Making Room

My son, who is almost three years old, loves the movie Room on the Broom. The book is one of my favorites to read with him because it reminds me of fall and Halloween (which I love). It also has a cadence of words that I enjoy. The movie is different in some notable ways. First, it takes thirty minutes to tell a story that can be read in about eight. So the cadence of language is lost. Second, the narrator is British, so that’s an improvement to my voice. Third, the characters express emotions in a way they don’t in the book. The most obvious way this final difference changes the story is found when subsequent characters ask, “Is there room on the broom for me?” In the book, a straightforward and excited “Yes!” from the witch is all that happens when a dog, bird, and frog ask about climbing aboard the broom. But, in the movie, when the dog asks “Is there room on the broom for a dog like me?” a cat, who had already been granted access to the broom, shakes his head. What’s worse, each animal who is welcomed to the broom wants to deny a place for each new animal. In the span of a few minutes, the dog goes from practically begging for a place to denying a spot for the now begging bird. What is it that makes those who were once unwelcome receive welcome and then become unwelcoming to others?

This past Sunday, the Sunday School class my wife and I attend discussed Jesus’ parable of the workers in the vineyard. We used Dr. Amy-Jill Levine’s study “Short Stories by Jesus.” Levine makes a fascinating point regarding this parable. She focuses on the idea that those in the story who are waiting to be hired for work have been waiting in the same spot all day. Something she finds troubling is the lack of advocacy those workers who are hired engage in for those who remain unhired. Moreover, when those who were waiting to be hired were finally hired, those who were hired earlier grumble at the fact that they are paid equally rather than celebrating both the generosity of the vineyard owner and the providence for those who need to be able to feed themselves and families. How can we deny others the same gifts we have received?

The current situation of welcoming some people but not all people in an equal fashion in the United Methodist Church is problematic for many reasons. Perhaps the most offensive element about the lack of welcome to all people is the position of ownership by other people. To return to Room on the Broom, the cat and dog don’t own the broom. The witch does. Those who are requesting a space on the broom aren’t asking the other occupants; they are asking the owner. The church belongs to Christ. If Christ has called and welcomed all people, who are we to turn them away? If the generous owner of all things seeks to make us all equal, who are we to persist in inequality? Perhaps we have forgotten who created all things and called them good. Maybe we have also forgotten that the Lord we worship was born in a stable because his family was told, “There is no room for you.” We continue to tell God “You are unwelcome” until we make room for all God’s children.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

My wife and I saw the Mr. Rogers movie a few weeks ago. I definitely remember watching one iteration of his show when I was a kid. The trolley and castle were most appealing to me. I don’t think I took in much of what he said. But then again, maybe I did. A few things from the movie stuck with me. 

The notion of silence and space that he created is sorely missed from TV today. My wife and I are both fairly quiet people. We wake up quietly and open and close doors quietly and keep the TV at the lowest volume possible. This has been tough with a young child because so many shows and toys are so loud and busy. One of my favorite things to do is take my son outside on our back porch. He is now interested in the deer and birds that come to visit. I am trying to teach him that there is great beauty in quiet stillness, and also, that other creatures are our neighbors. 

Mr. Rogers was an expert with children. Working with children was his gift. The way he interacted with children would now (I think) be deeply suspicious to many people. I had to admit that if his show came on today, my first thought would likely be, “This dude’s a creeper.” And yes, I know how awful that thought is. It troubles me that I think this way and that people who are drawn to children and gifted with them sometimes make me uneasy. But his way of seeing the child in everyone challenges me. I am really angry pretty much all the time right now. There are lots of people doing lots of things I loathe. I have even had hatred in my heart for some of these people. So how do I remember that they are someone’s child? This is another thing that I hope I teach well to my children. I don’t believe people are bad or good. People do bad and harmful things. Many times the same people do good and loving things. People are deeply complex, and treating each person with as much love and compassion as we can means that we treat them as though we understand they are someone’s child.

A guy in Luke’s gospel asks Jesus a question: “Who is my neighbor?” The way the man asks the question suggests that he is trying to get Jesus to let him off the hook from loving certain people. Jesus doesn’t fall for it. He tells a story that is now mostly known as “The Good Samaritan.” (Reading AJ Levine’s book on the parables pointed out to me how bad/racist that title is. Think of someone saying “The Good Mexican.” See what she means?). My reading of the story is that ultimately Jesus says, “Your neighbor is whoever you treat like a neighbor.” In other words, we decide for ourselves who our neighbors are and aren’t. Think of Mr. Rogers’ question. Rather than saying, “Who can I get away with not having as a neighbor?” he instead asks, “Won’t you be my neighbor?” And it seems as though he asked that of more or less everyone. 

Four

*Author's note: An earlier version of this post conflated two different days into one. This mistake proves both my claim to not remember any actual dates correctly and the indispensable relationship I have with my wife. Without her, I literally would not know what day it is. 

Katie and I had finished running the Country Music Half Marathon in Nashville. We weren’t even supposed to be running in it, but the St. Jude Half in Memphis was cancelled due to winter happening. One of the options we had was to transfer our registration to Nashville, and we thought, “Why not?” It turned out to be somewhat fortuitous because, a few weeks before the run, we found out we would be moving to Nashville. So, we could take advantage of our time in the city to check out places to live. This was a turning point in our lives. We had married three years earlier and had lived in the same house ever since. We were excited to be in a new place with new possibilities. This was four years ago to the day.

About a month after the half marathon we were back in Nashville. This time Katie had a job interview, and we were checking out more places to live as it was getting down to the wire. We were looking at a rental home. It was in an area we liked, but the landlords were really weird. Like too weird to be actual people; more like landlord caricatures. As we were leaving the house, someone pulled up in a car and asked if we had seen his Giant African Tortoise. He had made a sign with a photo on it that read “Lost Tortoise” with a phone number. The sign wasn’t great, but at least it was to the point. I started looking around for a camera crew and trying to remember 1) if “Punk’d” still existed and 2) if they ever messed with people who are the opposite of celebrities. We talked with him a few minutes about his escape reptile. All the time I’m wondering “How fast can those things go?! I mean, the search grid shouldn’t be that large.” The person who was taking us around to show us rentals mentioned something about a creek nearby. Surely the man would find his pet there. As we were parting she said, “I hope you find your turtle.” The guy said nothing. I told Katie later that I would have given all the money I had to the guy if he had shouted back, “It’s A Tortoise!” To this day I have no clue if that creek exists or not. It was a good day, and then my phone rang.

My stepdad was calling me which rarely happened. He said something about my mom being in the hospital. I was confused. He was more confused. I knew that we had to cut our tour of homes short. We drove back to Jackson (where we were living at the time) and went to see my mom in the hospital. I still had no idea what was really happening. It turned out mom had undergone a colonoscopy (which I had no knowledge of), and it revealed tumors in her colon. In the next few days she would officially be diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer, Stage IV.

I have been on a spectrum of numbness since that day, and really I connect that day with the day of the half marathon because my excitement on that initial day was challenged by the news to come. The median survival for those who have the same diagnosis as my mom and received treatment is (we were told at the time) two and a half years. We have had four years with her, and they have brought great joy and immense sorrow. My mom and stepdad are now in assisted living although he doesn’t know they are, neither does he know (most days) that she has cancer. My brother and I, with the help of countless people, have taken over their affairs. Obviously all of this has brought numerous difficulties but also blessings. In going through their things I found my mom’s engagement photos before her marriage to my father. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and that’s not just a son saying a somewhat creepy thing about his mother - many others have said the same thing. I found the train set they (mostly my stepdad) got me when I was probably around ten years old. It wasn’t some cheap garbage set. It was a Lionel set with a metal engine. I probably haven’t seen it in twenty years, but I recovered the whole set, and I can’t wait to show it to my children. Notice I said “show;” they won’t be allowed to play with or even touch the train set. I don’t want to spoil them the way I was.

My mom is still young, and yet I know we likely don’t have much time left together. After a fairly long period of dormancy (apparently you can’t really use the term “remission” when someone has this form of cancer) her disease is now spreading pretty rapidly. She’s trying an oral chemotherapy drug. So far she’s experienced minimal side effects. It’s mostly making her much weaker which is among the hardest things to see given the fact that I know of few people as strong as she. I’ll be going by to visit her tomorrow. I don’t know whether I’ll bring up the four year anniversary or not. I might remind her of some of the other parts of the story and show her the Facebook background I haven’t changed in four years. It’s been more or less frozen since that day when my life drastically shifted into this new normal which is still so abnormal.

Four years seems like a long time, but it really isn’t. I compare it to how I reflect on high school and college. Those days are basically like flashes of light. But, certain days stand out to me, and my memory of those days hits me with a lot of detail. I remember almost everything about September 11, 2001. Also the night I found out one of my closest friends died and the days that followed can’t be erased. I remember good stuff too. Soccer games, my first job at Chick-Fil-A, concerts, picking up a turtle that then peed on me (or maybe released water in this weird way - perhaps water from a creek) - all moments that won’t go away. I’m not sure the specific moments I’ll remember from the last four years. I’m trying to record as many memories as I can in my brain. But that’s never really how it’s worked for me. There’s no accounting for my memory. I will forget quickly extremely important things. Dates almost never stick. It’s usually when bizarre things happen. Running 13.1 miles with around 40,000 other people and then looking at houses and then being confronted with the terror of a tortoise on the loose and then a phone call. I don’t even remember when the call actually happened. Hell, it was four years ago.

The Dark Before the Dawn

As I mentioned in my last post, this year has brought a lot of the feels. There have been amazing things. I put a book out which actually some people have purchased (in all likelihood as hate gifts for others). I also got to see my son turn one-year-old, and each day he brings more joy and amazement to my life. I traveled to the UK, which was unbelievable. I want to go to there more.

At the same time, it’s been rough waters. Something that’s been particularly hard is that America’s government seems hellbent on destroying the planet. This isn’t a party thing, at least not completely. I voted for Obama in part because I thought he took climate change seriously and would seek to do something about it. Ultimately, his administration did little more than talk about it and acknowledge that it’s a severe threat. But not much happened. Now more is happening, and it’s truly awful, particularly the continued denial of science and the ignorance of the fact that the health of humanity is directly tied to that of the planet. 

To be brutally honest, one of my biggest fears regarding having a child was the thought of what kind of earth he would live in/on. Would polar bears be extinct? Would Florida be underwater? Would he actually experience four seasons? I know probably not many people fret over these things, but I did and continue to. Because how can I say I love him and fail to give him the best life possible regarding, especially, his health and the health of the world around him? 

So, I know I need to be more active in speaking about care of creation, my justice issue. I also know I need to have more hope. This is, to use a somewhat hackneyed phrase, a God-sized problem. And while I certainly need to be more active and speak out, I recognize that I can’t make a dent in this problem on my own. I need trust that God who created all that exists will protect and care for it, one way or another. 

One of my favorite musicians is a guy named Andrew Peterson. I’ve loved his music for over a decade. He’s an extraordinary songwriter, and there’s perhaps no one who expresses my feelings better than him through his songs. It’s also the case that if he walked by you right now you probably wouldn’t know it. He and many of his friends, are completely under-appreciated in the music scene, even in Nashville where most of them live. But, I also think they would prefer it be this way because they aren’t really looking to be played on “Christian radio.” They write songs about doubt and suffering and themes that aren’t all that “family friendly.” They aren’t out to make it; they are out to make amazing music, and they do. My wife and I go to a concert pretty much every year called “Behold The Lamb of God” that Andrew and his friends wrote and perform annually. It’s incredible, and before they play through the album, they each take turns playing some of their own songs. This year Andrew played “The Dark Before the Dawn”  which I think he has played several times before. But it hit me in a new way this time. You need to listen to the song. I think it puts into perfect words what we are experiencing now. There is some incredible darkness and greed and abuse happening. But, at the same time, people are rising and waking up. American society is changing and power structures are shifting. There is pain and there will continue to be pain. But, as Andrew sings, “This is pain before the balm,” and also, “The tears before the song.” 

Let’s start singing. 

I'm Back, Baby!

How on earth is it a week until Christmas? There’s not even a description for the warp speed with which the last few weeks and months have raced. But I made a promise to write more posts this year than I did last year, so there is precious time to waste. That kinda rhymed. I didn’t intend for that to happen.

One of the reasons I haven’t been writing is overall depression - both clinical and general. I don’t think I’ve written much about my depression and anxiety on this blog, but that will be changing. I’m coming out of the “crazy closet” as I call it, and you’ll be hearing much more about this side of my life. I’m sure you’ll hate it, but whatever.

So, around mid-August I fell back into a really rough patch of d/a (depression/anxiety). Had to go back on medication which then had to be tweaked a bit. There was a longer adjustment period than I thought there would be. But I have been mostly good for a little over a month. At the same time, my general depression about what’s going on in American culture and society has teetered back and forth from slight hope to utter despair. More mass shootings and more inaction about it being at all the fault of guns. Pure and complete dumbassedness coming from Washington in general and the White House in particular. Maybe America’s on the brink of nuclear war - who actually knows? Then all of the accusations of sexual assault or inappropriate conduct, which I am overwhelmingly glad about in that people are finding their voice and feeling empowered to speak out about what has happened to them. Also, it’s depressing when it focuses on people you liked, even admired.

Then, Roy Moore. I mean the whole thing brings out so many emotions. I’ll admit, I haven’t been a fan of the guy from the jump. I completely feel like he’s an egomaniac who exploited the religious convictions (which I consider misdirected) of people in order to carve out this weird niche of fame. He’s a judge who isn’t actually a judge because he doesn’t understand the law - but some people think he’s being persecuted for his faith. Then, the allegations start, and it’s got to be game over, right? Nope. And yes, he lost, even though apparently no one (including Almighty God apparently) has told him yet. But over half a million people voted for him. In that figure is an overwhelming population of white, male, “evangelicals.” So, what do I do with this as a white, male pastor? I have to end my silence. I’ve been behaving too much lately. One of my closest friends - practically a second father - pointed this out to me. I need to start breathing fire again. Not for my own sake, but for the sake of those continually being hurt and/or misled by the Church and wolves in shepherd’s clothing.

So, the writing starts again as will more speaking out and likely even direct support of candidates. I have always had an uneasy feeling about the whole church/state thing. But the group that hasn’t had an uneasy feeling has done some terrible shit. So, damn the torpedoes. Let’s roll.

Love Defeats Bullies

When I look at what compels me to write it is sadly often in the aftermath of some violent attack. Perhaps as a pastor and one who seeks to offer healing I am hardwired or programmed to offer some sort of balm in the midst of tragedy. I don’t pretend that I often know what I’m doing. I do my best to avoid ending up like the “friends” in the biblical book of Job who end up offering really no comfort at all to someone whose world is coming apart at the seams. Often I am working out my words while typing or saying them because a wise professor taught me that much suffering takes people to a place where words end. 

So it must be for those still grieving in Portland. After the attacks on the MAX a few days ago many are no doubt frightened and overwhelmed. This is the aim and result of terror. What has stood out to me is that this story does have a different spin. Two of the men who died and one who was wounded were standing up to the crazed rantings of a bully. This is my decision about the best way to characterize the attacker. Anyone who shouts hatred at a person for their skin color or religion or sex or sexual orientation or any other characteristic (regardless of how much or little that characteristic is true or defines that person) is a bully. So this bully was confronted and he reacted violently in a way that ended the lives of two people and will no doubt alter the lives of many more. Apparently he has been quoted as saying, “I hope everyone I stabbed died.” Please balance this against the alleged last words of one of the victims,Taliesin Myrddin Namkai-Meche, who said, “Tell everyone on this train I love them.”

Bullying presents problems for a society. It should be combatted with all the resources a culture has at its disposal. Victims of bullying can turn into bullies themselves and set about doing harm to somehow payback what was done to them. I remember when the killings at Columbine High School happened and many of us were told that those responsible had been bullied. I have been bullied, and I have also bullied others. I have worked with bullies and remained silent. I fear that American culture is built too much on the myth that the only way to counter a bully is with force and to return violence with more violence. I also fear that bullies are too often allowed to continue their behavior which is sometimes spun as success. There will sadly be some people who celebrate the actions of the bully in Portland because they share his warped ideology or nonsensical xenophobia. There are those who choose his way of death as opposed to the way of love and life. Death never wins, and it won’t defeat bullies. Only love has any shot of turning someone’s hatred in on itself. 

I often think about Lakeshore, the camp which has formed so much of my identity, when I think about solutions to the world’s deepest hurts. I try to pattern the campus ministry I lead after the lessons of love and inclusion I learned at camp. What generally sticks with me most is that, as far as I could tell, everyone at camp was included and loved. Campers who had disabilities were reminded regularly that God and we (the camp leaders and staff) love them fully. There were also special camps for those who had suffered abuse or were coming from difficult situations and therefore needed special attention. I worked one summer in a more focused way with that camp, and bullying was something we fought daily with love. I have said to many people that if everyone had the experience that I had and that we all sought to provide at Lakeshore, the world wouldn’t have nearly as much and perhaps not any violence. When everyone is treated with love, dignity, and grace hatred suffocates and hurting someone else is unimaginable. I hope the people of Portland will continue to respond with love in the face of this tragedy and may we all follow their example. 

It Matters A Great Deal

The United Methodist denomination is currently in the midst of a church trial regarding the election of Bishop Karen Oliveto. Actually, a ruling was just handed down by the Judicial Council. Many are still dissecting the ruling, and its actual force and effect might take some time to shake out. But here’s something that’s struck me throughout all of this: we are pretty inconsistent when our speech is measured against our words. Here’s what I mean by this. Many of us say things like “We aren’t about labeling people” and “One’s race/sex/sexuality doesn’t define him or her.” And yet, every story I read about Bishop Oliveto including press releases and statements from church leaders referred to her as “lesbian bishop…” or “first openly gay bishop…” Hmmm. 

Now, I understand that Bishop Oliveto’s sexuality is precisely what has brought about the church trial. However, the continued referencing of her primarily in terms of her sexuality indicates to me that, for many, the only thing that matters about her is that she is a lesbian. This perpetuates an improper and unhealthy fixation with someone’s sexuality. It also ignores a primary Christian claim, namely that while we have identity markers (nationality/race/sex/sexuality) these are not and cannot be our primary identity because of our baptism in Christ Jesus. This is what I understand Paul to be saying in Galatians 3:28. I think this passage is often misunderstood as if Paul is saying these categories (Jew/Greek, slave/free, male/female) cease to exist. Well, that’s of course nonsense. Clearly I am still a male after I am baptized, and I will continue to have identity markers. But I don’t introduce myself as “straight white male pastor David Hollis.” Maybe Bishop Oliveto does introduced herself at parties with “Hello. I’m the first openly gay bishop, Karen Oliveto.” But I highly doubt it. So to have virtually everyone else call her this puts that identity before her primary one - Karen Oliveto, baptized child of God. 

I don’t think most of the people who are labeling her in this way are intending harm. It’s a social construct - I think particularly in the South. To this day I will still have people say “This black minister so and so” or “That asian gentlemen who was with you.” I don’t think they even know there is anything wrong with what they are doing, because it’s usually just what they’ve learned. Then again, there are many practices that we learn which hurt and dehumanize others. So “that’s how I learned to talk” can’t be a valid excuse for long. It’s also the case that sometimes it is necessary to describe someone with their race or nationality in order to distinguish them. If someone asks, “Who was that gentleman you were speaking with after the board meeting?” If there is just one person I spoke with, I likely know who they are talking about. But if I spoke with several gentlemen, maybe we will have to get a description. And at some point, that description may involve color or another marker of that person’s identity. So, I get that. But once again, the way we use words matters a great deal. It isn’t just what we say, it’s how we say it. And it’s disingenuous to say labels don’t matter when we use them to such a degree.

So, either go all in, and always introduce everyone with as full a description as possible: “This is my single, Jewish friend Jesus” or leave it out from the first line of someone’s name and get there when and if you need to get there.