The crowd belted out The Battle Hymn Of The Republic, the words projected onto a large screen behind the choir. Beneath the words, as their background, an American flag waved with a cross imposed over it.
After the hymn, four soldiers entered the sanctuary to reverent silence. They marched to the front and center, lowered the America flag, and the worshipers pledged their allegiance. To the flag. And to the nation. With liberty and justice for all.
Then an interpretive dance to God Bless America. And then I was introduced.
The church service was to be a “celebration of freedom” - the physical kind, the kind soldiers and senators are said to grant us and I was uncertain how to celebrate something I so thankfully enjoy and yet question the value of so often. So without speaking I began singing - to give myself time to figure out what to do next. As I sang about a heart becoming a home, I prayed and remembered the Dominican Republic.
Who knows what I’ll think tomorrow, but yesterday and today I believe physical freedom is merely currency - neither inherently good or evil. Like a hard earned wage that can purchase sex with a stranger or a meal for a family, freedom is only as virtuous or venomous as the ways in which we choose to invest it.
In the Dominican Republic, I met children without ears, their deafness bought by an American corporation pulling nickel out of the ground and dumping fetus-twisting poison into the local water supply. I saw slaves bought by a sugar company, imported from Haiti, stripped of citizenship, paid $2 a day, and going to bed hungry. Freedom bought them this bondage.
The song ended and I tried to convey what was I was feeling and thinking as kindly and subtly as I could, peppering the monologue with gratitude for the comfort and opportunity I savor every day in America. Then more songs. And finally, what was billed as a “sermon” but I prefer to think of as a story.
It’s the story I tell every weekend - the story of how God put on skin and moved to our planet and announced that he was setting up a kingdom here by enabling people to do what He wants on earth the way it’s done back in heaven. Then I asked the crowd to do it - to do what God wants - to feed, educate, befriend, heal and tell a child in the developing world about Jesus. And they did. 83 children were sponsored through Compassion International.
Stanley Hauerwas has said, “I’m a pacifist because I’m a violent son of a bitch.” And I don’t believe him. Because he’s miniature. He’s a diminutive (brilliant) theologian no more than five feet tall and speaking with a voice that reminds me of an LP played at a 45’s speed. I’m not buying that he’s violent. Not physically. And that lets some of the credibility out of his entire pacifist position.
What other option does the man have? we’re bound to ask. I mean, of course he’s against hurting people; because he’s incapable of hurting people - big people. Small animals? Sure. Maybe a fifth grader, a very tiny seventh grader smoking a couple packs a day at best, or Ron Paul. But no one of any real stature. And this is the case for every famous pacifist I know of. it seems they’re merely adopting the position on violence their physiques are best suited for. That’s all.
It’s a similar problem vegetarians have. Similar, but not the same. Have you ever seen a buff vegetarian? They are their own worse PR. Oh, so I should eat like a rabbit because you do? we want to ask. I can look like you? Well, wow. That is tempting. I’ve always wanted to weigh a buck oh five, be all pasty and gaunt and wear Burkenstocks. You can have this bacon cheeseburger; give me a salad and a side of kumquats, please.
So you can imagine how thrilled I am that I, for the first time since high school, have gained weight. I am now eight and a half more pounds of non-violent-fifty-percent-raw-food-eating-no-red-meat credibility...and gaining.
It wasn’t a goal when I stepped up the exercise program weeks ago. Weight is just a number on a scale and doesn’t say a thing about a person’s health, personality, or character - stuff that matters. But the Cuban Assassin has me eating meals in between meals now (I had seven yesterday) so that I won’t lose weight while exercising so intensely with him. It was purely preventative for me. And now I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. I’m not heavy. But I’m heavier. Heavier than Stanley Hauerwas. And Ron Paul. And most carrot munchers. And that means, well, credibility, here I come.
Brian and I and our wives (one each) went on a little group date last night - some dinner, some dessert, some discussion of reincarnation. You know, the usual.
Brian started it. “I don’t believe in it,” he disclaimered, “but I like reincarnation.” What he likes, it turns out, is the idea that we can start over and over and over with no end to our experience of the human experience. But, I pointed out, folks don’t remember their past lives. Experience without recall is a bummer.
And then we recalled Shirley MacLaine and others who have remembered their past lives quite publicly. And it’s odd, I said, that they all remember being Julius Caesar or Cleopatra or Joan of Arc and no one recalls shoveling fecal matter while working as a stable boy for Julius Caesar or being a snail on a rock for three days before being snuffed out when Cleoptra decided to take a seat one afternoon or being the guy whose second cousin knew a guy who once got turned down for a date by Joan of Arc. Nope. Every believer in reincarnation who remembers their past lives seems to only recall the lives in which they were awfully important and awfully comfortable.
Reminded me of something I heard recently. “My house sold in three weeks! In this market! That’s so God!”
Really? That’s so God?What if it didn’t sell?What then? Is that so not God?
Seems no matter which god we humans believe in, we’re all pretty big believers in Prosperity.
Don’t go to college. Not yet. Instead, travel, dance, serve, sit, write, think, work. Because it beats being “undecided.”
Take a year to decide.
Yes, your mom won’t like this. Fine. Tell her to e-mail me. And I’ll remind her that the stuff she remembers most from her early twenties are the things she learned about herself, not the things written in textbooks or spoken by professors. Which doesn’t mean stuff in books and lectures are worthless. But they can wait. A year. Just a year.
So don’t go to college. Not yet. Take a break, take a trip, take a risk and learn about yourself, the world, and life. Get educated before deciding how you’ll be educated. Take your time.
Then, with your newfound perspective, if you think it’s right for you, rejoin the herd and read those textbooks and take notes on those lectures. Or not. Stay gone if you want. Extend your break for a decade or two or five. It’s up to you, not mom. You should tell her I said that too. She’ll listen to me. I have a degree.
Instead of blogging about the food crisis, the fund or the day of prayer and fasting myself, I’ll let them do the talking for me. Here are just some of the great posts written this month by Compassion bloggers. To become a Compassion blogger yourself, just sign up and you’ll hear from me next month.
Bonus: I just found this video of Wess Stafford, president of Compassion International, explaining the food crisis. If you haven’t posted about this crisis yet, this might be a good thing to include in your post.
