March Madness

This month precedes another high holy season when we celebrate the victorious resurrection of our Lord and savior. I’m not referencing Lent, but rather the NCAA tournament when millions of fans try to predict with random accuracy which men’s college basketball team will advance and be crowned champion from a crowded field of contenders. 

An incredible amount of risk is required to forecast which underdog will upset a top seed. One would have to be crazy to think a team like Duke can be upset in the first round by an unranked WhointheHellAreTheyAnyway University that was doing well just to be invited to the big dance. Yet, it happens (and it hurts).

Top seeded teams are targets for perennial giant-killers.  Only devoted alums of the underdogs or fervent haters of the favored can complete their bracket with a straight face and make the right calls with aplomb.

Such it is with faith. Who invests all their personal stock in the redeemer of the world being born of a virgin and rising from the dead over 2,000 years ago? For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God (I Corinthians 1:18). There is nothing rational about the gospel, but its power is all that keeps some among us going strong.

Objective observations fly in the face of historical speculation in the same way top-ranked teams defy those with little hope of advancing in the tournament to fight for a win. Even those claiming to believe waver in the face of adversity. … you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind (James 1:6b).

The ante was increased for this year’s tournament as Warren Buffett, one of the richest men in the world, offered a billion-dollar prize to anyone who completed a perfect bracket in advance. Upset after upset resulted in no perfect brackets remaining after only a couple rounds of play.  Only a lunatic, computer, or Godself could have foretold the winners with perfect accuracy. However, perfectly sane contestants were making detailed plans for spending their expected windfall.

In the same manner, theological pre-commitments prevent many from getting this faith thing right. Either we become arrogant in our individual position and those of the institutions to which we belong or we sink into despair when things do not go our way.

Why, Lord, do you reject me

    and hide your face from me?

 From my youth I have suffered and been close to death;

    I have borne your terrors and am in despair (Psalm 88:14-15).

God never promised every day would be Sunday. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous (Matthew 5:45). Even believers are subject to the effects of the human condition. Yet, we have victory in Him. Evidence of it is not readily seen. However, the power of the Holy Spirit working within and around us confirms that we are not just mad.

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

For by it the elders obtained a good report (Hebrews 11:1-2).

Faith is what separates with winners from the losers. Mercer believed they could beat Duke, but faith in themselves only got them to the next round where they were defeated. 

Grasp sufficient absurdity to withstand your time of trial. (B)ut the one who stands firm to the end will be saved (Matthew 24:13). God never fails and God’s promises are true.

Wet Dreams

In the top of the news recently was the “baptism” of Prince George, the heir to the British throne, followed by the announcement that he is now a member of the Anglican Church, which he will head one day as King of England. Even some of the more sensible publications got caught up in the hoopla. He wore a reproduction of the christening gown worn by every Royal baby since 1841 and was flanked by seven godparents. There is no arguing that he was cute as a button. Unfortunately, all they had was a wet, overindulged, cross-dressing baby.

Just a week prior, people were outraged at a report that a prominent pastor refused to “bless” a baby because it was born out of wedlock. The mother claimed Marvin Winans would not allow her to participate in a public presentation dedicating babies at his church. What’s the loss? Her friends and family would not witness the spectacle and join her for brunch afterwards. Just raise your children in the fear and admonition of the Lord without forgetting to model such before them. Does she work equally as hard to ensure the biological father lives up to his responsibilities?

Both cases were equally absurd because neither event is of any consequence when it comes to the faith of the children. It was not this way in the beginning. Our Lord and Savior was not baptized until adulthood. Of course, Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:14). On the flip side, some churches will not baptize children who request it if their parents are not members of said church. It happened to me.

This issue was one of the things standing between me and another piece of paper on my wall earlier this year. While being examined as a candidate for ordination in the United Methodist Church, I freely admitted that I do not believe in infant baptism. There is no biblical support for it and the practice is actually counter to the fundamental assent of the will to the grace of God for partaking in the sacraments. John Wesley (founder of Methodism) himself said that every believer must have a datable conversion experience (which baptism follows).

Well, that was the wrong answer. It wasn’t so much that the United Methodist Church is a bastion of theological purity. I’ve heard all manner of heresy from ordained clergy among its rank without institutional consequence. One of the most attractive attributes of the denomination for me was its supposed regard for intellectual freedom.

This encounter was more so about a matter of refusal to conform to their will or try to impress them. I recall classmates rehearsing their lines for ordination committees and boards while in seminary.  It was shameless. Some folks would say whatever was necessary to get what they wanted just like a man with an erection. Both parties would be aware what it was, but played along as they each had an agenda to advance.

The chair of the Committee lashed at me verbally.  “How dare you come in here and disagree with the discipline of our church.” I responded “how dare you invite me knowing in advance where I stood?” She gave me that knowing look that I could lie my way into the next phase of the process like others have done before me. However, I fear God and dread looking at myself in the mirror knowing I had. Integrity is clearly not one of their preferred character traits.

Babies were baptized on the day of their birth in colonial America to swell the rolls of the church. Thomas Jefferson refused to endorse attempts to require infant baptism under law. As one of the drafters of the U.S. Constitution, he was the brainpower behind the clause forbidding the establishment of religion. He is one of my political heroes because he left it personal choice to exercise faith. If God did not want humanity to exercise choice, we would not have been endowed with a will.

It is no secret that mainline protestant churches are in decline. Have those who swell their church rolls by forcing membership upon those born into their constituent families considered that may be part of the problem?  Socialization into faith is no substitute for real discipleship. John Calvin argued centuries ago that one cannot impute their faith to another.

One of the most perverse cases came when a seminary classmate who is now a pastor had a couple in his church experience the misfortune of a still-born child. He announced that he had to rush to the hospital not to counsel the grief-stricken mother and father, but rather to baptize the baby.

This did raise age-old theological questions tackled by theologian Jonathan Edwards.  “One of these two things are certainly true, and self-evidently so: either that it is most just, exceeding just, that God should take the soul of a new-born infant and cast it into eternal torments, or else that those infants that are saved are not saved by the death of Christ.”

I discussed this with another pastor friend who admitted the absurdity of the response, but said “we must do this to make the family feel better.” I replied “What?!! Did Jesus give us this holy sacrament for emotional relief or as an outward sign of an inward change?” He had no answer because he knew on which side his bread was buttered and he had an elaborate shindig planned for his own infant daughter.

Why does the church insist on so much pomp and pageantry around something so insignificant and virtually ignore more meaningful milestones? Yes, the baby is cute. I’m glad you’re going to provide religious training. It was good seeing everybody who does not normally come in church. Brunch was delectable. However, that baby is only a Christian in your dreams.

In the House

I grew up going to church 52 Sundays a year. It’s not that my parents were particularly religious. They actually were not at all. They just happened to have discovered free childcare for their brood for a few hours on a weekend morning. Other parents in the neighborhood caught on and sent theirs as well. My friends and I were all in the house Sunday every morning.

Strangely, that pattern remained with me in adulthood. I could not wait until I graduated high school and thus liberated from forced church attendance. When I went to college, Sundays were spent recovering from Saturdays. However, something had been planted deeply within that beckoned me to continue freely. My first inclination upon matriculating in graduate school in the land where the devil is blue was to attend high church service at the campus chapel on Sundays. At the urging of some well-intentioned classmates, I eventually began attending service at a church across town of my predominantly black then-denomination.

After graduation, I returned to Washington, DC and began attending my conservative childhood church again on a regular basis. After two years in the south, it no longer fit. God led me to another congregation in the city that resembled the style of churches in the Bible Belt where everyone seemed to know God’s middle name.

Eventually, things fell apart there as a result of my pastor’s sexual harassment and the congregation’s betrayal of me with its indifference. The last thing I wanted to do at the time was attend church every Sunday. I would go to the gym, ride my bike for long distances, visit  farmers’ markets, check out a museum exhibit—anything but church.

But there are some dresses that are too fancy for work and too casual for after-five. Where would I wear them? Seriously, I loved praising God and studying His word. But what was passing for church became revolting.

Then God revealed to me that there is no requirement to attend church Every. Single. Sunday. Yes, the bible says forsake not the assembling of ourselves as is the habit of some (Hebrews 10:25). That passage was written to a community in despair as they were under persecution for their faith. It was not a prescription for overdosing on organized religion. Society has misconstrued the primary function of Christianity as assembled public worship as opposed to serving and discipling the world.

I still have my seasons of weekly church attendance, interspersed with periods of worship in the world. It bothers some of my friends, church members, and neighbors to see me skipping church. It’s not that they fear for my soul’s salvation, but rather are uncomfortable with how their own religious constructs are being challenged. Altars can be found wherever God has created.

The hymn “How Great Thou Art” opens:

O Lord My God!

When I in awesome wonder

Consider all the works thy hands have made

I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder

Thy power throughout the universe displayed

The chorus follow with:

Then sings my soul, My savior God to Thee

How great Thou art, How great thou art!

Then sings my soul, My savior God to Thee

How great Thou art, How great thou art!

When Job became confounded spiritually, God did not tell him to go to the priests or prophets. The Lord commanded him to speak to the earth and she will teach you (Job 12:8). There comes a time in every person’s life when they need an unmediated word from God. There’s no money in that, so churches tend not to promote such ministries.

I defy you to go to the mountains and not be filled with admiration for God’s handiwork or stare at the stars and not revere the order in the universe. When I need a fresh revelation, I go to a new place all by myself and He never fails to deliver.

The Robe

One of my less than honorable responses to my call to ministry was my obsession with my preacher swagger. I am not into whooping and flashy cars, but I am quite a clothes-horse. As I prepared for my initial sermon, what I would wear received more attention than what I would say. Every Sunday spent in the pulpit as a licentiate was a deliberate display of my eye for design. More than anything I studies more seasoned preachers to inform choices about my eventual clerical vestments and accessories.

Clerical vestments have their biblical origins with priestly attire. God provided very specific instructions in Levitical law for what the priests should wear down to their undergarments. In the same manner, I have both outer garments and intimate apparel that I consider divinely-inspired.

I planned to earn a PhD after receiving my M.Div. not primarily so I could think deeply and teach others, but so I could rock three chevrons on my sleeve legitimately. A vanity degree from a diploma mill would not do. It had to be a qualifying credential from a top-tier university.

Then God stopped me in my tracks and showed me the character of the preacher is far more important than the persona. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Who knows what I would have become had I succeeded in being approved for clerical status by the institutional church? That would have left me to my own devices for shaping my ministry according to the prevailing ethos. However, their cultural norms do not suit me. No denomination can function effectively without an unquestioning, complicit, and conforming clergy. That’s totally not me.

To their credit, neither denomination that rejected my candidacy for ordination denied my gifts or call. They just did not sanction them for their organization. Jesus said:

If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you. If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet. Truly I tell you, it will be more bearable for Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town. (Matthew 10:13-15).

In other words, middle fingers to the sky! I thank God for confirmation that I don’t have to prove anything to anybody and the ability to make an ever so elegant departure.

Now I find myself seventeen years later not ordained (by men) and not likely ever to be. I’ve made peace with that. Would receiving approval from a group of mere mortals validate my call even more so? Do multiple rejections make me any less anointed? [F]or God’s gifts and his call are irrevocable (Romans 11:29). Who in the bible had to get a second opinion after being called directly by the Almighty? Soren Kierkegaard described ordination as an “ostensible token, though not an infallible one.”

But when God, who set me apart from my mother’s womb and called me by his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son in me so that I might preach him among the Gentiles, my immediate response was not to consult any human being (Galatians 1:15-16).

James Baldwin said "I left the pulpit so I could preach The Gospel." The same holds true for the brand of ministry to which God has called me. I have always known this intellectually. But part of me still longs for a robe perfecting the balance between overly-done and understated so well that Coco Chanel would nod in approval from the heavens above.

Trick of the Devil

As much as I gripe about organized religion, there is something about it that compels me. There is a saying of dubious attribution that “The church is a whore, but she’s my mother.” I know exactly how that feels.

I grew up with children whose mothers were card-carrying prostitutes. They brought their kids to school wearing micro mini-skirts, five-inch heels, flowing wigs, false eyelashes, and heavily-applied  makeup (I promise you there was a time when this look was not mainstream) and kept strange hours. They also packed lunches, wiped crust from eyes with their spittle, and meted discipline to their offspring just like any other parent. Nobody ever questioned their children’s adoration or devotion.

There is just something understood about the mother-child relationship. It is the most primal for humanity. Ask anyone who has lost their mother whether they were the same afterwards.  My mother lost hers at the age of 8 and with that, a love that is second to none.

The bible likens God’s chosen people to prostitutes quite frequently. Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel warn Israel of the consequences of the nation’s spiritual wantonness in the Old Testament and refer to her the mother of idolatry. The Lord commanded the prophet Hosea to marry Gomer the harlot to illustrate how God will discipline and restore His people as a consequence of their propensity for turning away.

The Lord flat-out calls unfaithful churches such in Revelation by labeling them collectively as the Whore of Babylon. The name written on her forehead was a mystery: Babylon the great, the mother of prostitutes and of the abominations of the earth” (Revelation 17:5).  She will be judged harsher than the world.

The church helped me give birth to my faith. Notice, I did not say it gave me faith. (C)ontinue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose (Philippians 2:12b-13). It is not possible for an institution or individual to convey faith to a person.

It is common for people to quip to seminarians “don’t let them steal your Jesus!” As a matter of fact, it was a running joke at the school I attended that a particular room that was off-limits was where they stored students’ Jesuses.

Folks meant well, but it was another way of imploring ministers-in-training to keep the faith. Funny enough, no one ever said that in reference to the church. Those who are acquainted with my travails find my continued participation absurd. However, those who have relinquished their organizational membership, while yet maintaining faith, understand our dysfunctional family history.

Embracing the absurd is one of the most essential steps for developing faith. We worship a man who rose from the dead and lives in heaven. If that makes sense to you, I have bags of magic beans for sale.

Yes, the organized church has maligned, abused, marginalized, and disappointed me beyond measure. It is no accident that the Adversary chose it as the source of my angst. But still I love it. Stay away too long and I lose my bearings; stick around too long and I begin to lose my mind.

The church, with all of her waywardness, is my mother. She is prone to sell out the gospel for a song. However, she has given me something so fundamental to my being. Without her, I would not have developed a love for liturgical order, soul-stirring songs, scripture, and the people whose practice of faith helped shape my own.

I honor her for the divine work she has bred with the hope that she strives to become what God intended her to be.

That [Christ] might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish (Ephesians 5:27).

However, that does not exempt her from being called out on occasion for what she is.

A Dog’s Life

There is an old saying that all dogs go to heaven. Quite frankly, I’m not sure if I want to go there if this is not true. We all have our lines in the sand about what would make our bliss eternal. Some are quite base; others quite noble.

There is another saying that “if you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.” Sixteen years ago, I made a very good friend. I don’t know whether she chose me or I chose her, but fate brought us together. I asked the litter of fluffy Pomeranians, “Which one of you is Trixie?” She knocked her siblings down and came running.  

The day after I picked her up from the breeder, we journeyed to Atlanta as I began my theological studies. She was my road dog.

I have a history of clinical depression. The prospect of moving to a new city sight-unseen to pursue a profession fraught with existential peril was anxiety-inducing. My physician recommended that I buy a dog. She was just what I needed. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows (James 1:17). I must say that I never sank into despair while I had Trixie as she made it her bounden duty to bring me joy.

She greeted me when I came home with the demeanor of an ecstatic encounter with the divine. She let me rub her head when I felt down. She made me think of someone other than myself consistently. She co-hosted parties with me. Family gatherings were not the same without her. She made everyone love her and loved them in return. When we were leaving Atlanta to move back to DC, my neighbors of three years bid her a fond farewell. Many of them didn’t even know my name.

Trixie departed this life June 28, 2013 after a long bout with heart disease. I thought I was the only one who recognized the void she left behind. The expressions of comfort and recollection of tender memories from others have been nothing short of amazing.

I felt silly at times about how much I indulged her, but make no apology for my grief. A neighbor inquired why a dog’s passing received more outpouring of love than most people.  Yet, Proverbs 3:19 says: The righteous care for the needs of their animals, but the kindest acts of the wicked are cruel.

Yet, the same neighbor remarked “Even in departing she shines!” There was something transcendent about Trixie. I began to notice it after she chewed by bible as a pup akin to how Ezekiel ate the scroll (Ezekiel 3:3).  She was a good judge of character and quite the prognosticator.

I have every confidence that I am going to see her again.

I also said to myself, “As for humans, God tests them so that they may see that they are like the animals. Surely the fate of human beings is like that of the animals; the same fate awaits them both: As one dies, so dies the other. All have the same breath; humans have no advantage over animals. Everything is meaningless. All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return.  Who knows if the human spirit rises upward and if the spirit of the animal goes down into the earth?” (Ecclesiastes 3:18-21).

Black is Black

A friend recently tried to encourage me to watch a heavily-advertised "epic miniseries" on the Bible being aired on the History Channel. My first question was about the physical appearance of the characters. Predictably they were all of European descent.

It is common sense that people living in the lands where most of the biblical narrative took place were not white. If you would be astounded to meet someone from those regions today with blond hair and blue eyes. However, the very well-regarded seminary I attended likewise promoted European images of them. When I raised the question (y’all know I did, just like Buggin’ Out), they typical response was “it doesn’t matter what color they were.” The unspoken remainder of that sentiment was “as long as they are white.” 

Some might ask, why it matters. Well, first for the sake of academic integrity. If you lie to me about one thing, I can’t trust much else you say. Secondly, it matters because of institutionalized racism and its prevalence in the church.

I happen to attend one of the longest-standing historically black churches in Washington, DC. It was founded during the ante-bellum period to accommodate blacks who did not want to be treated in a discriminatory manner in a nearby Methodist Episcopal Church. Their white benefactors even provided assistance in building a new sanctuary. Needless to say, there are white images of a man they would like you to think was Jesus in several places around the building. As a matter of fact, there is a stained glass window facing the pulpit with such a depiction that is approximately 40 feet tall. I find it disconcerting, but consistent with the imperialistic mission of the organization.

This brings me to the point of spiritual integrity. The Second Commandment states:

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; And showing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments (Exodus 20:4-6).

The last I checked, Jesus was enthroned at the right hand of the Father. There should be no physical depictions of him anywhere, especially not in a Christian house of worship or inserted into the pages of bibles. Now, they must choose, is Jesus in heaven and off-limits for photo-ops or will they blatantly disregard God’s law?

I’ve heard the lame excuse that some people are visual learners and need images to help them grasp biblical truths. Well, it is a lie that Jesus is white. If you want them to grasp the truth, at least depict him correctly. One of my best friends is a United Methodist minister from Angola in SW Africa. I asked him what color Jesus would be in the picture on the wall of his church back home. He looked at me sheepishly and said “you know.” It seems missionaries push “Jesus is white” harder than they proclaim “Jesus is Lord.”

This also came up during a study of Song of Songs” using a study guide from said denomination’s publishing house. One of the narrators describes herself by saying I am black, but comely (1:5). The commentator could not grasp in the notes how being black was not a complaint. The narrator was stating matter-of-factly that she her complexion was darkened from prolonged exposure to the sun, but affirm her attractiveness. Leave it to me to expose the racist context in which the interpretation is taking place and the imperialistic regime it supports. It was a shock to some, but still a wake-up call to engage their all materials critically.

Sadly, these conversations are not welcome in the church. The strongest commentary I have seen on the subject were on episodes of The Boondocks and from stand-up comedians. Ironically, some black folks will strike you dead if you try to take away their white Jesus. However, an ignoramus of a black preacher once told me Jesus was African-American. I won’t dignify that with a response.  

The bottom line is that Jesus was a real, historical figure that did not look like Michelangelo’s effeminate brother-in-law. Most of the images we have had imposed on our consciousness were produced during a historical era when the African slave trade was being rationalized by  Europeans commissioning them. His ethnicity and appearance are not open to our social constructs.

There were many controversies concerning Jesus in the early church, but none of them focused on his race. We should likewise focus on his transcendent spirit and the power it gives us to overcome the world. If he wanted to leave a physical depiction of how he looked, he could have done that.