A Midrash: Jesus and the Little Brown Boy who Makes Clocks from Mark 9

Posted on September 17, 2015 by Timothy Brown

Mark’s 9th chapter, a small but hearty portion of which is the Gospel lesson for this Sunday, speaks directly to fear. Here’s how it goes.

Jesus and his close friends were walking to school one day. You could tell by the way they walked that Jesus was the leader of this would-be gang. Thomas hung behind a bit, not sure if he should join. Judas snuggled in close to Jesus’ shoulder, feasting on every word (and every envious glance from others) that this new-found friend provided. James and John walked a little ahead tripping each other at the feet. Peter and Andrew both fiddled with a pocket knives and some shaveable wood…they were always doing something. Doers, those two. And the rest? Well, not much else of note for the rest of them.

And as they were walking, he kept on telling his friends about how anyone who wants to save this failure of a school system needs to break away from the need to be popular, take a risk to propose some new, innovative, even scandalous ways of doing things. And though it would get negative attention and probably even get them expelled, the new life that would follow would be worth it.

Honestly, his friends were only half-listening. They’d been hearing this all year from Jesus and they still couldn’t make heads or tails of what he meant, though his presence certainly made life more exciting at school. But if you could look into the recesses of their hearts, some of them actually did start to understand what he was saying…they were just afraid of what it would mean for them and chose a convenient ignorance on the whole matter.

Besides, soon they’d rule the school the way things were going. And even teachers and administrators listened to the most popular students. In fact, as they rounded the block past Peter’s old house they started having hushed conversations about which one of them would be “the enforcer,” Jesus’ right-hand guy. And also who would be the “gate-keeper,” you know, the one everyone had to get through to get to Jesus.

This was important stuff!

First period began. Half of the friends headed toward Algebra II where they would ponder invisible integers in an attempt to come up with real-world answers (for some of them this would be their life’s work). A few others skipped class to smoke in the bathroom, warming themselves with nicotine before heading into the classroom. And a few other stuck by Jesus in the opening class of the day.

As the shop teacher unrolled a scroll of blue-print paper for the day’s project, Jesus turned to John and asked what they’d been talking about.

The shop teacher began passing out smaller copies of the blue-print, interrupting John’s halting explanation of their hushed conversation over greatness. As the paper landed on the desk Jesus spied it: two beams of wood joined at the center with long spikes. It was to be an example of an impressively massive marking post to let everyone know that “something important happened here.”

They’d each be constructing their own.

At the back of the class was a little boy. Smart. He was known by Jesus, but John and Peter and the rest didn’t pay a lot of attention to him. He was different than they were in many ways. But he was smart, and that day he’d just happened to throw together an imaginative example of a clock built from ordinary parts. No sun dial, this. It had a motherboard, wires, and a digital display with a tiger print face.

He was proud of it.

As the class period was drawing to a close, barely anyone had finished their assignment. Some had abandoned the project altogether; others just figured it was too hard to start and didn’t.

The little boy himself had been working on a different project, though similar in scope. It was strange to some people, but that was nothing new for the boy.

As the bell rang everyone got up to leave. The young brown boy with the clock in his bag who had been working on a different project walked up to the teacher, proudly displaying his gadget.

The teacher looked at the boy, and the clock, and just wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it dangerous? Was this boy dangerous? He did, after all, work on a different project than most everyone else…

The boy was escorted to a different room where the chief principal and the secretarial scribes interrogated him with the school truancy officer. It became clear that a different official outside of the school would have to be summoned, and in walked the Stateys.

It was deemed that the boy would be too dangerous for the good of the people, and he was cuffed and showed the door, leaving his clock behind.

Meanwhile, Jesus and his friends were standing by their locker, having seen what was going on. As the boy passed by, Jesus turned to his friends and, in a bold move, pulled the young boy into the middle of them.

“If you want to be the greatest,” he said, “you must be willing to stand with, no…more than that…become this one that the world writes off.”

As he was saying this a Statey pushed Jesus out of the way, causing him to tumble backwards, the contents of his backpack spilling out. Amidst the pencils, pens, and planner that came tumbling out was that blue print of two crossbeams gathered at the center. It landed square on the floor as if to mark that something important was about to happen.

And Jesus fell straight back onto it, hands splayed out.

And then the friends got it…though the rest were confused about what they were seeing.

Let all who have ears to hear, hear.

Oh, the Subtle Ways We’re Racist…

Posted on May 30, 2015 by Timothy Brown

Upon the chair the child sits. Upon their head our judgment sits.

It is absolutely a sign of my privilege that I forget that racism is alive.

I get “down time” from the uncomfortable, awkward, demeaning, and violent ways that racism infects conversation and interaction. I don’t mean it’s not there. I mean that I get a rest from realizing it.

Which is no rest at all.

At our local church assembly yesterday I came out of a workshop session and was talking with a colleague. A member of local congregation that he knew came up and started chatting as well. And then it got ~~weird~~ typical:

Colleague: “How did you like the morning workshop you attended?”

Congregant: “Wasn’t helpful.”

Me: “Yeah, I think we were at the same one. It wasn’t helpful for me, either.”

Congregant: “Yeah. All I want to know is what you do when your Confirmation students look like this.”

And as he said the words “like this” he pointed to a chair sitting nearby.

A black chair.

Colleague: <red face>

Me: “I don’t get your question.”

Congregant: “You know, like this.”

Me: “What are you saying?”

Because if you’re going to say it, say it.

Congregant: “When they’re black.”

Me and Colleague: “…you teach them.”

And I turned back to my colleague and resumed our conversation…and the man left to go somewhere. And I knew I was giving him the cold shoulder. And I knew I was angry. And I knew I didn’t know what to say. And I knew I felt bad about not knowing what to say.

And then later on we would go to vote on anti-racism legislation for our church and vow to be against racism in all it’s forms…a sea of blue cards would fly up, easily passing it…

Send the medicine, Lord. We’ve got the sickness already.

And here’s the thing: I don’t think he knew his words were hurtful. That’s not me making an excuse for him; there’s no excuse. Equating anyone to the color of an inanimate object is really inexcusable and tacky and all sorts of sad.

But it was another knock on my heart at how deep the system is. Because I imagine that this man probably thinks he’s open and welcoming to everyone. I imagine he thinks that he’s an ally.

And I imagine that in some ways he is. But in subtle ways, he’s not.

Louis CK had a stand-up bit on the season finale of SNL a few weeks back. It was really awkward, as most of his bits are. But this particular act was really in poor taste, I thought. Nothing is funny about child molestation. Social commentary is one thing. He went too far.

And it’s too bad that the parts about child molestation overshadowed the whole routine, because I actually think he hit on a nugget of reality in the monologue that is good to ruminate on, even if uncomfortable.

He talked about how he’s not racist, and how when a black man in a hoodie walks into a convenience store late at night while he’s shopping the aisles, he has to continue to repeat to himself, “I am not racist. I am not racist. I am not racist.”

And that, there, is what I’m talking about. Because for as much as he’s “not racist,” the subtle triggers that have been given to him by the media, by privilege, and by his own uncomfortability in being absolutely present in situations that test the tribal mentality of his cultural upbringing still persist.

Because Louis CK is racist. And an ally. He’s both. And pretending he’s not won’t do any good. And he knows that. Because the minute we forget that the system is alive is the minute it steals from you, like it stole from me in the exchange with the man yesterday.

Because if I had been present in the moment, I would have been more forceful in telling him, point blank, how uncomfortable his words made me feel. How when he pointed to that chair, all I could see is my own Confirmation students sitting there. And how their heritage is so important to them. And how I could see them looking down as this man pointed at them as if they are an issue that he had to figure out.

If the man is having trouble teaching students of any race, then the man is the issue, not the student.

I speak out about the overtly racist system all the time. I forget about the subtle racist systems…and it always steals my voice. Because it exists in me, too. And it is pernicious. And it operates under the radar for most of us (and in most of us) who consider ourselves allies.

Oh the subtle ways we’re racist…even in the church…maybe especially in the church…

What Christians in Indiana Should Do in Response to the “Religious Freedom Restoration Act”

Posted on March 27, 2015 by Timothy Brown

108

You’ve all heard the hubbabaloo by now going on in Indiana where Governor Mike Pence signed-in private I might add-the Religious Freedom Restoration Act which effectively allows businesses and vendors to not serve people if it violates their…<cough>…religious convictions.

Great. Because we have so many examples in the Scriptures of Jesus not serving people because of their sexual orientation, occupation, reputation, and (insert favorite reason to dislike people here).

So many examples.

So many, that I’m not sure how to choose from the examples.

Like that woman at the well who had so many husb…oh wait, scratch that.

Like that woman about to get stoned because she was adulter…oh wait, not that one.

Like that man, the short tax collector who was cheating people, his name started with a Z…oh wait, nope.

Well, at least there is that traitor Judas, right? At least Jesus puts him in his place, right?

Except that right before Judas betrays Jesus, Jesus kneels before him and washes his feet. Right before he sells Jesus for profit, Jesus lovingly takes his heel, douses him with water, and scrubs the dirt right off his sole.

…see what I did there?

Lexicon it. Jesus doesn’t refuse service. Even the Gentile woman in Mark’s gospel gets a piece of Jesus’ love, despite Jesus’ initial protests.

So tell me, Indiana legislators, lobbyists, and general public who might support such drivel, where you get the idea that this somehow restores religious freedom. Because I don’t think you’ve read your Bibles.

I really don’t.

Because if you read your Bibles, if you read the story of Jesus instead of the soundbites of crazy, profit-hungry, TV preachers, and bigoted, rapture-awaiting, crazy folks who pretend to be pastors/messiahs/prophets, but are nothing more than charlatans or hustlers, you might realize that to Jesus religious freedom actually means that you are not free to do whatever you want.

My patron saint (no, not Jimmy Buffett…he’s my muse), the Blessed Martin Luther says it this way, “A Christian is absolutely free; subject to no one. A Christian is absolutely bound, servant of all.”

Another way to think about that is to recall Jesus’ call for us to be yoked to God. That yoke is “light.” When we bind ourselves to God, our yoked-ness is light.

How?

Because being yoked to God actually takes away your choice.

This was something that Christopher Hitchens actually got right in his books. He took umbrage with the idea that we must, as Christ followers (and Torah followers), love our enemies. It was the height of forced-abuse, he thought (for more on this read his God is Not Great).

So I call on all Christians in Indiana to actually do what this bill, in title at least, claims to do: restore your religious freedom. Restore the yoke of God to yourself, because if you refuse service to someone for any reason that may be part of an “ism,” you’ve sloughed off the yoke.

But woe to you liberals, too (no one gets out of this one unmarked).

I hear your calls to boycott legislators from your businesses. I hear your cries of anger, and your threats to not serve supporters of this act in your establishments.

To you, again, I encourage a close reading of Scripture. Because Jesus actually has said something about this. In Matthew 18 Jesus instructs Christians on how to deal with those who sin.

And I gotta tell you, I think this law is an example of sin in this world.

What do you do? You talk to them. I know many have done that already.

And if they don’t listen, you take another with you so there is a witness.

I think we’ve all witnessed this step…

And if they still don’t listen, you bring in the church leaders. And for us in the ELCA, this has already happened, too.

And if they still won’t listen, you “treat them as you would a Gentile or a tax collector.”

And this is the moment when you think you’re given permission to stick it to The Man.

Except, when you look at how Jesus treated Gentiles and tax collectors (see references above), you realize that, unfortunately for our egos and sense of justice, we are servant here, too. We do not boycott them from our eateries and services. We do not block them off from our handshakes and welcome. We may not re-elect some of the legislators, but we in no way get to marginalize them.

See, this following Jesus thing is pretty tough. This yoke is light in that it takes away my choice. But it is pretty heavy on my ego and my own sense of retaliation…

Ugh. This mess in Indiana makes me a reluctant Christian. And then Jesus’ own advice on what I’m supposed to do makes me reluctant, too, because it’s not what I want to do.

So, what should Christians in Indiana do in response to the Religious Freedom Restoration Act? Speak out; yes. Be active; sure.

But also eat with those who you consider your enemies. Bless those who persecute, because in doing so you show them a love that they are unwilling to give and to receive.

Your anger is justified. But your discrimination is not. None is.

Public Service Announcement: Poverty Isn’t Seasonal

Posted on November 23, 2014 by Timothy Brown

‘Tis the season to carry spare change, right?

At my faith community we raised over $2000 this week for the hunger advocacy center we helped to start a few years ago. We made over 200 meals for gay/bi/trans/queer teens and served them in Boystown on Thursday. And we packed up over 40 complete Thanksgiving meals for the food insecure in our neighborhood.

Oh, and we fed ourselves that night, too. Five turkeys, every side-dish you might imagine, wine, cider, and a partridge in a pear tree (extra delicious).

It was awesome.

But the sad thing is that with exception for the 200 meals (we do that monthly), we only do this once a year.

I mean, we do other things in other seasons, but we only do this particular type of feasting once a year.

And, despite what we might want to think, poverty isn’t seasonal.

Do we donate at this time of year so that people can have a “nice Christmas”? What about making sure that people have a nice life?

Seriously.

Thank God we can reach into our pockets once a year to donate a little more…how generous of the haves…

(and I’m a have)

Dave Ramsey had this terrible list out about a year ago, and it caused a little stink. In it he lists the 20 habits of the rich (that, the not-so-subtle inference is, keeps them rich) and pits them against what he calls “the poor.”

It’s at this moment that I encourage you to look up Luke 6:20. Go ahead, I’ll wait. You know that word “poor” the Gospel writer uses there? It’s an economic term, not a spiritual term (though Matthew makes it a spiritual term, perhaps to soften the blow).

And how nice of Ramsey to pit the rich against the poor. No need to draw such lines, Ramsey. Life does it well enough without your help, but thanks for contributing.

It caused such a stink, though, that Ramsey followed it up with an explanation (keep scrolling in the article to see what I’m talking about). He defends himself by saying that what he posted “is a simple list outlining the habits of the poor versus the habits of the rich.”

The problem is that the list isn’t simple at all (and that there are serious philosophical problems with the whole thing).

It’s not simple because Ramsey imagines that the discussion is just about behavior. But poverty is not simply about behavior. I know out of work men and women who work harder than those of us with jobs, and for much less reward.

It’s not about behavior; it’s about systems.

And if there’s one big mistake that I think Ramsey makes it’s that he mistakes privilege for what he presents as “common sense.”

How lovely that you are wealthy enough to eat fresh fruits and vegetables. How nice that you have the ability to focus on “one goal” in your day. It probably means that you have access to a supermarket and only one job.

And you read for pleasure?! Bully!

I’m relatively wealthy; no denying that. I have a bank account, savings, and we have a college plan set up for our children. I have investments and disposable income. We have a car, and when it needs fixing we can usually fix it right away. I never wonder how I’m going to eat, and I am (for the most part) not worried about how I’m going to keep the roof over our heads. Our son goes to daycare twice a week, and we fully pay for it. I read for pleasure and for work and spend more a week on coffee than any reasonable human being should (I’m working on it…).

I say all of the above not to make anyone feel bad, but to give myself…and you, reader…a gently disturbing thought: one of the fears that I have is that our participation in the systems of poverty is given a nice little exclamation point by our sense of generosity at “this time of year.”

I’m looking forward to giving a little more this Christmas. More to my neighbor and more to God.

And then I’m hopeful that in doing so I might one day learn to give more on December 26th, too. And May 9th. And July 12th. And…

Because poverty isn’t seasonal, and I want to remember that a Merry Christmas isn’t the same as a merry life.

How To Observe Armistice Day

Posted on November 11, 2014 by Timothy Brown

Jesus wept-John 11:35

For such a short verse, John 11:35 gets a lot of airtime. And rightly so.

I guess we all need permission to cry. And if we can get that permission from God, a God who cries with us, then all the better, right?

I’m not sure why we need permission to cry, though. I think it might have to do with the fact that most of us generally don’t like that emotion, that feeling, that uncontrollable sobbing that happens when we cry.

For me it’s kind of like throwing up. I hate throwing up because I hate not being in control of my body.

When we cry we lose control. And, as Kristin Wiig’s character in Bridesmaids noted, some of us are ugly criers. So there’s that…

On Armistice Day, Veterans Day, my thoughts turn to my grandfathers Red and Sodie.

My Grandpa Red, with his Cardinal red hair, never cried. At least I never saw it…though I don’t suppose I would have.

He served in World War II, the second time we had cut the world in two, invaded little islands to set up bases displacing people who had nothing to do with our own little fights. And then we sent babies off to fight in suits and ties.

Today I see more military pictures of women and men in fatigues, but the pictures from my grandfather’s era usually had them in dress uniform. Suits and ties fighting for the men in big offices with suits and ties who had caused the problems in the first place.

No wonder my generation is experiencing a delayed adolescence. Nothing makes you grow up at the young age of 18 like being told that today could be the “the day.” The day it all ends. The day you end it for someone else. The day you’re drafted. The day…

It reminds me of the beginning of the Gospel of Luke where the writer says, “In those days there came a decree from Caesar Augustus that the whole world should be taxed…”

Those days. That day. Perhaps that’s what Jesus came for.

The only time my grandfather mentioned the great war was when he wanted to tell me vividly that war is hell. He talked about coming home from battle finally after being a gunner on B-25’s over occupied China (and being shot down), going to the house of his best friend in the war who had died in action, and being rejected by his friend’s mother as she opened the door.

No, not rejected, slapped in the face. “It should have been you,” she said.

My childhood fascination with the war faded there. The military channel, fighter planes, hero stories…they all paled in comparison to this story, a story about a grief obscured.

My other grandfather, Sodie, fought in the European theater. He was shot in the stomach. He received the purple heart.

He died when I was three, before I knew him.

One day when I was 13 I was nosing around some boxes in the basement, and I found a cassette tape. I popped it in and found a recording of him, my grandfather, on his death bed saying goodbye. I don’t know that I’ve told anyone this before…

He was saying goodbye and talked about some regrets. Regrets of failed relationships and things he had wished had gone better.

And there was a little line in there about the war, about fighting. And not regretting being in the war or going to war for his country, but something about regretting that we fight at all like that.

The sound was garbled…another grief obscured.

Growing up we used to sing Onward Christian Soldiers as a hymn. We were “going off to war with the cross of Jesus going on before.”

The irony there, of course, is that the cross was meant to end all war, all record keeping in that way. It was meant to be the end of such violence and hatred and fear. It was to show that killing can’t stop God, can’t stop life, so why bother?

But now the cross is a grief obscured.

Obscured by our desires for control and domination. Obscured by our wanting to seem powerful in a world where we feel quite powerless.

I can’t sing that hymn anymore, though it’s nostalgic for me in some ways. I think nostalgia can sometimes obscure our grief, too. The church seems to be particularly good at doing this: obscuring the grief of the world through glossing over hard realities. “Good Friday” can’t be too sad or else people won’t come to services. Ash Wednesday can be done on the fly, at the bus stop or corner, because people are too busy to observe their mortality for any length of time other than a quick swipe. Funerals can’t be too mournful because the person is in heaven now and we should be happy they’re in a better place…

Let’s pretend Jesus is a captain and we are Jesus’ soldiers and we’re fighting the world…when the real story, the actual story, is that Jesus was a servant who died for a world all too in love with violence and fighting.

I won’t observe Armistice Day by singing a hymn about might. I don’t want to obscure the grief anymore than it already is.

I won’t observe Armistice Day by pretending that I think war is ok. I don’t. I just don’t. I respect our soldiers, I pray for them, but I weep that those making the decisions to go to war are not those signing on the dotted line to fight them.

Integrity seems a bit lost there.

As a Christian, I observe Armistice Day by giving thanks for those who have given their life so that I can write like this. I give thanks for my grandfathers who, though their grief was obscured, lived full lives after the hells of war.

Today I observe Armistice Day by praying that we’ll learn war no more. Today I observe Armistice Day praying that we’ll have no more grief obscured, that we’ll take care of those scarred by war and help them sort out their grief.

I don’t begrudge people for waving a flag or putting one out. I understand sacred symbols; I see why they do that. There is a part of me that loves Americana. But I don’t do that on Armistice Day.

Today I give up a little control as a Christian. Perhaps I even weep a bit like Jesus. Weep with my grandfathers who couldn’t, or didn’t, or didn’t feel like they could, for whatever reason. Today I let myself observe my grief over the whole idea of war; I don’t obscure it.

In doing so, I hope that I not only honor our veterans, but stand with them a bit.

Victoria Osteen Told the Truth, and Half the Christian World Got Mad

Posted on September 12, 2014 by Timothy Brown

By now you’ve probably seen the shot from Houston. If not, take a second and make yourself happy by watching it here. Do it for yourself.

It’s ironic, of course, that the home of NASA’s “mission control” would be the place where a great deal of the Christian world claims the Gospel is going out of orbit.

I’ve been sitting on this post for a bit because I wanted to see the continual fall-out of this. It’s no surprise that many church leaders across denominations are taking umbrage with VO’s remarks. Article upon article, meme upon meme, floating around either point-by-point refuting her, or simply making fun of her.

I wouldn’t even call it “mocking.” They’re not mocking her, they’re making fun of her. Which is shameful. Mockery, actually, is a high form of critique. Paul Woodruff notes this in Reverence, and I think he’s largely right. Mockery actually takes the person seriously.

No. I’ve seen people just more outright making fun of her. Even Bill Cosby’s 40 year-old self has a response.

But, with all of this negative press, I’ve just been thinking of my Shakespeare. As Hamlet says, “Thou dost protest too much.”

In other words, I think much of the Christian world is so pissed about her words, so quick to say, “No way! That’s not what we do. That’s not how it goes…” because underneath the skin, deep into the soul, there is a real fear that VO’s words are true.

True about the pastor who is quick to deride her for her words, and true for the parishioner sitting in the pew.

She meant them as prescriptive, of course. But I take them, her words, as descriptive.

I mean, when we trumpet around that Christianity is all about “Jesus-and-me” for so long, are we really surprised that we are where we are here? Osteen is not a theologian. In fact, I dare to say she’s been raised and taught in the classroom of the pew her whole life. Civil American Christian Religion has been a warm blanket for many pockets of society, and I’ve rarely if ever heard it seriously challenged from most pulpits. And Victoria Osteen was just repeating what she’s heard her whole life, I think.

“Not from my church…” you might say. But remember your church is one small thread in a whole tapestry of the Christian industrial complex, and whether or not you have heard it within your walls, I seriously doubt you’ve heard it challenged in any real, life-shaking way.

Why? Because people might leave. And no one wants to be down on a Sunday morning. And we really do want it to be that personal, we really do want permission to be happy, and if we can’t get it from God, where can we get it from?

The theology of “feel good/do good” is a powerful force because it feeds a need within us to have permission to be happy and have a purpose.

That might be a bit cynical, which is not like me. I’m an optimist, or at my best, one who lives on hope.

But sometimes when an opportunity comes to point at the emprorer’s pink parts because everyone caught a glimpse, a flash, of his nakedness, it’s important to take a moment and analyze the strong reactions we have.

Perhaps it’s because we realize that Christian culture has created these words, and Osteen is just repeating what she’s learned.

Perhaps it’s because deep down we realize that many do come to church to get their shot of Jesus, the drug of choice for many.

Perhaps it’s because deep down we realize that in many pockets of the world, VO’s message is exactly what people are hoping we’ll say from the pulpit on Sunday morning because one of the biggest motivators for us getting up in the morning is to chase that elusive rabbit of happiness in a dark hole existence.

…and it should be noted that there is nothing wrong with being happy, wanting to be happy, or searching for happiness in life.

But when we’ve turned that into the point of the Gospel, well, we can’t get mad when someone repeats it back to us.

And if that’s not the point of the Gospel, which I do not think it is, then instead of getting mad and making fun of Osteen (either of them), we should look at ourselves, our message, and realize that we’re largely sucking at getting it across effectively in many pockets of Christianity.

See, I think Victoria Osteen said something really true about Christianity today, and I think that our vehement reactions against her words are not just because we disagree with her assessment (which I truly do), but also because we know that she’s just, on TV, pointed out that the emperor is naked in many places.

Which means we have more work to do.

Osteen is not where the Gospel is going out of orbit. Osteen is a product of a Gospel that is largely out of orbit, and has been for a long time.

Death on Vacation

Posted on August 18, 2014 by Timothy Brown

I’m on vacation. The beach.

I woke up on vacation to the sound of the surf and seagulls and the smell of salt water.

I woke up on vacation to the sound of laughter being silenced as a brilliant comedic force lost a battle to depression.

These two things don’t mix easily.

I woke up on vacation to the sight of children running and playing in the surf. Children of all ethnicities chasing crabs and picking up shells.

I woke up on vacation to the news of an unarmed black man being shot in cold blood. To rioting, angry voices justified in their anger, but not in the violence that followed. Death begets death.

…and yet in some ways I understand it…

These two things don’t mix easily.

What’s funny, of course, is that most of us are on “vacation” from this sort of death. From pretending depression isn’t an illness but just a phase. From pretending that racial inequality isn’t real because, well, if it is real then we might have to change the way we behave…

And, let’s be honest: we don’t really want to do that. (We have a black president, for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t that mean racial inequality is a thing of the past?!)

Most of this country is on vacation most of the time.

And that vacation mindset can find a shock of reality in the church community, if we’ll allow it.

Most, though…I think most go to church to have their views reinforced, not challenged.

The pastor has become the conscience massager instead of the conscientious objector to the vacation tendencies that power and privilege provide.

People leave churches because their pastor mentions these things. All congregations. My congregation, too. And in a time of church-attendance limbo we may feel like we can’t say anything because, well, what if people take a vacation from the congregation because of what is said?

So we massage it.

But there is another reality that can’t be massaged into something different, that can’t be escaped: a black man lay dead in the street. A comedian became the victim of joylessness.

And we have to admit that God has something to say about that, something to say about a culture that considers you “OK” as long as you’re laughing; a culture that considers you “OK” as long as your skin color doesn’t automatically make you suspect.

Blood has only one color, though.

And for as much as we lift the blood of Christ up at the Communion table and say “for you,” you’d think we’d see the connection there.

So what to do? Raise our voice in indignation? Console one another? Tell the truth about depression? Speak to racial inequality and violence and unchecked power?

Yes. Of course, yes.

But also: let’s stop being on vacation.

Stop pretending these things aren’t reality.

The church can be a place where we help people live with the tensions of life, not trying to alleviate them, but helping us all live well with them.

Jesus helps us live here and now, in reality. Jesus doesn’t let us take a vacation from reality. “If you see me, you see God,” Jesus says in the Gospel of John. If you see Jesus you see ultimate reality.

Do you see Jesus in the person battling depression? In the black man dead in the street?

Or are we just all on vacation?

Wit and the Battle of Demons

Posted on August 6, 2014 by Timothy Brown

He was beautiful and tragic.

At least that’s how I took him to be at the time. And I’m not romanticizing here…at least I don’t think I am. And I’m not talking about “beautiful” as in “attractive.” I’m talking about beautiful in that deeper way you talk about beauty, if you get what I mean.

Maybe I’m not sure what I mean by that, but it’s the only way I can describe it.

We were in Denver at The Great Divide, a nice little brewery that spits out tasty pints. We were waiting to take a tour, but it turned out that there weren’t enough people for a tour that day. We had to just settle for the wares of the place, and I stood at the edge of the crowded bar for a long time before the tender, also enjoying a tasty pint, noticed me.

Drink in hand, the five of us sat down. If you looked around the table you’d see the width and breadth of what a college education spits out: a teacher, an artist, a doctor, a financial advisor, and a pastor. The lawyer couldn’t make it this year, though he often rounds out the crew.

College friends. College roommates. Most of us fraternity brothers (the doctor and the lawyer opted out of the fraternity experience in deference for books…a questionable choice). We all raised a pint and celebrated our yearly vacation together, something we ceremoniously call “Mancation.”

We’d been in Denver for a few hours, had already visited a brewery, and were on our second hop.

I noticed him standing just behind the guard rail of the sidewalk patio. Black shirt. Deep blue jeans. Black rimmed glasses. Beer in hand, cigarette emerging from his pocket. He was listening in as we chatted. I knew he was going to chime in.

“Nice glasses,” he said to me. I was wearing my Aviators. They are nice glasses. Prescription sunglasses, which means I wear them inside, after dark, because I always forget to bring my other ones. The Financial Advisor in our group (I usually refer to him as a “banker,” which he hates) never fails to shame me when I wear them inside.

But they are nice glasses. The guy obviously has taste, so I affirmed the truth of his statement, which gave him a conversation “in.”

Turns out he was a visitor to Denver, too. Staying in town for just a few more days. We chatted about the area, the dream that is Denver living, local brews. We found out his name was Wit, short for Dewitt. He’s from North Carolina. As a fellow Carolinian, I naturally respected him implicitly.

“What brings you here?” I ask. He takes a long drag off of his cigarette. “Treatment,” he says.

And I realized at that point that, every once in a while Wit would scratch himself just below his belt line. Every time he did that you’d catch a glimpse of his stomach, and these nice little cut marks all along his pelvis. And when he said “treatment,” I looked over at his left arm. Nice little cut marks all the way up it.

He looked at me and said, “Tell me Tim, do you think I’m too skinny?”

I sat for a moment. What to say? It all became clear: the bony elbows, the ribs showing through his baggy shirt if he shifted just right, his collarbone showing clearly through pale skin.

“Do you think you are?” I asked. He smiled, his pierced lip breaking a little at the edge.

The Doctor gave me a knowing look. He’s seen this about as much as I have. His diagnosis is technically the same as mine, but I use a different word for it.

Wit’s plagued by a demon.

Maybe a demon of his past; maybe it’s more recent. Whatever it is, it torments him. It tells him lies. It tells him things like, “Every bone should show…I can’t see that collar bone enough.”

It tells him things like, “If you cut just a little bit, the pain will go away. You’ll see the red, you’ll feel the release. It’s something you can do.”

He never answered my question. He’s sitting down now, scratching the cuts on his pelvis every once in a while. Bright red. Not old cuts.

No one really knows what to say. It’s kind of like when someone who has attempted suicide shows you their wrists. You lose your words, and rightfully so. There’s no words for those types of demons. They eat all our words. They digest them and spit them back out to us as shallow platitudes, no matter how much sincerity is behind them.

But I know that Wit already feels different. He wants to be in the conversation, not out of it, even though he’s exposed himself. It’s the reason why it took him five beers to get up the courage to join us.

“Treatment, huh?” I say, “Decided it wasn’t for you?”

“Let’s just say we had disagreements regarding method,” he said in-between a drag. Cool. Smooth. He’s used that line before.

“Well, if you’re wondering about skinny, that beer’s empty calories are giving you some answers.” He laughed. I figured he could laugh at that. It wasn’t sensitive to him in that kind of way. “I’ll allow these calories,” he said.

“Yeah, I know those other calories they try to give you. Ensure and Carnation and all those chalky drinks.”

“Can’t stand the stuff. Doesn’t taste good, anyway,” he smiled again. Another crack. His lips were chapped in the middle of summer, the beer and the lack of calories sucking out the water from his skin.

We chatted a little while longer and after a bit my friends and I decided to head to a different brewery. We all bid Wit farewell, and I got up last to leave. And I looked at him before going, and somehow the pastor in me, the Christian in me, the human in me couldn’t just leave. And I put my hand on his shoulder and I said, “I don’t want you to give up on treatment, OK?”

He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, lit it and said, “Tim, do you think I’m too skinny?”

I said, “Wit, I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t want you to worry about that question anymore. Don’t give up on treatment.”

And this guy, who was probably in his early twenties, who I’d never met before, grabbed my hand and pulled me down into one of the tightest hugs I’ve ever had in my life. His cigarette fell to ground, and he just squeezed me. And he started crying.

Jesus says in Matthew, “My yoke is easy. My burden is light.”

Wit was yoked badly. It was sucking his life away. He thinks he needs a lighter body, but he needs a lighter yoke. He needs a yoke that doesn’t cut into him, like those red lines on his arms reveal the one he carries does.

He’s trying to force a balance on his life, a balance of weight loss to counter-balance his pain, but he’s breaking himself in the process. He’s being devoured by this demon.

I’m not sure religion is the answer for Wit, but I’m pretty sure love is. Love of self. Love for self. The love of Divine love that loves you even when you’re ill and possessed by the demons of this world…and somehow that helps you become well.

Usually I tell people that possession doesn’t really fit into my worldview. And yet, I’m not sure how else to describe what Wit is going through. He’s possessed not by some other-worldy entity, some literal demon, but by this worldly entity that continues to spit out lies to him. A different tap spits out a different lie each time he draws from it. His cup runs over in a bad way.

I was on vacation, and all I could think is, “Holy shit. This guy needs a pastor and a doctor.”

And there we were…but we were helpless in that moment. Or at least it felt that way.

I still keep Wit in my prayers, though we last met about a month ago. I wonder if he’s back in treatment; I pray he is.

I wonder if he’s sitting somewhere today asking someone, “Tell me, do you think I’m too skinny?”

I wonder what they say.

I wonder if anything that can be said is enough to battle these demons. I’ve seen both sides win in this.

For some reason I wanted to write this out today. Maybe it’s because I’m going on a longer vacation tomorrow. Maybe it’s because it’s a summer day in August and it’d be a good day for a beer. Perhaps I’m still processing the encounter with this demon.

Perhaps someone needs to hear this today.

Perhaps.

God, You’re Attractive

Posted on July 23, 2014 by Timothy Brown

Heard across America last month on The Mindy Project, “He’s hot like a youth minister…”

Yeah, that’s a thing. Have you noticed it?

Our youth minister really liked the line. One of our health and healing workers at the church, an acupuncturist, made sure to relay the scene to him. Smiles and laughs followed.

But man if there isn’t some truth there, right? The popular church sure does hold up beauty in its pastors and people.

Look at some of the popular pastors you know: T.D. Jakes’s suits cost more than most of his parishioners’ monthly incomes; Joel Osteen’s teeth and hair are never unpolished (cue the “Soul Glo” theme from Coming to America); Joyce Meyers’ earrings could double as nunchucks they’re so big and sparkly; Mark Driscoll’s tight jeans betray their price tag shock value by looking just a little too distressed to be naturally distressed…

We love attractive people telling us about God. Perhaps, then, we’ll begin to believe that God is attractive (have you seen Jesus without ripped abs?) or that God wants you to be attractive.

In a blog post by Mark Driscoll, “16 Things I Look for in a Preacher,” coming in at number 11 snuggled between Driscoll’s desire for the pastor to be emotionally engaging and not be a “coward” is the exhortation that the pastor needs to “look like they have it all together.” From clothes to haircut to overall presentation.

When I read that I ran and vomited in a trash can.

Look, you don’t have to go far to find that the church worships beauty, especially physical attractiveness. The apostles are all ruggedly handsome in their depictions. The various Marys in the Bible are never overweight, never suffering from hair loss, and certainly don’t have any moles to speak of.

In fact, in the recent movie Son of God (which was surprisingly un-bad), Jesus’ mother Mary clearly has had plastic surgery, making her look like an odd choice for the role.

Beauty and aesthetics have their place within the worship of a God who encompasses beauty. I’m not denying that. But take a look at the stock photos on church websites: happy families with bright teeth and 2.5 kids all around, often representing a racial diversity not present in the congregation.

And all the while we’re reading and hearing ancient stories of Jesus touching lepers, healing the sick and the lame, loitering suspiciously at well-known watering holes.

It doesn’t sound very “stock photo” to me.

I think it’s a little bit of an illness that we have here. This idea that God or Jesus is “put together” and expects/desires/wants/needs for us to be so, too. Even the local evangelical church-plant pastor who I hear all the time say, “The church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints” never leaves home without his tragically hipster jeans and plaid shirt…

It may seem like all sorts of judgment on my part, but I’m trying more than anything to be observant. Because my faith, more than anything, tears me a part in all sorts of helpful ways…ways that allow me to not be so tied to appearance and the necessity of having it all put together in deference for letting go of appearances and engaging life, and others, more fully.

It’s sad that “youth pastor hot” is a thing. It’s sad that it is based in reality.

When the writer of Ecclesiastes penned, “Vanity, vanity…all is vanity” it wasn’t a prescription for the church.

“Excavating Fear” or “If You Want Children to be Safer, Don’t Buy Bulletproof Blankets”

Posted on June 12, 2014 by Timothy Brown

I wasn’t going to post about the recen screen shot 2014-06-10 at 7.30.47 am t school shootings that we’ve endured as a nation these past few weeks, but here I am.

I wasn’t going to post about them because I just don’t think I can anymore.

When I look down at my son, when I drop him off at school, I don’t think of him as in danger, or as a target.

But I guess we’re starting to these days, right? I mean we’re talking about more armed guards in schools, we’re talking about lock-down procedures and evacuation routes not just for fire, but also for “live-fire” scenarios.

And I guess now we’re talking about bulletproof blankets to cover my baby should someone come shooting up his school.

In Isaiah 11:6-9 we find a vision for a new Earth, and it doesn’t look like like my son huddled under a bulletproof blanket.

And it doesn’t look like my son cowering behind an armed guard with a gun, a teacher with a gun, or even he himself holding a gun.

In that day, “The wolf will lie down with the lamb, the leopard with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together, and a little child shall lead them.” In verse 8 it gets even better, “the infant will play near the cobra’s den, and a young child will put it’s hand in the viper’s nest.”

The problem with that day is that we don’t think it’s today. The problem with that day is that we think the prophet is talking about animals. And, I guess, in a way he is because he’s talking about the created order, the whole created order, being turned on it’s head.

But primarily, though, the prophet is talking about people. Humans. You and me.

And the prophet is talking about creation not living in fear, even in natural fear. It would be natural for the goat to fear the leopard, the child the viper. But in the world that has “knowledge of God,” even that kind of fear isn’t needed.

Because God is doing a new thing.

See, here’s the problem I have with armed guards, with armed teachers, with armed citizens, and with something as ridiculous as bulletproof blankets: it buys into the fear.

If the day of the Lord is to eradicate fear, then why do we belabor under the wrong assumption that we must continue to purchase it? This youth at Reynolds High School was obviously hurting and sick. I do not believe he was a monster. You don’t have to be a monster to do monstrous things.

But his parents were law-abiding citizens with a closet full of guns. Why? Recreation? Collection? Sport?

It doesn’t really matter now, because in the end they were saved for a mass shooting.

And the remedy to that, I think and believe, is not to buy more guns, is not to buy more kevlar, is not to arm more people.

The remedy for that is, I think and believe, to take the prophet seriously and believe that today is the day when the world is filled with the knowledge of the Lord. And I don’t take that to mean that everyone is Christian. I don’t take that to mean that everyone thinks the same things.

The “knowledge of the Lord” is not the ability to recognize God, it is the ability to trust as God trusts.

And how does God trust? In the Jesus story, God trusts the power of life and resurrection enough not to repay hurt with hurt, but to bathe in love and forgiveness. I mean, what would it look like if we raised our children not with a closet full of semi-automatic guns and hand guns, even if we teach them to respect guns, but rather with a closet full of the belief that semi-automatic guns aren’t necessary in this world.

They aren’t necessary to have a good time, they aren’t necessary to obliterate targets, they aren’t necessary for common citizens.

They just aren’t necessary.

We need to excavate fear, dig it up like Indiana Jones, and reveal it for what it is: an idol we’re being forced to worship these days.

It’s obvious these people need mental help. But they also don’t need easy access to weapons. And I don’t think that’s an either/or situation. It’s a both/and.

But I really expect the carillon cry on this issue to come from the church, to come from Christians. I really expect it to come from people who look at Jesus and see someone who didn’t repay evil with evil. I really expect it to come from people who hear stories every damn week about the Jesus who healed the sick, even the mentally sick. We need to provide that care. And I really expect it from people who every year hear the story of how Jesus told Peter to put his sword away. “The one who lives by the sword, dies by the sword…”

I really expect it to come from those who would wonder what it means to hold a weapon with no other purpose in the world than for the killing of another human being, a being created out of love by the God who creates all things for joy and good. Licensed police officers, military officers, they all consider that question…at least, I hope they do if they take their work seriously. We, as a society, have called them to that office, and it’s not one to be taken lightly.

Certainly not one to be taken “recreationally.” We have licensed law enforcement, and give them licenses, for a reason. Part of that reason is, I think, because they take it seriously enough to honor the responsibility. I don’t think the average citizen does, and we’ve shown that by having these “open carry” situations throughout the country now…that, in and of itself, is a sign of mental health issues, I think.

And look, with all this talk, I’m not even talking primarily about gun control. Gun control has not worked well in Chicago. I’m all for it, but do I think it will save my baby? No. This is a complex issue. But the church doesn’t just need to condemn the shooting, they need to condemn the situations that led up to the shooting: mental health, easy access to semi-automatic weapons…

And we need to condemn the fact that too many of the “faithful” in this world don’t trust that the Earth can be full of the knowledge of the Lord if they would just live into it.

I’m talking about changing the hearts and minds of this world to realize that the day of the Lord is today.

And tomorrow.

And it was yesterday…we just didn’t trust it enough to live into it.

Reluctant Xtian

When Arguments Cease Making Sense

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