"God Said it, I Believe It, That Settles It....."

This is actually a followup to my last post.  This morning as I was chatting myself up in the mirror, I was talking about this phenomenon.  (This is a followup to my last post because I was talking about walking with God and my faith walk not being dependent upon any person, place, or denomination).

But the inherent lack of logic in that statement (God Said It, I Believe It, That Settles It) jumped out at me.  First of all, the God I serve still speaks.  If God Said It, I Believe It, and That Settles It, doesn't that sort of close the door on any further conversations with God?  And while this next point is slightly circular in its logic, if the Word of God is Alive and Active, if we serve a God with whom Abram can successfully plead to not destroy Sodom, and with whom Moses can plead to deflect the harm God said He would visit upon the Hebrew people; if we serve a God with whom Hezekiah could plead to change his affliction, then why do we act like His Word is static? The Word of God is ALIVE and ACTIVE.  I don't know -- to me that implies a certain amount of dynamism; it certainly presupposes that the Word of God is contemporary.

I think I got into this discussion (it's hard to say because neither my thinking nor autolocution are linear) -- but I think I got into this discussion after admonishing some students to seriously apply themselves in studying the Word and in realizing the role of the historico-political contexts of the Word.  I let them know that, if they are properly rooted and grounded, delving and digging into the Word will not diminish their faith, but rather will build a broader base from which they can exercise their faith.

As part of that digging and delving, we need to understand some basics.  First, we need to understand that the King James Version of the Bible, the one most of us quote as authoritative or "authorized," was not freely translated from the original texts.  We need to understand that, as beautiful as the prose of the KJV is, that translation was commissioned by King James I.  We especially need to realize that King James didn't send the translators out to search the original texts and mine the truth from them; no, he commissioned them with the task of creating a Bible that would conform to what was being taught and practiced in the Church of England at the time (early 17th century?).  I'm not dissing the KJV like I used to; I'm just saying that the circumstances of its creation do not lend one to believe it was authorized by God, and knowledge of history reveals the fact that it was Authorized by King James I.

Ok.  But the translation doesn't matter so much.  The Word is the Word, right?  Yes. The Word is the Word.  And just like we read a novel differently than we read a TV Guide, just like we read a poem differently than we read a classified ad, there are different types of writing in the Bible.  Before we can convincingly or honestly state that "God Said It, I Believe It, That Settles It," it behooves us to at least have a passing familiarity with what, indeed, God said.

I'm not saying everyone has to be a Biblical scholar.  I am saying that we who profess to be Christian need to understand that rightly dividing the Word is not something left to our Pastor, and is not something we do on Sundays and Wednesdays.  Rightly dividing (or correctly handling) the Word extends beyond the Book.  We need to correctly handle God's Truth in our lives.  If God Said It, I Believe It, and That Settles It, does this conviction show in our attitudes, or only when we want to use the Word to prove a point?  If God Said It, I Believe It, and That Settles It, then are you even reading this, or have you sold everything and given it to the poor as a pre-requisite for walking with Jesus?  If God Said It, I Believe It, and That Settles It, does that mean that neither you nor anyone in your household has any tats, and all the fellas have full beards?  We are America, a country that says it is devoutly Christian, but the Bible says that if you divorce your wife and get remarried, you've committed adultery.  If God Said It, I Believe It, and That Settles It in this country, why do roughly half its marriages end in divorce?  And just for the record, God's Word says that if a female is not a virgin when she marries, the men of the city should stone her to death. If God said it, I Believe it, and that Settles it, are you willing to cast the first (or any) stone there?   I grew up in a state with Blue Laws. You couldn't even buy alcohol in our county; you certainly couldn't buy any on Sundays.  If God Said It, I Believe It, and That Settles It, then how come we work on the Sabbath?

I Believe God's Word.  I Believe God still speaks, which means that I have to shut down the "monkey mind," stop talking, be still, and listen --  really listen -- to what God is saying.  God SAYS it; God still Speaks, God Still Gives a Fresh Word to us, if we only have ears to hear.  It doesn't mean that I filter God's Word for what "resonates with my spirit;"  rather, it means that I adjust my spirit, heart, and actions so they line up with the Word of God.  We have to listen for a Fresh Word from God, and not listen only to hear God co-sign that thinking or those opinions we already hold.  If we honestly believe God can Blow Our Minds, then we have to submit ourselves completely to God. That takes courage, and I just don't think we do that.  I think we fall back on old familiar ways of understanding, and we accept those bits we want of God's Word only so long as they reinforce what we already believe.  I think that we don't allow ourselves -  our bodies, minds, or spirits -- to be CHALLENGED by God's Word.  I'm not so sure that we saints believe that as long as we're on this side of Jordan we will continue to develop spiritually.  Sometimes I think we believe we're so Saved, Sanctified, Tongue-Talking, Fire-Baptized, and Spirit Filled that there's no room for improvement.  We then are qualified to pick and choose what in God's Word will bind us, and what we'll explain or interpret away (and no, this isn't a dig at progressive Christians.  Fundamentalists are as prone to do this as Progressives; whether it's seen or recognized is another matter).

Anyway.  That's what I believe.

2013 has been a helluva Year....

Just before Christmas 2012, an arsonist set fire to our administrative offices.  Given the amount of money we pay to insurance companies, we thought we’d be back in our space by the Spring, and had planned a celebratory party for Memorial Day.

It’s about 50 weeks later, and the space still has not been restored.  Every day is a battle with insurance companies and restorers, none of whom appear to have our best interests at heart.  After playing the "psycho black woman" card on them, it seems they are starting to make some movement and we may be back in our building within a couple of weeks.  For a while we had moved to an empty office next door, but OSHA mysteriously kept getting called about the working conditions, so we decided to close the office down.  I go in to handle essential functions, and was shocked to find the number of bills that had remained unpaid since June 2012.  I’m working with an auditor attempting to a) sort them out and b) create a new system so we never again carry this kind of legacy debt.  Mind you, I’d charged people with this task before, and every month was shown documentation that proved we were current on bills, but meanwhile the AGING bills continued to snowball.

For all of 2013, I’ve been without a viable office space, and for much of the year, have been without fiscal office staff.  This in no way mitigates the needs of the 145 clients and 30+ employees of this organization, though.  Yesterday as I struggled with the decision of whether to trust that our funding will eventually materialize or to simply close the doors and furlough the employees until I had a guarantee they would be paid – in the midst of that an employee randomly inserted himself into my workday to tell me how I’d shorted him by 7 hours and ruined his life. 

But that’s work.  It can be a bit off-putting, but neither my life, livelihood, nor my identity are dependent upon the work I do.  No matter how dreary or discouraging it may appear, or how much it may get under my skin, I am usually able to compartmentalize it and stop if from creeping into my overall emotional makeup.  Every challenge simply bolsters my resolve to the best I can for as long as I can.  The negative factors do, however, serve to add a bit of background to the things that were of significance to me in 2013.

In January, I finally made it to the Pastor’s Conference.  It was delightful, and I got to hang out with some Perry cousins, got to spend some time with my sister in Ministry, Pastor Lavisha Williams, took a cute picture with my mother in Ministry, H. Patricia Jones, and took some interesting photos with a couple of men I admire:  my spiritual Father, Bishop Thomas Lanier Hoyt, Jr., and Bishop Othal H. Lakey, retired Bishop of the CME Church.  I remember chatting with  Pastor Williams about my aunt Bernice, whose health was on the decline.  Shortly after I came back from the Pastor’s conference, I got a call from Pastor Williams letting me know that Aunt Bernice had gone home to Glory. 

So I got in the car and headed down to Chapel Hill and preached my aunt’s funeral.  She was the last of her generation, and we had a great family reunion both at the funeral and about 6 months later.  But who’da thunk I would have preached Aunt Bernice’s funeral?!?!  I remember being in the pulpit trying to make notes on my sermon. I was nervous and my hand was shaking so badly that I literally could not write my notes.  But God showed up, and before the sermon was over, my cousin Sharon had run up into the pulpit to thank me.  So we celebrated Aunt Bernice Home in January.

Within a couple of months, I had officiated at the homegoing services for Mrs. Bessie Oliver, one of the Mothers of Williams Institutional, and a woman who played a very large part in my returning to the fold.  She simply issued an invitation (side note:  I wonder how many people we miss just because we simply fail to issue an invitation?).  I think her homegoing was in March.  I remember that Pastor Jones was struggling with whether or not she’d make it, and I remember that she sent a beautiful resolution that she wanted to make sure I read.  I read it, and nearly choked up as her resolution declared Ms. Oliver’s birthday to be Christian Education Day in Pastor’s District, the Washington-Virginia District.  It was quite moving, as was the entire service. 

Never in a million years would I have imagined that within three months I would be attending and participating in the funeral of the woman who wrote that resolution.  My Mother in Ministry, Rev. Dr.H. Patricia Jones, passed away in June of 2013.  I’m glad that on the way down to North Carolina  for that family reunion I got to stop off and visit with her.  She’d been in the hospital, she’d even been in ICU, but she had slightly hypochodriacal tendencies, and even though it appeared she might really be sick, I certainly didn’t think she was sick unto death.  But she was.  I wrote about here here.

At her repast, which Bishop I remember telling Bishop Hoyt “you can’t get sick.  You just can’t get sick.”  It was part of a larger conversation about how he and she were the only things holding me in the CME Church, and a thinly-veiled reference to the health issues he’d experienced for the last several years, health issues that were exacerbated in proportion to the disarray in the world around him.  Also at that repast, I told Bishop that I wanted to go to General Conference and asked if he’d support my candidacy as a delegate (I’m willfully oblivious to the political realities in our Zion.  I believe that if I ask my Pops for something, I will get it.).  He looked at me with that “what have I done” look he so often gave me, smiled, and went on his way.

Exactly one month later, Pastor Jones’ sister, Brenda, passed away.  Brenda had been an invalid for many years, but I had been privileged to have known her before she took sick.  For most of her illness, even as her mind started to go, she still remembered me.  As with my aunt, even when we couldn’t carry on a long conversation, we were able to enjoy simply being together.  If we chatted about the same thing over and over again, if we chatted in a way that didn’t make sense to others, or if we simply sat with each other, we were able to enjoy being together. 

Which is why I was a bit distressed that so few people were in attendance at Brenda’s funeral.  Her homegoing service was markedly contrasted to her sister’s.  Her sister’s funeral had been full to overflowing; not very many people were at Brenda’s funeral, and no one gave her flowers.  I’m happy I gave her flowers to her while she lived.

A month later we had Annual Conference.  I didn’t get elected a delegate to General Conference. I only got 7 votes.  But a couple of weeks later, I got a call from Bishop asking if I wanted to serve as an orderly.  How appropriate was it that I, with no General Conference experience, would be an orderly, there on the floor, able to move about freely and to take care of people’s needs?  I vainly thought it was because I was able to read Bishop’s sign language and find him some dirt with which to commit Brenda’s body, but the reality was that they’d asked a bunch of other people no one else wanted the responsibility.  Oh, well. Works for me.

Two months after Brenda’s funeral, at a national CME gathering in Houston, TX, my beloved father in ministry suffered a massive heart attack.  When I first heard the news, I denounced the bearer as either uninformed or malicious.  It wasn’t possible. It just couldn’t be possible.  We cried and we prayed and we pleaded with God, but our desires for his physical healing were not in God's will.  God chose COMPLETE healing for Bishop Hoyt, and on Sunday, October 27, 2013, with his wife, two children, and only grandchild standing beside him, Bishop Thomas Lanier Hoyt went on home to be with the Lord.  

And I'm still reeling.  My post on Bishop is below, but if you don't want to scroll down, you can click here.  I went through so many emotions after Bishop passed, and I think it was only after visiting with Mrs. Hoyt a couple of weeks after all the pomp and circumstance had died down, and then visiting with some other people who were close to him -- only then did I come to accept the simple fact that Bishop's transition has left a tremendous hole in all our hearts.  I have no monopoly on grief.  It often seems that walking around in that state of perpetual dysfunctional grief is somehow an expression of the great void he left, but the reality is that Bishop prepared and equipped us to carry on in his absence.  When you look back, he was always preparing people, building people up, putting people in place -- that's what good leaders do, after all.  They don't create followers; they create more leaders.

So as this Advent Season is upon us, as we anticipate the coming of the Christ, I find that despite the residual sadness, despite all the external situations and circumstances that occur, I still have hope, I still have peace, and I still have joy.  I put my hand in His hand, He leads me, and I'm excited to walk with Him.  I don't know which way we are going, but I know Who I'm going with.

I can't help but think that my ancestors, both natural and spiritual, are pleased with the growing I'm doing.  Despite all my protests, I not only continue on as a fourth generation CME,  I continue on as a preacher and a teacher.  It wasn't Pastor Jones and Bishop Hoyt holding me in the CME church.  They absolutely served to anchor, direct, and guide me back to my roots. For that I am eternally grateful.  I stay in the CME Church for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that my walk with God is not dependent upon nor is it a function of where or with whom or even how I worship.  The Body of Christ is One Body, with Many members.  As long as I am with True Worshippers, I'll be OK.

So yes, 2013 was a helluva year.  It's been painful.  It's been stormy.  Going through it has certainly been like going up the rough side of the mountain, and as one of the elders of the church said, "we thank God for the rough side of the mountain, because if it wasn't rough there wouldn't be any footholds."  I thank God for 2013.  Yes, it's been a helluva year, but it has neither conquered nor prevailed.  I thank God that, even at this point in a helluva year, I find myself looking forward with a Hope that has been renewed and restored.

A Yoga Class

So I did my first ever yoga class today.  Lots of Christian people say "you shouldn't do yoga" because the totality of yoga combines physical and spiritual elements.  I think many people, religiously superstitious as we tend to be, somehow think there's something magical or mystical about the physical aspects of the discipline.

Having done my share of exploring eastern religions, and realizing that forms of yoga go hand in hand with some forms of Hinduism and Buddhism, I simply don't do the chants.  When they're all chanting and meditating, I'm focused on Jesus.  I realize that there is power in words; I'll be the first to acknowledge that chanting "Nam Myoho Renge Kyo" will bring results.  The question for me was, "what power is behind those results, and where are they coming from?"  A lifetime ago, I began chanting for something and got it -- supernaturally.  At that point, a part of me realized that we get to make choices about whom we'll serve, about what deity we will recognize.  Just as there is power in Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, there is Power in the Name of Jesus, and that's what I choose to chant/rely on/put my faith in/submit to/follow, etc.

So that's why I don't chant when they do yoga, but I do recognize that the practice is one in which body and mind are being disciplined, and I happen to like that.  The yogi I was under today has a sweet spirit, not like the one whose vibe is so off-putting that I'd never go to her class.  It's interesting to evaluate these yogis because they remind me of we Christians.  The one with the sweet spirit who's just doing her thing but who has an amazingly flexible body and spirit is the one who can teach me; the one who looks down her  nose at kettlebells, who appears dramatic, and who always has an entourage is the one I find off-putting.  So as I look  at these  yogis I can't help but wonder what sort of images we Christians project and how people receive them.

Anyway.  I always thought people who did yoga were just a bunch of flaccid, overly stretched, weaklings.  I was so wrong!  We planked, we did downward dogs, we did three different warrior stances, we did pigeons, we did a whole bunch of stuff, and it required core strength, it required flexibility, and it showed me how tight I am.

Interestingly, one of the things I want to do is learn to stand on my head (I studied a lot during childhood, so now I'm doing a lot of kiddie things).  In this class, we did some bridges and some shoulder stands, and some head tripods.  I'm probably months or years away from being able to do a headstand, but this is the place to learn!

The schedule doesn't really work for me, but if I can start out a couple of times a month until I can get my schedule adjusted, that will be cool.  I'm looking forward to literally stretching myself in this class.

Reflections on Bishop Thomas Lanier Hoyt, Jr.

Over a year ago in kettlebell class, we were doing pushups to planks to pushups.  The mat was sweaty, I zoned out, lost focus and slipped, damaging my left shoulder.  Don't know if it was a dislocation or a muscle tear, but it was pretty severe; over a year later I still don’t have full range of motion.  At the time, the pain was so intense I thought I would throw up right there on the mat.  The emotional pain I've felt these last few days is comparably intense; despite my best efforts, it remains. Last night I tried to follow his example, be a trooper, and just focus on the work of grading papers, but even that evoked memories -- in his last Annual Conference Bishop nailed it with a comment about reading papers and how sometimes people write so poorly it makes the task nearly insurmountable.  So I tried to divert myself and opened up a box of chocolate granola that had been around forever.  I opened up some almond milk (because IMHO, nothing says depression like milk and cold cereal) and was reminded of a lively almond versus soy debate between Bishop, Mrs. Hoyt, Elder Jones, and me.   "OK, Drama Queen.  Everything in life can't remind you of Bishop Hoyt."  But it feels like the environment has shifted.  I know they’re just feelings, but I’m usually in much better control of them.  Now I find myself tearing up at the strangest things.

This morning's NYC Marathon created a traffic nightmare which evoked unusually intense emotions (which is saying a lot; I could moonlight as an NYC cabbie).  It turned out to  be quite good, providing some needed emotional release.  The buildup started slowly, last week.  Every morning, as I crossed over the Madison Avenue Bridge, my eyes filled with tears.  The first time I told myself it was because I was in a hurry and they were raising the drawbridge (really, DRAWBRIDGES with unscheduled openings in New York City?  Really!?!) , but one day, as Richard Smallwood’s “Healing” played, I finally realized that despite my best efforts at stuffing it,  my grief was bubbling up.

Our beloved Bishop Thomas Lanier Hoyt, Jr. has laid his body down, has gone to live with Jesus, and his membership has been transferred from the Church Militant to the Church Triumphant. It's been a week now, and I think that perhaps only once have I spoken the phrase “Bishop Hoyt is dead.”  The thought is oxymoronic. Bishop Thomas Lanier Hoyt, Jr, or rather, Rev. Hoyt, the young man who taught me so much about the communion of saints – Reverend Hoyt who showed me Christian living through his example, Reverend Hoyt who entertained the questions of a child, Reverend Hoyt who embodies and epitomizes the Christian walk – how could he be dead?  It’s not conceivable.  The concept of death is inconsistent with who I know him to be.  Saints like this don’t die, they enter into another communion.  As someone noted, you can Google him to find more about him –  in addition to all he meant to me personally, he was the Senior Bishop of the CME Church, he was the Presiding Bishop over the Seventh Episcopal District, he was a fellow Duke alum, he founded the Certificate Program in Black Studies at Hartford Seminary, he once was head of the World Council of Churches, he blessed the Pope, he was an esteemed New Testament Professor and Scholar (at a time when there were only a couple dozen African American NT Ph.Ds in the country) – and that’s just what I remember off the top of my head.  The list of his accomplishments and accolades goes on and on.

And while he was indeed all that, those accomplishments were not what were most significant to me.  What was most significant to me was the man I first met at age 9 or 10.  I am eternally grateful to God that, on March 26, 2010, on the occasion  of his Quadrennial celebration and the celebration  of his Fifty Years in Ministry, I had the great privilege of sharing what he's meant to me. He later told me the speech brought tears to his eyes, and I still have on display the thank you note I got from them after the event.  I am SO grateful to have had the opportunity to publicly say these things to him.  

Here's the text of what I said:

Bishop And Mrs. Hoyt –

Growing up in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, I was labeled a “gifted” child.  I didn’t realize that “gifted” simply meant I didn’t have sense enough to know when to stop asking questions.  I was a unique child – the product of the Baldwin and Farrington bloodlines, I was also a Perry.  In my genes, the blood of the saints and the scoundrels was mingled.

 

From my bloodline, through my birth, and throughout my life, I have always been exposed to two very different realities, and have always tried to make sense of them.  Thanks be to God, when I was a child trying to make things make sense, I had a pastor who took time with me. 

I remember being about ten, and my brain was busy buzzing with ideas.  “Well,” I said one day, "If the first will be last and the last will be first, then why wouldn’t you just wait until you were dying and then accept Jesus?  That way you could do anything you want, and as long as you confess the Lord before you die, you wouldn’t go to Hell.”  This Pastor gently sat me down and explained that it didn’t work like that, that it was the LIVING with Jesus that mattered.  So I took that and digested it for a while, and then I said to him, “OK, But why do we have to go to church?   If we live a good life with Jesus, then why do we have to get dressed up every Sunday and go to church with all those other people?”  The Pastor responded to me without missing a beat, “Because a coal away from the fire will lose its warmth and the ember will soon die.”  I didn’t understand it all at the time, but I was inclined to trust this Pastor.

After all, here was a man who piled a group of young people into the back of his car and drove us all night from Chapel Hill, NC to Birmingham, AL, to the National Youth Conference. By then I was 12 years old and having fun.  I had no idea what a difficult task this young Pastor had undertaken.  But he was the same Pastor who came visiting every Saturday, the same Pastor who, when he saw my uncle intoxicated and incapacitated in the street, did not lecture him, did not demean the family, but got down and helped to lift him up, put the drunken man’s arms around his own neck, and carried him into the house.  He didn’t make anyone feel embarrassed or less-than, he simply helped where he could.

This tall, handsome, brilliant young pastor – a man we all looked up to:  -- we literally had to crane our heads back and look up to him because he was so tall – this young pastor, in his teaching, and his actions, planted seeds in me that were to last a lifetime.  He taught me – and all the young people of St. Joseph – about the Lord Jesus Christ, but more importantly, his actions matched his words.  When you’re a young person, no matter how bright you are, you’re not going to understand everything adults say.  But children know.  They know when you’re sincere.  They know when you’re for real, and they know when you’re full of it.  This young pastor was for real, he was tapped into something very real, and even if we didn’t understand everything, my cousin Sharon and I knew that giving our lives to Christ was the right thing to do, because even though we didn’t understand all the particulars of everything they did in church, we did understand Jesus, and we understood that this young Pastor was somehow connected to Jesus, and this young pastor would help us get connected, too.

And so he did.  Years later, I would fall away from the church, but I never forgot about the preacher who talked about the coal losing its warmth and the ember dying.  When I wasn’t able to understand that my life was not right, I was able to realize that a spark that used to be there was gone, and that maybe, just maybe,  the ember had died.

Over the last 50 years, I’ve met many people who, like me, received a good Christian upbringing, but who had questions.  Unfortunately, for many of them, those questions were not answered, and so they turned to alcohol or drugs or Islam or Buddhism or whatever could help them to make sense of the world they lived in.  I’m so grateful today that the person  we now know as Bishop Thomas L. Hoyt, Jr. was there to hear my questions.  I’m grateful that he was there to give me some answers, and to tell me if he didn’t have the answers.  I’m grateful that he encouraged me to ask the questions.  He planted in me the idea that my intellect was a divine gift from an almighty God, and no, it’s NOT a sin to ask questions – the sin comes in NOT learning to love the Lord with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all of your strength. 

A couple of years ago, I took a group of young people from Williams to the National Youth and Young Adult convention.  Now, I don’t have a child in this world, but I agreed to go with the young people, and I continue to work with the young people at Williams because I know what was done for me when I was a young person, and how one preacher literally saved my life by planting the seeds of God’s love in me at an early age. 

I have to say that working with youngsters has given me a whole new appreciation for Bishop Hoyt, so when Alan, who’s now 13, comes up to me and tells me that the year is not 2010, but is 2043, I can’t help but smile.  And then I explain to him about different systems of accounting for time. And when he asks me if I believe that God created the world in seven days if I also believe in the big bang theory, I sit him down and chat with him.  I may not be able to answer all his questions, but I let him know that there is a very full and stimulating life at the intersection of theology and particle physics.  I explain what I can, remembering the young preacher who changed my life, and I encourage him to keep asking those questions. 

Bishop Hoyt, and Mrs. Hoyt, thank you so much for all your love, support, and nurturing throughout the years.  Both of you have always supported me personally and in my ministerial efforts.  I want you to know that your words and your actions had a profound impact on an impressionable young child.  I want you to know that, in some of my darkest days, even when I was no longer in Chapel Hill, I still got word that Rev. Hoyt had come to town, hadn’t seen me, and had been looking for me.  You’ll never know how important that was to me.  Most importantly, though, I want you to know that your legacy lives on, as I attempt to share with others all the love, the care, the nurturing and the wisdom, knowledge, and understanding that you so freely shared with me.  

Congratulations on this your Quadrennial celebration, and on your 50 years in ministry.  May God continue to bless you and to keep you always.

Rest in Peace, Bishop Hoyt.  You and Bishop Helton and Pastor Jones and Mrs. Oliver, and all the many saints who've crossed the river -- what a time, what a time!!!  We who remain love you so much, but God loves you best. Even in your infirmity, you called your church to prayer, and I believe your legacy will continue to transform this Zion.  I love you, and I pray God allows us to meet around the Throne.

Tomatoes and Strawberries

When I was a child, we used to eat tomatoes out of the garden.  We ate them like apples, just biting into them;  some of my cousins might sprinkle salt on them, some folks liked them with sugar, but I liked them just plain.  A tomato sandwich was SUCH a good treat!  Some people put mayo on it, but I always thought mayo was yukky, and a couple of slices of tomato between a couple of slices of white bread was, for me, a delicious treat!!

 I remember one summer I ate tomatoes and strawberries until I broke out  in a rash.  Not sure if it was an allergic reaction or I just ate too many of each, but I LOVED tomatoes and strawberries.

As I got older, I didn’t like tomatoes and strawberries so much.  I never really liked cooked tomatoes, but fresh ones were always delicious. Then, sometime in the late 70s, instead of the deep red, thick-skinned beauties I’d grown up with, supermarkets started introducing these orange-ish, thin-skinned things that had no taste to them.  I learned to eat them in salads, but my love of the taste of tomatoes waned.  Over time, the payoff just wasn’t worth the hassle of eating tomatoes, so I stopped.  Occasionally I’d try “tree-ripened” tomatoes, but they still didn’t taste quite right.

Until this week. I got my farm share, which included cherry tomatoes.  I started to put them in the return bin, but something told me to try them.  I popped one in my mouth, and !There it was!! A real tomato taste!!! All week long I’ve been popping cherry tomatoes like they were cherries – just one or two or three or five at a sitting – pop one into your mouth and there’s an incredible explosion of tomato flavor!!  I’m sure this sounds silly, but to me, the  difference between a REAL tomato and that hothouse stuff they sell is nothing short of amazing.  Everyone doesn't feel that way, of course, but I find the difference amazing. 

Perhaps it's because we grew up with three houses sharing two gardens.  I grew up in a house with grandparents who’d lived on a farm and were accustomed to growing everything they ate except for sugar and flour.  So this return to farm-grown foods feels like a return to the food of my childhood, and I’m ECSTATIC about it!!!  I’m not sure that this farm-grown stuff is the “organic” stuff they sell in Whole Foods – that still looks too processed to me. This stuff I’m talking about still has dirt on the veggies, an occasional hoe mark in the root veggies – it’s food right from the earth, and it’s DELICIOUS!!! 

It seems a bit counterintuitive to segue from natural produce of the earth to sex and sexuality.  But I’m reading a post about a pastor who’s having charges of Crimes Against Humanity leveled against him.  His offense is that he has worked to criminalize homosexuality in Uganda, thereby denying gay people of their humanity.

I just have to say this:  Folks, if your reading of the Holy Scriptures leads you to believe that homosexuality is a sin, then by all means stand up for what you believe in.  But please note that Jesus spent FAR more time talking about money then He did about sex, sexuality, sexual immorality, and Hell COMBINED.  Yet we have preachers of “Prosperity Gospel” running around and not only do we not renounce them as charlatans, we flock to their megachurches, buy their books, and begin to “name and claim” our wealth and “decree and declare” that the idolized god they speak of will perform its magic tricks and do whatever we want. 

I hate it when my students try to preach a sermon instead of making a point, but I have to go to Acts 8:9-24 here and refer to Simon the magician.  I can imagine Simon healing the sick and doing all manner of miracles in front of people, and then the people hearing the Word and wanting to be baptized, and Simon wanting to have hands laid on him so he could receive the Holy Ghost and have more power.  But his request is rejected because his heart isn’t right with God, because he thinks the gift of God can be purchased with money, and because he’s BOUND UP IN BITTERNESS AND INIQUITY.

 How many of us are guilty of the same transgressions as Simon?  How many of us think that if we (or someone we know) can “get a prayer through” that we’ll get the Holy Ghost and get “Our Power?”  How many of us think that material things are some reflection of God’s blessings?  And how many of us live in some sort of hierarchical hellhole where our bitterness and our own sins drive our opinions of others?

 

It’s not my intent here to call out my fellow Christians; we all sin and fall short.  My point is that there is so much beauty, awe, and wonder in the gifts that God has given us – the earth and the fullness thereof, the heavens, the mountains and the seas – we’ve got this wonderful world here, and it seems to me that we’re much better served – whether different denominations of Christians or different faith traditions – it seems we’re much better served strengthening each other in our common areas then we are in tearing one another down in those areas where we don’t agree.

Tomatoes, strawberries, and sexuality are all gifts from God.  Now, I prefer my tomatoes and strawberries natural, and choose to enjoy them at their peak of ripeness.  But they can be genetically modify it and made into something that (to me) has very little semblance to its natural form.  They may not be exactly what I want, but  they're still tomatoes.  They can rot and  turn into something ugly, which we can then use to attack one another.  Alternatively, we can choose to share the ripe fruit with one another, or make a feast for anyone who wants to partake.

I think it works similarly for strawberries and for sexuality.  We get choices, and we can choose to focus on the areas in which we are similar, on the ways in which we are alike, or we can choose to focus on the forces that would tear us apart.  I suppose I could go off on a rant about how eating too many strawberries or tomatoes would cause you to break out in a rash, or I could use some of the wealth clobber-texts: Mark 10:25 (:It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.") or  Matthew 19:21 (Jesus answered, "If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.") or Matthew 6:19 ("Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.) or Luke 12:33 (Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will never fail, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys.”).  I could do all that, but what would be the point, other than making people who enjoy a little physical comfort feel bad? 

Would it not be better to focus on the words from Jesus when he said  (Matthew 22:36-40):  Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”³⁷ Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’^{[a] 38} This is the first and greatest commandment. ³⁹ And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’^{[b] 40} All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

I'm sure some will try to say that people who are different are like genetically modified or hothouse-grown fruits and vegetables, that somehow they aren't "quite as good" as the rest of us.  But while I happen to prefer my veggies from the ground, the reality is that the hothouse varieties exist, have existed for a while, and supply a variety of needs.  I don’t know – it just seems to me that if what we’re doing in the name of Jesus isn’t based on the two commandments He cited as foundational, then perhaps our focus is a little off.  I think you can have tomatoes and/ or strawberries. How many of them you consume, whether they're fresh off the farm or out of a hothouse,  and whether they impact you positively or negatively – that’s something you have to figure out.  Similarly,  I think you can have a sexual orientation that is other than hetero.  How you live that out, and whether that impacts your spirit positively or negatively – that’s something you have to work out as you work out your soul’s salvation. 

Just like I love tomatoes and strawberries, I am called to love you the same way I love me. All of them:  you, me, tomatoes, and strawberries,  – no matter what we've gone through, we’re ultimately all magnificent creations of God, to be honored and respected.   That means I’m not going to do anything to hurt you, not going to put you into a situation where you might come in harm’s way, and not going to create a situation that could harm you. 

 

I wish I could think of some nice way to tie this up, as I’m afraid I’ve wandered a bit.  But that is all. 

I'm sick....

I’m sick of all the talk about the Trayvon Martin case. I’m sick of talking heads and pundits, I’m sick of the protest marches, I’m sick of all the Facebook memes and petitions.  I’m sick of the whole thing.

 

I’m sick of it because we generate all this fuss about this dead child, while prostituting his memory for our own purposes.  It’s not news that racism is alive, well, and deeply embedded in the fabric of these United States.  It’s not news that lots of, if not most,  people routinely make daily decisions based on racial stereotypes.  It’s not news that the degradation and dehumanization of people occurs on a regular basis, with a large part of it (in these United States) disproportionately impacting blacks and other people of color.

 

I’m sick because none of this is going to prompt us to do any collective introspection – to work for peace on Earth by beginning with ourselves.  While there may be some attempts to launch a federal investigation into Mr. Martin’s death, the critical mass will fade out, our collective attention deficit disorder will kick in, and Americans will be enraged over global warming or littering or – all too likely – the death of another innocent black person.

 

I’m sick because it seems that we’re always reacting to our pervasive social issues once they reach crisis level, but until they do, we are content to sweep them under the carpet.  How do you sweep a dead child under the carpet?  Racism is one issue, but gun laws are another issue, our glorification of violence is another issue, our lack of spiritual undergirding is yet another.  There are issues of unemployment and education that enter into the mix.  There are gang issues and socialization issues, along with the whole culture of self-absorption.

 

I’m not sick because the issues exist; I’m sick because we will collectively fail to address them, and I’m sick because I fear for every child of color living in these United States.  I’m sick, I’m tired, and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.  What will it take for us to realize that it’s never ok to kill a child – whether the murder happens at the hands of an adult of a different race of at the hands of a child of the same race?  What will it take for us to acknowledge the racial biases we bring to the table IN EVERY AREA OF OUR LIVES, sit down with them, and unpack them?  What will it take for us to  realize that race is not a taboo subject, and that our thoughts about it only become distorted when we try to pretend they don’t exist?

 

But all of that is quasi-intellectual ruminating, which is what I have to do in order not to give way to the anger, outrage and pain I feel.  It all makes me sick.

 

The logical question, of course, is “so whatcha gonna do?”  What I’ve done is to preach Jesus and to pray my brothers’ strength.  That is a start, and I believe it’s a very good start.  But we need to do more.  How do you change centuries of stereotypes, embedded into not only the dominant culture’s psyche, but into your own?  While white racism is alive and well, I’m more concerned with black racism, black-on-black violence, and black disrespect of other black people than I am with what white folks think or do. 

 

While there should be no correlation between how one dresses and how one is regarded, we all know there is.  How do I get the young brother on corner to realize that, while he’s sagging and may even start a fashion trend that reaches suburbia, at some point, the suburban white child will cease to be defined by his sagging pants (or his hoodie) while the sagging pants and/or hoodie will mysteriously come to epitomize the image of a “dangerous” or “antisocial” black male?  This phenomenon isn't limited to clothing, or to smoking weed -- these are simply symptoms of something much more insidious.  How do we get the young brother on the corner to realize that many of the behaviors he may pioneer, which may very well be appropriated by the larger society, will ultimately be turned around and used to oppress him?  And what does this mean for the young brother?  That he should cease to express himself?  No.  But it does perhaps mean that he should become better acquainted with his oppressor/enemy.  And it means that his knowledge of his enemy should come methodically and proactively.  Young brothers should not see a unilaterally negative image of their enemy (because that downplays the enemy's strengths, strengths that could ultimately destroy a brother), but conversely, young brothers should not begin to learn about the enemy only after they have been subdued by that enemy and put in physical, mental or spiritual bondage. 

So that's it.  I'm sick.  Am I the only one?  Unlikely.  Will the sickness motivate me to change my own attitudes and behaviors, thereby beginning to change the attitudes and behaviors of those around me? Prayerfully.

 

I know what I’d like for the answers to be, but at the end of the day, all really I know is that I’m sick.  I’m sick for all the Trayvons who have and who will die because of our selfishness, insensitivity, and self-absorption.  I'm sick for all the parents whose sons are snatched away from them senselessly, and for all the young men whose vitality will be mitigated by the fear that results from living inside their skin in America.  And while he's hardly the victim, I'm just as sick for George Zimmerman who lives, not freely, but trapped inside a prison of his own stupidity. 

Cycles

What a week this has been!!!

Started out last Saturday (I think).  Took off to ATL for what I thought was going to be a renewal of vows for a couple, but which turned out to be a wedding reception and baptism of their baby.  Still, it was all about passages and the cycle of life, so it was cool.  I also got to visit with a cousin and some extended family who have a long extended history of service in the CME Church. 

From ATL, I took off for PHX.  My trip was cut short, so I only had a few hours to spend with some friends.  I spent time with a friend of over 3 decades, a friend whose child I married, whose nephew I helped to bury, and whose grandchildren I baptized.  I got the opportunity to play with those grandchildren, to sit with their father and uncle, and to realize what a blessing and a privilege it is to have been a part of the cycle of this family’s life.

I also had the opportunity to visit with another friend, a nonagenarian who is as fit and as spry as she was 30 years ago.  This nonagenarian is the mother of a man in Costa Rica, a man who recently met the ATL cousins mentioned above and took showed them hospitality, Costa Rican style.  In addition to spending time with her for the first time in several years, I also had the privilege of having her grandson join me in worship at a CME Church in Phoenix, along with the above-mentioned friend of over three decades.  They enjoyed worship and the meal afterwards; I enjoyed having my friends join me in worship and getting a glimpse of why I spend so much time in church.  We shared Holy Communion together, we broke bread together, I relayed greetings from people in ATL, and I saw the cycle of life go on.

The PHX trip was cut short because I had to come back to NYC to go to DC to attend the funeral of my mother in ministry.  At about 3 this morning I left NYC with a couple of her good buddies, and we drove down to DC, had breakfast, and attended her funeral.  It was simply surreal.  My mind comprehends the fact that she has moved on, but my heart can’t seem to accept the fact.  I can’t count the number of times over the past 12 days when my natural response to something was to pick up the phone to either call or text her.  I’ve come to realize she was the only person in this world with whom I could share everything, and do it completely raw.   I didn’t have to censor my thoughts or feelings, didn’t have to be politically correct, could just say,  “well,   why in the world would somebody do x, y, and z, and she’d say, “because …”   and go ahead and tell me the particulars of the situation I hadn’t even named to her.

When I talked with her good buddies, they echoed those sentiments.  I also noticed that all of us, when we viewed her body, did so with our arms folded, as if we were somehow creating a barrier between ourselves and the reality of her dead body, or as if we simply were unwilling or unable to accept that death.  Later on, as each of us found our emotions breaking through the barriers we tried to erect, we shared that those emotions had taken us by surprise – that we’d never expected them to overflow the way they did.  No, we didn’t fall out or carry on or anything – we just alternated our rejoicing about her life with our silent weeping over her departure from the physical realm.  Although it was a bitter pill to swallow, this transition was also part of the cycle of life.

This woman was my mother in ministry, and like any mother, she conceived of me as a preacher long before I had a thought or notion or willingness to accept this calling; she nurtured me as the embryo of ministry grew in my life; she gave life to me as a preacher by giving me a rigorous and practical introduction to  the church in which I’d grown up; she nurtured me as a young preacher trying to discern God’s way; she offered support, guidance, and discipline as she deemed necessary;  and she watched with pride as she saw me mature and grow into the woman she’d always known God intended for me to be.

So we three buddies journeyed together for a day, celebrating the tie, now seemingly frayed, which had joined us together.  We lingered as long as we could together,  not  wanting the day to end, seeming not to want to face the reality that the cycle of life continues.  Our beloved friend has completed this level and journeys on to the next.  We know this, but she was such an integral part of our everyday lives that it’s hard to imagine many of our everyday activities without her input.  But the cycle of life goes on, and my Mother in Ministry has cycled on to Eternal Life, and to her Heavenly Rest.

Yes, we struggle with the ideas, but her Eulogist said it best when he quoted the Prophet Isaiah:

Do you not know?
    Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
    and his understanding no one can fathom.
29 He gives strength to the weary
    and increases the power of the weak.
30 Even youths grow tired and weary,
    and young men stumble and fall;
31 but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not grow weary,

    they will walk and not be faint. 

(Isaiah 40:28-31, NIV) 

Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant.  

Take your wings and soar high above, then run on to your next assignment, in the Cycle of Eternal Life.

Rev. Dr. H. Patricia Jones

2.19.47 - 6.17.13

Mrs. Bessie Oliver - A Life Well Lived

On May 9, 2013, we funeralized/memorialized/said farewell to a great old soldier of the CME Church, Mrs. Bessie Lee Stewart Oliver.  Despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that the last birthday she celebrated was her 90^th (or “80-something,” as she said at her birthday celebration), there were scores of people present, and many of her church family came well before the wake began at 3 pm and stayed until well after the repast ended at midnight.

It was a great celebration of a great woman.  Mrs. Oliver walked her talk; her life exemplified her beliefs.  She was a social worker who served for many years at the Central Harlem welfare branch. I don’t mean to sound dismissive, but for this preacher who runs a nonprofit, serving either the Central Harlem population OR a welfare branch population is demanding enough.  To serve the combination requires more knowledge, skill, and expertise than I possess. 

Her Word/World alignment was not limited to her vocational pursuits.  A Lifetime member of the NAACP, Mrs. Oliver was an advocate for social justice.  Not only did the City and State branches of the NAACP come to offer tributes to her, but her union did as well.  Additionally, her sorority, Tau Gamma Delta, come out to do a special tribute to her.

That’s where it ends with most people.  You live a good life, you do good works, and you are celebrated.  But that was just the beginning with Mrs. Oliver.  People from all across the CME Connection (I got emails from more than one Bishop regarding her services, and the Senior Bishop of the CME Church said that every person on the College of Bishops personally asked him to send remarks) – people came from all across the CME Connection to offer tributes, and to speak of her bountiful service, most notably as a Christian Educator and as a member of the Lay Department.  Letters, cards, and resolutions came in from all across the Connection.

A young man who lived in her building, clearly filled with emotion, stood up to speak of the way Ms. Oliver mothered him.  Young people, who have long since stopped attending worship at our church, made their way back to come out and show tribute to Mrs. Oliver.  Soloists of operatic character came out, all of them people with whom she had personal relationships, all of whom sang heartfelt tributes to her.  The Sanctuary Choir was more robust than it has been in perhaps  a decade, as all the old members came back to sing her one more song, and to celebrate her home.

Because that’s the kind of person she was.  And since this is my blog, here’s where I tell my story.  I was raised up a good CME kid.  I was pastored, taught, and trained at St. Joseph CME Church in Chapel Hill, NC, under the tutelage of such legendary CME Pastors and preachers as the Rev. W.E. Wilson, Rev. Marion Foushee, Rev. Dr. Alex A. Champers, Bishop Charles Helton (all, unfortunately, now deceased) and the  current Senior Bishop of the CME Church, Bishop Thomas L. Hoyt, Jr. That’s my CME rooting and grounding.  Despite that, my not-yet-fully-developed teenaged brain got mad at God once when God gave me what I asked for.  In my thinking, God should have anticipated my needs and given me not what I asked for, but that which would truly fulfill me.  So I used that as an excuse to do some “research.”  Twenty years later, the net result of my “research” was that my way didn't work; may as well try God’s way...

So there I was, a churchkid, having grown up in the church, fallen away, LIVING RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER FROM THE ONLY CME CHURCH IN MANHATTAN, wanting to come back, but (being a born and bred CME) being afraid to do so.  I knew how much we (not just CMEs, but all churchfolk) can gossip and backbite and tear one another down when we are most vulnerable, and I knew I was too vulnerable to subject myself to that.

The church sold barbecue on the weekends.  I decided that rather than smell it from my room, I’d summon up the nerve to go sample some.  I went to the parking lot where they set up shop.  We are a Connectional church, and I made a connection with the Pastor, but I knew that this person knew people who knew my family, and I knew I was living with secrets from my family, so I couldn’t fully embrace that connection. 

There were a lot of church mothers sitting around on the sides.  Having been reared by my grandparents, I instantly felt safer around them.  I chatted for a bit, walking a thin line between sharing my CME Connectional roots with covering up the fact that I was living a life of absolute hedonism.  They were delightful people, but there was one who knew some of the mothers of my home church.  As we talked, I didn’t know or need to know her name – in my mind, she was Ms. Flossie Foushee, the mother who sat on the pew right behind the Pastor’s Wife, the mother who only had to look at you to make you stop chewing gum, the mother who would tell you not only when you were out of order, but WHY, and who would love and encourage you in a way that made it easy to recover from your mistakes.  That’s who I saw when I spoke to this engaging woman on the lot, this woman who I would later come to know as Mrs. Bessie Oliver.

We talked, and she said to me, “Tomorrow is Family and Friends Day.  Why don’t you come?”  When I was unable to fully embrace the social nature of church, when I was too wayward to consider the spiritual or theological nature of church, this woman met me at my point of need.  She made a simple offer, extended in love, with no strings or commitments.  She offered all I could handle, and just what I needed.

And so I came, and I kept coming.  I rejoined the fellowship, and got out of my way enough to see some of the blessings God put before me.  One of those blessings, of course, was Mrs. Bessie Lee Stewart Oliver.  The spirit she showed on the parking lot that day proved genuine;  I never knew her to have a cross word, never a complaining spirit, and always saw her to be a champion of decorum and discipline.  She took special pride in her God, her natural family, her church family and, through it, her educational background (she attended not one, but TWO CME colleges!).  As mentioned before, her civic activities reflected her core spiritual values and her efforts to produce positive change in the world.

So this is simply to celebrate the life and legacy of Mrs. Bessie Oliver.  I’ve been given her torch to carry as the Director of Christian Education in our church, and am attempting to re-structure a functional BOCE.  But that’s not my main concern.  My hope, my prayer is that someday my walk and my talk may line up with my words the way Ms. Oliver’s did, and that God might be able to use me as a lighthouse to guide someone else home. 

This is just a brief glimpse of a life well-lived:

Click Here for Video

Coming Out of the Closet

So this basketball guy, Jason Collins,  came out of the closet yesterday and announced he’s gay.  Why is that news? Given that he’s a professional basketball player and an African American male (neither demographic appearing to be a stronghold of gay affirmation), I guess his coming out was courageous.  When I read the statement, “courageous” wasn’t the word that came to mind; when I read his statement, “honesty” and “eloquence” were the words that came to my mind.

Before going any further, let me state that I am, to the best of my limited human abilities, devoutly Christian.  As such, and as a perpetual student of God’s Holy Word, I have come to believe that our designation of homosexual love as “an abomination” is a result of flawed translations of the Holy Scriptures, laid atop a variety of cultural factors.

So I’m the liberal affirming Christian in the room.  If you’re reading this and/or you know me, you probably already know that.  I’m not interested in debating or convincing anyone; I’m totally gay affirming, and very much aware of the fact that we have allowed our thoughts about sex and sexuality to relegate gay people to a perpetual state of “other,” one where somehow their humanity is assumed or implied to be less than or inferior to that of those who claim not to be gay.  Yes, I said it that way for a reason.

As a liberal affirming Christian, I was happy to see Mr. Collins come out of the closet, stand up as a Christian, and walk in integrity.  But as I posted articles about him, and about my friend welcoming him to Massachusetts for the Pride parade, I began to read articles about a newscaster, Chris Broussard.  Given the amount of hate on the first post I read, I assumed Broussard was some fundamentalist hate monger and those people were supporting him.

But a very reasonable person (Pastor JW) posted on the Broussard brouhaha, so I took a moment to actually read what Broussard said.  He stated that he thought homosexuality was sinful and that he didn’t agree with the gay lifestyle.  I thought it was a bit of an opportunistic move for him to state his religious views, but you know what?  HE WAS ASKED.  He was asked what he thought about Collins coming out.  True, he probably should have stuck with the statement (which he also made) that he wished Collins well.  Perhaps it could be seen as mean-spirited or irrelevant to talk about his religious beliefs – increasingly, America has become a place where we don’t speak publicly about our religious beliefs, as if we're all too immature or too stupid to acknowledge that we have different ideas.

OK, so I’ma go out on a limb here.  The guy spoke his religious beliefs, which were offensive to some.  But how different is that from those people who won’t touch me or dine with me because of their religious beliefs?  It’s a bit offensive, it’s a little odd, but don’t we tolerate that just like we tolerate all sorts of diversity?  Don't neo-nazis and skinheads exist, with our smug, self-satisfied pride that we are tolerant of everyone?  Broussard’s employer, ESPN, issued a statement that they “regretted” Broussard’s comments.  Why?  Because ESPN didn’t agree with them?  Because they’re not politically correct?  This “oooooh. Ooooh.  Let’s not say anything against gay people” phenomenon strikes me as being just as phony and as fake as the “my best friend is black” phenomenon.  While possibly built on good intentions, they are, effectively, a load of horse crap.

Gay people are people.  Who they love and how they express that love is no business of yours, mine, or anyone else’s besides their partner’s. They should be free to live and love as they choose, as long as they don’t harm anyone else.  (Note:  that sort of implies they should be allowed to marry and have survivor's benefits like everyone else, no matter what my religion says about it). Christian people are people.  They also should be free to live and love and judge as they choose, as long as they don’t harm anyone else.  (And that sort of implies that I get to love the Lord in public or in private, and to tell anyone who's interested in listening, no matter what my Muslim or Jewish friends' religions may say about that.)  Just like I think we’re collectively overusing the concept of “bullying,” I think we’re also overusing (or perhaps missing the point on) “diversity.” 

If you put gay or black or other people into a category where it becomes politically incorrect to voice opposition to them, that’s neither diversity nor inclusiveness, it’s protectionism.  It’s an implicit message that those who are protected are somehow weaker or less equipped to fend for themselves than everyone else.  It puts them into the category of “other,”  again relegating them to a place where somehow their humanity is assumed or implied to be less than or inferior to that of the dominant culture.  And if you put Christians into a category where every thing they say is always interpreted in the worst possible light, it sort of destroys any opportunity for dialogue.  True, we Christians have historically destroyed a lot of opportunities ourselves, but should we not at least be afforded the same amount of tolerance as the neo-nazis or skinheads whose heroes have historically made similar mistakes? 

As much as I don’t agree with Broussard’s comments, and as much as I think they were perhaps ill-timed, I applaud him, as I applaud Jason Collins, for coming out of the closet.  Although they are 180 degrees different from each other, each of them made the decision to come out of the closet into which they’d been shoved, either because of who they are or because of what they believe.  Each of them made the decision to come out of the closet and walk in the world as their authentic selves.

Now some might say that Broussard’s comments were hateful or intended to hurt.  I don’t think that’s the case; he wished Collins well.  The reality we're ignoring  is that people don’t always agree.  You may think your new yellow blouse is beautiful, I may think it’s hideous.  While good manners would dictate that I keep my opinions to myself, if we are to be a truly diverse society, we must tolerate my bad manners just like we tolerate the hideous yellow blouse, in much the same way we tolerate the people who cut us off in traffic or people who form lines and don’t know how to merge.    They are all expressions, or manifestations of who we are -- our diversity.  Some you’ll like, and some you won’t.  Some you’ll agree with, and some you won’t.  Some you’ll think are right and some you’ll think are wrong, but in a diverse country, we have to learn to respect the popular and the unpopular, and we have to learn to let people walk on their own two feet. 

I think it’s time to shake open the closet doors.  Perhaps when we do, when we don’t repress so much, we’ll find that a person’s religious beliefs or sexual orientation are of no more significance than the color of their eyes.  We’re not there yet, but I’m happy to see those closet doors slowly, ever so slowly opening, and people allowing their authentic selves to come out of the closet.