Ish-Ness: The Tattoos of a Life Well Lived

There’s something about Christians, my self included, in that we can be ripe for parody or satire.  Among any group of people within an organization or common interest there are always terms and common phrases that anyone outside of the group would know nothing about.  They are like Holy In-Jokes.

Let’s take the phrase, “Traveling Mercies.”  Anytime a Christian goes on a trip, they ask or are given a prayer for traveling mercies. There were a few times I herd the word mercy growing up, namely my dad.  Whenever he spotted an attractive woman—and I mean anywhere, apartment complex pool, grocery store or on a tv show—he’d say, “Mercy,” in such a way that it felt like a grope, a mind-undressing and sexual connotation all in one breath.  Marvin Gaye used the term in the classic song, “Mercy Mercy Me” to draw attention to the ills of society on the late 60’s and early 70’s. 

The Dictionary of Christianese says that traveling mercies were first derived in the 19^th century for church workers who were about to embark on a long journey or mission trip.  Somewhere along the line, affluent, suburban Christians took claim to the term as a way to bless vacations, road trips, weekend getaways, and especially when someone was late to a Bible study. 

Maybe this is why I’m having such a hard time with the phrase.  Since the summer has arrived, my Facebook and Instagram accounts have been inundated with a spike of vacation photos, check-ins at out-of-state eateries and selfies from road trips.  When someone in your family or a neighbor went on vacation before you had to see it on their slide projector or waited for them to pull out the Polaroids, or later, the 100 page photo album.  Now, social media has conveniently rubbed our faces in American excess, and there’s nothing more prominent than vacations and lake outings.

These too are ripe for parody.  The image of the bare belly of a bikini-laden body, stretching to her feet where the beach or some other Corona-inspired landscape awaits in the foreground (even better when we see the person’s pierced belly button).  The close-up of the Starbucks mocha latte whipped cream soy drink, the selfie facing the bathroom mirror, or the group photo around a city landmark that designates we-aren't-normally-here.  Nothing says Christianity quite like tanned bodies, pierced navels and pictures of excessive food buffeting. 

At first, the novelty of the photos and posts was a way to bring myself to the action, even if I was sitting at a desk teaching summer school.  You felt in some way that the happiness of your friends was something they wanted you to partake.  I have to confess now that I’m beginning to feel bitter.  These judgmental thoughts of mine have been directed at anyone from old high-school friends to people I see at church.  I even blamed our family history—my mom nor my mother-in-law can foot the bill for the Cordova family vacation.  I had to find the root of my problem.  I prayed, I sought out help from my share group, but inevitably I kept scrolling through a feed of materialism.  Suddenly I was becoming one of those Christians that I would typically blog about.  Shouldn't I be happy for my friends and acquaintances as they sat in front of a resort swimming pool?

I do confess, dear reader, that is hasn't been easy to rid myself of these thoughts.  I know I have been guilty of these same sins of ignorance.  When I blast a photo of ribs or a brisket I’m smoking on the grill, is it demeaning to those who barely have enough food in their fridge?  When I take selfies with my son at a baseball stadium, is it showing up those who can’t afford to take their kids out to a ballgame because ticket prices have gluttoned?  In my prayers and reflection, I've began to understand that despite the plank that protrudes from my own eyes, I have much to be thankful for.  God has provided for me with exactly what I need.

Years ago, my wife and I took a marriage course.  Each week we watched a video of suburba-Christians share their experiences, frustrations and troubles related to the time they didn't have for one another.  Listening to the discussions afterward about how couples were balancing their budgets for weekly date nights and yearly getaways made both my wife and I feel inadequate.  Our budget as new Christians hadn't really been established.  Tithing was not something we were fully trusting God with (and to be frank, I didn't want to, and sometimes still am reluctant to deprive myself of my wants), and we were still one foot in the world and one foot in the church.  So each week we felt like targets, walking in with our McDonald's cups and t-shirts, among this group of suburba-Christians (what I mean is the slacks, dress, uptight look).  We were labeled the “ish” family (and we are great friends with the couple of coined us such, the only other “normal” couple in the bunch).  Meaning when we made a time commitment for something, it was to start at 5-ish instead of 5 pm. 

My entire house is indicative of my ish-ness.  Our wood paneled floor has a few spots where it has slid out of place or the edges have lost their trim because the kids have continually ran them over with the feet of excitement.  The outdoor exterior trim needs repainted.  Our deck needs stained again and our garage resembled a thrift store back lot.  The lattice that surrounds our pool is missing pieces from various storms.  Even after several hundred dollars in repair for pumps, pipes and hoses, my pool water remains a distinct cloudy blue.

On Father’s Day we had one of our ish-ness get-togethers.  They always begin with a pool invite.  Or sometimes we already have kids with us so we invite more.  The grill gets lit, the wife begins her kitchen chopping and assembly.  Other friends are invited, they bring what they have and there isn't a particular schedule.  Everyone is fed, the kids swam till dusk.  The evidence of our fellowship is found on the water droplets that lead to the bathroom and the deflated juice boxes that litter the trampoline.  There were no travel mercy prayers performed but the Holy Spirit was present.  Days like these are proof that I’m thankful for my everyday, ordinary, sleeping,eating, going-to-work, and walking around life.

To coin another Christianese phrase, I’m not just “blessed” simply because I believe.  Believing in Christ does not stamp act my admission to heaven.  We, the priesthood of believers, typically say we are blessed with our jobs, salaries, 2-car garages and our vacations, too.  It does not guarantee that turmoil, danger or defeat will not exist in my life.  As the last 5 or 6 years can attest, the enemy continues to pursue me just as diligently as my Father.  In times of my closest mountain top experiences, sin has always been waiting for me when I shield my eyes from the brightness of grace.

Perhaps that’s why my ordinary, walking around, eating (lots of eating) life is what is meant for me.  I surely will not become rich by teaching fifth graders how to perform the order of operations.    Nor will I earn badges for sleeping on air mattresses in the summer months at work camps or mission trips.  My blueish pool water, the flooring of my home, the chipped exterior paint—they are the tattoos of a life well lived, a life worth living, a life in worth. 

The Demanding Risk: Arkansas Mission Blog 2

Last night in our last chapel visit of the mission trip, our youth pastor used the term, “real life” when describing what we would be coming home to.  I’ve heard this expression on every spiritual retreat and mission trip, and I think unintentionally it tells us to expect our lives to become mundane once we return from the mountaintop. While it wasn’t used in a negative connotation, I believe that we, as broken individuals, sometimes revert to the everyday life we live as some form of trial.  Can we stay on the mountain top?  Is it even realistic to think so?

When I came off my Emmaus walk years ago, I remember coming home to my wife who had quite a week with the kids, her mom and everything in between.  Here I was, mentally exhausted but ready to lay a gauntlet of Jesus’s love.  I went to work the next day, and while I was exuberantly excited, I felt stymied somewhat because I couldn’t just pick up my fifth graders and give them a huge hug.  “Real life” for me meant God was going to blast open the gifts I had—a sense of humor, friendship and personality—without ever necessarily saying the word “Jesus” in every conversation.

Last summer was a summer of mountain top experiences.  I had served on the Oklahoma tornado efforts.  The trip solidified the notion that God does not need to bring us to our knees with a disaster to find our salvation.  It’s what comes next, the healing, the restoration of both self and home.  On both that trip and in Arkansas, I worked with teams from Missouri, Tennessee and Oregon.  There were vans lined up at the mission control, each group in matching t-shirt.  There were Baptists, Methodists, Catholics and Presbyterians.  None of the doctrinal differences seemed to matter because we were all focused on one singular mission. 

Most notably, what I didn’t see also cemented the notion that to follow Jesus means that everyone benefits, not just you.  There were no vans from the Central Ohio Atheists Club, no t-shirt that read “Team Wiccan.”  On the fence outside of Plaza Elementary, there were no signed mementos from The Georgia Islamic Society or from Buddhists International.  Not only are there no regrets for following Jesus but when we are called to live His dream for us, it benefits those that truly need help. 

This trip was especially emotional considering we were directly working alongside a youth group from Louisiana.  The group of 12 students was led by our former youth pastor and his wife.  There were still wounds in our church, saintly scars, from their move.  Rumors persist in church like viruses, and they run more rampant in a group of Christians because we stand so publically righteous.  It seemed each day there was a new reason for their departure.  Was it church infighting?  Was it from a lack of creative control?  At that time, our church hired a new executive pastor and we, as a church, had been going through various changes that didn’t sit well with the congregation old guard.  He was the likely culprit for every change and church schedule disruption.  We all needed a face to blame for the hurt we were facing. 

Old members of the congregation had been moving from church as well.  Was it all a coincidence?  I think as church members we feel two emotions when someone decides to move their membership.  What have I done wrong or Who made them leave.  Since we love a good story of brokenness we don’t come to realize that leaving a church doesn’t mean it reflects badly on us.  Some people switch churches every couple of years.  Some move.  Many feel they aren’t “being fed” which is a backhanded way of saying they are too lazy to serve or get involved. 

Even this trip had plenty of background noise.  Were we not going to Arkansas because we might see our old youth pastor there?  Were we only going because of their involvement?  This was a gut check to me as well.  Was I attending this trip because I would get a chance to see old friends or was the call to serve strong enough to draw me, even if I was going with total strangers?  The first day or so, sitting all together, somewhat awkward, I had this feeling there was a faction of congregation members back home ready to pounce on us for working alongside them.  I felt like the love I wanted to share was somehow only permitted for Methodists, specifically Methodists that were stamped, approved and background checked.

By the end of their stay (they left a few days prior to us), we all felt like family.  It was so hard saying goodbye to my friends, old and new.  Heaven was being denied to me once again.  I was like Moses looking down upon the Promised Land, denied entry, only to watch his loved ones populate the land.  I was bummed that day forward.  Bummed because my selfishness wanted to keep all the people that I love close to me.  Bummed because someone back home would object to the grouped mission trip.  Bummed because I had to go back to “real life.”

So what is “real life”?  I compartmentalize so many parts of my life, and it felt like even more so this year I kept people at a distance.  Work was demanding, church leadership was demanding, coaching was demanding.  But had I made it that way because of my lack of faith or were they truly that demanding?  The couple we helped on our last day surely had more demanding issues.  Their log home had been completely obliterated.  Only a gazebo was left standing, directly behind their property, and the single-wide trailer that housed another family member.  Their property sat on the top of a hill, and you could see the skeletal remains of the new school in Vilonia that was to open in the fall.  The metal beams were clawed over the now defunct main hallway, walls were folding over like some tremendous weight had befallen them.  Windows sat ghostly open.  According to Gary (the homeowner), the desks and building supplies had all been purchased.  Seventy new teacher contracts were signed, and among them were probably teachers who had ended contracts with other schools.  Perhaps they had moved to commute closer to their new job.  The contractor was one month away from fulfilling their obligation, only now having to rebuild on its own. 

What was demanding on Gary and Karen Seeds that day?  Wondering where the communion elements were located for church service this Sunday.  Their church, the Vilionia Methodist Church, had also been damaged.  Their new Life Center, two months brand new, demolished.  Apparently, someone had placed those elements in a black bag which was now resting in “Pod 1, Pod 2 or Pod 3,” Gary said.  It brought a chuckle to some of us.  Your house is gone and the one this you’re looking for is buried in a storage pod. 

We were able to talk with the Seeds’ family that final work day.  We learned of how they met back in Danville, Illinois (apparently he thought she was another girlfriend of his when he got into her car to “cruise” the block and the rest was history).  Karen was an ice cream maker—“my freezer is somewhere in that field ahead,” she pointed—and Gary was a retired railroad engineer. 

Our “real life” is the life we live now, in the mission field or in our workplaces, our homes and at church.  We make it real by being authentic.  Sometimes it means you’re open to be hurt, by friends who leave momentarily, or for the heartache you see in others.  But that’s what God calls us to do.  He wants us to live a “real life” that surrounds itself, consumes itself, with love.  When you live a life of love there is risk involved.  It’s a demanding risk, but so is love.  I’m looking forward to “real life” again. 

Among the Remnants of Objects: Arkansas Mission Blog 1

There’s something completely different going on in my heart this time around.  So last night when our former youth pastor asked the question, “Why are you here?” I wasn’t able to quickly find an answer.  So why did I choose to spend a week in Arkansas doing tornado mission work?  Why did I choose to go to Oklahoma last year?  Those answers, and I’m sure the results, will be completely different.  That’s the great mystery of devoting your life to a God who’s full of surprises.  The God that knows my weaknesses, my faithless moments and the tears of struggle I shed when I try and carry my own troubles.  No matter what I try to do, spoken and unspoken, to defiantly deny (which is what sin is, isn’t it, a flat-out denial of what we know to be true in our hearts) His love for me, there comes a moment when the realization hits home. 

I’m on my third day of relief work here in Arkansas.  I’m having a blast.  We traveled Monday with a group of 17 youth and five adults.  Many of them participated in the Oklahoma trip last year, others I know from church or having worked at last summer’s work camps.  We met a crew from Louisiana that is headed by our former pastor and his wife.  We’ve been in the business of moving scrap metal, wood, tearing down fencing and clearing debris from a wheat field (for those that know me, we had another wheat field experience in Oklahoma).  The work is constantly blanketed by oppressive humidity and layered in our own sweat.  In Oklahoma, we were not among the neighborhoods that were wrecked, so the smells of the decay were lost among us.  This time, the smell of mildew and rotting refrigerator food has had an overwhelming effect.  It’s at times disgusting and comical.  I’m afraid to move a bag of trash for fear that some mystery juice will seep out of a peephole, or that a rat or snake will spill forth awaiting to macabrely dance me to shrieks. 

I’m still not used to seeing this type of destruction.  Being up close to wreckage is unlike anything someone could experience.  Support beams uprooted and bent, metal garage doors crinkled like paper, insulation in tatters as if a gigantic yellow lab had been shedding hair among us (which is funny since we met up with Maggie at one site, a yellow lab who shed at each stroke of her back).  We played games of “Guess that object,” many times today.  Radiators, a barbecue grill, smashed toys, a section of a soccer goal—all were contestants on this day. 

I always try and get a sense of the life or lives that have been touched by this wreckage.  How can you assemble someone’s life, their personality, from the remnants of objects?  A button pin of a youngster, the covers of rain-beaten books—from a “how to talk to yourself” book to cookbooks—VHS tapes, a headless weed eater.  My mind cannot “inception” the twisted metal back into reality.  It’s gone and the envisioning cannot fully happen.  I couldn’t imagine waking up every morning to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, or driving down a street where your neighbors are no longer around (or any longer living), where the familiar road you traveled and the stops along the way to work have been shifted by some seismic mind game. 

It’s clearly evident why I’m here, however.  Tim spoke of one’s life being fulfilled when one pursues God’s best in their lives.  What a profound and simple statement.  He didn’t say, “Make sure to be good,” or “Don’t do this or that.”  What are some of the things I pursue?  They are not always God-related.  Some of them are work related and many of them are selfish.  But all the times I have chosen His plan it’s been proven to be prophetic. 

And this type of work is just that.  Who wants to spend a week digging through reeking trash?  Who wants to take downhill and uphill treks to drop off steel?  Who wants to wade through a wheat field so someone can harvest their crop (in Oklahoma) or feed their cows (Arkansas)?  

Am I better off for going?  My two last weeks have been pretty crazy here in Ohio.  I finalized my 11^th year as a fifth grade teacher.  Another new principal awaits, and cleaning my room the last day was something I wasn’t looking forward to.  Cleaning my mess is an ordeal to be avoided at all costs.  Cleaning a huge, destroyed-home mess is not.  Crisis prevention at home as my wife and I wade through the unplanned surprises of our son’s behavior.  Lately, naps, punishments, prayers, beer and throwing my hands in the air have been the ways I have dealt with my son’s mood swings.  I look at a hunk of metal that I cannot possibly carry on my own and I have friends that will help me lift.  I don’t ask for help often, and on trips like these, help is a must.  We took shifts today while we worked to beat the heat.  Still, we have one with a fever and a van load of kids were blasted emotionally by the heat. 

I spoke with Ms. Falk who was telling me the story about the neighborhood where we were working.  Seven people sought shelter with a thirty minute warning of imminent danger.  Two men, sons, across the street chose not to and were among the 17 dead in the town of Vilonia.  I spoke to the woman she had taken in after the destruction.  She sat in the truck, smoked her cigarette and talked about how her furniture was completely lost or broken apart.  There was a weak resolve in her voice, a woman in her 70’s, her husband already passed years ago.  But the resolve was there.  Some are more defiant.  Neighbors spiked American flags from the remnants of their driveways, the flag of Arkansas, state pride, Arkansas strong.  It’s times like these that can make you or break you.  Miss Lonora, whose trailer home was completely demolished, plans to rebuild for the third time.  Her 29 year old grandson left town and vowed to come back when she got “a real place.”  He survived the tornado despite being thrown out a window of a trailer home that had been flipped over twice, where the only structure that remained was the tile flooring. 

My life is not in shambles, but from my attitude lately you’d think it was.  I needed a perspective check.  Maybe the reason I came was to escape responsibility that I know awaits in Ohio.  Maybe this trip was exactly what I needed after not calling for God’s help in months.  Maybe the reason has yet to be revealed.  What’s certain is that through the remaining week my mind and actions will revolve around God.  What’s certain is that I’m sure there will be some surprises along the way, like there always are.  I’m amongst a group of teenagers and I feel young, all up until I sit and become reminded of my aches.  And I’m among friends too. 

I told one today that despite them moving out of Ohio, it’s like when we see one another you pick up right where you left off.  You don’t ever get a chance to do that when people leave your life.  Death happens and sometimes there’s regrets, reliving those last moments.  A family moves from your lives and soon a new neighbor arrives.  I moved every year as a kid growing up, so I constantly said good bye to friends, only to never really get the chance to say what I really felt, or at least a hug goodbye.  That’s a slice of heaven.  The minute we return to glory, our loved ones will look upon our faces like we had never been gone.  And you’ll catch up as if you had seen them yesterday.  That’s friendship.  That’s God’s true intention for our lives.  None of the awkwardness of what to talk about.  None of the shame of having regretted some offense. 

I’ll return home soon to see my familiar surroundings.  I know that eventually I will notice the flaws, the cracks in the cement or the garage that is full and needs to be cleaned.  But I’m first going to catch up with the wife and kids.  Hug them as if I’d been gone for days, and loving on them as if there had been no separation. 

 

 

Entitled for a Miracle

Failure is an event, not a person--Craig Groeschler, Fight DVD

Is it only me who feels that when your kids act up in public there’s that feeling as if all eyes are upon you, massive judgment boggly eyes.  I’ve been battling a front on both ends, my own kids and my fifth grade students.  I sometimes tell them that your my kid during the day.

Your momma entrusts me with you, therefore I will do all I can to make sure you are learning even when you don’t want to--Me

And so when my son or my other sons act up, I take it personal. Everyone who knows me knows my kid can be hard to handle.  He picked up the wonderful art of obsessive compulsiveness from his grandfather (okay me too), his old-man curmudgeon nature from me (maybe my dad too) and his attention deficiency from his environment because all active boys of today are walking medicine vessels.  Just when we think we have our bases covered, he has small incidences at school.  Squash that, he acts up at church, calls a volunteer an "old lady" and sulks in choir.  Win that battle, he screams at home and still doesn't get dressed on time.

So this past week we began a different incentive plan.  We have clothes pins on the "do" side of a board, mainly chores, and when they are accomplished they get moved to the "done" side.  My son's prized possessions--his ipod, his x-box controllers--are safely tucked away in a box.  You want your stuff back, better flip those pins.  Incidentally, his sister is no angel.  Her chores are very similar, but since she's not an electronic kind of girl, we have her fancy shoes in the box.  No chores, you get the ugly old shoes.

So my son is working on getting dressed independently, getting his bookbag in order at night, feeding the dog, hanging his t-shirts.  So far it's been met with applause.  He loves the listness of life, that schedule that tells him when to wake up and when to perform.  But like a true compulsive kid, he doesn't have much wriggle room when he's told he did not earn his materials back, or he loses his cool when he has that one setback.  One day he won't be stomping up the stairs and yelling, but until then it's like little bee stings on an already itchy rash.

Flip to my students.  This year we've done a fair share of team building exercises, modeled how to handle stress, drawn diagrams of perseverance.  Then reality sets in.  Their off topic conversations, at least with the boys this year, eventually goes into put-down territory.  First its fun teasing the kid who misspelled a word, said something perceived as dumb, gets in trouble in front of the class.  But when one of them defends himself with insults, no one can handle the rebuke. 

He's talking about my momma.  He talked about my grandma and she's dead--5th grade student

In the span of two weeks, there have been 3 fights.  Most of them have originated from trash talking, petty arguments over someone saying something about you, or defending one's self from being shown up.  There hasn't been much "learning" of lessons or behavior modification.  In some sense, it's getting worse.  One kid behaves on Monday, the best friend freaks out on Tuesday.  It's a shame for the boys who work so hard and the girls who do as well, although I do have a set of girls who just kinda stare at me like I'm an abomination.  They're teenagers in waiting.

 

I know that I'm fighting the culture.  My own son complains about what his friends supposedly have (I'm sure I gave my mom grief over similar material things), and what they can supposedly do.  I remember writing a list for my mom of all the things that were unfair in my life, and she promptly line-itemed me into realizing I had some growing up to do.  My students laugh when others get into a fight, or when someone is teased, they talk back and mumble curse words.  Each transgression is like a thorn in my lesson plans of life.  Is this reflection of my lack of control?  Is every office referral a sign of my failure?

 

But that's my sinful nature, that "old self" chiming in with its doubtful words.  If the failure isn't on me, then who is to blame?  Why blame anyone?  I come home exhausted and unmotivated.  I show up at work sighing and flinching when the phone rings or the bell signals their return to the room. 

 

You're only as strong as you are honest--Craig Groeschler, Fight DVD

 

Tonight I shared with my men's study group that failure is by far my biggest fear.  But in essence, who am I failing?  I'm trying so hard to compete with the bumper stickers of other parents that I'm not seeing past the traffic.  I see Facebook posts about how parents made their kids special testing day breakfastes when all I did was roll down the passenger window of the van to yell one word of encouragement (dear reader, I do care, but testing is a raw subject with me, and I've been blessed with a smart kid.  I know this isn't always the case with all parents).  Kids come to church happy and smiling, mine comes in grumpy. 

 

My heart knows this isn't the focus of parenting.  But I've neglected God's plan for my own.  I'm not trusting.  This week I saw "Heaven Is for Real" and there were two sequences that really hit home.  One was a scene of the pastor father questioning God, pleading with the higher power to not take his son.  But the argument was one of legalism, not out of love.  I felt myself on my knees in the same movie.

 

I'm going to church on Sunday.  I'm leading men, I'm in a Bible study.  I wear Christian shirts.  Why is my kid still acting up?  Why do my students do what they do?  Can't you do me a solid?

 

If Christianity were easy, if there were a manual, we'd all be robots.  Free will gives us that choice.  Kids have that free will too.  Consequences are learned, growth ensues.  We're not robots.  If we were, how much fun would life be in between oil change ups?

 

I'm envious.  There was another scene in the movie where Todd Burpo (played by Greg Kinnear) is counselling a mother who lost her son in the war.  She grieves.  Here it is:

 

The scene rang true for me.  Does God love THAT family more than mine?  Why is your kid free from ADHD but this one is?  But God doesn't love you and I differently.  We think He does.  Some people live, some die and we think there is some "not fair" card we can play when it's convenient.  It's difficult to wear out your knees praying when you feel entitled for a miracle.  That's faith.  Wearing out your knees even when you feel you can't any longer.  We forget that someone in our life will respond and cushion you.  Take the place of your weariness.  Walk alongside you. 

 

These are minor bumps.  I know there is a target on my back with each blog, each step in faith, each call for discipleship.  Why do the righteous always seem to stumble, was a questions asked tonight in study. 

 

Because there is movement involved--Matt Stephens, friend

Each of us can be a climber, a camper or a quitter.  Quitters moan and complain, woe is me, singing the song of lament.  Campers stay below where it's safe.  Comfort Zone USA.  The climbers navigate through these two groups towards the top.  When movement is involved, sometimes there will be stumbles, but the quest is never complete.  Keep climbing, keep reaching, keep wearing out the knees.

The Barriers that Bind

I'm going to tell you now dear reader that the following blog will be combing through specific plot points and arguments surrounding the film, "God's Not Dead".  So, if you hate spoilers or think the film is something you'd like to see, come back later, read the blog and tell me what you think.

This also isn't a movie review.  While I will interject how I felt about the film, the majority of the blog is a rebuttal of sorts from an article I read before seeing the movie.  I had the article swimming through my mind throughout the movie, and while it didn't necessarily ruin my experience, I did feel the article was off base (or better yet, geared to a specific kind of Christian who is more interested in what is wrong in a Christian film instead of what works).  After watching the film, I also began prowling through other reviews, viewpoints, message boards and other type of articles about the film in hopes of getting a consensus on people's reactions.  I'll admit that the friends I follow on Facebook primarily touted the film as one of their personal favorites.  I'll also admit that Christian films up to this point are more emotionally driven than say a typical Hollywood blockbuster. Most are Lifetime channel dramatic, the acting isn't great and the message is what drives you to see the film.  I probably would be herd pressed to find the right movie to show a non-Christian friend.  But then again, I don't know the numbers of non Christian people seeing Christian based films.  I think essentially the films marketed towards us today are in some way reaching out to the frustrations we have as families looking for an alternative to the films out there now. Most films made for adults go way beyond what I think is appropriate to the point that I've shied away from certain movies.  Action films like the current run of Marvel comic boys' dreams are most likely for my son and I.  Besides Disney fare, there's not much choice for families. 

So yes, if you didn't know already, God's Not Dead, has an agenda.  It portrays the interlocking stories set around a college where a student must defend his faith in front of his atheists instructor and class to prove the basis of the movie's title. There are subplots too, about a preacher who doesn't understand why he can't seem to leave his parking lot, a Muslim girl taking a leap of faith, a woman at a crossroads between her relationships with God and her relationship with her boyfriend, a student from China who is beginning to open his eyes to Jesus and a leftist blogger coming to grips with her own mortality. The film flowed like I'd think it would.  The story arcs and directions weren't new to a person raised on film, but I still felt myself moved at different times during the film. It's the God's lens I see every film, TV show or commercial with. I cry foul every week when then Braverman family tries so hard to navigate through life's trials on their own without any sort of reference to God.  I've been watching The Shield, where the Christian rookie cop is trying to stymie his own homosexual desires, all while trying to play God to his lover.  And I sometimes cringe at the advice from the atheists characters on Bones and how they portray the one Muslim character practically without flaws. 
    
Which gets me to the problem brought up from the article related to race and culture. You see, there was a time when I saw everything in black and white. As a Hispanic person, I sometimes felt outside of a fishbowl, looking in at the data driven American life pass me by. I was raised in an America that launched Affirmative Action and I wanted no hand outs from anyone (ironically, I ended up taking a minority scholarship from Ohio University!). I have met new education teachers coming into the field where they have been led to believe there is a privilege from being white. Since the main protagonist is white, the article seems to suggest, it in no way speaks to this brave new world of rainbow communion bread and ribbon-driven directives. 

I get the message, and I once walked in those shoes.   As a minority, I felt obligated to break down racial barriers with plenty of awkward jokes and self deprecating humor.  What's true of most jokes and sarcasm, however, was that there is always some truth behind the barbs.  Eventually I fell into the trap of believing my own shtick. I was simply saying what I perceived to be on everyone's mind. But it also kept me at a distance and built this exterior that was a scab on any relationship I ever had.  I assumed every white person was a closet racist, and the verbal racist were just more authentic (I had a friend in high school who named his dog the n-word).  Fast forward 30 years, and I'm sitting in a Reynoldsburg church at my Emmaus walk sitting among 50 guys, the majority of them being white. That was a hang up for me the first few days.  I couldn't relate to these men. What racism did they ever face? Did they ever know the feeling of being watched when walking in a convenient store after the sun went down? The great thing among many about God, is that he made us equal.  At the foot of the cross, we are all sinful humans. Perhaps the Holy Spirit had been always nudging me to realize this earlier on.  I always found it strange that my high schools and community colleges we so segregated. If we were made in His image, bound for fellowship, then why aren't we more diverse?

The movie features a Muslim character, a teenage girl, who is forced to wear a headdress by her fundamentalist father each morning before she goes to work. Later in the movie, he comes to find out she has been listening to the Bible on her iPhone, promptly kicks her out and vanishes from the movie.  Racial stereotypes are nothing new.  This portrayal wasn't more or less controversial than any in its history put on film, but the article seems to suggest that by portraying the Muslim character as such, it feeds into our already biased mentality. Why is America so worried about offending those from a middle eastern descent, especially after 9/11? By this standard, we shouldn't watch Selena because all Mexicana girls want to dance cumbia and marry their guitarist (well, don't they?) or why watch Misery, because it makes all mid western overweight white women as psycho killers.  I mean, didn't Fast n the Furious teach me all guys who look like Vin Diesel race cars (or that Jordanna Brewster is even remotely Latina?)?  Are there fundamentalist Muslims living in America?  Yes. Stereotypes exist because we also play into them. Guess how many Hispanic homes in Houston have blue exterior siding with a Virgin Mary statue on the porch? More than I care to admit.

The article, and plenty of non believers, have a lot more problems with the film. The ever faithful African priest is a thorn in the side of this progressive Christian writer.  Don't even get me started on the suggestion that all Asian foreign exchange students are braniacs (but seriously, if you're coming to this country on a scholarship, you'd think he or she would be smart). Best yet is the idea that those who come to Christ in the film do so from circumstances that first are followed by clinical death sentences. True, not everyone finds God through tragedy. Some face tragedy and rely on God to get them through the tough times. Others use the opportunity to question the love of God. Why do bad things happen, they ask? When no truth is being spoken in your life, the world will answer for you.

Finally, the article denounces the use of the antagonist non-believers who take the form of an evil, pompous professor, a leftist blogger and an evil, uncaring capitalist.  While it's true that not all non believers falls into this category, the most profound unwritten statement is the reluctance to paint an atheist in any negative portrayal whatsoever.  I'm left to believe that we are the crazy ones, the haters, the bigots, the unloving, while the secular humanist just live their lives, recycles, drinks lattés on Sunday afternoon and adopts children from Uganda.  I'm sure at every college there aren't atheists plotting the demise of Christian students one grade point average at a time, but there does exists among the educationally elite this cynical worldview that points its fingers in our direction.  Those silly Christians and their dinosaurs!

As Christian writers, believers, followers and church goers, we must be aware of how we are portrayed as well.  The world wants us to believe that one can live without God.  Do good, the world says, and you will be rewarded.  Call American Idol during their Feed Africa campaign and you'll feel better about yourself.  All those concepts of giving and sacrifice are Christian ideals. When the next tornado or hurricane ravages the country, let's see how many Agnostic church vans roll up to volunteer.  Can you go "good" without God?  Who do you think placed this feeling in your heart in the first place?

By the end of the film, there's really only two conclusions door the viewer.  You either realize your connection to others in this grand universe He created or you reject it.  That's the essence of free will, isn't it?  We get choices each day of who we will follow.  Your life won't be perfect by being a believer, but let's not also fool ourselves to think that a lack of belief will not make a difference.  In the end, all Christians should unite ands support artistic and entertainment choices made for us.  Pointing out the stereotypes and gender differences only reminds us of our differences. You think God is worried about what political party, gender confused, doctor prescribed, neighborhood associated, team loyal, authentic bloodline you hail from?  I've stopped worrying about my skin tone among my peers, or the fact that I don't speak Spanish.  Those differences only build gaps and walls.

So see the film for yourself.  I'm going to see "Heaven is For Real" on Tuesday.  I hope it's blatantly Christian, and I hope every white character in the film are down home country folk.  Would I expect  anything less?

Celestrial Trixie

Spring is peeping through the sleep of winter like waking eyes after a seriously long nap.  We had soccer practice this evening a day after a Monday full of rain.  Small puddles hid beneath the grass and the girls had freckles of mud on their backsides from running around.  We have been at war with an sun that refuses to stay for more than a day or two.  It's been a long winter, a long several months. I feel like I have arrived at some rest stop only to realize I barely have enough gas to reach the next exit.  I'm riding on fumes.

The word of the month has been "tolerated". I know my wife is barely putting up with me.  There's no way possible I'm anywhere near the person I can be without her persistent force on my life.  She's the embodiment of the strength God gives you that doesn't come from prayer requests or revivals.  My kids have been tolerable of their father.  My poor son has been cooped up, which means there are more ways he ends up being disciplined for some reason that gets his iPod taken away.  When we finally got a chance for some batting practice today I didn't care how many baseballs flew into the mud or how dirty my knees were from fielding pitches.  I know my students have barely tolerated me this last month as well.  I can barely see their arms raised above the Babylon tower of upgraded papers and administration requests.  I shoo kids from my room in the morning and my room is vacant and quiet during lunch whereas typically you can hear unruly laughter.  Even the boys from other rooms who we play basketball with are stopping me in the halls to say hi.  When we played basketball today it was like they realized hearing the sound of the ice cream truck from around the block, doing anything to dig around for a few bucks to get a taste of something blue on a stick.  Each room of the house has a unique debris of our lives on display.  There's bookbags on the kitchen table.  A paper towel lays in tatters under the table, probably from my dog trying to garner any remnants of hand wipes that were once on them.  Dog toys in the living room, water bottles next to the computer that were leftover from the weekend's birthday party (my son turned ten).  There are books to be read and a half liter of Diet Coke on my nightstand. 

A week removed from blogging about the experience I had being among a group of sign wavers and protesters, I felt as if I wasn't doing anything on my end to be a disciple.  It's been said to me that if you cannot come up with a list of four people who need to know about Christ, then there needs to be some adjustments.  I had no problem coming up with the list but I felt myself telling God, "Do I have to talk to him again?" or "Must I really find a reason to talk to them again?". I didn't want to make the sacrifice of a "no". I didn't want anyone to see that I didn't have enough patience to hear their answer.  If they looked into my eyes they would see I wasn't going to be there for the long haul. 

Then Sunday arrived.

Church is my hospital.  I can relax and not have to put on some performance.  The topic of the day's table talk was the Holy Spirit.  We came to the conclusions that when we pray, we pray to Jesus or God, and that when we speak of the Holy Spirit we typically refer to it as something akin to the refilling of our spiritual energy.  The Holy Spirit gave the apostles in Acts the ability to speak in tongues and gave them powers of healing.  I can attest that I knew the Spirit was strong in me the first night I knew my old self had died.  But I never referred to it as a person (for a description of what the Spirit would "look" like try and grab a copy of "The Shack").

Galatians 5:22:23 reveals to us what the Holy Spirit is responsible for in the lives of a Christian. 

²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.

Here it is again in The Message:

^22-23 But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people.

My brain immediately kicks towards the qualities that the Spirit has strengthened, renewed and discovered.  That goofiness I've always had that only became present when I wasn't moody was the unequivocal injection of pure joy.  At the end of each day I find myself in the hallway as some second grader shuffles past.  The little ones don't skip a beat.  While I don't have their fleet-footed energy I sense the joy they have just being kids.  Yeah, there's worries and bills and clutter but damn if I typically can't smile. 

And then there's patience and self-control.  Time to turn the blog off now.  Nothing to read here. 

Why is it that food and lust can buckle a man's knees?  I am as much as a gambler as one going to a casino, except my heart and body are on the roulette wheel.  How quickly my eyes can sway from my good intensions.  Patience can betray my thoughts in an instant. As a teacher you'd think I'd have the greatest patience alive. Teachers given the same instructions every day.  I deal with the same egos, the same tantrums (I was actually called a "fucking faggot" this last week by a fifth grader), the same needy kids.

There's mini battles taking place each day in the heart of a man.  One month porn free, about fifteen pounds down since December, a small, committed member of a men's group that keeps me going each Wednesday.  I can stick with it much better then I ever thought. When I heard our school was getting a new principal, my fifth in eleven years, I barely blinked. Just another change. It's true that when Jesus gets the keys to our home, he's going to rearrange the furniture, throw old things out, hold different kinds of parties.

We joked at our junior high table that the Holy Spirit must be some aura, some celestial Trixie that floats around us and sprinkles us with magic dust. But I think the Spirit is more than some holy gas station that serves us when we need a refill of grace.  It's a living being that walks among us like Jesus and God. The Spirit resides in our voices as we sing, the smiles we give others and the goosebumps we get when we meet a new friend. And they take residence in your house too. Now, if only I can get him to help me with all this clutter.

Noah, Rainbow Communion Bread and Christian Sign Wavers

Yesterday, standing in the rain, more was coming down on me than just water.  I was standing in the parking lot of a strip club (isn’t this the beginning of some bar joint joke?) trying to hold my Bible from the elements, listening to a preacher’s loudspeaker enhanced voice.  Let me set the rest of the scene.

There were about 40-50 people there.  Across the street, a billboard hung over a McDonald’s that read, “Jesus is Muslim”.  A local preacher who has had his share of publicity over the years (more on that later) organized the event.  One lone Islamist stood across the street with his own bullhorn defiance, and nothing he said could be heard from where I was standing to make a difference. 

There are Christians, and then there are the ones who bring signs. I wear various shirts that advertise my faith, but carrying a sign is another level entirely.  There was Clever Road Sign Christian—Jesus is the only way—Burn in Hell Christian—with a picture of an omniscient twister—Repent or Else Christian—red letters on black sign always points one to hell more emphatically that a Times New Roman on white—and Abortion Christian—complete with graphic detail poster zoomed to 1000 percent intensity.  I also met the Islam is Satan Christian, except he drove around in a van up and down the street where an American flag sat caboose. 

This isn’t typically my crowd. Before my save date (sounds like an expiration you find on a carton of milk, “best used by”) I always found the Repent Christian to be scary and crazy. You have to be committed to stand on the corner of a street telling everyone the end is nigh, with the eyes of ridicule upon you. That’s exposing yourself. But after my save date, I never felt that this would be a way to win anyone over to Team Jesus.

I cannot confirm whether or not the prayer rally brought anyone knew to the party. It drew passerby approval-honks, and it brought out the Pamphlet Christians, but will the casual person on the fence with their faith stop and listen?

This blog is not an indictment on the organizers of the event. Dave Daubenmire was ousted years ago as a central Ohio football coach because of how he publically stepped out on faith concerning homosexuality, abortion and a list of ills the country has fallen into.  There’s times when the calling out of pastors for being lukewarm, weak or sheep only seems to benefit those already under his umbrella of influence. Because my local pastor isn’t up in arms about Jesus being called a Muslim, does it mean we have lost our way?  My daughter’s boyfriend was with me, just a few months away from going to seminary, and we said aloud what must be their definition of a pastor be? 

I can’t say my faith was strengthened that morning. While the ills of the church are many, I won’t be the one crying foul when I could be doing something about it. I sit in a room every Wednesday planning upcoming men’s events. I work with the junior high youth at my church because I know the seeds we plant now with pay dividends later in their lives.  We’re all called to be pastors.  We’re the Priesthood of All Believers!  I also don’t believe that the world is controlled by the mighty, Godly hand of American faith. Somehow we’ve mixed patriotism with Christianity.   I love my country. I love my God more.

Later, over an onion ring tower and burgers, we talked at length about being relational, the meaning of social justice, rainbow communion bread and our heart for Jesus. We spoke about those hot button issues that always divide people of faith. Do I want to see a world where babies are aborted? Do I want to be the one outside protesting an abortion clinic? The girl who is pulling into the driveway of an abortion clinic has already made up her mind. Do I see eye to eye on gay marriage and homosexuality? But their marriage shouldn’t be any indictment on mine. You know who has tarnished marriage in the eyes of the public?  Celebrity marriages and the increasing divorce rate.  Old men who marry younger girls, a second or third time. The couple playing house before marriage, having kids, struggling financially, dreams deferred.

After lunch we headed off to see “Noah”, also another hot button issue for Christians lately. I had read reviews, interviews and articles from movie magazines to religious publications. I was told not to give the movie my money, but the stubborn man in me had to see it for myself. Ironically, the same can be said about “The Wolf of Wall Street” but I went anyway.

I won’t get into a diatribe about my beliefs of the movie and why you should or shouldn’t watch it. Nor will I itemize the embellishments and inaccuracies from the bible. Anyone who thinks the Ten Commandments was word for word from the Bible has another thing coming. What I will admit is reaching for my bible later that day and reading the account of the flood once more. What I came to realize too is that in theaters right now are two other films playing that have the heartbeat of Christians in mind. There are more coming in the future. I’ll probably be in line for those too, wearing a Jesus shirt and hoping to start a conversation with a stranger. It beats holding a sign and yelling in a bullhorn any day.