Why I Am Drifting Away From Christians and Closer to Christ by Andrew Patterson (Part 1 of 3)

Here is the first part of an incredible post written by my beloved brother.  I am so grateful for him and his talent for writing.  I have always and will always admire his authenticity and way with words. I hope this challenges you as much as it challenged me.  

I haven’t been to church in quiet a while. I consider myself a Christian and I recognize that as such, I’m supposed to enjoy the teachings and fellowship of others in the community. I just don’t really want to anymore. Church is decreasingly appealing. 

And yet, in the time I’ve been away from church and Christians writ large, I’ve never felt closer to Jesus. 

I struggled to find a succinct way to explain this phenomena and the only way I can do so is; Christians really suck at being anything like Jesus, and Jesus is really, truly spectacular because of that.

 I feel like I should make a few disclaimers before I continue with my premise:

1.) This is not a sweeping generalization of ALL Christians. As a black guy, trust me, I understand that sweeping stereotypes are whack. I get the complexity and diversity of this religion and all others. 

2.) Most of my expressed reasoning will be focused on race and politics because that’s where I’m most knowledgeable. A heady person should be able extrapolate these ideas to include other social issues. 

3.) I can be characterized as many things. A biblical scholar is not one of them. 

4.) When I say “Christianity” I’m referring to the believers and administers of the religion. Not its ideals. 

5.) Some of this may seem scolding or unfair, but I am making these criticisms because I believe we’re supposed to hold ourselves to a higher than socially acceptable standard. 

6.) I understand that this is strange and even hypocritical logic. In my weird mind, it makes sense, so I’m going to do my best to make it coherent to less-weird people.

Back to why I don’t go to church. 

As far as I can remember, I always enjoyed the fellowship aspect of church and cared much less about the messaging. I’m and horrible when I comes to being talked at. As a kid, the first two professions I wanted to pursue were football and becoming a lawyer. I like discussion and debate. When someone’s “preaching”, whether it was church or a lecture, I struggle to focus. I’ve always found myself silently arguing with the speaker, asking questions, or going off on thought tangents. As I’ve gotten older, I notice that while listening to a sermon, my mental journeys often ended up taking me to a similar destination; asking, “What the hell does this have to do with Jesus?”

The fundamental issue that I have with Christianity is it too often strays from its foundation. We aint Moses-ers. We aint Paul-inites. We’re CHRISTians. I think its fair assume that most intelligent Christians would at least concede that the problems of the church at large, and of its members individually, can be traced back to a separation with Jesus. 

Straying away from Jesus a HUGE problem and leads to an avalanche of issues.

It’s human nature to seek comfort and that’s what we do with religion. The large amounts of human interjection into all religions make them very pliable. Smart people can make the Bible (or Qur'an) say whatever it is they’d like it to say. This may be offensive to some, but when I hear things like “Seeking Jesus” or “Finding Jesus”, I think it’s a load of crap. Jesus aint hard to find. His words are in bright red ink! He’s right there! I’ve never felt like “looking for Jesus."

James River Crab Cakes (Part V of V)

There may be a few people out there who are wondering what ever happened to Big Al. It's been weeks since I posted the last installment and now... well, here it is...the humble ending to the story.

That night my mama sent me to the community garden for squash, ‘cause we were having grandmama over for dinner.  The community garden was only about a mile away.  Going to the garden was like having store credit.  We had lots of credit at the garden since we had planted four rows of it.  My mama had us all out here this past spring planting peas, cucumbers, carrots and new strawberry plants.  The only thing that had kept me diggin’ was the thought of some of  mama’s strawberry shortcake, with cool lush strawberries dyeing the clean flour of the cake topped with cream she whipped herself after we got it from Farmer Murray.  The squash was on the far side of the garden by the fence of Whistling Fields.  I had set to hackin’ at the thick vine of the squash when I heard big Al’s voice over the fence.  I squatted low to the ground, to avoid him seeing me.  I crawled to the fence and peered through the chain link into Big Al’s trailer.  Dingy cotton curtains blocked Al’s face from my sight and I could tell he was doing his best not to get in the way. He had smashed himself into the makeshift kitchen booth which doubled as a bed.   His mama was at the sink, in front of a plastic Betty Boop clock which rolled her bobble eyes with each tick.  Al’s mama was washing the cheap plastic dishes and hollering at Al about something.   She had a little voice , to match her petit frame but it was rough and strained.  I leaned forward into the fence to get some of the conversation. 

“Al, you just put that out of your mind, there is no way you can go to Hamp’en Sydney, and I don’t want you associating with that black boy, Joey Williams either.”  

“Why Mom?”

“Allen, you know well enough why.  He may be nice and kind and whatever, but its just no good to mix like that.  It leads to nothing but trouble.” 

I heard Al sigh.  His mom stopped washing for a moment and heaved her should with immense strain and then turned to Al and kissed his fat cheek,  “Now you get out there and pick me some more zucchini, maybe I can fix some bread.” 

Al shuffled to the door and I could hear the aluminum floor bend slightly beneath his weight.  I grabbed my squash and took off ‘fore he could catch a glimpse of me outside his window.   I ran hard and I came into the driveway pantin’ something awful.  Right then, I began thinking ‘bout why I’d taken such a dislike to Big Al.  I wondered at how little he had in that trailer, no refrigerator or TV, just him and his mama and barely enough room to walk between the two.  And what about his daddy?  There was a mystery I had only begun to tackle when my mama called me in, hollarin’ for the squash.  I ran up the porch stairs, ready for a nicely fixed squash and maybe some dumplings.

I didn’t see Big Al for a couple days after that.  But the conversation I’d heard through the fence got to gnawing at the back of my mind.  I was kind of miserable every time I rode my bike past Whistling Fields on the way to Winn Dixie.  Until, one Saturday  when my mama was gonna make crab cakes, so I went out crabbing early.  We got two poles in our shed and I figured the time would go faster if maybe Big Al come with me and helped me out.  I stopped at Whistling Fields and knocked on the thin door.  Big Al opened it, looking a little more rumpled than usual, his oversized t-shirt creased from sleep and his brown hair knotted like a squirrel’s nest.  I was standin’ there with two poles and fancied myself an African Huck Finn.  

“Well, ya wanna go crabbin’?”  I asked.  Al nodded and let the door swing shut as he creaked around for a while and emerged looking essentially the same but a little wetter.  We started down the path to the rhythm of our bare feet against the dirt path.

Even the white folk’s country club can’t compete with the cove where Jimmy D. used to live.  It the best crabbin’ spot on the whole James River if you ask me or my daddy.  Jimmy D was my great uncle and he taught my daddy everything we know ‘bout crabbin’.  He’d been killed back before I was born.  Mama said his house burnt down, I could see some of the charcoal posts still sticking up from the ground like blackened toothpicks.   His old boat, Scraps, was tied up to a platform made out of more gaps than wood.  The wood that stayed put was smooth and worn from the water’s wear and tear.  I sat down with my legs in the water, which was salty on account of how close we were to the Atlantic.  We were right outside the channel where they run old boats aground.  There was a whole city of ships out there.  I used to imagine it was a kingdom of steel ruled by ghost generals and dead pirates.  Under the dock were crab holes.  The small air bubbles gave me hope for a good catch.  I licked my fingers after hooking a good n’ greased chicken wing to my pole.  The water was shallow and I watched my bait through the greenish tint of the James.  Big Al did the same.  I wondered if the crabs were looking up at the chicken wing from their tunnel above their warm houses.  The fishing boats dragged their nets through the water, thick with fish.  

It was too late by the time I recognized the sailboat zipping towards us.  It was Trent Williams and he was already pulled up close enough to holler his share of insults.  My hand tightened around my pocket knife, we’d fought before.  

“Oh, well, here are two of the saddest creatures on the James River.  I don’t know which one to pity more, the skinny black one or the fat white one.”  He laughed. 

“What do you got against us?” I hollered back. “What did we ever do to you?”

“What did you do to me?” Trent sneered.  “How do you think your daddy got his name?  Your daddy shamed my daddy in front of the whole town. But my daddy gave him the beating of his life for it.”

“Rooster?” I questioned.

“Rooster.” Trent replied.  “After Jimmy D died, your daddy got the notion that it was started by the Klu Klux Klan.  Nobody would believe that over in the west end, least of all Sheriff McKey.  So your daddy swore that he’d hunt down the grand master himself.  The next day he showed up at my house carrying on like a madman, screaming and crying.  He killed our prized Rooster and was nailing it to the barn door out of spite.  My daddy took him and whipped him so bad your mama had to come carry him away.  From then on everybody called him Rooster cause of what he done.  He ain’t nothing but grown up slave boy.”

I think he might’ve gone on with his hollarin’ but his mean tongue got bit by his teeth as a chicken wing knocked him in the side of the head.  I looked at Big Al, whose hands where still drippin’ from the chicken fat.  His round face was swelling with anger as picked up another wing and again clocked Trent right across his face.  I could tell it was gonna bruise and Trent was doing all he could to keep from crying.  “Why don’t you go back home to your daddy?” Al suggested.  “You can come back if you think of something good to say ‘cause all I hear is a load of horse crap coming out of your mouth.”  And with that Trent Williams pulled his sail hard to catch the small wind on the river and he was soon out of sight.  

Al slapped his hands against his shorts and I lamely muttered, “Thanks.”  He nodded, and I smiled remembering the chicken stain on Trent’s cheek.  I started to laugh at the image of chicken fat splat against his jaw and then falling to smear the crisp white of his polo shirt.  Al began to laugh too.  His high chuckle released all the anger which had been pressurized in his large face.  We imitated Trent’s shocked expression until we were bent over with laughter and all the tension was split.

Al’s face sobered, “I’m sorry about your dad.”  

I shrugged.  I looked down into the water, deep down as I could where the water muddied from the wake of the boat.

“My dad’s dead,” Al continued.  “He got killed in LA last year.   It was after the riots ya know.   My mom says he was in the black neighborhood and it was late.  They killed him Joey, He didn’t hate nobody, but they killed him just the same.  So, I’m not supposed to be friends with you.  My mom’s scared.  But I think that is the same on both sides. What’s the difference between Trent and the blacks who killed my dad? ”

My mind reverberated with shock.  I looked at Al as if I’d just met him.  He really wasn’t so fat, I guess.  There was a sort of greatness in his size.  “Yeah,” I agreed.  “I don’t see the difference,” and I really didn’t.  With that, I grinned and turned back to the water, once again smooth.

“Hey ya got something!”  Al exclaimed.  

I looked down to find a huge crab grasping the flesh of the wing with both muscular claws.  “Oh we got ‘em!” I yelled.  “We got ‘em Al, open the net.”  I lifted my pole, bent toward the crab which dangled over the open net bag.  I set him down and then yanked the chicken from him.  It swung high into the clear sky and I laughed with joy as it fell in to the river.  Al squealed with delight.  We must have been a sight us two boys, rejoicing like that over a crab.  It was like we’d finally struck it rich in our own gold rush.  

We caught 6 more crabs that day and headed back to the house, swinging them over our shoulders, whistling off-key with each other but pleased as pie.  We got to Al’s trailer first, and he hesitated to turn off the path.  “Al, ya coming to dinner?  You gotta eat your catch.  Invite your mama too.”  He looked at me like I was good ole Santa Claus with my bag full of crabs.  He clomped up the step stool in front of the trailer, with a grin as fat as his own big self.  

Not an hour later, Al and his mama was at our door holding some onions and cabbage for the coleslaw.  That night, we sat down to one of the finest meals of crab cakes this side of the James River has ever seen. The smell of dill and pepper filled the house. The cakes were so light I bet Al that I could eat 10.  He laughed in that high pitched delight and reached for the cool pitcher of sweet tea which stood on our finest blue tablecloth. I smiled back at him, digging into my dumplings which were still hot enough to steam as I split them. 

His mama was smiling too.  She had on a floral sun dress, and was closing her eyes with apparent pleasure.  Her red lipstick brightened her face and reminded me of the strawberries which would follow the meal.  My dad, Rooster, set down his fork and wiped his hands happily.  “Oh what a day!” he announced.  “If this ain’t a proper welcome to the neighborhood I don’t know what is!”  I looked at my daddy at the head of the table and noticed again the small scars on the back of his arms, peering out from his t-shirt sleeves.  I glanced up to catch his smiling eyes and saw that they were deep and strong like the James River itself.  “It don’t get much better than this,”  I whispered to Al and he nodded his big head.  That night was the brightest of the whole summer, playing pick-up in the moonlight, eating strawberries and cream.  I looked out over the river and thought, “The James it ain’t too rich a place to live but it ain’t too poor.  It’s got all sorts of secrets in that water, floating by, slow but powerful.”

Better Late Than Never by Marion Dietrich

I love this post by my amazing mother...hope it inspires you as much as it did me. 

It had been almost four years since Anne came screeching into the world.  Joe and I had pretty much adjusted to the fact that there would be only two delights to fill our life.  Miscarriages and lateness of years had stamped me unfertile.  Unashamed thankfulness bathed us for the two perfect daughters who already graced our home and we were moving on to another chapter, another scenario, another stage of life.  And then it happened.  Katie and Anne were over the moon and voted for a puppy or an older brother!   But God had something else in mind.  A little sister would be coming in fall and we were all amazed at the miracle of changed plans and interrupted cycles. 

Miraculous from the start, she came 3 weeks early and was still over 9 pounds.  The other two had been quickly delivered, but this one…she had a mind of her own even in the womb.  After the arrival, I was hurtled into severe postpartum, which lasted not for days, nor months, but years.  My recollection of my newborn are sparse and blurred.  Thankfully, there were other mothers who could swaddle her, bathe her, feed her.  And Joe became Mr. Mom.  My only goal was solitary and distinct…to survive another day.  One clarion memory trumpets from the fog of that past.  It entails me fretting that I would never live to care for her past the age of 2. 

Tomorrow is her birthday.  And twenty-two will be her age. Tears rim my eyes at the grace of living to see her grow and flourish.  The nightmare of the past never completely forgotten, but eclipsed by the brilliance of the difference her life has made.  I am young because she is young.  I am gloriously happy because she glories in who God has created her to be.  I am fiercely protective because now I am able to be, and her road has not been smooth, her path has not been clear, her way has not been easy.  But she has overcome because He, knowing that the world would bring her tribulation, has overcome.  Kind, compassionate, hilarious, sensitive, amazingly thoughtful, a servant, an athlete, a sculptor, a sister, an aunt, a friend, but most of all my cherished daughter she dances through this life sprinkling wonder on all she touches.  

Happy Birthday, Janie.  Oh the plans He has for you now…how humbled I am to be here to witness them.

Pine Tree Liberation Movement*

I imagine myself as the one on the left...
more serious and a little frumpier.

As a child, I liked to organize protests.  I am sure my parents wondered if I would ever grow out of it.  After all, I came by it honestly.  My Uncle Jeff missed our last family reunion because he was doing time for lying down in front of a bulldozer that was clearing the land for the Walt Disney Symphony Hall in LA.  He was 65 years old.

Perhaps it was natural, that in grade school I would start strikes against certain teachers.  I would campaign for “students’ rights.”  I even held elections and was voted president of the playground.  As a straight-laced honors student perhaps this was my genre of rebellion.  To me, protesting was an intoxicating brew of persuasion, organization and disruption.  

My best friend Lauren was a more decorous activist.  She always called her parents before we watched a movie, even if it was PG.  She lived about 10 blocks from my house, on Hyde Road.  We practically shared homes.  I could walk into their warm red colonial house day or night and be welcomed by the smell of fresh baking, and Virginia hospitality.  Her mom was a modern Southern belle.  She was beautiful, just like Lauren.  They always smelled like expensive perfume and wore outfits that matched spectacularly.  What was spectacular was not only that their shirts matched their pants, or that their shoes and earrings matched their clothes, or even that mother and daughter matched each other.  What always impressed me was the way they matched their house.  I envied their ability to coordinate their lives so seamlessly.  

We had become friends in sixth grade when we heard the story of Gladys Alward, a missionary who had saved the lives of a hundred Chinese children.  We had watched the movie, “Inn of the Sixth Happiness” starring Ingrid Bergman over 10 times.  We knew it by heart and our dream was to go to China.  We had a saving account with $100 toward the cause. 

Lauren and I would stay up all night doing Jane Fonda workouts and reading silly poetry.  She had an uncanny sense of comedic timing and a real gift for imitation. Just a look from her, behind a teacher’s back could send me into hysterics that got me removed from the classroom. 

In the winter, we would walk across the street to go sledding in the field by her house.  One windy afternoon, I noticed pink tape choking the circumference of the pine trees.  “Hey, what’s this?” I called to her.

“Oh they’re thinning the forest.” She replied. “It's gonna be awful ugly- Look at all the climbing trees they’re cutting down.” Righteous indignation began to rise in my chest.

“The ones marked in pink?”  I asked.

“I think so.” She nodded.

“No!” I shouted. “We can’t let this happen.  We are going to pull down all the tape so that they won’t know which ones to cut. OK? We can stop this.”  My inspirational tirade at its end, I jerked loose a pink noose and threw it down.  We went on a rampage that Friday afternoon.  We must have freed 20-50 trees. The brisk air and the danger of getting caught heightened the sense of exhilaration.  I smelled the needle’s refreshing perfume and felt the dark sap sticking to the palms of my hands.  The trees nodded in the wind, bowing with unspoken thanks.  I looked over the forest in triumph.  Lauren and I took the evidence inside to throw away and settled down to a sweet cup of hot cocoa.  Lauren’s mom smiled at us as she poured.  I noticed that her apron matched the teapot.    

The next week I came by Lauren’s after school for our weekly sledding adventure.  I had almost forgotten about our Pine Tree Liberation Movement, I was preoccupied with my latest appeal for a less oppressive dress code.   We crossed over Hyde road into the woods.  I had just remembered to ask, “How about those trees?”  But the words were whisked away by the chill in the air.  

They had all been cut down.  

The company destroyed them even without the pink tags.  I sank down into the wet snow.  It seeped through my canvas shoes and my jeans.  I was crushed.  I cried for those trees.  I cried for my impotence against this destruction.  I cried for the futility of wanting something good and being denied without reason.  The remnant of pine trees rained down dying needles into my tangled hair.  I knew I was no longer queen of this realm.  

I wondered if this was the end of my innocence.  How could I live hopefully in a world that slaughtered a source of clean air?  I flailed my arms in despair, creating an unintentional snow angel.  I looked over at Lauren for picket line solidarity.  She was grinning, which I found completely inappropriate.  I scowled at her to communicate my sentiments and she rolled her eyes, pulling herself up to her full height.  With facetious passion she began to exhort an imaginary audience.  She broke into her best Southern Baptist drawl which was breathy yet bellowing- full of dramatic pause; 

“We got something to tell ya’ll today-ah.  We gotta message y’all can’t just ignore-ah.  We are here because we want y’all to get up out dem seats-ah…Get up dem seats-ah and take a stand with us today-ah.  There are people starving in China…there are children dying in Africa…and there are trees being murdered in West Hartford-ah.” 

At this she burst into hysterics.  I launched a snowball at her face but couldn’t help but giggle at my own gravity.  “Don’t worry” she consoled and then with ironic wisdom she added,  “There will always be something to protest.”  

* based on true events...some artistic license may have been taken because, #1 it was a long time ago and #2 because I experience and remember things in the most dramatic light possible. Hope you all don't run away now that you know what a nutcase I am:) But I'm guessing most of you knew that already anyway.  

1,000 Good Mornings by Keith Krass

Despite appearances, it's not a Gummybear 

I'm pretty sure I'll never forgot Tuesday, May 7. Sarah and I were going to see the band Needtobreathe with her brother Daniel. The plan was for me and Daniel to come from Gordon (where I work and he is a student) to our apartment, pick up Sarah and head down to the House of Blues. Sarah called me around 3PM asking if I could come home first, then go back to Gordon to pick up Daniel.

This made no sense to me.

But I acquiesced, thinking Sarah just wanted some "alone time" before heading into Boston. When when I got home she said, "You know those pants I just bought? I don't think they are going to fit anymore." I responded with a thoroughly confused, "Ummmmmm, Ooooookkkkkkkkk. I don't think you need to, but do you want to return them." Sarah, thinking she was being quite obvious, looked at me with a tint of frustration and said, this time a bit less subliminally, "I bought a pregnancy test."

At this point, two things were going through my mind: This is either really good news or really bad news. Truthfully, I had no idea how to respond (I was a bit slow to pick up on what was going on). I think I mustered a weak, "And?"

"I'M PREGNANT!"

My emotions at this moment were probably best summed up this way:

I felt like I did at this moment:

Read the rest at  1,000goodmornings.net