First Born Son

alien (un)intelligence

2008-05-12T23:56:00.005-04:00

I’m not making this up. This happened last week:

I take my truck to the dealer for some work. After handing over my keys I walk into the small “customer waiting area” - a small room complete with a pot of coffee, a bunch of lame magazines, and a television on the wall blaring CNN. I walk past the only other waiting customer, a woman with her head literally buried in a fast food bag.

I brought a book with me. I’m reading Teacher Man, a memoir by the Irishman Frank McCort. In the chapter I’m reading he is describing an ongoing struggle: He was born in America but raised in Ireland. When he returns to work in New York he is considered an Irish immigrant. When he returns to study in Dublin he is labeled a Yankee. He is a a foreigner in both the land of his birth as well as the land of his roots.

As I try to focus on the story over the sound of the news, a few more customers make their way in and sit down around me: A very old man in an old cap and oversized sunglasses, and a well-to-do couple who look like they are close to retirement.

After a few minutes they start the small talk. Then a story on the news laments the every increasing price of gas. The woman who is now done with her fast food feeding makes the observation that it is crazy that the cost of gas won’t stop going up every day.

The husband of the couple agrees with her, and then makes the comment that the culprit is the ever increasing demand for gas versus the supply.

Then she drops the bomb:

“Well you know, the main reason for the high supply is all the foreigners who live in this country. They come over here and they all drive their cars and use up all the gas. Get rid of the foreigners and you get rid of half the demand right there!”

My reading freezes in the middle of a sentence, but I don’t look up. Without a moment of thought, the husband agrees. I wonder for a short moment if they are really talking about all foreigners, or just jumping on the anti-illegal-immigrant band wagon.

But in his next breath the husband clears up any confusion:

“And then of course there are also the illegal foreigners who come here. They want to work? Okay... fine. Put ‘em in a uniform and ship ‘em off to Iraq and that’ll put ‘em to work.”

Then something is said about how that will keep ‘em from wanting to come over here or something. But my brain locks up for a second in shock and I miss it. Besides, now they are talking about immigrants, oil, and war in the Middle East. So I probably shouldn't say anything about my father being an immigrant petroleum engineer from Iraq. It probably won’t be until I am driving away an hour later when I will think of something clever I should have said.

So instead I grip the edges of my book a little tighter, and this son of an immigrant re-reads the chapter about an immigrant while sitting in a room full of people who don’t like immigrants.

washed out & blown away

2008-05-08T13:31:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid bad weather terrified me. Even if there was no rain, all it took was that little white funnel shaped "tornado watch" immage to appear on the upper corner of the television and I began to twitch.

And at night, as soon as the thunder and lightening started, I would take evasive action: Roll over on my stomach, cover myself with the blanket (because of course anything under the covers was safe, and anything exposed was in danger), bury my face in my pillow, and plug my ears with my fingers. I would burn up with sweat in the summer, and I couldn't breath, but it was my only defence against the terror. I did everything I could to not see the lightening or hear the thunder. And every night, no matter what the weather, the liturgy of prayers I would say with my mother always ended with, "No tornados tonight?"

These days I love thunderstorms. When the sky gets dark and the thunder rolls, I love to open the windows and listen to the rain fall to earth. However, this spring I am beginning to wonder if I should start building an ark and gathering pairs of animals. I have lived most of my life in Tornado Alley, but I have never seen as much wind and rain as has fallen on us this spring in Arkansas. I took this picutre a couple of weeks ago from our appartment balcony in the middle of the afternoon. I woke up from a nap and thought it was night.

A week later the weather woke us up about 4:30 in the morning and motivated us to start heading for the closet. And sadly, the storms killed people and destroyed homes to the west and east of us around that night. Arkansas - and much of this area of the south - is a soggy mess. And it is not letting up. I wonder if it is always like this here, or did we move during an extra stormy season.

And yet our water and wind woes pale to the tragedy in Burhma. Lives lost. Homes gone. Danger of famine and disease. And a useless junta government. Lord have mercy...

still dreaming

2008-04-04T18:11:00.003-04:00

Sleep, sleep tonight
And may your dreams be realized.
If the thunder cloud passes rain
So let it rain, rain down on he.
So let it be.
So let it be.
U2: MLK

(Read about the MLK memorial in Washing D.C. here.)

crucifixion and prayers for peace

2008-03-21T22:33:00.004-04:00

This week the focus of First Born Son is both Holy Week and the 5 Year Anniversary of the Invasion and Occupation of Iraq.

Seven days into the invasion of Iraq there was a special chapel service at Asbury. I have never seen so many hundreds of people crammed into Estes Chapel. Emotions were high. People who supported the war and those who opposed it were all gathered together to talk, listen and pray through two countries at war.

There was some time given in the service for people to stand and share their thoughts, feelings and prayers. Our pastor John David moved back and forth around the isles, taking a microphone to anyone who stood to speak.

I was pretty numb and so I honestly can’t remember anything anyone said, except for one older lady. When she stood and took the mic from John David she gently told us that her son was on the front lines marching toward Baghdad. In fact, there were reports that some in his outfit had already been killed. She was as afraid for her son’s life as any good mother would be. But then she said something that shocked at least me, if not most of the people in the chapel.

I am going to say something that I don’t think anyone else here is going to say. God loves Saddam Hussein, and Jesus died for his sins. So while I’m not holding out hope that he is going to change, I am praying for Saddam Hussein.

Today is the day we remember that God loved the world so much that his Son was crucified. This is the critical moment in our salvation story: Genesis tells us that God created ADAM – Hebrew for “humanity” – in his image. But humanity turned away. When the time came to redeem his creation he chose Israel, an enslaved people group who were the lowest of the social order at that time. And he sent his Son through these lowest people to redeem humanity. He was from what is now Palestine, a backwater province of the Roman Empire, born in Bethlehem, a backwater town in this backwater province, to a peasant virgin girl betrothed to a workingman. In the middle of the dung and the straw of a stable, the Savior of humanity was laid in a donkey trough. When his time had come, he rode on the back of a donkey into Jerusalem, where he was nailed to a cross, which meant he was cursed as a Jew and had no citizenship as a Roman. From the cradle to the grave he was among the lowest of the low. And if salvation began there, then that means it is for everyone – for all of ADAM. All of us created from dirt, and all of us redeemed by Christ… the NEW ADAM.

I am fairly confident that a very, very small minority of Christians I knew at that time prayed for the Iraqis during the first few days of the war. But this year, as we celebrate Holy Week while lamenting an unholy war, we have been given an opportunity to remember, repent and pray for the peace of Christ that is found at the Cross.

O God, you made us in your own image and redeemed us through Jesus, your Son: Look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us; unite us in the bonds of love; and work through our struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly throne; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Book of Common Prayer

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, give us your peace.

domestic violence and the suffering christ

2008-03-20T11:02:00.002-04:00

This week the focus of First Born Son is both Holy Week and the 5 Year Anniversary of the Invasion and Occupation of Iraq.

"DOMESTIC VIOLENCE"

You poor child.

There you are,
following in the footsteps of your ancestors,
but your father is his own man.

He beats you. And your mother.
Women and children are not safe around him.

He takes you by the neck, and tells you to stop crying.
If you don’t, he warns,
he’ll beat you some more.

What could be worse?
Maybe the police officer standing in the window,
watching your father beat and rape you.
He walks through the door, but makes no arrest.

Just a nod, once;
the slow, subtle nod of permission
meant to go unseen by others.

And so your father beats you,
and rapes you,
(and your mother)
while the police watch for hours.

Then, quite suddenly, the officer breaks down the door,
pulls out his nightstick
and begins to beat your father… and you.
Both of you he throws around the room
breaking pictures and lamps and tables and chairs and walls.
Now the doors are wide open to the world.

Father finally submits to the handcuffs
and is taken away.
Then the officer looks at you, and asks why you are not thankful
that he stopped your father from beating you.

Then he commands you – you all covered with blood and broken bones and mental scars –
to clean up the house quickly, or else he’ll look bad;
all the while the world comes through your door and takes your heirlooms.

While you crawl through your own blood
over broken glass and the remains of your home
with genitals exposed and swollen,
this ignorant, determined, self-righteous cop
stands proud and declares out the door:

“Here to protect and to serve.”

When I first wrote this poem in 1993 it was only four stanzas. I penned it after my uncle died in Baghdad because the embargo on Iraq made finding medicine for his kidney failure impossible. I came back to it for two reasons in 2006. First, the woman at the checkout in Wal Mart who, after looking at my name on my credit card and asking where it was from, then asked, “Why don’t they like us much over there? Don’t they know we’re just tryin’ to help?” And second, my cousin’s murder in Baghdad during the recent civil war.

I’ve never really “finished” it. It grew (and has continued to grow) out of my realization and frustration that Saddam was a tyrant and the U.S. was a bully: First Saddam brutalizing his own people and using chemical weapons, but at the time the U.S. needs him to fight Iran, so we look the other way... later the U.S. bombs Iraq into the stone age, and then leaves Saddam in power and never lets them rebuild... then the U.S. decides that bombing Iraq will be adequate retribution for 9/11, and so a country that has nothing to do with the radical Islam of Osama Bin Laden is turned into one... and the thing is done so poorly that civil war breaks out.

Almost 30 years of the Iraq's sons and daughters bleeding to death between a beast and a bully.

The Scripture tells us that before he is arrested and crucified, Jesus goes into the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. So overcome with shock and awe at the terror of what is about to happen, one account tells us that, “his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood.”

This is the moment in our Story where the sins of the entire world for all of history are placed on the Lamb of God. All this sins. Of all the world. For all of history. And so this is the moment in our Story where the Son of God bleeds with his children in Iraq for the sins of a beast and the sins of a bully.

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Lord have mercy.

Jesus in the Garden statue at the Abbey of Gethsemani Monastery in Trappist, Kentucky.
My wife took this picture right after a rain. I have always thought that the water on the metal looks like blood.

iraq: five years gone

2008-03-19T11:25:00.001-04:00

"Is there no savior for our hopeless world? Concerned with political interests, our leaders have lost the trust of honest people to mediate a just and lasting peace. They mouth religion but have no honest trust in the divine. They cannot be the savior; they are the problem. In their mouths they say, “In God we trust.” But their hearts insist, “In God we cannot trust. We will be God. We will save the world. We will rid the world of evil.” What atheists express in words, our leaders second by their actions."

Joseph F. Girzone

Joshua in a Troubled World

Lord have mercy.

Christ have mercy.

Lord have mercy.

what makes a prophet false?

2008-03-18T22:23:00.005-04:00

This week the focus of First Born Son is both Holy Week and the 5 Year Anniversary of the Invasion and Occupation of Iraq.

In early 2001, I was in what can be called a “restoration of my faith.” I had been through some dark years, and a pastor named Bud had taken me under his wing and was shepherding me back home.

One of the tools Bud used was a book he gave me by Henry Blackaby entitled The Man God Uses. At the time Blackaby was a giant in the evangelical Christian sub-culture. He had co-authored a book called Experiencing God that almost everyone in our church, and a majority of Christians I knew, had worked through at one time or another. I read that book from cover to cover, highlighting passages and making notes in the margins. One of the reasons I answered the “call to ministry” is because I read that book.

Disappointment is hard to deal with.

Before the invasion of Iraq, Blackaby told the Agape Press, “...those who oppose the war to liberate Iraq need to read God’s Word.” He actually went on to say that anyone who opposed the President on the invasion of Iraq were subject to God’s judgement.

But he was not the only “hero of the faith” to make such a claim. The late Bill Bright, founder of (the poorly named) Campus Crusade for Christ - an organization that many of my friends from college went to work for - signed the famous “Land Letter” to President Bush stating that war with Iraq was both Biblical and godly.

And there was also Charles Stanley, a stalwart whom many I trusted in the faith have read, quoted and followed. He also went on to say in a sermon given right before the invasion that the President had been given the authority by God to wage war on Iraq, and we were foolish to question or doubt.

Of course I could go on. To this day there are many major evangelical pastors and teachers who constantly call for war with the Middle East, declaring it is God’s will and mandate. Some seem like they are decently solid in their theology until it comes to Arabs, the Middle East and the End Times.

Others are just downright crazy. The latest example in this camp is John Hagee. But the most outrageous line comes from a Hagee lieutenant named Rod Parlsey (who consequently has worked closely with Texas Governor Rick Perry and has become snug with Senator John McCain). He recently wrote in his book Silent No More: “...I will tell you this: I do not believe our country can truly fulfill its divine purpose until we understand our historical conflict with Islam. I know that this statement sounds extreme, but I do not shrink from its implications. The fact is that America was founded, in part, with the intention of seeing this false religion destroyed...”

He goes on to say that Christopher Columbus intentionally set out on his journey because he believed that the wealth of the New World would help finance the war against Islam.

I’m not making this up.

So what is my point? Well, first of all there are thousands of pastors who stand on the teachings of Blackaby, Bright and Stanley more than they stand on the Gospel (though they would never admit it). So then what is being taughtthousands of our churches? Clearly nothing that would lead to peace in the Middle East and the true Kingdom of God on Earth as it is in Heaven.

But here is the kicker: These Christian men of God have publicly declared that any Christian in the U.S. who did not support the war in Iraq were subject to the judgement of God. Well, it turns out that last month the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei - the supreme leader of Iran - said publicly that God would punish any Iranian who did not support Iran’s nuclear weapon program.

So who’s side is God on? I’m going to go with neither. For in the end, I don’t see much difference between Rev. Stanley and Ayatollah Khamenei. They both use nationalism, fear and violence to drive home their agenda... an agenda that has nothing to do with the Gospel of Peace. And most tragically, their followers on both sides will faithfully yet blindly follow their messages into a senseless war against each other... a war that has nothing to do with God and the fact that he created us all in his image.

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Lord have mercy.

from ireland to iraq

2008-03-17T21:33:00.007-04:00

This week the focus of First Born Son is both Holy Week and the 5 Year Anniversary of the Invasion and Occupation of Iraq.

During my final semester of college as an English major, a combination of my best friend Kelly and one of my professors introduced me to what are still my three favorite Irish exports:

But of course, today is the day that most Americans (including me) count themselves Irish: St. Patrick's Day. One of my St. Pat’s day traditions - besides drinking a little extra Guinness - is to pull Thomas Cahill’s book How the Irish Saved Civilization off the shelf and read the chapter on the first missionary to Ireland: Saint Patrick.

His is the story of a man, who as a teenager living in England, was kidnapped and taken to be a slave in Ireland. Long story short, after six years of slaving away as a shepherd, he makes his way back home to England. After his return home, God calls him back to Ireland to be the first missionary of the Gospel to the Emerald Isle.

The man actually went back to share the love of Christ with the very people who sinned against him.

Two moments in Cahill's book always strike me. The first comes when he describes Saint Patrick as trying to show the Irish that "... the sword was not the only instrument for structuring a society." The second, is pointing out that the British Christians refused to see their Irish brothers as equals because they were not Roman citizens.

To break it down in simply, Saint Patrick shows us that it does not take (nor ever took) bombs and bullets to deal with Iraq, and that one does not need to be a certain nationality or citizenship to be treated as one created in the image of God.

Today is typically the day for most of us to wear green shirts, drink green beer, and don "kiss me I'm Irish" buttons (all of which real Irish detest by the way). But really it is a day to consider Ireland and the patron saint she gave the Body of Christ.

Ireland is a land that has known occupation, sectarian divide and terrorism. But I believe that the patron saint of the Emerald Isle can still teach us something about how to deal with the land of the wilted desert rose... Iraq.

Saint Patrick understood what “forgive your enemies” looked like. He also knew that the “less than human barbarians” of another country were actually those created in the image of God, and so instead of using a sword he came with the Gospel of peace.

That we in the United States would learn more from Saint Patrick about foreign policy than we do about green clothes and beer.

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Lord have mercy.

holy week & unholy war

2008-03-16T15:41:00.004-04:00

This week the focus of First Born Son is both Holy Week and the 5 Year Anniversary of the Invasion and Occupation of Iraq.

Today is Palm Sunday... the beginning of Holy Week. On Thursday we will remember his agony in the garden, His final meal with his disciples, and his arrest. On Friday we will remember his crucifixion, death and burial. And on Sunday we will celebrate his rising from the dead and that he is alive. But the week begins with remembering - and often reenacting - his celebrated arrival in Jerusalem that began the Passion Week.

The Scripture tells us that when Jesus entered the city on the back of a donkey, large crowds of people - who were in town for Passover - ran out to meet him. They waved palm branches while shouting praises to Jesus as he entered the city.

Palm Sunday at my church growing up was pretty typical. Along with the standard bulletin, the ushers would hand everyone a large palm branch as they entered the sanctuary. During the opening worship anthem, everyone would sing out loud while waving their palm branches back and forth in the air.

And just about every year, without fail, a group of church members would be recruited to reenact the scene. All the men, women and child actors would be decked out in blue, red, green and brown bed sheets cut to look like poor representations of first century Middle Eastern garb, while for the men smaller cuts of fabric would be tied around their heads and draped over their shoulders. And one man would always be decked out in a white robe, long hair wig, and fake beard. This man was our Jesus.

The sanctuary was rather large, with five sets of isles leading to three doors at the back. Usually during the first singing of the chorus, with the congregations palm branches swaying back and forth, our “Jesus” would walk in from the back center set of doors. As he slowly walked up and down the isles and around the sanctuary, the “Passover crowd” followed waiving their palm branches.

One year someone got the idea to make the scene more dramatic. This particular time started off as any other. The music started, the congregation stood, and we all began singing and waving all palm branches as the back door opened. But this time, instead of on his feet, our Jesus was sitting on top of a real... live... donkey.

And somewhere during the second stanza, while heading up the third isle, the donkey - who had to be a little confused and frightened by this mass of people waving palms in one hand while pointing at him with their hymnals in the other - did what most animals do when the moment is right: He shit on the sanctuary carpet.

The next year the worship committee made sure that didn’t happen again. When the back doors flew open and our Jesus made his triumphal entry, he was again on the back of a real live donkey. But as the animal cleared the doors and fully entered the sanctuary, everyone could see that something was different: The ass was wearing a huge diaper.

That's authentic first century realism.

For me, this is the image I always have in my mind as we begin the most sacred of weeks in the Christian year. But the image of the real event had to be pretty amazing. As the word of Jesus raising his friend Lazarus from the dead had spread, the people in Jerusalem had to be getting excited.

It was Passover: The annual remembrance and celebration of when God delivered his people out of slavery and called them his own. And now here they were, in a land occupied by a foreign, pagan power, at the bottom of the social order. They were ready to be delivered again. They were ready for a savior. And this Jesus might be the one.

But I’ve learned something about those palm branches I never knew. In Jesus’ day, the palm branch to the Jews was a symbol of military victory. A kind of nationalistic flag in a way. So when the throngs gathered they thought they were greeting their King mighty in battle. What they were getting instead was a Suffering Servant mighty in sacrifice.

By waving those palm branches, they show that they were expecting Jesus to be their military hero: overthrowing their enemies, redeeming their exiles and re-establishing them as the top power in the world. But what they failed to realize that Jesus had come to overthrow a greater enemy than Rome, to redeem all of humanity and to establish a Kingdom where the last would be first, the hungry would be fed, the homeless would be sheltered, the sick would be healed, the widow and orphan taken care of, and where enemies would be forgiven... and maybe even invited to the table.

This didn’t fit with the people’s agenda, and by the end of the week the crowds that had cheered for his welcome now chanted for his death.

I think it is significant that Palm Sunday opens a Holy Week that falls on the same week of the five year anniversary of the invasion of Iraq. Why is this significant? Because I know of too many pastors and churches who, from the run-up to the war until now, have waved the flag before the Cross, and in doing so have missed the Kingdom on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Lord have mercy.

weapon of war & peace

2008-03-12T17:52:00.009-04:00

In Sunday School when I was a kid we would have “sword drills.” Because the New Testament refers to the Word of God as a “sword” we were told that the Bible was our weapon. In a basic drill the teacher would yell out, “Sword drill!” and at the same time we would all hold our Bibles high into the air above our heads in order to show that we were armed. Then he or she would call out a passage of Scripture, which often was either tied to the lesson or some principle of behavior we were supposed to follow in order to be good children of the Lord. The first person to find the verse and pull the trigger by reading it out loud was the winner. It was quite a sight: The sound of tissue-thin paper swirling into a storm as two-dozen 3^rd graders furiously flipped through the pages of their Bibles. I usually went straight to the table of contents, as I could never remember the order of books after Genesis.

The other day I was in Wal-Mart, like usual, I wandered over to the book section while my wife did some of the shopping. They have a huge religion section there, and I came across the shelf of Bibles and fancy Bible-covers. There were a couple of covers designed for children, and one of them (pictured below) was created to have an army flavor - complete with camouflage, side pockets, and (wait for it) a rifle scope crosshair image… with the Cross of Christ at the center.

I have never been too comfortable with the Gospel of Peace being presented in militaristic ways, like when I was a kid, but this was a new one. I am not even entirely sure what message it sends, but I have an idea.

But this story quickly became a “tale of two Bibles.” Yesterday I was at the Dickson Street Bookshop, a used book store in downtown Fayetteville. Outside on the table of “must go” books was an old, very worn Bible. The inside cover had a name written in it, proving that it had once belonged to someone. There were still a couple of church bulletins and a newspaper clipping of weddings and funerals between some of the pages. And then, somewhere in 1 Samuel, was a small color picture cut out of a magazine. The picture was of a very Bin Laden looking man, though I am not sure it is really of him. Either way, the man looks very Middle Eastern… and most likely Muslim.

My past tells me that often times people have pictures in their Bibles of whom they are praying for.

Of course the question for me is What Bible are we following? We have a Gospel where Christ is pretty clear about forgiving our enemies, praying for and even serving them, and working for peace. So on the one hand, we can dress up our Bible with images of targeting our enemies in the name of God, while on the other hand we can dress up our Bibles with images of our enemies that we can pray for.

Given that much of the church in America supports the idea of bombing the Middle East before we pray for it – and will use Scripture to back it up – I am troubled by which Bible is most often being followed.

And you know, as I look at both of these pictures side by side, I can’t help but laugh (in a sad way) that Islam is the only one blamed for being the “violent” religion.

"God blesses those who work for peace, for they will be called the children of God.”
Matthew 5:9

"For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds."
2 Corinthians 10:3-4

turn this song into a prayer

2008-03-07T16:37:00.009-05:00

Often times the words of psalms and songs will have greater meaning as time goes by than the author originally expected.

Consider the classic U2 song “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” I remember a friend of mine who was very… shall we say, upright and religious… complaining about the title of the song. He thought it was an insult to the sacredness of Sunday for Christians. Having never bothered to pay attention to the lyrics or learn the story behind the song, he passed it off as heresy.

Of course, the lyrics and the story speak to something that all of those who claim to really follow the Gospel of Christ should agree with. The song was written in response to a specific terrorist act that occurred in North Ireland in 1972, in which 14 people were killed. It was dubbed the “Bloody Sunday” massacre, and the song by the Irish band was both a cry to end the violence and a call to forgiveness.

But like I said, often times a song can speak to something the author never expected.

Yesterday was a bad day in the Middle East. Eight people made in the image of God were killed by a terrorist at a seminary in Jerusalem. Sixty-eight people made in the image of God were killed by two terrorist bombs in Baghdad. Not to mention that over one hundred people made in the image of God have been killed in Gaza since last week.

What is most troubling is that too often events like these are considered part of the norm. An entire song based on one event in Europe became a classic, while similar events happen almost every day in Iraq.

But what is great about the song is that it transcends one event, and becomes more than a song. It is a psalm. It is a prayer. And it bears being repeated and prayed on First Born Son, because we oppose the use of violence to fight violence, especially against civilians. And ultimately our goal is to pay attention to the cries and learn the stories so that we can be a catalyst for forgiveness and peace.

Sunday Bloody Sunday
U2

I can't believe the news today
I can't close my eyes and make it go away.
How long, how long must we sing this song?
How long, how long?
'Cos tonight
We can be as one, tonight.

Broken bottles under children's feet
Bodies strewn across the dead-end street.
But I won't heed the battle call
It puts my back up, puts my back up against the wall.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Oh, let's go.

And the battle's just begun
There's many lost, but tell me who has won?
The trenches dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters
Torn apart.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.

How long, how long must we sing this song?
How long, how long?
'Cos tonight
We can be as one, tonight.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Wipe the tears from your eyes
Wipe your tears away.
I'll wipe your tears away.
I'll wipe your tears away.
I'll wipe your bloodshot eyes.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.

And it's true we are immune
When fact is fiction and TV reality.
And today the millions cry
We eat and drink while tomorrow they die.

The real battle just begun
To claim the victory Jesus won
On...

Sunday, bloody Sunday
Sunday, bloody Sunday..

wanna get away?

2008-03-06T10:43:00.002-05:00

One day I had an early morning flight out of the regional airport in Lexington, Kentucky. I arrived before sunrise, checked in, and then stood sleepy-eyed in the security line. Only one of the TSA checkpoints was open, so it took about 30 minutes to get through the long line. Passengers kept looking at their tickets, then at their watches, then at the line… over and over again before breathing out long sighs of frustration that they might miss their flight.

Finally on the plane, I sat next to a guy who was about my age. We did not talk for most of the flight. But as we began our descent he looked over at me and asked, “What do you do in Lexington.” I told him I was a seminary student at Asbury Seminary.

“Is that where you train to be a priest?” he wondered.

“Not really,” I told him, and then briefly explained that we were a Protestant seminary were I was preparing to be a Methodist minister, not a Catholic priest, but that in the end Catholics and Protestants were all Christians.

We went back to sitting in silence, and I started to flip through the Sky Mall catalogue, looking at all the clever – but ultimately useless – ways in which I could be separated from my money. But soon my neighbor wanted to continue with some small talk, and so he stated, “This sure was an early flight this morning. I hated getting up while it was still dark to be at the airport.”

“Yeah,” I half-heartedly responded, “and it didn’t help that we had to stand in that security line for so long.”

“I know!” he quickly shot back. Suddenly very awake, he sat up in his chair and began to make his case:

“I mean, why do we all have to stand in that line? Do you and I look like Muslims? We know that all the terrorists are Muslims and Arabs, so why don’t they just pull them out, check them, and let the rest of us go about our business!”

I took a deep breath, and without looking up from my magazine I said, “Well, it is tricky.”

Without missing beat he asked the perfect next question: “So at that seminary, do you study Islam and other religions, or just Christianity?”

“No, there are classes on Islam and what not, but I haven’t taken any of those.”

“Why not?

“Well, my father is a Muslim, so I figure I’ve got that one taken care of.”

I didn’t have to turn my head to see the blood run from his face and his jaw fall open. He sat frozen in his seat for about ten seconds of stunned silence. Then his voice made a squeaking sound like he was either starting puberty all over again, or else his lungs were reminding him to breath.

“Really?” he squawked. “Wha… whe… where is he from?”

I could tell by the way he asked that he was hoping I would have a different answer than what I did. Please let him be an American, I could sense him begging in his mind.

“Oh, he’s from Baghdad, Iraq,” I said while licking my finger, turning the page and not looking up.

That last statement shot down the conversation for a good minute. Finally, in an attempt to pull his entire leg out of his mouth, he tried to back-peddle.

“You know, it is kinda sad when people say things about people that they have no idea about, I mean groups that… you know…uh…”

“Dude, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I said to try and help him out.

He turned and stared out the window, and in another minute we were on the ground. There was no good-by. No wishes for a good trip. I just grabbed my bag and headed off for my next flight, leaving my neighbor to wonder if he was sure about everything he had come to believe about Muslims and Arabs, and if they were all really terrorists who were out to get him.

the politics of names

2008-02-28T16:01:00.005-05:00

My parent’s had an agreement: If my father could name his children, then my mother could raise us in the church. So I was given a full Muslim name, but I was baptized as a Christian. Growing up I never really liked my name very much. Omar. For a little kid in Texas, a foreign sounding, deeply ethnic name was a nuisance. It stood out too much. It made a scene. In classrooms full of Mike’s and Peter’s and Amy’s and Stephanie’s… Omar felt like the person who wore jeans to a wedding while everyone else was in suits. Very out of place. I always wanted to be a David.

Over the years, in classrooms and sanctuaries, as different Middle Eastern dictators and terrorist groups made headlines, my name was the butt of many jokes, varied translations and stupid questions (imagine the fun in junior high when "Momar Qadafi" sounded too much like "Omar Rikabi").

Not too long ago I was given the opportunity to preach in a Baptist church in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Before the service started I was introduced to the senior pastor. “Hello,” I told him, “my name is Omar and I’ll be doing the preaching tonight.” As he shook my hand, he pulled me close and asked loudly with his southern drawl, “Omar? You’re not a terrorist are you?”

I have to admit that this was not the first time my Muslim name was taken as a suggestion that I was “one of them.” By “them” I mean “the enemy.” The politics and preaching of fear saturates us. Representative Keith Ellison, the Muslim congressman from Minnesota, had to endure talk show host Glenn Beck’s ridiculous questions about his loyalty to “the enemy.” And now Senator Barack Obama is under attack because his middle name is Hussein.

But here is my question: What if Obama was a Muslim? So what? I resent the idea that just because my family is Muslim, or that I have a Muslim name, we are somehow part of “the enemy” who cannot be trusted. I know scores of Muslims in Egypt, Iraq, Jordan, Palestine, Europe and the United States who do not hate Christians, Jews, America or “our freedoms.” But sadly, at a time when tensions are high and we should be working for peace, too many politicians and pastors seem all too willing to fuel the fire of war with proclamations and sermons of ignorance and fear.

What stings even more with the Obama situation is the implied notion that being a Muslim, or having a Muslim or Middle Eastern name, means that you are not as qualified for a position that anyone else with a “normal” background or name could have. Does the fact that my first name is Omar, my middle name is Hamid and I have an Iraqi last name mean that I cannot be a good pastor? Or that my dad cannot be a good father? Or that my cousin cannot be a good surgeon?

No one ever claimed that Ted Kennedy could not be a senator because Irish-Catholics were involved in violence in Belfast. Or imagine the outrage if talk show hosts attacked Senator Joe Liberman simply because he was Jewish. They would quickly be recognized as anti-Semitic and taken off the airwaves. But when it comes to Muslims and the Middle East, we seem to be operating with a different set of rules.

It does not matter that the email rumors about Senator Obama being a Muslim are false. For those who are all too ready to click the “forward” button, they have exposed their real thoughts and convictions of bigotry and mis-placed fear toward the Muslim world.

And for those of us who claim that we say and do what we do “in the name of Jesus”, we should remember that “name” also means “nature.” So then, are we saying and doing what we do in the very nature of Christ, who had a radically different nature when it came to enemies and foreigners?

We must remember that the enemies of America are not always the enemies of God. The world may have radical enemies who happen to be Muslim, but Muslims are not the enemy. The real enemy is the ignorance and fear we see being trumpeted over Obama’s name. And in the end the only testament left will be the further alienation of millions of people who will continue to wonder why the West seems to hate the Muslim world.

We can do so much better.

I love my name.

let my people go

2008-01-02T18:33:00.000-05:00

We've been having a great time in Egypt this week. The first day was insane, as we had to cover 7,000 years of Egyptian history in 7 hours. In other words, we hit a week's worth of major tourist spots in one day. But we had a great time.

This trip to Egypt in many ways marks the end of an era. My father says he will retire this year. He first started traveling to Cairo for work 25 years ago. He used to spend a couple of months here at a time. When he left on the first couple of trips we were excited because it meant pancakes for breakfast and we could eat in the living room.

By the time we were in high school and college he was in Egypt most of the year. The two longest stretches he was away were 14 and 15 months. He missed a lot of birthdays, Christmas mornings and wedding anniversaries. Sometimes we would have no idea when he was going. I would come home from school and his bags would be packed. And other times the house would be a mess and we would get a call from the office that he would be home in four hours.

We joined him as much as we could. My mother would come stay here most every other summer, and my little brother lived here for a year. This has been my third trip, and my wife's first.

My father was present by being absent. In a strange way his being in Egypt was how he could best love his family: Slaving away in a foreign land so that we could live. Egypt almost killed my father. He has had two stokes here.

For most of my life (since the 5th grade) I have both loved and hated Egypt. It took my father away, which gave me both freedom and need. Egypt was a job for both my father and my brother. It was home base to other ports of call like Jordan, Syria, and Iraq. Egypt paid for our home and for college... but at a price.

For 25 years Egypt has been a part of our daily lives, because even if we were not in Cairo it meant that Dad was not at home. And so now it is time for our Exodus. We will be taken out of Egypt... but the Egypt will never be taken out of us.

a long way to go and a short time to get there

2007-12-26T23:24:00.000-05:00

In the last 3 weeks I have been to a conference in Houston, a mission trip to New Orleans, and Christmas in Nashville and Lexington. So as you can probably tell, it has been next to impossible to find the time to write.

Tonight we are heading to Egypt and Jordan until the end of next week. Pray for us while we are away, and we'll be back in the new year with many new stories and reports. Stay tuned...

Peace in the Middle East,

First Born Son

the big o in the big easy

2007-12-18T00:50:00.001-05:00

We're live from New Orleans this week. We've been here for a few days working reconstruction with about 30 students from the University of Arkansas and Texas Tech Wesley Foundations. We'll have full stories and observations when we get home.

do you hear what i hear?

2007-11-24T14:46:00.000-05:00

I called my grandfather "Pa-Pa." He was what you would call a "man's man." He grew up on a farm in central Texas in the early part of the 20th century. During the Great Depression he owned a grocery store that he eventually had to close down because he allowed too many customers who were suffering (and that he knew could never pay him back) to buy stuff on credit. He worked as a welder, down in the bowels of ships, building destroyer escorts for the Navy in the Houston shipyards during WWII. After working at the Good Year tire plant, he retired to a farm near College Station where he taught me how to fish, slop hogs, feed chickens, milk cows and drive a pickup.

But one of his most lasting legacies in my life was the term he would use every time he, well... passed gas. As long as no one else was around, he would slightly lift his right leg in order to release a loud gut-horn sound out. And after every blast, he would look over at me and ask, "Did ya hear that buck-snort?"

Apparently the term "buck-snort" had something to do with an old joke about two dear hunters who mistook the sound a male dear clearing his sinuses for flatulence.

Wherever the term came from didn't really matter. To a 9-year-old boy, anything having to do with bodily functions is funny. It becomes sacred humor when performed by your grand-hero.

This is why every time I drive to Nashville and pass this sign I have to toot my horn in tribute and keep from laughing so hard that I might hit on-coming traffic. In the Volunteer State there is a town that, as far as I'm concerned, could have been named something more vulgar.

thanksgiving psalm

2007-11-22T14:13:00.001-05:00

Psalm 118

1 Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;
his love endures forever.
2 Let Israel say:
"His love endures forever."
3 Let the house of Aaron say:
"His love endures forever."
4 Let those who fear the LORD say:
"His love endures forever."
5 In my anguish I cried to the LORD,
and he answered by setting me free.
6 The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid.
What can man do to me?
7 The LORD is with me; he is my helper.
I will look in triumph on my enemies.
8 It is better to take refuge in the LORD
than to trust in man.
9 It is better to take refuge in the LORD
than to trust in princes.

19 Open for me the gates of righteousness;
I will enter and give thanks to the LORD.
20 This is the gate of the LORD
through which the righteous may enter.
21 I will give you thanks, for you answered me;
you have become my salvation.

28 You are my God, and I will give you thanks;
you are my God, and I will exalt you.
29 Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;
his love endures forever.

(click here for last year's thanksgiving reflection)

friend or foe?

2007-11-20T13:56:00.000-05:00

For the better part of the last 25 years my father has lived and traveled throughout the Middle East and Muslim world - from Syria to Pakistan - in his job as a petroleum engineer. However, he has never spent any time in Saudi Arabia. I once asked him why, and he responded without hesitation: "They're crazy."

Beyond the fact that most of the 9/11 terrorists were from Saudi Arabia, that some hold fund-raisers for terrorist groups, and that most "radical-Islamic" teaching originates in the Kingdom, I am sometimes convinced that they go out of their way to give Arabs a bad name while fulfilling awful stereotypes.

Click here to see what I mean.

My big question: Why does the United States always "look the other way" with these guys? Could it have something to do with stuff like $1 million donations to the Bush and Clinton presidential libraries? Or is it all the oil we need for our Chevy Tahoes, plastic grocery bags and Ozarka bottled water?

Keeping Fayetteville Funky: Bikes, Blues & BBQ

2007-10-07T21:09:00.000-04:00

As many of the regular First Born readers know, we moved to Fayetteville Arkansas about three months ago to work with students at the Wesley Foundation at the University of Arkansas. Fayetteville is a town that neither of us had ever been to before we moved here. At the foot of the Ozarks in Northwest Arkansas, this is a classic college town of about 50,000 people.

We really like living here. The hills are beautiful. Every Saturday we go to the Farmer’s Market. We’ve already been to two Razorback football games. But one thing we are learning…

This is a funky town.

So tonight we’re beginning what I hope will be a come and go series on the blog called Keeping Fayetteville Funky. While so much (if not most) of this blog deals with serious matters, from time to time it is good to just look and laugh. And I believe we need some more smiles on First Born Son.

And for our first installment we’re going to take a peek at the annual Bikes, Blues and BBQ festival that ended here today. Remember, I said that this is a town of about 50,000 people. Well, for the four days over 350,000 people and their motorcycles descended on Fayetteville. That’s right… well over a quarter of a million people.

For the last four nights this entire city has been literally rumbling. For 24-7, up and down the highway in front of our apartment, we've heard nothing but the thunder and the whine of thousands of motorcycles.

So yesterday Jenn and I grabbed the camera and headed down to ground zero: Dickson Street. The best way to describe the scene is a combination of Spring Break, the State Fair and Mardi Gras for anyone with a Harley... complete with parades, beer, vendors, scantly clad women, and even one guy who - in the spirit of Fat Tuesday - tried to get Jenn to “earn some beads” (her response: “Not gonna happen”).

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, then a YouTube is worth a blog post. Some people may find a couple of bits to be, well... vulgar. But we’re just trying to report what we saw.

Welcome to Funky Town.