Hanging Out with Jesus Might Get You in Trouble

Hanging out with Jesus

            Or so that text seemed to say;

Those folks were pretty new to him and him to them

            So they moseyed off by themselves to get more acquainted.

Hanging out around the nets

            Or the tax collection booth or under some tree;

But now they’re hanging out with the Man from Nazareth

            Just wondering how it played out.

How much was Him laying it on the line

            Or telling stories;

How much was a question and answer period

            As they decided whether to continue the journey.

Or, were their minds already made up

            So that this hanging out together business

Was just a deepening of the relationship

            Prepping for what was ahead.

Who knew that the woman at the well was coming

            Who knew that the woman taken in adultery was next

Who knew that the man with leprosy was somewhere down the road

            Who knew that the seas raging was going to be part of the plan.

Did they know how their views of life would change,

            Did they know that what was sacred would get flipped,

Did they know that things they’d always known would get scrambled,

            Did they know that the rules would be turned upside down.

Surely they did not know that He’d weep with those who wept,

            Surely they did not know that women would support His ministry,

Surely they did not know that the privileged would be threatened,

            Surely they did not know that the blind would see and the lame walk.

Maybe they had an inkling that the poor were his focus,

            Maybe they had an inkling that justice was His middle name,

Maybe they had an inkling that they would see a different righteousness,

            Maybe they had an inkling that they did not have a clue.

The blind could see, the deaf could hear,

            The pushed to the curb invited to the inner circle,

The untouchable would be embraced,

            The ones left beside the road would be taken to the inn.

What are we to learn about the Man from Nazareth,

            What are we to learn from the way He walked,

What are we to learn from the hard-headed followers,

            What are we to learn from their time of hanging out together.

What if I were to hang out with Him for a while,

            Who would I stand up for and who would be embraced,

Would it be the immigrants, the poor, the LGBTQ, the person of color,

            Or could it maybe be those without insurance or those who are homeless.

Would I yell for justice to the leaders of the land

            Who say disparaging things about women or the disabled,

Would I scream from the rooftops against those who have sold the church

            And the Kingdom for a nationalistic agenda.

Would I march when some are sitting satisfied,

            Would I write words of discomfort to those who’ve already decided,

Would I donate to the causes of justice that trouble the privileged,

            Would I join up for those who are leading these efforts.

Hanging out with Jesus just might get some of us in trouble.

Something is Happening in America

These words are not my own. They come from a young woman who writes and says it better than anyone I know. Thanks, Shena, for allowing me to share your story on this page. I hope those of us who read this post will read the words and weep. Read them. Weep. Do something. Do anything. Do something. Do something that makes racial profiling a thing of the past.

"A sad reality of being black in America. The guy in his Snapchat put as his caption “Racist, lol,” but there’s nothing funny about it...

Just like it wasn’t funny a few weeks ago when I was looking for my new office space, and the owner, upon seeing me, brought me into the conference room and grilled me for 15 minutes about the type of client I would be seeing. He kept asking me questions about their noise level, telling me he can’t have any kids running around his building, stating how this is a professional building and needing me to understand that they keep a “certain type of atmosphere” here, while interrupting me to ask me the same questions again.

Foolishly, I still put in a rental application because the space was gorgeous, and upon calling my references, he still calls me back and says “it just doesn’t sit right in [his] gut what I’m trying to do.”

What?!! What am I trying to do? Since when is therapy provocative?

He proceeds to try to ask me the same questions as before to which I cut him off and say I’m not answering any more questions and will be moving on.

This happened 5 minutes from where I live.

And then at HEB, my favorite place on earth, I was chased down by a CSM who thought I stole some post-it’s, after spending $100 on a previous order at the self check out.

Again... what?!!

In that instance, O and I walked away incredulous in silent shock at first at how small that questioning made me (us) feel, before doing what you have to do when these things happen which is shake them off (O made a joke to break the tension) and keep going.

These experiences, though common, are never those I never get used to. Sometimes I live in my little diversity bubble of friends and serving black and brown kids at the school and my rainbow of private practice clients so much that when I step out, I’m sadly reminded that the rules are different for me.

To some, I am ghetto, unprofessional, a thief, a danger, ignorant, poor, etc until proven otherwise.

To those who read the article below and watched the videos and thought, “Well, I understand where they’re coming from... they have to do their job...” your thinking and excusal of this is part of the problem. You are biased and have racist thoughts, and need to challenge it if you want to grow. You need to assess why this level of scrutiny was appropriate for him, and I hope you would land on that it wasn’t."

James Conley III added a photo and 4 videos — at Old Navy Jordan Creek Tc.

January 30 at 6:03pm · West Des Moines, IA · 

Today I was racially profiled by the Old Navy store in West Des Moines, Iowa in Jordan creek. I was accused that I didn't pay for my blue bubble jacket that I got for Christmas that I wore into the store. As I was checking out to purchase some hoodies, I was asked if I wanted to also purchase the jacket that I was wearing. First, I started laughing because I didnt believe what I was hearing. The store manager Beau Carter was very unprofessional and stereotyped me because I was a Black male. He says "anytime someone wears Old Navy clothing they have to always scan that customers clothing to insure that it was previously purchased". (Where do they do that at?) Every time I go to this store I have on my same exact winter blue jacket and have never been asked to scan my clothing and the previous "non-black" customers had on identical apparel as me from old navy but was never asked to scan their clothing. Then after they scan my jacket they try to make me repay for it?? Finally the District Manager Shannon (who refused to give out her last name) came out and I made her check the surveillance tape to prove that her and her fellow employees were in the wrong for racially profiling me because of the color of my skin. Once she confirmed that I was telling the truth (after watching the tape) she never came back out to apologize to me nor did the store manager Beau Carter as you can see in my videos below. #RacialProfiling #CrazyWorld #NoMore #OldNavy #VeryDisappointed#ThankGodForKeepingMePoised #Repost #Share

Patient Continuum Services in Translational Settings: Theory and Technology to Advance Specialized Counseling

The authors of this poster session are deeply concerned about the quality of services delivered in the field of regenerative medicine.  We are also concerned that services are available to all, not just to those who can write the big checks.  We are hoping that stem cell research will advance and that cures will be found, and that along the way, the health insurance industry will do what is right,  cover the costs of the procedures. Please click on the image if you'd like to see the text that accompanies the visual.

Idols of the Day, Attachments of Now

Gerald May has shaped my thinking about idols.  His books which include Addiction and Grace and Will & Spirit have been game-changers for me. He asserts that God as God is not willing to become an object of our attachment or one of our idols.  We cannot become addicted to God as an idol the way we do other idols such as drugs, alcohol, sex, or power, or whatever.  We can, however, become attached to an image of God.  An image of God is not God. An image of God is an image of God. God is beyond our images.

Since we are humans, we seek out objects of our attachment. Our humanity is displayed. We are addicted. When we are attached to the object of our addiction, the entirety of ourselves changes, physically, emotionally, spiritually, relationally, cognitively, because we have found the fix for which we yearn, or at least that for which we think we yearn.

I sit in the midst of all manner of prophets. I read from the prophets of old, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, and Micah, the major ones and the minor ones.  Those prophets who warned of impending doom when the people decided to follow their own way. Yes, the ones who said that Israel and Judah were about to fall. I also read about the prophets who prophesied that Trump would be the second coming of Cyrus, King of Persia, and that God would use this flawed human being to straighten out America, and maybe the world. Following in sync are the names we recognize: Graham, Dobson, Jeffress, Robertson, Perkins, White, Land, Copeland, Bachmann, and you can probably name others.

Biblical texts demand that we sort them out:  Isaiah and his diatribe about creating idols and then worshipping them; Moses’ demand that the children of Israel in their journey drink the idol that they created, and then Jesus of Nazareth’s admonition to love God with the heart, soul, mind, and strength, and your neighbor as yourself.

We have created numerous idols or objects of our attachment from whom and from what we would be well served to abandon: American Nationalism, Trump as the Great Rescuer, white supremacy, money as the primary driving principle, Hilary and Barak to be hated, and immigrants as the enemy.  There are more. Any one of these idols is sufficient enough. The amalgamation of these idols is one of deep entrapment. We know we are in an idolatrous relationship with a person, idea, or thing, when in its presence we are safe and secure, and when we defend it against all reason. When information that is reasonable and when people of reason say to us, “Yes, but have you considered…….” and our instinctive dismissive is reminiscent of “I can stop drinking any time I wish, or I am not an alcoholic, or I am not addicted to whatever.”

We are inebriated at the power of our position, theology, politics, and the person and/or persons who symbolize that power. In doing so, we construct our own human-made idols and we marginalize other meaningful possibilities and those for whom Christ also died.

My prayer?  Very simple, “Lord, please release us from the bondage of our attachment to notions of power and to people and institutions that re-enforce those attachments. Free us to love one another as you have loved us.” 

A Late Christmas, or Is It an Early One?

We have been looking forward to today for quite some time.  Ever since we read of the Denton Black Film Festival, it has been at the very top of our to-go list.  So, today, we'll drive over to Denton late morning, find a good place for lunch, and then attend a series of events at the Campus Theater, downtown at 214 West Hickory.  

We'll view College Student Short films, "Talking in Black America," see "The Uncomfortable Truth," see the short film "Black Reparations," and perhaps stay for Steps.

Why you may be asking would the two of us venture into these particular waters?  Thank you for asking and thank you for taking the time to read my response and even to check out some of the links.

As mentioned in the previous blogpost, to some readers here, it may be a new thing to find your friend, Waymon Hinson, and his wife as well, involved in social justice sorts of things.  Our involvement goes back to 1994 when I heard an aristocratic voice at the other end of the line say, "Dr. Hinson, I think I have failed to communicate to you the seriousness of our concerns."  And he was correct. I was clueless.  I think America is clueless.  While some of that winding journey is chronicled in other places, this blog, chapel at Abilene Christian University, in one publication, and in several presentations at BFAA Land Loss Summits, now another part of the story is developing.

This post is getting too long, so let me brief it up a bit.

For several months now, I have been working on a project, "African American Land Acquisition and Dispossession: Reconstruction to Today." That provides an important background piece. A second layer of it is Shoun Hill, New York City photographer and I will soon develop plans for the making of a documentary on pivotal cases that served to stir the Black Farmer Movement toward the Pigford Class Action Suit. More information on that later.

So, I am a story-teller and a gatherer of stories. Several years ago, when I was interviewing a number of farmers across the land, I told them of my commitment to tell their stories in places and space that they could not or would not go because their stories are worthy of being told. Many of those stories are found in audio and print media in a volume called, "Remembering Tillery's Historical Archives" under the watchful eye of the Concerned Citizens of Tillery 

So, this begins another layer of story-telling, that of film.  I intend to learn from such people as Loki Mulholland who has chronicled the story of his civil rights activist mother, Joan Trumpauer Mulholland. Here is information about their foundation.  See this site for more information about the movie. And, today, he will be premiering another documentary on his family, "The Uncomfortable Truth." 

He is the revealer and the teacher. I am his watchful student.

Shoun and I will be the tellers of truth in ways that will likely make us all squirm.

Perhaps if you live in the DFW area, we can meet up in downtown Denton and learn together about various aspects of the righteous cause of story-telling and justice for all of our people.

Fatherhood, Peoplehood, Farmerhood

Most of my friends out there know that Charla and I have been involved in the Black Farmer Movement since 1994. Yes, that is strange, is it not, to read those words. I have been told, and with much respect to the teller, "I did not know there was such a thing as a black farmer." And I have been told that "those things do not happen in America." "Yes, there are, and yes, they do, still." So, in the early morning hours of today I felt compelled to connect a few dots and in the connections came these words. There is more to the story and an announcement will soon be released about future efforts on this page.

Father.

Holy Father.

Father.

Righteous Father.

May I call you by those names?

I read them in your Book today

And listened as He prayed

Before He walked to the gallows of shame.

He finished his work

Nothing did He shirk

Came to get it done

From early morn till setting of the sun.

Honored you along the way

Completed is what I hear Him say

Left it all to them and us

And now look at what we’ve made, one big fuss.

A big, grand ideal

To gather us all together

To place upon a seal

That in weary times the storms we would weather.

In days way back yonder

A woman arose up for her kin

Into his throne room she would go

Wondering how it would end.

“How can I bear to see

The disaster fall upon my people”

They are soon to be destroyed

Unless you answer my cry, how feeble.

I hear her cry and I read her words

I wonder what is the application

For today is also horrific

So I make this morning’s supplication.

For those ruined by grievous policy

That was made for us the whites 

Bear them up and give them strength

To hold on to their land their rights.

Give them courage and strength

To fight the righteous cause

To know of your love and grace

To change inequities of the laws.

I know my skin is white

That is the way I’ll always be

But my people are those whose skin is shades of brown

Until your face I see.

To hear their stories

“My blood is on this land”

How could I do anything but along with them

To take a righteous stand.

Father.

Holy Father.

Father.

Righteous Father.

Hear my cry for my people.

I Chose the Short Straw

This past week my wife and I have both been wrestling with this upper respiratory thing that is no doubt sweeping the places where you abide.  Blessings upon you and those you love if it is. We are at that point, at least I am, in questioning which is worse, the disease or the medication that is supposed to fix it.  May never know.

Anyway, my misery felt somehow less miserable than my wife's misery, so I chose the short straw and went to the grocery store which is about three miles from our house. There is no joy in choosing the short straw, but there is contentment that I did a good thing for a woman whose good deeds I could never outdo.  No need to try.

As I walked into the store, feeling my own lungs, lack of energy, and weak legs, I attempted to look around and see and hear folks who were there, customers like me and employees. I tried to see beyond my  short-sided categorization skills. Several years ago, someone I was just getting to know, a man who was very different from me, called me a categorizer when I asked his wife a question. My retort was, "Why do you think that is the only question I would ask her? Besides, your categorizing me as a categorizer makes you a categorizer." To which he just replied, "Hummmppp. Got me on that one."  He would get me on more, but I think we have a lively respect for each other these days. I am committed to some of the causes to which he is committed.

But that is not the point That is only playing in the weeds of this story.

A number of people were in the store at that early an hour. They all were different. There were all the same. They were of some age, young, older, because anybody who is in a store is of some living age.

I wanted to see and hear. What was their hurry? What was behind their hesitations? What was on his play list? What was he thinking when he almost ran into me? What was he thinking when I paused and let his family pass? What was she thinking when I mumbled a "sorry" for slowly getting out of her way? The employee who helped me find and item, actually two employees were on that assignment, what were their live stories? The person who checked me out, what was truly behind her surprise that I'd contribute to the food pantry drive?

How do grocery store narratives intersect with the rest of the themes of their lives? How does a Sunday narrative fit alongside a weekday narrative?

What are their lived experiences? What are their joys? Their sorrows? What brings them peace, and what keeps them up at night? Those who have children, what do the night hours feel like, long and hard, or quick and easy? Those who are rearing children in our crazy world, are their dreams on hold, or are their dreams being fulfilled?

Of course, these are only some of my questions. And I certainly won't burden them with an intrusive, boundary-violating conversation. Not by any means.

I will, however, thank those who served me today via doing their jobs.  And, I will be grateful.  And, I will be perhaps a bit more mindful as to their unspoken stories.

I have my unspoken stories.

I was there on a mission because I'd chosen the short straw.  Glad I did. She is worth more than every short straw I will ever choose, or will ever be chosen for me.

We all have our unspoken stories.

We live in a world of stories that are worthy of being heard, should we choose to share, and then, who will listen?

Thank you for listening to these mental meanderings today.

I count that a blessing.