It's weird that I'm the big David Bowie fan that I am. Neither of my parents particularly cared for his music; unlike many people my age, I wasn't introduced to David Bowie's music by my parents' old LPs. There was no warm, vinyl crackle from our old record player when I heard "Changes" for the first time, no excited turning up of the car stereo volume when "Suffragette City" came on the classic rock station.
I owe the half-life of relationship I've had to David Bowie to two sources - the VH1 "100 Greatest" countdown series, and the album reviews of George Starostin, whose website (and its accompanying forum, Music Babble) was a frequent haunt of mine in my high school years. Like many, I heard "Space Oddity" as an impressionable teen and had my mind blown. It was spacey, it was cool, it was weird as hell, it was evocative...it was so damn emotionally resonant that I could hardly stand it. That sense of alienation from the world that is, of wonder at the radical otherness "out there" in space, the courage to flee from the empty, vapid commercialism of a world who just wants to know "whose shirts you wear." I get chills every freaking time every time I hear it.
The fact of the matter is that I loved that song (and still do), and David Bowie, because I was weird. I don't mean that I was weird for liking "Space Oddity;" lots of perfectly normal people do. I mean that because I was weird, it resonated with me. While I'm much more balanced in my perspective these days about the place where I grow up and the people who I group with, in high school I could not possibly have fit in less, and I could not possibly have wanted out of my hometown more. In a rather conservative corner of southeast Texas, going to a rather conservative private school, I was the weirdo hippie who felt squeamish about all the things I was told were just the way things were. By virtue of where I was, I got to be the closeted weirdo hippie...I could let my freak flag fly in my musical taste (I may have been the only 15 year old in 2000 to own music by Jefferson Airplane), but other than that, it was short hair, clean-shaven, polo shirts, normal aspirations, and trying to convince myself that I had something in common with my peers other than requiring oxygen to breathe.
It was an empty, vapid, commercial world. I couldn't have possibly cared less about whose shirts anyone wore, but I sure got sucked into plenty of conversations about the matter. I didn't known who Tommy Hilfiger was, but I certainly came to hate him by roughly 9th grade. I cared even less about most of the rest of the inanity that defined life as a teen in a small town. Who was dating who never meant very much to me, especially since pretty much nobody was interested in giving me the time of day, let alone a dinner date at Johnny Carino's followed by heavy petting in the playground equipment over by the pond.
Then there were my ideas about the world. I still can't figure out if a sense of social isolation created them, or if my different worldview resulted in feeling socially isolated. It probably doesn't matter. I mostly knew that a part of me resonated much less with Reaganite love for law and order and country than with...well, I didn't really know what. Maybe that was part of the problem. I grew up in Ron Paul's hometown, so I just came to identify as a libertarian, since that seemed to be the acceptable alternative to being a conservative Republican. It's not entirely untrue, either; I refuse to self-identify as a liberal because I've just got too much of that libertarian bent to me. I don't trust government, I hold the 1st Amendment up as the cornerstone of all liberty and have zero patience for attempts at circumscribing it, I don't like spending with reckless abandon, I have as much interest in fetishizing FDR as I do Reagan....which is to say, none. A left libertarian? Or just my own personal set of idiosyncratic beliefs that people should be free, and that a society that refuses to take care of each other (even the others you don't like or find worthy of care) is damned. Take your pick.
Regardless of the labels, or lack thereof, I didn't fit in. I had friends, and there were precious few people I *didn't* like, especially once I moved out of middle school (and its hellstorm of hormones and mood swings...I was an unpredictable, temperamental, often downright unpleasant young teen). But...barring relationships with a few people, things never felt quite right. I had to be who I was expected to be, and nobody wanted me to crack (baby, crack) and show them I was real. I may as well have been named Lo-Ammi, Not My People. And so I took my company with the likes of David Bowie.
David Bowie presented as a weirdo, and I loved it because I finally found someone who might have gotten me. Was he male or female, straight or gay or bi...hell, was Bowie even human? David Bowie was David Bowie, and even in a career of almost dizzying reinventions, they all felt authentic. Bowie was Bowie. I mean, he was the Nazz with God-given ass, a Starman, a rebel, a thin white duke, Aladdin Sane, a goblin king, a respectable aging musical legend married to a beautiful model...and all of these, and none of them, at the same time. Bowie was Bowie.
It made me wonder just who the hell I was. I knew I was a weirdo; I'd known it since I was little and thought Gonzo was, hands-down, the best muppet of the bunch. I still have a stuffed Gonzo to this day. Somehow, in David Bowie, I found something of a hero - proof that there was life for those of us who just didn't fit into the mold of what we were expected to be. There *is* life on Mars for those of us who struggle on Earth, maybe.
Eventually, I left home - first to head off to college in Seguin (and a semester in West Africa), then to Uruguay for a year of volunteer work, and since then mostly spending my time in Chicago with some shorter stints in Boulder and Iowa. I've been through fewer incarnations than Bowie, but different chapters of my life have brought out different Kevins. And...I am me, and all of these, and none of them, at the same time. And, there is not a thing wrong in the world with that fact. Hippie Kevin coexists with libertarian Kevin who coexists with orthodox Lutheran Kevin who coexists with social justice warrior Kevin who coexists with restless world traveler Kevin who coexists with husband and family man Kevin who coexists with the myriad Kevins who are, who were, or who are not yet. And all of them, and none of them, are me...and it is a strange, beautiful mystery. Who am I? Mainly, I am who God calls me in baptism - God's own. The rest is a kaleidoscopic, beautiful hot mess that makes life worth living.
Firmly into my fourth decade now, the bitterness I had in my twenties toward the people I shared those early years with is gone. I don't have it out for conservative evangelicals anymore (even if I will never be one of those, theologically speaking, ever again). I don't have it out for people whose idea of a big trip is going to Galveston. I don't even have it out for the people who broke my heart or made me feel like I didn't belong. In a way, I'm grateful (and damn proud) to have been a teenage misfit and a weirdo. I am who God made me, and I can be nothing but grateful. And, it's taken me a long time to be able to say this, but thank God for making my classmates and teachers and pastors and fellow churchgoers and family who they are, too. I don't mean that crassly or ironically - I'm grateful for you being you. Full stop.
So, David Bowie - you least likely of evangelists - to you I say thank you, as well. For your music. For your life. For showing a fellow weirdo that there's an incredible universe out there if you just dare to step outside of your capsule. I owe you one.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Reformation Sunday Sermon, 10.25.15
Video for this will be up tomorrow, complete with my own minor-ish departures from the printed text, but for now...the manuscript.
498 years is a remarkably long time. 498 years ago, the land on which Grace stands was a swampy woodland. It was a place known only to the indigenous people of the region, whose name for it reflected the stink of swamp mud and wild onions – Shikaakwa, meaning “smelly onion” or “skunk” depending on who you ask. The ancestors of nearly everyone in this room were, more likely than not, living an ocean away in Europe. Those European ancestors, 498 years ago, were probably all Catholic regardless of where they came from.
498 years ago, the printing press was the forefront of modern technology in a world in which most people were illiterate. The vast majority of the human population was rural, and most were subsistence farmers, producing enough to support themselves. Those who lived in the urban landscapes of 16th century Europe were typically day laborers and domestic servants; only a privileged few were members of the emerging middle class, and even fewer ranked among the wealthy nobility. Perhaps elements of this landscape sound more familiar than might have been the case fifty or sixty years ago.
498 years ago, it was a dangerous thing to put forward new ideas that challenged the status quo. Copernicus’ radical notion that – just maybe – the earth orbited the sun, and not vice versa, was deemed unsafe enough that Copernicus published anonymously out of fear of what fate might befall him for challenging the official teaching of the Church that the sun orbited the earth. Even a century later, Galileo’s confirmation of Copernicus’ hypothesis landed him in house arrest and he was forced to recant his teaching…or else be put to death.
498 years ago, a German monk and professor of Old Testament named Martin Luther posted a document we know as the 95 Theses – they constitute an argument against the then-common practice of selling forgiveness of sin (a practice known as selling indulgences), while arguing for an understanding of God’s forgiveness as a treasure opened to us through faith. Luther set out to work against the worst of what institutional religion practiced in his time; he wound up being the catalyst for a wave of religious turmoil, debate, and reformation whose effects we still feel today.
498 years was a long time ago, but it still matters to us today. I don’t say that to suggest that its importance is solely, or even mainly, because we belong to a faith traditions whose roots are in that same Martin Luther’s bold stand against what he saw as a corrupt, broken church…though this is hugely important, and as Lutheran Christians we stand as direct heirs to the legacy of Luther’s zeal for a church which stands on grace alone, faith alone, and scripture alone.
Today, I suggest that 498 years matters to us because it reminds us of how much the world changes, and of how Christ works in his Church and in that changing world. The simple fact is that over the last 2,000 years, let alone the last 498, Christ’s Church has been in a near constant state of change. The congregations which Paul planted centuries and centuries ago do not exist; they are gone. New congregations have taken their place, lived, and died, with others coming after them. While many of the great churches of the Reformation era still stand physically, plenty of them are more-or-less just museums. Even more of them – these grand edifices which were once filled to the brim on Sunday morning – are lucky to see more than a few dozen people.
Even here, this is something we see. I’ve heard lots of stories about how, back in the 1950s, this church saw several hundred people gather at several services…and now we have one worship time with 40 people on a good day, usually fewer. Congregations never live forever; just like people, they are born, they live, and they die. This isn’t a reflection of some congregations being bad; it’s just the nature of things.
It isn’t an easy word; it is not a truth we want to hear, any more than we want to hear the truth of a bad diagnosis from a doctor, or the truth of a loved one’s illness, or the truth of the loss of a job. It hurts – truth does that, sometimes. But the pain doesn’t make it not true. I didn’t want to believe, two years and some change ago, that my dad was dead…but it didn’t make him any less dead. We don’t want to believe it when we’re told that we’ve got cancer, and it’s bad…but that doesn’t make us any less sick. We don’t want to hear that the congregations and institutions we love will die…but that doesn’t make them any less likely to close their doors.
Truth can hurt, but Christ promises us that Truth also sets us free. We discover, in our encounters with Truth that, no matter how painful they might be, they liberate us from the prisons of impossible expectations and root us firmly in the grace-filled realm of what is possible, where God is at work in surprising ways. Truth might confront us with the realities we would rather not face, but it also assures us that our human limitations and finite nature are not the end of God’s story. Truth forces us to face the fact that every single person in this room will die, and that this congregation will die…but that Christ’s promise to us is resurrection.
You will die. Someday. It’s scientific fact; it is Truth. The even greater Truth is that, in Christ, death becomes for us nothing more than the entry point into the fullness of the eternal life we have in Christ. Grace Church will die. Someday. Perhaps in a year or two, perhaps in a decade or two, perhaps in a century or two. It’s Truth. The even greater Truth is that Christ will use the people and resources of this place, even in its death, to do the resurrection-work of bringing new life into this community and world.
498 years after Luther’s actions launched the Reformation, we are questioning what that means for the world, what relevance those of us who follow in his steps might have in our own day and age. The Truth is that we are struggling to figure that out in an era in which people seem to be less than interested in what we have to say, and where the human institutions we have built no longer seem sustainable. The even greater Truth is that Christ cares for and upholds his Church, and that 498 years from now, others after us will be continuing to wrestle with the Truth of their reality, and the same will be true 498 years after they gather in worship, and 498 years after that. Christ’s Church endures because Christ is our one foundation, in life and in death, and Christ brings us through death into eternal life. It’s resurrection. It’s the core of what fired up Luther to write his 95 Theses, and before him it was the promise that led Paul to travel the Roman Empire, inviting people to believe in Christ and experience transformation through him. The form of the Church will change, as we’ve seen over time, but our substance – the Good News that we are saved by grace through faith for Christ’s sake apart from works – endures forever, and whether we live or we die, as people or as institutions, we live, die, and rise again in Christ. This is most certainly true.
Monday, September 1, 2014
That 10 Books Thing
I keep seeing friends of mine putting up posts about the 10 books that they've read which have shaped them the most. This is actually a moment where the interwebs came up with a good idea, so I think I'm going to do it. The ten books that have impacted me the most in my life, with one exception. The Bible, or any of the books within it, are exempt from the list. I've never felt comfortable just putting "Bible" in my booklist; my interaction with it and its contents are so thoroughly different that it doesn't seem right to lump it in next to the novels and biographies and great works of nonfiction that I've consumed over the years.
So, here we go - the ten books that have most "stayed with me" since I've read them.
1. All Quiet on the Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque.
This was the easiest pick on the list. I remember reading it and having my entire perception about one of the key realities of life - war and conflict - change. It's the book that, more than anything else, created in me the desire to see the world not just through a black and white lens of "X is right; Y is wrong," but through the more complex lens of human lives and experience. For a short, simply written book, it packed a punch.
2. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley.
I checked this out on the same trip to the library as All Quiet on the Western Front and read them both in a weekend. 8th grade Kevin's mind was blown wide open by the end of it all. This one's lingered with me, much more so than the nightmarish vision of 1984 because, ultimately, Huxley's vision of an empty, vapid, hedonistic "eudaimonia" has proven more prescient, at least in the context of the developed world. How often is the answer to our societal problems something like "a gram is better than a damn?"
3. Carry On, Mr. Bowditch.
A childhood favorite. I resonated with the theme of the smart, young Nathaniel Bowditch struggling to be understood and follow his passions...but life nonetheless taking him on grand adventures that make good use of those passions and gifts. This one also probably helped turn me into a world traveler, too. I still talk about rough times of my life as ones where I've had to "sail by ash breeze."
4. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain.
Beyond being my favorite novel, Huck Finn rocked my world in high school...and has done so since. The core of the story is Huck's moral dilemma between doing what society says is right (turn in the fugitive slave) and what Huck realizes is right (recognize Jim's full humanity). At least a few times, I've caught myself feeling trapped in the same sort of reality, and turning back to Huck's words when he tears up the letter he'd written to turn Jim in - "all right, then, I'll go to hell."
5. Reading the Bible from the Margins, Miguel de la Torre.
Finally, something nonfiction. This was a textbook for one of the theology courses I took during my first year at TLU, and I don't really think I'd grasped the notion that "what you see depends on where you sit," as a seminary instructor would later put it. We read the Bible (and everything else, of course) in ways that reflect who we are and where we are coming from...and de la Torre would assert that those of us who stand in positions of privilege in society are in need of hearing the voices of people who live on the margins. I've never been able to read scripture, or much of anything else, the same way since.
6. The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, Henry Fielding.
I read this one when I was in Ghana, and I immediately jived with the central struggle at the heart of the book - what makes a good person? Is it somebody, like Tom, who is good-hearted and caring, but given to the occasional moment of folly because of his lusts and passions? Or, is it someone like Mr. Bliffle, Tom's drab, hypocritical brother by adoption, who is outwardly excellent (from a moral perspective), but a cold, hateful person on the inside? It's the question that, frankly, the Church needs to wrestle with a little more often, given how many more Bliffles seem to be calling the shots in many circles.
7. Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Read in high school. It made me ponder, for the first time, the nature of morality - is it something objective, or is it subjective? What makes a person strong, or good, or wise? How do we prove that to the world? What role should ideology, or tradition, play in its formation? Is it innate? It made me think. It still makes me think.
8. God the Economist, M. Douglas Meeks.
This is probably the best book I've read on the intersection of Christianity and economy. Meeks' vision of a "gift economy," which puts God's abundance and generosity at the center of what it means to follow Christ economically, has stayed with me and become a core principle in my own outlook.
9. The Jungle, Upton Sinclair.
I read this one in 8th grade, too, now that I think about it. Apparently, 8th grade was a good year for reading....not very good for much else than that, but at least I picked some good books. Other than giving me my first impression of Chicago (and I still moved here), it was to my understanding of business and industry what All Quiet on the Western Front was to my understanding of war. Not everyone who's out to make money is bad or views people as stepping stones or cogs in a gear...but some people do. Human nature is ugly; greed is real.
10. A People's History of the United States, Howard Zinn.
This was a college read...and ties in nicely with the previous entry, and with de la Torre. Zinn simply flips the perspective; instead of telling the story of the U.S. from the perspective of the "winners," who typically dictate the national narrative, he focuses in on those who weren't ultimately wielding social power - slaves, workers, women, the disenfranchised and cast aside. Is his the whole story of the nation's history? Of course not. But, then again, neither is the other side of the coin; they're two perceptions of the same reality. What you see depends on where you sit.
So...what about YOU? What books have stuck with you over time?
So, here we go - the ten books that have most "stayed with me" since I've read them.
1. All Quiet on the Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque.
This was the easiest pick on the list. I remember reading it and having my entire perception about one of the key realities of life - war and conflict - change. It's the book that, more than anything else, created in me the desire to see the world not just through a black and white lens of "X is right; Y is wrong," but through the more complex lens of human lives and experience. For a short, simply written book, it packed a punch.
2. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley.
I checked this out on the same trip to the library as All Quiet on the Western Front and read them both in a weekend. 8th grade Kevin's mind was blown wide open by the end of it all. This one's lingered with me, much more so than the nightmarish vision of 1984 because, ultimately, Huxley's vision of an empty, vapid, hedonistic "eudaimonia" has proven more prescient, at least in the context of the developed world. How often is the answer to our societal problems something like "a gram is better than a damn?"
3. Carry On, Mr. Bowditch.
A childhood favorite. I resonated with the theme of the smart, young Nathaniel Bowditch struggling to be understood and follow his passions...but life nonetheless taking him on grand adventures that make good use of those passions and gifts. This one also probably helped turn me into a world traveler, too. I still talk about rough times of my life as ones where I've had to "sail by ash breeze."
4. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain.
Beyond being my favorite novel, Huck Finn rocked my world in high school...and has done so since. The core of the story is Huck's moral dilemma between doing what society says is right (turn in the fugitive slave) and what Huck realizes is right (recognize Jim's full humanity). At least a few times, I've caught myself feeling trapped in the same sort of reality, and turning back to Huck's words when he tears up the letter he'd written to turn Jim in - "all right, then, I'll go to hell."
5. Reading the Bible from the Margins, Miguel de la Torre.
Finally, something nonfiction. This was a textbook for one of the theology courses I took during my first year at TLU, and I don't really think I'd grasped the notion that "what you see depends on where you sit," as a seminary instructor would later put it. We read the Bible (and everything else, of course) in ways that reflect who we are and where we are coming from...and de la Torre would assert that those of us who stand in positions of privilege in society are in need of hearing the voices of people who live on the margins. I've never been able to read scripture, or much of anything else, the same way since.
6. The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, Henry Fielding.
I read this one when I was in Ghana, and I immediately jived with the central struggle at the heart of the book - what makes a good person? Is it somebody, like Tom, who is good-hearted and caring, but given to the occasional moment of folly because of his lusts and passions? Or, is it someone like Mr. Bliffle, Tom's drab, hypocritical brother by adoption, who is outwardly excellent (from a moral perspective), but a cold, hateful person on the inside? It's the question that, frankly, the Church needs to wrestle with a little more often, given how many more Bliffles seem to be calling the shots in many circles.
7. Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Read in high school. It made me ponder, for the first time, the nature of morality - is it something objective, or is it subjective? What makes a person strong, or good, or wise? How do we prove that to the world? What role should ideology, or tradition, play in its formation? Is it innate? It made me think. It still makes me think.
8. God the Economist, M. Douglas Meeks.
This is probably the best book I've read on the intersection of Christianity and economy. Meeks' vision of a "gift economy," which puts God's abundance and generosity at the center of what it means to follow Christ economically, has stayed with me and become a core principle in my own outlook.
9. The Jungle, Upton Sinclair.
I read this one in 8th grade, too, now that I think about it. Apparently, 8th grade was a good year for reading....not very good for much else than that, but at least I picked some good books. Other than giving me my first impression of Chicago (and I still moved here), it was to my understanding of business and industry what All Quiet on the Western Front was to my understanding of war. Not everyone who's out to make money is bad or views people as stepping stones or cogs in a gear...but some people do. Human nature is ugly; greed is real.
10. A People's History of the United States, Howard Zinn.
This was a college read...and ties in nicely with the previous entry, and with de la Torre. Zinn simply flips the perspective; instead of telling the story of the U.S. from the perspective of the "winners," who typically dictate the national narrative, he focuses in on those who weren't ultimately wielding social power - slaves, workers, women, the disenfranchised and cast aside. Is his the whole story of the nation's history? Of course not. But, then again, neither is the other side of the coin; they're two perceptions of the same reality. What you see depends on where you sit.
So...what about YOU? What books have stuck with you over time?
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Free Floating Ice in a Bucket, Or Scattered Thoughts on the ALS Challenge
This may come as a surprise to you, but I'm fairly opinionated.
Now that we've stated the fairly obvious reality...I have had fits trying to make my mind up about the ALS ice bucket challenge that has taken over the Facebook newsfeeds of the world. Or at least the developed world. Normally, I'm pretty good at analyzing what I see and reaching a conclusion - good or bad, right or wrong, I at least usually know where I stand.
This one has been different. I've been flooded (see what I did there?) with all kinds of feelings, most of which have a corresponding thread showing up on Facebook. Generally speaking, they can all be reduced down to one of the following ideas:
-ALS is a horrible disease; we should be doing more to find a cure for it.
-Water is a precious gift; it's disgusting to waste it so frivolously.
-This is a big distraction from the REAL news of the day, from Ferguson to Gaza.
-Isn't it good that social media is getting people to step up to the plate and give?
All legitimate points, in their own ways, and I don't think the truth of one necessarily cancels out the truth of other points. My hang-up hasn't been in the realm of logic.
I think, for me, the place where I've been stuck is much more personal - let's call it a tale of two cities. Dayton, Iowa and Dakola, Burkina Faso. They are a world apart from each in other in...well, just about every way, but equally important in my life story.
Dayton is where I spent a year of my life as an intern pastor, serving at Emanuel Lutheran Church. Part of my ministry there was accompanying our congregants in the local nursing home; I was there at least once a week to lead Bible Study, and usually tried to pick up another afternoon a week to do some visitation. One of the people I very often spent time with was a man named Carrol, who had late-stage ALS. In addition to watching Hawkeyes games and making jokes about the quirks of some of his neighbors, in our time together he also shared some of his pain and frustration about his disease. He died barely two weeks after I moved back to Chicago for my last year of seminary. His face is the one I see when I hear people talk about ALS. ALS, certainly, IS a horrible disease, and I've seen it up close.
Dakola, meanwhile, can hardly claim nearly as large of a share of time in my life, but for a tiny town that I passed through twice, it's had a disproportionately large impact on me. I spent a semester in Ghana as a junior in college; thanks to a light schedule, I traveled quite a bit. One of my trips took me to Burkina Faso and Mali; the latter was where I spent most of my time, and is certainly a sexier travel destination, but the former...well, read on.
Ghana in 2006 was not a wealthy nation, by any means, but it was then (and still is now) probably the most prosperous nation in West Africa with the highest standard of living. I saw poverty - extreme poverty, even - but even Ghana had not prepared me for what I saw across the border in Burkina Faso, which regularly makes the short list for "world's poorest nations." It is a dry, fairly barren-feeling stretch of savanna and sahel where water is not often seen, and not taken for granted. In Dakola, which is basically a crappy little border post with a bit of village around it, I saw another horrible disease - malnutrition. I remember being confronted by a group of kids, begging for change. They were in tattered, 4th-hand clothing; they were covered in dirt and dust because water is foremost for drinking, not bathing, in a place like Dakola. Their stomachs were distended; their eyes were hollow, empty, dead. I saw them every night before I'd finally pass out into restless sleep once I returned to the U.S. Their eyes left me unsure whether or not I believed in God for a while; the questions I wrestled with, and still wrestle with, because of them have formed me into the person I am.
So, I've felt stuck between two poles, two horrible realities...neither of which I want to help perpetuate. I can't blow off the ALS ice bucket challenge; I can't dump a bucket of water over my head. More than that, I don't want to be "that" person who smugly condemns others for the way they choose to navigate this one.
My solution: I'm donating both to ALSA and to Water to Thrive, a faith-based organization out of Austin that partners to dig wells in sub-Saharan African communities that do not have regular access to clean drinking water. That's what works for me; it's not my place to tell you what to do. Whatever you do, I hope you're able to find a way to make a difference, no matter how small, with the gifts God's given you.
Now that we've stated the fairly obvious reality...I have had fits trying to make my mind up about the ALS ice bucket challenge that has taken over the Facebook newsfeeds of the world. Or at least the developed world. Normally, I'm pretty good at analyzing what I see and reaching a conclusion - good or bad, right or wrong, I at least usually know where I stand.
This one has been different. I've been flooded (see what I did there?) with all kinds of feelings, most of which have a corresponding thread showing up on Facebook. Generally speaking, they can all be reduced down to one of the following ideas:
-ALS is a horrible disease; we should be doing more to find a cure for it.
-Water is a precious gift; it's disgusting to waste it so frivolously.
-This is a big distraction from the REAL news of the day, from Ferguson to Gaza.
-Isn't it good that social media is getting people to step up to the plate and give?
All legitimate points, in their own ways, and I don't think the truth of one necessarily cancels out the truth of other points. My hang-up hasn't been in the realm of logic.
I think, for me, the place where I've been stuck is much more personal - let's call it a tale of two cities. Dayton, Iowa and Dakola, Burkina Faso. They are a world apart from each in other in...well, just about every way, but equally important in my life story.
Dayton is where I spent a year of my life as an intern pastor, serving at Emanuel Lutheran Church. Part of my ministry there was accompanying our congregants in the local nursing home; I was there at least once a week to lead Bible Study, and usually tried to pick up another afternoon a week to do some visitation. One of the people I very often spent time with was a man named Carrol, who had late-stage ALS. In addition to watching Hawkeyes games and making jokes about the quirks of some of his neighbors, in our time together he also shared some of his pain and frustration about his disease. He died barely two weeks after I moved back to Chicago for my last year of seminary. His face is the one I see when I hear people talk about ALS. ALS, certainly, IS a horrible disease, and I've seen it up close.
Dakola, meanwhile, can hardly claim nearly as large of a share of time in my life, but for a tiny town that I passed through twice, it's had a disproportionately large impact on me. I spent a semester in Ghana as a junior in college; thanks to a light schedule, I traveled quite a bit. One of my trips took me to Burkina Faso and Mali; the latter was where I spent most of my time, and is certainly a sexier travel destination, but the former...well, read on.
Ghana in 2006 was not a wealthy nation, by any means, but it was then (and still is now) probably the most prosperous nation in West Africa with the highest standard of living. I saw poverty - extreme poverty, even - but even Ghana had not prepared me for what I saw across the border in Burkina Faso, which regularly makes the short list for "world's poorest nations." It is a dry, fairly barren-feeling stretch of savanna and sahel where water is not often seen, and not taken for granted. In Dakola, which is basically a crappy little border post with a bit of village around it, I saw another horrible disease - malnutrition. I remember being confronted by a group of kids, begging for change. They were in tattered, 4th-hand clothing; they were covered in dirt and dust because water is foremost for drinking, not bathing, in a place like Dakola. Their stomachs were distended; their eyes were hollow, empty, dead. I saw them every night before I'd finally pass out into restless sleep once I returned to the U.S. Their eyes left me unsure whether or not I believed in God for a while; the questions I wrestled with, and still wrestle with, because of them have formed me into the person I am.
So, I've felt stuck between two poles, two horrible realities...neither of which I want to help perpetuate. I can't blow off the ALS ice bucket challenge; I can't dump a bucket of water over my head. More than that, I don't want to be "that" person who smugly condemns others for the way they choose to navigate this one.
My solution: I'm donating both to ALSA and to Water to Thrive, a faith-based organization out of Austin that partners to dig wells in sub-Saharan African communities that do not have regular access to clean drinking water. That's what works for me; it's not my place to tell you what to do. Whatever you do, I hope you're able to find a way to make a difference, no matter how small, with the gifts God's given you.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Ferguson: Time to Break the Silence
Or at least my own silence, both on the matter and in this blog.
Let me preface this all by stating that my father was a police officer for several years, admittedly before I was born. I grew up on his cop stories – and his were ones which taught me the values of fair play, respect for all people (regardless of any of the labels we stick on them), and finding the balance between justice and mercy. I have tremendous respect for those who choose to put their safety at risk in order to protect and serve the rest of us; whatever problems I have come down to those people and those times when police force is used to harm and exploit. To interpret anything that comes after this as a dismissal or denigration of our police forces is wrong.
Let me preface this all by stating that my father was a police officer for several years, admittedly before I was born. I grew up on his cop stories – and his were ones which taught me the values of fair play, respect for all people (regardless of any of the labels we stick on them), and finding the balance between justice and mercy. I have tremendous respect for those who choose to put their safety at risk in order to protect and serve the rest of us; whatever problems I have come down to those people and those times when police force is used to harm and exploit. To interpret anything that comes after this as a dismissal or denigration of our police forces is wrong.
But there is a wrong that needs to be discussed. The death of Michael Brown – rather, the
murder of Michael Brown. I cannot think
of a different word than murder to describe the shooting (six times) of an unarmed teenager,
regardless of whatever stories are told about his possibly being involved in a
robbery. A teenager. Shot dead by a police officer for reasons
that remain unclear.
One of the saddest, and most infuriating, aspects of all of
this is that, even without a single reference to race, I’ll bet that every single
person reading the “A teenager. Shot
dead by a police officer…” phrase above
would have already imagined a black youth being shot by a white cop,
even if this were two weeks ago, before Michael Brown was killed. Because, at least in this country, nearly all
the teens shot by police are black, and the police who shoot them are
nearly always white.
A quick Google search for actual crime statistics reveals
that the usual arguments – “black people are just more involved in crime!” “Self-defense!” “Drugs!”
“Thugs!” – all break down. The
contention that Brown was fighting back, or was being pursued as a suspect in a
crime, still fails to justify the use of deadly force against a person who is
unarmed. As someone who was raised on
cop stories, I grew up with the very distinct impression that a police officer
should only discharge his (or her) a firearm in a situation of extreme duress,
and should only shoot to kill when the perpetrator's intent to kill had already
been displayed. Six shots is not an accident;
six shots is not a product of confusion.
Six shots is proof that the officer who shot Michael Brown made a
conscious choice that Brown needed to be shot dead. Given the lack of any meaningful evidence
that Brown was a serious threat to his life, that equals misconduct…which
equals murder, in this case, at least as far as I'm concerned.
But, then again, he ONLY shot an African-American teenager. Let’s be honest – that’s what a lot of us in
this country thought. “Just” another
black kid shot…you know how it is.
Probably into drugs, and in a gang, and a baby daddy, and likely to have
been carrying a gun, and dropped out of high school, and…the profusion of “yeah,
but…” never ends. As long as the dead
person is of African descent. All of
this ignores the fact that Michael Brown was, as far as we know, none of these
things, but even that shouldn’t matter.
An unarmed man was shot dead by a police officer for the shoddiest of
reasons; that should be problematic enough on its own without having to play
the game of re-casting Brown as a “good kid.”
Even an unarmed “bad kid” doesn’t deserve to get shot dead in the street
by the police.
The inescapable reality is that this would not have happened
in a white community with a white teenager…and we all know it. You want to know why people are mad? Why people are protesting, and rioting, and
taking to social media to vent their fury?
Because it’s that simple – Michael Brown would be alive today if he were
white. Because he was black, though, he’s
dead. He’s dead because his dark skin
makes us assume that he’s a “bad kid” without any more evidence needed. He’s dead because we assume that all young,
black men are criminals against whom we need to defend ourselves. He’s dead because we are a society defined by
racism.
Before you cry out about how YOU’RE not racist, hear me out
as I define what racism is, and is not.
I differentiate between “racism” and “prejudice.” Prejudice is exactly what it sounds like –
pre-judgment of a person based on a characteristic of their identity. Racism is prejudice plus power – social power. Prejudice said that Michael Brown was a “thug”
because he was young and African-American; racism is why this kind of event
never happens in a white neighborhood, and why each year scores of young,
African-American men are shot by police, but all white criminals seem to make
it to court unscathed. Racism isn’t just
“I don’t like black people;” racism is “I don’t like black people…and because
people like me have the power and benefit from the system as is, I can do what
I want to a black person and probably get away with it.” Racism is why the War on Drugs has filled up
our prisons with people from black and brown communities, even though white
people are every bit as likely to use and sell drugs. Racism is why a town that is 70%
African-American is patrolled almost exclusively by white police.
Racism, in other words, has less to do with any of our
individual, conscious prejudices and more with the system. If you are white and live in the U.S., then
you benefit in all kinds of ways (seen and unseen, known and unknown) from
racism. You want an example? I’ll give you one. People have made jokes and comments about my “ethnic
ambiguity” since the day I was born – comments about how Mexican I look, and so
forth. I grew up in Texas. One at least a few occasions, people in
stores in my old stomping grounds have assumed (just from looking at me) that I
must be Mexican…and therefore need to be watched like a hawk because I’m poor,
a thief, and a threat. The moment I open
my mouth and speak fluent English with an accent that betrays only that half my
family is from the Northeast, I’m suddenly a “safe” shopper again. My whiteness is my ticket not to have
automatic assumptions of criminality layered over me. People’s prejudice leads them to respond to
difference negatively (“he’s going to shoplift!”), whether they consciously recognize it or not, and racism provides the
social support to act on that prejudice. You might not consciously parade around your prejudices, and you may in fact have done the work to make yourself aware of them so that you don't act on them...but that doesn't make you, and me, and every other white person in the U.S. not a beneficiary of racism. It's as American as apple pie, and as ever-present in the social fabric of the U.S. as oxygen molecules are in the air we breath. Racism, actually, IS all around us, and a part of every life lived in this nation whether you're aware of it or not.
That’s why Ferguson happened; that’s why Trayvon Martin is
dead and George Zimmerman is acquitted; that’s why Amadou Diallo was filled with
bullets; that’s why lynch mobs and police violence and antebellum “pattyrollers”
have always reaped a harvest of black lives with near-impunity. Frankly, if that is not a reality worth the
sort of uprising we are seeing on the streets of Ferguson, than I don’t know
what is. And, don’t forget – if this had
been a white teen, Congress would already be writing and debating legislation
to rein in police violence…but since too many of us, consciously or otherwise,
think Brown “had it coming,” the streets are the only public forum where change
even seems possible.
But..you don’t have to take my word for it. Read The
New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander.
Learn about why Ferguson is Ferguson, and why so many people are so deeply
upset. If you see this for what it is,
then speak up. Speak out. Racism lives on largely because of silence
and ignorance; if you don’t talk about it, then who will? If you don’t make yourself aware of it, as a
societal force, then who will ever change it?
If you don’t work to undo it, bit by bit, then who will? Racism traps us all; it enslaves all of us,
regardless of our skin color or privilege, in a system that snares some of us
in living prisons of discrimination and others of us in a gilded cage of fear
and paranoia. It will keep on killing
more Michael Browns and destroying the lives of more people on every side of
the issue, black and white alike. Racism
will thrive as long as we ignore it and focus more on “colorblindness” and
insisting that “I’M not racist!” It
doesn’t have to be this way; it can be rolled back…but not without you.
There are lots more conversations to be had that intersect
with the events in Ferguson – the militarization of police forces and its
effect on civil liberties; the “War on Drugs” and its destructive effects on
life and society; the interrelatedness of race and opportunity for
socioeconomic advancement. Too much for
one blog post, and plenty of people (from multiple points along the political
spectrum) are putting out some good thoughts on various other facets of all of
this. At the end of the day, though, the
death of Michael Brown comes down to one thing, and one thing only. It wasn’t police militarization, or failed
drug policy, or even denial of opportunity for advancement that killed
him. It was six bullets from a police
officer’s gun that would never have been fired if Michael Brown had been
white. Until we wrestle with that, until
we finally deal with our national reality of racism, then it will just happen
again and again and again and again – more black bodies dead in the street for
no reason other than being born.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Advent - An Invitation
So, it's been almost two months since I've blogged here. I've been busy with a research paper, and blogging for another site, and life in general. Truthfully, my oath to rein in my verbal attack urges against people of other political and religious convictions has prompted a lot of re-thinking of ideas for posts before I hit the "publish" button, too. This taking Luther's understanding of the 8th commandment seriously thing is hard work, my friends. Worthwhile, but tough.
But today, I was reflecting on the beginning of my very favorite season of the church year - Advent. It's upon us; those of us in liturgical Christian traditions begin, as of Sunday, a four-week season of prayerful waiting, watching, and reflecting upon the coming of the Messiah, which we celebrate at Christmas. Its very tone has become counter-cultural; instead of the mad rush to Christmas that we see all around us, it's quiet. Pensive. Reflective. Peaceful. Deep. It puts Christ, not consumerism, at the heart of this month. It is, in my opinion, the perfect antidote to the ever-increasing destruction of any sort of spiritual depth in the Christmas season - it's about prayer around a cross rather than presents under a tree. It's about acknowledging that we are broken people in a broken world surrounded by darkness, who are waiting to see a great light, trusting in God's promises of redemption and healing, instead of pretending that we're all just doing fine and gee, isn't Christmastime just so exciting?
So, my conservative/evangelical friends who, often, tend to see no value in, or have no experience with, the liturgical heritage of the Church universal, I invite you to consider joining the rest of us in celebrating Advent this year. Get four blue candles and a white one; always light the white one (to remind you of God's never-ceasing presence, even in our darkest times) and light one blue the first week, two the second, and so on up to Christmas eve. Maybe arrange them, like many of us do, in a nice wreath. Read some scripture together - at church, as a family at home, on your own - about the promised Messiah (Isaiah's a great place to start), then sing a song together as you light the appropriate candle(s)...I recommend "Light One Candle To Watch For Messiah," but there are lots of great options. You can look for Advent calendars, that come with daily scripture readings and candy. There are lots of ways to make Advent a part of your spiritual life...but, please, think about digging in to this rich, beautiful tradition as you look for ways to center yourself spiritually in the real "reason for the season," the coming of Jesus.
But today, I was reflecting on the beginning of my very favorite season of the church year - Advent. It's upon us; those of us in liturgical Christian traditions begin, as of Sunday, a four-week season of prayerful waiting, watching, and reflecting upon the coming of the Messiah, which we celebrate at Christmas. Its very tone has become counter-cultural; instead of the mad rush to Christmas that we see all around us, it's quiet. Pensive. Reflective. Peaceful. Deep. It puts Christ, not consumerism, at the heart of this month. It is, in my opinion, the perfect antidote to the ever-increasing destruction of any sort of spiritual depth in the Christmas season - it's about prayer around a cross rather than presents under a tree. It's about acknowledging that we are broken people in a broken world surrounded by darkness, who are waiting to see a great light, trusting in God's promises of redemption and healing, instead of pretending that we're all just doing fine and gee, isn't Christmastime just so exciting?
So, my conservative/evangelical friends who, often, tend to see no value in, or have no experience with, the liturgical heritage of the Church universal, I invite you to consider joining the rest of us in celebrating Advent this year. Get four blue candles and a white one; always light the white one (to remind you of God's never-ceasing presence, even in our darkest times) and light one blue the first week, two the second, and so on up to Christmas eve. Maybe arrange them, like many of us do, in a nice wreath. Read some scripture together - at church, as a family at home, on your own - about the promised Messiah (Isaiah's a great place to start), then sing a song together as you light the appropriate candle(s)...I recommend "Light One Candle To Watch For Messiah," but there are lots of great options. You can look for Advent calendars, that come with daily scripture readings and candy. There are lots of ways to make Advent a part of your spiritual life...but, please, think about digging in to this rich, beautiful tradition as you look for ways to center yourself spiritually in the real "reason for the season," the coming of Jesus.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Ism Schism, or Where Is the Love?
This has been inspired somewhat, albeit not entirely, by the events of last night - our first presidential candidate debate of the general election season. My aim here is not ultimately political; as we all know by now, I'm a fairly committed Green Party voter who finds equal numbers of things abhorrent in both parties, and who is a little bitter that the political establishment is unwilling to invite Gary Johnson and Jill Stein to participate in the debates.
But no, this is not about policy or politics, but rather politesse. While the history of our society is not exactly one written with the words of respectful dissent and compromise, I can't help but feel if we have arrived at a new low in terms of our ability to remain civil in our discourse. The last three elections cycles have progressively gotten worse in terms of the vitriol being spewed not only by the official campaigns, but by the average citizen. There's no need to name specific examples; I'm willing to bet we can all list them. I'm willing to allot plenty of blame to myself; I have not been charitable in my comments, public or private, about any of the Republican candidates. I hope I have avoided being hateful, but as I think back to thinks I've said about Perry, Santorum, and Bachmann, I'm reasonably sure that I've not entirely avoided that pitfall.
So, today, I repent. For the next month, while I will not abstain from criticizing the comments or policy positions of either candidate, I pledge to do so in a way that is critical of their comments or policy positions, not of their humanity nor that of their supporters. Neither Romney nor Obama are the anti-Christ. Neither of them are likely to be the sole, single individual who drives the U.S. over the cliff; let's be honest, take the long view, and act like reasonable, rational people who recognize that our ruination as a country, if it comes, will be the responsibility of a large number of people, both Democrat and Republican, and that every single one of us as citizens of this nation ought to be allotted a degree of that responsibility due to our collective sins of a variety of sorts. Obama is not an evil, communist monster set on forcing your grandmother into euthanasia while spending every cent of your child's inheritance; Romney is not a soulless, Mr. Burns-esque type who likes watching the orphaned poor be fed into an ore smelter on closed-circuit tv from the comfort of his marble-floored bedroom. They are people who have competing ideologies about how best to govern, what makes our nation great, and how best to guide it on the path to further greatness.
And, I will publicly repent from another sin today. I have, in various ways both public and private, mercilessly attacked sisters and brothers in Christ who hold to conservative, fundamentalist/"evangelical" beliefs. I've been provoked to do so both from their assault on those of my progressive Christian convictions (and of non-Christians who hold similar values), and by my own life experiences growing up in churches, schools, and a local society dominated by this brand of Christianity. Most of those life experiences were fairly miserable, laden with guilt, and have required what I would call nothing short of de-programming in order for me to become an emotionally and spiritually healthy Christian and person.
However, if I say that I've forgiven all those who have contributed to that reality, and if I say that I am committed to living in such a way that reflects Christ's love, then I have to cede my right both to revenge and to counterattack. I do not have a good track record on this, and I will be the first to admit it. Today, I'm committing myself to change. I will continue to disagree in matters theological and exegetical with my brothers and sisters on the Christian Right, and I will continue to write and talk about those disagreements, but from here on out, I am going to work my hardest to do so in a way reflective of our shared humanity in the image of God, and of our shared called to be Christ's Body in a world often hostile to its values and message.
It's going to be hard, though. I know I feel something gratifying about lashing into an opponent; I think a lot of us do. We enjoy the sensation of feeling like we've destroyed the opposition and made them look like fools. But, it's time to stop. I fear if we continue down the path of indulging ourselves that sensation, we will wake up and find both a ruined nation AND a ruined Church. So, today, I want to become part of the solution, and invite you to think about how you can do the same. God help us all.
But no, this is not about policy or politics, but rather politesse. While the history of our society is not exactly one written with the words of respectful dissent and compromise, I can't help but feel if we have arrived at a new low in terms of our ability to remain civil in our discourse. The last three elections cycles have progressively gotten worse in terms of the vitriol being spewed not only by the official campaigns, but by the average citizen. There's no need to name specific examples; I'm willing to bet we can all list them. I'm willing to allot plenty of blame to myself; I have not been charitable in my comments, public or private, about any of the Republican candidates. I hope I have avoided being hateful, but as I think back to thinks I've said about Perry, Santorum, and Bachmann, I'm reasonably sure that I've not entirely avoided that pitfall.
So, today, I repent. For the next month, while I will not abstain from criticizing the comments or policy positions of either candidate, I pledge to do so in a way that is critical of their comments or policy positions, not of their humanity nor that of their supporters. Neither Romney nor Obama are the anti-Christ. Neither of them are likely to be the sole, single individual who drives the U.S. over the cliff; let's be honest, take the long view, and act like reasonable, rational people who recognize that our ruination as a country, if it comes, will be the responsibility of a large number of people, both Democrat and Republican, and that every single one of us as citizens of this nation ought to be allotted a degree of that responsibility due to our collective sins of a variety of sorts. Obama is not an evil, communist monster set on forcing your grandmother into euthanasia while spending every cent of your child's inheritance; Romney is not a soulless, Mr. Burns-esque type who likes watching the orphaned poor be fed into an ore smelter on closed-circuit tv from the comfort of his marble-floored bedroom. They are people who have competing ideologies about how best to govern, what makes our nation great, and how best to guide it on the path to further greatness.
And, I will publicly repent from another sin today. I have, in various ways both public and private, mercilessly attacked sisters and brothers in Christ who hold to conservative, fundamentalist/"evangelical" beliefs. I've been provoked to do so both from their assault on those of my progressive Christian convictions (and of non-Christians who hold similar values), and by my own life experiences growing up in churches, schools, and a local society dominated by this brand of Christianity. Most of those life experiences were fairly miserable, laden with guilt, and have required what I would call nothing short of de-programming in order for me to become an emotionally and spiritually healthy Christian and person.
However, if I say that I've forgiven all those who have contributed to that reality, and if I say that I am committed to living in such a way that reflects Christ's love, then I have to cede my right both to revenge and to counterattack. I do not have a good track record on this, and I will be the first to admit it. Today, I'm committing myself to change. I will continue to disagree in matters theological and exegetical with my brothers and sisters on the Christian Right, and I will continue to write and talk about those disagreements, but from here on out, I am going to work my hardest to do so in a way reflective of our shared humanity in the image of God, and of our shared called to be Christ's Body in a world often hostile to its values and message.
It's going to be hard, though. I know I feel something gratifying about lashing into an opponent; I think a lot of us do. We enjoy the sensation of feeling like we've destroyed the opposition and made them look like fools. But, it's time to stop. I fear if we continue down the path of indulging ourselves that sensation, we will wake up and find both a ruined nation AND a ruined Church. So, today, I want to become part of the solution, and invite you to think about how you can do the same. God help us all.
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