Unaccidental Accents

I remember the first lesson my dad gave me in speaking with a British accent. For years, he'd been telling my sisters and I stories full of characters with distinct voices. Bears often spoke in tones so low and gentle, they sounded like sleep. Rabbits, especially clever ones, had high, squeaky voices that sounded like laughter. My favourite voice, though, was my dad's British accent. This one made its appearance only in my dad's best stories and soliloquies; and I thought it was the coolest thing.

One day, when I was six, my dad suffered a horrendous lapse in judgement. It was a forgivable lapse; after all, I was cuter back then. My eyes sparkled more often, my head was covered in blonde hairs, and I was less bearded. This unfairly adorable version of me convinced my dad to teach me how to speak in the amazing accent that I had come to worship. My dad smiled as he walked me through the basics. Drop an "h" here and there. Pronounce vowels funny. Say "mate".

If I had to guess, I'd say that my poor father came to see the error in sharing that Deep Magic with me almost immediately. One story has floated around in the background of our family legends about an occasion in which my dad introduced me to someone of some import (I want to say a college dean or a pastor). Apparently, I stuck out my hand and said, "'Ello! Moy nayme's Oysaac! Wat's yoh nayme?" While I don't remember the event, I have no trouble believing it. I know that Isaac kid. He's unruly.

What I do remember is creating entire worlds and peoples in my head and giving them all funny accents. I remember that improving my accents and expanding my range of vocal manipulations became a hobby. I remember quoting the entire script of "Shrek" - complete with horrifying Eddie Murphy impersonation - to my classmates on a field trip sophomore year.

I don't know why; but the fascination never stopped. There was a girl at my school with whom I had a relationship that consisted solely of being asked to "do voices" whenever we saw each other. It stayed that way for a number of years; then one day, I shared some advice with her and we became normal friends.

A few years ago, I had an internal moment of crisis because I suddenly realised that I was a twenty-something-year-old man who had not outgrown funny voices. As I pondered it, I grew puzzled and somewhat worried. Not once, since my dad first explained to me the correct way to pronounce, "gov'nah", had I looked back. I wondered how it had never even occurred to me to stop. Part of me started to ask whether this might be something God meant for me to have built-in; but the more grown-up side of me put that guy in his place. "Don't be ridiculous!" I rebuked my whimsical self, "What possible use could God have for a grown man's fascination with silly characters and even sillier voices?"

...

As anyone who's spent more than twenty minutes in my presence since July of 2011 is aware, I went to Uganda once. I spent six months there and haven't been able to talk about much else since getting back.

During my stay in Uganda, I spent some time in a town called Namwendwa. While I was there, I was invited to speak at a few schools and a college. Prior to receiving these invitations, I had been spending my time in the area with some elderly missionaries from the UK who had taken their retirement money and adopted a small village just outside the town proper; so I hadn't done much talking with the locals. Instead, I'd been rather lamely tagging along to watch and help as the couple did truly awesome things (Like give a lady a new house. Or send a boy to Kampala to get help with a medical condition. Or bring ointment to a girl who'd been disfigured by a flaming mosquito net.) The chance to do something helpful that got me out of my hosts' way sounded like a step in the right direction.

So, I walked into an primary school (I think they were in 5th or 6th grade) classroom ready to share the Gospel and very promptly established that not one of the kids could understand a thing I was saying.

Now, Uganda has something like 45 local languages. I had been working on Luganda, which was the language spoken in city I lived in; but, not only did these kids not speak a lick of Luganda, it was actually illegal for lessons above 5th grade to be given in  a local tongue. All older classes had to be taught in English.

But my English was unintelligible to them.

I spoke slowly. I enunciated. I tried to speak in the whitest Ugandan accent anyone's ever let slip from his mouth. I used as many monosyllabic words as I could muster. When it became clear that I was making no progress, the teacher stepped in and - I'm not kidding - "translated" my English into a version of English they could understand. Not surprisingly, I met this "solution" with a measure of exasperation.

"Hello, my name is Isaac."
"Good morning, class. This is Isaac."
"I'm here to talk to you about Jesus."
"He is here to talk with us about Jesus."
Sigh....

I prayed more than a few times while my every word was repeated to the class, effectively halving the time I'd have to share what God had put on my heart. Lord, help me be clear! Help them understand! Still, no one but the teacher could make sense of my words. As I explained the ramifications of Romans chapter 12, a small spark of an idea made me smirk. No way. No way that'd work.

What occurred to me was that my English was American English. Theirs was Ugandan English. These kids understood their teacher because they'd all learned English from Ugandans who had learned it from other Ugandans who had learned it from other Africans who, somewhere along the line, had picked up the language from... British folks.

Much to my chagrin, God had provided an answer to my prayers.
 
Blushingly adopting my cheesy, Simon-Pegg-ish British accent, I found that the students in the class could understand me perfectly. In that school, another primary school, and a Christian college the scenario repeated itself. I could only be understood if I spoke with that accent.

What's great is that, even with the accent, people were blessed by the things I shared in that village. No matter how hard it was for me to take myself seriously, the people I spoke to took the message of God's love for them very seriously. Really, wasn't that the goal? Not the Isaac would be cool and smooth, but that God would be glorified?

My dad's lapse in judgement when I was six became a conduit of God's Word in a small African village when I was twenty-four.

Now, my larger point should be pretty easy to figure out. If my unattractively dorky affinity for vocal calisthenics can bless people, I'll bet your embarrassing quirks can be awesome, too. After all, God made you for a reason. He made you the way you are for a reason. He's not some unintelligent sculpture or an unclever craftsman. He's masterful in His every creation.

Some people take this too far in one way or the other; but that's true of just about anything.

Your sin is not a wonderfully integral part of you the way your love for 90s techno is. Your knack for carving beautiful radish roses is not a damaging and blemishing facet of your broken humanity the way an addiction to porn is. Some want to use God's skill at wielding unexpected tools to excuse evil. Others want to use God's love for righteousness to suck the fun and beauty out of life. Fortunately, God is too big and awesome to be used by anybody.

His creativity is blatant in you; and He can do incredible things with you-could-not-guess-what.

He loves you. I love you. Let's talk sometime.

-isaac

Red Dust

Ian, the director of our missionary group, was the first to mention Ugandan names.  As a fellow "mzungu", he suspected I might be interested in that particular tradition. Being christened by locals was a way of being initiated as an honorary Ugandan. Ian had received his "pet name" within a few months of moving to the country.

Since that conversation with my white friend, I had quietly and secretly hoped that I could be granted such a blessing. I wanted a the country I so loved to claim me as its own.

I was in Masindi, taking a day of rest with my field director, an intelligent, witty man named Prosper, and one of my co-volunteers, a local teen named Shadic. In the preceding months, both of these men had become as dear brothers to me; and I was enjoying the chance to simply spend time with them apart from our work.

I cannot remember how the topic came up; I just remember the excitement I felt when Propser turned to me and asked, "Isaac, do you have a Ugandan name?"

I told Prosper, with a non-chalance as feigned as could be, that I did not.

From there, he and Shadic set to the task of conjuring a name for me. Prosper suggested Ugandan words for "faith" and other spiritually inspired names. Shadic disagreed, suggesting instead some local names; but Prosper shot those down. Finally, Shadic said, "What is an animal you have seen in Uganda that you admired?"

Now, I knew that, by "admired", Shadic meant "found beautiful" or "really liked". Folks who know me well can attest to the fact that, when someone mis-speaks it is my sense of humor to answer what was said, rather than what was meant. I thought about an animal that I actually admired - one that I had seen as holding qualities I seek to emulate. I was surprised to find that such an animal came to mind.

I shared this story with Shadic and Prosper:

I was riding with a missionary couple called Dixon along a dusty road in Uganda's Kamuli district. Coming around a corner, the pickup truck we rode in came grill-to-face with a large Ankole bull. (Read: African cow with twisted horns.) The bull was standing at profile across the road, as though daring us to cross him.

As I viewed the scene, I drew mental parallels between the animal's stance and stereotypical masculine arrogance - pointlessly challenging a foe twice his size.

Mr. Dixon carefully maneuvered the pickup through a ribbon of road at the Ankole's hind end. As the rear window passed around him, the bull's back legs jumped. The pickup sped around him. Mrs. Dixon laughed and said, "Oh, we must have scared him, jumping like that."

"No," her husband replied nervously, "he was getting ready to kick us."

I turned around in my seat to see what foolish kind of beast would wage war with a pickup truck. What met my eyes astonished me.

I saw the bull - an impressive form still standing defiantly. Standing alongside the bull, having cowered behind his strength at the approach of our vehicle, was a calf. What I had seen, at first, as reckless, proud, foolish, fight-mongering was, in fact, true bravery. The statement of his challenge was not "This road is mine." it was "The only way to the kid is over my dead body." As I turned forward in my seat, I found myself thinking something I never would have expected myself to think about a premature steak: "I wanna be like him."

Prosper and Shadic found my thoughts amusing and somewhat strange. Perhaps they are right to. All the same, they finally agreed on something. Taking two names from the Ugandan "Ankole Clan", they christened me.

I cannot tell you how blessed I was to find myself in that fabled position, "One of Us", especially when "Us" is such a wonderful crew.

And that is my story.

-Ssazi Kangave Isaac

Heartness: A Short Story

(Originally posted as a Facebook note.)

What if I stepped in, right now?

He has her by the hair, leading her out from their apartment onto the balcony that runs across the front of our complex. Tears and sweat fall from her face, leaving a trail parallel to that left by her bleeding nose. The guy, presumably her boyfriend, is tall and broad, built like a brick wall. His face has the scarring - and his nose, the reshaping - that makes me pause. He's been in his share of fights. I haven't been in any. He could crush me like a spent beer can without blinking.

What if I stepped in anyway?

I could tell him to leave her alone; but he'd probably look at me incredulously (What is this, fifth grade? - "You leave her alone, or I'll tell the teacher!") and tell me to mind my own business. What if I was brave enough? I could assure him that this WAS my business.

He's blackening her eyes, yelling about another man and broken vows. She's shrieking that she's sorry. The neighbors aren't even looking out their windows. Such arguments are common here. Besides, who wants to cross the hulk man?

What if I stepped in, right now?

What if he could be reasoned with?

I could tell him about how "courage" comes from the word "cor", meaning "heart". Courage is "heartness". Fearlessness and strength aren't enough. Your heart must be involved. I could even challenge him - "I have more courage than you, right now. You're being heartless." What if that angers him? What if he wants to fight? I would lose that fight. I would lose terribly. What if, just as I'm about to turn away, she catches my eye?

He's punching her in the stomach. She's crying about a baby. An elderly man is threatening to call the police if they don't quiet down; the hulk threatens to gut the octogenarian like a fish if he doesn't go back inside.

Her eyes might be brown - dark, almost black. Her tears could make them like inky pools, deep with pain and fear. She might silently plead with me, "Be courageous. Of all the moments in your life to have heart, let it be now. I need you. Please. Please, help me."

What if I can't refuse?

What if he has a knife?

What if I could be courageous?

I might remove my jacket, my tie, my dress shirt. As I do, I could inform the hulk that "I'm going to show you how a real man loses a fight."

In a flurry of impotent kicks and punches, I could learn a bit about brass knuckles, a bit about knife wounds and a bit about blood loss. I wonder what this tank of a man would learn. Would he learn about true masculinity during the easiest fight of his life? Would he see the monster he has become as my weak strikes come up against his crushing blows? Would it help at all?

As the girl runs for help, as I lay on the floor, losing consciousness, I could learn a lot about being a hero.

The hulk is gone.

The girl is laying in a pool of her own blood, unmoving. Sirens wail in the distance.

Heartness, indeed.

What if I had stepped in, just then?

-isaac

Mischief. Mayhem. Et Cetera.

This blog is mostly addressed to men. This is not because of any view I have on gender roles, but because I feel uncomfortable trying to define what I believe to be the "essence" of the female heart. You see, I have spent far too little time being a girl to take on such a task. So, while I don't think there's any reason a girl shouldn't read this, it is not specifically written to "the ladies".

 I ate half of a jalapeno once. I sweated and gargled milk for two hours afterwards. My sister and her fiance were pretty amused by that - almost as amused as I had been, only a little while earlier, watching Marines and college frat members and sexy girls chew on ghost peppers in YouTube videos. For some reason, watching them suffer had inspired me to add, "Eat a ghost pepper" to my bucket list. Because I've never been very good with spicy things, I decided to start with a jalapeno and work my way up.

One trip to the supermarket and a gallon of milk later, I scribbled the entry from my list. Some goals are simply not worth suffering for.

Since whenever it was that people began deciding who was or wasn't "The Man", strength has been the prime factor in measuring masculinity. Whoever killed the mammoth was "The Man"; and it was his stick figure that folks etched onto the cave wall. Whoever's kung fu was the most potent got bragging rights; and his family was respected. The one with the most notches carved into his gun was "The Man"; and no one asked about the fact that he rarely spoke.

Now I'm going to say something that might surprise you:

I think there's some validity to that standard.

When I consider the most admirable men I can think of, "strength" always  finds its way into that list of things which make them admirable. This is true in my personal list of "My Favourite Guys"; it also seems to be true of the men Christendom supports. In the Bible, we read of people like Samson and David (not to mention his mighty men). We look up to Paul, who,  after being stoned to death, stood up and walked back into the city from which he had just been driven. Christ's torture and death speak volumes to the strength He carried.  In church history, there are people like Saint Lawrence, who called from the gridiron upon which he was being burned to death, "Turn me over! This side's done!".

However, we've all seen gyms full of meatheads who aren't, by anyone's standard, real men. Just as we are not body only, strength is not bodily only. So, there is an internal strength that we must account for. 

By "internal strength", I do not mean simply the presence of good characteristics, but the potency, longevity and durability these characteristics have. After all, that's what strength is, isn't it? It's the ability to affect things around you, to last in whatever circumstance, and to "take a beating" (or go without things that others might depend on).

Martin Luther King, Junior was forgiving and peaceable. So are countless cowards. The thing that set him apart was the depth of his forgiveness and peaceability, as well as his knack for inspiring both in others.

Billy Graham has character; but so do many men. It is that his character has lasted under the limelight for so long that has earned him, an evangelist, the respect of an unbelieving world.

William Lane Craig is intelligent; but it's his ability to stand up under debate which would - and has - crushed other thinkers that has people regarding him as the foremost Christian apologist of our time.

There's more to this, though; strength isn't immune to weakness. It doesn't simply "push through" it, either. Strength allows for vulnerability, and works through the process of overcoming a man's failings. The man who walks on hot coals has accomplished nothing if the nerves in his feet are defective. It is the pain of burning flesh that both demonstrates his strength and enables him to grow through the experience. It seems likely that someone with  incredibly sensitive feet would accomplish even more.

So, the emotionally strong man is not he whose heart is numb, but he who (whether by nature or by choice) feels everything and endures the heart's sky-straining highs and abysmal lows. Likewise, the intellectually strong man is not necessarily well-versed in every regard; rather, he studies diligently and acknowledges whatever ignorance he has.

If I am right about all this, strength is not, then, an absolute truth about a physical state. It is, instead, an inside-out condition of the whole human being - body, soul, and spirit, all. If that is true, then no circumstance can keep a person from becoming or remaining strong. If you lose your every physical capacity, there is still a mind, a heart, and a spirit for you to exercise. A man with neither arms nor legs can easily put world-class atheletes to shame if only he refuses to let his handicap rule him.

I believe the Christian man should seek strength of every sort; and he should know, starting out, that he will not attain it all. He should also remember that whatever he does accomplish is by the grace of The Manliest of Them All. What's more, these truths should, far from causing him to question the point of such an endeavour, grant him encouragement. After all, an infinite plane of growth means that he need never cease becoming stronger; and, if the Paragon of Manliness is his benefactor, he has every bit of masculine guidance he could ask for.

-isaac

Heartwarming and Impractical Hippie Sentiments

 My friend/pastor Sam asked me to write an article for our outreach ministry's newsletter. I got a bit carried away and , while he liked the content of what I wrote, he feared it would be longer than a newsletter could allow. I'm working on an abridged version of this letter for that purpose. In the meantime, Sam asked me to put the full version somewhere for others to read. So, here goes.
My friends:

I am passionate about many things - some of them might surprise you. Soccer, for instance. I love playing soccer. I hardly look the sort; my physique alone speaks volumes to my lack of practice in recent years. Still, the game holds a special place in my heart.

I am passionate about writing and human  communication in general.  I love to read, to ponder and study etymology , to learn about even body language and how much we say without speaking.
 
I am passionate about music, art and theatre. 

I am passionate about Uganda: though it's been more than a year and a half since I returned from a six-month mission to that country, not a day has passed in which I have failed to talk, think or pray about that place. 

I am passionate about outreach and volunteerism. 

I am passionate about minimalism, discovering true masculinity and integrity. 

I am deeply passionate about the people in my life.  The list of folks I would fight and die for is longer than I ever thought it would be. 

I am passionate about changing the world. My supreme passions are God and His Word.

Few people know  about most of these "passions "- that so many things are important to me in a way that effects me daily. Why is that? Why do even people who are close to me see so little of what I love to do and who I want to be? Because, for some reason, I don't involve myself in most of it.

There is one passion that I'd like to share with you. Honestly, I think it is this passion, which I had once, lost and am trying to regain, that will help me change how I behave regarding my other obsessions: I am passionate about impassioned living. 

This began with my dad, the same year I accepted Christ.

In 2000, my dad took a job teaching at a small Christian school in Woodland, Wa. It just so happened that I was the right age to be in his class. Thus began 180 days of steady indoctrination on a number of heartwarming and impractical hippie sentiments.

Imagine, if you will, the classroom where "Little House on  the Prairie" meets "Dead Poets Society". I learned things like,"History is messy", "Math is not about numbers" and how to say "Happy birthday" in an unreasonable number of languages. I learned about walking by faith. I learned that the best way to choose a job is by assuming money is no object and that the best way to ace a job interview is to ask the interviewer why you should work for him. My dad made street preaching sound glamorous and money sound unnecessary. My parents met in YWAM; so all these heartwarming and impractical hippie sentiments were backed with a litany of personal experiences in faraway settings.

The year I met Jesus, the world I lived in was full of more possibility and magic than anything Disney's best minds have conjured thus far.

With zeal like napalm, I blazed a haphazard path into the teenage-pastor scene. I wore a blazer, white shirt and tie to school most days in the following few years. I practiced my swordplay with a NKJV Scoffield study Bible. I made a wonderful mess of things, feverishly trying to incite revival among the Vancouver Christian High freshmen. Then, at Cornerstone in Kelso, I made a quick, though not always good, impression. At church, I took on as much responsibility as I could and made it clear to everyone: I was out to change the world.

The wildfire lasted a whole two years. When I was sixteen, a series of heart-rending events tamed me. The deaths of my mother and grandfather, followed shortly by the ending of a relationship with a girl I'd gone nuts about, quickly sucked the magic out of my world.

I hate the word "disillusioned". I hate it because the very pieces of the word make the assumption that, when everything is wonderful, when the world seems bright and the winds seem to be in your favour, you are under an illusion. You're being duped. 

"Disillusioned" makes the cruel and pompous claim that, when your dreams are dashed and your heart is halved, the illusion is gone and whatever grimy, weeping pieces remain are the reality.

Baloney.

I wasn't disillusioned: When my world went dark, my vision became more, not less, clouded.

Though my faith in God wasn't shaken, I developed a habit that I've come to call "floating". Life had shown me that I couldn't expect much from it; so I stopped expecting things from life. I just leaned back and let all the chaos move past me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that every moment between the ages of seventeen and now was completely void of any passion whatsoever. I had moments, and even seasons, of intense zeal. God is faithful to work in broken hearts. The worst of my heartaches were even washed away in a single Sunday a few years back.

But passion ceased to be a lifestyle for me.

That brings us to the present.

In some ways, "floating" has served me well. I am still able to roll with most punches, allowing the storms of life to move around me. I don't strive against things I cannot control; and I don't have the sense of entitlement that has become a stereotype of my generation.

Unfortunately, "floating" is passive by nature; so I have not really accomplished as much as I ought to have in the past few years. Instead of living, I have allowed life to happen around me. I have pondered and adjusted to change instead of affecting change in a world which so badly needs to be impacted.

If life is an archery range, then wisdom is aim. Passion is the tension on the bowstring. The target is your calling. When I started, my aim was terrible; but I was shooting far. It's not hard to see how this is dangerous. Since then, I have gotten better aim; but the arrows  I loose rarely go anywhere. This seems innocuous; but when life stops being an archery range and starts being a battlefield, being innocuous is as deadly as anything else.

If I'm really honest, I'll admit that two things have kept me from moving forward.

One is fear. I am often afraid of failing or feeling like an idiot. I mean, why write a book if it's unlikely anyone will want to publish it? Why play soccer? No one wants to watch a fat man play soccer!

The other is laziness. Going to watch a play would be fun and more enriching; but a "Burn Notice" marathon is cheaper and requires less dressing up. Just considering a long stretch in Uganda sets my heart ablaze; but that means saving a bunch of money, which means working more and hunting to find better-paying work.

On the other hand, in the moments when I take action, when I feel short rushes of the passion that once pervaded my life, I like what happens. I like who I am when I am on fire. I like how whether I fail or look stupid stops mattering because my life is not about me at all. So how I appear is a moot point. I like how difficult or uncomfortable things become nearly enjoyable because I can almost feel the growth and maturity those things affect in me.

My dad serves a God who's into heartwarming and impractical hippie sentiments. "Go do things humans don't do. Heal the sick. Survive poisonous snake bites. Give serious thought to selling everything you have and serving the poor. Sign up for a mission you have no money for; don't be too surprised if someone pays for you at the last minute. If a man breaks into your house in the middle of the night, offer him coffee. Love everybody; but don't fear any of them. Live as though money is no object; I can clothe you and feed you. Be about My business because it's the most important thing you can do with a life."

So, the real question is: is this also the God I serve?

If so, it seems He has built me for soccer, for language, for music and art and theatre.  It seems He has built me for Uganda, for reaching out to people and volunteering my time, my money, my heart and prayers. Unless I have misunderstood something, He has put all these passions in me to burn, like sacrifices, before Him and unto His glory. He has designed me for the good works He prepared ahead of time.

If the God of Abraham and Jacob is also the God of Isaac, then I was not built to only ride the waves, but to make waves of my own! I am meant to do world-changing things, not in moments or seasons, but on a daily basis!

Rediscovering the white-hot zeal that once consumed me is about more than replacing lost passion. It's about repairing the physical, emotional and spiritual damage done by passive living. I do not want to lose my ability to accept the world as it is, to expect nothing from life except what God has promised. I like that I am resilient and flexible. However, I need to lose the insecurities and laziness. I need the Spirit of God to set me aflame. I need to make a lot of changes to myself so that I can better serve the world at large.

It seems that I have a long way to go; but God seems to have started something already.

-isaac

Real People

...then there was the time Britney Spears and I had a deep heart-to-heart in a desert somewhere in the Middle East.

She was preparing for some big show that was, apparently, to take place in the middle of said desert. A stage had been built for the performance; it had been constructed completely out of sand and modeled after a Greek temple. Across the top of the structure, a sculpture of the singer's head resting on her arms made clear who, exactly, was being worshiped in this gathering.

As we talked, Miss Spears told me that she knew it ought to bother her that she was building temples for herself in the desert. She knew that something was wrong with the whole thing - most especially the fact that none of it bothered her at all. Really, she told me, she felt lost, apathetic and dry. 

Spiritually and emotionally, she was parched.

Near us was a fountain. Though it, too, was made completely of sand, water flowed out of it into a pool. A tiny turtle sat at the water's edge. I wanted to steer the conversation away from the desparing tones it had carried thus far and toward possible solutions. So I invited her to drink from the fountain. Perhaps quenching a physical thirst in the desert would make it easier for her to see how God offers "Water" for our souls and hearts in even the driest seasons.

Britney declined, apparently afraid that the middle-eastern water was not safe for drinking.

Some thought in the back of my head, presumably from the time I spent in Africa, told me there was nothing to worry about in the desert water. So I bent down to drink some. Behind me, my friend Steven quite magically appeared and made it clear that he wanted a drink of the "unsafe" water, too.

Suddenly, and equally as magically, we were in Portland, Oregon, at a small venue where Britney's concert was well underway. 

Only a hundred people or so were there; and among them were members of the youth group from the church I attend. These youth were hoping to show solidarity and support of Miss Spears as a person by attending her show. Somehow they knew her from a time before fame had gotten the better of her.

Despite their love for the artist, it was clear that they felt unsupportive of -and even awkward and uncomfortable about- many of the goings-on at her concert.

The end result was thus: A larger group occupied the space directly in front of the stage, thrashing and grinding and dancing and soaking in the laser lights and thumping beats. A smaller group of "Christian kids" stood off to the side of the stage looking very unhappy and creating a tension that soured the mood of the whole event.

Steven approached me, complaining that he was bored. I figured that my presence wasn't accomplishing anything either; so we left. 

We ended up at some dive, eating questionably-prepared ethnic food washed down with some generic brand of soda in a styrofoam cup. After we'd eaten, talked and loitered for some time, I suggested that we return to the concert. Steven was unwilling, citing again the awkward boredom. I insisted that we'd outstayed our welcome in the diner; and, standing up to leave, I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair. For some reason, that act caused me to wake up.

What struck me about this dream was not that the storyline was weird; every dream that I've ever remembered upon waking has been bizarre. Truthfully, I enjoy the some of the strange ways my thoughts arrange themselves into a narrative. What struck me was that I was dreaming about Britney Spears at all. I had never dreamt about a celebrity before, nor have I since.
 
Celebrities are not something I give much, if any, thought to; so it's perplexing to me that one of them could so imprint herself on my mind that she should make a very personal appearance in my sleep. 

I don't care who's breaking up or getting married or cheating on their fiance. I don't care about who's having a mental breakdown in Tinseltown. (In fact, I care more about the fact that that sentence rhymed than who shaved their head this week.) I don't care if this soap opera has been cancelled or if that TV show is celebrating its twentieth season. I don't care; and more importantly, I'm annoyed that so many other people seem to care so much.

With that annoyance, I find myself forced to admit to a certain amount of judgment. I hold childishness against the celebrities who can't seem to pull themselves together, even as I preach the unconditional grace and love and faithfulness of a God who's never held my ugly nonsense against me. I mock mindless fans who worship idols of the American flavor, even as I worship idols of what I like to pretend is a more sophisticated line. (For instance: When I admire a cruel man because he is clever and ridicule a loving person because they lack learning, isn't there something wrong with me? Am I not placing intellect over Love? Is that not "idolatry" in its own right?)

Here's the thing: There are two ways of dehumanising a person. 

You notice how the antics of an actor become legend, much as the amorous shenanigans of Zeus are still discussed today? 

When a friend says something important and wise, we just tell him he's "so smart!". A verbal pat on the head is as far as we usually go. If, however, Morgan Freeman lends (or is even alleged to have lent!) his soothing tones to a cause, we plaster his thoughts across the internet with reckless abandon. Here, we dehumanise celebrities by making them "superhuman". Pedestals like that are tall, skinny and structurally unsound.

I, on the other hand, err in the opposite direction. I often treat the famous as subhuman, desiring only  that their messy lives would stop inconveniencing mine. I have wished that their sorrows and joys would stay out of my conversations. 

When one of them dies, I am not saddened, but impatient, because I know what's coming: for the next few weeks, they will be discussed with a reverence they never earned in life. Their books or movies or CDs will go on sale; and there will be the mainstream folks who will pretend to have always loved them and the hipsters who will pretend to have never liked them at all. 

In the meantime, I won't be able to speak to a person without the recently departed writer/actor/singer coming up. I'll have to hear about every sad thing and ever inspirational moment in that person's history. I'll have to listen to people who'd never given a second thought to the person before bemoan the empty spot that person will leave in the entertainment world. And I just don't care. Basically, I put myself on the tall, skinny pedestal.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever learn.

I remember the day Michael Jackson died. Well, that's not really true. What I remember distinctly - what will stick in my head until my own dying day - is the morning after Michael Jackson's death.

I arrived at work for an early shift pulling carts for the world's largest retailer. Donning a yellow vest and hanging a rope across the back of my neck, I approached my supervisor to "check in". My boss and I got along pretty well; and we'd talked enough - and I'd taken time off for missions often enough - for her to know about my faith. 

The first thing she asked me was, "Did you hear about Michael Jackson?" When I nodded she, looking somewhat concerned, asked, "Did you love MJ?"

She said it like that, too: "Emjay."

Honestly, I'd never been a fan of his music; and, while I like the effect he had on modern dance in general, I was never impressed with his videos. Like so many others, I was somewhat disquieted by his lifestyle and the mental instability evident in the desperate attempts he made to erase his heritage from his appearance. Then there was my ugly distaste for celebrities. I answered truthfully, "Not really."

"You gotta' feel bad for the guy, though. 'Cuz he's facing Judgment right now." She pointed upward to make sure I knew the "Judgment" we were discussing was, indeed, spelled with a capital "J".

She wandered off to attend to some other work while I stood there, dumbfounded, for a moment. Intentionally or not, my supervisor had "called me out" in a huge way. I'd been blindsided with my own self-absorption. This wasn't about how I felt about his music; this was about a real person who was face-to-face with Someone bigger than either of us. This was about an artist that Someone had created to make music and dance. This was about a haunted man that Someone loved.

I felt like scum. It's funny (Or, really, not funny at all) how often the best lessons I learn make me feel that way at the start.

I needed yet another healthy dose of Getoveryourself to make clear to even my high-horse-riding eyes that all these people I've treated as ridiculous inconveniences to my life had lives and, more importantly, VALUE of their own. 

God loved MJ, even if I never got around to it.

God loves Johnny Depp and  Bradgelina and Bennifer and The Donald. He loves people who name their kids "Apple" or "Pilot Inspektor" and jump on couches and buy military Humvees. He keeps up on the Kardashians and watches over Dog as he bounty-hunts. He wants to help people who lose their way, even if it's the sort of lost that lands them with cement handprints.

In the desert, Britney Spears appeared to my sleeping mind as a real girl with real thoughts and worries. She had conflicting feelings and desires. She was thirsty, but unsure about how safe it was to drink. My subconscious mind hoped that she would find answers and even wanted to offer her help. Yet, I cannot be bothered to care once my head leaves the pillow?

I like to imagine that, one day, we'll all pull our heads out of our posterior orifices and realise that all the most famous people in the world are just that: people.

We'll start treating them like all the other people we never meet. If something tragic happens, we'll pray for them and show the concern and love that we should show everyone in hard times. If something awesome happens, we'll be glad to hear of it and then move on with our lives. No more daily checkups on Charlie Sheen's "winning" blunders. No more pages dedicated to rating the summer's best and worst beach bodies.

That day feels pretty far away; so maybe I should just start. Maybe I should love the shiny folk in magazines the same way I have learned to love grimy folk on Skid Row. Maybe I should rehumanise Hollywood and move from there.