Courageous Truth

Once upon a time, there was a girl. The girl had a loving family who took very good care of her.
When the girl began Kindergarten, she was nervous like most Kindergarteners. She cried when she had to leave her mother, uncertain of being separated from her mom’s love. Other kids cried, too—no big deal—until one day of crying led to a week led to a month led to many more months of deep struggle in school.

There were many opinions as to what to do about the little girl’s anxiety. Most opinions centered around the notion that the girl’s loving family was being too protective. Cut the strings. Walk away. She’ll stop crying eventually. She has to grow up sometime.

One night as the little girl was taking a bath and her mom was talking to her about places where it is and is not appropriate for people to touch, the little girl casually mentioned, “No one has touched me there this year.”

This year.

But someone had touched her the previous year. A peer. A young boy. Not in her family. But someone nonetheless. And it had scared her. It had made her feel vulnerable and insecure. And it made her not certain who outside her family she could trust. It had made her feel unsafe. And it made her not want to go to school.

Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. Once the little girl told the story of what had happened to her, and once her family got her into counseling to help her work through the issues tied to the incident, she stopped crying every day when it came time to go to school. She stopped clinging to her mom’s hand and began to have the courage to walk to class alone. She began to smile more and she began to talk.

She had told the truth. And the truth had set her free.

I recently had a deep theological conversation with a friend. As we moved from one hot topic to the next, we landed on the topic of coming out. For most, the phrase “coming out” is almost exclusively tied to the process of identifying as gay/lesbian/transgendered; but for others, the phrase “coming out” has come to be associated with a process that occurs many times over the course of one’s life. The friend that I was talking to in this conversation—a woman who had been called into ministry—had had to come out of the women in ministry closet. Another friend has had to come out of the atheist closet. Another friend has had to come out of the not-called-to-be-what-her-parents-wanted-her-to-be closet. Another friend has had to come out of a political closet. Other friends have come out of other closets. And in every instance, the process has been similar: recognition of thought or feeling, exploration, questioning, doubt, struggle, fear of rejection, declaration, and acceptance (though not always in this particular order and not at all linear in sequence). [Do you know what’s interesting about this? These are also the stages of faith development.]

If I may be so bold, then I am going to suggest, dear friends, that each of us has a closet from which we need to escape. Some of us may have a whole house of them. Like the girl who began this post, your closet could be a closet of abuse and that abuse is big and real and scary and paralyzing. Or maybe your closet is financial ruin or medical insecurity or theological doubt or political anger or helpless sadness or wanting to be seen or admission of imperfection or maybe even sexual orientation. Maybe you’ve just gone into your closet or maybe you’ve been hiding your whole life. I don’t know. But what I do know is this:

When we have the courage to speak our truth in love, and when we have the courage to hear others’ truth in love, then the truth will set us free.

I’m not talking about spewing moral absolutes and fighting ‘sin’ with right and wrong. I’m talking about courageously, honestly, openly, and vulnerably risking to share parts our story—our truths—with one another in common humanity. I’m talking about fighting fear, separation, and otherness with words and dialogue—however difficult and humbling they may be. I’m talking about discussing which zones are safe and doing something proactive when we realize that safety has been breached. I’m talking about bunkering down, getting into trust-fall position, and holding one another’s pain. Because this world shouldn’t be a closet. And kids shouldn’t fear going to school. And humanity should never be us against them...

Beach Angel

Sunday morning, on a rare morning off from church, I went to the beach to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean.

As I crossed the sand dunes and stepped foot onto the beach, I said aloud, “I would like to find a piece of sea glass. I am speaking these words into creation.”

I walked for awhile—very slowly—listening to the waves crash and the seagulls sing—looking carefully for that piece of class.

I marveled at how beautiful the shells were—how different they were from the shells in Jacksonville—how each shell was unique—how some shells were quite ordinary on their tops but how they displayed intricate, extra-ordinary designs on their backs.

I sang the lyrics to a love song over and over in my head. “You matter to me,” I sang. And I looked out over the water and directed all of that love to the Creator of it all.

I thought of the previous Sunday’s worship service—of the children adorning the altar with flowers and birds and of their innocent voices reading:

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet our heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.

If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you?

“Therefore, do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ Or ‘What shall we drink?’
Or ‘What shall we wear?’ For your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.

“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”

And while pondering this scripture and stopping to look at a particularly lovely shell and being truly wrapped up in the worship of it all, the strangest thing happened:

Without missing a stride, a young man walking with his girlfriend approached where I was standing from the opposite direction, bent down and picked something up, handed it to me, said, “This is in your jurisdiction,” and kept right on walking.

I stood with my mouth open in awe, staring at the piece of sea glass in my hand, completely at a loss for words, thinking only one thought: “Did that really just happen?”

Yes, friends. Yes it did. A beach angel in an orange jacket placed into my hands the very thing that I had desired.

After picking up my jaw up off the sand, I had the frame of mind to take a picture of my beach angel. Part of me thought he might be gone when I turned around, but he was still there, walking with his girlfriend, completely oblivious to what he had just done.

Then I continued my walk, amazed and overwhelmed with gratitude—embracing those words of scripture—singing that love song—marveling at nature’s beauty—directing my love and thanksgiving to the Creator of it all.

Neither Either Nor Or

I got so excited when I realized that I’d earned $30 in cash-back rewards by paying my tuition bill with my credit card that I decided to see how much I was earning from my other purchases. When I realized that I earned a few dollars and/or cents with literally every purchase I made with my credit card, I decided that it would be stupid NOT to use my credit card for ALL of my purchases. I haven’t had cash in my wallet since.

My plan worked fine until today.

Today I noticed that my back driver’s side tire was low. In an attempt to get air for said tire, I stopped at six different gas stations. I was denied every time. I kept hoping that I’d find a machine that took nickels and dimes…because I had no quarters or dollars…because I haven’t been using cash. [It didn’t occur to me until this very moment that I could have quartered my nickels and dimes inside the gas stations.]

So as I drove my hobbly car to class tonight, I was reminded of something very important:

It’s not either-or, it’s both-and.

It’s not cash or credit (that’s paid off every month, by the way).
It’s not black or white.
It’s not male or female.
It’s not rich or poor.
It’s not gay or straight.
It’s not band or sports.
It’s not smart or dumb.
It’s not right or wrong.
It’s not good or bad.
It’s not Christian or atheist.
It’s not hate or love.
It’s not math or science.
It’s not social studies or English.
It’s not Democrat or Republican.
It’s not jazz or classical.
It’s not State or Carolina.
It’s not hot or cold.
It’s not saint or sinner.

It’s both and.
It’s all of this and everything in between.
In a society full of opposites and extremes, I think we’d all do well to remember that life and humanity are both and.
Life and humanity—and most of us—are all of this and everything in between.

Kindness

I have visited my grandmother’s house almost every Christmas of my life. On many of those Christmas trips, I’ve attempted to read one of the old books adorning G-mama’s shelves. More often than not, I have failed at this attempt. I’m a terrible reader with my eyes. So this past Christmas, I didn’t even bother to look at the bookshelves. In addition to my family who permanently live in town, my niece and nephews and families were in town, so I focused on them instead of literary scholarship…until the last night we were there.

For some reason, as I walked to my room that night, a tiny little book caught my attention. I imagine that the book had been sitting there for most of my life, yet for some reason it jumped out to me that night. So I pulled it off the shelf and went to the world’s most comfortable bed, fully expecting to be asleep a few pages into the text. Instead, I found myself closing the book’s back cover well over an hour later, having just read a tiny little book that spoke to me so powerfully that I wiped away tears more than once and packed the book in my book bag so that I could read it again. And probably again. And again.

“The Greatest Thing In the World” is a meditation on 1 Corinthians 13 that Henry Drummond wrote in 1874. Henry Drummond, born in Scotland in 1851, was an ordained minister and theologian best remembered as a gifted evangelist who assisted Dwight L. Moody during his revival campaigns. He was also a lecturer in natural science and wrote several books. Before that night at G-mama’s, I have no memory of ever hearing Henry Drummond’s name or of being introduced to “The Greatest Thing In The World.” I’m not sure why this is so, and I’m not sure why more people in my circles haven’t read and/or discussed this book/meditation/address. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear Henry’s thoughts. Or maybe we haven’t needed to be reminded of his words so desperately until now.

Since stealing Drummond’s tiny little book from its place on a bookshelf in Jacksonville, Florida, I have been keeping it on my nightstand, reading its pages slowly each night, and letting its words, thoughts, and images seep into my being. I could probably spend weeks hashing out my thoughts on love, as influenced by Drummond’s ideas, but for now I simply want to share the passage that I read last night. Written so long ago, Drummond’s words and semantics are sometimes difficult to decipher, so I’m going to paraphrase a bit to make the thoughts more readable. I hope these words present as much relevant challenge to you as they do me. If not, come back to them. You never know when the word of God, active and alive, will speak to your soul. As I learned this Christmas break, it’s oftentimes when you least expect it.

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Kindness. Love active. Have you ever noticed how much of Christ’s life was spent in doing kind things—in merely doing kind things? Run over it with that in view, and you will find that He spent a great proportion of His time simple in making people happy, in doing good turns to people.

There is only one thing greater than happiness in the world, and that is holiness; and holiness is not in our keeping. But what God has put in our power is the happiness of those about us, and that is largely to be secured by our being kind to them.

“The greatest thing,” says someone, “a man can do for [God] is to be kind to some of [God’s] other children.” I wonder why it is that we are not all kinder than we are? How much the world needs it! How easily it is done. How instantaneously it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. How superabundantly it pays itself back—for there is no debtor in the world so honorable, so superbly honorable, as Love. “Love never fails.” Love is success, Love is happiness, Love is life. Love, I say with Browning, “is energy of Life.”

For life, with all it yields of joy or woe
And hope and fear,
Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love,--
How might love be, hath been indeed, and is.

Where Love is, God is. Those that dwells in love dwell in God. God is love. Therefore, love! Without distinction, without calculation, without procrastination, love. Lavish it upon the poor, where it is very easy; especially upon the rich, who often need it most; most of all upon our equals, where it is very difficult, and for whom, perhaps, we do least of all.

There is a difference between trying to please and giving pleasure. Give pleasure. Lose no chance of giving pleasure. For that is the ceaseless and anonymous triumph of a truly loving spirit.

“I shall pass through this world but once. Any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”

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Loving God who is Love. Help us to love through kindness today, tomorrow, and in all the days to come. Amen. And amen.

Possibilities Bigger Than Self

I think my aunt might have thought it a bit odd that when given a choice to see composer Edvard Grieg’s music studio or gravesite, I immediately chose the gravesite. Yes, I would have liked to have seen the small cabin where Grieg sat on a manuscript of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony so that he would be tall enough to reach the piano keys, but I knew that I had hundreds of students who wouldn’t care where Grieg sat to compose—they would care about how Grieg died and where he was buried. It never fails. My students always want to know how someone died and where he/she is buried. And so I went to Grieg’s gravesite (which incidentally is carved into the side of a mountain) and took an absurd amount of pictures. Sure enough, my students loved them!

You may not be surprised to know, then, that when doing our music textbook lessons that focus on Martin Luther King, Jr., my students always want to know if Martin Luther King, Jr. is dead, how he died, who killed him, and/or where he is buried. The questions have become so predictable that I work their answers into my lessons and am fully prepared to project an image of MLK, Jr.’s and Coretta Scott King’s gravestone when asked. What I didn’t expect this year, though, was a question about how Martin Luther King, Sr. died.

[“Why were you talking about Martin Luther King, Sr.?” you might ask. “Because in another unexpected question twist, a student asked why we always say junior when talking about MLK, Jr.” Therein started a discussion on names that captivated the class so much that no attempt at redirecting to music worked. I finally gave up and spent the rest of the class period answering questions about naming protocol and listening to name stories.]

It turns out that Martin Luther King, Sr. died from a heart attack. He actually lived longer than both of his sons and his wife. While it is common knowledge that MLK, Jr. was assassinated, it is less common knowledge that Alfred Daniel Williams King (King Sr.’s youngest son) tragically drowned, and that King Sr.’s wife, Alberta W. King, was even more tragically murdered. Just after playing a song on the organ during a morning worship service, Alberta King was shot by a gunman who had dropped out of college and declared all Christians the enemy. He walked into Ebenezer Church that day to kill King, Sr., but instead he killed King’s wife and a church deacon. I didn’t tell my students these details. I was a bit too sad after reading their truths. I simply told them that MLK, Jr.’s dad had a heart attack. If he hadn’t lived at least ten years after his wife’s murder, then I would have made an argument that he died solely of a broken heart.

After dinner tonight, I spent over an hour reading more about MLK, Sr. (who indeed changed his name from Michael Luther to Martin Luther to be connected to theologian Martin Luther), Alfred King, and Alberta King. I eventually stumbled upon the King Institute of Stanford University’s website (https://kinginstitute.stanford.edu/) and read letters that MLK, Jr. had written to his parents, letters of recommendation for MLK, Jr. to attend seminary, and some of MLK, Jr.’s lesser known writings. I had to make myself stop reading so that I’d have time to write this post.

Friends, I know that MLK, Jr. was not a perfect man. I know that he was not the only voice or face of the Civil Rights Movement and I know that he himself believed this much. But learning more about him and his family tonight has allowed me to paint a more complete picture of a man and a movement whose voice still speak prophetic and challenging words today.

Sometimes I feel like the writer of Ecclesiastes and find myself in hopeless despair that nothing under the sun has changed. Reading the news articles of Alberta King’s brutal murder was like reading the news articles of today. The man who killed her even told a friend that his name would be all over the newspapers in a couple of weeks. And the senseless beatings of innocent men and women are still taking place. I watched the news in horror tonight as a reporter told of an 18-year-old special needs student who had been kidnapped and terrorized by four of his peers and was now having trouble communicating. The mocking and physical abuse had been streamed on Facebook.

And yet I smiled as I watched my Kindergarten students happily sing and dance together today. They couldn’t care less that their skin colors were different and they had no trouble welcoming everyone into their impromptu circle of happiness. And I inwardly said a prayer of thanks as I hugged my little multi-cultural band of students who come to say good morning each day. And I felt so grateful to be part of one of MLK, Jr.’s greatest wishes…

At the end of his famous “I Have A Dream” speech, MLK boldly declares, “…until one day, when all of God’s children, black men and white, will join hands in singing the old African American Spiritual ‘Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty I’m free at last.’”

“Free At Last” is one of my students’ favorite songs. Not only are they fascinated by the fact that Martin Luther King, Jr. had its words put on his gravestone, but they also really like the song and loudly sing it whenever it is played. Younger, older, richer, poorer, black, white, brown, yellow, or red (as a student actually called himself yesterday)—my students beautifully live MLK, Jr.’s dream every time they sing together.

And you know what? It wasn’t just MLK, Jr.’s dream. It was his father’s, and his mother’s, and his brother’s, and his sister’s. Because MLK, Jr. wasn’t an isolated man. He was part of a family. He was part of a church. He was part of a community. He was part of possibilities so much bigger than himself. And you are, too, friend. You are, too.

One Right Step At A Time

A few months ago, when we lost power during Hurricane Matthew and I had no way to refrigerate food, spent a considerable amount of time making sure we had enough candles to provide night-time light, and spent even more time trying to find ways to keep computers and phones alive, I had the distinct thought, “I understand why scripture says not to worry about tomorrow. Today really does have enough trouble of its own.” Granted, the troubles of my hurricane days were very much 21st century problems and really weren’t troubles at all, but I am thankful for that moment of profound truth because I keep going back to it: Do not worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.

December was a whirlwind. I imagine it was the same for you. For me, in addition to regular teaching and church planning and duties, December included a progressive dinner, a K-2 program, a children’s Advent musical, an adult cantata, a carols and candlelight service, a final project in my special needs class, a group presentation in my special needs class, a final project of sorts in my other class, and a take-home exam in my other class. Only after Christmas day worship was over and New Year’s Day worship had been planned was I able to take a few days off. I am so thankful for those days.

As those days have moved to an end much more quickly than they began, I have found myself increasingly more agitated. My thoughts have been crowded, my dreams have been full of anxiety, my shoulders have been slouched, and my stomach has been unsettled. When I think about the upcoming semester, I imagine a semester of December but with no end in sight. And that feels really bad. I don’t want to live like this—feeling the weight of projected tomorrows on today—and then that truth comes back to me, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.”

Yesterday during her children’s sermon, Rebecca The Children’s Minister challenged the children to live the new year with righteousness—to make one right decision at a time.

One right decision at a time. One lesson at a time. One assignment at a time. One book at a time. One rehearsal at a time. One memory at a time. One fear at a time. One heartache at a time. One moment of grief at a time. One tear at a time. One laugh at a time. One song at a time. One appointment at a time. One breath at a time. Do not worry about tomorrow. Focus on today. Just make it through today.

This evening, as I sat down to attempt to settle my accounts from 2016, Dumbledore challenged Harry to consider, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” Words are powerful. With words, I have the power to both build up and tear down. With words, I have the opportunity both to encourage and discourage both myself and others.

One right decision at a time. One word at a time. One mantra at a time: Do not worry about tomorrow, friend. Focus on today. Just make it through today. Do your best today. Live fully in this moment. Make the most of this reality. Love today. Create words of love today. Because today is the day that we have been given.