The Day the Originality Died

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 49 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

I wonder how many of these Vernon's have the middle name "Woodrow" and the Roman numeral "III" tacked on at the end? Here's hoping that I'm still somewhat unique (I never thought anything could be "somewhat" unique ... before this morning).

Maybe my parents should have named me "Leroy" after all ...

There's Racism, and Then There's Absurdity

The following is a bit lengthy, but I think it is quite interesting...

I'm diverting from my normal, journal-like post structure to report a grave injustice. I normally do not choose to call people out very often on my blog (though I notice I am doing so more lately - maybe I'm the one with issues), but such a despicable act has been committed that I couldn't keep from making the conflict known.

Comedian Chris Rock's mother, Rose, who lives in South Carolina, is planning to sue Cracker Barrel restaurants (based in Lebanon, TN) for racial discrimination after she and her daughter were seated for a meal but service was then neglected. Ms. Rock claims everyone else in the Georgetown, SC restaurant was being served, but no one even came to check on them. (Not even to bring over some of that delicious cornbread, Ms. Rock? My, what a travesty!) Surely this is an injustice ... but on the part of Ms. Rock (and her legal financier, the incorrigible "Rev." Al Sharpton, who jumps on racial discrimination suits like Paris Hilton on diet pills).

First of all, if you check the above link, make sure you watch the video excerpt from Larry King Live. Now, it is quite possible that racial discrimination did find Ms. Rock (you mean someone in South Carolina might be prejudice?! That's crazy!). However, part of living graciously is to give people the benefit of the doubt. Ms. Rock and her daughter went for a meal at 4:00-ish in the afternoon, neither considered to be the lunch hour or dinner hour, and traditionally the time when wait-staff shifts change. Ms. Rock admits she did not try to summon any of the wait-staff's attention. Apparently she just sat and brooded and immediately drew the conclusion that the staff must hate black people. (Then why did they seat you in the first place, Ms. Rock?) Instead, after about a half hour of keeping to herself, she sought out the manager, already incensed at the way she had been treated (or "not treated" might be a better way to put it). She recounts how the manager apologized and asked her if she would have a seat and he would make sure their order was expedited and their meal be on the house. Ms. Rock claims by then she and her daughter had lost their appetite at the injustice of it all. (One bite of that cornbread could probably cure that, you know.)

She sought out the South Carolina Human Affairs Commission, filed a report, and now complains they never did anything. The HAC claims they get thousands of such complaints (in South Carolina?! No!) each year, and it takes a while to mobilize an investigation. They have since finalized the request and have begun an investigation as of early August. Before this time, Cracker Barrel sent a formal apology, a care basket, and vouchers for two free meals to Ms. Rock. When asked about this, she and her hero, Sharpton, scoff at the gesture of supplication. They want to file suit, in the name of all minorities everywhere.

Now, there's racism, and then there's plain absurdity. Ms. Rock, I know your son has built a career on racially-motivated comedy, but that doesn't mean every inconvenient thing that happens to you is a devious act by some close-minded, prejudice jerk. If this is about money, why do you need it if your son is a star? If this is about principle, why don't you find a more blatant discrimination instead of following the country's bandwagon of blaming all insulting instances on oppression? I got lousy service in a burger joint the other day, and my order was botched, but I didn't chalk that up to the waiter hating me because I'm a Christian (though, if I did, I'm sure I could get Falwell or some other jump-the-gun religious personalities to take up my cause). Ms. Rock, don't be one of those people. Nobody intelligent respects Al Sharpton. If Martin Luther King Jr. were still alive, he'd probably have to contain himself from punching the guy in the nose.

Aren't we all getting a little too touchy. I'm not saying racism doesn't exist, Ms. Rock, nor do I claim to know what it feels like to be on the short end of that stick. But I do know how to forgive and forget once in a while, and, if I can squeeze some advice in past Sharpton's husky, hulking, protective frame, I'd say this instance is definitely a time for doing so.

If You Want to Catch the Squirrel...

This morning, I preached/spoke/taught (what's the difference anymore?) in the church school's lower chapel, which consists of Kindergarten through fourth grade. It was strange to stand up and see my church's sanctuary filled to the back with little munchkins, stranger still to find myself speaking to them, and even stranger to see most of them engaged in the message. However, what was most surreal about the entire experience is that the message which, I admit, I threw together in a couple of days, somehow morphed into the story of my life, unbeknown to the crowd of rug-rats and their teachers.

The theme of the chapels for this year is "the fruits of the Spirit," and I spoke about patience and self-control using my parents' two dogs, Gracie and Molly, and their continual epic struggle against a devious wild squirrel as a means to communicate the importance of stepping back and learning to wait on things rather than rushing right in.

I explained that the consequences to rushing in and not thinking things through can oftentimes be painful, much like Gracie, when she somehow manages to scrape her way up onto the lowest nook of the tree, sprains her paw almost every time when she has to hop back down. And I am not much different...

It is extremely difficult to be patient, to wait on things. When I get a bright idea, I normally take off after it and decide that, if I'm going to think it through I'm going to do so only in the time allotted on the way and if not then screw thinking anything through at all. I feel like this sometimes happens to Leigh and I, as well as with my work in the youth group, but lately I realize that my entire psyche is geared this way, to chase before I know the prey, to shoot before I even see the target.

It occurs to me (as I'm sure it occurs to other people a lot earlier in life) that impatience is at the root of much of our division and animosity. It could be argued that the mishandling of the War in Iraq (no matter how much you may think it was or was not mishandled) came from mere impatience on the part of those who knew we needed to do something about Hussein's regime (and I have just realized, as a complete side note, that Hussein sorta rhymes with "insane"). The same could be considered for many of the problems in the denominational splits, specifically Baptists, over the past several years. Impatience leads us away from an amicable solution - it does not lead us there faster.

And, in my mind, this all spirals back to me, and my inability to wait on the good things and to control myself from chasing after the bad things. And even if I do decide to seek after the good things with more vigor, I transition from battling impatience to battling procrastination, which I suppose, is just impatience in another form.

Life is not easy. Simple, yes. But never easy, at least not for someone who truly wants to embrace it. In doing so, there comes the subtlest of struggles, from the need to tweak relationships, overcome disagreements and misunderstandings, reassess ideas and accept failure, and learning each day how to walk a straighter, narrower line in regard to all the hundred million buzzing flies of distraction that play incessantly before our eyes. To be impatient in any or all of these circumstances is to turn our backs on the goodness and worth of the world. To embrace the world and seek its goodness - to embrace life - is to overcome our desire to have everything immediately.

It is a truth I hope at least the children caught, if not me as well. There's no need to leap into the tree. Just let the squirrel be, because, if we remain patient, eventually it'll have to come down, right?

I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! - Psalm 27:13-14

A Contemporary Psalter

I've found it cathartic that the Psalms for at least the first half of this week's Daily Office have been of the "Song of Ascents" variety, and most have dealt with the psalmists deep, heartfelt cries to God out of the depths of despair, confusion, pain, and complacency. Here are some statements that mark several of the psalms so far this week:

"In my distress I cry to the Lord, that he may answer me..."
"I lift my eyes to the hills - from where will my help come?"
"Look on my misery and rescue me, for I do not forget your law. Plead my cause and redeem me; give me life according to your promise."

Indeed, the problems of many of these psalmists (and the people several of them surely represent) are different from what I go through today. However, this week these psalms have served as both a salve and a reminder of present frustrations. Leigh and I are both frustrated with the lack of close friends we have here in Houston. It is understandably depressing when I lament my lack of confidants, as I am brand new to this town. However, Leigh has grown up here and even she finds it difficult to name people near our own age that we can spend time with, discuss relevant issues, and experience the benefits of community together.

Stepping out of seminary and back into the real world can be quite depressing. You find quickly that most of the issues and subjects you cared about with great passion - many times with tears and sweat and feelings not unlike the passions of the psalmists - the real world you are reentering doesn't really care about at all. There aren't a lot of people around me - even in the church - that would enjoy discussing the Trinity, or even something lighter like the relationship between Scripture and theology, the value of art as an expression of faith, etc.

Mainly, Leigh and I both miss having like-minded friends. Community is shaped by many people, and I do not deny this. I would not want my community of believers - a.k.a. the church - to be solely made up of people near the same age (as many mega-churches are doing these days by breaking up their congregation into sub-groups with their own pastors and worship areas). However, there is something to be said for spending time with people who are facing the same concerns and ponderings as your own. There is not much I hold in common with the middle-aged father of three who makes six figures and lives in an upscale suburb. To assume a relationship with this person is going to meet all of my needs - and his - is ridiculous.

There are gaps in my church community, and I'm not referring merely to the floundering youth group, which averages one student on Wednesday nights and three on Sunday morning. There are no college students, only one or two occasional attenders who qualify as "college-age students," and very few "singles" (I hate the term as well, but this is the title most churches attribute to unattached men and women between the ages of 23-34).

It is difficult, because I look at nearby communities like First Baptist, Second Baptist, and Lakewood, and I see them getting bigger and bigger. Second Baptist is perfecting the splintered congregation, going so far now as to buy out an upscale shopping center near their church that will become their new "Singles" class hub. Not unlike the psalmists, I battle feelings of bitterness and jealousy all day long. I don't want River Oaks Baptist to splinter, but I do wish we could grow and become a more cohesive community, representing all groups and allowing for growth both across age-group lines as well as within.

These are the present frustrations - these are the things that perpetuate the tightness in my chest and the sorrowfulness that visits me in the late evenings when I pray tight-fistedly for growth (yes, even numerical growth) in my community, if only to have a strong home to which I can run and be completely, gracefully understood.

I punctuate this post with the words of an occasional modern-day psalmist:

"Will you comfort me in my time of need?
Can you take away the pain of hurtful deeds?
'Cause when we need it most there's no rain at all
and the dust just settles right there on the feed.
Will you say to me, 'A little rains gonna come,'
when the sky can't offer none to me.
'Cause I will comfort you when my days are through,
and I'll let your smile just off and carry me."
- Ryan Adams, from the song "In My Time of Need"

But the Meek Don't Want It

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's nothing."

"You cannot expect me to believe that it is nothing," said his friend.

He sighed heavily, a weariness under his breath. "It's just that, I was hoping to escape this place, not receive it back. I never actually thought it would be my inheritance."

"What did you think?"

"It's a nice gesture. Don't get me wrong. It's just..."

"Tell me."

"I never wanted it," he said quickly, shyly, throwing him a nervous look out of the corner of his eye. He spoke again, slower and more mindfully, as if in confession. "I could never bring myself to want it. I mean, I did my best to enjoy it - the place itself - while I was there, but even that was difficult. Every day it was something else, but never anything new, never anything genuine. They were all taking up side after side, raising issue after issue. They were practically salivating over the fights that came!"

"I know it was hard for you. It was the same for me."

He looked at his friend and saw the deep truth of that statement etched in the lines of his face. Hesitating, he softly spoke again. "It simply got to a point where I just assumed the place belonged to the others, the ones who battled over it so viciously. They're the ones who seemed to have all the zeal, all the passion for the place."

"It was contrived zeal. It was misdirected passion. Such confusion can eventually consume a person, until that which is fake seems real and justified and necessary. But..."

He watched his friend trail off and look away. "But what?"

"But love ... genuine love ... is pushed away."

He shrugged again. "I just assumed it would not ever become mine. I thought, because I didn't join the fight - or, what they called 'protection' - I had no right to inherit the place. I mean, shouldn't they be the ones to finally sort out all the mess?"

"It doesn't belong to them. It is your inheritance, not theirs."

"No offense, really, but it's not much of an inheritance," he said.

"Tell me about it," said his friend. "I had a front row seat all this time, watching so many lose their hearts and minds, and everything that I did became nothing more than some vague recognition brought up only to fuel arguments and talking points."

Another heavy sigh escape his lips. "So, what do you expect me to do?"

"What you did for your own life, you must do for this place. Give me back to them - to all of them."

He shook his head and said, "They're not going to like that very much - the ones that fight so hard for you." He watched as his friend's face fell sorrowfully, and both of them stepped forward and looked out upon the place, upon the inheritance.

"They're not fighting for me," said his friend. "They're fighting for themselves."

Frozen

"We touched down on the sound at the top of the world in the land of the midnight sun, where the frozen river melts away and breaks into a run into the sea, into the mighty waves that waited just to see it. From a long way off that river thawed and the tide ran out to meet it. "Welcome home, unfrozen river, welcome home!" - from the song "All Shall Be Well" by Andrew Peterson

My deep desire is to move, to actively seek the Kingdom until one grand morning when I find myself stumbling down that last stretch of road, the weariness melting off me in the final, staggering steps that, as they wobble and fall, one after another, they become the last testament of the paradox of this life, that it is quite simple but also quite difficult.

I often feel frozen in this life, locked into a way of thinking, a selfishness, an apathy that, even in my most inspired moments, I perpetuate instead of humbling myself. To retain this self-centeredness is to be frozen, unmoving. To humble oneself (or to be humbled) is to be thawed, to begin to flow. A river moves where it desires, but only because the destination it desires is what the landscape around it bends toward as well. In other words, as much as a river destines its own flow, it is as much predestined at the same time. I desire to move, and my life is contoured to flow toward the Kingdom, but I often find myself remaining frozen, unable to break free even though the desire exists.

The wayward son "came to his senses" one afternoon while he stood ankle-deep in mud, excrement, and pig slop. Finding himself stalled, frozen if you will, in the consequence of his selfishness, he somehow found a way to break free, even if it was with a rehearsed excuse on his lips. He thawed. He flowed. And he found the sea waiting for him, even surging forward to meet him. The excuse ended up not being necessary.

Oh, that I also would thaw and break free into a rapid run for my true home, the destination I am bent toward, the only place I really belong.

The Margaritas (for Mother Superior)

Cliff had it right on his blog when, for tribute to Dr. Ruth Ann Foster, he simply posted a photograph he knew she would have found quite amusing. I will attempt to do the same with an infamous story ...

Brian Van Holt, a former seminary student at Truett, told me not far into my first semester that I should ask Dr. Foster about "the margaritas" ...

For those of you who read this and do not know Dr. Foster, she is one of the founding professors at Truett Seminary, where I only recently finished graduate study. I took four classes under Dr. Foster (whom we often called RAF or Mother Superior), and she is responsible for pretty much all of my New Testament seminary education, as she taught me Intro to Scriptures, then two classes spanning Matthew-Revelation, as well as a whole semester spent on the book of her expertise, John. About a year ago she was diagnosed with lung and liver cancer. She passed away last week.

So, the margaritas. I proceeded to walk into Intro to Scriptures class and propose, in front of everyone, that Dr. Foster explain this cryptic reference. She gave me a knowing, lighthearted glare, and finished taking roll before beginning the story.

It seems that, back in the early days of Truett Seminary, before the beautiful campus building and the strong collection of faculty, the founding and senior professors used to go to lunch quite often at the same few places. Waco was still a few years off from exploding into the bustling metropolis that it is now, and so El Chico Mexican Restaurant was one of the few tasty places that could accommodate a moderate-sized, moderate-thinking group.

Well, on one particular day, RAF sat at her table with a few students she was working with on a book, when what should be served to her but a margarita. It was purchased for her as a joke by some other students who were also having lunch in the restaurant. Now, it obviously isn't couth for a seminary professor to be seen drinking a margarita in the middle of the day in a restaurant frequented by many a Baylor professor. But RAF would soon become mortified that she let the undrunk drink remain at her table when one of her students, spying the door, saw the seminary dean (and former professor under whom she studied in her own seminary student days), Dr. Robert Sloan, walk through the door with several suited men, obviously either respected ministers and/or potential donors, and head for a table very close to her own.

The story is still told by some of those prankster students how they watched in utter hysterics as Dr. Sloan approached RAF's table to introduce her and her party to the suits. In recounting the story, she was never clear if, in her students' scramble to hide the booze under the table, the suits caught sight of it. However, Dr. Sloan did, but graciously withheld himself from commenting on it.

Eventually, Dr. Foster made sure of two things: that Dr. Sloan understood she had not ordered the drink for herself, nor had she consumed it, and that the offending students be repaid for their prank in the silly-yet-frightening way only RAF knew how to do. After all, she did indeed own a bull whip, given to her by another former student as a fitting tool for her efforts in class discipline. After all, she would say, in her favorite book of the Bible, the Book of John, Jesus himself used a whip to get people to fall in line. Why should seminarians be treated any differently?

You may ask, what was the fallout of this event in Dr. Foster's life? Well, from that time on, every semester, she would find herself having to answer some ignorant new student's ignorant question about "the margaritas." And, every once in a while, a can or pouch of margarita mix could be found awaiting her in her office mailbox or under her office door.

A more gracious and loving woman there never was, nor was there ever someone who taught with such honesty and openness from her own painful past.

Now you are finally reunited with your brother, and with your great partner, Chip Conyers. Nevertheless, know we down here shall miss you greatly. You cannot be replaced. I hope that every time I hear the cracking of a whip, I remember you. Farewell, my teacher, my mother, my friend.

Dr. Ruth Ann Foster with seminary student, Courtney Lyons