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A Story About Race

We’re not going to solve race relations in the United States with one blog post. I’m writing this post as a hopeful suggestion for a different perspective.

Three years ago, during the height of the protests against the murder of George Floyd and the reemergence of Black Lives Matter, I found myself in the middle of a discussion about race at the home of one of our church leaders. There were a dozen of us around the table that evening and the conversation had turned toward the Confederate statue in the city park across the street from our church building. One man at the table claimed there was no racism in Amarillo. He told us he had lived in Amarillo most of his life and there were no issues there related to race. He said any controversy over the statue was fabricated by the media, that before Floyd was killed and before BLM began making noise, there had been no problems. It’s all made up. He’s had several black friends over the years, and none of them have ever complained about the statue.

To which I replied, “Who would they complain to?”

I then described a potential scenario to the group:

Let’s say there’s a Black guy living here in Amarillo and he’s poor. He’s always been poor. His great grandfather twice had his home burned down and his property destroyed. His grandfather never finished grade school because he had to work to support his family on somebody else’s ranch. All four of his grandparents were segregated by school and residential zoning policies, in public places and on government property, in churches and buses, in restrooms and restaurants, and at water fountains. He knows the stories. He’s seen the scars. His father has been in and out of jail for years on petty theft charges. His younger brother was pulled over and harassed by police last week because he was driving in a nice part of town. Let’s say this guy lives in a two bedroom rent house on Taylor Street and he walks both ways every day to work at the meat processing plant. Twice a day he walks right by that Confederate statue in Elwood Park. Two of his children attend Robert E. Lee Elementary in the Black part of town. He works lousy hours at a lousy job for minimum wage. It’s a terrible job — he hates it — and he barely makes enough to pay his bills and support his wife and kids. And every single day he has to walk by that statue in the center of Amarillo’s largest city park. If he hated that statue and found it to be an affront to his dignity and a source of deep pain, who would he complain to?

At that, the wife of the first man looked at me and said, “Ohhhhhhhh. You’re trying to put yourself in his shoes.”

Yes. Yes, I am.

Shouldn’t we all be doing that? Isn’t that exactly what our Lord did? Isn’t that our calling as disciples of the Christ, to empathize, to sympathize, to walk alongside and understand?

Here are some realities that are not made up, some hard cold statistics from the 2021 U.S. census. The following numbers represent non-Hispanic Whites and non-Hispanic Blacks.

38.3% of Whites have at least one college degree compared to 24.7% of Blacks.
The median household income for Whites is $77,999; it’s $48,297 for Blacks.
19.5% of all Blacks live below the nation’s poverty level; it’s only 10% of Whites.
The life expectancy for a White person is 76.4 years; it’s 70.8 years for a Black person.
The homicide rate among men ages 15-34 per 100,000 is 6.1 for Whites and 126.1 for Blacks.

On this day when we honor the significance of the emancipation of enslaved African Americans, allow me to humbly offer this one suggestion: have a conversation with a Black person. Somebody at work, somebody at church, somebody in your neighborhood. Take him to lunch. Invite her over for dinner. And just talk. Do it before this month is over. Just talk about life. Talk about your kids or your jobs. Talk about the weather or the Rangers. Do more listening than speaking. Come to the conversation prepared to hear something different, something new. Be open and receptive. Ask this person if you can pray for him or her. Be a safe space for your friend.

Blacks have a much different experience and viewpoint about life in your city than Whites. Our Lord would try to put himself in their shoes. Actually, he did.

Peace,

Allan

The Way

“Jesus has many who love his heavenly Kingdom, but few who carry his cross; many who yearn for comfort, few who long for distress. Plenty of people he finds to share his banquet, few to share his fast. Everyone desires to take part in his rejoicing, but few are willing to suffer anything for his sake. There are many who follow Jesus as far as the breaking of the bread, few as far as drinking the cup of suffering; many who revere his morality, few who follow him in the indignity of his cross.”

~Thomas a Kempis, The Imitation of Christ

Round 16

The final chemotherapy infusion is today, the last round of 16 treatments that began February 3 and have dominated our lives for the past five months. Last night was the final time to pack up the Cold Caps in their plastic sleeves and place them in the freezer for overnight freezing. This morning is the final time to wheel the ice chest into Market Street at 6am to purchase 50-pounds of dry ice — thank you, Rosa, for your smiling face and consistent kindness! For the last time, I have packed the Cold Caps into the ice chest and the frozen gloves, slippers, and eye masks into the auxiliary ice bag. I have counted the Velcro straps, checked the batteries in the infrared thermometer, and packed the ear muffs and electric blanket.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carrie-Anne is making her morning shake and we’re getting read to put the numbing cream on her port for the last time. We’ll sit down here in a minute and read from Isaiah and the Psalms and then pray thanksgiving to our God. Then we’ll head to T&T to get donuts for the infusion crew, drive down Garfield and navigate whatever construction there is at the Golf Course Road intersection, and pull into the Allison Cancer Center for the last two shots of the Red Devil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you had told us in February exactly how these five months would go, we would have taken it in a blink. By God’s grace, Carrie-Anne’s side effects have been minimal and short-lived. The doctors and nurses here and in Houston have been phenomenal in their care and concern. And our support team of Christian friends and family has been a direct blessing from our Lord.

And Carrie-Anne is a rock star. Seriously. She is inspiring everybody who knows her by her determination, her faith, and her cheerful spirit.

We thank God for his faithfulness to us. He has shown us amazing grace and mercy during this trial. And our hearts are overflowing with gratitude and praise.

Peace,

Allan

Black Eye for the Kingdom

I am saddened, shocked, disappointed, and disturbed by the actions of the Southern Baptist Convention yesterday, voting by an 89%-11% margin to adopt the so-called Mike Law Amendment and expel all SBC congregations who “affirm, appoint, or employ a woman as a pastor of any kind.” This includes youth pastors and children’s pastors, outreach and missions pastors. The amendment must pass by a two-thirds vote one more time, at next year’s convention, before it becomes binding. But, according to my friend Darin Wood, the senior pastor at First Baptist here in Midland, he’s already been handed an official list of 176 Baptist churches who would be affected. First Baptist Midland is one of them.

In many ways, all of us are affected. This is not just a black eye for Baptists, this is a terrible blow to all Christian churches, an insult to the Gospel of Christ Jesus, and a setback to the Kingdom of God. To legislate in God’s Church that the “office of pastor is limited to men” is to mandate restrictions the Bible never does and to fly directly in the face of our Lord and his will.

Our God came here in the flesh and blood of Jesus to reverse the curse of Genesis 3, not to enforce it on his people. God poured out his Spirit on the Day of Pentecost “on all people,” on all our “sons and daughters,” and “both men and women.” By the cross of Christ, all the barriers between people and God and between people and one another have been destroyed. In Christ, “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female.”

To restrict our sisters from sharing their God-given gifts with his Church is to deny the Body of Christ the fullness of everything our Lord intends. It’s to deprive God’s people of half the blessings, half the encouragement, half the service, half the prayers, half the teachings he’s designed for us to have.

It also reinforces to the world and to our own people that the Church employs absurd inconsistencies, uses transparent loopholes, and jumps through mammoth hoops to squash the Holy Spirit in our sisters and keep the men in control. We behave as if the women in the church are uniquely qualified to serve meals – we expect to be served by women at every meal – yet we deny them the opportunity to pass a tray of crackers and juice during the Lord’s meal. Unless they pass those trays side to side while seated; they are only prohibited from passing them front to back while standing. We expect and encourage women to read and interpret Scripture during Bible class, we urge women to pray from the couches in our living rooms, but they’re not allowed to do any of that during a Sunday morning worship assembly. A Christian sister can read the Bible out loud at 9:45 downstairs in the classroom, but she can’t do it at 10:20 upstairs in the worship center. It’s the law of the low ceiling: the lower the ceiling, the more the women can do. And the world and our young people see right through it.

A couple of the Baptist pastors I know are really struggling with the events of the past two days. They have some very difficult conversations ahead and tough decisions to make. I invite you to join me in praying for them.

I think about our children’s ministers here at GCR, Kristin and Ashlee; our new youth minister, Jadyn;  and our summer ministry intern, Callie. I invite you to join me in encouraging them and thanking them for so eagerly using their God-given gifts of leadership to serve our Lord and his people.

I pray for the female pastors in all our Christian churches, all our women youth and children’s ministers, all our women teachers and worship leaders and church planters, that their spirits will not be crushed by the vote and the news and the harsh attitudes and language coming from the SBC. I invite you to think about them before and as you post and/or comment on social media, and as you engage in conversations with your friends about the news.

I pray that we in the Churches of Christ will keep moving toward more Gospel-oriented views and practices, that we will be more and more blessed by expressing and experiencing all our Holy Spirits gifts for the “strengthening, encouragement, and comfort” of the Church.

Lord, have mercy.

Allan

50 Years of Delta

My great friend and former college roommate, Mike Osburn, and I were selected to emcee Delta’s 50th Anniversary dinner Saturday in Oklahoma City. Delta Gamma Sigma is the men’s club to which we belonged at Oklahoma Christian University a very long time ago. And I had a lot more fun writing the material with Ozzy, Chris Adair, and David Bates than I did delivering it. I was honored to be asked to provide the bulk of the entertainment — to tell the stories, to re-hash all the funny lines and remember all the great names — but it stressed me out. It’s a lot of responsibility to entertain 200 men who experience a different three or four year stretch of the same club over five decades. How do you tell a story about something that happened in the ’80s in a way that entertains the guys from the ’70s and the current club members at the same time? How do you make everybody laugh at the same time when they range in age from 18-71?

Traditions. Oral traditions. When the stories get passed down from generation to generation, when each subsequent generation feels like it needs to live up to the proceeding generation, when a uniform language is developed and a standard set of values is ingrained, then the jokes and the one-liners and the more poignant moments are meaningful to everyone.

That’s what makes Delta, Delta. It’s the language and the expectations and the stories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everybody in Delta, no matter how old you are or what years you were in the club, has a story about a party you shouldn’t have attended. It was at Ramada Inn or the Heather Ridge apartments or the T-Bar. Or the Wolf Trap or Little Ax Oklahoma. It was a big party and there was fallout. The house party in Choctaw. Or the campout at Stratton’s farm or the Arter place in Lindsey. Every Delta generation had that party. And Doug Hooten was at all of them. Or Scott Steward. Same thing.

 

 

 

 

 

Everybody in Delta has the Spring Sing experience. South Pacific and Canine College and Jailbirds. Upperclassmen Cowboys and Robin and the Hoods and the Beetles. We’ve all sung the same songs and danced the same steps. Turns out you can squeeze five decades of sarcastic lyrics and questionable innuendo out of Winter Wonderland. Climbing the walls of Hardeman Auditorium. Riding a motorcycle down the center aisle. Making the only Hispanic member of the club play the Indian chief. Completely throwing in the towel and not even trying since 1997. We’ve all got Spring Sing in common.

 

 

 

And everybody in Delta has the arch nemesis. Dean Cornelius in the ’70s. Dean Mock. Dean Pratt. Tommy Heath. Nancy Inman. Just hearing the names raises the hair on the back of your neck. Robert Stoldt. Dean Tucker. Jeff Bennet. Neil Arter. The American Civil Liberties Union. School of the Plains. The names change, but every Delta generation has its mortal enemy.

There was a lot of laughter and camaraderie in the room Saturday because we all share a brotherhood together. A common experience spread out over 50 years. A common set of values and ideals that revolve around excellence and creativity and camouflage pants. That common language. We all know that Delta’s not for everyone and everyone’s not for Delta. We all know it’s good to be the king. We all know that you don’t shoot Virgil and that Delta’s your daddy and that it just doesn’t matter. And, for the love of Jane, chicks dig Delta.

We all know the club motto: Strength through Unity, Dependability, and Pride — a magnificent accumulation of completely unrelated words that bind together a group of guys who just want to do things their way. Mike and I unveiled a list at the dinner of the top ten rejected early drafts of the timeless Delta motto — “Delta: Your Roommate’s Mother Thinks We’re a Bad Idea,” “What Happens at Lake Murray Stays at Lake Murray,” “Delta: Taking the Curl Out of Stafford North’s Hair,” and “A Wonderful Collection of Poor Decision Makers” among others.

There are lots of things that make Delta unique. Special things. Things that make Delta different from all the other clubs. One of those things is our diversity. Delta always has that great mix. Always has. Straight A students and ninth year juniors in the same club. Superstar athletes and guys who fall out of bed. Guys who are going to be lawyers and guys who are going to need lawyers. Future doctors and teachers and guys who are going to be drains on society. All around the same table.

 

 

 

 

 

And our creativity. Delta’s always thinking outside the box. A recent group received chapel credits for several weeks for what they were calling “Food and Fellowship Chapel” before the school shut it down. Good try with “Quiet Meditation in Our Own Beds Chapel” and “Road Trip Chapel.” Great ideas. No other club has ever been charged with “delinquent kudos.” Why doesn’t the prayer before a C-League basketball game against Alpha count as chapel? I think that’s a good question!

Delta’s always been a creative group. Delta’s the group that kicked the tiny defenseless puppy off the stage and into the crowd during that Spring Sing Show. Delta put the blue hippo in the OC pond. Remember when somebody pulled the fire alarm during Spring Sing, right in the middle of Beta’s firefighter show, and they had to evacuate Hardeman auditorium? That was Delta. Delta’s going to shoe polish SNU and then shoe polish OC to frame SNU! The flag at the top of the radio tower? That was Delta. The frog in the microwave in the A dorm lobby? Delta. Every Halloween the trees are filled with underwear and every spring the toilets explode. And it’s always Delta.

 

 

 

 

 

The idea Saturday was to just have fun, to catch up with current friends and reconnect with old friends, to tell all the stories and recall all the memories, and to be thankful for the state and federal statute of limitations! We heard from Chester Knight, Delta’s very first president and co-founder of the club back in 1972 — to hear Chester tell the origin story in person is a true gift. He reminded us that it’s better to be a Delta bull than a bum steer. We paid tribute to Brad Robison, the long-time and long-suffering faculty sponsor of Delta. Dave Butts sang his song, Jeff Guthrie passed out commemorative cigars, and I hugged the great Dan Branch.

And I thank God. I thank God there were no cell phone cameras or internet in the ’80s or my friends and I would still be in federal prison. But, much more than that, I thank God for all these great guys he placed in my life almost 40 years ago. The weeks leading up to this anniversary event and the dinner Saturday night have given me opportunity to do some reflection. These men are not the caricatures they can so easily become to others who haven’t seen them since college. Their lives are not defined by the things they did or didn’t do, good and/or bad, in school. In between the gut laughs and the cringy stories, I talked to several of my old friends about divorce and death, about kids and grandkids, about successes and failures in business, about their work in God’s Church, and about what our Lord is doing in their lives. We’ve each expressed humility and gratitude toward one another, and admiration. We’ve prayed. We’ve had meaningful conversations about eternal things. And we’ve marveled together at the grace and mercy and eternal patience of our loving God.

We’ve acknowledged that some of how we were treated by the OC leadership back then was ridiculously absurd and that we certainly didn’t make it easy on them at any time. We can be thankful for the university presidents and deans who were doing their dead-level best to teach us, disciple us in the ways of Christ, and keep us from getting killed. My good friends and I are old enough now and have been through enough to see the big picture of what God is doing in this world and to have a few regrets and to be very thankful.

Thank you to Adair, Ozzy, Bates, Evan, J.D., Steve Bivins, Jimmy Arter, Brad Myers, Dobson, and Al Branch for planning the Delta 50th anniversary events of last weekend. Let’s do it again next year!

Peace,

Allan

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