A friend posted this article on Facebook and after chewing on it for a few hours, I think I’ve formulated a few thoughts.
1. People say really stupid things on Twitter.
2. Just because the kid singing the anthem was Mexican does not mean he’s illegal, you asshats.
3. People of many ethnicities sing the national anthem all the time at all kinds of sporting events. This is the first time you noticed?
4. Unless you’re a Native American, you’re descended from immigrants, too.
5. The America I love offers all kinds of people the opportunity to express their patriotism through song, among other ways.
6. You Twittering gas bags make me throw up in my mouth a little. Are you implying only Caucasians can love America, or be American?
I typically try to be uninvolved with this sort of thing. Certain topics bring out the stupid in people. And the hate. The ironic thing about these Twidiots is that right now, there’s an all volunteer army all around the world made up of men and women of every race and ethnicity protecting their right to make racist fools of themselves.
This is one of those days where if you don’t laugh you’ll cry. We’ve got dog poop. Toddler poop. Fussing. Crying. Attempted dogicide by toddler. Licking, peeing, whining. Haven’t even had time to put on a shirt yet.
Just now John pointed at my chest and said “titty,” then at my navel and said “boss.” After that, he held up his milk to the dogs and said “Good morning! Cheers! Potty!”
There are sections of scripture that are troubling to me. Not because I don’t understand what the writer is trying to convey, but because I do–and it goes against everything I’ve learned over the course of my life. Take 2 Corinthians 12, for instance.
In verses 9-10, Paul talks about boasting in his weaknesses; even delighting in them. That was hard for me to understand, because I think it’s more natural to be ashamed of the ways we are weak. It’s hard for me to imagine feeling delight at my lifelong struggle against food addiction, the desire to binge drink, or my occasional struggles with lust (in the form of wanting to look at inappropriate things). Not that those are my only weaknesses: just what I struggle against most frequently.
Maybe what Paul is trying to say–according to my Life Application Study Bible–is that when we are strong in our abilities or resources, we are tempted to do God’s work on our own. That can lead to pride.
For me, that means if I was talking to someone about resisting the urge to empty a 12 pack or click on the wrong web site and saying that it was easy not to do it, or that I could resist because I was strong I would be full of what my son calls “peepoo.”
I am able (mostly) to resist these inclinations and others because God gives me that ability. Left to my own, I wouldn’t even try to resist. So if I accomplish something in spite of the things I struggle with, it means so much more. And only then am I strong.
It’s interesting how that works, because it shouldn’t. I guess God knows more of my strengths and affinities than I do. Where I see a weak pile of desire, addiction, and sin, God sees something else. And in spite of my own callow nature he is somehow able to use me, and my weaknesses.
We had a concert at FCC Wednesday night, and I was hoping it was going to be well attended because I figured if it was we (Yuma) would be more likely to have other shows come to town. I did a few easy things to help promote the event, but in the end the event was very poorly attended.
I blamed myself to an extent, because while I have no official position at the church I did have some very strong promotional inclinations I didn’t follow through on because I didn’t want to step on toes or make waves. Next time, I’m just going to do what’s necessary and risk breaking a few toes.
Regardless, there were probably only fifty or sixty people in our sanctuary, and at first it bummed me out. The cool part was that five of them were myself and my family, including David. I didn’t think the concert made much of an impression at first because all he said was that it “sure was loud.”
And at the time I was mainly thinking of the impression the band made on me with songs like:
and this:
For me, the show did exactly what it was supposed to: it made me feel a little closer to God than before I walked in, and took me to “that” place where worship and praise and Jesus all collide with the raw heart of a supplicant. It was awesome and moving and I made sure to tell the singer later how he’d kicked me in the nuts at least twice.
Then today happened. I had a whole day with just me and the boys, and for part if it I took David to the water park at the Fun Factory, and while we were driving around, we listened to the CD I’d purchased at the concert called “The End is the Beginning.” David said the title track was his new favorite song.
I love that his first concert was a family event at his own church (for the record, my first concert was Poco, at the Del Mar Fair when I was a kid). I love that Jen and I were there, and that today he asked if we could listen to Cloverton. He was singing along to The End… and also
So in the end, I’m glad Cloverton played our church, even if I am bummed that hardly anyone turned out to support it. I guess that tells me what age group most of our congregation falls into. In any case, the people who came were blessed, and I’m thankful for it. I hope we get other concerts; I’m looking forward to networking and trying new things. We shall see…
I usually try not to respond to or write about things out of anger, but just this one time I’m going to make an exception. My friend Justine shared an article a little earlier that was about the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch and why he “hates fat chicks.”
The article explains:
“He doesn’t want larger people shopping in his store, he wants thin and beautiful people,” Lewis said. “He doesn’t want his core customers to see people who aren’t as hot as them wearing his clothing. People who wear his clothing should feel like they’re one of the ‘cool kids.’”
It made me remember my high school years, when I was definitely not one of the cool kids. We were not well off at all, and my clothes were never designer, and sometimes not even new. It shouldn’t have mattered, but kids can be more cruel than the Marquis de Sade so it ended up kind of making things harder.
I was bussed from Santee to Grossmont high school, and I remember how crappy the kids from that neighborhood were to those of us who could not afford the trappings of wealth many of them could, and who didn’t look the way cool or attractive people were supposed to.
That was me for sure. Overweight by the in-crowd’s standards. Average-looking at best. Generic or used clothing, for the most part. The “fortunate” kids were always kind enough to let me know where I fit in the scheme of things.
There was one time in particular that stuck with me–well, two. The first was one day early in the school year. I remember getting on the bus and feeling like the clothes my sister had purchased me looked pretty good for a change, and my new Payless shoes looked just like Adidas. I thought it might make a difference.
I remember one kid when I got off deliberately stepping on my shoes and making them dirty, while another berated the “Kmart specials” I was wearing. I was utterly humiliated.
The other time I was getting out of my car at the Parkway Bowl theater about a year after my mom died and I was wearing this rugby shirt I liked a lot and a pair of actual Levi’s I’d purchased myself. A carload of high school boys (football players, by their jackets) drove up and yelled “egg the fat kid,” which they proceeded to do. Thankfully, their aim was much worse than their probably beer-impaired judgment, and they only hit me once, right on the chest of my rugby shirt.
Egg the fat kid, indeed.
So when I read that article Justine posted, it made me think of the careless cruelty of my peers when I was the age of many potential A & F customers. I so wanted what they had, because I thought I’d fit in. Maybe even get popular friends.
The friends I did have had nothing to do with how I dressed or the how much weight I carried. They still don’t. Maybe that’s why I never really cared much for brand clothes as an adult.
It might be worth adding that by all accounts, the A & F CEO is supposedly a bit of a troll in addition to his PhD in douchebaggery. It seems evident he is attempting to make up for whatever he feels he missed out on in his youth.
He’s going to fail, and no matter how expensive the clothes are he wears, in his heart he will always be the fat kid, or the poor kid, or the kid with buck teeth. There is only one way to find healing for those kind of wounds, and it is not through wanton buying sprees and callow and superficial attitudes toward people who don’t meet some arbitrary fashion standard.
If it weren’t for Jesus, I would still be trying to meet those standards and trying to please people who didn’t like me for who I was, and would never love me for who I wasn’t. It was and remains ridiculous.
I’m writing this on my phone and I can’t see all the stuff I’ve written further up, so let me just say in conclusion that I have never been in an A & F store, and thanks to this article, I never plan to be. it sounds like I wouldn’t be welcome anyway.
This CEO (who shall not be name dropped by me) can go take a flying uh…leap at a rolling doughnut.
If you attend First Christian Church of Yuma, then you probably know Chris and Adrea Solano or their kids, Victoria, Chris, Noah or Asher. They’ve been here a while (certainly longer than me), and as far as I’ve witnessed are amazing examples of God at work in lives.
The Solanos are people you want to spend time with. They love unconditionally, serve without complaint (or often thanks), and lift up their brothers and sisters devotedly and probably daily. They show Christ to people by their lives, not just their words.
Chris, Adrea, and their kids are a huge part of FCC in every way, and when they move on to Kansas, they’re going to leave what Zeb called “a Solano shaped hole” down the middle of each of us who know them and call them friend.
If you know the Solanos, then they’ve certainly impacted your life in some way, large or small. I don’t know what our church will do without them, and I pray they return someday.
Until then, happy trails and traveling mercies. The Wilkins family loves you, and will miss seeing you every week.
Now go and spread the Gospel to the people in the middle. And if you must, use words….
This morning I asked God to show me in His word what I needed to do to change my life, my attitude, my everything. I asked Him to show me why I’ve been having the struggles I have been, and how I can persevere. He showed me this, from Hebrews 12:1-3….
Today, my six year-old son, John, got in a spot of trouble at school. It was nothing major, but it resulted in three days of “lunchtime detention.” What happened was that right now my son has a couple of crusty cold sore/fever blisters on his bottom lip. This kid decided he was going to make some sport of him for it. John has been taught to use his words, and ask others to stop their errant behavior in situations like that. So he asked the kid to stop making fun of him. Eventually, the kid apparently did. John, however, was still mad, so he punched the other kid in the chest anyway. My wife called me at work to tell me about it, and I could not find it in myself to be mad at him for defending himself. He has also been taught that the bible teaches us to be kind, and to turn the other cheek when things like this happen. We teach the boys they should treat others how they’d like to be treated. So now, we’re going to talk to him about the incident tonight. We’ll explain to him about appropriate behavior. We’ll tell him he should always go to the teacher first.
Also, I want to talk to him about what bullying is, and what he should do if he encounters it. I do not believe today’s incident does, but kids being the jerks they sometimes are, he may come into contact with it eventually. Or perhaps even be the bully, and I really hope that never happens. There’s been a lot said and written about bullying—both cyber and otherwise—over the past few months and years, and much of that was in regard to young people experiencing it in such a way that they ended up taking their own lives. Or expressing their frustration and pain through taking out on their tormentors, or sometimes just people who happened to be there the day they decided they could not take it anymore.
While I do not believe violence is ever the first choice in a situation, I do believe sometimes it is the only choice. If either of my boys were being physically mistreated in some way–by anyone–I would tell them to first inform someone in authority, like a parent or teacher. If the kid stops, fine and move on. If the kid does not stop, and they feel threatened or are themselves protecting a person being mistreated, I would tell them to defend themselves appropriate to the situation. I believe there are bullies who only respond to like treatment. I would rather see my sons strike another person than to be mishandled to such a degree they are seriously harmed. In other words, I believe sometimes it is appropriate to defend one’s self. I wish someone had shown me how, and when, to defend myself. My dad didn’t, and all my older brother showed me was how to be a bully myself.
Not long ago, there was a young girl who was twelve, I think, who leapt from a silo to her death over a situation with some other kids at her middle school that began over a boy two of the girls liked and escalated through a series of social media posts and text messages more or less inviting the girl to die.
There’s some legal situation now, where a teen boy was so set upon by his boss at a fast food restaurant that he ended up shooting himself in front of his family, I believe it was. Or in front of their house. Something like that.
Or how about the young Rutgers student who leapt from a bridge in New York after he was cruelly “outed” over the internet by his roommate. Also the Irish girl who was so piled on by other students in her high school here in the U.S. that she sought out a rope.
Cruel behavior amongst children is rampant these days, and it’s terrifying. They are awful to each other, for all manner of things–sometimes for no reason at all.
Fat kids are bullied (I could tell a few personal stories about that one). And skinny kids. Poor kids, or kids who wear the wrong clothes. Kids who are from the “wrong” side of town, whose house might not be as nicely made as other, more well-to-do students. Kids with birthmarks, or pockmarks, or scars. Sometimes–maybe even a lot of times–kids bully other kids out of jealousy for something the bullied kid has, or can do.
Nothing is so cruel as a teenager who for some reason thinks the only way he or she can reach the proper level of popularity is to prey on weaker kids, or kids with some imperfection or maybe just a character trait or even an accent that can be spotlighted.
I think that stuff (bullying) starts at home. By that I do not mean that a parent or sibling is the source of what’s going on, or that he or she being bullied has brought it on themselves. But home is where how they learn about why things are. We parents have the solemn duty to explain. If I thought it were productive, I could tell lots of stories to my kids about my childhood about how hard things sometimes were at home and with other kids. Except I don’t believe that would help anyone. Sure, transparency is always held in high regard, but only if it edifies, or if the boys can take something helpful away from it.
I had a cast on my left arm nearly to my shoulder for most of my freshman year. Usually, most kids left me alone, but for the first week or so after it happened, it offered me some small measure of celebrity because I was able to relate the story of the break over and over again. It made a sound like a large carrot stick snapping, and I got to where I could describe it pretty well. Soon, though, I was just another poor and overweight kid who wanted desperately to disappear into the swirl of activity that high school was.
But I remember there was this one kid in my 9th grade Geography class who sat directly behind me and thought it was great fun to kick or punch me in the small of my back. I suppose he wanted to get a response from me, but he never did. I didn’t tell on him, but I never made a sound to acknowledge the blows, either.
The teacher was this tiny old German Jewish lady—a sweet little grandma—that knew a lot about the world, and probably much of cruelty. This same guy that liked to pick on me, along with a “friend,” one day cut a small swastika from masking tape and stuck it on the lens of the classroom projector, so that when Mrs Kohls turned on the projector at the back of the class, a large swastika was displayed on the movie screen at the front.
I don’t remember what she did after that, but when I walked out of the class that morning the swastika guy accosted me just outside the door. I didn’t say anything to him, but just shoved him against the wall and walked away, directly to the counselor’s office.
I didn’t do anything to speak up for the teacher, or even for myself, really. I didn’t have any fantasies of coming back to school strapped and exacting my revenge on my tormentors. I just wanted to get away from them. So I made up some dumb reason, asked for a transfer to another class, and got it.
I was sick of hearing about how my clothes looked cheap, and how I should be going to a different school. I was sick of hearing that my hair was too long, or too shaggy, or that I was a pussy because I didn’t stick up for myself and fight, or play football (because even at that age, I was very large). Football, of all things. So what if I didn’t want to play football? Varsity and JV both stunk anyway. And in regard to not sticking up for myself, it wasn’t necessarily that I was afraid to–I’d just never learned how. I just gritted my teeth and bore it as best I could.
I often wondered what he and others got out of mistreating me and other kids that weren’t cool enough, or weren’t something enough to be offered the same respect and freedom from cruelty that the majority of the other kids received. Also worth mentioning, it was about this age that I did begin to develop a defense mechanism that would stay with me for most of my adult life–self deprecation. If I ragged on myself hard enough, there would not be anything left for them to say. I actually became pretty adept at it, and honed into a rather quick and occasionally wicked sense of humor. I felt like it helped me then, and perhaps it did, to an extent.
Except I eventually realized it made me a bully in my own way–making fun of other kids without the ability to effectively banter and talk smack. It was so easy to do, and it took the attention off me. All I had to do was give the same crap to others I had gotten for so long myself. I should also add that one of my chief regrets as a teen is that I never did anything about that thing those two idiots did with the projector and the tape, or do anything afterward. I knew it was wrong, and I don’t know why I dragged my feet and did nothing. What I wanted most was to get away from those two kids–to find something that would make sense, because nothing else did. I never really like the school and the classes I was made to attend did, either.
What I did find was drama class, and a room full of other kids who didn’t fit in anywhere, either. It was a big, really diverse group, and more importantly to me, none of the “cool” kids were in it. I had never been so happy to be anywhere in my life.
It was that class which helped me to realize that I was not alone. There were other kids who were poor, or funny looking, or had scars. I didn’t know any gay people at the time, but I would guess there may have been one or two of them there, too.
What I did realize was that in time, things really did get better, and I never ended up on a rooftop with a rifle or thought seriously about ending my own life. I was lucky in that regard because I am well aware now of the cost of feeling that way—like you’re alone, and there is no hope at all.
There is hope.
I didn’t know Christ then, but I had a small circle of friends that through their presence in my life lifted me up above the nonsense I was going through, and the careless cruelty of other teenagers. They did it by simply being there. Sometimes with words, and other times with nothing but the quiet fellowship of other people who knew exactly what you were going through. It was enough.
Again, I was very lucky.
If anyone at all is reading this, maybe you’re like that, too. Maybe there’s someone who likes to try and make you feel like you’re nothing, and you never will be. Maybe they hurt you physically, and maybe it’s just words. Either way, the pain is all too real, and sometimes feels like it’s more than you can take.
I am fully aware how hard it is, but I promise you it will not endure forever. There is an end, and things do—really do—get better. Talk to someone. A friend, a family member. A pastor, a teacher. Just talk to someone before you take any steps you cannot come back from. You are here because God wants you to be. You matter, and are loved. God made you the way you are, and God doesn’t make mistakes.
So what I want to do today is explain to my son a little more about Jesus as the one who heals. As the one who grants patience, and balm to a pained and weary soul.
Let me say just a few more words about my experience. After I got out of that class, I never experienced any more bullying. I huddled with the other “drama geeks” and we circled our wagons to protect ourselves. It worked. We were protected, but I’d be lying if I said I never had any fantasies about facilitating some real justice against my two Geography class foes. I wanted them to hurt, and to suffer like I did. I felt like I’d be ok with that–even happy. When I think about it now, I realize that rejoicing in another’s misery–no matter how seemingly justified–is never the right thing to do. I was wrong to hope for the comeuppance of those two young men who had made my life so difficult. Sometimes I wonder what happened to them.
I wish I had a tidy epilogue to wrap things up, but all I can really say is that I am not now who I was then, though that person still lives within me. I hope anyone who reads this that’s been picked on, belittled, hurt or abused in any way just hangs on for a little while longer. And then longer still. Change takes time, for everyone. And you’re stronger than you know.
You don’t have to beat up that kid on the playground for things to get better. Letting God do the hard work helps a lot more. Yet even then, there may come a time when it is appropriate to defend yourself. It’s ok to know how to do it in practice, and in actuality. Though there are consequences for like behavior in that way–sometimes long-lasting ones. If we choose that route, we have to be ready to face them. I can’t find it within myself to tell my kids they should never defend themselves. Sometimes they should.
All I know is my kids need to know the difference between defending themselves and others, and the behavior of a bully, who hurts because he can. Today was probably the first instance where my little guy had someone actively show him meanness at school. I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last. I hope he learns more about forgiveness than violence, and that’s on me.
With all that said, I will also teach him what merits a strong defense and what does not.
This is not exactly the right song to close with, but close enough….
Just finished reading an article about Starbucks and their vocal and financial support of gay marriage.
Something occurred to me just now: you hear people speak about this issue all the time, and those against it often mention that legalizing gay marriage threatens the sanctity of the institution itself. Does it, though?
If two men or two women were able to marry each other, would it make me any less married to Jenny? Of course not.
Would they actually be married, though?
It depends on what you believe. If you believe it’s simply the law’s recognition of the institution of marriage that legitimizes it, then making gay marriage legal is really simple.
If you believe that marriage was created and defined by God then the whole debate gets a little more complicated. For me, I do not personally feel my marriage threatened by whether or not those two fabulous guys down the street can tie the proverbial knot. I just don’t.
The problem arises, I think, when the possibility of Churches or individuals who perform (or can perform) wedding ceremonies, and who do not believe gay marriage is solely legitimized by the law are compelled by that same law to perform that which their faith and their God tells them is not legitimate at all.
I think that is a real possibility, and if it happens would be an affront to the religious freedom promised by the constitution of the United States, which was meant to protect states from favoring one religion over another.
So if we, based on law alone, attempt to force people to comply with the viewpoint of secularism over Christianity, or Islam, or Judaism (none of which recognize gay marriage), we are favoring one religion over another, because secularism taken to that level is very much like a religion. Even worse, we are denying the constitutional rights of Americans.
Here’s the other thing I was thinking about: what if what threatens the sanctity of marriage isn’t gay marriage at all?
Think about it. People cohabitate for many years and often do not marry. Society accepts that, and it is now very much the norm. Men and women also frequently approach marriage like they would contract negotiations for a house or car, and it’s no wonder there’s a 50% divorce rate. What else should we expect with such low expectations.
I think what threatens the sanctity of marriage is making marriage about law and only law, leaving sanctification out of it completely (sanctification = holiness). Soon, we will simply specify a desired term of marriage, sign a contract, and that will be that.
Marriages will fail, or never happen at all. Kids will grow up with single mothers (a single mother, by the way, is a noble thing, but they were never meant to shoulder that burden alone), and never have any idea what marriages are meant to be and can be.
I think the sanctity of marriage is also threatened when we make it a business or political interaction and not a covenant.
Should gay people be allowed to legally marry? The law will decide that soon enough, and it won’t be the death knell of the church at all. What it will be is a symptom of the decline of freedom, and the further separation of “church” from “state,” which is really sort of false.
It’s false because as I mentioned before, secularism has become very much like a “modern” religion (or anti-religion) and is being used like a cudgel to beat down those who do not agree with its precepts.
If you don’t conform to the secular status quo, then you’re a relic of a time not fondly missed. Or maybe just a “hater.”
For most Christians, Easter is like the Super Bowl. Not to minimize the importance of Christmas; Christ had to be born before he could be crucified. Most people agree Jesus was born, and lived and taught during the first century around Judea and surrounding areas. There is ample evidence available to support the existence of Jesus.
Where people veer off is when you start talking about the Crucifixion and subsequent resurrection of Christ. There is a huge segment of society who emphatically denies it ever happened, and that Jesus is little more than a benevolent bedtime story.
Then you have one of the world’s most practiced religions (Islam), which agrees Jesus lived and taught, but was in the end little more than a skilled teacher and (according to some) prophet. Here’s a great video that breaks it down:
I am not here today to refute Islam, but it is true that without the resurrection, Christmas is little more than the noteworthy birth of a talented first century Rabbi who was really good with people.
I am also not here to “prove” the resurrection true (read Lee Strobel’s The Case for Easter if you want to do that). I just want to tell you what Easter means to me.
I believe in the death and resurrection of Christ because it is by that I am healed, and live and move and have my being. I can’t tell you anything now that will prove that to you if you don’t already believe.
I can just tell you that Easter changed my life, and has made everything that happened to my life over the past 13 years possible.
Easter took a tired, broken, depressed and addicted man who didn’t care about anything (including his life) and gave him a reason to live and a means to live by.
I guess the best way to explain it is that God took the torn fabric of my life and began stitching it up, along with the otherwise mortal wounds to my heart.
He’s the only reason I am alive today, and whether or not you believe me does not change the truth of that in my heart, bound by the gentle and strong hands of a carpenter.
Easter is important to me because it reminds me of why I’m here.
A Work in Progress 