Just Said No

So here’s the thing that you need to understand about being an elementary school kid in the late 80s/early 90s: we were led to believe that drugs were going to be constantly pushed on us. Our teachers told us this. Nancy Reagan told us this. TV shows told us this. Cartoon characters told us this a lot.

I still remember the PSA starring the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles where they showed a video of a kid named Tommy being offered weed. Donatello and company talked us through how to say no. That’s where I learned that “I’m not a chicken! You’re a turkey!” was going to be the kiss-off line that would save me from some mullet-headed, jean jacket-wearing fifth grade drug kingpin.

This is not to make light of drug addiction nor to gloss over the complicated legacy of the War on Drugs, both of which are serious issues. It’s just that I was told that I was going to need all this drug-resistance education because I would one day be bombarded with every illegal substance known to humanity. Except it never happened.

Until today.

What are you looking for? (John 1:35-42 & Matthew 6:33)

One evening this past week, our family was about to arrive home when I remembered that we didn’t have what one of our sons needed in order to bring his lunch to school the next day. I offered to run back out. This is one of the things that I do: I go to the grocery store and I pick up dinner from restaurants. The men of yore would go out into the field, hunt, and bring their bounty back home. So in that spirit, I too venture out into the wild to track down the elusive prey that are chicken nuggets and tacos.

I dropped E.A. and the boys off at our front door and headed off to the nearest grocery store certain that this would be a quick trip. I knew what I was looking for and I even had multiple options. As long as they had microwaveable bacon or a Chicken Dunks Lunchable, I was golden. I would bring home the bounty. My kid would have his lunch for school the next day.

Yet there was a snag: our grocery store did not have either item. So I texted E.A.: “Swing and a miss on both items. Do you want me to look elsewhere or come home?” She said to try another place; again, we would like for our kid to be able to eat lunch. I drove about 15 minutes to another grocery store. A bigger grocery store. One that has not failed to have the items that are sometimes missing from the smaller store close to our house. In confidence, I strode to the refrigerated section in the back that is home to breakfast meats and pre-packaged meals for school-aged children and lazy college students.

And it was barren. There was no bacon. There were no Chicken Dunks Lunchables. It was as if there was a breaking news story in which a scientist had warned the nation that we don’t know how many pigs or chickens we have left and a panicked populace rushed the grocery stores in hopes of one last moment with pork and poultry.

16 Years

My first concrete memory of EA Ferree was the night I turned 19. We had met before then but when you get chucked into a lake with a person that memory tends to take primacy. It was tradition at Furman—the college we both attended—for one to be forcibly thrown into the campus lake on his or her birthday. When my time for this ritual came, our mutual friend Justin remarked that E.A.'s birthday was 3 days away. Two birds, one stone, a bigger splash.

It was probably half a year later before I would have thought of EA as a good friend. Another four or five months after that when I started falling hard for her. Summer after our sophomore year, I did such a horrendous job asking her out that she had to ask for clarification. Three years, 2 months, and 16 days after the lake, we got married and that was 16 years ago today.

I was 19 when this amazing woman came into my life and now I am 38 and change. We crossed a threshold. We have now been part of each other’s stories for over half our lives. For some reason, it is wild for me to reflect on that. It becomes more difficult to remember life before EA and I cannot imagine a future without her.

Tomorrow (Acts 2:42-47)

Today is Birthday Sunday at Woodmont. This church is celebrating 78 years, but from where I stand it looks no older than 7 or 8 months. In all seriousness, a group of individuals came together with the dream of forming a church and they laid out this covenant:

We do hereby solemnly covenant with God and one another to bond ourselves together to establish a Christian Church in this community for ourselves and posterity.

We pledge our time, substance, talents and prayers to the end that His Church shall be a house of prayer for all people, a fellowship of those who believe in Christ and strive to follow his teachings, and a part of the Church Universal.

We aim to erect a suitable edifice for divine worship, for Christian education, for stewardship, for world missions, and to minister to the spiritual needs of the community.

All this we covenant to be and do under the guidance of God and the leadership of Jesus Christ our Lord.

That is legitimately something to celebrate and those words are a good summation of what we at Woodmont Christian Church ought to be about. It is a day to celebrate.

So with it being our birthday, it is time to make a wish and blow out the proverbial candles. Let me ask you: What is your wish for Woodmont going into the future? What do you hope and pray that the church looks like tomorrow? And really we would do well to expand that question; not just what we hope Woodmont looks like tomorrow but, as the covenant puts it, the Church Universal. Because it’s bigger than us. To tweak a quote from the cinematic masterpiece Thor: Ragnarok, the church is not a place, it’s a people. Woodmont is not this building but the people of this community and our community exists within the larger body of Christ.

Arguing with Jesus After the Storm

“Have you still no faith?”

That is what Jesus said to his disciples after they woke him up in the middle of a raging storm and he calmed the sea with a word. It is a question that does not land well with me. I want to argue a bit with Jesus: “Go easy on them, they thought they were going to die.” There are times when it seems like Jesus does not quite understand humanity. The pious counterargument is that he does not understand a humanity that lacks a complete trust in God. Yet piety is tough when your mouth is full of brackish water.

The disciples were afraid for their lives. They were on a boat at sea in a storm. They were fighting for their very existence. And I imagine that at least some of them were not just afraid of losing their own lives but the life on the one that they believed was the hope for their people. The life that was asleep on the boat.

Pentecost on Two Wheels

My parents texted me a few weeks back and asked me what I wanted for my birthday. Birthday presents aren’t quite as exciting in your late 30s. My oldest son, whose birthday is just a few days before my own, asks for toys and Lego sets. Alright, in full disclosure, I have very recently asked to receive Lego sets for birthdays. But I wasn’t feeling that this year and I always ask for books. So I told them that I was trying to save up for a new bike and so money to go towards that would be greatly appreciated.

“You don’t want your old bike?” Mom responded.

This isn’t the first time she has asked me if I wanted my old bike. Frankly, I wasn’t sure it was in decent shape. I probably haven’t touched the thing in over 20 years. But it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. My dad took it for a short ride. The tires were surprisingly good, the gears were a bit of a question mark, but it was decent. I figured I’d give it a shot. Mom and Dad put it on their bike rack and drove it up here from South Carolina when they came to visit us for our May birthdays.

It’s been awhile since bike riding was a regular part of my life. When we lived in Columbia, I would ride it all around my neighborhood; pretending that I was going fast enough to travel through time like Marty McFly. When we moved to Spartanburg, we lived on a curvy and narrow street on which teenagers in pickup trucks would do their best NASCAR impersonations. Riding a bike on that road felt like courting death. So I didn’t ride my bike too much after 3rd grade; not even when, as a teenager, I got the dark granite Murray that my dad set down in our Nashville driveway.

To Jim on His 11th Birthday

You were so excited this morning. You bounded out of bed and exclaimed “It’s my birthdaaaaaaaay!” as you wrapped your arms around me. Even though your party isn’t until later this week (and you have to share it with your parents), you were just thrilled with the fact that today you turned eleven. And you got to open one present. You were pretty pumped about that.

You still beamed when I picked you up from school. You didn’t even mind when we went to the church to kill time before we picked up dinner. You picked a barbecue place for dinner. The present you got today was a Lego version of Luke Skywalker’s X-Wing. The movie that you picked was Avengers: Age of Ultron, which is definitely the worst Avengers movie but you’re very dedicated to tackling these things chronologically. Three choices that highlight that you are definitely my son (there are many ways you are your mother’s son as well). It’s been a good day.

I have been writing these birthday letters to you for a decade now and this might be the first time that I feel a hefty dose of melancholy as I reflect on you being another year older. There is change around the corner. You are still very much a kid, but for the first time I really feel the finitude of those days. You are in middle school now. You will be starting in my youth group over the course of the summer. And I just have the sense that it’s going to sneak up on me. I won’t realize that you’ve crossed that threshold into adolescence until after the fact. Growing up is good. I want you to grow up. And there is part of me that is just not ready for it. Not yet.

The Grace of Showing Up

After helping getting the boys ready and off to school, I begrudgingly trudged (betrudged?) outside for a run. It’s been a tough 13 months in that department; as it has been in most departments of our lives. Covid and work and being a parent have made it a sporadic discipline and it shows. I have put on more weight than I would like. I’m a little slower. I used to be able to go 5-7 miles with no problems, but now I muster 3-4 and will walk if there is an especially grueling hill. I am a runner, but I am not a good or especially consistent runner right now.

Yet I go outside. Not so much for the pudginess around my midsection but because my spirit needs it. It keeps me sane. It keeps me grounded. I started running because my dad did it. I still remember writing in my 8th grade English journal about how we ran 4 miles several times over Christmas break and my English teacher wrote in red ink: “Is this a good idea?” I started because of my dad but it became something of my own. I loved it because I could go far. Because I found a community of oddballs in track and cross country. Because it could quiet my often worried mind. It became a physical, mental, and spiritual exercise for me.

Not even a half mile in, drops begin to fall from the sky. Big, fat drops. The kind that you can zigzag and dodge as they plop around you. I briefly consider turning around and going home, but push on. The weather forecast said the greater chance of rain was this afternoon. It was likely a passing cloud.

Some Ways to Tend Sheep (John 21:1-22)

My family had pets growing up. We had two Eskimo Spitz named Al and Buffy. We later had a German shepherd named Bear. My responsibilities with these pets did not go beyond occasionally filling up the dog dish. And this was in the days before dogs were treated like people. Now you need to tend to a dog’s every need, pamper it, make its bed, make sure it learns Spanish or has some other marketable skill. Pets in the 80s and 90s were far more low maintenance.

The first time that I was solely responsible for tending to a living thing it did not go well. When I was in 3rd or 4th grade someone thought it would be a great idea to give a bunch of schoolchildren goldfish to keep. Because what better way to teach nine and ten year olds about the fragility of life. So I brought my goldfish home from West View Elementary School and was very proud. I had lots of big dreams and hopes for my young ward. He was in a two liter bottle that had the top cut off but I knew it was only a matter of time before we had a luxurious aquarium with coral, a sunken pirate ship, and a fellowship of fish friends. I fed him the fish food that the school provided and took care of him. Three mornings later I came into the kitchen and found my fish friend belly up. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if it was foul play. Regardless my stewardship of this fish had been a flop.

Today we are talking about taking care of others, why it is so important for people who follow Jesus, and how to hopefully do a better job of it than school-aged Christopher did of taking care of a goldfish. We are still in Easter season and so our story is a post-resurrection appearance by Jesus. The disciples were kind of in this weird in-between place. Jesus had come back from the dead, but his followers were drifting and uncertain of what to do next.

7:45 in the morning is not the time for my A-game, but if I have learned anything about being a parent then it is that the big questions never catch you when you’re prepped and ready.

“Daddy, why did the police shoot that man?”

So the three of us talked as I drove them to school. We talked about racism, why people hate, white supremacy, violence, and privilege. We talked about how what happened to Daunte Wright is not fair or right.

My two boys, eight and ten, asked question after question. Good questions. Questions I wish adults would ask. They asked why this keeps happening. The youngest said that he wished there was a law that made hating people illegal. I told him that would be a hard one to legislate. I wish I had just said that I wished that too. I tried to answer as honestly as I could for talking to an eight and ten year old.