Go, Ms. Marvel!

 A month or so ago, I enjoyed one of my favorite days of every school year as a high school principal: 

Scholarship interviews for outstanding seniors!

Imagine a day spent hearing the stories of young people who have overcome and achieved, whose journeys have taken them all over, who have earned accolades while carrying heavy loads, whose smiles outshine the sorrows of life, and whose dreams make you dream again.

If you're imagining being inspired, uplifted, sharing laughter and shedding tears, then yes, you've got it. 

It's an amazing day, and a privilege to be a part of.

Our most recent round of scholarship interviews included one of our Theater all-stars, whose record spoke for itself. This is someone you would readily hire for any job in any organization, and someone I'm confident we will see on the stage or screen someday.

But the thing I remember most from her interview was her comment about the series Falcon & the Winter Soldier.

Our committee was so accustomed to seeing this student command the stage with confidence, that it was surprising to hear that she had grown up wondering whether there could be a future in acting for her, because she didn't see people who looked like her on TV or in movies.

But then she saw Falcon & the Winter Soldier, and there was actor Erin Kellyman on the screen in a major role, and suddenly this high school Theater star in central Texas saw her dream in a different way, as something that can really happen, and something she must and will pursue.

All because of seeing one actor in one show.

My family has enjoyed the first two episodes of Ms. Marvel, and we really wish the whole season had dropped at once so we could just binge it. :-)

Our younger son shared with us that there has been some online criticism of Ms. Marvel, claims that its Muslim protagonist and her family are merely representation for representation's sake, just some kind of disingenuous gesture to score some kind of diversity points.

I have zero sense of how to judge the quality of a TV production, but here's what I will say about this criticism:

The first thing I thought of when I heard it was our scholarship winner's comment about the impact it made on her to see someone who looked like her cast in a serious role in a major production.

It was so important, it made it into a short conversation with a scholarship interview panel.

It meant everything to her.

And it's not like we're in the 1950's anymore. It's 2022, and it still matters.

I grew up watching Sesame Street and integrated sports, and it still matters. (Though I'm old enough to remember it being rare to see a black NFL quarterback...)

I refuse to be swayed by cynical responses to expanding representation of people in popular media.

To me, it comes down to the fact that since every example of representation matters a great deal to someone, it deserves our most open-minded, good-faith reception, even if it's not an example of representation we had ever thought about before, even if we don't like the show, and even if, perhaps especially if, we hear voices casting doubt on the sincerity or validity or appropriateness of the representation in question.

Lack of representation has never been a point of hurt for me; I've seen people like me in popular culture my entire life, and have never doubted that I belong in this society. It didn't come naturally to understand that there are lots of people who don't share that experience, and it's past time to embrace the need for every person to share that fundamental feeling of belonging that often comes through seeing people who look like you accepted and featured in popular culture and positions of leadership.

Go, Ms. Marvel!

It's the Culture

I've always been haunted by the statement made by Clint Eastwood's character in the movie Unforgiven: "It's a hell of a thing, killin' a man..."

I still remember a sermon Dad preached sometime back in the mid-80's.

The main idea of the sermon is gone now, but there is a line that stands out. I can still hear it in Dad's voice:

"...and I'm sure if someone came into this assembly today with a gun, telling us we would die if we didn't turn our backs on Jesus Christ, there's not a person here who wouldn't say, 'Fire away'..."

This was in the days before, but not long before, American gun culture and American evangelicalism became so intertwined as to become more or less one and the same. I'm not sure if my delayed awareness of gun culture was a regional thing as a Southern California kid, but we were not quite up with the speed of the move toward people thinking everyone should be able to carry a gun with them everywhere they go. 

(I still remember the first time I ever heard this idea, as a freshman in college in Texas in 1991, and I was so shocked I questioned the professor in front of the class, certain I must have heard him wrong.)

But back when Dad preached this sermon, his assumption was, like mine, and like that of everyone in the congregation that day, that if someone entered an assembly threatening the people with a gun, it would be for some discernible ideological reason, (renounce Jesus or die), and that the victims would be more or less at the mercy of the shooter.

I'd like to think that if such a thing had happened, we would not have just sat there and been shot, that people would have at least tried to subdue the attacker, risking being hurt or killed in the process. It seems like that would have been the normal human reaction, rather than a dramatic, conversational scene playing out according to the attacker's script, as Dad presented in his sermon.

Of course, I'm glad we never had to find out.

But how the world has changed since that time.

A few years ago, a congregation from the same denomination in which Dad once preached, nearly had a mass shooting in their assembly, but the shooter's attempt was snuffed out when several church members pulled their concealed handguns and shot to kill.

As American gun culture became our very heartbeat, and mass shootings became so common we can't remember most of them, it makes sense that this scenario went from an obviously fictitious hypothetical in a mid-80's sermon, to a very real part of life. It's no wonder a church would go from never contemplating this at all, to having an actual plan for what to do when this happens.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but part of me wonders: Did we even realize we had made this move? Did we talk about this? Did we discuss a shift away from saying "Fire away" if we were ever threatened for our faith, to saying instead that if anyone comes in here with a gun, we'll send them to meet the Maker we happen to be worshipping right now?

I don't recall any evolution here, just suddenly being in a different reality than we were before. Again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I do find it...I don't know...it's something...that we made this shift, from not contemplating the taking of a human life, perhaps even the assumption that we never would take a human life, to the other end of the spectrum, an automatic assumption that we will kill without hesitation and not be much bothered about it.

What I've said so far is already enough for some to cast me aside as a fool, and I get it.

No, I'm not saying that it would have been better if the would-be shooter had had free reign to conduct a massacre. I am greatly relieved the worshippers were spared.

I'm asking whether we have wrestled with what this transition means, and why we made it.

I understand that to even question being ready to kill someone nowadays is laughable to many, but...there's still something here that I just can't shake.

In the denomination in which I was raised, in which Dad preached, and in which the would-be mass shooter was put down, we fervently believed that we were under constant pressure, if not outright assault, by "the culture", "the world", the "winds of doctrine" that threatened to blow us about and fracture our foundation. The world out there was not anchored in Scripture, but was constantly evolving with the self-seeking whims of man, as people drifted further away from the truth and further into the darkness of their own thinking.

We cautioned constantly about the mindset of the Israelites in the Old Testament, who turned to idol worship while Moses was on the mountain, then later wanted a king like all their neighbors, then later, when they had no king, did whatever they all saw fit, all of which were mindsets we recognized in everyone around us, from our neighbors next door, to every wrong-party politician, to many celebrities, to much of society's popular entertainment, and especially in so-called Christians who allowed themselves and their churches to cave and conform to the culture.

In my experience and upbringing, this always meant that some group of believers had gone liberal.

Yet here we are, like frogs realizing the water has already boiled us, having made a 180 on a matter of life and death without anything like the kind of scriptural and theological deliberation we have applied to so many doctrinal disputes that we can't even remember them all, and may not even be sure anymore which ones we've divided ourselves over.

The conviction that we are entitled to shoot to kill, even in what we believe to be self-defense, is not something we arrived at through careful scrutiny of Scripture, open debate among believers, or consultation with the older and wiser among us.

It is a conviction we adopted from the culture around us.

It is culture, pure culture.

It is culture, just as much as every worship innovation, scriptural translation, clothing style, family dynamic, popular song lyric or movie script we ever agonized over, as much culture as anything we ever told ourselves we'd better resist for the sake of our children and the future of our faith.

Just because it's Dirty Harry instead of Harry Potter, doesn't mean it's any less "culture" or any less of a "worldly" influence on us, on our thinking, on our faith and our practice.

In fact, it's even more "culture" than all those things, as it has greater potential to define us in the eyes of our neighbors, who are supposed to know we are Christians by our love.

Is our call still to resist "the culture"? If so, what does that mean? Do we think it means resisting only the cultural influences we happen to find offensive at our moment in history, while conforming to the cultural forces that turn us on?

It's interesting to me that since American gun culture became one and the same with American evangelical culture, I don't see the old 90's "What Would Jesus Do?" wristbands much anymore.

I really don't even hear that phrase anymore.

No matter how we rationalize it, I can't see Jesus pointing a gun at anyone. 

A Year

 Dad,

Over the last few weeks, I thought a lot about today, the first anniversary of your passing.

I woke up from a dream shortly before 4 am today, and couldn't go back to sleep.

In my dream, I heard your voice in a voicemail message, but I can't remember now what it was you were saying. It was random, as dreams are, nothing coherent or of consequence. But still, it was nice to hear your voice at such a time, and the dream prompted me to look up your blog and listen to one of your sermons this morning. I found one from about five years ago, and it's really nice to hear you.

I didn't really have the opportunity to be alone with you at your funeral, but I did have the chance to tell you, silently, with people all around, how sorry I am that I hurt you.

In fact, that's when I finally broke down.

It's not just imaginary or sympathetic; I know firsthand how I made you feel when I left the fold, and I know there was nothing anyone could have done to make it better or easier. I know what I did was unthinkable, too taboo for discussion, and that all we could do for the last decade of your life was step around the broken glass and pretend the wound wasn't there.

I know those were just the realities, and you couldn't change them any more than I could.

I wish that could have been different.

I longed to share my spiritual journey with you, and would have loved to spend hours, years, comparing our lives and perspectives, sharing where the Spirit was leading each of us and why our paths were so different, yet so much the same.

This right here is why the resurrection means so much to me.

It's no longer just about "seeing" my loved ones who have gone before. Now, it's about having the conversations you and I were never able to have. 

Part of me is confident we never could have been real with each other, no matter how long each of us had lived in this life. But then, part of me wonders if maybe it could have happened, if maybe it was in there somewhere, and you just couldn't open that door for some reason. 

I don't know.

But I know this: If the resurrection is real, and I believe it is, when I see you again, all that inhibition and barrier will be gone, and we will finally be able to be real with each other. (That is, unless you're right, and I'm lost, and we won't see each other again at all, but my chips are all in that you're wrong about that.)

I promise you this: Being real with me will be worth it, and we will both wish we had put our shields down long ago. And I think being real with you will be worth it for me, too.

As I remember Samuel's text that day, telling me you were gone, it's ironic to me that I'm currently holed up in a room, isolating from my family because I have the same virus that took you away. Only, for me, instead of shredding my lungs and leaving me without hope of survival, it's just been like having a cold.

My experience with this plague has been totally different from yours, mainly because I had the protection of a vaccine that was still a few months away when you got sick. I imagine it would have saved your life if it had come in time, and this makes me sad.

And I wonder if my experience with life, especially with spiritual things, is different from yours because of protections I have had that perhaps you didn't have. And how ironic that you were one of the main providers of those protections and benefits that shielded me and then equipped me to go in a new direction, even a direction you couldn't contemplate.

There's a great lyric in a song that goes, "I know I took the path that you would never want for me..." and I have always thought of you when I heard that song. And even as I continue on this path that you were certain was folly, going even further than you feared, I know I owe you a debt I can never repay:

Thank you for your love for the Word of God. I know you think I turned my back on it, but I promise you I didn't. Your esteem for the Word was imprinted upon me at the earliest age, and it will never cease to be a part of my DNA. I wonder how different this was for you. Your love for the Word was something you learned from others outside your childhood home and came to through your own devotion. I don't mean "works" in that way, lest anyone should boast, but this is something you worked for, not something you inherited, as it was for me. It's something you built, and then I grew up in, and growing up in something will always be different from building it.

Thank you for you and Mom's marriage. Life was good in our home. There was never a day when I didn't know where I was going, and where I was coming home to. There was never an awkward moment at school when I wasn't comforted by the knowledge that I would soon be home again where I belonged and where everything would be fine. There was never a meal missed, never an occasion uncelebrated, often a cause for laughter, always a routine that was life-giving, always hope that the future was bright. No, every moment was not pleasant. Your temper and brooding were difficult, often scary. I often assured myself I would not be that way when I grew up, even as I copied most of those behaviors. A lot was never said that needed to be said, for fear of you, and it has taken most of my adult life to unlearn the inhibition that was often needed to stay out of your way. But as hard as that was, it was mold in a house that kept us safe and warm, and that's not the same thing as losing it all in a fire, or never having a safe home at all. We were never without recourse or hope, and I confess I have little idea what all it took for you and Mom to provide this for us. I am grateful.

Thank you for our church life. No, I didn't stay there, I know. But a church family is a necessity in my life because of you and Mom, and again, this mindset is something you built and I grew up with. So many people made loving imprints on my life through church, and I am grateful.

Thank you for cheering on your favorite childhood teams when I was a kid, and making room for me in your bleacher seats. I know this was not nearly as important to you later in life, but it still was when I was young, and I am so glad it was. My childhood trips to Dodger Stadium are right up there with Disneyland in my mind, and I am so grateful. You got to see both the Dodgers and the Lakers win another championship before you got sick, and you even got a Cameo video from Dave Roberts! :-) You were never as into the Rams coming back to LA as I was, and that was sad to me, but it's OK. After you were gone, I got myself a USC shirt for the college football season, and I plan to keep an eye on them for you for years to come. I know sports don't really matter, but like the guy in City Slickers said about talking baseball with his Dad, "that was real", and I am grateful.

Thank you for taking us up to Big Bear, up to Sequoia, out to Arizona, up to Oregon. Man, for people on a limited budget, somehow we traveled! I wish I could have taken you to NYC and shown you how to ride the subway. You and Mom made it real to go see unfamiliar places, and I am grateful.

Thank you for something I overheard you say to Mom: 1983, all five of us walking out to the driveway, getting into the car to go see Return of the Jedi. You turned to Mom and said, "Don't worry, we'll take it out of the savings." I wasn't supposed to hear that, and I only understood it years later. You didn't really have the money for this outing, but we were going anyway, because you knew how important it was to us. My friends and I had been sharing rumors for months about the movie, and how we had heard that Darth Vader's helmet was going to come off. (How did rumors like that spread before the internet?) I have never forgotten how you somehow made this important moment happen for us when it wasn't easy to do, and I am grateful.

Dad, I wish the cultural winds of the last 30+ years had not pushed us so far off into the political ocean. For a very long time, I was right there with you, adjusting the sails of our ships for maximum wind. And I know you were proud. And I know you didn't think our politics and our faith got too intertwined or became indistinguishable.

But...I became convinced they did. I became convinced of a lot of things.

As I caught a different wind and changed course, I'm sure it broke your heart as much as it did mine that our courses kept growing further and further apart. Some parents and kids find each other again in later life, in their 60's and 40's, after having grown apart earlier. We were the opposite, it seemed. The times of the world post-2010 just seemed to become more polarized than ever, and by then, we weren't seeing the world much the same way at all, and weren't talking about these things at all, either. There wasn't much "common ground"-finding going on, and finding common ground that didn't readily present itself was never one of our strengths.

I'm sorry we couldn't resolve this while you were here. If we had tried, I don't know that it would have been possible. But I do wish we could have tried.

Since you've been gone, I have found myself dwelling more on a younger version of you, a version I was just old enough back then to remember now. A version of you that still had most of life ahead, that was convinced ministry was the way, and was determined to pursue it, even though that meant leaving behind a military life in which you thrived.

I treasure this young man's smile and laugh, his Gospel preaching that was simple and unencumbered with partisanship, his Snoopy tie pin, his left-handed softball swing, his mustache, his handwriting, his '78 Chevette, his hair part that he imparted to me, with neither of us ever imagining I would go bald.

Dad, I know I don't know what all went into making you the person you were, especially the things that were difficult, but I have thought about you every single day for the past year, and in all of it, what turns up the most is that I am grateful.

If you have awareness of me now, and when you have awareness of me again later, I pray our wound will be healed. Not gone as if it never happened, but your heart left stronger for having been broken by a son, and then healed again by a Father. 

May God's rest continue to be upon you, dear one.