Thelonious Clemmons

Last month, I had the unique opportunity of participating in a panel discussion as part of the Martin Luther King day festivities. I was the only white person sitting on the panel. I have never felt so white in all of my life. I wouldn’t have felt any more white if I had been eating a mayonnaise sandwhich, while singing a duet with Barry Manilow.

All of that aside, it was a great opportunity to interact with the community. One of the questions that was posed to the panel was whether or not we as a society were any closer to the realization of Dr. King’s dream. It wasn’t until later that I thought of a really good answer to that question. Don’t you hate when that happens? At first glance, the obvious answer to that question is yes. We’ve got more blacks in positions of power, and we’ve even got a brother in serious contention for the presidency. It’s easier now for a black youth to get a college degree, and the days of seperate water fountains seem like ancient history. We seem to be closer to equality now than in days gone by. Yet in truth, King’s dream wasn’t about equality. It was about unity. When the people join together, equal rights is no longer an issue. Meanwhile history has consistently proven that seperate but equal is a myth. Unless both the population and the power is split 50/50, there will never be equality. And even if their was somehow equal power, the equality would be empty, because we would still be a people divided. King’s dream wasn’t about two parellel nations experiencing the same quality of life, it was about one nation sharing the same struggles and triumphs as a single, unbreakable entity. So, as long as there is a black side of town and a white side of town we are still an eternity away from realizing the beloved community that Dr. King envisioned. To say that we have arrived when we are clearly still separate is to make a mockery of his martyrdom.

Allow me to paint the scene for you……I’m driving through the east side this afternoon, the community where our outreach ministry is focused, and I come upon a nasty two car collision. There’s glass and smoke everywhere, most of which is coming from the front end of a Honda which is now smashed beyond repair. As I pull over to check things out, I notice that the second car has already fled the scene, and that two young black males, passengers in the Honda, are doing likewise. By the time the cops arrived, all that was left was the driver of the Honda; an intelligent young woman, dazed, bleeding , and abandoned. Call me jaded, but that scene would not have taken place in the suburbs. But in the mostly black east side neighborhood, not being around when the cops show up is nonnegotiable.

In my efforts to lay the groundwork for future ministry within this community, I’ve had to come to grips with an uncomfortable truth: There is an epidemic in black America. I realize that this may seem like a politically incorrect assessment coming from a non black, but this is no time to start being polite. I see the proof of the epidemic most every afternoon at the Boys and Girls Club, where the kids can’t understand how my wife and I have the same last name. And where anger and hostility are always percolating just beneath the surface. The question is not whether there’s a problem, because there clearly is. The question is, ” who’s to blame?”

Who’s to blame for the rampant poverty, drug use, violence, and broken homes? Who’s to blame for the pervasive sense of frustration, disillusionment, and lack of ambition? The answer, as far as I can tell is this: People. Black people, white people, all people. As resentful, fearful, and angry as the situation may make us, we must resist the temptation to label this a totally black problem. The projects didn’t make themselves. It may infuriate you to drive through the projects and see a twenty year-old mom with more kids than she can handle, and nary-a-one of them fully clothed. But save a little anger for the white collar suburbanites who decided that it would be a good idea to provide monetary rewards for moms who stay single and procreate at break-neck speed. The ideals of welfare, affirmative action, and racial profiling were not birthed in the ghetto. They were birthed out of a corrupt, corporate system that would rather pacify than mobilize. Centuries of irresponsibility on the part of white America has left deep scars on the psyche of black and white alike. When one human views another as inferior, they are both gravely wounded.

I realize that whites are not alone in this. The black population has its share of the blame as well, and they gain nothing from our guilt-ridden pity. But the next time you’re driving through the side of town your mama told you to stay away from, remember, you’re not looking at the disease, you’re looking at the symptom. Instead of cursing the symptom, why not focus more on curing the disease?

From the car seat…

to Florida…

to dad’s shoulders…

to Asbury…

and now we are back!

Enjoy!

The greatest plague on the earth today is a church that no longer believes in its message, and a mass of Christians who are unwilling to throw themselves fully into the hands of their so-called savior. And if the lights were to be thrown on, all would see an army of ministers leaning on everything but God. Do you ever wonder why psychologists are being added to pastoral teams at an ever-increasing rate? Do you ever wonder why your pastors bookshelves are full of self-help books, sold under the guise of Christian living? The answer, I fear, is that we have lost our faith in the Gospel’s ability to address our deepest, most urgent needs.

Pastoral care classes have taught us to always have a specialist on speed-dial. We have specialists in every field, from eating disorders to alcoholism. Meanwhile, the only thing we pastors specialize in are referrals. We have become the quacks of the healing profession. Why? Because our medicine, the Gospel, has rarely been proven. It’s rarely been proven because it’s rarely been tried. Ministers now-a-days are trained as administrators and delagators, and we have largely forsaken our primary tasks of prayer and the proclamation of truth. As a result, we have come to believe more in the power of psychiatry than in the power of prayer. We seem unaware that most systems of psychology have little in common with the Gospel. Self-actualization and self-sufficiency have no resonance with the message of sanctification.

Our faith in Christ continues to weaken because we have given it little to stand on. We have become peddlers of secular humanism, urging our people to manage their sin rather than repent of it. When we do use scripture, we often treat it as a sort of inanimate object that we can grasp and manipulate to meet our own perceived needs. In this way and others, we have placed our religion at the mercy of science. As it stands, we have essentially said to our most hurting people, ” Oh I’m sorry, you need real help, and all I have to offer is the Gospel.”

I’ve seen many a fine combination in my day, from Snoop and Dre, to Parton and Rogers. I’ve stood witness to the powerful one-two punch of Corchianni and Monroe, and can personally testify that the sum of cornbread and pintos is greater than its parts. But I must go on record as saying that nary a twosome has captured my fancy as that which is stated in the title of this post.

In our effort to lay the groundwork for the Bridge Project, it’s our joy to work closely with the kids at the local Boys and Girls Club. A few weeks ago, I went along with them on their trip to Happy Hills farm. On that long dirt driveway, two totally opposite entities came in contact with one another; a fugitive bull, and a van full of kids with names like Elrahim, Tazmine, Drakeela, Precious, and Yadira. Up until this encounter, I “thought” I knew what funny was. I was wrong; horribly, horribly wrong. I have now learned that one has not truly known comedy until one has heard the musings of at-risk children on the vagaries of the bovine anatomy. Trust me.

A few days later, while in the gym at the Club, I was witness to another unusual encounter. While the kids were lined up on the wall, waiting for instructions, there appeared in the open doorway, the head of a full-grown horse. He sniffed a couple of the kids, and then hurried off. He was being ridden by a high school student that I recognized from the Club. Oddly, the group seemed utterly unmoved by this event. Apparently the kids had some prior experience with the horse. Enough so that they found his sudden appearance acceptable. One of them even informed me that it was “normal.” Here I had to take exception. It may have been a common occurrence. It may have even been a daily happening. But there is simply nothing normal about a young black male, sporting a pair of Air Force 1′s, riding a stallion bareback through the projects.

By the way, if you read my last post, you know of my obsession with spell check. You’ll be amused to know that every name listed in the second paragraph got flagged. It’s yet another indication that the little man who lives inside of my computer is a flaming racist.

I am a perfectionist. Certain things have to be a certain way. Now, you would never think that I was a perfectionist by looking at me or my place of residence. The pants that I am currently wearing have not been washed in over a week, and my shoes are not all lined up at the foot of my bed. Yet, despite the overwhelming evidence of untidiness, I am a perfectionist none the less. One need look no further than this blog for ample proof. Not only do I use spell check on every post, but I’ve even been known to consult a dictionary before I click publish. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, I actually spell check my spell check. But if you think my blogging habits are bad, you should see me prepare a sermon. Every sentence must be measured for articulation and insight. What causes me to exhibit such anal retentive tendencies? Why do I lose sleep and peace over words? Why do I preach as if one stutter, one stumble, or one drawn blank will bring an onslaught of rotten tomatoes from an unimpressed congregation?

I could come up with a lot of noble reasons for my plight. I could tell you that I want to be a good steward, and present a clear, meaningful message. I’ve believed each of those reasons at one time or another. But ultimately it comes down to this; I’m afraid to be vulnerable, or to be real, for fear of rejection. My words need to be perfect, because I need to be accepted. I’m realizing that this is not how God intended me to live. God wants me to be at peace, and to have a sense of contentment and rest, no matter what value others may give me.

On a related note, I’ve been thinking a lot about entire sanctification lately. I’ve been trying to imagine what it might look like. I think it will look different for different people, seeing as how we have all taken different detours from the path of righteousness. I believe that for me, it will look a lot like contentment. There will be a ceasing of all striving and straining. Peace and rest will finally come to replace my compulsive self-reliance. To me, perfection is finally being able to embrace my imperfections. I will be perfect when I stop trying to be perfect. God is worthy of my trust. He is far more reliable than my intellect. He’s even got a step on spell check.

I like food. I like it a lot. I like it hand-dipped, chicken-fried, and smothered in gravy. I like it with a side of mashed potato’s. I like to chase it with an ice-cold glass of sweet tea (AKA-the nostalgic nectar of yesteryear). In all probability, you like food too. In fact, the very reading of these first few sentences is likely to have stoked your salivary glands, and left you with a notion to hit the pantry for that half-a-Swiss roll your wife left. The question is obviously not if we love food. The perpetual affection for calories is an enduring distinctive of the human condition. The question is why. Why do we love food? Why are we compelled to consume more than is good for us?

Well, I don’t want to speak for you, or to rob you of the joy of discovery, but I can tell you why I love food. For me, it’s not the taste of food that keeps me coming back for more. No, my love lies in the feeling of fullness. I love to feel stuffed. I like to gorge myself to the point of dry-heaval. I like for my meals to force me into a pair of unflattering sweat-pants. The reason for this, I believe, is that the feeling of fullness is the feeling of self-sufficiency. Each time I fill my stomach to capacity, I secretly tell myself; ” I can do this!” Silencing my hunger pains helps me temporarily forget my mortality. When I’m filled to the brim, I’m no longer faced with the inconvenience of trusting God for my next meal.

So what do I do? Well, I can start by rediscovering the fast as a means of grace. The occasional denial of my most primitive drive is the least I can do to reclaim my dependence. But in my battle against gluttony, I need more than just a weekly fast. I need for the spirit of the fast to penetrate my every meal. Come to think of it, feasting once-a-week would likely do my soul more good than fasting once-a-week.

It was pointed out to me this past week that the first temptation of man, and the first temptation of Christ both dealt with food. The enemy must know something. He must know that if he can get us to indulge our innate drive for food, he can practically annihilate our drive for God.

Could it be that our quest for calories is about more than just our love for Grandma’s homemade biscuits and apple-butter? In truth, is it not more about our pursuit of self-sovereignty?

Anna Grace is about 2 1/2 months old now. She has come a long way since her short stay in the hospital due to a viral infection. Her mommy is now germaphobic but she’s doing great.

mohawk baby

hanging out with uncle chad.

singing with grandpa.

Those of us raised in the relative conservatism of the Wesleyan Church, know all about the rules and regulations of organized religion. We have grandmothers who won’t wear make-up, and grandfathers who won’t wear wedding-bands. We couldn’t play organized sports on Sundays. We couldn’t play cards ever. And we pledged a weekly allegiance to the Bible and the flag. My, how things have changed. It doesn’t take a sociologist to observe that today’s crop of Christian leaders walking out of Wesleyan colleges and seminaries, are stepping a little more to the left than did their predecessors. It seems that we’ve traded our CYC sashes for ” Coexist” t-shirts, while tee totalling has given way to tolerance.

Of course, there’s a lot of good in this. Our freedom and openness brings an attraction that legalism lacked. We’ve become peddlers of a more inclusive salvation. We’re tuned in to the world around us, and we’re not afraid to ask the tough questions. Neither are we afraid to break down racial boundaries, and we recognize that God and country are not synonymous. Yet, in our rejection of the past, God forbid that we forget what our forefathers were reacting against. In our contempt for legalism, may God give us the foresight to see that there’s death in the other ditch as well.

The root of left-wing Christianity is an emphasis on the here and now. If it doesn’t help us here, and if it doesn’t help us now, it doesn’t help us period. It is, by necessity, a lateral movement. It is us moving toward our brother in charity and good-will. Anything that halts, or delays this movement, is to be rejected. Followed to its logical conclusion, it leads to an outright denial of supernatural intervention and revelation. Waiting on miracles keeps us from solving the problem ourselves. Therefore, miracles must be shunned. Somebody needs to tell Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Tolstoy, and our other enlightened brothers that a Gospel without miracles is a Gospel without hope.

The old Wesleyan guard is dying off. My concern is that our future state may look shockingly similar to the present state of the United Methodist Church, unless we slow our leftward slide. In the end, I’d rather argue over the color of the carpet than the deity of Christ.

disclaimer: sorry for the somber mood of this post. I think I’ve been reading too much Ecclesiastes recently.

Different people can see the same sin,the same injustice, the same oppression, and react oppositely. The activist, when he sees injustice, is thrust into the world, seeking to extract the sin from society. The saint, seeing the same injustice, is thrust into himself, seeking to extract the sin from his own heart. One is with the people. He works tirelessly in the heat of the sun to bring about restitution. The other is with no one but God, and toils in the heat of brutal examination. The activist is perpetually frustrated. When one hole is patched, another one just as big springs a little further down the line. Always searching for a clue without, he fails to notice the presence of the perpetrator within.

The saint has no false notions of moral exemption. And so, he stays hot on the trail of sin’s inner descent. It’s not that he doesn’t go out into the world, he just does so with a different point of view. Like the activist, the saint walks the streets of a sin-sick society and seeks to administer mercy. Yet the world to him is like a mirror. It merely serves to reflect back the wickedness of his own heart. The dark, dingy alleys that surround him pale in comparison to the putrid pathways of pride in his own heart.

After a job well done, the activist rests easy. As he drifts off to sleep, he whispers a prayer; “God, give me one more day to make a difference.” The saint next door is wide awake. He stares up at the ceiling and prays quietly; “Search me O God, and know my heart. Try me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

These days, God is gently teaching me that he doesn’t need any more activists, but that saints are in short supply.