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soul - ache - ideas, sounds and images between the already and the not-yet

on the Voice of the Church


And the church is the one place where a doctor ought to forget that he's a doctor. The church is the one place where a Ph.D. ought to forget that he's a Ph.D. The church is the one place that the school teacher ought to forget the degree she has behind her name. The church is the one place where the lawyer ought to forget that he's a lawyer. And any church that violates the "whosoever will, let him come" doctrine is a dead, cold church, (Yes) and nothing but a little social club with a thin veneer of religiosity.

When the church is true to its nature, it says, "Whosoever will, let him come." And it does not supposed to satisfy the perverted uses of the drum major instinct. It's the one place where everybody should be the same, standing before a common master and savior. And a recognition grows out of this—that all men are brothers and women sisters because they are children of a common father.--Martin Luther King Jr.

In the sweltering heat of August, the political temperature keeps climbing. From Town Hall shouting matches to million-dollar ads on the airwaves, the health-care debate, once reserved for partisan parlance in the Capitol, now finds itself in the public square, literally and technologically. Every day another news release is sent out--interest groups marshaling the troops to blanket in-boxes with e-mail forwards. In the last speech of his time, Martin Luther King Jr. said, then of the inequitable treatment of Memphis sanitation workers, though prophetically it fits today-- "The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land; confusion all around."

Yesterday brought word that a collective of Progressive religious leaders were boldly going where no left-of-right Christians had gone before--launching a national campaign, complete with a network of local minister and leaders pleading the case before their own masses. 

I have found myself personally embroiled in conversations on Facebook and elsewhere about the role of the government in health-care reform. Four years of college, 3 years of seminary and 7 years in parish ministry yield a panoply of opinions that run the spectrum of political positions and ideologies. The only unifying strand among those conversations has been the perpetual telling and re-telling of the plight of people within our congregations who are without healthcare, or who have somehow slipped through the coverage cracks of private insurers.

These tales epitomize the tragic--lingering mortgage-sized hospital bills, individuals picking and choosing which prescriptions to buy, families torn apart by chronic illness and as-yet-undiagnosed diseases. They differ greatly in person, age and situation, but they represent a common need--that across any given congregation of 50 or more people, someone is struggling--perhaps even dying--and there is nothing to help them. Tending to the sick, the widow, the orphan has always first been the task of the church, not the government, and yet as democracy has advanced and denominations have divested themselves of hospitals and clinics, yielding our strange brew of private and public, right-to-care and right-to-the-debt-that-comes-with-it.

Partisan positions aside, the narrative of a people--lives effected on every level, across denomination, geography and socio-economic standing--bear witness to a common cry within the Church.

There are all sorts of questions to be raised regarding the voice of the church. For many, the pulpit has become a place to declare admiration for or ridicule of political positions and "agendas". Just as James Dobson conceded defeat (sort of) in the culture wars, the IRS continued to investigate red and blue pulpits--policing for rhetoric that would threaten the as-yet-tax-exempt church. For others, there is a sense in which the voice of the church must always be prophetic--speaking not to individual politicians and policies, but to the structures--the principalities and powers which cripple human beings and institutionalize oppression.

For the average minister I know (including myself), both of these polarities cause some unease. We are captive first to the Gospel and secondly to the congregation for whom we are parsing that Gospel. The breadth of human experience--notwithstanding the political and social trappings--is enough to, with one word, incite some to ecstasy and allow others to smolder with contempt. It is a precarious pulpit.

And yet there must be a Voice of the Church.

It is in the Church that human beings across race, across socio-economic standing, across ballot boxes and school districts, across the corner office and the welfare line--it is there--in the Church--where we gather to orient ourselves around a common purpose--learning to live and to love as Jesus whom we call Christ.

It is in the Church that stories are told and food is collected--hats are passed and visitation schedules are set--yards are mowed and children are watched. 

It is in the Church that we move beyond love of self and of God and toward love for neighbor.

It is in the Church that we realize our salvation is inextricably bound up in the salvation of those in our midst.

It is in the Church that our conscience is pricked and our hearts are stirred.

It is in the Church that we quit asking "What will happen to me?" and start asking "What will happen to them?"

The Church of Jesus Christ is uniquely poised to tell its story--to bear witness to that which it has seen and heard, concerning the way of Jesus and what that way has to say about how we live our lives hear and now. 

Where corporations speak only to those under their employ, the Church must speak to and for those who find refuge within--and the invitation is "for all who would, Come."

The Voice of the Church is to speak to the whole host of issues that plague the congregation--the poor, marginalized and oppressed and the affluent, successful and miserable. 

We cannot maintain silence in the face of gross negligence--we have a responsibility to take on the hard-work of caring for the least of these and to work diligently to repair that which is broken.

It is time for the Voice of the Church to be heard--lest the rocks and rock stars be the only ones crying out.

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Posted August 11, 2009
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on race and shared history


"One is astonished in the study of history at the recurrence of the idea that evil must be forgotten, distorted, skimmed over. We must not remember that Daniel Webster got drunk but only that he was a splendid constitutional lawyer. We must forget that George Washington was a slave owner . . . and simply remember the things we regard as creditable and inspiring. The difficulty, of course, with this philosophy is that history loses its value as an incentive and example; it paints perfect man and noble nations, but it does not tell the truth." W.E.B. DuBois

 

Last Thursday I decided to surprise my wife with a date in downtown Atlanta. Jen and I share a passion for African-American history and literature so we went to the "American IAM" Exhibit at the Atlanta Civic Center. Presented largely by Tavis Smiley and any number of corporate sponsors, the exhibit (which may more rightly be called an experience) features countless artifacts that chronicle the African-American imprint on American society--culturally, socio-politically, spiritually and economically.

I didn't know what to expect at the time, but I was struck by the entrance to the exhibit. Above the plexi-glass case bearing the garnet and emerald graduation hood of W.E.B. DuBois were the words quoted above. There were other quotes etched in glass panels on the three opposing sides, each foreshadowing a shadow side to the history I gleaned from the white-paged textbooks of my primary education--and yet, I was captivated by DuBois' words--the fact that George Washington owned (maintained and by many accounts fathered children by) slaves.

This would, perhaps, been far less remarkable had I not seen a billboard heralding the "leadership" of our first President.


As I read the words of DuBois in well-lit Lucite I suddenly became aware of two competing historical narratives. The first is, arguably, well-meaning--it paints our founding fathers and their compatriots along the way as national heroes--the kind that you celebrate and wear funny wigs and take state holidays for. They are portrayed in art as men and women of absolute tenacity--eyes fixed on the horizon, despite the freezing Delaware river. 

As quickly as I saw the billboard, it struck me that the picture was incomplete--it was not war-weary patriots that drove Washington's boat--at least not metaphorically. It was the backs of male children and domesticated teenagers--each ripped from their land by slave traders or warring tribesmen and pushed through the doors of Elmina Castle in Ghana. If they managed to survive the heinous Middle Passage, they could look forward to working at the beck and call of such a "patriot" as Washington or comparable British ex-pats, holding on all the while to what little might be left of their souls.

Yes, my history books spoke of the horrors of slavery--there was even an obligatory viewing of "Roots" (or at least 50 minutes worth during class one day). There were "breakout boxes" that told of the courage of Sojourner Truth or the tenacity of Harriet Tubman.But  there was no mention of Washington slaves, of Jeffersonian slaves, of John Quincy Adams slaves, of Alexander Hamilton slaves--there was no explanation that, as the great Cornel West says "Woven around the legs of the desk on which the Declaration of Independence was signed is the great serpent of slavery and white supremacy."

To be clear, this is more than a sudden realization of the grisly nature of slavery in the 1800's. As we meandered through the exhibit...past the silver ink stand given to Harriet Beecher Stowe upon the completion of Uncle Tom's Cabin to the silver goblet given to a Southern senator for "courage" after cane-whipping an abolitionist Senator on the floor of the Capitol...past a handmade drum banned from the plantation for its power to communicate through rhythm to Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet...past the key to Martin Luther King Jr's Birmingham jail cell to the pen he used to sneak past those bars and unlock the minds of the minister of Birmingham...past the white shirt of Frederick Douglass and its many indistinguishable stains--equal parts wine and blood...past the thirteenth amendment that made slavery illegal and the "Whites Only" parking sign that made it institutional...as we made our way through, it became very clear that we weren't just seeing something, but we were moving through something.

Two weeks after the arrest of Henry Louis Gates Jr. and the most filmed meeting-over-a-beer in history--we are still moving through something. As human beings, we find ourselves so thoroughly entrenched in our own human experience that we cannot conceive that another human being could see history any differently.

And this is not just the kind of conversation that merits civil conversations over dinner or a drink--it's the kind of systemic, deep-rooted, cancerous force that undermines the legitimacy of this or any democracy. While apologists defend the actions of a white police officer against a black, highly-educated, suit-wearing sixty-year-old, the data shows the depths of the problem. According to the March report of the Pew Center on the States, 1 in 31 adults are currently incarcerated--among African-American men, that ratio increases to 1 in 9. Two more or currently paroled meaning that one in three African-American men are incarcerated or under judicial constraint. In the state of Georgia, from whence I presently write, for every dollar spent on education, fifty cents--half--is spent on maintaining correctional facilities. In many predominately African-American communities there is, as the civil rights pioneer Marion Wright Edelman has said, a "cradle-to-prison pipeline".

And yet, there is a sense in which many perceive such data as an "us/them" dilemma--maintaining that races/families/communities must tend to one the needs of one another. To do so is maintain historical ignorance by refusing to acknowledge parallel narratives. Good history books survey the depth of human activity unilaterally across time, recognizing the accomplishments of cultures contemporaneously.

I was shocked to find that on that particular Thursday, Jen and I were the only two Anglo-American individuals in the entire exhibit. I am still trying to process the implications of this. On the one hand, maintaining one's history and exposing future generations to the stories--many of which will not be heard in classrooms and textbooks--this is a critical and noble task. But if we find ourselves celebrating only our own experience, then we commit the sin of my youth--venerating and lauding as history an incomplete and cartoonish caricature. I am glad to say the exhibit showed the triumphs and travails of the African-American experience. I am grateful for the way in which it fundamentally changed how I see the world. I am grieved by the fact that by my unscientific experience, more Anglo-Americans and Asians, Hispanics and Native Americans have yet to come to the table--to weave from our individual strands a truer tapestry of human experience--even of the birth of a nation.

To embrace such a task requires acknowledging theft of land, person and property, genocide and forced labor. It means recognizing that the perceived wealth of the free-market was built on the shoulders of kidnapped Africans. It means acknowledging that our Founding Fathers may not look so good when all the lights are turned on or hoisted on billboards. It means coming to grips with all manner of hatred and envy seeking forgiveness and restoration. It means that it happens around conference tables and around dinner tables. It means that we must all commit ourselves to the sacred task of reconciliation recognizing that across all religions and spectrums of belief that love for neighbor is always, implicitly holy.

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Posted August 10, 2009
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on pandora religion (or generation shift part 2)


I've been told about the glories of Pandora by my friends and former-youth-turned-college students. Truth be told, I'm not much of a Pandora guy. I'd rather buy songs I like on iTunes or even occasionally hit up the used-CD store and find an appropriate playlist on my iPod to dump it into. (My "Soul" list keeps expanding of late, with Ray Charles, the Platters, even some B.B. King) I load the songs onto my work computer and hit "shuffle".

That worked fine until I watched a clever, poignant little indie film that featured a soul-rending final sequence, complete with indie-folk score. Suddenly, I was seized by the rare condition of feeling like I couldn't breathe until I found THAT song. It turns out it was Iron & Wine--of which I have a few songs, but clearly not this one (and, after the Pandora experience, not nearly enough).

Which lead me to believe that I should put in "Iron & Wine" on Pandora and see what came up. I'm about 10 days into the alt-acoustic-indie-folk-pop playlist and I can count on one hand the number of songs I have despised--equally as fast as I can tell you my "buy with the next iTunes gift card" list is growing exponentially (all I'm saying is somebody better step up come birthday and Christmas time).

For the uninitiated, Pandora is a website that allows you to input any artist or genre that you like. Using a complex series of logarithms, listener responses and individual song tagging and pairing, it then generates a personal "radio" station around the artist you selected. This is far beyond the call-in radio shows my parents grew up with--and a genuine improvement over the highly-specific-yet-one-sided satellite radio stations of the last ten years. You can even "like" or "dislike" any song it offers--the program uses this feedback to more carefully tailor not only your station, but the requests of others creating their own "stations".

I'm convinced, if properly used and deployed, Pandora could save the music industry. But I'm also convinced it has something to say about shifting generations and attitudes regarding faith and religion.

Once upon a time families crowded around radios in their living rooms to listen to news broadcasts, radio theater and maybe the latest Big Band track. The progression to stronger FM radio and music variety shows was a swift one, aided by the glow of the TV screens that slowly invaded suburban enclaves. From albums and singles to 8-track tapes, the music suddenly went portable. Listening to music in your car was no longer limited to radio-play, but could be freely determined by any number of cumbersome "8-tracks". The cassette tape initially only replaced the 8-track with a slimmer, more portable model, but as "Walkman" entered the public vocabulary, music went portable--earbuds and headphones became a common sight in public places. The advent of the Compact Disc--the CD--upgraded music quality, while initially sacrificing portability. Then came the iPod--the portable music player that boasted enough "memory" to hold an entire library of albums, all with agile navigation and control. But the iPod lacks the original versatility of the radio--there is (as yet) no function to listen to and browse other songs on the iPod--one is limited to one's own collection of songs.Enter Pandora--a website so smart that it can not only create a radio station tailored around your personal tastes, it even allows you to determine what is and isn't a good fit.

Now, I realize there are millions of church-y books on shifting attitudes of religion that use any number of crazy metaphors, but I think there may be something to this, so bear with me...

The Radio Generation
The traditional old transistor radio represented a standard and authoritative voice. Sure, over time there were a few more stations to choose from, but there was little-to-no competition across formats--the information presented--be it newscasts or song-charts--was to be trusted. Remember when people tuning into "War of the Worlds" thought Martians were really invading Earth? Behold the power of the one-way radio to capture the imagination.

Similarly, the people of the radio generation--my grandparents and great-grandparents--were a people who, by and large, picked a denominational "station" and stuck with it. They may not always agree with everything that was said, but there was a sense that any controversy would soon pass and any larger issues would be swiftly dealt with and the status quo would be maintained. The church and its ministers were to be trusted with matters of faith.

The Album Generation
It may be splitting hairs a bit, but the Album generation gravitated to what was popular. A single song could be so sonically overwhelming that it would cause a frenzy at the record store--at least until the next hit came out. Music producers quickly realized that this was the place to make money--to find whatever "hit" the kids were listening to and find 10 more acts with the same sound. Use the same production teams and the burgeoning television audience to create a buzz and the road to financial success lay ahead.

Where the radio generation trusted what it knew, the Album generation was among the first to gravitate, in some sense, to what was popular in terms of religious faith. Their parents didn't do it that way--and they might still want Jack and Jane in the pew at their church on Sunday, but para-church organizations and youth ministries began to form around winsome, charismatic leaders who planned special activities to cater to the masses, much as the music industries tailored their sounds. Religious leaders responded with a mixture of disdain and envy--choosing on some ends to reject the movement and long for the "good ol' days" of radio, or to clone the techniques in an effort to find their own sound and audience. (I'm convinced the "Youth Pizza Blast" started somewhere in this era, at least in spirit)

The 8-track Players
Where the album allowed for people to enjoy music within the confines of their own home/bedroom, the 8-track made it all portable. For a generation that grew up without the entertainment options of our current era, as much time was spent in the car as it was the home. No longer captive to the whims of an unseen radio programmer (not to mention the heyday of payola), the 8-track listener could set his or her own soundtrack, completely by choice.

As institutional alliance waned in the boomer generation, the church, maligned by many as bastion of judgmental tradition-centered intolerance, became less palatable. As eastern thoughts matriculated through the cultural ethos, the "Jesus Movement" sought to capture the Aquarian spirit of the New Testament church. Brick-and-mortar buildings were decried for impromptu worship sessions in fields and basements, often in the very presence of the allegedly antithetical "counter-culture". Faith was as much personal as it was corporate, which thrived in a cultural atmosphere predicated on mutual respect for personal expressions of belief and faith, regardless of its end.

The Tape-to-CD Generation
Though tapes and CD's might initially appear to be less cumbersome, more sonically pleasing versions of the albums, the shift to the "Walkman", or personal music player, represents a moment of demarcation. At this level, to enjoy music didn't mean only to listen to the vibrations of a speaker through air--be it in a bedroom or a car. The ability to take whatever music you like with you wherever you go, coupled with the gradual public acceptance of this practice in nearly every social setting meant that an individual could, by the omnipresent headphones, remain completely detached from nearly all environs  while--in a very real way--dancing to their own soundtrack.

Perhaps it's not surprising that the cassette tape phenomenon lies squarely within the 1980's--the "Me" Generation. It's also not surprising to find Christian Culture catering to the age of materialism. Christian "book"stores suddenly emerge to cater to the uniquely Christian--most often not at the reccomendation of a minister or Sunday School teacher, but at the sole discretion of the consumer. Suddenly Sunday School conversations begin to center around what the latest book said, or what Robert Schuller or Charles Stanley said on the TV and Radio. The community--the Sunday School class, or the church at large--was then left to determine whether or not the information presented was in anyway heterodox. Authority no longer lied with the pastoral staff, but with the individual.

The iPod Revolution
What the Tape/CD generation began the iPod generation multiplied. The idea that one could instantly access not only one or 100 cd's, but an entire library of music changed the game indefinitely. Between purchasing individual songs--no longer full albums--the individual music world became--well, more individualized. At parties, it's easier to get a snapshot of a person's personality by looking at their iPod--no two seem to be alike. While it allows for perhaps the fullest expression of the individual self, the ever-present ubiquitous white earbuds unwittingly communicate that the hearer has no desire for social interaction. It might even be possible to go one's entire life only plugged into one's own soundtrack.

"Visionaries" within the church world saw the iPod generation as the zeitgeist of crafting a church "experience." Churches, much like boutique stores, quickly became less about the community that gathered and more about the programs, worship style and ministries they offered. instead of presenting a community of faith for all, the church catered to a certain "playlist" demographic to attempt to lure the individuals away from their earbuds by playing the same music for all who were drawn to that artistic style.

The Pandora Generation
Despite the relative lack of direct social networking, there is a communal sense within Pandora--the idea that by making a reccomendation, or validating a selection, you are implicitly joining with other folks who are drawn to similar traits in music. Add to that the joy of stumbling across something so new, so unheard of, that you feel like it's the song that's been shut up in your bones your whole life, you were just waiting for someone, something to bring it to you.

I suppose that's where I want to hope the future of the church is. I, like many others in my own generation, have grown tired of the stale individualism of faith. 

I am presciently aware that there are countless others out there who do not share the same identical "playlist" of beliefs and allegiances I do.

I am aware that finding only those who share my same convictions will find us un-plugging our ear-buds and listening to the same music over and over until one of us gets tired and turns the darn thing off.

I am also aware that I don't trust the institutions but I do trust people--particularly people who feel drawn together by something but are still willing to be surprised.

I also know I need to get beyond myself--to beyond my personal truths to a community-defined truth--to people who care about me as I care about them, even when our playlists don't quite match.

I know that the church, per se, is dying but I want to believe, that in spite of it all, the Church is still very, very much alive.

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Posted August 4, 2009
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on the end of trust


The recent passing of Walter Cronkite has, for many, signaled the end of an era in the American experience. The modern purveyor of media must listen to any number of carefully manicured hosts, each often espousing opinion as much as the oft-heralded-yet-scarcely-found "facts".

In a retrospective on Cronkite, Time Magazine crowned the news-star "The Man With America's Trust". Some have since said that that trust died with Cronkite. I may risk being cynical here, but I'd like to agree.

Almost exactly three months ago, I received an e-mail forward from a Great Aunt with a link to a video on YouTube. Stunned enough by the fact that my 80-something Great Aunt knew what YouTube was, I checked it out. 

The video has made its rounds on the internet--first on YouTube and then in low-res through direct e-mail. There's no known source for it, nor are reports cited visible to verify it's claims.

Let me say first here that I am a cynic. I grew up in the era of Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Bakker. My parents talked about Nixon like he had personally killed their dog. They knew the reality and they taught it to me--people--all people--even preachers and Presidents--are NOT to be trusted.

My Great Aunt didn't grow up in that generation. She grew up in the age of Eisenhower and Cronkite--where people told you the truth--at least they were supposed to. There were cigarette ads everywhere and in the movies--they said nicotine wasn't as bad for you, or that higher quality tobacco wasn't as toxic.

Every Sunday I sit in church in chairs with people from this generation, everyone within 2 or 3 years of being my grandparents. By osmosis they've gotten some of the cynicism of their boomer children, but nothing on the wikipedia and snopes.com level of my own age.

The X-Files was our Walter Cronkite--the truth is out there--somewhere--beyond the veil--beyond governments and big business, politicians and fat-cats. And the internet only fueled our fire.

Within thirty minutes I had resourced enough references to de-bunk the odious "film" presentation. Without Google, it would've taken longer. (Link to the video and my response are below).

Without getting into the semantics, the video made terrible claims--horrible claims. Claims that Muslims were taking over the world and that if *quote* they *unquote* didn't get us first, then the Latinos would. Per the grainy video, the only responsible thing to do would be to have 12 or 14 babies.

And that's hard for me to swallow--mostly because for a lot of different reasons, we can't. We're not alone. Some of our best friends can't have kids--more than you would think. So what's the end result? Take on more wives? Find more children? You can see how ridiculous this gets.

I wish this was just about the people who made this video--that it could just go away as a nut-job effort to scare people to being afraid of people and ideas that are somehow "other" than what they're used to.

But there's a lot more happening here. I'm willing to bet that there's something more sinister at work. The truth is, this video wasn't made for my eyes--the tech-savvy, Google-happy, myth-busting Gen X-er who doesn't trust the system.

It was made for my Great Aunt. And for that matter, everybody else's Great Aunt.

So maybe I shouldn't be surprised when I'm typing away at the computer and I hear a Grandmother in the Senior Adult Sunday School class that meets in the Sanctuary say "Speaking of people, have ya'll seen that video about the population growth?"

I remember biting my lip--hard. I remember sighing and feeling as though I visibly shrank behind my laptop. As she described the content I could see the wrinkled faces contort in shades of fear and disgust. And I could feel my inner Scully and Mulder rise up from my gut.

"It's not true." I said, shocked as they all turned my direction. "It relies on a lot of 'facts' that don't bear out in reality. It's an effort to scare us--to scare you--to keep us afraid from who is moving in next to us or across the street. It doesn't have anything to do with Jesus or the Gospel."

The looks were a mix of shock and relief--I may be the young kid in their eyes, but I've got enough learning to be somewhat authoritative. No one said any different and I followed up with the Grandmother who brought it up. "I didn't mean to say anything." I stammered. "I just got the same thing from my Great Aunt and I did some digging...I just couldn't let you and others be tricked into something that wasn't true."

"Well, that's alright." she said. "I mean, someone just sent it to me and I thought 'Boy if that's true, than things are a lot worse than I thought.'

"Yeah," I muttered. "I mean, things may be bad, but they're not bad."

"I guess not" she said.

I wish trust hadn't died with Walter Cronkite. I wish that my Great Aunt and all the other Great Aunts out there could trust everything they read on the internet. 

I wish the tobacco people would have been more honest--or at least that people would have known they couldn't trust them. It would have been nice to have met my Grandfather.

Sometimes I even wish I had the same trust they have--that I could trust something like I trust Google.

Speaking of which, I checked my e-mail last week. One of our church members sent me an e-mail "these *quote* demographics *unquote* don't really surprise me, but it's scary to see them all together in this video."

He goes to a different Sunday School class.

Video: 

De-bunked: www.overpopulationisamyth.com

Response:

Aunt "Ethel"
I agree, as Christians we have fallen down on our job, but the content presented in this video is troubling to me, and not for the same reasons as it may be to you.

There are any number of fact-checking errors with this video--the sources are unviewable in detail, and when they are discernable, they refer to journals that have no scholarly backing. There is no German Office report suggesting they will become an "Islamic state by 2050", only a few sociologists and cultural experts suggested that, not the "German Department of Statistics, but Deutsche Welle, which is a newspaper in Germany that published the opinions of these cultural anthropologists.

There are any number of errors regarding what has been documented as a decline in pregnancies/child births among women in the Muslim world that can be read on the snopes.com here: http://www.snopes.com/politics/religion/demographics.asp

Notwithstanding the fact that both Germany and France's constitutions and letters of Parliament prohibit a political insurrection that would establish an "Islamic state".

Yes, immigration, specifically Muslim immigration, in Europe is a large, real issue--London is still trying to sort it out--but many have fled to London as political refugees from oppressive, militant state such as Iraq and Iran--they are indeed Muslims, but peacable ones who only seek to practice their faith quietly and run business.

And then there's the US--the suggestion on the number of Latino births is, as far as a I can tell accurate, however, they author of this video doesn't mention that migrant Latinos are over 90% Christian!

Similarly, the data on "Muslims" implies a jihadic state, but throughout Europe, most Muslim women are banned from wearing the headcovering because it communicates inequality--this is place where the secular humanism of Europe helps--fewer and fewer Muslim women are maintaining the oppressive religious practices of their families---they are being liberated by their new surroundings.

And the quote from Momar Qaddafi? no where to be found on the whole internet, except in blog posts quoting this video--there's too many news sources out there, if he'd said that, it would be all over the place.

Again, I'm not saying that Christians don't have a task before them, but considering Muslims (or Latinos, or immigration, or anything else for that matter) to be an opposing, crusading, warring force isn't carrying the Gospel, it's an agenda.

I don't have a problem sharing the Gospel, but I'd rather let Jesus' own instructions be the impetus, not fear of another that I was too afraid of to take the time to understand.

Again, I'm not assuming we'll agree on these things, but I do find the video inaccurate and offensive to the good Muslim friends and neighbors I know.

As always, all our love to you and "Fred"--we miss you guys and hope to see you again soon.

Love, 
Trey

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Posted August 3, 2009
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on making heaven hell (or when Christ descended)

This post also appears on the excellent site http://www.ethicsdaily.com. There's an excellent video attached to it as well. Check out the article here:

   
Click here to download:
on_making_heaven_hell_or_when_.zip (388 KB)

President Obama's tour of Ghana included a well-publicized visit to the Cape Coast Castle, better known as Elmina--the site where thousands--perhaps millions--of African tribal POW's and innocents were led to ancestral exile and slaughter in the fledgling United States of America.

I can hardly add anything regarding the horrors of slavery, but I was struck by how, when asked by Anderson Cooper what they would tell Sasha and Melea of the trip, the President responded--

"That slave merchant might've loved their children and gone to that place of worship," he said, pausing to point to a church on the grounds, "right above the dungeon. And [I try to] get them to make sure that they're constantly asking themselves questions if they're treating people fairly and whether they are examining their own behavior and how it affects others."

My interest in the relationship between the Christian faith of slaves and slave-holders defies description. Baffling, fascinating, horrifying, mystifying--all fall short in some way, and are only muddled by curious pairings. It remains an astounding mystery of human experience.

Above the Portuguese chapel frequented by the slaveholders is a reference to Psalm 132--a Psalm of coronation--of the desire to build an eternal home for God in Zion. It reeks of chosenness and ego--the likes of which would hardly be tolerated in any peer setting, but is local currency for oppressors of all stripes.

Beneath the stone floor lies the women's dungeon, replete with a trap door, heavily guarded so as to only facilitate carefully planned "escapes" to the chambers of the oppressors. 

Milton said "The mind is its own place, and in it self. Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven".

He was half-right.

Whatever the mind may make, the will can purpose to create. The chapel which ought to have been a place of genuine worship and study--of expression of the majesty and glory of God--stands as the lone testament to the hypocrisy of an age--even of a people.

The "Castle" is but a monument now, a lifelong reminder of our own "capacity for cruelty" as the President rightly put it. There is no gilded altar or gold-leafed Bible, which is only proper. Christ left the chapel before it was even built, descending instead into hell to suffer with the women there. 

Beneath the vain claim on the words of David, the people of Africa--whose fathers and uncles, wives and mothers passed through the Castle, only to return in DNA-following descendants--they have left their own indelible epitaph.

In Everlasting Memory Of the anguish of our ancestors

May those who died rest in peace

May those who returned find their roots

May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity

We the living vow to uphold this

Toni Morrison's acclaimed novel Beloved is dedicated "To 60 million and more". The reference is to the number of human beings who were killed or transferred through the Middle Passage, many through the wooden gates of Elmina.

As people of faith, we say a great deal about bringing the Kingdom of God to Earth--about transforming the hells of the present into places of freedom and justice. To make such a claim means we must also acknowledge the rampant hypocrisy of our own history, that so often renders heaven hell.

Be it our own efforts to withdraw from the suffering of the world or are inability to reconcile it with a belief in a benevolent God, we must realize that indifference, however small, becomes but one more layer of concrete between the chapel and the dungeon. 

May we hear their cries and tear through the floor.

May we chisel away at our own indifference.

May we leave the brick-building of our own lavish cathedrals to meet the poor, only to find Christ has already made his dwelling there.

   
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Posted July 22, 2009
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on my honor...


I pulled up to Mount Paran North Church of God at about 7:15 last night. I would have been earlier if not for a winding detour, but I still managed to make it relatively on time.

One of our youth at church was having his Board of Review for the rank of Eagle Scout. I was excited for him, and genuinely grateful to be a part of the process. We had talked for the last three years about what he should do for his project. After considering infinite options of wooden memorials-most-suited-for-sitting-in-thoughtful-reflection, he chose to go another route.

The truth is, as Eagle projects go, benches are a dime a dozen. Then there is the requisite amphitheater at the local church, which seems a good idea the week of Vacation Bible School, but languishes in anonymity the other 51 weeks of the year. The "prayer garden" I fashioned at the church of my youth now sits in total disrepair--the flower beds reclaimed by the crabgrass--a few boxwoods the lone sentinels to a summer of planning and landscaping.

The scout in question had opted to do what was, for him, the harder thing. Through strategic planning and multiple trips, clothes were gathered and distributed, drinks and snacks purchased and passed out to various persons living on the streets of Atlanta, in the shadow of the lavish gold dome of the state capital.

Admittedly, the project was unusual, even by the District Chairman's admission. He advised us that these kinds of things "rarely get approved" but that it seemed in keeping with the ideal that a boy wishing to attain the rank of Eagle Scout ought to exercise leadership in diagnosing an area of service and leading others to join the process.

The result was ultimately successful--he was granted the rank of Eagle Scout, as much on the content of his character and leadership as on the project itself. There were any number of emotions that came--from excitement and pride for his accomplishment, to nostalgia of my own (and pretty extensive) experience in Scouts, to suddenly recalling the meaning of badges and insignia like a long-lost foreign language class from high school.

Moreover, I thought about the worth of Scouting. As the officiant struggled over the names of some of the candidates, I remembered that Scouts was the first place I met Muslims and Hindus and learned that I could call them "friends". It was the only place crazy enough to think taking a bunch of 6th-12th graders out in the middle of woods was a good idea.

The most telling thought, however, didn't come from my own meticulous observations, but from the candidate himself. When asked about what he had learned in regards to leadership, he remembered being a sixth-grade tenderfoot, suddenly thrown in a newly formed patrol of other sixth graders who were tasked with selecting someone to lead them--to be a representative to the troop. He laughed and shrugged a little, but he acknowledged that being selected and trusted as a leader as a sixth-grader had something to do with his leadership now--it made him step up and realize he could help lead and serve others.

Scouting has a long and storied history. The uniforms are flattering to no one and all to often it can be a hindrance when trying to climb the adolescent social ladder. It has a cadre of Eagle Scouts as diverse as Gerald Ford and Jimmy Stewart, Steven Spielberg and Ross Perot. Great Scouts have gone on to lead battle, lead congregations, lead nations, and even lead us to the poor (Muhammud Yunus, Nobel Prize Winner for work in micro-lending).

It has shaped any number of individuals to be better leaders--to think of themselves less and others more. I would contest that it has done so because it is the only place that trusts a sixth grade boy to lead a bunch of other sixth-graders. 

I work with youth all the time. When a sixth-grade boy "promotes" to the youth group at our church, I watch them awkwardly adjust to this new adolescent status. And despite all that yearning to be older and simultaneously younger--the tension between the big kids inviting you to play Xbox when you'd rather run on the playground--I can honestly say, I wouldn't expect him to do anything else--to be anything else. I certainly wouldn't expect him to lead.

And that's where Scouts is on to something. It pushes boys-barely-becoming-men to do more than they would think themselves capable of doing. It may sound cliche, but this is not bare-chested, honor-bound, Braveheart leadership. Those guys don't last long in Scouts. It's the quiet leaders--the ones who listen first, then talk--the ones who stoop to help, who sweat first and eat last--the ones who are only satisfied when everyone else is satisfied.

In my youth group, our sixth graders don't get that chance. They're captive to the influence of senior-high kids and the examples they set. No one's pushing them to be more, to do more--to find the leader that lurks somewhere beneath the mop of hair and awkward-fitting clothes. That's happening at a troop meeting across town--not here. But maybe it should be...

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Posted July 17, 2009
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on kids being kids (from the files of camp wherry)

We spent last week doing our annual Youth Mission Trip/Camp at the Wherry housing Cooperative in Smyrna, Tennessee last week. This is my blog from Thursday of that week. For more info go to www.communityservants.org.




It's been a bit of a whirlwind around Camp Wherry the last couple of days, but in a good way. We went from 65 kids on day 2 to 56 yesterday. Today there are 48, which meant it was the appropriate time to pass out the 50 soccer backpacksI ordered. God certainly has a sense of humor--next year we'll have to get at least 75!


More specifically we've had more people tell us "Ya'll do the best VBS of any group we've had." or "My kid said 'Oh, we like them! Can we go puh-lease?!?!?"

I passed those bits of encouragement to our VBS director (and secondarily to you readers out there). It's a huge testament not just to our kids, but to our commitment to our own VBS which has been the boot camp for VBS at Wherry for almost 5 years now.

Because Smyrna, Tennessee isn't that different from Kennesaw, Georgia. Kids, relatively speaking, are kids.

Last night we heard from "Pastor Peter"-- a Karen refugee from Burma. He told about how the authorities threatened to throw him in jail for preaching the gospel. "So I tell them, you see...you put me in jail, I preach the gospel--either way, I'll preach the gospel." Peter told us about the horrors of genocide--how a single mother here at Wherry had lost her husband when the government destroyed their village. They chased the men off first, but the teenagers couldn't get away fast enough. They raped the girls and told them to tell where their parents were hiding. When one 18 year old refused, they killed him, then the 26 other 5-18 year olds standing there. After each story he would tell, he said simply "So you see it's very difficult for us."

I knew a lot of what Pastor Peter was going to say. I had read about the Karen (and you can at http://www.freeburmarangers.org/ and http://karenkonnection.org/) What I wasn't expecting is that as I was introducing him, I could look out the windows of the Assembly House where we worship and see Mu Po wrestling with his younger brother De De. They speak incredible English to only have been here a year. They are both better soccer players at 9 and 5 than anyone in our youth group. They have lost grandparents and an uncle, friends and family, to horrific violence, but there story doesn't have to end there.

Kids are kids. Each one full of limitless potential. After watching these teenagers, you know that potential doesn't diminish over time. It's there for anyone who dares believe that each child or teenager is good enough, gifted enough, created enough in God's image to deserve our undivided time and attention.

From the rocking chair I'm sitting in typing this I can see our teens laughing with kids. There's a neighborhood kid who was here the first year we came helping Mu Po and De De build Legos. Some of ours are pushing the Wherry natives on the swings in 95 degree heat. We may call them Georgians or Tennesseans, Towne View or North View, Karen or Hispanic. It doesn't really matter what we call them. Our Creator just calls us "child."

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Posted July 15, 2009
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on sentencing zacchaeus


Back in January we were just coming out of Advent and starting a new cycle of Sunday School material in our youth department. Being that it was new curriculum, I asked our high school teacher what he thought about the days lesson. With genuine enthusiasm, he said "Well, it's Zacchaeus today, so I'm starting by talking about Bernie Madoff and the way people are treating him."

I felt like my ministry sensibilities had failed me. Somehow, in between tearful interviews with those defrauded by Madoff and the perpetual loop of a silver-haired man in a Yankees cap being dogged by reporters, I had missed the simple comparison.

Six months later we sit on the Great Day of Judgment--Madoff's attorney is hoping/begging/pleading for a 12 year sentence while those he defrauded are asking for the full 150 years stemming from 11 different counts of fraud and money laundering.

No one can argue the vile nature of such a carefully concocted scheme. It violates all assumptions of business ethics, even in the occasionally gray world of investment banking. There is no doubt about it, Madoff has legally "earned" everything he will undoubtedly get--and yet the ghost of Zacchaeus lingers in the background.

One victim of Madoff's scheme has been quoted as saying "We seek neither mercy nor sympathy."
It's hard to argue with the pain of another human being, but Jesus' treatment of the allegedly wee little man speaks a cautionary word against such sentiments.

"Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost."

Madoff has, not surprisingly, cut off all radio contact. He's not issuing any apologies (not yet, anyway) nor is he clamoring up Central Park trees in search of salvation--but what if he were?

Jailhouse conversions draw sneers from even the most pious "believers". Many regard such transformations as inherently disingenuous, and yet we follow one who pardons tax collectors and Ponzi schemers. The scandal of grace is that it always cuts both ways, at least when Jesus has anything to do with it.

Whether or not there are any signs of genuine remorse, only time will tell. I'm not holding my breath expecting Madoff to repay four times what he has stolen, but I do wonder what our sense of "justice" says about the grace we have (or haven't) received.

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Filed under  //   bernie madoff   grace   jesus   zacchaeus  
Posted June 29, 2009
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on life and death (or moving from "as" to "is")

Monday morning a good friend called me to see if I had heard the news. The brother of one of our best friends from college had died suddenly. He was born with "the severest" of heart defects and after undergoing his second heart transplant a little over a year ago, the body had ultimately rejected the transplant. The visitation with the family is in a couple of hours and services will be held tomorrow. Many of you who read this know the family and the situation.


I'm supposed to be a minister, but honestly, situations like this one stump me. It's hard to know what to say, feel, or be for people you care about when someone they cared passionately about is suddenly taken from them. There is a certain violence inherent to losing someone so quickly. I haven't even made it to the services or to face the family yet, and already I'm steeling myself for it, feeling that somehow if I can hold it together than that will rub off in some sort of grief-defying osmosis, but I know it won't work.

When I was at McAfee School of Theology I was fortunate enough to know John Claypool a little bit. The man was a saint--not in any self-serving way, but in a way that made you constantly aware of his presence, whether passing you in the hall or watching him wash his hands in the bathroom. It was eerie--you couldn't help watching every move the man made. And when he spoke, everyone fell silent, waiting to hear the winsome Kentucky drawl and gravelly baritone that could just as easily be the voice of God we always heard in our heads growing up.

He was honest to a fault, constantly self-deprecating, but never in any attention-seeking way. There was a quiescent humility that begged respect but never commanded it. Perhaps the strangest thing is that Claypool was known best for what was easily the most tragic situation in his life--the death of his daughter at a young age. More than that, it was his decision to continue to preach through the grief, baring his own heart in his sermons before his congregation at the time, that set off a revolution in preaching. The gulf between pulpit and pew was suddenly bridged by a pastor who chose to speak from his own brokenness, assuming, in his own words, that "it was his best gift to a broken world."

There are certainly those who decry such techniques as inappropriate or self-indulgent, but no one I know who ever met John Claypool held those beliefs. When he passed away a few years ago, we caravaned to the funeral with a rag-tag bunch of denominational staff, former students, friends and colleagues. The conversations centered on what his life had meant to countless others.

His most famous sermon was simply titled "Life is gift." This is funny to me, because every time I think about it, I have to pull a book off the shelf or Google it to get it right. My brain always wants to make it "Life as gift."

"Life as gift" is comparative--analogical in nature. It's taking one thing and saying that it metaphorically is something else. "Is" is a statement of being--a delightfully active verb that's really passive--to say something "is" is to say (as Claypool would himself) that it is in it's very nature or being, inasmuch as God in God's self is the Ground of all Being.

To put it quite simply, life is gift. Birth is windfall. None of us earned our way into this world by what we did or did not do. It was given to us out of pure generosity and out of everlasting mercy. This truth in the depth of all being is the secret of all secrets in the Christian vision of reality.

Despite my brains best efforts, my forgetfulness belies any genuine belief in such a thought. I would much rather think of it comparitively--as one of a great many opinions, analogies and metaphors, to retain the complexities and intricacies of all that I think life holds. Simply put, I'd much rather think of life AS gift because it allows me to say "but it's more than that as well." to say "life IS gift" is to speak definitively, to the essence of the life we have been given.

I spend most days forgetting that life is gift. I spend most days thinking life is a right--and one that I ought to cherish and value. Most often this "cherishing" means cramming it as full as I can, and, on good days, stopping to take a deep breath and suck all the marrow out of it.

But that is to think of life AS gift--life plus something. It is to mistake the spirit of gratitude with which we are to meet the most sacred gift we have been given--life--even life in God's name.

Yesterday as I caught up with a good old friend we wandered into conversation about faith and practice, the "New Atheism" and the "Christian" efforts to find equal intellectual footing. I found myself blithely saying "The problem is we (as Christians) can never win the debate. Faith is faith, not certainty, so to claim that we are objectively sure that there is something is disingenuous--we have our fingers crossed behind our back. There is always the chance that this is all there is. The difference is I'm prepared to say I'm okay with that--that it's still worth it--that this life--living this life in this way, the way of Jesus, is still far better than living without it."

Though he could have said it much better than that, I soon realized that's what it means to know that life is gift. It's to know that "birth is windfall." Pure, divine, unmerited generosity has been lavished upon us.

I am still tempted to rage against the heavens. Twenty-one years for my friend's brother--someone who knew that life is gift and lived and loved broadly and openly, sucking the marrow out of every moment--it seems like far too short a span. He deserved more gift than that.

And so I'm left (as are those that know him and the family) with two options--to curse God for the size of the gift or to celebrate the worth of the life. He may well have squeezed more joy out of 21 years than most do out of 70. He may have lived 50 more years the same way, who knows. But for the gift of life he was--and for that matter, the gift of all those I have loved and lost over the last several years--I can have nothing but gratitude. Resentment fades over time, but genuine gratitude abides and soothes, laughs and cries. It celebrates in joy and rejoices in memory.

It speaks only love and knows only mercy, because it knows above all that all life--not just some--is gift.

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Posted June 17, 2009
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on eyes that see and ears that hear


For some strange reason yesterday morning I woke up thinking what it would be like to be a stand-up comedian. I have no intentions of doing such a thing. though I love to laugh, my efforts at making other people laugh are hit-and-miss enough that I would never presume to feed myself off of it. But for the morning at least, I was thinking about common material--how comics choose their angle/style/shtick and what they then choose to run with. I noticed a lot of comics seem to try various ideas and themes--traffic, weather, current events--to try and identify their audience. Then they normally move to the spouse/kid/family jokes. I laughed at those jokes some before, but I'm starting to understand them much more clearly now.

Fatherhood, it turns out, is a beautiful, heartwarming, frustrating, arduous task. There's many things we've learned in the four months since becoming "Insta-parent" to a 3-now-4 year old. He is in almost constant motion--how much of that is personality and how much is ADHD we're still trying to figure out. Still, on his worst days--even defiantly saying "NO!" when Mommy or Daddy tell him to do something--he's so darn cute it's hard to stay mad at him.

We're trying to be consistent and we've seen that payoff in some real ways. I think the most daunting thing isn't the energy level or the pushing of boundaries--it's the awareness of this other living, breathing, sponge-like being.

He catches everything we say and do--most often the things we wish he wouldn't. Jokingly saying "shoot-dang" as Jen and I did pre-4 year old was quickly identified as something that made Mommy and Daddy laugh. Dad trying to switch it up with a simple "Aww man" when something breaks/falls apart/goes crazy didn't do the trick--it's now a complete sentence "aww man! shoot-dang!"

But the hearing isn't all of it. I'm starting to hear myself. Everyone talks about hearing their parents voice int heir own once they have a child, though I can honestly say I haven't noticed much of that yet. What I do hear myself saying are the sentences that outside of parenting a four-year-old have simply no place in the English language, or any other one for that matter."

"You know you can't sit on the furniture without clothes on!"

"Take the bucket off your head!"

"The ottoman is not to be used as a slide."

"Stop forward-rolling around the room!"

"Shelby eats dog food, not oatmeal bars."

"Don't eat your soup with your hands--use your spoon!"

Just as bad as the things I hear myself saying are the time when I realized he has seen and heard the very things we've seen and heard.

So when you're driving home on a Sunday afternoon on a particularly desolate stretch of road and a squirrel runs out in front of you, you slow down to try and keep from hitting it. But when another car comes speeding from the other direction, the squirrel doesn't have much of a choice.

You hear the thud of the squirrel. 
You look back to see it on it's back, legs extended, dead.
You hold your breath for a second to see if the child has noticed this.
You exhale when you think the moment has passed.
You turn to your spouse, say "Awww, sad." then continue with your conversation.
Then a voice comes from the back seat.

"Daddy? Daddy?"
"Yeah buddy?"
"I won...Daddy? Daddy hit squirrel?"
"What buddy?"
"Daddy hit squirrel? Daddy hit squirrel with car?"
Mommy starts laughing, Daddy fesses up.
"Yeah, Daddy hit the squirrel with the car."
"Daddy? That squirrel, on...on the road, that squirrel dead because of our car?"
"Yeah buddy...it's dead because of our car."
"Daddy? I wanna do that again!"
"No buddy, we're not doing that again."

It was sad and silly all at the same time, but it was a reminder that everything we do is being watched. Which means we're going to get it right sometimes and wrong sometimes. The terrifying thought is that it will become all he knows and sees.

We're still working through what that means.

I'm surprised at some of the things I hear myself saying, but I'm also glad I get to say them.

"We don't hit people. Ever. Even if they hit you."

"We take turns and we share. Even the things we have we have because someone Else gave them to us."

"We don't run the water. We don't waste the paper. God gave us those things."

"Thank you for giving your friend that toy because you had enough to play with."

It's not perfect, but there's nothing in the world like it. We get to raise a kid--a great kid, with all the hope and energy to keep the whole planet spinning. And we get to tell him stories about a Kingdom where people are treated fairly, just because they're made in God's image. Where wars and conflict don't happen. Where everyone has enough to eat and drink and people who are hurting are taken care of. 

We get to tell him that this world's not like that, but he can do something about that.

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Filed under  //   fatherhood   kingdom   sanctity of squirrel life  
Posted June 16, 2009
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