pool parties and how black or brown you were depended on the menu at your family barbecue.  Typically we talk about their communities, which inevitably lead into "running the hood" and how to remain safe surrounded by gang members, crazy adults and a system that seems to want to derail them.

I'm not really sure how I will answer my fifth graders this coming fall when they ask me about Trayvon Martin.  I don't want to answer with emotions, as they surely will.  I know most of my students will come in with a blend of opinions derived from their parents.  They believe Trayvon received no justice.  Some will harbor thoughts of retribution towards Zimmerman.  The racism card will surely be tossed around and the few white students I have will probably not even want to speak.

Government is what we study, from the three branches to the beginnings of the Constitution.  Many 4th and 5th graders are just beginning to grasp some of the larger concepts of freedom and responsibility.  The freedom to do whatever we want, even though the realization that not everything is to our benefit.  My students don't see much past their own selves and anything prohibiting their freedom is classified as unfair, racist or both.

As an educator, I do have a responsibility to breathe truth in their life without bias.  I want them to think for themselves.  I want them to know that while America was founded on a bed of blood and political power brokers, there were honorable men in the midst.  I want them to know that while the Native Americans were sometimes ruthless warriors, some of them were honorable too.  Slavery too, had demons on both sides.  But to demonize everyone does not do them a service.

Which is what exactly happened during the Trayvon Martin case.  Zimmerman was immediately portrayed as a villain who stalked Trayvon as he innocently strolled though the neighborhood munching on Skittles.  Hoodies were the culprit, along with the menacing spectacle of saggy pants.  An over-zealous neighborhood watchman, wanna-be cop , now a murderer.  

The other side played games too.  If you dug around enough, you'd find pictures of an angelic Trayvon next to one where's he's giving the middle finger to the world.  In one story he's a full-ride college hopeful and the next he's a weed-smoking thug.

Perhaps I will take the time to discuss responsibility and freedom.  The freedom to post a picture giving the Facebook world the middle finger and how it looks like to a future employer, or a potential boyfriend or girlfriend's parent, and even a teacher.  The freedom to walk to the corner store to buy a candy knowing that what we wear, what we say and how we look at others can either be a hindrance or a deterrent.  I once was stopped in my neighborhood with 2 of my friends by a Spring, TX patrol cop.  It was winter-ish and I only remember wearing a dark coat.  Lights were flashed upon my face and I was told to remove my hands from my pockets.  I did as I was told.  No sense getting shot over a misunderstanding.  

I'm not sure my kids would see it the same way.  When my older daughter went out at night, I didn't have to worry that her sports hoodie would make her a target.  My son, on the other hand, will probably be told not to wear one.  And when he becomes a driver, I will counsel him on how to act.  Hands on the steering wheel, no attitude, yes sir and no sir.  To do otherwise raises the possibility that something could occur.  I had friends in high school that were treated worse when they back-talked and acted above the law.  Why would I want to be arrested or shamed when all I had to do was be nice.?  Sure, I had different opinions when the cop left, but I was alive.

And justice.  They believe, as do many, that Zimmerman is "free."  You don't think his life is forever changed?  Or that he wont be hounded by a media that doesn't know when to quit?  How many people can say they are being investigated by the United States Government that isn't located in Iraq?  Sure he's alive and Trayvon is dead.  He wont grow to fulfill the dreams he had, but neither will Zimmerman.  Two lives were lost that fateful night.

I want to tell my students that wearing hoodies or snapbacks turned sideways and walking slowly wont make them a target,  But I also know that our reaction to the type of situation Trayvon and Zimmerman found themselves in could have been avoided.  I have that duty as a teacher to tell my kids as such.  

The Heads of the Brethren

It's not a secret to anyone who knows me is that I love me some church.  I've always been a social being, seeded by God and then watered vigorously by my mother and my family.  Despite the many times I wanted to sit in a dark theater and extract the meaning of life from the latest art-house movie, I was not built for being alone.  This is the truth of all of God's people, saved or unsaved.  He didn't bring us into the world so we could live alone.  Even Adam was placed in the Garden, and it wasn't one verse later that God gave him a companion.  "It is not good for a man to be alone."

Growing up, the socialness (Google chrome is reminded me this must be a misspelled word, my poet side of me is proud nonetheless) of church was always something I looked forward to.  The mingling in the lobby (which we didn't do very often as we always seemed to be running in late), the waving in the parking lot, the breakfast tacos after service.  We typically sat in the same area, which gave us a good vantage view of those around us and those that weren't there that Sunday from a long night of drinking on Saturday. I enjoyed the same vantage view of Father Piguero, his thick Cuban accent when he made the congregation say "Good morning" twice since the first wasn't sufficient, each Sunday.  Anytime we sat someplace different, the entire feel of church somehow lost its flavor.  New kids turned in their pews to stare at you--and there's something about Catholic kids that makes them stare even more so that Protestant kids I think.  Father Piguero's smile was somehow different when seen over the heads of the brethren in the cheap seats.

So yeah, I guess you figured by now that I am one of those that sits in the same spot at my local church.  I park pretty much in the same area, except on the days the line for coffee is long or it's been a long morning getting the kids ready.  I enjoy seeing many of the same faces at church.  I give the typical 3-handed back slap hug to my man friends, I kiss the cheeks better than Richard Dawson back in the days of corduroy jackets.  On sunny days, the sun will sometimes glare through the observation tower, seemingly giving me a glowing sanctification to go forward the next week and do something.

After church we have the same ritual.  Herd the kids to the cookie table (we try to avoid the drinks because one of our kids always spills it or never drinks the one last swallow), mingle with "our" crowd at the end of the steps leading up to the classrooms.  Perhaps I have been in a clique all this time.  I've known it, but there's something about the word clique that has a sense of 1980's era getting-bullied-in-junior-high feel to it.  Then I read this blog.

Had I been this kind of parishioner?  Unwittingly or consciously?  My wife and I sat and talked about for a few minutes, one of those shooshing kids out of the room talks (those are the good ones).  We talked about people on the fringe (and I don't mean the wallflowers of church who feel lonely, but those on the fringes of our social bubble), people we've not really met, people we've stopped talking to.

Being a host and outward attention seeker (yeah, that's me) my wife and I have typically fallen victim to the curse of the clique.  When out daughter played softball we tried in vain to get admitted into the right team, to know the right coach and to hang out with the popular crowd, which in softball were those that talked the most trash and seemed to know the most.  We wanted into the douche bag crowd and were proud of it.

Those efforts prove fruitless.  A year or so ago one of the retired coaches and I bumped into one another at some social event.  I don't even think we shared pleasantries.

At our church there are groups among groups.  The men's choir, the praise band, the youth group, the Emmaus gathering crowd, the lady volunteers with their faces of steel and arms of iron, those that work in the nursery and those that lead classes on Wednesdays.  There's a group that helps with the younger kids, the middle schoolers, the high school and even the college kids.  We have Life Groups, where more groups are made.  Inherently the Life Groups are a way to enhance the call of grace in our lives.  It's a way to strengthen ties.  The group I am in has helped me grow spiritually over the last year or so, and I've met some great friends that are helping me walk through the threshold of being a baby christian to a disciple.

With that being said, we have drama within the group too.  Faces we don't see very often and some have stopped coming altogether.  Within this clique mentality, there is some truth to the article.  I've been so busy attracting the right kind of people to surround myself around that I lost sight of those right in front of me.  I have my excuses.  Attendance to life matters to me. It always hasn't, that's true of me to.  If one is to share life one must be in active membership.  How can I get to know you when you're not around?  True, our group is large enough that I haven't met everyone equally.  Maybe that's a failing of all Life Groups, all parties or all clubs--it can only be so big before it ruptures over.

Up to this point I haven't had much sympathy for those that haven't been around.  It's selective and that, in essence is judgmental.  I let go baseball commitments and those that I know personally.  Others?  Not so much.  I can see now that this is the same in church is well.  I don't see someone for a while and it doesn't faze me.  I might wonder aloud during lunch, "Have you seen such and such?" and then the thought fades with the next bite.  Some couples we've found out have even gone to new churches.  I sometimes look at my feet to make sure the grass is still green.

I'm not sure what the answer is.  Good intentions are nothing without action.  Is it pride that keeps my fingers from texting that one person God needs me to reach out to?  Stubbornness?  What does God think when I answer him in this tone, "Why am I always the one to make the first move?"

Maybe I am too busy being part of the it crowd.  I love the place I'm in currently and the great people in my life.  The same thing that attracted me to them is perhaps someone else's reason to keep up a wall.  Perhaps I can slow down long enough to look back every once in a while.  See the view from above.