Certainty

The opposite of faith is not doubt but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and the discomfort and letting it be there until some light returns. Ann LaMott. Plan B Further Thoughts on Faith

I'm not certain about much. I woke up today feeling the ridiculousness of believing in an invisible partner to fashion myself after and follow. This whole idea of religions seems rather foolish. Why not live my own life my way? Prayer seems like one step removed from the delusion of talking to your self. The whole idea of church struck me as rather cult-ish. So why do it? Why put myself through all of the mental anguish that comes with faith? If I don’t want to come at this from a ‘yay! I’m down with Jesus’ perspective, what am I left with?

Here’s the thing: we all have worldviews, these grids through which we digest reality. For that matter, we all have meta-narratives–over-arching stories–that we cling to. There is a certain appeal to this mythic image of the rugged individual that America holds so dear. It is easier to believe that the truly strong don’t need anyone. Religion becomes a crutch, an opiate, that we need to reject in favor of learning to trust in ourselves. Our intellect, our capabilities.

I’ve become convinced that with nothing bigger or outside of ourselves, we can’t help but produce nihilistic, cynical, and joyless people (and art). No, I’ve got no evidence to back this up with besides anecdotal observations. Consider it a hunch. As smart as we are, there are limits to what we can know. I believe that reason can only take us so far in our quest for knowledge. It then also becomes reasonable that at some point faith can take us further along in that same quest.

Our wisdom, in so far as it ought to be deemed true and solid Wisdom, consists almost entirely of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves. But as these are connected together by many ties, it is not easy to determine which of the two precedes and gives birth to the other. For, in the first place, no man can survey himself without forthwith turning his thoughts towards the God in whom he lives and moves; because it is perfectly obvious, that the endowments which we possess cannot possibly be from ourselves; nay, that our very being is nothing else than subsistence in God alone. In the second place, those blessings which unceasingly distil to us from heaven, are like streams conducting us to the fountain. Here, again, the infinitude of good which resides in God becomes more apparent from our poverty. In particular, the miserable ruin into which the revolt of the first man has plunged us, compels us to turn our eyes upwards; not only that while hungry and famishing we may thence ask what we want, but being aroused by fear may learn humility.

I get the post-modern distrust of meta-narrative, since overarching stories/myths have been used as oppressive forces. But we need a meta-narrative to understand and interpret the world around us. The key is to have a redeeming meta-narrative, not an oppressive one. In the final analysis, the meta-narrative that I subscribe to, prayer makes sense. In the meta-narrative that I subscribe to, trusting in God makes sense.


I suppose that I ought to think this through a little more. My gut tells me that there are glaring holes in my reasoning (such as it is). There’s just a jumble of thoughts in my head right now that I’m trying to make sense of. I guess for me, faith boils down to this: to understand mystery, you have to think with the heart. I want to make the most of this gift called life. I remember what gives my life meaning. Friends, family, loving people period. Autonomy is not all it’s cracked up to be. And I do this in light of something bigger than myself. A belief in God.

Because believing in people–in our ability to do right if left to our own devices–seems so ludicrous that believing in God seems downright rational.


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On Ghetto Crackery and Values

Once again, the Postmodern Negro needs to get out of my head or I’m going to start charging rent. I had been thinking all week about ghetto values and their implication when I read his blog about an article by Anthony Bradley on “Ghetto Cracker: The Hip Hop ‘Sell Out’.”

You see, I love black people, but sometimes our behavior hurts my heart.

Bradley makes the argument that this “cracker mentality” most often portrayed in hip-hop videos is something that we brought up with us from the south. This “cracker ethos” includes an aversion to work, proclivity for violence, contentment with little to no education, sexual promiscuity, short-term thinking, drunkenness, an anti-entrepreneurial spirit, reckless pursuit of excitement, and wild music and dance. Rednecks had touchy pride, what you might call today a “bling-bling” vanity, a boastfully dramatized sense of self, and little self-control.

Okay, such criticisms might go down a lot easier if the conservative voices didn’t sound so morally superior. Maybe it’s the lack of love or the accusatory tone that sets me/us off. (Farrakhan can make many of the same pronouncements, but because he’s not sitting in judgment or acting like he’s above or outside the community, he has an ear). Plus, to my ear, it sounds like he’s blaming the “ghetto mentality” on Southern blacks. But that line of argument will take me way off point.

I have long believed that we have more of a class problem in this country than a race one. Ghetto folks and “white trash” folks have more in common than they think; and a middle class white guy will have more in common with a middle class black guy than “poor white trash”. They both live in conditions with limited opportunity, limited education and extreme poverty. And too often, a survival by any means necessary (take what you need), don’t pursue education mentality pervades both groups.

Ghetto life is a reality, a cauldron of pain, anger, poverty, and injustice. Our culture too often reflects the self-hatred that comes from living a nihilistic existence. It’s bad enough that the “real hip hop” brand of blackness is marketed to death to our youth, with the “bling-bling” mentality fomenting a sense of entitlement through our music and culture. Then to have to live next to liquor stores billboards for Kools (or are we supposed to be smoking Newports now, I missed a memo), and check cashing places that prey on poverty as much as any lottery, it all gets a little much.

But I still can’t get behind “ghetto” being the definition of us.

It’s okay to want to leave it behind. I have no inner, deep-seated need to prove my hardness by wanting to stay. Maybe I’m soft. Maybe I’m tired of ducking bullets on the Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve (and I’m far from living anywhere close to a Boyz ‘N the Hood-styled ghetto). Broken English and drooping pants or whatever bit of latest prison fashion has embedded itself as de rigeur within the sensibilities of our community. It sickens me that prison life seems to be more venerated than college life, that speaking too clearly and pursuing education is somehow “acting white.”

I don’t want this to be reduced to some “blacker than thou” argument that only ends up pitting the educated against the uneducated, the middle class bourgeoises against the poor. However, I can’t stand how quick we can be to toss around epithets like “sell out” or “house Negro” or “Oreo” whenever someone breaks with our accepted group think, be it via philosophy, idea, or political agenda.

What does it mean for a black person to “sell out”? Colin Powell, Condoleezza Rice, Tiger Woods and many more, are often branded as “sell outs” or accused of “acting white” because they speak understandable English, pursue learning and have racially integrated lives. What is overlooked, however, is that much of the hip-hop and rap world represents a different form of “acting white” and “selling out.” That is, hip hop culture can be traced to the urbanization of the southern “redneck,” or to use the more socially offensive term, “cracker” culture of the past.

Bradley sais something that I really liked. The idea of that which is seen as “selling out” is actually “buying in”: buying into a worldview that promotes dignity, work, marriage, family, and healthy community.

I grew up in mostly white environments (school programs that in their infinite wisdom decided that only one black male at a time was to be considered an “advanced” student; living in a “good” neighborhood and attending the closest church). This led to an insecurity about being “black” and what it meant to be black. Once I was on my own, I had to get to a point where I was comfortable with my “blackness”, but I had to figure out what that meant. The first step was to no longer let other people, black or white, define what being black meant for me, or worse, judging my blackness through their eyes. I was born black, I will die – no matter what the world’s interpretation. We need to allow room for all kinds of black folk. Authentic blackness is about personal responsibility, pride, and a sense of history and community. If that makes me a sell out, then you can bite my sell out black ass.


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Loving Jesus People

Christians have a bad reputation with folks
Sadly, much of it well-deserved
Earned with our hate and condemnation
Bought with our self-righteousness

Reducing our faith to catchy slogans
Political movements, and poor cliches
Forgetting how we’re to treat the least of these,
the poor, the children, the widows.

I blame my dilemma on Him, you know.
This Jesus I’ve chosen to follow.
He had to go ruin things with His talk of
“Love your neighbor as yourself”
“Love your enemies”
Who needs that sort of pressure?
Doesn’t He know how annoying some people are?
I’ve got a list of annoying people
(many of them His).

He ate with the “sinners” of his day–
Tax collectors and prostitutes–
Making Himself available to everyone.
But this is a question that I have to ask:
Would Jesus have lunch with George Bush?

All people were created in God’s image.
All deserving of respect, and love?
God’s standards aren’t very high.

I guess it’s not Him that I have the problem with.
Mostly the people who act in His name.
Using Him like a stamp of approval.
Justifying war in Jesus’ name.

As the world around us grows more desperate
We live in a community of shared loss
and hope.

We forget what we’re about
We’re more than agendas and dogmas
We're joined in our humanity, our weakness
What we have in common.

We’re all Jesus people.
I guess that means that we’re stuck with each other.


(Obviously, I have been reading a lot of Ann LaMotte. I just couldn't get her language and words out of my head.)

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Church-Styled Deal a Meal

I have already written about how I believe there is a spiritual aspect to food. Think of the fellowship that often surrounds the act of eating, be it with family or with friends, even co-workers. Think of how much more food is enjoyed when done in the company of people you love. Think of the religious ceremonies–communion, the Holy Feasts of ancient cultures, Ramadan, Kwanzaa–built around food. Meals can serve several roles, from memorial, celebration, fellowship, to the sealing of covenants or diplomatic pacts.

It was pointed out to me that the story of the Bible revolves around food. The original sin, that act of rebellion from Adam and Eve, involved an act of eating. You could even see their sin as being symbolic of them no longer being hungry for God. Abraham experienced a theophany while unknowingly entertaining angels. During Passover, the Israelites remember God’s provision during each part of their symbol-laden meal. While they wandered through the desert, the Israelites were daily dependent on God to survive (eating manna from heaven). They feasted upon returning from exile; for that matter, most of their holy days involved feasting.

Turning to the New Testament, Jesus is called The Bread of Heaven. He ate with his disciples, the crowds that followed him, “sinners” ... everyone was welcome at his table. He left us with the sacrament of communion, which came after his last supper. And he’s promised a future banquet, a marriage supper of the Lamb. So symbolically, a meal would join us with this lineage of community, meeting past and promise to celebrate the promised future.

Meals have a way of conveying both hospitality and friendship. Meals have a way of leveling the playing field, of signifying equality, by taking a rag tag group with little in common and binding them in fellowship. Instead of doing “Sunday School” or “Adult Bible Fellowship”, what if we simply ate together after the main gathering time? We want people to slow down.

We say we want community, but do we really? Let’s face it: most times, the last song has barely faded before people are scrambling to get the heck out of church. I don’t have time to spend with you people, I’ve got stuff to do. Or a game to watch. Believe me, I ain’t mad at you, I’ve been just as guilty. (I usually timed my exits to coincide with the pastor’s closing prayer). I guess I will have to learn this “discipline of community” as much as the next person.


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Happy Gestation Period

People are always celebrating birthdays, clogging up message boards with wishing one another happy birthdays. Not that I'm jealous, I'm all about birthdays. It’s kind of an annual reminder that this one day, someone (hopefully) is thinking about us. That’s why for me, my best birthdays are ones where friends just call me up, tell me they were thinking about me, maybe tell me that they love me; and my favorite “gift” is a bunch of us getting together to hang out (though cash is a great number two gift).

But I’ve come to the recent conclusion that one day is simply not enough.

So in my efforts to be consistent with my beliefs that life begins at conception, I’m officially celebrating my entire gestation period. However, to figure out when exactly the celebrations should begin, this required some investigation on my part. And, as you can imagine, some lively conversations with my parents.

The conversations weren’t as awkward as you may imagine. My father once explained the finer points of the “birds and the bees” to me at the breakfast table, using hand models that still has me scarred. He had also long regaled us with stories about how he knew that was his because if I was his, I would have to be born on May 1st. I showed up a day early, apparently eager for the world to be blessed by me. My mom is an angry Jamaican woman (a more redundant phrase you’ll never read than “angry Jamaican woman”). Similar to what I hear about Greek people, Jamaicans are intensely proud and fiercely defend their culture. She loves to paint this image of herself as a proper, ever so refined lady. Though this sometimes runs afoul of her Jamaican country girl self.

I hate to break it to you people, but this personality was not developed in a vacuum.

Obviously, to quote the great philosopher, Terrell Owens, “I love me some me.” I love me a lot. I love the way I look. I love the way I think. I love the way I behave. I love my quirks. What drew me to my wife? How much she loved me. Not everyone is capable of this kind of self-love. It’s a gift.

Unfortunately, the words of that Jesus guy keep haunting me: “Love others as you love yourself.” So I have a lifetime of work ahead of me.

Anyway, on July 26th, 1969 at 3:15 in the morning, that precious bit of sperm met with that fated egg and Maurice Gerald Broaddus was conceived. Everyone may officially commence to swim in Lake Me!


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Thinking Through Children’s Ministry

I love it when my oldest son, all of four, sits with me during the “worship portion” of our church service (at the Sunday morning church that I attend until The Dwelling Place is up and running). He doesn’t sit through it very well. He’ll color. He’ll wander off to stare out the windows. Now, this may have something to do with the fact that I’m with them through the day, and we’re all about short attention span theater. But you know what? He makes my worship. We’ll chat about what’s going on. I’ll color (even when he’s not with us, I write during church. I find that I pay attention better when I do). I’ll go with him to the window and we’ll talk about the beauty of God’s creation. My wife is not as fond of us disrupting everyone while we do what we do.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m of two minds on this issue: I love the chaos of (the idea of) kids being in the gathering with us, but I also love the peace of kids being off in their own area so that I can learn in peace. This was my mindset as we wrestled with an article written by a friend who describes himself as an amateur pastor, hack theologian, and wannabe mystic. His article summarized a book by Ivy Beckwith called Postmodern Children’s Ministry.

This is one of the most important discussions that any new church can have. It’s important that the whole community is on the same page in order to make any fundamental paradigm shift work. You see, most of us grew up in the crafts, snacks, and games model of children’s ministry and while we were entertained, we didn’t find it terribly impactful. The question has to begin with what the purpose of children’s ministry is supposed to be.

* If our purpose is to provide glorified “babysitting” for children while the adults do the “real” work of worship, then we will simply seek to keep the children occupied, whatever it takes.
* If our purpose is to entertain children because we assume that they are unable to grasp or appreciate transcendent spiritual realities, then we will seek to incorporate the snazziest programs possible in order to ensure the kids have fun.
* If our purpose is to use children’s ministry as a marketing tool for prospective parents, then our focus will be on creating the most attractive program.
* However, if our purpose is the spiritual formation of children, then we will proceed in a completely different direction. The significant question will not be, “Do we have the best program?” or “Is our program fun and exciting?” but “What does it mean for a community of faith to take seriously its responsibility to spiritually nurture its children and families?”

“It takes a village to raise a child.” There is wisdom in this African proverb, wisdom that shouldn’t be rejected just because Hillary Clinton once co-opted it. People are in our kids lives. As parents, ours is the dominant voice, but rarely is it the sole voice. The reason that we gather together as a church is to engage in spiritual formation, in order to be a blessing to the world. If we believe that this is something best done in the context of community, then this should apply to our children also. There needs to be a different mentality, one that begins from the nursery on up.

“The child develops more trust than mistrust when the child has trustworthy, consistent caregivers and lives in a trustworthy, consistent environment… if these things are not present in the infant’s environment, then the ability to have trusting, loving relationships with others can be severely disabled”.

Often the work that happens in the church nursery is seen as little more than baby-sitting. No wonder it’s hard to find committed volunteers! The caregivers in our church nurseries need to know that they are doing much more than helping parents. They need to understand that by loving, holding, feeding, and changing these babies, they are putting bricks in the foundation of trust these children will need in order to know and love God.

Here’s our dilemma: in order for children’s faith to become their own, they need to connect to it on their terms in their time. What we’ve seen happen entirely too often is well-intentioned coercion as we manipulate kids to make “decisions for Christ”. We ask kids, kids as young as five years old, to decide what they want to do with the rest of their lives in terms of their spiritual walk. Decisions which lead to uncertainty if not rejection by their college years. Do some kids understand this, sure; so some grow into their decision, certainly. But I also recognize that I have a three and a four year old, two boys who seek my approval. I can get them to “accept Jesus” and parrot a prayer. They’ll love the attention of everyone celebrating their choice (or want the attention if they see their friend receive it) and their baptism would be a significant event. But if their decision is not their own, then their conviction will turn to doubt or will fade with age.

“I believe the time has come for churches to reconsider the overt evangelizing of children. The approaches typically used have little to no bearing on what's actually happening in a child's heart and mind. For the most part these tactics are manipulative, playing on the child's emotions and desire to be accepted and loved. A faith community should never be involved in manipulating the soul of a child”. Overall, an imbalanced focus on conversion rather than transformation has the capacity to short-circuit the entire process of spiritual formation. Evangelism is not simply about one decision; it is about inheriting and embodying a way of life.

“Family is everything to a child. Family is the first place a child forms and experiences relationships. It is a child's first experience of community. Family is where a child learns language and motor skills and where she develops her first view and understanding of the world. Family is the first place a child experiences love, intimacy, forgiveness, and physical care. Conversely, family can also be the place where a child experiences her first emotional violence, neglect, indifference, and physical hurt”. For this reason, “family is the most important arena for a child's spiritual development and soul care” ... “Instead of building children's ministries on more and more programming, the church needs to see families as the axis of their children's ministries. The first priority of children's ministry ought to be supporting parents in their role as the primary spiritual nurturers of their children”

And lastly, children need to learn to be a part of something bigger than themselves. What we are trying to figure out is how to immerse kids in the constant community of the faith, trying to figure out how to incorporate them into the worship, and how to encourage the inter-generational mixing that best informs the truest aspects of community. The discipline of sitting through a meeting is good to learn. The lesson of respecting the people upfront and the people around them and listening is good to learn.

Churches often fail to recognize that “children need to be involved in processes that communicate belonging. An affective relationship with people in the faith community other than their parents and relatives is an important piece of their spiritual nurture. Children must feel they belong in their faith community as much as the adults do”

The child sees adults who struggle, who trust God, who make mistakes and are forgiven, who work for mercy and justice, who model kingdom values. This modeling is powerful teaching for children – more powerful for faith development than listening to a hundred Bible stories or watching a month's worth of VeggieTales videos. Children will remember the people of the faith community and their lives more than any Bible facts they learned at a church program.

This model is especially powerful when it is manifested by someone who actively participates in children’s ministry. “What a shame that the adults in our churches can't see the importance of connecting with the children in the community! The friendships children form with those who lead them in religious education are among the most influential relationships they will have in the community”

Here’s the thing, everyone sounds like we’re on the same page about trying to let kids be more of a part of the Sunday morning gathering. The fact that we were already on the same page should make me happy, yet I only get suspicious; like maybe we’ve overlooked something. What that means or what it may look like, we aren’t exactly sure. Though this all sounds good in theory, the problem may come in the future. Right now, we’re a few dozen families deep. As new parents with kids and teens join, they may be expecting kids programs. What we’re talking about sounds like a fairly tall order, or at least more work on the part of parents. Breaking up the church into homogenous groups is the easier route. Too often, we don’t want to put in the effort to having our kids learn to participate in worship (that’s why we bring them to Sunday School and what we expect the Sunday School teachers to teach them). We make them sit through six hours or school and programs, but we don’t make the same effort for a 30 to 45 minute sermon. Maybe we don’t value times of worship, but valuing worship won’t happen on its own and needs to be instilled in kids (as well as some adults).

The bottom line is that everyone is involved, everyone participates, even if they don’t understand every element of what is going on. Heck, adults don’t understand every element of what’s going on half the time.

Oddly enough, everyone ignored my ideas on how to calm kids down enough to sit through a gathering by having them engage in serious spiritual formation-cum-Christian pacifier through the sacramental wine: “Alright kids, extra Jesus juice today.”


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The Long Road to Print

Ah. I never get tired of reviewing proofs.

Well, I haven’t had to do that too often. And, truth be told, I hate it. This time around, I had two other sets of eyes go over it so that I wouldn’t be tempted to re-write it. Then I shook myself and went over it. It’s for my story “Family Business” which will be appearing in the next issue of Weird Tales. Going over the proofs got me thinking about two things. The first is how crazy my roads to print are.

Some of you have heard this story before. The first story that I had accepted was my story “Soul Food”. In my credits, it says that it was published in the magazine Hoodz, however originally, this wasn’t going to be the case.

It was a Saturday morning at 7:15 a.m. (sad, but this is how clearly I still remember this), my phone rings waking me from a rock solid sleep. I’m prepared to yell at whoever was calling when they immediately apologize and explain that they are one of the editors of the anthology that I had submitted my story to.

He wanted to call me and personally accept my story.

So I’m sitting in bed, dumbstruck. I thank him, hang up the phone, do my happy dance, then call and wake up several friends to share my news. Months go by. Nothing, I don’t hear a peep. This was my first sale and I had no idea how the process worked. I didn’t even know that editors don’t customarily call up the writers they accept. Then one day I read that the anthology that accepted my story has been released.

My story isn’t in there.

I e-mail the editor. She writes back this huge apology. Apparently the editor that accepted my story left the anthology. Not all of his work made it to her, and my story slipped between the cracks. Of course, the anthology went on to big sales and critical acclaim.

I bumped into the editor at this year’s WHC. She asked why I no longer submitted to her. I told her that I didn’t know she had any open projects. So she convinced me to write something for her. I’m still waiting to hear back from her.

“Family Business” won the World Horror Convention/Weird Tales Short Story contest back in 2003. It’s route to print was a lot simpler. Well, relatively. The tale involves the story originally being accepted by a magazine that immediately went out of business. So I entered it in the contest. Yay bad business models!

[The second thing reviewing my proofs got me to thinking about? Why I don’t do readings. Many of my stories have such heavy accents, and I sound absolutely ridiculous affecting either a Jamaican or hardcore ghetto speech pattern.]


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Constrained Lines

On occasion, I get asked what are taboos for me. Most times, I don’t know how to answer that, though I know that the asker is usually going for “you’re a Christian and a horror writer, so what won’t you write about?” So I think that I’ll wander around the topic and see what I come up with.

We as writers/artists often rail against the tyranny of the constraints of our Puritanical society (and too often misuse words like “censorship” in the process). But you know what? I like lines. Lines force me to be creative, subversive within the boundaries. In fact, people are more clever when they can get their point across within the so-called bounds of polite society. And I like clever. Plus, I think that we miss the point: we need the lines. I’m not talking as “that Christian guy” or “that moralist busybody,” but as an artist.

On the one hand, sometimes, well, lines are there for a reason. Let’s face it, that envelop was getting pretty out there. We were left coming up with new things that leather clad midgets could do with goats. Though, seriously, reading about the rape of a retarded girl as entertainment isn’t my idea of a fun read, but that’s a personal taste issue and I get that some people are drawn to more extreme stuff. Though it is another reason why I appreciate lines.

On the other hand, pulled back lines make it easier to cross. Which is why I even like the occasional reset. After the Janet Jackson brouhaha, the lines that govern social acceptability were reigned in. As horror writers, one of the tools in our artistic tool belt is the breaking of taboos, the pushing of the envelope. Those lines affect the traditional horror writers as well as the more extreme, since all too often all horror is lumped together (with of course the “extreme” stuff trotted out as examples of the genre as a whole).

There’s a lot that I won’t write about because they have no interest for me or there are some places that I can’t go. At least right now. I used to discount the possibility of me writing a romance novel, until I wrote one (one of those “baby mama dramas,” though under a pseudonym).

So the short version is that I have no specific taboos. Sacrilegious things used to be my reflex answer, but even that can be done in a way that I would find engaging. All I care about is that the writing is done intelligently and well.

That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it. For the moment, anyway.



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Black People in the Conversation

“What the hell have you dragged me to?” Those were the first words out of my mouth when “the man who would be head pastor” of the Dwelling Place dragged me to an emergent church. We’d been curious to see what other churches in the area who called themselves emergent looked like. Well, apparently they were about line-dancing. The pastor, in a cowboy hat, had encouraged the women of his congregation to start dancing during the music portion of the service. Yeah, I was the only black guy in the place. Yeah, the pastor had to “pull the service over” in order to explain that I was in the right place.

It was fine. They were in the middle of a series on finding God in music and the genre of the week was country music. The following week was hip-hop, and “the man who would be head pastor” was convinced that most of the congregation thought that I was the advance guy for the rap group that was due in that week. But it didn’t help ease my concerns about what a postmodern church is supposed to be about or look like.

For those that have no idea what I’m talking about, or have no idea what a PoMo (postmodern) or Emergent Church is, luckily for you PBS has been running a series of specials on the movement. Part 1 and Part 2 are up as transcripts (plus there are some video streams).

There is also a Brian Mclaren interview that opens with this question: How do you describe the emerging church? “It is a group of people who are trying to put together two things that have been apart. One of them is a fidelity to the Christian message, and a real concern about it actually being lived out in practice. And we're saying you can't have one without the other ... When you try to put those things together, you end up with a stronger emphasis on practices. It's not just doctrines that people get in their minds, although our thinking is very, very important. But also there is a desire to have practices that actually form us as people.”


This last point, the idea of practices that form us as people, has been what I’ve been continuing to meditate on. Between the Emergent Convention, my experiences in local emergent churches, and after seeing the movie Rize, I’ve been thinking a lot about the place of black people in the conversation called the Emergent Church. It didn’t help that a discussion on my message board addressing criticisms of the emergent church has erupted. As this sympathetic dude put it: What is the emergent movement doing to involve more diverse cultural groups. I see a lot of young white faces, but not much color. Is there an effort to reach the traditional black church, the growing Latino community in our country, and the larger global community of Christians, mostly catholic, that are ready to expand and develop into newer forms? Once again I will reiterate that I am a post-modern/emergent type of guy myself, but it is always going to be important to look at ourselves and be open about our weaknesses. Let's try to get that toothpick out of our eye before it becomes a plank.

So think of this as an expansion on my last bit of mental noodling on black people and the emergent church.



Let me put the nature of my dilemma in context. As another postmodern brother put it, I feel like I’ve been on a bit of a Sankofa lately. ("Sankofa" is an Akan word which means, "one must return to the past in order to move forward.") I've been going through a bit of an identity crisis, trying to work through my faith first as a Christian, then as a black man. I’ve already spoken about my spiritual journey, but obviously I’m not done yet.

In a lot of ways, the emergent church struck me as, well, the Christian equivalent of the grunge movement. A little subversive, a little edgy, and whole lot of white, middle class evangelicals trying to make Christianity look cool. In other words, originally I saw a lot of style over substance. However, once I dug a little deeper, read some of the foundational works, a lot of the substance of postmodernism resonated. I was left wondering how this would translate to black churches, wondering what an emergent African American church would look like or what a multi-cultural emergent church would look like. Better put, what would a multi-cultural church look like that drew on all worship traditions? Because, let me tell you, I ain’t feeling guitars, candles, and labyrinths. I love organs, drums, and gospel choirs way too much to give them up. Of course, part of this stems from the fact that we could all stand with a bigger definition of worship.

I guess I should start with whether or not black churches are in need of being a part of the conversation. It may sound elitist to say, but there were some issues that the historic black church managed to escape; some Postmodern leanings that have always been a part of who and what the black church is. For instance, we’ve been doing narrative theology from the jump. Looking back on the history of black Christianity, we had no choice but to focus on a narrative presentation of the faith, rather than on the development of a metaphysical system which attempted to draw infallible logical inferences from the Bible, reducing it to data in need of organizing. Not to say that this didn’t become more of an issue in the rise of seminary trained pastors, but by then, narrative theology was a part of the tradition.

Worship has always been experiential within the tradition of the black church. People tend to look at black churches and think that the attenders were in it for the emotional ride. Sure, we are an affective people, but it is a cognitive affectiveness: we feel the truth and worship is (intuitively) experiential. The emotional ride of worship has to be done within the narrative of the Gospel. Okay, I may have a bit of rose colored glasses on. Plenty of folks in my neighborhood go for the weekly show and the hollerin’, then come home and cause a ruckus during the rest of the week.

The historic black church has also been more missional in nature also. It had to be, given its context within the black community. Black people had had enough hell on earth to have to wait on the promise of an eternal heaven. Things had to start changing now, thus why the Church (big ‘c’, not solely the African American church) was the home of the Emancipation movement, Civil Rights movement, and has always set a tone of being a liberating presence in the community. With issues of poverty and economic and social justice at its forefront, the church, historically, has been socially conscious and thus relevant.

Yet the black church, too, has felt the sting of modernism and has seen its effectiveness lessened. How else can we explain our youth seeking a sense of family in gangs rather than in church? The decline of men in church attendance? The continuing break up of black families? As Brian Mclaren says of modernity and the church, what we think happened is that modern culture has been, in some ways, spiritually an arid place. It's been spiritually a place that there wasn't much room for authentic and communal spirituality. And so modernity brought us down." We think that the church has, in many ways, already accommodated to modernity. And so the Christian message has become a product almost, and it and the methods of spreading it are like sales pitches. We feel that it has been individualized.

I have seen several modern tendencies infiltrate the black church. I am greatly concerned by this rise in the “health and wealth” Gospel (have enough faith and healing and money comes your way). Being in bed with nationalistic politics is no different from white evangelicals flexing their political power within the Republican party. And the perception of the pastor as (mini-) pope, well any overly pastor-centered church is in danger of becoming simply a cult of personality.

With the diagnosis in place, the next step is figuring out what our traditions of faith are and what we bring to the table. A friend blogged about Negro spirituals as subversive Christian practice. Musically, I’d love to see jazz incorporated more, maybe a worship team that is part jazz ensemble (this is a style issue, a reaction to white evangelical churches doing 70s era light right as choruses and calling it worship). The movie Rize has driven home the importance of dance as and in worship.

As I continue to think through this, I am exploring the Coptic Orthodoxy–a branch of Christianity that, according to tradition, the apostle Mark established in Egypt in the middle of the 1st century–and seeing what they have to offer in terms of practices.

I still might not find what I’m looking for. And maybe the critics of Emergent may have some valid points. I know that Brian McLaren is purposefully broadening the conversation in Africa and South America. There’s one thing that can’t be denied, however: when all is said and done, at least the Emergent movement allows for this sort of conversation. A conversation long overdue.



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Burn, Baby, Burn

"We have two evils to fight, capitalism and racism. We must destroy both racism and capitalism." Huey P. Newton, founder of the Black Panthers.

Remember how you felt the first time you heard your “never sell out”/“better to burn out and die young” rock ‘n roll band from your youth being used to shill your father’s Oldsmobile? That’s almost what this is like:

JULY 18--Former Black Panther associates of Huey P. Newton, the late co-founder of the militant organization, are seeking to trademark the phrase "Burn Baby Burn" so they can slap the words--long associated with conflagrations that left cities like Watts and Newark in cinders--on hot sauce. According to pending filings with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (which you will find below), the Huey P. Newton Foundation also wants to trademark the phrase "Revolutionary Hot Sauce." The Oakland-based group, which is run by Newton's widow Fredrika and ex-Panther David Hilliard, submitted the trademark applications late last year and, according to USPTO records, appears close to securing government approval of its requests. On the foundation's web site, the Newton group describes itself as a "community-based, non-profit research, education, and advocacy center dedicated to fostering progressive social change." It is unclear exactly what role spicy condiments play in this noble multicultural pursuit. In 1966, Newton co-founded the Black Panther Party, which would later be called "the greatest threat to the internal security of the United States" by FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover.

You know, there comes a point where you’ve traded on your reputation a little too much, diluted the power of your message to the point of irrelevance. To go from a force for good–granted, often having to muddle through its often mixed messages and methods–to sell its soul to the capitalist system that it struggled against, well it’s a little disappointing.

Granted, it’s not like I’m reading about a new “I Have a Dream” line of adjustable beds.

Though now I’m waiting for Col. Farrakhan to start serving up some fried chicken.

Served with crackers.

(That cracker joke brought to you by lokust)


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Rize

“Then maidens will dance and be glad, young men and old as well. I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.” Jeremiah 31:13

Brought to us by director David LaChapelle (the fashion photographer whose contribution to pop culture includes the Christina Aguilera’s "Dirrty" video), Rize is a documentary chronicling the practice of "Clowning" and "Krumping." Odds are that you’ve never heard of either way of dancing, though you may have seen the hyper-kinetic hip-hop dance stylings in videos (the dance moves are often so frenetic that the film has to assure us that the frames haven’t been sped up).

The movie makes the case that this radical dance form plays an enormous (potential) role in the black communities in South Central Los Angeles. The dancing is important as a serious form of spiritual and artistic expression—and as an alternative to gang participation.

The movie opens by putting the movement in a historical context, tracing the history of South Central from the Civil Rights era riots to the post-Rodney King verdict riots. It was in response to the 1992 riots that “ghetto celebrity” Tommy Johnson (Tommy the Clown) created what he would call Clowning. Tommy, up until then, had been involved in a life of gang-banging and drug dealing. "Living like that," he says, "you either wind up shot dead or in jail. I was lucky. I wound up in jail." Jail afforded him the opportunity to examine his life as he turned to God, asking for another chance to turn his life around. He started his clown group as a way of entertaining at parties, to provide laughs and make people happy. One of his early disciples branched off, developing an alternative style dubbed Krumping (for those keeping score at home, apparently all Clowns “krump”, but not all Krumps “clown”).

The movie builds to the event known as the Battle Zone, an organized competition between clown groups. This speaks to the historical competitive nature of creative expression within the black community (see the rap battles depicted in the movie 8 Mile). This fifth Battle Zone proves so popular that it is held in the Great Western Forum.

“When you’re drowning and you see a board floating by, you’re gonna grab that board.” Dragon

The cauldron that this seemingly strange dance form sprang from is the day-to-day inner city life. When presented with a situation of no money, no hope, no justice, and limited educational resources—combined with the daily reality of drugs and violence—pain and anger need an outlet. As the dancers observe, when one grows up on a steady diet of violence, robbing, and dealing, some people “catch a feel for it.” Others look elsewhere for something positive. And, as it has so often been before, the outlet comes in the form of music and dance, artists creating something useful out of what life has handed them. (It is interesting to note that the dancers resent the fact that the only after-school programs offered to them are sports, as if that was the only way for them to express themselves. Not everyone in black communities plays basketball or football.)

This isn’t the first time that oppressive conditions have spawned musical/cultural movements within the black community; spirituals, the blues, doo-wop and soul are all fueled by the focused pain and anger that gave rise to hip-hop as the dominant form of expression. This “ghetto ballet” appears to be the next evolutionary step of break-dancing. The dancers form their own troupes, much like gang sets, paint their faces like warriors, then meet to combat/outperform rival gangs of dancers and hone their skills. (An oddly surreal moment comes when one of the dancers is painted up like a character from the movie, The Warriors. All of a sudden, it felt like life had come full circle. You almost get the feel that this is a mockumentary, except that the reality of one of the dancers being randomly gunned down reminds us of the desperatel reality of this struggle for beauty in life within the constant shadow of death.)

The allure and draw of gangs is the illusion of family and love that they provide. Well, “illusion” may be harsh; the family in the streets gives “their idea” of love. Gang families, clown families, church families; you have a group of people from families that haven’t been this broken since the days of slavery, searching for respect and belonging. Krump-ness becomes “that closed chapter of your life–the hurt, the anger–that no one knows about.” The secret to surviving, as the older dancers seek to mentor the younger ones, is reduced to one simple rule: show them more love and they’ll overcome this.

“There’s a spirit in the midst of krump-ness.” Dragon

I don’t have to make spiritual connections with this movie because it does it for me. There is a natural connectedness between worship and dance, worship and spirit. This exploration of dance took the dancers back to their roots as they danced from their spirit. “I get my Krump from Jesus,” Miss Prissy says plainly. “God started me on this way,” and she uses the gift that she’s been given.

In their efforts to connect with something higher, the dancers draw on African dance and ritual (a point driven home in the movie with a side-by-side comparison to tribal dancers). The herky-jerky movements remind me of the “riding of spirits” (where people danced until “possessed” by spirits), or ceremonies of worship traditions. One dancer even hits this ecstatic plateau in mid-performance. It’s a flow, it’s a vibe, it’s a connection; or as one dancer proclaims, “once you see the real thing, you will know the real thing.”

For the dancers, Krumping takes on a transcendent purpose, becoming a way of life vital to who they are. At its core is the need to keep things real, placing itself in direct opposition to the bling-bling/commercial mentality of today’s hip-hop culture. The kids want the moral foundation, the realness of things of substance. They want to matter. This search for authenticity has gotten me thinking about the idea of the ancient-future: the idea of re-examining where you are and where you are heading in light of re-connecting to your past traditions.

There has been an on-going conversation within the (postmodern) church about the disconnect from its rich theological and ecclesial traditions. “Ancient” refers to the teachings, doctrines, worship, ethics, morality and practices of the Church, embracing the full traditions and timeless teachings of historic Christianity. “Future” is the re-contextualization of the faith—making the Gospel relevant and able to speak to the new challenges of our culture, without sacrificing our Tradition on the altar of secular, popular, and cultural traditions. Ancient-Future worship has depth, is participatory, and is passionate. Such worship wants to move past performance and get to the real thing: God-directed, genuine worship.

I’ve been concerned that this on-going conversation hasn’t seemed to include African American churches. There is a longing that goes beyond some of the modern tendencies of the church, and the consumer-driven “Gospel” that pervades it, especially in the African American church. There are African and African-American faith practices and traditions that shouldn’t be ignored if the church is to be relevant to all peoples. The movie itself ends with white people and the Asian communities embracing the dance form.

In Rize, you have inner city kids–disenfranchised people that the American society is quick to try and forget–trying to find their way in the world. In the midst of the pathologies that plague their environment, they seek to express themselves. They re-visit the past in the form of ancient African dance, combining it with hip-hop dance, and connecting with God. It makes me want to repeat the passage from Jeremiah (31:13): “Then maidens will dance and be glad, young men and old as well. I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.” Or as Dragon simply puts it “we’re gonna rise no matter what.”


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Messy Evangelicals

The topic of showing grace to church folk has been on my heart lately. You see, I have no problem being a critic of the church. I guess part of why I don’t is because I think of it kind of in the same vein of when I criticize things going on in the black community or within my family. As a member of the church, the black community, and my family, it’s “alright” for me to criticize, because, as someone from within, there is the presumption that my criticisms come from a place of love. When someone outside does it, at the very least we can say that we don’t know from where that person is coming from.

But, dang it, if some Christians don’t make it hard to love them.

We’ve all bumped into these modern day Pharisees, the ironic thing being that they, probably like the Pharisees of the day, don’t see themselves as being in the wrong. Let’s remember, the Pharisees were the good guys back in the day. The keepers of tradition, the religious folk steeped in knowledge; however, they seemed to miss the point of their religion. They had strayed from their mission and what they were to be about.

This sudden bout of conviction concerning my need to offer grace to them has been something of a recent epiphany (after re-reading "Messy Spirituality"). It's like I’ve been quick to show grace to “unsaved” people or people new to or wandering in their spiritual walks; quick to be a guide or listening ear when possible to those interested in spiritual things. But when it comes to people steeped in the church life, I turn up my nose as if not wanting to catch a whiff of their Pharisaical stench.

I guess it's been easy for me to accept and embrace "messy spirituality" in people who don't want to be constrained by the modern evangelical definition of spirituality. However, to turn around and be judgmental towards the spirituality of modern evangelicals (as if I have it so right) smacks of something akin to hypocrisy. They are just as messy (even if they don't realize/recognize it).

Worse, I’m often just as arrogant in my beliefs as them.

We're quick to judge one another sometimes. We all judge. (Tell me you don’t turn on Jerry Springer with a sense of moral superiority.) So I am trying to take a step back and shake myself. I know that one reason for some of this conflict might be the fact that often we are in different places in our spiritual walks. Many of us post-modern types have had our Pharisaical day in the sun. I like to believe that we've grown out of it. As such, I think we ought to show patience with our “weaker brother” (though, isn't it telling that the weaker brother never sees themself as the weak one) bending for him even as we try to teach him and bring him along.

It is weird thinking of yourself in terms of being the more mature Christian. There seems to be a whiff of arrogance to it when you say it about yourself. Unless you realize what it means to be more mature: to be more willing to humble yourself, to sacrifice your freedoms for the sake of not tripping up another, to show grace to people who might not show any to you. So whoever is the stronger brother needs to start by being more humble about their faith.

We have to be careful. Jesus was short with "some" Pharisees. We tend to equate them to our modern day religious fundamentalists, but the Pharisees could have been any of us. I’m sure that there were some Pharisees, some teachers of the day, that had things “right”. Not everyone that we see as Pharisaical would necessarily be the kind of Pharisees that Jesus would have picked on. The strict fundamentalist who doesn't understand what he's doing or how he's judging ... sometimes, he is honestly attempting to please God, but going about it the wrong way. The Pharisees that Christ picked on had their motives all screwed up

This should even run to how I view churches.

Churches, since they are run by messy people, can’t help but also be messy. But we cannot abandon the church. We need to accept its messiness, like we would anyone else, and continue to encourage it/them along in their spiritual journey. This would include pastors more concerned with expanding their personal empires and stature rather than expanding the kingdom. This would include well-intentioned elders who become more focused in their personal missions and agendas and lose sight of the big picture mission. This would include prominent “names” who seek to criticize rather than engage.

This would include me.

So I’m working on trying to love these people like Christ loves them, extending the grace that God has shown me. At the very least, I know is we're called to love everyone. (Though not necessarily be best friends with them. Hey, cut me some slack: I’m still a work in progress.)


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Becoming a Disciple

I’m still stuck on this thought.

I still remember the first time my brother and I were asked if we wanted to dedicate our lives to following Jesus. The rest of our lives, because, you know, that’s what six year olds were into. He certainly hadn’t just five minutes previous to that, told me that he wanted to grow up to be a butterfly.

“Go forth and make disciples.”

I guess I’m left wondering what it means to be a disciple and if convicting (read: coercing) people into repeating a prayer or signing a pledge card is what Jesus had in mind. I guess it’s the same mentality that has made church into a service about entertaining “believers”. I believe that we’ve gotten away from the idea of making disciples.

The best way for me to think about it is in terms of apprenticeship. I’m a student, Jesus is the teacher, and my goal is to become as much like him as possible. It sort of takes the doubt out of things. Many Christians spin their wheels doubting or being unable to tell whether or not they’re even a Christian (another outcome of simply making a profession of belief and being left to your own devices). When you reduce the spiritual life to making sure that you’re “in”, you’re left with people who wonder if they’ve made the final cut. So I focus on what I’m supposed to be about, not worrying about the “in” part, trusting that that will take care itself. You’re either apprenticing or you’re not.

The problem becomes how good a job am I doing in learning from Jesus how to lead my whole, real life. My life.

We have family, neighbors, jobs; in short, a life. A life that we are supposed to somehow live for Christ. And I’m still trying to figure our what that means and how to do it. I’m a writer and I’m a scientist. Those are every bit as “spiritual” as any religious thing that I do as a part of the church. We’re not all called to drop our “secular” jobs and go into full-time ministry, but rather to make all jobs a part of discipleship. (I put things in quotes because some people have funny ideas about what these words mean.)

Does it mean sitting in judgment of your co-workers and how they choose to live their lives? Does it mean making a show of your lunch time Bible reading and prayer time? Yeah well, here’s a novel thought: do your job well. All “religious activities” take second place to doing the job you do to the best of your ability. It becomes about integrating your life into the kingdom mission of being a blessing to the world. And broadens our definition of discipleship so that it is not restricted to those particular times of religious work or study.

Discipleship would involve a changed in three areas: belief (we turn to Christ, expressing our desire to see him as he is, not simply how he’s been represented to us), behavior (our lives become–slowly--transformed, centering our lives around living out the kingdom mission; putting feet–action–to our faith and knowledge), and belonging (we join a specific faith community).

Discipleship, simply defined, can be seen as a process of how we transform everything we do in order to “take on,” or becoming more like, Jesus. You figure out what it means for you to live and work in light of being a blessing to your neighbor and to the world. It takes time and in our culture’s need for immediate gratification, we’ve forgotten this.

Thirty seconds , indeed.


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30 Seconds

The other day a couple of the neighborhood girls took refuge at our place. It was no coincidence that they knew I was cooking. In typical teenage fashion, they needed to be dropped off at the mall, but they were ducking the Jesus Lady. Now you have to realize, our neighborhood has several stock characters. We have a Big Momma, the woman who sits out on the front porch, caretaker of the neighborhood (read: knows everybody’s business). My wife was positioning herself as the Candy Lady, the woman who doles out treats for no reason. We have the War Council, the group of ladies who gossip about the neighborhood and grouse about men (a function of the office of Big Momma is to be ‘president for life’ of the War Council).

Apparently, I’m the Church Guy.

Whenever issues about religion pop up, I get consulted. In this case, shield teenage girls from the Jesus Lady (though I have to wonder what sort of reputation I must have if I am the shield from religious people). The Jesus Lady is a well-intentioned lady who stalks the neighborhood or the mall looking for souls to save. You need a quarter to make a call or bus fare, she’s got one for you. It’s almost Thanksgiving, she has a trunk full of turkeys (I’m not kidding. I got one from her last year). All that’s required is 30 seconds.

Thirty seconds to know Jesus.

I don’t know where this mentality sprang from. Somehow we’ve gone fromJesus’ command to “go forth and make disciples” to randomly accosting people to see if they “know Jesus as your Lord and Savior.” In thirty seconds. I know the spiel, heck, I used to teach the spiel way back in the day when I thought evangelism was about running through the “Romans Road”, presenting the “Four Spiritual Laws” or–to paraphrase from Glengarry Glenn Ross--turning every conversation into the ABCs of evangelism: Always Be Converting. “If you were to die today, do you know where you would spend eternity” would be the closer to my sales pitch. And you know what? That’s what we’ve reduced a relationship with Christ to: product. I get where such Christians are coming from. They are trying to live out their faith as they’ve interpreted it. The problem is, it’s turned them into gunslinger christians: people on the look out to add another “saved person” notch in their belt. Every conversation they spend looking for their lead-in to make their pitch, waiting for their opportunity to steer the conversation toward God.

For thirty seconds.

Just enough time to give a mental assent to a set of carefully presented facts and pray the secret formula prayer and you’re in. In what? You don’t know because the gunslinger’s off to claim their latest notch.

Worst of all, they miss this point: all conversations are sacred conversations. No lead-ins, just being human with a fellow human. Being real with them, asking them about their kids, their work, their life, the weather. The second you lay your hands on the conversation, the second you quit being authentic, is the instant that you’re pimping Jesus. And that’s not how healthy relationships are started.

Yeah, I’ve been in this frame of mind ever since some of the people from my message board stopped by and we watched The Big Kahuna (starring Kevin Spacey and Danny DeVito) together. So blame this on them.



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My First Story

In another example of me never throwing away anything, I recently dug through my files and found the very first story I ever wrote. It was for an assignment in fifth grade. Since I doubt that it will make it into my collection of short stories, I thought that I would share it here. I know that writers cringe or want to re-write their older works, especially if they’ve (hopefully) grown as a writer, but what’s the point in re-writing a fifth grader?

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The Big Mac Attacker

Oh no; not again! The cover of the meat hamper opens. A grease stained arm comes down. In the background I hear one grease burger and a large french fries. I know it’s my turn to go. The hand grips my meat and throws me on the stove. Aaarrrggghhhh! I scream in pain. I think I’m bleeding as grease comes from all over me. Out of pain, I black out.

I feel strange. Oh no wonder. I’ve been cooked. But I’m in a state of shock and I don’t realize that I’m wearing buns. People walk by. Who will be the lucky one to eat me? That same grease stained hands picks me up and puts me in a bag. The last thing I see before I black out again are my friends french and fries.

I am in strange surroundings. Being raw hamburger, I didn’t get out much. I think I’m in a house. But where is the person who is going to eat me? Oh no! Over there, on the table, scattered pieces of french and fries. Torn apart, smothered in ketchup, doused in salt, and not very good looking. It’s my turn next. Wait a second, there he is carrying every hamburger’s deadly enemies ... mustard and ketchup. Squirt! Squirt! Right between my buns. There he goes into the kitchen. Now it’s my turn to make a break for it. Uuungphff! It was a long fall to the ground. Uh-oh, he came back too soon. What’s that green thing. It’s a pickle and there’s an onion. He’s lifting me up. Aaarrgghhh!! He bit me. There goes a mustard/ketchup blop. I do believe this is the end. The agony of defeat ...

Aaaaaarrrrggggghhhhhhh!!!!???!!!!!!

The End
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“The hand grips my meat.” I’m glad that my sense of humor has become more sophisticated since then. (Heh, heh, heh ... he said “buns”.)


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Margins

So I’m staring at the margins of my notepad as I near the one-quarter mark of my current novel project and I find myself meditating on them. I delight in margins. I do. Really. And I’m not just procrastinating instead of working. Don’t get me wrong, I love words, but the words are the main event. I take great amounts of pleasure in the space between words. It’s where I make all my notes and where my creativity happens.

The in-between places.

Sort of like life. I can lead it moving from main even to main event. This past weekend was a trip to Chicago with the fam. Tonight is another “message board dinner party.” [Here’s an aside: I seem to be building a fan base one free meal at a time. Not the most cost effective way to promote yourself and I have nightmares about me at a book signing dressed like Julia Childs after dipping too much into the cooking sherry. In another nod to bass-ackwards marketing, I have contests on my message board, I just don’t tell anyone outside of it about them.] This weekend is the Indiana Black Expo, our boys’ combined birthday party, and Sunday we’re hosting our church plant meeting. All main events.

But you know what? Today Reese decided that we’re supposed to be helping people and fighting bad guys (um, we’ve been watching season five of Angel on DVD). Today Malcolm wanted me to hold him because he doesn’t want me to leave him. Today I sat on my porch b.s.-ing with my neighbors. All marginal moments.

The important places.

Okay, I’m just rambling now. Maybe I was procrastinating.

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Fantastic Four

I wasn’t asking for much, I just didn’t want this movie to suck. A few years ago, there was this cinematic travesty that I bore witness to: the Roger Corman adaptation of the Fantastic Four. There was a battle going back and forth over the rights for the comic book (and Chris Columbus was interesting in making a big budget version). Made for a few million dollars, the movie was a quickie release made solely to force the studio to buy back the rights, because they’d never want a stinker of a movie to be floating around while trying to put together a big budget production (though a few copies ended up in circulation).

Do you remember how enjoyable a movie The Incredibles was? It was basically an animated version of the Fantastic Four, with the members being a family. In fact, an early script draft of the Fantastic Four portrayed the members as a family, to the cries of protests from the purists. Instead, what we get is an ersatz family, that puts the ‘F’ in dysfunction.

You’ll have to excuse the muddled tirade of my thoughts. I have collected the Fantastic Four comic book on and off for years. Though it was the book that essentially launched Marvel Comics, it has languished in the shadows, not getting the attention of Spider-man, the Hulk, or the X-men. Part of my frustration lies in the fact that in the right hands, there is potential for a breezy action adventure movie centered around the chemistry of four compatriots. In the wrong hands–and as I feared, these were those hands–it would be a lackluster, uninspired exercise in cinematic mediocrity.

There were changes from the comic book which is to be expected in any translation from one medium to another. Victor Von Doom is a smarmy businessman originally from Latveria but now thoroughly enmeshed in American capitalism. In fact, he and Reed Richards seem to be more business rivals than scientific ones. There are interesting role reversals, as Susan Storm starts off working for Victor and is his love interest while Reed is a bankrupt scientist looking for another chance. Speaking of reversals, Johnny Storm apparently started off as the junior officer trained by Ben Grimm who ends up his commanding officer.

Thin is the word that best describes this movie. The acting is thin. Jessica Alba (fresh from Sin City) demonstrates why her physique is the best part of her acting repertoire as she veers between nag and object to be ogled. Nothing about her character or her portrayal says lead geneticist. Julian McMahon plays a variation of Christian Troy, his character from Nip/Tuck, attempting to chew scenery but not being able to convey anything close to charismatic arch-villain. Michael Chiklis (The Shield) is a marvel as The Thing. Despite being under layers of latex, he brings out Ben Grimm’s humanity. But Chris Evans’ one-note performances of the Human Torch matches Ioan Gruffudd’s one-note performance of Mr. Fantastic. Basically, we’re told about the characters and we’re supposed to accept that and move on.

The dialogue is thin, the spouted lines ending up sounding more corny than anything else. That is, when the dialogue wasn’t tipping its heavy hand trying to foreshadow future (lack of) action. The fun is thin. The movie tries too hard to have a sense of whimsey which then comes across a little forced. The direction of the movie made me long for the intensity of The Incredibles. The Fantastic Four is fairly slow-moving. Well, maybe not slow, but a lot of time seems to be wasted in the audience getting to know the characters, even for an origins film. Plus the movie seems impressed with its CGI budget and wanting the audience to revel in every instance of the movie-makers’ use of effects.

“What if we got this power for a higher calling?” Johnny Storm (The Human Torch)

This movie is about perceptions: who we are and our need to fill certain roles in life. The quartet of heroes gains its powers due to an accident of hubris as they were in pursuit of learning the origins of life. Each of them gains powers based on personality: Reed Richards was always stretching, reaching for new possibilities; Johnny Storm was a bit of a hothead, impetuous and often unthinking; Ben Grimm did the heavy lifting of the group; Sue Storm simply wanted to be seen and no longer ignored.

“Being different isn’t always a bad thing.” Alicia Masters

However, they all have trouble seeing themselves. Johnny enjoys celebrity and the trappings of popularity, seeing himself through the adulation of others. Reed is not able to see himself for who he is, a hero, a leader. Ben sees himself as a monster, though a new acquaintance (Alicia Masters, portrayed by Kerry Washington) sees the man inside. Susan isn’t seen by the man that she loves.

“If there’s a God, he hates me.” Ben Grimm (The Thing)

It’s like they were all trapped by these false ideas of themselves. These false selves, these false ways that we see ourselves, start developing when we’re young. How our family shape us, how we let our friends define us. We derive our self-worth from what we do, we’re of value because of how we behave or what we have. And yet some part of us is miserable under this definition of who we are and longs to find a way out from under it.

“This is what a man looks like who embraces his destiny.” Victor Von Doom (Dr. Doom)

“I’m good as is.” Ben Grimm (The Thing)

So we need a better definition, a new identity, one that we can find in God. A true self, coming as a result of loving and being loved by God. Once we have our identity in Him and in loving others, we can start building this true self. Understanding and living this truth is what brings true freedom. Once the Four refused to define themselves by what they had (or didn’t have) or what people said about them, they were on the road to being the heroes they were called to be.

Aimed at the PG-13 crowd, the Fantastic Four is a weak and wildly uneven movie at worst, a light hearted romp not meant to be taken too seriously, at best. You can see the diamond in the rough of something that could be great, which is essentially what we all are. But only if it, like us, pursues what it was created to be.

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The Anti-Christ has Changed Area Codes

A newly discovered fragment of the oldest surviving copy of the New Testament indicates that, as far as the Antichrist goes, theologians, scholars, heavy metal groups, and television evangelists have got the wrong number. Instead of 666, it's actually the far less ominous 616.

The new fragment from the Book of Revelation, written in ancient Greek and dating from the late third century, is part of a hoard of previously