On Being

I’ve been spending a lot of time and energy over the last few years exploring my genealogy. I’ve been grateful for the experience, and I have loved learning more about my family’s history.

However, I have learned something profound from the search, apart from my rich and diverse cultural heritage: you can search your family tree and know your roots; you can travel the world and discover things unknown; you can find meaning in identifying with your ethnic roots; and you can do all that without ever understanding who you are as a person or knowing where “home” is for you.

Knowing where you come from can be wonderful. It certainly has been for me. But, it is little more than a cloak with which to wrap the “self” one truly is.

It’s a bit odd, looking back, as I explore this. I once thought that I was on the hunt for the person I truly am. I’m far from the end of the road of exploration of my genealogy, but I’ve come to see that the times I’ve made great discoveries about who I am have not been on genealogy.com or in researching the family line. They’ve been the times that my character has been tested. They’ve been the times when love or hate has filled my being from the top of my head to the bottoms of my feet. It’s been when I’m at the end of myself or on my knees. And, lately, it’s been when I’m standing tall and take what is rightfully mine, rather than allowing it to be taken from me.

I am Jared King. I’m a Scotsman. I’m an Irishman. I’m a Ger-man. And I’m proud of all of these things. But, I’m more proud that I’m a husband of 12 years, most of which have not been easy. I’m a father of a beautiful little girl who had a harrowing journey to start her life in this world. And, I’m a weldor/fabricator, for which I trained hard and earned the right to take my place among my peers.

I’m still searching for “home,” but I’m getting really close to finding it. I’ll have plenty on that when I do.

So, who are you? How did you discover it?

Life and Death

Last night, the news came, and boy did it come hard. At first, I was just really annoyed that something seemed to be wrong with the new episode of the Simpsons. But, when I realized that actual "breaking news" was occurring, I was somewhat excited. If I were a cable news watcher, I'd not have been phased, but we haven't had cable or satellite TV for years now.

We sat in silence, eyes glued to the screen with the same intensity we felt almost ten years ago when we watched the second tower fall. The analysts on CBS kept saying the same thing: Osama Bin Laden had been killed by a US Joint Ops Task Force and we were awaiting word from the President.

A flood of memories came rushing back. I thought back first to the waning days of the Clinton presidency, when he had ordered missile strikes against a couple of bases that this terrorist guy named "Osama Bin Laden" had been operating out of. Apparently, he was the mastermind behind the strikes on a couple of US embassies in Africa the year before. I thought it was trumped up crap because Monica Lewinsky was taking the stand when Mr. Clinton interrupted all national broadcasts to speak to the American people about the military actions being undertaken on our behalf.

The next time I heard that name was in the days following the 9/11 attacks. I didn't leave my house until three days after the towers fell. I couldn't quit watching the TV, hanging onto some hope that there would be more survivors, that they would dig up some of the living. When it became obvious that nothing would change, I started to try to figure out how I was going to live life again. But, I remember watching this bearded weirdo with a turban on his head delivering an exultant speech about how we finally got ours. Watching the weeping talk about how their life will never be the same because their daddy died on a plane in a field in Pennsylvania, or their brother was buried under the rubble of the south tower, I felt a burning anger for the injustice at their suffering, and a rage toward the man who pulled it all together.

For the next two years, it seemed like it was "All Osama, all the time." More words of hatred and vitriol flowed from him toward us. We saw more footage and heard more tape of his anger toward "the West" as embodied by the United States. Then, as our forces mounted for a long engagement in Afghanistan, the Taliban told us that he said he was sorry in an attempt to save their own asses. We stormed in and scoured the country for him, chasing him into the Tora Bora mountains where he slipped through our grasp, seemingly forever.

Over the last decade, we've seen occasional video, heard tape recordings from him, but all slowly metered out. As if to give just enough of a ghostly presence to embolden those who would take up arms in the name of hatred and unnerve the general public in the US. After a while, many considered him dead somewhere, either in quiet solitude or blown apart and unrecognizable by a blast from the armed forces.

Then, awakening our emotions over this ten year relationship with hatred, as if slapped hard in the face, came the news last night that he had been killed in his compound in Pakistan just that morning. I was confused and saddened. After the president finished his prepared speech, I looked into the eyes of the woman who had been with me through all of this, I teared up and said, "I love you." I'm not sure why, but it just seemed to be the right thing to do. I believe the end of a decade plus in this queer dance with a madman should feel confusing. And the death of another soul, no matter how evil, should never feel good. Death isn't something of which to be jubilant. It is always a sad affair.

Jen got up off the couch, no small task at 21 weeks with child, and meandered into the kitchen to filter some water. The coverage on the television began to shift to the crowd outside the White House, a bunch of younger, college-aged kids chanting "USA! USA! USA!" outside the gates. It seemed odd to me. They were just young children when this all began. A ten year-old does not have fully developed emotions. They couldn't have known what it all meant when this started.

She waddled back in with a small glass filled with the water and began to tend to the plant starts we have sitting on top of the entertainment center, her now very large belly protruding in front of the upper left corner of the TV. I watched her as she, full of our new life, tended to the seedlings that we planted together, as the images of those celebrating death flashed across the screen.

Reflections on family

Spending time with my brothers is very, very difficult. To say that they drive me crazy would be a dramatic understatement.

My older brother, Jeremy, left home at 15. He had some pretty serious behavioral issues and an extreme love for drugs. So, one thanksgiving night after a huge knockdown drag out with my folks, I helped him count all the change he'd been saving. Why I helped him, I'm not sure. We never really got along. He only wanted to be around me when it was convenient for him and he could use me in some way. Generally, blackmail, on his part, was involved. But, after the change was counted, he went to bed. The next day, he cleaned out his savings account at the tiny bank in town, hitched a ride to the nearest train station and left town.

He never finished high school, did plenty of drugs, continued his abusive behavior with others, and I rarely saw him. He showed up dirty and completely unkempt, with long, uncombed hair to my wedding. It was like getting pictures taken with a strung out Bozo the clown.

I left home at 18. My parents didn't want to let me go, but I went. I got married, and eventually finished college and settled into my life.

My younger brother left home shortly after I did. He's younger by almost 4 years. Drugs, violence and hatred messed him up at a very young age. He was always angry, a fighter. If he didn't get what he wanted, he found a way to force your hand to make you give it to him. And, to top it off, he’s never wrong. Just ask him. He’ll gladly shout you down until you give up any attempt to reason with him and then claim victory. He’s essentially like Eric Cartman, from South Park, except there’s little that is comical about my brother or his behavior.

Both are now off the junk, but little about them is changed. It is like having broken shards of glass stuck in my ears, listening to my younger brother arrogantly spout racial epithets about "those illegals" while he gets drunk at my mom's birthday party. My old brother is better, only mildly. He's burned his brain out on drugs pretty badly. He doesn't talk much. He just sits around and then, every 45 minutes, steps away to a distant part of the lawn to light up a cigarette. He mostly talks to the dogs.

I look at them and wonder that we came from the same parents. I don't get it. I sure don't see the resemblance.

Now, just to be clear, don't feel sorry for me. I couldn't be more grateful for my life. I could've ended up like them, but I didn't. That is happiness and joy enough for me every day. I'm a better man for the pain and struggles I've been through. I wouldn't go back, but I also wouldn't trade them off for anything.

Go mbeannai Dia thu

Wiping away the cobwebs

I've been silent for a while, and I haven't been able to figure out why. Then, as Jen and I were sitting on the bed, earlier tonight, it hit me like a crowd of office workers after an announcement of free bagels in the conference room: I write to explore how I view and interact with my world, and my relationship to it. I was formerly so prolific because I couldn't quit thinking about it. I was driven by loneliness, isolation and depression to write in an attempt to understand the world I inhabit and the nature of the dysfunction in my relationship to it and the people in it. I don't think about that so much anymore. Some things haven't changed. I still feel generally alone and isolated. I have a lot of acquaintances, but no real friends with which I'm able to stay in close contact and share my heart. The difference is that I'm no longer so uncertain about who I am, so I don't feel such a strong need to have my life, perspective and self-worth validated by an outside source. Hence, I don't pause to reflect nearly as often as I used to about me, my relationships with others or the universe, itself. I am able to accept it as it is without feeling like there's something there that I'm not getting all of the time. I do, still, on occasion, feel as if there is something there that I am not getting, since I don't have any real close friends. But, I find it far less demanding or lamentable. I don't question it so deeply and just move on to the next thing.

So, as I move forward, I'm committing to ask myself more questions about who I am, my relationship to the world in which I live and those who live there. I miss sitting down and having things to say. Writing is therapy for me for that very reason. Here's to more therapy.

Go mbeannai Dia thu

Naw, not us

"First they came for the immigrants, but I was not an immigrant, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Muslims and the homosexuals, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Christian dissenters, but I was not a Christian dissenter, so I did not speak out. And then they came for me, there was no one left to speak." With apologies to the good Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Not for ripping this off, but for not speaking out louder and sooner about freedom and tyranny.

It could happen, people. Beware and be warned. The Germans also said, "Oh, no, that will never happen to us. We'd never do that." It did and they did. Let us remain vigilant for all freedom, and let us lovingly and peacefully speak with our Muslim neighbors (the ones that Jesus said to love as ourselves) about any differences we have with them, and about peaceful resolutions to conflicting desires and interests.

Disconnected?

After typing up a storm last week, I almost forgot to start writing this week. It's been a busy and long week, already. I'm still here though. So, let me get a running jump at this...

I hear so many people say, "I've heard from the Lord on this decision, so I have peace about it." I hear it on everything from what car to buy to what color of socks to pick out in the morning. I hear it concerning jobs and careers, what school to attend and whether or not to continue a relationship. We Christians have this idea or belief that we ought to hear some sort of an audible voice of God in our minds or "hearts" about decisions we make. Some just think it's all about "bigger" stuff. Some stand in front of their underwear drawer in the morning wondering if it's more spiritual or "Spirit led" to pick the blue ones or the red ones.

The funny thing is, as much as I love and believe in Jesus, I can say that I don't think I've ever heard His voice (maybe once, but that's a long story for another time). I've asked God over and over about different things, and the spiritual community around me during a lot of my formative adult years had me convinced that I needed to wait to hear from God before I made my decision. I never made any important decision, which made it for me. It was a defacto no, constantly. I didn't apply for important career positions, I didn't lay hold of personally enriching opportunities, and I wondered if my choice of purple boxers was spiritual enough to please God, today (which, is pretty funny, eh?).

It wasn't until I quit trying to listen for a response that never came about those issues that my life started moving ahead. I made mistakes for years, but I was actually doing and learning important things, rather than sitting on my hands in fear.

Still, I hear people tell me, "The Lord said I had to sell my car," or "Every decision ought to be led by the Holy Spirit." [A side note for my non-Christian homies that aren't in the know: the Holy Spirit is a part of the Trinity that makes up God, the other being Jesus and the One who we refer to as the Father] Part of me just wants to write off people like that and say they're out of their gourd. Another part wishes that I could claim the same because it would make me "feel" more spiritual. However, then I think about the truth of the matter: I'm not just walking around blindly claiming that God is making all of my decisions for me. I'm standing as culpable for making wise decisions based on my principles before my fellow humans, not just pointing at God, as if I can make Him hold the bag for what stupid thing I did or did not choose. What is more mature and spiritual than taking responsibility for your own actions?

And, just because I don't hear doesn't mean I've quit asking. And, rather, it means I need to have a greater faith in God because I'm living with the hope that He is moving, directing and guiding me mostly beyond the awareness of my cognitive mind. I have to trust that mystical things are happening daily without my ability to perceive it.

And, I don't know if I really need to "hear" God about things. I'll allow the brilliant Rachel Held Evans to sum it up:

I already know what God wants me to do. He wants me to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with him (Micah 6:8). He wants me to love him with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love my neighbor as myself (Matthew 22:36-40). He wants me to go and make disciples of every nation (Matthew 28:19). He wants me to imitate Jesus (Ephesians 5:1). {emphasis mine}

The Price of Peace

I sometimes ponder what exactly it is that has made me what I am. I'm a follower of Jesus, but I don't follow along with the majority of folks who claim to be the same. You see, I'm awfully stirred up about the way that people who claim to follow Jesus are treating their Muslim neighbors. There's quite the hullabaloo about the planned Islamic Center two blocks from Ground Zero in New York City. The charge of that ruckus is being led by a lot of people from conservative Christianity. A ultra-fundamentalist nut job that has a following in Florida is even planning to go so far as to burn a copy of the Koran this September 11th. He said that it was to show Muslims that we won't be intimidated.

I wonder where Paul's words in Romans 12:18 fit in this whole policy of protestation? Paul instructs followers of Jesus, saying, "If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." So, how is holding an anti-Muslim rally being at peace with all men? Didn't Jesus say, "Forgive, so that you can be forgiven?" Not that the millions of Muslims living at peace in the US (as they have for centuries) have anything to be forgiven, but the attackers did. So, if we're forgiving the radicals, like Jesus says to do, we should also be loving our neighbors as ourselves, which Jesus also said was tantamount to loving God. And, Paul follows that up with living at peace with all men, so far as it depends on us.

Given those ideas all in context of each other, it seems that Christians should be, at the very least, lovingly tolerant of, and perhaps, fighting tooth and nail to ensure the freedom of Muslims to build their community center. It seems so very hypocritical to call oneself a follower of Jesus and not try to act like Him or obey his commands (which is equivocated to love by the disciple John).

I used to be offended at the saying, "When fascism comes to America, it will be draped in the flag and carrying a cross." I'm not anymore. Sadly, I think its too late to be watching for it. Evidence seems to suggest that it's already here.