Looking Through the Windshield

Suffer the Adults to Come Unto Me

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 09:30:00 +0000

Working in Children's Ministry ruined church for me.

Seriously.

The church in Athens, GA I was attending/serving/working multiple volunteer hours in already had me committed to about as much as was humanly possible. I was involved with the Teaching Team (outlining the weekly sermons and series as well as trying our best to keep our pastor on track and not veer too wildly off topic), the Creative Team (designing and building the environments for said series), the Youth Ministry (coming in on Wednesdays, team teaching with two other adults), and I even took to the "pulpit" on Sundays more than a few times to greet, welcome, and generally act like a loon. I was about as active and involved as many of the paid staff were, but there was one area I steered clear of:

Kids Ministry.

When it was time to repaint and refurbish the rooms so that they looked less industrial and more inviting? I was there. When it was time to clean up the play areas so they'd be safe? I was there. But that was it. I drew the line in the sandbox at working directly with...children.

Until.

The Family Minister held a luncheon one Sunday afternoon for all the volunteers who served under his areas. It was early May, and he wanted to outline some of the needs for the upcoming summer that we could help with. One area in particular he mentioned was Children's Ministry. Since most of the adults who were already regularly volunteering with kids were also school teachers during the academic year, he made an impassioned plea that it would be the height of Christian generosity and lovingkindness if we would be willing to give them a full summer off: no teaching in school, no teaching at church. Given how many of us were there that afternoon, if we all signed up we would each only have to serve two to three Sundays, only during one of the services, over the course of a three month stretch.

So being the sucker/wonderful person I am, I signed up. "Why not," I thought. "I won't be doing this by myself, other adults can be there to talk to them while I just supervise the game room, and it won't be that bad. Plus, it won't last that long."

Jump cut to a year and a half later...

I was still serving people half my size and a third of my age week in and week out, sometimes by myself, during both church services, thereby effectively causing me to miss worship for months on end. Other volunteers backed out a week into our "fill in" run. The "we need you" card was played repeatedly. Yet although it frustrated me I felt like I was at times being used unappreciatively as a free servant, that's not what ultimately wrecked attending church for me.

It was the kids. The third through fifth graders I worked with, and how they modeled what church was actually supposed to be about.

Just like with the adults, we plotted out the weekly series perfectly...or so we thought. Because ultimately, they weren't there to sit through a praise and worship set, catchy video, and 20 minute lesson complete with memory verse, takeaway handout, and prayer time. And to be honest, they weren't interested in the deeper theological underpinnings of what we were trying to teach them.

Although they were doubtlessly dragged to church by their parents, once they got there, they were there for life: to play and interact with each other. For many of them, this was one of the only times they saw each other during the week. And they wanted to celebrate that - by playing foosball. By talking. By jumping off couches. They were already spending five days out of the week in school having to sit still, listen, and not have any "fun." To ask them to continue this on the weekend was the height of unfairness (to them).

So when we'd chat while sitting at the XBox or after a game of ping ping? They saw love in action. When we talked about God, life, or how much school sucked? We connected. Illustrating already-existing spiritual examples and showing how God was already at work in them and with them in their lives made for beautiful "aha" moments. When the emphasis changed from trying to make sure we made it through all five points in the lesson, there was growth.

They saw and lived what a community of believers was - is - supposed to act like.

As adults, we grouse about how church often isn't what it's "supposed" to be, about how there's a lack of connectivity or real life taking place. Part of that is because we've taken the uncomfortable stuffiness of church traditions we say alienate and traded them for rehearsed performances from middle-aged men in skinny jeans. Not that we should become kids and play freeze-tag during the sermon (tempting as it might be to tag the pastor) nor that we should let the place just go total free-form, but if the "relevant" video clip doesn't play, or the band is slightly off-key, or everything doesn't come off exactly as it does on the clipboard of the person who's behind the stage cueing up everyone?

Big. Deal.

I want the church I attend and raise my kids in to be one where we do life with one another. If there is pain, we share it. If there are victories, we recognize them. If we need to talk, we do it. Form and content never is to supersede heart and action.

The first time you fart out loud on a date is when your partner knows you're a person and not trying to act perfect and hold everything in.

We need more farts in church.

Forking Choices

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 09:30:00 +0000

October, 2012. I stood outside the door of the office I had used for ten months. Staff members and volunteers walked hurriedly past me, avoiding making eye contact, just as they had done for the past few weeks. I let my fingers lightly trace the nameplate attached to the outside wall, fighting back the tears that threatened to erupt. Ten months. It was my final Sunday serving in the role of Interim Minister of Students at this church. And as I smiled at the memory of too much soda, too many corny jokes, and ultimately too few days with these kids, I kept wondering "If only..."

"Did I let the opportunity to finally work full-time in ministry slip through my fingers? Will I ever be afforded a chance like this again? In choosing to be, to love and to act like myself, not conforming to a set of expectations and thereby demonstrating that I didn't fit in with the leadership of this church...did I make the right choice?"

Four years earlier. I stood in a hallway outside a completely different office door, cradling a four month old infant. Students and custodial workers grinned at the sight of my son, occasionally greeting him in that high-pitched voice we tend to speak to infants in. I smiled softly at the irony that it took less than the span of a heartbeat to end a thirteen year career in Student Affairs. Thirteen years. It was the day after my final day of employment at this university. And as I thought back on a decade-plus of advising, mentoring, late-night insanity and life-changing conversations that took place over lattes, I kept wondering "If only..."

"Was I walking away from what I was called to do, from a career and a passion I lucked into and found myself in love with? I have utterly no clue what I am going to do with this kid day after day as a stay-at-home dad. If I commit to this, can I or will I ever be able to find a job again? In choosing to act on actually putting my family first and not just giving lip service to the idea...did I make the right choice?"

Five years before that. I stood inside my bathroom, staring at the reflection in the mirror. I was alone, and it felt like the chasm where my heart used to be made everything in the apartment feel distant and out of phase with reality. My eyes were bloodshot, my hair was completely disheveled, and my face was sunken and hollow from the night I had spent lying on my living room floor, crying until I was sick. After a magical night of dancing, laughing, and opening my too-often-pierced heart to her, she dropped the "f-bomb" - "friend" - on how she defined our relationship. Two years. Two years of letting myself feel, of spending time, energy, and love on cultivating a relationship with her, and in the end I was found wanting. And as I felt the mixture of fury and hopelessness rising like so much bile in my throat, I kept wondering "If only..."

"Why? Why did this have to happen again, when I hoped, I prayed that this time...this time it would be different. That I wasn't the only one that felt this way. After all the emotional and spiritual damage I have inflicted on myself, is there anything of worth left inside of me? Am I even capable of being loved? In letting myself be vulnerable enough to care...did I make the right choice?"

We like to quote Robert Frost like he's some lost Prophet, that the road that diverges - forks - in the road is some beautiful, amazing, experience to undertake and behold. Too often, we forget that these forks in our lives, like the forks on our dining tables, sometimes puncture and pierce as well as guide. We take solace in the promise of Jeremiah 29:11, but secretly wish that He would just drop a hint, a clue, or some sign of what these plans might be. It's the difference in being anxious about stepping out onto a fork in the path as opposed to stepping on a fork in the path.

We want the knowledge without the corresponding potential pain.

We wonder "If only," or "Did I make the right choice?" many times, simply because we're human. I know me. I know I'm going to worry, to doubt some of my choices. But that's only because the unknown remains just that: the unknown.

It's not as if I am putting my hand to a plow and then turning back; I just tend to question if I am gripping the plow the right way, if I might have grabbed the wrong plow by mistake, or if I'm even plowing in the right direction.

We wrestle and struggle with this because no matter how much we may wish it to be, neither our faith nor our lives are governed or the same principles as a Magic 8 Ball. It's not as if should we not like the answers given to us or the uncertainty of it all we can just nudge God a little and voila! a new or non-hazy reply shows up. Our nice little contained ball of blue fluid gets shaken through choices made or circumstances forced upon us we, and then have to deal with what side of the triangle comes up. Even if the way we respond to the answer given is to reject it outright and work to make a different one fit better with our vision for how we think life ought to be, we still must acknowledge the answer given to us.

The struggle in this journey comes when we wrestle with finding peace in our soul when all we can feel is turmoil in our stomach. There's a reason the Holy Spirit is referred to as Comforter in John 14:26: He is sent to not only remind us of all that was promised us (like that whole never leaving nor forsaking us deal), but also to help ease the mind and soul of neurotics like me who at times feel terrified or unsure because we've stepped out in faith onto Mr. Frost's metaphorical divergent path.

The woman who broke my heart? We're friends still. There was something - someone - far better waiting for me. Someone more wonderful than I could have ever imagined who would love me for the me of who I am...and we've been happily married for more than half a decade now.

The career anxiety? To quote Monty Python, I got better. There was a calling - a passion - to be found somewhere between the mountain of laundry and the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. It's a drive that nurtures and defines me, and it has given me friendships more meaningful than I could have ever imagined. And maybe one day I'll get paid to do it as well.

The potential for a future career in ministry? Well...we're not promised answers to everything. Nor are we told that every dream we have will be fulfilled.

The One who is called "Faithful" simply calls us to be faithful as well.

Drink Deep

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 09:30:00 +0000

Individuals who visit my house might pick up on a theme if they look in the pantry, the fridge, or the living room display cabinet. I have two Apps on my phone to track, suggest, and rate items included in this theme. I have T-shirts. Paraphernalia. And I have a circle of friends with whom I can discuss in detail the nuances, intricacies, and complexities surrounding this theme.

Nope. Not Doctor Who. Although that's usually a safe guess.

I'm referring to craft beer.

My name is Sonny Lemmons, and I am a Christian who likes - make that loves - beer.

"Not That There's Anything Wrong With That."

Many who read the confession above may think to themselves "And...?" After all, a sizable number of Christians today drink socially (while an equally large number probably drink secretly in their own homes). Some may have even grown up in a social environment where a Christian drinking wine, beer, or liquor wasn't taboo or frowned upon, so making such a statement might seem a bit odd. And above all else, since the legal drinking age is 21, as an adult I should be free to drink whatever I want. Right?

But for those of us who grew up in a small town or rural setting, who attended and - admittedly - were even once a part of a church environment that chastised or even judged those who drank, regardless of age or quantity, getting to the point where in the best Monty Python-esque voice that can be mustered you feel the freedom and courage to sheepishly smile while saying "I got better?" It's tough.

It's equally as tough to not be open and honest about an aspect of your life, motivated out of fear - not humility or respect - of others. Add in handling faith expectations grounded in Western social mores not even a century old and things get complicated. Quickly.

A Lesson in Beer Taxonomy

Most of the time when the word "beer" is mentioned, images of fizzy yellow drinks poured from cans (and often into plastic red Solo cups) springs immediately to mind. Sold in cases of 12 or 18, typically costing less than the price of a dinner at an average restaurant. Marked with the words "Ice" or "Lite" scrawled in an unmistakable font across the front. The boxes and bottles are decorated with gradated colors of red, white and blue, subconsciously reminding the consumer that their product is "Mer'can." Induces window-rattling belches.

The drink described above can best be quantified as the Americanized version of German lager, produced in mass quantities, in mild variations of the same style, often with an alcohol by volume (ABV) in the 3%-5% range. This is what is typically seen for sale in gas stations and grocery stores, or is found in most every fraternity house and hidden in many residence hall rooms throughout the country. It is normally purchased and consumed with a single purpose in mind: getting a buzz.

What I'm referring to is a drink crafted in comparatively small batches, overseen and guided by someone who shepherds the brewing process. It comes in a large number of varieties (strong ale, farmhouse, sours, and so on). It has an ABV in the 4%-11% range, reaching as high as 18% at times. It can be poured into specially designed glasses made to enhance the aroma, taste, and texture while drinking it. And it is normally purchased and consumed with a single purpose in mind: enjoying the experience.

Interlude

I do not consume beer from large American breweries. I don't have to. For the remainder of my life, if I stop and concentrate for just a minute or two, I can remember the taste of it. The smell of it. And this isn't a memory that stems from my college days, but rather from my childhood.

I remember how my dad would use beer to cook with. I also remember the metallic taste of the can against my lips. The sensation in my chest as the carbonation bubbled and caused me to belch. My mom tells the story of how before my dad became a Christian, he would give me beer to drink. Beginning when I was approximately 18 months old.

This isn't an indictment against him. I hold no anger, bitterness, or resentment - so neither should you after reading this. Nor do I harbor an innate drive for alcohol, an addictive nature, or desire to get drunk because of this. My dad purged the house of all alcohol and turned his life around 180 degrees before my life was measured in double digits.

But because as a child he offered me a scorpion, as I emerged into adulthood I was already well acquainted with the sting it yields. Perhaps this is one of the reasons I am a self-avowed "beer snob." Maybe it explains why I genuinely don't like lagers. Maybe it also adds to why I don't drink to excess.

Understanding the Difference

The freedom I feel to drink does not mean it should translate into arrogance in my assumptions or actions. To do so means I am not acting out of love, and that runs counter to the faith I extol.

Just because something is clean for me does not mean that everyone recognizes it as such.

It's not as if when I am out socially or host friends at home, I automatically order whatever is on tap or go to open a growler out of my fridge. Some...many...know the ill effects of addiction to alcohol, either through family members or personal experience. If someone I know has an issue with drinking, I make the conscious choice to not drink while in their presence. If I'm out with someone I am just starting to get to know, I tend to let them order first, to set the tone. If we spend time over coffee or coffee stout, the same result comes at the end: we have spent time together.

Unfortunately, the opposite is not always true. Because I experience the freedom to drink a particular beverage, some feel the need or imperative to correct me. To tell me of the error of my ways. And sadly, speaking in love is not their preferred manner of communication.

To me, inviting a friend - a trusted friend - to go out for a drink is a time for us to share communion with one another. It's an experience, rooted in joy, that affords us a chance to share life, to DO life, with one another. And each time I discover a new style, brewery, offering from a brewery, I am reminded that I am free of the self-imposed restrictions of church doctrine that hammered home actions (or inactions) over grace. I celebrate this freedom that comes with a price: my deliberate choice to not abuse my priviledge. I celebrate by role modeling appropriate actions. I rejoice with my beer.

And I raise a mug inviting those who want to join in the celebration with me.

One Word 2013.3 - Now Let Go

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 12:50:00 +0000

I've always had an affinity for the geekier things. I remember the Mego Star Trek figures I had, the Mego Superhero figures, the brown paper grocery bags stuffed with Archie or Richie Rich comic books...but it wasn't until around May of 1977 that I transitioned from someone who enjoyed these things and into a full-fledged collector.

An obsessive collector.

When I was six and a half years old, the original Star Wars movie came out. My friends who had seen the film were hooked. It was all they could talk about at school. But it wasn't just the movie they loved; it was also the toys. The tie-in merchandise that was just beautiful eye candy for any kid. Action figures were smuggles into school and shared at the water fountain before they could be confiscated by the teachers. Trading cards were strategically placed inside our books. The comic book adaptation was read continually until it was literally falling off the staples.

One evening, my dad took me with him to a now-defunct drug store so he could pick up some supplies. While he was gathering - I don't know - bandages or something, I was wandering the store looking for something to entertain me.

And then I saw it. The display. A literal wall of action figures. Twelve figures in all, situated on pegs. Pristine blister cards, bubble shells intact...and multiples. Multiples of multiples. There had to have been at least 100 figures there.

And I had to have them. HAD to, you understand.

Even though I hadn't seen the movie yet.

As I stood there slack-jawed, gaping up at the mountain of figures before me, I started making up my own story about what this whole Star Wars thing was supposed to be about. Once my dad found me (who knew I was supposed to stand by him the whole time? Boring...) and I told him my complete fanfic version of the film...I'm not sure what I said to convince hum, but he bought me two figures: R2-D2 and C-3PO.

And thus my descent into madness began.

From 1977 to 1985, I purchased, was gifted, and even swapped for every Star Wars toy I could find. Sears or JCPenny exclusives? Got 'em (except for the Blue Snaggletooth, my personal white whale). Ships, playsets, die-cast, books, greeting cards, wallpaper...you name it. It was mine. The Gollum of Northeast Mississippi.

But it didn't stop there. Not with Star Wars exclusively.

Comic books by the thousands (yes, plural) were in my bedroom. Trading cards. Books. CDs. All "collectible," all desirable.

All taking up a lot of space.

When Ashley and I got engaged, I paid for her ring by selling off chunks of my comic collection. Full runs, signed editions, and the like. And to be honest, I've not missed them (...much...) because I have the memory of the stories. And I knew that what I was trading them in for was something much, much better, and of far greater value.

As the years have gone by, I've dabbled in trading some of my toys, comics, books and the like, but never out of a desire to purge or liquidate my collection.

Until now.

Now...with the impending arrival of Thing Two in June, space in our house is a premium. And I have a lot of stuff taking up valuable real estate.

Now...I feel this kind of freedom and liberty to get rid of some things. In the past, I might have felt like I "had" to because grownups don't have touchstones to their past. That my enjoying these DVDs, books, or toys was a sign of immaturity. It's my choice, not a directive from Ashley, and it's an action I take out of love and not guilt.

Now...I understand the value of the important things in my life. Two of these things have curly hair, and the third may after he's born. Some of my stuff I will hold on to (I'm looking at you, Richie Rich and Captain Marvel), because they mean a lot to me. There's a far greater sentimentality attached to them than anything else.

Now...I can and will continue to look beyond myself. While I'd love for my boys to have the same passions I do, odds are they won't. And I have so many more amazing things to pass on and pass down to them that don't come from toy stores or comic shops. Intangible things that will have greater lasting value. Things that won't yellow or degrade with age, and have to be kept in climate controlled environments.

Now is the time I can and should let go of my past to make room for my future.

Just don't be too surprised if R2-D2 and C-3PO stay with me. We still have stories to tell and make up.

Are there things you still hold to that might need to be released to make room for what is in your life now?

Book Review: Life After Art

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 10:00:00 +0000

In the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should state that I've known Matt for about three years now. I've shared a few laughs with him, guest posted over at his blog, and although we don't see eye to eye on everything (because, quite frankly, that'd make our relationship a bit dull), I consider him a friend - even though his lack of any kind of body fat infuriates me. Knowing his heart and his passion for the subject matter, I was honored to receive a copy of his book in advance for review.

Okay - stop me if you've heard this one before: a music major, a theater major, and an art major walk into a bar...

...because that's where we'd go to commiserate over how no one understood us.

That was actually representative of a fair chunk of my undergraduate experience. I was a music major, and most of my close friends were majors in the arts as well. Whereas many of our friends majoring in comparatively logical fields - you know; the sciences and humanities - had concrete aspirations looking at law school, graduate school, teaching positions, or research fellowships following graduation, we did not. There were some among us who had their eyes on the prize of what they wanted to be when they grew up (music copyright lawyers; advertising executives; costume designers; and the like), but the vast majority of us spent four (plus) years...being. Creating, Yes, many of us graduated with fear and trembling in anticipation of bagging groceries or something following commencement, but those years were golden. We spent them refining our crafts and our passions.

And although we always knew we were a little odd, I don't think any of us realized exactly why we were. Part of the reason is that - and I'm being honest here - creatives tend to be a little kooky. But also, we were among the rare few who never stopped feeling comfortable in expressing our skills.

In Life After Art, author Matt Appling discusses at length how the art and craft of creating is something lost by many once we cross the Rubicon known as middle school. Obviously influenced by his years as an educator, the manner in which the text is written challenges the reader to not only think about the lessons that Matt presents, but also included at the end of each chapter are questions to reflect on and answer. It's as if the book comes loaded with a discussion guide - which is great, because while it's obvious the subject matter of Life After Art is designed to spark creativity, it can and should spark discussions as well.

Interspersing the text with lessons from his personal life, lessons from his classrooms, and lessons passed down from the creatives who inspired him, Life After Art reads less like a "how to" guide and more like a "why to" manifesto for inspiration. Matt draws from his faith background - irrevocably shattering the stereotype of how "PKs" turn out - and manages to utilize sincere, not cheesy, analogies and Biblical parallels about creativity in humans which reflect our Creator.

If there was one area of mild dissatisfaction I might level against the book, it's how Appling doesn't allow the lessons about creativity to speak for themselves and instead draws the points or conclusions for the reader. Sometimes art just needs to be art and speak for itself. I suspect part of the reason each chapter ends neatly and with resolution is because as Christians, our mindset - especially in preaching - is to set up and resolve a lesson in a finite amount of time. However, asking for a book about creativity to be more creative isn't exactly a criticism.

After all, musicians have never fully understood artists. And Matt? The girls liked it better when we musicians sang to them than when they got your little drawings. Just FYI.

All in all, Life After Art nicely fills a void evident in mainstream Christian publications. With a glut of existing texts written to be encouraging, give five paths to, or superficially illustrate how we can do things with God, it's refreshing to find an author like Appling willing to exemplify how we have the freedom to simply be with God.

As an added bonus should you purchase the book, when you email in your receipts for Life After Art to LifeAfterArtBook.com, you will get three free resources from Matt and Moody Publishers: copies of the deluxe Life After Art ebook with bonus chapter, the Life After Art Field Guide, and The Art of Storytelling.

So grab a smock and join me in being a little creative. The fine folks at Moody Collective have offered me an extra copy of the book to give away (and not, you know, flip for sale on eBay or something). So write in the comments below what is your great, unrealized creative dream. That garage band you never started? That sculpture of a mountain made out of mashed potatoes you wish you'd done? One lucky reader between now and April 5 will be selected at random.

The Change

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 09:30:00 +0000

It was supposed to be normal. It was supposed to be uncomplicated, easy, and so utterly textbook-like that it was somewhat comedic. The doctor had laughed about how by-the-numbers everything had gone so far. But after about 30 minutes of struggling in the delivery room, eight words were uttered that changed everything:

"I think there's something wrong with the baby."

In the span of under a minute the room changed from a tranquil birthing room to being filled with nurses acting with military precision to rush Ashley to the operating room for an emergency cesarian. The umbilical cord was wrapped around him. His heart rate was dropping. It was not - currently - life threatening, but that would change during the birthing procedure. So we had to change our prepared, planned-for method of delivery.

And in what felt like a shorter time period than a commercial break during a sitcom, my family structure changed from being a duo to a trio.

While Ashley was being stitched up, I walked him to the nursery. Still in a daze, still in shock, but somehow able to push a cart with a newborn in it. But before the nurse took him inside, she turned and spoke seven words that changed my arms from being free to forever being full:

"Would you like to hold him, daddy?"

After a brief period of getting weighed, measured, and cleaned, he was wheeled back into our room. While still slightly loopy from the anesthetic, after nursing him Ashley asked me five words that changed me from being unsure, insecure, and uncertain if I could actually be a father. Five words that led to an action that changed me to find courage, strength, and surety to be able to handle the life before me.

"Do you want to change him?"

My first diaper.

I changed you, and in the process of simply being you, you changed me. Forever.

For the better.

Happy fourth birthday, Malakai.

Back to the Gender

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 09:30:00 +0000

I love Back to the Future. It's one of those movies that just screams "quintessential 80s flick," and as a card-carrying member of Gen X, it holds a dear place in my heart. I'm surprised at how many people I know who didn't grow up in that era who also have a soft spot in their heart for DeLoreans, Doc Brown, and Marty McFly.

I mean, Eric Stoltz was just amazing as Marty McFly, right?

Right?

Not so much.

Not everyone knows this, but Eric Stoltz was the first actor cast as Marty McFly. They filmed a good number of scenes with him, and - as the legend goes - after seeing the lack of chemistry on screen between him and Christopher Lloyd, they recast the role. At a considerable cost to both the schedule and budget, they reshot all the scenes already completed - this time, with Michael J. Fox in the lead role.

And the rest, as they say, is heavy.

This isn't to say that Eric Stoltz was then or is today a bad actor. He's actually quite talented, and the recasting was not meant as a strike against his abilities. It's that he simply didn't fit the role. He wasn't right for the part. And with all due respect to every other character he's played on television or in the movies, Marty McFly was the role Michael J. Fox was born play.

Eric Stoltz? Good actor. The role of Marty McFly? Good role. Stoltz as McFly? It simply wan't in his nature to be that character.

A natural dissonance occurs when we try to fit something or someone into a role that goes against their nature. For example, I'm not the manliest of men. I have the athletic ability of a garden slug. My wife, even currently at six months pregnant, could easily kick my butt in any sport - especially basketball - we might participate in. It's not in my nature to be "that" kind of guy. Could I study the plays, memorize the stats, and even execute myself as a player with some level of competency? Yes, but my heart wouldn't be in it.

Now - drop me in a kitchen, give me free reign in the pantry and with the spice racks, and watch the magic happen. Sit me down with my journal for a few hours and life will emerge from the blank pages. Give me time with Kai and (soon) Kid #2, and my soul soars.

These examples illustrate how in my life what I do on a daily basis flies in the face of the roles men are expected to play in their families and in society. But, they're where my nature lies. They're what I was born to be and do. Arguing that societal norms should not dictate what we should or not should do is a touchy enough subject.

Add faith into the mix, and the discussions skew quickly towards how heretical or unBiblical the voices speaking against bucking what is accepted without any spiritual foundation are.

When men try and quantify Biblically how we are supposed to "act like men," without the masses stopping to give pause and even consider if those who are yelling the loudest about how we are to act are the most qualified to speak on the issue or even if they are taking into account that not all men are the same, we assume theology and Western traditional gender roles are interconnected and can be swapped out so much like a battery without any problems.

When a woman comedically but sincerely tries to open a dialogue on the fact that "Biblical womanhood" is far more layered, complex and difficult to pigeonhole than the average one-day retreat complete with complimentary pastel-colored T-shirt might lead one to believe, we attack them, claiming they're twisting Scripture out of context.

You know. The same action we don't take against the guys.

This isn't to say that there isn't a place for gender roles. The roles, however, must be something that the individual is willing to act on and is led by their nature to participate in. It's got to fit. Ashley can cook - and cook well - but she always follows a recipe. She doesn't have the heart to be a chef. I'm good (laughably so) with a budget. But I always tend to wriggle within the margins a bit. I don't have the analytical mind she has and is needed for working with money.

Theoretically, any actor could have walked onto set and begun acting as Marty McFly. Odds are, though, that without Michael J. Fox in the role, we never would have come back for two additional installments of the franchise. We'd be without hoverboards, knowing that calling someone "chicken" can change their life for the worse, and that throughout generations, dumping manure on your enemy was a time-honored way of dealing with bullies.

Theoretically, any man could act as the head of the house, while the woman submits meekly to his Biblical authority. Odds are, though, without the voices of those who question the accepted "norm," or those who speak the truth in love against oppression, the enforcement of biased and unbalanced modesty or sexual biases, or those who stand firm for justice, ending discrimination in all its forms, and work to bring love as an action and not just words to the ones whose souls lie wounded...

...we'd have a pretty good snapshot of a great deal of modern Christianity.

And GREAT SCOTT, that's just not how it is supposed to be.

Guest Blogging Here and There

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Every so often, I get asked (or I beg) to guest post for a friend or website. In fact, if you take a look at the list on the right, you'll find links to them all - but every so often, I have to take a moment to highlight a few of the ones that mean a lot to me.

The last week in February, my friend Renee graced me with the ability to speak publicly about something most guys - especially guys in the church - stay silent on: dealing with depression. This is actually something I may write about more here at some point, but for now, you can read part of my story about being A Wounded Healer.

Today, I'm leading out Jessica's new series on Faithful Parenting (and I'm going to point my kids to this post time and again to remind them that I parent gently). This may raise a few eyebrows, but...eh.

And lest I forget, my continuing posts for Prodigal Magazine:

The Good Fight

How One Word Can Change Your Life

What Would Happen Without Resolve

Holy Ground

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 09:30:00 +0000

It was one of those days where - quite honestly - at the outset, I dreaded that I was going to be home with Kai all day.

The day began poorly enough: bad sleep due to my going to bed late coupled with having to tuck the boy back in to bed at least four times during the night; cold, rainy weather outside which meant the dog and I would both get soaked when I took her out to pee; and the realization that it was only Tuesday, which meant three more days of a 9-10 hour shift each day in parenting with no break. I could feel my frustration level rising while my patience dropped proportionately with each passing tick of the clock.

By 7:00 am, he was already hyper and kept telling me where he wanted to go, which clearly was not in his room at his house to play with all his toys. Because that would have been, you know, easy.

I tried to mentally justify my stance of not wanting to take him anywhere: it was raining; it was too far away; we'd have to be home for lunch which meant we'd not be able to be gone long; I really, really didn't want to be around any other kids; and I really, really didn't want to be around any other parents. Besides, we could always go later. Or not.

I'm not sure what changed my mind. Maybe it was the recognition that the days of he and I being able to drop everything and go off on an adventure are rapidly drawing to a close and will end once his brother is born this summer. Maybe it was due to my One Word for this year consistently coming back to nudge my heart and mind at the most "inconvenient" of times. Maybe it was the realization that I didn't want to have him spend the bulk of the day playing alone or watching a disproportionate amount of TV just because dad was in a bad mood and had less of a desire to interact with anyone.

So I dressed him. I dressed me. We grabbed our respective drinks (coffee and carrot juice) and got in the car to head to Monkey Joes.

And while I was driving, I started smiling. Cracks in my angry, tired veneer started to widen. We laughed. We talked like robots. We debated what to eat for lunch (beetles or socks). We made up songs, changing the lyrics to reflect a story about dinosaurs who can't dance.

And like a cold breeze blowing across my heart, snapping it to attention, I felt as much as heard the words:

"This is holy."

We often fall into the trap of thinking that everything - from a worship service to a group of friends just hanging out - has to be event driven. I was convinced that with Kai, that was how parenting had to unfold: there always has to be a new craft made, a new park to play in, a new book at the library to be discovered in order to make memories and have him be emotionally healthy. I forget that when Ashley and I dated, we sucked at "dating:" most of our happy memories come in recalling the moments when we did...stuff, not when went to restaurants, movies, or did anything normally associated with what couples do. Our marriage may seem positively catatonic when compared to others. But the immeasurable times of quiet, bonding, and simply being that we have had works for us.

There's a reason still, small voices sound the loudest and can be heard better than a shout.

My taking Kai to go and play was not an inconvenience for me (as much as I thought it was going to be). It was an opportunity for connection. For communion. For us to spend an hour and a half looking into each others' faces, laughing together, and simply being.

If I hadn't been driving when the thought first hit me, I would have taken my shoes off. For symbolism.

As it was, I was left with the desire to metaphorically remove whatever covering I had across my mind, my heart, my emotions.

Because this moment was holy.

God was here with us, joining in on the conversation about if beetles or socks would make a better lunch. Staring into our eyes. Laughing with us. I AM caught in a state of being in a moment.

It was a thing of beauty.

Sure, it may have involved a red-faced, sweaty kid at the end of it all (who also managed to score five new plastic army figures - can't imagine what soft-hearted sucker helped him to win those). But it was no less holy.

And although the day began with dread, it didn't end with regret.

It was holy.

One Word 2013.2 - Now Don't

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 10:30:00 +0000

Thankfully, February was only 28 days long. This meant I had even less time than usual to screw up.

When my word for this year - "Now" - discovered me (it was not the other way around, I assure you), I logically presumed it was to spur me to action. There are numerous things I put off, defer, or ignore hoping they'll just go away out of fear, presuming they'll be an inconvenience, or because I simply don't wanna do them.

On one extreme, there's interacting with my family, and the notion (okay, confession time: it was more like a realization) that it's easier to just stare at a marathon of STORAGE WARS than talk, really talk, with Ashley (because at the end of the day, we're both just tired) or that it's easier to ask Kai to play alone in his room while I log in to the 87 quintillion forms of social media I use than to play another game with him (because after doing so for most of the day, I'm just tired).

On the other end of the spectrum are the things that if I don't do, I have no one to blame except myself: writing, talking with friends, and doing the occasional thing for me. It's probably the easiest to not do something for myself, because nine times out of ten it feels like I'm being selfish when I do.

This past month has had me NOW-ing a great deal - and actually enjoying it. I'm fairly certain Kai has enjoyed going outside to play tag in the backyard over taking a trip to the grocery store that could justifiably be put off until later. And I'm willing to bet that Ashley has appreciated the times we've cut the TV off in favor of just going to the bedroom to lay down, cuddle, and giggle with each other (and not just because she's pregnant and sleep is a beautiful thing).

The days when Kai has awoken to discover it's "Happy Hulk Day" - and everything we eat and wear is green - and the times when I look at Maggie and willingly, lovingly take her on an extended walk around the neighborhood have been great. I've been acting and engaging intentionally a lot more than usual, and it's been awesome.

But...

God's also been working on my heart with what NOW can mean when I intentionally DON'T act on something. Something potentially dangerous - emotionally, spiritually, or physically:

That person who is toxic to you? You know how you want to text them?

Now don't do it.

That desire to sit and eat the entire container of fudge or ice cream because you're depressed? You know it's not good for your aging self.

Now don't eat it.

You know that store you want to go to? Let's be realistic about your budget. You don't need to shop there now.

Now don't go buy anything.

You know that website you and I both know you shouldn't log into again?

Now don't.

I'm discovering that sometimes, the inaction I take towards something dangerous leads to greater and more opportunities to act on something healthy instead. That, and when I'm in the throes of doing and being in the NOW of what I need to do, I don't have time - or even the desire - to do the things I don't need to do.

So, basically, I thought I knew what my word was about. And God took the shortest month in the calendar to upend my belief.

I think this means March is going to come in like a lion to my heart.

Wor(CENSOR)ship

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Hi. My name is Sonny Lemmons, and I used to work for the American Family Association.

No. I can't believe it either. But it's true.

Growing up in Tupelo, MS - especially growing up attending a Southern Baptist church in Tupelo, MS - it was almost impossible to escape the shadow of the AFA. But in much the same way you can stare at your own reflection for so long it begins to grow dull to your eyes, so it was with the AFA. We knew it was there, we knew it was angry about a lot of different things, but we didn't really know how the organization and their vitriol was viewed by others. Keep in mind this was WELL before the Internet took over everything and we could, say, check the weather forecast in Uzbekistan.

We lived in a happy, stupid bubble.

The year was 1991. I was a Sophomore in college, working part-time at a local Christian book store. One day, two gentlemen from the AFA came into the store, looking to purchase a large number of CDs, but were clueless as to what was "popular" in Christian music. Keep in mind at the time, "popular" reflected Steven Curtis Chapman, Sandi Patty, or the - to me - annoyingly schmaltzy group 4Him, so my tastes veered a bit from the norm. They mentioned they were looking for someone who was in college, who could relate to that demographic, who was knowledgeable about Christian music, and who preferably had some radio experience, as they were launching a new station and were trying to find someone to take on the weekend shift.

I don't think the manager of the bookstore could have spouted my name fast enough. Not that she wanted to lose me, but she knew what my passions were. So, with a heavy heart and armed with my knowledge about the inner workings of Contemporary Christian Music (CCM), I soon tendered my resignation with the bookstore and became a paid on-air professional as one of the first DJs at American Family Radio.

Almost from day one, I realized what I had agreed to was painfully different from the reality of what was expected of me. My Sunday morning shift (5:30 am - 2:00 pm) would keep me from ever attending church while I was employed there, and as part of my work schedule, I had to pick up this shift. I wound up just setting up a few reel-to-reels of hymns or instrumental music while I caught up on the homework I had ignored the rest of the weekend, going live every so often to give the station ID, the time, the weather, or to read the required number per hour of Bible verses pulled from the box of pre-approved passages (with appropriate translation) perched on the top of the board.

My "contemporary" broadcasting was relegated to the late Saturday evening hours, mainly 9:00 pm until midnight. Leading up to that were several hours of canned shows, including a countdown show highlighting the songs which were charting nationwide in CCM (most of which, ironically, I never played during my three hours of original programming). Of course, everything I wanted to play had to first be vetted by the manager of the station as to being of the quality that the AFA would want to represent it. The same manager who was looking for someone to program for music he didn't "get." This was the guy who was going to tell me what was acceptable to play, based primarily on the lyrics of the songs found in the inserts of the CDs.

I was told that Phil Keaggy's cover of the hymn "Talk About Suffering" was "too upbeat," that Charlie Peacock's WEST COAST DIARIES were "too controversial" to be played, and that I could not use the "Best Of" charts from Contemporary Christian Music Magazine because they included such "unChristian" albums as the 77's Ping Pong Over the Abyss, Mark Heard's IDEOLA and The Joshua Tree from U2. Petra was "too heavy," DeGarmo and Key "too worldly sounding," Kim Boyce "too bubbly," Kim Hill "too husky," Daniel Amos "too confusing," and I was told that because they couldn't understand the name of the band Chagall Guevera, their music wasn't fit for broadcast. I was repeatedly told that music like this, and the artists they represented, weren't of high enough quality.

You know. The music and artists my friends were listening to. The music and artists that could have hooked the casual listener who was just scanning the dial. The music and artists that could have reached out to people who thought all Christian music, and by association Christians themselves, was bland and uninspiring.

The very reason they hired me.

My association with the AFA lasted roughly one semester.

What broke my heart then (and still does to this day) is that not only was I told that the music that fed me and that brought me into closer fellowship with God was not "right," but it was potentially offensive to others. Based on the number of times "Jesus" was mentioned in the lyrics was a litmus test of if the song was acceptable or not. No matter if the song spoke to pain, brokenness, or wrestling with the deeper issues of life, if it didn't measure up to an arbitrary set of standards, it wasn't worthy.

This is, sadly, still a bias held by many in churches today, and not just in music selection (I rue the day the first Passion CD ever sold). If an individual doesn't measure up to a certain standard, if they don't act or even look a certain way, then they probably aren't fit for fellowship or membership with this church - and absolutely not for leadership. They may not be outright banned (unlike my music was), but made to feel unwelcome or unfit? Absolutely.

The divorced.

The single parent.

The mixed race couple.

The same sex couple.

The unmarried woman.

We hope for and want their salvation, yes, but on our terms, with our qualifications, and by our rules.

Many churches take their interpretation of perfected societal norms and raise them as the standard by which they want to be viewed. They want to be perceived as being just like the happy, smiling, public domain family photos they use in their publications. God literally forbid if their congregation externally reflected what the world looks like beyond their walls, or that it should reflect the inner turmoil dominating the lives of many of the same people who attend their services week after week.

"If you want to be one of His, you've gotta act like one of us." Lyrics by Steve Taylor. From his 1982 debut album.

You know.

One of the ones I couldn't play on the air.

Funny that.

What's it going to take for the church to stop censoring the lives of those who have come to worship, to bow down? When will we accept our faith doesn't have to be pretty all the time?

Pre-K Gender Identity

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 11:13:00 +0000

Exhibit A: Plastic broccoli.

Roughly a year ago, I was in a local toy store with Kai. They had plenty of "floor model" toys for the kids to play with, which was great for an attention grabber, but wretched for trying to make it out of the store without purchasing something. Once we walked in, Kai made a beeline for the back wall, where he grabbed a plastic shopping cart and loaded it up with toy vegetables before heading to "cook" in the model kitchen.

A few minutes later, another parent, a mom, came in with a little boy who looked to be roughly the same age as Kai. He headed towards the kitchen area as well, but before he could join in the fun of pushing around a buggy full of faux bananas, his mom grabbed his arm to stop him. She then, in a not-too-subtle voice, announced to the store:

"No, we're going to go over here to go play with toys that little boys should play with."

You know: trucks. Swords. John Deere tractors. And other such clearly masculine things.

Exhibit B: Flouride.

Last week, I took Kai to Target to go load up on many of the staples we needed at home. I knew his supply of toothpaste was running low, so we walked over to the appropriate aisle so he could select his next tube of fruit-flavored cavity protection.

He narrowed his choices for which toothpaste to get down to two based on the character on the front of the package: Thomas the Tank Engine or My Little Pony. After going back and forth, he finally settled on My Little Pony. There was another shopper on the aisle we were on, and she had been watching our debate on the pros and cons of which toothpaste to select with more than a little interest. After we put Kai's selection in the buggy, she approached me and asked me:

"Excuse me, but you are aware that toothpaste is for girls, aren't you?"

Clearly, these examples cite how I am failing as a father and as a man. I'm allowing my son to make poor life choices that will affect his sense of gender identity by letting him play with fake produce, to say nothing of how letting him use toothpaste with a cartoon horse on it will obviously cause him to not understand how to use a urinal.

Here's the thing: he's not even four years old yet. So what if he loves to pretend to cook? So what if TANGLED is his favorite Disney film? So what if he, in the cutest, sweetest manner possible, finds babies adorable and says "aww" whenever he sees one? So what if most mornings he wants to just sit and cuddle under a blanket on the couch for a few minutes while we watch TV?

Because he stays home with me, he sees me cook, clean, shop, do laundry - all the stereotypical "mom" duties. We spend hours each week reading, making crafts, and even hosting "dance parties" in the living room or outside in the backyard. I love the fact that he sees me - his dad - doing all of this. I love that he's going to grow up without a sense of predisposed gender roles within a relationship. I love the fact that instead of him staying all day in daycare, most of which have a predominantly female staff, he gets to see both of his parents interacting with him.

I've been called a "man fail." I've had my faith called into question because I have chosen for three-plus years to stay home with my kid and "let" my wife's work be the primary source of our income. I've had total strangers - moms, usually - look at me with distrust because I'm out alone with him at the park, the store, or elsewhere.

But I've also been called "daddy" by a bright-eyed kid with a mop of curly, sandy-brown hair. And the trust and love this kid shows me (which, admittedly, a lot of which will expire sometime around puberty) drowns out the voices and glances of people who would probably prefer it if I took him to a monster truck rally instead of Whole Foods.

The thing is, we play what he wants to play. He will go from pretending he's a superhero one minute to a ninja the next. We'll put on puppet shows followed by going to the kitchen to prep lunch or dinner. We'll draw maps detailing everything we did that day before we go outside to play "robot tag" or any other game he comes up with. We'll use sticks as swords before we play soccer in the mud.

So if he wants to ask for the Pink Power Ranger outfit for Halloween? Big deal.

And after his brother is born? Yep. I'm probably going to screw him up just as much by staying home with him as well, loving on him, and letting his personality shine brighter than my expectations.

One Word 2013.1 - Reflections on January

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 11:00:00 +0000

I knew this word was going to be trouble.

If you keep at something long enough, you run the risk of developing getting into a rut, falling into a routine, or somehow becoming complacent with how you operate. While it can - and is - justifiably arguable that being a stay-at-home dad for three years brings with it a new set of challenges and experiences every so often, the opposite is also true in that some days (weeks, even) seem to be stuck on an endless repeat cycle of doing the same things over and over again.

And I'm not just taking about how, given his preferences, Kai would probably be okay with eating chicken nuggets, fries, gummy bears, and apple juice for every meal for the rest of his life.

I didn't choose my word "Now" for this year. It chose me. It chose me because God knows there is a dangerously thin line between granting him alone play time so he can learn to play by himself, and my telling him to go play in his room so I can spend more time on the Internet. There is a dangerously thin line between me genuinely stepping away for a minute to get a refill of coffee before coming back to his room and my going into the kitchen to wash dishes or prep dinner while I plop him in front of a TV. There is a dangerously thin line between the amount of time Ashley and I need to just sit in front of the TV for a minute at night just to let our minds unwind and suddenly glancing at the clock only to realize we've been watching The History Channel for three hours and another night has passed by without us talking. Again.

And once our second kid is born in a few months? This word - "Now" - is going to take on an entirely new set of challenges. And it will develop an entirely new sacred meaning.

And it will become that much more important.

That's why I've been trying to get Kai to cook with me in the kitchen.

That's why I've been telling myself it's okay to sit and play with his action figures - again - instead of prepping dinner hours ahead of time.

That's why I've been trying to look up from my world and into the worlds I interact with.

Because "Now" has a shadow. A shadow called "Never." And that shadow threatens to fall on my life if I choose to not act.

So minus the two weeks of rest (HA!) I got from the flu, I've been trying to let the light of being in the now so shine before me so as to not let the shadow of never fall.

It also means we got to make rockets out of toilet paper rolls.

Cursing the Cursor

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 11:00:00 +0000

January was a fun month for writing. And I state that with as much sarcasm I as I can possibly muster.

To be fair, there were a few bright spots: I finalized the largest paid writing assignment I've had (to date); I was asked to submit a few guest posts which are coming up at other websites; and I knocked out a couple of pretty good posts for Prodigal Magazine. But after that, things got tricky.

Okay, not so much tricky as sickly: Ashley got sick. And since she's pregnant, that meant that she needed to rest as much as possible, so I was on Kai duty pretty much 24/7. But a couple of days after she got sick, so did he. Anyone who has a kid can tell you that taking care of them solo is difficult work, but taking care of them solo, while they're sick, is doubly difficult.

So of course about three days after he got sick, I woke up with a fever of 102.

All this adds up to three people, at various ages and stages of being sick, having to stay confined to the inside of their house for nearly ten days straight. And yes, it's about as exciting and relaxing as it sounds.

The first time any of us felt well enough to venture outside to something other than the drug or grocery store was this past Saturday. Therefore, we thought an attempt to get back to normalcy where I spend the day writing while they have a "Mommy/Malakai Play Date" was in order. I loaded up my notebooks, my iPad, and my bag of trail mix, and headed off to a favored writing spot in order to let the backlog of creativity just come flowing out of me.

An hour later, I realized all I'd been doing was cutting and pasting the same paragraphs over and over again, arranging them in different sequences.

Right now, my brain has the same problem my palate has: everything is bland. While I was waylaid by the flu these past few weeks, my tongue stopped tasting things. Nothing has the same pop or flavor that it held only recently. My writing is experiencing the same problem; the words I write out seem to be flat, dull, and lacking in spice. I know it's not always going to be like this, and that that words in my heart will come to life once more and eventually show up again. But for the time being, it's a struggle.

That's why for as frustrating as it is, I keep writing. I had to down bland soup, bland crackers, bland grilled cheese sandwiches, and even bland coffee (to me) while sick in order to give my body the energy it needed to help fight the infection. If this means I have to stare for a little while longer at a blinking cursor and write out words that I think contain as much passion as reading a DVD player manual, so be it.

The alternative is to let the coating of crud remain.

And I enjoy cooking - and writing - far too much to let that happen.

Book Review: Craveable

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 11:04:00 +0000

Artie Davis has done the impossible: he has made me not only want to read a devotional book, but he's written a devotional book I actually...enjoy.

Far too often, Christian authors will write a devotional book that falls into one of two camps: the dry, theologically heavy-handed "just pray this and everything will be okay" daily kind, or the pithy, thematic, surface-level theology, feel-good kind. The former makes for what many people perceive our faith to look and act like while the latter is what sells at kiosks in airports or endcaps in bookstores and makes for the "perfect" Mothers Day gift. To find a devotional book that balances being bold without being judgmental, that speaks the truth in love, that engages the reader and challenges them beyond a brief "takeaway" for the day, and that reads more like a conversation with the author than a seminar given by a marketer is nearly impossible.

Until now.

Craveable reads more like a love letter from someone who wants to help fellow believers grow and be challenged in their faith than anything else. I've had the pleasure of hearing Artie speak before, and I can hear the genuine passion he brings to the stage in the words printed in this book. This is a man - a pastor, a husband, a father - who is drawing from his years of experiences, both good and bad, in order to guide others into a deeper love and passion with their God. And "guide" is the keep phrase here: rather than telling the reader what to do, Artie invites the reader into the journey. There is no "for Problem X try Solution Y" formula present in the book. The author understands that true spiritual growth comes through personal experience, not mimicry.

The only aspect of the book that I didn't like was when Artie suggested the reader stop and take the book as a 40 day journey, reading a chapter a day, which annoyed me because I wanted to just keep reading it. I understand now that had I just plowed through it, as was my natural inclination, I would have missed out on so much of both what he was saying and what I was to gain from the book.

Because the book is so honest and truthful, in both requiring self-reflection and in the stories Artie shares, it's the type of Christian devotional book which might scare many readers. ...which is a shame, because this is the exact type of book so many believers need to read. Neither the book nor the author come across as preachy or self-important. The tone of the book is personal, and isn't "catchy" or doomed to be outdated by the time you finish reading this review.

It's a style of book that many of us have been hungry for. So, you know, the title just makes it that much more witty.

These principles and more can be found in Artie's new book called Craveable: The Irresistible Jesus in Me, releasing February 5, 2013. Find out more at Craveable.com and on twitter @CraveableChurch

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received an advance copy of this book free from the author and/or publisher. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR,Parti 255.

Book Review: Cross Roads

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 18:11:00 +0000

I wanted to like this book. I really did.

The Shack is one of my favorite modern Christian novels. It's wildly original. It tells an amazing story of redemption and healing. And it's just out there enough to drive the most conservative readers nuts with its depictions of the Trinity.

Conversely, Cross Roads is derivative of the plot and ideas in The Shack. Protagonist father who lost a child? Check. Carries a lot of anger towards God about it? Check. The character development, what little there is of it, is both shallow and far too fast-paced. Granted, I've never had the disembodied essence of another person locked in my body, but I'm fairly certain that not only would I not accept it as quickly as these characters did but also were anyone to tell me they had a separate entity trapped in them, I'd be wildly skeptical.

Instead of spending time - and pages - with descriptions of medical terminology and characters ultimately inessential to the plot (Jack), going into greater details over how the protagonist went from self-centered to kind, faith-centered, and introspective would have been welcome. It honestly felt like many of the characters changed personalities and motivations so quickly that I thought I'd missed several pages of material.

To be honest, the only reason I read through to the end of the book was because I was hoping against hope that it might improve. The ending, which was blindingly obvious about 2/3 of the way through the book, felt rushed, and more than a little cheesy. Cross Roads is the kind of novel that were it adapted to film, it would undoubtedly be a direct-to-DVD release starring Kirk Cameron.

WM Paul Young, who proved himself a capable and talented author with The Shack, completely missed the opportunity to prove he is more than a one-style writer with Cross Roads. Had I not read The Shack first, perhaps I'd look at this with kinder eyes. As it stands, I'd recommend that people who want to get a feeling for the style of the author should stick with his first work and avoid this book.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR,Part 255.

One Word 2013: NOW

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 11:58:00 +0000

"In a minute, buddy..."

"Can we do that later?"

"No."

I've noticed as of late that for whatever reason, I like to delay things. Put them off. To be fair, I've probably done this for a lot longer than I'm aware of. It's only been recently that I've become acutely aware of the frequency with which it happens.

Comparatively simple things like going to the dentist, getting a babysitter for a few hours so Ashley so we can go eat dinner together, or asking Kai to wait for me to play with him while I fold laundry often get put to the side because they're something that butts into what I'm doing at the time. Or they seem like a bit of a hassle. Or they're something that can clearly be taken care of later. They're easy to delay.

I am an advocate of taking "me time" every so often, but putting things off until tomorrow or later on a regular basis can easily translate to putting them off...period.

That's why for what has become obvious to me, my word/motto/theme for this year?

Now.

That phone call (not text, mind you) to that friend I've been meaning to make?

That book proposal that's been sitting dormant for so long?

That wellness visit to the doctor that needs to happen?

That whole needing to pray thing?

That kid who's going to be too old to want to play with me far sooner than I want him to be?

I need to start engaging with these things. Now.

Please note that this is a word of action for me, and not what I would ask of God. I'm the one who needs to be stirred out of some kind of stupor. I can (and have) prayed for something to happen "Now, please," yet somehow He knows the perfect time. And more often than not, it tends to be in a completely different time zone of my life than what I would like.

...which is something I need to be okay with. He's asking me to do something now, not vice-versa.

And there is a world of difference between rushing in where angels fear to tread and simply doing something. Wisdom and discernment need to rule in taking care of something care of now. For example, I can choose to not spend time getting dinner easy one night so that Kai and I can have more time together. If that means Ashley and I have to order pizza, so be it. Playing with him now and cooking chicken later doesn't necessarily mean that a Butterfly Effect of chaos will enter our lives.

So.

Now I'm going to go get some coffee and then play Candy Land with my kid.

What is your One Word for this new year? Check out this link for what others have chosen.

I CALL PULPIT: Pog the Father

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 13:16:00 +0000

This is the second entry in a new series here at the Windshield (click here for Part One). Ever seen hypocrisy from leaders in the church? Ever felt uneasy about a ministry named after a minister? Ever gotten frustrated, broken-hearted or angry at church?

This is for you. Me. Us.

But instead of just complaining about it, we're going to call PULPIT! on these shenanigans and start to do something about it. The first step? We need to talk about it. Ergo, where this series comes from.

This series is also to celebrate the release of FINDING CHURCH from Civitas Press, which - yeah - I was a contributing author to. Click on the above link to grab a copy for yourself. And come back later in the coming weeks, because I'll be giving away a copy of the book. Or two.

Anyone remember Pogs?

Back in the mid to late 1990s, there was a huge boom - and subsequent bust - in collectibles that had mostly always been a fringe or niche industry. Someone, somewhere, got the BRILLIANT idea that marketing items which numbered in the hundreds of thousands as "Limited Edition" would drive up the price and demand of them, and as such, make them more desirable. Comic books. Baseball cards. Trading cards. Gone were the days of hearing about someone buying a paper grocery bag of old comics at a garage sale only to find a pristine copy of BATMAN #8 from 1941 in it. We wanted the foil-enhanced, prismatic, die-cut cover that would pay for putting our kids through college NOW.

This glut in the market continued to grow and grow until Pogs hit. The same people who had been buying case after case of brand new comics or cards, keeping them MINT! so as to retain their value, suddenly realized that the retailers who were profiting from their attempt to get rich quick were now trying to sell them collectible milk tops.

Yes.

Collectible milk tops.

Cardboard circles that were initially included under the lid of glass bottles.

And suddenly, collectors realized the emperor had no clothes.

People began to question exactly what it was as well as the why of what they had been buying into. The immediate drop off of purchases began to affect speciality stores to the post where numerous shops closed. The baseball card market is essentially dead today. Comic book shops are hemorrhaging readers on a weekly basis. Industries which had once been stables in the American culture for nearly a century are on the brink of extinction.

Clearly, this does not parallel many churches today. At all.

There are a number of churches that rely heavy on flash and hype to bring in people to them, whether it's a giveaway, stirring up controversy from the pulpit, or something equally as ludicrous. A pastor I know once actually considered putting an inflatable pool in the sanctuary, and at the start of the service, running from the back of the room in order to leap into the pool to illustrate making a BIG SPLASH for Jesus in the community. Other churches go to the other extreme and shy away from sermons which have any substantive content to them, sticking to messages that are more "attractive," or make us "feel better" instead of challenge us.

We are too busy offering milk (caps) and not meat.

Please bear in mind that while some might jump on this particular negative bandwagon, I am NOT attempting a critique or condemnation of the Emergent/Emerging movement as a whole. There are a number of "Contemporary" churches that are doing outstanding work and have amazing, Godly women and men leading them. These bodies do a phenomenal job in reaching out to those of us who have been burned, beaten, and belittled by the institutionalized church.

Also, I am not advocating a return to the hellfire & brimstone style of evangelism. Fear and guilt might make for good motivators to get people to respond to giving tithes, but they make for lousy ways to heal a broken, seeking heart.

If we look at the gospel itself, like - you know - we're supposed to, the message and the manner in which Christ spread it runs counter to the way many people speak about it today. The message itself is simple: love God, love others. Not just in word but in deed. Because let's be honest: if Christ had shown up today, I doubt He'd have a high Klout score or have gotten a lot of "Likes" for a Sermon on the Mount Facebook page. A simple message of love doesn't carry as much weight or seem as important as the latest five-point lesson on parenting.

A former professor of mine once remarked that the key to engaging students in a learning environment was to give them an equal balance of challenge and support. Too much challenge, and they might withdraw and close themselves off. Too much support, and they might attain a hyperactive sense of entitlement.

I think we need to adapt this to churches.

I love that many of my contemporaries who are now in leadership positions in church look at ways to enhance their messages through the use of object lessons or illustrations as an enhancement instead of the fulcrum upon which their entire message balances. But sadly, a disproportionate number still don't quite get what JD Salinger spoke about through the person of Holden Caufield in THE CATCHER IN THE RYE: people can smell a phony a mile away, be it a phony person or a phony message.

In what ways do you think the church might need to be bolder?

Broken Hallelujah: Atypical

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Sun, 09 Dec 2012 17:38:00 +0000

For one day this December, we long to open the gates wide to brokenness. To allow women and men of all ages to share their stories of hardship and redemption.

Perhaps it’s a journey through abuse, or bullying, or maybe it’s drugs or alcohol or depression or homelessness or cutting or an eating disorder, but whatever it is, we want to put our arms around it and embrace it, and then let it go. It’s only in dialoguing with one another that we can find hope, and freedom. We don’t want to just dwell on the pain; we want to shine a light on the God in the story, on the redemption in it all.

It was the waking up in my kitchen in a pool of blood that came out of my nose after having blacked out that made me think, "You know, maybe these migraines might be a little bit more than just average."

For as long as I can recall, I've had headaches. Bad ones. The kind where you sit in a darkened room and just try to will your body to relax and pass out so you don't have to be awake for the pain you're going through. I dealt with constant headaches throughout middle school, high school, college, graduate school...missing the occasional class or even days of school, not because I was skipping out to do something fun, but because I was miserable.

As my age increased, so did the intensity with which these headaches occurred. They didn't come with great frequency, but when they hit, they hit hard. Even the mildest of things could trigger them: light, sound, touch, and so on. Yet because my mom (who, spoiler alert, is not a physician) called them "migraines," I self-medicated for decades with over the counter pain killers. It wasn't until one afternoon about ten years ago the scenario referenced above hit that I thought perhaps I should seek out some, you know, professional advice.

After seeing a physician who then referred me to a neurologist, and after a battery of MRI scans, one day I was finally given the name of what had been knocking me for a loop for years: atypical trigeminal neuralgia (ATN). (As a side note, I did take a slight ironic pleasure in noting that my diagnosis was for the "atypical" variety, given the location of the pain origin, my age, and gender. I loved the fact that I couldn't even get a neurological disorder right.) My neurologist suggested that I undergo a series of occipital nerve blocks to reduce or eliminate the pain. I was more than happy to accommodate this idea, because hey, anything beat the alternative, right?

Wrong.

Upon reading the materials provided to me, I noticed some of the side effects of the nerve blocks: tenderness in the area of the injections I could deal with; a sense of disorientation and loopiness I could deal with; the potential for a shift in my personality, including possible damage to my memories? Whoa.

This is the point where God and I started having words. Angry words.

During this season in my life, I was estranged from my family and had been so for years. Every romantic relationship I had ever had ended with Hindenburg-like results. My closest friends were all gone, having moved out of state after graduate school. I was even at "that point" in my faith journey where I was doubting, wrestling with, and openly debating my beliefs. It felt as if the only original part of my heart or life left was my personality: my humor, my sarcasm, my intellect and my wit. I argued with God that since I had already lost so much in my life by this point, it was absolutely unfair and unjust to ask for the last remaining vestige of the me of who I am to be sacrificed so much like Isaac upon the altar of my health.

I wish I could say that the fear of losing myself drove me back into the arms of God, that I was miraculously healed, and that life was full of puppies, happy moments, and cupcakes from that moment on. The reality is that I underwent a series of injections into the base of my skull that probably made me behave in an even weirder fashion than usual. A beautiful, amazing friend flew in to stay with me during my initial treatments so that I wouldn't have to go through it all alone (and to this day, she still doesn't realize what that gesture meant and that I owe her more than she realizes).

And I was still pissed off at God for allowing this to happen.

But although neither my health nor my faith were restored in a miraculous fashion, one thing was restored: a line of communication. Dialogue. Between me and my earthy family as well as my heavenly Father. When you stare down your own mortality as well as the fear of possibly losing yourself, you ego and sense of haughty self-importance begins to shrink. Some of the words were snippy, some were beautiful, but they were words spoken and not held captive on my tongue. And more than that, I felt as if they were received.

Even the snippy ones. Which, you know, I had to ask forgiveness for.

It turns out that all I needed (knock on wood) was that one year of treatments, as I've not had to have any since then. I still have to monitor my health, and I still get headaches, but nothing like what they have been. And it turns out that - like Abram before me - all I needed was to have the faith to be willing to make the sacrifice of changing my personality and not actually go through with plunging the knife.

And to everyone who has met me since 2002: yes. This really is what I am like, and is the me I've been for most of my life. My personality didn't shift. I've always been this odd.

Fittingly, I've been listening to Jeff Buckley as I write about this Broken Hallelujah. He so eloquently called it "the minor fall and the major lift."

Fittingly, I fell on my knees.

In pain. In exhaustion.

And eventually, I was lifted and able to sing "Hallelujah" at the end of it all.

At Prodigal Magazine, we believe in being real. Today, a number of the writers are hosting a linkup, detailing our journey to faith through the hard times. Our hope is to set the captives free, through dialogue, put our arms around a hurting blogging world, and show them that we care. Check the link to read the others stories in this series.

I CALL PULPIT: LeaderShift

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 03 Dec 2012 11:14:00 +0000

This is the first in a new series here at the Windshield. Ever seen hypocrisy from leaders in the church? Ever felt uneasy about a ministry named after a minister? Ever gotten frustrated, broken-hearted or angry at church?

This is for you. Me. Us.

But instead of just complaining about it, we're going to call PULPIT! on these shenanigans and start to do something about it. The first step? We need to talk about it.

Ergo, where this series comes from.

I recently concluded a ten-plus-month stint as the Interim Minister of Students at a local church here in South Carolina. Despite having served for years at another church in a volunteer capacity in Youth and College Ministry and later stepping up as a Guest/Teaching Pastor at two other churches, this was my first - and potentially only - shot at vocational ministry.

To be fair, some of my friends may have differing opinions about this being my one-and-only chance; however, as I have written about before, there are a number of reasons why I don't see myself as prototypically designed for vocational ministry (although God may have other plans). Regardless, this particular experience taught me a lot about what I want, and conversely what I DON'T want, out of a church or a position within one. It also sadly reinforced for me a professional behavior pattern which I have seen modeled from some of the leaders I have served under.

Namely, regardless of which side of the pulpit you stand on, just be honest and be yourself.

Admit you don't know everything and you aren't an expert in every area. When one random Wednesday evening before the youth group activities even start, the first question out of a middle high student's mouth is "Do newborn babies possess a sin nature, or are they born innocent in the eyes of God," I knew it was going to be a LONG night. It's humbling, beautiful, and wonderful when people trust in your spiritual maturity enough to guide them, but remember you are JUST a guide. You are to lead them to the Source, and not be the source yourself.

You may have studied a lot, and may have a deep theological understanding about a great many things. But sometimes, a question is simply meant to be asked and not immediately answered - especially when what you might stammer out is some kind of half-baked response because you simply didn't want to utter the phrase "I don't know." Ignorance is not a sin; it's an opportunity for you to check your ego at the door (or check it at your diploma). Remember that you still have room to grow and for the Spirit to guide you while you don't lean on your own understanding.

Arms are to be raised in worship, not held out as a barrier. It's good to have and maintain healthy, appropriate boundaries between yourself and others, especially if you happen to be married. Conversely, just because you are a leader in or the leader of a church does not mean you are to be BFFs with every person in your congregation and text them back and forth at 2:00 am. There is a balance that can be struck, but sadly, many leaders set themselves apart or above from the ones they lead.

Too many times I've seen a pastor deliver a message and then either physically disappear after the service or emotionally disappear while they're out shaking the hands of people as they leave church. Christ loves His bride, and I truly doubt that He would ever duck out of or be spiritually distant in His receiving line. Sundays are meant to be celebrations, not obligations. Stop using the pulpit as a shield.

Additionally, if you can't or are unwilling to take your relationships past surface-level deep with the people who serve on staff with you, you may need to re-evaluate some of your leadership tactics. Again, no one is asking you to be bosom companions with everyone, but the people who see you the most outside of your family should not be the people whom you stay the furthest from.

God called you, not The Perfect Version of you. I don't know about you, but none of the times that I have served in a church have managed to supplant the me of who I am before I took on a leadership role. I found it humorous that by filling out an I-9 form I was somehow immediately transformed from "Sonny" to "Pastor," when nothing in me had changed. I still watched (and mildly obsessed) over DOCTOR WHO. I still ingested coffee by the gallon. I still (occasionally) acted like a big goof. I still was sarcastic in my humor. I still got angry. I still had bad days. There were days when I doubted myself, God, and what I was doing. And although I was in a paid position on a church staff, I somehow even managed to continue to sin.

Shocking, I know.

While I don't think I ever explicitly called attention to any of my failings ("Hey, guys, you will never guess what I was sexually lusting over today!"), I also never tried to hide it when I was having a bad day, when I wasn't feeling myself, and when I was struggling. I was still the same person in my eyes; only now, other eyes saw me differently. And I did what I could to try and honor the eyes and hearts of those who looked up to me all the while remaining honest with the me that I knew me to be.

As leaders, we are called to lead by example, and if we set ourselves up as never having problems, we set an impossibly high bar for others. Too many people already exist under the church-imposed yoke of struggling to "be like Jesus," while the ones who are telling them to live that way don't struggle with pride or judgment; they relish in it. Just as with relational boundaries, there are things we can and should appropriately share about our spiritual struggles with one other. Maturity, wisdom, and discernment can guide us in illustrating how we have not lost the need for Christ to wash our feet again and again.

To Thine Own Self And All That Jazz. God made me the way I am. He gave me the talents and personality I have. And it was those gifts, as well as the reflection of Christ living in me, that someone in these churches thought worth having around. Who am I to be any less than who I am? Who am I to dishonor God by not being the me He made me to be?

What have been your experiences with honesty in the church? Have your leaders acted as the first among equals?

ThanksBlogging

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 12:34:00 +0000

Well, since last week was my birthday and this week is Thanksgiving, productivity has been - shall we say - absent. So I'm going to give myself a gift: the gift of taking a break.

But beginning the first week in December, I'm coming back. With a vengeance.

And I'm going to begin my first-ever series on my blog:

I Call Pulpit.

(Go on, say it out loud, and then realize what phrase it rhymes with...)

Ever seen hypocrisy from leaders in the church? Ever felt uneasy about a ministry named after a minister? Ever gotten frustrated, broken-hearted or angry at church?

This is for you. Me. Us.

But instead of just complaining about it, we're going to call PULPIT! on these shenanigans and start to do something about it.

So send me your questions, your thoughts, your ideas.

The Heart of the Matter

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 11:22:00 +0000

I've been a lot more self-revealing on this blog as of late. I'm not sure if it's because of a drive and desire to, or just that I've gotten more mature. Okay, it's probably not the last option, but since my birthday is coming up - the birthday that will firmly entrench me as approaching my mid-forties - I have become more transparent and introspective.

Case in point...

A little over a month ago, I was diagnosed with Secondary Hypertension. I had gone to see my physician because of a pain/pressure I felt just below my ribcage. When she ran a routine test of blood pressure it yielded a reading of 160/105. Bear in mind that this wasn't taken after I'd done a 5K or anything. The most strenuous or stressful moment I'd had that morning was trying to make sure the blueberry muffins didn't burn.

I had no clue what those numbers represented. From what I've been told, high blood pressure tends to run in my family. When I'd go to the doctor and get a reading that was elevated, I tended to just dismiss it as those wacky Lemmons genes up to their zany tricks again. Given the look of alarm on the doctor's face this morning, I quickly figured out that unlike in academia, the higher numbers didn't mean I'd gotten a GOOD score. She ordered a nurse to come in and suck out several vials of blood so that they could run some tests and see what else was screwed up with me. After that, she gave me a prescription for some tiny little pills that were supposed to help regulate the fact my heart was, apparently, messed up.

So of course, I now began to become hyper-aware of every twinge of pain, tingle, or itch on or in me. My Internet browser history revealed a growing love affair with WebMD. And the weeks that followed saw me becoming more Mulder-like in trying to find a conspiracy behind every unexplained ache or odd feeling.

Ashley, bless her heart, has tried to be supportive while simultaneously attempting to bring my paranoia back down to earth by telling me, "You're the same person you were before you found out about this. Nothing about you has changed. You now simply know more than you did." And while she is right and I agree that nothing inherently about me has changed (I haven't sprouted wings, and I still identify myself as a Sarcastic American), some things about me have changed.

I'm becoming more aware of my body, my antiquated biological age, and some of the issues that can come with getting older. But just because I'm starting to know about the possibility of what could happen, it doesn't mean I should become obsessed with it. This, like all my other Magical Medical Mystery Maladies, are just part of me. Any of these could wipe me out just as easily as a random falling meteor could - although being struck down by a meteor would make for a killer tombstone inscription.

I could easily obsess and distress over this, but why would I? Why should I? I don't need the makeup of my heart to change; I just need to be more aware of what is going on inside my heart.

And yes: there's a HUGE spiritual parallel to be found in that. Go on. Go grab some coffee, and come back to mull it over for a bit.

Guest Blog: Finding Rest

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Thu, 08 Nov 2012 11:04:00 +0000

Today, I have the honor of guest blogging for Ed Cyzewski over at In A Mirror Dimly. I first "met" Ed on Twitter, and I had the blessing of getting to know him in real life during my trip to Story in Chicago. Ed's an amazing writer (if you've not purchased Hazardous, you need to go stand in the corner & think about how bad you've been), and someone I am blessed to call friend - and happy that we are actively pursuing keeping our friendship growing.

After three-plus years of being a full-time stay-at-home dad, I think I’ve learned a little bit about parenting. Factor in the writing (both paid and out of love) that I do on the side, the speaking I do at churches in the area, the day-to-day responsibilities of cooking, cleaning, and – oh, yeah – not completely ignoring my wife, and I’d say I’ve also learned a little bit about time management.

And I’ve learned a lot about sleep deprivation.

Read the rest (pun intended) over at Ed's site.

Skool Lurnin' Dun Me Rite

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 21:16:00 +0000

Here's a little known fact about yours truly: my undergraduate degree is in Music. Music Education, to be precise. I realize that some may not be shocked at all to learn that I didn't major in English, writing, philosophy, or the like ("A REAL writer or theologian wouldn't be limited to such a minuscule blog as this..."). Others may be thinking "Wow. Glad to see that student loan debt of yours is justifiable, since you're actively using your education so much." Still others may find humor in that it took me five years to complete a BM.

Personally, I still to this day giggle over the fact that the beginning and the end of my tenure in higher education was spent working with students, helping them to decide on what to major in and what career to pursue. If that's not proof that God doesn't redeem your past and loves irony, then I can't help you.

One of the main reasons I was a music major as an undergrad? For the longest time, people had told me that I was a gifted singer. And for someone who in high school had such an amazingly low sense of self-worth and self-esteem, those words breathed life into me. Of course, no one ever bothered to tell me what the heck I should DO with a degree in music outside of directing a junior high choir or becoming a barista/starving artist. And so I pursued a degree in what I thought was the only thing I was good at.

Although I spent half a decade studying chord progressions, music theory, learning to sing in multiple languages, and purging the last vestiges of a Southern dialect and drawl from my voice, what I learned at the end of my first degree wasn't so much about the composition of music as it was about the composition of my life.

...which makes it fitting that my first degree is a literal and metaphorical Bachelor of ME.

Life threw pop quiz after pop quiz at me about subjects I had never studied and was not prepared for. I failed most of the tests. The finals did, indeed, feel FINAL at times. And yet I still kept coming back, reenrolling semester after semester. I wish beyond anything that I could have taken a CLEP test and escaped some of the lessons I was to learn.

Dropping out wasn't an option. Even Psalm 139 told me there was no place I could go, nowhere I could have run to. Life was going to confer something amazing on me, with all the rights and privileges thereof.

Although the time spent on obtaining my first degree was limited, my life's education isn't terminal. There is still a learning curve, to be sure, and mercifully, there are do-overs aplenty. And despite that some might (justifiably) argue that I wasted five years on a degree I never use, I can still smirk as I flip my tassel from one side to the next. I knew the guy who wore the robe on that day in May. He was not the same kid who enrolled in the Fall five years prior. He had fallen, risen, learned, forgotten some lessons only to learn them again, and even managed to make a new name for himself.

And his educational degree, like his lessons from the school of hard knocks, prepared him better for the next degree to come.

Now, as to why my music has for the most part fallen by the wayside? That's a heartbreaking story for another day.

Dear Rachel:

noreply@blogger.com (Sonny Lemmons) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 11:12:00 +0000

It's not that you grew up outside of Birmingham, roughly two and half hours from where I lived and grew up in Mississippi. I mean, it practically makes us neighbors (of a sort), but there's more.

It's not that you have helped to disprove the theory that everyone who roots for or loves the University of Alabama wasn't held enough as a child. I mean, we are rivals (of a sort - Hail State), but there's more.

It's not that you're a gifted and articulate speaker. I mean, your smile and laugh alone can alone instill quiet (of a sort) and disarm some of your detractors, but there's more.

It's that there is a genuine warmth in your words that comes across on the printed page.

It's that when I met you, you had such a welcoming and honest spirit that it put my inner fanboy at ease. You treated me as a friend, and not someone who just happens to read your blog. And you were that way with every person that came up to you.

It's that there is such heart, such passion, and such intelligence behind everything you do. Yes, even the camping out in a tent bit.

It's that what you write shakes me from a complacency in my faith that I may have settled in to, and causes me to live a life that - well, lives out in word and deed that which I claim to believe.

It's that you have taught me so much. I imagine that the years I struggled with my faith, questioning it all while shaking an angry fist at the sky, would have been better had I known I was not as alone as I felt I was.

It's that you invite the marginalized, the ignored, and the cast out to the table and say "Tell me - tell us - your story." It's the 21st century equivalent of foot washing, showing honor to many that the church would prefer to silence.

Kids of all ages - regardless of gender -
LOVE reading about biblical womanhood!

It's that every time my kid sees your photo on my laptop, he says "Daddy, it's your friend Wachel!" As he grows older, reading your words will help him to know that everyone, regardless of gender, race, socioeconomic standing, or sexual orientation, is a beautiful child of God and can and does deserve respect. It will help him know that mom and dad aren't the only people of faith who think and act that way, despite what mainstream Christian culture might show him.

Some may say you're mocking. I say you're not afraid to investigate. A faith that does not hold up under scrutiny is not a faith I want to take part in. Besides, you are fierce to defend our faith to those who would detract it, and yet comfortable enough in your beliefs to question some of what is said MUST be done.

(Plus, the God we serve has to have a bit of snark in Him. After all, we do. Since we are made in His image, God must love sarcasm. Trust the theology of the quick wit.)

Rachel Held Evans. It's been an honor to get to know you as a person and not just as an online presence. I am humbled by your even knowing my name. You, my friend, are a true woman of valor. Eschet chayil!

And "Roll Tide."

This blog entry was written as part of a surprise synchroblog event to support the work of Rachel Held Evans and to celebrate the launch of her new book A Year Of Biblical Womanhood, available at finer non-biased bookstores everywhere.

To read the other entries in the synchroblog, click here.