Mr. Author

When I was a kid, I liked to fight the ocean. I would imitate Ryu and shoot imaginary Hadoukens into the water, and would try to stand upright as the rising tide gladly knocked me off my feet. Living in LA, without a purpose, is like fighting the tide.  But I was made for this. I am being built to last and to love this city. 

“Don’t be good. Be great.” -- Michel Moore, LAPD Chief of Police, speaking to the 916th graduating class of the police academy.

For a long time, I just wanted to be good in life, like Clipse. Be a good Christian son, be a good student, be a good employee, be a good boyfriend, eventually be a good husband and father. Be better than bad, but never dare to be great. Set easy targets and overachieve.

My thesis was simple, “if people spend all their time acknowledging my goodness, then they’ll never recognize and challenge me to greatness.” That is, until my desire for intimacy forced me to allow people into my broken places. Eventually, I was exposed as a potential great guy masquerading as a nice and good guy, an oxymoronic reality that soon gave way to unceasing friction. And as my Dad likes to say, pressure bursts pipes. CRRRRRRRRACK.

There I was. Broken at age 28. Identity shattered. Foundation frail. Little direction. I exercised all of my options – healthy and unhealthy – but only one option bore fruit: Connecting to God. And He dove deep into my life to heal my broken places.

God broke me so He could use me. Who knew that brokenness could be a good thing?

“Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.” -- Psalm 51:8

I live in a house in Playa Vista with three roommates.

I ride my bike to the beach.

I still fight the ocean.

I am a leader at my church and in my community. I like my church.

I watch sports television and engage with sports fans for a living. I like my job.

I go on dates. I also go to civic events, museum parties, and NBA games.

I still have my share of problems, some self-inflicted. 

Less now than before though, ‘cause therapy. And inner healing.

I know who I am, and I love me some me.

I am walking in my purpose. The same one God laid on me in my crib on Myrtle Avenue.

I am learning to love what I know. It is SO much easier for me to love what I don’t.

I am way outside of my comfort zone.

I am excited, riveted, full of life and truly happy.

I am deeply thankful.

Los Angeles has developed my endurance, polished my character, and cemented my hope in Jesus. Old Me would've brushed this off and chalked it up to good luck or "everybody does it"...but that’s just not true. Many don't endure. Many quit. Many run out of stamina and succumb to the quicksand.

I’m still here and I’m still standing…with God's help, Girl Scout Cookies, and true friends and family along the journey, holdin’ me down from (Space Ghost!) coast-to-coast.

Last year, I told myself I’d go hard or go home. But I miscalculated.

“Do I keep going hard if I’ve found my home?”

For now, LA…you got me. This is home.

Go hard and BE home. I’ll love what I know, and love what I don’t.

- MB, II

Friday, February 3, 2017

The question of the day: “Am I going to buy into the current system of being here in LA, or…am I going to fight the culture?

I think the allure of Los Angeles lies in its powers of temporal reincarnation. You leave your dusty bowl or urban squalor or nominal cul-de-sac to become someone special. No one knows you here. You can be whoever you want!

That’s true. In LA, no one knows you. But no one cares about you. And if no one cares about you, then you must care about you. And since you must care about you, you can’t care about me. So I must care about me. 

ME. ME. ME. ME.  

ME. ME. ME. ME. 

Tragic, ain’t it?

Thursday, April 6, 2017

God was good today. I mean, He will be good today, but He was really good yesterday. A classic “ram-in-the-bush” moment. My honesty with God in the AM, prone on the floor in my apt, allowed Him to bring encouragement [to me] when I really needed it.

In New York City, if you love me, I know it. And if you hate me, I know it. So at least I know where I stand.

In Washington DC, you only care about me if I resemble or agree with you. So I know to just find people who will agree with me.

In Los Angeles, you pretend to care about me when you really don’t care about me at all. So I have to fake it until I make it.  

NYC and LA will either destroy you, build your character, or both. But New Yorkers glory in their battle scars while Angelenos conceal theirs. Scars don’t look good on camera. If you show your pain, you’ll shatter the glass.

I’m speaking in broad generalities. Everyone isn’t like this. There are people who are so rich and so powerful that they force us to care about them in any city...even if just trivially. 

Okay. Okay. You’re right. There are Bethesda pools here. People who are walking tourniquets and renew one broken life at a time. And each life, once restored, slowly and collectively joins with other lives to renew a broken city.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

I feel an abundance of love today, man. What a day!

Felt surrounded by God’s presence all day, and feel so empowered to live for Jesus in a new way. Need to keep going, one step in front of the other, pushing ahead to see God’s plan for my life realized. Also, felt so much JOY. Feel like my heart is bursting with JOY. That I can really enjoy life and GROW!

So, why did I come here?

Because I am a wildflower. I aim to live a life tethered to light and inspire others to do the same. I am the brazen pilot who cracks jokes in the cockpit while flying headfirst into danger. I am able to do that because I am also the man who measures twice before takeoff.  

I’d been staring down Los Angeles for years, like a dweeb at the homecoming dance. For all the things that one can lament regarding LA, it’s still the world’s creative engine. LA is full of people who live with a subtle defiance, who challenge the status quo, who wear whatever they want and refuse to be silenced. It’s a city full of weirdos like me. 

Saturday, July 15, 2017

AHHHH!

I’m trying to solve for my life, trying to answer for what God wants. Why do you push me this way Lord? I’ve moved out here by faith. I’ve reached the end of my intellectual & game-planning rope. But then again, I’ve said this before.

FIRST & 10. Ball on the 20 yard line. UGGGGH.

TRUST  THE  PROCESS.

In California, every theoretical understanding of my faith in God and self has been put to the test. I have had some dark and lonely days, but my identity isn’t in my brokenness.

I have learned to take life one day at a time.

I have learned the importance of living life outside of my head.

I have fully enjoyed the good times and seal them in my heart.

I have been stiffed by flakes and have made some rock solid friends.

With all respect to Gloria Gaynor, I have done more than survive.

I have thrived.

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps – Proverbs 16:9

Year Two. Los Angeles, California.

Go hard or go home.

Los Angeles is an urban sprawl. The numbers will tell you that it’s full of black folk, which is true, but we’re spread across this coastal city like a drop of grape jelly across two slices of white bread. I knew this was something to keep in mind as a DC transplant and native New Yorker, but even still, I was caught way off guard. Out here on the Left Coast, melanin just ain’t connected to each other like that.

Needless to say, I was eager to meet up with my HU family. I didn’t know anyone else going to Vegas – and part of me liked this, since I had quickly created a highly imaginative alternate reality where I would sneak into Vegas, act totally out of character for 72 hours, and jump back in my Prius for home (because why not save money on gas?). Walter Mitty would’ve been proud. But I caved to my better, more responsible self and invited two of my new LA friends to keep me in line – Gipp and Silk.

Gipp was a four-letter athlete at Howard, a starting wide receiver for our forlorn franchise for as long as his academic scholarship allowed. Gipp came from South Carolina as a two-sport guy in his high school days, but ditched his sprint spikes for a college career in cleats. Although Gipp and I didn’t attend Howard at the same time, we became fast friends through our shared Los Angeles church community and an equal zest for life and faith. He’s also the perfect Goose to my Maverick, unlike most sloppy husband types who forget what it is to navigate the perilous waters of young adult male singlehood.  

Gipp and I added Silk later, after running into him at the Whole Foods in Playa Vista. He’s the hyper intelligent black computer engineer friend who writes code for dating apps that everyone should have. Silk lives a sneeze from new Silicon Beach (which is how he got his name), has forgotten more about cryptocurrencies that I’ll ever know, and is addicted to CrossFit. No lie. Silk may not have Gipp’s football pedigree but he’s built like an Olympic decathlete. This, of course, made me the fat guy of the group.

Once the group was set, weeks felt like days. Gipp’s wife said YES, I snagged a room at Aria, Silk rented a gluttonously large Ford Explorer, and we piled in and zipped across the Mojave Desert to Vegas.

After sleeping across the middle row for nearly the entire drive, I yawned like a hibernating bear, rubbed my eyes with my fists and looked through the front windshield at the fast approaching city. Las Vegas is quite charming from a distance, like watching a handful of middle-aged uncles proudly march into church on Easter Sunday with neon suits.  Vegas’s skyscrapers touched the sky like Babel’s towers, but exist as nameless and faceless trophies until you get in range. Mandalay Bay. Tropicana. Luxor. Planet Hollywood. This was Las Vegas, in its marvelous splendor, standing as a symbolic affront to restraint.

We parked the Explorer at Aria, opened our doors, and got smacked in the face by the heat. It was God’s reminder that we were still in His desert, and we hightailed it for the hotel lobby. We checked in, inhaled three burgers at Gordon Ramsay’s, and strolled through the adjacent indoor mall like conquering heroes, analyzing the Labor Day horde that we were about to share our weekend with.

You see, Las Vegas is a city without duplicates. You’ve got your red hats, your coastals, your warlocks, your hookers, your fixed incomers, your derelicts, your grandmas and grandpas, your fiends, your infants, your sultans, your tycoons, your hipsters, your dancing girls and your degenerates, of all colors and shapes, crammed along one long strip of concrete, baking in the desert heat.

Not one person looks the same in Vegas. Gipp and I walked past a six-foot-three black man in the middle of the mall wearing a black welding visor that covered his face down to his mustache, a second golf visor above the first that stretched horizontally from his forehead (presumably, to shield the sun), a black fishnet shirt, and pink marina shorts that squeezed his quads like they were pigs in a blanket. And the man stared at us as if we were out of place.

After a Friday night alumni event catered by the good folks of HUAA (free food!), a superb community service project that I hear went GREAT! (we, umm, overslept), and a full day of soaking in poolside rays and Top 25 football games over family-style meats (although the food at the book left MUCH to be desired)…we made our way to Sam Boyd Stadium, home of the Runnin’ Rebels.

Yes, we were late. In our defense, we were afraid of getting barbequed by the Vegas desert. So, from the parking lot, we heard the public address announcer yell the first score of the game at us:

“TOUCHDOWN! FIFTY-TWO YARD RUN BY CAYLIN NEWTON! HOWARD UP 7 TO 0!”

I looked at Gipp. His mouth had already hit the asphalt like a grand piano.

“Wait, WHAAAAAAAA???”

We darted into the stadium, looked for our seats, and scanned the field turf for clues. The alumni section murmured politely, with a select few engaging in cautious celebration. Let’s keep it 100. We were pretty, pretty confident that this was a fluke. I remember the Jay Walker tales, but come on man: this is Howard football. We had to crumble sooner or later, right? Right?

For starters, UNLV’s QB was a cool six-foot six-inch black Randall Cunningham clone who could get seven yards a snap. UNLV also had a running back who I derisively called NUMBER 3. Dude moved like a Create a Player in Madden whose speed and agility were maxed to 99. And our diminutive defensive front made their offense look like The Monstars from Space Jam.

But, to our surprise, our defense bent without breaking. They were the unsung heroes. UNLV would hit a big play – like a monster play-action pass at the end of the first quarter to put them in the red zone – and our Bison would burr their noses into the goal line and hold them to chip shots.

A long run by College Randall Cunningham. Only 3.

A short field after a short punt. Still 3.

Later, a HUGE mistake by their QB…he was rushing to the line after another one of his backbreaking downfield plays…fumbled inside our 30-yard line, and our senior linebacker Rollins scooped the loose ball (he bobbled for a second in our line of sight and we GASPED) and rumbled down the sideline with an envoy of his comrades to pay dirt. 21-9. BISON.

UNLV quickly got some of it back, but the halftime score told no lies. In the face of open disbelief, Howard football was WINNING. 21-19 after 30 minutes.

It was a short halftime show. Showtime marched with a skeleton crew and UNLV danced their pirated moves. Meanwhile, the winds at Sam Boyd picked up to Dust Bowl levels. The debris blew so much that I watched most of the third quarter through my sunglasses like a freshman at his first nightclub.

The third quarter was rough. The Rebels ran out like dogs with their tails on fire, scoring two quick touchdowns and sending some of our alums straight to the strip. 33-21, UNLV.  We got the ball back and Philyaw – our ex-quarterback-turned-running back and runner-up for Player of the Game – quickly scored on a short run from three yards out. 33-28, UNLV.

Throughout the half, the wind was catching kickoffs and pulling them directly to Earth. On our ensuing kickoff after the score, the wind forced the ball into the hands of a clumsy UNLV up man, who promptly fumbled the ball right back to our squad. Short field. Back to Philyaw. Touchdown. Go for TWO? Why not! 

36-33, BISON.

Now, it was the fourth quarter. The wind flipped to our backs and our kicker booted the next kickoff into the UNLV end zone. UNLV started their drive at the 20, with a healthy dose of NUMBER 3, their all-Madden man. Six handoffs later, he was dancing in the far end zone, giving UNLV a 40-36 lead with just over 10 minutes left in the game. Gipp groaned, I stared deeply into the cement stands, and we began to prepare for the inevitable.

And then, Caylin Newton went to work.

Cam’s little brother is a tidy 5 feet, 10 inches. He looks and plays like a miniature version of the 2015 NFL MVP minus the alligator shoes and Popeye arms. Still, Caylin’s deft handling of the offense – read optioning, audibling at the line of scrimmage, jump passing, and getting to the edge on designed QB runs – proved far too skilled for the Howard program I knew. How did we get this guy? Did his family owe a pound of flesh to the Merchant of Venice?

On this go-ahead drive, Caylin picked apart UNLV’s defense like a NASCAR pit crew mechanic. Handoff. Handoff. Run. Handoff. BIG PASS. PLUNGE. SIX! Howard up by 3, with a half quarter to burn.  

UNLV got the ball back, Howard held, and UNLV decided to punt into the wind. BAD IDEA. Only 10 yards in net distance, and we braced for the kill. Lil’ Cam got us to their goal line, but finally: UNLV’s d-line held firm. Turnover on downs.

Clone Cunningham got the ball in his hands at his own 2-yard line with a vendetta, firing a deep in route across his body to a streaking Vegas WR. His man caught it, had the angle on the Howard corner, slowed down for no apparent reason, and FUMBLED. HU with another recovery. Time to milk the clock.  

Penalty. Run. Run. Run. Pooch Punt. Touchback. And UNLV got the ball back, 19 seconds away from becoming an opening weekend trivia question.

I stood up. My hands were on my head like a sprinter after interval training. I had done no running.

Pass one? COMPLETE for 19 yards. UNLV now on their 38. Could Randall throw a Hail Mary from here?

Pass two? Incomplete. My heart was beating out of my chest. Why is our defense so far back? MOVE CLOSER. OHMYGOD. SOMEONE TELLS ME WHEN IT ENDS.

13 seconds left.

Pass three? CAUGHT. By speedy NUMBER 3, my personal nemesis.

He made his first man miss, and sprinted across the 50. We had men on his tail, but he was just FASTER.

To the 45. SOMEBODY STOP HIM.

To the 40. WE CANNOT LOSE LIKE THIS.

Down. Tackled at the 30.

GAME OVER.

HOWARD 43, LAS VEGAS 40.

You remember the scene from Goodfellas, when Henry Hill is showering while listening to the radio for details on the Lufthansa Heist, hears the juicy goodness, and begins to shrill like a banshee?

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! JIMMY!”

That was me, in the backseat of our rental, yelling and pounding the mats with my feet like a rebellious toddler.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HOWARD! THE REAL HU! LET’S GOOOOOOO!”

We arrived back at Aria still delirious with excitement, cackling as black men do when richly enjoying the company of their own, sauntering into the casino at Aria like three sumo wrestlers after a buffet. We were using our outside voices inside, but we didn’t care. Something unbelievable had happened, and we were chosen by God as Las Vegas’s first apostles. And the whole world needed to know.

The tomb was empty, and our football program was alive.

MISSION POSSIBLE.

I’m prepared for this

I never shoot to miss

But I feel like a storm is coming

If I’m gonna make it through the day

Then there’s no use in running

This is something I gotta face

I am exhausted.

My righteous anger is turning to despondency. Emotional condensation is settling in my heart.

I know what I’m supposed to do. I get it. BLACK LIVES MATTER.

But I am tired. Is that OK? On some days, the fight leaves me as a shadow boxer punching ghosts. Maybe it’s best to meander through life, chasing ghastly spectres with my smartphone.

IF I RISK IT ALL,

COULD YOU BREAK MY FALL?

No. The complete adoption of survival mentality is a curse. I’ve done this before. Medicating in the white noise of blind dates, alcohol consumption and sports blotter only delays the inevitable. I must face my fears as Yusef did.

I am black. But I am not cursed. I am blessed.

I fight. But I am more than a fighter.

And I know what it takes to win at life.

It’s a fearlessness cemented by faith in Christ. It’s confidence and contentment in the person God has made me to be. It’s living an honorable and just life that inspires others to follow Christ as I do, despite the odds. It’s the discovery of my purpose and its active application.

I still fight. I must fight. My God wants oceans of justice and rivers of fairness. I will not take the deaths of my countrymen lying down.

But, on those days that I box the air, I stop swinging. Instead, I trust fall into the arms of my Savior, believing His security detail of Angels will break my fall.

Senor, te necesito.

How do I live? How do I breathe?

When you’re not here I’m suffocating

I want to feel love, run through my blood

Tell me is this where I give it all up?

Remember! You promised! That You would never leave me or forsake me! That Your Goodness and Mercy would chase me until my dying day!

I’m counting on You. Word is Bond.

Tu presencia es El Cielo para mi.

For You I have to risk it all

Cause the writing’s on the wall.

There’s only one life to live. And only one way to make it worth living. Nothing will separate me from that.

- M.B, II

First: I was undergoing a physiological transformation at the time. My body was discovering the appeal of the fairer sex and reacting to them like a caveman to fire. “Ugh! GIRLS HOT!” Beyonce’s fierce leans and alleyway dances didn’t help matters for her younger sisters as I related to them on our shared New York City streets.

Second: As Beyonce’s popularity grew, so also did her retainer of defense lawyers. This isn’t just a Beyonce problem: SLAYER fans own canisters of black paint, Justin Bieber’s fans nearly broke the Internet, and Elvis fans worship Graceland. But the BeyHive was so vociferous, so bleeding, so close to home. It felt weirdly spiritual, like an unorthodox form of worship, and one that I grew uncomfortable with as the years progressed.

But still: I don’t know her. I’ve never tried to know her. I’ve maintained a respectful distance. And because of this, I’ve never formed a honest-to-goodness opinion about her art.

That is, until LEMONADE. A writer friend had reviewed the visual album for an online magazine and asked me to review her piece, so I did. She and I had previously discussed Beyonce, so I was curious to see her approach. And after that read, another friend shot me a dissenting opinion.

Hmm. My interest was officially piqued.

Small Group. Gym. Shower. Sibling Phone Call. Rurouni Kenshin Binge. Sleep. Z-Burger.

After a quick check on TNT to make sure LaMarcus was still raining jumpers on Ibaka, I flipped to HDMI-1. And then it began.

She’s 34. I keep forgetting that. Beyonce is a part of my generation. She’s an upper millennial, tied in matrimony to a true blue Gen Xer. Have I always considered Beyonce in his shadow? Have I failed to see her for who she truly is?

She is excellent at what she does. Mute her messages for a second and just LOOK AT IT. You just can’t argue against the technical mastery of her work. True visual artisans have crafted this artistic masterpiece from top to tail.

She loves being black. This is important. Many artists use blackness as a catapult to mainstream success. Beyonce isn’t divorced fully from this. But LEMONADE closes the career loop, pulling the mainstream closer to her true identity in all its forms. The French Quarter. Her Daddy. Second Line parades. Her Husband. Jazz. Weddings. Parenthood. Serena Williams. MICHAEL BROWN.

She embraces black womanhood. Celebrates it. With no ounce of shame.

She knows that female empowerment isn’t a curse word. She knows that it doesn’t have to be linked to black masculinity at all times. There’s something special, sensitive, revelatory about all this that captivates her, sans the bluster and psychoanalysis.

She loves her daughter. And wants her to live in a world where she can be unencumbered. Isn’t that the dream of every parent walking the face of the Earth?

She is bold. She made a visual album as folks lament the death of the same.

LEMONADE represents a rebirth. In an awkward analogous way, it reminds me of when Kobe switched from No. 8 to No. 24. And like his number change, LEMONADE doesn’t erase the past. It’s not trying to. In fact, LEMONADE builds on the past. In the hopes for a better future.

I still don’t know Beyonce. That’s not the point.

Beyonce knows Beyonce. And we get to watch her turn lemons into LEMONADE.

That was the worst play call in the history of the Superbowl!!! Worst QB decision Ever!!!!! Ever Ever! Naw I mean Ever!

— Deion Sanders (@DeionSanders)

February 2, 2015

Why were we shouting for Marshawn Lynch to get the football? Why are drivetime sports talk radio programs and television studio shows calling Pete Carroll’s decision the biggest gaffe in Super Bowl history? Why did the Patriots have eight down lineman protecting the goal line on that now legendary second down, leaving three lone cornerbacks in pass coverage? It was only a YARD.

You see, Marshawn Lynch had won us over with jab steps, double moves, half spins and human power cleans. He put us on notice after his Samsonian march through the Saints, but was already leaving dents in dudes by running hard on every down. His legs stretch wide to stay up after body blows, his knees stay low to squeeze through tight spaces, and his arms drag bodies across television’s yellow first down lines. For extra energy, he treats Skittles like power pellets.

But I’m not sure if Lynch’s beast runs translate to the common viewer. Like, if I wanted to make a quick NFL convert, I might skip to Antonio Brown kicking punters, Emmitt Smith doing George Bush impressions, or someone playing Madden on 360 with Pey Pey at the helm. Marshawn Lynch has his meast moments, but try explaining the beauty of his four yard runs to a football freshman.

That’ll preach. (Really Mike?) Yes, yes it will. Gimme a second.

“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.” - Paul, Romans 5:3-4

“YESSIR! Way to pick up the FIRST on 3rd and 2! Keep the chains moving BIG DAWG! LET'S GOOOOOOOOO!”

Have you ever watched football with THAT DUDE? The dude who claps after every play on offense, talks louder than the TV play-by-play guy, and yelps after every big defensive hit? The dork that picks his feet off the floor when his QB throws a deep pass and leans left when his kicker lines up a game tying 40-yarder from the right hashmark?

Well, as it relates to our lives as Christians, God is THAT DUDE. If angels throw a party every time a sinner becomes a saint, imagine how crazy it gets in Heaven when Christians actually do the right thing! I can almost see God cackling manically in Heaven and elbowing angels as he watches us LIVE on Earth from his God-cave.

“Yo Gabriel, you see my boy MLK give that “I Have a Dream” speech! LEHGO! Quick Moses...rewind that! LOOK AT THE FAITH ON THE WOMAN WITH THE ISSUE OF THE BLOOD! ARE YOU KIDDING ME! YO PETER, check out how my son in DC decided NOT to cheat on his taxes! He looks like a young YOU out there! WOOOOOOOOO!”

In Heaven, God’s got his big screen television tuned to our network, watching us make plays on Earth. He could care less if our play is big or small, only that it’s done with 100% faith effort. God wants us to play every down like Marshawn Lynch. We humans care about scale, but what does it matter to a God that sees us all as grasshoppers?

Proof? Check out the Gospel Hall of Fame in Hebrews 11. It has folks we’d consider Biblical heavy hitters (hello Abraham! hello Noah!) and glorified unknowns (who the heck is Enoch?). They all made the Hall because of their faith level, not because of the big or small action that resulted due to their faith. Enoch walking with God = Noah building the ark = Rahab hiding the Israelite spies.

Pretty cool, but there's one problem with all this: I’m human.

I’m flawed. I’m NOT built to last. Running 100% on every play of my life wears me down. Every touch nets positive yardage for the Kingdom but I still take parting shots from Sin. And when Sin sees me gaining momentum, he’s not against spearing my side with late hits.

Geez. Even Michelins get rotated every 7,000 miles.

I spent much time complaining about this during my quarter-life crisis. It’s hard to get amped about running hard and getting killed for minimal gains when you’re not entirely sure if there’s victory ahead.

It’s not about you. It's all about Me.

That’s what He whispered to me on a Bethel pew in ‘08 before Beijing, yelled at me during my temper tantrum in ‘12 and reminded me of after the Emmy win in ‘13. It’s the same message Paul caught in Romans 5, the one that had him all excited about his problems. “Hey Romans! Good news! Problems CONFIRM our faith and our destiny!”

We were born to run for his glory. No matter our station in life, that's our ultimate purpose. It seems trivial in a vacuum, but here's the algebra: if we run for God, and if God always wins, we always win!

God enjoys winning more than we do. He wants us to run with the desire to score on every play and to celebrate the tiniest successes. “You got a first down! You picked up 2 yards! It's not a TD this time, but the ball's still moving! You've still got possession! And you did it again!”

I bet Jesus took this attitude as He performed miracles during his 3 years of ministry. Giving this dude sight ain’t gonna save everyone, but someone got healed and I'm moving the chains. Now I’m a few yards closer to the end zone, a few feet closer to that rugged cross, and a few hours closer to fulfilling my true destiny as God's son. AWESOME.

I've never been a big fan of running hard for what seems to be no reason. Life's challenges block my line of sight. Faith gives me a glimpse, but I'm no soothsayer. I don't see the full blueprint. I could be the next great Senator or next great street sweeper. Beats me. I am forced to rely on God's track record and promises, run on this linear plain and squeeze through microscopic holes.

If I want to WIN, I have to run expecting to score on every down. The perfect play will soon be called. He promised. My linemen will create a crease, my body will be toughened to handle Sin’s blows, and my legs will churn up the field turf, step through the pesky secondary and carry me to the end zone. Where I'll pause to soak up the satisfaction.

But the game doesn’t end after I score. There’s always another drive. Another 1st and 10. I’ll eventually have to stop gulping Gatorade and strap up. Get the play from Coach, tuck my dreads in and run even harder against Sin’s defense, who's now super eager to stop me.

I wasn’t born ready. But I’m now ready.

Bring it.

With that, I gave God the silent treatment. For a week. I balled my fists, pounded my pillow and began to cry. Again. I've cried more over the last month than I have in 2 years. 

...for this is the end I've drowned and dreamt this moment So overdue I owe them Swept away, I'm stolen...

My eyes peered through the foggy windshield that next Sunday morning. The steering wheel twisted under my grip as I drove angrily through overcast skies to the theater. After a week attempting to drown God's voice in vice, I felt anger's slow burn melting my heart. The anger began to snowball, began to frustrate, began to rip me apart. I needed to find a way to channel this anger into something constructive, something life-giving. My personal time bomb was engaged, and it was only a matter of time before detonation.

I'll admit: church was a last option. I didn't want to go and get washed down with Christmas carols, but it's the only business in town that stocks hope and peace in its pews. With my anger creeping towards critical mass, this visit was a necessary tradeoff. I was determined to stay focused on the week's events but knew I had emotional wounds to treat.

....let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together...

Pastor Donnell Jones paced along his makeshift movie pulpit, peered into the distance, and carefully began his Sunday sermon as a law professor might a lecture.

"This morning, I really want to express what I believe to be God's heart. Some of the things I'm going to share have been on my heart for an extensive period of time."

YES. Finally, an everyday pastor with the intestinal fortitude to speak freely without coercion. Come on preacher. Talk about the bad hand dealt the black man. 

"Prayer and worship are vehicles that bring us into the presence of God. Making the most of this moment is about engaging our hearts and understanding how prayer and worship works."

The eff? I want restitution. There is blood in the streets. FISTS UP. FIGHT BACK.

"There is no change on Earth, however desirable, that happens apart from a revelation. But any demonstration that does not begin with Heaven will not produce God's ends. I'm all for grassroots efforts, as long as the seeds were planted by Heaven."

ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH. I was pissed. I wanted a quick fix antidote prescribed for the margins, but Pastor Donnell shared a message that forced me to raise my eye level. I want life's medication without the doctor's visit, a trip to CVS without the office wait. But God, via Pastor Don's sermon and Isaiah 6, showed me how ill I truly was. I have to be healed before I can heal. 

...Skyfall is where we start A thousand miles and poles apart Where worlds collide and days are dark You may have my number, you can take my name BUT YOU'LL NEVER HAVE MY HEART!

For many years, I'd thought the minds of our generation best equipped to engage these issues to only be housed in secular spaces. These great poetic and philosophical minds have a blessed ability to deconstruct society's cursed condition in ways that make me thankful and creatively envious. However, very few of these same individuals have laid out a true blueprint for societal redevelopment. Laws can be altered and pieces fixed, but what can change the heart of a man? 

Conversely, I've considered Christians a rather selfish lot. In study, I've found many great minds hidden in their Bible's pages, minds whose experience ought be considered in historical tradition. The best of these Biblical thinkers exhibit a rare double consciousness, able to highlight society's desperate state while providing the world with concrete answers. 

But as I dig deeper, I realize how troubling these answers are to the Christian layperson. I understand why Christians are afraid to share their beliefs. Faith in Christ reveals an obvious human inability to discover nirvana. Christians explain Christ as the only vine to everlasting life and us as mere twigs dependent on Him for sustenance. Admission and surrender are the only catalytic converters.

The faith's simple solution for life's issues is embarrassing. I admit. It shows I have no tangible involvement in the process. I can take no credit for success. The Christian God only requires my heart in full, which forces me to commit uncomfortably. I raise my arms to Daddy and he sweeps in with the answers. To share the Christian message with my neighbor is to admit personal defeat. Which makes me want to snap.

But the Christian God doesn't stop here. He layers his medication with spoonfuls of love and gives us mental rest with his gospel of peace. It's a consistent and daring love, one that He understands uniquely from personal experience. My furious anger at the world subsides only when He replaces it with sacrificial love.  

Where you go I go What you see I see I know I'd never be me Without the security Of your loving arms Keeping me from harm Put your hand in my hand And we'll stand

I'm not protesting a moment in time. These days, my anger extends far beyond the death of Eric Garner by chokehold. I'm now protesting the historical experience of my kinsmen.

But in doing so, I must exhibit a righteous anger. An anger that highlights society's problems and calls me to love beyond my manufactured borders. I must extend myself in this way to keep from explosion. Perfect love is the only way to dispel fear, redirect hate, and slowly transform the heart of a nation.

How can I represent Christ while having a healthy and necessary involvement in current affairs? I must do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.