The Coffee House Lesson

Sitting at one of my favorite coffee shops a couple of weeks ago, I observed a sad phenomenon that marks our culture.
First, though, I must tell you that I love coffee shops!  Sights, smells, sounds, flavor, and texture all come together to create an environment that welcomes almost anyone.  Where else can you put an overstuffed electric-blue couch next to a pair of Danish modern leather chairs?  What other place has smells of coffee, chocolate, cinammon, and cardamom floating freely for your nostril's delight?  How many other eating establishments allow you to nestle down in big squishy, comfy, sofa while kicking your feet up on the table?  I frequent coffee shops several times a week and I love to have meetings and appointments there because the atmosphere tends to disarm people much more than sitting in THE PASTOR'S OFFICE seems to do (ominous organ music crescendoes).

That's how I found myself sitting in a local coffee house several weeks ago, waiting for an appointment with someone.  I arrived early and sat there nursing my coffee and watching the people around me.

A small group of police officers sat on the patio, lounging, laughing, but also lethal, in their vests, uniforms and guns.  There is an air of readiness to police officers, their heads on swivels, constantly aware, ever vigilant. One of the officers is clearly ‘The Old Guy,’ shaved head, grizzled squint to his eyes, and clearly the center of attention from the other three.  Two of the others have been cops for awhile, aware of their surroundings, confident and experienced, but comfortable.  The last guy is plainly the new guy.  In all the cop shows, he is ‘The Rookie,’ still possessing an eagerness and shininess that is noticeable to anyone who looks.  The new-cop smell still hasn’t worn off yet.  These guys have a long and ranging conversation, but no one sits anywhere near them.

A gaggle of large women come in, clearly secretaries or other anonymous office personnel.  The three could be sisters, all pale and pudgy.  Non-stop prattle emanates from them as they gossip about the other women at the office.    I’m not sure who Susan is, but if they are right, then she probably shouldn’t be doing that with their boss.  I don’t think these women like her very much.  After getting their coffees and pastries, they move off to a table and sit together in a cloud of perfume and judgment.

Near their table is a pretty young co-ed, listening to her iPod and lackadaisically surfing the internet on her laptop.  She looks very, very sad: the kind of sad where her eyes seemed to have tears ready, waiting for the slightest motivation to fall.  I wonder what her story is, but I don’t ask.  A young college age boy sits directly behind her, also surfing the web and listening to his iPod. Maybe if they both got out of their data-driven isolation cells, they might have something in common and maybe she wouldn’t be so sad.

Behind me are two men speaking in rapid fire Spanish.  I catch snippets of family life and stories about their students.  It sounds like they are both teachers.  They have similar complaints to those of my English-speaking teacher friends.

Looking over, I see that the cops have left, only to be replaced by a young girl in her teens with hair a shade of red that doesn’t occur naturally.  She sits next to her heavily pierced friend.  Both girls are busily texting, but occasionally break their silence to comment to each other while pointing to something amusing on their phone.  It appears that they are texting each other and at least one third party, but they don’t speak much to each other in person, just inside their electronic realm.

A large man in an even larger cowboy hat pulls up a footstool to sit and talk to an even larger man in a camouflage trucker’s hat.  Cowboy Hat guy is wearing shorts and sandals, and looks like he could do some damage to a horse if he sat on it, so I’m pretty sure he really isn’t a cowboy.  Cowboy Hat and Trucker Hat get into a heated discussion about politics, but take periodic breaks to glance over lasciviously at the sad young co-ed.  They ignore the business man sitting next to them in a suit as he talks too loud and too fast on his cell phone, gesturing passionately as if the person on the other end of the line could see him.  He keeps checking out the sad, pretty girl periodically too.

A black guy with shoulder length dreadlocks brings his bike inside and orders coffee.  I think to myself wistfully that I wish I could pull off the dreadlock look. It just wouldn’t look nearly as cool on an overweight white guy as it does on a buff black dude.  He looks around the room briefly, and then leaves with his coffee and bike.

All of these people come together in the same place, brought together by coffee.  There’s little else to connect them otherwise.

I find myself saddened that each one sits alone, or only with those that are very much like them.  In all this diversity, I can only find homogeny.  I don’t want to surround myself with people who are exactly like me; who look, act, think, believe, and talk just like me.  And.. I don’t want to be alone in a 2-dimensional, online world that exists outside of reality, either.  I want to strike up a conversation with each of them, to find out their individual, poignant, funny, sad, and hopeful stories.  I find myself wondering why someone would choose a gray existence of mirrored personalities over the rich tapestry of real people around them.

Life is real, and it is short.  Let’s get out there and make it exciting.  Let’s not just live lives in proximity to each other, but let’s actually live our lives side-by-side with each other.  Let’s hold conversations with people who look strange to us (because we probably look weird to them).  Let’s talk about our experiences, our beliefs, and our ideas, withholding judgment for a time, and seeking to find commonality and even growth by the exposure to thoughts we’ve never considered.  If you’ve read this far, I dare you to go to the local coffee shop and strike up a conversation.  Ask someone who looks interesting what their story is.  Buy a cup of coffee for someone and find out what they believe.  Say, “Hi,” and smile at those around you and ask them how their day is.  Then, sit back and hold on tight as your horizons are broadened and your life gets far more interesting.

Beautiful

We stood as a small group in a parking garage outside of the lecture hall, getting ready to head off for discussion groups.  14 teenagers, a close female friend as an adult sponsor and myself.  In moments, I was going to have my heart broken in a way I could never have anticipated, but I didn’t know it yet.

I had the kids stand in a circle while I was trying to gather my thoughts on what to say.  We had just come out of a summer camp session for high schoolers that talked about the cultural and personal issues of sexuality by Craig and Jason of XXX Church and had been instructed to meet briefly to talk as a group and then to split by gender and have a more personal discussion on these issues.    It had been a powerful session that had taught me something.  I had always thought that pornography was predominantly a male issue.   Though it is the subject of jokes and lighthearted acceptance in our culture at large, the truth is, it consumes the lives of many men, breaks their marriages, and is very destructive in a multitude of ways. 

But, here was something I hadn’t realized.  What Craig and Jason pointed out was that the overall culture of pornography also is destructive to the women in our lives.  They asked the question, “Why is it that when you look at almost any men’s magazine, there is a beautiful half-naked woman on the front?  And, why is it that when you look at almost any women’s magazine, you see the same thing?”  Not even discussing magazines such as Penthouse or Hustler, but Swimsuit Issues, FHM, Maxim, and the like.  And women’s magazines such as 17, Vogue.  There is a message of perfect beauty that pervades our culture and it affects the self esteem of our young girls.

Back in the parking garage, I recognized the truth of their message, or at least I thought I did.  But, it was about to be brought home in a powerful and painful way.

I asked the kids to look around at each other and then I said, “These are your brothers and sisters.  Girls, look at these guys.  Every single one of them struggles with these issues.  They deal with lust and temptation on a daily basis and it affects how they look at women and how they look at themselves, and it’s a very real struggle in each of their lives.”  The kids looked at each other with some discomfort, but the moment passed and they waited for what else I had to say.

Then, I said, “Guys, look around you at these girls.  Each and every one of them struggles with their self-value in some way.  They wonder if they are pretty enough, smart enough, or valuable enough to be loved.  They envy other girls for their beauty while they secretly doubt themselves.”

That’s when it happened.  I thought I had understood the issue.  I had worked with teens for almost a decade and had a young daughter of my own, but I didn’t really understand.

When I had finished my statement I saw every single one of those girls, including the adult sponsor get the most heartbreaking look on their faces and look quickly down at the ground.  Tears ran down several of their faces. 

My words had struck home in a deeply personal way that was shattering.

My own eyes teared up as I looked upon these girls who I cared so much about.  I had known most of them since they were small children, including the adult sponsor.  Now, every single one of these girls was beautiful and every single one didn’t believe it.  I don’t say they were beautiful, “just because I was their youth minister and I was supposed to say that kind of thing;” it’s true, every one of those young women were physically beautiful.  There wasn’t one who wasn’t pretty.  Very pretty.  What’s more, I knew every single one of them, and each was a beautiful person inside too.  They were my friends, they were my students, and I loved them as if they were my own daughters.

Yet, here they were broken to their very core by the message of value that our culture had put on them.  These lovely young ladies, each and every one, wondered if they were loveable.  It’s not enough to say that my heart was broken for them… It was torn with grief that they would have to fight this battle.

As instructed, we broke into two separate groups, male and female, to have our discussions.  I walked quickly ahead of the guys to the room where we were going to talk, so they wouldn’t see how much this had shaken me.  I needed time to gather my thoughts before I spoke again.

I have often discussed the issue of pornography with guys.  I truly believe that puberty is a much worse experience for guys than girls. Everything that happens to guys is in secret and it is culturally surrounded with shame.  Every guy at some point feels like a dirty little pervert and wonders if there is something wrong with him, because other guys don’t seem to have these issues.  Even in a culture that is now seems accepting of pornography, there is still an underlying message that you are sick if you look at it. 

But, the pictures and advertising that pervades our media, magazines, movies, and music are destructive to our young women.  Airbrushing, makeup, special lighting and Photoshop, along with the selection of only a certain female models who meet a narrow set of criteria, leads us to a standard of beauty that is all but impossible to meet in the real world.  I once heard a quote from a supermodel where she said, “We are freaks of nature.”  Years ago, we had a young girl in our youth group who was a model.  She did runway shows and fashion modeling.  Let me tell you, she was gorgeous even as a teen.  Tall, thin, long hair, and perfect skin… Amazing physical beauty.  When I saw here again a few years later, I found out she was no longer modeling.  Why?  They told her that she was too fat!!!!!!!  She looked no different to me, most women would envy her figure, yet she wasn’t ‘perfect’ enough for the modeling world. 

Dove (the soap company) has a drive to change this.  In their Campaign for Real Beauty, they have created videos that show the reality of women in advertising and the painful truth of how this affects our girls. (Fair warning, the second video is very sad)

 There is a cartoon that I have seen several times posted on the internet.  The caption says, “The difference between men and women.” It shows two panels.  One shows a girl looking in a mirror and the other shows a guy looking in the mirror.  The guy is overweight and bald, but looks in the mirror and sees himself like Charles Atlas.  The girl is curvy and attractive, but in the mirror, sees this dumpy ugly woman.  There is so much truth here, it hurts. 

What saddens me the most is that I see this message being eaten up by my own preteen daughter and her young friends.  I hear them talk about diets and exercise, not because they want to be healthy, but because they think they are fat.  It makes me want to go have an angry and quite violent encounter with the editors of every fashion magazine in existence. 

It’s time to dump these ideas as a culture.  They don’t work, and they are spiritually and emotionally (and sometimes physically) destructive to our daughters….

And our wives and mothers too.  Our culture values youth and discards the aged.  I love the scene in the movie, “A Family Thing” where Robert Duvall is looking at old family pictures and says to the Grandma, “You were very pretty back then,” and Grandma replies, “There ain’t nothing wrong with the way I look now.”  But, even our adult women are sucked into this twisted culture of youth and beauty.  Liposuction, plastic surgery, and fad diets are the way of life for many of our adult women.

Let’s never spend another dime on one of these magazines.  Let’s turn the channel when shows like Top Model come on.  Let’s send the message to our girls that it’s good to be healthy and fit, but it’s not healthy to obsess about appearance.

The cultural idea of beauty has changed over time.  Sometimes it has been healthy, other times destructive.  The 1911 Swimsuit Issue would have looked VERY different from the 2011 one!  Let's change this culture's idea of beauty.  Let’s send the message to the girls in our lives that they ARE beautiful as they are. 

Let’s work for the day when another youth minister is standing in a parking garage looking at his group of kids, saying, “You won’t believe this, but many years ago, our society used to believe that a woman’s value was in her physical beauty.”  I hope he never has to see the looks on his girls faces that I saw.

Tall or short.

Curvy or thin.

Black, White, Brown, Yellow, or Red.

Long straight hair or kinky afro.

Blonde, brunette, or redhead.

Young or old.

You are beautiful, just as God created you.

---------

P.S. To all of you girls that were there in the parking garage that day, you were beautiful then and you are still beautiful today. 

The Only Man in the Room Without a Tallit

The service began thirty minutes ago.  I think.  Maybe.  Actually, I'm not entirely sure.  Somewhere off to my right some one is singing in Hebrew, but I can’t see him because I am sitting slightly behind the stage and my view is partially blocked by lace curtains.  Dozens of men milled around on my side of the room, shaking hands, greeting one another with a rousing L’shana Tova!*  Some were putting on their prayer shawls (Tallit), long white pieces of fabric usually with blue or black stripes and long tassels attached.  The Hebrew singing continues and periodically some of the men will join in with the chant, but most are paying no attention as they catch up with friends, holding conversations on business, school studies, and how their kids and grandkids are.  Though many people say, hello and L’shana Tova to me, I feel distinctly out of place and unsure of myself.

It all started a couple of weeks before the service when I asked a business acquaintance, who I knew to be Jewish, if he could recommend adult Hebrew classes for me to help me with my seminary studies.  We had a brief conversation about religious difference that culminated in him inviting me to Rosh Hoshana services at Chabad of Scottsdale. 


I showed up a thirty minutes early and hoped to see my friend.  I stood out front, off to the side and watched the line of people entering the building.  I wore a suit, figuring it was better to be overdressed than too casual, but many of the younger men were wearing casual clothes.  Being Scottsdale, I had to laugh at the man wearing cowboy boots, a western vest and a yarmulke.  Finally, this older gentleman came up to me and asked in an accented voice, “Why wait out here and don’t go inside?”  I told him that I was new and waiting for a friend.  He said, “From today on, I am your friend.  You can come inside now.”  With that, he took my shoulder and escorted me inside.  I told him, I have no kippah (yarmulke) and he laughed and said not to worry.  “What color you should want, red, black, green, blue?  We’ll get you one.”  Looking through a drawer, I found a simple black one and put it on.  He then showed me to my seat and wandered away, jovially saying, L’shana Tova to everyone he passed. 


Somehow, I was expecting something similar to Christian church services I have attended so many times.  Nope.  Nothing of the like.  Though it was a religious service, and there were many things that were similar, it’s the small differences that made it such a cross-cultural experience.  It’s even hard to explain all the differences, but they added up to an experience that was far from anything else I’d ever experienced. 


The elderly man who was my new friend, came wandering back with the Rabbi, who promptly began speaking to me in Hebrew.  Embarrassed, I told him I wasn’t Jewish and spoke no Hebrew.  He smiled friendly and told me that’s OK.  (it made me think of the old Mel Brooks movie joke, "I'm not Jewish" and the response is, "That's OK, nobody's perfect.")  My new friend told him I was waiting for my business acquaintance, whom the Rabbi knew.  The Rabbi welcomed me and wandered off, back to the stage area which was actually around the corner from my chair, so I couldn’t even see what was going on.


The service continued with the Chazzan (song leader) singing in Hebrew with brief moments of audience participation in Hebrew.  The service was laid out in a book with Hebrew on one side and the English translation on the other.  I tried to follow along, but, since everything spoken was in Hebrew, the English was only of limited help.  I finally recognized the Hebrew word melech which I know means ‘king’.  Since they use that word A LOT, it became easy enough to at least keep up.  The Rabbi also kept calling out the page numbers, so I managed to stumble along.  I still felt greatly out of place because the others knew when to stand, to sit, to take a few steps back and forward, and when to bow.  I was always a little bit behind.  This part was very comparable to a Catholic service, which, since my wife grew up Catholic, I have had occasion to experience.


The Rabbi came back and brought someone else with him.  He introduced us and told the new guy who I was waiting for and they both wandered off.  Periodically, the Rabbi would bring someone else by and let him know who I was waiting for and would introduce us.  All of this occurred while the service was going on.


Over the next hour or so, men and women continued arriving, going to their different sides of the room and beginning rounds of greeting with those participating in the service.  Slaps on the back.  Greetings of L’shana Tova.  Discussions about children.  These all continued while the Hebrew singing and audience participation continued.   And, the Rabbi and others kept bringing people up to meet me.  It made me chuckle to picture this happening at a Christian church, with people greeting each other while worship went on or while the pastor gave his sermon.  Hard to imagine.  What’s more, as the service continued over the next few hours, I noticed that people were not only coming in, but wandering out and leaving on their own schedules. 


My friend finally showed up and stopped to welcome me.  Several men came by and told him I was there looking for him.  He must have thought that I had met the whole congregation.  By that time, I may have, because of the busy little Rabbi introducing me.  He gave some explanation and guidance about what was going on and a little about what the purpose of the service was.  He invited me to stay or leave as was comfortable and then went to his assigned seat to participate.


After five hours of Hebrew singing, quiet prayer, a brief homily in English, shofar blowing and lots of standing and sitting, I finally had to go pick up my daughter from school.  I quietly left.  I was sad that I couldn't stay through the end, but I had enjoyed the experience.  Perhaps the only disappointing part of the whole experience was the blowing of the Shofar.  I expected a deep resonating tone, like something out of an old movie about Vikings.  Instead, it was shorter and high pitched, more like a child’s toy horn.  Just goes to show that we shouldn’t base our expectations on Hollywood.


My favorite observation concerned the children.  They came and went, often coming into the room and climbing up on Grandpa’s lap.  Even the rabbi held a young boy for awhile while still running the service.  How rich it must be for children to grow up immersed in their culture and not sent off to another room for a watered down version of religion.


I truly loved the respect they showed to the Torah.  As they opened the Ark each time, where there were several Torah stored, everyone would stand and become quiet.  These were no small scrolls, but very large, very ornate, and very special.  When it was finally time for the Torah reading, they brought two out and walked them around the room.  Men would touch the corner of their Tallit to the Torah scrolls and then kiss the Tallit.  I would wish that more Christians held that type of respect to the word of G-d.


Though somewhat uncomfortable, as all cultural experiences are, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  But, it made me question my own traditions.  When someone comes in and visits our church, do they have any idea what is going on?  Though our service is in English, does an outsider understand some of the words and phrases that we use that are specific to Christian faith and practice?  Have we missed out on some beautiful and rich traditions by losing the essential Jewishness that marked Yeshua, Shaul, Shimon, (Jesus, Paul, Simon), and the other disciples, and completely saturated their teachings?


In the short conversation that my friend and I had weeks before, when he invited me to the service, it was immediately clear that he misunderstood some basic concepts of Christianity, even though the Christian faith came directly out of the Jewish faith.  I’m sure that this is how he understood things from previous explanations, but still, it wasn’t quite right.  How can we better communicate our similarities and the truths of what we believe without assuming that they already understand.  What have we lost in our Christianity over the centuries, considering the first ‘Christians’ were actually Jews who believed that Meshiach had come in the form of Yeshua. 


During the service, it was painfully obvious that I was the stranger.  Being the only man in the room not wearing the Tallit and obviously out of place and unsure, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.  Though people were very welcoming and polite, it was still clear that they recognized me as a visitor.  This makes me wonder, how then can we as Christians be welcoming without making someone feel like they are the stranger?  I have to be honest, while we don’t wear any special clothing like a Tallit or kippah, it is still clear who comfortably belongs and who is just visiting. 


I am thankful to my friend for inviting me and I hope to visit again, because I want to understand the similarities and the rich history that comes from our Jewish roots.  We are separated by the belief that Meshiach has come, and by some unfortunate historic anti-semitism that must be apologized and atoned for.  But, those things don’t have to separate us today as people of G-d. 


I will continue to build my Hebrew vocabulary till I am fluent, in hopes to be a better scholar and to better understand the precious word of G-d. 


Next time I visit, though, I’ll bring my Tallit.  I actually own one that I purchased for Seder several years ago.  Maybe that way, I won’t feel so out of place, and really…. just how many chances does one get to wear a Tallit?


Till then, L’shana Tova Tikatevu.  May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

Please know that these are observations from an outsider and not meant to be flippant or in any way disrespectful.  Any accidental affronts, misuse of terms, or misunderstanding of the events described are unintentional, coming solely from my ignorance and only reinforce my desire for understanding.  Please accept my apology if there are any such offences.  Thank you for sharing your faith and traditions with me.  Thank you to Jerry, Nathan, the Rabbi whose name I missed, to the Orthodox Jewish young man who gave me his seat, and the dozens of wonderful people who were so welcoming to me.  Thanks also to Chabad of Scottsdale for the experience.  May you each be blessed by the King and Creator of all.

     *L’shana Tova means Happy New Year in Hebrew

Looking for a Sign

Feed the hungry. Or else.

That is the short version of Jesus’ message in Matthew 25:31-44. He also mentions giving water to the thirsty, clothing the naked, and nursing the sick, inviting in the stranger, and visiting the prisoner. He makes no bones about the threat of punishment to his followers who do not do these things.

So, what does that look like in our world?

A close friend of mine, Amber, and a few of her buddies were planning to go on a mission trip to help the poor. The plans fell through and left them with about $1400 in cash raised and some time on their hands. They talked about helping out a local ministry such as a food bank or homeless shelter. They also discussed visiting other places such as the Indian reservation or Mexico. In the end, they decided to put the money and their time directly to work by buying food and taking it to the homeless in local parks.

There is a large park downtown where many homeless sleep, so they chose to go down there. They setup a small canopy and started handing out sandwiches. Park personnel immediately came over and told them they weren’t allowed to feed the homeless in the park and made them leave.

I visited the park this morning with Amber to find out more. We were looking for a sign that had rules to see if there was a statute posted, preventing them from feeding the homeless. We found a sign with park rules and regulations. No loud music, pick up your pet poop, and don't play golf, but no mention of feeding the homeless, so we flagged down a park maintenance truck and met Terry. He told us there was no official regulation or statute, but it was park policy because of the mess that the homeless leave. He then went on to share that he has tried to help the homeless in the past, including putting some up in a rental property he owns, all to no avail. “Most of these people don’t want real help and they don’t want the Lord, they just want a hand out,” Terry told us. He did direct us to a local church abutting the park that fed the homeless on their property. We thanked Terry and went on our way.

As we walked across the park, we saw a group of people wearing red t-shirts pulling rolling coolers, handing out water bottles and lunch sacks to the homeless. I flagged them down and talked with Brian, a volunteer from a church in Anthem (about an hour or so North of Central Phoenix). Brian said his group had been feeding the homeless there every Monday for several years. They have been kicked out several times, but each time address the complaint and come back. First they were told that too many people were gathering and needed a park permit, so they went and passed the word that they would walk through the park pass out food and water without gathering everyone in one place. Then they were told that they had to have food handlers’ cards and a restaurant license, so they began using prepackaged food such as Vienna sausages and bagged chips. He said, “We do get hassled, but always try to be respectful and polite while doing our service.”

Amber and I thanked Brian and continued on to Grace Lutheran Church where we met Evelyn. She and a group of women have been feeding lunch to the homeless every weekday for over a decade. She shared that she has found mental illness to be a huge issue. “These are the people who have slipped through the cracks,” she said, “No one wants them and there aren’t enough facilities or beds for all the ones who need real mental health assistance.” She also said that considering life circumstances, "there but for the grace of God go we."

Like many issues, homelessness is a problem that is very complex and is not easily solved by sound-bite answers and simplistic solutions. It's easy to say, "Get a Job." It's easy to call them bums and derelicts, but it's much harder to realize that life circumstance could leave any one of us there, just as Evelyn pointed out.

Is it better to give money to organizations such as St. Vincent de Paul or the Phoenix Rescue Mission who provide food, but also job training, life skills, and other assistance in getting out of a bad situation? Possibly, but due to space limitations and distance to their location, they can’t help every homeless person in Phoenix.

Is it good to hand out food and water in the parks? This provides temporary assistance and possibly keeps people away from the shelters that might help them. But, it does help someone who is distress at this very moment.

Thank you to Amber Steven, Laura, and Kaylee for being willing to get out there and do God's work instead of just sitting in pews and saying, "someone should do something about that. Thank you also to Terry from the park, Brian from Anthem, and Evelyn from Grace Lutheran for sharing on this issue.

A final observation: Terry, Brian, and Evelyn all had one thing in common. When I approached them on asking about feeding the homeless, their response was immediately defensive as if they had been burned before regarding this issue. It wasn’t until they realized that I didn’t have an agenda to push on them that they calmed down and shared openly.

I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: Jesus calls his followers to feed the hungry, help widows and orphans, clothe the naked, give water to the thirsty, and nurse the sick.

So that is what I must do.

Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world. James 1:27