A Bit of Resistance

Team Hoyt: A Few Thoughts On Equality

2010-08-29T14:08:00.010-06:00

Please do me a favor. Imagine yourself on a run in the park.

On this particular day, you're feeling fast. The body is working the way you want it to. After some stretching and a mile of warm up you round the bend and spot that cocky muscle-bound runner you always see out there. He's the kind with the divided calf; ya know, two clearly divided lobes of muscle wrapped tightly with tan athletic skin. You note that he's a hundred yards out and, feeling a bit ballsy, decide to mount your attack. Secretly you hope against hope that today will be the day where the tables turn and this time you'll be the one dominating. Despite the fact that the other guy's running at a great pace, you up the tempo again and in mere minutes you find yourself approaching for the pass. Nearly 6 months of training culminate in this very moment. Just out of earshot you rip out a few deep exhalations in preparation for five seconds of limited breath. As you pull around to his left, you make sure to close your mouth and breathe almost reluctantly through the nose as if to say, "yea I guess I could use a little oxygen right now." While at the same time you know exactly what that meat-head runner is thinking: "Holy shit, I've been holding him off for a while now and this guy is hardly even winded." The psychological warfare having been executed perfectly, you look back a minute later to see he has slowed to a weak jog and his face reflects that of being completely demoralized. You pull motivation from your victory and muscle on to fly through the next corner in a full tilt. Having just lived out one of the rarest most athletically epic moments of your life, your delusions of grandeur take over. "No Lance, I couldn't...please just keep it........no I could never accept your yellow jersey...no your the best....not me." You let out a little chuckle under your breath and continue on.
And then, it happens.

As you fly around the corner, straining to pick out any obstacles, your eyes fall on that guy from grade school who got sent off to Iraq. He's wheeling himself around the lake, clearly still adjusting to his newly legless state and there is no ignoring the eye contact. Or maybe its Peggy, the sweetheart from down the street, who despite exhausting every medical means under the sun and eating only salad for years has not yet found a way to quicken the pace of her thyroid. There she is, all 300lbs of her, speed walking past and out of breath. Or maybe its Brandon, the 33 year old guy with down syndrome still holding his mom's hand as you pass.

The sight of which is ripping you apart. In a moment such as this you cant help but feel like your entire existence is just one big pursuit in vanity.

So this is the question I'm trying to talk about; what do we do with that awful feeling... what is a decent response....what path do we take in the complexity of such inequality?

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A few weeks ago, just as in my imaginary scenario, I woke up feeling strong. I grabbed my shoes and decided to go for a run before it got too hot.
'Ah, ill just check my email real quick' I thought.
I pulled one shoe on.
The MSN home page came up. There were all those ridiculous "news" headlines. "Britney's New Surgery" and "How to dump your girlfriend the right way" etc. I rolled my eyes. The next headline popped up.

"The World's 50 Most Failed States". This one hooked my attention.

The web page opened to reveal a desperate scene. I don't remember the exact picture, but most likely the page framed in the hands of a simple farmer struggling in the dry red soil of Africa. Looking on behind him and slightly out of focus, his children stood with swollen hunger-stricken bellys. The title read: "Postcards from Hell". The subtitle: "Somalia". In fewer than 10 sentences the piece explained their government less state, mentioned a few different warlords grabbing for power and touched on the average annual income of a Somali pirate.

I felt that old subtle guilt begin to choke off the momentum of my morning.

I clicked the "next" button and went on to read about the other nations on the list and their corresponding images of desolation. Sierra Leone, The Democratic Republic of Congo, Haiti, Malawi, and so on.....It was all very heavy.

I never made it out for the run. What can I say? I was dealling with way too much head noise. I mean, when you hold in your hands the very photos of the crime scene its kind of hard to get back to regular life. The imagination runs wild....It could very well be that as I go out for a jaunt in the park to be a better athlete, in some other place a man is saving his own urine to survive one more day. It's a paralyzing thought. I think Bono said it well, "Today we eat and drink while tomorrow they die." The concept haunts me.

And yet, on some level I have to get back to regular life. I have to keep taking care of myself. What good is it if I give up the hard learned healthy rhythms of life if no one benefits from the sacrifice? Sacrifice alone(not to be confused with Mercy/Grace) gets us nowhere. It seems to me that if, in response to evil, I lie down and die thinking myself a silly and wretched man for my own drive to rise above, than hasn't evil prevailed? Has not the Somalians poverty become my own?

After having lived a year in the Dominican Republic (many years ago) Ive spent some time wallowing in this confusion. I've missed a lot more than a run here and there. That year on the island I made friends with some of the most beautifully alive and caring people that ive ever met. Facing my first in depth exposure to poverty, suffering, and overwhelming love (mainly from my host family, the Bellos) I began to change. So When I got back, regular life got hard. The questions would not stop. I wondered "why was I born here?" and " if life is comparably easier for me why am I still unable to rise above?.......How am I ever gunna give a man a hand up if I can't get past my own needs?....... Being a white American male with loving middle class parents, am I not among the privileged few? And if so, just how much is expected of me?"

Well I haven't come to any real resolution on these questions. I can't ease the tension. Sure, along the way I've probably picked up a few justifications to help me function, but truthfully, I am unable to deliver the sappy ending that I crave. As it stands, the great space between poor and rich, weak and strong, able and unable is still present and still not okay.

But inwardly there is the sound of another voice. The voice always pleads with me to find some hope and keep believing that its possible to bridge those gaps.

Enter: The Hoyt's. Team Hoyt is hands down my favorite modern story and even after years following their progress I'm still inspired. The following video tells the story of a father and son who have worked to bridge a few of those gaps. They feed my hope that while I haven't given much back yet, the opportunity will come.

This is why I believe that in some wild way, weakness and deformity are just as much a gift as strong legs and an above average lung capacity.

Whether they know it intellectually or not, here are two men who tuned into what God was whispering into their hearts and lived it out.

Minimalist Footwear and why I will never run in standard running shoes again.

2010-06-28T23:06:00.002-06:00

Eight months ago a friend of mine lent me the book Born to Run. I read it and loved it. A month later I was at an REI garage sale and spotted a pair of Vibram's Fivefinger Classics . They were only $36 and just so happened to fit perfectly. It was fate. I scooped those things up and started experimenting with a different kind of running.

As I understand it, the basic premise is this: sometimes a modern running shoe will act as a brace, and if you brace a muscle, you use it less and it gets weaker. Or perhaps your body adapts to the brace and begins to compensate, like running with a heel strike.

I found the Classics to perform mainly as a glove for your foot. They protect from abrasion but offer zero arch support or heel padding. I had been advised to take it easy at first and to steer clear of running on pavement and other hard surfaces, so for the first month I ran in a grassy park, and only a mile at a time. I immediately noticed the difference. Different gait, shorter steps, slower pace, fatigued calves.

It was the experience though that turned me into a believer. Every run I took I discovered something new. I started to feel a more circular pattern in the motion of my running. Rather than resisting the earth below me I felt like I was flowing though it. Undoubtedly, the book was influencing my thoughts but I genuinely couldn't help feeling less like a man trying to be an athlete and more like a man simply running to get somewhere. Just simple, necessary, natural transportation. Running started to feel more like rolling on big slightly ovaled wheels. Sure, I wasn't running as fast but I also wasn't feeling my usual joint and shin pain. I was landing with the forefoot and kicking higher in the back.

The real beauty of it was the method. All this was happening without coaching. I wasn't thinking about it. I wasn't implementing something I had memorized. It was natural. It was like good running technique was in me all along. Once, when the endorphins were really pumping, an old stuffy bit of scripture popped into my mind and I remember clearly that I was actually understanding it for the first time.... I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. It was a rare moment but I understood as though I was the one who penned it. I felt like I was aligned with my design, functioning as I was made to, and in turn, I found myself entertaining thoughts about the original designer. His creative genius weighed heavy on my heart. I think subconsciously, this has a lot to do with why I run.

Then comes mile 2 . That's when the calf pain started. We're talking dead center in the middle of my left calf, and a slightly smaller dose in the right calf, but in the same exact place. For months I couldn't really get past mile 2 without calf pain. I wasn't worried though; all my peeps on the internet barefoot forums were telling me that everyone went though this. Plus, due to all that new feedback I was receiving from the ground it was easier to hear what my body was telling me. It seemed obvious to me that this was just the pain of transition. So I'd run till the pain started, go a bit further and then stop. My chiropractor told me that my achilles were just getting used to the absence of an inch of foam beneath them. I guess it takes a few months of consistent running for the achilles to stretch/lengthen.

Slowly though, the pain passed. Right now I can do about 10 easy miles without much problem. The pavement is still hard though. (Which is why I bought Nike's minimalist shoe, the Free(3.0). It offers just a smidge more between you and the pavement and Ive found it to be perfect for the times when the pavement is unavoidable.) I'm not sure yet if I will ever be able to run pavement like I did in high school, but no worries, I don't really want to anyway.

Since I started playing around with the Classics, Vibram designed and released their first barefoot style shoe made specifically for running. They call it the Bikila, after Abebe Bikila, an amazing Ethiopian runner that gained a world record in the marathon wearing absolutely nothing on his feet. The sole is slightly thicker and offers better traction especially on trails. Ive only run twice so far in these but I can say confidently that it is by far my favorite minimalist shoe so far.

It may just be my imagination but I think my feet actually look different than they did 8 months ago. It looks to me like my arch is higher and I'm pretty sure the length of my foot is shorter, maybe by a half size (which would make sense if my arch is higher.) I didn't take any before or after measurements so I'm not totally sure of this but I swear my regular everyday shoes are a little long now.

What I am sure of: Thanks to the inspiration from Born to Run, Vibram's Fivefinger shoes, and a growing understanding that God is most knowable on a run, which is to say in daily life apart from church, seminary and doctrinal thinking (don't know how else to put this), I've been running for 6 months without injury and for the first time in my entire life, I can run a sub-6 minute mile.

Well that's what I've found in my endeavors with minimalist footwear. Drop me a line, tell me what you think.

Boulder Sunset

2010-05-01T14:11:00.002-06:00

Facing 50 hour work weeks and a serious case of writers block this is all I could muster this month.

So I really want to train for and complete a triathlon this summer and I don't want to do it alone.

I want to do it in order to raise money to help with the work Ryan and Amanda Philips are doing in their organization ECTA International.
Half of every individuals registration fee ($30 - $70 depending on the event you choose) will go to ECTA International.

The triathlon is the Boulder Sunset.

What: There are three events to choose from. 5k Run. Duathlon. Triathlon (sprint).
When : September 11th. At 2 in the afternoon. None of this swimming at dawn crap.
Where: The Boulder Reservoir

Ryan and Amanda Philips are this couple from CCU and our old church(LOMCC) that Mary and I have hardly met really. They are our age and over the last few years our only interaction has been through the mass emails they send. And what challenging and moving emails they are......they are posted under "Journal" on their website. Here is a recent one that I liked.

From what ive gathered over the years, they seem to be average American people living an amazing story. They've lived largely in two different towns in and around eastern India focusing on the people and issues of isolated communties. Whenever they encounter problems above their skill set they tend to come back to the U.S. just long enough to get trained in whatever it is, then they're off again. Ryan started several years ago improving the trail system over the pass's but now several others have joined them, they are heavily involved in medical operations and officially they are called Empowering Communities to Transcend Adversity. I really like their mentality and method.

Anyway, they inspire me. I look around asking God what to put my efforts/resources into and these guys just keep popping up. Right now they are the organization that Mary and I will be giving to.

That's the basics of what I know of them anyway.

Welp, if your interested in doing this please let me know. Im looking forward to getting in shape/horsing around together this summer.

Henry.

The Edge

2010-03-31T20:57:00.054-06:00

My wife and I have this hair brained idea that in about 3 years we may just jump off the edge of our world. So right now we are trying to get ready. A lot has to happen for this to become a possibility.

I'm not yet sure why we are adhering to this plan, but truth is, I have no intention of giving it up.

The new plan has made all the difference for us. The more we warm ourselves to the vision the more we enjoy who we are becoming. For I have come to realize that without vision, I am largely a lazy and reactive man. Lack of vision is like my kryptonite.

I first realized this last summer when I tried to become a "survivor". After years of watching the show I finally had had enough spectating. I was ready to participate. So, I asked my aspiring-director friend if he would help me make a 3 minute audition tape. He said yes. From that moment until the end of the summer when we finished the video, I became absolutely obsessed with making the best survivor application I could possibly make. I'd be lying if I told you I didn't lose sleep over it. It was all I thought about. I had to figure out exactly what part of me I would show those stern, uncaring CBS producers, all locked away in the back room watching nearly 10,000 other app-videos like they do every season. I had 3 minutes to make them giddy for Henry.

In one sense it was a miserable summer. I was totally self-absorbed for three months straight. It was really scary for me to say, "For exactly such and such reason, I am the best candidate." In the name of humility I had always avoided owning up to my own personality traits. I remember several times watching the playback after a promising take only to be faced with an overwhelming desire to contort my face and spit like I had just figured out that that chocolate was really just poo. It's kind of disgusting to figure out just how bizarre your reasons are for feeling special about yourself.

But on the other hand, I took a lot more good than bad from the experience. I loved the motivation it gave me. The obsession required me to believe it was possible. I felt like a man who was trying again. For the first time in a long time, I felt willing to lay it all out on the line. There was freedom in my vulnerability. In the end, just like most survivor wannabe's, no intern ever called me to tell me how I'd made it to the next level of auditions out in L.A. Instead, I learned I never wanted to go back to my visionless state.

The video experience guides my thinking on this next vision. You see, there is this hunch that I have. It’s always been there. It is this; that something is coming.

I'm not sure what the something is. It could be a huge thing, effecting everyone, or just a small thing, effecting mostly my life and the people I rub elbows with. Still, throughout my adult life, I’ve always had this vague suspicion that we are being pulled toward an edge. No matter what we do, we float toward it, or perhaps the ground is pulled as a carpet beneath us and the edge comes to us. This edge could be a voluntary way of living, as in a decision that we make. Or it could be an event, something that forces us to react. Regardless, It seems inevitable.

To some, their arrival at the edge may feel like awakening to the dark silhouette of a man standing at the foot of the bed. To others I suspect it will feel like the ice melting, like the end of winter, a new spring. It will feel like sweet renewal. I want the latter. I want to be ready. I want to embrace the idea of the edge in a way that allows me to live from a hopeful center. So, admittedly, in the absence of a more compelling vision, I embrace the wild thought, and slap a 3 year label on it. I'm not sure if the three years is right. But we have a lot to do in order to be ready, and it seems like 3 years is just about right for us. If the edge hasn't come to us by then, than we may just go to it.

So, slowly, like citzens of the cold war, we hallow out our fallout shelter within the confines of our day-to-day life. We set our nose to the grindstone. We busy ourselves; completing degrees, paying off debt, overcoming addiction, and learning for the first time to do the small things well. All of our habits fall under a new scrutiny. We begin to set down burdens as we become aware of them. Pregnant with a new focus, we fail to buy that "required" digital TV box and name our failure as progress. We do our very best to unload all our 1st world bondage. A clear shift in our mindset is evident. Growing past mere gratitude for our fullness, we stop ignoring our hunger and embrace its motivation. Clearly, under the new plan we have become enabled. The motivation of deliverance heightens our senses and quickens our reflexes.

'I Refuse to Play Your Games" Part 3

2010-02-28T15:58:00.002-07:00

The less I ignore my weakness, refusing to hide it, refusing to make up for it, refusing to be strong in some other way....the more clearly I recognize genuine strength. It stands in stark contrast to what I lack, and I hunger for it. Suddenly this strength pops up all over. I see it in the people I bump into and in the characters of the stories I read. Like the following story. Perhaps you've heard it a thousand times or maybe never in its entirety. Either way, please allow me to retell it in the way I imagine it.

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In those days the streets bustled with all the same characters, all the same forces at work, and all the same souls under the chisel's edge.

A group of Pharisees descended upon the home of a commoner. Like the rest, they had heard the rumors; a certain celebrity was expected to visit that night. In fact, that very rumor was the only reason they would endure such company.

The Pharisees were an interesting group of men. They were the respected few. They were able minded, competent, concise, wielding an authority that few resisted. These were the men that could do what the rest couldn't. Strong willed and well practiced in the art of bucking up, they set their minds to a task and accomplished it. They couldn't understand why the rest had such a hard time doing the same. They had standards to uphold. They lived by the law. In this way they didn't finish 2nd; they won. At least that’s how they saw themselves.

In the previous months the Pharisees had rubbed shoulders with him a few times. Having seen his message begin to conflict with their own, they grew weary of his budding popularity. Thus, that night they came to engage him head on. Under the guise of a genuine search for truth and using a little flattery, they planned to trap him in his words. If they challenged him with a question in front of everyone he would have no choice but to oblige them with an answer.

"Teacher," announced the Pharisee's point-man, motioning for the crowds silence. The guests parted to both sides and all heads turned toward a middle aged man in the back of the room. He was talking animatedly with a frail old witch of a woman towards the back wall. A smile brimmed widely across the left side of her wrinkled face revealing a stroke suffered long ago. He continued with his story. He was completely engaged, waving his hands in the air as he described some important detail. She basked in the attention, completely forgetting she was speaking with the very guest of honor himself.

"Teacher" said the Pharisee again, still expectant of the crowds obedience. Being the last to realize the interruption, the man in the back stopped mid sentence and the old woman limped off to the side. As the room finally fell silent, the Pharisee began.

"Teacher, We know you are a man of integrity and that you teach the word of God in accordance with the truth. You aren't swayed by men because you pay no attention to who they are. Tell us then, what is your opinion? Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar or not?"

And like so, the trap was set.

Jesus set down his cup, simultaneously crossing his arms and lifting his eyebrows in disbelief of the Pharisee's audacity to uninvitedly interrupt the party.

The crowd leaned in to listen, collectively thinking something like "Wow, this man who somehow understands, better than anyone, my plight in this world.....this man whom I cannot help but hang on his every word..... this man who gives me hope.....is gunna talk politics. Oh, I have got to hear this."

These onlookers represented what was once a proud nation but had since been occupied and oppressed by a brutal empire. Every individual there carried memories about what had happened under Caesar's tyranny. They thought about how their resources were stolen, their women raped, their leaders seduced, their security destroyed and their way of life greatly impoverished.

In that moment he could feel the expectation in their faces. He so badly just wanted to tell them what they wanted to hear.....he wanted to empower them, that they might throw off the oppression from their backs.

Still reeling from the abrupt change of mood, Jeus considered his response. Fully aware that in no way was he obligated to respond to such an evil intentioned question, he chose to answer anyway.

If he were to answer, "It is right to pay taxes to Caesar" he knew the Pharisees and Herodians would have nothing on him and he could go on to teach another day. Yet such a compromise would mean choosing to stop caring for the people that he fought for. He would be telling them that the oppression was acceptable. Then the people might lose their ear for his message and the Pharisees would succeed in toppling his influence.

If he answered, "It's not right to pay taxes to Caesar", then the trap succeeds and the Herodians would have all the witnesses they need to haul him off to the governor and have him hung for preaching against Rome. Plus, leading the oppressed to stick it to the man would go against the message he was already preaching. It would be so much lower than living in the tension, so far below walking that fine line to real freedom. Such a plan would involve bearing the same weapons that the system invented.

On the celebrity's face, the lifted brow of surprise suddenly shifted downward. Determinedly angry now.

"You hypocrites." he blurted out. A moment of sterile silence. A Pharisee pursed his lips to speak, only to be cut short.

"Why are you trying to trap me?" Startled by the volume in his voice, another Pharisee quickly gathered himself to fire back, but Jesus went on, not letting them in.

"Show me the coin used for paying the tax." he demanded, modeling a rare posture of impatience. The Pharisees quickly produced a denarius and sent a boy stumbling over to deliver it to him.

With the coin in hand, he continued "Whose portrait is this?".

To which they replied, "Caesar's."

"And whose inscription?" he beckoned.

Again, "Caesar’s".

And in a historically brilliant moment, quite swiftly, and almost effortlessly, He ended it.

'Well then'...... "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's."

And the crowd goes "Ohhhhhhh snap."

While I don't have time to go into all the fascinating ramifications of such an amazing answer, effectively, his enemies laid out only two possible options and he refused them both. He pulled back from the narrow confines of the Pharisees' worldview and dropped a bomb of perspective into the situation, leaving just enough ambiguity in the air to send the enemies to walking and the sheep to thinking.

It reminds me of the same kind of other worldly reasoning seen in another of these old stories. It happens when, something like thousands of years earlier, a man named Joshua, while leading an army, unknowingly stumbles upon an angel and asks "Are you for us or are you against us?" and the angel replies plainly, "No."

Its kind of like when you were seven years old, sitting at the dinner table, and your dad asked you, "For dessert tonight, do you want ice cream or a popsicle?" and confidently you replied, "Yes", completely unaware of your defiance to choose one or the other.

How many times does Jesus say essentially, 'I refuse to play your games'? How many times, by knowing exactly who he is, by being one hundred percent committed to walking the right path inwardly, does he make a bold move outwardly? Perhaps a few other of his punch-lines will prove familiar. For example......

"If your sheep falls into a pit on the Sabbath wouldn't you take hold of it and lift it out?"

And.

"Haven’t you read what David did when his companions were hungry? They entered the house of God and he and his companions ate the consecrated bread."

And.

"You are in error of the scriptures..... at the resurrection people will neither marry nor be given in marriage."

So many times his enemies surround him with a question of morality and in a tense and austere silence, with all eyes on him, he refuses the options they give him. He shuns all the assumptions. He denies their attempts to title him, to rename him, to re-identify him. He chooses an original path.

On a side note, I like to think that Jesus would do the same thing with the great "Christian" questions of our time. I hear us asking now, "Pro life or pro choice?", "Is homosexuality right or wrong?", "Saved or unsaved?" and "Creation or evolution?". The list goes on. Still, I crave that explosion of perspective to set some of us to walking and some of us to thinking, as we try to come to grips with the meaning because it is just that revolutionary.

I read the replies of Jesus as much more than answers to specific questions in that time, relevant only to that specific culture. Between the lines, I hear his strength. He speaks the words into the silence, as though it were in slow motion, boldly stating 'No, I walk only the path that my father gives me. Falling into your traps is not yet on that path.' And I can't help but squirm with glee. I can't help but whoop and holler, throwing a solid fist into the air. Oh the brazen defiance. Oh the strength. Oh the cojones. Truly, he feared no man. He resists anyone who would have him hate, have him fear, have him be a victim, have him be a bully, have him take a lesser path, have him do something other than what he sees his father doing. I love the Jesus show.

I rejoice because if Jesus was only doing what he saw his father doing than this is great news. This is great news because I happen to know a lot of those stories that Jesus saw his father in. In those stories I see that father of his consistently choosing the lowest to be his highest. In those stories the characters change immensely. A character like Moses the Coward becomes Moses the Liberator, and Sarah the Barren becomes Sarah the Mother of a Great Nation. And so it goes for countless others.

Or take the story of Peter. This is a great example of Jesus just doing what he did best; humbly repeating what he knows his father had done before him. Peter is this brash loud-mouth of a man. He's obviously all talk, but over the long course of Jesus’ influence upon his life he becomes a doer, a man of action. He was a man who vowed genuinely "I will never fall away from you" and by the next morning, three separate times, he's gone against his word in full betrayal of someone who gave him everything. And Peter wallows in this failure. By the end of his story though, he's changed; he's become a man who practices action, especially action related to following his master. By following he becomes a leader, only he doesn't know it himself. He ends his own story by willingly dying on a cross, just like the man he once denied.

I'm thrilled because if the obvious pattern of these stories is true than heeding their call is something I very much want to do. If these stories are true than I don't need to ignore my own weakness. I don't have to be ashamed of my failure at the fountain (Part 1), or my inability to speak lovingly into my friends life (Part 2), or any other circumstance where I failed to be courageous or oppose the darkness. If these stories are true than I'm free to display these weakness's proudly, all the while noticing the influence of the Jesus story upon my life, and secretly suspecting that maybe, just maybe, a guy like Henry the People Pleaser, or Henry the Non-Confrontational, might someday be remembered as Henry the Bold One, or Henry that Guy You Want in Your Foxhole.

I refuse to play your games. Part 2

2010-01-31T15:06:00.008-07:00

The other day my friend Jim and I had a conversation about his neighbors. Jim explained to me that, over the last year or so he and his wife had begun to hang out fairly frequently with a couple that lived two doors down. At backyard barbeques, at his kids athletic events, even family get-togethers, Barbara and Kathy were frequently involved. Barbara and Kathy would describe themselves as a committed lesbian couple. Which, undoubtedly, was the very driving force behind our conversation.

Jim explained that these were two people he found to be decent and trustworthy people. He and his wife really enjoyed their company and consistently invited them into their life, not for some hidden agenda but rather because they were the type of couple that enriched an experience. I understood exactly where he was coming from. A dear friend of mine that I grew up with had recently announced a lifelong commitment to her partner, so the issue was something I deeply cared about.

Being the two overly-churched individuals that we are, the conversation floated from Barbara and Kathy to the great moral question of homosexuality as a whole. After all this was a topic well within our scope of personal understanding and, ultimately, judgment (please note a touch of sarcasm here.) Of course the obvious one-liners were mentioned, ya know like, "we just gotta live it out and they will see that there is something different about what we believe" and "it’s not my job to judge them" and "we are responsible to just love them how they are." But these were just practices in Christian correctness, a common protocol that an evangelical must take to eventually get right down to the nitty gritty, ya know, where the conversation really gets interesting.

That part of the discussion came when Jim declared, "But ya know, If Barbara ever asked me 'Jim, what do you really think about Kathy and I being together?' I would have to tell her that deep down I really do think what they are doing is wrong. And I am against them being together."

Upon his pronouncement, I pensively hung my head, nodded, and reluctantly gave in to agreeing with him.

"Yea, ya know, I can't really get around that one either. At the core of the matter, I guess that's what I believe too. I mean, while you can argue that scripture is not clear about it, I certainly cannot find a passage where homosexuality is encouraged" I said.

In the silence following our conversation we found ourselves slightly saddened by the distance we had decided to hold between us and our neighbors. However, I fear that "at the core of the matter" we were almost more relieved that we had found ourselves to still be good Christians. We sighed contently in the knowledge that, despite all the moral compromise we were unable to avoid in our own lives, at least in this specific conversation, in private, we said what needed to be said to remain uncorrupted holders of the truth. In that moment we saw ourselves as defenders, people who stubbornly refused to back down from their convictions. We felt safe, guarded by our creed. We drew a line and, low and behold, we found ourselves on the right side of it.

Several years ago, my friend really did ask me that question. Essentially she confessed to me her new relationship, how much her partner meant to her, and asked point blank If I thought it was right or wrong. I answered much the same way as Jim did.

I wonder though if I really told the truth by answering as I did? Did I really listen to her question? I think my friend’s question was about a whole bunch more than homosexuality. For a person who has come to practice consistency, commitment, patience, and joy via a committed gay relationship, my answer might come across as a rejection of a whole lot more than strictly sexual decisions. There is a good chance my answer communicated something like, "morality is more important to me than you are." I cringe because I don't really believe that. Yet I couldn't see it in the moment.

Just as in the near fight at the fountain, (see part 1) I see now that there were other options available. There was more going on under the surface. There was courage to be taken hold of. There was darkness to oppose. Rather than rejecting my friend as a person I could have refused her question instead. I could have left that as an unknown in our relationship. I could have said "No, don't ask me this unjust question. Im sure you know the answer better than I do.” I could have said, “You are the one who has chosen this path so in the end does it really matter what I think? Just as I will not let you off the hook, I also will not load you down with my judgment. Rather, I have my own path to follow and it requires me to accept you as you are, to serve you, to come along side you, and to give to you what I have, just as freely as I have been given to.” I could have said something to that effect, as I truly believed, yet against the current of our morally charged environment I did not resist. Instead, I believed what many would have me believe; that the only decent reaction is to deem an action either right or wrong and then move on, there is no middle ground, no higher path to take.

So once again, here I am having taken the wrong turn at a familiar crossroads. Not to say that my friend was in anyway at fault for asking, I see now though, I have entertained a loaded question. I've failed to see the darker forces at work here. Like a dog, I have heeled at the supposed authority of the strongman. I've bought into the idea that morality trumps love. And in this moment, fully knowing myself, I realize my helplessness to keep from doing it again. It is a systematic weakness of mine. Upon understanding my limitation, and at the end of self-hope, I can't help but crave the memory of genuine strength. I can’t help but remember the Jesus story.

(to be continued.)

I refuse to play your games. Part 1

2009-12-27T12:59:00.009-07:00

In my hand hung a plastic grocery bag containing nearly 4 gallons of blue Dawn dishwashing soap. It was the end of our senior year and we were on our way to the local promenade fountain. I envisioned a large slow moving mass of traffic-stopping bubbles creeping out onto the adjacent road. We were a group of 7 students-turned-brothers with only one goal: to cause a little mischief that friday night. It was going to be a dream come true.

We parked the car and headed out on foot. I surveyed our crew, mentally reviewing the story of recent years. Marino, Paul, Woodroof, Kelly, Tyler, Henry and Kevin. Though we were once strangers, somewhere along the line we had gotten close. We had endured years of academic and athletic bondage together at D'evelyn High; a public charter school with a reputation for above average ACT scores and overwhelmingly ample loads of homework. In fact, to this day, I have yet to take a college course as challenging as in those days. Yet harnassed under such strange academic cruelty, a bond was forged. It was unsaid of course but these were the guys I trusted.
Arriving at the fountain, we wasted no time and immediately began dispensing the soap. A few others took notice and silently stood by keeping tabs on our progress. They were intrigued. A few other groups arrived. We felt their eyes on our backs and soaked up the attention. Slinging the plastic jugs over our heads in huge axe like arcs, I secretly basked in the genius of the plan.

But nothing was happening.

"Dont worry, it'll work." I said with saint like faith. "We just have to wait."

As we stood there, a few guys from a neighboring group directed a few loud comments our way. Over the noise of the splashing fountain I couldn't make out what they were saying. All that was evident was there intention to intimidate. Undeniably, these were not friendly gestures. Regardless, we were not about to let them run our night off course so we did our best to ignore them. The comments continued. It was obvious, they were just looking for a fight.

Then the big one in the middle shouted over the fountain. This time, I got the message loud and clear.

"Hey open your eyes......I can't see you in the dark."

I couldnt believe it. I mean how old were these guys? Judging from this last zinger they were directing their words at Kevin. And why was that? Because Kevin had the darkest skin.

'Were these pricks really throwing racial innuendos around? Come on.' I thought to myself. I was starting to get pissed.

Kevin reassured us, "Forget about it guys, just ignore them... Don't worry I've delt with this before. Reacting only gives them what they want."

Admiring Kevin's level headedness, I was content to follow his lead.

A few uneventful minutes passed, but the idiots still lingered. Kevin leaned over squeezing out a few last drops of dish soap. I was starting to give up on the idea. All the soap had been dispersed and all we had to show for it were 3 lousy inches of foam. Kevin stood up and tossed the empty container into the grass. I began to express my first doubts concerning the big plan, "Kevin I don't know man. I think maybe.......

Whack....Kevin's whole body jolted forward. Ice cubes and soda spilled out of a big gulp cup as it rolled to a stop behind his feet. His hand on the back of his head, he stepped forward in order to stop the momentum.

"What the...?"

By the time I had it figured out we were all 7 sprinting up the sidewalk toward the theater, adrenals raging in hot pursuit after the racists. Apparently, completely unprovoked, either the big guy or one of his many little pawns, i'm not sure which, had thrown an entire big gulp cup, capped, full to the brim, and spiraling into the back of my friend Kevin's head.

After a short sprint we had them cornered against the back of the theater. The two groups glared eye to eye. The night was ripe with conflict.

That's when the big guy made his move.

Obviously experienced with this kind of thing and sensing he was physically outmatched, he tried his might at turning the tables. He grabbed for control of the situation and in my fear and inexperience I handed it right over to him. These are the words he used to do it.

"I'll take on each and every one of you bitches one at a time and kick all your pansey asses."

And suddenly, just like that, the tables were turned. For no good reason at all, the ensuing fight was going to be conducted on his terms.

Unable to imagine another way of doing things, unable to imagine our own terms of engagement, I chose to abide within this jack-ass's parameters of conflict resolution. I remember vaguely thinking something like "Oh, I guess facing him one at a time is the only decent thing to do here. I mean, I dont want to fight dishonorably." Even in something as primitive and obscene as a high school fight I worried about what the others would think. So I accepted his terms, I accepted his supposed authority over me, and though I don't remember all that was said after that, I eventually helped to talk my friends out of the fight. The instigators laughed at us as we walked away.

Later I pieced together the reality of the situation: I had done the right thing for completely the wrong reason. In doing so, our action, or lack thereof, became not the right thing at all.

I had let Kevin down. I had not avenged his lost dignity. Instead, I walked away a victim, forever imagining the defiance that I should have had. "No way asshole, if you want to fight than all seven of us are gunna jump you at the same time, and you won't stand a chance against us. This is one fight you shouldn't have picked." I could have said. Yet I bowed to his will out of timidity without opposing the darkness of the situation. Without trying to muster up the courage of Christ, without applying my will against the actions of the oppressor, I didn't really turn the cheek. I chose weakness. I chose defeat. I chose the path of the coward.

Still to this day, when for one reason or another, I find myself really thinking about that night I feel my heart rate pick up and imagine it going very differently. I picture myself pinning that guy to the ground and pounding him fist over bloody fist.

And I'm ashamed.

After 8 years, I still let this guy degrade me into wishing violence upon another child of God.

After 8 years, I still havn't thrown off that supposed authority over me.

After 8 years, I still allow him to keep me isolated from the freedom of forgiveness.

(To be continued)

Under the Influence

2009-11-28T13:30:00.009-07:00

I was 21 years old, washing windows full time and having to get up early to bust my ass in order to keep pace with my super-athlete boss, when I first acquired the taste for coffee.

Occasionally, entrenched in the woes of the daily grind, the crew stopped at Starbucks. The boss, an experienced caffeine doper, encouraged me to try a bit. He was paying afterall, so I was happy to oblige him. I didn't like the taste at first but it wasn't anything that ample amounts of cream, refined sugar, powdered vanilla, honey and a sturdy stir stik couldn't fix. In a short time I began to notice that things were not the same. I was not the same. I noticed a new mental rigor and physical quickness immediately following the S-bux visits. Best part was, it started to manifest in the job I was doing as well. I went from 30 surfaces washed per hour to 40, sometimes more.

You must understand, a development such as this was a big deal for me. Say you are leaving the classroom having just finished a test. I am that only guy still sitting in his chair pleading with the teacher to allow him just 5 more minutes, because, despite the two hours allowed, I could only manage 7 out of 15 answers.

The new sense of urgency that I received from coffee came as a sweet relief from an ever-present and life long inadequacy.  It was as though the very command of time suddenly dropped into my skill-set. For the first time, a little control of my own destiny was possible. I was sure of it, no longer would I remain a victim of time. I could finish my task with a moment to spare. My mind finally worked like the other's. I could compete.

The boss-man, started to notice. I remember several times overhearing him describe to others the metamorphasis that came over me while on coffee. It wasn't long until he was doubling his usual morning brew just to make sure I could get my fill before we left for the workday. At that point, it was a performance enhancing drug, nothing more. Weekends; I didnt touch the stuff.

A few years ago, quite by mistake, I popped in an old home video. There on the screen was little 7 year old Henry. Having just learned to ride a bike, I was coasting toward the edge of the cul-de-sac. Suddenly, 35,000 feet overhead, barely making the faintest noise, a jetliner pours a con-trail over the cold fall sky. Everyone else continues with what they are doing, uninterested in what loomed above. But little Henry, still on the bike, has got his face to the sky, neck craning to take in the view, totally honed into a reality non-essential to what he is currently doing. Dad/the cameraman, with a quick camera movement towards the sky, pans in to see what he's looking at. Simultaneously, Dad yells, "Henry, make sure to watch what your doing." Dad pans back down; mini-Henry is on the ground, bike at his side, crying.

It is this scenario that epitomizes my continual struggle with distraction. After watching this scene unfold, it hit me, "Man, I had this problem even then." It is this distraction, this reason for why I forget my keys, why I can't tell a story and drive at the same time, why I set my wallet down and five minutes later I am sure it has ceased to exist in this universe. It is this constant frustration with myself, that caffeine alleviates. As soon as the java permeates the cells I feel whole again, I have control, I can focus to the degree that my ambition demands.

Nowadays, after several bouts of heroine-like addiction, caffeine has since poked it's fingers into more areas of my life than athletic performance. Over the years I have become keenly aware of its effects on my academic focus, my sense of spiritual connection, and even my overall outlook on life.  It is my liquid optimism. At my command, the drug holds my mind's muse at gun point, squeezing out moments of splendid epiphany and elation. The world, through a new lens, becomes crisp and full of divine order. On a rainy day, I fear, I even treat my coffee with respect, regarding the cup as sacred. I fill the mug with hot water so as to pre-warm it's future habitat, ensuring a piping hot fill for the duration of my sipping pleasure. Milk, cream, refined sugar; I cast them all aside, refusing to pollute it's purity. Perhaps, I add a single drop, maybe two, of organic agave nectar, just to pull out any hidden flavor. Waking early for a morning brew may be the closest I come to ancient ritual.

And yet, I am unable to fully embrace it. The truth, uncomfortable, relentless, and annoying as shit, nudges me to tear down any treaty that cooperates with caffeine as anything more than a temporary ally.  At least 4 mornings a week I tell myself, "No, no coffee this morning, you've already had 2 cups this week". To put it simply, I am increasingly less able to endure the doubt that the potion inserts into my victories.

Sure, after a caffeine induced fit of activity, I may reflect and rejoice, "I maintained long hours of focus on the job; therefore I can see that I am made this way. It was hard, but clearly I do have some integrity." Or, "I completed the task on time; finally, I have obtained discipline." Or in a moment of inspiration I may want to say "This song is good, and that conversation was a huge breakthrough.... and this bit of beauty here, and this bit of beauty there; they definitely moved me." But under caffeine's direction I can't really shelter those feelings. I find myself asking, "Can I really trust my instinct, that these conclusions are somehow related? That there is so much more at work here? Can I really connect the dots? Can I really say that these thoughts are more than just happenstance? Can I really rest, comforted that perhaps The Maker is present in my life, in this same space, in this same time? Or is it just the caffeine that implores me to make these connections?"

I may hate drowsy-uninspired-living, but much more, I hate vibrant-inspired-living haunted by the suspicion that it is all just the result of chemicals in the bloodstream. Reluctantly, I must give in, I must surrender to the simple truth that there is no shortcut to inspiration, nor to the development of ones character. If I am to be a man of substance, then The Old Ways: patience, living in the tension, walking a line, refusing the temptation to do something less than your best...... these paths, as pure as a foreign landscape, are the only real options that He provides for progress.

Plot Change.

2009-10-24T15:41:00.001-06:00

One thing you rarely find in a novel or a movie, nor in the sacred texts, are detailed depictions of the times between plot changes. It goes as follows,.....

Man is born without arms,
man wants arms,
man trudges though hell and back to find a doctor or prophet who can deliver.
man finds this person, the miracle is delivered, and credits roll after man dangles from monkey bars with goofy grin.

Every single bit is somehow essential to the story. There is hardly a single blurb about the slow development of character in between.

And yet, at least for me, those in between times, the mundane times, seem to be the very fabric of life. Most of the time I'm swimming in the stuff. Could it be that story is the most frustrating source of inspiration for the in-between times? The Bible, the quintessential epic of them all, is the most frustrating. It is a book of giants, talking donkeys, angels etc. God is always interacting directly with its characters. People literally fall over in fear due to the degree in which God is impacting them. The bible doesn't contain plot change, it is plot change. By definition.

One part of me is kind of embarrassed that I am just now realizing this. I feel like I was left out of the loop. The great biblical stories were so commonplace growing up that until yesterday I just assumed that's how adulthood would go for me (yea ive been a bit frustrated about my lack of plot change). No one ever told me that the bible was a collection of stories about the catalysts driving history, seldom seen rarities, the stuff you yearn for for years, the culminations of epochs.

The other part of me is sort of relieved. I mean, ive spent alot of time doubting my existance because of my lack of perspective. A few months ago I wrote this in my journal.

When a man lives all his life under the impression that he is important, that his story is not just relevant but it simply must unfold, that man gets a little confused when he finds himself living out a story thats been told many times before. What happens if he begins to believe, quite genuinely, that living the life of a domesticated man, perhaps full of decency and good nature, is his lot in life? What if he accepts his fate to live out this "natural" way? Has he given in, or has he taken the road less traveled? Is it at this point that he walks into peace? boredom?

While this excerpt brings up some other questions, one can see I've definitely been struggling with the great difference between the biblical standard of story and my own path.

The narrative does keep our expectations high. Maybe too high. If I'm honest, the temptation for me becomes about forging a new destiny (which I'm not always opposed to doing either). Often, while sitting at the edge of pivotal character development, when I am most bored with my story, the evil thought hits me. "I know what ill do, I'll just force a plot change right here and now". And before you know it, I'm moving to South America, or I've just spent 500 dollars on camping gear or some other set of tools necessary to reinvent my story once again. And this time around I miss that crucial development step, I fail to become the man I'm meant to be yet again.

At least thats how it went until I got married. At that point my compulsions became less feasible, and the process continued. Except now I replace the action with resenting my wife because it was her realistic approach to life, afterall, that put a stop to my plans. But thats another rabbit trail.

Truly, waiting for the next turn in your story is not effortless.