Fear of a Baseball Cap

It was July 4, 1996. I was with my wife, our four children and our dear friends in the Kroger grocery store parking lot in Franklin, Tennessee. Lots of other patriots had gathered with us anticipating sundown so that we could enjoy the Independence Day celebration. While the sun still shone, we were all just killing time. Cars were lined up in their parking places while the erstwhile occupants lounged on truckbeds or wandered the aisles laughing and taking in the last moments of sun.

 

Our younger kids were getting restless, so to occupy them I volunteered to accompany them to get drinks and candy in the store. We walked toward the store—this slightly built black man and a gaggle of young white children. All the people we passed were also white, and as we walked I could feel the eyes on me. The kids were innocently oblivious. Not one to shy away, I looked up to greet or at least make eye contact with anyone who dared to keep up the stare. Several young men obliged with scowls that showed me they weren’t in a greeting mood. They wore a standard uniform each punctuated by a baseball cap with a brim curled just a certain way. No-one said anything to me. They didn’t have to. They seemed to know innately that the stare communicated their message.

 

I felt the message deep in my bones; it was visceral. And not unfamiliar. In earlier months only blocks from that parking lot, young white men sent more explicit messages. On one occasion a carload of baseball-capped young men cruised by hanging out of a car and yelling racial insults at my wife and me. And on another occasion similarly dressed young white men drove by pointing gun-shooting gestures at me.

The intimidation is real, although its effectiveness on me varies according to my mood. Most times it is unsettling but not enough to alter any actions I already had in mind. These guys INTEND to be threatening to me. And I identify them ahead of time by that baseball cap they wear and by the area of town I happen to be in. For me, they are trouble-makers, marked by a number of factors topped off with the baseball cap.

Actually I bear no animosity toward the humble baseball cap. My white son sports a baseball cap with a Dr. Pepper logo. And some of my best friends wear baseball caps; some of those people are white young men from Franklin, Tennessee. People wear baseball caps for various reasons: Some as a fashion statement, some to show team or brand loyalty, some to keep the sun out of their eyes, some to cover up an embarrassing head or hair situation, and some because they play baseball. Folks wear their caps in various ways: Close to the head, sitting atop, backwards, side ways, or slightly askance. Baseball cap wearers come in varied sizes, shapes, ages, colors, and genders. It would be wrong for me to assume that every baseball cap wearing person is somehow dangerous to me.

Despite my history, it would be ridiculous for me to believe that their baseball caps MAKE people trouble-makers or that those caps are symbolic of trouble or even that I should somehow be confused about whether their baseball cap makes them dangerous. A focus on the skin color of the cap-wearer or on a particular area of town does nothing to change the picture. Objectively these guys are no more dangerous to me because they are young white guys wearing baseball caps in this area of Franklin. But as an isolated black man on this turf while groups of baseball-capped guys stare me down, I have reason to feel threatened.

Now what if one of those guys was walking in my multicultural neighborhood with a curled rim baseball cap? I’d feel no twinge of threat. My bones don’t recognize a generic baseball-capped young white guy as someone to fear, someone to pursue. If I did feel threatened by a random baseball-capped young white man in my neighborhood, and if I were a neighborhood watch captain, I would call the police. I would follow their advice.

And if that baseball cap-donned young white man came from behind me and attacked me and I knew I was carrying a semi-automatic weapon, he’d probably still be alive. 

Are We Losing Winning?

 I spent the day Saturday ragging on Damon’s coach after their first soccer match of the season. After Damon’s team scored their second goal, one of his teammates asked if they were winning. The coach, who was doubling as a referee, replied, “Winning doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?!” I said, mainly to Christian, who was coaching his little brother from the sideline. “What did she say?”

I get where the coach was coming from. A long time ago, I played Little League baseball…badly. I got to play because the league said that the coach had to play me. Each game I served my one inning in right field. Most of that time was spent like Chelsea’s one-and-only soccer practice before she quit this year: I would rather be picking flowers (not literally for me, but for Chelsea...). As I stood out in that field, I prayed, as did my coaches, that the ball would never come my way.

I played for two years, one at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and one at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. My two experiences differed very little from each other. But the first year our team came in first place. The second year our team came in fourth place. First place was better.

I played baseball because my brother, Carl—who was still Cochise to me in those days—had played before me. Co experienced all of the pressure that led later parents to go easy on their kids. He was a good player, especially a good pitcher, but I think that, with Dad as his coach, Co never felt he was good enough. Dad had to change his tune by the time I started to play. There was no way to parlay my inability, uncoordination and disinterest into some winning prospect. The best he could do is to hope to get me on a good team and hope I didn’t ruin anything.

I later joined a basketball team of my own volition. I faired no better there, and like Chelsea, I quit pretty early on. But I learned that I liked basketball. It didn’t so much matter how good I was. I liked the game. So by the time I enrolled at Punahou School for my junior year of high school, I was beginning my days playing basketball with a ragtag bunch of classmates. Most of them were better and younger than me, but I still liked playing. I also liked winning.

And I later played basketball on teams or in pickup games, knowing that I would usually be the weakest player on the court. One of my fondest memories remains the day my older brother, Carl, and my younger brother, Keith, and I challenged some guys in a pickup game in Hawaii after my college graduation. My brothers are clearly better athletes than me. I don’t remember who won that game. I do remember that Carl missed a layup, Keith put it back up, I got his miss, and I made the basket. Whether or not we won, I saw myself as the hero—that time.

In my later single adulthood I also enjoyed shooting around by myself. I even used basketball as a sort of worship. I would bring my boombox to the outdoor court at the old Howard School. I’d blast Christian music and sing while I played. I met 12-year-old Josh and 8-year-old Anna that way. They lived across the street from the school. They came over together one day while I was shooting and singing. They introduced themselves and told me that they recognized my Christian music. They asked me where I went to church. Then without asking their parents, they invited me to the weekly Tuesday night dinner they had with close friends from their church. Josh and Anna symbolize basketball benefits that had nothing to do with competition. I had grown to enjoy basketball with or without the competitiveness.

Although I was largely unsuccessful in sports, I did grow up learning to compete, mainly with words. And in those competitions, winning was everything; I would not back down. The residuals of my competitiveness remain today. I like being right. And I like you believing that I am right—even if I’m not.

Then I face moments like this Sunday morning, when Pastor Stephen Handy talked about imitating the humility of Jesus. Again with that Jesus Talk! I loved that in our subsequent Sunday School class, Ken pointed out that Jesus is already a victor and that because of Jesus, we are victors too.

I’m still learning. I have discovered that winning doesn’t have to be everything in order for it to be anything. And in some situations, winning doesn’t even matter. Marriage has been my best laboratory for seeing that “winning doesn’t matter.” I’ve learned that there are some things—such as the relationships themselves—that matter more.

After Damon’s soccer game Saturday, an inattentive teammate asked who won. The coach said, “Nobody won.” I still think she is wrong (which would mean that I am right): Damon’s team won 4-0. It matters. But it's not all that matters.

Food Stamps and Mr. Gingrich

For those like Newt who are still confused that anyone would take offense, the problem isn’t political correctness; it is factual and logical correctness:

·      Most African Americans are NOT on food stamps.

·      Most people on food stamps are NOT African American, the greatest percentage are White.

·      Most African American adults ARE working.

·      Most adults on food stamps ARE working.

·      Most poor adults are either working or trying to work.

·      Great work ethics and poor work ethics persist across the economic spectrum.

·      Many hard-working people still can’t feed their families.

While Mr. Gingrich may be factually correct by stating, “More people have been put on food stamps by Barack Obama than any president in American history,” it is disingenuous to label President Obama “The Food Stamp President,” without considering WHY so many more people are now on food stamps.

Did I say disingenuous? I mean it is a LIE to say that President Obama wants to make people dependent on the government. President Obama wants to dig the country out of an economic rut and to provide relief to its struggling citizens in the meantime.

Mr. Gingrich’s solutions are based on a distorted, misguided, and erroneous perception of the problems.  His rhetoric may resonate with lots of people, but he and those people are ill-informed—not that I think the right information will change their minds.

A Father's Blessing

I know this plays like a commercial, but it's really just another excuse to talk about the grandkids. The occasion is the release of the updated version of The Blessing, John Trent and Gary’s Smalley’s popular family-oriented, Christian “self-help” book, originally published in 1986.

I read the book back then, and as a Christian with a fairly recent psychology degree and a strong desire to raise a family, it punched all my buttons. Problem was I didn’t have a family of my own. I wasn’t married; I wasn’t even dating. So it was a bit like reading escapist fiction for me.  But now, of course, my world is different. I'm married and occasionally dating (my WIFE, silly people!); I count six kids and seven grandkids.

My grandson Damon had a tough time last school year. He is now in 1^st grade for the second time. This year, he’s doing well academically, but it’s taken a while for him to deal with this thing emotionally. It seems that repeating a grade and trying to fit into a new school are not easy realities to get used to.

Laura, my wife, and I get to see him every morning. Before we pick up his cousin Elliott for the day, we travel to Damon’s house to drive him to school. When we get to Damon’s house each schoolday morning, his mom, Chrissy, has already taken his brothers Christian and Dylan to their schools on her way to work.  Brother Michael is also at work. Damon is at home with his daddy, Thomas, who is there after having worked into the evening. Damon's little sisters, Chelsea and Zoey, are usually sleeping.

Before leaving the house with Damon, we ask him, “Did you do you homework? Did you get your folder signed? Are you all set?” It’s the ritual. The last part of the ritual is when he goes to his daddy. Thomas hugs him, holds him close, and whispers a prayer for the day. He challenges Damon to do his best, to obey his teachers, to be kind to his classmates. He says “I love you,” and kisses him. Damon is then ready to face his day.

That moment lasts less than a minute each day, but it makes all the difference in the world for how Damon navigates that day. Thomas bestows a blessing on Damon.

That’s The Blessing John Trent and Gary Smalley describe in their book. Their contention is that The Blessing bestowed upon our children (our grandchildren, spouses, other family members and friends) can make a difference in how they navigate, not just one day, but their entire lives. For the authors there are five elements to The Blessing:

1. Use meaningful and appropriate touch.

2. Use a spoken message of encouragement.

3. Attach high value. Communicate that person’s value.

4. Help them picture a special future.

5. Actively commit to helping them succeed.

I’d like to say that I taught Thomas everything he knows in this regard, but it wouldn’t be true. Thomas is one of those rare people gifted by God as a natural nurturer, a natural encourager. Most of us are not like that. Most of us need help learning how to bestow that blessing. For us, the book, The Blessing, can help.

Why We Ignored Jesus

And when you fast, do not look miserable as the actors and hypocrites do when they are fasting--they walk around town putting on airs about their suffering and weakness, complaining about how hungry they are. So everyone will know they are fasting, they don't  wash or anoint themselves with oil, pink their cheeks, or wear comfortable shoes. Those  who show off their piety, they have already received their  reward. When you fast, wash your face and beautify yourself with oil, so no one who looks at you will know about your discipline. Matthew 5:16-18a, The Voice

If you know me on FB or IRL, you have probably heard about the fast that Laura I undertook for 5 days. It was a vegetable and fruit fast, which means we could eat and drink only those foods. If you've heard about it, it's because we haven’t exactly been quiet about it, even though Jesus said what you read above. To be fair, my transgression has been way more egregious than Laura’s, but she’s not exactly been closemouthed (except toward meat and bread and all grains and legumes and dairy and anything else you would ingest that isn't fruit or vegetable) either.

So how do we justify our total disregard for Jesus’ words?

Well, looking righteous wasn't our reason for advertising the fast. And if you're tempted to think we're wonderful for undertaking this fast, you are very generous (thank you), but you should know that we quit a meal short of our goal (unfortunately that one meal wasn't very satisfying). So we are at best one meal shy of wonderful.

We also did not publicize our venture to gain pity, although I sometimes live like a disciple of Seinfeld’s George Constanza who once said, "Pity's very underrated. I like pity. It's good." Any pity I solicited (one person called me "grumpy") or mock guilt I inflicted was just for entertainment, pretending that we were actually suffering. The truth is we burdened ourselves with eating and drinking only all the fruits and vegetables we could--no real burden.

Ours was not a true commitment; it was an experiment. It all started when Kimberly texted her mother to recommend a movie about fat. I didn't care to see it, but with only end-of-the-summer TV to relax with, I agreed to give it a shot. The movie was Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead, and 30 minutes in, we stopped it and went out to buy a juicer. 

People fast for any number or reasons. Our fast was for physical health reasons, not for spiritual purification or growth or for political or spiritual leverage, although we are well aware of the connections between our spiritual, mental, and physical health. And we are aware that Jesus is an equal opportunity physician--healing body, mind, spirit, and even the social order.

In sum, I don’t believe our fast has anything to do with what Jesus was talking about.  The attitudes and actions Jesus warns against were about self-congratulating and solicitation of pity. We had neither of those intentions. 

We did, however, want people to know about our fast. Did I mention that we couldn't eat meat, bread, grains, legumes, or dairy? They even frowned upon potatoes. Potatoes!

Out of Tragedy, Triumph?

This morning after listening to Neil Young’s “Let’s Roll,” I played the collection America: A Tribute to Heroes, from the 9/11 telethon. Lots of moving music, but for me the standouts are always this rendition of Sting’s “Fragile,” and Celine Dion’s classic version of “God Bless America.”

Then we headed for church, where we read together Isaiah 43:2-3b,

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.

When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,

Nor shall the flame scorch you.

For I am the LORD your God. (NKJV)

(When I got home, I heard similar themes reflected in Psalm 46, which President Obama read at Ground Zero. It reads in part:

God is our refuge and strength,

         A very present help in trouble.

 Therefore we will not fear,

         Even though the earth be removed,

         And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;

 Though its waters roar and be troubled,

         Though the mountains shake with its swelling.  Selah  

There is a river whose streams shall make glad the city of God,

         The holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High.)

Our pastor, Stephen Handy, commemorated 9/11 with four statements.

He said, “In the midst of tragedy, there is triumph.” Surely he speaks truth. First we heard the heroics of firefighters, police officers, EMTs and ordinary citizens--not the least of whom were a small band of airplane passengers--who risked their lives preventing further tragedy. The days and weeks that followed 9/11 showed a renewal of the American spirit of community, as President Obama highlights in his USA Today op-ed.

Reflecting on the horrors of the day, Pastor Stephen also noted, “God is still with us.” Look around, and while you might find reason to convince otherwise, open eyes will se that if God was ever with us, God is still with us.

Pastor Stephen concluded with the statement “So I thank God for 9/11.” I can share his gratitude, simply because I find it helpful to thank God for nearly everything, looking for the good even in the midst of horrifying bad.

But this commemoration taxes my gratitude efforts because of Pastor Stephen’s first statement. He declared, “We are better people because of that day.” I love and respect our Pastor, but I can’t agree with this statement. Thanking God, even in the midst of tragedy, draws on faith in a loving, just, good God. God’s goodness is at the core of my faith, a starting place.

I need that faith because humans do not command that same confidence. I can agree with both my pastor and our President that we saw better people during the attack and in the immediately following days and weeks, and we have seen better people in the sacrifices of those who have enlisted and served to assure that this kind of tragedy won’t happen again. But I cannot say with any degree of confidence that we Americans as a people are better. We came together as a community and we began to remember our presence as part of the global community—all for a mere moment. 

Since then we have seen the most divisive and mean-spirited attitudes I can remember in my adult life—all without any real cause. To me we are an uglier people.

But perhaps with these memorable songs, these moving commemorations, these somber remembrances, we can also remember those post 9/11 days and try to recapture that spirit. Perhaps we can remember the God who walks with us through fire, storm, and unbelievable horror. And perhaps we can become the better people my pastor calls us.

Love & War & the Sea In-Between: A Music Review

I’ve been downloading music from NoiseTrade for months now. Fortunately for anyone accessing my Facebook page, the NoiseTrade folks no longer insist that I announce to you every time I download free music. Often I download stuff that I haven’t fully appreciated yet, and I’m not sure I want you to know about it. Some of it is still sitting in a folder waiting for me to give it the time of day.

NoiseTrade is great! You can download a song, a few songs, or a preset sampler of indie music. I’m not sure who owns the place, but there is a good bit of folk, pop, rock, Americana, and singer-songwriter stuff; if you look for it, you can find R&B and hip-hop, as well. A good bit of it has a Christian bent, but I’m not sure why. The quality varies, and your personal taste will determine whether it’s worth your time and trouble. But it’s certainly worth your money, since you aren’t risking any (Feel free to tip, though).

Occasionally an artist will offer a complete album. Such was the case with Josh Garrels’ Love & War & the Sea In-Between: an 18-song collection. This daring songwriter demands that we believe that free music doesn’t have to sound cheap (or come cheaply).

To make his point right out of the barrel, Garrels dares to make the music itself interesting. I didn’t suspect he was a Christian believer when I began the listen, and the opening instrumental notes did nothing to divulge his secret. I know: Christian music is supposed to be defined by the words. But unfortunately too much Christian music resembles the caricature in the “Jesus Fish” episode of Seinfeld years ago. Before you even hear the words, the unimaginative instrumentation signals: You are beginning a Christian song. The opening sounds expose the agenda, as if the music holds no creative substance of its own; it exists only to service the lyrical message. 

Forgive me if you are a Christian musician who proves otherwise. You are in good company with Josh Garrels. Before the lyrics threaten with some slave-driving whip, Garrels serves notice: this is a musical/lyrical collaboration. Then four songs in, he hammers the point with the first of several instrumentals! This one relies on electronica, the next one rests in Celtic acoustics.

But back to the first song. When the vocals do kick in, you know what you’re in for: Garrels is a Ray LaMontagne sound-alike. Or is it Dave Matthews, or David Gray? Not bad voices to sound like. Like them all Josh conveys raw emotion, his comes as raspy and folky expression. Then you realize that he’s no sound alike. But that’s the kind of artist you get with Garrels. Except on the instrumentals. Oh, and on #5, "The Resistance,” which is a rap song (a la Jason Mraz). So he’s a little difficult to pigeonhole.

Once you are taken in by the music and the voice, you get caught up in the poetry, the cinemascapes painted by word. The songcraft, the orchestration, the stylistic diversity, the vocal range, the poetry. All of these arrest the attention.

You catch the beauty, and it’s only later that you might recognize that the beauty is grounded in the Christian story. In fact, the truly remarkable accomplishment of this gallery is that Garrels uses both direct and allusive biblical references, without ever sounding trite. Anyone familiar with the biblical text or with gospel music will recognize the connections. This is no more evident than on “Farther Along,” the entrancing 4^th song, which lifts from Albert Tinley’s timeless gospel song, “We’ll Understand It Better By and By.”  And like the best gospel songs and the biblical text, Garrels recognizes that religious topics cannot legitimately be removed from real life. Witness the various compositions (“For You,” and “Million Miles,” especially) that speak of romantic love better than your average pop song.

I finally went to Garrells’ website, driven largely by my curiosity of why a struggling musician would give away music of this quality. He says that he “felt led of the Lord” to release this album for a year for free. I’m not sure what the Lord had in mind; I mean this is not missionary music like Keith Green’s So You Wanna Go Back to Egypt way back in 1980.  But I’m hoping Garrels’ (and the Lord’s) gamble pays off. I for one have already paid money to hear 15 more songs from Garrrels off of 2008’s Jacaranda. I’m counting on the same caliber of music as I’ve already heard. If you’re not willing to shell out 10 bucks just based on my recommendation, at least hurry over to NoiseTrade or to Josh’s own site to download the new free album. If you like it as much as I did, you’ll probably find yourself letting go of a few dollars to hear more.