I have spent many years living in a glass house. I am no stranger to the never-ending rock-throwing that goes with it. Most of those bounce off and are barely noticed. Some make a lot of noise, but no damage to the glass. Then comes a rock that finds a weak spot. Doesn’t even have to be a big rock, maybe more like a little piece of gravel. But it finds that weak spot, and comes right on inside the house with you. The presence of that rock creates all kinds of emotions: sadness, anger, grief, fury, pain.

Sometimes, you can see on closer inspection that there is no new hole in the glass. Sometimes those rocks get in the house because I have thrown my own stones from the inside. I have reduced the protective value of my own house by the damage I have done. Myself.

I am pretty tough; no, not in the “come at me bro” kind of way. But I have grown some thick skin through the years and have learned to deflect a lot of criticism (and slander, and gossip) that comes directly at me. But it is different when that is directed at my wife or my children. In this case, someone decided to say some harsh things about my son. Lashing out via social media was not the best way to respond. In fact, I didn’t really need to respond at all.

I know my son inside and out. I know how he thinks, and how he acts. I know what he’s like when with his friends, and I know what he’s like deep inside his heart. Unfortunately, the person who decided to run him down has no idea who my son really is. Perhaps they heard stories. Goodness knows our community loves those. Maybe those stories were based in my son’s bad behavior or poor choices. Like most kids caught in trying to grow up and figure out life, he doesn’t always do what I want him to. So it is with my daughter. And pretty much every son and daughter I know. The struggles aren’t always the same. Some struggles, some decisions have consequences that are far more serious. But they all struggle to find their way. Some wander far from home, and come back in later years. Some run away and never return. Some don’t live through their growing-up phase. But some – often the ones we judge harshly – learn from their mistakes and become moms and dads who raise great kids…who make the same mistakes their parents did. I digress.

I realize, just maybe, that the person who “warned” others about my son believed they were being helpful. I have been guilty of throwing those “if it was my kid…” rocks. It’s easy to do that, and to convince yourself that it’s justified. Even though it’s not. You think you are doing other parents a favor, or that you are somehow protecting a kid. But you do that at the expense of the kid you are running down. Which kid are you concerned for? Does that concern not extend to my son if you think he’s caught up in sin? You see, that person who was bashing my son has never once been to me to talk about those rumors. Not a text message, not a phone call, and certainly not a face-to-face with me or Dana. And that’s why it shouldn’t have happened the way it did. They decided to tell other people, to do damage to my son’s reputation. I don’t take that lightly. Your kids’ reputation is something most parents worry over.

But I responded by throwing more passive-aggressive rocks. Not my finest moment.

I basically called into question someone’s faith because of one thing they did that offended me. My language suggested they were pretending to be a Christian because I knew of one bad thing they did. It just happened that the one bad thing involved my flesh and blood, so it was amplified in my heart and mind. But if I don’t want someone to judge my character by any one thing (or even two or three things), I can’t judge someone else that harshly. It just won’t work to judge myself by my intentions but judge others by their actions. Should somebody be bad-mouthing my son, or anybody’s son? Nope. That’s easy. But should I use my voice to tear someone (even if they are *anonymous) down? Should I write posts suggesting that they aren’t even really following Jesus? No, and no. In doing that I become the very thing for which I am judging someone else.

It is true that Jesus said I should judge righteous judgment. He told me that I could see what kind of metaphoric tree someone is by looking at the fruit they bear. But he also said that I’ll be judged by whatever standard of judgment I impose on others. And he said I needed to work on getting the planks out of my own eye before I try to remove splinters from somebody else. Sometimes, I realize just how much work I have to do, and how great is my need for grace. May that realization of that need help me give a little grace to others…even if they have a handful of rocks.  

The Eternal Wrestling of Justice and Mercy

You know what is hard (other than reading long, wordy blog posts)? Trying to understand the experience of ANYONE else. Seeing the world through another's lens. It's so easy to assume that everybody sees things, understands things, and processes things like I do. Except they don't. My life experiences, my circumstances, my religions background...these things all inform the way I see the world and shape the generalizations or prejudices with which I assess other people. Over the past few years, I have become painfully aware of the blind spots in my life. I have realized just how little I know about the harsh realities of other people's experience. This is especially true of my friends who have more melanin than me. (See, I don't even know any more what word to use to describe this demographic) 

Yesterday, the trial of Amber Guyger reached the sentencing phase. Found guilty of the murder of Botham Jean by a jury of her peers, Ms. Guyger appeared in court for one last time for her penalty to be declared. In that hearing, there was a moment for what is known as an "Impact Statement." Family members of victims are given the opportunity to address the perpetrators. It is often emotional, sometimes filled with all the things that have welled up in the hearts of victims' families, sometimes violent. But every now and then, there is some powerful, poignant moment that catches us all off-guard. That happened yesterday.
Brandt Jean, the murder victim's 18-year-old brother, spoke to his brother's killer. He said, "I love you just like anyone else and I'm not going to hope you rot and die," Brandt Jean told Guyger. "I personally want the best for you. I wasn't going to say this in front of my family, I don't even want you to go to jail. I want the best for you because I know that's exactly what Botham would want for you. Give your life to Christ. I think giving your life to Christ is the best thing Botham would want for you." And then he hugged her. If you've missed it, you can watch the video HERE.
The video of that moment was shared and viewed hundreds of thousands of times in just minutes. Many - myself among them - posted the video as a remarkable display of compassion and forgiveness. It looked so much like Jesus on the cross, or maybe Stephen during his stoning. It was a point of light in a dark, dark world. Yet, as with many stories, there was more to the story that my blindness caused me to miss.
Another video surfaced, but it did not get anywhere near the attention as the hug video. It was Allison Jean, Botham's mother. In it, she talked about the ongoing problems of racial injustice, of corruption in the Dallas Police Department. Mrs. Jean, along with several other individuals, talked about the disparity between a murder conviction and a 10-year prison sentence. Please do yourself a favor and listen to her heart HERE.
This conversation - one that deals with systemic racism in the very fabric of our national story - was lost in the noise generated by the hug. It is a much more uncomfortable story for me (perhaps for most white people). It gets personal, and forces me to deal with a reality other than my own. It requires me to listen carefully to others when I struggle to understand their perspective. It causes me to check my faith, and how I have listened to what God has said. I know nothing of how such forgiveness has been weaponized. I had never thought of was that whites had used that imagery in the past to suggest that black victims of injustice ought to just move on like nothing happened. As a white man, that perspective never occurred to me. I did not know that White Christians would dream of using this as a case law, suggesting that racism is gone since a black man whose brother was killed by a white police officer would choose to hug her and offer her forgiveness.  Until recently, I had never heard anyone speak about the presumption of white innocence in all matters related to racially-oriented crimes.  But reading and listening have shown me over the last few years that blacks in America have always (yes, even now) been abused, mistreated, and victimized by white privilege. Yes, it is a real thing. If you don’t believe it, you are not listening to your black friends. Ask hard, uncomfortable questions. Let the answers to those questions move you first to lament, and then to act. Don’t act out of guilt. Act out of the righteous pursuit of “liberty and justice for all.”
Truthfully I don’t find myself with a lot of answers, but still more questions. I told one friend this morning that it makes me feel like the guy in Mark 8 who was blind. He encountered Jesus and first went away only able to see what appeared to be walking trees.  Only after coming back to Jesus was his vision clear. There are things now that I see that I never believed existed. I can see the struggles of people I knew nothing about. Yet I know there are times I still struggle with blindness.
I am starting a new sermon series this Sunday based on Micah 6.8. In that well-known text, three things are found together that are a prescriptive response to the terrible state of society in Micah's day: seeking (doing) justice, loving mercy (lovingkindness), and humbly walking (living) with God. This could not come - for me - at a more appropriate time. You see, it was easy to celebrate the mercy I saw from Brandt Jean. I did not hesitate to share that video. But I was not so quick to share Allison's call for justice. I accepted the mercy as the demonstration of the Gospel. But I failed to see that Jesus' Gospel-shaped life was equally about justice for those to whom it had been denied. The Gospel was also just as present in Allison Jean’s heart-wrenching statement. I am wrestling with the implications of this, for me, for the church where I preach, for my community, and for my country. I don't know what to do, yet I know I must do something.  I keep listening and praying. I keep hoping. I keep seeking the Lord's will and pleading with him for the boldness to do it and proclaim it even when it is uncomfortable. Maybe especially when it is uncomfortable. I will keep seeking to not only find and enjoy mercy, but to seek justice and do justly. Please, join me on this journey. 

Learning to Lament

Facts:

• More than 60% of sexual assaults (rapes) go unreported. (690 out of 1,000)
• Of all reported rapes, somewhere between 2% and 10% are later shown to be false reports. 
• Taking the highest percentage, that means 270 out of 310 reports of sexual assault are true allegations. 
• Of those 270 rapists accused, only 6 will go to prison. (Thats’ 98% of guilty rapists who walk; only 7 more will be convicted)
• Those who did not report the rape to police cited a number of reasons for not reporting. (fear, no one will believe me, retaliation, shame, protection of the perpetrator or family, etc.). (More Statistics and Sources Here)

I don’t know if Brett Kavanaugh or Christine Ford are telling the truth. I wasn’t there, nor do I know them. There are plenty of my friends here in Facebookland who are lined up to defend them both. For many, it’s about politics; others couldn’t care less about elephants and donkeys or who sits on the highest court. But the way we’ve treated each other, the way we’ve spoken to and about each other, the disregard we’ve had for victims of abuse whose lives have been destroyed, the flippant attitude we’ve had toward those who’ve had their reputations shattered by false accusation…none of these attitudes and actions look much like Jesus. 

Truth is, I am seeing more and more discussions  that cause us to forget who we are, discussions that cause us to put politics above people. The way we act as Christians often suggests we are more interested, involved and invested in the kingdoms of this world than in the everlasting kingdom. 

Let’s just take this present issue. Not a single one of us knows what happened or didn’t. We do not have personal relationships with either of the people involved. All we know about it, we are either getting from our favorite news outlet (FYI: I quit watching them all years ago) or - even worse - from social media. With little or no real facts, we make up our minds about events, issues, and people. That would be bad enough by itself. But somehow we have developed a mindset that everyone in the world ought to agree with me about everything; if they don’t, they’re stupid. Or ignorant. Or ultra-liberal. Or hyper-conservative. Or unChristian. Or religious nutjobs. Or…well, you get the idea. 

When did we decide that was acceptable human behavior? It shouldn’t just be Jesus followers who are bothered by these personal attacks; all adults should find it distasteful. Oops. See what I did there? I decided for you what you should think about something.  It looks clear from my perspective. But I have to remember, you don’t see the world through the same lens as I do. Further, maybe we need to be reminded that there are times that my mouth just needs to stay shut (or my keyboard needs to fall silent).

Times like the present might be better handled with prayer, with restraint, without judgment, and with faith in a God who is sovereign. Relationships might be better preserved with compassion rather than vitriol. My Christian witness might be more effective if I work to love my neighbor - and even my enemy - as myself. Seems that’s what Jesus thought, anyway. I don’t think he meant for our light to be a burning laser, or for our salt to be rubbed into open wounds. 

Let’s return to where we started. I still don’t know what happened between Mrs. Ford and Mr. Kavanaugh. Likely, none of us will ever know exactly. We will decide - or have already decided - who we believe, and that will inform how we move forward. It is sad, though, what has been revealed about our attitudes toward those who come forward as victims of sexual abuse. I know…we live in a day and age where people will lie about abuse as a part of some political hatchet job. I know…people will lie about abuse as a result of anger, or to get revenge. There are people who will deal with the terrible fallout of falsely accusing someone because money is involved. 

But here’s the thing: unless it involves me or I was there, I really don’t know who is telling the truth. Research (some of which is attached to this article) suggests it is quite rare for people to falsely allege sexual abuse. So, most often, I choose to believe the accuser. Not always, but most often. I feel a deep sympathy for those who have been violated and victimized in this way. I weep at their confessions. 

Unfortunately, there are those who would politicize and weaponize the #MeToo campaign for their own personal agendas. So we become jaded. We make statements about what we would have done in their situations, how we would have reported immediately, how we would have…except we don’t have a clue what we would have done. It wasn’t us. But we give the general impression that we don’t believe people who come forward as victims. Why would we then expect people to come forward, to tell their stories, to share what surely is the most painful, devastating thing that has ever happened to them? If they already know that we - and that our collective society - tends to dismiss victims as liars, it’s surprising that anyone ever tells. 

We sometimes are dismissive because there is a lack of evidence to convict someone. But, often, there is no evidence. Perhaps the assault happened in a private place. Perhaps the perpetrator did not achieve their desired result. Maybe they threatened to kill the victim if police were notified; by the time the victim found the courage to come forward any physical evidence was gone. So maybe all there is to present as evidence is the word of the accuser, with the word of the accused also being heard. See why that’s hard? Maybe if we did a better job of standing with victims, of believing them when they come forward, more might have the courage to do so sooner. And maybe we have some work to do on figuring out how to protect those few innocent people who are accused. I sure don’t know all the answers. 

What’s more, most of what I have said here has been written with adults in mind; we haven’t even talked about the awful specter of sexual abuse of children. There can’t be much that offends a holy God more than this. Perhaps you feel as inadequate as I do to know what to do or how to handle this terrible sin. 

I am reminded of the frequent voice of lament in the Psalms. More often than not, laments - personal and national - do not offer resolution in themselves. They are not Psalms of happy endings. Rather, they sometimes give language to the desperation of the people because of the devastation of sin. They lay bare what the problems are, and they call upon God to do what needs doing. They often include language of repentance. Maybe lament is where we begin to move forward with all this. Maybe we collectively - and OUT LOUD - cry out to God, confessing and professing the state of things regarding sexual sin in our culture. Maybe we lament the brokenness of our justice system that lets so many abusers and rapists walk free. Maybe we offer ourselves in repentance of our silence, repentance of our unwillingness to believe the voices of victims, repentance of our willingness to crucify or vilify someone without knowing the truth, repentance of getting too caught up in politics to grieve the pain of people, repentance of not loving our neighbor as ourselves. Maybe we ask God to help us learn to listen with our hearts, to see as he sees. Maybe we confess that we don’t know what to do, or how to help. Maybe we ask God to break our hearts for this deep brokenness, and ask him to make us instruments of his healing. Maybe we ask God to help us be vigilant protectors of those who are weak, or defenseless, or scared. Maybe our lament includes a cry for the peace of God to wash over the hearts of those who relive their abuse. Yes, we need to lament. 

Let's agree...to listen!

These are disagreeable times. It’s as if every corner I turn brings me face-to-face with another argument. And kind of like driving by a police car with the blue lights flashing and someone pulled over, I can’t help looking. I may lean more to one side of the argument than the other, but really I’m just thankful I can drive on by. Thankful that the flashing blue lights are for someone else. Not my monkeys, not my circus. 

Except for those times when the argument is over something about which I feel strongly. Then i cave, throwing my (clearly) well-informed opinion into the fray. On an endorphin-induced high, I sort of hope that someone will disagree with me. That way I can show just how morally- or intellectually-superior I am. I can sound off in defense of [what I believe to be] the truth. Before long I realize that others agree with me, which just emboldens me to argue on.  From behind my screen. With people I’ve never met. 

Most of the passionate arguments I witness these days happen in the digital jungle also known as social media. I’m not anti-social media, as clearly I have used it to put these words in front of you. But the rise of virtual communication has caused many of us to lose the art of civil discourse. I log on to my news feed. There I see a person who says something with which I don’t agree. Thinking that person must be delusional, or stupid, or liberal, or an Alabama fan, I click the “unfollow” button. They never know that I have chosen to eliminate their voice from what I hear. And shouldn't I be able to do that? After all, who has to listen to that garbage? Then I scroll down and click “Like” on those statuses that support my view of things. Then I do more unfollowing, then more liking, until I create for myself a cloud-hosted echo chamber. No dissenting voices allowed! Which means I stop listening to anyone who doesn’t already agree with me. Which means I begin to close my mind to new ideas. Which, in turn, causes me to develop a more judgmental spirit toward those who hold opposing views. Which causes me to start seeing people based on the things on which we don't agree, giving them labels and putting them into categories. Which also means I begin to lose sight of the fact that I might be wrong. Because I am right. Right? After all, I have come to believe that being right matters more than the other guy. 

So maybe I am writing my own internet autobiography, but I'm guessing at least some of you who haven’t clicked away share the same story. (Okay…in truth I know you share this story because I have seen your posts). And it’s an easy one to live out. But it is also part of the reason we cannot get along. We won’t listen to those with whom we disagree. We can’t hear their views. Worse, we cannot hear their voices. 

“America’s Got Talent” is easily one of my family’s favorite shows. If you’ve watched it (or any of the similar shows on TV), you know the format. People perform. Judges judge. Viewers vote. Winners, losers, you know how this works. But I have noticed something [I think] relevant just this season. Sometimes the judges do not agree with each other about someone’s performance. But if a judge dares voice disapproval or criticism, the audience boos. Loudly. Drowning out the judge’s voice. I noticed that even the other judges would join in on this, telling the other judges that they didn't know what they were talking about. It kind of manifests our social-media-oriented way of thinking: you are allowed to think whatever you want, so long as you keep it within the parameters of my own opinion. Do that and we’re good. But dare to disagree with me and I will shut you down. I will boo so loudly that it drowns out your voice. Your experience. Your life. Your intellect. Your pain. Your reasoning. Your opinion. It doesn't matter how you came to your conclusion. It's different than mine [read challenging to mine] so I don't want to hear it. Which makes me wonder why we won’t listen. 

I wonder if we don’t listen because we are afraid. That may sound strange, but it's about all I can come up with. Perhaps we are afraid that our arguments won’t hold up under the scrutiny of someone else. Perhaps we are afraid that we might have to admit we were on the wrong side of something. Perhaps we are afraid that our “friends” will not stay with us if they hear we’ve departed from their talking points. Perhaps the is some other fear I haven’t been able to identify. 

But it is evident - maybe I should say obvious - that our current communication strategies are not working. We have worked so hard to shut out the dissenting voices that we have come to see those people as our enemies. We draw up into battle lines - us versus them. But there is one thing that could radically shift all this. One thing that, if we would all commit to doing it, could bring peace back to our debates and arguments. 

Listen. 

Maybe if we’d try it like this. Find someone who holds a differing position than we do, and ask them why they think, or feel, or believe the way they do. Then we simply shut up and listen. Don’t interrupt. Don’t belittle them. Don’t tell them their view is stupid and they should just abandon it and agree with us. 

Listen. 

Just as each of us has a lifetime of experience that has led us to where we are, so do they. By taking the time to listen, we validate their humanity, their mind, and their worth. It might help to remember that each of us - wherever we may stand on any given issue - is made in the image of God. Doesn't that make someone worth hearing? 

No, they may not change our minds. They may not even say something that is terribly compelling. But taking the time to listen says, “You are actually cared for.” It says to the other person, “You - as a human being, with every experience that has shaped and molded you - have worth and value.” 

This is not necessarily an exercise in agreement. We aren’t always going to 1) understand what someone tells us, or 2) adopt their view. But we will hear them, we will think, we will be challenged, and - at the very least - we will know why they think as they do. 

It’s fair that I tell you that we may well leave these conversations confused. We may be less sure of what the real issues are than before we started. But we are better for having listened. 

And we may discover that the person to whom we are listening is wrong. They may have drawn their conclusions on misinformation. They may be judgmental. Or biased. Or ignorant. Or angry. Or some combination of all these. Maybe, on some other day, we can discuss how to respond to someone who is wrong. (Note: not someone with whom we disagree, but someone who is actually wrong) 

Some of you reading this are already wondering, “Why should we listen to a bunch of whiny crybabies?” Well, aside from the issues of labeling and name-calling (another day), we might do well to be reminded of what Jesus and other inspired writers had to say. Perhaps these texts speak for themselves. 

Concerning those we believe are our enemies: 
“Love your enemies! Do good to them. Lend to them without expecting to be repaid. Then your reward from heaven will be very great, and you will truly be acting as children of the Most High, for he is kind to those who are unthankful and wicked. You must be compassionate, just as your Father is compassionate. Do not judge others, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn others, or it will all come back against you. Forgive others, and you will be forgiven.” ~Luke 6.35-37 

When we think our thinking makes us superior to others: 

“Then Jesus told this story to some who had great confidence in their own righteousness and scorned everyone else: “Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a despised tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed this prayer: ‘I thank you, God, that I am not like other people—cheaters, sinners, adulterers. I’m certainly not like that tax collector! I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.’ But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, ‘O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.’ I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” ~Luke 18.9-14

and

“Because of the privilege and authority God has given me, I give each of you this warning: Don’t think you are better than you really are. Be honest in your evaluation of yourselves, measuring yourselves by the faith God has given us.” ~Romans 12.3

Concerning the attitude of Christians to others:

“Is there any encouragement from belonging to Christ? Any comfort from his love? Any fellowship together in the Spirit? Are your hearts tender and compassionate? Then make me truly happy by agreeing wholeheartedly with each other, loving one another, and working together with one mind and purpose. Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too. You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had.” ~Philippians 2.1-5

Included among Paul’s instructions to believers living in trying times under heathen governments: 

“They must not slander anyone and must avoid quarreling. Instead, they should be gentle and show true humility to everyone.” ~Titus 3.2

What do these Bible texts have in common? Are they at least relevant to the present time. Here’s what I see (while not wishing to rip any of these words completely from their contexts): 

• Our enemies - if we have any real enemies - are to be loved and treated with compassion, not condemnation.

• Whoever we are, we cannot think that we are more important than anyone else. In fact, the way to be more like Christ is to actually treat others (yes, even those with whom we disagree) as more important than ourselves.

• If we are seeking to be rewarded by treating people the way we are supposed to treat them, that may have to wait.

• Humble pie doesn’t usually taste scrumptious, but it is sure better for us than other things we could eat. 

• As believers, we have a divine obligation to take a genuine interest in others.

• It is hard to be humble and argue with people. To argue means that I think my way of thinking is superior to yours. By my own standard of measure it may be. But do you see how easily we go from “my way of thinking is better” to “I am better?” That’s counterproductive to humility. 

And if none of that is very convincing, how about these two simple (gut-punching) gems:

“Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.”  ~James 1.19

“Even fools are thought wise when they keep silent; with their mouths shut, they seem intelligent.” ~Proverbs 17.28

Translation: Hush, and take time to listen to the other person. Don’t get mad when what they say doesn't agree with our thinking. And opening our mouths to say what may be bypassing our filters might well make us look more foolish than listening. 

Navigating these troubled days is not easy. But our inability (or unwillingness) to listen to someone with whom we disagree is only making it worse. Let’s stop assuming we're always right. Let’s close our argumentative mouths and listen. Let’s engage without hostility. Let’s have dialogue that moves us toward understanding each other. 

Oh, and one last thing…this works best when we are face-to-face with another human. Let’s get out from behind our televisions, our tablets, our phones, and our computers. Let’s sit down at the table with real people. 

And listen. 

We just might learn something. 

Redemption: A Colorful Legacy, A Bright Future

I love when irony and history collide.

My son and his teammates are preparing to play in the Dixie Youth Baseball World Series in Laurel, Mississippi. Until last year, I had never heard of Dixie Youth. In other towns – and even in Lebanon – we had participated in both the Little League and Cal Ripken baseball organizations. So when we transitioned into DYB, I just assumed it was an alternative to the other youth baseball programs. My curiosity eventually got the best of me, and I started researching the history of Dixie Youth. Turns out, the history of Dixie Youth is, well, less than colorful.

Not everyone in America thought the official integration of Little League Baseball was a good thing. That was particularly true of those who thought their light-skinned sons might lose in championship tournaments to darker-skinned counterparts. So, in 1955, a group of teams in South Carolina left Little League and formed the all-white Little Boys Baseball. In just a few years, the league changed its name to Dixie Youth Baseball, choosing the Confederate Battle Flag as the background for their official logo.

DYB grew quickly in the Deep South in the racially-charged late 1950s and 1960s, evidence of the distaste that many whites had for integration. Thankfully, Dixie Youth would eventually change the “rules” of their organization, allowing players of all ethnicities – and even girls – to play baseball together. Legendary athletes Michael Jordan and Bo Jackson came up through Dixie Youth teams.

Today, almost a half-million kids throughout 11 states play Dixie Youth baseball with no knowledge of the actions and attitudes that stain its past. My son’s team is made up of 12 young men ages 11-12; one-third of that team is made up of minorities – three boys are from an African-American background, one is the child of Mexican immigrants. None of those boys could have played in DYB in the early days. Yet, in just a few days, they will be facing the Team Texas in the opening round of the Dixie Youth World Series.

The irony doesn’t end there, however. Just last week our boys received a very special invitation. Sunday July 31 marks the annual gathering celebrating the legendary Lebanon Clowns. You may not recognize their name, but they are an important piece of the tapestry of baseball history. You see, the ranks of professional baseball were as closed to minority players as Dixie Youth Baseball. So black players formed their own professional baseball organizations, with the two largest eventually known as the Negro National League and the Negro American League. Enter the Lebanon Clowns, a team of players based out of Lebanon, Tennessee who were as talented as any others, but not allowed to play in the white-only MLB. The Negro League had amazing athletes who travelled the country in cities that would allow them to play, staying in the few establishments that were not closed to blacks. Still recognized are names like Satchel Paige, Roy Campanella, the all-time home run king Josh Gibson, and even Jack Roosevelt Robinson (who would break the color barrier in big league ball).

The surviving members and families of the Lebanon Clowns have invited the Lebanon All Stars to join them Sunday at their reunion for a meet-and-greet and to be recognized for their achievements. Do you see the irony? A fully-integrated Dixie Youth Baseball team joining in an event celebrating stars from the Negro League…what a glorious tribute to where we’ve been and where we’ve come.

At a time when so much attention is being given to division and racism, I rejoice that our boys’ lives can transcend the color of their skin. I am thankful that black boys and white boys and Asian boys and Mexican boys can find unity in doing what they love…playing baseball – TOGETHER. I think the World Series will be an amazing experience. But I hope one day they can appreciate just as much their time with the Lebanon Clowns, and all that is represented by this meeting. Maybe, in some way, this day is about REDEMPTION, about taking something not-so-good and redeeming it into something better. Isn't that sort of what God does with all of us? This meeting and the present circumstances around it need not be focused on the negative elements of history. That doesn't mean there isn't meaning in the history; rather, we are given the opportunity to redeem a shameful piece of our past.

History is NOT bound to repeat itself; there is hope for the world into which these boys are leading us. 

Reflections on my last days in Fresno...

To my dear Woodward Park family,

The temperature is in the mid-seventies and it is gently raining. I am sitting on the front porch of some friends' house (yes, in a porch swing) and I am watching four wild turkeys chasing each other across a green field.

Even with all this, it is difficult to believe that my family is in Tennessee to stay.

Even though Dana and I spent several days packing up our house and three more days loading the moving truck, the whole thing was very surreal, almost like we were just getting ready for a vacation.

Yet as I write these words, I realize that my tenure as the preaching minister for Woodward Park has come to a close.

The last few weeks have really been a whirlwind; a trip to Tennessee, a trip to Oregon, a week at YBC...it still makes my head spin to think about it. Yet there are some things that really stand out in our last few days in Fresno.

• The awsome sight of a whole family being baptized together in the YBC pool
• Experiencing my first baptism hidden by a castle, where I heard it rather than saw it 
• Having fresh tongue tacos delivered to my house (yes, tongue)
• Sharing midnight feasts of cold tri-tip and large amounts of leftover bacon in the dining hall
• Receiving a "family set" of quilts, stitched with love

More than these things, however, the thing that is most special is the time I spent with dear friends whose last act of service was to pray over us. Yes, we talked about moving. We talked about ministry. We talked about memories. But the last thing you wanted to do for us was to speak to God and ask his blessing on us. I had a 93-year-old man tell me through tears that he had never stopped praying for me and my family. In a real way, that defines our time in Fresno; Godly people who loved us with the Love of the Lord.

As we begin our work with the Maple Hill church, I want you to know that we will never be the same because of our time with you. You have helped us to be closer to the Lord than ever before. You helped restore my love for ministry. You provided exactly what my family needed. You lived Christ in front of us. You taught us, even (or especially) when you did not know you were teaching. And you loved us from the first day you met us.

I was so moved by your acts of kindness and service. You literally took care of us til our very last day in town. We will always love you, and pray God's richest blessings on you.  We will continue to be in prayer for you. And I know without asking that you will keep on lifting us up before God as well.

Until we meet again...

So we could see the power of God!

When he was born, doctors did not believe he would live long. Just thirty years before, his lifespan would have been estimated at nine years. As late as the 1980s, it would have been thought to be 25 years. Of course, standard treatment at the time was institutionalization. But his parents refused such a supposed solution, choosing instead to raise their son in the community of a large family. And rather than nine or 25, our family was blessed by Kenny Hatch for 57 years.

Kenny was born with Down's Syndrome, though at the time of his birth the cause of Down's was yet undiscovered. It would be about four years before scientists would find an extra chromosome that seemed to trigger the syndrome. Ironically, medicine has been unable to answer why it happens.

When he was young, Uncle James and Aunt Nell enrolled Kenny in school. It would not take them long, however, to discover that public education was not prepared to deal with a child like Kenny, and they were forced to bring him home. It is a shame that we do things like that, especially when we fear what we do not understand.

But I would not know him until several years later. You see, he was 21 years old when I was born. I guess that means I have known him for my whole life. As a child, I knew Kenny was different, though I did not really know why. I knew that he talked a little funny, and eventually realized that he was built a little differently. But I did not grow up seeing Kenny as someone with a disability or a handicap. I just knew him as my cousin. (Technically he was my "second" cousin, but in the south that "second" business doesn't mean anything)

My first memories of Kenny are as a working man. He was fortunate to be involved in a vocational center for adults with disabilities. It gave him purpose, it gave him a little money, and it became a social outlet for him. Social outlet is just code for "it was a place where he met girls that would become his girlfriend." In that environment, Kenny was not different. He was normal. Accepted.

He played the harmonica, maybe as good as Charlie McCoy. Well, that might be stretching it a little. Maybe it was just that he enjoyed it so much that, even if it was a little less-than-perfect, it sounded sweet.

And he smiled. Boy, did he ever! That's not to say that he was never in a bad mood, and the last few years brought their share of uncomfortable days. He could be stubborn as a mule. But he smiled a smile that would literally melt away the selfishness from your heart.

It could not have been easy for Uncle James and Aunt Nell, raising Kenny in the society of their day. Common thought was to just put him away somewhere and forget him. As bad as that may sound, common thought today is to find out about the Down's early in the pregnancy and just kill the baby before it is born. Some advance, huh? It is dressed up with the name "Selective Therapeutic Abortion," but statistics suggest that some 80 percent of women terminate their pregnancy when a diagnosis of Down's is discovered. Wow. I shudder to think of that. And it saddens me to think of what we would have missed without Kenny.

I feel compelled to tell you that Aunt Nell was a faithful caregiver to Kenny. What to some would seem a burden was just life for her. Well meaning people will say dumb things to her in days to come about this being a load off of her. Maybe those people's tongues will cleave to the roof of their mouths.

I don't know if she or Uncle James ever asked why this had happened to them, or to their son. I never asked her that. But it seems almost inevitable. That reminds me of a young man who was born blind. Jesus' followers wanted to know why. In that case, they  assumed that such an impairment was punishment for sin. They just couldn't figure out who had sinned. But Jesus had a different take on it. He told them, "This happened so the power of God could be seen in him" (John 9.3). I think that's the truth about Kenny, too. Our eyes look at Kenny and wonder if there was some great mistake somewhere. How can God's power be on display in someone born with physical problems and health issues that accompany Down's.  And then we are reminded that God's strength is made perfect in human weakness (2 Corinthians 12.9). And I can tell you where I saw that power in the life of Kenny Hatch.

He loved you, no matter who you were. He loved without reservation, and would hug you, kiss you, wink at you, or smile at you. And you could not be in his presence without feeling that. Such affectionate love is rare in our world. Many people we know only love you for what they can get in return. Kenny didn't ask for anything. That is the power of God who, himself, is love.

Tonight, Kenny was overcome by complications of pneumonia and died. Kenny, whose faith we all knew, was ready. I have to think that somehow, on some level, he was more connected to God than we understood. And part of me thinks that in heaven Kenny will be free from the syndrome that defined his earthly existence. But there's part of that line of thought that troubles me. Not the part about going to heaven, but the part that somehow he has to be different in the eternal presence of God. We think of God as a healer. But I have to stop and ask if Kenny was really the one who was broken. Maybe, with his child-like view of the world, he was a lot closer to what I am supposed to be. After all, I don't believe in chance. I believe in a God who is always in control. I believe in a God who has a purpose for everyone who is created. I believe that Kenny was created in God's image. So maybe, just maybe, what I thought was a disability was really just God's power being perfected in Kenny's weakness. Does he really have to be "healed" to be in heaven? Paul's thorn in the flesh was about trusting God. And in looking at Kenny, maybe he was perfect for reminding us of the same lesson. God's way of saying, "Even if you don't understand this, I am still God. I've got this."

Perhaps the lesson from Kenny's life is that normal is overrated. Maybe it's that perfect doesn't exist, so I can choose to praise God for the life I have or be miserable over what I don't have. Maybe it was my need to be happy with less, to be content. Or maybe, all of the above.

Whatever the case, I am grateful to God that my life was intersected by Kenny's. I am thankful that he helped me see others with Down's as someone to be celebrated, not pitied. I am thankful that my family treated Kenny like just another one of the cousins.  I am thankful that James and Nell didn't give up. And I am thankful to have been loved by so beautiful a soul.

Rest well, cousin Kenny.