Bombs Over Baghdad

After the wedding, Mimi and I went on a brief honeymoon—enjoying California’s diverse landscape by staying at bed-and-breakfasts on the coast and in the mountains. Upon returning to Golden Gate, I went back to work at the environmental company and prepared for another semester of seminary, while Mimi began working full-time for a greeting card company across the Bay in Richmond.

One January afternoon, a co-worker poked his head into my office and made a chilling announcement: “We’re bombing Baghdad.” This news raced through the building, as everyone tried to absorb the fact that our country was at war. In the coming weeks, traffic around the Bay area was snarled by sporadic gatherings of protestors with “No blood for oil” signs and conversations around the company break room were dominated by the latest word from Iraq. Among my work colleagues, the general attitude toward American justifications for the conflict was questioning, if not outright hostile.

It would not be entirely accurate to say that I witnessed a different reaction to the war among my Christian friends, since there really wasn’t much of a reaction to witness. Around church and the seminary, the war was discussed to a point, but it did not seem to be a central concern. As far as I could tell, everyone more or less accepted that our government was basically trustworthy, and its attack on Baghdad was viewed as a regrettable necessity. At the end of the day, no temporary crisis was going to detract us from the ongoing business of spreading the Gospel to a world that would always be racked by violence in one place or another.

In my journal from those days, the cultural divide I shuttled across daily was plain to see from one entry to the next. On one page, I recorded brief musings on local responses to the Iraq war—which included a protest designed to shut down the Bay Bridge—while the very next page contains notes from one of Pastor John’s sermons that addressed an entirely different war. Drawing on the Old Testament story of David and Goliath while speaking to the church’s leadership team, John compared us to a plucky, outmanned, young David who was battling not Goliath, but the twin giants of spiritual apathy and New Age deception in Marin.

Looking back, I’m not sure how well a military analogy works in reference to an apathetic foe, and, too, we Christians had New Agers outnumbered exponentially if you counted the whole world and not just Marin. So, really, it made more sense to cast us as Goliath when you stopped to think about it. But the bottom line is that this supposed spiritual war got top billing, even as a real, physical war was raging in Iraq. I would like to believe that this disconnect between the Christian circle I inhabited and the world outside it led to a growing dissatisfaction with my own insular thinking. But for the moment, these were still seeds that had yet to sprout.

The Wedding

You would think that getting married in California on December 22 would not be a problem. But as luck would have it, Mimi and I were wed on the coldest day Marin County had seen in 25 years. Though the skies were clear, the temperature hovered well below freezing, leaving patches of ice in the parking lot of Tiburon Baptist Church. Inside, the sanctuary was decorated for Christmas—awash in holly wreaths and brilliant red poinsettias.

And that’s about all I can remember of our wedding day. I know that at some point, Mimi and I exchanged solemn vows at the front of the church, flanked by my brother, Mimi’s sister, and an assortment of seminary friends. But the specifics are pretty hazy. That’s normal for weddings, where nerves and stress combine to render the mind incapable of accurately processing the surreal events that are unfolding. Which is why video cameras were invented, right?

Well, here are a couple of tips for you. Tip #1: When your father offers to record your wedding for posterity, don’t suggest that he just enjoy the wedding and give his camera to your mentally imbalanced friend Bill. Because Bill will use up 90% of the camera’s battery power shooting inane footage in the frozen parking lot.

Tip #2: When your father offers to mail you your wedding tape so you won’t have to deal with it on “your big day,” take it from him immediately. Otherwise, six months later, you will receive a tape labeled “Wedding,” only to find that the 10 minutes the ceremony that got recorded before the batteries failed have been taped over with a college bowl game.

I could add a third tip on things to say to your wife upon realizing that your wedding has been taped over, but you’ve probably already figured out that “Well, that was a good game” is not the smart choice.

The reception is clearer in my mind, mostly because Mimi coaxed three of her bridesmaids into singing Tennessee Christmas after dinner was served. My mother, who had been holding it together admirably to that point, was reduced to a whimpering bucket of tears by the poignant strains of the Amy Grant classic. Her breakdown was so complete that it seems to be the most memorable part of the day for anyone who was involved, to the point that I can never hear Tennessee Christmas without expecting to be asked “Hey, isn’t this the song your mom went ape over?”

“Yes,” I always say. “That’s the one.” And I wonder if getting married during the holidays was such a smart thing.

Marriage, Sexuality & Family

As part of our continuing preparation for marriage, Mimi and I decided to take a seminary class together on Marriage, Sexuality, and Family, thinking it would help solidify our relationship. However, the professor immediately announced that the course would be taught entirely by the students, with each of us selecting a topic of interest, researching it, and presenting our findings to the group.

On the one hand, this meant a class with minimal work. On the other hand, it meant that Mimi and I would be receiving the wisdom of our fellow students on marital issues rather than that of a professor with credentials in theology and psychology. That worried me a bit.

Once things got underway, the first presentation was on “The Six Stages of Childrearing,” with the student in charge presenting several case studies designed to foster group discussion. The first one described a scenario in which a pregnant couple comes to you, their minister, with questions about how love-making will affect the development of their baby. My first panicked thought was, “Do people really go to their pastors with this kind of stuff? It’s not like we’re pediatricians!”

Keeping such thoughts to myself, I tried to keep an open mind during the next presentation on “Choosing the Right Mate,” though I myself had already cleared that hurdle. But the student leading this session appeared to see himself as a friend to the lovelorn, offering advice to singles that included such helpful nuggets as “cultivate a relaxed attitude about dating” and “make yourself attractive to the opposite sex.”

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the class took a decidedly bizarre turn. One week, a male student named Marvin launched into an in-depth analysis of the pros and cons of circumcision, during which he made a statement which is seared forever into my memory. With the most earnest of expressions, he said, “Another advantage of circumcision is that it prevents the accumulation of smegma—or, as I like to call it, ‘head cheese.’”

As I like to call it? Was this a topic that came up regularly in Marvin’s life? Maybe parishioners did come to pastors with anatomically explicit questions after all. I pictured Marvin in a well-appointed church office seated across from a matronly woman. “I glad you’ve come to me with this question, Mrs. Jones,” he was saying. “Your son’s problem is nothing more than a little old-fashioned smegma. Or, as I like to call it, ‘head cheese.’”

Strange as Myron’s presentation was, we hadn’t reached the bottom of the barrel just yet. Midway through the semester, the class was treated to a graphic discussion of pornography, which came complete with handouts. These free samples prompted questions about the student’s research methods, and I could see that our professor had begun spending class periods adding up the days to his retirement.

Of course, these efforts were all well-intentioned. But I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere in Alabama, a kindly Baptist grandmother in a floral print dress was dropping 50 cents in a worn offering plate—never imagining that her contribution was, in part, subsidizing my growing knowledge of head cheese and adult cartoons.

Volunteer Nation

By the time BayMarin got off the ground (as described in my last post), Mimi and I were officially engaged and actively planning for a December wedding. I tried to prepare her for what lay ahead by taking her to see my beloved alma mater, the University of Tennessee, play a football game in Southern California. UT was slated to face Colorado in the “Kickoff Classic” game that would launch the season, and I saw this is a unique opportunity to indoctrinate Mimi in the ways of the Volunteer faithful.

Thus far, she had proven doggedly resistant to my efforts to interest her in sports, having alternated between knitting and reading a book during an Oakland A's/Baltimore Orioles game I had taken her to a few weeks earlier. Thinking she might have a soft spot for the Orioles after growing up in Maryland, Mimi burst my bubble by stating flatly, “Their games always screwed up parking in my neighborhood.” I found it disturbing that Mimi valued convenient parking above the fortunes of her hometown team, but hoped for better results with football.

Once at the stadium in Anaheim, Mimi marveled at the throng of Tennessee fans who surrounded us, while I spent the first half grousing that “We've only got 10 or 15 thousand people here—you’ll never be able to get the full effect!” Certainly, the crowd was more subdued than the 100,000 die-hards who crowded into home games in Knoxville, but Mimi was still put off by their zeal. When the Vols quickly fell behind by two touchdowns, one man behind us repeatedly instructed Tennessee's coach to “Get your head out of your ass!” before going on to provide such helpful tips as “We're down by 14—ever hear of throwing the damn ball?!”

While impressing me as a voice of reason, this fan’s behavior seemed to diminish Mimi's enjoyment of the game, so I thought it best to keep my own coaching tips to myself. In the end, Tennessee was able to rally and salvage a 31-31 tie, but I could see that my dreams of converting Mimi into a Vol fanatic were hanging by a thread.

Shortly after returning home, we began premarital counseling with a favorite Golden Gate professor who had agreed to perform our wedding ceremony. The first thing he asked us to do was write an essay describing our expectations for marriage. I can no longer recall the content of my essay, but after our experience in Anaheim, I'm sure there were no visions of Saturday afternoons spent together watching UT football and yelling at the TV.

The Daughter Church

Shortly after Mimi and I returned from Tennessee, Pastor John decided to start a second church. Mt. Tam Community Church had grown to a respectable size—by Marin standards—of over 100 souls, but we had been more or less stuck at that number since the Easter marketing blitz of the previous spring. And John was sure that the buzz created by a starting a new “daughter” church would re-energize Mt. Tam and leave us with two thriving congregations instead of a single sort-of-limping-along one. (Of course, someone with a more pessimistic bent might have argued that expending our church’s limited resources on multiple fronts was likely to result in two sort-of-limping along congregations. But, assuming such a pessimistic person existed, he was probably worried about coming across as a no-faith naysayer, so he kept his mouth shut.)

So it was that BayMarin Community Church was born as my 3rd year of seminary got underway. I don’t remember who came up with the church's name, but it was perfectly seeker-sensitive: trendy sounding without a hint of religiosity. After all, words like “Christ” or “Redeemer” tend to remind seekers that they are, in fact, going to church, and nobody wants that. Better to have the realization dawn on them slowly. Very slowly.

The setting for the new church was an auditorium at a Catholic college in San Rafael. The space was dominated by a statue of St. Dominic de Guzman, who was perched front and center above the stage where he could keep an eye on things. Undoubtedly, St. Dominic was worthy of any such honors that could be bestowed upon him, but his presence did detract a bit from the neutral, religion-free zone we were trying to create. So Pastor John asked Mimi to sew a colorful banner whose dimensions were approximately equal to those of a certain 12th century Spanish saint. (Perhaps good Dominic can find it in his heart to forgive her.)

Once the location was set, we got things rolling with the same approach that had proven successful the previous Easter, sending out thousands of colorful invitations to BayMarin’s first service. And with the San Francisco Giants’ chaplain appearing as an extra drawing card, the seeker sensitive formula worked for a second time. Close to 200 people showed up, and even after subtracting for Mt. Tam people who dropped in after their service was over, it was a nice beginning. Best of all, no one seemed wise to the St. Dominic cover-up.

On second thought, the best part was that we pulled the whole thing off without a trailer. The college gave us some on-site storage space, so there was no need for Mike and me to venture further down Highway 101 with the Jed Clampett pickup truck.

Maybe this two church idea was going to work out after all.

Meeting the Folks - Part 2

When summer arrived after my second year at seminary, Mimi and I decided to head South so she could meet my family. I knew they would accept Mimi instantly, partly because she was intelligent, creative, and beautiful, but mostly because they were always thrilled whenever I could even manage to get a date. I also felt confident that Mimi would find the South charming and delightful, perhaps even insisting that we move to Tennessee after seminary and raise our children in “God’s Country.”

Careful readers of this blog will note that we still reside in California, which subsequent events on this trip may or may not explain. Our plan was to drive from the Memphis airport to my hometown, spend a few days with my mother, then drive down to Alabama to visit my father. Mom had moved into town from my rural childhood home a few years earlier, so the first order of business was to show Mimi the house I grew up in. Driving along the familiar country road, I delighted in pointing out places of special interest—like Mutt Williams’ garage, or the oak tree where I used to chew tobacco with my friend Ricky. Lost in this pleasant reverie, I didn’t notice the quizzical expression creeping across Mimi’s face.

“What’s the deal with the appliances?” she finally said, nipping my nostalgia in the bud.

“What appliances?”

“Well, rusted-out cars are bad enough, but why do people have old refrigerators and dishwashers in their yards?”

Though dumbfounded by this question, I tried to keep from adopting a condescending tone. “Well, they don’t work any more,” I pointed out gently.

“I gathered as much from the missing doors,” Mimi returned. “So why not haul them away?”

“Because there’s no sense going to all that trouble when there’s plenty of room in the yard. Besides, you never know when you might need to scavenge a part or two.”

“But what about property values? Don’t the neighbors complain?”

Clearly, Mimi had a lot to learn. Which neighbor was going to raise a fuss—the one with the two Kenmore freezers out front, or the owner of the 1964 Impala with grass growing out of the hood?

Things didn’t improve much during the rest of our tour, as it became apparent that an insurmountable communication barrier existed between Mimi and the citizens of my fair town. After two days of awkward attempts at conversation, Mimi’s frustration boiled over.

“I can only understand 80% of what these people are saying!” she fumed.

I wasn’t sure how she had arrived at that exact figure, but it struck me as a bit on the high side. So I took the opportunity to point out that my own accent—often the object of Mimi’s jests—was really rather mild, comparatively speaking.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but the longer we stay here, the worse your accent is getting.”

And we hadn’t even hit Alabama yet.

Meeting the Folks - Part 1

Against all odds, as my second year at Golden Gate Seminary was winding down, my love life was in full bloom. Mimi and I had begun dating in December, and by late spring we were serious enough to consider meeting each other’s parents. I nervously went first, as Mimi, who is Korean, had warned me that her parents might not be too happy to see her with “a whitey.”

During a visit to the Bay Area, Mr. and Mrs. Kim met us at a Chinese restaurant in downtown Mill Valley, and upon greeting them in the parking lot, I could see that they were disturbed not so much by my race as by my height. At 6’5”, I towered awkwardly above them during the perfunctory handshakes and was forced to duck a bit at the doorway of the restaurant. Several people were gathered in the foyer waiting to be seated, one of whom was a preschool-aged boy whose eyes grew wide at my entrance. Tugging on his mother’s sleeve, he cried, “Mommy, look at that big man!”

“It’s not polite to stare,” she scolded, implying that, as a freak of nature, I was to be regarded as an object of pity. Suddenly, on one of the most important nights of my life, my height—which I had never considered to be more than slightly above normal—had begun frightening small children. Standing next to the rather diminutive Kims, my frame had assumed gigantic proportions, and matters didn’t improve any when a waitress came over to seat us who was barely pushing 5 feet. I began to wonder if we should have met at an NBA basketball game, where I would have stood a chance of blending in.

Still, the dinner was far from a total disaster. Mimi’s father was a Southern Baptist minister, having started a church in Maryland that eventually grew to over 2,000 members before accepting a denominational position in California. This gave us some common ground and ready topics of conversation, enabling me to steer the discussion away from the elephant in the room—my suitability as a prospective son-in-law. Better to survive this first meal before stepping out onto the thin ice, I thought.

But Rev. Kim decided to broach the topic himself just before the check came. Apropos of nothing, he shook his head ruefully and said, “We brought Mimi to America when she was two, and this country is all she has ever known. So why should we be surprised if she ends up with an American?”

Rev. Kim said this with a resigned, noble air, as if he were assuming all the responsibility for his daughter’s impending misfortune. It was far from a ringing endorsement of our relationship, I knew, but it felt like a place to start. Maybe if it came to that, the Kims would manage to accept me into the family—freakish height and all.

Follow Me

As I mentioned in my last post, Jesus’ disciples were a mysterious lot. Some are barely mentioned apart from collective references to “The Twelve.” But we know that each of them was called to follow Jesus, and each one did so. And the Gospel stories suggest that these life-changing decisions were made on the spur of the moment, with two brothers dropping their fishing nets in a flash and a tax gatherer leaving his collection booth with scarcely a look back.

I’ve always found these stories puzzling, especially when I try to picture them in today’s terms. Sometimes I imagine Jesus passing a construction site or wandering through a maze of cubicles in a high-rise office building. “Follow me,” he calls to selected individuals. But I can never envision someone dropping a sledgehammer or pushing aside a keyboard to tag along, leaving behind their careers, car payments, and gym memberships at the drop of a hat (well, maybe the gym memberships, which they probably weren’t using anyway).

Intriguing as Jesus and his invitation might be, wouldn’t the called ones have a few questions about the proposed travel itinerary and the availability of health insurance? I know I would. But maybe these modern-day scenarios do not offer a fair comparison. These are the things I wondered about heading into New Testament Survey at Golden Gate Seminary.

The class was taught by the intimidating Dr. M, who opened each class by reading from the Greek New Testament, translating to English on the fly. During the first half of the semester, Dr. M dealt with the origin of the Gospels, including the famous “Synoptic Problem” surrounding the first 3 Gospels. Matthew, Mark, and Luke follow the same basic structure and, at some points, agree verbatim with one another. So how did this come about? Did God just happen to inspire them to write certain portions of their books identically, or did the authors start with a common source and add their own material?

Such questions introduced an undercurrent of tension to the classroom, as some students felt that we needed to focus on the Gospel texts themselves instead of a bunch of “hypothetical mumbo-jumbo.” I shared these concerns only to the extent that I hoped to get some answers on the disciples. And eventually, I got a few. Toward the end of the semester, Dr. M talked about the common practice in biblical times for a rabbi or sage to travel with a group of hand-picked disciples. He felt that Andrew, Peter, John, and the rest had probably heard of Jesus—perhaps even met him—before being asked to fill culturally recognizable roles.

That made sense, but it also took some of the romance out of the whole thing. So I preferred to believe that 12 crazy gamblers saw at first glance that Jesus might be a man worth following to God-knows-where. Travel itineraries and health insurance be damned.

The Keychain

As a child, I always attended the week-long Vacation Bible School held every summer at First Baptist Church. One year, it was announced that the first child to successfully memorize the names of Jesus' 12 disciples during VBS would receive a special prize. The teacher then held aloft a glimmering silver keychain with 12 charms—each shaped like the profile of a man's face and etched with the name of one of the disciples.

Instantly, I was gripped by a fierce determination that this keychain would be mine at any cost. Glancing about at my competitors, I noticed that most had adopted an indifferent—even blank—expression, but this did not reassure me in the least. Why, any number of these kids could show up the next day, rattle off the names of Peter, John, and whatever the other ten disciples were called, and take home the prize. And I couldn’t let that happen.

So that night, I worked feverishly to memorize the list of disciples, gleefully noting that since 2 of them were called James, I only 11 different names to learn. I kept rehearsing the list in my head the next morning as a new session of VBS got underway, while my colleagues pretended to busy themselves with chit-chat and bubble gum. Then, to my dismay, the teacher launched right into the day's activities with no mention of the contest. Singing time gave way to Bible story time, which was followed by craft time—and still no word of the keychain. By snack time, my nerves were shot, and I tentatively raised a hand.

“Yes, Steve, do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“No, ma'am. I want to say the names.”

“Names?”

“Of the disciples. I'm ready to say them.”

“Honey, you've got all week to learn those names. I didn't mean for you to do it all in one night!”

“But I’m ready now. Can I say them?”

“Well, alright.”

I went home with the glittering keychain that day, my joy undiminished by the fact that, as an 8 year-old, I had no real keys to speak of. And I developed a life-long fascination with the 12 men whose names had won me a moment in the sun. Who were they, really? Why were they chosen? With one or two exceptions, the Bible’s descriptions of these men’s lives and motivations were as lacking in detail as the silvery profiles hanging from my keychain.

So it was that I entered my New Testament Survey class at Golden Gate seminary haunted by a dozen men on a silver keychain, just as Elisha and the Bears had stalked my entry into Old Testament class a year earlier. Would I get some answers this time around?