The Thing to Remember

There is something I don’t want to forget. It would be easy to, because I have a great deal on my mind right now, and it’s all tied together.

Health, family, church, worry, finances, Christmas and many other things all competing for my attention at the same time.

There is only so much to give and that’s what makes it easy to forget.

I am a broken individual, and in certain ways always will be. I am weird, and mixed up sometimes, and even though I wish I could fix myself and all the things that are wrong with me, I can’t.

And that is what I forget.

I can’t fix myself.

For me, that’s the reminder I need this time of year. That’s what Christmas is about.

We couldn’t fix our problems, so God made a way for us.

He sent Jesus, Immanuel. In a lowly way to a lowly place.

And that’s Christmas.

Whether it be in December (it probably wasn’t) or sometime in the Spring (it probably was), the thing we need to remember about Christmas is that it means there is no longer just us trying to do everything.

We don’t have to try and fix ourselves.

We are seen in the place we are right now. We are known. We are loved.

We aren’t alone.

We never were.

Merry Christmas.

Before

A lot of people don’t think Christmas is that big of a deal, all things considered. It’s a day set aside for good old American-style capitalism, right? Maybe the family gathers, and it’s one of the few days of the year a whole bunch of people who normally don’t go attend church. So that’s cool.

But it’s just another day, right?

Not for me, and not for most folks who believe in what many might call “traditional” Christianity, if such a thing exists.

Here’s why, to my way of thinking.

Before Jesus could learn in the temple

Before he could read the torah

Before he learned how to work with his hands at the side of his father on earth

Before he saved the best wine for last

Before he made the blind see

Before he made the dead walk

Before he fed multitudes

Before he healed hearts and bodies and minds

Before he was chained to a Roman whipping post and flogged to within an inch of his life

Before he felt the desolation of his father in Heaven’s abandonment

He had to be born.

Now, think about all those things passing before his eyes as he hung there with his head down. Did he know what was to come upon his birth?

We don’t know.

We do know that when he cried out “eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani” it was with his heart ripped out in a way that man can never know.

And that was for us.

Been thinking about that ever since Eric shared that this morning in the kids ministry devotional and communion time.

And that’s why Christmas is such a big deal to me.

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Crooked Face Dad

I hate that at my advanced and decrepit age, I both need and crave reassurance of things, but lately I’ve certainly felt that way. More so than in a long time.

The Bell’s Palsy has really sort of made things difficult. The left side of my face is stone paralyzed, including my eye, which I have to tape shut much of the time. The resulting dryness has made it more susceptible to injury, which has already happened once and was incredibly painful.

Can’t drive, so I haven’t been able to work. All of that is bad, and a real pain in the butt. The house is decorated for Christmas and I haven’t felt like enjoying it. The worst part for me has been the inability to kiss my wife and kids.

So I have been getting really good at feeling sorry for myself.

Then a couple things happened yesterday. My younger son and I were sitting around and he said “will you play with me?”

I was about to say I didn’t feel well, and then I thought of a movie line from somewhere (of course). You’ve only got one life to live. You can make it chicken salad, or chicken shit.

Yesterday I made chicken salad. We played cars, and scooters, and ate peanut butter sandwiches. We got mom a Christmas present (I made all right turns going to the store), and when we were done, my little guy kissed me smack on my twisted lips and said “I yuv you crooked face, dad.”

Jen came home and did the same thing. I guess sometimes a kiss is a kiss. It’s the heart behind it, not the lips in front of it.

It’s going to be a good day.

Black People, White People, and Deuteronomy

I saw a YouTube video today from a man—a black man—regarding the “situation” in Missouri following the grand jury decision not to indict Darren Wilson in the killing of Michael Brown. He made the video back in August, but I think it applies even more now, following the madness of the past two nights. Here’s the video, if you’d like to see it.

I think he’s got some really great points, and though his video is made with African-American people in mind, I think we can all (yes, white people, too) glean some wisdom from it. Watch it and you’ll see what I mean.

You say you want change? Then change!

Deuteronomy 2:3 is mentioned, and I don’t think I’d ever heard that applied to this kind of strife before. It’s perfect. It doesn’t allow for apportioning blame. It just speaks the truth.

Haven’t we gone ‘round this mountain long enough? Turn north!

If you want things to change, change yourself! You need to. I need to. I want to be able to raise my kids and know I’ve done all I can to show them that people should be judged by the “content of their character,” not pigment.

That goes “both,” actually “all” ways.

We are all very different in the way we feel things.

Different in the way we react to things.

Different in our opinions.

Different in our hopes and dreams for ourselves and our families.

But we are also all the same.

We can’t do it on our own. We are not made to be alone, or go through things alone. We were created to be in community with one another.

It isn’t impossible.

But we have to change to make it happen.

Haven’t we gone ‘round this mountain long enough?

Let’s turn North.

Trying to Get It: Thoughts on Understanding the Ferguson, MO Situation

The media has been teasing all day that the jury in the Ferguson, MO, Michael Brown shooting case has reached a decision, but they haven’t said what it is yet. Will they or won’t they indict the police officer who fired the shots? No one knows yet.

What we do know is that people are mobilizing all over the place, fearing the worst. Why wouldn’t they, considering the riots and demonstrations that already happened? People are pleading for peace, and that’s good. Others from within the community are issuing warnings about how things are going to go should the verdict turn out differently than they would like.

It’s easy to imagine something similar to how the Los Angeles African-American community reacted after the Rodney King verdict—looting, burning, beating.

That’s the part I don’t understand, and I would really like to. What goes on in a person’s mind and heart that sacking their own community seems like an effective demonstration? From an “outside” the community perspective, it seems an adult equivalent of a child holding their breath so they can just die instead of giving in to whatever it is.

It’s difficult to imagine the level of frustration a person would have to do to destroy their own homes and businesses.

Certainly, some of it has to be righteous indignation, but I wonder how much more is just people enjoying the carnage, in a manner of speaking?

I don’t know. Is it because I’m white, and haven’t felt the sting of oppression in the same way black people have? Probably many would tell me it was.

People have argued that of course, Officer Wilson was making his story up, and that he killed Mr. Brown out of racism and malice. What if he didn’t, though? What if—as evidence seems to suggest—there is at least some truth to his story? Doesn’t the authorities manufacturing or changing evidence seems just as far-fetched as Wilson actually fighting with Brown and shooting him because he felt his own life was in danger?

Occam’s Razor, folks.

Anyway, there have been witnesses in both “directions,” including several coroner’s reports.

The truth of the situation probably in the end came down to feelings. Wilson felt this, and Brown acted however he did because he felt something else. We may never know.

I certainly don’t have any answers, except to say that everyone has a right to live, and that includes white police officers who fear for their lives. I think it’s unreasonable to tell someone when they should or shouldn’t be afraid, and just because Brown was 18 and unarmed does not mean he was unable to be dangerous.

So I guess we just need to all try and unlearn what we think we already know about people. White or black, we all have much to learn.

I hope this time, things don’t end in more violence. The cycle has to stop eventually, doesn’t it?

Just Walk Away

I went to a smallish party many years ago at a friend’s apartment. There were probably less than ten of us there at the most crowded point, and though pretty much everyone was torn up to some degree, I had the least to drink of the whole crowd because I had to work the next morning at my day job.

I imagine that’s why this girl I didn’t know very well came to me and asked if I could help her friend. I asked where the friend was (who I actually did know a little better, and liked quite a bit), and she led me down a short hallway to a bedroom. She opened the door and then fell flat on the floor, almost like she was trying to “plank.” On a bed in the middle of the room was her friend, obviously also very intoxicated. On each side of her were “men,” and one of them was in the process of removing her shirt.

We exchanged a few words, and then the two men left the room. I got one of the other people at the party to help me to help get the two girls to my car and then after only a single incident of puking (the passenger floor mat was never the same again), we were able to get them home in one piece.

I thought of that night this morning when I read a couple of news stories regarding the former Stanford swimmer who was recently convicted of the rape of an unconscious woman at a party. No one would even know anything about it, had a couple of grad students on bicycles not seen him on top of the woman, and chased him down, tackled him, and held him until police arrived.

He was found guilty on a few of the five counts, and that was good. Then, he was sentenced the other day, and the judge gave him six months, which could actually end up being three, with good behavior. Good behavior. This from a young “man” who, in his own intoxicated state, thought it appropriate to take a woman behind a dumpster so they could “hook up.”

The recent development is that it was discovered a letter was published shortly before the sentencing from the former swimmer’s father, saying how tough things have been on his son because of everything going on. He expressed dismay at the possibility of his son getting several years for “twenty minutes of action.” He tells about the impact the proceedings have had on his son. Never mentioned is the victim.

The son is completely unrepentant, and completely unaccepting of any sort of responsibility for  his actions.

Yet Superior Court Judge Aaron Persky said in handing down the sentence that Turner had no prior criminal history, The San Jose Mercury News reported. Turner, whose character was praised in letters to the judge, plans to start a course for college students on binge drinking culture, and both he and his victim were drunk the night of Jan. 18, 2015, Persky said.

The judge said a longer sentence would have a “severe impact” on Turner. Persky doesn’t think Turner’s “lack of complete acquiescence to the verdict should count against him,” he said.”

Turner must register as a sex offender for life and complete three years of probation under the terms of his jail sentence, which as I mentioned before could last just three months.

He is a sex offender. His sentence should have a severe impact.

Here is what I believe the truth to be about that sort of person.

If you, in the course of partying, become intoxicated, you are still responsible for your actions. If you also come across a woman who is likewise inebriated and decide to “hook up,” and that woman becomes unconscious at any point, and you decide to carry on with your hookup, you are a rapist. It’s that simple. It is rape and you are ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.

Turns out only one of the two people involved knows exactly what was involved, because the other was unconscious. The conscious person may have had his judgment impaired, but that does not change the severity of the actions he chose, impaired or not.  He knows what he did, and didn’t do. He has to live with that.  Could be the sad state of his life is because of guilt, and/or shame. He should be ashamed.

Listen, this kid had the right to legal representation, and the right to defend himself against allegations, true or not. He did that. He was found guilty. His father has the right to speak in his defense, and to bury his head in the sand. But there comes a point when one needs to stop defending the indefensible. And consider that people also have a right to not be raped when they are unconscious.

That’s not just for Mr. Turner, by the way. That’s for anyone who has ever contemplated using someone for their own ends that is incapacitated in any way. That isn’t manly, that’s rape, and you are a felon if you do it. You haven’t accomplished anything if you get away with it. You’ve changed two lives with your crime—yours, and the person you forced yourself on. It isn’t a good thing. One can only hope you one day are made to pay the penalty for what you’ve done.

It is the same for those who use any influence they may have–any sort of power, implied or otherwise–as a means to some sexual end. You deserve what happens to you, whether it be punitive, or legal. You’re guilty, man. And you are a reprehensible individual. Hollywood producer, scout leader, teacher. Whether the object of your desire is an adult or a child, don’t misunderstand what your actions can do, and what they will hopefully one day bring you. Life may not bring legal or financial recompense.

But in your heart, you know what you are and what you’ve done.

This…issue—for want of a better word—makes me angrier than almost anything I can think of. Part of it is my own issues, but also because over the course of the past decade, I have had the chance to get to know many victims of this wretched crime through a ministry I was part of. I know what being victimized does to people, and no one, no one deserves that.

Something that I will probably always struggle with as well–I’m human, with a very flawed human nature–is reconciling the knowledge that Jesus came for unrepentant people as well as repentant ones, and longs for their salvation and redemption as much as anyone else’s. It doesn’t excuse or explain what they’ve done, it just speaks to God’s perfection and our imperfection. No one deserves forgiveness for things like rape, or anything else they’ve done that hurts or victimizes others

Yet it is still available for all.

The college culture of drinking, partying, and hooking up I will save for another post.  For now, let me leave you with a comprehensive list of things that cause rape:

  1. Rapists.

So think about what you’re doing before you do it. You can’t go back, and you can destroy a person just…like…that.

Don’t do it. Be a man and walk away.

What’s It All About, Anyway?

It isn’t about politics, although the struggle for partisan victory over…nothing, really will always be there.

It isn’t about who can or can’t marry.

It isn’t about whether or not a woman should or should not be able to do certain things with her body–that is an unending argument, and one I will not make here.

It isn’t about certain groups of people being taxed more than others.

It isn’t about whether or not meat is murder.

It isn’t about a lot of things.

In my opinion, it is about finding, as Rhianna puts it, “love in a hopeless place.”

It’s about finding hope in a loveless place.

It’s about finding there is something bigger than ourselves.

Someone bigger than ourselves.

It’s about believing there’s a light when all you see is darkness.

It’s about being grateful when sometimes you don’t see the gift.

It’s about showing a lost world the way to being found when they have no idea they’re lost in the first place.

It’s about letting them know that he who is in them is greater than he who is in the world.

It’s about showing them every single life is worth something. Every. Single. Life.

I think if we know these truths in our selfish little hearts, everything changes.

Selflessness replaces selfishness.

Help replaces hurt.

Love replaces not just hate, but violence. Murder.

God replaces world.

Forgive me for being an optimist in a pragmatic and doubtful world, but it can happen. We just have to start small.

We have to start with ourselves.

I have to start with myself.

Here’s a song that brought me a little joy today. Maybe it will do the same for you:

Better Questions

I read online today that Tim Cook—CEO of Apple since Steve Jobs passed away—came out as being gay recently. He said something to effect of he was “proud to be gay.”

Good for him. Even with today’s much more relaxed morality and tolerance for most things and lifestyles, that’s still a pretty ballsy move. Privately, people already knew, but being publicly anything is always a big step.

It made me think, though, and some questions came to mind:

Why does it seem the arbiters of political correctness in this day and age only allow people belonging to one minority group or another to be proud of it?

Proud to be gay, or African-American, or Green Party, or Latino, or whatever it happens to be rather than the majority.

So if a person can be proud to be in the minority—any minority—is the converse also true? Must someone else be ashamed to be a majority?

In other words, should I feel as if I cannot be proud to be who I am if that someone happens to be caucasian, middle-class, straight, and Christian?

I don’t know.

It seems like whenever someone comes out as any of those things, or espouses any of the views that seem to go along with membership in any of those groups, there are some who will automatically assume that means they’re hiding a noose under the white bedsheet they’re wearing.

The words “hate speech” have become so ubiquitous they’ve lost all their power.

For my own part, I am caucasian. I am male. I am straight. I am a Christian. Does that mean I am particularly proud of myself for being any of those things? I don’t know that it does, because to my way of thinking, that is just part of who I am, and whether or not I admit it is secondary to the truth I already know, which is that with God came awareness of my identity.

Pride doesn’t really fit with that.

While humility is something any human being probably struggles with, I guess I would say the parts of myself I am proud of are the things I worked at, rather than the things I can’t help being.

I am proud to be a college graduate, even if it took me until middle age. It was hard, and expensive, and I struggled at it. It doesn’t mean I have animosity toward anyone without a degree. It just means I worked my ass off to get mine.

I am proud to be the husband of my wife, and the father of my children. Marriage and parenthood are a grand freaking struggle sometimes, but I have never given up and I never will. It doesn’t mean I hate single people. It just means I love my family—who would not be in my life without God.

I am proud to be an American, because even with the struggles our country goes through on a daily basis—and we all know what they are—the fact that our country remains in the face of all the assaults crashing on her, the freedoms our citizens are allowed are pretty extraordinary. You can fly your flag upside-down, or even burn it. The constitution protects you.

Am I proud of my faith? That’s actually hard to answer. Not because I don’t have it, or because I question it, but because my faith is grounded in humility, and service. Not being served. I guess what I am proud of regarding faith is that he chose me. Who would choose me? I wouldn’t. I would pick my frail and self-serving ass dead freaking last, if at all. While there is some pride there, I am also daily humbled by my savior.

Yet.

I am proud to be chosen, and to have my name written in the book of life. I’m proud I was chosen to share that with people. These are my convictions, and I am certainly not saying I expect yours to be the same. Please do me the same courtesy. In Much Ado About Nothing, the character John the Bastard says something to the effect of “Let me be as I am, and seek not to alter me.”

It doesn’t matter that I’m white, or straight, or any of those other things. While membership in those categories doesn’t necessarily mean I should be proud of them, I also don’t need to be ashamed. Yet political correctness seems to demand I hang my head because of something I had no part in determining. So if you don’t want me to try and alter you, let me be as I am. We need to respect each other more than we do. And it goes “both” ways. All ways.

Yet.

If I cannot or should not be proud of being things I can’t help but be, then why is it different to be proud of different skin tone, or language, or which gender I feel called to be with sexually?

It may not be intentional, but it is without question a double standard. And it confuses me.

Oddly, just now I thought of this:

Earlier in the movie, Eminem loses a battle when he chokes out after being mocked and ridiculed by his opponent for a handful or inarguable truths his opponent throws up in his face to embarrass and humiliate him. It works. In the above scene, he does a couple of different things. One, he grows a thicker skin. Two, he realizes if he admits that which he knows to be true about himself, he takes away the power of that truth to hurt him. Also, he finds out some truth about his opponent which causes him to choke.

My point?

Maybe, if we all were just able to be truthful and open about who we are, opposing words would lose the power to hurt us?

I don’t know. I’m just a white, straight, bald, semi-conservative male who likes show tunes AND heavy metal. I’m a big ball of confusion.

And I have better questions than I have answers. So maybe we can figure this out together.

I’m Gomer

Let’s talk about Hosea.

Yes, I said that. Not an Old Testament book I’ve read much—or at all, really—beyond hearing a sermon here or there. Nonetheless, I was looking at it over the weekend, and I was surprised by how relevant it seemed to me.

For those unfamiliar with Hosea and his life, he prophesied at a time when the people of Israel were pretty far off from God, and many worshipped idols more than anything else, or other gods, such as Baal.

They had turned away from God.

So Hosea is preaching a very unpopular message, and letting Israel know what awaits should they not turn from their ways and back to God.

But, like people do, they don’t listen.

During this time, God tells Hosea to marry a promiscuous woman—Gomer. Perhaps not a prostitute, but from the little we can tell—not very far off, either. Out of faith to God, Hosea does as commanded.

He marries her, and she bears him children, each symbolic of an aspect of Hosea’s prophecy and God’s word toward the fallen away people of Israel.

They’re in pretty big trouble.

Yet at its essence, Hosea is a story of love. God’s love toward his people of Israel, told symbolically through Hosea’s love for Gomer, and his faithfulness to God.

Eventually, Gomer and Hosea are apart from one another, seemingly due to a divorce. Gomer ends up either selling herself into slavery to pay a debt, or perhaps she is just taken into slavery.

Hosea goes to her, and in essence pays everything he has to get her back—to secure her freedom.

As God gave everything to secure the freedom of Israel, through Jesus Christ.

He obtained our freedom the same way.

I wish I could read that story and think of myself as the ever-faithful Hosea, obeying God and keeping his commands. Always remaining faithful.

Except I am not faithful at all—certainly not as much as I would like to be.

I’m not Hosea at all. I’m Gomer. I look anywhere—everywhere—but where I need to be looking.

So many things become idols. My stuff. Stuff I have, and stuff I want. Places I want to go. People become idols. I don’t look at God or to God at all.

Sometimes I feel I truly have sold myself into slavery, and I need to be rescued. I need my freedom purchased.

I need to be saved from myself.

It’s then I remember this has already been done. It was done a little more than 2,000 years ago, when an itinerant rabbi cried out “It is finished” and died on a roughly hewn cross.

Hosea pleaded for Israel’s repentance. It didn’t come when he wanted it to, and as he prophesied, Israel fell—for many years.

Yet Hosea was faithful.

So many have entreated Jesus for on my behalf—for my freedom and repentance. Or perhaps repentance and freedom would be better said.

Jesus went one better—he died for me.

And came back for me.

When I am feeling like all of my words fall on deaf ears, when it feels like there’s no point in being faithful because no one else is, when it seems like all is lost (and all might even be lost for a time), I need to remember that even when I am at my least faithful, he isn’t going anywhere.

He came back for me.

The Pearl

In my prior life in San Diego, I was part of a ministry that saw a fair amount of people who suffered from PTSD due to abuse or sexual trauma of one kind or another, and it surprised me because I had no idea how widespread that kind of ‘thing’ was because outside of that ministry I had heard very few people talk about abuse of any sort, especially men. This is likely for reasons specific to each person, but from what I experienced in my four + years as an intercessor, shame was the chief reason most people kept silent.
Shame.
To varying degrees, many of the people I prayed with and for felt blame for what they’d been made to endure. The beauty of this ministry was that in most cases, those same people were able to find God’s truth about where the blame lie, and encounter Jesus in such a way they were able to find at least a measure of healing. Also the knowledge that healing was a process, and it was OK if it took some time. It certainly did with me.

I became a frequent intercessor for these types of sessions, and it eventually became clear that God had gifted me in such a way, and used me in such a way that I was often able to help these people by protecting them while those leading the session were able to do their own work.

Sometimes, though, I would need to step away a little bit, because I could feel myself moving away from what needed to be done and start thinking about things like how much dental reconstruction that piece of crap would need if I was able to go back in time and get hold of him.

That’s what rapists and molesters and people like them were to me, and what they remain. I need to remind myself constantly every person has worth to the one who made them. It is not up to me to assign value to them, and judge them for whatever they may have done, as appealing as that option might be to the part of me that hates injustice.

Especially when it is directed toward women or girls. When I hear about that stuff, immediate retribution always sounds like the best option, because screw rapists and other assorted creepers.

It isn’t up to me, though. But the man in me—the husband and brother and friend–wishes it was sometimes. The part of me that loves and respects women as beautiful creations of a loving God wants to choke rapists until they turn blue for making so many women think otherwise. For making them think they are unclean, and ruined, and to blame for what happened to them.

A while back I saw this picture:

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And it made me think about that stuff again.

To rapists: while my personal belief is that you are crap on a cracker, I know in my heart that like the women, men, girls or boys your actions do permanent harm to, you are beloved by God. Deep in your sin, where your heart seems so far away from anything loving, you are loved. You know what you’ve done. Seek forgiveness. It can be yours.

To victims: my heart breaks for you as it always has. Know this, and hold it in your heart like the precious truth it is. You are loved. What you feel makes you unworthy is something you had no control over. What you feel makes you dirty is something you did not ask for, no matter what they tell you. This dirt is created by lies, and truth can set you free of them. God’s truth.

You are loved and loved and loved, in spite of what ‘they’ tell you and in spite of what you might think of yourself. Let those words fall away like broken chains. You are precious to the one who made you. He sees no blemish, or stain.

Try to imagine an oyster, fresh from the sea bottom. The oyster is held in a pair of hands–the sure and strong hands of the carpenter. You can hardly see the pads of scar tissue on his wrists. A small knife with a sharp blade appears in one of his hands and he deftly pops open the shell. With the blade he lifts the connecting tissue and extracts a small, slimy ball.

He begins to wipe away the slime, dirt and sediment that has been accumulated by years. Everything falls away at his touch, and he is eventually left with what was there all along; a shining and perfect pearl.

Know this as well: to Jesus, you are that pearl. You are no longer a victim. You are beautiful, and clean, and made righteous.

I want you to know that you are not alone in your pain. The hands that made you wait to hold you.

I want you to know and believe in your heart that you are not to blame.

I want you to know that it’s ok to let out what you feel.

I want you to know that healing is available—and your heart can be made whole again.

My words are failing me now and I will end with what I said before.

You are loved.

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