Iconography: Michael Jackson

The Death of the King of Pop has stunned the world. Yet it stuns me that we care so much (pardon me for my harshness).

"I just can't believe it!" "He was an icon!" "He changed the world!"

My initial response catches people off guard: "We're all gonna die." "Why are you so sucked into the celebrity?"

An article I read earlier this week compared Jackson's death to that of Princess Diana for my generation. So I'll try to get back into my old self and try to relate to the disturbing feelings that folks around the world are experiencing that come with this death.

I remember exactly where I was when Lady Di lost her life in that awful car wreck. I remember struggling with the feelings of disbelief. I remember holding a prayer vigil in my closet to a God I hardly knew. "Why can someone so good lose their life?" "Who will fill her shoes?" I thought to myself. I cried. I maintained a somber attitude. "What's wrong with the world?"

I think it brought up a number of things in me that folks are experiencing this week over Michael Jackson's death.

1) We are not invisible. Celebrity status tends to thrust folks into an all-access life-style that we assume promises you "the good life." It brings up all of these questions that really make us face our maker. If this person can die, then so can I. If there is no safety from death from this person--especially if they are branded a "good" person, then there is no get out of jail free card from death. In the theology world, it also leads us to questions of theodicy--how does a good God allow bad things to happen, especially to those we love and adore?

2) I think that part of the iconography that is associated with certain celebrities really has more to do with our own need for rest from a turbulent world. Michael's moonwalk can make even a handicapped person want to get up and scream in amazement. A good pop song makes a working class person's life a little bit easier. A cultural crossover can be respite and healing for our souls that things should be the way that we know that they ought to be: where we all get along. Part of our sense of familiarity, closeness and loss relates to our own memories of times when life was good to us.

These are what I would consider legitimate things to lament about the loss of someone such as Diana and Michael. Of course, I think much of it also has to do with the very real fact that we lament over the personal struggles that these folks faced and that they didn't have more time in life to experience the redemption that we longed for them to have. Our hearts seems to also be much more sensitive when children and other famous loved ones are involved--and are left without a goodbye.

These examples are some of the truths that come up with these deaths, but as a student of theology, I have to point out a few traps that are set before us.

1) We may see commendable acts in the lives of certain people, but that does not make them good. I particularly appreciated the response from the White House in that when pressured to make a statement on MJ's death, they gave condolences out to the family and fans and reminded us of the reality of the very real problems that Jackson faced in the latter part of his life. I'm not sure that I could show my own child footage of Michael Jackson grabbing his crotch every few minutes and calling him a "good" person or a role model. Perhaps I would show footage of a moonwalk or Jackson visiting orphanages or singing "We are the World." And certainly I hope to remind them of the role that he played in teaching us about life in "Black or White." But as Scripture tells us, there is not one of us who are good in and of ourselves.

2) Celebrating Jackson as an "icon" is dangerous. The truth is that he is an icon for folks. For some, he is their god as they spend more time thinking about him and their "love" for him to the exclusions of their own personal needs, knowledge of the true God, their children, their work, etc. Idolatry is a scary thing. I say this as a person who kissed ten life-size headshots of Leonardo DiCaprio on my way out the door each morning in the 7th grade. I watched my friend and I get sucked into the world of boy bands that misappropriated our understanding of men and our own desires. All of these things drew us away from other people, away from a world of suffering people and away from the God who truly wanted our love and adoration and the one who could return that affection.

All in all, these untruths lead us away from the true King. Who allows our bodies to sing and dance? Whose image are we made in to bring good into the world? Who has started and will continue the work of racial reconciliation? Who is worthy of our adoration? Who gives us redepmption? Who can give us hope and life beyond situational, physical and spirtual death? It is none other than God who sent us a King, who allows us to play a part in his celebrity.

The Morality Fog

I'm appalled. My sense of justice is stifled. My response is paralysis and a mild nausea.

Currently, I'm reading a rather overwhelming combination of books on Africa, India, poverty and justice. I'm slowly learning from these books that God is intolerant of injustice yet can courageously pronounce condemnation and compassion on oppressors and victims. Given that the conflict in Iran is still looming and is gaining world-wide attention and support, I said a quick prayer as I had the courage to finally open one of the links of the news stories. "God, help me to see and stomach what you see."

My response alarms me. Just as simply as I wanted to disregard the news feeds and sweep it under a rug with an "it's just Iran," "it's just the always explosive Middle East," I found myself downplaying the death of the movement's martyr Neda Soltani. "It's just death." "Murder happens everywhere." And thoughts I'm too ashamed of that result fro too much invasive CSI-like shows that explain cause of death, etc. I wanted to faint due to the sight of blood and my own faint of heart.

In a discussion in The Good News About Injustice, Gary Haugen discusses Dietrich Bonhoeffer's point that evil and injustice are allowed to parade about when there is a lack of moral clarity that throws even "religious people" like me off their foundation. Haugen argues that injustice (defined as the abuse of power) is able to produce a morality fog by faking right, faking left and then plowing through the center toward a path of evil and destruction.

This makes sense to me in my own fog about what to do with Iran and my own reaction. My American culture is too violent--through the television, computer screen and violent literature and speech. Yet my American culture is not facing the atrocities of genocide, forced labor, inaccurate and fake elections, censorship with threat of death, etc. Fake right. Fake left. Result: I see real injustice, real violence and do not know how to respond. I stand there not knowing what to do--and do nothing. Even worse, feel nothing.

My picture of Iran is a place that is too turbulent--always preparing to explode. A headline that a threat is imminent and that the country just needs to settle down and play nice. My other picture of Iran is that it is a place that is stifled by fundamentalism. Religion is forced, women are exploited, intellectuals are presecuted--the place needs to see change. Fake right. Fake left. Result: I'm left not knowing what to pray for and there is chance that I may turn my back away from them.

Lord, clear the fog. Don't let me trivualize or tidy things up with nice truisms. Give me new eyes to see. Help me to pray. What does justice look like here? Help me to stay with you, to not pass out, to regain consciousness and to follow you in the dark places--the ones the in the world and the ones in my soul.

On Father's Day

Happy Father's Day. Today I'm celebrating by taking my Dad out to the Durham Bulls game!! This has been a wish that I've had for quite some time and one that I think and hope that he has shared. I'm also thankful that Dad isn't the only Dad I have thanks to Abba Father. The Abba is a big realization this Father's Day. But in particular this day, I'm very proud to say that I have a "First Dad" who is an amazing role model for all of us to aspire to. I'm thankful of his courage for raising a family despite the absence of his own father and the much needed call that he has expressed for our country's men to step up and take up the beautiful challenge of REAL fatherhood. I'll let him explain in his own words as printed today in Parade magazine:

As the father of two young girls who have shown such poise, humor, and patience in the unconventional life into which they have been thrust, I mark this Father’s Day—our first in the White House—with a deep sense of gratitude. One of the greatest benefits of being President is that I now live right above the office. I see my girls off to school nearly every morning and have dinner with them nearly every night. It is a welcome change after so many years out on the campaign trail and commuting between Chicago and Capitol Hill.

But I observe this Father’s Day not just as a father grateful to be present in my daughters’ lives but also as a son who grew up without a father in my own life. My father left my family when I was 2 years old, and I knew him mainly from the letters he wrote and the stories my family told. And while I was lucky to have two wonderful grandparents who poured everything they had into helping my mother raise my sister and me, I still felt the weight of his absence throughout my childhood.

As an adult, working as a community organizer and later as a legislator, I would often walk through the streets of Chicago’s South Side and see boys marked by that same absence—boys without supervision or direction or anyone to help them as they struggled to grow into men. I identified with their frustration and disengagement—with their sense of having been let down.

In many ways, I came to understand the importance of fatherhood through its absence—both in my life and in the lives of others. I came to understand that the hole a man leaves when he abandons his responsibility to his children is one that no government can fill. We can do everything possible to provide good jobs and good schools and safe streets for our kids, but it will never be enough to fully make up the difference.

That is why we need fathers to step up, to realize that their job does not end at conception; that what makes you a man is not the ability to have a child but the courage to raise one.

As fathers, we need to be involved in our children’s lives not just when it’s convenient or easy, and not just when they’re doing well—but when it’s difficult and thankless, and they’re struggling. That is when they need us most.

And it’s not enough to just be physically present. Too often, especially during tough economic times like these, we are emotionally absent: distracted, consumed by what’s happening in our own lives, worried about keeping our jobs and paying our bills, unsure if we’ll be able to give our kids the same opportunities we had.

Our children can tell. They know when we’re not fully there. And that disengagement sends a clear message—whether we mean it or not—about where among our priorities they fall.

So we need to step out of our own heads and tune in. We need to turn off the television and start talking with our kids, and listening to them, and understanding what’s going on in their lives.

We need to set limits and expectations. We need to replace that video game with a book and make sure that homework gets done. We need to say to our daughters, Don’t ever let images on TV tell you what you are worth, because I expect you to dream without limit and reach for your goals. We need to tell our sons, Those songs on the radio may glorify violence, but in our house, we find glory in achievement, self-respect, and hard work.

We need to realize that we are our children’s first and best teachers. When we are selfish or inconsiderate, when we mistreat our wives or girlfriends, when we cut corners or fail to control our tempers, our children learn from that—and it’s no surprise when we see those behaviors in our schools or on our streets.

But it also works the other way around. When we work hard, treat others with respect, spend within our means, and contribute to our communities, those are the lessons our children learn. And that is what so many fathers are doing every day—coaching soccer and Little League, going to those school assemblies and parent-teacher conferences, scrimping and saving and working that extra shift so their kids can go to college. They are fulfilling their most fundamental duty as fathers: to show their children, by example, the kind of people they want them to become.

It is rarely easy. There are plenty of days of struggle and heartache when, despite our best efforts, we fail to live up to our responsibilities. I know I have been an imperfect father. I know I have made mistakes. I have lost count of all the times, over the years, when the demands of work have taken me from the duties of fatherhood. There were many days out on the campaign trail when I felt like my family was a million miles away, and I knew I was missing moments of my daughters’ lives that I’d never get back. It is a loss I will never fully accept.

But on this Father’s Day, I think back to the day I drove Michelle and a newborn Malia home from the hospital nearly 11 years ago—crawling along, miles under the speed limit, feeling the weight of my daughter’s future resting in my hands. I think about the pledge I made to her that day: that I would give her what I never had—that if I could be anything in life, I would be a good father. I knew that day that my own life wouldn’t count for much unless she had every opportunity in hers. And I knew I had an obligation, as we all do, to help create those opportunities and leave a better world for her and all our children.

On this Father’s Day, I am recommitting myself to that work, to those duties that all parents share: to build a foundation for our children’s dreams, to give them the love and support they need to fulfill them, and to stick with them the whole way through, no matter what doubts we may feel or difficulties we may face. That is my prayer for all of us on this Father’s Day, and that is my hope for this nation in the months and years ahead.

The Tyranny and Hope of Normalcy

My latest group therapy session was absolutely brutal. I had been asked by group members each week (over the last 6-8) to share more of myself, be less positive, etc. Meanwhile, I had been assuring them that my life was not perfect, that I would share about myself in pieces. They had been beginning me to come out of what they saw as a self-imposed shell. Over those weeks I had bared much of soul, worked hard at opening myself to others, connecting with others, asking and recieving hard questions--all of which were a tremendous amount of growth for me personally.

And then yesterday, it all came crashing down. I had an issue to pose to the group. They already knew that my biggest fear was that I would share and that they would run from me, scared of my brokenness and hide into their worlds of predictable normalcy. The conversation started out beautifully with an actively engaged audience, helpful feedback, appropriate and validating pauses of not-sure-what-to-do-ness, expressions of concern and empathy. And then all of a sudden someone blurts out that they still don't feel connected. I felt lied to, punk'd even. Some of their comments became extremely hurtful, fulfilling of my worst fears (which they were well aware of).

I deeply wanted to disengage, but then I told them how angry their comments made me. How rejected I felt after listening to what their needs were from me, going the extra mile to make those adjustments and then to be rejected after I made them. They desperately wanted to see the underside of my rock, but they really didn't want to see it at all--it was too much, too much of a burden.

I left feeling attacked, abandoned and alone. I'm still sorting through it. My insides feel a little torn out of me, but I celebrate that some finally realized that I live in a world that was different from theirs and that they cannot impose their worldviews and asumptions on me. Thankfully, I had gotten through to them. I said what I needed to say, but it came at great cost: hearing what I did not want to hear.

I found comfort today in reading Good News About Injustice: A Witness of Courage in a Hurting World by Gary Haugen, CEO of International Justice Mission and Director of the UN investigation into the Rwandan Genocide. In one particular chapter, he writes about the struggles that American suburbanites have with facing the world's brokenness that it much easier to run away from and I felt that his observations greatly meet the situation that I faced yesterday (and face to some extent on a daily basis).

"The Bible declares that the world is fallen, sinful (Subheading). Often I am ill-prepared for action in a dark world of injustice because I have gotten used to a little lie within my mind. I have gotten used to the idea that the fair garden I have worked so hard to carve out for myself and my family is normal. I have gradually adjusted to the idea that "the world" into which Christ has sent his disciples is actually a reasonably pleasant backyard patio. Certainlyit is no Garden of Eden--there are unruly shrubs, unpleasant neighbors, rainy days, tearful nights and even vandals. But in my garden the Fall is being managed. Gradually in my mind "the world" referred to in the Bible is defined more and more by the boundary hedges I share with my neighbors. Accordingly, I hone my Christian witness for the engagement in the domesticated garden. I come to see the full armor of God as battle dress for fighting weeds, backyard pests and trespassers (pg. 46)."

Our American suburbanite ideas about normalcy are a lie. They may be our reality, but in light of our world, they are rare pockets of bubbled existence. If we truly desire connection with our world, then we need to get rid of the lie. We need to get in touch with the universal normal. This does not mean that we do not fight against injustice, that we do not lament sin and brokenness, but that we learn to stand in it and if so called, to stand in the breach of the mess as prophets calling for God's justice and mercy. Hope lies here. Not in the bug zapper, not in the weed wacker, but the hope that the real Gardener is coming to redeem and create beauty once again in devastated gardens.

When Your "Saying" Gets Lost in Translation

As impressed as I was with myself yesterday with saying what needs to be said, I realized that in my pursuit of freedom, I may have ensnared another. Similar to my last post on language, there is a demand that Western Culture and the presupposed superiority of Western culture that likes to dictate the medium of how things are communicated and said.

While interacting with someone of a different culture, I directly confronted her on my inability to connect to her based on the ways in which she tried to communicate with me. I attempted to empathize with her, saying that I only brought it up because I myself struggled with the same inability to connect with others. I felt very free in expressing myself and I felt that I brought up a pertinent struggle that others had with this amazing woman.

But when I got home, I cringed. What is so wrong with her way of communicating? Why can't we get on page with her rather than forcing her to make the distance to come and meet us? In my work and studies with ESL students, I have found that there is a real difference in how various cultures share our stories. For instance, students whose first language is Arabic tend to write long, graceful, abstract sentences, using the Koran as the model of writing well. When this paper makes its way across a Western trained person's desk, it is demolished for being unclear and indirect.

Although I find good truths in the Western styles of communication, I am wary that communication is going to be the new style of imperialism.

Say What You Need To Say

I have a thing for John Mayer. I still think he's a player, but the man has a way with words (which probably helps him to be a player). So as I've swooned over his voice, I have found that for months I've missed the importance of the words--a very frequent Jen-ism. So here is the oh-so truthful lyrics that I have lately discovered:

Take out of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all your so-called problems
Better put them in quotations

Say what you need to say (8x)

Walkin' like a one man army
Fightin' with the shadows in your head
Livin' up the same old moment
Knowin' you'd be better off instead
If you could only

Say what you need to say (8x)

Have no fear for givin' in
Have no fear for givin' over
You better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than to never say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shakin'
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closin'
Do it with a heart wide open
A wide heart

Say what you need to say (20x)

This song annoyed me at first because of the regularity with which the chorus line was repeated. And the word "say" just seemed to be overdone, but then I realized that that was the point. I am one of those people who does not say anything. I don't raise my voice to protect myself, I don't share what I would like to say so that I or others are not hurt--but yet I always end up absorbing my own hurt from not saying what needs to be said. And as my counselor says, it is really just a lot of hard work. I love the way the song describes that inner experience--that you try to fight the world like a one-man army--which is impossible. Only David and Jesus have ever seemed to do that. I can't live like that. I need to give in and need people.

In therapy sessions I have had a lot of practice with learning to say what I need to say. And it has been quite the freeing and learning experience. But before I get there, it is just like Mayer says: you shake, you close your eyes, you speak up because if you don't you'll break your faith. But the end result of clearing the air, letting the cat out of the bag, the elephant out of the room. It is kind of like Jesus come to think of it. The freedom of the cross simultaneously pronounces our guilt and true reality while given us the relieve to see what happens next.