Second Sunday of Advent: A Home for Love

Kodak Instamatic 233-X from threepointsofthecompass

Reflections from my book, 
Home for Christmas: Youth Study Edition

Unfortunately, I don’t remember many specific Christmas seasons. I don’t remember many specific church services, Christmas parties, shopping excursions, or holiday concerts. I don’t remember many Christmas mornings.

But I remember one. It was my first year of college. I had gone away for school, and was fortunate enough to come home for Christmas. It was a great time to see old friends, to be with my family, to visit my old church, and even to sing again in the church choir. There wasn’t much of the material stuff that I was thinking about, but I was hoping my parents would be able to buy me a camera for Christmas. There were no smartphones then, and I wanted to document my college experience. Christmas day came, and after I opened a few small gifts, which did not disappoint me, my parents said, “We have one more thing for you.” “Let it be a camera, let it be a camera,” I thought. The box was too big for a camera, but you know that trick about wrapping smaller gifts in big boxes. I opened the box. It was a television. Apparently, I had talked so much about the tv that my roommate had in our tiny room, that my parents, who knew I would be moving to another room, thought a television was what I wanted. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I felt loved that my parents were trying to read my mind, and I felt unloved because they read wrong. I said, “Thank you.” And Dad said, “You don’t look very happy.” I tried to explain the expression on my face. My loving parents were understanding, and we returned the TV for a camera.

The gift of my parent’s love (even when it doesn’t deliver what I hoped it would) is, well, a precious gift. And too many people are not as fortunate as I am.

In the Bible, we learn a lot about love from Jonathan, his father, Saul, and Jonathan’s son Mephibosheth. Maybe you have heard about Mephibosheth, maybe you haven’t. Some would say he had a good life…at least in the beginning. His grandfather, Saul, had been king. And although Mephibosheth’s dad, Jonathan, never got to be king,  Jonathan was lifelong best friends with the next monarch, King David.

The Bible talks a lot about Jonathan and David’s friendship. They made vows to each other when they were young. 1 Samuel says that “Jonathan loved David as much as himself.” (1 Samuel 18:3 CEB)

Jonathan proved that love over and over, especially when Jonathan’s dad was trying to kill David. According to the Bible, Jonathan’s dad was so jealous of David that he was continually trying to kill David. Jonathan first started warning David, then started hiding him, and then started hiding WITH him. Jonathan was in such a risky situation that his dad even tried to kill HIM. So as Jonathan showed his love for his friend, David, he was also living through the lack of love from his own father.

Eventually both Jonathan and his dad were killed in a battle. By that time Jonathan had children of his own. His son, Mephibosheth, was 5 years old when his father and grandfather were killed. David had become king, and now it was his turn to prove that he understood how to love. He remembered his vow to Jonathan. He wanted that vow to continue to the next generation, so he invited the young Mephibosheth to live in his home. They became family even though they were not blood. They were kin.

Father Boyle likes to talk about radical kinship. At Homeboy, they practice that kinship every day. Person after person talks about the love they have found in their Homeboy family. Truth be told, many had already experienced a kind of family in their gangs. But unlike Jonathan, who would die for his “homie,” the gangbangers were more likely to kill for the gang. Here at Homeboy, they are practicing the power of love.

In some ways, the holiday season is the worst time to think about love. Too often we measure love by material things we have hope to be given or by whether certain people remembered us. That one Christmas day that I remember left me confused about my parents’ love. It shouldn’t have. They had showed it in so many ways, even in their attempt to give me the perfect gift.

I have since learned a lot about love. Maybe not enough. But enough to focus more on my loving than my being loved. This is what King David did. When his best friend died, his first question was, “Is there anyone left in Jonathan’s family that I can show kindness to? How can I demonstrate my continued love for my friend? And how can I make a difference in someone’s life?”

Martin Luther King, Jr. once said “We must discover the power of love,

the redemptive power of love. And when we discover that, we will be able to make of this old world a new world. Love is the only way.”

At Homeboy, old rivalries die, as they practice kinship—as they work together, pray together, learn together, and laugh together. They bear one another’s burdens. And they experience love when they share love.

First Sunday of Advent: A Home for Hope

Photo from Moley Magnetics

Reflections from my book, 
Home for Christmas: Youth Study Edition

I would hate to be an electronic device. Because it happens every few months. A new phone is introduced. Or a new tablet, laptop or desktop computer. Some folks are fortunate enough and eager enough to buy the new device immediately. They have heard about it, read about it, and anticipated the release date. They buy the new one and either put away, give away, sell away, throw away, or otherwise dispose of the older gadget. The older gadget probably works perfectly fine, but times have changed, and the new is thought to always be better.

So what happens to that older device? If it was sold or given away, it might get life for another year or two. Those of us who aren’t fortunate enough or eager enough will happily or unhappily buy last year’s model. We are content that it is better than the one we currently own. But in time that older devise that is new to us is put away, given away, sold away, thrown away, or otherwise disposed of again. Even if we wanted to keep it, the issuing company wouldn’t support it; they almost make you feel embarrassed for still having it.

Eventually throwing away is the only option. And in most communities, that means the device will end up in a landfill, serving no-one, and actually harming the environment. Tons of electronic waste, or e-waste are heaping up in our landfills.

But some companies are finding ways to recycle those devices. Homeboy Recycling is one of those companies. As Kabira Stokes, CEO of Homeboy Recycling, puts it, “Here in California, we have two huge problems: Our landfills are overflowing, our prisons are overflowing. We believe we can solve both of these problems at the same time.”

She says, “Seven out of ten people who leave the California correctional facility return within three years. It’s not because they enjoyed their stay there. It’s because it is a broken system.”

And for her, the beauty of training previously incarcerated people to recycle electronics is that it reminds us that both the workers and the old devices still have value. It’s a message that we easily miss in a disposable world. Our prisons and jails can easily be treated as places to dispose of unwanted people, people treated much the same way we treat old electronics.

It is too easy to think of people who have committed crimes as people we can throw away. But that is not what the Christian story says. According to the Christian story, no-one reaches the point when we are worthless. Each of us is valuable to a loving God, no matter what. The story of the Lost Son in the Bible is a great illustration.

A young man tells his father that he is leaving home and he wants the inheritance due to him. He basically says, “Dad, I can’t wait for you to die. I want to get whatever is coming to me now.” Rather than argue with him, the father grants his request. The young man leaves home, goes to another country and spends all of the money on all the worst things. He is finally out of money and ends up trying to find work. He finds himself feeding food to pigs and hoping to eat the food they eat. He is poor, depressed, lonely and feeling guilty. And then he remembers home. He decides to hope maybe he can return. He remembers how loving his father had been. He decides to take a chance on that love. He rehearses the words that he thinks might work. “Father I have sinned against God and against you. Please take me home and treat me like one of your servants.” He figures that’s the best he deserves, and maybe the best his dad will give him. He travels back home, and as he’s approaching the house, his father sees him. His father goes running after him to welcome him home. The son can barely get his rehearsed speech out, when his father starts planning a party for him! That’s the kind of joy the father has in his son.

Father Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries talks about God’s love for all of us that way. He says that God delights in us—that God is too busy loving us to have any time left for disapproval. Like the lost son, we can confidently turn from anything and find a loving God ready to welcome us home. Though we are infinitely more valuable than old electronic devices, we can find new life just like they can. That is our hope.

Post-Election Blues, Vintage 2008

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Like others, I have been accused of over-reacting to the Presidential election results. Some have tried to call me back to 2008 and 2012 to be reminded of how I then was telling people “Get over it! You lost; accept it! Stop whining. You need to chill!" 

I don’t remember expressing those sentiments, but my memory sucks. Fortunately I have an actual record written days after the 2008 election. I don’t think I actually published this anywhere. But here it is.

For the record, the extended conversation I report below took place in our small Baptist church’s only adult Sunday School class the Sunday after the election. I was the teacher, as I had been for the past 10 years. I was also the white congregation’s only black member. Here is my record from that week in 2008:

“I am sad. I have been wondering about my friends who did not vote for Barack Obama. How were they feeling about the outcome of the election?

Some of my McCain supporter friends have rejoiced with me because of our friendship or because of the historical significance. At church one person changed her perspective just because she learned that I once knew and now trust the President-elect. She started to see the President-elect differently even though she did not vote for him. Another sister expressed that she was both “excited and a little fearful.” Another McCain supporter called me to say that she is open to whatever is coming and that she hopes I’m right about how this President will serve the US.

I expected these sorts of responses. I also expected disappointment, maybe bordering on despair or despondency. I have felt this myself after many an election when my candidate (Republican, Democrat or independent) has not won.

I wasn’t expecting the reaction I got from another group of Christian friends. Against Laura’s advice I decided to ask this group: “Regardless of how you voted, how are you feeling about the outcome of the election?"

These people have known about my high school friendship with Barack Obama since before he announced his candidacy. They have also known about my passionate support for him, although as a group we haven’t directly discussed politics.

When I asked the question, Laura answered immediately. Others were more reluctant, but just as I was about to move into Bible Study, people started speaking up. There were a few moments of insight or compassion or possible hope, but this was not the tenor of the conversation. When they finally spoke, they started expressing great anger and intense cynicism.

One person, having heard Oprah say, “Hope won,” replied, “No, hate won!” Other people characterized the President–elect as a heartless baby killer. The “socialist” label came up. One person said he was surprised that Obama apologized to Nancy Reagan for an off-handed séance comment. He said that the apology showed humility, something he hadn’t seen from Obama the whole campaign(!). Some were angry that 97% of black people voted for him (ignoring the fact that this is roughly the same percentage of blacks who support ANY Democratic candidate). Several people said that it didn't really matter who we voted for or who won since God is the one who determines the leaders of the nations, but they were not happy with the outcome.

Someone eventually asked me about my feelings. They said they could tell that I felt hopeful. I told them that I also felt proud, partly because here is our first black President--and he's not just any black guy. He's a man of ability and integrity. I was proud partly because he was my friend, partly because he was from Hawaii like me, but mostly because it is the first time I was truly excited about what this President could do for America. I also said that I feel disappointed that my brothers and sisters are feeling this kind of anger and cynicism at the prospect of their brother in the Lord becoming President. One very intelligent, godly man said, "What's George Bush, chopped liver?" I refrained from reminding him that George Bush wasn't in this election.

Not wanting to get defensive, I did say that they (the whole class) were misinformed about Obama’s abortion sentiments. When someone came back at me with the horrors of abortion, I reminded them that I am pro-life. I am in agreement with them on abortion. I do not agree with them regarding Barack Obama's abortion sentiments.

I eventually reminded them that a President is not a king. He does not have all authority. And he has only 4-8 years to do whatever he plans to do. They all plan to "support" him because they are loyal Americans and because Christians are supposed to support their leaders. I told them that I am praying that the new President will earn their respect.

It saddens me to see the President-elect through the eyes of these brothers and sisters. They see him as lacking humility. They believe that he wants to see babies die, that he promotes decadence, and that he is a socialist. And they are afraid of what he wants to do to America.

Some of them were cynical--intensely cynical. They said they were initially afraid, but were reminded that God chooses who the leaders are. The cynical ones were questioning whether voting matters and whether who is elected matters.

I saw an anger and almost hatred that I've never seen in these my beloved brothers and sisters. Despite the surprise, I had invited it. And while it was not pleasant, I don't regret the question.”

They Took a Chance

The words I most dread hearing when listening to the local news are “The suspect is a black male.” It may seem strange to you that I dread those words more than something more imminent like “The suspect is just outside your door.” If the latter statement were common or even likely, you would be right to question me. But the words I dread are all too common and likely. So much so that when real criminals want to distract attention from themselves as suspects in their crimes, more often than not they blame it on a fictional black guy or two.

I mention the dread not to say that suspects shouldn’t be identified by race and gender. Nor do I fear that, since I too am a black male, I become automatically suspect (although the statement puts me into the suspect pool). No, the dread has to do with reinforcing the fear that grips our national psyche and its attachment to certain types of people.

It is not only black men who suffer from the attachment; just ask my tattooed and pierced young adult white sons. Or ask any group of teenagers who gather in a public place. But tattoos are chosen, piercings can be removed, and teenagers grow up. We black males will always be black males (like the brown people who speak Spanish or who come from the Middle East will always be who they are).

The image in the national psyche is so indelible that not even the traditional symbols of “having arrived” erase the connection. You could be a Harvard professor or President of the United States, and large segments of American society still see you as a dangerous black man. The fear simply takes on a different sophistication.

No pity and no guilt allowed! Even black people have internalized the myth of the dangerous black man, which is a tragedy that will take decades to rectify. And it is made more tragic by the fact that, despite the disproportionate number of black men who are arrested and incarcerated over any particular charge, the vast majority of black males are law abiding citizens just like the rest of y’all.

Against that backdrop, I write to express gratitude. I want to thank parents of white teenagers in four states—north, south, east, and west —who grew to trust me with their children week after week for nearly twenty years. Their trust is not unique in the grand scheme of youth ministry. But that they were mostly white Evangelicals, that their children were mostly young teens, and that I could easily be perceived (even with my small stature) as a dangerous black man, I thank them that they took a personal chance on me. Those kinds of courageous chances might begin to chip away at that national image of the dangerous black man.

Lest you think I’m making too much of their courage, let me describe how deep their trust got here in the American South. On one retreat, four white seventh grade girls challenged me to a basketball game. If memory serves, I won (yes I can only win at basketball against white middle school girls). The bet was that the loser takes the winner out for lunch. So the four girls took me to Arby’s. The retreat and the lunch are perhaps a common youth leader level of trust from the parents.

But let’s up the ante. In each church I worked in, I tried (with uneven resolve) to guide the kids into leadership. To that end I once asked Ken Ray, a high school junior, and Derek Waltchak, an eighth grader, to travel with me out of town to check out a campsite for an upcoming retreat. Their parents okayed the trip. We were out of town from morning into evening one Saturday. We had a great time and chose a great site, but even then I realized that I had been given great trust.

Their trust didn’t compare to that of the Hudsons. On another occasion I was talking to Nikki Hudson, a homeschooled eighth grader about another retreat site evaluation. She asked me if she could go with me. I hesitated, but then said, “I’ll take you if your parents allow it.” I figured that would be the end of the question.

I don’t know how much discussing Chuck and Carol Hudson did before making a decision. But I know that they loved their 3^rd of six children, their 2^nd of five girls. And to my surprise they agreed to this venture. I think Nikki and I traveled on a weekday, since it was seen as a sort of homeschool project. I remember us stopping on our out-of-town trip at a gas station. I walked in with this tiny blonde young teen. I admit that I enjoyed seeing people’s faces in rural Tennessee.

Daytime retreat trips are one thing. Overnight stays at the apartment I shared with another young guy are another. At least three times a group of white parents allowed their kids to stay the night at my bachelor pad. The fist time was with a small co-ed group of kids during the summer between their 8^th and 9^th grades. The second and third times involved a co-ed group of 7^th and 8^th graders.

In yet another experience, parents of six white high school girls trusted me to escort their babies on a two-week mission trip to Mexico City. That’s out of the country, folks—and not just over the border!

Most of these instances came with protections that made the parents feel safer. Sometimes the group setting eased their fears, sometimes other adults were along for the ride. And surely someone will say something like: “Tony, this only happened because you’re such a great guy.” Thank you for saying so.

But being a great guy is too often not enough to overcome the fear of the black guy. These parents forgot all about the image of the dangerous black man, because their kids loved me and they themselves had grown to trust me. I don’t think most of them even thought they were being courageous.

As long as we deal only in the abstract—black man, Latina woman, Asian man, white woman, etc.—we get nowhere on these issues. And I do not agree that color-blindness is a possible or valuable goal. But if we can just step back and treat persons as persons in all their racial and gendered glory, we might actually get somewhere that enriches us all.

If you start with the pity or guilt, I’m coming after you! I might be standing right outside your door.

Oreos Aren’t for Everyone

The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect…me.

When I was a younger man, I worked for three years as the part-time Jr. High minister of a large church in a major city of the American Southeast. The church buildings were in the inner city, but the congregation outgrew that property and began to hold its Sunday services across town at a school that accommodated more people. The church was predominantly white; if memory serves, I was the only black person in any kind of leadership. But they were vocal about their desire for racial integration and what they called in those days “racial reconciliation.”

I had been in my position for about eighteen months when the senior pastor suddenly (and I mean suddenly) hired a youth pastor to be my supervisor. Stan Olivier was a tall white man with short cropped curly, almost kinky hair. He and I met weekly on Wednesday afternoons. From my perspective, he seemed to have no sense of what teenagers were like, but he had a clear idea of what he thought Christian teenagers should be like. As we met weekly, we were learning to tolerate one another.

Stan had been on staff a few months when we were both called into an all-staff meeting, which followed one of our Wednesday meetings. The elders of the church were committed to serving their community, so they found a way to return home and build a larger facility. Staff members were brought together to discuss temporary use of facilities. Toward the end of the meeting, Ruby Smith, the white woman who directed the extensive ministry to the poorer, predominantly black residents of the community, made a comment. “You know when we get the building built, there will be a lot of people from the neighborhood joining us. We need to educate our teachers for a few weeks to prepare them for it.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but they will need more than a few weeks. We will have to continually educate because we’re gonna have a clash of cultures. We’ll have to learn from each other.” To which Stan responded, “I’m ready; I have the hair for it already!”—trying to be funny. I don’t remember if anyone laughed. I said nothing.

That night at youth group Stan began to impress upon the youth the importance of evangelism, bringing their non-Christian friends to church. In the midst of the predominantly white suburban group were three black inner city kids Oscar, Tykesha, and Maria —kids from the neighborhood who were part of the youth group since before I started eighteen months prior. Stan went on to say “It’s great that the Jr. High kids have brought these three kids from the inner city here. Now high school people, you need to start bringing your non-Christian friends too.

There were SO MANY things wrong with that verbal display. But let’s begin with only three. Stan assumed
1) that Oscar, Tykesha, and Maria were brought to the church by white kids (which means they are not “our” kids),

2) that they were not Christians, and

3) that they would not mind hearing themselves referred to as these second-class citizens.

He made several other unwise comments about younger adolescents in general, but those comments don’t fit this discussion.

By the end of the meeting, I was furious, too angry to think of anything constructive to say. I spent the week talking through things with friends and decided to wait until our next one-on-one meeting to address the issues with Stan. And so I began:

“Stan, last week you said a few things that bothered me. I know that they offended some other people and I just want to point them out to you to warn you of the possibility of offending more people with similar comments.” I started with the comment about his hair. I said. “Not only did you totally invalidate what Ruby and I were saying, and not only did you apparently miss the point, but it made me wonder what kind of experience you have had with black people.”

He responded boldly, “Extensive, I’ve had extensive experience with black people! I’ve told that joke about my hair many times to black people and they think it’s funny. You are an overly sensitive person, and that is sin. That comment doesn’t offend most black people. But you are not the typical black person. You are what they call an Oreo, black on the outside white on the inside. I know how to deal with black people. I don’t know how to deal with you.”

There was no way to respond. I took a deep breath and said, “Stan, there’s another reason I wonder about your relationships with black people.” I referred him to his comment in front of the youth about Oscar, Tykesha, and Maria. His response “You are reading something in that I didn’t intend. You’re being over sensitive again.”

I said, “What bothers me is that you assumed these kids are not Christians when they are.” Wrong thing to say.

“Oh they are Christians, huh?” he said. “Have they been baptized?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re their youth minister, and you don’t know if they’ve been baptized?! Don’t you think baptism is essential to salvation?”

“I guess not. I think it’s important. I think Christians should be baptized, but I guess I don’t think it’s essential.”

And so began the examination of my beliefs. “I’m concerned,” he said. “Do you believe that the Bible is the inspired, infallible word of God? What about abortion? What about homosexuality?”

At the end of it all, Stan said, “You and I are very different. We have some different beliefs, but we also have different approaches to ministry. I am bold and say what I think. You are sensitive and deliberate. Of all the people on staff it is people like you that I have the hardest time dealing with.”

Okay, people, where to begin? Let’s start with this. One barrier to race relationships in the church is the racial assumptions we hang onto. The beauty of Stan is that in his boldness he says out loud what some others only think and others still can’t even bring to their own consciousness. I don’t mean to assume that racial assumptions only go in one direction. They go in all manner of directions. This is why talking openly with good will can help us all. And for the mission of the Christian church it’s the sacrifice we must make to be truer to the Good News of Jesus.

So I addressed three specific assumptions above. Are you aware of others that become barriers to our bridging races and classes? How do we move forward?

How Deep Is Your Love?

We were late visitors to the worship service on Easter morning 1992. Laura and I had just started dating, and we were both without a church home. My friend and co-worker, Karen Williams, had invited us to her church, Braden United Methodist, for the Easter service.

We arrived at the entrance to the church, the back of the sanctuary, to find a full house. The usher greeted us and asked us to wait. He walked up to the second row and ushered out all of those men, the deacons. He signaled for us to come down the aisle and fill the row. So I walked with my white girlfriend and her four white children into this otherwise black assembly. Although I had prepared myself for this, I still felt self-conscious, especially for the children. As we were hurrying out at the end of the service, a few people greeted us. But the obligatory acknowledgement of our presence was not enough to erase the discomfort. I don’t know if the kids remember that church visit. I know Laura does.

After fifteen years worshiping and serving in another congregation, Laura and I started searching again for a church home in January 2009. We had visited around for a few months when we decided to save the actual decision for the end of the year. We wanted to be free simply to explore and enjoy the ways Christians worship in Nashville. We were six months into the worship tour when one Sunday as we were heading home, I said, “You realize that we have not visited a predominantly black church.”

There were a few moments of silence. And then some verbal wrestling. First Laura said, “I’ve been to black churches before.” In the early 1980s, Laura lived in a predominantly black New Jersey neighborhood working with black children (while I was living in a predominantly white Washington State community working with suburban white teens). For five years she interacted with children and their families and she occasionally attended black churches with white friends. “Although we were obviously visitors” she said about the church visits, “it seemed to me, that it didn’t really matter that we were there.”

Then she reminded me of our Braden visit. Of course the Braden experience was fraught with discomfort potential. And to be fair, the Braden people, who were not expecting this intrusion on Easter Sunday, took it in stride and acted with as much Christian hospitality as they could muster on short notice. But I don’t blame Laura for not wanting to repeat the experience.

Still there had to be something else. In our 2009 tour we visited many churches that treated us as if we didn’t matter. Finally Laura said, “There’s another reason I’m not excited about us going together to a black church. I would go WITHOUT you. I just don’t want to be the white woman who walks into the black church with her black husband, as if to say to black women ‘Look, I have him; you can’t have him.’”

I couldn’t let that go, “Well, Honey, they CAN'T have me. I don’t belong to black women. I belong to you.”

“I know,” she said, “but I don’t want to stir up that feeling in them.”

If you know Laura, you know she was speaking from her heart. And just like that, she demonstrated how complicated these issues are. This was not as simple as, “I feel fine in your church, why don’t you feel fine in mine?” No, the issues are myriad and interconnected. No wonder that individuals, racial groups, and churches don’t venture into them. This is not easy stuff.

The conversation that Laura and I had on the way home from church was eased by our love for each other. But we are still a man and a woman, a black person and a white person with drastically different backgrounds. If this husband and wife have to rely on our deep love for one another to get toward the core of these issues, why would anyone else bother to have these conversations? There is too much involved and too much at stake, and seemingly there is more to lose than there is to gain.

But Laura and I should not have needed to have this conversation at all. The travesty behind our predicament is the simple fact that the overwhelming majority of Christian churches are heavily single ethnicity gatherings (I hear your exception, people in Hawaii!). It’s as if we Christians believe that the first rule when establishing a church is “Gather a bunch of people who look like you.”

I know that historically there are some very good reasons for some single ethnicity churches. There are also some very bad reasons. And many of the original good reasons are now obsolete. It is time to examine them and to examine our own hearts. Don’t be mistaken; worship with people who do not look like us is not simply for the benefit of this interracial couple. I believe it is essential to the movement of God’s Good News.

So I am asking Christian people to accept no excuses. I am asking Christian people to look at their congregations and ask, “Is this single-ethnic gathering what God is up to? Is this what the Gospel is about?” If you agree with me that it is not, are you willing to have the conversations that move us forward? Are you willing to experience the discomfort that can lead to something better?

And whether or not you agree with me, are you willing to chase down anything in your congregation that would make a visitor feel unwelcome in your church?

Despite the potential landmines, we can exercise the Good News. It took the fierce, dedicated, patient love of a husband and wife to get Laura and me to a deeper level of understanding on this issue. But we Christians claim a love that is even deeper, broader, and more powerful.