Black Flower in the White House

Condoleezza Rice spoke at Harding University last night. It was a delightful evening for the friendly, mostly Republican crowd. She expressed  gracious appreciation to the Concert Choir's performance, offered some reflections on diplomacy and governance in the post 9/11 world, and continued with some thoughts about the future of our country. She believes that our lack of success at providing effective education for our most at-risk young people may be our greatest national security risk.  She referred to her own past as a black youngster growing up in the "most segregated city in the United States" (Birmingham), and recalled that her ancestors were considered three-fifths of a person.  She used historic touchstones throughout the presentation to put current events into perspective. She is completely aware of our challenges, yet she is optimistic about the United States of America. She was self-possessed, easy, and polished. Afterward, she took some questions.

A student asked about reports that Muammar Gaddafi had a crush on her. Although no doubt she has told the story many times before, she still seemed to have an appropriately dignified yet girlish twinkle as she recounted it.

After the dismantling of the Soviet bloc, evil dictator and sponsor of terrorism and anti-American activities Gaddafi began to realize that the world was changing, and he became interested in repairing his reputation with the West. After Libya satisfied some specific requirements, the United States granted the formerly diplomatically-isolated country a visit from Secretary Rice.

When word got out that Secretary Rice was going to Libya, she began to receive calls from foreign ministers -- sort of the international diplomacy equivalent of  "Yo, Condi, you do know he has a thing for you, don't you?" Somewhat taken aback, Secretary Rice made the planned visit, which went completely according to protocol, right up until the end, when Muammar Gaddafi made his move. Imagine...

"Madame Secretary, I have a gift for you..."

"Really, General?"

"Yes.  It is a video that I made...especially for you."

"...oh...a...video, you say?"

"Yes.  Let me play it for you..."

I can only imagine her discomfiture at having to screen a video custom-made by her evil dictator/terrorist sponsor/stalker host, however, I have no doubt she did it with poise. The video turned out to be a montage of clips of her with heads of state and foreign ministers from all over the world. The kicker, however, was the soundtrack -- a song written at Gaddafi's behest by one of the premier composers of Libya. It was entitled, "Black Flower in the White House." No joke.

Condoleezza Rice has impeccable academic credentials, an impressive resume, and as the presidential campaign continues to develop, her name is mentioned frequently regarding a future either as a vice-presidential candidate or cabinet post. What is remarkable is that after last night, I felt like perhaps she might also be a pretty good friend. Someone a woman could go to lunch with, and discuss not only her work and her family,  but perhaps have a laugh at her authoritarian dictator-stalker-guy. I really liked her.

I think Gaddafi was probably right. She totally deserved the creepy honor he tried to pay her. I say let's get the Black Flower back to the White House again. Condoleezza Rice for Secretary of Education.

Lamb of God

She always sits on the last pew – right on the aisle. She wandered into our midst from some run-down rental property downtown, looking as if she were in need – of some basic hygiene instruction, perhaps of some medical care, perhaps even a case worker. She wandered in, as many people do in our downtown church neighborhood; they come in need of a bus ticket or a meal or with broken down cars. Many times, they come less to meet a spiritual need than a physical one, but they come nonetheless and we try to minister to those needs. They come bringing invisible baggage, and leave with -- "a cup of water," as it were. And then, usually, they move on.

Her social skills were childlike. She spoke much, much too loudly. If she were sitting alone and a thought occurred, she might speak it out into the air, as if hoping someone would seize her thread of thought and engage. Many people gave her polite nods; many knew her by first name only; some avoided her completely, passing by on the other aisle. She was odd, after all.

She began to attend almost every function at church, especially the potlucks. She would stay behind to help clean up, making sure people knew she was available when any leftover food was parceled out. “I sure could use that for my lunch tomorrow,” she would say too loudly. She frequently left with a container full of one thing or another.

At church this morning I sat in back, because I needed to leave a few minutes early. The congregation of 500 where I worship sings without instrumentation, and I usually like to find a sweet spot - close enough to the front to be able to follow the song director without lagging behind, but not so close that my eyes cross trying to read the screen, so I was a little annoyed at my seating arrangements going into the service today. The service began, and the director lead Twila Paris’ “Lamb of God.” And then I heard it from over my shoulder. It was an unpleasant, harsh sound which drowned the beautiful harmonies of the song, to which her singing bore only a vague similarity. It was almost comical, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think with that right behind me. This would get old by the end of the service...I wished I had sat somewhere else. I completely stopped singing; I couldn’t find my note over that noise anyway.

Your only Son no sin to hide
But You have sent Him from Your side
To walk upon this guilty sod,
And to become the Lamb of God.

She painstakingly sang each and every word far too loudly, as a preschooler might sing. It was an innocent, awful, ernest rendition.

Your gift of Love they crucified
They laughed, and scorned him as he died.
The humble King they named a fraud,
And sacrificed the Lamb of God.

She continued without missing a beat, visibly concentrating on the screen, unaware that her dissonance might be a distraction to the worship of others. I heard each word for the first time in a long time.

Oh Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God --
I love the Holy Lamb of God;
Oh wash me in His precious Blood
My Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

I was so lost I should have died
But You have brought me to Your side
To be led by Your staff and rod
And to be called a lamb of God.

Oblivious to the appraisal of those around her, she drew me reluctantly and ashamed to a gift of worship this morning. I was reminded of Isaiah 64:6, “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” She reminded me that Christ longs for each one of us -- poorly dressed and dirty, whatever infects or infests us. No refinement or wisdom or pedigree or eloquence or elegance impresses him –- the holy one needs nothing from me. He benefits not at all from the beauty of my performance, from the appropriateness of my clothing, from the insightfulness of my presentation, from the tightness of our harmonies. We each come to him the same way -- helpless and hopeless in sin. But he cleanses and heals and nourishes and offers peace and reconciliation, and when it is all said and done he sees us, each one, as holy and blameless, and as worthy. Then he takes even “the least of these,” and empowers us to minister to those around us, as she did for me today, to his glory.

Thank you, sister.

Raise Your Voice

Tonight was singing night.

The first Sunday evening of every month, the assembly at my church begins with a succession of little ones each taking the podium (that is, standing on a box behind the communion table) and leading the entire congregation in a song of their choice, starting with the youngest and progressing roughly according to age. After all, Jesus said, "Suffer the little ones to come unto me," and under the "decency and order" clause, we figure height is as good an organizational tool as any. Tonight, four-year-old Reece led the charge. Usually he announces "one t'ousand fort-teen" or something similar, and launches into the melody, counting on the faithful to follow along.

During the first seconds of each song, the air is close with anticipation, as we all root silently for the kid to make the song happen. If the tiny song leader falters, some parent from a pew will seize upon a key that is singable and bear down loudly until the congregation picks it up and falls in line. Occasionally if the young song leader pitches the song too low, we rewrite the entire arrangement on the fly; the basses sing the melody and the sopranos do high harmony, so the parts all get sung. One thing about a cappella church music is that the arrangements are usually stacked with moving parts and echoes or countermelodies, and it just doesn't work unless someone gets about the business of filling in the blanks -- so we do. "No part left behind,"as it were,  to support the youngster who is up there staring down the faithful and leading the praise.

What will Reece remember about these nights, I wonder?  Will he remember the carpet on the box he stands on, the nicks and scratches on the black trim of the communion table, the smell of the foam that covers the microphone, the voices of the old folks who occupy the front pews?  Will he remember the feeling of the blood pounding in his ears as he finds 350 people looking back at him?  Will he remember Albert's kind face up in the sound booth?  Will he recall the love in the room?  I think not. Often we don't recognize love for what it is.  Sometimes love hugs and kisses and gives presents, but sometimes love just fills in the alto part from a distant pew, to support one of His little ones who is learning how to fill a "grown up" job in the kingdom.

Of course, someone in the rear of the auditorium may not be acting out of love, but just singing the words instead. Sad for that person.  Love frames pedestrian obedience as calling.   It energizes every enterprise. It changes "sing along with the kids" into "lift up the future worship leaders of the church."  A loving motive enriches us as it glorifies the Father and helps the youngster. Reece may not remember the love in the room, but we frequently don't recognize love when we receive its benefits.  We all stand on the shoulders of those who raised us, taught us, or perhaps sang along with us when our own early solo efforts were insufficient -- and in a way,  it's all the sweeter that we aren't aware of the support at the time.  That's what we call grace.