I Just Need to Write....

I don't know who Meghan Kelly is; "Fox talking head" or "Tamron Hall Replacement" are sufficient for me. She's another white person who, in 2018, championed the use of blackface and lost her job because of it.  Increasing numbers of white folk attribute this to "political correctness," or "black folk making everything about race," or other catchphrases which show they either don't know or don't care why this is such an egregious offense.  The following incident came to mind.

A dear, dear friend is Catholic.  I don't know that they attend Mass regularly; if asked they would likely term themselves more spiritual than religious, but the religious tradition in which they were raised is important to them.  I was visiting them once, and, attempting to bring levity into a stressful situation, told them an old church joke.  It's the one where St. Peter is welcoming a new person into heaven, and they pass by rooms full of different denominations or faith traditions.  Depending on who your audience is, you choose the tradition about whom you will deliver the punchline, "Shh... they think they're the only ones here."  I've told this joke using Christians, Baptists, and Pentecostals as the group who thinks they're the only one;  with my friend, I chose to make it about Catholics.

My. Friend. Exploded.  They took offense, accused me of badmouthing their tradition, a noisy argument ensued, and we probably stopped speaking for several hours.  We're friends and we resolved it, but I was acutely aware that, even though my friend's tradition did not fully accept my Protestant ordination, I could not even make a friendly joke about their tradition.

The stress of the moment, my friend's sensitivity, and their history of growing up as a Catholic minority all contributed to their having taken umbrage at a simple joke.  They saw it as an attack, and it was only when I was able to put myself in their situation that I was able to understand why they felt so strongly.

Similar dynamics are at work in America today.  Blackface has historically been used to degrade and demean people of color.  There is an ugly history behind it, and to use or advocate its use reflects tone deafness at best; in the worst case, it reflects someone who is unwilling or unable to empathize with people who have different experiences, specifically the ugly history of objectifying black people in America.  While I think Meghan Kelly was likely terminated because she is not consistent with the ethos of the network that fired her, I also think that a journalist's inability to look at the world around them without imposing upon it the filter of their own personal experience is a factor.  That Meghan Kelly grew up in an environment where blackface was tolerated is not something to be considered normative, but reflects a background that does not include tolerance of other cultures.  That she somehow thought such a background justified the use of blackface in 2018 shows a lack of objectivity that is not consistent with being a professional journalist.

Many white people in America live in the realization of the best of American ideals:  a land of opportunity where everyone is equal and everyone who works hard gets ahead.  They even elected a person of color as President for two terms, which, they apparently believe, is proof that this country has no problems that some discipline and a return to our religious roots won't solve.

Problem is, that picture is a reality only for white folk.  I've stopped counting the numbers of black and brown people who hold advanced degrees but do menial labor because they can't get a foot in the door; conversely, I know a number of white males who would probably have difficulty navigating the NYC subway system alone, but who have the right name or the right connections and so have never had to do so.  There are lots of people in between those two extremes, of course; my point is that people's lived realities are quite different.  What I see in America is a lack of engagement.  We don't take the time to know people who are different from us, and are content to live with our stereotypical visions  of them.

I'm a case in point:  a few years ago I matriculated into the Ph.D program of a very conservative Christian school.  I dreaded my first stay on campus, having decided that all conservative Christians were hypocritical bumpkins intent on prostituting the Gospel to forward their notions of white supremacy.  Clear that my sole purpose there pursuit of my degree, I tried not to engage.  Thankfully, God had a different plan, and the last few years have afforded me the privilege of meeting some wonderful human beings whose passion for Christ is reflected in every aspect of their lives.  We often have widely divergent views on political and social issues, sort of like the widely divergent theological views that have led to the creation of our various denominations.  Many (not all, but many) of us have created safe spaces in which we can share and exchange those points of view, and it was in those safe spaces where I began to see the humanity in my conservative evangelical Christian siblings, many of whom have spent more time with Africans in Africa than with members of the African diaspora in America.  And while I'm not about to be a token nor a spokesperson for progressive urban Christians of color, I am a reminder that "liberal" is not a dirty word but a descriptor of someone they love and respect.  For some of them, I am the only embodiment of "liberal" they know.

There is so much work yet to be done, and it doesn't start with rhetoric and vitriol.  It starts with a willingness to see human beings rather than stereotypes, and to recognize the Imago Dei, the Image of God,  in every human being.

There's no profound point here, other than I need to write more.

Learned some things in Alabama today....

After my first visit to Birmingham in almost exactly a half century, I am very pleasantly surprised.  I always thought of Alabama as the last bastion of willful ignorance, racism, nationalism, etc.  Yes, they were technically southerners, but displayed none of the gentility I tend to associate with “true” Southerners.  I was wrong.  Like the rest of the South (and the reason I prefer a Southern racist to a northern one), Alabama appears to have dealt with its ugly history of racism.  Has it resolved issues of race?  Of course not, but it has acknowledged the racial terrorism in its past, which is more than most of America does.

Interactions with people were most interesting for me.  I can’t go anywhere directly, and as I wandered around on the way to Selma, I found myself on beautiful backroads, with majestic trees – that would have been great for hanging people.  You could go for miles and not see another car; while I enjoyed it, I was not unaware of the fact that a knucklehead could see me, run me off the road, and disappear me without leaving a trace.  My interactions with people were the exact opposite of that.  I did not meet a single person who did not address me as “Ma’am” (because we’re in the south, not because of my age), and because it’s the South, everybody stopped and made pleasant conversation.  It wasn’t the gruff assembly line interactions you get in NYC.  At one point, as I’m explaining to a woman that I don’t want to buy another battery pack because I have a solar one in the hotel, but the heat is wacking out my battery and I’m concerned I may not make it to Selma, blah, blah, blah – she asks where I’m coming from, I tell her NYC, and her face lit up like a Christmas tree as she told me how she and her husband went there a year ago this week, and how they loved Central Park.  As she’s telling me this, another lady is waiting to tell me about how she went with her son when he was eight (he looks to be a teenager now), and how they had to evacuate the Statue of Liberty for a bomb threat, and how it made the news… Later on I saw a woman with a family, including a young boy with a shirt that said “I can do all things..” I asked if he knew that was part of a Bible verse, and she told me that yes, he knew.  The kid is a big fan of Steph Curry and a big fan of the Bible.  We had a long convo about my friend who idolizes Curry, waited all day for the chance to do one of those half-court contests, MADE the basket, and got to celebrate with Curry!  Then we talked about the young boy and how he’d had some health challenges, had gone through treatment, and she’d gotten him the shirt at the end of treatment.  We also talked about kids, helicopter parenting, the advantages of juicy versus crisp burgers, and the various chain restaurants in Indiana and Kentucy (where she’s from), NYC, and Alabama.

So the people are cool, but the history is amazing.  You fly into Shuttlesworth Airport.  I had no idea who Rev. Shuttlesworth was, but he was an original SJW, and Birmingham has named its Airport after him!! As I sat out to go to Selma, my offline nav system wasn’t updated for the ongoing construction, so as I was driving around in circles, I stopped at the 16^th Street Baptist Church. The City and the State have a long history of civil rights, both abusing them and protecting them. No one is perfect, but what I’ve seen in Birmingham shows a city doing what I thought only my progressive college-centric hometown would do:  confront their past, acknowledge its strengths and weaknesses, build on the former, and eradicate the latter.

Now, one of my profesors share an article about kids from Harvard who met people from the heartland and got to know them.  I assume Alabama was a red state, and I expected everyone here to be a character out of Deliverance.  I couldn’t have been more wrong, while makes me wonder where the disconnect happened that so many of them went to the dark side? I think perhaps labeling people as “deplorables” was not helpful; seems a number of people embraced that moniker and allowed it to define them.  But what about those who were offended, or whose fragile senses of self and self-esteem were fractured with the utterance of such a label?  Not trying to make excuses for them, just trying to figure out what went wrong – everybody that voted for that guy is not an idiot, is not a racist, is not unintelligent – so what went wrong?

It would be nice if those in the political realm could do like the people of Birmingham have done, and say:  we made a real mess here.  Let’s examine it and ourselves, make some changes, and see that it never happens again.  Fellow liberals, we could learn a thing or two from the folk of Alabama…

***Sigh*** and now the people from the conference are returning to the hotel, disrupting the quiet with their hallway banter and conversations. 

Privilege

I talk a lot about injustice in this country.  I write from my point of view as an African American female.  It may, therefore, seem a bit strange for me to write about privilege, but today I got a unique glimpse of it.

If you know me, you know I've been a season ticket holder for the NY Liberty for years.  As I've been able, I've gradually moved my seat up; in their last full season at Madison Square Garden, I sat right behind the MSG announcers and made a game of photobombing their interviews.  Since the move to a much smaller venue up north, I've graduated to feet-on-the-floor, a luxury I could never afford, even for women's ball, at MSG.

Today the team was back at MSG, and my seat was moved up a bit to be beside the announcers instead of behind them.  I got to engage in the old familiar banter with the reporters, the camera people, and all the statisticians who are constantly scurrying to and fro.  Most of them work for MSG and are not assigned up north, so this was the first time this season I've seen some of them.  From sales reps to security guards to people manning the Delta Club, there was a brief feeling of "coming home."

So it wasn't at all unusual that my cameraman friend got me on camera.  That's my normal.  As I left the Garden, I was surprised at the number of people telling me how good I looked on TV, how I was a star, etc, etc.  I think it's because when I'm on camera, I'm calm and waving to everyone, just like the celebrities do.  This is in contrast to the people who get on and engage in wild antics (I used to think they were drunk, but this was a morning game and no alcohol was served), or the kids who are so hyped they literally look like they're on film that's being fast-forwarded.  There are, of course, the shy ones, but there are more of the types who clamor and climb over each other to get on camera, or to get to touch the mascot or to get a player's attention after the game.

I was watching a group today, and was about to be judgemental when I realized my privilege.  No, the players don't know me by name, though many recognize my face, but I'm often on the jumbotron and apparently have been on the screen at the smaller venue -- this isn't uncommon when you sit with feet on the floor.  The mascot plays with you, the cameras are on you, you make sure to move your feet out of the way of the players and the refs -- that,  plus a dedicated catering menu and/or private entrances, are simply part of the package I've bought. I got to 15-18 home games a year, and have done so for several years.  It's not a big deal.  But then I thought about the folk for whom it is a rare privilege to sit anywhere other than in a nosebleed seat at MSG.  I thought about the 20,000 people the stadium can hold, and the fact that only perhaps 20 -- or let's say 50 -- have the chance to have a cameo on the jumbotron.  Of course it's a big deal to them.

That led me to thinking about privilege in society.  Those who "have" or have access to certain privileges may not, without intentionally seeking to do so, understand the environment or perspective of those who live without privilege.  Those who live with privilege may not recognize their own privilege, or may identify more with the effort it took to gain that privilege than with the results of that privilege.  If someone were to call me elitist for entering the Garden through a private entrance, I would explain how much I love basketball and hate crowds, how hard I work, what I sacrifice to pay for the tickets, and how much I need the release, all of which justify my being in the position of privilege.  Unless I'm bringing my clients (who will use donated tickets and to whom we try to give a decent allowance to purchase snacks at the exorbitant MSG prices), unless my clients are attending a game, I'm not very intentional about the fact that I can avail myself of amenities unavailable to others; to me, these seem like perks that I deserve.  In society, when people are said to be privileged, they may be unwilling or unable to see how others live without that privilege.  Privilege in and of itself is not a bad thing; you could, for instance, take your free food and snacks and share with people who have none, and the reason we actually have to wear non-removable wristbands is because Rangers fans used to take their wristbands and give them to their friends (wristbands identify who gets access to what).

One of the benefits of a diverse society is that we are all privileged, in some way, to some extent or the other.  I think it's important for us to begin to recognize the areas in which we exercise both privilege and power.  Perhaps we can share the benefits with one another.  It doesn't mean I have to give up my courtside seats; perhaps it just means that I need to respect the awe, delight, and desire of the folk who don't routinely sit in them.

I'm So Tired.

I’m sooo tired. 

Recently a friend of a friend made a comment to the effect that they “didn’t like to do the racial stuff.”  I may not have the words exact, but believe I’ve captured the gist of the statement.  A bunch of us went back and forth with her, and while I believe her intentions were good, the reality is that she, as a white person, has an option that I as a person of color, simply don’t have. 

White folk can claim they “don’t see color” (a lie from the pit of hell if there ever was one) or refuse to engage in “racial stuff” or wonder why black people “have to make everything about race;” white folk can invoke any number of ways or coping mechanisms to not have to deal with the detritus of the legalized elevation of white people and subordination of all others in this country.  One of the reasons we still have to deal with all the detritus is that as a nation we’ve never dealt with the ugly, nasty, messy, hateful, dehumanizing reality upon which this nation was built.  Americans captured people, treated them as if they were not human, used their labor to create wealth and build their country, propagated laws that kept them economically and physically oppressed, and then, when they could no longer continue that system, repealed some of those laws and pretended everything was alright. 

Saying black people should just “get over” that horrid past is like saying America should just “get over” 9/11.  Instead of “getting over it” or “moving on,” America has created a new governmental department and new protocols in numerous industries, all to ensure that such a heinous act never occurs again.  Additionally, there has been an unprecedented resurgence of xenophobia, islamophobia, and a growing isolationist nationalism, all of which seem to have some sort of genesis in those horrible acts on that Tuesday morning 17 years ago. 

But black people (maybe because we really are magical negroes) are supposed to just “get over” centuries of legalized, institutionalized oppression which, while reluctantly legislated away, has clearly never been removed from the hearts and minds of many of our fellow Americans. If we are spozed to “get over” racism, then how come y’all still got young people in the Klan?  Why, instead of telling black folk not to “be racial” are you not telling young white nationalists not to be racist?  How does a Charlottesville happen?  How come you were never taught about the Tulsa Massacre?  What about the massacres of Native people and Asian people and Black people ALL OVER this country, since its inception?  Get over it?  Isn’t it the American tradition to remember those who lay down their lives for their brothers and sisters?  Did we not just celebrate Memorial Day to commemorate those who sacrificed their lives for this country?  Is the memory of those who were murdered during the growth of this country any less sacred?  Yet their memories are systematically erased from our national consciousness and those of us who attempt to truth tellers are too often labelled troublemakers.

And while it takes a phenomenal amount of spiritual and psychic energy to live in an environment that’s so toxic, most black people in America grow up learning to navigate that world.  Whereas white folk have the option to summarily dismiss all black people as threatening, black people have to learn, very early on, the difference between the white person who could be your ally and the one who could be your assassin.  I grew up in the South, at a time where the end of public segregation was forced upon the population.  Always among the first or the few to integrate formerly white institutions, I learned early on that you can make rules and regulations, but you cannot legislate human hearts.  I could claim a statutory right to an equal education with white kids, but nothing would make them play with me at recess, and only learning to fight boys (well) got them to stop harassing me.  (I guess the teachers were inside not being racial or something).  And I could dominate them physically and intellectually, and I was luckier than many: some of my earliest memories are of friendships with people of different races and cultures, many of which have endured over half a century.  For that I’m grateful, even as I realize that so many people did not have it that way.  So many more people had experiences similar to those mine when I moved out of the progressive college-town cocoons of my youth.  So many more people learned, as I would later, that if you’re with a mixed race group at, say, Tiffany (or even Macy’s), and it’s crowded, just get the black kid to go stand by the register or by the jewelry.  A sales clerk would instantly appear!  You learn as a black adolescent that you can’t do grunge in public – your white friends might be able to do it as a fashion statement, but with you, grunge brought out a whole host of ugly stereotypes.  People of color, people who must navigate the dominant culture but who are “othered” by that culture must of necessity be (at least) bicultural.  We must develop an awareness and sensitivity to people whose ways, standards, and reasoning are not like ours, but upon knowledge of which our survival often depends.  So by the time you’re an adult of color, you’ve developed these chops for navigating other cultures.

And that’s when you see the narrowness and the oft- malicious myopia that is engulfing our nation.  It’s not just islamophobia, it’s not just nationalism, it’s a paucity or meanness of spirit that seems to have infected us.  Its latest manifestation comes in the revival of a caustic, divisive, unamusing harpy who has shown her true colors using the preferred medium of a failed reality tv star with similar characteristics.  It’s hard for me to believe that Americans willingly embrace these deviants; I believe their prominence is simply the manifestation of a demonic spirit that’s overtaken the land.  How else do you explain an assault on decency, the normalization of hatred, the unrest, the lack of tolerance, the meanness, the lack of fidelity, the harshness, and the lack of self-control which now characterize this nation?  When there’s a demon in charge, then what is manifest is the opposite of the Fruit of the Spirit, and that’s what we are seeing now.

I’ve sort of wandered, mostly because I’m tired and am not taking the time to write.  But this is all related.  The racial tension in our nation is but a manifestation of this demonic influence we’re under.  The unwillingness of people to confront the enemy in front of us is evidence that the enemy is roaming and devouring those who were perhaps not as vigilant as they thought, or who, in choosing to call wrong right, inadvertently made a deal with the devil, let it in, and now can’t get rid of it.  I don’t know.  I just know I’m tired of grown people sticking their heads in the sand (or somewhere darker) acting like everything is ok, when the reality is that we are living in a tinderbox.  We’ve seen eruptions here and there, but we cannot continue the systematic oppression of people without consequence. 

Every day it takes more and more effort to not be angry, to not want to seek retribution, to not want to hurt those who hurt me.  It takes effort, and I’m just sooooo tired.

An Exodus 14:14 Moment

Over the summer, I got a ticket for pulling a U-turn on 125. The officer wouldn't take my get out of jail free card, but told me to go to traffic court.

So I went to traffic court this morning. My defense was going to be that the area where I got the ticket wasn't a Business District so the ticket wasn't valid, but I looked up the definition of Business District and determined that it was. I'd heard that if the police officer didn't show up, the ticket would be dismissed, and that's what I was hoping for; as a backup, if he did show up figured I would try the "oops, I meant to make a left turn but couldn't..." defense.

Go into court and am in the courtroom of this judge who listened politely and compassionately to everyone before finding them guilty. She was taking people who'd signed in after me, and my officer wasn't there, so I thought it was all good. Then this guy shows up and I'm trying to ask him if he's my officer and the judge pops me for talking to a police officer (apparently that's not allowed). But we are the only two in the room who haven't gone before her, and even though he's not as cute as the guy I remembered giving me the ticket, I figure it must be him and begin to prepare myself for the possibility that I might actually be found guilty of this offense.

The judge doesn't see me and instead sees some attorney who wasn't in the room with us, but I guess attorneys get to go to the head of the line. While she's finding him guilty, some guy comes in and says something to the police officer. Then he goes to the judge, gets my id, and tells me to come with him.

Turns out he's the judge in another courtroom, and we go in. Judge asks me if I have an atty (no) or documentation (yes), and if I'm ready to proceed (yes). The officer gives his testimony. Judge asks him how he determined it was a Business District. Officer answers "all of 125 is commercial." Judge DISMISSES THE TICKET, stating "there are very specific guidelines for what constitutes a Business District."

Y'all shoulda seen me shaking getting out of there. Then on 125 I was shouting so hard strangers were turning around to see what was going on.

But: 1) I was removed from the courtroom of the judge who found everyone guilty;  2) I did not have to open my mouth to defend myself; 3) the evidence that I had deemed insufficient is what was used to exonerate me; proving that sometimes, every now and then, 4) the Lord WILL fight our battles, if we just keep still!!!

PS: I don't pull illegal U-turns anymore.

Thoughts after Jumping outta the plane...

This morning I jumped out of an airplane.  It’s not that big a deal; while I don’t have a USPA license to jump, today marked my 7^th dive, including one from 18,000 feet, billed as “the world’s highest skydive” (technically it’s just the highest you can do without having to don an oxygen mask).

Today was only 13,500 or so, so it wasn't that big a deal.  I’m not crazy; it’s terrifying every time I even think about jumping out of an airplane.  I sort of do it for the thrill, but I also do it as a very real reminder of God’s provision.  I often challenge my preacher friends to “step out on faith,” but I know that every thing is not for every body.  Just like I don’t understand how you can proclaim to trust Jesus and express fear at anything in the natural world, some of my folk don’t understand many of my behaviors and/or theological positions.  Since this really isn’t about my preacher friends but about me, I’mma move on.

So not only was I at a new dropzone, I was going to be at a dropzone in the South.  Conservatives and/or Republicans collectively puzzle me.  Individually they're usually cool, but when they come together behind a "Republican" or "conservative" veneer that is seemingly inconsistent with who they are, it tends to puzzle me.  So not only am I in a conservative, probably Republican area, but it’s the Bible Belt. I love people who love Jesus, but sometimes I feel there may be agendas other than Jesus' being carried out... So as I drove to the dropzone I wondered what it would be like if my tandem instructor were an obvious trumpster or a racist or a misogynist – after all, I’m about to join my fate to someone I don’t even know! (And if you’ve never skydived, the standard waver you sign talks about how you are going to be in close physical proximity to someone and you might be touched by them in ways that make you uncomfortable; I dare not write publicly HOW close we get, but suffice it to say you are INTIMATELY connected to your tandem partner).  Could I do it with a trumpster?  More importantly, could they do it with ME?

I went to the dropzone, I had a wonderful jump (did I mention how my tandem partner stripped to his skivvies right in front of me?  He had to change into his jumpsuit and was in a hurry.  A coupla guys changed their shirts, and while I do notice physiques, all I did was come to the conclusion that skydiving must make your upper body strong, the adrenalin is prolly good cardio, but it doesn’t seem to burn a lot of fat.  But I've digressed again.). I had a wonderful jump, and by the time I saw the “Hillary for Prison 2016” sticker on a jug, I was much more concerned with what might have been in the jug than I was with the politics of whomever may have put the sticker there.

I’ve jumped now in four different dropzones and I’ve noticed some similarities in them that perhaps could be employed in the church.  I was a walkin, even though I’d called; I just didn’t want to make an appointment because I didn’t want to be committed to a time.  I told them that, and there was absolutely no judgement; they just worked me into the next load.  When you first go for a tandem jump, they sit you down and make you watch a video.  It acknowledges that you came to skydive because you want to, but that to get the thrill, there are risks.  It goes over those risks and tells you what the worst possible outcomes could be.  Then they spend an inordinate amount of time suiting you up and giving you instructions and cheering you up and attending to your needs so that the possibility of negative outcomes is minimized.  At any point in the process, you are free to say “hey, I don’t think this is for me” with no judgement and a complete refund.

What if when people came to church, instead of trying to get them to join or even to get them to give their lives to Christ, we just took them, just as they are? What if they could come to us on their own time, rather than at 10:30 or 11:00 or whenever we tell them service starts?  What if we then had a conversation with them, acknowledging they came for something, maybe even figuring out what that something is, and letting them know we’ve got something and it looks like it may be what they need, and they are welcome to partake, but that it will require something from them.  And what if we were really upfront with them about all the time and toil and trouble and blood and sweat and tears it will cost them to follow Christ?  What if we then girded them up with spiritual armor, dd our best to strap them in tightly so they wouldn't fall, taught them about their responsibilities, coached them on things they could do to achieve the best outcomes, attached ourselves to them and answered their every question before joining with them on the ride of their lives?  What would our churches – and our own faith walks – look like then?

At one point Brian, my jumpmaster, was telling me how we’d exit the plane.  I have an arthritic knee, so crouching is hard for me.  We’re at 13,500 feet in a single-engine Cessna that is filled to its 14 passenger capacity.  Brian’s not commenting on any of that, he simply makes sure the hop and pops go out first so the aircraft will be relatively empty when the time comes for us to go out.  And he’s telling me how we’ll exit, that we’ll do a 180 degree turn and face the wings.  Not fully understanding, I say to him, “so you’ll go out first?,” (I just meant his body would exit the aircraft in front of mine) but he immediately responded “No. We go out together.  We’re doing all of this TOGETHER.”  What if we took that attitude in our churches, say if we had a new member who was slow or needed special accommodations or didn’t understand?  What if our focus was on our unity rather than on the obstacles to unity?

I always say there’s a bond among swimmers because no matter how much we exercise, train, and try to tame our bodies, our sport places us ultimately at the mercy of a natural element that cannot be completely controlled.  Our safety and our lives depend upon proper respect and communication.  I think the same thing is true of people who jump out of planes.  No matter how good a plane or a rig you may have, no matter how much skill or experience you may have, the wind can take your chute and leave you freefalling to the earth.  Proper respect for the natural environment and good communication does not eradicate the danger, but it does lessen it.

So what if we were like that in church?  What if we acted like our very survival depended not on anything we have or anything we do, but what if we acted like our survival was anchored somewhere deep inside a respect for the environment – the Body of Christ --  and in proper communication?  What would that look like?  Could we then create and foster an environment in which our differences did not define us?  Could we flourish in an atmosphere that focused on the love that binds us together rather than those points upon which we disagree?

I don’t know the answers.  I know that I went, I was welcomed, I was safe, I got what I came for, and even after seeing the “Hillary for Prison” sticker, the experience was a positive enough one that I’d go back in a heartbeat.  Do we have that same atmosphere in our churches?

Going Home

My cousin’s funeral is set for Tuesday, March 14 at 10 am.  I was fortunate enough to get a 6 am flight on Tuesday scheduled to get me into RDU at 8:30, so even if there are delays, I should be able to make it.  Then the meteorologists decide there’s going to be a nor’easter in the City.  They forecast blizzard like conditions from Monday midnite thru Tuesday midnite.  We’d spent Monday in Albany lobbying politicians for more money for housing.  So I’m thinking I’ll come home from Albany, maybe hit the gym, maybe not, and head to the airport about midnite in case there really is a snowstorm.  That way I can beat it, and hopefully there won’t be too much accumulation before my 6 am flight.

On the way to Albany I get a message from the airline that my flight has been cancelled.  I start to rebook, but we lost the signal, and because I’m a genius I didn’t think it was that big a deal.  We go to Albany, we have a VERY productive meeting with a couple of State Senators, and get on the bus to come home.  I use my phone as a hotspot instead of relying on the bus’s wifi, and look at the airline’s options.  There’s a 4 pm flight and an 8 pm flight, both out of Newark.  The 4 pm isn’t even possible since we didn’t leave Albany til after 2;  the 8 pm could possibly work.

Long story short:  traffic was a bear, which slowed us down.  I made a conscious effort to remain calm and rely on God’s Will.  We got off the bus, I got in my car and amazingly zipped through 5:00 traffic in the South Bronx.  I’d told myself that if I got home by 5:30, I might have a chance.  It was 5:29 when I pulled into the parking lot.

I go into the house and can’t find the duffel bag I’d wanted to use.  I found another one, and managed to stave off the OCD enough that I didn’t go through every pocket in it reminiscing about what I might have used it for.  Instead, I put in my robe and stoles, grabbed some stockings and some dressy-ish boots, (the funeral is at a Missionary Baptist Church with a pastor whose own preferences overruled those of the family and who actually had an opinion on what type of collar I should wear), and my good black preacher suit.  Come to think of it, I should have taken a different one, but the one I took is my favorite.  Of course the jacket and skirt were in two different places, but I managed to pull them together, a collar, a gift for my brother, stuff it all in a bag, and skedaddle.  By this point I’m not watching the time. 

The bag doesn’t have wheels, and I have to schlep it to the train, with my laptop (including not-yet-completed remarks) slung across my back.  My metrocard is around my neck where I keep it for easy access.  Get to the train station, and a train is pulling up.  Except I can’t unzip my coat to get to my metrocard.  I look like a 5-year old standing there trying to unzip my coat while the train pulls out of the station.  Next train is 6 minutes later.  Plane is due to take off at 8, board between 7:25 and 7:45.  Six minutes means a lot.

But I get to the next train and get to Penn Station.  I wander around NJTransit because I don’t see any schedules or fare machines.  Go to Customer service who tells me there’s a train now on Track 10. I go to track 10, passing a ticket machine on the way and getting a round trip ticket to Newark Airport.  I meant to get money, since I forgot to bring some from home and tipped the Albany driver with my last, but the two Chase ATMs I saw were both out of service.  So I get my ticket and go to the train which is full.  No problem, I’m standing, even though there’s a lot of traffic pushing by me.  Finally decide to go to the upper level of the packed train where I immediately find a seat.

The journey to EWR was uneventful (except for the fact that my NJTransit ticket to Newark airport included the Airtrain  -- I thought I’d have to buy a separate ticket for it!), but I was on standby.  Somehow United failed to put my TSA pre-check status on my standby ticket.  It’s now 7:25 or so, I think boarding has started, and these people at Newark literally sent me walking around in a circle before I got to the TSA line.  There not only did I have to take off my shoes and take out my laptop, but my scarf fell out of the bin and got caught in the rollers. After we got that untangled, this little girl kept feeling me up.  She explained what she was gonna do, but it was basically feeling me up.  As always, I made awkward jokes about how much she seemed to like it and who should pay whom, but it didn’t serve to make her move any quicker.  She even swabbed the palms of my hands and it seemed the machine took forever to tell her there was nothing on them.  I’m thinking I’m not getting on the plane.

Then I go to the gate, which is located on bumblefuck lane in west hell.  Seriously.  It was like gate 120-something. And while there were a lot of little cart thingies, the people who were spozed to be driving them all seemed to be talking to each other. I had no confidence they’d get me there any quicker than I would get there walking, so I walked.  And walked.  And walked. And walked.  I even lamented loudly at how ridiculous it was to have a gate that far away.

I finally got to the gate and waited behind a couple of people, only to find out I was at the gate for the Los Angeles flight.  I finally got to the correct gate.  I’d checked the app, which had gone from 7 available seats to zero, and where I had gone from #6 on the waitlist to #7.  It didn’t look good.  But the woman at the counter told us to hang out.  I told God I would trust God’s decision.

Turns out there were 6 available seats on the flight.  I was #7 and the guy I was talking to was #8.  Somehow, we both made it onto the plane!! Seems three people failed to show up.  I ain’t saying it was the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I’m just noticing three people failed to show up….

There were obstacles on every side.  Every rational indicator suggested I would not make it.  But I’m writing this from 30,000 feet (did I mention I got a window seat?), as we prepare to begin our descent to RDU where I’ll go to be with my family as we prepare to say our final goodbyes to our beloved cousin, father, husband and friend.  I’ll be talking about Faithfulness.  He was a Marine, and Semper Fi was their motto.  I’mma be talking about the faithfulness of God.  I know what I’m talking about.

What I Learned at the Spa

So it seems my latest obsession is with Korean Day spas.  There is a long-standing camaraderie of women at the Harlem Y -- for over 30 years we've sat in the nude, sweating, and steaming, sometimes scrubbing and massaging one another, and always discussing the world's issues.  Vestiges of that camaraderie (though it has waned tremendously as the neighborhood has gentrified) are what keep me at the Harlem Y rather than the gym where people eat while they do reps.  We share our womanhood as we share our communal care about our bodies.

And one day, when either the steam was coming up nice or wasn't coming up nice, or when the sauna was hot or it wasn't hot enough -- on one of those days the discussion turned to Spa Castle, some place in Queens.  Various women raved about it, enough that, even though it had scandals (including a man being found dead in one of the pools, after which it closed down for about a year), I was interested in checking it out.  I never buy anything at retail, so when a Groupon offered 40+% off, I bought one.

And it was great.  Apparently it's based on the concept of a Jjimjilbang, which you can read a wiki about here (or if the link doesn't work, just Google Jjimjilbang, or "Korean Day Spa.").  It's set up just like that, down to the color-coded uniforms.  Spa Castle had a bunch of pools:  100 degrees, 104, 106, a chill pool, a cold pool -- and a massive jacuzzi area with chairs built into the walls.  Position yourself properly in the chair, hit a button,  and you have a personal jacuzzi-massage!  It was fabulous.  The pools were all same-gender, and they required you to enter them nude.  There was lots of showering and scrubbing before getting into them, though it IS still a bunch of naked women in water....  Granted, I've been in the gym for decades and am no stranger to nudity (I actually met a nun in the steam room at AAR once; we had a delightful chat in the steamroom and later, when we saw each other during the conference, we both remarked something like "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on!" which made us the butt of jokes for the rest of that evening...) -- I'm no stranger to nudity, own whatever body issues I have, and am comfortable in my skin.  But in the spa, I very quickly I realized that pretty much EVERYBODY owned their body issues and was comfortable in their own skin.  I mean, here we are parading around in our birthday suits, and all we're concerned about is "is there any conditioner left?" or "how hot is that pool?" or "how long til I can get a massage/body scrub?"  Usually when I'm walking around a locker room with no clothes on, I'm aware of my breast cancer scar, and it's a badge of honor.  In the day spa, the only thing I thought about my breasts was to notice how they floated and wonder whether they'd hold me up if I were to pass out from the heat of the pool.  The upper floors of Spa Castle were co-ed.  Fortunately, I'd been told to wear a bathing suit under the uniform they gave me, so I was good to go in the various saunas and in the co-ed pools and Jacuzzis.  Spa Castle had outdoor pools, but since the air temperature was in the 30s, I didn't choose to brave them, though many people did.

Back at the Y, I raved about how I'd finally gone to Spa Castle, and someone told me about King Spa in New Jersey.  Sure enough, a coupla weeks later, I bought a Groupon for King Spa.  It was very similar to Spa Castle, with a couple of exceptions:  King Spa doesn't allow kids in the pools, it didn't appear to be as trendy and crowded as Spa Castle; King Spa didn't serve or allow alcoholic drinks; and it had more varieties of saunas and less pools.  It was a mellower, more chill vibe for me.

So I'm laying on the floor in one of these saunas (they have like a Rock Salt sauna, a Mineral Salt Sauna, a Yellow Ocher Sauna, an Amethyst Sauna, a Gold Pyramid Sauna, an Ice Sauna, and a bunch of other saunas with Korean names that I don't know what they mean.  There's even a little female-specific spa/herb bath with mugwort that the lady says is "good for your v-jayjay." Most of us did it out of curiosity, but one of the women said she was doing it because her friend told her that it enhances orgasms).  So I'm laying on the floor of one of these saunas.  The heat comes through the floor as well as from something in the middle or top of the room.  And I'm laying there, still and quiet, and somehow I'm able to pray and commune with God in a way I haven't done in over 30 years.  (Sidebar:  I'm really into the triune person:  body, mind, and Spirit, and I have to engage with God in all three areas or else I don't feel complete.  I realized this about myself when I was a martial artist, and I try now to maintain a strict exercise discipline, but they really need to be intentionally integrated -- you need to recognize when you are exercising that it is also a form of worship, or else it's just exercise.  The spiritual discipline is different from the purely physical one).  But I've digressed again.  As I was laying on this floor, struggling to surrender my body to the intense heat, I came to realize how incredibly broken I am.  My public persona is sort of a gloss over bandaids, duct tape, and dental floss, which all hold me together.  My life is so busy (Burdened Under Satan's Yoke), and chaotic that I have not been consistent about addressing that brokenness. I can feel it, and can duct tape and gloss it over, but at some point I need to go in and repair that brokenness.  For me, the repair doesn't happen in communal experiences, it doesn't happen through external stimuli, it doesn't even happen in supplication to God.  For me, the repairing of my brokenness happens when I calm my body and mind, open those inmost parts of my spirit, and allow God to touch and heal me in those places.  And it's not just allowing God to touch me in those places, but being still and calm and quiet and open and present enough to receive GOD'S healing touch, rather than trying to interpret it, or to put my spin on what I feel -- there's a difference between feeling the Power and Presence of God and going out and babbling about it versus feeling the Power and Presence of God, connecting with it, and surrendering to it -- even when it's contradictory to what I'd thought or wanted or imagined.  It's like in that sauna is where I can:
Be Still And Know That I Am God.
Be Still And Know That I Am.
Be Still And Know That.
Be Still And Know.
Be Still.
Be.

The Spa is where, after studying and napping and scrubbing and showering and massaging and exercising and eating and all, I can subdue my flesh, consciously and intentionally make my spirit available to God, and just Be.  In that Being, God enters in, miracles happen, and brokenness is repaired.

And that's what I learned at the Spa.

Superior Attitude, Superior State of Mind

My first tendency, sadly, is often towards self-destruction. For the first time in 15 or 20 years, this morning I actually thought I might like to smoke a joint. Then I thought I'd like to get a carry permit.

Of course, neither is a viable option for the person I am, and the only reason I mention them is because they reveal the psychic and emotional mayhem that is upon me. I'm struggling to not let 60 years of stuffed rage boil over. Didn't we go through this when we, as little kids, integrated schools in the 60s?!?!? Why are we going through it again, since even back then we knew we had to work together to change for the better???

I can't watch TV or listen to the news. I'm walking around in a fog like some kind of zombie. It does occur to me that maybe this is the way the racists felt during the Obama years. Maybe our last eight years were an unimaginable horror for people who thought the 50s and 60s were when America was "great," and who envision a great nation of straight, white, male-led, chaste-female-populated (wait. Would Melania be disqualified?), non-physically challenged -- maybe we should just say Aryan? -- people who are unwaveringly conservative in both their social and theological viewpoints. The country has just resoundingly indicated it wants to go back to those times, and I'm just not doing it.

So now I'm struggling to find a positive, peaceful, and productive way to indicate that. And I will. There's so much to process, and right now if I let go of the numbness, that 60 years worth of stuffed rage resurfaces.

And as long as I'm aware and in control of it, maybe that's not such a bad thing. Whether socially, psychically, or spiritually, we are clearly in a battle now. I was a good enough martial artist that I always fought above my belt level. I'm remembering that my most effective fighting style was to take a hit or two (not too many or too hard) while studying my opponent and letting them think they had the upper hand. Then when they got sloppy and overconfident, I'd execute and usually decimate them, even above my belt level. Thinking back on those days, I remember a line from a Stephen Segall movie: "We're outgunned and undermanned, but we're gonna win. Know why? Superior Attitude. Superior State of Mind."

Superior Attitude. Superior State of Mind. I ain't quite there yet, but I will be soon. I'm in the corner for a minute, but this is just round one. We just getting started.

Seeing Clearly; Take Me To Church

So I was cleaning my contacts, and I stumbled.  I thought I mighta torn it, but I looked at it and it didn’t look torn, so I put it in the solution and let it soak.  Contacts are 35% to 75% water, so as long as they are in the solution, they’re fine.  When I put them on, they were fine, but as the day went on and they dried out, they irritated my eyes more and more.  I barely made it through a midday meeting, got back to my office, and took out the lens.  As I did, the tear became evident, and I threw the lens out.  With no spares or prescription glasses at work, this left me with one contact in and one out. In one of my eyes I am legally blind without correction, and the other one has nearly normal sight.  Thankfully, the normal eye was the one that had the torn contact, so even with the torn lens out, I could see just fine.

Went to a game and saw my favorite ballteam struggle to win a game I’d thought they would win easily.    It seemed the opponent had this very effective defensive play in the paint.  My team seemed unable to figure it out, and kept falling for it over and over. But they finally got their act together and won by three points.  A W is a W.

After that I went down to the vigil at the Stonewall Inn.  The Stonewall is known as the epicenter of the Gay Civil Rights Movement in America, and, short of traveling to Florida, it seemed to be the appropriate place to go to stand in solidarity with the gay community.  I still maintain that terrorism directed at gay people is a human tragedy, and in stating that, I reaffirm that gay people are as much a part of humanity as anyone else.  It’s not intended to be exclusionary, like the #alllivesmatter hashtag strives to invalidate the #blackliivesmatter movement; but rather, I maintain that homophobia – and all hatred – are problems for all of humanity; while they manifest in horrible ways with the group bearing the brunt of the hatred, this continuing hatred hurts ALL humanity.

And at the Stonewall tonight, I saw a lot of hurt.  Maybe it was the smell of alcohol coming from human pores – I don’t do well with that  --  or maybe it was the young man rambling on for so long that I couldn’t tell whether alcohol or grief was the impetus for his conversation that everyone needed to “be who you are, don’t be afraid.” Maybe it was the group on the side of the vigil having a loud personal conversation while the young man was trying to speak to the crowd, or the people coming for photo ops but not paying respect, or maybe it was the way white guys shifted uneasily when I was in the crowd behind them, or the fact that the crowd was overwhelmingly white (wasn’t this an atrocity visited upon people of color?  Where are the mourners of color?).  Whatever it was, what I felt all around me was the pain of a people.  It was for Orlando, yes, but I felt the kind of pain that alcohol wouldn’t make go away, the kind of pain you feel when you’re trapped inside someone else’s impression of you, the pain that can’t be abated by conversations or mementos demonstrating how important you were.  I’m not sure exactly what it was, but I am sure that I felt – or rather, sensed -- pain all around me.

So I left the vigil after a while and went wandering around.  I came across a couple of guys talking about how homophobic the national climate has become.   One was talking about how nothing was going to interfere with his right to party, but the other one was like, “Guuurrrrlll!! It’s so bad out here, I might even go to church on Sunday.  I’ll be like, ‘Pastor, Can you save me?’”  Of course I had a conversation with him about how Jesus could save him, and how, if any pastor told him differently, he should run out of that church and find another one.  He might have been a little tipsy;  he was more interested in his new box of Fig Newtons than he was in what I had to say, so we chatted a bit more, I reminded him that Jesus loves him just as he is, and we parted ways.

But that encounter remains with me.  Christopher Street at 10:30 on a weeknight night was almost as busy as 125^th Street on a Saturday afternoon.  I would go so far as to say it’s busier than mid-morning on the main streets of all but the largest American cities.  There were scores of people walking around and eating and shopping and hanging out, in addition to those gathered at the vigil.  Clearly, I only had an interaction with a couple of them, and while a good number of the out gay people I know are devout Christians, this encounter took me right back to the party days of my youth, when Hozier’s “Take me to Church would have been the closest we’d come to singing an anthem.   While they seemed a little too old to be club kids, these guys had the club mentality, and what struck me was that going to church was only something they considered as an act of desperation!!  Even then, the thought that they could be saved by God was a concept with which they had some passing familiarity, but which they could only jokingly apply to themselves.  While I didn’t think of the song at the time, I’m betting these guys know every word to “Take me to Church.”

I’m not sounding some sort of spiritual alarm, nor trying to evoke any mass hysteria among the "saints of God."  But I do echo the words of a Facebooker named Cody Lewis who, on June 12, posted the following:

“Just so we are clear, the tragedy in Orlando wasn't caused by Islam or Islamic ideals, it was caused by you. YOU, the guy who has gay friends but won't defend them in front of others. YOU, the mom who kicked out her child for being gay. YOU, the pastor who preaches hate over love every sunday. YOU, the politician who votes against gay rights only to give blowjobs in airport bathrooms. YOU, who don't stand up for what is right and allow innocent people tge same rights as you. YOU, the weekend christian who posts about their daughters bathroom safety when their own pastor is the one with his hands where they dont belong. You did this and the blood of 50 people is on your hands. Jesus and Allah didn't have anything to do with this, this is your fault. Welcome to America, are you ashamed yet?”

Church, our children are dying in the streets.  They believe themselves to be outside the Arc of Safety, outside the reach of God’s Love, because our infantile and twisted theology has caused us to preach hate instead of love, to greet them with judgement instead of joy,  and to drive them away instead of welcoming them with open arms.  If the Blood of Jesus TRULY gives us Strength from day to day, if it TRULY reaches to the highest mountain and flows to the lowest valleys, then why in the world do people who don’t look, act, or love like us feel so utterly rejected by us?

Decades ago, before I formally accepted my call to ministry, I wrestled with it.  Part of the wrestling was because I worked in an environment that served people with HIV. I’d started working in the field when this new medical mystery called GRID (Gay Related Immune Disorder) was discovered, and God led me to work in research labs where the disease was studied, in dermatology offices where scores of young men came in, terrified they might have Kaposi’s sarcoma, and literally disrobing in front of me, an office assistant, begging for some sort of diagnosis.  Later, after working in a palliative care clinic, I found myself once again working with people nearing the end of their life’s journey.  It was in Harlem, and over the years dozens of gay young men died in our arms or in our care.  In perhaps 60-70 percent of those cases these men, in their times of greatest need, were abandoned.  I couldn’t help but notice how many times the “saints of god” abandoned their own flesh and blood to die, taking the stance that this terminal disease was a judgment from god and that they, the parents shared the judgement.  The Biblical stories of the lepers kept coming to me (‘but somebody had to take care of them, didn’t they?” “Child, hush”), and as I wrestled with this call to ministry, I just wasn’t sure I wanted any parts of an organization that could cause a person to abandon their dying child.  Fortunately, there were saints who loved the Lord and loved their children, and who believed in the Grace of God for all.  Those saintly mothers, though few and far between, helped give me some limited willingness to unite myself with those who (with their mouths, anyway) carry the label of Christ followers.

Sadly, it’s 30+ years later, and we’re still struggling with the same sorts of spiritual abandonment regarding lifestyle.  The church is still abandoning those who are Gay or Lesbian or Bisexual or Transgender or of any sexual orientation that it does not understand.  Rather than extending the love of Jesus to everyone, we decide, then pick and choose to whom we think that love should be available.  Instead of bearing the Light of Christ, we go forth with the judgement and accusations of the enemy, and when we do, we serve the enemy’s purpose – to atrophy the Body of Christ.

When I started writing, this was gonna be about gay people.  I thought I was gonna compare gay people to that torn contact lens, and talk about how, even though things may seem fine, if something's just a little bit out of order, it irritates us until we have no choice but to examine it and see that we have a big ole tear in what we thought we were looking through.  But see, the problem with that analogy is that gay people aren’t disposable.  So no matter how uncomfortable you may be around gay people, THEY aren’t the issue.  Instead of behaving like gay people are the issue, maybe we need to fix our contacts:  maybe we need to take the styes out of our eyes.  Maybe we need to remove those things in our vision that irritate us.  What if we don’t have all the answers, and the hermeneutical lenses through which we’ve been reading the Bible are not correct?  What if it’s not gay people who are the problem, but the way you look at them?  We don’t have to pluck out our eyes (Matt 18:9), but we DO have to pluck out the torn and broken lenses, pluck out the styes,  and throw them away.  Maybe we will find, just like I did with my physical eyes, something we could not have imagined:  that, even with our familiar but defective lenses removed, without the sty in our eye,  we can still see quite clearly.

I wonder if we can see our way to reach out to our LGBT Brothers and sisters, and to lovingly welcome them, responding to their pleas to "Take Me To Church"

Here is the link to the video.  https://youtu.be/MYSVMgRr6pw

And here are the lyrics:

My lover's got humour
She's the giggle at a funeral
Knows everybody's disapproval
I should've worshipped her sooner
If the Heavens ever did speak
She is the last true mouthpiece
Every Sunday's getting more bleak
A fresh poison each week
'We were born sick, ' you heard them say it
My church offers no absolutes
She tells me 'worship in the bedroom'
The only heaven I'll be sent to
Is when I'm alone with you
I was born sick, but I love it
Command me to be well
Amen. Amen. Amen

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

If I'm a pagan of the good times
My lover's the sunlight
To keep the Goddess on my side
She demands a sacrifice
To drain the whole sea
Get something shiny
Something meaty for the main course
That's a fine looking high horse
What you got in the stable?
We've a lot of starving faithful
That looks tasty
That looks plenty
This is hungry work

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

No masters or kings when the ritual begins
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene
Only then I am human
Only then I am clean
Amen. Amen. Amen

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life