Stories about Stories: Jacob’s Dream

Stories about Stories: Jacob’s Dream

The following story is based on Genesis 28:10-22.

Jacob woke up one day after a very strange dream. The details had slipped away from him, but a residual question was orbiting his mind, an echo of a lost memory: Where is God not? He didn’t pay it much attention. After all, this was Tuesday, and it was time for school. All the same, though, it echoed over and over again, rolling around in his head.

He stumbled out of bed and began pulling on his clothes. As he tied he shoes, the question came to him again, Where is God not? He looked at his shoes, and decided to try a little experiment. Is God in my shoes? He wondered to himself. Just before he wrote the question of as silly, something sparked within him. My parents didn’t have to buy me these shoes, he thought to himself, but they chose to, because they care for me. If they only cared about themselves, they wouldn’t care if I had good shoes, but I do. Something within them led them to love me and buy me shoes. Isn’t that God? Yes, he concluded. God is in these shoes.

Jacob rarely bothered with breakfast, and he was still struggling to wake up as his mom dropped him off at school. Where is God not? his mind continued to echo. As they did every morning, they drove past a tall and impressive, stone Catholic church downtown. He looked up, as he always did, at the tallest point, there was a statue of Jesus standing there with his arms open wide. They drove on to school.

His first class was Algebra 2. Brutal first thing in the morning. Today, as he looked at a whiteboard filled with numbers, letters, and formulas, he decided to ask himself again, is God in this math? As he looked up again, he saw the board differently. Instead of a hassle, for the first time, he saw wonder. He felt like Neo, glimpsing the complicated, green codes that held his universe together. He totally missed whatever the teacher was saying, but for a brief moment, sat in wonder at the language before him. Yes, he concluded. God is in the math.

Later in the day, the lunch hour rolled around. He shuffled through the line and took his square of suspicious looking lasagna. As he made his way to his table to sit with his friends, the thought occurred to him again. Is God in this lasagna? Thinking about it, he imagined what was about to happen. He was about to eat his food, fuel for his body to do some kind of work. He thought about the people he was going to eat it with, thought about all of the stories they had shared over other suspicious looking meals at that same table. He thought about how those conversations helped him feel not as lonely, helped him get to know these students as people, not just classmates. He thought about people that sat alone, that didn’t have a space like this, and just as he thought, yes, God is in the lasagna, he had another thought, more on an urge. Whatever it was that made him grateful for his food, his friends, whatever it was that made him stand in awe in front of the mystery of mathematics, whatever it was that had compelled his parents to buy him shoes, it compelled him to walk past his table to another inhabited by only one guy. He knew this guy ate alone most days, and he was pretty awkward to be around. Nevertheless, he invited him over to his table with his friends. He knew his friends would give him crap about it later, but he didn’t care. God was in the food, and God was in the invitation.

That night, after a mountain of homework, he fell into bed and finally dropped his phone long enough to fall asleep. He dreamt again. It was the same dream he had the night before, but this time, he held on to it. Somehow, his entire day was unfolded before him. He could simultaneously see his bedroom, classrooms, lunch rooms, and everywhere he had visited that day. He saw the tall Catholic church, but as he looked up at it’s tallest point, looking for the exalted Christ, but Jesus was not there. Disturbed, he started looking around, and there he saw him. Jesus was in a shoe store, purchasing him a pair of shoes. He was in a cosmic classroom, molding mathematical formulas as if they were his clay playthings. He was in the school kitchen, serving the food. He was in the lunch room, pointing Jacob to the student sitting alone at his table.

“Oh Jacob,” said a voice from next to him, making him jump. He turned and Jesus was surveying the scene with him. “Whether you all know it or not,” he continued, “I am never further away than your very breath.” Jesus turned and looked at Jacob. “You can either go through the motions of your day, a boring story of cold facts and events. Or…” Jesus turned to gesture back to the grand stage of Jacob’s dream, “You can choose to see this. To live an exciting story and worship in the face of mystery. The choice is always yours.”


What do you notice about this story?

What does this story make you wonder about?

Who do you most identify with and why?

What might the author be saying about God in this story?

Why did people think this story was important enough to keep? What does it say about them that it still says about us?

How does this story encourage or challenge you?


[Image taken from the St. John’s Bible]


Stories about Stories: The Binding of Isaac

Stories about Stories: The Binding of Isaac

A teenager sits on the couch of her grandmother’s house, utterly exhausted. The day has taken everything out of her, and all she can’t shake the anxious feeling that she’s forgotten something, some assignment or chore or piece of homework. In walks her grandma, all dressed, her purse slung over her shoulder, saying it’s time to go to church. The teenager would rather crawl into a hole and be buried than leave the couch, and she tells her grandmother as much. “I don’t have time for that,” she complains.

Rather than insist, the grandmother sits down next to her granddaughter and asks what’s going on. Well, the granddaughter has been waiting for just a time such as this, and the floodgates open. She starts to tell her grandma how much she had to do at school, how much homework her teachers demanded of her, how much energy soccer demanded of her, how much attention friends demanded of her, how she feels like she isn’t pretty enough and smart enough, and how many chores and responsibilities parents demanded of her. When she finishes, she just wants to collapse on the floor, such is the weight of their expectation.

The grandma gets the point, but instead of agreeing and staying home, the grandma says she wants to tell her granddaughter a story. “Once upon a time,” she starts, “there was an old man named Abraham.”

The granddaughter says she doesn’t want to hear the story, but the grandma shushes her and carries on.

“This old man named Abraham and his wife Sarah had been unable to have kids for years, and when they had gotten too old to have kids, Abraham’s God miraculously provided them with a son anyway, and they named him Isaac, which means laughter because of how ridiculous it was that this old woman had a baby.

“Now all around Abraham there were other kinds of tribes that served all sorts of gods. If the tribes wanted their crops to grow, they would sacrifice to their god. If they wanted rain, they’d sacrifice to their god. When the crops didn’t grow or the rain didn’t come, they’d sacrifice more. When the crops did grow and the rains did come, they’d have to offer a sacrifice of thanks, but they lived in constant fear that they weren’t sacrificing enough, that the gods would get mad and prevent the crops from growing or stop the rain. So they sacrificed more and more and more, and many of them even went so far as to sacrifice what was most valuable to them, their own children, just to survive.

“Abraham knew about these tribes, he knew how hungry gods could be, which is why when his God asked him to offer his own son as a burnt offering, he wasn’t surprised.”

The granddaughter’s face shows that she things this is horrific, but the grandmother continues.

“He went about gathering the wood, calling for a couple of servants, a donkey, and his son, Isaac, and started off on the three day journey to find the mountain where he would offer up his son. Eventually, they make it, and Abraham tells his servants to wait while he and his son go to worship on the mountain, and then he and his son would come back and get them.”

The granddaughter interrupts, pointing out that Abraham couldn’t come back with his son if his son were dead, but her grandmother shushes her with a smile and keeps telling the story.

“Walking up the mountain, Isaac asked the obvious question: ‘If we’re going to sacrifice to God, where’s the sheep to sacrifice?’ Abraham replied, ‘God will provide the sacrifice, my son.’

“When they reached the top, Abraham grabbed Isaac and tied him up. He made an altar, and put Isaac up on top. He took his knife and raised it up to kill his son, but then, God grabbed his arm.

“‘Stop!’ his God said. ‘Abraham, I’ve done this to show you that I am not like the other gods. They eat up their people, they demand and demand and take and take and are never satisfied, but that is not the God you serve. Look behind you, I have provided you a ram for your sacrifice, but don’t hurt your son. I ask for trust and mercy, not sacrifice. I’ll provide for you, and as long as you trust me and work alongside me to re-create the world into something beautiful, you’ll never have to worry about whether or not you’re good enough or you’ve given enough.’

“Abraham turned around and saw the ram. He freed Isaac, and offered the ram God had provided in gratitude that this God was not like the other gods.”

The grandma stops here and asks her granddaughter, “Well, don’t you see?”

The granddaughter, confused, asks, “See what?”

“Oh child,” the grandma says, “you spend all day with hungry gods that demand your sacrifices. You give and give, trying to earn your place in the world. But as long as you are trusting that God is re-creating the world into something beautiful through love, as long as you’re participating in that work, you’ll never have to worry about whether you’ve done enough, or whether you’re good enough. You are enough.”

[Image taken from:]

Do I Still Need to Wait Until Marriage? A Conversation with a Teenager about Sexual Standards

Do I Still Need to Wait Until Marriage? A Conversation with a Teenager about Sexual Standards

Naomi and her son had just placed their drink orders, a coffee and an orange juice, when Naomi looked around the cafe and felt a warm nudge of gratitude. As she scanned the room, she listened to the static of the Saturday breakfast rush. All around her people were engaged in noisy conversation, sipping coffee and poking at their pancakes. She turned her attention back to her 16 year old son, Matt, who sat across from her with his legs dangling from his tall stool. Today was their biweekly mother-son breakfast to check in. She and her husband had two kids, a boy and a girl, and they had made a practice of setting aside time every Saturday morning to have breakfast with one of their children. She had come to treasure this space. It was a symbol of an open invitation into one another’s lives, and their relationships were richer as a result.

Naomi reached back into her arsenal of open-ended reflection questions and pulled one out to begin their time. “Okay,” she began, her son meeting her eye, “what’s something you have been wondering about this week?”

“Crap,” Matt replied abruptly, “you beat me.” There was always an unspoken race to ask the first question. Whoever won wouldn’t have to talk first, doing the hard work of waking up and thinking first thing on a Saturday morning. “Right,” he continued, squinting his eyes in thought, “what have I been wondering about?” He took a moment to look back over his week. They had decided early on to be okay with long stretches of reflective silence in these conversations. Matt’s eyebrows raised as he remembered. He cocked his head. “Well, one thing I’ve been wondering about is sex.”

Now this took Naomi off guard. They had eaten many breakfasts together at this cafe, and had developed a comfortable posture towards difficult conversations with each other, but nothing had really prepared her for her son to ask about sex. Of course, she and her husband had brought up the subject a few times, equipping their kids with some of the facts they would need to know and expressing their own values and expectations for their children’s sexual expression. However, no substantial conversation had ever followed from the kids. The comments served more to establish a sense of safety and permission to have further conversations whenever the time came. Well, she thought to herself, I suppose the time has come!

She kept her cool and invited Matt to continue. “Sure,” she said, feigning causal interest, “can you share more specifically what you have been wondering about?”

“Yeah,” Matt went on, “I guess I’m wondering when you think people should start having sex? Is it after marriage, or…” his voice trailed off, not really knowing how to finish the question.

Naomi immediately had a million follow up questions, each more anxious than the last. However, she knew her fear wouldn’t help Matt navigate this question. She also knew a fearful interrogation might cause him to shut down, and the safe space she and her husband had worked so hard to establish might be compromised. So instead, she chose to calmly affirm his question and echo it back to him to be sure she understood correctly.

“That sounds like a really good thing to be wondering about,” she said, nodding and smiling gently. “I’m glad you’re thinking through this so that you can make more responsible decisions. It sounds like you’re asking what we should be using as a good standard for when it’s okay to have sex. Does that sound about right?”

“Yeah,” Matt said, relaxing and lighting up a bit more. He seemed relieved and grateful to be able to engage this question that had been rolling around in his mind. “That’s what I’m thinking about.”

“It might be helpful if you could tell me where you’re coming from,” she told him. “I mean, what kinds of thoughts have you had as you’ve wondered about this this week?” She knew this part might be difficult, but she put all of her effort into just listening well without judging or composing her next comments.

“I don’t know,” Matt said, looking at his fork. Then he cocked his head again and looked up at nothing in particular. “I guess if you really love somebody, then it’s okay? I don’t know,” he said again, “I think it would be helpful if you could just tell me what you think for a minute and we can go from there?” She nodded along, recognizing the language he had picked up from peers.

“Sure,” Naomi repeated, again echoing his thoughts back to him for clarity. “I think I hear you saying that if you really love someone, then it’s alright to have sex, but you are frustrated that you can’t define it a little more clearly than that?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, I think that sounds right.”

“Okay,” she replied. “I’d be glad to walk you through how I think about it, and then we can explore that a little bit.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. Matt waited patiently in the silence. He knew it meant she was taking their conversation seriously. “Well,” Naomi began, “this is my experience: My mom grew up Catholic. She believed what her church taught her, which was that sex always had to have the goal of making a baby, or else it wasn’t okay. By this standard, even a married couple using birth control is wrong, because then sex wouldn’t result in a baby.”

“Um, what?” Matt interjected, his face screwed up in confusion and disapproval. “So you’re saying that to them, sex wasn’t ever a fun thing, it just served a purpose?”

“I know,” his mom responded with a grin, “let’s call it the procreation standard. You know, sex scares a lot of people, makes them really uncomfortable. If they, the church in this case, could just relegate it to a utilitarian use, it makes it much easier to deal with. There’s way less room for what they would have seen as sexual immorality.”

“Yeah, and fun,” Matt jabbed.

“Ha,” Naomi said in agreement. “You’ll find that, especially in this conversation, lots of people are going to make it a black and white thing, no shades of gray or room for conversation.” She and her husband had always done their best to point their kids to the stories of Jesus in which he questioned the black and white standards, teaching that God’s love rarely led to a dualistic, only one thing or the other, kind of choice. They believed all of life was a prayer-grounded conversation to find ways to express God’s love.

Naomi continued. “My dad’s family, on the other hand, was protestant. Their only standard was: are they married? If you were married, it was okay. If you weren’t, it wasn’t. Those were the two choices. Again, there was no room in between. Those were the expectations that my parents set for me when it came to setting a standard for when it was okay to have sex. I remember one night my youth minister made us all sign a piece of paper vowing that we would not have sex until we were married. I’ll bet you about ten percent of that group kept their promise.” Naomi chuckled. “What kind of holes can you poke in that one?”

Matt furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. “Well, I can see how that would solve some problems that are caused by sleeping around, but not enough for that to be the primary reason. I guess I don’t see why that standard was set in the first place. Is it in the Bible?”

“Hmm, not exactly,” Naomi responded. “Yes, the Bible talks a lot about sexual immorality, but it always seems to be more about using sex in some kind of abusive way. It seems to be about using sex selfishly, abusing it, and hurting people along the way. It’s not hard to see why there are prohibitions against that. For the marriage standard, you kind of have to read your own cultural assumptions into the scripture, assuming they defined ‘immorality’ the same as you did. You’ve got to be careful when you’re talking about a ‘Biblical standard’ for marriage, though. If you do that, you’re going to run into standards in which men basically own women, where women are executed for adultery and men can get away with it, where you can have multiple wives at the same time, where you can use marriage to manipulate or control folks… you’ve got to work a little harder than just pointing to the Bible when you’re talking about where God might be leading when it comes to marriage and sex.”

“Okay,” Matt said, “so from there, we still need a better standard.”

“Correct,” Naomi replied. “I mean, I think each of these standards might have a really helpful glimpse of the truth, but at the end of the day they echo a problem that the church has always dealt with: trying to control people’s outside, moral behavior more than caring about people’s formation on the inside. Dictating rules is a whole lot easier than the messy job of helping people fall in love with God. Jesus taught us that you can follow all of the rules, while at the same time not letting God’s love transform you from the inside out. To me, these standards reflect that problem. You can be married, and still have sex that is abusive. Same with procreative sex, it can still hurt more than it heals.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I get that. Like how Jesus said it wasn’t enough to not murder if you’re still going to hate somebody, or how it’s not enough not to have sex with someone else’s wife if you’re still going to look at her and lust. You’re saying it’s not enough to just be married, or for it to be procreative, something else has to be happening on the inside.”

“Exactly,” Naomi said, nodding gently but enthusiastically. “In having sex, like everything else we do, we should be seeking to embody God’s love for ourselves and others. That line of thinking helped me uncover a new standard, one I’m going to call Procreative 2.0.” Matt gave her a skeptical look. “No, no,” she chuckled, “Hear me out. This one involves asking yourself questions like: Does this sexual encounter create life and love? Not biological life, but spiritual life? Does it draw us in to what God is doing, creating loving, respectful, self-giving community? Does it do that, or does it draw us away from the community, away from God, isolating us and bringing us shame? Does it make us see ourselves as less than what we really are, beloved children of God?”

She paused as the waiter arrived with their pancakes. After they thanked him and got situated, Matt took a bite and looked at her expectantly, inviting her to continue. She took the invitation “Or, you could talk about it as a hospitality standard,” she said. “Here, you could ask questions like: Does your sexual activity create space for you and your partner to become more of who God is calling you to be? Does it have the patience and self control to explore the small steps towards intimacy and self-giving? Or is it all about jumping in with impatient self-indulgence? Is it just about feeling good, even when that means reducing someone else to an object? I believe these are the kinds of questions you have to ask, the kinds of standards you have to set in discerning whether or not it’s okay to have sex.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, eating their breakfast and letting the thoughts sink in. “I just said a lot,” Naomi said between mouthfuls. “You probably have some thoughts about this.” She wanted to invite him to speak without interrogating him.

Matt nodded, working on a bite of bacon. “Yeah, I think I just need to think about this for a while. I mean, I really like the standards you’re talking about, they’re just more complicated, less black and white. Picking the right choice takes some thought and time, I guess.”

“And prayer,” Naomi interjected.

“And prayer,” Matt agreed. “I like how what you said means it has to be an intentional choice, not just something you can rush into. It also makes you respect your partner more, you can’t just take advantage of them.”

“That’s right,” Naomi said. “But I should say that one of the problems is trusting yourself to make the right choice. Our own judgements tend to be a little biased. I think we should always keep some community in our lives that can help ask us the hard questions we don’t want to ask ourselves.” Matt nodded. “But one more thing,” Naomi added, “and I know this is going to sound bad, but I want you to give me the benefit of the doubt for a minute.” Matt looked at her questioningly. “For teenagers, abstinence is usually the best choice.” His questioning eyes turned to skeptical eyes. “Hold on, hold on!” his mom said, putting her palm up. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but if we’re going to talk about things biologically, the typical teenager’s brain is not developed enough to be able to deal with this choice in a healthy way. So while I will equip you with the knowledge you need to be safe, and the choice is always yours, I do strongly advise you to wait until you are older.”

Matt, still looking skeptical, nodded. “I don’t know if I agree, but I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” his mom said with a smile. Naomi hadn’t forgotten her fear and curiosity about why her son was giving this so much thought. “I wonder if you would mind telling me more about why you’ve been wondering about this.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Matt chuckled, picking up on some of his mother’s insinuation. “We’ve just been talking about it for a few weeks at church, and they’ve been encouraging us to think through our own values and talk to our parents about it to get their thoughts.”

Naomi breathed a subtle sigh of relief. “Well, you know your dad and I are here and ready to talk to you whenever you need to talk more about this. You ought to ask him about it next week when you’re out at breakfast, he may have a slightly different take on your question than I did.”

“Yeah, I will,” Matt said, sipping his orange juice. “Thanks for not being weird about this and being open to talk to me.”

“Of course,” Naomi said with a smile.

“Okay, your turn,” Matt started, pulling out another of their weekly questions. “What has been the most life-giving thing that’s happened to you this week?” Naomi sat and thought about it for a moment before sharing a couple of stories with her son from the past few days. These Saturday breakfasts really were one of her favorite parts of the week.

[Image taken from]

What You May Have Accidentally Done When You Voted For Trump

What You May Have Accidentally Done When You Voted For Trump

Dear Trump Voter,

I can’t say that I know why you voted for Trump, but I have a pretty good idea, and I get it. I’m not saying I voted for him, but I see that there are plenty of legitimate reasons to vote for Trump. Sure, he’s not the best role model, but you’re not really voting for him, you’re voting for the party. You’re voting for a conservative, Republican administration. You’re concerned about economics, foreign affairs, and the direction of the Supreme Court, and you think a Republican administration can do a better job. That is completely legitimate. That is democracy.

Now that the election is over, you kind of wish everyone could move on. I mean, we can all agree it’s been a particularly stressful election cycle. The Democratic candidate lost and you think everyone needs to move forward. You might even think your Democrat friends on Facebook are being a little dramatic using words like “grief” to describe their feelings.

Let me be clear, I am not grieving because my candidate lost. I am not a sore loser. This is not about political partisanship. I believe in democracy, and respect the results of the election. I will call him President Trump and recognize him as my president. And if it were John McCain or Mitt Romney, I would be all for moving forward. My grief is about something different than my team losing or winning.

If you voted for Trump, you accomplished all of the things I mentioned above. But, it is important to acknowledge that you may have accidentally done something more.

Wednesday, on Baylor’s campus, a black student named Natasha was pushed off of the sidewalk by a man saying, “No n*****s allowed on the sidewalk!” A student behind her challenged the attacker, asking, “What are you doing?” to which the attacker said, “I’m just trying to make America great again!”

(Read more about it and hear her account here:

In response, we gathered this morning with a large crowd on Baylor’s campus to walk with Natasha between classes. We wanted to remind her that she was a beloved child of God and to send a message to the campus that hate speech is unacceptable. As we walked, I talked with a professor who articulated something I hadn’t yet put into words. She pointed out that a vote for Trump was a legitimization of hate speech. Whatever else it did, it gave hope to hate groups across the nation. Nobody got to carefully nuance their vote, there was no comment section on a ballot to explain why you voted for your candidate. All people got to do was vote for a man, and the man won.

So whether you intended it or not, whatever your legitimate intentions, Trump’s election sent the message that it is okay to say misogynistic, racist, hateful things, and to do misogynistic, racist, hateful things. The Klan endorsed Trump, and they won. That is what I am grieving, and whether you are a Republican or a Democrat, you should be grieving that too.

Please don’t be defensive. I am not calling you misogynistic, racist, or hateful. I know this wasn’t your intent when you voted for Trump. I know you’re a good person, but being a good person now means fighting this thing that you had some hand in bringing about. It is now your inescapable responsibility to stand up against hate speech in all forms. While you got what you wanted and conservative Republicans are in control, you also stoked a flame you didn’t mean to stoke, and it is your duty to quench it. That is the only way to really make your vote what you meant for it to be.

Your fellow American,

Zach Helton

[Photo taken from:]

A Dinner Table Conversation on Race

A Dinner Table Conversation on Race

“…and the third candidate I interviewed was a young black woman,” Aunt Celia continued, “I was just so impressed. She dressed well and she was just so articulate.” At this, Alexander looked up from his plate, repeating her last words in his head: Just so articulate.

It’s not worth interrupting dinner, he reasoned. It won’t do any good. He looked around the dinner table, wondering what would happen if he challenged this subtle parcel of racism. Alexander, a public high school teacher in his early thirties, sat at a large, wooden dining room table with an empty chair to his left and his father to his right. Across the table was his Aunt Celia, sitting between her husband, Ulysses, and her son, Howard. Howard had just begun a new job at his father’s insurance agency. Alexander’s mother sat on one end of the table, and his sister sat at the other. His middle-class, suburban family typically got along well. Dinners were usually a pleasant affair and he didn’t want to interrupt that now. But wait, said an annoying voice in his head, aren’t they always so good-natured because everyone is always too scared to say anything real? He sighed quietly through his nose. That was a good point. It seemed he had to make a choice: Am I about to calmly, respectfully challenge my aunt, or am I about to ignore it? Considering how the latter was a luxury many didn’t have, he quietly sighed again and realized that he had already made his choice.

“You know,” Alexander started carefully, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but that phrase you used about a black person being articulate… some people see it as a form of subtle aggression. People don’t really usually mean anything offensive by it, but still, it kind of is.” It took a second for everyone to realize he was disagreeing with something his aunt had said, so rarely had that happened at the history of their table. Then it took another second for them to weigh just how rude his breach was. His sister gave a neutral sounding hmm of acknowledgment and appreciation as she took a bite of rice. His cousin Howard, however, cocked his head and bit and furrowed his eyebrows. Before anyone could speak, though, Celia responded.

“I don’t think it’s racist to pay someone a complement like that,” Celia said. She looked down at her knife as she carved her chicken. She punched racist dismissively. Alexander’s parents watched curiously as they ate, resigning themselves to be spectators to this conversation for the time being. This was more or less the reaction Alexander anticipated. “I’ve hired several black people throughout the years, a few of them became my good friends,” Celia continued. She worked in the financial aid department of a local college. This was a response Alexander heard a lot, the equivalent of saying, “I’m not racist, I have black friends!” It made about as much sense as someone saying, “I’m not sexist, I have a girlfriend!”

“Sure, I get that,” Alexander said, “I definitely wasn’t implying that you would do anything intentionally hateful toward black people. The thing is, though, that hate is just one kind of racism, isn’t it? I mean, there is overt, explicit racism, the kind of stuff that makes you think of hate crimes, offensive jokes, or white hoods, but racism can also be really, really subtle and cultural. Only one may be violent, but both are dangerous.” He saw that Howard was opening his mouth to retort. By the look on his face, this was about to take a turn into a defensive argument. Wanting to keep it from going there, Alexander jumped back in before his cousin could speak.

“Hang on, hang on,” he said, holding up a hand and smiling, “I don’t think I explained well!” He paused to collect his thoughts, “Think of it like this: The United States, in spite of our ideals about freedom and democracy, was founded on the extermination of Native Americans and built on the backs of enslaved blacks, right? Both of these were only possible because they were fueled by an underlying sense that white people were somehow superior to others. Over time we’ve challenged and mostly put an end to these explicit expressions of hate-racism, but the underlying idea is a lot harder to get rid of, right? It’s embedded in our culture, like a birth defect or a disease. I’ve read one person call it ‘America’s original sin.’ Now, slavery and legal segregation have come to an end, but those big victories can sometimes blind us to the underlying, subtle, but still harmful, racist old habits of our culture.”

He made a point to look at his Aunt. “The reason I decided to say something just now is because things get worse when we, the people with the power, deny that we have these habits. People get hurt when we ignore the fact that there’s unconscious racism at work. The thing is, though, I don’t think we whites have really noticed our racist habits because they benefits us. We’re doing okay. But if we listen to the black voices getting louder and louder, they’re pointing out the ways our unconscious racism is keeping them down. Take the protests over the recent police shootings, for example…”

“Come on, you can’t use that,” his flustered cousin finally jumped in. “If you don’t do what an officer tells you, it’s your fault when they use force, isn’t it? Why would officers treat me differently just because I’m white?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Alexander said. “It’s really easy for you to say that as a white person who enjoys the privilege of not being discriminated against. It’s easier for you and I to say that because we’re not pulled over all the time or followed in stores. We can send our kids to the park and not be afraid they’re going to be shot. It’s our responsibility, though, to listen to the voices who are saying that is their experience, who are saying that our white experience isn’t the norm. Their experience is different. We have to listen even if it makes us uncomfortable to realize that we’re complicit in a…”

Howard jumped back in. “People get followed when they look like they’re up to something, and pulled over when they’re doing something wrong.”

“See, I think that’s an example of subtle, unconscious racism,” Alexander persisted. “Really, as embarrassing as it may be to admit, to us they look like they’re up to something because they’re black. They’re speaking in a dialect we associate with thugs, or wearing clothes we associate with criminals. That’s another thing, we are assuming our way of speaking and our white, middle class clothes and accents are normal and professional. They’re just what we, as people in power, are used to, so we see them as normal. That’s an example of an implicit bias against blacks that hides in each of our unconscious minds. The only way of really noticing it’s there and doing something about it is by listening to and taking seriously the stories black people are telling. The more I really try to get acquainted with my black students’ experience, the more I find that we have had really different experiences just because of our race.”

He lit up, remembering a conversation he had had recently with the parents of one of his students. “Here is a great example. Do you all know about ‘the talk’ black parents have with their kids?” Alexander directed this last question to the whole room and watched them wiggle uncomfortably. They were all thinking of their answer, but no one wanted to say the “s word” out loud. Everyone, of course, but Alexander’s sister, a college student in her early twenties.

“Like, the sex talk, right?” she asked with ebbing patience for her family.

“No, that’s just it!” Alexander exclaimed, looking at his sister gratefully. “That’s the white version of ‘the talk!’ This is a great example of how our experiences as white people are just so different from a black experience. You can ask nearly any black parent in the United States about ‘the talk,’ and they will tell you that it is a talk they got from their parents and they give to their kids about what to do if they have to deal with a police officer, how to get home safe! Nearly any black parent! And we have no idea! Our experiences are still so segregated! White privilege means that we never have to have that ‘talk’ with our kids, because we who benefit from white privilege don’t live in fear of the police!”

There were a few moments of silence. Alexander realized he may have gotten too excited by the end of that last bit and put his family off. He was about to apologize when his dad jumped in with a smirk and a chuckle. “You keep talking about our different experience, but we all have the chance to make the same choices, you can’t deny that. I mean, the playing field has been leveled. It’s not like it was before the 60’s. People can go to whatever school they want, buy whatever house they want, do drugs or not, drink or not, save money or not, I mean, we all have the same choices to make. I went to high school with several black people who ended up in very different places than I did. I chose not to steal or deal drugs, to save up money, to raise a family, and here we are. You seem to be saying that that option wasn’t available to them, but I can’t buy that.” This time it was Alexander’s sister that spoke in response.

“You have the same choices, sure,” she said, “but they’re not really the same. There was a professor last semester that did this experiment with her class, right? She invites half the class to come in at a certain time to start playing a game of Monopoly. They play for an hour or so, making their way around the board saving money and buying up properties, and after they had gotten a good head start, they invite the rest of the class to join. The rest of the class can play just like everyone else now, by the same rules, but it wasn’t the same for them, was it? The property had been bought! Everybody else had money and hotels and houses! Yeah, the new players started with some money, just like everyone else, but from the minute they start they have no chance of buying property. They have to pay rent at every space, and they’re lucky to make it around the board once without going bankrupt, right? Everybody’s playing the same game, but for some it’s no fun at all, it’s just stressful! Without the other players agreeing to change the rules or give the new players some kind of handout or leg up, or without the new players cheating and doing something against the rules, the new players don’t have much of a chance of doing good at all. That’s more what it’s like. So, sure, you have the same choices, but your experience of playing the game is so so different that it’s not really fair to call the choices the same.”

“Um, that’s awesome.” Alexander said. He had never heard that before. “That seems like a really good way to think about it. And if several generations of players have been playing this same unfair game, it kind of creates a mindset, a set of assumptions, a culture that it’s hard to break out of.” He paused, mulling the image over in his mind. “I heard another example of a high school teacher who told the class that they would be playing a game, and the person with the most points would get a prize. He put a trashcan in the front of the classroom, gave wadded up pieces of paper to everyone in the front two rows, and said they would get one point per shot into the garbage can. They started, but immediately there were protests from the back two rows that they weren’t allowed to have wadded papers to shoot. The professor asked the class if they should make it fair and give the students in the back paper too, and they said yes, so he have them the paper. Still, though, no one from the back two rows could make the shot because they were so far away and there were so many people in front of them. They were also so far behind in points by that time, they had no hope of catching up.

“All that to say again, while it looks like everyone has the same chances, the odds are still stacked against some. Sure, schools were integrated, but the best teachers and equipment still went to the white, suburban schools. Sure, non-whites could get hired at jobs that payed a lot of money, but bosses still largely preferred to hire people that looked like them. Everyone is now allowed to shoot at the trashcan, but the odds are still stacked.”

Celia’s husband, Ulysses spoke next. “You know what frustrates me about all this, though? This generation is so obsessed with being politically correct. It seems like people are looking for opportunities to be offended. It makes it really hard for me to believe that there are actually problems and not just ‘problems’ everyone conjures up.” He put “problems” in air quotes. He had obviously been holding onto this thought for a little while at the expense of actually listening to the conversation. Alexander took a patient breath, but it was his sister that jumped in.

“Stop using politically correct as an insult!” she shot. “The whole idea of political correctness is to try to respect people and make sure we aren’t just casually putting them down by the way we talk about them! The only people who are bothered by being asked to be politically correct are the people who have gotten so used to being in power, and now they’re mad that they have to share it!”

“Which I think is probably all of us here!” Alexander interjected before Ulysses could aim his retort. “It may be that this generation is more sensitive than others and may occasionally create problems where one doesn’t actually exist,” he looked at his sister and shot her a look that he hoped told her to calm down. She closed her mouth and he continued, “but it doesn’t mean that there aren’t real and immediate problems to be addressed. Think about this: if you are in a public school and need to find a band-aid, can you be reasonably sure that they’ll have one that matches your skin tone? If you go to a hotel, can you be confident that they’ll have shampoo that works with your hair? If you interview for a job,” here he glanced back at Cecilia, “you can be confident that the way you speak or dress is going to be considered normal and professional. If you call the police, you’re pretty sure they’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, right? This is our, white experience. Blacks in our country are telling us, very clearly, that this is not usually the case for them, and we can see it pretty clearly in the small, band-aid and shampoo examples of what our society calls ‘normal.’ We can’t consider our experience as whites normal, but privileged. We have been holding the power, even if we haven’t let ourselves see it. Our answers to these questions prove that something is very wrong, and it is our responsibility as beneficiaries of privilege to listen, give those we have oppressed the benefit of the doubt, and do something! We can’t just write them off because they make us uncomfortable or we’re frustrated at being accused of not being ‘politically correct.’”

After a moment, Alexander’s dad asked, “Well its kind of hard for us to take it all seriously when they’re out there rioting and looting, isn’t it? Standing in the middle of a highway and blocking traffic isn’t the way to get your point across. You shoot yourself in the foot if you’re trying to get a message out like that.”

Alexander nodded, not making eye contact. “A riot is the language of the unheard,” he said, quoting Martin Luther King Jr. “I suspect they’ve been telling us for years, but we’ve been too comfortable to listen.”

“So you’re saying that’s okay?” his father challenged. “That the rioting and the shooting is all justified?” There was another pause.

“No,” Alexander said softly after a moment. “People have gotten hurt. Violence can never be a solution if our goal is mutual respect and equality. I am just trying to understand, and not write anyone off. If I had a son and he was killed by a police officer, and my neighbor’s son was unjustly arrested, and I knew my grandfather had been attacked by a police dog, if I walked around every day afraid for my children’s wellbeing and knowing the odds of being respected in my society are overwhelmingly stacked against them… how long do you think that tension can hold before something breaks?” The room was quiet for a few seconds. “I can’t judge their violence, because I daily benefit from the system that created it,” Alexander finished, not taking his eyes off of his plate. He thought briefly that this must have been what Jesus meant when he said I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother.

“I hope you don’t think I was trying to disrespect you, Aunt Celia,” Alexander said calmly, “or proclaim myself morally superior to you, or accuse you of being hateful. I didn’t want to say anything at all, but I felt like I had to. People keep justifying not saying anything by the idea that our culture just needs more time to evolve, but the thing is when it comes to culture, time is neutral. This isn’t just going to work itself out. The subtle problems will continue to be problems, maybe even working their way into bigger and more overt problems unless they are intentionally challenged. Whites have to repent of the privilege they hold at the expense of others. We have to be dedicated and persistent, that’s the only way change will happen.”

“How do we do that, though?” asked his father, “How are we supposed to ‘repent of privilege?’”

Alexander thought for a moment. “That’s a good question,” he said, “I’m not sure I have a straightforward answer. I suspect that if we pay more attention and start to notice our privilege more, it will become more clear to each of us individually where we use it and how we can give it up. To develop that, I suppose we could better listen to the voices of people of color, even, or especially when it makes us uncomfortable. Maybe we learn to ask good questions of black people rather than assuming we know the answer. Hopefully that will help us learn how to stand up and say something when we see racism.”

He thought for another moment. “Not paying close attention when there is a news story involving injustice against a black person, not listening seriously to the voices of people of color, not saying anything when we notice racism… these are all forms of privilege we should all give up. Maybe it could also mean saying no to things you know you only got because of your privilege and pointing out unfair practices. It could mean abdicating leadership or administrative roles so that people of color can fill that position.” He noticed his dad’s eyebrow furrow. “I know, that doesn’t sound fair, letting someone else get in front of you in line when you’ve worked hard to get there,” Alexander said, “but remember we’re playing a rigged game of Monopoly here.”

Alexander could tell everyone was kind of frustrated. He was trying to keep himself calm and not get angry. He could sense that they seemed more interested in defending themselves than actually opening themselves to change. His mother seemed to be getting frustrated that they could not just enjoy their meal in peace. His father and his uncle were agitated by his suggestion that their concept of the equal opportunities of the American dream was somehow unfair. Howard was getting frustrated because Alexander had challenged Howard’s mother. Celia was difficult to read, but certainly didn’t seem to want to talk about it any further. It was only his sister that seemed to maintain a sense of open, quiet curiosity to the progression of the conversation.

“Could I just suggest something so we don’t start really getting mad at each other? We’ll all be together again tomorrow, right? I think right now all of our egos may be a bit agitated, and no matter what, I think we need to keep this respectful and loving. I want us all to be able to be open with one another and not scared or mad. It’s a complicated thing worth talking about, and if we are too mad to listen to one another it doesn’t do any good. Maybe we should recognize that we should stop here, take a breath, talk about something else, and if we still want to respectfully talk, we can bring it back up tomorrow at dinner. What do you think about that?”

“Fine by me,” Alexander’s mother finally spoke without hesitation. They ate quietly for a minute before she asked Howard about his new job.

“It’s going really well, actually,” Howard responded. “I’m really grateful for the opportunity. Oh!” he started excitedly. “I share a desk with another guy who told me a joke Friday morning, I meant to tell you guys. What do you call a Mexican flying a plane?”

Alexander stopped chewing. Are you kidding me? he thought.

“A pilot!” He looked at Alexander. “You thought I was going to say something racist, didn’t you?” He grinned.

Alexander just put his forehead down on the table.

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How Baby James Became a Monk (Or, Why the Heltons Moved Into the Susanna Wesley House)

How Baby James Became a Monk (Or, Why the Heltons Moved Into the Susanna Wesley House)

A few days after we moved in to the Susanna Wesley House, an intentional Christian community in Sanger Heights, a friend called to see how we were doing. “So, how is it being a monk?” he asked. Well, we did move into a new-monastic community, so sure, we’ll take it. We’ll be monks. Several people have asked Claire and me (fewer have asked James) about our recent move. Many have asked how it’s going, but most have wanted to know why we decided to do this odd thing, especially with a seven month old (who you can bet will be the cutest monk you have ever seen come Halloween). I’ve given different bits of the answer, but I’ve always felt better about being able to write something down than respond on the spot. It is my hope that the following can more fully answer the question of why we decided to become monks.

Several months ago, I had just finished cutting my lawn and was pushing my lawnmower to the backyard when a voice behind me caused me to stop and turn around. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you,” the voice began. I braced myself. No pleasant conversation I have ever been a part of has ever begun with those words. They’re usually followed by something like: “Do you have a moment to talk about a great opportunity?” or, “Do you have a dollar?” or the dreaded, “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?” I turned around to see who was speaking and saw a man coming across the yard towards me. He was middle aged with a tired face, dirty clothes, and a stained baseball cap over shaggy graying hair. Behind him, still on the sidewalk, was a woman with a similar appearance sitting in a wheelchair and staring at the ground. I smiled at him and he continued. “My wife and I haven’t eaten in two days,” he said, gesturing to the woman behind him. “Do have any yard work I might be able to do around the house to earn something to buy us some food?” My automatic responses kicked in. “I’m sorry, I don’t,” I told him, “but there’s an organization just a few blocks down this road that should be able to help you.” I told him about Mission Waco, what they did, and who he should talk to. He smiled politely and shook my hand, thanking me for the advice before returning to his wife on the sidewalk.

I continued into my backyard and closed the gate behind me. I had barely taken one step when something inside me faltered. No, that wasn’t right, a voice told me. That was not the Christlike response you were asked to give. That was right. There was something in me very willing, eager to help, to give this couple rest, food, and company, but I hadn’t been present to that voice. I rushed inside and looked around, my eyes landing on a bowl of fruit in the middle of our counter. I grabbed two bananas and jogged out the front door, hoping to catch them. They hadn’t gone far. “Sir!” I called out, trotting his way. He stopped and turned around, and I gave them the bananas. That would be something, some kind of sustenance. He thanked me again and they continued towards Mission Waco. But even after that I knew my response wasn’t right. I wanted to invite them in. I had a house full of comfortable chairs, air conditioning, and food, but I couldn’t do it. I was afraid. My wife and my infant son were the only ones inside, and the unpredictability of the situation scared me.

As I walked back inside, I thought, If only we were surrounded by people who could watch out for one another, I’d be braver. If only we were surrounded by people who affirmed and encouraged one another to do the crazy things Jesus called us to, I’d feel freer to obey. If only we were surrounded by people who daily stopped together to be present to God, I’d be able to respond more mindfully. That was not the first time I’d had that feeling, that I was being restrained. It wasn’t the first time individualism, consumerism, fear, and social expectation had held me back from actually being faithful to God’s invitation to radical love. In fact, nearly everything I had felt called to do in the past few years, to live sustainably and simply, to not utilize slave labor, to work for racial reconciliation, to turn the other cheek, to love my enemies, to fast, to feed the hungry, to offer the homeless a place to stay, and generally to love my neighbor as myself, ended with the thought: If only I were not an I, but a we… If only I was a part of a community that would be intentional about these things, then I’d have a chance of actually being faithful to this call. I could be more fully a part of the body of Christ, an agent of God’s love.

On top of that, living in community has come to seem right to me on other levels. It’s how people have thrived throughout much of history, and studies in positive psychology point towards numerous benefits to living in community. Homestead Heritage is an Anabaptist community in Waco that values agrarian, craft-based intentional Christian community defined by simplicity, sustainability, self-sufficiency, cooperation, and service. They try to live into a pre-industrial way of life as much as possible. Once, on a visit to their community, a community member was explaining to our group why they chose to live in such a way. They said, “Really, the way we are living is how people have lived for most of history, and it’s worked very well. Not to offend you, but it is you all who are doing something strange. We’re kind of waiting for it all to fall apart.” That comment expresses a sentiment similar to the one I’ve developed about Western individualism and the way of life we’ve come to recognize as normal. The fruit it bears is often not good: depression, loneliness, apathy towards justice, and ecological abuse, to name a few. In other words, we’re kind of waiting for it all to fall apart.

Living in an intentional Christian community grounded in mission and spiritual formation is something Claire and I have been attracted to for a long time. Before we began seminary, it was something we explored, but at that time it didn’t work out. While we were in seminary we made attempts at intentional community from our home, but quickly proved we needed more help. It was like we had all of the right tools, but no real idea how to use them. We joked that we needed community training wheels! Once we graduated we began to revisit the idea more seriously (which is saying something, since James was born just the week before graduation), and soon came across the Susanna Wesley House. It is a fairly young community that operates as part of a Methodist group of communities called the Epworth Project. We learned that this network of houses operates by a common rule of life that includes a daily rhythm of prayer and shared service, which in this particular house (situated in the middle of a food desert) had taken the form of urban gardening. I asked to meet with the “house steward,” where we found out that he and his wife would soon be moving out and they were looking for someone to take their place. The timing was perfect. We spent the next four months learning more about the house, spending time with the community, and researching new-monastic communities. We moved in on July 27th.

We are fully aware that there is no magic formula for spiritual formation or to make someone more faithful. We know living in a new-monastic community isn’t a silver bullet that will make us finally do all the things we have felt called to do. In fact, we know this will be hard work, and that many communities like ours end up going down in flames. But, we wholeheartedly believe that this is the step God has been inviting us to take. We believe that by encouraging one another, praying for one another, and keeping one another accountable, we can live more deeply rooted in God’s mission to love the world than we ever could have on our own.


5 Reasons You And Your Kid Should Be Talking About Race

5 Reasons You And Your Kid Should Be Talking About Race

I am not an authority on racism. I am a white, privileged male from the south who grew up thinking that the best way to end racism was to stop talking about it. The events of the past two years, however, have jarred me into a new way of looking at things. I am saying up front that I am not sure how to have a healthy conversation about race, and I am not sure what actions such a conversation should prompt, but what I do know is that a conversation must happen.

Below is not a list of ways to talk to your kid about race, nor things you and your kid should do about racial injustice, but rather a list of reasons that this conversation deserves a priority. Not everything below applies to every one of your kids, but hopefully you will see enough of yourself in some of these to realize how important it is to start talking about race with your kid.

1. Your kid may not think they play a role in racial injustice.

Racism is not just conscious hate, it is far more subtle than that. As Scott Woods points out, it is a disease that can take the form of privilege or ignorance. Chances are your kid is confident that they could call the police and assume that the police would be on their side, or that they speak a language that most of the would can understand. It is also likely that they have set the standard of “normal” or respectable to match their cultural assumptions of what hairstyles or clothing should look like. These are just some examples of ways that, unexamined and unmanaged, our kids can be complicit in racial injustice.

2. Your kid sees what is happening in the world, and they are making interpretations whether your voice is a part of them or not.

There are many, especially in the schools our kids attend, who would like to frame the narrative so that it is about a group of unenlightened troublemakers who don’t know any better putting us all at risk. Your kid is putting these events in some kind of interpreted narrative, whether your voice influences that narrative or not.

3.Your kid is likely right in the middle of the conflict with no idea how to navigate it.

Whether your kid attends a predominantly white school in the suburbs, or a predominantly hispanic and African American school in the city, access to and quality of education has been a part of the racial conversation from the beginning. Your kid is in the middle of a bigger story and they’re seeing the effects of that story play out around them whether they recognize where they are standing or not.

4. Your kid likely wants to do something, but is not sure what or how.

I have seen most of the kids in our youth ministry demonstrate deep passion for issues of injustice, specifically with conversations regarding LGBTQ lives and homelessness. If this is any indication, your kid probably wants to know how to be an ally but is not sure what to do or how to do it. Many of them are very good at getting mad and throwing blame, but they need some help recognizing constructive ways to engage.

5. God is love, and God is inviting you and your kid into a mission characterized by justice.

Most of us have become very good at disconnecting ourselves from the reality that people of every race are beloved by God, created in God’s image, and that their suffering is all of our suffering. God invites us into God’s mission to love the entire world, and inherent in that call is an invitation to just reconciliation. The walls between the political and the religious, between the secular and the sacred, they don’t really exist. We can not all fully engage every front to fight injustice, but we must at least become aware, and we want to invite our kids to walk alongside us.

Where to find the information and formation to start this conversation with your kids

There are many good resources available, some of which we are about to begin exploring as a church family. On Wednesday night, July 20th at 7pm, Lake Shore will begin a conversation on race in America. Then, in the fall, there will be a series of seminars tied to the book America’s Original Sin: Racism, White Privilege, and the Bridge to a New America, by Jim Wallis. These are good places to start learning how to have the conversation in a loving and compassionate environment.

If you and your kid would like something to listen to to prepare for this conversation at church, The Liturgists have an accessible, challenging, and engaging podcast called “Black and White: Racism in America,” found here:

Before anything else though, please notice that I titled this “5 Reasons You and Your Kid Should be Talking About Race,” and not “5 Reasons You Should Talk to Your Kid About Race.” There are two reasons for this, one a comfort, and one a challenge. First, you’re probably not an expert on racial injustices, and that’s okay! It can be something you and your kid learn about and discover how to talk about together. You don’t have to have all the answers, your kid won’t judge you for admitting that. Second, it is pretty likely that you have a lot you can learn from your kid. Your kid will have a whole host of experiences with race that you may not know about or they just need help identifying. This should be a dialogue about experiences informed by what you are discovering together, not a lecture!

May each of us enter this conversation compelled by the love of Christ, and may we learn to live more fully into God’s beautifully diverse Kingdom.

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