Portrait of a prophet

Unless you're really into seventies music, or grew up in a Christian home, chances are you don't know much about Keith Green. For many-a-Christian, Keith Green is the guy with a white man fro, who screams whilst beating the breaks off of an upright piano. But for anyone willing to peel back the time-sensitive trappings of his music, there appears a tragically uncommon zeal for holiness, and a prophetic anointing that is rarely stumbled upon in today's pulpits. There are a lot of different definitions of the word prophet. Abraham Heschel defined a prophet as "someone upon whom God has thrust a burden." Certainly, a prophet is someone uniquely gifted to communicate a timely and truthful message, with a sense of divine urgency. Keith Green never called himself a prophet. In fact, he practically rebuked anyone who attempted to place the prophetic mantle upon his shoulders. But a prophet he was. He spoke the truth with remarkable clarity. His message and his music were devoid of pretension. He had empathy for sinners, yet simultaneously managed to uphold an unflinching message of Biblical holiness that demanded radical sacrifice. His words cut to the quick of what separated man from his maker.

When Keith was only twenty-eight years old, he died in a plane crash along with two of his young children. When he died, he was still far from perfect. He was prone to ruthless introspection, and was at times unduly harsh of the established church. Even so, there is an undeniable spark still emanating from his live recordings.

heaven in a mason jar

It's warm outside today. In fact, it's one of the first warm days we've had recently. I've also been really busy over the past few days, so I made the executive decision to give myself the day off. Being self-employed does have its perks. With the extra time on my hands, I was liberated to cook a leisurely meal that can only be prepared when one is unfettered by the usual time constraints of daily life. It wasn't a t-bone steak that I endeavored to serve, nor did I apply my culinary expertise to attain the unapproachable heights of steamed asparagus or grilled tuna. No, mine is a meal devoid of pretension, and its perfection lies within the reach of any who are willing to learn. It is known in the common vernacular as fried bologna and sweet tea. For all of its familiarity, it is a meal that deserves our utmost respect. One must never think he has mastered it, for it is as we approach it with humility that it will yield its inherent beauty.

We begin with the bologna. I prefer Oscar Meyer, but other brands may produce similar results. The key is to stay away from anything that boasts of being organic or all-natural. Such arrogance can never survive the heat of a well greased frying pan. Second, the bologna must be cut on both sides to avoid the infamous "bubble-effect." The slits should be equadistant from the center of the cold-cut, and must be procured by means of a butter knife, or a sanitized pair of scissors. When the bologna commences its distinctive popping sound, it's time to flip. Remember, the second side will blacken sooner than the first, so remain vigilant. Add two slabs of bread and a slice of cheese. Again, no organic or fancy cheeses. The package should read..."pasteurized cheese product."

Now to the sweet tea. The preparation of genuine southern sweet tea is a sacred act that requires a spirit of reverence. Their should be no background noise, unless you have a small TV in your kitchen and are watching reruns of In the Heat Of The Night. The TV cannot exceed twelve inches, and the reception must be via rabbit ears. During a commercial break, bring water to a boil. Once the water has reached a rolling boil, proceed to add four family sized tea bags. I swear by Lipton, but other brands could conceivably be tolerated. Once the water has reached a boil, and has had time to darken, add your sugar. Key: sugar should always compliment the tea, but never overwhelm it. Tea is the star, sugar plays a supporting role. If you cannot taste the tea, you have added too much sugar. You have hence wasted your afternoon, and should begin penance immediately. A note for all of you yankees.....sugar must be added when the water is boiling hot. Adding the sugar after the tea has cooled will prohibit the sugar crystals from being properly diluted, thus compromising the taste. The tea bags should remain in the water for a minimum of one hour. Take heart. Your patience will be rewarded.

0-for-February

As part of my work with the Bridge Project, I have the distinct honor, and enormous challenge of coaching a group of 16-18 year old boys as part of a program called Hoops and Hope. These are young black men with whom I share little in common beyond a love of basketball, and a compulsive need for a weekly haircut. As the title suggests, we have won nary a game over the past month. After blowing out our first opponent, we've embarked upon a losing streak that currently stands at three games. It's not that we lack talent or athletic ability. We have yet to gel as a team, and we don't play defense. What's worse, even if we had all fifteen players on the court, I'm still convinced we couldn't break a full court press. One act I'm encouraging among the guys is the act of introspection. It's easy to point fingers when you're in the middle of a losing streak, but until each individual has the guts to take personal responsibility, we will continue to have our collective rear flogged in the public square.

The responsibility of course, begins with me. I wasn't supposed to be the coach. My job last year was to essentially serve as team chaplain. Unfortunately, no one stepped up to take the clipboard this season, and I got an unsolicited promotion. Now I'm chaplain and coach. Honestly, it's a very delicate balancing act that I'm still struggling to perfect. Last year as chaplain, I was detached from the concern over wins and losses. I was there to be a spiritual leader. I had the luxury of relating to the young men as people rather than players. How well they performed on the court was of little or no consequence to me. I liked it better that way, especially now that we're losing. As a coach, I have had to surrender my capacity for objectivity. The kid with the better character gets benched for the kid with the better jump shot. That bothers me. On top of all this, I've been pondering Paul's instruction to Timothy to maintain a singleness of purpose. "A good soldier does not get entangled in the affairs of the world," is how he puts it. Have I surrendered my singleness of purpose, or am I just tired of losing?

life in the bubble

Lament of a young black male............

I live in a bubble. Nobody sees me . You don't see me. You drive past me. You drive around me. You look at me. You look through me. You don't see me. You think you see me. You think you know me. What you see and what you know is a walking, talking, smoking, cussing projection of your own prejudice. I'm not yet a man. I'm not an animal either. Abandonment has hardened my humanity. My spirit-my truth- lie dormant beneath layers of anger and apathy. I don't want you to help me. I don't expect you to help me. I hate you. You know that I hate you. You can feel it. There are few things in existence that you feel more certain of. Yet secretly, deep in the recesses of your soul, in the place that transcends verbal articulation, you are aware of your complicity in my hatred. Your fear of me and my hatred of you are not unrelated. They have grown up together; emerging simultaneously from the soil of distrust. I have my faults. I have deep wounds that need healing. You can help me. You can't help me if you fear me. You have to trust me. But how do you trust someone who doesn't trust you? Making eye contact would be a good start.

confessions of a stay-at-home dad

Since I was a little boy, I've wanted to be a lot of things. I wanted to be a fireman until I realized that it required inserting oneself into life-threatening situations. I also wanted to be a basketball player, but discipline and athletic ability were never strong suits of mine. I'm sure there were other vocational ambitions that I harbored along with these two, but one thing I never imagined myself being was a stay-at-home dad. I never stayed awake at night dreaming of changing diapers, or spoon-feeding applesauce. But every weekday, from 8:00 til 12:00, that's my job. I pick up Cheerios, wipe noses, read books with cardboard pages, tie shoes, watch Sesame Street, and position hair bows. I buckle car seats, plan field trips, and and beg for kisses. On a good day she takes a nap and I take a shower. On a bad day she dumps her milk on the floor, refuses to put clothes on, and we both cry for mommy to come home. There are some days when I never get a moment to pause and think. There are some days she and I are both painfully aware that I have virtually no idea what in the world I'm doing. There are some days when I think about all the things I need to do but can't do because Anna Grace demands all of my attention. There are even days when I wish I were a fireman or a basketball player. More often though, there are days when she learns something new that I helped to teach her; days when I don't have to beg for kisses or count down the minutes until 12:00. And so I realize that I am richly blessed. My work is its own reward, and my boss is a beautiful little girl whose only flaw is her flair for getting jelly in her hair.

Fun Pics

For some reason unknown to us, AG wanted to climb into the dryer and didn't want to come out.



Say, "Cheese!"

Diverse and Divided

Yesterday I had the privilege of preaching at a Wesleyan church on the eastern end of our wonderful state. I lived a good bit of my life in eastern North Carolina, so it always feels good to go back. For me, something happens at the spiritual level any time Raleigh's in my rear-view mirror. From there to the coast, it's nothing but Piggly Wiggly's and peanut fields. I'll admit, my affinity for eastern NC transcends my infamous weakness for Bojangles famous chicken n' biscuits. As is probably obvious by my chosen career path, I like black people. I'm drawn to them, and at the risk of glorifying my own preferences, I would like to believe that I am called to them.

Like any territory blessed with fertile farm land, eastern NC has a rich, and inevitably tainted history of sharecropping, an enterprise that earned the reputation of being a new and improved slavery for the twentieth century. Because of its important role in the era of sharecropping, the eastern half of my beloved homeland has made certain that it will, save for an act of God, always be two things: diverse and divided. Despite its inherent indignities, sharecropping was for many black folks the only viable option in a land still searching for its post-slavery identity. The small community that I preached in yesterday is 85% black. Respectable white folk want to know; where in the @#$% did all these black people come from?! They came from wherever their assistance was not required, or at least not desired. And they came here because working Mr. Johnson's back forty for minimal pay was their only means of feeding their family. Of course, diversity is not bad. What is bad, I believe, is the division amid the diversity. The lack of interaction is unfortunate, but the lack of friendships is tragic. Division of races is a catalyst to injustice and oppression. Here are some questions I'm still struggling with........ -If every street were integrated, wouldn't much of our diversity be lost? -How do you reach across racial lines without violating the culture that makes each race special? - Why does every race, and not just the white majority seem to favor division over unity?