I have a great sense of humor. Well, I think so anyway. And I really love to laugh. But some things just aren’t funny. Some are not funny in a Chevy Chase, Robin Hood Men In Tights, groan-then-change-the-channel kind of way. Others are not funny in a way that makes me need to pray hard and breathe deeply so that I don’t start punching. Someone I love recently made a joke of the second type. It was about an interracial couple. This person would never dream of using the “N” word, considers Hispanic and African American co-workers friends, and is excited about my family’s upcoming international adoption. I was shocked by what was said and just as surprised that it came from the lips of someone dear to me who I was confident held views opposite of those (s)he’d just expressed. Even in this midst of the chaos of my life right now, I can’t stop thinking about it. It has led to some good conversations with Kyle and friends. Most seem to think I am blowing it out of proportion, taking it more seriously than it was intended, or worrying about something that I will never be able to change. Am I over-reacting here? Have I spent too much time in the politically correct liberal arts culture? I gotta say, I don’t think so.
Why does it hurt my heart so much and bring a (hopefully) righteous anger out in me? Because every person of every ethnicity is a human being created in the image of God. Even those who don’t know Him bear His mark, no matter how buried or distorted. Because I know, in a different way, what it feels like to be disregarded or disliked for reasons beyond your control and influence. Because I know that some of humanity’s greatest evils have been committed by people who pay their taxes, love their families, and don’t mean any real harm for the most part. Because something inside me recoils in horror at the lie behind even the most subtle or barely conscious racism. The insidious idea that some bear God’s image a bit more effectively, that some fallen sinners are a little less sinful than others has crippled the Body of Christ for centuries—indeed most of its existence—and I am weary of it.
It is true that I have been well-trained in the language of multiculturalism. It was coming into vogue in the early 90s when I entered college. But my secular education is not the source of my passion. It merely served to confirm what God’s Spirit planted in me long ago.
The truth is, enlightened academics and liberated movie stars didn’t come up with these ideas. They are right there in God’s Word from the beginning. He made us as one people. We all have one Father and one origin whether male or female, whether our skin is pale or dark, and whether we are rich or poor, educated or ignorant. It is true that God led Noah’s sons Shem, Ham, and Japheth in three very different directions. But the purpose was that they could obey His instruction to fill the earth (population growth was God’s idea no matter what Thomas Malthus and his modern day disciples think), not to demonstrate which group was more worthy of salvation.
Of course, there is always the fact that God not only created the nation of Israel from Abraham’s seed but was relentless in His admonitions that they remain separate from the nations surrounding them in Canaan. Doesn’t that confirm that some races are chosen and others will never measure up? Not in the slightest. His objection was to their idolatrous influence (see Solomon’s wives). His forbidding of making permanent marks in the skin (tattoos), by the way, was actually a prohibition against idol and ancestor worship. Since He has a tattoo reminding Him of His kids on His palms, I am pretty sure He doesn’t object if we do something similar. But that is another story for another day. Israel was and is chosen and set apart all right. But it wasn’t because they were more pure or less sinful. Just open the Old Testament at nearly any point and read a few paragraphs to dispel that notion. They were meant to record and guard the oracles of God and then share them with the world. When they were in the desert, God told them clearly, “…you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). To whom were they to minister if they were all priests? Don’t you get it? It was to the nations. God never intended to chose ONLY Jews. They were simply set apart as His messengers.
Of course, Jesus confirmed this. He called Himself the good Shepherd and proclaimed, “I have other sheep, which are not of this fold; I must bring them also, and they will hear My voice; and they will become one flock with one shepherd” (John 10:16). One flock. One people. One Body. One Christ. This went against everything the Jews believed about themselves. Even His disciples never failed to be surprised when Jesus gave a Samaritan or Gentile the time of day. It wasn’t until after His ascension that Peter finally, with the help of a vision, a revelation, and an experience of seeing Gentiles receive the Holy Spirit, understood that God was planning to save people who didn’t look like him.
Paul summed it up this way: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s descendants, heirs according to the promise” (Galatians 3:28-29).
I think a lot of people are going to be really surprised when Jesus comes again and they see what heaven really looks like and who they are going to be spending eternity with. But we shouldn’t be. John has already painted the picture for us. “…[B]ehold, a great multitude which no one could count, from every nation and all tribes and peoples and tongue, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, and palm branches were in their hands…” (Revelation 7:9).
I thank God for William Wilberforce, the abolition of slavery in much of the world, Martin Luther King, Jr., integration, and our first African American president. But there is still refining to be done in our lives. Why else would Sunday morning be rightly criticized as the ‘most segregated day of the week?’ And while a joke may seem innocent, it will always be true that “the mouth speaks out of that which fills the heart” (Matthew 12:34).
I really do love to laugh. Here’s to having all our speech, including our joking, honor the reality of the Kingdom of heaven.
“But immorality or any impurity or greed must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints; and there must be no filthiness and silly talk, or coarse jesting, which are not fitting, but rather giving of thanks.” (Ephesians 5:3-4)
"Praise the LORD, all nations;
Laud Him, all peoples!
For His lovingkindness is great toward us,
And the truth of the LORD is everlasting.
Praise the LORD!" (Psalm 117)
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Hope Does Not Disappoint
Mother’s Day is coming soon. Four years ago, after many months of talking and praying as a family, we decided to adopt a daughter from China. We did paperwork – lots of paperwork. Kyle and I picked out some furniture for her room. I picked out bedding and a color for the walls of her room. I bought books about China, about adoption, about Chinese adoption. I bought her a Christmas stocking. She has gotten gifts in it for the past 2 Christmases.
But as the wait lengthened, my doubts began to creep to the surface. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t God’s plan. I already knew it didn’t make sense to start over as parents with a child in high school (Torey was 15 at the time) but laughingly told people that ‘God’s plans don’t have to make sense.’ But a child in COLLEGE?!? And a marriage that was going through a rough period? And, most recently, a set of family crises that have led Kyle and I to question our life choices at every level? And a husband who, given our circumstances, now articulates worry that we could afford the adoption fees or to provide for her if we were able to bring her home? What was I supposed to do?
I recently had two dreams of my Chinese daughter. I never actually saw her in either but the idea of her presence was palpable. In the first, I was in a grocery store buying formula meant for her. Some days later, I dreamt again. This time, she was in the hospital for some reason. I am not sure if it was for a surgery or treatment of some illness. I was genuinely puzzled by what my dream self did. I found every excuse not to go to the hospital. I let Kyle handle making all the trips to admit her, check on her progress, etc. I wandered about, filling my time with unimportant and non-urgent things but kept calling to check in on her. Finally, just before I woke up, I went to the hospital and made my way to her floor. I walked up to the nurse’s station and asked where her room was. The nurse replied, “So, YOU’RE Mrs. McDaniel. We were wondering when you’d be able to get here.” There was no judgment in her voice, only recognition. As if they’d heard a lot about me and believed it was perfectly reasonable for my daughter to be the hospital and for me to have something –anything – more important to do than be right by her side. As if a mother could stay away for any reason. I am not sure if I realized within the dream or after waking that I was guarding my heart in case she didn’t survive. I believed that if I didn’t meet her, it would be easier to let her go. That isn’t real love. It is only self interest.
I now see that this is how I have gotten through the waiting that began Mother’s Day 2005. Instead of grieving deeply that she isn’t yet here and praying regularly that God would bring her soon, I have spent the last few years protecting my heart in case she isn’t really going to come. I have been afraid to pray because I would have to open my heart to her to do so. I have talked about her to others as little as possible because I have feared we would realize we weren’t called or able to adopt. Was I worried about losing face? Or asking others to pray for something that wasn’t God’s will in the first place? Or protecting myself from talking about her so that I wouldn’t have to think about her? Yes. That is what is inside me, motivating me. It is ugly and it is embarrassing.
It is time to stop playing it safe with her. It is time to tell people about her and ask them to pray she’ll come soon. It is time to believe and hope again. It is time to learn to trust God when His ways terrify me. It is time for my second daughter to come home. Come soon, little Camille.
But as the wait lengthened, my doubts began to creep to the surface. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t God’s plan. I already knew it didn’t make sense to start over as parents with a child in high school (Torey was 15 at the time) but laughingly told people that ‘God’s plans don’t have to make sense.’ But a child in COLLEGE?!? And a marriage that was going through a rough period? And, most recently, a set of family crises that have led Kyle and I to question our life choices at every level? And a husband who, given our circumstances, now articulates worry that we could afford the adoption fees or to provide for her if we were able to bring her home? What was I supposed to do?
I recently had two dreams of my Chinese daughter. I never actually saw her in either but the idea of her presence was palpable. In the first, I was in a grocery store buying formula meant for her. Some days later, I dreamt again. This time, she was in the hospital for some reason. I am not sure if it was for a surgery or treatment of some illness. I was genuinely puzzled by what my dream self did. I found every excuse not to go to the hospital. I let Kyle handle making all the trips to admit her, check on her progress, etc. I wandered about, filling my time with unimportant and non-urgent things but kept calling to check in on her. Finally, just before I woke up, I went to the hospital and made my way to her floor. I walked up to the nurse’s station and asked where her room was. The nurse replied, “So, YOU’RE Mrs. McDaniel. We were wondering when you’d be able to get here.” There was no judgment in her voice, only recognition. As if they’d heard a lot about me and believed it was perfectly reasonable for my daughter to be the hospital and for me to have something –anything – more important to do than be right by her side. As if a mother could stay away for any reason. I am not sure if I realized within the dream or after waking that I was guarding my heart in case she didn’t survive. I believed that if I didn’t meet her, it would be easier to let her go. That isn’t real love. It is only self interest.
I now see that this is how I have gotten through the waiting that began Mother’s Day 2005. Instead of grieving deeply that she isn’t yet here and praying regularly that God would bring her soon, I have spent the last few years protecting my heart in case she isn’t really going to come. I have been afraid to pray because I would have to open my heart to her to do so. I have talked about her to others as little as possible because I have feared we would realize we weren’t called or able to adopt. Was I worried about losing face? Or asking others to pray for something that wasn’t God’s will in the first place? Or protecting myself from talking about her so that I wouldn’t have to think about her? Yes. That is what is inside me, motivating me. It is ugly and it is embarrassing.
It is time to stop playing it safe with her. It is time to tell people about her and ask them to pray she’ll come soon. It is time to believe and hope again. It is time to learn to trust God when His ways terrify me. It is time for my second daughter to come home. Come soon, little Camille.
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