Incomplete 1st Grade Seatwork, An America to Be Proud of, and Colin Kaepernick

When I was almost five years old, my first grade teacher used an unusual grading scale for our seatwork. We were given “smiley face” stamps for perfect scores, “ambivalent face” stamps for incomplete work, and “sad face” stamps for failing grades.

I was a very academically gifted child, and while it was easy to compare the smiles I was used to, to the frowns which were undoubtedly poor,

I had never been bothered to understand what the middle stamp meant because I’d never been exposed to it before.


That is, until a parent-teacher conference at an October Open House. Isn’t it funny the things you remember? Open House was one of my favorite times of the year because I understood just how important education was to my parents.

It was my opportunity to show them that their dreams for my future, brimming with the hopes for my unlimited tomorrow, mattered to me too. 

I remember how excited and proud I was to show my parents the work I’d done so far in my first year of “real school”, first grade! My parents reviewed the work I’d done so far that semester, and all was well until they came across an assignment that was marked as incomplete. Lets just say that when we got home, they left me with the conviction that to deem something finished that is incomplete is both irresponsible, and unacceptable.

“To deem something finished that is incomplete is both irresponsible, and unacceptable.”
— Ralph Mays

Recently, Colin Kaepernick, the quarterback of the San Francisco 49ers has been the subject of a good deal of criticism surrounding his decision to sit during the national anthem citing his unwillingness to “show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color”. Here's the thing.

 

I do not know that he is wrong.

 

I do know that the stars and stripes on our country’s flag are supposed to be symbols of personal and religious liberty for all people, in a country where blatant islamophobia is not just celebrated but can be considered a viable campaign platform, and where the construction of mosques and temples are sources of debate and outrage in many communities, and where many are hoping for Supreme Court Justices to be nominated that would reverse historic rulings on newly-recognized freedoms like marriage equality.

I know that I was taught the flag has evolved with our country to be a symbol of liberty and justice for all US citizens, not just white men with property in a country which is wrestling with systematic racial and socioeconomic inequality, disproportionate mortality rates of law enforcement officials’ interactions with black citizens, and the system’s repeated failure to hold those officials accountable for their actions.

I know the dissonance of a first-hand lived experience that doesn’t reflect the inalienable natural rights every American is entitled to — life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and so I, along with millions across our country continue to call on our governments to do better, to fulfill their social contracts, to create a better country for us all.

 

Here’s what I don’t understand. I am left confused by a trend towards condescending and mean-spirited rhetoric directed at people refusing to be satisfied with anything less than a nation that in the words of Dr. King, “…will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed.” 

Why is it that brown people’s criticism of the United States’ failure to protect their constitutional rights today is often framed as unpatriotic and met with vitriol or paternalistic scolding by self-proclaimed patriots when the very notion of that criticism is idealistically American?

 

Sometimes I wonder if all the people who are angry with the dissatisfaction of people like Colin Kaepernick, and #BLM protestors like myself have forgotten that in the words of John Adams, “the very foundation of American independence” was laid at the Boston Massacre and bathed in the blood of people of color at the hands of peacekeeping officers — an event where after the first patriots threw objects in protest at British authorities, a crowd of British colonists were fired upon, killing three people on the scene, the first being a black man and one of the wounded being just a boy. Race has always been a trigger for law enforcement brutality.

The needless violence of this isolated incident towards a handful of civilians was shocking and infuriating enough to incite a revolution.

And how many of our black unarmed men, women, and children have died at the hands of law enforcement again? Last year the number was north of 100. This year we are on track to exceed that. Just let that settle for a minute.

I feel like this is a perspective-shift moment for our nation, and these incidents have created space for an Open House of sorts where all can be made aware and where many who've unbeknownst to themselves lived with privilege disguised as equality have an opportunity to understand a different experience.

This is the moment when fellow Americans who may have never been required to understand what the "middle stamp" of an immoral and incomplete justice means, have an opportunity to demand better — an opportunity to show their fellow citizens that their right to a future, their lives and livelihoods matter to them too.

The truth is, I love my country, much like my parents loved me in the classroom on that fall day in 1997. And because I love my country and truly believe in what we can become, 

Because I dream of a nation where black lives matter, where our actions are judged in a courtroom by our character rather than in a street by an officer acting as judge, jury, and executioner,

Because I hope for a day when Americans don’t have to fight to build Buddhist temples or Islamic mosques in their own communities

Because I truly believe the United States can become a nation where all are treated equally by our government institutions, I am sorely unwilling to condemn those like him who refuse to lower their expectations to an incomplete American ideal. 

Almost twenty years later, I’d say my parents are pretty proud of the life I’m making for myself. I’m excited to one day inhabit an America I can be proud of again. 

Hopefully Colin will be able to say so too.

Finding Life, Creativity, and Hope in Pain, Tension and Chaos

I awoke this morning bathed in natural light, inexplicably tired after more than seven hours of solid sleep. And this isn’t the first time. Has anyone else been feeling this lately? This weight? This pressing heaviness of our chaotic world that seems to grow by the day?


Another headline. 

Another mass shooting. 

Another act of terrorism.

Another hate crime.

Another person that looks like me dying at the hands of law enforcement. 

Another political scandal.

 


In this painful season of growing pains for our western culture - one that is saturated with violence and built on a foundation of oppression, its as if we’ve been living life for the past couple of months on a constant inhale. When do we release?

In the face of our brokenness, where do we find space to breathe?

 


The Hebrew Scriptures begin with a beautiful poem filled with vivid imagery. It is a powerful allegory of creativity — the idea that from chaos will always be born beauty and one that firmly roots my eschatology. It begins in darkness, like so many things do. The phrase Tohu wa bohu (תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ) which the poet uses to describe the scene and set the stage could be translated as ”waste and void," "formless and empty," or "chaos and desolation" and the spirit of God hovers over the chaotic deep. And then….something happens.

In fact, everything happens.

“1 In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.[a] 2 The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters.

3 Then God said, “Let there be light,””
— Genesis 1, New Living Translation (NLT)

What was it that the early Hebrews managed to capture in their story? What was worth being passed down orally for generations, recorded and kept throughout history?

In light of modern scientific discovery of the beginnings of our world, what remains?


Over two thousand years ago, the Spirit of God in the person of Jesus would again move upon the face of the water. But this time, like he did in every aspect of his ministry, Jesus responded to Peter's request to prove that the unnerving figure moving barely within eyesight was him with more than just a solution, but an invitation to join him in doing the impossible in the midst of the chaos. The invitation echoed across the water in the single word, “Come.” And so he came, leaving the safety of the boat to walk out into the unknown of the deep risking life, safety and dignity to follow Jesus.

“25 About three o’clock in the morning, Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. 26 When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!”

27 But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!”

28 Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.”

29 “Yes, come,” Jesus said.”
— Matthew 14, New Living Translation (NLT)

I know that invitation better than ever. I've heard Christ call, "Come." as I've walked onto freeways in protest, and into meetings with pastors in the pursuit of reconciliation. Most times, its not been easy. But on the dim days and in the hard mornings, during the times when my Facebook friends hurt my feelings by dismissing declarations that my life matters, or when I find myself addressed by faith communities as a problem that needs to be resolved instead of a reflection of God asking to be acknowledged, I have found beauty in the darkness.

The truth is, darkness is petrifying, and the uncertainty of the unknown can cause us to fear even God’s spirit when it shows up on the scene. But if we are willing to be called out past our distrust and to dare to press past our apprehension, we will discover a beautiful invitation beyond our comfort into the creativity that darkness inspires. And we are invited to do far more than spectate, but into full inclusion and participation with the divine in the pursuit of shalom from chaos, in the creation of a better world.

 

Whether by choice or necessity, when we approach the world outside of the ways our experience would prompt us to interact with it, we begin to do more than look at the murky figure walking on the waves. We begin to see.

And I’ve seen it over and over — not always from Christians, or even people I agree with.

 

I’ve seen it in the thoughts shared by a white middle aged mom, a delegate to the RNC who wore a Black Lives Matter T-shirt and was threatened to be forcibly removed, and in DNC protestors who called out abortion as a tragedy, persisting that we find a better solution for unwanted pregnancies.

I’ve seen it in the thousands of Muslims who voluntarily donated blood to the LGBT victims of the massacre at Pulse nightclub in Orlando in the middle of their Ramadan fasting, and in Christians who’ve circled mosques to protect the inhabitants from hateful mobs.

I’ve seen it in non-affirming clergy who can’t reconcile their exegesis of Scripture with the spectrum of human experiences in sexuality, but are consistently concerned with creating safety in their faith communities for all people, and in the work of a Syrian artist who practices resurrection by painting instruments of death and destruction, turning them into something beautiful.

I've left the church for a while, and I’ll talk a bit more about that later, but outside its walls, in places and people and ways that I'd never expected, I've found the Divine -- never failing to bend the moral arc of the universe towards good over and over, so that nothing is wasted. Now, I believe with more certainty than ever that especially in the dark, God is working. This certainty has radically changed the way I approach most things, and for now, these are the things that matter most to me. 

Authenticity. I am more committed than ever to being a safe place for others by being fully present and unafraid of embracing the hard, both with God, and with you.

Intention. I am purposeful with my choices, knowing my capacity to create and shape the world I’ve been given.  I am a force. I refuse to be a destructive one.

And my faith, which has become my greatest treasure.

 

I am filled with this inexhaustible force - a hope and belief that things are trended toward fullness and completion and goodness in our world. I call that hope for better the heart of the gospel, and I have come to know that force to be God.

 

I’m excited to share what I’m learning with you.

Authenticity Chronicles

This commitment to authenticity and vulnerability, its been hard recently. The past few days have been hard; days, weeks, months — you get the idea. I’ve been tired. There are times when I find I still feel somewhat temporary about myself. I went to sleep last night without any desire to wake up this morning, and this morning I woke up anyway to more hard, and more tired. I think its easy when you’ve inhabited an unhealthy thought cycle for too long to lose any expectation of freedom, and to cope, to sacrifice your optimism at the altar of the excruciating pain of hope deferred but I find myself dedicated to this core value because I've found that nothing sustainable can be built on a facade.

This afternoon, I ran into an old friend at Starbucks. She asked how I’d been, and I practiced the hard. I trudged through the shame, and told her the truth. I believe in the work I’m doing. It doesn't look like much, but I believe in where my ministry is headed and how its growing. I see God all over it, but its so hard to continue, and I feel like I’m trying to tackle a mountain meant for a people, alone. She listened, and prayed for me briefly before leaving, and when I turned my attention back to my computer, I saw a $475 anonymous, unsolicited donation which was a major need.

This remains hard, but the hard is worth it, and I appreciate these little reminders that the hard was never meant to be taken on alone, or without hope. Hope deferred is painful but its dismissal is nothing short of destructive, and Jesus continues to meet me in the pain. He's not coming, he's here, in every hard conversation when I choose to look past shame and own my truth. He is the embodiment of his name Immanuel, God with us and God with me. He is teaching me how to follow God, not far removed from those who suffer, but by constantly extending an invitation for me to dance across lines that have too long proved divisive. I am learning.

Thank you to whoever donated today. Please let me know who you are,  I'd love to take you to lunch and let you know more about what your donation will do in the lives of at-risk youth in our city. My heart is full.

Graceful Death - Short Form Poetry

i’m learning to view death through the lenses of redemptive Grace,
a God-moment where heaven leans in so closely,
sobered by our mourning what was,
all the while carrying solace and anticipation in the knowing
the moment pointing their gaze to the One who was, the One who is, and is to come —
in everything dead eventually creating space for new life; 
each instance a tiny prophetic act of resurrection,
of birthing beauty from pain,
a revealing of the Divine's true nature.

yes, ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
but the in-betweens that make this truth more cyclical than linear are what inspire my hope and confidence.
in them i find promise
in them I find permission to question, to voice my fears — knowing,
that like winter into spring,
as the God-breath into the inanimate clay,
like the King who embraced death and whose last breath was not the last word,
that death will always lend itself to life
here I anchor my hope and confidence in Her goodness
lifting my hallelujah to the God of the redeemed.

Anxiety - Short Form Poetry

Im carrying more then I should.

Im scared of who we’re becoming and the bombs dropping too close to home.

I don’t want us to be afraid of ourselves,

but we are keeping the gates locked from the people we need to save.

The snow melts a lot quicker now, never sticks for long.

The sunlight feels uneasy on my skin.

I don’t pick up the phone because im terrified

the voice on the other line will tell me someone else I know is lost.

The more people you love, the more people you lose.

Im too terrified of what’s happening in the world

to worry about what career im going to dump in the remainder of life I have left.

How does anyone sit still anymore,

how can any of us breathe?

I’m carrying too much,

please,

let me sleep.

Jigsaw - Short Form Poetry

It is on afternoons like this one

That I feel like a jigsaw puzzle,

Tampered with by a toddler at the very moment,

When it appeared that my pieces were forming a cohesive picture.

My pieces, now strewn across the floor,

Flung to the farthest recesses of the room by her chubby arms - Just out of my eye’s reach, and my mind’s perception.

On afternoons like this one,

I try to make sense of what is left on my nightstand.

I push aside the razors and pills that promise happiness but lie,

Preparing with my remaining pieces to play seek and hide, and beginning, to Fill in the spaces between them.

Minister Neal

I was in North Carolina, at a interdenominational weekend retreat run entirely by volunteers, when I heard it for the first time in ages.

It was barely audible above the shouting of children --

the squeals and laughter bubbling from the volleyball courts into the cafeteria windows. But it was there:

the rhythm of heavy boots bringing back the sound of laughter following a shrill whistle piercing through the air like lightning.

This is what learning sounds like. I remember.

I remember when I was eight years old,

the children’s pastor and leader of Junior Church was Minister Neal.

He was a goofy, stern man the size of a boulder, and he thudded like a tank through the hallways of our church.

Once, when I needed to get his attention

I got close enough to tap him on the shoulder

I tapped hard to try and see whether he had any soft at all.

I thought he was made of rock.

We begged to be sent to his Junior church: the banners hanging like a jungle

above our heads, reminding us that we could be anything

the sound of our children’s pastor’s laughter. Adults needed appointments,

but we did not. And even once when he was in grown-up meeting,

all it took was a gentle knock on the door, a peek around the corner,

and he was off calling, "Sorry. We’ll have to reschedule.

I have to see someone else about a very important matter.

It’s about a treat. It’s about a new ABC bible verse. It’s about a finished book of the bible — one book further than last time?!”

He visited every Sunday school classroom, knew every student by name.

He spoke to us like we were scholars. Artists. Scientists. Athletes.

Musicians. And we were

My world was the size of a crayon box,

and it took every color to draw him.

My world was the size of his Junior Church room. It was a tall as I could stretch my fingers, thinking, “Please!”

Let me be the one to respond to Minister Neal.

Let me be the one to show him what I know.

Books of the Bible.

Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.

Acts.

Romans. 1 Cor. 2 Cor. Galatians.

Look how much I know.

He brought us guests and movies, clowns and candy, swords and a praise team and a petting zoo.

They set up the cages in the parking lot for our Hallelujah Festival

While we were still tucked up in the junior church room, unaware.

Rabbits and guinea pigs poked out their noses, but Minister Neal came to rest in front of the lamb cage.

He and the lamb considered each other for a long time. He asked if he was tame enough to go inside. The trainers laughed and told him he was plenty tame, but he didn’t know how to go up stairs. So he led him to the front of the fellowship hall. And when the doors slid open on the first floor, there stood Minister Neal in his polo shirt and slacks, with a huge grin and a lamb on a leash.

He plodded from child to child, and we stared, cheered, laughed, and shouted. We called to him, this group of city kids, the youngest asking “Minister Neal, what is that? Where did it come from?" He made us wonder. He made us question. He made us proud of what we had learned.

Books of the Bible.

Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.

Acts.

Romans. 1 Cor. 2 Cor. Galatians.

Look how much I’ve learned.

He taught us to share.

He taught us to listen when someone else is speaking.

And then, he let us go.

We were dandelion seeds released to the wind, he asked for no return.

We are saplings now with gentle hands.

The fashionista girl with bright cheeks and messy hairpins and big plans now leads Black Girls Rock in Kennesaw.

The boy with the glasses with the strong sense of justice and morality is now studying economic inequality at Georgetown.

The one who always carried her calculus book is now an computer engineer graduating from Xavier.

And me, the boy who spent four days a week in Ben Hill’s youth ministry is now a youth pastor at Bethel Atlanta. He let us fly.

So I find myself at the front of my youth group.

My middle schoolers run up to me and ask me so many questions

I pray for patience. For wisdom. To find a way to tame all the peculiar animals of this world,

to coax them enough to brave the trip from their cages to the front of the fellowship hall,

to see the doors slide open to my youth’s gaping mouths.

All the wild wonder.

They worry about everything.

They worry about what others think.

They worry about their grades.

They talk over one another until I cannot hear them.

I tell them, "Listen. Listen to one another like you know

you are scholars. Artists. Scientists. Athletes. Musicians.

Like you know you will be the ones to shape this world. Show me how many colors you know how to draw with.

Show me how proud you are of what you have learned.

And I promise I will do the same."

Minister Neal, Abridged from Sarah Kay's Mrs. Ribiero

,

An Open Letter.

,

As a newly minted young adult who is moving into my own place and finding my way, I’ve been spending a lot of my time recently thinking about the concept of “home”. In retrospect, I’ve realized this isn’t a foreign concept for my thoughts to drift towards — in fact it seems to be a rather common thread over my years, a longing to feel secure in the communities that I choose, which the ones that I call family, within my own skin. To be free, authentic, unguarded. My attempt at expressing my process below is disjointed, but perhaps that is for the best, as I’ve yet to find the language to articulate the range of emotion I’m experiencing currently. I hope that you’ll extend a special grace over my attempt to communicate my relational needs in this season.

When marriage equality was passed by the Supreme Court this summer, my heart was filled with joy for the millions of people who would be free to love and build lives with the ones they chose. My countenance however could not betray this joy. I went home, and my parents kept rehashing how terrible the day was. How immoral. How scary it would be that a generation of children will think that same-sex unions were okay, that queer people were normal. My mother rocked back and forth saying she couldn’t stand the thought. My father lamented all the people who would now feel okay to come out the closet as a result of the ruling. The only words of praise that came from their lips were for my brother. They were proud that he recognized queerness as wrong. They were relieved that it was confusing to him - that he didn’t understand how the couples on screen went against Adam and Eve. And me? I wanted to tell them, not inherently because I wanted to convince them, but because I needed to push past the disconnection that hiding and shame fosters into intimacy…but I didn’t. I made a cowardly choice influenced by fear and didn’t fight for these relationships I valued. Instead, I recoiled. I measured my every action, and waited just long enough to not be suspicious before excusing myself. Repeating over and over "Smile." Just 😬 keep 😬 fake 😬 smiling. It'll be over soon. That day, I did not choose authenticity. That day I felt fraudulent.

I’m done making that choice. I’ve spent so much of my life performing, pretending, in hopes that I would find acceptance and love. That’s what I thought I knew of home — that if I pretended to fit a certain expected mold, there would be a place for me. This was the summer I learned the difference between a home and a dwelling place. A home is where you are safe…it’s a place of refuge and sanctuary. A dwelling place is space to lay your head. I’ve made my home inside myself and dwelled in many places. Now I understand that home, and the love that community thrives in is not conditional on our level of authenticity regarding who we are even if there are boundaries regarding our behavior to protect all that relationships choose to cultivate. Home should be constant. Home should be certain. Home should never be a place of underlying fear or its purpose and function to foster love is intrinsically compromised. Living with such an inherent fear and mistrust of this house has fostered an appetite for dissatisfaction in me. I’ve found myself unwilling or unable to place all of my heart and my effort in anything here at BA because of this fear that if anyone were to truly see me, they’d choose distance, not relationship. As a result, I’ve not given but a few that choice at all and have made the choice to distance myself for them with the rationale that separation can’t hurt if I’m the one who controls it. I was wrong. I’ve been seriously hurting. All I’ve left to hold on to is that God loves us. And I pray that trusting in that Love will be enough.

I have grown inwardly for far too long. One of my favorite poets once said, all the colors we are inside have yet to be known existed. I believe her. I believe it's time for me to grow in the light of day, trusting where I’m planted and I can only do that by putting down roots. I need to know how safe it is to put down roots here. I need to know if I can trust this place to choose to grow in. I feel called to intentional authenticity in community this year, and I don't feel I can do that while constantly wondering if I'm hiding well enough - it feels counter-intuitive to being intentional about being known.

I suppose I need to know that there’s space at the table for me where I am, finding who I am, while of course choosing to honor the position of the house regarding moral conduct. To be clear — I do not identify as heterosexual. If I had to identify to the extent that my vocabulary would offer, it would be as a grey-ace homoflexible bisexual. I’ve chosen to continue honoring the beliefs and boundaries of this house and not to actively engage those feelings even though I personally have no convictions against them. I can manage what I do, but I cannot control who I am. I’m not asking for my leaders to affirm how I identify, but to acknowledge that there’s space for me to exist. I am hoping that this will create an invitation to enter into a new kind of conversation. No one has to change what they believe, rather I see this as an opportunity to seek meaningful relationships amidst difficult disagreements. I choose to call our class, our church and community family, and hasn’t the table long been a place where families who fear they might be torn apart can choose ways to stay together instead?

In sharing this, I'm choosing authenticity in relationship over any favor and position I've garnered with this community. This has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I’d choose to be a friend and frequent visitor of BA with amity in my heart before I allow myself to turn into a son with enmity towards this house that I’ve come to love based on pre-conceived ideas regarding how I’d be received if I was completely laid bare here. To parallel, just as I’ve learned much here and have had my entire life changed by the past few years, I remain committed to the values my parents instilled in me: to serve, be honest, love God and put up a fight for what I want. Unfortunately, I felt I had to leave the people I loved to finally be myself. I hope to learn from my mistakes. I wish that to not be the case here.