That Oddness of Sin: Confessions of a Former Racist

Let me first start off by saying that I am a former racist. I told my fair share of jokes that used the "n" word (on a similar note, I kept quite a few Mexican jokes in my repertoire as well). I laughed when friends of mine used racial slurs. I used some myself too. When the news was on, or when I watched COPS on tv and they were chasing some idiot, my first thought was based on their race. It was always my first assumption.

I've told many of you, and those blogs are all open record, that my house wasn't always politically correct. While we weren't mean-spirited about our racism, we treated it as a joke. Much of our ignorance was from our lack of knowledge. We really didn't have any black friends. We had classmates and co-workers, but when it came to who we hung out with on a weekend, we were always with family or people who had the same ethnic background as myself. I was raised with two images of black families, the one on The Cosby Show (how ironic does that sound now with all the allegations?) and the fractured families on Boyz N The Hood.

By the time I reached 5th grade, my two best friends, Jeff and Omari, represented the blackest I had ever been. It was a big deal that I had actually been in their homes, or had them over to my house for a sleepover. My mom didn't disinfect the house when they came over, nor did she treat them any different. Besides the fact that Jeff's mom drank a bit more than most other moms I knew, nothing was much different.

As I grew into junior high, my football teammates were black. We all joked about the color of our skin, the white boys too. They were allowed to use the "n" word amongst themselves and my white friends would tease them and ask them why they could use the word but they couldn't. We referred to all of our friends by color too. I didn't just hang out with Richard, it was my white friend Richard. My best friend in high school referred to me as a spic. I called him other words too. A joke among pals.

But race and color has always been on the peripheral. I remember my 9th grade football year, when the black guys on the team had running arguments and threats with the Mexican members of the team. When we had our helmets on we were a team, win or lose. The minute they came off, the colors blinded any common ground.

As I grew into high school and later in college, the jokes subsided. If it's possible to grow out of racism, then that's what happens. In elementary you are with the same neighborhood kids, but as junior high melted into high school, neighborhoods merge. The same friends moved onto other interests. You say something wrong to someone you don't know, it could end in disaster. The bus rides home in high school always seemed to end in some kind of verbal threat based on race. Every confrontation was a potential race war. You couldn't argue with anyone, white boys included, without having to fight their entire lineage.

While my misconceptions and biases had already been formed by the time I became an adult, it's socially unacceptable to spread garbage. Looking back, you realize that when you have an ignorant thought about another person that is based on the color of their skin, it feels wrong. Laughter can't always shake off that oddness of sin. Romans 2:15 reminds me that "our conscious also bears witness" in that even for unbelievers, the Holy Spirit resides in all of us. We have no excuse. Wrong is wrong. We can choose to follow the tug of our hearts and change our ways, or we can turn off that Holy Spirit-ometer and continue towards our deaths.

So I sit just as puzzled as I was the year of the Rodney King riots, and during the OJ trial too, as the city of Ferguson literally burned down around the protesters. There's more of an immediacy to today's events. Twitter brings a constant feed of thoughts and consciousness as the events unfold. Bloggers, journalists and tv crews camp out and write a narrative for the viewers to digest. News isn't even news any more. There are only agendas.

Another verse from Romans came to mind as I'm reading countless articles about the Ferguson case, trying to put myself into the shoes of the officer, into the shoes of Mike Brown too. "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn," says Romans 12:15. The loss of a child, even one with a criminal disposition (let's be honest, Mike Brown was probably no altar boy), is not to flippantly handled with the like button of a Facebook post. There's hurt going on in that community.

Apparently, other cities around the country are feeling the same thing. In Oakland, here in Columbus, New York and Houston, protesters have taken to the streets in a plea that their voices be heard. It's not just a coincidence. I began to view the incidents of injustice as a reflection on my own experiences with law enforcement, and more importantly with the factors that help support the ongoing myth (or reality in some cases) that of a broken system that continues to keep the poorest people poor.

While I learned that just saying "yes, sir" or "no, sir" to a cop kept me out of trouble (see the #CrimingWhileWhite tweets, they point to some of this) not everyone follows that same advice. The new wave of law enforcement aggression has now reached a perfect storm as it clashes against the disrespect of the people they serve. Do you expect those that did not grow up with meaningful role models, or positive male influences to submit to searches or to comply? Along with a flurry of movies that nail home the edict of bad cops and corruption, it's no wonder that these confrontations are occurring. Many people have reiterated that Michael Brown's actions got himself killed. Don't rob a store, they said. Who fights a cop for his gun, they say. When a cop asks you to move, why don't you just move out of the way? Aggression, male ego, pride and machismo. These cocktails don't make a good batch of anything.

I'm done blaming either side. The empathy of those in power, those that don't even live in the same environment in the Fergusons across the country add to this sentiment. Even as I sit among my peers, none of the teachers who work in my building live in the same district as the children they service. While the white teachers aren't to blame, they live even farther away than the many black students they teach.

Many teachers I know will probably find that last paragraph a bit disingenuous. Many years ago, our principal, an African-American, gave the staff a book to read. "Black Students, Middle Class Teachers," by Dr. Jawanza Kunjufu. You should have seen the faces in the staff meeting. White teachers were revolting! Many felt it as an insult. "I teach black kids," they basically were telling me. "That should count as enough."

And I think right there is where we have the problem. Just being a teacher doesn't absolve me from serving in other areas God is calling me, challenging me in which to act. But I've met teachers who basically checked the box on that issue. Teaching doesn't mean I have understood all there is about diversity. I still feel just as clueless about the everyday lives of African-Americans as I do aliens on Mars. But if my classroom is any indication, their parents lives aren't probably the posters of what we would call the American dream. Kids who rattle off the names of rated "R" movies, kids who make smoking weed gestures, kids who call one another bitches, kids without school supplies, clean clothes or the look of rest in their eyes. Parents are doing their best, and who are we to judge from afar? I'm not working nights, leaving my kids at home. My income is enough for our household, and my career is somewhat secure. I haven't worked fast food since I was 19. I have moms who work fast food as their primary source of income. You think they want to be pulled over by a cop, knowing their license plate is expired?

Lots of folks find it easy to tell me that they "worked" for everything they have, and I don't doubt their sincerity. Try finding those same jobs today. While I worked for what I had too, there was much more divine intervention and Godly coincidence than the sweat of my brow. The minority scholarship phone call to the academic advisor as I walked in for my appointment to enroll in college at OU. The close calls I had drinking and driving with friends in high school, two that involved cops that never reached more than a stern conversation. Mr. K, who in my eight grade year personally saw to it to see to my well being when my attitude kept me inside school suspension. You know who really worked during my non-belief years? The Holy Spirit. The ones who answered the nudges of their heart to assist me are the ones who were reaching for me from afar, pulling me out of my own abyss.

So where are those people in Ferguson? I believe they are there too. I find stories about teachers working in the library to catch students up with the lessons their missing. I hear of Oath Keepers who are guarding some of the business on the streets from looters. I hear of college students who are cleaning up their own streets during the day, the same ones being trashed by out of town protesters and the tear gas canisters of the police.

So why don't we hear more of their stories?

The Ferguson riots are not the last time America will see their streets burn. Electing a black president just seemed to separate us even more. That's not a knock on just whites. Because of our agenda-driven world, each people of color have their own goals to reach. Immigration. Health care. Etc. Etc. If each agenda gets "fixed" are we really helping everyone? All we have created is bubble majorities instead of helping the minorities. Majorities that live in their bubble world and see the problem with America as the other person's problem.

On a final note, many have asked, where are the churches? Where are the spiritual leaders? I believe they are there in Fergusons all over the nation. The problem is, the youth, perhaps some cops, the system have all turned off their Holy Spirit-o-meters to stun. We're too busy reading a twitter feed, too busy patting ourselves on the back for our simple good deeds, too busy looking outside the curtains of our suburban homes when we hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. We're locking all the doors and battening down the hatches. There's no one home. There's no one to help. I'll pray for you, I hear them mutter, as if they will save the world.

And the town continues to burn around us.

Floating in the Sea of Galilee

On periodic Wednesday's our elementary school sponsors a McTeacher night, wherein staff members serve customers during a designated time in the evening at a local McDonalds. This event has been a source of contention in the Cordova household because the events are always on a Wednesday night. In the Cordova home, Wednesday night is already booked for church activities. Both my kids have been in choir over the past several years. Currently my youngest daughter still attends. My son, with his change of medication and bowing to his demands, still attends Wednesday programming but has given up choir for daycare time. It seems as if all rehearsals are tedious and redundant. Once is enough for him. We sang the song correctly? "Let's move on," I can imagine him saying in class.

Anyway, this Wednesday was really no different, except we messed up out times. My son had a middle school skating party but since McTeacher night (we thought) was starting earlier, we had time to have our cake and eat it too. We show up at McDonalds, realize there are no teachers on sight and tell our youngest that there will not be a McTeacher night after all. Commence meltdown.

In the back and forth between parent and child, through tears and repeated pleads, I came to the conclusion that all kids think:

Life isn't fair.
The word "never" is terribly overused.
Never introduce a new vocabulary word when your daughter is crying.

"Sometimes, momma, we have to be flexible. What if we had an emergency, or our car wouldn't have started (which is a real possibility in House Cordova)? You need to learn how to be flexible. This is one of those times."

"But I can't be flexible!"

From the mouth of babes.

I can't say it's anything I didn't expect. Just who do you know who exhibits the qualities that allow one to be flexible? Part of our time management problem was screwing up the doctor's appointment. My poor wife, fasted all day for an appointment that was scheduled for tomorrow. A week or so back, she forgot a crucial ingredient for the Shakeology protein shakes we drink for lunch. Not too flexible was my reaction. How many times in a school day does the computer hamper some progress I'm trying to make? How many times do we adjust our schedules to fit someone else's lack of time management? Many parents in my school show up unannounced, and there are times when lunch or my designated planning time gets wiped from the schedule. Flexibility, right?

I'm already lamenting my weekend. We've had several straight weeks of soccer, and once that schedule was complete, we amped up our Saturdays with outings and errands. This weekend, my wife ordered me to make no plans whatsoever. So what do I get tonight when I come to bible study? A mark on my calendar for a service project, and I'm remembering I've been invited to a former student's birthday party and had dreams of going to see the local football team in the playoffs (that was nixed, they were playing in Cincinnati). After the deliveries, I spent most of my day working on my van. Flexibility is getting stretched.

Did I mention I have a stack of papers to grade?

The Bible doesn't explicitly say much about being flexible. There are plenty of verses on worry, about being prepared, about perseverance, but Jesus makes no mention or spoke any parable about the Gentile who could not shear enough sheep wool to make a bushel before lunch. You see followers, like when Jesus is building his disciple team. "Come and I will make you fishers of men." Literally, fishermen drop their nets, their livelihoods, into the water to float in the Sea of Galilee. Paul was put in jail, talk about a change in scenery. What does he do? He sings praise and writes letters. John was exiled to the island of Patmos. What does he do? He writes the book or Revelation people!

I'm lousy with being prepared. It takes me weeks to get ready for winter. You'd think living in Ohio, I'd learn. If I was in the Sea of Galilee I would have probably said something like, "You mean, now? Like, right now?" If I found myself on a deserted island, it would take more than a blood-stained faced volleyball to get me through my days. I mean, seriously, did John have paper just lying around in a cave?

Perhaps my lack of spiritual prep is behind these words tonight. I date my journal on the days I read devotions. Sometimes I notice that there are 4 days in between entries. 4 days when I don't talk to God out of necessity. It's like I'm playing Candy Crush when God is knocking on the door. I'm busy. Come back later. Someone get the door! Leave me alone!

So I begin to train my thoughts for heavenly matters rather than human. In this walk I've been given, the hardest thing is using my compass, moral or not, to find my way back home. My faith becomes tested during these times. Our pastor today spoke of this battle-tested faith. If the Holy Spirit isn't conducting some kind of scouring of the heart, then how will I ever reach that which is attainable through faith? It's something I reiterate whenever I speak in front of our junior or senior high kids. Don't live this life alone. When you feel the tug of conformity, when you feel swayed by events that seem to be coming from all directions, how does your faith stand the test?

Abraham was a pretty flexible guy. He leaves behind riches and land, status too, for the mystery of Canaan. He waits 25 years to have a child that God promised him he'd have (yes, he did try his own way, had the son he wasn't supposed to have first in Ishmael). Finally, when his son Isaac was born to him, God asks Abraham to sacrifice him.

So here's Abraham, about 100, cutting all this wood for the altar and with the knowledge of having to give up your son to God. He brought Isaac and two of his servants, but before he sets towards the mountain he tells the servants, "We will worship and then we will come back to you." Why would Abraham use the word "we" when he was supposed to be sacrificing Isaac. He would return alone. There's no evidence that Abraham suddenly lied to his servants so they wouldn't suspect his plans. He knew both would return.

Once they reached the mountain, Isaac, who knew something about burnt offerings, noticed there was not a lamb ready to be slaughtered. "God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son." He then binds his son. Could you imagine? Artists depict Isaac as a young child, and being bound in such a way, he had to have known that he would also be sacrificed to God. Did Isaac run? Was he old enough to understand?

Surely Abraham, at 100, didn't lug all the wood himself. If Isaac was 5 or 7, I don't see him carrying firewood up a mountain. My son can't even carry a Wal-Mart bag from the garage to the kitchen. Some apologetics place Isaac at 18-20 years of age. That's a mind blowing contrast to the image of Abraham, knife drawn, standing above his young son. At 18, 20 years of age, Isaac too realized that God was going to show his hand for the two of them to see.

While God isn't asking me to sacrifice my first born, He does require an offering. He desires my tithe, to test Him in that regard. He wants me to offer my heart and all the baggage I continue to wield as my own. Being a follower means there are parts of our life we simply must let go. Drop the net, Jesus is saying. Let it float in the Sea of Galilee. What a beautiful image it must be to submit to the Lord in such a way. I can surely imagine my lust, my wants, my selfishness, my materialistic desires, floating away on a calm sea never to return. But you see, to God, what we can't imagine, He's already putting into place. Am I willing to put God to the test?

Things could get dicey around here. Heart beware, the Lord is coming in.

Mothballs and Old Biddies: Thoughts on Worship Styles Part 1

I'm beginning to finally realize that Christians don't really like one another. I used to think it was a people problem. Humans being imperfect and all. But there's been a running theme lately in the blogosphere and millennial Christian media that would suggest it's more than humans being humans.

Let me first start by admitting my own guilt in this matter. I blogged several weeks back on my own failings to stick up for members of my congregation, my church too. When I first became a Christian, I mocked Catholics. I backed off after realizing it wasn't that funny, and that Cathiolicism laid the foundation for my future. There were moments during my Emmaus walk, that reminded me that God had always been there even when my heart was absent. Most recently I was guilty of thumbing my nose at those who prefer the traditional form of worship.

I still view things in my life through fragmented lenses. My sarcasm and humor was typically to avoid sensitive subjects, or it was a way for me to understand something that was presented anew. I also cling to my old experiences. I hear the sound of an organ during a hymn and I want to sleep. I hear the all-call of choral response and I think back to my days in a Catholic church, kneeling uncomfortably and wondering why we kept saying the same phrase over and over. When I think traditional service I think mothballs, old white men in suits, old biddies in fancy hats.

Which brings me to my first article I wanted to share with you. I agree with the author of, "11 Reasons to Stop Offering Different Worship Styles," in there is too much division in today's church. Denominationally and racially, we sure know how to reinstate the veil that God worked so hard to tear down. My own church offers two forms of worship, and under some major grumbling, moved the traditional worshippers into their own sanctuary by remodeling an older section of our church. While the differences in service are easy to see on paper (choir v praise band, hymns v contemporary music, pastor in a suit v pastor in jeans). the real division comes perhaps in the ages and ideas of the congregants.

For someone who did not grow up in the traditional Methodist church, I do have some background in styles. Catholic mass was the same no matter the church. I find this ironic because this is what education with the common core feels like. Any kid in America should be able to go to any school nationwide and learn the same way and in the same style. Obviously in education, this is inherently impossible, but for Sunday mass is was pretty much the same.

The pastor enters in a procession of brass candles and altar boys. There's some kneeling, a meet and greet and it's on to some readings from the Bible. The Deacon does his thing, we take communion, exit procession of altar boys. When my wife and I were church hopping before we were Christians, I found the traditional style of worship old, stale and confining. But one thing was certain was that my heart was not circumcised enough to fully grasp what God was doing behind the scenes. Later when church became something of a priority, contemporary service was where I at least found that worshipping was cool, that it could be more than sitting in a pew and drifting away.

The article suggests that fear drives today's churches (I'm excluding the megachurch and non-denominational churches here, since most of them are unmistakably contemporary) to change their worship style, or like mine, offer two separate services. Much of the debate then swings to how the use of music is responsible for how we learn, what we are taught and how we worship.

The author of this article also believes that today's worship music has much to be desired. While I do agree that the hymns sung by the "giants of faith" that came before us are and should be influential towards new Christians today, I think that by saying today's music is just emotional downplays its importance, and it takes some power from the artists who created them. You're going to tell me that the song, "How He Loves Us" by the David Crowder Band only twists our emotions with these lines:

And we are His portion and He is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes
If His grace is an ocean, we're all sinking

Or what about the countless songs that slip in lines from Psalms. How about, "Blessed Be Your Name," "Your Grace is Enough," "How Great is Our God," and "Mighty to Save"? While there are some Christian contemporary songs today that are bland, and perhaps they don't even have the word Jesus or God in them (I'm looking at you Super Chick) but does every hymn created by John Wesley (and from a great editor friend of mine, that's Charles Wesley!--thanks, Rocky!) equivalent to "Amazing Grace"? And you're not going to then tell me that when I sing "That Old Rugged Cross" that it doesn't elicit an emotional response. Isn't that what music is for? Are we not allowed to grow artistically from the giants of faith? I sometimes feel that because I listen to Christian music, it isn't "traditional" enough to be considered worthy.

I do see the age discrepancies and attitudes from service to service. Traditional worshippers are our grandparents, the retirees. They attend the board meetings and speak out when non-essential aspects of the church become changed (anyone in my church can attest to this when the choir director resigned unexpectedly). On the surface, they may tithe better than the new Christians coming in to listen to the band and read the words from the jumbotron. But will that always be the case?

Just how should a church change with its congregants? A friend told me that the churches that survive over time are the ones that will be truly diverse. When we quibble over the different types of services, are we really just saying that one is better than the other? A proactive church changes with the audience. Just because I prefer not to kneel, bow and sleep through service does not mean that my need for entertainment overrides my need for strong Biblical teaching. What we should all be worried about is why churches still have openings to volunteer within its walls. There should be waiting lists at every church, where its members cannot wait to serve one another and their communities. Let's be the church on other days than Sunday.

I want to get into so much more. I'm going to try and tackle the "relationship v religion" topic next week. I'm thankful for the wealth of articles and topics that come across my way. I'm thankful too to have a forum for my thoughts. I pray that my own hang-ups and differences will not cause my brother to pause and wonder why they don't see Jesus in me.

That Space Big Enough to Let Love In

So tonight, my youngest daughter cried over a dollar. Now, this presumed dollar that she felt she wouldn't get stemmed from trying to find the black slip per I had been looking for. It really wasn't the dollar or the slippers (although my cold toes would claim otherwise), that caused her mini meltdown, as precious as it was. It had everything to do with time and love.

Daddy, sometimes you don't spend time with me. You and mommy are just mean. You don't love me.

She's seven, I should remind you, dear reader. But the knife in my heart cuts the same as if she was 20.

This past Sunday, the sermon series "Questions Too Big to Ignore" delved into answering, "What Makes a Great Parent." I had been lucky to arrive at church that Sunday. I was alone, which was a rare occurrence (my wife elected to sleep in and get the house and prep work done for our last day of soccer celebrations), and I had barely been awake 30 minutes. I thought the sermon series was planned to speak about marriage but was pleasantly surprised it was parenting. Sometimes I feel like the sermon series is just for me and everyone just gets to be in an audience of my own design.

To be honest, parenting has been one of my greatest gifts and an area where shame and my own self doubt has generally found a seat on my home sofa, slurping my diet coke and hogging my late night tv snacks. It was always a great story, the making of our family. The trials of miscarriages and the testing of our resolve rewarded when we opened our home to our future-to-be older daughter at age 10. Cruz was conceived months later, and Lisa just a few years away from being officially adopted, became a big sister. Reycina arrived like a miracle surprise 3 years later. Suddenly the Cordova family was a table for 5, not including the cats and one stupid dog.

I had no idea what parenting was. As a teacher, I had an idea of what it wasn't. I had seen too many kids at my previous school come through wearing the sores and scabs of their parents broken lives. Parents who slept with prostitutes in front of their sons, dads in jail, moms with several kids and none of their last names were the same, moms who rarely made conferences while their kids missed days upon days at school. Of course, other judgments come into play to. Rude kids who talked back, kids who constantly teased other kids, kids who always talked back.

I wasn't much better myself growing up. I was hard on my teachers, what we call now "high maintenance." If you allowed me, I acted like a class clown. When I didn't get me attention needs met, I acted out in sarcastic, rude ways. I wasn't terribly nice to other kids, unless you were popular. I'm sure my teachers made judgments then about my parents, but they didn't know what happened between closed doors. There was plenty of love. My mom sent her best to school each day, a kid with not just a notion of college, but with a reality that college was my future. A kid who knew how to behave around adults (shaking the hands of bank presidents and meeting countless friends of friends had its advantages) but didn't quite have a shut-off button. The kid whose mom continued to encourage even when he thought he'd never have a girlfriends, or that his sports writing career was over because I had moved high schools. A mom who didn't sugarcoat life by making excuses for my behavior. A mom who taught me it was okay to cry, more important to listen, and that family would always have my back. Although the blogs I have written have sometimes put some undue spotlight on my mom, I would have not been able to pull myself out of the deep self-hate I had before I met my future wife.

We've had some ups and downs behind the door of house Cordova. A hyper active boy who just recently threw his X-box controller at the wall in the basement causing a hole in the wall (thank you, Madden 15), but who just made the B honor roll in 5ht grade (all A's except for Language Arts). There's Milly who cries each morning because her top doesn't match her pants or because she thinks she's dressing for a ball gown every morning (I think she could be in a dress and stockings for 24 hours). This past week at her soccer game, I yelled from the sideline to her to stop kicking the ball up the middle (she's a goalie). She looked at me from across the field, that stunned look on her face, holding the ball in the air.

Where do I kick it then?

Not in the middle!

The sideline parents had a laugh on that one. The tone of the way I said it cannot be explained in the sentence in type, but it was one of those daddy/daughter moments that will probably become the nexus of some future sad bastard poem of my daughter's. I remember having similar moments with Lisa back when she was playing softball, when I envisioned my expectation onto her ability as a player. This is your chance to succeed, I'd always think, as if I could shake winning out of her like a bully shakes out coins from a kid hanging upside down. While Lisa and I had several car travel moments where we hashed out life, I had many times where I couldn't hold my tongue, and the criticism of my expectation reared its ugly head.

And while I was folding towels in my bedroom, standing in front of my daughter, it became apparent that my parenting skills that were preached on Sunday needed a lesson in application. One of the talking points about the sermon was to allow space in our hearts big enough to listen to what your children have to say. So God spoke to me through her tears.

Daddy you don't help me with my homework.
I don't get to snuggle with you but Cruz always gets to.
You're just being mean.

And while the details of her pleas become lost in the small details of our lives, the one thing that is clear, it's much more than a dollar. She wants my time, my love. She wants her daddy. Before share group I sat on the couch with her and snuggled like it was the first time home from the hospital. Just a baby with arms too small to hug me back, but just little enough to wield a tiny hand and grasp my finger.

The idea of parenting is so much cleaner and easier than the reality. The nights when they are sick and you're cleaning up vomit from your sheets. The twinge of frustration when I get  call from one of their schools. The times when you can't answer your college-age daughter's text without going into a mini-sermon. Times when your son has a tantrum in front of your friends.

Oh, but to experience the love from each breath they breathe. Earlier today my little one was dancing in the kitchen to a "Royal." She's oblivious to my watchful eyes, the smirk I'm giving as she shakes and twirls and pop-star preens in front of an invisible audience. She's my queen bee, that's for sure.

A Hug for the Panicked

I just sent my kids to bed after a night of playing mom. In her absence, I'm hardly an adequate substitute. My cooking is suited for comfort, outdoors and easy, while my wife's is more complex, seasoned. My wife helps with homework and juggles the whiny demands of my youngest daughter, age 7. Tonight, my son peeled potatoes and helped me cut them to make homemade French fries. He's wanting to work in the kitchen more and with my wife's help, he can make rice and a basic General Tso's. Reycina, my little one, helps cut fruits and other vegetables for salad. Before my kids went to bed we did a round of Candy Land, UNO and some devotions. I could tell Reycina was a bit emotional. Earlier in the day I received a call from the nurse at her school. She dropped a bowl of soup on her skirt, was embarrassed, and apparently was upset enough to cry uncontrollably like she's been doing. I ended up whispering a prayer to her over the phone during Reading so she could go back to class. She came downstairs twice after being sent to bed and I eventually relented to allow her to sleep in ours. I'm a shallow replacement for my wife (she's at some Scentsy/Pampered Chef/Fru Fru kind of party women attend on weeknights). I caved because I had no more hugs left in me. No more reassurances that the anxiety she feels will go away.

A few weeks back during soccer, I told her not to "panic" when she's playing defense. She likes to reactively kick the ball out of bounds when the other team attacks, and while it slows the other team down, we could have easily kicked the ball upfield to keep possession. She then used the word "panic" when we had a parent-teacher conference when she explained why she sometimes has trouble in math class. "I panic sometimes," she says, with the sincerity of a little girl who wants the nurturing and attention of everyone she loves. It's a funny use of the word, for both in soccer and in life, but her anxiety sometimes gets the better of her. In her mind the word "panic" fits, it made sense to how she was feeling.

I'm seeing the same panic in the world around me. We want to shut down the borders and flights from West Africa in order to control Ebola, and this after 2 confirmed cases in America. How many people live in America, in Dallas where the infection occurred? Millions. I play a game called "Plague Inc." on my phone which eerily plays out a scenario where you can infect the world with a virus (not so fun now that Ebola is ravaging Africa. Suddenly the sarcasm of death isn't an escape as it was weeks ago.) The setting on Expert closes borders when half the world becomes infected. America is in Berserk mode. Someone sneezes in an airport and we contain them in plastic, roll them in duct tape and start digging the mass grave.

ISIS is affecting our lives too. My mother in law was informed that our oldest daughter hopes to do mission work in Tanzania. In my mother-in-law's mind, my daughter Lisa will be infected with Ebola, get beheaded, sold into slavery or all 3. We shouldn't have even told her she was going. But in other corners of the world, military families are on defcon alert from ISIS supporters who could be targeting them or their families through social media. A beheading happens in Oklahoma. The media claims it was workplace violence, but the panic contingency has us believe more is at stake. Mosques are suddenly the target of gun-toting, flag waving Americans.

Which brings me to Ferguson, Missouri.

I wrote a piece on the death of Trayvon Martin last year which you can feel free to read to know where I stand. As a supporter of police (the new word being used lately is an "apologists"), it's hard to get behind the death of Michael Brown, a teenager. We know some of the facts, or at least we think we know. Brown and a friend were seen stealing cheap cigars and intimidating a nearby store clerk. The men were later stopped for jaywalking or blocking the street, depending on the report. Some claim the cop in question, was stopping Brown because he was the suspect in the same crime that was broadcasts on the wire (although others claim the storeowner never informed police of the theft). What reads like a case of stubborn pride and machismo on both sides erupts into a fight for a gun (again, there was false information that Brown assaulted the cop and broke the cop's orbital bone, which ended up being faked), an attempted arrest and ultimately shots fired. Eyewitness claim Brown had his hands in the air (leading to the chant, "Hands Up, Don't Shoot!" by protesters), while the cop claims Brown charged him. Seven shots later, Brown lay dead in the street. Four hours later, his body still lay there for onlookers.

Panic.

Other cops across the nation are coming under fire too. Busting the window when a man won't give identification, tasering him. Another cop shoots a man who was stopped for a seat belt violation. Why is it that people of color all have cop-harassment stories? Why is it a black man was arrested for reportedly being in his own home because the neighbor didn't believe he lived there (the guy was adopted by a white family). A man in Detroit shoots a drunken teenage girl who is banging on his front door. Panic. Every black man in a hoodie is a suspect. Panic.

When I first was driven to write a blog about Ferguson, I was infuriated with some of the logic and condemnation I was seeing on Twitter. The cops were racists, the sheriff is racists. Brown was a teddy bear who wouldn't hurt anyone and was starting college the next day (with stolen cigars to celebrate, perhaps). With the case dragging on into a second month and no indictment, it makes those thoughts pretty trivial. Why hasn't there been a grand jury indictment? If there are those that demand justice, why does it feel like it hasn't been delivered?

The Brown case seemed to rip open old wounds. What do we see when a young black man is walking the street? There are times even in my thoughts where I see a kid wearing droopy pants and wonder why he can't just pull them up. Many of my African-American kids at school don't smile much, and sometimes they wear the same kinds of clothes, baggy pants, a hoodie sometimes, a cap turned sideways. I see a kid. Would it be different if I was wearing a badge and it was past curfew in a crime-riddled neighborhood?

On Twitter, the hashtag #ifIwasgunneddown provided the public with the snapshots of young, black men in photos that showed them giving the finger, smoking weed or looking like a "thug" next to a picture of them in graduation gowns, or smiling with friends, holding books while walking to class. Just the other day two black teens were killed when they exchanged shots with cops after holding up a Dollar General at gunpoint. The first picture the media shows of the young man in question is one of a young man lost, another unsmiling menace that the public can now write off as a thug. I question why young men of any persuasion would be taking pictures showing the middle finger, or smoking weed, for anyone to see. I have ex students who parade their fingers on their Facebook walls, or they stand with friends holding cash fanned out like a good hand in poker, holding up signs that have nothing to do with peace. They snarl at the camera, the thug selfie. They post videos of neighborhood fights and openly curse and brag about shooting "haters." I've begun to work with students on social media and how the world will see them based on what they project. For my girls, one shot of cleavage and they are considered a "ho", and for boys, "thugs." Parenting is all but gone too. Single, overworked moms rationalize the portrayals of their young boys as a faze they are going through. But when young men they that look like them are killed everyday, and some by cops, more by other young men who look like them too, your camera is only capturing survival mode, posturing selfies. The boy who blew out the candles at their birthday party is a long ago memory.

Protests continue in Ferguson. In the men's study I'm leading at church, we are focused on Satan's tactics. Indeed I see Satan's handprints on many facets of my life. He has a firm grip on the lives of many of my school families. Poverty, strife, fatherlessness, the distrust of teachers or the school. I see Satan's grip on the attitudes of many people, including those in my church or workplace. FML many of them posts on their Facebook. "I'm going to hell anyway." "You only live once." "I hate my job."

Especially panicking. I think the anxiety we all face is from that lack of control we hand over to God. I'm to blame too. I bite my nails, pick at the inside of my mouth. I let anger fester until it erupts on a loved one. I freak out on a kid at school when they do something trivial. We consume so much filth in our lives, from the news, from gossip, from our uncertainty and distrust, that the only reaction we have left is sarcasm, dismissal, ridicule or panic.

 And tonight I feel overwhelmed. The news is noise in the background. More panic (now we're killing the dogs of Ebola patients). I don't have any more hugs for those that are panicking. I don't think I'd have enough anyway.

How Stagnancy Opened the Door

Humility

noun:  a modest or low view of one’s own importance

Do you think it’s ironic that I used to live in a town called Humble and it’s by far my worst quality? I didn’t get the joke until just now. Back when I lived in Humble I was a middle school student. I loved writing PG-13 short stories about GI Joe-type paramilitary groups that saved America from the Russians (Imagine what I would have done with the current state of the Middle East?). My parents were going through their own issues, and I know I wasn’t much help. It was one house removed before they separated. My greatest challenge besides surviving the bus every afternoon was finding the time to hang out with Kevin Hebert down the street and being picked first for kickball at recess.

Lately I’ve felt this stagnancy about my life, my Christian walk most importantly. At other times when I’ve felt this Holy Spirit tug, I’ve asked God to intervene, to open doors. And when you ask God to open doors, you have to be prepared for what comes next.     

One instance in my lesson on humility was having to say sorry. I’ve never been good at admitting my mistakes. My mom always seemed to know when I was up to something dastardly, and I always got caught when I least expected. My step-father used to tell me he “hated liars,” and I took it to mean he hated me. I was a liar. I lied about my intentions, I lied to others (sometimes willingly and purposefully and other times it was to keep them from the truth as I saw fit), I lied mainly to myself. My mom used to say, “You can lie to me but you can't lie to yourself.” I never had a comeback or sarcastic comment for that one. It abruptly ended all of my arguments. Being so far away from the first person who loves you enough to tell you the truth about yourself perhaps has had its effect on me. How many miles from Texas is Ohio?

These blogs have become therapeutic, however. It’s been a way to feel my way through this newfound Christian life of mine. Being this transparent also has its drawbacks. Some people, family included, have been unwitting pawns in my quest for righteousness. The more I share, the more someone else gets bombarded with my version of the truth. Sitting next to a friend and telling them you’re sorry, knowing that you hurt them--was my first lesson in humility. The apology stemmed from my people-pleasing personality. In order to get along with all walks of life, I’ve strived to be everyone’s best friend. I can chat up just about anyone, but it hasn’t always been authentic. Once authenticity was empowered by the Holy Spirit, I felt free. Still, the old self lingers. The old self likes the set patterns, the old drapes of the house, the chair with the wobbly leg.

The apology was barely uttered when my second lesson in humility began peering around the corner. While I won't go into specifics because it deals with work, let’s just say that I was knocked down a peg. I was put in my place. I’ve also begun to understand that God allows events to transpire to bring out the best in us, to challenge us, to help us grow. In essence, it was needed.

The last several years, I’ve had three different teaching partners. It has not felt cohesive since I came from Broadleigh. My partners there spurned one another on, child by child. one lesson plan at a time. I came into my wife’s school feeling that I had something to prove, and essentially have been on an island lifting the world up like some poor Atlas statue.

Before the year starts, every teacher receives their test scores from the previous year. This one was no different. Again, the scores weren’t indicative of the hard work or expectations I have for my class nor my students. For the past few years, the scores seem to be going down, each percentage an indictment on my teaching skills. It’s a stain on my career.

While I understand that scores aren't everything, I am intensely aware that the public and administration relies on those scores to evaluate my performance. It’s the nature of today’s educational minefield. Scores matter, even when I try to tell myself they don’t. So, along with those momentum-killing scores, I was dealt a professional blow. I was suddenly the teacher that couldn’t challenge my gifted students.

I drove home that afternoon with plenty of anger, but the biggest thing I felt was a quiet despair. I felt helpless. The rug had been pulled out from under me. God had allowed the door to open wide enough for the Holy Spirit to work. I needed it. Since then I’ve had other spiritual battles, and something tells me there’s more coming, but sure enough it’s brought me back to my knees. It has brought me back to my devotions, my daily time with God.

Humble, TX still has a place in my heart. My sister currently resides there. It’s grown so much from when I was a kid. The local movie theater is no longer there, but a mall houses the new one. The town of Humble has grown an identity on its own. Funny, a word that means to have a low opinion of one’s self is such a suburbanized city on its own, thriving to make a name for itself. For once, I feel like I know what it’s like to be the little indiscreet town you pass on the map to something greater, the dot on the GPS. Life lessons always bring me closer to God. Perhaps the destination is right on target. Finally.

The Cries of a Fence-Straddler

So much has been going on in the world that it's been hard to be blogless (new word alert). In this world of instant comments, blogs, twitter and social media, it's as if everyone who has an opinion can now give their assumptions, biases and knowledge on the public even if we didn't want it. There are times when I'm reading the comments to a news story where the comments are like watching a car wreck. I find myself glued to the endless amounts of sarcasm, witty barbs and insults thrown back and forth from strangers with smiling (okay, not always smiling) icon faces or names that represent some political ideology (teapartyxxo). And while I rarely comment on news stories or get into arguments with random Facebook users, I did respond to someone's comments about teachers recently that revealed to me my own biases and ideology. Most of the time I watch and observe, a quality I've refined over the years, lives and opinions scroll down my computer screen and wonder where people form their ideas. 

The most fervent of opinions are those found by Christians, or at least they purport to be Christians in the way they use scripture and those ever familiar Christian clichés that warrant responses upon responses. I follow Christian conservative organizations on Facebook, like the American Family Association, where ever post is shared and multiplied and commented on from atheists and Christians alike. Remember whey Chic-fil-A was coming under fire months ago for the comments by its owner (who, ironically I've read has just passed away) on traditional marriage? Every comment was someone quoting some random passage from Leviticus to fire and brimstone passages about sinners and repenting before the Lord. I mean, if you're going to post Leviticus as your argument of why you're mad at God, you're going to really try harder to get my goat. On the flip side, an all caps tirade about going to hell is not going to convert anyone to want to see Heaven either. I've felt that there is no middle ground anymore. Like the shrinking middle class, there is no room for fence-straddlers like me, who like observing and forming their own opinion based on the evidence of the situation. While I'm guilty of harshly judging someone based on their looks or situation, I comment as much as I used to.

Part of this is that nowadays, you're not allowed to have a vocal opinion if you are a teacher or someone in public office. If I ranted and complained about my students on Facebook or twitter, it's likely to be found by someone and the ramifications could be harmful to my career. As someone whose Christianity is forming my reactions, I don't plan on ranting and raving about my school or district anytime soon. Yes, I do complain (just ask my wife) but sometimes having the right to spout off doesn't always mean you should.

Luckily, I didn't have social media as a teenager. I remember that the most damaging thing we could do with our mouths besides gossiping was passing around notebooks where you could answer anonymously about other kids in junior high. The notebook, who knows what they were called, were dangerous in the eyes of the teachers and administrators. While we had fun commenting about girls' bra size and making lewd comments (sometimes with visuals!) and dreaming of people we were crushing on, our words only fueled the flames of low self esteem among the girls in the school, and to a different extent, the guys too. One kid got suspended for making one back in 8th grade and suddenly it wasn't cool anymore. We all went back to hushed hallway conversations. Gossip wasn't in writing.

My life has formed my ideas and biases too. I was raised in an opinionated family. My grandma sure had them. On African-Americans, on the wives her sons married, on how my mom was raising me too. My mom, while not gossipy or back-biting, had her way of building my self-esteem, even in its lowest depths. I could always count on being introduced to strangers feeling like a king, and being expected to have an adult conversation. It was training for life. My dads were more low key. Walk humbly and don't carry a big stick. While my step-dad and father were not necessarily meek men, they weren't necessarily pillars of intimidation either. It was always the opposite of the women in my life. Go with the flow. Don't make waves. No need to get into an argument when silent aggressiveness was so much better. My grandmother Cordova would have thrived in this new environment of social media awareness, but she was born two generations too soon. I could have seen her walking the picket lines with teachers, claiming proudly her heritage, injecting truth into every conversation.

Sadly, that's not the case much anymore. There isn't much civility in message boards. Language is becoming more foul. If you don't agree with a certain mindset, you are labeled a bigot, homophobe, sinner, troll or something far worse. Thoughts give way to rights. We are beholden to our opinions as if they matter in the grand scheme. Changing hearts or minds requires conversation, requires a sense of humility and an ability to listen. I think the next few blogs will be about current events and how they are shaping my perceptions. I don't feel the need to be right more than I feel the need to admit I'm wrong. I've been questioning the loyalties of my views. The world demands that we all listen just a bit harder. Pull up a chair if you're willing. I'd love to talk back and forth. In honor of my grandma, she'd love the conversation even if we didn't agree or see eye to eye. We owe ourselves at least that much.