I grew up listening to people argue politics and religion while they said it’s okay to talk about anything except politics and religion. Neither one is worth arguing about, and here’s why I think so.
Religion always turns out to be man’s twisted interpretation of what God thinks. Whether you’re talking Judaism, Catholicism, Protestantism, Muslims or whatever. Politics also has the drawback of being dependent upon the interpretations of men. So getting your undies in a twist about either is useless.
A much better plan is to find out about God and apply what you find only to your own life. That should make such a drastic change that people will notice. When they ask what changed, tell them what you found out and how you apply it. Sounds simple, but it’s life-changing and takes a lifetime. And for me, it’s a wild ride. (You’re welcome for one of the world’s shortest blogs.)
This Christmas will dawn on a changed world. I hope I don’t just mean masks, social distancing, and filled to capacity ICU’s. I hope I mean each of us is trusting God more. I hope our faith in Him is born or rekindled as a result of this crazy virus. And I hope, that in the midst of this hard time, instead of blame Him for not intervening, we experience how much He loves us.
In the menatime, we can do more than bemoan the lack of family gatherings. We can follow Jesus’ leading. We can do something for the least of these He puts in our path. We can keep our eyes open for the weak, the sick, the poor, the widow, the orphan, the imprisoned, the hungry and thirsty — and along with our prayers, provide for them. Let’s not make it just with money, but with the gift of ourselves, our involvement.
Let’s also thank God for His little miracles, take care of ourselves of course, and look for Him and to Him in all we do.If the pandemic has you in a panic or a depression, head over to Amazon and check out Joy Out of Chaos by Charlie Crane and me. May He bless you and yours as we end this year with blessings you know came from Him.
For the purpose of this blog, the first kind is keeping the secrets entrusted to you by others. “Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another; for love covers a multitude of sins.” I Peter 4:8 This secrecy applies to the hidden thing someone has told me about themself, not my own secret. Telling someone else’s story isn’t my job. It’s a lack of love.
I have several choices when someone tells me a secret of theirs. I can stuff it in my brain closet and forget about it. Another possibility might be to discuss with them their motives for secrecy. Do they have to do with deception or discretion? Secrecy can be a tool of Satan when it keeps justice from being done. Deception is the kind of secrecy that hides the truth to get what we want. Discretion is telling the truth at the right time, and to the right person. Even when the two of you have thought these things over about the truth they are hiding, their secret is theirs to tell, or not. To respect them is to allow them the choice.
The second way we deal with embarrassing or hurtful truth is to keep our own secrets.
“Don’t air your dirty laundry.”
Common sense, right? However, let me suggest that common sense doesn’t always make sense. I understand that we worry that if our secret gets out there will be people who take advantage or twist the secret to make us look bad to the world, or hurt the people we love. I lived twenty years of my life in secrecy that I thought protected others.
We need a disclaimer here. There is a difference between complete secrecy and discretion. If I walk up to someone I don’t know and tell them my deepest secret, A. They’ll think I’m nuts, B. There’s no reason to be so forthcoming in a relationship that doesn’t even exist yet. This should be a no brainer. Figuring out that I get to know the person before I share myself is the beginning of discretion. If I listen to people, get to know them, and then share myself and a secret or two in areas where they struggle and I might help them heal, that’s discretion. But if I get to know them, trust them, but share nothing, that may be self-protective secrecy.
Keeping our own secrets may be pretending not to be who we really are, and sometimes it’s pretending to be sinless. Not only that, it avoids bearing one another’s burdens. Why? Because if I think I’m alone in my sin, that no one has ever messed up as badly as I have, or been as totally affected by wrong as I have, I’m not likely to tell anyone about my experiences. If no one knows what I’ve dealt with, how can they bear my burden? How can I bear theirs? In this situation, I follow God in faltering steps because I’m spending my strength covering up, and healing never happens. On the other hand, if someone whose been through what I’m going through keeps quiet, I’ll never realize they might have answers.
Telling my own story is encouraged in Scripture. “Therefore, confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another so that you may be healed. The effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much.” James 5:16
When I hear someone say they have struggled in an area in which I also struggle, the thought crosses my mind that they may know something that will help me find truth and healing. I’m freed to reveal my experience to them and find out whether they know something I need to know. And perhaps whether I know something they need to know.
So, who do I tell my secrets? The ones who struggle in the same areas I do. Without telling my secrets, there’s no way for me to know who those people are. That’s the strongest argument for transparency I can think of. Others who should hear my secrets are people who might be affected adversely if I keep the secret.
Though people can take advantage of knowing our secrets, it doesn’t matter. We belong to God, He loves us, and what others think of us or say about us is of no consequence. They are just people, like us. Satan loves closed mouths and hidden truths because they keep justice from being done, and all of us living in the dark. It’ll take courage, but God’s got plenty of that. Ask Him for some.
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourelves are comforted by God.” (II Cor. 1:3 NAS)
This Father’s Day ends, and I’m remembering my Papa. He wasn’t famous or incredible in many ways, or anything. He drank too much and chainsmoked, and loved me and my sister, Becky, with his whole heart. I only got eleven Father’s Days with him face-to-face before the divorce.
He stayed in our lives, supporting us financially and emotionally and seeing us a couple of weeks each summer. The ends of which I dreaded.My child’s heart waited and waited for him to drive back up our drive.
Papa with becky and Greg on their wedding day.
And then in 1995, he called me to come and get him. He was dying of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and heart failure. We drove from Oklahoma to California with him doing travelogue most of the way. He’d driven that route as a heavy equipment salesman for years. But just outside Kingman, his eyes began to roll back in his head, and when he was lucid, he told me to find a hospital.
The morning of Father’s Day that year I didn’t even realize what day it was. He’d said the night before that if he were still alive in the morning mysister and I should get him out of the hospital. We checked him out AMA, lifted him into the back of Becky’s dust buster, and tore off for home. He said if he died before we hit the California border to pretend he was asleep because otherwise we’d have all sorts of trouble with the authorities. That’s how he was, always looking to others’ needs.
Sometime between a car full of angels who folowed us across the desert, only leaving us at Bakersfield, and an 18 wheeler tire flying over Becky inthe dust buster and under me in Papa’s car, I realized it was Father’s Day. I’d always senthim presents and cards and called him to wish him Happy Father’s Day, and I hadn’t said anything, to him or to Bake. Just drove. It was our 12th Father’s Day face-to-face.
When we made it into our cul de sac, my children’s father came from the house and carried my father in to lay him on the sofa. He lived another six months, endearing himself to my children and my friends. He’d already become my husband’s role model long before.
All that to say, if your father is here, don’t take him for granted. One day he won’t be. It will be too late to accept him as he is, to appreciate your existence because of him, to spend time he so longs for. Now, I know there are some abusive dads out there, and if you’ve got one, ask God how to handle him, and follow His guidance. But most dads are just guys who took on the gargantuan task of raising and loving children, making mistakes and keeping on going. They deserve your time, your appreciation.We still love you, Papa. Happy Father’s Day.
We do see the color of our skin. People who say they’re color blind aren’t being tansparent, no matter what color they are. That being said, skin color isn’t an evaluatory tool. I won’t mention all the other human variations that aren’t evaluatory tools, because what we’re talking about since George Floyd was killed, since Dr. Martin Luther King marched, since Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves, is racism in the United States.
Now for a stab at transparency. When I was in college, I asked a black girl what black people thought about something that was going on at the time. She asked me why I thought she was representative of all black people. Made sense. I’m sure not representative of all white people.
Charles Hill, Tammy Whose Last Name Has Changed, Dr. and Mrs. Bohn, and Dr. Serna
Later, when I taught third grade, one morning before the beginning of the schoolyear I walked into the office, and a huge black man sat at the principal’s desk. See how I said that? His size and color frightened me at first glance, and I guessed he might be a new custodian fixing a drawer or something, at least I hoped so. That’s because I didn’t know him, yet. And he wasn’t the custodian. He was the best principal I ever had.
His name is Charles Hill. When he’s your principal, he knows the names of even the good kids. He plays football and basketball with them at recess. He makes it a point to value all the cultures of all the kids. He includes teachers, parents, kids and the community in the life of the school. He takes up for the downtrodden no matter what color they are. He’s one of the good, no, best guys.
So here’s me, initially afraid of this giant. One day, we’re in staff meeting, and he’s trying to help the teachers talk about racism. No one is saying anything because they’re worried about pissing each other, or him, off. I’m sitting there thinking about how much I appreciate Mr. Hill’s efforts. See, I come from a prejudiced parentage with KKK members in our distant relatives. And about the time I tought this, Mr. Hill said, “Mrs. Baker, what do you think?”
Honestly, I considered lying. Not a good character quality. So I said, “I was thinking that I have a KKK member in my family tree back a ways, and I hope we’ve come a long way since then, but I suspect that a lot of prejudice has simply gone underground.” Truth.
Time goes by. One day Mr. Hill asks me to go with him and some other adminstrators to a workshop on diversity in the Bay Area. Why me? He says it’s because of my comment about my KKK relative. He thinks it was transparent, and that I might learn a lot. The workshop leader has us complete a survey, then we line up according to our score. Questions like, “Would you expect the maitre’d in a restaurant to be the same race as you?” Mr. Hill was clear on the other side of the room from me, and not because he is more educated, played professional football, or can motivate kids to do better than they dreamed they could. I wanted to cry.
On the way home, he told me stories about name calling, being pulled over for no reason, his daughters in danger. None of which happens to me, ever. He and another black administrator in our district were in the front seat. That man was on a diet. He pulled out this powder he was using for the diet, and Mr. Hill yelled, “Put that stuff away! You want the cops to think not only do two black dudes have a white lady in the back, but we got white powder in the front?” Funny, but then, maybe not so much.
About that time, my friend and brother, Charlie Crane, asked me to help him write a book about his dad. It turned out to be the story of the Civil Rights movement from his point of view. From the moment he told me about the shoe store owner telling him to put his foot on the outside of the shoe he wanted to buy because if he put it inside, no white person would buy it, I desperately wanted to write that book for him. It was the least I could do. Charlie came to speak at an assembly at my school, and while he was there, he counseled a boy in my class who needed to hear a strong black man speak truth. Charlie told the kids I am his sister that day. They were looking back and forth, and back and forth, but it was true. I am his sister.
Not long after that, Mr. Hill moved back to the Bay Area. There had just been too many incidents. I was heartbroken. But I remember him, and when I see the opportunity to help a black person win, I take it, because he showed me what it means to be black in America.