In high school, I saw some students dressing in a new way: they were part of a Mexican-American club and wore "BROWN PRIDE" clothing. I had never seen anything like this. As a Hispanic kid, I'd never felt pride in being Brown. I just endured it. Early on, I noticed being brown wasn't really valued in this country. I rarely saw brown people on TV or in movies. No one was telling Brown peoples stories. One day, as a young kid, I told my mom I would no longer speak Spanish. If Mickey Mouse didn't speak Spanish, I wouldn't either. That's how I lost most of my Spanish.
I have way too many baseball hats. One day, I was wearing an Atlanta Braves hat, and an old guy asked me: "You a Braves fan?" This question brought me to a deep life-digging place: Why did I spend money on a Braves hat? The answer is complicated. I have a unique skin color. I'm not brown but more of a brownish-olive color. Let's just say I can't wear yellow because it makes me look green. As a kid, I started collecting baseball cards. I came across a player who had the same skin color as me. This was intriguing. He played for the Atlanta Braves, and I thought the blue Braves hat looked good with his olive color. So now I wear a Braves hat. When I was younger, I rarely saw famous people who looked like me. The message that little Israel picked up was that being brown was inferior.
I spent lots of time with Grandpa, a Mexican-American man born in Houston, Texas, in the 1920s. Grandpa owned a Mexican food products business that sold everything from tortillas to chili pods to restaurants and markets across the California Central Valley. He was my hero. In his warehouse office was a lot of Aztec artwork that showed muscular Aztec warriors. They looked so heroic to little Israel. That's how I viewed my Grandfather, strong and majestic.
One day, I witnessed a white man yell at my Grandfather for something I had done wrong. This was extremely confusing to a small boy. I couldn't understand why this man didn't see how majestic and powerful my Grandfather was and deserving of respect. How could he belittle my hero as I sat next to him in the passenger seat of his truck? I wondered if a great man like Grandpa couldn't find respect, what hope was there for me?
I'm a huge comic book fan. I cried when I saw the trailer for Wakanda Forever, the sequel to Black Panther. What moved me was seeing Latino warriors, the comic book type. There was something beautiful about seeing people who looked like me in a big Hollywood movie. This movie celebrated people who looked like Grandpa, and I thought, finally! They made brown people look regal and heroic.
These blogs tend to start in one place and find themselves somewhere else. I'm now talking about the importance of representation; I didn't see that coming and didn't start this blog with that in mind. But I think it's meaningful. When you're young and see someone who looks like you, who does something significant, it gives you permission to strive. And why not give that to as many people as possible? Tinker Bell and the Little Mermaid are black now. I don't mind this. I actually think it's admirable.
Following my stroke, I looked for myself everywhere. I was looking for direction and instruction. I looked for myself in music and the Bible. I couldn't find people processing my questions. I began to wonder if something was wrong with me.
I sought hope in Christian music, where I found it throughout my life. Many people sent songs to encourage me. A key theme of many of those songs painted a picture of a mighty God eager to help. Yet help didn't seem as readily available as the music indicated. In the songs, God moved and responded. As if God helped other people, just not me. I couldn't find songs that spoke to my heart's cry. I was disappointed in God but couldn't find music that discussed that theme. Christian music made me angry and felt out of touch with real hurting people. However, this week, during prayer, God reminded me of a song: "Held."
I remembered the words from "Held," a song by Natalie Grant, one of the greatest voices in Christian music. It's a song I was somewhat familiar with but never paid attention to what it was saying. It speaks of a family that loses a two-month-old baby boy even after the mom prayed for God to intervene. That's pain. The song calls this event appalling. That's bold. The religious church boy in me could never get away with saying something God chose to do was appalling. Even if that's how I really felt. You stuff that feeling deep down and "accept it." The lyrics say:
Two months is too little.
They let him go,
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays is appalling.
Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed, and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens to us who have died to live.
It's unfair.
This is what it means to be held,
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved,
And to know that the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held.
These words blessed me. Finally, I can see my pain in a song. And what makes this song great is Natalie Grant's delivery. She sings with so much power and passion that it makes each word matter. The line that sticks with me is:
This is what it means to be held,
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This line reminds me of the day of my stroke. I was preaching, a sacred moment for me. I had every intention of finishing that sermon. I started strong, like a football player running with the ball, trying to gain yardage and get through the message. But something happened. I felt my body shutting down. I stumbled. I never finished that message. That sacred moment felt torn from me, but I survived and am still here.
I also tried to find myself in scripture. James tells us: Elijah was a human being, even as we are. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years. James 5:17 (NIV)
James says Elijah was a human being a lot like us. But I don't see myself in Elijah. He prayed, and it stopped raining. He prayed again, and rain came back. My prayer doesn't feel that effective. I tend to see myself more in the story of a demon-possessed boy's father from Mark chapter nine.
Jesus asked the boy's father, "How long has he been like this?" "From childhood," he answered. "It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us." "If you can?" said Jesus. "Everything is possible for one who believes." Immediately the boy's father exclaimed, "I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!" Mark 9:21-24(NIV)
I believe and doubt simultaneously. It can be complicated. Both Elijah and this father received. This is my hope. I don't need to be a giant of faith to experience God's intervention. I can be a guy who believes yet struggles with unbelief. That's me.
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