Jesus wasn’t a white dude.
It’s no mystery, it’s simple history.
He was brown.
He was a middle eastern man.
I remember when I was a kid we went to the theater to see a movie about the life of Christ called The Gospel Road.
The movie had an incredible soundtrack and narration by Johnny Cash.
That was so stinking cool.
The man in black singing about the man from Galilee.
But, when they made the movie, they seemed to forget that Jesus did come from Galilee.
The movie made Jesus white.
Jesus had blond hair and blue eyes.
At the time, it didn’t phase me.
It seemed right for God to look like a European male model.
But, it was fake news, a misrepresentation of Holy hues.
I’ve noticed that when artists paint or draw Jesus, He inevitably looks a little like them.
We all try to create Jesus in our image.
We are much more comfortable with a Christ that looks just like us.
It’s seems to be a natural inclination.
On the cross, He took our place…
So, we want to give him our face.
He took my place, not so he could assume my image, but so that I could realize that I was created in HIS image.
When Jesus looks at a mirror, he DOESN’T see me.
When he looks at me, he SHOULD see a mirror.
I need to look more like him everyday.
That has nothing to do with race, it has everything to do with grace.
The goal is for me to look like him, in the way I act and treat others.
So, what is the color of grace?
It’s the beautiful shade that is created when we reflect Christ together to a gray world.
Let’s paint Jesus with our actions.
In my lifetime, I’ve spent a lot of time in arcades.
I’ve played and worked in arcades.
I’ve spent hours and quarters.
And almost every arcade I’ve ever been in has had the same game.
It’s hidden away in a dark corner back between Ms. Pac-Man and Frogger.
It’s Whack-A-Mole.
It’s a sturdy little colorful game where players use a big mallet to hit random plastic moles.
It can be quite a beatdown, the unfortunate moles get knocked back into their little mole holes.
Sometimes life feels like Whack-A-Mole.
Sometimes it seems like we have Whack-A-Mole weeks.
You try to escape the box and you get repeatedly beat down…
You pop up full of hope and expectation.
You want to try something new.
You want to live out some crazy dreams.
You think that this is your day, your big chance.
You pop out of your past and…
WHACK!!
You get whacked by a person or situation.
WHACK!!
You are reminded of your limitations and shortcomings.
WHACK!!
You are not enough.
WHACK!!
You’ll will never be more than you are right now.
WHACK!!
You are reminded of where you belong, in the hole.
WHACK!!
You MUST stay in the box.
WHACK!!
Shame…
WHACK!!
Guilt…
WHACK!!
But, wait…
Let’s go back to the arcade.
What if the mole revolted?
What if the mole popped up and refused to be beatdown? What if he grabbed the mallet with his desperate little mole fist and he shouted “Not today, Mr. arcade customer!”
What if the courageous mole used the mallet to destroy the box that had served as his coin-op prison?
WHACK!!
Sometimes life feels like Whack-A-Mole.
Maybe it’s time to revolt.
Maybe it’s time to switch places. Grab the mallet!
Do NOT whack other people, that’s NOT what mallets are made for.
Use it to whack the lies and fears.
Whack the shame and small thinking.
Smash the boxes that have imprisoned you.
Lift up the mallet and let it swing!!
It seems…
There has been a lot of finger pointing, and name calling, and rock throwing between different generational camps lately.
We have this natural tendency to lump generations together.
We draw lines.
We classify.
See if this sounds familiar…
Millennials all wear skinny jeans and they hang out in coffee shops, they are all lazy, right? They eat soap, yet they think they can tell us what to do! They feel entitled and they all have iPhones. They don’t settle for busy work, they want their work to matter.
Gen X are a cynical bunch, they are risk takers who like wearing flannel, they don’t like rules. They want their MTV. They’ve all abandoned their families in pursuit of self fulfillment.
Baby boomers are all super patriotic, optimistic and ambitious. They are workaholics who made America great. They aren’t tech savvy, right?
They all look alike, think alike, act alike…right?
We live and die by demographics.
We paint with bold, broad strokes.
But, when we do that, we get it wrong.
We slap a label on a whole generation or group, Forgetting that the whole is made up of unique individuals.
They are people, not members of a clone army.
We are pretty sure we know what to expect from every generation.
But the problem is that there are exceptions to every expectation.
Actually that’s not a problem, we should all be exceptions.
We should defy definition.
Not all millennials are selfish, not all baby boomers aren’t.
We are ALL beautiful hybrids.
We have to get rid of the cookie cutters.
We do people a huge disservice when we stereotype.
It’s a crime against humanity to generalize a generation.
It’s second guessing the creator.
When we lump, we limit.
It cripples potential.
It creates a lid.
You would think that we would have recognized by now that stereotypes stifle spirit.
We need to quit treating people like they are inherently worse than us because they were born after us.
EVERY age is golden in it’s own way AND EVERY age is tarnished in it’s own way.
EVERY generation, since the beginning of time, has BOTH stepped up AND screwed up. It’s a tasty combo platter of our DNA and the consequences of our choices.
But there is hope for all of us, we are ALL equal parts of beautiful AND broken.
It’s about family instead of generation.
We ALL have both nothing AND everything to offer.
Let’s learn from each other during our shared journey.
Everyone on this planet, regardless of when they were born, is uniquely equipped to do something that’s never EVER been done.
It’s based on who you are.
You are wired to be and see different from anyone else.
You don’t have to be defined by your birthday.
Be defined by the reason you were born.
Be defined by all the amazing ordinary extraordinary days that fill your days.
We are ALL the same in the fact that we are ALL different.
That’s not generational, it’s human.
Rather than classify, we need to celebrate the things the make us ALL different AND the things that make us the same.
Moments should define a generation, stories of individuals who stood up or stood out.
I close with these lines from a classic Gen X movie:
“You see us as you want to see us – in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…
…and an athlete…
…and a basket case…
…a princess…
…and a criminal…”
So no matter, how old you are or what your story is, take a minute and throw your fist in the air and shout “Don’t you forget about me!”
I have a crazy recreational idea…
People are into a lot of different outdoorsy activities that involve wheels.
There are skateboarders, and rollerbladers, and bikers.
That’s all good, but I think there is room for more.
I have a revolutionary recreational idea…
Wagoning.
I want to ride in a spacious red wagon (with a cup holder) as it is pulled by someone younger than me…why cant that be a thing?
Picture it with me…
Instead of skate parks there would be wagon parks.
Each city could have well lighted wagon trails.
We could form local wagon gangs. We could cruise around and listen to our own theme song,
“Born to be Pulled”.
I have to say that, even though I don’t have the motor skills to rollerblade, I would be a natural at wagoning.
Because of my vertically challenged height, I would need a low rider wagon.
I would wear a special protective wagoner helmet and do semi-impressive tricks, like a modified “almost wheelie”, and the death defying “HEY LOOK, I’m standing up in the wagon while it’s moving” trick.
Eventually, I could be a professional wagoner! I could get sponsors NASCAR style and slap advertisements all over my wagon. BOOGITY! BOOGITY!
EVERY day would be a parade! I could wave and throw candy and cheap trinkets to onlookers. Nobody gets left behind because wagons don’t move very fast and they don’t require special skills.
It could be the next really BIG recreational thing.
I just have to convince someone to pull me around…that might be tricky.
In the meantime, I think I’m going to take a walk.
I discovered three amazing stories today.
It was like unearthing hidden treasure.
It’s a curious thing…
I could have easily missed it if I wasn’t paying attention.
They were hiding there in plain sight.
The first story came to our house.
He was a repairman there to work on our dish washer.
He was the rarest of repairmen, he actually got there on time!
He possessed a slow southern drawl, a cool graying bouffant hairstyle and an American flag patch on his sleeve.
We discovered that, he too has a granddaughter that he calls Moonpie.
His Moonpie is a teenager, our Moonpie is about to turn 1.
We talked about our love for Moonpies, both the grandkid type and the delicious marshmallowy treat type. He was suddenly craving a Moonpie and an orange Nehi.
He grew up on the Carolina coast.
We talked about bowhunting, and deer, and where to get really good barbecue in Charleston.
It’s a curious thing…
If you listen you can hear people dream out loud…
He has a curious dream, He wants to hunt in Iowa. He has hunted all over the East coast and he has heard stories about the cornfields in Iowa being a big buffet table for deer.
We love Iowa.
We have special friends and family in Iowa, we are hoping someone has some land that he can bow-hunt on.
He fixed our dishwasher problem and gave us homespun advice about how to keep it working.
We made a friend.
He became part of our story.
The next story showed up on our sidewalk.
She was wearing pigtails.
We were walking the Moonpie, pushing her around the cul de sac in a rainbow colored stroller.
The little girl that our neighbor watches, came over to talk.
I think she is 4.
It’s a curious thing…
She was carrying an old tire pump, the kind that you use on bicycles.
I thought “hmmm, that’s curious…”
I asked if she was working on bikes.
She informed me that she is a doctor and that she was going around the neighborhood offering her services. She was using the tire pump to blow people’s lips up. I’m pretty sure that she was trying to practice some weird form of unregulated organic Botox.
Clearly, this child has watched some reality TV.
She sweetly offered to use the tire pump on the Moonpie.
I said “ummmm…no thanks, we wouldn’t be blowing up her face today”.
She sighed, stroked my granddaughter’s hair, and said “okay, her’s so sweet”.
She told me that she really wants a baby sister but, her parents really aren’t up for the challenge.
I told her that I understand.
She became part of our story.
Finally, we met an elderly gentleman at the card counter at Wal-Mart.
He had a lifetime etched into his face, and on top of that face sat a Dallas Cowboys hat. I commented “are you a Dallas fan?” Suddenly he pointed at me with one bony hand, balled up his other fist like he was ready to punch me.
“Are we gonna have a problem?” He asked with a mischievous spark in his eyes. He is used to people giving him a hard time about his choice of team. I assured him that I’m a Cowboys fan too.
It’s a curious thing…
Everything changes when you realize that you are on the same team.
He has lived in North Carolina all his life, but early on, he decided that the Cowboys were his team.
On his face, under the ball cap, there was the strength, tenacity and character that comes with growing up as a black man in the south in the mid 1900s.
There was hardship and hope in his face, the kind of courage that comes with doing what you have to do every single day.
I don’t know why we try to hide the wrinkles on our faces, they are the roadmap to our journey.
He was picking out a birthday card for his wife. She is turning 76. He asked us to help him find a card. So, Diana, our new friend, and me looked through a lot of brightly colored cards.
Finally, Diana found one that he thought was perfect.
He and his wife are also celebrating their 56th anniversary this week. They are having a big party with a roomful of friends and family who, he was quick to point out, are all buying their own dinner.
We also met his wife, she had been in the back of the store looking for a new pillow. There was a beautiful story written on her face too, but it was getting late.
Story.
The greatest treasure that I can collect is story.
It only happens through observation, interaction, and listening. I have to slow down and be present. I have to look strangers in the face and start conversations that magically transform them into friends.
I need to live with the constant awareness that every single human that I encounter today has a story, and each story can make ME a wiser, richer, better human being.
Like the pirate I am, I go in search of treasure today.
What stories surround you?
It’s a curious thing…
Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, children of all ages, let me introduce to you to this champion of curiosity…
the amazing BLOBFISH!
He lives 3,000 feet below the surface off the coasts of Australia, Tasmania, and New Zealand.
He is basically sea jello that loosely resembles Winston Churchill.
He is a completely original creation.
He is currently endangered, which is sad.
He is simple sealife…
He conserves energy by never really actually swimming, he simply floats right above the sea floor.
In 2013 the mighty Blobfish was voted the “World’s Ugliest Animal” by some mean people who just don’t appreciate interesting.
Did the haters hold him back from living His Blobfish dreams?
NO WAY!
(Mainly because he doesn’t have internet access so he never saw the slam.)
But, the obvious lesson here is float past the haters! Don’t read the negative stuff.
We can learn more from our little gelatinous friend…
He is a reminder that unusual should never go out of style.
“In a sea of same, weird wins.” – CJ Casciotta
The Blobfish is also proof that God has a wild imagination and a wicked sense of humor.
I love the Blobfish.
He makes me smile.
I wish that a sports team somewhere would make the Blobfish their mascot, cause that would be awesome.
There should be stuffed toy Blobfish and a jelly like dance step. Gummy Blobfish would be fun.
Let’s learn from this deep water hero…
Let’s get weird!
Let’s float out of the sea of normalcy, and refuse to be same.
Celebrate the curious!
Float on Mr. Blobfish, float on!
I look down at my hands,
And I’m surprised…
Suddenly they are old.
How did that happen?
Somehow, I now have my Dad’s hands.
I wear the same wrinkles and spots.
I feel the same hurts.
There are calluses and scars on my tired hands.
But, these used hands still have stories to tell.
I look down at the hands of my granddaughter,
They are new and unblemished…
chubby and dimpled.
They are ready to reach out and grab hold of the world.
And when they do, I will be there, loudly applauding for her with my old man hands.
carbonated joy 