A Day of Irony

Today has been a day of irony.

This morning, like every morning spent on the Metro subway system, I witnessed numerous individuals who insist upon simply standing on the escalator as it slowly descends into the underground station. There is nothing wrong with this in itself. Except that many of these individuals often are not considerate of those as myself, who would prefer to continue walking down the escalator as it moves. The true irony comes, however, when these people-who-stand-and-wait-on-escalators suddenly reach the ticket area to hear their train coming, which causes them to instantly sprint through the ticket barrier in a giant stampede resembling a heard of aging elephants trying to catch a subway.

Anyway.

Other ironic notes about today:

After staying up obscenely late last night talking to a friend (Chance), I figured I would set my alarm back 45 minutes from 7:15 to 8:00 to give myself some extra sleep since I always have trouble waking up. I awoke this morning at 6:30 unable to get back to sleep, and have had trouble keeping my eyes open all afternoon.

Also, on perhaps the most humid day in D.C. thus far, one air conditioner quit working in the church. The one in my office.

Also, I have been preparing over the past week for a Sunday school lesson I am to teach on “Baptist Identity and Distinctives” next Sunday. My primary guide and source in my preparation is a book titled “Baptist Ways: A History” by Dr. Bill Leonard from Wake Forest University. Today while looking at the calendar I saw the guest preacher for the Sunday two weeks after my teaching: Dr. Bill Leonard. This just means that my teaching screw-ups will be harder to get away with.

Other than those trivial ironies today, I must also say that I realized I will only be here in D.C. for about two weeks more. I am working nine more weekdays. My time here is quickly coming to a close.

And I say this is ironic because it feels as if I am just beginning. I feel like I have finally become acclimated to the environment, acquainted with the congregation, and adjusted to the job, but alas the journey is now coming to an end.

But the more I think about — perhaps in the “long scheme of things” — I recognize that the journey, for me, is only beginning. In a strange way, my arrival in Washington signified an end to a beginning in my life, and now as I prepare to return home I am faced with a whole new leg of the journey that lays ahead — a new trail that I can blaze with a wider perspective, a keener awareness, a stronger confidence, and greater experience.

And for that I am thankful and thrilled.

Finding Jesus

I read about two of them today. I don’t know why I’m making a big deal of it — they aren’t really uncommon: Jesus sightings. Maybe you read about them too.

One of them involved the face of Jesus found in the pattern of a stray cat’s fur. The other was Jesus being crucified on the cross — with the model displayed impeccably by a bright orange Cheeto.

Other than revealing a commonality between Jesus of Nazareth and Elvis Presley, these peculiar sightings (directed primarily to EBay junkies, I suppose) show us an ironic fascination that media and society have with “finding Jesus.” And as seasoned Christians, most of us probably read the articles and look at the supposed Jesus images with curiosity, but then lean back in our computer chairs and scoff at the absurdity of pulling a look-alike crucifix out of a bag of chips to sell it on EBay for fifteen bucks. We say to ourselves incredulously, “Why to they care so much? What do they know about Jesus? Why would they be so fascinated?”

After all: it’s just a cheese puff and a runaway pet.

But maybe the church shares a similar fascination.

The people we read about in these bizarre articles and news reports seem so full of superstition and superficiality — what is really the significance of these strange discoveries? Isn’t the true substance of Christ captured not in his literal image, description, or appearance, but rather in his teaching, example, and character?

Of course. Yes, sir. Amen to that.

But I fear that the church often fails to fully grasp this idea – sometimes Christians can become so enthralled with the Jesus descriptions, Jesus songs, Jesus analogies, Jesus images, Jesus movies, Jesus metaphors, Jesus names, Jesus locations, and even the Jesus words, Jesus stories, Jesus miracles, Jesus teachings, Jesus politics, Jesus ideologies, and Jesus traditions that we fail to grasp the very essence of the man from Galilee: the Jesus life.

We love all the Jesus talk, but the Jesus life comes a little harder — it’s not as glamorous, not as fun, not as convenient, and not as attractive.

My youth pastor once told me that the number one reason why non-churchgoers don’t want to come to church is because of Christians. Mohandas Ghandi put it differently when he said: “I like your Christ — I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”

Perhaps the non-Christians see us and hear us in our obsession with this Jesus character, and they lean back in their chairs and scoff at the vanity of our worshipping and “living for” this religious figure, and then they say to themselves incredulously, “They don’t really care that much. It doesn’t matter how much they know or talk about Jesus. The fascination is hollow. These Christians — they all act just like the rest of us.”

Let’s quit playing the Christian role and start living like Christ.

“My goal is to destroy Christianity as a world religion and be a recatalyst for the movement of Jesus Christ…Some people are upset with me because it sounds like I’m anti-Christian. I think they might be right.”
-Erwin McManus, author and pastor at Mosaic

Of course. Yes, sir. Amen to that.

Just That Simple

Yesterday afternoon I received a call at the office from another unusual number. I picked up the phone. On the other end was the voice of an energetic associate pastor at a local D.C. Baptist church. She was coordinating the large youth event that was to take place alongside the District of Columbia Baptist Convention annual meeting here at First Baptist in late October. She asked if she could tour the building and get a better idea of the facilities with which she had to work.

I agreed and arranged to give her and some of her assistants a tour of the building, particularly the fellowship hall, gymnasium, and classrooms.

This afternoon after we completed the tour she thanked me for my time:

“Thank you so much for taking the time to show us around! I’m so excited for the Youth Rally and I’m sorry you won’t still be here to participate. Oh, and by the way — did the church administrator tell me that you’ll be preaching in a couple weeks?”

Apparently Dennis (the church administrator) had told them I would soon be filling the pulpit.

A preacher herself, she looked at me as if I was eleven years old: “How old are you anyway?”

“I’m actually nineteen.”

“Oh, praise the Lord! I just love to hear about em’ gettin’ started early! You should be proud! That’s quite a pulpit for a nineteen year old!”

“Well at this point, to tell you the truth, I just don’t want to screw anything up.” (Charming, I know.)

She laughed. I’m sure she thought I had never preached before.

“Well, Samuel, you know what you can do to make it real simple? I’ll give you a little secret, alright?!”

“Sure.”

“Just listen to the Lord, Samuel! Listen to the Lord and if you listen to the Lord then everything will be just fine! Listen to the Lord…it’s that simple!”

I smiled and nodded.

And I wish “listening to the Lord” was “that simple.” But it’s not. Or at least it’s not for me. God’s intention for me and for this world seem so ambiguous — so mysterious and inexplicit, and as a result, it is difficult for me to look around at our society today and sense some underlying plan through which God will work everything for His good intention. Sometimes I ask myself: “What is there to listen to?”

Nonetheless, I am still convinced that there exists a Divine Intention for all of us, and regardless of how equivocal it may be we must strive to find it and live by it. And in my times of doubt when God’s will is clouded from my view, I’ve decided that it’s best to err on the side of being too loving, too generous, too forgiving, too gracious, or too kind.

A Meaningful Adventure

I am sitting here at my desk staring at the back of Harry S. Truman’s head — no kidding.

If you know me well, you know that growing up I’ve always had a fascination with our 33^rd president. For the longest time even I wasn’t sure why. He is the only president to come from Missouri, so I supposed that always had something to do with it. But nonetheless throughout my childhood I read numerous biographies and articles in an effort to absorb any available drop of knowledge of his life and presidency. I remember how excited I was when Grandma Hill took me to the Truman Library in Independence years ago and how enamored I was when she showed me his famous white house on Delaware Street (the Wallace House) where he lived before and after his presidency.

And so I sit here this afternoon staring at the back of his head — a bobble-head, in fact, that I purchased last year to put on my desk at college.

And even now I ask myself why this figure of history interests me so deeply. I’ll try to explain.

I was eight years old living in the small town of Lamar in southwest Missouri. Perhaps if you were to read every volume of the entire World Book encyclopedia you would come across the name “Lamar, Missouri” in only one article: “Truman, Harry S.”– he was born in Lamar in May of 1884. The house in which he was born is located on what is now appropriately named Truman Street — not terribly far from 209 Poplar Street, which is where I was living with my family.

It was the summer following my second grade year and I constantly ran around with a neighborhood boy, Stephen, doing all kinds of second-grade-boy things that I never discussed with my parents.

One day I told Stephen that I wanted to ride my bike down to Harry Truman’s old house. He agreed, and so we pedaled through the neighborhood toward downtown, but eventually hung a left that took us to the small white house surrounded by well-kept floor arrangements and a sign advertising the site as a “STATE HISTORIC SITE.”

We pedaled through the grass up to the front entrance and noticed that no one was there – no tour guides, no visitors, no park officials, not a soul. I hopped off my bike. I crept slowly up to the front door and I pushed — the door inched forward and I realized that it had not been latched. I walked alone into the historic home which displayed the authentic home furnishings and the actual bed on which Truman was born. I walked around from one dimly lit room to another, not minding the partitions intended to keep visitors from walking around freely.

The last room I visited was the room where Truman was born and cared for in his infancy– a small room in the southwest corner of the house with a bed, two rocking chairs, and a dresser with a mirror. I remember walking over, sitting on the century-old bed, and thinking of whether Harry’s parents ever thought that their son may grow up to live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

I suppose that ever since my little adventure I have taken great inspiration in knowing that even a little kid in Lamar, Missouri can still grow up to change the world.

The Unlikely Groomsman

Tomorrow I am participating in a wedding. Yes, a wedding. As a groomsman. Yes, a groomsman.

Trust me, it was about as puzzling to me as it is to you. But I will explain. I met Harry the first weekend I was here in D.C. He is a part time custodian here at the church with an outgoing personality and a charm that reminds me of the persona that the old-school African American jazz musicians must have conveyed. Harry walks down the church corridors with a slight swagger in his step, always smiling and asking the same question with his distinct suave tone to everyone that he passes: “How y’ doin’?”

I didn’t know until later that Harry had recently been a homeless man on the streets of D.C. Through the help of the church and his own desire for a normal life, he was able to get back on his two feet, find a couple solid jobs, and ask his girlfriend for her hand in marriage.

It’s a tremendous story about a tremendous guy.

All of Harry’s family lives far away and were unable to come to the wedding, so he turned to his church family for help in planning, arranging, and participating in the service. I was asked a couple weeks ago if I would read scripture and a couple days later (what the heck, might as well) he asked if I would also be a groomsman. I gladly agreed.

I’ve never been a groomsman before. I figured that my first time would probably be for a close friend like Austin, Chance, or Daniel or for my brother. But believe it or not, I’m glad that I will get to share this experience with Harry and our friends here at First Baptist, DC. It goes to show the true power that love, kindness, and service can have upon a person – how a middle aged, African-American man who was just homeless a short time ago can connect with a wide-eyed, sheltered white kid who was just living with his family in Sedalia, Missouri a short time ago, all because a church imitated the character of Christ.

An Unusual Meeting

Last Wednesday at 5:15 as I was leaving the office I received a mysterious call on my cell phone from a Washington area code. Puzzled, I took the call.

“Hi, Sam…”

The elderly gentleman’s voice had a strangely familiar tone.

“…my name is Kadine — I’m your grandmother’s cousin.”

My mother and grandmother had both told me that they hoped I’d be able to meet my distant Cousin Kay while on my summer — long trip to D.C. I have never met him before. He has lived in the Washington area for decades and is actually being honored this year at the renowned Library of Congress for a staggering fifty years of service. Apparently, he isn’t your average librarian.

But it isn’t everyday that you get a random phone call from a relative you’ve never met. The way I look at it, I share with each one of my relatives a unique and lasting bond, and they all represent — even if in a subtle way — a small part of where I came from and who I am.  So this evening I will take a walk down Massachusetts Avenue and meet my distant cousin for the first time at dinner and I am much looking forward to it.

I suppose that in order for us to learn most truly about ourselves we should look first to our family — those with our name and blood who lived before us and brought us into this world. I suspect that I will meet and learn about an interesting gentleman — Cousin Kay — this evening, but perhaps through our conversation I may even learn a little bit about myself.