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.”

What I am learning from my white grandchildren: Truths about race | Antho...

We Are NOT Post Racial

Here's a preview of my October 18 TEDxAntioch talk. There are still spaces left to attend if you live in the Nashville area!

20 Things That Are NOT the News

Apart from my newswriting class in 8^th grade at Wahiawa Intermediate School, I have not studied journalism. So I don’t claim to be an expert in this area. But I am bothered by some discourse these days that pretends to be news. So according to me, here is some stuff that is NOT the news.

1. The headline is not the news.

2. That ticker at the bottom of the screen is not the news.

3. If you saw it on Comedy Central, it was not the news.

4. If you saw it on a number of other networks (which I won’t name because I’m more interested in generating light than heat), it quite likely wasn’t the news.

5. Speculation is not the news.

6. Insinuation is not the news.

7. Conjecture is not the news.

8. Name-calling is not the news.

9. Wondering aloud is not the news.

10. Predicting doom is not the news.

11. “Wink, wink, nudge, nudge” is not the news.

12. Trying to look confused while reading the story usually renders it “not the news.”

13. Commentary, talk radio, and talk TV are mostly not the news.

14. Popular opinion polls are often not the news.

15. Polls of already like-minded people are not the news.

16. Anything in the comments section is not the news (unless it’s a link to the actual news).

17. Relating what some public figure did NOT do is hardly ever the news.

18. Relating what some public figure did NOT say is not the news.

19. Except in the case of an unsolved crime or a missing person, if the story ends with, “No word on whether…,” it probably isn’t the news.

20. This piece is opinion; it too is not the news.

How Horror Movies Begin

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We bought the bed and breakfast Groupon a few months ago before the time change. We weren’t thinking of how early the days get dark in November. The Groupon restricted our one-night stay to begin on a Sunday - Thursday. We chose a Thursday night, leaving town after work.

We were due to arrive at Natchez Hills B&B between 5:00 and 6:00 pm. I had printed out a map and directions, but we figured we’d rely mainly upon the Google Maps navigator.

Laura programmed her iPhone for directions from my office to the B&B address in Hampshire, TN. Accompanied by the comforting voice of GPS Lady and by our own musical mixtapes of anniversaries past, we enjoyed the drive, even after getting stuck in inexplicable traffic outside of Columbia.

It was a straight shot down I-65 until we got to Columbia, where we picked up US 412. We traveled through town and into more rural areas. And then it was dark. And there were windy roads. And GPS Lady said, “ In a quarter mile, turn right on Taylor Store Road…turn left on Love Branch Road…turn right on Southpoint.   

And then more windy roads. Laura said, “Well this is in the boonies.” “Yeah,” I said, calmly and wisely.  I’m the wise one because I trust GPS Lady. More windy roads. And Laura said, “But there aren’t any signs…of any kind.” “Yeah.” And there was silence.

I’m sure that at this point, GPS Lady meant to break the silence with, “I’m sorry, folks; I got nothin’. I’m as lost as you are.” But she didn't. 

Finally our headlights shone upon a sign; it read “Pleasant Union Cemetery.” And GPS Lady said with all confidence, “You have reached your destination.”

Cue suspenseful music.

* * *

Rather than panicking, we resorted to laughing. I think that’s the proper response when you feel like you're in a horror movie. Looking at the iPhone, we saw that GPS Lady was right; we had reached the destination listed. But it wasn’t the destination Laura programmed in. Somehow the address changed….to a cemetery.

We re-programmed, and GPS Lady apparently got her bearings. In about 30 minutes, she led us to what seemed to be the right place. Unlit dark-colored signs, when discovered, helped us. And although the long driveway brought back that eerie feeling, we arrived at a row of cabins and what appeared to be a big house.

We got out of the car and knocked on the door of the house. No answer. We tried the door, and it was unlocked, so we went in. We waited a few seconds, and then Laura began, “Hello?! Hello?! Okay someone’s coming…I think. Hello?! Did you hear that? Hello?!”

I finally looked up the phone number for the place and called the reservation desk. We learned later that Melissa, my contact, was in Georgia, not right around the corner. She told us which cabin we were to stay in. She said that it should be unlocked.

We found the little building in the dark and eventually entered. Just then, the phone rang. It was Melissa. “I just wanted to make sure you were at the right bed and breakfast. Sometimes people make a wrong turn and end up at another place. Are you sure you’re in the right cabin?”

“Um, I guess I'm pretty sure…”

Cue music.

After the Break-Up

I still can’t find any clear documentation of the day that Laura dumped me. We had known each other for 10 years, and we had dated for three. In conversations, we had touched on potential marriage some day. We tried to explore, to anticipate, to assess the potential challenges of remarriage, parenting and step-parenting, and race. In addition, we each had our peculiar quirks and foibles. We had been talking. And then she broke up with me.

Last week I stumbled upon a document that narrowed down the dump date.  It had to be before September 15, 1994. Upon further investigation, I could see that Dump Day was sometime in mid to late August of that year. By early September, I was down in the lowlands of self-pity (I have the journals to prove it). I also knew that my own selfishness had brought on this breakup. At that point I could have related to the author (thanks Jeff) of “I Didn't Love My Wife When We Got Married.”

And then in my wallowing—and praying, can’t discount the praying—I discovered a hopeful possibility. My specific memory is unclear, but I am guessing that an answering machine message reminded me that we had scheduled a counseling session for September 16. When we made the appointment, we were still a couple, but clearly wanting help for our relationship. So just before the appointment date, using the pretense of that counseling session, I called Laura. 

Tony: I got a message to remind us that we have a counseling appointment on Friday. I just wanted to know what you wanted to do about it.

Laura: I don’t know why you’re asking. We’re broken up, and you don’t want to marry me, so what would be the point?

Tony: I do want to marry you.

Laura: What?

Tony: I do want to marry you.

Laura: Well, I want to marry you, too.

Tony: You do?

Laura: Yes.

We kept the counseling appointment, and barely two months later (after a slightly less lame second proposal), we were married.

And now we begin our 20^th year of marriage. It has not been all smooth sailing. But, although I loved Laura when we got married, I love her more now. I hope I love her better.

Sacramental Grace

Nine-year-old Damon told his parents that he was baptized today at our church. He was a little confused. There were four baptisms this morning—something for everyone: three babies were sprinkled; one adult was immersed. Damon was clearly fascinated, wandering out of our pew to get a closer look at the man getting dipped in a tub.

And then it was time for Communion/Eucharist/Lord’s Supper. Damon, Zoey, and I served. It was supposed to be just Damon and me. He kept asking me “What am I supposed to say?” “‘The body of Jesus,’” I said, “or ‘the blood of Jesus.’”

Once we were called up and were served the elements, we turned around and there was shy, 2-year-old Zoey standing with us in front of the whole congregation. She served with us. And Damon spoke grace, “the blood of Jesus,” to each person we served. He told us  later “I said it softly, but they all said ‘Thank you.’” Grace.

Zimmerman and Trayvon: Is There a Christian Way Forward?

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“What do you think this incident has revealed about us?” a friend asked me over coffee a few days after the George Zimmerman verdict. His question referred not only to the incident, the trial, and the verdict, but also to the reactions to it all. My initial answer to him was the general pontificating that comes natural to me. Upon further reflection, I sought out those who are attempting to move us toward productive understanding and positive action. Among them are Frank Viola and Derwin Gray, a white man and an African American man, who want Christians in particular to pay attention to “The Race Card of the Early Christians – What They Can Teach Us Today.”

The writers remind us that racial tensions are not new to the world stage. After describing the racial hatred between Jews and non-Jews in the first century, they say:

But alas, in the first-century, there emerged a group of people on the planet who transcended this racial hostility. Here was a group of people who saw themselves as members of the same family . . . a people made up of Jews, Gentiles, slaves, free, rich, poor, male and female.

This Christian vision is worth embracing. And although these writers speak with a bit of hyperbole saying, “In all of human history, there has never been so much animosity, hatred, and violence between two groups of people as there has been between the Jew and the Gentile,” the enmity was clear.

That hatred notwithstanding, Gray and Viola paint a picture of a first century church that bears little resemblance to the record in the New Testament. Christian conversion of Jews and Gentiles did not  automatically result in a first century love-in. Nearly every New Testament writer—Paul, Luke, John, Peter, and James— attests to conflicts, dissensions, disputes, and arguments. Paul brags to the Galatian church, “When Peter came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face, because he was clearly in the wrong.” He goes on to describe the racial situation:

Before certain men came from James, he used to eat with the Gentiles. But when they arrived, he began to draw back and separate himself from the Gentiles because he was afraid of those who belonged to the circumcision group. The other Jews joined him in his hypocrisy…

This was more like the self-selected same-race groups at high school lunch than like the “third race” utopia that Gray and Viola describe. There were disputes about circumcision, about eating food offered to idols, and about discrimination in the treatment of widows. There were questions about mission, loyalty,  leadership and friendship. Most of the New Testament would not have been written were it not for these disputes. The first century church is no perfect model of same-mindedness!

Although racial issues between Jews and Gentiles in the first century are well-documented, the primary Christian dispute in the early church was not a racial tension between Gentile Christians and Jewish Christians; it was an ideological difference between Jewish Christians and other Jewish Christians. The issues involved racial justice under the Law, but the dividing line between factions was not race. It was ideology. One group identified with the Gentile Christians, the other did not. And still others seemed either confused or apathetic.

If Viola and Gray reflect a rosier-than-thou view of the early church, they do set before us a vision worth pursuing. The lesson we can take from the first century is the realization that this “third race” aspiration does not come easy. That difficulty leads us back to the twenty first century.

The Martin/Zimmerman incident is a manufactured cause célèbre for race relations. Surely the tragedy and its issues are real. But there are more egregious and clear-cut incidents of potential criminality, unnecessary killing, profiling, and systemic racism. If our primary concern is the reduction of burglaries or the reduction in the murders of young black men, on any day we could find better examples that than this one; homes are broken into every day, and young black men are murdered every day. I say so not to be cavalier about their lives or the crimes. But those daily crimes have not gained national attention. This one has.

Partly because of the attention, this incident serves as an object lesson as well as any from the first century. So if Peter and Paul and James could find a place of both reconciliation and mutual growth, then perhaps we can, too. But it will not be easy or painless.

Like those from the early church, reactors to this incident and the verdict fall into two primary camps. Although race runs rampant through this case, the camps are not defined primarily by race. The rival groups are delineated by identification. In one camp are those who, early in this event, readily, initially, and primarily identified with the emotions, motivations, decisions and actions of George Zimmerman. In the other camp are those who, at the same point, more readily, initially and primarily identified with the probable emotions, motivations, decisions, and actions of Trayvon Martin while he was still alive. Still others remain confused or apathetic.

The issues around this incident are as real as those in the first century: law enforcement, rights to bear arms, self-defense, justifiable homicide, racism, white privilege, and systemic injustice. While Americans can celebrate a history of progress in race relations, this incident and its aftermath re-open the chasm that we have to bridge in race relations. With that opening come a legion of other concerns.

These issues demand resolution, they must not be ignored. Glossing over them is not what Christians are called to in the name of “third race” unity. No, we are called to address them without violating the Christian message, whether in word, deed, or character. To do so demands a stance not readily seen in the cacophony over the past few weeks. We are called to a spirit of humility, justice, and goodness. There are a number of ways we might live out that stance and its spirit. There are a number of ways in which we are not.

When we search the Internet for proof of how bad (racist/criminal) one of these actors was, we are beginning the violation of that Christian principle. When we choose to believe every negative characteristic attributed to one person while rejecting every positive characteristic, we are surely not pursuing a Christian mission. When we rejoice in their punishment, rejoice in their escape from justice, or rejoice in their death, we are surely not approaching with Christian humility and grace. If we cannot make sense of this case without deifying one of the people or demonizing one of them, we are not seeing as God sees.

This was not a conflict between good and evil. It was between two human beings, each with his own feelings, motives, and actions. The tragedy, the missteps, and the injustice do not negate those factors. It is possible that each person believed he was taking the best action available under the circumstances. We can even determine that the man and the teen were not equally responsible for the tragedy without assuming that one was an angel and the other a demon. It is precisely that reduction of humanity that hardens the polarization. The efforts of those who are calling for reconciliation are worthless without a willingness to identify with both of these people. Christian reflection demands that we at least try.

And in the aftermath of the verdict, when we find ourselves categorizing all those who identify differently from us as racists or as race-baiters, we are not seeing through Christian eyes. Without a sense of empathy for people who see differently from us we continue to fall short of the Christian vision. Bridging those gaps takes nothing short of personal interaction. We must put away stances, pontificating, and defensiveness. We must embrace humility, justice, peace and listening.

With a Christian attitude, we may take any number of roads toward that Christian vision of unity. In the past weeks I have heard no better first step than the one expressed with awkward honesty and vulnerability by Lesli, a friend of mine. It is not the only first step, but it’s a great example to emulate:

 “Since the trial ended, I am noticing my black friends more and black people, in general. I watched a group of them at breakfast the next morning at that hotel and just smiled…I don't know what their lives have been like with regard to race issues or if they've felt degraded or disrespected for the color of their skin. I am quite sure some have and can guess some may have not. I feel like I should ask some of my black friends about that sometime...and I wonder if they'd be willing to tell me about it—because honestly, I cannot relate based on my own experience….

Going forward, I may need to explore the possibility that living this out as a follower of Christ requires a bit more intentionality than I've brought to the table thus far. A kindness, a word, a smile, a conversation—all far more impactful than assuming folks can look at me and telepathically receive an invisible message on the direction of my heart toward them.

Regardless, anything that makes me stop and look more closely at a person—any person—for a glimpse of the uniqueness only God could've bestowed on them, ultimately, ends up glorifying God.”

How to Speak the Truth in Love

Pundits, commentators, bloggers, and other opinionated people like me have been lamenting the demise of civility and the polarization of public discourse. I believe that that polarization has made humility in our discourse nearly impossible.

And we who decry the polarization offer precious few examples (perhaps because of their scarcity) of those who have dared to speak with humility, conviction and respect. One obstacle to speaking with humility is our aversion to ceasing speech when involved in discourse. We cannot respectfully engage people in discourse if we are unwilling to listen to them.

So here is your high profile example of two men who engaged, listened, spoke with respect, disagreed, and developed a lasting friendship. Shane Windemeyer, the gay leader who spearheaded the boycott of Chick-fil-a for its anti-gay activities writes about his developing friendship with Dan Cathy, conservative head of Chick-fil-a. It is a recipe for disagreeing without being disagreeable. It is a model for those of us who have strong Christian beliefs to engage with those who disagree with us, though they may be Christian as well.

I'm afraid that too often we Christians put such confidence in what we believe to be the truth that we forget the love at the heart of the message. But if we follow the model of these two men, even if we don't change minds on certain issues, we proclaim the Gospel in a manner worthy of the message. Read and learn, people, read and learn.

The War on Truth and Unity

“History reverberates with testimonies of a shameful tragedy. Centuries ago a sage named Socrates was forced to drink hemlock. The men who called for his death were not bad men with demonic blood running through their veins. On the contrary they were sincere and respectable citizens of Greece. They genuinely thought Socrates was an atheist because his idea of God had a philosophical depth that probed beyond traditional concepts. Not badness but blindness killed Socrates. Saul was not an evil-intentioned man when he persecuted Christians.  He was a sincere conscientious devotee of Israel’s faith. He thought he was right. He persecuted Christians not because he was devoid of integrity, but because he was devoid of enlightenment. The Christians who engaged in in famous persecutions and shameful inquisitions were not evil men but misguided men. The churchmen who felt an edict from God to withstand the progress of science, whether in the form of a Copernican revolution or a Darwinian theory of natural selection, were not mischievous men but misinformed men. And so Christ’s words from the cross are written in sharp-etched terms across some of the most inexpressible tragedies of history: ‘They know not what they do.’”

—Martin Luther King, Jr. “Love in Action” in Strength to Love

Dr. King could find similar examples in our own day. Sadder still: We have come to the day that Dr. King seemed to want to prevent. The blindness of which he spoke has deteriorated into sinfulness.

A great example is the now quadrennial dustup over pray-ers at the Presidential inauguration. Some of us—apparently only a few of us—are overcome with giddiness when the diverse spectrum of speakers is announced. Four years ago Martin Luther King lieutenant Joseph Lowery (I was his backstage host at a youth ministry event in 1995) and Rick Warren (I led our church’s version of 40 Days of Purpose in 2006) were invited to pray. This time the line-up included Myrlie Evers-Williams (civil rights activist and widow of martyr Medgar Evers) and Louie Giglio (of Passion Worship Movement fame).

But not everyone shares my glee at this diversity. Others operate with obligatory disgust and begin their dirt research. And then the Inauguration Committee’s gesture of unity gets trampled by polarization and namecalling. Welcome to the culture wars!

True to form, someone, who obviously objects to a conservative Christian praying at a Presidential inaugural event, found an old sermon that they believe disqualified Rev. Louie Giglio from praying. They justify this inquisition, probably calling it their journalistic obligation. But more likely it “needed” to be done to stop those Bible-thumping, ignorant, homophobic, right wing fundamentalists from forcing their religion down our throats. Typical outrage ensued, and Mr. Giglio withdrew. The anti-conservative-Christians camp had won. And the unity of our nation took another little blow.

I admit to wishing Mr. Giglio had chosen, like Rick Warren did four years ago, to tough it out and pray for our nation on the occasion of a Presidential inauguration. But I don’t know all of the deliberations that he and his advisors entertained before pulling out. And I honor the respectability of his statement.

This event doesn’t end with the dirt-digging and the decision to withdraw. Well-meaning Christian leaders decided that this is another chance to decry the Obama Administration’s so-called War on Religion. They didn’t have to look far or say much—just  hint that Louie was invited to pray and now he wasn’t praying. ‘Nuff said, right? We all know what happened.  And we must call out the Godless, liberal, Leftist, gay agenda of the Obama Administration.

Except that this incident is an example of just the opposite. The administration’s Inaugural Committee designed the event, invited the guests, and received acceptances.  Among those accepting was Mr. Giglio, whose inclusion in the program was reportedly at the President’s personal request. No further action was taken by the administration until Mr. Giglio withdrew, at which point the Inaugural Committee issued a carefully worded statement emphasizing their desire for inclusion, a desire they demonstrated by inviting such a diverse roster of participants.

Some prominent Christian leaders have ignored the facts. One example comes from Rev. Russell Moore:

“When it is now impossible for one who holds to the catholic Christian view of marriage and the gospel to pray at a public event, we now have a de facto established state church. Just as the pre-constitutional Anglican and congregational churches required a license to preach in order to exclude Baptists, the new state church requires a “license” of embracing sexual liberation in all its forms.”

But the “state” did no such thing. The “state,” meaning The Obama Administration, meaning “The Enemy” invited a prominent Evangelical Christian, who accepted the invitation, and then withdrew under pressure that had nothing to do with the “state.” Perhaps there was a tinge of persecution in the 48 hours between Giglio’s acceptance and his withdrawal, but his defenders’ outrage mocks real religious persecution and ignores the fact that the “state” was the inviter, not the persecutor.

 If I follow Martin Luther King here, I acknowledge that these Christian leaders were just mistaken. In their zeal to defend their rights and their beliefs, they were blind. King warned us in the church of the seeds of this phenomenon which has sprouted and blossomed into a malicious weed:

“Never must the church tire of reminding men that they have a moral responsibility to be intelligent. Must we not admit that the church has often overlooked this moral demand for enlightenment? At times it has talked as though ignorance were a virtue and intelligence a crime. Through its obscurantism, closedmindedness and obstinacy to the truth, the church has often unconsciously encouraged its worshippers to look askance at intelligence.” --“Love in Action” in Strength to Love

It’s possible that their blindness reflects innocent ignorance, but I suggest that their blindness was stoked by their desire to believe something other than the truth. Their devotion to the “Obama is anti-religion” narrative blossomed into an unwillingness to pursue the truth.

This is an object lesson. I am not interested in pointing out who is the worst offender in this scenario. This kind of thinking is a reflection of our times. We line up on either side of any number of issues and lump all of those who disagree with us as into an evil entity identifiable by a buzz word. All we have to say is “fundamentalists” or “Socialists.” We say, “the Left” or “Right Wing.” Sadly even “conservative” and “liberal,” “Democrat” and “Republican,” and “Bush” and “Obama” are code words for “the enemy.” And we hyperbolically decry a War on Religion, a War on Women, a War on the Family, and a War on Equality, and we feel justified, even obligated, to demonize those—even those driven by their faith—who think differently.

As a Christian I am particularly grieved when Christian leaders are perpetuators of these battle lines. In this case once they had determined that those other folks are actually evil, nothing else mattered, even the truth and love in the Gospel of Jesus. The actual facts didn’t serve their narrative so they perpetuated a lie. And they told it and told it and told it so that their lying storyline could survive. This is when their blindness became sinfulness.

Intellectual blindness is not the problem; a total disregard for truth is. My best prayer is “Father, forgive them,” whether or not they know what they do.

The Weapons of Our Warfare

Many of us continue to try to make sense of the senseless tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut. People of faith have offered helpful and not so helpful explanations and prescriptions after the tragedy.

I agree with my Christian brothers and sisters when they say that atrocities like Sandy Hook reflect issues of the heart and mind. I agree that laws do not address those issues well. No law or collection of legal actions can guarantee that Sandy Hook will never happen again. Nor will they address the core issues that lead a person to commit such atrocities.

But my friends and I diverge when they suggest that because this involves matters of heart and because we have no ironclad guarantees resulting from our action, then nothing can be done. Some of my friends, people I respect greatly, suggest or explicitly state that no law can be enacted, no regulation can be administered, no personal or communal soul searching is necessary, no action is relevant, and no remedy is available to make these atrocities less devastating, less costly, and less common.

Twenty-seven wooden angels commemorating the victims of the Sandy Hook school shooting.

Photo by EMMANUEL DUNAND/AFP/Getty Images

I reject this belief of my dear brothers and sisters. Ours is not a faith that says that because evil is in the heart and violence is in the world, there is nothing we can do about it. Nor are we prohibited from addressing and minimizing the effects of sin. We were not called to this Christian life to sit back and watch sin run rampant. Sin will always be with us in this life, and according to our Scriptures, the human heart will continue to be wicked. But we do have resources to address both the wickedness and its effects. We are people who offer hope. And there is more to our calling than waiting till everyone follows Jesus or waiting until Jesus returns. On the contrary, we have a proud Christian history of addressing sin and its effects using all resources at our disposal, including the championing of legislation.

We Americans are, after all, a nation of laws, not of weapons. The right to bear arms itself is enshrined in legislation. But laws can be ineffective, overly restrictive, or just stupid. We have heard a sickening array of those proposals in the past week. But if all legislation falls into that category, then I suppose we should try anarchy until Jesus comes. We don’t do so because laws do serve a purpose.

Since I agree with my friends that laws don’t effectively address the heart and mind core issues, then why have laws? Because they address the common good. By advancing the common good, we limit the impact of deceitful hearts. We do our part in the Kingdom of God—not that we will see it fulfilled next week or next year or whenever some legislation goes into effect, but we “kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight” (Thanks, Bruce Cockburn).

I am horrified by Christian cries against any gun restriction for anybody under any circumstances. I understand the libertarian stance, and I recognize that a Constitutional law professor can establish legal justification. But I cannot reconcile those cries with my Christian calling.

 

I’m afraid that my friends’ rhetoric reflects more than a difference of opinion between them and me. I’m afraid (and I here’s the part I especially hate saying) it reflects a commitment to something else above the full Gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m no perfect Christian, nor do I expect them to be, but I expect us to proclaim the truth of Jesus more loudly than we do the fallible documents of the state or our own pursuit of "rights." And I expect that Gospel to be effectual in all aspects of this life as well as the next. Like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I believe 

We need to recapture the gospel glow of the early Christians, who ... refused to shape their witness according to the mundane patterns of the world. Willingly they sacrificed fame, fortune, and life itself in behalf of a cause they knew to be right. Quantitatively small, they were qualitatively giants. Their powerful gospel put an end to such barbaric evils as infanticide and bloody gladiatorial contests....If the church of Jesus Christ is to regain once more its power,  message, and authentic ring, it must conform only to the demands of the gospel. (from "Transformed Nonconformist," in Strength to Love, 1963)

Gospel proclamation takes courage, it takes willingness, it takes guts, it takes desire, it takes a refusal to sit back in proud judgment and a willingness to enter into the fray with an open heart. The answer to wickedness is not resignation.  It is love. Tough love often, complicated love sometimes, even sacrificial love (as in “I might have to give up some secular rights”) but it takes love. Courage and love, both affairs of the heart, can address sins of the heart. And they can give us the will and the means to dare to entertain policies and actions that limit the potential effects of that sin...until Jesus returns.

The Way It's Supposed to Be: Reflections on Sandy Hook

I finally remembered the unicorn. It had been in our car since Sunday when our granddaughters, five-year-old Chelsea and 18-month-old Zoey, went to church with us. We took the girls home after Sunday lunch, but Chelsea left the little stuffed toy in our car.

That Friday morning, December 14, 2012, we drove to their house to take Chelsea and eight-year-old Damon to school as we do many schooldays. All week I had kept forgetting to return the unicorn. Until that day.

We arrived at their house and found Chelsea as we do every schoolday, dressed and sitting in her little girl chair in the middle of the living room, watching “Charlie and Lola” on TV. Damon was nowhere to be found. We knew he was in the house somewhere, and older people were around but asleep. I finally spotted two legs sticking out from under the Christmas tree like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy's fallen house. After we pulled him out, we laughed a little and gathered up the children and their things.

Before we left the house, Chelsea grabbed a pink box that opens at the top and has two opening drawers in the front. She gave it to me and said “You take this home and put stuff in it.” When we got to the car, she elaborated to Meemaw, “ You put stuff in it, and Peepaw puts stuff in it. Then you can bring it back to me tomorrow or Sunday.” We took in our instructions obediently. I’m pretty sure she just wanted us to have something else of hers since we returned the unicorn.

 Whitsitt Elementary School is only about four blocks from the house, but as the weather is getting colder we prefer driving the kids to school. Once we pulled out of the driveway, Meemaw   started the prayer.  “God we thank you for this day. And we ask that you be with Damon and Chelsea at school today. We ask for their protection. And we pray that they will be obedient to their teachers and kind to their classmates. We pray that everyone will be kind to them. We pray that they will know that You are with them. In Jesus’ Name.  Amen.”  

“Amen.” 

“Amen.”

“Amen.”  

As we approached the drive up to the school, Meemaw said, as usual, “Wave to Mommy.” Chelsea and Damon’s mom, Chrissy, is a crossing guard at their school. We always wave to her as we drive up to the school.

We parked and headed into the building and walked the short entry hallway. From there, the second through fourth graders turn right and the pre-K through first graders turn left to get to their respective classrooms. At this point we typically wait for Damon’s decision. He might want to go to breakfast, might want to walk alone to class, or might want to have company walking to his second- grade class. “Company” usually means Meemaw, since I am designated to walk with Chelsea, who always just wants to get to class as soon as possible and would be just as happy to walk all by herself.  

Chelsea and I both love the walk, but we are really in different worlds, I think. I am an observer, amazed and delighted to see how the children at Whitsitt respond to one another every day. The school exudes kindness, friendliness, and safety. And yes I have to mention the racial make-up of the student body. It’s perhaps 80% Latino with a handful of black students and white students. That make-up matters to me, mainly because it doesn’t seem to matter to the children. Brown, black, and white pre-K through fourth grade boys and girls walk hand in hand or arm and arm. They are not supposed to speak, because it’s Zone Zero in the halls, but they smile and wave and sneak in a “Hi Chelsea” whenever they can. Chelsea is obediently silent, but also smiles and waves. And she soaks it in.

On this day Damon decided to walk to class on his own, so Meemaw hugged him and said goodbye before joining me and Chelsea. As usual Chelsea’s mood grew more quietly excited as she walked down the hall. We finally got her to her class, where she stopped to hug Meemaw, and I kneeled down so that she could half-hug me. She doesn’t like this moment because she’s already in school mode, but she always accommodates us. By then she was beaming. Mrs. Williams greeted her at the door, and Chelsea entered her kindergarten classroom, her second home, safe and sound.

After the events at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, that day, we made a point of going to Damon and Chelsea's house after school. We just wanted to see their little faces. When we walked in, Chelsea wanted to know if I had brought back her pink box. I reminded her that I have until Sunday. She giggled, “That’s right. I’ll see you Sunday!”

Fear of a Baseball Cap

It was July 4, 1996. I was with my wife, our four children and our dear friends in the Kroger grocery store parking lot in Franklin, Tennessee. Lots of other patriots had gathered with us anticipating sundown so that we could enjoy the Independence Day celebration. While the sun still shone, we were all just killing time. Cars were lined up in their parking places while the erstwhile occupants lounged on truckbeds or wandered the aisles laughing and taking in the last moments of sun.

 

Our younger kids were getting restless, so to occupy them I volunteered to accompany them to get drinks and candy in the store. We walked toward the store—this slightly built black man and a gaggle of young white children. All the people we passed were also white, and as we walked I could feel the eyes on me. The kids were innocently oblivious. Not one to shy away, I looked up to greet or at least make eye contact with anyone who dared to keep up the stare. Several young men obliged with scowls that showed me they weren’t in a greeting mood. They wore a standard uniform each punctuated by a baseball cap with a brim curled just a certain way. No-one said anything to me. They didn’t have to. They seemed to know innately that the stare communicated their message.

 

I felt the message deep in my bones; it was visceral. And not unfamiliar. In earlier months only blocks from that parking lot, young white men sent more explicit messages. On one occasion a carload of baseball-capped young men cruised by hanging out of a car and yelling racial insults at my wife and me. And on another occasion similarly dressed young white men drove by pointing gun-shooting gestures at me.

The intimidation is real, although its effectiveness on me varies according to my mood. Most times it is unsettling but not enough to alter any actions I already had in mind. These guys INTEND to be threatening to me. And I identify them ahead of time by that baseball cap they wear and by the area of town I happen to be in. For me, they are trouble-makers, marked by a number of factors topped off with the baseball cap.

Actually I bear no animosity toward the humble baseball cap. My white son sports a baseball cap with a Dr. Pepper logo. And some of my best friends wear baseball caps; some of those people are white young men from Franklin, Tennessee. People wear baseball caps for various reasons: Some as a fashion statement, some to show team or brand loyalty, some to keep the sun out of their eyes, some to cover up an embarrassing head or hair situation, and some because they play baseball. Folks wear their caps in various ways: Close to the head, sitting atop, backwards, side ways, or slightly askance. Baseball cap wearers come in varied sizes, shapes, ages, colors, and genders. It would be wrong for me to assume that every baseball cap wearing person is somehow dangerous to me.

Despite my history, it would be ridiculous for me to believe that their baseball caps MAKE people trouble-makers or that those caps are symbolic of trouble or even that I should somehow be confused about whether their baseball cap makes them dangerous. A focus on the skin color of the cap-wearer or on a particular area of town does nothing to change the picture. Objectively these guys are no more dangerous to me because they are young white guys wearing baseball caps in this area of Franklin. But as an isolated black man on this turf while groups of baseball-capped guys stare me down, I have reason to feel threatened.

Now what if one of those guys was walking in my multicultural neighborhood with a curled rim baseball cap? I’d feel no twinge of threat. My bones don’t recognize a generic baseball-capped young white guy as someone to fear, someone to pursue. If I did feel threatened by a random baseball-capped young white man in my neighborhood, and if I were a neighborhood watch captain, I would call the police. I would follow their advice.

And if that baseball cap-donned young white man came from behind me and attacked me and I knew I was carrying a semi-automatic weapon, he’d probably still be alive. 

Are We Losing Winning?

 I spent the day Saturday ragging on Damon’s coach after their first soccer match of the season. After Damon’s team scored their second goal, one of his teammates asked if they were winning. The coach, who was doubling as a referee, replied, “Winning doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?!” I said, mainly to Christian, who was coaching his little brother from the sideline. “What did she say?”

I get where the coach was coming from. A long time ago, I played Little League baseball…badly. I got to play because the league said that the coach had to play me. Each game I served my one inning in right field. Most of that time was spent like Chelsea’s one-and-only soccer practice before she quit this year: I would rather be picking flowers (not literally for me, but for Chelsea...). As I stood out in that field, I prayed, as did my coaches, that the ball would never come my way.

I played for two years, one at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and one at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. My two experiences differed very little from each other. But the first year our team came in first place. The second year our team came in fourth place. First place was better.

I played baseball because my brother, Carl—who was still Cochise to me in those days—had played before me. Co experienced all of the pressure that led later parents to go easy on their kids. He was a good player, especially a good pitcher, but I think that, with Dad as his coach, Co never felt he was good enough. Dad had to change his tune by the time I started to play. There was no way to parlay my inability, uncoordination and disinterest into some winning prospect. The best he could do is to hope to get me on a good team and hope I didn’t ruin anything.

I later joined a basketball team of my own volition. I faired no better there, and like Chelsea, I quit pretty early on. But I learned that I liked basketball. It didn’t so much matter how good I was. I liked the game. So by the time I enrolled at Punahou School for my junior year of high school, I was beginning my days playing basketball with a ragtag bunch of classmates. Most of them were better and younger than me, but I still liked playing. I also liked winning.

And I later played basketball on teams or in pickup games, knowing that I would usually be the weakest player on the court. One of my fondest memories remains the day my older brother, Carl, and my younger brother, Keith, and I challenged some guys in a pickup game in Hawaii after my college graduation. My brothers are clearly better athletes than me. I don’t remember who won that game. I do remember that Carl missed a layup, Keith put it back up, I got his miss, and I made the basket. Whether or not we won, I saw myself as the hero—that time.

In my later single adulthood I also enjoyed shooting around by myself. I even used basketball as a sort of worship. I would bring my boombox to the outdoor court at the old Howard School. I’d blast Christian music and sing while I played. I met 12-year-old Josh and 8-year-old Anna that way. They lived across the street from the school. They came over together one day while I was shooting and singing. They introduced themselves and told me that they recognized my Christian music. They asked me where I went to church. Then without asking their parents, they invited me to the weekly Tuesday night dinner they had with close friends from their church. Josh and Anna symbolize basketball benefits that had nothing to do with competition. I had grown to enjoy basketball with or without the competitiveness.

Although I was largely unsuccessful in sports, I did grow up learning to compete, mainly with words. And in those competitions, winning was everything; I would not back down. The residuals of my competitiveness remain today. I like being right. And I like you believing that I am right—even if I’m not.

Then I face moments like this Sunday morning, when Pastor Stephen Handy talked about imitating the humility of Jesus. Again with that Jesus Talk! I loved that in our subsequent Sunday School class, Ken pointed out that Jesus is already a victor and that because of Jesus, we are victors too.

I’m still learning. I have discovered that winning doesn’t have to be everything in order for it to be anything. And in some situations, winning doesn’t even matter. Marriage has been my best laboratory for seeing that “winning doesn’t matter.” I’ve learned that there are some things—such as the relationships themselves—that matter more.

After Damon’s soccer game Saturday, an inattentive teammate asked who won. The coach said, “Nobody won.” I still think she is wrong (which would mean that I am right): Damon’s team won 4-0. It matters. But it's not all that matters.