at school after the election

I am a middle school teacher, and like many of my colleagues, I woke up this morning (the Boxing Day of presidential elections) dreading what I would say to my kids when they inevitably brought up the election. Well, surprise, surprise, the election was indeed a big conversation point as the kids came into class today. Several of them shouted angry, bitter things about Donald Trump; I held up my hand and told them that kind of talk about anyone will not be tolerated in my classroom. We then chatted a bit about the logistics behind the election (when will Trump take office, how long is a president’s term and how many times can he or she be re-elected, what are electoral votes, etc.).

They asked me who I voted for and I declined to tell them. I did, however, tell them this:

• The next presidential election will be in 2020, and you’ll barely still be too young to vote. The next election after that will be in 2024, when you’re in your early twenties, and from that point on it’s your right. Pay close attention to what happens in our country between now and then and be ready to vote when your time comes.

• One of the biggest groups of people that helped decide this election was voters without a college education. We tell you kids all the time that it’s important to take school seriously and get a college degree. Part of the reason behind that is so you can hopefully make informed decisions on voting day. Stay in school.

• Hopefully you remember from 5^th Grade Social Studies that our government is based on balance of power. Just because a president says he or she wants to do something doesn’t mean it will happen. You’re going to vote for a lot of people besides the president, from the people who lead your city to your national representatives; make sure you make informed decisions on those people, too.

• [thinking specifically of the fact that over 90% of my kids are non-white and many of their parents are first or second generation immigrants] You're going to hear people say things that make you think (or let you know) they don't want you here. Please understand that many, many adults still want you here. I am one of them.

• No matter what happens, we need to treat each other with respect and kindness. This was a really nasty election and a lot of people said really mean things about each other. You’re going to run into that in real life, whether in political discussions or just interacting with other kids at school. Make the choice to treat others with respect, and if they don’t give it back, be the bigger person and treat them with respect and kindness anyway.

• What happened last night changes nothing that happens in our classroom on a daily basis, including today’s class. Who would like to read today’s Student Expectation posted on the board?...

this was not abstract: concerning alton sterling, philando castile, etc

I just watched two videos I’d rather not have seen. If you’ve been paying attention to the news, you may already know what two videos I’m referring to. I’m going to link them below in their full gory, profanity-laced, violent forms. I can’t think of any rational person who’d willingly want to watch film of two men being killed, but I think this is important enough to make an exception.

When I was a pastor, I got called to be with a family as their matriarch passed away. She was hooked up to life support in ICU and after I arrived, we all gathered around and I prayed as they pulled the plug. I watched her die as her family around her cried. It was a sacred, powerful moment.

The moments captured in these videos are sacred, powerful moments as well, but they are sacred, powerful moments marred by inexcusable violence. These men were robbed of a peaceful end, of closure with family and friends.

Imagine if that was you in about thirty minutes. Alton Sterling and Philando Castile were equally oblivious to their impending deaths a half hour prior to the events. What thoughts go through the mind of someone like that lying on the sidewalk or slumped over in their car, covered in their blood, feeling intense pain as their final sensation? I can’t even fathom.

So here are the links. If you don't feel up to watching these videos, I don't blame you, because they are disturbing to say the least. But I do think it’s important that people bear witness to these men’s deaths, just as I bore witness to the death of a woman in a sterile, air-conditioned hospital room.


The death of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, on July 5, 2016


The death of Philando Castile in Falcon Heights, Minnesota on July 6, 2016


As I watched these videos, the white noise from a baby monitor registered in the background. My two year old son is currently peacefully sleeping in his room, surrounded by stuffed animals, the soft whirr of a fan blowing over his little body in a gray sleep sack. Every ounce of me wants to sneak into that bedroom right now and cradle him, kiss his head, hold him tight to my chest. He’s small enough now that I can carry him without much effort, and affectionate enough that he invites cuddles and tickles and hugs.

Out of respect for his nap, I haven’t snuck in there (yet). So instead I’m sitting on my bed, tears streaming down my face, wiping my eyes so I can see the computer screen. I feel like I have to write these words now, while the horror is still raw.

You see, my son is small enough now that I can carry him when we cross parking lots or walk through crowds. His mom and I can choose what he’s allowed to eat and when he gets put down for bedtime and where we go during the day. But there’s going to be a day in the surprisingly-near future when he’s making those decisions for himself, and then he’ll be out with friends or a girlfriend or a spouse or his own kids, he’ll be driving himself, he’ll be running errands by himself. And I won’t be able to cradle him or protect him anymore.

And frankly, it seems those everyday things are going to be a lot more dangerous for him than they are for me. My son is mixed race, the child of a black mother and a white father. Maybe he looks white enough that he won’t be in danger, but maybe he won’t. (The fact that I even have to gauge that difference is perverse.)


I wrote on this subject years ago, before I even had a son. After Trayvon Martin was killed, I wrote a blog post where I took on some of these issues, and even framed it in terms of my relationship to my children one day. Now I do have a son, and I understand the depth of that fear for my kid’s safety to a degree I couldn’t have imagined before.

I remember my parents having a talk with me about the police when I was young. “If you’re pulled over, be respectful, show them your information, don’t argue. If something happens and you get taken in for something that you feel is wrong, just go along with the officers and we will come and we will help you sort it out.” The possibility of being shot did not come up in the conversation.

I’m going to have a talk with my son and whatever other children I have about the police one day, too. It’s not going to be so simple. It’s almost like trying to teach a script when you don’t know what play they’re going to have to perform. Should you explain your case, calmly? Should you simply be silent? Should you ask the office to clarify what he means if you’re not sure what he wants you to do? “Well, do your best, but you still might get shot. Sorry.”


I just hope you (and I) realize that these shootings are not abstract. These are concrete realities. These are real men (and women and boys and girls) dying when others probably would not have died.

These are not incidents confined to a particular area. Castile died in St. Paul, Minnesota. Sterling died in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Trayvon Martin died in Sanford, Florida. Michael Brown died in Ferguson, Missouri. Freddie Gray died in Baltimore, Maryland. Walter Scott died in North Charleston, South Carolina. Eric Garner died in Staten Island, New York. John Crawford died in Beavercreek, Ohio. Dante Parker died in Victorville, California. Rumain Brisbon died in Phoenix, Arizona. Sadly, the list goes on much longer, with many other locations across the USA.

These are also not incidents committed by unhinged racists. In the video of Castile’s shooting, a man who I assume is the officer that fired the shots can be heard frantically screaming profanity over and over after Castile’s girlfriend is taken out of the car. I don’t believe he was a vengeful racist out to kill a black man. But kill a black man he did – as have many other officers of various ethnic backgrounds, who probably have diverse perspectives and relationships with African-Americans and other minorities.

So clearly, the problem here is not to simply get rid of racist cops. These conversations inevitably have a backlash: “But most police officers are good cops trying to do their jobs! You try making that life-or-death decision in the blink of an eye!” Black Lives Matter spurred the reactionary Blue Lives Matter, as if the two are mutually exclusive. There, in that binary, lies the predicament – and it’s a predicament that has claimed the lives of many black people.

The real task is to reevaluate and challenge an entire system that promotes (deliberately or not) responses colored by race. I can almost guarantee you that if I was pulled over and told and officer, “Yes sir, I will get my ID to show you, but my wallet is in my back pocket and I have a legal concealed carry with me,” I’m probably not going to get shot.

The problem is not with the individual who is openly bigoted – the problem is seeing things tinted in a certain direction. I had a professor in seminary who was fond of the metaphor, “It’s the water we’re swimming in.” We (and by “we” I generally mean “typical white Americans”) don’t even realize the racism because we’re accustomed to it.

So maybe if we truly value our police officers and want to do right by them in these horrific situations, they need to be set free to choose not to shoot. They – as do we all – need new eyes to see and recognize danger and risk in a way that doesn’t result in a rate of black men killed by cops being five times higher than that of white men, as was the case in 2015.

No, I don’t know the solution. But I do think identifying and naming the problem is probably step one.


 And the fact of the matter is, I think I can understand those people who brush off these killings are overblown racially-charged nonsense.

If I didn’t have a black son, I wouldn’t be afraid when I think about him getting pulled over a police officer at some point in his life.

If I didn’t have black friends from seminary, I wouldn’t be seeing their heartbroken laments posted on Facebook every time something like this happens.

If we didn’t have a black babysitter (whose family is from Nigeria), I wouldn’t have had the experience of consoling her after she showed up a half hour late to our home because she got pulled over without being given a reason and had her car searched.

In short: if I didn’t know many black people, I might not take this seriously. And shame on me for that.


So I guess my biggest plea in writing this is for those of you that I know who may not have deep relationships with black people. You may not know many African-Americans, but if you’re reading this, you probably know me.

Please: Recognize the problem. Speak the names of the deceased. Acknowledge it when you see signs of this happening. Be open to the possibility that this isn’t just a sad string of events, but that there is a pattern, and that pattern needs to be broken.

And pray. To paraphrase the Apostle Paul, pray that the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds in Christ Jesus. And to paraphrase the Prophet Amos, pray that justice will roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream.

in the garden

(for Biblical reference see: Matthew / Mark / Luke / John / 1st Corinthians)


He prays in the garden by himself while he friends sleep a few yards away.

That’s not quite right. He isn’t “praying” exactly, in the sense that most people picture the practice.

His hands are not folded neatly before him, or pressed palms-together with his fingers pointed toward heaven, or even laid on his knees palms up as if ready to receive something.

He isn’t in the midst of a peaceful meditation, some Zen trance that calms the spirit.

He isn’t performing some memorized ritual, like the salah or even the very Lord’s Prayer that he himself orated in front of a crowd of intrigued onlookers.

He isn’t even articulating words, so much. He doesn’t mention his dear friends or his family members. He makes no reference to political powers pulling the strings in the world at large. He does not remember those in need: the hungry or the lonely or the sick or the victims of disaster. He makes no plea on behalf of lost souls. He doesn’t even give thanks for everyday blessings, the assurance of salvation, or everlasting divine love.

To use a bold word, his prayer is selfish. This is not to say that he is being vain. In this moment, he is concerned solely with his own very immediate needs and desires.

And the prayer comes out in grunts, wails, clinched fists tearing at his temples, body bent over in the fetal position, sweat, tears, bitter tears on blotchy red cheeks, stress so severe that his blood vessels give way under pressure and burst, blood running down his face, the appearance of injury before anyone has laid a hand on him or used a weapon against him.

He gasps, he struggles for air, he looks into the night sky and sees naught but stars.

Meanwhile, his friends sleep nearby in the garden. Can they really be blamed? They have been up for hours, listening to their rabbi giving confusing, contradictory, vague instructions. They have been accused of being ill-prepared and uncommitted, but about what, they aren’t really sure.

One of them is destined to be a traitor – just who, exactly? Did each of them say to himself, “Could it be me?”

And then they go into a garden and wait for some unknown event – but something that can’t be good.

At some point, weariness and frustration crumble under physical exhaustion, and sleep takes over.

And so he is alone. He is profoundly alone.

One biographer, named Luke, says an angel comes to give him strength, but Luke’s contemporary writers make no mention of the event. Even then, what bittersweet encouragement can the divine messenger provide? The man has begun choking out words, pleading, “Is there another way?”

Though angel comes to provide strength, he does not provide comfort. He effectively appears to deliver the message, “No.”

And so Jesus is in the garden, alone, and he cries out, “WHERE ARE YOU???”

I don’t know if my imagined depiction of Jesus in Gethsemane has much root in reality, but this image came into my mind as I sat in my church last evening participating in a Maundy Thursday service.

I grew up in a Christian home, attending church twice every Sunday and most Wednesdays. Even so, the Maundy Thursday celebration – a commemoration of Jesus and his disciples sharing a meal the night before his death – was foreign to me until at least my college years, maybe even later. Now I am part of church that celebrates many of the liturgical holidays (holy-days) and so my family and I went to a Maundy Thursday service.

The conclusion of this event was a new ritual for me, though.

The service began with the front altar and stage area adorned with white and gold decorations, but it concluded with all of the elements of décor – everything that seemed to designate the building as a sacred space – being stripped away.

As someone read the words of the 22^nd Psalm - “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” – all of the vanity of the sanctuary was removed in a flurry of activity: tablecloths, candles, the oversized Bible on a stand, the elements of Communion. The pastor and acolytes even stripped off their white robes, revealing plain black secular clothing beneath.

The service concluded in a darkened room with nothing but a bare wooden table on stage – well, a table with a single embellishment in the form of a wooden cross brought out and laid on its side where the communion elements usually reside.

And so I pictured Jesus, after the Passover meal, after praying for himself and his followers, after months of teaching and praying and healing, in an hour of weakness and loneliness.

I have always thought of Good Friday as the most somber day in Christian practice, and certainly I still think it is. Last night, though, I realized the weight of Maundy Thursday, the night of betrayal, the night of a lonely prayer in a garden, the night of an unjust seizure and arrest.

Christians believe lots of weird things.

I don’t mean that there are Christians out there with weird and dangerous fringe ideas (although, yes, that is true).

I mean that when you really start looking at what the Bible seems to teach and what Church doctrine and tradition has preserved throughout the centuries, it gets pretty strange. It gets scandalous even.

I mean, when you look at the Bible, it usually reads like the main villains are good religious people.

Jesus gets into trouble with a group called the Pharisees more than anybody else, and they were like the equivalent of seminary-educated pastors in their day. The same is true for his followers after Jesus ascends into heaven.

And this isn’t just a New Testament thing – the Old Testament prophets are full of judgment and warning for people doing “good religious things” that have no bearing on how they treat others or live their daily lives.

So of course it’s going to be a scandalous book at times.

One of the stranger ideas in the Bible is articulated in the book of Hebrews: “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.”

That's a bombshell statement.

In Christian theology, Jesus is not merely the son of God; he is “Emmanuel,” “God with us.” He is literally God in human form.

So if we take the author of Hebrews at face value, that means God knows, from personal experience, what it means to feel mad, exhausted, confused, goofy, crabby, indignant, horny, moody, skeptical, smitten, depressed, furious, hangry, betrayed, offended, emasculated, joyous, ashamed, and so on and so on ad infinitum.

This also means that God knows what it feels like to be abandoned by God.

But that doesn’t make sense, does it? And if it is true, what good does that do us?

Speaking from personal experience, I have been through a rough several years. Without getting too far into the details, during that time I have lived in eight cities in four different states and worked five jobs (two of which I had hoped to be long-term career track jobs, plus the one I’m working now which I hope will stick). My son was born about two years ago, and while he is a source of great joy, having a kid is a landscape-shifting life event and source of significant transitional stress for anybody.

I have been emotionally and spiritually wounded in multiple separate incidents, and the most severe wounds have come at the hand of well-intentioned religious people – well-intentioned people of my own faith, at that. In return, I have been bitter and unkind in my thoughts toward those who have injured me.

I have been bitter and unkind in my thoughts toward God, as well.

In some lonely moments, I sort of feel like he deserves that response from me.

I haven’t teetered over the edge to rejecting my faith, but I’ve certainly entertained the idea, and on more than one occasion.

What good to me, then, is a crying, desperate, aggrieved Jesus choking out the words “Not my will but yours” in the Garden of Gethsemane? What good is a beaten, bloody, dying Jesus on a cross gasping the words “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” on a hill called The Skull outside of Jerusalem?

Somehow, that crude, violent image feels like salve on a burn.

That image of abandonment mixed with sincere fear and some odd mingling of doubtful thoughts and faithful action gives me encouragement.

The example of Jesus shows me that even in my most distant moments, at my most heretical and defiant, when all is noise and wind and fury I still have an advocate who understands how I feel.

I scream, “I don’t think you’re doing anything, God!” but he is not a silent mountain looming in the distance.

He is not an angry Roman deity holding a lightning bolt in his hand.

He simply comes silently and sits beside me and listens to me rant.

More than that, he sits with me in the awkward silence when I’m not even sure why I’m mad anymore.

Grace abounds even in the most quiet and lonely moments.

And this gives me hope when I feel hopeless, because if I can lament in the Garden of Gethsemane, maybe I too can share in the hope of the resurrection come Easter Sunday.