Sunday, October 30, 2011

Book Talk: Finding the Real Jesus





    It would be great if believers could just boldly ask, "Will the real Jesus please step forward?"  With so many Christian groups and organizations presenting Jesus differently, how can anyone know who is telling the truth?

     Perhaps the strongest deception occurs when folks accept as true only what feels good, a Jesus who  rescues them from sin, loves them unconditionally, and hangs out in case they need a parking space close to the market. This is a Jesus they can be comfortable with at any given happy moment, but who will fail them miserably when sorrow comes.

     This imaginary Jesus, in all his forms, is what Matthew Mikalatos addresses in his book Imaginary Jesus. Far from the true Lord, this creature is a product of  misinformed, sometimes desperate, imaginations created to satisfy spiritual conscience and inevitably, spiritual dilemmas. It's how we answer why to the questions with no humanly sensible answers.

    Using humor and pieces of personal testimony, Mr. Mikalatos caused me to laugh out loud and rush back from classes so I could find out what antics happened next. I love the way he depicted the real Jesus as a person who cares deeply for humanity, and as a knowable, reachable, omniscient Lord.  Having found this book after the incomprehensible death of one of my students, the book brought me comfort and renewed interest in Christian growth.

    I highly recommend Imaginary Jesus as a means of discussion about defining vs finding Jesus and the roles Christians mistakenly assign Him vs who He really is according to Scripture. Support this author, and help spread this important message.
   






Thursday, October 13, 2011

Goodbye, Samantha





Samantha waltzed into my class two years ago wide-eyed, enthusiastic, and prepared. "I heard you were hard," she said, "but I can do this."  As the quarter passed, she demonstrated devotion to performing well, and while she may not have been the best writer, she gave herself over to the tasks the course demanded. She was like that in all of her classes. She was organized, on top of assignments, and eager to "get it right."

When Samantha first started classes, her father dropped her off and then picked her up in the evening. She spent the time outside of class in the library or in the lobby studying or reading. She and I had great talks about books and reading habits.  Once, I caught her with a seedy romance. She just smiled and said, "It's just for fun." As her time at the college progressed, we talked more, and she told me about a daughter she had lost in a custody battle. She didn't tell me why, and I respectfully didn't ask, but I sensed a deep wound regarding her child. She aimed to regain custody one day.

When the weather was warm, Samantha rode her bike to class. In the summer, she arrived spent, sweaty from our Alabama humidity and heat, but always on time. She would go to the bathroom first, bathe herself with wet towels and the soap provided, and emerge ready to "learn something." Her kindness to classmates stood out, too. She was the type of student who could always be counted on to share notes, or to form an impromptu cram session to help someone who had gotten off work an hour before class started.

One day last summer, Samantha showed up for class in inappropriate attire, which shocked me because she had never done it before.  Her instructor, bound by college rules, sent her to student services to see if they had something she could wear that would allow her to sit in class. I saw her outside and asked her what happened. She confided that she had forgotten her two good pairs of pants at a relative's, who had refused to bring them to her. She didn't have a car, and it was too far for a walk or bike ride.

Samantha seemed at her happiest during the months before and after her wedding. Her new fella, the father of two children Samantha adored, followed her to college. Our talks shifted to classes he was taking, most especially English, a huge struggle for him. When she introduced him to me, I saw all the signposts of young love between the two. "We are so blessed to have found each other," she said. They slowly raised the money for a small ceremony and then set up house. Just a few months ago, she shared her wedding pictures with me and some fellow students and talked about how faith was "seeing them through."  Two students, two children, and one minimum-wage income made for hard living.

 I noticed the dark circles under Samantha's eyes a few weeks ago, and I asked if she had been  feeling okay. She told me she had recovered from a bad flu and that she just felt  tired. With no money for a private doctor, and the clinic always too busy, she would have to devote an entire day to see a doctor. We chatted about the upcoming graduation in January, and I left her there with her books and dreams. Her last words to me were "God hasn't failed me yet!"

Only 26 years old, Samantha suffered a fatal heart attack in her sleep this past weekend.  I couldn't attend her visitation, and tomorrow, during her funeral, I will be in class teaching composition. I am deeply saddened, yet I am also impressed by the faith Samantha  latched onto so firmly until the end of her life. What a courageous spirit.



Faith is being sure.
When sorrow cradles your doctrine,
When grief-shrouded standards fail
to bear your weight,
When life-long beliefs seem transparently
insufficient,
and you look for God anyway,
and find hope everywhere.


Monday, October 10, 2011

Your Words

Those Who Can


                                                               Yeah, this pretty much sums it up.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

House of Horrors














Every year, local churches offer Halloween alternatives to traditional haunted houses, witches, and ghouls  focusing the themes toward Christian thought. The metro Mobile area is no different, contributing several community harvest festivals, trunk or treat activities, and age-specific parties. The region's Master's Commission sponsors an annual event featuring a "House of Horrors" attracting countless folks from almost every category of Christianity imaginable. I don't like haunted houses, and as a skeptic of alternative trends and fear-based "salvation," I had never attended. Yet, because some students asked me to check it out, my husband, Tim, and I braved the House of Horrors a few years ago.  

 We parked the car and joined the long line awaiting entry, Numerous signs were posted that cautioned: Do Not Enter if You are Pregnant, Do Not Enter if You Have a Heart Condition, and my personal favorite, Live Snakes.  Grabbing Tim's arm, I followed him into the darkness of the House, pulling scriptures from my memory to encourage myself. Be strong and courageous from the Psalms and I will never leave you nor forsake you."  Besides," I assured myself, "I took my blood pressure medication earlier. This shouldn't be a problem!" Before entering the House proper, the hosts took a picture of us standing in front of a plastic ghoul. I couldn't help but muse, "This is a before we scared you straight snapshot.

The narrow halls of the House, almost pitch black, felt uncomfortably hot. The warm October air and the blended body heat of the workers and guests added to this affect.  As we progressed, we met a variety of characters, inhabitants of hell, depicting typical demons--harsh, cruel, wild-eyed, demanding, and scary. To avoid contact, I tucked my head downward and ignored them, while maintaining my vice-like grip on Tim's arm. Graciously, the characters left me alone as we walked, crawled, and shuffled through the corridors. I disliked this part of the trek, not because I didn't get the point, but because Jesus wasn't evident--which I suppose was the point.
 My heart became engaged at the scene of a teenager's suicide. The young man playing this role effectively portrayed the depth of pain that accompanies suicidal despair. We walked through the story beginning at its end: A teenager has killed himself after enduring years of abuse from his father. His mother has chosen escape. His girlfriend cares, but isn't committed to him enough to stay faithful, and his best friend collapses in a drunken stupor. The sad irony, we discovered, is that the young man misses a message from his absent mother that may have changed his mind--that may have given him just enough support to alter his choice. Impressively, the organizers of the House chose not to pass judgment, announcing that "only God knows where souls go."
 After the suicide scene, the focus shifted to human souls condemned to hell, not by God's will but their own. These depictions were not of classical "bad people" who terrify the masses; rather, they were of men and women who followed the golden rule book of good living most of the time, but who lacked a meaningful spirituality and, as a result, any solid desire to be godly-minded.. For Christians, living well begins with a relationship with Jesus Christ. I experienced an epiphany in this section of the house, reminded that how one lives, specifically how one treats others,  is a choice. Mistreatment can be regretted, repented, justified, excused, even forgiven, but it can never be taken back.  Damage need not be permanent, but scars remain.
 I had avoided the scary faces by looking down, but the  human depictions made me uncomfortable.  In a  sense, hell could be any place love isn't, and the heartbreak of such a place is unfathomable. As I walked, voices suddenly arrested my attention, chains rattled, arms reached toward me. A young woman pleaded, "Look at me! Help me! I was a good person! I gave to the poor! I don't deserve this! Look at me!" But I didn't look. I didn't want to see. 
 I turned my head and kept walking. Like the mother portrayed earlier, I wanted escape. I didn't want to witness this portrayal of pure complacency. I pushed my husband forward, the young woman's unsettling echo forcing my thoughts to war with my heart. I thought about how long it had been since I truly stepped outside of myself into service of others, or spoke beyond a standard greeting on my way to somewhere or someone "more" important. No matter what one's faith, it is too easy to attend a programmed service for all the wrong reasons, only engaging in our tradition.  It's too easy to look away and keep living without thought for others who may benefit from a simple, caring gesture. 
 At the end of the House of Horrors, we were guided into a large room where the air conditioning worked better. Enjoying the cool air, I anticipated the ending "sermon" and the comfort of my Camry. Suddenly, a door opened behind me, and three young men entered: two cast as Roman guards, and one as Jesus. I don't remember ever being this close to a depiction of the crucifixion before. I could have touched the cross and the actors. They were speaking, but I could only concentrate on the voice calling out, "Look at me! Look at me!"  I watched the cross until we were asked to move forward, hesitating as long as possible.
I didn't agree with all of the theology, but the experience caused me to see chunks of personal selfishness and to realize how insidious it can be. It grows slowly, rotting  in  the spirit until one day, nothing else but negativity and its first cousins are remembered and voiced. Heavy weights of distrust, hyper-skepticism, and self-indulgence  motivate and epitomize such a person, who consistently barrages him or herself and others with a hopeless, fear-fed outlook.That life trap is indeed horrific.







Saturday, October 1, 2011

The Fight For K - 12



At an IRA Conference years ago, I participated in a workshop in which the audience was asked to reflect on a favorite teacher. I chose my high school band director, Jose, who I believed actually had faith in his students, including me. I was an average student, but he expected my best anyway. After each person in the workshop had shared a story, the facilitator asked us to reflect on our worst teacher. For me, that was another band director, Joe, who had laughed at me when I told him I wanted to major in music in college. Both of these teachers taught the same subject, in the same school system. The point of the workshop was to demonstrate how much influence a teacher can have. Case in point,  I am in my mid-forties, and I remember Jose's humorous instruction, and the pain I felt from Joe's laughter.  It would be a grave error to label all teachers great because of Jose, or all teachers bad because of Joe. Likewise, it would be idiotic to say that the school system for which both worked was wonderful or terrible. Yet, this is the expectation of me in the current education debates. This places me in a quandary because I'm just not good at the "you are either for me or against me" mentality.

On one side, friends are asking me to support the push for federal funding of charter and private schools. I won't do this. My heart just isn't into it. My personal experience has taught me better than to believe that they are heaven's answer to education. Most importantly, charter schools (not present in Alabama) do not have the same challenges as public schools, so to compare them statistically is a futile effort. Those "high quality" private schools are too often fueled by political or religious agendas that do not serve the general public, so in my estimation, not deserving of federal funds. Too many of them are operated by people just as tempted by ambition and competitive antics as the politicians and corporations endorsing them.  This was illustrated to me two weeks ago at a football game between my son's public school and a local private school. I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised to discover that the concessions were sponsored by a national brand restaurant. I should write a letter and ask for donations for my son's band trip to Chicago, just to see how graciously they decline.

I have also seen private Christian schools in my region  simultaneously invoke the name of Jesus and play on parental fears. Their self-interest prattle about protecting students from the evils of  humanistic teachers and heathen children is nauseating. Reality check: the evidence of this evil (drugs, immorality etc) is just as prevalent in private schools as in public. A 30 minute sermon during chapel each week and constant reminders of living the faith have not dissuaded infiltration. Second, too often, I have seen parents dismiss responsibility for spiritual education because they feel that placing their kids in a Christian school does the trick.  If I could, I would sit with them over coffee and beg them to think about what they are doing, instead of  blindly trusting a school as they hand over a tuition check.  I have heard the defense, "But it <private school> has a low truancy rate, no pregnant teenagers, no drug problem." Of course it doesn't. If a student gets into "trouble," he or she is expelled. Problem solved, right? That makes the claim stand true.

On the other side of the debate, friends, many of them teachers, are fighting for basic employee benefits and for a voice in the direction of their profession. I am appalled at how much public school  teachers have been demonized and at  how flippantly certain individuals dismiss their responsibilities.  Allow me to clear up some misconceptions. Teachers do not simply work from 7:30 in the morning until 3:00 in the afternoon. Outside of class time, they are required to grade papers, attend meetings, and stay current in their field among many other tasks. Also, teachers do not join the profession to earn large sums of money at tax payers' expense. My first teaching job at a private school  paid 12,000 annually. No joke.  Alabama public school teachers at the time with the same credentials and experience earned 28,000 annually.  Finally, the teachers who the politicians and pundits are accusing of incompetence and laziness are members of the communities in which they teach.  Look around your neighborhood, place of worship, or coffee shop and talk to them.  At present, they are being judged unfairly and defamed with faulty proof called standardized tests.  Please, spread the word!

With that said, not all public school policies make sense, and in part, explain the mistrust parents have of public schools and teachers and why they are so willing to look elsewhere. Mandated tests aside, parents struggle most with the in-house policies put in place in an effort to control student, and consequently, parent behavior.  Unfortunately, teachers have placed themselves in a camp pitted against parents who question these policies unfairly categorizing them as friends or foes.  I have confronted more than one teacher who assumed, or hoped, that I was ignorant of all things educational. In one instance, a Math teacher gave my daughter 150 extra credit problems to complete over Christmas break. She followed his written directions, finished the assignment, and handed the work in on time. On the first day back from the holiday, he announced that no one would be given credit for the work if he or she had written the answers on the back side of the worksheet. This directly opposed his written directions. In the conference that followed, he tried to intimidate my spouse into just letting it go.  My daughter and her classmates left that year frustrated and bitter with barely enough knowledge to make it to the next level.

 This same type of  arrogance spreads into any communication in which a teacher or administration is challenged. In a meeting I attended a few weeks ago, a teacher outlined a change in fund-raising procedure, reminding parents that he was the one with a degree. Afterwards, the principal stood, introduced himself, and pompously mandated that the parents "get on board or leave."  This same principal enforced a tardy policy that requires late students to sit in a waiting area rather than interrupt a class in session. If class starts at 7:40, and the student arrives late for any reason, he or she sits in the wait room learning nothing. Another policy adopted  by teachers and reinforced by this administrator includes hiding student property to "teach students responsibility." It may stay hidden for a day, a week, a month, or longer. My son lost the contents of a music binder last year, so I replaced the music, sheet covers, and folder. Four months later, it was "found" in the band director's podium. Because the podium typically remained locked, my son very likely would have never found it. I was not amused.

Absolutely, teachers should  have a voice in their profession, but parents should also have a voice in education policy affecting their children, and taxpayers should have a voice in education systems they fund. The parental response (homeschooling, charters, and private options) stems from a place of powerlessness that has been exploited by politics.  The truth is, teachers and parents must build a bridge and refuse to be enemies if they hope to provide the best in any form of education.  Public education served my family better than private education. In spite of the negative incidents, my children enjoyed many more teachers who cared deeply for their welfare and academic success. I also personally know teachers in the private sector who are just as committed.  So I am stuck in the middle of the debate, uncomfortable, and searching for clarity.


LaQuinta



                                        This photo was taken by Craig Lapeere in LaQuinta, California.