I'm Intolerant of Tolerance

I would be lying if I said that there was a tiny part of me that didn't want to write this simply because I get to use "literally" properly, if a bit hyperbolically.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Words have meaning.  This is probably something we should agree on before we continue.  Then again, if this is a point of derision for us, I don't know what you're doing here.  The world in general, that is, not just my blog.  That is literally what language is, and if you've got another definition... no, wait, that... I think... Yeah, do-over...  Too much words for my brain-mind.

Ah, sweet relief...

Words have meaning.  They imply objects, actions, descriptions, all that stuff you learned in middle school and forgot in high school.  But as our ideas get more complex, so our words get more complex too.  Take your pick: equality, freedom, liberty, rights - you could right entire essays using just those terms as your jumping-off point.  And, indeed, those particular words also make another point, which is to say that words inevitably become politicized, despite (or perhaps because of) our best intentions.  Again: marriage, guns, life...  You could do this all day.

And with politicization comes polarization.  No matter where one falls on the political spectrum (cartesian plane? multi-dimensional polyhedron? how complex are we these days?), those words carry some general meanings, but also some more specific ones as well.  Marriage and equality are practically linked in the public discourse these days.  But they're also linked to other words, depending on what "side" you're on.  Do you think "love, cherish, honor" or "Bible, abomination, sin" or some combination thereof?  Is it Paul or HRC that flashes across the blackboard in your mind?

Now there are some who would argue that "tolerance" is kind of a dirty word.  I do not generally sit with them on that particular side of the fence.  Or operate in those spheres.  Or whatever it's called when we remember the world isn't black and white...  However, I find myself agreeing with them on this point, but for entirely different reasons.

I'm gonna make like a shitty paper-writer for a second here and go back to the definition of the word.  However, as someone with a master's degree, I feel I should at least be a little bit more appropriate and look up "tolerate" on etymonline.com along with dictionary.com.  Surprising no one, tolerate means pretty much what you'd expect it to mean.  It's allowing something to exist without interference, probably something you're not generally fond of in the first place.

Attempting to continue this discussion in broad terms is gonna become difficult, so let me try my best to address a particular conversation in moderately nuanced terms.  Needless to say, this links back to the discussion around gay marriage.  For those spheres in which I do operate, "tolerance" is a kind of totem.  It is an attempt to wrap up in a single word the concept of letting bygones be bygones.  Whether you are morally or politically opposed to the idea of a same-sex marriage, or are simply weirded out by gay sex, whatever your reasons, the request is that you let it go in the name of peace.

Hence, those who are opposed to marriage equality tend to find tolerance to be a tool of those who support it.  There are the occasional battles where someone tries to reclaim the word, to show how those seeking to allow same-sex marriage are actually being intolerant, and it doesn't go over super well.  But for the most part, that word's current usage is set for a while.

Still, there's a part of me that, as I said, kind of agrees with those with whom I disagree.

Wait, let me try again...  See, words have meaning...

Tolerance really should be a dirty word.  Or, at the very least, we should be working on removing it from our vocabulary.

At this point, I can probably return back to a slightly more nebulous discussion, because the same thing remains true across the board.  With the occasional exception, no one ever wants to be "tolerated".  That's the bottom rung of civilization when you get down to it.  That means that someone, no matter how they feel about you, has deigned to allow your existence to register.  They don't have to speak to you, hell, they don't even have to be nice to you.  Tolerance is someone telling you they're "colorblind."  Tolerance is "I have a gay friend."

Tolerance cannot possibly lead to cooperation or peace.  I doubt it will even lead to acceptance (which, come to think of it, only sounds like it'd be about a rung up the ladder anyways).  From what we've seen, tolerance has really earned more ire than it has appreciation.  I mean, shit, attempting to gain tolerance seems to have led to intolerance, and at this stage that actually has its benefits (the devil you know and all that).

Obviously, our eyes should always be on the greatest good we can achieve.  We should want peace and love, whatever that might mean.  We should want to form a greater society, and we should want cooperation and a will to work together.  We should be hoping for good things, or at least an end to bad things.

Because, honestly, tolerance is literally the least you can do.  And it damn well shouldn't be on our goalposts.

Healing Factor

There's a phrase I've been noticing a lot more lately.  I have no doubt that it has in fact existed with roughly the same frequency since my childhood and that it is my awareness that has changed.  It's a seemingly innocuous phrase, one that shows up a million times in real life, television, movies, books, and beyond.  It generally follows an exchange in which person A gets frustrated because of something person B said while attempting to be humorous.  At which point, person B utters the accursed thing, dribbling like bile from their lips, pooling about their feet, a pile of ichor that I am forced to drink down.  Each sip makes me want more and more to rage, and it's getting harder to ignore.  I apologize to those of you who came here to read something and were forced, in the process of reading, to see this.

"It's just a joke."

Pardon my French...

There are variants - usually involving one's level of seriousness or something - but that right there is the core of it.  This is a phrase brought out when someone has just been informed that their attempt at being funny backfired because they tried to use an offensive subject matter.  It is a sorry-not-sorry.  It is a silencing technique, the unspoken threat being that people don't have a right to be offended if comedy and laughter were the intended result.

There are a lot of reasons why it's a problematic phrase, and with my focus for this time around, I can't do justice to all of them.  So, por ejemplo, check out this blog post for some extra helpful information.  Or, hey, do some Googling.  There's all kinds of stuff out there, and it's the only reason I see stuff more now.  It's what the Internet is for.

If you're feeling a little too-long-didn't-read about that link, then fine, allow me to do my best.  Just because your joke is ironic or, indeed, a joke does not remove the offense.  When you say something racist, it's just racist, no matter the coating.  If you make a women-kitchen-sandwich-laundry joke, you're still in the danger zone.  And yes, copy-pasting that joke about Justin Bieber going to lady-jail  is kinda transphobic, even if your gay friend posted it because, hey, anyone can be transphobic.

Not... quite what I meant, Rosie.

Now, I say all that to say this.  Everyone is not a comedian.  You are most likely not paid to be a funny person.  Comedians are comedians.  That is an important distinction to make before we move forward, and while obvious, I feel it's paramount.  Because it damn sure feels like a lot of people are trying to make the axiom true regardless of its impossibility.  Some people simply do not have a talent for humor.  And yet, everyone wants to make jokes.  Hell, I went to seminary, a school for training religious leaders, and the amount of funny people I met was pretty much standard for anywhere else ever.  People like to be funny.

But I'm starting to get paranoid that it's getting out of hand.  Did seriousness become a crime?  It's something I've been aware of for a while now.  In classes and rehearsals and just hanging out, it seems as though trying to enjoy anything in a purely serious way is verboten.  Movies, music, performance, whatever - the minute you try to lose levity, you become an insufferable wanker who can't take a joke.

Don't get me wrong, I love to laugh.  I love stand-up and irreverant comedies and blue humor and stupid YouTube videos, the whole lot.  I am not by any means a humorless dullard.  And indeed I think I took to these things more when it started to become clear to me that my contemplative, meditative side was not so welcome out in the open.  I learned to be funnier, to quip faster, all that, and for the most part I think that served me pretty well.

Things came to a head, as is the pattern, over the last year or so.  I had become particularly taken with a blog called Stuff Christian Culture Likes.  It was a shockingly accurate portrayal of all the things that are seemingly universal in Christendom, and it had an irrevernace that I was drawn to.  I also started to follow the Facebook group, joining in on conversations, mocking Mark Driscoll, wondering about the ethics of tithing booths, and more.  It was great, for a time.

Then things went... weird.  I started to become more aware of the way the community operated.  If a tweet was posted, there was a decent chance that person would find out pretty soon.  Same for comment sections in blog posts.  The person who runs the site and group, Stephanie Drury, has been accused of being a sort of queen bee with drones, and while that's a harsh statement, the imagery of swarming does have a sort of relevance.  And then there was an event that spiraled so out-of-control so fast I don't even know how to properly catalogue it anymore.  A trans person said something against SCCL and became the latest target to end up in their sights, getting misgendered amongst other things.  It got uglier as the day wore on, and merely watching the sparks fly on Twitter wore me out.  I was now aware of the dark side of things, and the group was never as exciting for me again.

I knew that those who frequented SCCL tended to do so out of a shared experience of religious abuse, and that humor was their way of dealing with it.  It was their place to go and heal, to point at evangelism and conservativism and say "how silly" in order to help themselves reach a better place.  I am so behind that, 100%.

No proper caption, just wanted to post this.  Feel free to make your own!

But there are times when humor gets out of hand, when it comes at the expense of someone who already experiences some measure of oppression or depression or anxiety on a daily basis.  And that little "it's just a joke" becomes a dark thing, a haunted thing that reveals a lack of empathy.  Humor is a beautiful thing, but it is not the only thing.  We have been clinging to it so desperately that we have allowed it to become mishapen and monstrous, to become a weapon instead of a gift.  And when its darker side is pointed out, we only hug it all the closer and scream "no, it's just a joke" because we can't bear to think that we might lose our humor.  It's as if it's all we have left.

And it most certainly is not.  It took me so long to finally admit, but it's not the only thing.  And for me, it's not even my favorite thing.  It's not what heals me.  It may be for others, and they should consider themselves blessed, because laughter is a holy and sacred thing.

But that's not me.  I like meditation and sadness and weirdness and a wealth of other things.  Just last week, I was raving about the game Spec Ops: The Line.  It's basically a horror game, except the monster is man, and by extension, you.  Halfway through the game, you do A Very Bad Thing, and then at the end, you get yelled at for doing it and for not putting the controller down and walking away.  I like texts that force me to think, that push me outside of the box and then leave me hanging.  I love movies that start nowhere and go nowhere.  Those are the things I need, that I breathe and live by, and the sooner I realized that, the easier it was to realize that I didn't need shock humor and rape jokes, and the sooner I was able to find my center.

By leaving behind the idea that laughter is the be-all-end-all, I was able to live a little bit fuller.  So, I dunno, maybe give that a try next time someone calls you out on your offensive joke instead of defending it?

Just a thought.

Billiam Vs. The Infinite Sadness

When I was in college, one of the special events I actually attended was going to see the "Real Life Hitch," Dating Doctor David Coleman.  It should be noted that it's a weird experience because the man is more Kevin James than Will Smith.

Pictured:  Not Agent J

Pictured:  Not Hancock

Pictured:  Not The Fresh Prince

Pictured: I Could Do This All Day

And in retrospect, a lot of it was mostly heternonormative commonsense knowledge and little factoids than anything earth-shattering - though, confession, at the time I thought it was.  But the one interesting nugget, that has always stuck with me, works thusly:

1.  Pick your favorite animal.  It can be whatever you want, no matter how silly.

2.  Give that animal three characteristics that you think define it or that explain why you like it.

3.  Those three characteristics are actually factors of your personality, specifically the part of you that you think everyone sees you as.

They don't necessarily define you, rather they define your reflected self-image.

To wit, my answer:  The Majestic Raccoon, who, as we all know, is masked, scruffy, and adorable.  i.e. I was certain that everyone thought of me as this cute if unkempt critter that was always hiding its face by default.  It was a fairly accurate result.

Pictured:  Me...?

I bring this up because I wanted to address something from my previous post in greater detail, and I figure it was an easier lead-in than "Hey, depression sucks because it completely wrecks your brain."  Whoops, there goes that idea!

So yes, that's the particularly shitty thing about suffering from depression or some similar condition.  It's different for everyone, and for me it manifested in a kind of internal social anxiety.  This was something I finally started combat somewhere around college when I realized that people actually seemed to take to me pretty well.  Not that I ever really believed them mind you.

That's where the raccoon imagery comes in, see.  I was sure that in reality I was just this adorably broken little thing that people just took pity on, even though it was oh-so-clear I was wearing a mask - a mask so familiar it had become a part of me.  Even in later years when I began to understand that I was being unreal about my perspective, there was a significant difference between what I told my brain and what my brain told me.  I could have had signed and dated confessions from every single one of my friends that they truly did appreciate me and I still wouldn't have believed it.

I was The Majestic Raccoon, all hail my pitiable scruffiness.

Praise me!  PRAISE ME!

Because I can't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday (probably a donut-ham-hamburger or something), but I sure as hell remember that time in high school I didn't get invited to a party that I wouldn't have gone to in the first place.

Because I never believed my girlfriends when they said they loved me.  I thought they tolerated me, at best.

Because no matter how many times someone couldn't understand why I'm single, I already knew that it was because I find it impossible to believe someone would go out with me, and I cling to my crushes like a life raft rather than get decimated again.

Because even when I was at my lowest, I refused to admit defeat and ask for help, because who would legitimately show me the same grace of a listening ear and an understanding shoulder like I had done for them?

Because why would I go to that party when there are Cracked articles to be read alone in my room while chiefing on a hookah for three hours?

Because when I was told that my friends and my dean of students toasted me last year, mourning my absence, I couldn't even fathom this happening.  I was sure it was some kind of fever dream I'd invented for myself, no matter how many times I stared at the Facebook post.

Because I was a damn good director in college, but my actor's appreciative praise fell on deaf ears sometimes.

Because any time I got cocky, it was almost always an act.

Because I am my worst enemy.

Truly, Lit was the voice of a generation.  Of raccoons.

I didn't have an angel or a devil on my shoulders.  Just a little ragged, water-logged raccoon constantly telling me that I was shit.

Pictured:  A Terrible Analogy

Now, backing up a bit, this was far from the only manifestation of my depression.  There was the deadening of emotions.  There was the inability to get out of bed some days.  There were the dropping grades and the inability to care.  But I think this was ultimately the source of it all.  And it's different for everyone.  See, for instance, Hyperbole and a Half's Adventures in Depression Parts 1 & 2.  Some of those stories stick with me, some of them aren't me at all.

And those little pills I mentioned last time?  They help, but they're not everything.  You don't just suddenly wake up a new person.  They're not magic.  And don't believe the television or the movies (which is really great advice for pretty much everything).  Those little fuckers took WEEKS to work.  Agonizing weeks wondering if maybe I was on the wrong medication.  It was a slow and steady climb, and I had to do a lot of mental exercises to help them along.  And each day was combat session, and I roll a lot of 1's on that d20 (whaddup nerds).  I had to beat back that soaked raccoon with a hefty piece of wood I grabbed off the ground with bloody hands.

Pictured:  There's some stuff I absolutely WILL NOT Google.

As is my MO much of the time, there's not really a good dismount for this.  It's not over.  I still have really bad days where I pretty much leave work and don't do a damn thing for the rest of the day.  I doubt myself, a LOT.  I second guess everything.

So I guess that's your takeaway, so to speak.  There are no magical cure-alls.  There's just life, and what you do with it.  Like that schmaltzy saying goes:  Everyone you meet is fighting a battle, so don't hesitate to jump into the fray with your +3 dwarven axe.

Did I quote that right?

Reasons I'm Not Staying

This is, I suppose, a post a long time coming, and also a long time in the making.  So when better to put it up than on New Years day?

In telling a tale that manages to somehow be episodic, ongoing, and yet coming to a close, I have no clue how to go about doing this.  But I'll give it my all.  In honor of the time of year, I suppose an anniversary is the best place to begin.

It was just about a year ago, on January 3rd, that I had my now-seemingly-mythical meeting with my District Committee on Ordained Ministry (DCOM) in order to see if I was fit for continuing forward in the ordination process.  Had things gone well, I would have become a "certified candidate" well on my way to someday becoming a pastor in the United Methodist Church.  That was The Plan.  That was the way things were going to go.  Hell, as far as I was concerned, that was the way God intended things to go.  Needless to say, things didn't go well.  I see at least two reasons for this.

Reason 1 - The Psychological Profile

This particular DCOM meeting was, in effect, a kind of high-impact job interview crossed with a job performance meeting, except the entire thing was set in potential tenses and things that haven't happened yet.  So the process is based instead on what ministerial experience you do have (another problem since I was working as a ministry associate at BU's Marsh Chapel, which was amazing but apparently not adequate...), and of course, the psychological profile.  Someone such as myself who is, let's put it kindly, crap at networking has pretty much no contact ever with the people that form the DCOM, so this was my only chance to let them know who I am.

Herein lies the problem.  I took the actual profile tests during a Not Very Good semester about a year before, during a particularly stressful time.  Three words:  Pastoral Care & Counseling.  So everything bad was damn near magnified in the results.  I finally received them at a review session during the summer.  If I may, a few choice lines, just to show how crazy-intense the language choices were...

"The candidate is overwhelmed by anxiety, tension, and depression"
"[He believes] that life is hopeless and that few things will work out right"
"uncomfortable in relationships with women and insecure in male oriented [roles]"
"poor memory, concentration problems and an inability to make decisions"

That's just the first page.  Of three.  As far as the testing folks were concerned, ministry behind a pulpit was not for me, absolutely, completely, 100%.

So that's what I was going in with.

Reason 2 - The Crying Game

There's a thing about me that I'm still super-duper self-conscious about.  I cry at weird, inappropriate, and unhelpful times.  Saving Big Fish and a little bit during Frozen recently (Seven words:  Do you want to build a snowman?), I don't cry at movies.  I don't cry during songs or musicals.  I might get a tad choked up during sad ceremonies.

But I stress-cry sometimes.  It's especially bad in socially stressful situation.  Put me in a cramped room with between 1 and 15 people whom are in some way "up the ladder" from me, add a pinch or two of stress, and I'm liable to break down in tears.  It sucks, a lot.  When I got in a bad car accident a few years ago, I cried when I called dad to come help take care of things.  When I screwed up big time at my Busch Gardens job and they had to have a meeting with multiple people to sort things out, I cried in front of all of them.  When I had a meeting with Doctor Darr to discuss one of my first big bad grades in theology school, I cried right then and there in her office.

So you can imagine, to some degree, what was bound to happen when I had a super important meeting with nine people in lay and ministry positions who were to determine my future, and they had in their hands that absolutely atrocious psychological profile.  I held it together okay for a while, until we started talking about my passions in ministry.  And I started talking about how I really cared about those left behind by the church.  I told painful stories about people's responses to queerness and disability in the church, and I started to cry.
I try to be a 21st century progressive person about it.  I know it's not shameful, it's a purely biological response my body has decided on to deal with stress.  But shame knows no logic.  It happened to me a lot when I was a kid too, so I spent years getting really good at being stoic.  But everyone knows how well bottling up works.  So every time, I absolutely hate myself for these little break-downs.  Which means when it happens in situations like this, there's this lovely little shame spiral of tearing up, hating myself, tearing up more, hating myself more, rinse, repeat.

So.

I had already run one gauntlet of questions about my profile, and then we ran through another gauntlet after that little session, so I was particularly shaken by the end of it.  But I did my best to remain positive.  Every time someone asked about the meeting, I'd say "Yeah, not great, but I think it's gonna be okay" or something similar.  Again, I learned to be stoic.  Show no fear.  Grin and bear it.  Et cetera.

It took only two days for them to tell me that I had been dropped from the ordination process.  It took a few more days before I dropped the news on everyone else.  I had to process it myself first, I had to get myself in a headspace where I could share the information.  I had to prepare myself for the stares of confusion and disappointment, and perhaps the worst, the frustration of nothingness.  What else could you really say or do?  But as I said in my other post, I had more school and a graduation and an internship to think about.  I would deal with it in due time.

+++++

That was all just lead-up.  Hopefully it wasn't a chore to read, because that's just the prologue.  Most of that is familiar information.  The purpose of this post is to finally have the courage to admit the rest of the story, such as it is, so far.

So up-front, I went through my period of disbelief, almost refusing to believe I could really be let go so easily.  Then, there was the time of hopefulness, where I knew I would get things figured out somehow.

The next big one was Doubt.

I'm not referring here to the doubt of my calling so much as the sudden realization that I was now free to believe anything at all.  I was tied to no dogma except that which my heart and mind found to be good and true.  And that was perhaps the most exciting, terrifying, earth-shattering part of this whole thing.  Even moreso just how quickly some things left me.

Jesus was the first to go.  I hesitate to put something so seemingly big in such a lighthearted manner, but I really think it does come down to just how much of a hipster I am.  Even in the most earnest and well-meaning settings, I became confounded and even frustrated with Christocentrism.  I hated prayers that were addressed solely to Jesus.  In many ways, I saw him as a celebrity that nobody would just shut up about, and I almost hated him for it.  I allowed myself, perhaps for the first time ever, to truly understand real doubt.  Not to merely humor an idea, but to believe it.  To believe that Jesus wasn't who he said he was.  I stopped taking Communion most days, except when I was leading Sunday mornings at Marsh Chapel.  I generally stayed silent during the Lord's Prayer.

Next, I suppose it was God who went.  Was God One?  Was God Only?  Was God anything at all?  Or was god a figment?  I repeat, these were not little philosophical games I played with myself.  I wasn't dipping my toe in the water, I was throwing caution to the wind.  Perhaps I was actually an agnostic.

The real shocker, true to form, was when the Holy Spirit went, or perhaps more aptly the concept of the spirit and soul at all.  I was burning it all down to the ground until nothing was left but ashes, from which I could build whatever I damn well felt like.

And while it was kind of exhillarating and freeing, I should reiterate that I was in my final semester at theology school and interning at Boston University's own chapel.  We talked of plans for future ministry and where God was in our lives and I was in not one but two different preaching courses.  Bearing the load of extreme doubt in the midst of all that was, ironically, turning me into the very person that my psych profile said I was.  Anyone paying attention during my This I Believe presentation, actually reading between the lines and seeing past the jokes will see just how scattered I was.

Summer only made it worse.  When I was at school, I was busy, even if it was with something I was no longer sure I even wanted or believed in.  Being home and jobless, it was just me and Netflix and XBox and sweltering heat and hanging out with the few people I care about.  Here it almost started to feel like nothing but questions and judgment.

"So how is the job hunt going?"
"Any churches biting?"
"You gonna get a church soon?"
"Not even youth ministry?"
"You're too qualified for youth ministry"
"Are you in the ordination process?"

There was a lot of lying and evading on my part those first few months.  Just filling out a job application or padding my resume gave me literal mini-panic attacks.  Sooner or later a church was going to want to hire me, then call up the district and find out what had happened and I'd lose another opportunity.

Things were getting bad.  I was in my home church, and I was out of the "BU Bubble" and being reminded of just how much I'd been pampered by the seminary lifestyle.  God was always He, always Lord, always a million things that I didn't believe in even when I did still believe.

Okay, reader, take a deep breath.  That was the low point.  Everything sucked and I hated my life.  Yes, there were some dark thoughts there, and it was around the time that certain more dangerous ideas entered my head that I knew I needed help.  There is a light at the end of this shitty tunnel of a year.

So I got help.

I saw a psychiatrist and got these nifty little white pills.  I'm seeing an amazing counselor who says the nicest things.  I have a job.  My brothers, some friends of ours, and I have a weekly tabletop game that is absolutely the highlight of my week.  I'm going to a Unitarian Universalist Fellowship where I know my doubts are welcomed with open arms.  I'm tearing up just writing this, and for the first time in a long time I'm not ashamed in the slightest of that fact.  I'm happy.  2013 can kiss my ass, and so help me, I'll kiss 2014's ass if it buys me a little good luck.  Speaking of superstitious beliefs (is ass-kissing superstition?), my thoughts aren't so dark anymore.  I don't know what I believe, but I'm feeling really comfy in the greys again.  I like the greys, that's where I live year-round.  I have a cottage with a stocked fridge.  You should come by.

Photo Courtesy:  Hyperbole and a Half

As for the title of this blog, it's my own little snarky jab at the Reconciling Ministries Network of the UMC and their #ReasonsIStay thing.  A lot of people are hanging around in the UMC despite our Discipline's harsh stance towards queer folk.  And bully for them.  The UMC's gonna need 'em.

I've basically decided at this point that I can't be that person.  I suppose I might say, in my own self-deprecating way, that I'm not strong enough.  Whatever you might call it, that's not my place.  I'm not a culture warrior, and I have pretty much zero interest at this point in changing hearts and minds.  And I refuse to try again in an ordination process that refuses to recognize what real grace looks like, or that doesn't know the first goddamn thing about psychology.  After all, look at me now.  Am I the picture of mental well-being yet?  Hell no, but I've only been at this, realistically, about three months.  Imagine what would have happened if they'd given me a year to get myself together.  They'd never have lost me.  I'd never have doubted.  But they forgot Wesleyan Tenet #1 - Grace.  They showed no grace whatsoever for a soul who was hurting.  I wasn't unfit for ministry, and I'll prove that some day.  But I'm not going to do it through a system that doesn't even respect me enough to think I could become a better person.  Which is weird, because I could have sworn that was the whole idea.

Funny.

+++++

So there you have it.  That's been my year.  I'm basically going to work on ignoring most of it from about January through October or so.  Then I might actually be able to call 2013 a friend of mine.

In related news, I'm hoping to make this blog more of A Thing.  My sole resolution this year, except perhaps for the usual "Lose, Like, Five Goddamn Pounds, You Fat-Ass, Seriously, How Hard Is That?" is to blog once a month.  I think I can work with that.  We'll see how it goes, eh?

Happy Freakin' New Year.

PS - Yo, if anything here sounds like something you would be interested in talking about, just let me know.  Comment, send me a message, send me an e-mail, call me up, whatever.  I'm doing about a million times better and I really do want to hear from folks and do so when I'm not in a stupid head space.  Seriously, whether it's to catch up or to talk about how much depression sucks ass, I'm here.

Baccalaureate Benediction

Class of 2013,

May your time here in Boston not have been in vain. 

May you never look back and call these the absolute best years of your life. 

May you never stop learning. 

May you find a career. 

Barring that, may you find work. 

Barring that, may you find peace in the search.

May you never be in want for loving friends nor quiet solitude.

May you live the life to which God is calling you.

To quote author Marianne Williamson, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.  Your playing small does not serve the world.” 

Fellow graduates, friends, family, colleagues, faculty, staff:  You are, each of you, children of God.  It is my most sincere prayer that you go forward from this place and be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous.  

To be shamelessly trite, may you… Be You.

Amen.

This I Believe?

Boston University runs two "This I Believe" services, both through the School of Theology and Marsh Chapel.  This was my submission.

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Like many of my fellow friends and colleagues at the Boston University School of Theology, the last few years have been filled with blessings and challenges.  Seminary can be a confusing time when your every belief is brought out into the harsh light of day and closely examined.  Some beliefs did not survive the attempt while others were only made all the stronger. 

As a result, I can be inconsistent at times.  There are days when I am still a die-hard Trinitarian, in part because I’m such a Holy Spirit hipster fanboy.  Other times, I am at least a sturdy theist, though admittedly my God likes to shift from an old man with a beard to a youthful brunette woman.  But then again, sometimes I turn into an agnostic with closeted hopes of a universal consciousness not unlike some kind of divine iCloud.

Sad to say, “I don’t know” does not a good statement of belief make – or, at least, it would be difficult to stretch that into five minutes.  And after all, this service is called “This I Believe”.  So, what do I believe?

In no particular order, and EXTREMELY inexhaustive: 

I believe that people are inherently good, even in the face of human evil, especially in the face of human evil.

I believe the children are our future, but they’ve got a lot to learn.

I believe in a thing called love.

I believe that comics are art too.

I believe that watching YouTube videos of idiots playing video games will always make my day better.

I believe in silence and brevity, and I will gush breathlessly about it for ages.

I believe there is something sacred in laughter.

I believe that the Bible is the divinely inspired Word of God – except for the parts I don’t agree with.

I believe that “the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot see,” and that kittens will never not be adorable.

I believe that Barenaked Ladies is the greatest band ever, provided your #1 criterion is how much I like them.  And I believe that Queen is the greatest band ever, provided your #1 criterion is that you have ears.

I believe that life is almost entirely composed of gray areas, and that’s only as terrifying as we make it.

“I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it's aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there's a cat in a box somewhere who's alive and dead at the same time (although if they don't ever open the box to feed it it'll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself.”  And I believe that Neil Gaiman wouldn’t mind me borrowing those words, considering the circumstances.

And perhaps, most importantly, I believe that, in the end, it’s going to be okay.  And sometimes that’s enough.

Some of these things I believe because they are true.  Others I believe because they are nice.  And sometimes I believe simply because I do.  Rarely do these ever align.  It’s important to make that distinction.  Because belief is never simply something done based on reasoning.  It’s not all about warm fuzzies, and it’s not all about being a huge downer.  Maybe your beliefs even contradict themselves at times.  Believing is funny that way.

So let me give my nerd cred one last bump.  There was a much-beloved and unfortunately-cancelled sci-fi show Firefly, and a movie which took the place of its finale.  One of the characters, Book, is a pastor – in their world called a Shepherd.  Like myself, he’s a man of faith who has found himself often in the company of the most unlikely individuals and dealing heavily with doubt and, frankly, reality.  During a pivotal scene that I refuse to spoil (regardless of how old the movie is), he desperately pleads with the lead character Mal, “I don’t care what you believe in, just believe in it.”

See, for all my high falutin’ theological trainin’, I can’t help but love this.  It’s easy to think that doubt is somehow the enemy of faith.  But there are so many kinds of faith, and so many things to believe – how could you not suffer from doubt??  It’s natural, and normal, and you’re not alone.  When you find your beliefs in conflict, or shaken; when you face doubts… face these things head-on.  You may come out the other side a different person, but you will come out alive and well.  This… I believe.

You Keep Using That Word; I Do Not Think it Means What You Think it Means

I gave this sermon a number of years ago when I had my ill-fated internship at a United Methodist church in western VA.  This was my attempt to fix my minor mistakes while delivering that one (which I had done from notecards, an admittedly foolish move for my first sermon ever).  The church held a summer program where they would host visiting youth groups, giving them a place to sleep, eat, and worship while going out into the city to repair homes for people who couldn't afford professional help.

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Luke 10:25-37

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead.  A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side.  So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.  But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him.  He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him.  The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

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The Bible can be… tricky sometimes.  It’s a common theme you’ll hear sometimes: ever since we decided it was time to translate the Good Book into something other than Latin, and people were free to pick it up and read it in their own language – anyone can do it, it’s so easy!  We get tricked into thinking that passages are straightforward, and with this one, that certainly seems to be the case.  If you see a dude laying half-dead on the street, help him out.  Easy.

But, nothing is ever that easy.  Life isn’t that easy.  So I want to take some time to break down this story and help you all see that there’s much more to it than simply “being nice”.

So, we start off with a rather common scene in the Gospels where a bunch of people are gathered around Jesus, throwing out questions, some of them trying to trip him up and prove that he’s not as great as he says.  This tends to blow up in their faces, and this poor schlub is no exception.  “What must we do to inherit eternal life?” he asks, wanting to see if Jesus is at all familiar with the Scriptures.  Already, Jesus can see where this is going, and flips it back on him.  Like any good public speaker, he answers with a question, “What do you think it is?”  And, like any good scholar, he knows that one backwards and forwards.  “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, et cetera, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

Cool, good job, A-plus.  But the scholar isn’t satisfied yet, and presses for more.  He isn’t going to let Jesus get away with it just yet.  What is a “neighbor” exactly?  Well, that’s fair.  It’s a pretty vague term.

True to form, Jesus replies with a parable, one of his most favorite rhetorical devices.  Everyone loves a story!

So, we’ve got a nameless, faceless guy (possibly a Jew) walking the long road from Jerusalem to Jericho, a treacherous stretch of land that is fraught with danger.  It’s twisty and full of places to set up ambushes for travelers who don’t know what they’re doing.  Sure enough, before we even get a chance to learn much about this guy, he gets jumped and loses all his possessions – clothing included – plus a good deal of blood, and consciousness to boot.

He’s half-dead and ready for just about anyone to come to his aid.  Lucky for him, a priest is passing nearby, only to snub him and pass on the other side of the road!  The same thing happens with a Levite, who also proceeds to walk the long way around him.  Like the priest, the Levite is a kind of religious figure, someone who has connections to incredibly important figures like Moses, Samuel, and Ezekiel.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is harsh.  It’s bad enough to be ignored by regular people, but here we have two upstanding members of society leaving this guy to die on the road.  This is nothing new to us, I’m sure.  The Church doesn’t always have the best reputation, and I’d be willing to bet a fair few of you have friends who don’t really care for the fact that you’re a Christian.  An unsettling number of famous pastors have made some awful choices in the past.  They ended up in the public spotlight to remind people that even religious folks are human, even broken.  And this has been true for millennia.  Nobody’s perfect.

But let’s be honest, what they did was fairly smart.  That road was notorious for how dangerous it was, and I have no doubt that a few robberies started just like this.  These guys were looking out for number one.

In fact, only one person was willing to stop and help our poor nameless protagonist.  Unfortunately for him, and the audience listening to Jesus’ story, it was a Samaritan.  Without going too deeply into Jewish history, let me simply say that the Isrealites didn’t exactly get along well with the Samaritans.  One can imagine the cry of disapproval that ran throughout the gathered crowd as Jesus announced the savior of the story was to be the most despicable person any of them could imagine. 

This is the dramatic plot twist that Jesus has been building to, and I think it’s helpful to stop here for a moment so that I can ask you all an important question.  It may sound silly, but bear with me here:  How many of you have an arch-nemesis?

As you can see, my hand is raised.  I don’t want you to feel bad if you do, so let me tell you about mine.  You see, Batman has The Joker; Superman has Lex Luthor; Dr. Horrible has Captain Hammer.  Me?  Well, let’s just call him Tim.

The sad part is Tim and I were once amazingly close friends.  We met on a mission trip, and bonded almost immediately.  We had a core group composed of us and two others on the trip, and pretty much every second of down time was spent together.

However, by the second trip the next summer, things were… different.  He had broken up with a mutual friend of ours and she’d told us some of the things he’d done and said – nothing too awful, but certainly sketchy and weird.  Tim and I pretty much parted ways, until I decided to go to the same college where he was already a student.  From there, things, unfortunately, only got worse.

See, I call Tim my arch-nemesis because “we are not so different, he and I”.  We’re both choir and theatre nerds with plans to go into the ministry.  But where I tend to reserve my judgments, he told a Jewish friend of ours that she was going to Hell.  Where I tend to be a pretty humble singer, he’s eager to be front and center.  Where I tend to be pretty laid back as an actor, he’s a hard-core method actor.  Me and my friends made a habit of sitting around and telling Tim Stories.  I’ll spare you any further gory details.

We usually kept our distance.  We were never at war with one another, but we had our passive-aggressive moments.  Needless to say, if I were bleeding on the side of the road, he’s about the last person I’d want to see coming to my aid, and I’m not too sure he would be all that happy if I were helping him out.

This is the tension brewing as the Samaritan enters the picture.  The Jewish people gathered to listen to Jesus’ story don’t want to hear about the gentle and courageous Samaritan, they want to see themselves in the part of the rescuer.  This is not that kind of story.

And worse, he’s not just getting the guy up on his feet and leaving him to his devices.  He does everything in his power to make sure that the man is nursed back to health.  He bandages his wounds.  He puts him up on his donkey.  He pays to put him up in an inn out of his own pocket, and promises to come back and check up on him, willing to pay more money if that’s what it takes.

Any one of these would be impressive, but look at all the things he’s done in those few short sentences.  First, the dressing of the wounds.  He’s not just putting a few ACE bandages on his cuts and bruises, he’s tending to them almost lovingly.  Oil and wine are not cheap things, and for all we know, the only way he could bandage up those wounds was to tear up his own clothing!  And to put the poor guy on his donkey meant that he would now have to walk the rest of the way along the road.  To put it in context, Martin Luther King Jr. talks about driving this road, and says it takes about 15 to 20 minutes from end to end by car.  Walking that same stretch of road could take anywhere from 4 to 5 hours.  This is not a gesture made lightly. 

And then, of course, there’s the payment he makes for the man to stay at the inn.  Ignoring the extra cost on his return trip, he’s paying the innkeeper 2 denarii.  A denarii equals roughly a day’s worth of work.  Even by today’s standards, at minimum wage, he’s dropping over a hundred bucks to make sure that he stays safe.  This guy isn’t the Good Samaritan, he’s not even the Great Samaritan, he’s the Most Amazing Samaritan Known to Humankind!

So, after that rather long-winded answer, Jesus once again throws a question back at the scholar.  “Which one acted like a neighbor?”

You can hear the hesitation in his voice as he responds in the most roundabout way possible:  the “one who had mercy on him.”  He can barely bring himself to admit that the Samaritan was the one who showed love for his neighbor, but he knows it’s true.  It can be a tough pill to swallow.

And that’s the real problem with having an arch-nemesis.  This isn’t a funny book, and I’m not Batman – no matter how much I might want to be.  And the world isn’t composed of characters, it’s made up of people, just like you and me. 

And at the end of the day… Tim’s a good dude.  When my school held an event to raise money and awareness for the homeless, he and a group of other students spent 24 hours on the central plaza, sleeping in cardboard boxes as an act of solidarity.  He directed a play his senior year about a group of mentally handicapped and psychologically disturbed men living in a halfway house in honor of his sister, who has Down Syndrome.  He was always quick to offer a word of encouragement or a helping hand during choir rehearsal when someone couldn’t get a particular part down. 

We were friends once for a reason, and no matter how far apart we drifted or how much I might disagree with or dislike him, I know he’s got a good heart.

And so when I knew he needed it, I prayed for him, even if he wasn’t always willing to ask me directly.  On occasion, I was the one he talked to when things got hard.  I never dropped a hundred dollars so he had a place to stay or let him ride on my donkey – er… car…  But I realized at some point that what I was doing was downright idiotic.  It wasn’t about who he was or what he’d done or even what he was going to do.  Tim was a fellow human being.  Tim was my neighbor.

You all are here to do a great service to this city.  You’re out there in the sun sweating bullets and working really hard.  And that’s awesome, and it’s a really great feeling.  It’s even better when you’re working to build a ramp so that a sweet old lady in a wheelchair can get into her house easier, some nice woman who sits around and chats with you while you work and tells you stories from when she was your age.  But you should never let that be good enough.  In many ways, it’s easy to do something nice for someone like that.

But what about the other one?  What about the guy who says nothing?  The bitter old vet with the cane who critiques every nail and board you place?  The woman who refuses to let you come inside to use the bathroom because she doesn’t want her floor to get dirty?  Being a missionary – and that’s what you are, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – is far easier when the rewards are so glimmering and wonderful.  But to love your neighbor, you’ve got to wade in deep, and deal with all kinds of people out there, people who may think nothing of you even after you’ve worked your fingers to the bone.  When Jesus tells you to love your neighbor, he’s not giving you the shiny, happy command we like to think of.  It’s hard work, plain and simple. 

When we talk about being a Christian, part of what we’re talking about is being just like Christ.  And Jesus put up with a lot of people for the sake of real, true, honest love.  It won’t always make sense, and it won’t always be easy.  You may not see the rewards in the way you’re used to.  But just like every dad ever has said when you complain about chores, “it builds character”.  Learning to love the “unloveable” is what makes you a better Christian.  More to the point, it makes you a better human.

“Go and do likewise.”  That’s all you really need to say.  Jew or Samaritan.  Male or female.  Nice or mean.  Even your arch-nemesis.  Go and do likewise.  Bandage those wounds.