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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 2/Problems: Is this Reality?
Part 1 (Previous post contain the previous chapter.)
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I loved going back to school. It was
like a sabbatical. By the end of student teaching I had been in nearly every
studio art class offered. Since I’ve always be involved in multiple media in
fine art, I knew most of the material and what I didn’t seemed like experiments
and playing. The worries l thought were important melted away and the “big
things” other students thought were important made me smile and shake my head.
There were good times and trying times. I also met some amazing people who are influencers
in my home town, and I’m so grateful to know them. We just happened to be in the teaching program at the same time.
Before I left my job, I began my first
class. The professor was a ranting and raving sort of teacher, a short black
man who wore glasses and sometimes spit when he talked. He told us all about
his views on race and minorities in the classroom. Every student who
volunteered information was wrong and corrected even when they were right. How
to deal with your students to avoid sexual misconduct or harassment charges was
the on-going topic (ironically, he was suspended a short time later for making
sexual advancements toward a student.) And then there were the awful VHS movies
he made us watch—there were so many movies. One of which I wish he had not
shown. I always wondered when it would resurface; sadly, it was with thirty
other viewers, in that class.
When I was in high school, two of my
friends invited me to youth group. It became my youth group too. I didn’t know
it then but it was probably not the best environment for me—a bit too intense
and some unwise direction, not wrong but definitely unwise.
For instance, the youth group leader thought
it would be good for us to appear in a Public Television special about hate and
homophobia. We were supposed to be representatives of the “Christian viewpoint.”
I was 17. I went to a primarily white school with very little diversity of any
kind, in the Midwest. I was not equipped for this situation.
The pastor prepared us for the
experience as though we were going in to a literal physical battle. We were
showered with Bible verses and talk of spiritual warfare. I grew up Catholic,
we didn’t battle and we didn’t warfare. The three students who were going had no
preparation for dealing with real hurting people with real problems. The type
of problems these people had caused them more pain than I had ever thought
about, deep pain.
The day arrived; we walked in at the
filming location. It was incredibly uncomfortable. It was the first time I
heard stories from real people (not on TV interviews) who were treated terribly
because they were different. We were seated two by two on hard black plastic
chairs, on risers, in a semicircle. There was a great big TV camera on a swivel
in the middle. Maybe thirty people in all, representing LGBTQ communities,
before there was a Q; and then us, the five “Christians,” three students and
two adults. Not surprising and probably needless to say, it did not go well. At
one point a boy wearing red lipstick talked about his church kicking him out.
He had a beautiful complexion. I kept looking at him and wondering how a face
could be so flawless.
Later a girl talked openly about being
a lesbian, her lifestyle, and about religious oppression. She talked about and
being treated as a leper. She was asked if she would feel comfortable at the pastor’s
church. Then the hosts asked the pastor questions like “would you let a gay
person into your church?” and “do you think she was born that way?” He said yes
to the church question and sort of avoided the other one, which spurred a
litany of other leading questions. Even as a teen, it was obvious their questions
were phrased to lead to disagreements. I had the thought: I think they are
hoping for a fist fight. It would have made exciting TV, I suppose.
Everyone was tense. No one in
production cared about relationships or people; they wanted their sound bites
and drilled a point until they got it. They would randomly pause and stop
filming, discuss different ways to ask questions as to get “more interesting”
answers. Nothing more than three good sentences really was useful.
For the second time in my life, I was
horrified by this experience. I saw the title and gasped loudly enough for a
classmate to ask what was wrong. A short time later the final frames were
playing and there I was. I’m not ashamed of anything I said, me, but I was
ashamed of how it portrayed good-hearted people. I wasn’t on camera much. But
what upset me was that even if they didn’t say things in the best way they
could have or should have, the fact is that the “Christians” were good and loving
people and they were trying to join a relevant conversation. Trying to
understand and be understood but they were not made to look understanding.
My classmate asked if that was me, and
then, of course, let the professor know it was.
Shame is not something I’ve felt a
whole lot of, thank goodness, and I did that day. I was ashamed and embarrassed.
A searing hot red face started slowly and spread from my cheeks to forehead and
neck. I’m pretty sure could have lit a dark room. I was mortified. It was not
the situation, or that we were there, or what I said, or how we behaved but how
it was portrayed and twisted and that people might believe I was terrible and
unloving—that this was supposed to be the faith I represented, it was edited so
badly, so unfairly.
And in front of this, second group of
thirty people I was put on the spot about beliefs and who has value and who
does not. The professor asked similar questions as in the video. So instead, I
answered the question that I wish had been asked then, and years earlier. Not
the legalistic black and white easy answers and sound bites, the kind that make
for startling eye-catching headlines. I’m
not interested in who is in the “in crowd” and who needs to be disregarded, not
at all. I am interested in all people being loved by God and that all people
are equal in His sight, that there is much more to all of this faith-stuff than
what you can quickly explain.
I was given the floor for several minutes,
and it was by Grace alone I was able to put together coherent thoughts. With a
glowing face, from the third row, I explained as humbly as I could that good people
were victims of edits and that ALL the people there really had good hearts. It
is sad that kind-hearted people were made to appear evil and judgmental. I made
it clear I was not apologizing for being Christian, or the beliefs I hold
closely, but I feel that relationships and knowing Jesus through Christians are
essential to understanding faith. I also said no one group or person gets it
all right. I learned so much in that moment. The room was silent. People were pensive.
There were no questions—I’m not sure why, but it was quiet. I was relieved, it
was over.
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Our culture seems to want to battle.
Social media has reduced relationships to statuses and updated posts. The real
work of relationships is in the daily and mundane, memorable events, common
language of old stories and jokes, and a shared history.
There is a relationship that is
necessary when talking to people about the intimate questions in their hearts.
It is called friendship or discipleship, and Jesus did that with twelve special
people. I will not apologize for the harder truths that being a Jesus follower
leads me to, faith is my compass; but I will do my best to show love to all. Until
someone believes what I do, and is open to being changed and challenged by a
relationship with Him, I will love them. If they chose to believe what I do, I
will walk with them in this journey. It is a journey that unfolds over a lifetime.
