I live in Mayberry/Mount Airy NC with my lovely wife and two awesome boys. It's the American dream, I tell ya. I have a great job and enjoy teaching and playing music on the side. I stay busy and have to remind myself to slow down a bit and soak up this big wonderful sponge called life. I want to make the most of every day I've got.
I knew there was a reason we had our porch painted and re-screened last month - for moments just like this. Saturday afternoon, everyone else taking naps or feigning sleep (end result - a strange and rare quiet); the sound of an afternoon summer shower falling on the trees that surround our backyard. Aaaahhh. I needed this, I really did. It's been a week of ups and downs, and frankly, more downs than ups.
I turned a year older this past week. If you care to know how much, check out this blog post I made a year ago and do the math. There was something unique about last year's milestone and I wore it proudly, like a badge of honor. Kind of like when you hit 18 and achieve "adulthood." Of course, twelve months later the novelty wears off and you're just another year older. So sure, I could've come at it in some positive light - blessed with another year and all that. And the family certainly helped with gifts, homemade cards and an incredible strawberry cake. But honestly, the week I had made it difficult to fully embrace the joy of it all.
Which leads to my next "downer," and it happened around noon on Monday, driving down Main Street in town, at around 35 mph. Thankfully, no one was injured. Even the guy's car that I hit showed very little damage. The same could not be said, though, for my car. Especially frustrating since the same thing happened two years ago. And in both instances, the age of the car made repairing it not an option.
There is a powerful bond between a man, his automobile and the privilege of driving. I've seen it in older men when their declining health makes sitting behind the wheel no longer an option, and the family has to take away the keys. You can see it in their eyes; that a part of their independence and pride and dignity has been denied. To some degree that's how I felt those first 48 hours sans car. And perhaps that was a good thing; a healthy slice of humble pie, repulsive as its taste may have been.
Things continued to go down from there. Note to self: don't bother walking to work early one morning in the hopes that no one will see you and realize, as you jaunt down Main Street in your office clothes and business bag, that you have no car. It won't work (although I am grateful to Ben for giving me a lift the rest of the way). Even my birthday had its unsettling moment, as I was (and this is a true story) pulled over by the police because the tags on my rental car had expired. The rental car! The overwhelming relief I felt when I realized I wouldn't be held responsible still didn't make up for the sick feeling in my stomach the moment those blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
Sometimes it's easy to get so overwhelmed by the all the muckiness around you that it gets a good grip on your spirit. And that's when you need a perspective check - and for me, it was Friday. The wounds from the week's mess were still tender as the family headed off on a hiking excursion - just the four of us. It was exactly what the doctor ordered - just being with the wife and boys, seeing some cool waterfalls, marveling at the wonders of nature together. Later that evening I was playing some tunes in Madison, NC for an Acoustic Blend gig. The place was packed and folks stayed until closing time at 10pm to hear our very last song. That's when you know a gig is going well.
On the drive home I reflected on my lousy week and how humble pie, while sometimes necessary, often comes in portions too large for one's appetite. I don't like feeling like I've let people down, and I don't like others being negatively affected by my actions. At the same time I had a moment of clarity that I hope will stick with me long after this week is over.
And that is this: when you get right down to it, when you cut through all the muck that can get in the way, what matters most - to me at least - is my family and friends, my faith, and my music. Those three, and the people and places and experiences that make them up, are what define me as a human being meandering around this planet. They are what connect me to something outside myself. Everything else is dressing - important dressing, sometimes expensive dressing (as my auto insurance agent reminded me this past week), but dressing nonetheless. Family, friends, faith, music. That pretty much sums it up.
I'm glad I've have some time to reflect on this as I'm sitting on the back porch listening to the rain make its journey from the heavens down to the earth. Actually, the rain's starting to die down a bit, and the sun's peeking through. Thank goodness the same can be said about this past week. Time to soak up the sunshine and be thankful for the light and warmth of it all.
Last week I got an email from my Dad with some downright depressing pictures. Turns out they are tearing down my old elementary school and building a new one. There was this huge open space behind the original building, and apparently that's where the new one is going. All signs are pointing to it being open in time for the new school year this fall.
I attended Frances Lacy Elementary in Raleigh, NC from first through third grade, before they did some redistricting and sent the kids on my block to another school in town. Lacy was about a mile and a half up the street from our house; a true neighborhood school in inner-beltline Raleigh. It sat at a main intersection in the area, which meant in addition to spending my weekdays there as a young'un, we'd pass it by frequently as we made our way around town - to the grocery store, the bank, the gas station. It was a fixture in our neighborhood and a fixture in my life. Back in my day it looked something like this (with a little more landscaping):
I have mixed feelings about them tearing down my school. I know it's probably for the best - no telling how out-of-date the original facility was. And given the way Raleigh continues to grow I'm sure enrollment had outgrown the building long ago. But still - there's something about tearing down your school that just doesn't seem right, you know? So what if it's a better use of space? So what if the new playground will be state-of-the-art? I rather liked the creaky old tire contraption that notoriously trapped kids and required a teacher's assistance to be extracted from its clutches. I dug the metal monkey bars that wouldn't have a chance of meeting building code today. I was all over the sandy, dusty kickball diamond (and really, is there any sport that screams "elementary school" more than kickball??) where we'd use leftover paper lunch bags for bases. The incoming class will have brand-new stuff, but it won't have near the character of the old.
The sad thing is that there will be no more trips down memory lane for me at the intersection of Ridge Road and Lake Boone Trail. There's no outside structure to house the memories embedded deep within. Instead I'll have to resurrect them on my own:
First grade class in the north wing (far left in the picture above) and looking forward every day to story time because my teacher really knew how to read 'em.
The lunchroom and the standard lunchroom aroma that, for some reason, always smelled like sloppy joes no matter what they were serving.
One time in the lunchroom line, one of the cafeteria ladies motioning me over to very discreetly inform me that I needed to zip up my pants. Oops.
Having the lead in the first grade production of "The Little Gingerbread Boy." I had lines memorized and everything. My costume was made out of some brown fabric that kind of itched. The media center was packed the night we put the show on.
Cheating on a math quiz in third grade using a slide calculator I got out of a Trix cereal box. True story. You can read the whole thing here, if you want. After that I learned my lesson and stopped eating sugary cereals.
Walking down the long sidewalk from the car drop-off line to the main entrance every morning. It looked just like the picture to the left - without the "Vote" signs, of course.
Going to school for a few days with a patch over one of my eyes because I'd gotten some tiny piece of metal in it and had to keep it away from light. Some kids took to calling me a pirate, which I understood to be a compliment.
The stairs that ran down from the main lobby and classrooms to the lunchroom and out to the playground and open areas. Nothing special about them, I just remember they were there. Emphasis on "were."
Years later in high school, our show choir's whirlwind day tour every December to a few area elementary schools to perform our standard set of Christmas songs. It was always like coming home when we'd go to Lacy.
I'm sure there are other things I'd remember if I thought hard about it. The main thing is that I have memories of a place that doesn't exist anymore, and that's just weird. There's something melancholy about that, even though I haven't been in the building in over 30 years, even though I don't live in the area or send my kids there. There's something very strange knowing that a piece of my past has been bulldozed to the ground and hauled off to the landfill in large trucks.
I'm sure the new school (pictured below, with the old structure not yet torn down at the top left) will be absolutely gorgeous and wonderful, effectively educating a new generation of kids for life in the 21st century. But it won't be the old school, and that's a shame. I'm telling you, those kids are missing out.
I remember where I was when Elvis died. I was all of nine years old, in the car with mom and my brother one afternoon running errands. We were at the intersection of Ridge Road and Lake Boone Trail, turning right, when the DJ announced it on the radio. What I remember more than the news itself was the reaction it got out of my mom - an audible gasp, followed by a long period of silence. There may have been a tear or two shed. Mom loved Elvis - she'd seen him in concert, had a few of his albums. It was a big deal for her. It was a big deal for everyone.
I imagine one day we'll talk about the day Michael Jackson died in similar fashion. For the record, I was at last week's youth conference engaged in all kinds of retreat fun - hanging out with the kids, doing energizers and feeding ten thousand or so people. I didn't actually hear about his death until the following day.
When I got home, though, I got a little more reflective. It probably had something to do with the fact that every television network on the planet had quickly assembled their two-hour tribute. I was reintroduced to his story - child prodigy who never really had a childhood, putting out solid music for decades, always surprising with his creative prowess. There were the troubling stories too - of eccentric behavior, of the gaudy Neverland, of the children who would frequent his estate and the accusations that followed. There was the eerie way his appearance changed over time: dark skin to light, facial features distorted, that horrible nose. There was the very strange shotgun marriage to Priscilla Presley and that godawful awkward kiss at the MTV Music Awards. There was the accident while filming the Pepsi commercial that apparently started him down the path of his addiction to prescription pain meds.
But through it all his talent and influence on our pop culture was undeniable, whether we wanted to admit it or not. Which is why I did something a few days ago that I'd never done before - I bought some of his music. I clicked the download button on itunes before I knew what I was
doing. Was it possible that I, Steve Lindsley, was actually purchasing
some Michael Jackson?
The collection has it all, including stuff from the Jackson 5 days. There were a handful of songs in there I didn't keep (every musician is entitled to a few duds), but most are songs I distinctly remember hearing for the first time on the radio or seeing the video for. I listened to the collection in is entirety and found it took me places I hadn't been in a while. It'd do the same for you too, I promise. Just try not snapping your fingers to the strings and trumpet intro on Don't Stop Till You Get Enough. Or not singing "Ma Ma Se Ma Ma Sa
Ma Ma Coo Sa" at the end of Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'? Or not smile when you hear Slash rip off his guitar riff on Black or White? And I haven't even gotten to Billie Jean, Beat It, or the other eleven number one hits the guy had.
Say what you will about the guy, but the fact remains: Michael Jackson single-handedly changed the formula for pop music and how we listen to and understand music in our time. He took the idea of a performing entertainer to a level not seen since, well, Elvis. He
also revolutionized the whole genre of the music video - before they were nothing more than the band holding instruments and air-guitaring the song. Michael came along and used videos to tell a story - an odd story, perhaps, but a story nonetheless. So call him a flake, a freak, or even something worse if you must. Michael Jackson's influence on the music and culture of the late 20th century cannot be denied. In no way will I ever be confused with a crazed fan, but I'd like to think I know talent when I hear and see it.
Someone I was talking with the other day referred to Michael Jackson as "the Elvis of our generation." They also said that rarely does one appreciate the good you have until it's gone. I'm inclined to think they were right on both counts.
I am not a fan of church marquees. Part of the reason is the traditionalist in me who feels the only thing that should be posted in front of a church building is a sign with the church name - and, if you must, worship times. But the other reason is because more often than not, in an attempt to be cute or clever, they wind up coming across terribly offensive to the "unchurched" and even fellow Christians. I find myself cringing sometimes at the arrogant, haughty, non-compassionate message that is often conveyed.
Like this, for example:
This picture was taken by a friend of a friend while riding shotgun on an interstate near where I live. Unfortunately, the sponsors didn't include a phone number or website to which I could properly direct my disgust. Instead I can only refer to them as the IWPUTS ("idiots who put up this sign").
What amazes me is how IWPUTS could distort the message of Jesus so completely and thoroughly in just six words. If it wasn't so incredibly off-base I'd almost admire them for their efficiency. Almost.
First, the whole notion of "Jesus having your number" makes me think of some old-school Chicago gangster threatening to take out his rival or relative who went against the family code. Jesus has your number. Seriously? How can anyone look at the four portrayals of Jesus through the eyes of Mark, Matthew, Luke and John and come to see anything remotely like this? Apparently IWPUTS can.
Then there's the idea of "repenting NOW" - which goes totally against the essence of what the word really means. Repenting is not the stuff of quick, emotional decisions at a tent revival meeting (or, in this case, cruising along at 70 mph). Repenting, from a Biblical standpoint, is a process that involves a "turning from" and a "turning toward:" turning from the things that would pull us away from God, and turning toward God. It is a conscious choice made after deep reflection and prayer - not something to be done immediately in light of a big bad Jesus who is out to get us.
Which brings me to my third issue with this marquee - and that is the fear. This thing is dripping with fear of a God whose love (if it even exists) comes in a distant second to God's wrathful and hateful pursuit of our souls. And it uses that fear to motivate or scare us into submission. This kind of repentance is not about becoming part of the body of Christ and helping to bring about the kingdom of God on earth. It's about avoiding punishment and - not mentioned but certainly implied - the eternal fires of hell.
I've written before in this blog about the dangers and downright unbiblical use of fear to motivate people in their spiritual walk. There simply is nothing in the Bible that says this is a legit way to operate in the faith. People are forever dragging out the tired-old "fear of the Lord" phrase that comes from scripture - but what they fail to see is that the Greek and Hebrew words are more accurately defined as "respect" and "honor," not being fearful of a vengeful and wrathful God. Besides, for every "fear" passage there are at least one or two that unequivocally implore us not to be afraid. Don't believe it's true? Check out this guy on Twitter, who each morning tweets a "do not fear" verse. I've been following him for close to a year and have yet to see him repeat anything. How some have managed to twist the Christian faith into literally being afraid of a God who "has our number" is perhaps one of the great travesties of the institutional church.
I try to imagine myself as someone who has thought about becoming a "Christ-follower" but for whatever reason hasn't yet taken that step. Perhaps they've seen some good the church has done in the past; some positives that people of faith have made in the world. Perhaps they're intrigued with some of the stuff they've heard about Jesus - the compassion and love and sacrificial giving. Maybe they've even considered taking their friend up on the invite to go to church with them one Sunday morning.
I try to imagine myself as that person, cruising down the interstate one day, sun shining, birds singing - and then happening upon this sign. They shake their head in disbelief and disgust; they feel their stomach knot up and discover that their grip on the steering wheel has tightened considerably. Some (like IWPUTS) might call this "conviction" or "guilt," but they know better. They know it's disgust and contempt at any God who "has their number" and uses fear to get their way. And they know that if this is what Christianity's about, then it's not for them.
I shudder to think how many people have come to this conclusion after seeing this sign on the interstate. And that infuriates me - because the fact of the matter is that IWPUTS does not speak for all of us. There's another side to the billboard, so to speak; another story you rarely find on church marquees or interstate signs. The "other side" speaks of a God who is not out to get us but one who is the embodiment of unconditional love. The other side speaks of a God who does not force through fear, but empowers us to live through that love. The other side speaks of a God who does not extend a pointed index finger from the heavens in condemnation and judgment, but one who extends an open hand, inviting us into the family of faith. The other side speaks of a God who is just as offended at stuff like this as we are.
As much as I'd like to think otherwise, I'm afraid IWPUTS will continue doing their thing. My hope is that the rest of us will see through this and choose instead to keep our eyes on the road that lies ahead. Trust me - there's better scenery elsewhere.
This week I've have the pleasure of hanging out with six youth from our church at the Massanetta Middle School Conference at Massanetta Springs in Harrisonburg, VA. While I don't have any "official" youth responsibilities at the church, I made a decision a few years back to take our middle schoolers to this annual conference myself every year. I love it because it gives me a chance to spend some good quality time with our young people and get to know them better than I ever could for a few hours on a Sunday morning. This year it happened to be an all-girls group, and their female advisor and I are having an absolute blast. I mean, look at them - don't they just look fun?
So we're doing all the usual youth conference stuff - energizers, music, keynotes, small group, workshops; all on very little sleep. The girls & I went canoeing yesterday and had a great dry time. At our nightly devotions we're doing what we call "Highs and Hopes" - your "high" for the day and your "hope" for tomorrow. Believe me when I say that it has not been difficult getting them to talk (again, from the picture, does it look like it'd be hard for them??)
Last night, though, our group - and the 314 other youth and adults at the conference - got to experience a unique and revolutionary event that I hope will set a precedence for this conference and others in the future. See, if there's any area where I feel the typical youth conference falls short, it's that there's often an exclusive focus on the self and inward spiritual experiences - how "I" experience God. Which is great; don't get me wrong - those things need to be tended to. But we're doing our young people a disservice if we leave them with the impression that that's all there is to being a person of faith. I've always figured that Jesus wanted us to do something with our faith rather than just celebrate it (or maybe the "doing" is the celebration? Hmm....) There's a kingdom of God that we've been called to help initiate, and it's not going to materialize on its own.
So I was thrilled when I heard that Massanetta had partnered with Stop Hunger Now for what's called a "Packaging Event." You can visit the website at the link to learn more, but in short it's an assembly-line setup that helps to create these packaged meals of rice, dried vegetables, seasonings and other supplements. They're easy to pack and ship around the world and have the nutritional value to really make a difference in the lives of those suffering extreme poverty. The plan, then, was to get all 322 youth and adults working hard for twenty solid minutes to make 10,000 meals. That's 10,000, with four zeroes.
The Nook - essentially a very large screened-in porch on the Massanetta campus - was the location for the Packaging Event. It was set up with tables and the needed supplies by the time we got there. Everyone filed in to their places with specific orders, and then the madness began. You really do need to check out the video below; it's amazing to watch. Pay special attention to the gong at the end - every time our group created a thousand bags they would bang the gong. The end of the video has the tenth gong and the ensuing celebration of us reaching our 10,000 goal. Check it out:
Later that night at devotions, everyone in our group felt the packaging event was one of their "highs" for the day. And I can see why. When the needs in our world are so overwhelmingly great, it's hard for anyone to feel like there's a snowball's chance in you-know-where of making any kind of meaningful difference - especially if you happen to be twelve or thirteen years old. But last night these kids helped nourish the bodies of 10,000 starving children, youth and adults, somewhere in this world. That's not going to solve the problem, of course, but it's a step in the right direction. And that's certainly better than doing nothing at all.
I'm going to give some serious thought to working with Stop Hunger Now back home, perhaps encouraging a joint effort between some of our Main Street churches. Maybe we'll even attempt a packaging event at the fall CROP Hunger Walk. This has so much potential. And as they do so often, especially in the church I serve, the youth once again are leading the way.
If you subscribe to this blog via email or a blog reader (and God bless you if you do), you may not be aware of the recent changes I've made to the site. Let me encourage you to take a second to go here and check it out, because I'm pretty pleased with it and hope you are too. The banner was designed by a new friend of mine, Adam Walker Cleaveland (Facebook, Twitter, Blog, CleaveDesign), who I've had the pleasure of getting to know via social media and the ever-expanding connectional nature of the Presbyterian Church. Adam also created the new banner for my sermon blog, The Mayberry Preacher; and you're welcome to check that out as well. Thanks for a great job, Adam!
The picture used in the banner is called "Lines of Beauty" and was created by Nigerian artist and sculptor Chidi Okoye. I must confess to not knowing a lot about his work - sadly, I kind of stumbled upon this one piece after googling "abstract art." But the more I see his artistic talent the more I like it. Feel free to check it out for yourself here.
Also below the banner you'll notice some tabs that make it easy for you to access some of my other sites. Call me a link hog if you must.
At the risk of repeating myself, it continues to amaze me how more and more folks apparently get something out of reading my blog - for which I'm most grateful. That was part of the reason I decided to give this site a little bit of a new look. Now that I've done that, let me encourage you, if you haven't already, to subscribe to this blog via either email or through a blog reader - you can do both at the top of the right column. Let me also encourage you to share this blog with anyone you think may be interested - word of mouth, emailing a link to friends or posting it on your Twitter/Facebook page. Finally, please know I always welcome and appreciate your comments on the blogs, whether you concur with what I say or not (and know you do not have to have a Typepad account to leave a comment).
I've been officiating a lot of weddings recently. It's the season, to be sure, but I'm not entirely certain why I've had so many. Call me lucky, I guess. Each wedding is special in its own way, but some are extra-special. I had one of those yesterday.
I met Randy and Elaine rather randomly about two months ago. They were new to the area and were looking for a minister to officiate their wedding - somehow they'd gotten my name. They came to my office the following week, and it was then that I learned this would be a wedding like no other. See, Randy is a fan of "The Andy Griffith Show." I've talked before about the tie between Mount Airy and the infamous Mayberry in this previous blog, if you're unaware. It's a huge part of this community's identity and a big part of its charm.
The more I talked to Randy and Elaine, the more I realized that calling Randy a fan of TAGS was putting it mildly. This guy was obsessed. That's why they wanted the wedding to take place just down the street from the church at the Mayberry Courthouse, a former service station that's been remodeled to look like the interior of the courthouse Sheriff Andy Taylor once made famous. They would arrive and leave in Barney's squad car, hold a small reception at the soda shop a few blocks up Main Street, and spend their honeymoon night at - you guessed it - The Mayberry Inn. Just to see this guy's excitement as he talked about the Mayberry-ized wedding would make you smile, whether you're a fan of the show or not.
They wanted to have it at 1pm on Sunday. So after finishing up worship and grabbing a few things from the office I walked the two blocks down South Main Street from the church to the faux courthouse. They were already there, along with Elaine's sisters and another friend. As you'll see in the picture below, both were wearing Mayberry-like attire: Randy in overalls and a USA flag bowtie; Elaine in a simple dress that would've made Aunt Bea proud. In all, six people witnessed the ceremony, easily making it the smallest wedding I've ever been part of.
I stood behind Sheriff Andy''s wooden desk with the old-school phone and typewriter, gavel, and interchangeable name plate that read "Sheriff" and "Justice of the Peace." I began with my usual welcome and then Randy and Elaine shared their own vows and exchanged rings. It was very sweet, and the sincerity of their love for each other was really touching. I said a prayer and then pronounced them husband and wife, Mayberry-style.
The Andy Griffith theme song kicked in (thanks to a sister with her finger on the CD player) and the newly married couple posed for a few pictures, like this one to the right (sorry for the poor quality). They took a few shots from inside the jail cell as well, and then it was time to hop in the squad car and head to the reception. Then the coolest thing happened. Apparently while we were inside with the wedding, some tourist types had gathered outside waiting to come in. They actually wound up being part of the crowd that blew bubbles as the couple exited the courthouse and got in the squad car. There was a family of four, three teenage girls wearing what looked like softball unis, and a elderly group of six. I just thought it was so cool that they all jumped right in and celebrated the moment, not having a clue who these people were. Now that's Mayberry for ya.
I walked to the post office a few blocks up the street and mailed the wedding licenses - a habit I've developed over the years as a means of getting those things out of my possession as soon as possible (makes me nervous!) On my walk up there the squad car passed by, honking its old-timey horn. Randy and Elaine waved out the window at me, grinning from ear to ear. They seemed so incredibly excited and happy with their Mayberry wedding. Ah, young love.
There is a time in every worship service at First Presbyterian that is my "moment of worship." This may sound strange coming from a minister-type, I know. But here lies the challenge for those whose job it is to oversee the "orchestration" of a good reformed worship service. As a friend once asked me, How does a minister ever get to worship themselves? It's not easy. Ministers must find a place in the service they're leading that is worshipful for them. Certainly the choral anthem feels that way to me. We have a wonderful DCE who gives stirring Children's Messages that speak to all ages. And I truly believe there is something worshipful about simply being together with your family of faith.
But there is one definitive moment of worship for me every Sunday, and it happens during the last hymn of the service. As the congregation sings the final stanza I close my hymnbook and set it on the arm of my chair behind the pulpit. The moment is almost here, but not quite. I make my way from the "stage" of our church - a raised area about two feet - to the ground floor, right in front of the first row of pews. There's usually around 20-30 seconds before the hymn finishes and I launch into the benediction.
I position myself so the table is right behind me; the main aisle straight ahead. The layout of our sanctuary is such that I am practically surrounded by worshipers at this point. It's shaped like a square with the front at one of the corners, the pews ascending higher as you move back. The choir loft is recessed into the wall to my left, and to my far right is the old fellowship hall, converted years ago into additional sanctuary space known as the Koinonia Room (the Greek word for "fellowship"). The effect all of this is that I am treated to a sort of panoramic view of the congregation.
And it is now that my moment of worship arrives, and it involves something as simple and profound as looking at everyone. Just looking at them. It's really the first time since I welcomed everyone an hour
before that I am not drawing their attention; their faces buried in the hymnals and their voices
lifting songs to God. I start from the left and move right; beginning with the choir and ending with the room named after fellowship. I have to turn my entire body to do this. My gaze moves slowly, roughly timed to end as the hymn concludes. I look at all the faces - most gazing into their hymnals, some already
reaching down for their purses or coats; a few who are looking at me.
There is one woman who spends a lot of the time during the last hymn
with her eyes closed, as if in prayer. It is a beautiful sight. I look at everyone and wonder what the coming week will bring them - a hectic schedule, a family celebration, a pink slip. I imagine what wounds they brought into this place an hour before and whether those wounds had experienced healing. I gaze upon families, widows, young people, elders, teachers, singers, students, visitors, professionals. I gaze upon children of God.
As the hymn ends I share my benediction. I have two that I use almost exclusively. The first is one I grew up with as the child of a church who had the same minister for 29 years. Every Sunday he said the same words before we left, and I used to mouth them as he spoke it. I don't know where it came from, but as far as I'm concerned it belongs to the late Dr. Ed. Pickard:
Go out into the world in peace, have courage Hold on to that which is good. Return no person evil for evil, Strengthen the faint-hearted, support the weak, help the suffering Honor all people - rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.
There's another one I use, more often than the first. It was fashioned during my first call as an associate minister, and it borrows part of a benediction I once heard the great Fred Craddock give. I hope it has the same impact on people that it did the first time I heard it:
Brothers and Sisters, you are the Children of God and the people of God: Go forth in God's grace and God's love. And as you do: Live simply, Love generously, Speak truthfully, Pray daily, And leave everything else to God.
I raise my hands and pronounce In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, AMEN. And as Sandy begins the three chimes of the Trinity I bow my head and remain motionless - until the second chime, at which I move forward, head still bowed, and take the twelve steps to the church's front door. There I will greet those I looked upon as they make their way out of church and into the world that awaits them.
It is only thirty seconds of worship, at most. But it is more than enough for me, every single time. I feel God's presence move among me and the people I am called to serve. I feel grace. And I am thankful.
It took an email from my mom the other day to remind me that yesterday - June 3rd - was the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square Massacre in Beijing, China. I don't know what you were up to that day - when tens of thousand Chinese soldiers, under order from the communist government, descended on Tiananmen Square and brutally murdered thousands of college students, a horrific end to weeks of peaceful protests. But I remember quite vividly - because I was there.
It was the summer of 1989. I was a rising senior at Wake Forest University and needed a few more credits to put me on track to graduate the following spring. What better way than a three-week school trip to the Orient? One week in Japan, two in China. Sweet. The 25 or so of us, along with two professors, left soon after spring classes let out. Japan was awesome and would be the first of four trips I'd make there (I actually lived in Hiroshima for four months teaching English a few years later).
But during our time in Japan, the second leg of our trip in China was constantly in doubt. For a number of weeks, thousands of Chinese college students had situated themselves in Tiananmen Square - the heart and soul of Chinese culture and government - protesting for basic human rights and freedoms denied them by the hard line communist government. Every evening our group would huddle by the TVs in our hotel rooms and, as much as we could (since none of us knew Japanese), try to gather what was happening in Beijing. We received daily briefings from our professors who were in constant contact with the university and US government officials. A "Plan B" trip to Korea was discussed. On our last night in Japan, though, we received the go-ahead to proceed to China as planned.
When we arrived in China the next day, the first thing we noticed was how much we were not hearing. Silly us - we figured that being in the country where the hubbub was would cause us to know more about it. Not so, as the government kept a tight grip on all news and press. This gave us a false sense of security that things were calming down - when, in fact, they were actually getting worse. Still, we followed our itinerary: Guangzhou, Guilin, Xian. We didn't receive quite the rock star treatment that greeted us everywhere in Japan - these people were not as enamored with Westerners who could travel as they pleased (makes sense now). But we saw some amazing sights, all culminating in our visit to the Great Wall. In one word: unbelievable (almost as unbelievable as the shorts I was wearing).
Unfortunately, our trip to the Great Wall would not wind up being the highlight (or lowlight) of our trip.
It was the evening of Saturday, June 3, 1989, our last full day in China. We'd been to the Wall earlier that day and had just gotten out of a Chinese Acrobat show in Beijing. As we made our way to our tour bus, a slew of military helicopters screamed overhead, heading in the general direction of the Square. Looking at the Chinese people we could sense their fear as they gazed skyward. Apparently this was not the norm. Later that evening around 11ish our group walked outside our hotel, which was situated on a major road that led straight to the Square some ten minutes away. We were overwhelmed by the hundreds and hundreds of Chinese college and university students who were walking or bicycling toward the Square wearing black armbands and headbands. Word was that, earlier in the day (around the time we were coming back from the Wall), the military had teargassed the thousands of students there and things were getting worse. Some of the students, recognizing we were Americans, stopped and spoke briefly to us in broken English. They told us they were going to fight for their freedoms and that they didn't know if they'd make it back. When I returned to our hotel room later and turned on the TV expecting some kind of news, all I found were Chinese sitcoms and some program about crop returns for the year. We were totally in the dark, and we were scheduled to catch our flight out of Beijing the next day.
After a night of fitful sleep I woke to the news that our tour bus was no longer available - seems some students had hijacked it and set it ablaze outside the Square entrance in an attempt to stop the further advance of Chinese tanks. Our only source of transportation to the airport - a 45-minute drive away - was literally in flames. Worse yet, apparently the violence that had taken place in the Square was spilling out in pockets all over the city - nowhere was safe.
Somehow our professors and tour guide scrounged up four taxis to shuttle us (no telling what they paid for them). They first took all the women in the group. If the situation hadn't been so serious we probably would've laughed at the whole "women & children first" thing. We guys waited quite anxiously in the hotel lobby for a good 3-4 hours. Keep in mind that this was long before Blackberrys and pocket cell phones - so we had no idea if the girls had made it to the airport. Likewise, they didn't know anything about our status. After the longest few hours of my 21 years, the taxis came back. Never been so glad to see a taxi.
I wound up sitting in the passenger seat of one of the taxis, a mini-van; and we headed out. Probably out of nervousness I snapped some pictures along the way. Here are a few:
LOTS of people congregated, trying to find out whatever they could. Bicycles were everywhere (this was back when cars were a huge luxury for the average Chinese)
The bus and truck, like our tour bus, had been burned and used as some barricade the night before. It was still smoldering.
The military presence was everywhere. Even when you didn't see them you could feel them.
You get an idea of what was going on - all along the way there were signs of struggles and fighting the night before. A pool of blood on the sidewalk here, a burned vehicle there. At one point when our van was at a standstill (which happened a lot), someone outside forced open the side door of our minivan. It was a young Chinese man who recognized us as Westerners and told us in English: Don't forget this! Tell the world! Tell the world what you have seen, so they will know! He shut the door and ran away. That, umm, kind of shook us up.
We finally arrived at the airport a few hours before our flight and briefly enjoyed a heartfelt reunion with the rest of the group; then it was a quick and anxious trip through customs. It appeared that we were getting special treatment by the powers-that-be at the airport - they wanted us out before things got worse. Last thing they apparently needed was the bad P.R. that would come with a group of American college students trapped inside a city falling apart. We made our flight in time and lifted off, heading for Hong Kong (which at the time was a British colony). I've never been so thrilled to experience the sensation of plane wheels no longer touching terra firma.
Once in Hong Kong we were briefed in full on all that had happened: the previous night, around the time we were arriving back to the hotel after the acrobat show, the Chinese military was systematically murdering tens of thousands of peaceful protesters in the Square. What's more, while we were watching crop reports on Chinese TV, on the other side of the world Tom Brokaw and the rest of the pre-24 hour news cycle gang were breaking into Saturday morning cartoons and reporting the carnage. Everyone else around the globe was aware of the depth and horror of it all - we were ten minutes from it and hardly had a clue. This led each of us to find the nearest phone and call home, much to the relief of lots of Moms and Dads. My Dad had actually been contacted by a local news station which somehow caught whiff that I was over there with the group - later the reporter and camera crew wound up in my living room where a much relieved interviewee recounted a phone conversation with his son, safely out of harm's way. That same news crew was there at the Raleigh airport when I walked off the plane and into my parents' embrace.
The Beijing Airport, by the way, closed a mere hour after we left, and didn't open for a week. We literally got out of there by the skin of our teeth.
People process experiences like this in different ways. My way was to talk to various groups about it. In the days before Powerpoints I had slides made of the pictures I took and walked people through those harrowing hours. I spoke about the tragic irony that these fellow college student had been willing to put their lives on the line to stand up for simple, basic human rights that we in America took for granted. I talked about how our country, despite all our flaws, should be thankful for the freedoms and rights we have and work to make sure everyone everywhere has the same too. And I pleaded with them to do what that student asked us to do when he opened our van door - to never, ever forget.
I still haven't. Okay, so Mom's email reminded me that it was twenty years ago this past Wednesday. But I haven't forgotten, if you know what I mean. It's changed who I am, unequivocally. I'd like to think that I have a more sympathetic ear to the oppressed and marginalized who suffer injustice - not just in far-off places, but right here at home too. Anywhere where people are not allowed to fulfill their God-given potential; experience their basic human rights.
There are lots of images from Tiananmen that will forever remain seared in my brain. Some are those I saw with my own two eyes. But there's one particular image that bears deep meaning for me, even though I didn't get to actually see it:
I have a picture of this in my office, cut out from an old Time magazine; and in the bottom right corner I've added the following:
Some take pride in chariots, and some in horses, But our pride is in the name of the Lord our God. They will collapse and fall, but we shall rise and stand upright. Psalm 20: 7-8
More importantly than remembering Tiananmen, my hope is that we can remember the hope that comes from people who stand up for what is right, no matter what's in front of them. If we do that, then the lives of those thousands of Chinese students who were gunned down on June 3 will live on forever.
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