Michael W. Waters2013-06-20T07:11:06-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=michael-w-watersCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Michael W. WatersGood old fashioned elbow grease.To Medgar, With Gratitudetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.33819392013-06-04T18:19:24-04:002013-06-04T18:19:26-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
Medgar was fully exposed and fully visible. A shot rang out. Medgar was wounded. Nearly an hour later, he was dead.
The 1960s were a decade of political and social unrest, defined historically, in part, by its plethoric violence. Weighing most heavily upon our collective national memory are the decade's multiple assassinations: President John Fitzgerald Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, November 22, 1963, Malcolm X in New York (Harlem), New York, February 21, 1965, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in Memphis, Tennessee, April 4, 1968, and Senator Robert F. Kennedy, in Los Angeles, California, June, 5, 1968. Unfortunately, often falling from the plane of our remembrance is the assassination of Medgar Evers in Jackson, Mississippi.
To be sure, Hollywood has treated the tragedy of Evers' assassination through such cinematic offerings as The Ghosts of Mississippi, and most recently, The Help. Numerous songs, plays, and poems have been dedicated to his memory. An airport, college, and a ship bear his name. And in a tremendous nod to history, President Barak Obama invited Medgar Evers' widow, Mrs. Myrlie Evers-Williams, to deliver the invocation at his second presidential inaugural. Yet Medgar Evers still does not get proper recognition as one of America's greatest leaders for social change.
A veteran of World War II, Medgar Evers was a native Mississippian. Mississippi had the notorious reputation as the nation's most violent state during the Jim Crow era. Nonetheless, in 1954, Medgar accepted an invitation to serve as the first Field Secretary of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People in Mississippi. It proves difficult to adequately convey the level of courage required for a black man to accept such a prominent civil rights position in Mississippi in that era. A search for three missing civil rights workers a year after Medgar's death yielded the discovery of eight black bodies, five of which were never identified.
As Field Secretary, Medgar organized countless boycotts, helped to establish new chapters of the NAACP in Mississippi, and provided support and leadership during James Meredith's infamous attempt to integrate the University of Mississippi. Medgar also dedicated many hours investigating the tragic murder of fourteen year-old Chicagoan Emmitt Till on August 28, 1955, in Money, Mississippi. Medgar Evers' efforts laid the groundwork for the on-going struggle for voting rights in the years following his assassination. The strength of the Mississippi NAACP, fueled by the work and courage of Evers, proved essential in future endeavors to secure voting rights for blacks in Mississippi.
Despite the countless and continuous threats against his life, including, but not limited to almost being run over by a car just five days before his assassination, Medgar remained fortified in his commitment to freedom and justice. Just as he had served his country honorably in war, Medgar served his country honorably until his death to secure the fundamental right of all American citizens; the right to vote.
The Evers home is now a museum owned by Tougaloo College. It was restored during the filming of Ghosts in 1996 and later donated to the college. Stay for a small plaque on the home, there is nothing readily present or visible that acknowledges the significance of what transpired at the home. However, when I first led a group of college students from Dallas to tour Evers home almost ten years ago, one student inquired as to where Medgar Evers body finally rested after he had been fatally wounded. The guide responded, "You are standing in his blood."
Faster than lightening, our eyes descended upon the pavement. Faster than that, the blood left the face of the inquirer as we all stared. There it was, a faint rust-colored imprint upon the ground, one that our guide stated looked more prominently red during rainfall. As courageous of a man as Medgar was, his cold, calculated murder was a portrait in cowardice. As an additional sin of the era, Medgar was denied immediate medical attention. He was a black man, and white surgeons in that era, especially in Mississippi, did not touch black people.
Much like Abel in the Book of Genesis, I imagine that Medgar's blood still calls out to God.
Still, the greatest injustice to Medgar Evers' legacy is not his death, but the failure of subsequent generations of Americans to tell his story. Most tragically with regard to our first visit to Jackson, our dear guide relayed that when speaking at a Jackson area school she inquired of the youth if they knew who Medgar was.
They responded that it was the name of a street that ran through the city.
Dr. King would say of Medgar's death,''The brutal murder of Medgar Evers came as shocking and tragic news to all people of good will.'' That his name does not bear more remembrance or inspire more gratitude should also come as shocking and tragic news.
To you, Medgar, I extend my sincerest gratitude.
Rest well.]]>With Deepest Regret: A Letter to the Ancestorstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.23720542013-01-01T09:14:00-05:002013-03-03T05:12:01-05:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/This letter is part of our "Letters to Our Ancestors" project. In celebration of the 150th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation, we've asked members of our community to share their own letters to our forefathers. With these letters, we hope to look back on the progress our community has made and give thanks to those who helped pave the way. You can see them all here.
To the Ancestors:
With deepest regret, I must inform you of the fate that has come to your sun-kissed sons and daughters of the African Diaspora, your descendants in the two hundred and thirty-six year American enterprise. Despite your audacious ambitions and prayerful petitions for the generations that succeeded you upon these shores, I must now speak to you concerning our present difficulties.
Not that our condition has not markedly improved since the days of your bonds, replete with the horrors of the auction block and the brutality of whips tearing against your flesh. Nothing within our present experience can equate to the terrors of the American slave system that you so courageously endured and fought against. Terrors the European founder of Methodism, John Wesley, called "the vilest that ever saw the sun."
You would be proud of our people's achievement since Lincoln's pen secured our emancipation, de jure, and intensified the war that secured our emancipation, de facto. Our people have risen from chains and cotton fields to the pinnacles of industry, as well as to seats of power all over the world. Yet, despite such laudable achievements, the present struggles of many of our people remain great. The full scope of these struggles is, at once, horrifying and overwhelming.
Our core institutions of family, school, and church are crumbling en masse. While you endured the plight of family dissolution upon the auction block, today, the great majority of our beautiful Black seeds are born outside the nurturing context of marital commitment. Paternal absenteeism has replaced the auction block, ripping apart generations as now many generations have come of age without the knowledge or active presence of their fathers.
Educational pursuits, most notably the pursuit of literacy, were forbidden to you. Secretly, many of you still attained this prize, undaunted by the threat of punishment, or even death. The illegality of literacy has long ceased, yet our schools graduate the illiterate. And all too often it is our Black seeds that fill the ranks. Adding injury to insult, many of the schools you founded to empower future generations have closed their doors, with others perilously close to doing the same. Esteemed colleges and universities that first met in the basement of your churches and were later built into proud institutions are now in jeopardy despite hundreds of thousands, if not millions of our seeds without a college education.
The Black church, once the epicenter of Black cultural, intellectual, and spiritual life, the forerunner in the fight for freedom and justice in America, has been regulated to an irrelevant relic in the eyes of many, perceived as disconnected from and unconcerned about the present sufferings of our people. Once deemed a vehicle of liberation, the church appears to have lost its prophetic zeal and become the "social club" of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s nightmares. As a result, our communities are becoming spiritually bankrupt citadels void of revolutionary power.
Tragically, these crumbling institutions have made way for a Petri dish of scourges now propagating with rapidity among our people. A deadly, incurable, yet wholly preventable disease continues to ravage Black bodies. An entire nation of our beautiful, Black manhood resides behind prison walls. In countless neighborhoods, abject poverty coupled with addiction siphon out the hope of progress. Senseless violence has left many communities as war-torn wastelands.
Not that we have been unassisted in this peril. The vestiges of injustice you faced remain with us today. Daily is our fight against systems informed by systemic racism, although these systems are oft times veiled. Yet, there is an undeniable difference between our struggles. You knew your oppressors well and directly engaged your oppressors towards the cause of liberty. Today, given the fragmentation and in-fighting within our own communities, present even among our most celebrated leaders, we have seemingly become enemies to one another. It appears that we have become co-conspirators in our own oppression.
Perhaps our greatest challenge is our fragmentation along class lines. The victories of the American Civil Rights Movement provided opportunity and access primarily to the Black middle-class. Consequently, Black flight, fleeing from historic Black communities in the inner city and retreating to the suburbs, has stripped these communities of our businesses and resources, leaving behind masses of our brothers and sisters still gripped by the chains of poverty. The poignant provocative which first arose from the lips of Cain now resonates anew; "Am I my brother's keeper?" In recent years, we have appeared to respond in joint refrain, "No!"
Ultimately, I fear that unlike the Children of Israel, whose Biblical narrative of emancipation fortified your strength in your own struggle and who, when crossing over the Jordan River from oppression and poverty towards the Promised Land of equal opportunity and prosperity, secured safe passage for the entire people, we have left some behind. Some of means have broken rank, allowing the gushing waters of denied access and poverty to swallow whole those of lesser means. With deepest regret, I must acknowledge our failure to fully advance the cause of freedom and justice you first began, for after achieving comfort and privilege for the few, we seem to have forgotten the many.
It remains my sincere hope that we shall one day achieve the greatness for which you, our ancestors, fought and died. Please accept my deepest sympathies on the painful loss of so many of your children, past and present. We salute your courageous sacrifices for your people and our entire nation.
And to my oldest known ancestors, John Bell, born 1828 in Kentucky, Keizar Forbes, born 1830 in Alabama, and the Rev. William Leaks, born 1835 in North Carolina, later a founder of Paul Quinn College, each born a slave:
Our family shall endeavor to make you as proud in our generation as you have made us proud in yours!
Eternally grateful, your sun-kissed son,
Michael]]>My First Time: A Love Storytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.20111862012-11-01T16:47:04-04:002013-01-01T05:12:01-05:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a bright and sunny day, reminiscent of the early days of spring. It was actually late fall in Houston, November, to be exact. I was 18, a high school senior, and ready to take on the world.
And I wanted to do it so badly that it hurt!
My anticipation was at fever pitch. I felt as though I had been waiting for this moment my entire life. My anticipation would often give way to daydreaming as I would become engulfed in my emotions. As the promised day grew closer, my anticipation only mounted.
I mainly pondered how doing it for the first time would feel. I would sheepishly ask others if they remembered their first time, sheepishly for I knew that doing it was an intimate and private affair. To my surprise, everyone I spoke to was quite open concerning their first time. They said that it was a feeling unlike any they had ever had before. They spoke of doing it with passion, with feelings of ecstasy that consumed and enthralled them at the same time.
Some said it felt so good it made them cry.
Over many months, I received seductive solicitations from many who desired me. Each day, I would open my mail to find a letter filled with promises of what they would do for me. They told me how special I was, how much I deserved them, how much better they could do it than the others who also desired me. Some even bragged about how experienced they were at doing it, too. I must admit that this captured my full attention.
But I was careful to also guard my emotions. It felt good to be wanted, but I also wanted to be responsible. I did not want to rush into anything. I mean, your first time is your first time.
I also knew that some of them wanted me so badly that they were making promises to me they could not keep. I did not want to wake up the next morning to feel like I had been tricked or used. I am neither dumb nor cheap! This would not be a one night stand filled with balloons and confetti! I wanted someone I could trust, who would listen to me, with whom I could build a bright, new future.
I had to make sure that they were special, that they would not break up with me after our special date. I needed to know that when I called them, when I needed them, they would not act like they did not want me because they had already gotten what they wanted from me.
Once the day had come, I went to the barbershop and got a fresh-cut and shave. I took out my recently pressed suit from the closet and gently laid it upon my bed next to my pressed shirt and tie. I shined my shoes, got dressed, and then departed.
My heartbeat quickened as I gently placed the card inscribed with my name and our rendezvous point near my heart.
I had hoped to borrow my mother's car, but it had recently broken down. Yet, nothing was going to keep me from this special moment, the moment for which I had been waiting for so long. I was so determined not to be deterred that I jumped on my bike and began to peddle down the street, suit and all.
When I finally arrived at the rendezvous point, the door was unlocked. I parked my bike, straightened my tie, took a deep breath, and went inside.
I was ready to do it! There was no turning back now.
As I entered, people were staring at me and watching me. Their thoughts were so loud that I could hear them; "He's too young to do it." "What does he know about doing it?" Yet, I found their watching me exhilarating. I was going to do it, and do it well! There was a curtain so I could do it in private. But I wanted them to watch me, so I pulled the curtain, but not all the way, to ensure they could watch me do it.
And I did it!
I did it over and over and over, again! I did not rush. I held on tight. I took my time. I made strong and deliberate strokes. I left my mark all over. I made it mine.
When I was done, I opened the curtain. I had never felt this way before. It felt even better than what they said that it would.
I was a man!
The next day, I could not wait to get back to school to tell all my friends what I had done!
"What was it like?"
"Where did you do it at?"
"How did it feel?"
My response: "Like nothing I have ever felt before! I can't wait to do it, again!"
The passage of many years has not diminished my excitement or anticipation. In fact, excitement and anticipation has grown as I am now able to do it with my wife!
Yet, you never forget your first time. I know I will never forget mine.
The first time I did it. The day I became a man.
The first time I VOTED!]]>A Different World: The Post-Millennial Perils of Black Family T.V. Programmingtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19490442012-10-12T12:20:28-04:002012-12-12T05:12:01-05:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/lived outside!
We played football, I most commonly with the distinction of being "all-time quarterback" while guiding both teams on historic drives up and down our street. We raced our bikes downhill only to ascend the hill to race down all over again. We shared in games of basketball in my friend Rahim's backyard, then chased after Pam, the prettiest girl on the block who conveniently lived across the street from Rahim, thus expressing our undying love and devotion to her. When in need of nourishment, we spent much of our allowance at the candy house. And after devouring our treats, we resumed our play.
There were only two forces powerful enough to stop us mid-play and send us sprinting to our abodes. One was the street lights coming on and the subsequent fear of discipline for not being indoors.
The other, the top of NBC's Thursday night line-up! For an entire hour, our young eyes were affixed to our television screens. The characters we watched were articulate, beautiful, educated, engaging, humorous, and inspiring. These characters also looked like us. My early conceptions of family, fatherhood, higher education, and professional life were shaped by both The Cosby Show and A Different World. For much of my childhood, the Friday morning bus ride to school was spent recounting favorite scenes from the night before with my friends.
One recent evening, our young family had a free night to sit down and to watch an hour of television programming together, an admitted rarity. We began to peruse the prime time line-up for an empowering, inspiring, uplifting family show. Equipped with far more channels than the basic channels of the majority of my childhood years, we clicked our remote in search of well-acted, well-scripted entertainment for families similar to the ones of my youth.
Instead, what we encountered were all but.
Images of women purporting to be housewives and fighting in public places.
Click.
A sitcom whose story-line revolved around the frequency of the characters sexual conquests with each other.
Click.
A singing and dancing competition.
Click.
Yet another singing and dancing competition.
Click.
Our saving grace that evening? A Phineas and Ferb marathon.
To be clear, African Americans are not a monolithic people. Such cannot be attributed to any ethnic group. But based upon many of the most prominent depictions of Black life on television today, which itself is few and far between, it would appear that when depicting Black people, pathology is the order of the day. I am not suggesting that every Black character on television be a doctor or lawyer with five children, and I am not suggesting that all programming be created for family viewing. Yet rarely today are we afforded a depiction of smart, intelligent, inspiring Black characters, that can be enjoyed as a family, who give us something to celebrate rather than to frown upon.
The Cosby Show and A Different World were not only entertaining, but relevant, tackling important social issues in a ground-breaking fashion when other shows dared not touch them. Racism, teenage pregnancy, HIV/AIDS, the impact of divorce on children, and many other issues were engaged to bring clarity and greater insight to these issues as well as encourage dialogue around them. And A Different World is credited with swelling the enrollment of Historically Black Colleges and Universities, a noteworthy and unparalleled achievement for television in any era.
Last week, after a full day, our family returned home to occupy our living room. As our children began to enthusiastically play with their toys on the floor in front of us, a rerun of The Cosby Show came on. My wife and I watched as Vanessa and her short-lived singing group, The Lipsticks, received much needed voice lessons and were later torn asunder by Claire Huxtable for their too revealing attire and dance moves.
I briefly paused from our viewing to behold the radiance of my wife's smile and glassy, happy eyes that had been made moist by the intensity of her laughter. Then I gazed upon our children. They had ceased their play - an unfathomable occurrence - and were watching The Cosby Show intently, seemingly entranced by what was before them.
I was amazed! Almost thirty years later, the show still has the power to stop children mid-play!
As the episode concluded, my son asked, "Can we watch another one?" His echo, our daughter, quickly followed behind with a shortened inquiry; "Another one?" And while I was all too happy to oblige, I was deeply concerned as well. For it appears that to find meaningful Black family television programming in the new millennium, we must return to the old one.
It's a different world from where we came from.]]>George Zimmerman and God-Sponsored Racismtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16881422012-07-23T11:37:03-04:002012-09-22T05:12:05-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
Zimmerman theologized Martin's loss of life at his hands, stating, "I feel that it was all God's plan and not for me to second-guess it or judge it." It can be surmised then that in Zimmerman's thinking, the events of February 26th, wherein he followed Trayvon Martin, disobeyed dispatcher's instructions not to pursue Trayvon, and then fatally shot Trayvon was the providential handiwork of God preordained before the commencement of time itself.
This makes total sense to me.
Zimmerman's theological argument for killing Trayvon Martin makes total sense to me in that I actually believe that Zimmerman has convinced himself of what he has verbally stated -- that this is God's plan. While such an argument might seem outrageous to many, the argument itself boasts deep and extensive roots anchored in the blood-stained soil of the Western World's racial history. God has often been implicated as the impetus behind the rape, pillage, mutilation, and death of others.
European conquests to the New World fueled by the unintended weaponry of biological warfare which decimated entire nations? It was all a part of God's plan. The Trans-Atlantic slave trade more popularly taught to children today as the Triangular Trade Route? Yep, God's plan to bring salvation to African savages upon the Dark Continent. Manifest Destiny, the westward movement to lay claim to already settled lands via broken treaties, war, and outright theft? Undoubtedly, this was God's plan. Segregation and Jim Crow? You guessed it! These too were God's plan!
Enlightenment Bible scholars theologized the Genesis story of Ham as God's curse against all people darkly pigmented (Genesis 9:20-26). The story of the Tower of Babel, also from Genesis, was exegeted such that it was used to justify the segregation of the races (Genesis 11:1-9). Hatred of President Obama has been justified by some in his being the Anti-Christ of biblical record, and of course, God is against the Anti-Christ! It is worth noting that the first movie viewed in the White House, The Birth of A Nation, originally called The Clansman, closes with the appearance of the image of Christ, a not-so-subtle divine endorsement of the movie's racist claims.
God-sponsored racism is an old-story, a tactic that has been leveraged for years to justify inhumane and diabolical practices against those who have been deemed less than human.
Despite its common usage, the roll of history is replete with those who courageously rejected its claims. One such person was Thomas Paine, a white abolitionist. In an essay published on March 8, 1775, in the Pennsylvania Journal and the Weekly Advertiser, Paine penned:
"To Americans:
That some desperate wretches should be willing to steal and enslave men by violence and murder for gain, is rather lamentable than strange. But that many civilized, nay, Christianized people should approve, and be concerned in the savage practice, is surprising; and still persist, though it has been so often proved contrary to the light of nature, to every principle of Justice and Humanity...
Our Traders in MEN (an unnatural commodity!) must know the wickedness of the SLAVE-TRADE, if they attend to reasoning, or the dictates of their own hearts: and such as shun and stifle (sic) all these, willfully (sic) sacrifice Conscience, and the character of integrity to that golden idol."
Paine rightfully discerned that God-sponsored racism is the procreative results of conscience sacrificed and reasoning shunned. Those who, like Zimmerman, implicate God in their actions would do well to revisit the claims of Scripture. There they will find recorded in 1 John 4:20, "If someone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen?"
A statement released by Trayvon Martin's father, Tracy Martin, read "We must worship a different God, because there is no way that my God would have wanted George Zimmerman to kill my teenage son."
And while it may be true that Tracy Martin's God did not, it is unfortunately clear that George Zimmerman's god did.
Trayvon, rest in peace.]]>A Banner Called Free: Lessons of Faith, Hope and Beloved Community at the Riverbend Maximum Security Prisontag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16354452012-07-02T10:56:48-04:002012-09-01T05:12:12-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
Last week, I attended the Fund for Theological Education's (FTE) 2012 Leaders in Ministry Conference held at the historic Scarritt Bennett Center in Nashville, Tenn. During the conference, I participated as a roundtable leader and mentor pastor to a fresh crop of FTE Fellows as we faithfully engaged the conference theme, "Builders of Beloved Community." A site visit to the Riverbend Maximum Security Prison was included as a part of this phenomenal experience. Ten years ago, the late Harmon Wray, the Rev. Janet Wolf and Dr. Richard Goode established a mutual learning community at Riverbend wherein students from seminaries, colleges and congregations come to the prison to engage in theological inquiry and dialogue alongside the men incarcerated there.
After successfully navigating the extensive prison checkpoints, our group was escorted to the Chapel, a small room with cinder block walls and aged wooden benches. Once there, we were warmly greeted by the insiders (incarcerates) and engaged in mutual dialogue around matters of faith, rehabilitation, transformation, redemption, forgiveness and ecclesiology. Many lessons struck me as significant during our all too short encounter with these men.
The men spoke candidly about the failures of many prison ministries. They spoke of churches coming to Riverbend seeking only to "get them saved" but not seeking to be in community with them. They spoke of the failures of most rehabilitation practices wherein insiders learn how to regurgitate responses to the questions posed to them but never undergo a true transformation of mind and spirit. As they spoke, I could not help but to think of the failures of the present-day church which oft-times places a greater premium on building buildings and personalities than building transformative communities and which are more committed to getting you saved than entering the struggle with you and teaching you how to live faithfully for Christ in the world.
I soon recognized that within this transformative community of open dialogue and mutual sharing, these men had achieved that which has proven to be a great challenge for many churches today: beloved community. When speaking of the creation of the beloved community, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. stated, "Our goal is to create a beloved community and this will require a qualitative change in our souls as well as a quantitative change in our lives." This speaks to so much more than rehabilitation, but to transformation in the truest since of the word. As the insiders spoke of how they were being made anew within this faithful community, supporting each other and holding each other accountable each step of the way, I witnessed the hope that we can rise above our worse selves towards the fulfillment of our better selves like never before!
I am in no way seeking to glorify incarceration. And I am not seeking to glorify the incarceration of these insiders. There is nothing glorious about prison. Some of these men committed horrific crimes, crimes of which they are neither proud nor deny. But there was something glorious about our encounter! Inside Riverbend, theological inquiries are engaged with sincerity and urgency. Matters of forgiveness, salvation, redemption and love are not just fetter for intellectual enterprise but out of necessity to hope and survival amid a depressing reality. Engaging theology in such a setting makes one's theology come alive. If only our theology could be animated as such within our houses of worship.
I return to Nashville this week to attend the 49th General Conference of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. Thousands of A.M.E.'s from across the world will gather to worship, fellowship and debate, pass legislation and elect denominational leadership. As I return to this now familiar place, I do so carrying deeply within me the hope of beloved community as well as a renewed commitment to help build beloved community at home and abroad. What better place to start than within my own Zion?
At the very beginning of our dialogue last week, each person within our circle was invited to share what they hoped to gain from the encounter. When giving my response, I stated, "I want to leave from here transformed." As we prepared to depart after our fruitful engagement with the Riverbend insiders, a colleague noted a banner that for me had been hidden from sight for the duration of our encounter. I had readily taken note of three banners hanging in the Chapel, which read "Love," "Hope" and "Joy." But I had failed to see the banner that rested just above my head bearing the word "Free." Though incarcerated, some since their teenage years, these men are free! They are free in the full sense of the freedom articulated by the Apostle Paul in his first letter to the Church of Corinth. Paul penned, "For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom!" (1 Corinthians 3:17, New Living Translation). And truly, the Spirit of the Lord is at Riverbend.
I was transformed! We all were!
Now, it's time to build.]]>Stay Schemien': P. Diddy, Justin Combs, and the Media's Curious Portrayal of Black Achievementtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.15635552012-06-03T09:59:45-04:002012-08-03T05:12:17-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
Furthermore, the media offered a grim outlook of Justin's future based on that gift. Justin would never know the benefit of hard work. Justin would be irreparably spoiled-rotten. Justin would be content just to live off his father's name and money.
They were wrong. Dead wrong! (Biggie Smalls reference intended.)
Instead of becoming the spoiled, lazy, uninspired young man of the media's misguided dreams, Justin has emerged as a young man with his head on straight. He graduated with a 3.75 GPA from a prestigious private school. He also showed athletic prowess and undoubtedly committed hundreds of hours to studying film, weight training, and off-season workouts to maximize his natural gifts. And as a result his tremendous effort, both in the classroom and on the playing field, the University of California at Los Angeles offered Justin a full scholarship to play football for the Bruins.
Bravo, young man!
In Justin, the media had the opportunity to celebrate a notable achievement. Unlike 50% of young people in many parts of this country who drop out of high school each year, Justin Combs stayed the course. Unlike thousands of young people who never progress in their education beyond high school, Justin Combs will. Unlike thousands of youth from well-heeled families who are of the spoiled, lazy, and uninspired variety, Justin Combs has steered clear from trouble, a tremendous achievement given the fact that he has come of age under a microscope.
Instead of celebrating Justin's achievements, the media has found cause and opportunity to attack this family all over again. What a poor example Mr. Combs is now setting for Justin! With his wealth, Mr. Combs should just pay for his son's tuition out-of-pocket. How dare Mr. Combs allow his son to take money that could be used to send some poor, struggling kid to college.
UCLA responded. Justin's scholarship will not keep some poor, struggling kid from receiving an education. The money for Justin's scholarship, as well as over two hundred other scholarships awarded to student-athletes by UCLA this year, comes from a fund all together separate, one set aside specifically for student-athletes, a fund supported in large-part by athletic department receipts. Case closed, right?
You're wrong. You're dead wrong!
The attacks continued. The ethical thing for Mr. Combs to do is to give a gift to the school's general fund if Justin accepts the scholarship. Anything less than one million dollars would be an insult given Mr. Combs wealth.
The unmitigated gall of the media (and admittedly, many within the public realm) to question the integrity of Justin Combs' acceptance of this earned scholarship. Is Justin the first child of privilege to be offered and to accept a scholarship? Hardly! Will he be the last? Absolutely not!
In Justin Combs, we find a young man who has studied, competed, worked hard, and has been fairly rewarded for his efforts. He could have adopted the mindset of many heirs of wealth; sit back, enjoy your life of privilege, and wait until you can fully cash in on your inheritance. Instead, he became the young man that any parent would justifiably be proud of.
What a curious portrayal of Justin's achievements by the media. Since when did being rich exclude you from receiving perks? Receiving perks in one of the main perks of being rich. Rich people are often beneficiaries at others' expense. Corporate CEO bonuses and tax breaks for the wealthy are just a few examples of the perks of the wealthy. Justin Combs did not receive his scholarship because he was rich. He earned it. Yet the media has portrayed him, and his father, in the same light as Wall Street CEO's who accept major bonuses while simultaneously laying off thousands.
Something far more sinister is at work here. Mr. Combs earned his wealth making people dance, making them look good, and through wise marketing and investments. Diddy has been wildly successful, and unfortunately, he is being made to pay the price for his successes. This is often the case when it comes to the media's portrayal of Black achievement. There is often an asterisk assigned to the achievement, to diminish it, even though there is no evidence of impropriety.
Let's be clear. This is not about Justin Combs. This is not about UCLA. This is about Diddy! And this is about the media's often curious portrayal of Black achievement, a portrayal that finds no inconsistency in attacking you on account of your wealth for purchasing your son a car he did not earn and for not taking from him a scholarship that he did earn.
No one has the right to deny this young man of his achievement or this father of his pride in that achievement. And since none of us were with Diddy while he was "shootin' in the gym" (Read working hard and earning profits), we have no right to tell him how to spend his money. If you do...
You're dead wrong!]]>The Liturgy Of Trayvon Martin: Skittles, Iced Tea And A Hoodietag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13737632012-03-23T12:18:15-04:002012-05-23T05:12:01-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
Prior to the beginning of his passion, Christ blessed and broke bread as a symbol of his soon to be battered and bruised body. He blessed and poured wine as a symbol of his blood which was soon to pour from open wounds. These rather ordinary objects, bread and wine, are symbols that remain central to Christian worship in celebrating the Eucharist today.
And that wooden Roman instrument of public execution, the cross, has emerged as the primary symbol of the Christian faith. I have always wondered how baffling and unnerving it would be for a first-century Roman citizen to see a known instrument of death now adorned with gold and jewels and adorning countless necks while also on display in houses of worship and within our homes. Yet, the cross, as a symbol, now transcends Roman execution and is widely held as a symbol of victory.
Considering the brutal murder of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin, three rather mundane objects have emerged as greater symbols towards reflecting on the historic and on-going persecution of Black masculinity in America and towards a newly-energized movement to end it: Skittles, iced tea, and the hoodie. It has been widely reported that as he was being followed that fateful night, Trayvon covered his head with his hoodie to conceal himself from his pursuer. Unarmed, much also has been mentioned of Trayvon's sole possessions, a single bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea.
Since Trayvon's death, thousands have marched in protest themselves donning hoodies, and thousands more have posted, shared, and tweeted photos of the same throughout social media. Bags of Skittles have been mailed by protesters to authorities and have been creatively incorporated into signs of protest. Iced tea has remained central in our discourse and dialogue on the tragedy. But what do Skittles, iced tea and the hoodie now symbolize? What greater meaning do they possess? How can these objects form a new liturgy, not only for reflecting upon the life and death of Trayvon Martin, but for all who seek to "do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before God" (Micah 6:8)? I humbly propose the following:
Skittles possess a hard, sugary shell manifested in a multiplicity of flavors and colors, held together in a single package. The liturgy of Trayvon Martin inspires us to rid our nation of systemic racism and consider that although, like Skittles, we Americans come in a multiplicity of "flavors" (read preferences) and colors we are still held together in unity in the single-packaging of being created in the image of God. It is forever true that each of us has been endowed by the Creator with the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Sweetened iced tea, a staple of Southern culture, refreshes the parched palate. Tea, however, does not originally emerge in sweetened form. Its sweetness is the result of an intentional action to remove its bitterness. The liturgy of Trayvon Martin reminds us that in our quest for justice against all forms of injustice and prejudice we must remain sweet, not bitter, lest we become what we oppose. This will take intentionality on our part, for it is easy to confuse revenge with justice. We do no justice to Trayvon's memory by likewise embodying the bitter racism that took his life.
The hoodie, that hooded sweatshirt of particular popularity within urban America, was first designed by Champion in the 1930s to provide warmth to workers who had to endure freezing temperatures. As such, the hoodie shielded them from the bitter cold, thus giving them the warmth needed to endure the biting elements around them. The liturgy of Trayvon Martin reminds us that the season of our fight against injustice may turn bitterly cold, but we must remain resolute and hooded in our commitment that we not grow "weary in well-doing" (Galatians 6:9) and endure to the end.
Let Skittles, iced tea, and the hoodie become symbols of truth, inspiration and comfort for a new generation of protesters against the on-going crucifixion of innocent flesh at the hands of a corrupt system of oppression and marginalization that has for too long tortured the masses and tainted our country's legacy.
Amen.]]>A Painful (Yet Familiar) Ritualtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9836132012-03-18T08:18:00-04:002012-03-18T08:18:48-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
There's only one problem; he is Black.
And as his father, I am challenged to do for him what generations of African American fathers have had to do for their sons for far too long in this country; I must inform him that because of his unique blend of gender and pigmentation, there are a different set of rules with which he must contend while growing up.
Nineteen years ago, on a frigid December night in Waco, Texas, what was intended to be a quick stop at the convenience store turned into a two-hour lesson on the racial history of America. A teenager, I was wearing a large jacket with a hood. As I readied myself to exit the car, my grandfather, with whom we were visiting for the holidays, proclaimed, "Take that hood off your head before you go in that store or they will blow your brains out!" Such sudden outbursts were uncharacteristic for my rather mild-mannered grandfather. I found his proclamation of the possibility of my abrupt and violent demise rather upsetting. And it was difficult for me to comprehend. I was simply going to buy some sodas, a rather non-hostile action in my opinion.
For what felt more like an eternity than two hours, my grandfather, grandmother, mother, and uncle awakened me to some troubling realities: 1) That my dark skin, then embracing a 5-foot-10-inch, 13-year-old frame, was a considerable threat for some people, and 2) that some people would not be patient enough to judge me based on the content of my character but rather would be fixated on the color of my skin, and that the color of my skin, viewed through the lens of their own prejudices, meant that I was the physical embodiment of their greatest fear (a big, Black man), fears reinforced daily by mass media. Ever since that fateful December night, I have lived life in full view of these realities.
Having added over five inches and one hundred pounds to that 13-year-old frame over the years, when riding in elevators, I have learned to give quick and easy smiles to disarm my fellow passengers and to ensure them that they are not in any imminent danger. I am mindful of my tone and the inflection of my voice when in conversation in mixed groups as I have learned that I am not afforded the same terms of conversation as others. For if I slightly raise my voice, instead of describing me as passionate, some will label me an angry Black man. Like countless generations of Black men, I have been followed in stores and stopped by police so many times without cause that I am pleasantly surprised when it does not happen.
Now, I, a latter generation Gen-Xer, must pass down to my post-Millennial son some of the rules of engagement for a Black man in this society: 1) If the police stop you make sure you stop in a well-lit area and don't make any sudden moves. In fact, verbally broadcast your actions (i.e., Officer, I am now reaching into the glove compartment for my registration). 2) Always get the receipt after making a purchase, no matter how small, so no one can falsely accuse you of theft later. 3) It doesn't matter if the white kids are doing it. Your punishment will always be much more severe if you are caught doing the same. This is also true for adulthood.
I must inform my son that even if he were blessed to graduate from an Ivy League law school with high honors, having served as the editor of that prestigious school's law review, and go on to be elected the President of the United States of America, even then, some people will consider him to be unqualified for the job and question whether he is a "true" American on account of his Blackness. I will tell him about James Byrd, Jr., the fake drug scandal of Dallas, the Tulia drug busts, and other contemporary instances of societal racism in our home State of Texas, even as previous generations of Black fathers have spoken to their sons of Emmett Till, the Tuskegee Experiment, and COINTELPRO.
And yes, I will tell him about Troy Anthony Davis. I will tell him that even in the face of compelling doubt surrounding his conviction, the cries of other nations, or the pleas of former U.S. Presidents and Nobel Laureates to spare his life, poison can be injected into his veins, for in the eyes of some, he is considered to be an animal that must be put down at all costs.
I will take part in this familiar, yet painful, ritual, for as the Apostle Paul articulated to his sons and daughters in the faith, I would not want my son to be "uninformed...about the troubles we [have] experienced" in this country (2 Corinthians 1:8).
Then I will tell my son, "Go and change the world!"
]]>Bobbi Kristina and the Children of Addictiontag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12739992012-02-14T17:30:03-05:002012-04-15T05:12:01-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
Over the course of the next decade, my generation will rise to lay claim to greater positions of power and authority, influence and responsibility throughout society. However, I have deep concerns that if my generation does not properly address the demons of our childhood, our lived-in experience, we will be doomed to either repeat the mistakes of our parents, or to be stagnated by them, in the years to come. And this would prove most tragic, not only for our society, but for our world as a whole.
The prominent issues that have confronted my generation are great in multitude and potent in its impact. The issues range from paternal absenteeism, which I, like many, deem to be society's greatest ill, to the AIDS epidemic which first emerged during my childhood. Yet, this past weekend's tragedy that unfolded at the Beverly Hilton Hotel and wrought the demise of the iconic Whitney Houston revealed yet another tragedy, one that, in part, also defines my generation; we are the children of addiction.
Certainly addiction, particularly substance abuse, did not originate with the parents of my generation. Previous generations have known well the horrific perils associated with parental addiction. But I argue that in previous generations, this addiction was not as widespread. The rise of heroin, cocaine, crack-cocaine, methamphetamines, even alcohol abuse over the last thirty years, has had dire consequences upon an entire generation. In many cases, the children of addiction were robbed of their childhood and forced to grow up all too fast.
Being counted among the children of addiction is an impossible hardship. From an early age, they are taught, even forced, in many cases, to veil their parent's addiction from the public eye. They learn how to cover for their parent's absence from work or erratic behavior while in public. Even before reaching driving age, they are well acquainted with driving inebriated, stoned, and passed-out parents home. These children have held their parents' heads steady over toilets. Theirs has been the great misfortune of cleaning parents soiled by their own vomit, blood, urine and feces. They have gazed upon parents through plates of glass over countless holidays. In too many earth-shattering cases, the children of addiction have been the first to discover their parents' lifeless bodies and to make arrangements for their burial after an overdose.
The tragedy of addiction transcends class and race. I have witnessed its impact upon former high school classmates from the impoverished Bottoms of Third Ward to the mansions of River Oaks in Houston, Texas, from the hardened streets of South Dallas to the manicured lawns of Highland Park near where I attended college. I have witnessed such addiction passed on as an inheritance to an emerging generation.
In my pastoral ministry, now rapidly approaching its tenth anniversary, I have engaged countless parishioners who are the children of addiction. Even now as young adults, some with children of their own, the pain of their parent's addiction remains present with them and continues to manifest itself within them as shame and distrust of others. As adults, some still seek to provide cover for parents still struggling with addiction.
This past Sunday, we bore witness to the overwhelming effect of a second weekend tragedy. For years, while the world looked upon her parents' addiction and made jest of it, there was Bobbi Kristina, the only child of Bobbie Brown and Whitney Houston, seemingly suffering in silence. As reported by Ian Drew, senior editor of Us Weekly, Bobbi Kristina became her mother's caretaker as she struggled with addiction. Drew stated, "In a way [Bobbi Kristina] was the adult in relationship." Although Houston's cause of death remains unknown at this time, the years of drug abuse has reigned supremely in the public's consciousness, and likely, too, within Bobbi Kristina's memory.
As paramedics whisked the 18-year-old into an ambulance and rushed her away to a hospital, my heart sank, once again. I could not help but consider that she was overcome by the weight of her worse fears too closely realized; that addiction would take away one, if not both, of her parents from her, forever.
My prayers go out to Bobbi Kristina, but not just to her, but to all who must somehow -- likely through prayer, a supportive community, and therapy -- find the strength to face the demons of their parent's addiction.
And after facing these demons, find healing and closure within themselves.
God is able.
]]>How A Chance Encounter With Human Excrement Empowered My Ministry!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12152242012-01-20T07:28:38-05:002012-03-21T05:12:01-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
As I arrived to church early Sunday morning, I noticed that our dumpster had been disturbed. This is not unusual for those of us engaged in ministry in urban contexts. I assumed that a homeless person had come and searched our dumpster for food overnight.
As I approached the dumpster in order that it might be re-secured, I noticed a single stained white sock resting on the ground. The sock was surrounded by several translucent, dial-shaped entities. A closer look revealed them to be pieces of dead skin likely peeled from a human foot. I suddenly recalled reading that homeless people walk upwards to thirteen miles a day. Undoubtedly, their feet are covered with calluses, bruises, and blisters.
Then I saw them, in the upper left-hand corner of our gated waste disposal area -- two pieces of human waste lying conspicuously upon the ground.
This unexpected encounter ushered me through a range of varied emotions. My first emotion was disgust! While well acquainted with such excrement, most notably my own, and that encountered through diaper-changing, I am not accustomed to encountering items, such as these, outside my home, lest in such a public space.
Secondly, I was frustrated! The feces could not be ignored. Though silent, its presence screamed at me! It had to be addressed. And it would have been irresponsible for me to wait for others to tend to it. I had to address this matter myself.
Thirdly, I was insulted! Who would dare defecate on someone else's property, let alone church property? Have they no respect for themselves? Have they no respect for the House of God?
With these emotions bubbling over, I entered the church. After retrieving some plastic bags, I returned and knelt down to remove the excrement. My now close encounter with the matter at hand provided me with greater insight into its former carrier. While I am no medical expert, some truths were immediately discernible through my brief observation.
On account of its discoloration, it appeared sickly and diseased. Something was obviously awry with the carrier's digestive system. It also appeared painful. Streaks of blood painted its exterior. At the risk of assigning anthropomorphic qualities to human waste, it appeared lonely and rejected. It might have gone unnoticed except for our chance encounter. I disposed of the matter, and returned to the church to prepare for worship.
That Sunday, we had a powerful day of worship in both the morning and afternoon. Confessions of faith were made, new members united with our worship community, and many left empowered to serve! After the day's services, I returned to my study to reflect on the events of the day. While there, I recalled the feces vividly from my memory. And as I did, I was first convicted, and then blessed.
Too often the church, as I did, first encounters human suffering, or the evidence of human suffering, with the wrong set of emotions. Too often the church, as I was, is quick to meet human suffering with disgust and frustration rather than compassion and service. And far too often, the church receives certain activity as an insult as opposed to what it truly is; a cry for help.
The church should never turn away from those seeking relief from the pains of life, no matter how undesirable the causation of their pain may be. When Jesus encountered ten men suffering from leprosy, he did not turn away. When Jesus encountered a woman suffering from continuous vaginal bleeding, he did not turn away. Jesus always has time for the sick, the hurting, the hungry, the poor, and the dying. Jesus desires the undesirable, the rejected, those who find themselves lying upon life's cold pavement in silence, but whose presence and suffering yet screams to be noticed.
Even in the midst of our urban setting, where we are surrounded daily by human suffering, and despite our young church's commitment to community empowerment, it was a needed and powerful reminder, at least for me, that human suffering is ever present, and that as a church, we should be ever-seeking to eliminate human suffering whenever, wherever, and however possible.
While I am not rushing towards another public encounter with human waste, on this occasion, I did ultimately find hope in this experience It became an odd consolation for me that the carrier found relief, albeit temporary, from what obviously had pained them along an undoubtedly uncomfortable journey. And I was gifted by God with the blessed opportunity to receive and dispose of it. Thus, while the person may have gone unseen, his or her suffering did not go unnoticed.
While in my study, I offered a prayer for a still unknown visitor that Sunday. I also offered a prayer for myself. I prayed to never turn away from human need and to never become detached from human suffering.
No matter how it is expressed, no matter in what form it is encountered.
I invite your prayers as well!]]>Glory: A New Day for Family and Fatherhood in Hip Hop Culture!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.11973782012-01-12T11:00:38-05:002012-03-13T05:12:01-04:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
In honor of his first born, Jay-Z readily recorded and released a masterful song, "Glory." The song has the potential of becoming this generations' "Isn't She Lovely?," Stevie Wonder's tribute to his newborn daughter, Aisha, from the classic album Songs in the Key of Life (1976). I readily identify with such creative inspiration and the immediate need for expression. The week leading up to the birth of both of my children, I preached sermons inspired by the meaning of their anticipated births to me. And as my wife and I await the birth of our third child next month, I am confident that sermonic inspiration will find me once again. The overwhelming joy of fatherhood is its own inspiration, but I now find inspiration for expression in Jay-Z's "Glory!"
When Beyonce rubbed her belly after a dynamic performance at the MTV Music Awards last August, then the camera shot to an ecstatic Jay-Z flashing a thousand-watt smile, I immediately considered it to be one of the most important popular culture moments of this century. Unfortunately, a happily married African-American family basking in the glow of the anticipated birth of a child is rarely captured by popular media. That the number of children born out of wedlock is increasing in America, in general, and within the African-American community, specifically, where 70 percent of African American youth are born outside of the covenant of marriage, is tragic, to say the least.
I am aware that my expressed concerns place me at odds with some. I fully recognize that I am among a fleeting number of individuals who believe that God's plan is for children to be born within the confines of a marital union. Nonetheless, I believe.
Honestly, I hoped that my generation, the hip-hop generation (or Generation X), deeply scarred by the absence of their own fathers, would not repeat their fathers' mistakes. Increasingly, I see my hopes dashed. As a pastor, I recently came to the grim recognition that of the last fifteen children that I have baptized, only four times was the father present to participate in the celebration of the sacrament. Of those fathers present, only one father was married to the woman with whom the child was conceived at the time of the baptism. And for me, it appears as if the trend of fatherless baptisms will continue in the near future.
Yes, I know that my concerns are at odds with some, especially those actively advocating for the redefinition of the family. Such attempts to redefine family deeply trouble me. Redefinition of family formerly came on account of necessity, such as after tragedy or disappointment, after a failed marriage or incarceration, or a parent with a substance abuse problem, or even the death of one or both parents, which resulted in other family members or friends stepping in to raise the children. Today, many families are "redefined" at the very point of conception as marriage is no longer considered a prerequisite towards beginning a family.
I applaud Jay-Z and Beyonce for accomplishing what many in my generation have failed to do, breaking the cycle of absenteeism established by their parents' generation. Jay-Z's dedication to break this cycle has been vividly captured in his recent recordings. In a song from Jay-Z and Kanye West's album Watch the Throne, "New Day", Jay-Z raps "promise to never leave him... cause my dad left me and I promise [to] never repeat him." Such important reflections on the meaning of fatherhood and of commitment to the next generation are largely, and unfortunately, missing within our society.
Admittedly, I did not see this coming. After years of listening to Jay-Z spit verses of material opulence, drug-dealing escapades, and womanizing, the possibility never entered my mind that one day he would be revered as a husband and a father. Popular hip hop has never been known as a bastion of morality or familial commitment. Yet, these recent reflections on fatherhood from arguably the genre's greatest living artist could signify a new day for fatherhood, accountability, and responsibility expressed not only within the genre, but throughout the culture. And because of the tremendous influence of hip hop culture upon American society, I pray that it might also serve as a new day towards the reclamation of the importance of fatherhood, accountability, and responsibility throughout America.
With hope and anticipation of such reclamation of family and fatherhood in American society, there is only one possible response;
Glory!]]>Pepper Spray Hospitalitytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.11257872011-12-05T08:38:18-05:002012-02-04T05:12:01-05:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
No other day so vividly captures the travesty that is the American consumer culture. In recent years, Black Friday has wrought in-store fights and has left dozens injured or trampled to death as crowds are moved into crazed hysteria in the name of big savings.
Now enter pepper spray.
Just last week, pepper spray made its Black Friday debut as it was released into a crowd of unsuspecting early morning shoppers in order to secure a purchase. It's hard to get much lower than the loss of life that has come to be associated with Black Friday, but the pepper spray incident does at least create a new category for Black Friday lows; shopping by use of a lachrymatory agent.
Pepper spray has been getting a lot of national coverage as of late. In recent weeks, we have witnessed its release upon an eighty year old protestor, a pregnant woman, and peaceful student protestors sprayed directly in their faces while seated upon the ground.
When I was a child, I was once sprayed by mace. Thankfully, it was not a direct hit, just some kids mischievously spraying the mace attached to their mother's key ring into the air. But then the wind shifted , and in my direction. It was rather unpleasant. That is an understatement. I can't imagine the pain that must be associated with the intentional spraying of pepper spray in the face.
Our renewed fascination with pepper spraying each other may in fact reveal an unpleasantry as disturbing as our Black Friday madness; we are becoming a less hospitable nation. Any student of history would rightly reveal that hospitality has not always been best exemplified by American practice. Slavery was not hospitable. Neither was violently taking land from native peoples. Nor American concentration camps during World War II. Nor burning down churches and burning crosses on other people's property. Nor denying people their religious freedoms based upon extremist actions by a few. Nor for generations allowing people to undergird American agriculture by working for next to nothing in the fields by turning a blinded eye to the "illegality" of their presence, but now scape-goating them as the cause of drains on an economy they helped to build.
Nevertheless, it appears as though we are a less hospitable nation (Quick, name your neighbors. Their kids. Their dog.). Hospitality has been exchanged for a heightened hostility.
Let's call it pepper spray hospitality, which is, in fact, no hospitality at all.
We are a spray first, ask questions later, kind of society. I don't like your political views. Where's my pepper spray? I don't like your religious views. Where's my pepper spray? I am having a bad day and you are in close proximity to me. Where's my pepper spray? And I fear that through popular media, we are passing on our pepper spray hospitality to future generations as their greatest inheritance.
Much of reality television programming is created to appeal to and to satisfy our pepper spray delight. We tune-in in high numbers to watch wives of celebrities and wealthy people who, in high numbers, are not actually married to each other, duke it out on the small screen for our entertainment. Pepper spray hospitality at its finest! And it is not like national politics has garnered a greater track record of hospitality, not with its tendency to seek and destroy rather than work towards compromise to meet the needs of the American public.
Tis', possibly, is the season of pepper spray hospitality. Can anything be more heart-breaking than the story of a young woman forced to give birth to a child virtually outdoors and surrounded by livestock, to wrap her child in dirty rags, and to lie the child down in the animal's feeding trough all because people neglected true hospitality and were unwilling to make room for her and her young family indoors?
Millenniums later, the words of angels create for us a needed counter-cultural vision to our pepper sprayed madness:
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men" (Luke 2:14).
In these days of pepper spray hospitality, as you check off items from your holiday shopping list, I have one word of advice;
Cover your eyes!]]>Seeking ShaQuan: A Call for Increased Male Presence in Public Educationtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10817542011-11-17T12:28:00-05:002012-01-17T05:12:01-05:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Anytime I listen to the album, I am transported back in time, back to my college years, back to the blossoming of new love (When dating my wife, our first song was "Nothing Even Matters", a duet by Lauryn and D'Angelo, featured on the album), back to the final moments of the last century which, oddly enough, feels like simpler times.
Equally as captivating for me as the songs on the album are the interludes, wherein a male "teacher", played by hip hop activist and current Newark City Councilperson Ras J. Baraka, leads his young "students" in an engaging dialogue on the meaning of love. The first interlude serves as a roll call of students. When Lauryn's name is called, there is no response, highlighting her presumed absence from class.
From the first time I listened to this interlude, and every time since, another name, not Lauryn's, has reigned prominently over the others; ShaQuan Sutton. The name stands out for no other reason than its auditory appeal. Recently, however, I have begun to envision the endless promise for ShaQuan's life given the context of his factious educational upbringing. For ShaQuan and his "classmates" experienced something that escaped much of my own educational experience, as well as the educational experience of countless youth, today; a strong, nurturing male presence in the classroom.
Last month, I served as Principal for a Day at a local elementary school. I extended an invitation to my congregation to join me that day as we coordinated our continued efforts to support public education. Upon arriving on campus, I was greeted by a cadre of extraordinary professional women: the administrative office manager, the guidance counselor, the assistant principal, the principal. I would meet dozens more accomplished women throughout the day. Yet, as the day progressed, my maleness loomed large.
The principal informed me that in her school of 500 students and sixty staffpersons, only two men were part of the professional staff. One was a coach. Only one man taught in the classroom setting. When two men from my congregation arrived our collective presence doubled the average adult male presence on the campus!
The impact of our presence was immediate and discernible. Teachers noted that as I read the morning announcements, students immediately quieted, sat up straight, and listened intently. I spoke at an assembly on the topic of bullying and informed any bullies that day that they would be meeting with me in the office. No student reported to the office that day. Many noted that the campus "felt" different with the presence of men.
When I inquired as to how our church could best assist the school, I told, "We need men! Men to serve as mentors. Men to read to our students. Men to sit and have lunch with our students. Men who will be present in the lives of our students."
This experience caused me to pause and to reflect upon my own educational journey. I had reached the sixth grade before I had male teachers in the classroom. I was a senior in college before I took a course taught by a Black man. I came to recognize that the absence of men, especially men of color, in my educational experience propelled me to take every course that I could that was being taught by an African-American male scholar my first time as a graduate student. And it's likely the reason why my doctoral committee is headed by a Puerto Rican man, an African-American woman, and an African-American man. I am making up for lost time, still seeking now what was lacking then; a nurturing and empowering male presence in my educational experience.
I, like many, have previously noted the impact of male absenteeism in society, especially in the family. But I had failed to see the impact of male absence on our youth in the educational process. Is it possible that declining interest amongst men in the pursuit of education is their consideration of it being a primarily female pursuit?
I fully recognize that there are men, including men of color, who actively nurture and empower our youth as teachers, coaches, administrators, and volunteers. I honor them for their commitment and effort! However, our educational process is producing too few ShaQuan Suttons; young people whose educational journeys have been positively shaped and empowered by male teachers.
So I ponder several questions: What positive impact does male presence have upon the educational experience of today's ShaQuan Suttons? What can ShaQuan Suttons grow to become, their lives shaped early by a nurturing male presence in the classroom? How does nurture and support from a male teacher prove formational for students in their conception of the contributions men can make to society?
Two years ago this month, my maternal grandfather died at the age of 83. For forty-four of those years he worked in public education as a biology teacher, a coach, a bus driver, a principal, and before retirement, as an assistant superintendent. At his funeral, and for months following his death, men from across the nation came to offer their respects. Many claimed that the time they spent with my grandfather changed their lives, and that the lessons he taught them not only shaped them intellectually, but gave them greater vision of what it means to be a man. Grown men, many now seniors, themselves, gave testimony of the impact this male educator had upon their lives with tears in their eyes!
We desperately need more men to become involved in public education so that in the future, when the roll is called for a new generation of young people who will be productive citizens, they can answer the roll as ShaQuan Sutton did.
"Here!"
]]>Which King Stands on the Mall?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10259382011-10-22T22:12:00-04:002011-12-22T05:12:02-05:00Michael W. Watershttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-w-waters/
That said, I cannot help but to wonder, which King now stands enshrined on the mall? It is a rather subjective matter, I must confess. Nevertheless, I consider it to be one of great importance. For our answer to this question speaks not only to who we consider ourselves to be as a nation, but also to who we have made Dr. King to be, and what we consider to be his enduring legacy.
Seven years ago, as an Assistant to the Chaplain at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas, I had the privilege of serving as the founding director of the SMU Civil Rights Pilgrimage, a traveling seminar to cities and sites significant to the American Civil Rights Movement. As we walked upon hallowed ground in places of sacred memory to the Movement called Jackson, Selma, Montgomery, Birmingham, Little Rock, and Memphis, an important distinction of authenticity began to emerge within our consciousness. During our travels we began to distinguish between sites which were "raw," like the carport of Medgar Evers home where tainted stains from pools of his blood remain visible in the concrete today, and sites that were "sanitized," a countless number of both privately and federally-funded museums that sought to make the horrors of the Movement palatable. We felt that such intended palatability was destructive to the integrity of the Movement and to the tremendous sacrifices of those who participated therein.
Since his assassination on April 4, 1968, in many ways Dr. King's legacy has been sanitized by a revisionist history. This dynamic leader has been regulated to sound bytes that are often taken out of context, and his revolutionary ideals and powerful rhetoric have been reduced to quotations to be inserted at will into term papers, speeches, and debates. The American public knows bits and pieces of his speeches and sermons from video recordings, but very few have read his books, an essential activity towards understanding who Dr. King was and what made him tick.
If we truly remembered Dr. King for who he was and for what he stood, and ultimately, died for, our nation would be held to greater accountability. In this revolutionary season that has broken out across the world, the words and work of Dr. King hold great relevance. Our economy, rocked by corporate greed and the criminalization and scape-goating of the impoverished, would not sit well with Dr. King. In his final book, Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community, Dr. King called for the immediate elimination of poverty and for a guaranteed living income for all American citizens. Dr. King advocated for the elimination of debts against poor foreign governments. And Dr. King died while supporting a movement for workers' dignity in Memphis, a stop he deemed necessary prior to occupying Washington, D.C. with a Poor People's Campaign. (On a side-note, it's good to see Dr. King finally make it to D.C. after all these years!)
But is that the Dr. King who now stands on the mall? Is that the man that America sees?
The one who spoke out against the injustices of the Vietnam War while many remained silent? The man who died poor and unpopular, even with members of the African-American community? Which King stands on the mall? Is it the diminutive, peacemaker King, the dispenser of wise-sayings of revisionist history, or King, the revolutionary, non-violent militant against injustice, whose boycotts crippled local economies and forced them to the negotiation table?
In this country, we have often done with Dr. King's legacy that which we have done to the legacy of the spiritual leader King followed: Jesus Christ. We have made Jesus into a sheep-carrying, parable-speaking, sandal-wearing blonde whose crucifixion wrought only light speckles of blood, instead of the whip-yielding, table-overturning man with nappy hair who boldly called those sitting in seats of economic, political, and religious oppression snakes and open graves, the man who so challenged the system that, like King, he was Emmett-Tilled by it. The man, who like King, died lonely, poor, and unpopular, crucified for his commitment to justice, for standing against the establishment, against the status quo, and speaking truth to power. We have emasculated both of them, King and Christ, removing from them their rage against machines of marginalization and oppression. In essence, we have made them less threatening to make them more tolerable. More acceptable. Sanitized.
And when sanitized, we make them controllable, something in death they were not in life.
History records that the title of King's final Sunday sermon, a sermon he did not live to preach, was "Why America May Go to Hell." The Mall and the nation could well use such a fearless and truth-telling prophet.
I just don't know if we are ready to place him there.]]>