Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

When tragedy strikes close to home

(picture taken from http://www.wxii.com)

Churches are often viewed as sanctuaries in the truest sense of the word; a place where one can momentarily leave behind the world's problems. Sometimes this is true, but other times we come face-to-face with the realization that our houses of worship, like our very lives, can never be totally distanced from tragedy.

A sad thing happened just down the block from our church this past week.  Tuesday afternoon around 4pm, a middle-school aged girl was accidentally shot by another family member.  The shooting took place five houses down the street from our church.  In the picture above you can see the road blocked off with yellow police tape and an officer in black.  Our church is the granite building in the foreground on the right.  To my knowledge the girl is still in the hospital in critical condition.  The alleged shooter was taken into custody.  Our prayers are with both of them.

I was not at the church when it happened but got a text about it from our secretary.  When I got back about 15 minutes later I found the scene relatively calm with a lot of stunned onlookers.  Many of them I know personally.  Our church organist lives in a house two down the road on the right.  He was in the middle of a voice lesson with another church member when the alleged shooter banged on his door, screaming for help.  Two houses further down, almost directly across the street from where it happened, our local Young Life leader and his 8-month pregnant wife were also greeted by bangs on the door and cries for help. 

Our town is a small one, barely 10,000 people.  We have one middle school and one high school.  So even those who don't know the girl personally (like myself) certainly know someone who does.  There are a few youth in our church who know her, although they don't necessarily "hang out" with her.  Still, they are understandably in shock.  It's quite a jolt to the system when one day you see her sitting a few seats in front of you on the bus, and the next day you don't, and you know why.

Sadly, things like this are a part of life.  Violence, poverty, injustices exist.  It's just that for many of us we are somewhat removed from them; separated by proximity or economic strata.  We see it on the news, read about it in the papers.  Our ministers preach about it from the pulpits and our politicians discuss it in their agendas.  But there is always a "distance" implied; a sense of separation between where we are and where "it" is.  For the most part we are removed from it and hardly give it a second thought.  And then it happens just a few houses down the street from us, and we can't let it go.  It stays with us.

This tragedy down the street from the church has left me thinking about many things.  It's reminded me that the church is not a place to escape from the world's troubles, but a place to engage them and enter into them; into the transforming presence of God that can bring about true healing and wholeness in a broken world.  We in the church tend to forget the practical implication of that message and focus more on the "upkeep of the institution."  We too easily forget that Jesus himself didn't stay holed up in a fancy building somewhere.  He went out in the world and confronted life's tragedies head-on.  We should do the same; and our church is currently talking with some people to try and find out what, if anything, we can do for this family.

It has also reminded me that we shouldn't need something like this to happen in order to mourn, to feel, to become sad or angry or hope for something better.  We fall into this trap all too often, living our lives apart from the lives of others.  It's so easy when we sit down at our kitchen tables for a meal, with a full spread in front of us, to forget that there are hundreds of thousands who won't have anything to eat for days; and that every six seconds in this world a child dies of hunger-related causes.  Closer to home it's easy to forget that, just playing the odds out, at least one of the kids sitting next to my son in his first-grade class - and probably both - start every day off on an empty stomach; the last decent meal being the school free lunch they had the day before.

It's so easy when I face that instant decision - throw the plastic bottle I have in my hand in the trash can in front of me or keep it with me to put in the recycling bin at work or at home - to forget that at that very moment there is a trash pile floating somewhere in the Pacific Ocean that is twice the size of Texas (the state, not the restaurant chain).  It's true - read about it here and here.  We don't realize it's there because it's not right down the street from us.  It's somewhere that is not "here" - so it is out of our sight and out of mind.  Even the term it's been unofficially christened with - the "Great Pacific Garbage Patch" - seems to minimize its size and impact.  A "patch??"  Perhaps the word "continent" would be more suitable.

The internet, of course, has been a godsend in helping make our big world a little smaller and changing the extent to which we understand who our neighbor is.  Of course, our neighbor can still be the old-fashioned variety, such as the people down the street from the church who I never knew about until this past week.  Even then, though, it's easy to forget that close to 1000 people in our country annually suffer the same fate as that 12-year old girl (and that number is more than likely a lot higher)

That is, until it happens a hundred yards from the front door of the church where you worship, work and serve every day.  And then it's not so easy to forget.  And you know what?  That's probably a good thing.

Sliding down the slippery slope

Okay, some 30% of America, I get it: you don't approve of our president.  You don't like his policies, his stances, his philosophies, his politics.  Presumably you did not cast your vote for him last November, you weren't one of the tens of millions who watched his inauguration worldwide.  And since that cold January afternoon you probably have not been a fan of his administration's actions, from the future closing of Guantanamo to the most recent maelstrom over health care reform.  You've been upset and frustrated and it's only been nine short months.

I get it - really, I do.  For two reasons.  One, because I truly value your place in our country at this moment and time.  I'm serious.  While I'm personally more upbeat about the current administration, I know that one side of the story does not have all the answers.  Our country's government was built on the importance of balance and the presence of a "counter-voice" to even things out.  So I truly appreciate your presence and your voice.  Thank you.

I also know how you feel because I have walked in your shoes; a walk that took eight years out of my life.  See, I used to be part of that "counter-voice" myself.  I cringed when the ones who used to be in charge encouraged torture as an acceptable practice in dealing with prisoners of war; I lamented when they lowered the tax rate for the wealthy, in affect asking those with less to pay more.  I sat on edge when they tried to privatize social security, and I mourned when a pre-emptive war was launched against a nation that did not possess the threat we were told they had.  Believe me - I know what it feels like to be in the minority; to have little faith in the folks calling the shots, to wait with much longing for the next election cycle to come around.

But - and you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you - there's a very fine line between respectful dissent in the voice of government and poisonous malice that sabotages the process.  And just nine months into this particular season I feel we have crossed it.  For it is one thing to vocally disagree with our administration; to call into question its practices and policies and work for a better way - which I believe to be not only a good thing but a necessary thing.  But it's another thing entirely to cast that aside for the perils of mudslinging and, at its worst, outright demonization.  I admit - at my weakest moments I was known to refer to our former president as an "idiot" when my righteous indignation got the best of me.  But it was outside my realm of thinking to do something as hateful as drawing a Hitler mustache on his face or referring to him as the "antichrist."  

Let me reiterate again - I know how you feel.  I really do!  But there are much more productive ways to express dissent.  The beauty of our democracy is the existence of a 2/3/4-party system where each brings their side's agenda to the table.  I am not one who believes that our current administration - or any administration - has all the right answers.  I am convinced that the best solution to our country's ills is to find the compromise that lies somewhere in between; something that incorporates the good all sides have to offer.  The problem we're experiencing at the moment, though, is that we're allowing fear-mongering and outright malice to get a grip on us, thereby killing the process before it even begins.  And once we start down that slippery slope it is incredibly hard to get back up.

I think we're seeing this with some of the hubbub surrounding our president's "school speech" airing tomorrow.  Forget for the moment that both previous presidents in our country's history who did this came from the other side of the aisle.  Forget that common sense would dictate that a commander-in-chief would never use such a platform to push any particular agenda (the political repercussions of which would be devastating).  What, pray tell, is wrong with any president - Republican or Democrat - speaking directly to our young people, encouraging them to be the best students they can be and make a contribution to this world?

The speech, of course, is now online; so anyone can see that it is nowhere near what some have made it out to be.  And absolutely, any parent should be allowed to make a request that their child not be allowed to view it.  But that hasn't stopped the silliness from going beyond silly.   All last week, the talk was that the speech was going to push a "socialist agenda" - a huge assumption; as the text for the speech had not yet been released.  That's the kind of stuff that happens when we're sliding down the slope.

Dissent is the foundation of our great country, it is the essence of who we are as Americans, it is the reason we enjoy the freedoms we have.  We need it to thrive; we need the checks and balances that our multi-faceted government provides to keep the ship on track.  We need people to disagree with our current president and call into question some of his actions, just as we needed it the eight years prior.

But we must use every fiber of our being to resist going down that slippery slope of malice, hate, anger, and ill will; which does absolutely no good.  Fear has no place in our politics or (as I've said in a previous blog) in our religion.  Honest, respectful, sincere dialogue must prevail.

Because if it doesn't, we do crazy things like bashing the leader of the free world for urging our young people to be the best they can be.  And that is something I don't get.

Comic relief in the madness

It's hard to imagine anything more polarizing these days than the topic of health care reform.  But there is some humor to be found amidst the acrimony.  So let these pictures taken at recent town hall/protest events cause us to actually laugh a little:

 

It was a pretty funny show.  Or maybe he's talking about the band?

And the sign that I think takes the cake of them all.......

 

(it's the one in the middle, by the way).

There, doesn't that feel better?  Aaaahhhhh.

Now let's come together and work this thing out.

(pics, by the way, come from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/17/the-funniest-signs-from-t_n_260838.html)

Proud of Anna

Folks in Mayberry-land were treated to something special this past Thursday night, as one of our own - and a First Presbyterian nonetheless - made her television appearance on USA Network's Royal Pains.  Anna Wood graduated from the University of the North Carolina School of the Arts a couple years ago with an emphasis on acting, and she's been hard at work finding work. But this was a big deal - a major guest role on a network series.

Anna plays a Polish girl named, appropriately, Anna; studying in America and meeting up with Evan (played by Paulo Costanzo of Road Trip fame).  She has six or so fairly lengthy scenes where she and Evan engage in friendly banter and casual flirting.  Oh, and she also turns blue, due to overexposure to the sun at a beach.  Oh, and while at the beach she takes her top off.  Just like they apparently do in Poland, mind you, and you don't see anything on the television you shouldn't see.  A run-of-the-mill character part this is not!

In short, Anna rocked.  She definitely did more than hold her own alongside some folks with major resumes.  And the polish accent was pretty convincing.  I don't know all that goes into making it in Hollywood these days, but I do know that success is fleeting and very little, if anything, is guaranteed.  Hopefully this part will catapult her into some other opportunities, and those into others, and so on.  Hopefully.  If nothing else, Anna demonstrated what we in her hometown have always known - that she has the acting chops to make it in this business.  And that's exciting.

You can watch the full episode of "Am I Blue?" HERE - and if for some reason the right episode doesn't come up you can scroll for it at the bottom of the page.  By my count Anna has six scenes and they occur at the following marks: 38:00, 29:50, 24:27, 15:10, 11:52 and 8:02 (it counts down rather than up).  Let me apologize beforehand for the horrible ad for some sweet tea you'll be subjected to multiple times.  Despite how painful these ads are, it's still worth it to see Anna in action.

Anna, I might add, can also sing pretty darn well too - as evidenced in this YouTube clip where she lent her vocal prowess to our annual H20 N2 Wine performance at the Christmas Eve service last year.

Way to go, Anna!  Your Presbyterian/Mayberry contingency is rootin' for ya.

Normal anomalies

I'm quite the sucker for the story of the obscure individual who flies below the radar and, in the midst of their anonymity, does something that catches everyone's attention.  So it took me all of a few seconds to fall in love with this NPR story.

See, it's about two things that, more than likely, I will never experience.  On seemingly opposite ends of the spectrum, nonetheless.  On one end it's about $4 million.  I just can't get a grasp on that kind of money, you know?  Heck, I just finished paying the monthly bills last night and got that dense feeling in the pit of my stomach when I glanced at the remaining amount in the checkbook.  Yuck.  We're trying to figure out how to purchase a second car.  Four mil would go a long way in helping us do that - four million that I don't (and probably never will) have.  Because, you know, that is a friggin' TON of money.

On the other end of the spectrum, this NPR story is about homelessness, something else I can't fathom.  For all my years I've never had to worry about whether I'd have a roof over my head.  Well, I take that back.  There was a time about fifteen years ago when I was dating this girl whose father happened to be my landlord.  Let me strongly advise all of you: never date your landlord's offspring.  Nothing good can come from it.  When I broke up with her (which I had to do, long story) I seriously thought I was going to wake up the following morning and find an eviction notice plastered to my door.  That's if he didn't come in on his own and kick me out himself.  The guy was also my barber, too.  True story; I kid you not.

In all seriousness, I'm typing this blog as I'm sitting quite comfortably in my two-story, brick 2200-square foot home in Mayberry.  It's muggy and threatening rain outside, but it's 68 degrees and dry in here.  We just had the outside trim painted and the porch re-screened.  We are truly blessed.  The closest I ever get to homelessness is paying a visit to our local shelter in town or speaking with the man who stops by the church with eviction notice in hand (which he got because he's out of money, not because he broke up with his landlord's daughter).  Every day of my life I'm pretty much shielded from the roughly 3 million people in our country who have no place to call home (according to this study).

So the only thing I have in common with $4 million and homelessness is that I have very little in common with them.  I'm going to assume that the vast majority of you are with me on this, as the two rarely go hand-in-hand.  Unless, by chance, your name is Richard Walters.

Which brings us to the aforementioned NPR story.  See, Richard Walters, an honors Purdue grad and Marine, had his feet planted firmly at both ends of the spectrum.  As the NPR story chronicles, this man died two years ago as a homeless man who slept on the grounds of a local senior center.  He also left behind an estate of $4 million, all donated to various charities (including, as it turns out, NPR).

$4 million.  Homeless.  Does not compute.

Frankly, it's amazing to me that this story is amazing to me.  And if I'm honest with myself, I think this says a lot about our culture and the preconceptions we typically make.  Specifically: homeless people must not have any money, and millionaires must live in fancy homes.  I have to be careful about this; we all do.  Because none of us know the full story of anyone unless we actually take time to get to know them; to know where they're coming from and where they're heading then.  And even then we're only hitting the tip of the iceberg.

Here's my point: take a look at this picture to the left.  Go ahead, look at it.  Now - say you're strolling downtown one weekday afternoon and see this guy at the corner.  What are your initial thoughts?  Be honest now. Is he there because he got laid off from the factory down the street that closed?  Or is he simply lazy and playing the system?  Does he have some mental illness?  Or is he in his dire situation because of a string of bad luck that would knock any of us off our feet?  Most importantly, how do our assumptions about him affect our response to him - do we approach him to offer help, or do we cross the street and walk on the other side?

Here's another one: imagine you're cruising through the posh part of town and turn at the stop sign (which is color-coordinated with all the other signs in the development) to see this.  Quick, what are your first musings?  Do you try to guess what company its owner is CEO of, and whether your raided 401-K was used to finance it?  Is there a brand new, fully-loaded Lexus parked in one of its three garages?  And how many people have full-time jobs simply to keep up the appearance of this monstrosity? 

The harsh truth of all of this, of course, is that we really don't know the answer to any of these things. But that doesn't stop our assumptions from making sense to us.  People like Richard Walters, however, do not.  People who refuse to fall in line with our stereotypes seem strangely odd, a novelty that must be seen like that miniature horse or smallest woman at the county fair. 

I'm not saying Walters was right in what he did.  Personally I think the guy was crazy to not at least rent a one-bedroom and some basic furniture, you know?  But that's the thing: it's not really an issue of right and wrong.  Walters did what he did, and we're still talking about him two years after his death because of it.  Well, at least NPR and I are.

Here's a radical idea: maybe guys like this are the ones who really "get it" more than the rest of us.  Maybe we're the crazy ones for making the assumptions and choices we sometimes do.  And maybe this is a truth that will take us a long, long time to reconcile.  Ah, the joys of the journey!

(but seriously, though, never date the landlord's daughter.  I'm just saying...)

Wedding procession

There is something silly and juvenile and unorthodox - and utterly, completely joyful - about this:

Thinking about Michael

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.

When 322 feeds 10,175

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.

Remembering Tiananmen

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.

Getting back in the Game (in a good way)

I'm really digging this YouTube clip:

I like it because, although not to this degree, I've been in that poor vicar's shoes before, and misery loves company.  I also like it because it shows in pretty stark fashion the complexity of the collision between faith and culture.  And I think the British accents are cool.

The church, as this video quite effectively demonstrates, has never had all the answers - although many times it's tried to pretend that it did.  What the church has always had is a definitive calling to speak up and make a difference in the world.  Unfortunately, it hasn't always done that.  Hmm.  Talk about getting your jobs mixed up.

I was reminded of the latter when I read a great syndicated column by Leonard Pitts this past week.  You can read it here, and I really hope you do before you read the rest of this blog, as what I say from here on will make a lot more sense.

The beauty of this article is that Pitts approaches things not just a journalist but as a person of faith, and one who is lamenting the response - or lack thereof - of the church on a number of issues.  Eighty years ago it was the Holocaust, fifty years ago it was civil rights, thirty years ago it was the AIDS epidemic.  There are others, of course - poverty and hunger, the environmental crisis - and most of the time it seems as if the church is the last to respond, if at all. This is especially true with the issue Pitts hones in on, that being torture. 

Now - let me clarify two things.  First, I have every ounce of respect for the women and men in our military who defend this country.  I'm grateful for their devotion and mourn when they make the ultimate sacrifice.  Second, I'm not approaching this topic from a political standpoint.  I feel the need to clarify this because the morning the article came out I posted the link on my Facebook page and got a wave of comments from folks, many who assumed I was getting political.  I'm not.  In fact, Pitts himself doesn't bring politics into it - and if you've read any of his other stuff you know he's not opposed to doing that in the least.

What I am doing is recognizing the fact - as many others have - that something has gone seriously awry when the world's superpower chooses to ignore the very rules it helped to create and institutes tactics that have not only been proven to be ineffective but actually incite those in opposition even further.  It would be sad enough if only our government bought into this, but the real tragedy is that many in religious circles are falling in line too.  The fact that, according to the study cited in Pitts' article, a majority of American Christians (evangelical Protestants specifically) express support of torture is terribly ironic, given the fact that the man they pledge their allegiance to was a victim of the worst kind of torture himself.  The cross was Rome's masterpiece in its vast torture arsenal, and the streets of Jerusalem were literally lined with them (and their victims) for all to see.  It was a horrific reminder by the powers-that-be of who was in charge and what would happen to those who forgot.  And yet the Christian faith was born out of those who stood against that kind of power; a counter-measure proclaiming a very different way of life, with Jesus-the-torture-victim at the center of it all.

How did we get here?  That was the question author Diana Butler-Bass posed as a comment on my Facebook link.  How did the church become complacent on issues that really matter?  I imagine it's a complex problem that none of us will ever fully understand.  But if I had to take a guess, I'd say something similar to what I mentioned in a previous blog post about welcoming a post-Christian America.  Every time the church and the imperial power of its day joined forces, the church has lost its soul.  Its priorities change from proclaiming the kingdom of God to supporting the power structure, from loving unconditionally to drawing lines of who is in and out, from speaking the truth in love to speaking the agenda through power. 

So we wind up with a bizarre situation: the church on the sidelines while others forge ahead.  It's an odd twilight-zone-ish scene where, as Pitts' article point outs, comedian Jon Stewart becomes a spokesperson on the torture issue (as was evidenced in his Daily Show interview with Cliff May in April, which you can watch here).  It's both enlightening and kind of embarrassing that a late-night comedian - and not the faith community - is leading the charge.  Only in America.

Is there then any hope?  You bet!  In fact, in a blog post of her own, Butler-Bass makes the case that mainline Protestants are beginning to evolve into our country's new moral conscience.  My hope is that us "Prods" will latch onto this as our new collective identity while joining forces with other followers of Christ, other faiths, and even those of no faith at all.  Perhaps the church will then be leading the way in a good way - not to achieve power or receive "kickbacks" from an unholy marriage with the culture, but as a beacon shining light on the stark differences between right and wrong, between hope and fear, between fair and unjust.

So I'm tired of being on the sidelines. I'm ready for the church to get back into the game; back to being more relevant and speaking out on issues that really matter in our world.  Maybe if we begin doing that, just maybe, we'll stop being awkward - like that poor dude in the YouTube clip.  Man, I feel his pain.

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UPDATE: Pitts' article has really gotten in my head this week and has come into play with my sermon this Sunday.  Feel free to check it out if you want.