“Scooby Doo Mother…!”

“What about the homeless? What about the sick? What about individuals in Africa?

Does God still love them?”The question isn’t about God. The question is about us.

-Gary Morgan,
Pastor Mosaic Church Nashville

We sat together on the vents outside the Nashville Predators hockey stadium. It was a group five men. Some were black, some were white, some were addicts and some had mental disabilities—all were homeless.

I had passed the group a couple weeks before, commenting on my sadness for the men to my friend Michelle, but quickly continued on with my life.

My friend Michelle didn’t. She returned, brought them food and listened to their stories.

It was Michelle’s idea to return again on a recent Sunday night. She wanted to see Glenn, a sweet man, who cried frequently in his wheelchair. She told me McDonald’s was having a special on double cheeseburgers and asked me to come along.

I followed.

Scooby caught my eye. His hands shook when he spoke and he had a raw crassness to him that was appealing. While we talked he chugged cheap canned beer, told me I should be “tapping that” (Michelle) and wondered if there were dead bodies in the vents below us. He also yelled without warning things like “Scooby Do Mother F-er!”.

His friend said he was embarrassed because Scooby swore in front of guests. But I kind of liked it. I could tell Scooby wasn’t trying to impress me.

Midway through our conversation, Scooby asked me if I had attended church that day.

Surprised by the question, I said no. I had worked instead.

Scooby then said, “When you share what you have you are the Church. So right now we are at church.”

May we live as the Church,
Kent

Last Week

I went to court on Friday.

I was there to help represent Rocketown. Two of our skater kids had spent the summer playing musical homes. Their parents were in rehab. We met with the court to assess whether the boys were fit to return home.

….

TJ stormed into the office on Thursday yelling.

He said he was through with the rhyme lab. He didn’t want any restrictions when he rapped. He told me it was unfair to his story. His home was not cheery. His neighborhood was not safe. TJ did not want to spin positive rhymes. He said it did not portray the shit he had been through.

…

Did you and Alex used to be close?” I asked surprised as Michael’s MySpace page came up. The page was labeled “In memory of Alex.” Alex was a former Rocketown kid who had passed away last year.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “We used to be best friends. We would skate and shoot photography together. At his funeral his dad said my name. He only named five kids.”

…

Jimmy had a MySpace message left on his page. It didn’t say who it was from but Jimmy thought it was from his father. He hadn’t seen his dad since he was 7.

The message talked about what a horrible kid Jimmy was. It said he was a liar just like his mother. It said what goes around comes around. And it ended with “You need Jesus you low life piece of shit.”

…

“So what’s going on?” I asked surprised to see Michelle with her mom. Michelle was a somewhat new face to Rocketown. She had started coming after she ran away from home.

“A lot of new things have been happening,” she responded half-smiling.

Big stuff?” I wondered out loud.

“Well, yeah!” her smile got bigger. “I just found out I am pregnant.

Michelle is 18 and still in high school.

…

“I just want to live a life where I do good,” Jeremy said with a soft sincerity making it hard to tell whether he making a statement or asking a question. “And I believe all good things come from God. Is that such a bad thought?”

He asked this question because the church he went to said it was.

…

Coming back from a coffee shop I asked Mary Virginia if she knew kids’ home lives were so crappy when she was growing up.

She said no. I agreed.

…

Tomorrow is my day off. I think I am going to sleep in.

Ben & Jerry’s, Fat People and Cogitive Dissonance

I ate Ben and Jerry’s ice cream tonight as I watched The Biggest Loser on TV.

With each bite I felt guilty.

I listened as each contestant described his or her life as a walking buffet line—wandering aimlessly day-after-day with plate, fork and knife in hand, constantly eating their way into grotesqueness.  My heart was tearful.  My eyes were disgusted.  Yet I couldn’t stop watching.  It was a beautiful train wreck of the obese.  And I cheered them on to skinniness one spoonful at a time.

I don’t know if you have tried Ben and Jerry’s Cinnamon Role Ice Cream but it is addictively blissful.  Think heaven in a recyclable paper cup.  Taste caramel swirls, cinnabon chunks and sugary sweet vanilla.  Dream of ice cream for breakfast at only 13 fat grams per serving.

I couldn’t stop.  I didn’t want to stop.  My eyes were glued to the television and my hand moved uniformly pint-to-mouth… pint-to-mouth.
…

I don’t make a lot of money.

Really, that is an exaggeration.  The other day the local paper did a breakdown on home mortgages for low-income individuals.  My salary did not even make the chart.  It was too low.

Yet I have an apartment.  A really nice apartment. And I can go to the grocery store and buy nearly anything I want: organic salad, aged cheese, Ben and Jerry Cinnamon Role Ice Cream.

But I still walk swiftly past have-nots:  the dumpster diving hungry, the vulgar swearing homeless and the hand extended forgotten.

I ignore, deny, smile and say I am sorry.   And then I pray for them at night.  I say I love the homeless but my actions say otherwise.
…

In college we used to talk about cognitive dissonance.  It said one side always wins.  The theory stated it is impossible to believe one way yet consistently choose another.  Sooner or later you either kick the habit or believe what you are doing is right.
…
I spoke with my friend Ben on Saturday.  We talked about the beautiful struggle to not just speak a faith but to live it; to not just recite love but to give it.
…
I turned the TV off midway through the show and then I put away the ice cream.  I solved my dilemma by not choosing either.  I avoided it all together.

But I know I will see a group of homeless men on my walk home. And I will probably see even more going into work tomorrow.  The question is which side of the road will I choose to walk on.  There is no avoiding their humanness.  There is only the question of mine.

May our prayers reflect our actions,
Kent

Boo-Yah!

People often asked me why I was studying PR if I knew I was going to enter ministry.

This is why!

So fresh and so clean, clean,

Kent

Number three gets married

Driving to Michigan from Californian–our conversation slipped awkward.

Somewhere between playing a masculine game of I spy and singing Springsteen’s Born in the USA, the dry, dusty, Mid-western air suffocated our masculininity and turned Jamos, Eric and me soft.

“So who do you think is going to get married first?” I asked, sounding like a woman.

“What!?” Eric choked. If he had been drinking water he would have clearly spit it across the windshield. “You can’t ask that? Dude! Do you realize the harm one can cause with such words? It could put a lot of pressure on that person!”

“Shut up!” I respond pointedly. I have always had a way with words.

“I don’t know,” I continued. “I thought it would be a conversation starter… You know something to talk about since this Oklahoma landscape is such a water cooler stimulant. I think it is going to be Jamos!”

I snuck in my answer before more debate could be given.

A coma of silence overtook the car. Minutes went by. Eric started to speak, paused, contemplated, then finally spoke again.

“Yeah… You’re right. I think Jamos too.” Eric shot back.

I could feel Jamos’s stare. His body language said disinterested but his eyes spoke otherwise.

“It is true… it is going to be me.” Jamos gave in. His words revealed the obvious. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he would be the first one to get married.

On this day, Eric, Jamos and I were not dating anyone.

—

What most people don’t know is that Eric and my pilgrimage was initially designed for three. The original idea was for Jamos, Eric and me to travel the world together.

But as the planning became tangible and Eric and I started vigorously contacting ministries, Jamos dropped out due to personal reasons.

For a longtime I took this personal.

—

Jamos got married last weekend. He was the first of the three.

Eric and I drove up from Nashville. We were both in the wedding.

There is still apart of me that wishes Jamos had gone on the pilgrimage. I think of the insight he could have added, the humility he would have brought and the community we would have experienced.

But as I stood barefoot, toes covered in the sand, I couldn’t help but feel like Jamos made the right decision.

Emily, his new wife, cried joyfully–passionately. Jamos smiled tenderly. They held hands and whispered “I love you” as they exchanged vows.

The ten months Eric and I spent on the road were the most amazing days of my life. But as I continue to walk forward, I am valuing the beauty in others’ experiences.

I am learning love and grace is experienced in many different ways.

To your story,
Kent