Pontifications

All
we can truly offer the person struggling through this time is
encouragement to endure. However, let’s look at some typical responses
we have. We - and by “we” I mean us the church and us as friends - like
to talk people out of pain when we can’t offer answers. We get
pre-occupied with wanting to provide an answer. Too often, that’s to
make us feel better, to justify our theology. Our pat answers have
become reflex, like we have to or are supposed to say something …
Christian. We repeat the expected vocabulary, the Christian cliches,
those over-used verses and phrases that convey little meaning after
hearing them so often. To the point where they don’t have any power
left, despite their inherent truth. What are some of these Christian
cliches?

“All things work for good” or some other rough rendering of Romans 8:28.  Look, when I’m in pain, don’t throw verses at me.  I’ll take the nearest Bible and beat you with it.
Don’t worry (Matthew 6:33-34).
I recently heard this sermon titled “Don’t Worry. Be Biblical.” I
thought great, tell me how to do this. This brother went through his
list of what we shouldn’t worry about, all the time I’m thinking okay,
but what should we do? I mean, this is easy to say, but how does it
manifest in our lives? Maybe I was guilty of wanting an answer. What I
didn’t need was him repeating the phrase “Don’t Worry. Be Biblical.” He
was so in love with his phrase that he kept repeating it as his
application point. I guess that I get his point, but I really wasn’t
feeling it.
God won’t give you anything you can’t handle.
And interesting Christianized version of “that which doesn’t break you
makes you stronger”, the only problem is that neither phrase is
actually in the Bible.
God’s grace is sufficient.
God always provides/God will make a way.
Nothing can separate us from the love of God.

Sometimes
it’s as if we’re blamed or made to feel guilty as if it’s our fault
that what ever trouble has hit us entered our lives. We’re made to feel
-that we don’t believe true enough
-that we need to focus on others
-that we aren’t reading the Bible enough
-that we aren’t praying hard enough, sincerely enough, or with the right motives. 

I
think this is partly because we’re still dealing with this image of God
as this cosmic Santa Claus, a failing in how we view God, in what we
believe who and what He is. We learn to pray in magic phrases, as if if
we get the wording right He’ll answer our prayers. “If it be your will
…[petition, beg, and plead] … in Jesus name.”

This points to
a fear that is real and even valid. The fear that if we confront our
pain, our sorrow, struggle with the questions of “why?” and “what did I
do to deserve this?”, that our faith may prove itself empty. Many
people have a fair weather faith, the kind of faith that Satan accused
Job of having. We’re afraid to not know. It’s like answers have become
our idols. We throw out these Christian cliches because we think we
have to have an answer for everything, forgetting one very important
thing: if we have all the answers, what do we need God for?

This
starts when you preach a gospel or sell the Bible as something that
will have all the answers for everything. Our faith isn’t validated
because it solves all of life’s problems. Our testimonies start to
sound a lot like what we hear on Oprah. Think about how the Gospel we
present is little different that the main message of her mission/show.
She presents life changing systems, people adopt them, and their lives
are changed. They tell stories of how their problems are solved and the
only difference between their story and “ours” is that they don’t cloak
their stories in Christian-ese. We’re afraid to face the fact that
sometimes we learn more looking for an answer and NOT finding it than
we do from learning the answer.

And that’s a scary place to be.

This
can lead to a crisis of faith that blows apart all of our systematized
ideas. Look at Job’s friends. At the heart of the book of Job is a
theodicy, a justification of God, for the age old “problem of evil”
argument. It goes something like this: God is good. God is all
powerful. But evil exists and bad things happen to good people.
Therefore either God isn’t good, He isn’t all-powerful, or He doesn’t
exist. Job’s friends had their systematic theology and it solved the
problem by blaming man: if bad things happened, you must have done
something to earn His wrath. And we still hold to this kind of thinking
today. Too many times I talk to people who blame the things that happen
in their lives on God punishing them for something. Like He hides in
the bushes waiting for us to screw up so he can zap us.

We end
up second guessing ourselves, questioning our sincerity, questioning
our belief, and what it means to believe. That’s why my favorite prayer
is “Lord I believe, help me with my unbelief.” After a while, the
Christian vocabulary no longer connects, the Christian cliches that
comforted us in sermons during easy or happy times sound empty, and
what’s more troubling, our lives don’t seem different from
non-Christians. We have the same crap happening to us and we’re just as
miserable, but we’re supposed to have all the answers. We have these
theological models, our explanations of God, life, the universe and
everything, that times of crisis and pain and real sorrow don’t fit
into our theology box.

Don’t get me wrong. These things we spout
have become cliches for a reason. These are promises made to us and
they’re true. However, they sometimes sound weak because of overuse.
Real wondering, real doubt, demands more than these trite responses.
It’s a delicate balancing act: balancing what we don’t know vs. what we
do. There is an honesty to doubt, to saying “I don’t know” and then
coming back to those promises.

-all things work together for good, but that seems like false comfort to a grieving parent
-He may not give us more than we can bear, but that doesn’t mean that what we’ve got doesn’t hurt for real
-God doesn’t always provide when we think He should and sometimes what He provides isn’t what we think we need
-He may prepare a way, but what if the way He has prepared for escape is a path of grief, darkness, pain, sorrow, and betrayal?
-and nothing can separate us from the love of God, but sometimes our unanswered prayers make us feel unloved and very separated.
   
We
have to be sure what we’re using the cliches for. Are we spouting them
because we think that’s what the person is struggling with and needs to
hear? Or are we spouting them because that’s what we’ve been
conditioned to say? Are we saying that because we don’t know what else
to say and we don’t want to confront the reality of us not knowing, our
own doubts, or our insecurities. That seems to be the problem of Job’s
friends. They had a lot of right answers, but they were for the wrong
problems. Instead of giving advice to make someone feel better, or even
shutting up and just be with them, it’s like our first thought is
“what’s the Christian thing to say?”

The best things we have to
offer is love and acceptance. When talking to people who have had their
lives blown to crap, who feel that God has yanked the rug out from
under the feet of their lives, we have to allow them to feel. Let them
know that it’s okay to feel sad. We have to be God’s arms of comfort.
And we have to realize that there’s a time for reassuring promises and
a time to shut up, be human, and weep with them.

[to be continued]

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
   

Sometimes we’re afraid to show that we’re sad, that we don’t have it all together.  We behave like those women from Desperate Housewives.
We do the “I’m fine” dance–“how are you?” “I’m fine”–because we don’t
want to show any cracks in our walk and we’re not sure that you really
want to hear about it if we do. And you know what? Christians are
supposed to be happy. At least we’re conditioned to believe that. Why
not? We’re supposed to have all the answers. When tragedy pops up, we
can have a moment of grief, but we’re supposed to move on fairly
quickly. After all, we have the gratitude of salvation and the joy of
being forgiven. So somehow prolonged sadness has come to be seen as a
lack of faith.

However, some of us find ourselves in places of
prolonged sadness. Spiritual ennui. Depression. A dark place where
friends, family, and God feel distant. Our Psalm 88 place where darkness is our only friend.  Our Job sitting on the mound place, where friends surround you yet you find no consolation in their words.  What we aren’t told often enough is that this is a natural step in the critical journey of faith.
You see, that conditioning that I was talking about refers to how the
main thrust of evangelical thought on getting folks to spiritually
progress goes along these phases:

1) to discover and recognize God
2) to start a life of discipleship
3) in order to get to a productive life (which usually translates into find a ministry in the church to get involved with)

For
many folks, that’s where the critical journey ends. Well, that’s all
fine and good, a "purpose driven life" and all that. I get that, but
there comes a point where things just don’t add up anymore. where the
answers that we’d come to depend on don’t cut it any more. If those
three steps are the end of the journey, then we have to do all manner
of intellectual hoop jumping in order to feel that we are still in the
faith. Because we’re so uneasy with questioning things, some would say that periods of prolonged doubt would be symptoms of apostasy putting us outside of the faith.

On
the other hand, such a phase was part of how the critical journey used
to be taught. This stage was what some folks called the perplexity or
illumination stage of thought/belief. It marked the beginning of the
second half of the critical journey:

4) the journey inward -
where your faith hits a wall, what some folks call the dark night of
the soul, when God feels especially absent or at least silent.
5) the journey outward - where this time of shattering reflection causes one to turn outward in focus.
6) the life of love - where loving people becomes our (more) natural way of living.

You
see the inherent problems, right? some folks get to that wall and don’t
realize that’s a natural part of their spiritual progression and then
jump off the train. Right when the key is to hold on and thrash your
way through your doubts.

You may not have gone through any real
hard times, but guaranteed, the longer you live, the more likely it is
that at some point, you’re life will feel blown to crap. We’ve tossed
around the Spanish mystic, St. John of the Cross’ phrase “dark night of the soul”.
Not every painful experience falls into that specific category. It
refers to something more than simple misfortune, but we can learn much
about getting through stormy times by learning about getting through
those dark nights. Sometimes the dark circumstances are the exact times
that God uses to transform us.

Overall, the process looks something like this:
-we feel that God is absent and inactive; He’s gone and we’re alone.
-we’ve come to the end of our ability to be in control.
-the familiar spiritual practices that we had come to depend on, that usually comforted us, instead seem hollow and ineffective
-BOOM! We hit a wall.

It
is the feeling that God is not at work, that He has abandoned us, and
all of our cries are going unanswered that causes us the greatest pain.
All we can truly offer the person struggling through this time is
encouragement to endure. However, let’s look at some typical responses
we have. We - and by “we” I mean us the church and us as friends - like
to talk people out of pain when we can’t offer answers. We get
pre-occupied with wanting to provide an answer. Too often, that’s to
make us feel better, to justify our theology. Our pat answers have
become reflex, like we have to or are supposed to say something …
Christian. We repeat the expected vocabulary, the Christian cliches,
those over-used verses and phrases that convey little meaning after
hearing them so often. To the point where they don’t have any power
left, despite their inherent truth.

[to be continued]

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
   

This doesn’t go said enough, but I’ve really enjoyed being a member of Intake’s Blog Squad.
They pretty much let me blog about whatever I want, however, once a
week, we usually get these prompts on issues to write about. The prompt
this week has been especially tough for me to put my brain around to
have a take on.

The
ACLU of Indiana filed the suit challenging a new city ordinance that
fines child molesters caught near city playgrounds or other gathering
spots for children. Calling the ordinance passed in mid-May
unconstitutionally vague, the group said it would make law-abiding
citizens unwitting violators of the ordinance and hinder their ability
to work, vote and worship.

The ordinance prohibits sex offenders
convicted of crimes against children from coming within 1,000 feet of
playgrounds, recreation centers, swimming pools, sports fields or
facilities when children are around. One exception to the ban is if the
offender is accompanied by an adult with no history of sex crimes.

This
isn’t the take folks will expect, but all this reminds me of is the
fact that ministry is tough. By it’s very nature, ministry means not
giving up on folks. We can run around claiming to be about loving our
neighbors, that’s one thing; but loving your enemies … well, that’s
tough. It’s a quick way to take the measure of your faith. Some days,
I’m convinced that the fact that God bothers to care about any of us is
more mercy than we deserve. As quick as we are to ask “How can we
believe in God when He allows these people to do bad things?” I’m
forced to ask “How can we continue to believe in humanity?”

Some
sins follow you around longer than others. Some sins have greater
consequences. Yes, there is forgiveness, but there is also penalty. In
a lot of ways, there is a digital scarlet letter, and its accompanying
social ostracization, for sex offenders. From them registering to
neighbors being alerted when one moves into the neighborhood - yes,
it’s tough to get on with your life when you become a social pariah,
but it’s harder for the folks who were the victims of sexual predators.

The
recidivism rate is high. The stakes–when it comes to sexual offenders
and predators–is also high. We, as a society, are committed to not
taking chances with our kids. Most of me wants to call down imprecatory prayers on the offenders, but a part of me has to allow for the fact that people do repent and people do change.

This
even touches how we do church. For one thing, when I look back on the
story of the church, we have our own sins: demeaning women, racism,
anti-intellectualism, financial scandals, and Lord knows, more than our
share of sexual scandals. We’re a lot less likely to repeat our
mistakes if we own up to them. And if someone, or a society, holds us
accountable. At the same time, church is a place for “sinners,” not all
of whom have repented. So, would I “allow” a sex offender into the
church? Of course. Would I know where that person was at all times (and
for that matter, would everyone know about his past sins so that they
could be aware of the situation)? Of course.

Sorry, I’m not a
big believer in victimology to begin with and I’m certainly not going
to turn abusers into a victimized group. They have every right to try
and move past their transgressions and live their lives. Just don’t expect me to feel too bad for them.  I’m not there yet.  I want to know where they are and how close they are to my kids.

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
   

[The story begins here.]

After
I got the news, my first call was to my wife. She asked "When will you
find out the results?" however, the only response I had was “Sorry
honey, but once I heard the words ‘breast cancer’ and ‘lactating’, I
was pretty much done taking in new information.”

My next call
was to my friend whom, for the sake of this article, we’ll call Laura.
She was over the age of 40 and every time she made her annual
pilgrimage to get her mammogram on her birthday, she called me to tell
me about it. Admittedly it was an odd way to bond, but it works for us.
I knew she would be the one to give me real mammogram advice. She
informed me that it helped to have big boobs (not that I had much say
in this, although I follow a strict non-exercise regimen). Wearing
deodorant was a mistake(apparently the X-ray machine picked up the
flecks of some deodorant as cancers trying to get started). Finally,
she told me, “Don’t schedule the mammogram around your period.”

It was as this point that I hung up on Laura.

This
is a good time to discuss the sensitive reactions of my friends. Don’t
get me wrong: I love my friends. On the whole, these people would walk
through fire for me, but we all dealt with trying times the same way:
with (sadistic) humor. My friend, whom I’ll call Dan, called while I
was sitting on my couch still brooding about my news. He wanted to tell
me that he had been sent home from work because he had injured his back
and was going to have to have an MRI done.

“I bet that I can trump your test,” I said.

This
would be the same Dan who, when I was a teen and had a rod inserted
along my spine to correct my scoliosis, visited during my recovery to
see if magnets would stick to my back. He began laughing so hard I
thought I was going to have to go over to his place to perform CPR.

In addition to being my pastor, he whom I will call Rich
was one of my closest friends. I know that if anyone else had come to
him, he would have been full of all sorts of pastoral wisdom. Since it
was me, someone who shared his often twisted bent, I got “this explains
why you like shopping so much and dress so nice.” [In his defense,
read: how he has since spun this in light of me writing about it, he
was merely trying to "alleviate the weightiness" of the situation by
making a joke. He went on to say that his response contrasted with that
of our friend I’ll call Rob who “delighted in your misfortune.”

Rob
not only laughed so much that I had to let him go, but when I called
back, he was still laughing. In fact, he in turn had called Rich, to
continue laughing. And despite Rich’s protestations to the contrary,
Rich’s wife informed me that he was so giddy at the opportunity to be
there for me, he nearly broke his finger trying to call me back to make
a comment about the possibility of me having ovaries].

With a
whole weekend to kill, I turned to the one place I knew would answer
all my questions, that would comfort me in the cool embrace of useful
information: the Internet. For the record, the Internet was a wonderful
tool, especially for finding information. However, it was not someplace
that hypochondriacs should wander alone.

I didn’t even know men could get breast cancer until I saw it on an episode of Oz.  The American Cancer Society estimated that each year, about 1,700 new cases of breast cancer in men would be diagnosed in the U.S.
The symptoms included nipple discharge (usually bloody), nipple
inversion, a lump, or, occasionally, local pain, itching, or pulling
sensation.

If indeed I was lactating, my condition was called galactorrhea:
the secretion of breast milk in men, or in women who were not
breast-feeding an infant. It could be caused by a pituitary gland
tumor, other types of brain tumors, head injuries, or encephalitis (an
infection of the brain). Men could possibly experience loss of sexual
interest and impotence. And then I came across the single most
disturbing article on the topic: “Milkmen: Fathers Who Breast-feed.”  It was about men who purposefully stimulated their nipples to produce milk.  It had pictures.

Pictures.

[Note: some of the more disturbing pictures have since been removed]

Monday
eventually arrived, and with it, the mammogram. I thought that I would
feel odd, a guy waiting in the office that performed mammograms, until
it occurred to me that I looked like a guy waiting on his wife.

The
technician did her best to calm me, while handing me wipes - to remove
any deodorant I might be wearing - and a gown to wear. Though I’d only
wear the gown from the changing room for the four steps it took to get
to the X-ray machine. She had me put one hand behind my back and the
other on the machine, presumably to steady myself, though I was not
certain that it wasn’t just to give my hands something to do in order
to keep me from clawing at the machine.

There was a whole lot of tugging and pulling and clamping down of things.  Most of my writing career is done as a horror writer,
but let me tell you, no matter how dulcet the tone, the new scary
phrase for me was "let me guide the tissue". That cued the
pancaking–and there was a reason that the word “pancake” could be used
as a verb–of flesh. And, Laura’s advice aside, I don’t have a lot to
work with. Two plates pressed together to flatten my breast as much as
possible. It was one of those “you may feel an uncomfortable pressure”
- not to be confused with pain - situations. All told, it took only a
few moments to get the two views of my breast, one from above and one
angled from the side.

Luckily, there was a doctor there to read
the results for me. She made me nervous at first, because she asked to
have a couple of re-shots, saying that she wanted to see "my nipple in
profile". I always imagined that a woman saying that to me would be
grounds for divorce, but then she came back with the news that my
condition looked like an abscess of some sort. Probably caused by an
insect bite or ingrown hair. Antibiotics were prescribed and it cleared
it up within a couple of weeks.

All in all, things turned out
well. Granted, now I can’t remove my shirt when I play volleyball for
fear of breaking some obscenity law by exposing my nipples. At the very
least, the scare reminded me not to take my time, my family, or my
friends for granted because I didn’t know how long I would be with them.

And my sons appreciate how great my maternal instincts are.      

Again, a special thanks to Morbid Curiosity’s editor, Loren Rhoads.
Moving on to concentrate on her writing which is everyone’s gain
(except those competing for the same markets she submits to).

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
   

At this year’s World Horror Convention
I did my first reading. I read my story “Man-O-Gram,”first published in
Morbid Curiosity #8. Morbid Curiosity, a non-fiction market for true
life tales of horror, sadly came to an end with it’s tenth issue, but
copies of issues #3-10 are available at the website.  Though this violates my rule on sustaining the author’s mystique, I thought that I would print the story here.

The
plastic plate of the x-ray machine lowered with a whir as I stood
against the cold metal beast, naked from the waist up. All I could do
was stare at my breast while it was positioned to be compressed between
the plates wondering “how the heck did I get here?”

Early in her
pregnancy, my wife’s doctor diagnosed her with a condition called
placenta previa. While the doctor explained to both of us the nature of
the condition, all I heard was “You can’t have sex with your wife.”
Seven long months later, my wife was still recovering from her
C-section. As a first time mother settling into a routine of nursing,
any broach of her bosom area was met with the rebuke of “Those aren’t
for you” and my hands getting slapped. At that point, I didn’t trust
myself bumping into furniture. My Saturday nights were reduced to TV
watching and cold showers.

Before the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself”
gets cued, let me get on with my story. One day in the shower, I spied
my wife’s breast self-examination chart. Okay, it had been there the
length of our marriage, but every time I stepped into the shower, all
my mind registered were pictures of breasts and every time it took a
minute for me to realize why they were there. Today was different. I
looked around (because that’s what you did when you are about to do
something potentially embarrassing) and performed the self-exam.

I felt a lump.

Now would also be the time to mention that I suffer from hypochondria.  Unfortunately, it was matched by my great dislike for doctors, so I sat around a lot obsessing about what I might have, while not actually going anywhere to do anything about it.

I
noticed a pain in my bosom (I’m trying to say bosom as often as
possible, not necessarily to avoid offending anyone, but to try and
hide my soon-to-be-copious use of – read: obsession with – the word
“breast”). The pain was so great, I decided to … call my sister.
This wasn’t as bad as it sounds: my sister was in nursing school. (Well
she was taking English and speech and other pre-requisite stuff.) She
told me that it might be an ingrown hair or an infected spider bite. So
I was like “cool”.

The next day, the pain in my bosom woke me
up. I decided to squeeze my breast. White liquid started came out from
around my nipple. And it hurt. A lot. I spent the rest of the day
laying around in pain. My wife was in full, but loving, harangue mode
about how I ought to go to the doctor.

Two days after I first
discovered the lump, I finally went to my doctor. It was a Friday. She
poked, prodded and squeezed my bosom. (Yes, my doctor is a woman. I
know that there are various schools of thought on the subject, and
while I am by no means a homophobe, if someone is going to touch me
anywhere near my naughty parts, it is going to be a woman. Okay, maybe
that came off more homophobic than I wanted.)

"How long ago did you notice the lump?" she asked.
“While I don’t make it a practice to play with my breasts often, the best I could tell you was when I noticed the pain.”
She sat across from me with her best grave "I have something serious to discuss with you" face.  “There are three possibilities:
“1) It could just be an infected cyst.
“2) It could be breast cancer.
“3) It could be a benign brain tumor.”

Things
became rather hazy at that point, though I remember how she emphasized
the word “benign” as if that would help when accompanied by the words
“brain tumor.”

My mind locked up with competing thoughts, trying
to grasp the enormity of what I had just heard. Cancer didn’t run in my
family. However, I worked in an environmental toxicology lab and had
sort of resigned myself to the possibility that any of the numerous
chemicals I am exposed to might give me cancer. I mean, newspapers can
report all they wanted about how coffee might cause cancer, but I
worked with some chemicals labeled “mutagen.”

I managed to ask
about the whole brain tumor thing. My doctor said that there was a type
of tumor that caused the brain to screw up one’s hormonal levels which
would explain - how did she put it? - “I’m not positive that you are
simply discharging pus.” Tip-toeing around it, trying her best to
cushion the news - emphasizing that now is not the time to panic - only
panicked me more. She finally said the magic words: “You may be
lactating.”

“Lactating?”  I asked.
“Lactating.”

Sometimes
a circumstance can hit you that was so absurd, all you can do is laugh.
I’m all for extreme support in marriage; for example, when my wife had
her gestational diabetes, I gave up desserts. But I didn’t think I had
ever identified so much … I didn’t think I had ever been so jealous
… I didn’t think that I was so sympathetic as to start lactating on
her behalf. I mean, I got up in the middle of the night to take care of
the boy (okay, I was usually already up, but the thought was the same).
But that was to change a diaper. If he were hungry, I was good with
getting him a bottle. Being too lazy to walk downstairs I can see, but
I can’t see being jealous of her being able to deliver straight from
the tap.

Anyway, my doc drew blood for some tests, telling me
that I needed to schedule a mammogram. She’d put a rush on it and get
it scheduled for Monday, sensitive to the fact that we’d want to know
the results as soon as possible. She re-emphasized that “Now is not the
time to panic.” Actually, I could think of no better time to panic,
especially after having been told to schedule a mammogram. I couldn’t
recall the last time anyone prayed to have a pus-filled sac in their
chest [as an aside, I debated on the word 'pus-filled'. I was going to
go with pusey or pusy, but I figured in a quick read, that was too
close to something else and, boy, would that take this story in a new
direction].

I left her office in a daze, realizing that I had a whole weekend to dwell on all of the possibilities.

To be continued …

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
   

The
federal government on Wednesday released results showing that fourth-
and eighth-graders in Indiana in 2005 fared worse than their
counterparts five years earlier. Indiana was one of four states (along
with Alabama, Arizona and Nevada) that recorded a significant decline
in eighth-grade scores.

Three out of 10 fourth-graders in
Indiana do not have even a basic understanding of age-appropriate
scientific concepts. Only 27 percent of fourth-graders were graded as
proficient in science. Indiana’s eighth-graders scored worse than
younger students. A mere 62 percent have a basic grasp of science; 29
percent were judged as proficient.

So you know what it’s time to do?  Start casting blame.

ISTEP
misses the point of the true tragedy: the inability of teachers to
teach the test, because that’s what we’ve reduced the job of teachers
to. Teachers teach for the ISTEP and serve as (under) paid child/teen
daycare. Without parental support (unrealistic expectations and
scape-goating, yes; support, no), without administrative support (top
heavy management bureaucracy who have teachers’ back … way, way back,
yes; support, no), and without government support (dictates and
strings, yes; support, no). No wonder so many young teachers burnout
within three years.

We might want to rethink how we go about
teaching, transmitting knowledge. It’s hard to be teachers and fill
roles as parents. It’s a lot to ask, though so many do it and do it
well. Sometimes, if little Johnny’s not succeeding at school, little
Johnny may be an a-hole whose parents need to step up. News of
declining test scores will most likely lead to more parents considering
home-schooling.

Schooling
is underappreciated. You know what? I’m done with everyone has to go
through twelve years of school. Education should be there for those who
want it, but if you’re determined to screw up your life because you
know everything already, good luck to you. Quit taxing our limited
resources by being disruptive. Unfair? Black folks used to be lynched
if some people found out we could read. Now, to paraphrase Chris Rock,
a book is like kryptonite to some folks.

-I
have no problem weeding out those who don’t want to be there and
sending them to a different program that emphasizes structure and
discipline.

-I have no problem de-emphasizing sports in favor of a greater arts and science program.

-I’m good with mandatory school uniforms.  If my boss wants professional dress because it leads to more professional behavior, school can prepare kids for this.

-I’m good with richer schools “adopting” poorer ones by sharing their resources.

-I’ve been a long supporter of vouchers, if we could figure out an efficient way to do it.

I’ve
started telling my boys, though they are only 4 and 5, that, no matter
their other grades in other classes, they must English and math. If you
master those, they can do just about anything you want in life.

However, you couldn’t pay me enough to be a public school teacher.

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
   

Last time
we set out to explore the metaphor of discipleship being akin to the
journey along the Underground Railroad. The journey from slavery to
freedom is one that many attempted on their own to varying degrees of
success, but was best accomplished within community, within a network
of like-minded people (and by like-minded I mean they all have the same
pursuit and goal).

The power and purpose of community is
demonstrated in many ways. It helps combat the self-absorption that
tends to shape us. For instance, while we can learn on our own, there
are times when we need to come together in order to do so. No one has
mastered theology. In its ideal, community allows checks, questions,
and conversations as we try to muddle through life and pursue Christ
together.

To make the journey one had to have a map, a lay of
the land marking the terrain (hills and valleys; woods and water) in
order to hide or move along in secret. Guides were as important, people
who had made the journey ahead of the fugitives and knew the signposts
and safe haven markers. Now don’t forget, reading was a luxury, more of
a punishable offense, for a slave. Another valuable component to
community is coming together to prayerfully read the Scripture.
Scripture tells us the truth about life. It isn’t an end unto itself,
but, rather, points to God. Guiding us in how to live and God’s
teaching for our lives, it’s the food that nourishes us on our journey.
Scripture acts as our map that keeps us on the path of the faithful.
Through it we learn about and grow to know our faith, though more
importantly, we need to live out what we know.

The importance of
coming together also applies to worship. In communal worship we “do”
the truth: we sing it, read it, preach it, live it. It takes the focus
from us, moves it outside ourselves, and points (confesses) to God. In
the context of the Underground Railroad, worship songs took on a more
practical dimension as well. Songs like “Follow the Drinking Gourd,”
for example, contained code words for an escape route from Alabama and
Mississippi.

Another thing forgotten about following this path
is the reality that there is an inherent danger to the journey. While
the bounty/slave hunters, with their blood hounds, were fairly easy to
spot, other dangers weren’t. Law-abiding citizens were obligated to
turn in fugitives. It was hard to know who to trust. To say nothing of
the extreme conditions the fugitives had to travel through. The
weather, having to move at night through often freezing temperatures,
proved its own obstacle.

Likewise, there is a danger to
following Jesus. Faith is trust (in Jesus and his death and
resurrection to do the will and mission of God) and belief (in certain
truths about Him). From family members turning their backs on you,
friends distancing themselves from you, and mocking by colleagues to
true persecution for following your religion. There are all manner of
traps can discourage or derail your journey.

We have continual
struggles with sin. We often have it in our heads that our spiritual
walks should be this steady climb in holiness. However, spirituality is
often much more messy than this. We have ups and downs, occasionally
following the odd rabbit trail. Though we’ve been freed from it and no
longer have our identity in the system of slavery, it’s easy to be
ensnared by those old values and ways.  Sometimes you will fail and sometimes you will have setbacks.

While
we journey through this more committed phase of our journey, we have to
remember that we are walking with the Spirit. Journeying with someone
implies a certain level of dialogue, friendship, sharing, and an
overall deepening of relationship. Walking with God is no different.
Though there may be times when you may still feel alone, when God seems distant or especially silent,
He is there, guiding you. During this leg of our trip, we may undergo
the rite of baptism, symbolizing your death to sin and being raised
into a new life. Making a covenant of discipleship with Christ.

Eventually
the fugitives reached Canada, assuming they didn’t choose to stop and
settle along the way. Either way, they had made it, they were truly
free. At the end of their journey. However, even when they had “made
it,” they weren’t done. Yes, the fugitives, now free people, could
breathe free, vote, and own land, but they still had to find a home, a
job, and adjust to a new place. In other words, they had to begin to
learn the disciplines of experiencing a free life - a lifelong calling.

Discipleship is not instant.  In truth, the journey has just begun as you attempt to develop your new rule of life.
See what gifts you bring to the community and figure out how to be a
contributing member of the body. Finding a place is a critical part of
your journey. How many times have you felt on the outside looking in on
a group? It leads to feelings of aloneness, alienation, which
eventually lead to anger and bitterness. You may even become resentful
of the journey itself (what’s the point of following Christ if it only
leads to a group you are excluded from or is itself exclusive?)

All
the while knowing and learning how to serve God’s creation. Our life
because service to God and each other. At the same time, we need to
tell others about the need to make the journey. We don’t want to leave
anyone behind, trapped in a system of slavery. As Robert Webber put it
“discipleship is a long obedience in the same direction.”

Or as those on that long ago journey put it, we need to “Follow the North Star.”

***
I
don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this
rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to
stop by and say hi, do so on my message board.  I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.