Martin...

"Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness, let us stand with a greater determination, and let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge, to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation, and I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you." -MLK in Memphis, April 3, 1968

"But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him." -Luke 10:33-34

I often like to highlight on MLK each year that I was named after Rev. King. It's an amazing legacy, mostly because I was named by a dad who was raised in Alabama in the 60's. It's a special honor I carry with me, and something I try often to remember to live into and up to.

And yet, this year has been different. So much, in fact, has been different. But as MLK Day approaches, I'm finding myself wrestling with much of what Dr. King said this year in a new way. You see, like many of us, come MLK Day, I post some quote, trying to capture the essence of Dr. King's thinking and to prove my credentials as someone who cares. But this year, I've tried something different. This year, I've tried to actually listen to his words.

If you're anything like me, you see a lot of the quotes and memes with Dr. King's face and words this time of year. What I'm finding is that they don't even begin to capture the essence of the man. I've been listening to his speeches, beginning to end, and I can't help but think we've so watered down his idea of nonviolence to the point of apathetic reservation. Or we've manipulated his words to endorse our own attitudes and actions.

The truth is, when I hear his words, all of his words, I don't feel endorsed. I don't feel encouraged. I don't feel proud of myself. I feel disappointed.

I feel disappointed that the calls he made 60 years ago still haven't been heeded today, that the America he describes them feels painfully similar to the America we have with us in 2021.

I feel disappointed because his nonviolence was not apathy, but action. It demanded stepping into harm's with with an impossible strength, determined not to strike back, to highlight that aggression and evil were not the tools of those fighting racism, but to maintain it. His nonviolence was rooted in sacrifice, for which we all know how it ended for him.

I feel disappointed because his words about riots feel misplaced in 2021. We take his words and validate the destruction of property, which he saw as a distraction from the message. In damage, the focus could be taken off of the purpose and onto the methods. And yet, we also miss the point he had made, that riots are a natural outcome when an entire community has been stripped of equal opportunity to health care, education, living wages generation after generation.

I feel disappointed because like Bonhoeffer, the faith of Rev. King recognized that the work of justice on behalf of God's kingdom would cost something, and I find myself, like many others, confusing activity with cost. The work of justice involves real-life choices that don't always stand in my best interest. The work of kingdom building involves choices with real-life consequences. Rev. King had words for white folk, for suburbanites, for Christians, for those with influence. It wasn't easy to follow King much like it wasn't without risk to follow Jesus. It isn't today either.

In listening to his words, I've found both a new appreciation for King as well as a new disappointment in myself. Much like with Jesus, I often try to tone down his words to make them more palatable, as if I can excuse myself from responsibility in this effort. I have simply been sitting in his words, letting them wash over my like a crashing wave and allowing myself to simply wade with their tide. Listening to King's words has reminded me that ignoring pain doesn't mean it isn't so, but rather that I have simply omitted my own responsibility from being a part of the healing.

So may we heed once again the radical words of Rev. King because radical they are. May we let them inform us, challenge us, heal us, and compel us. May we stop neutering them so that we can feel better about ourselves, but hear them so that we can figure out what's next. Now more than ever, I'm feeling particularly...

forever unfinished...

Dear Mr. President...

Dear Mr. President,

We've not met. Nor, I suppose, will you ever read this letter. I'm a simple youth minister from St. Louis, and you are holding an office which has often been described as "the leader of the free world." It only makes sense that our paths wouldn't cross.

It is with the utmost conviction that I do not often discuss politics, either here or in the greater digital sphere. We have lost the capacity to humanize and sympathize with our neighbors through screens, and dialogue and discourse are, I feel, greatly endangered when we fail to speak when we can see our neighbor.

But this isn't about partisan politics or policies. Like any other politician, there are policies with which I agree and there are policies with which I disagree. You are no different, and I would assume nothing less from a Democrat or a Republican holding your office (as I have voted for both). This is not about that.

38 months ago I was a resident of Texas. You were a candidate for the Republican presidential nomination, and you were coming through Fort Worth for one of your rallies. It was during Lent.

This last detail may seem insignificant, but it is in fact what drove me to attend your rally. You see, I am a praying person, and it is my deepest desire to see the fullness of humanity and God's image in each of my brothers and sisters. As I watched you debate and listened to your speeches, I'm heartbroken to say that that was difficult for me.

Your words stung and you belittled your opponents and others. We teach our students to respect one another, that Jesus' love knows no boundaries and that no one is left out. So I went to your rally to pray. For you. Because I know that transformation cannot happen until we can see the reflection of our Creator in all. We cannot have peace with some until we can have peace with all. So I went to pray that I could love you better.

And as I waited in the line that wound around the building, I caught my first tinge of pain. I stood behind an anonymous father and his young daughter. On the roads surrounding the building were Hispanic protesters driving cars, waving Mexican flags, and shouting, "Dump Trump." I had anticipated demonstrations, I suppose, so I wasn't particularly surprised. What caught me off-guard was what I heard from the father in front of me.

He looked at his daughter, somewhat oblivious to the magnitude of the occasion, and reminded her how shameful the protestors were. They must've been in America illegally. They must've been too illiterate to have real jobs like her father. They must've been out of work because they were too lazy to find a real job. My heart broke a little bit and I pulled my hood above my head as the line neared the entrance.

After passing through security, I found a spot near the back of the auditorium and began to pray. I prayed hard. But my prayers were interrupted by conversations my ears could not tune out. They were the same conversations I'd heard in line. No, they weren't about the protestors, but they were stained with the same pain and the same anger. They were filled with the same arrogance and ignorance.

But I kept praying. And then you came to the podium. So I prayed with my mouth and listened with my ears. Eventually my ears won out and I tried to show you the respect of listening without distraction. I was there the day you splashed water on the crowd to mock Marco Rubio, whose own attacks had grown increasingly immature and disrespectful as well. You were acting like a bully, Mr. President.

But what stung more than your words was the way the crowd cheered them. What broke my heart more were the ways they laughed and mocked along with you. Clearly, not everyone in the crowd was doing this, and to paint with too broad a brush would be irresponsible and unfair.

Nevertheless, I learned an important lesson in that moment. Sir, by lowering the bar of respect and civility from that podium, you were lowering it for the rest of us as well. You were validating and legitimizing anger and hate and allowing others to feel affirmed in their speech to do the same. You see, when you tweet name-calling and disrespect, you are subconsciously allowing others to do the same.

I walked out of that convention center crying. I learned the limits of my heart's grace in that place, the limits to which my heart could not bend and break any further. I hope that in that pain my heart grew wider, that those limits have been broadened. This is my confession, my humble acknowledgement that I too am imperfect.

As I watch what is happening in our world, we need more strength through grace, more power through powerlessness. I'm reminded that our God taught us to love in our fullest through sacrifice. Power wasn't wielded through might, but rather through surrender. May we both learn the lessons of Jesus.

You are my brother, which is why I have not written with sarcasm or triviality. Those are not tools for resolving family conflicts. Patience, steadfastness, and grace are the tools for such work. I write this because your microphone is louder than mine, and it is with the deepest hope that I pray you will recognize in your position the potential for all humanity's life and flourishing.

Please sir. Let us both strive to live and love our neighbors with more exuberance. Lives depend on it.

forever unfinished,
a simple youth minister