Kicked Out of the Band: Good News or Bad?

Imagine you were in a rock band struggling to break through. The group finally signs a contract, but then you get kicked out of the band just days before the first recording session. Ouch! How would you feel at that moment? Now ask, how would it feel decades later if the band had then fallen apart and not made it? But how about if the band had become incredibly popular after you got kicked out? How would that feel? Let’s look at two people who had the latter experience.

 In 1983 a heavy-metal band, about to start recording their first album, gave guitarist Dave Mustaine a bus ticket home and told him he was no longer in the band. He sat on the bus stunned and perplexed. What had he done wrong? Soon, however, he became consumed with the idea of starting a new band and achieving success and stardom that would leave his old band envious and filled with regret for dumping him. His revenge-fueled anger drove a work ethic that did lead to success. Many consider him one of the best and most influential heavy-metal musicians. The band he formed, Megadeth, sold more than 25 million albums. It appears his plan worked. One significant problem. The band he got kicked out of was Metallica. It has sold more than 180 million albums. Mustaine has admitted he still considers himself a failure—the guy who got kicked out of Metallica and has not matched their success.

 In 1962 a four-person band in Liverpool, England was causing a stir. After two years of effort, John, Paul, George, and Pete had a contract. Just before starting to record, the others kicked Pete Best out of the band and invited Ringo Star to be their drummer. The Beatles quickly shot to global stardom; Pete Best failed in other musical projects, became depressed, and attempted suicide. Things did improve for Best; he got a civil service job, married, had children, and remained active in music. He never, however, had the sort of success that Mustaine did. Yet, his reflections on the past and what he missed because of his dismissal from the Beatles are much different than Mustaine’s. In 1994 Best said he is happier than he would have been if he had stayed with the Beatles. He stated that what he gained through his marriage, family, and a simple life are of much more value than all the attention, adulation, wealth (and all that came with it) that he would have had as a Beatle.

 The surprise twists in both stories call for reflection. Society considers Mustaine a great success. Surprise. He does not. Society considers Best unfortunate, surprise. He does not.

 Mustaine’s revenge-driven striving to prove himself better than others and thus adopting an extremely high standard of success seeped into all he did. It was toxic. His experience calls out a warning to us: are we seeking status and security through besting others? Do unrealistically high standards crush us?

 Best's experience, however, calls us to an even deeper reflection—not just about whether the standards are too high, but what values inform the standards? The default assumption for many in society is that Ringo was the fortunate one who got the lucky break. Pete Best thinks he was. In conversations in my jail Bible study, I regularly make the observation that it is not just many men in jail who have embraced a set of values and measures of status that hurt themselves and others. I say, "in office buildings just a couple of blocks from the jail many people have embraced a set of values and grasp for status in a way that hurts themselves and others." Society punishes one way of status seeking and affirms another,  but neither is the way of Jesus.

 What are ways that societal values and societal definitions of success may be infiltrating your being? Your faith-communities character? Are you grasping for status or goals that, in the end, will hurt you and others? Out of love God challenges us to repent and turn to the way of Jesus.

 What reorientation do these stories call you to?

(Thanks to Wade French for sharing the Pete Best story with me and point me to the book he read the two stories in, Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F___, pages 76-81.)

Inequality, Shame, and Violence

On Friday afternoon I led a Bible study with a circle of men in the Fresno County Jail. It included entering the biblical story ourselves and experiencing Jesus countering voices of shame we hear. I passionately invited them to imagine Jesus’ loving gaze when they hear shaming voices. One way or another, I address shame about once a month in the jail Bible study. Why so often?

Inequality feeds violence. James Gilligan, a psychiatrist who served as director of mental health for the Massachusetts prison system, explains that dividing people into categories of superior and inferior feeds violence. He states that as societal inequality increases so does violence. In a previous blog and in a section of this website, I have summarized research that shows that many problems, not just violence, increase with inequality—and everyone is affected, not just the poor. Why? Why does greater inequality feed these problems? Gilligan’s writing on violence powerfully displays the answer. At the root of violence, he found shame; and increased inequality is a catalyst for shame. My friend, and sociologist, Bob Brenneman found the same thing in his research on why people join gangs in Central America. There are a number of contributing factors, but the one that stood out was shame. Therefore, as we work for shalom, two key things to pursue are lessening inequality and healing shame.

The men in the Bible study come from a high security pod. Most are gang members. Violence is a part of their past, if not their present. What would Gilligan’s and Brenneman’s books tell me? If I dig beneath the tattoos and the criminal records what will I find? Shame. Therefore, I frequently proclaim liberation from shame through Jesus. That Friday, after doing the shame-healing exercise we had a time of prayer. I invited them to speak the names of people they love who have needs that the inmates themselves cannot address or solve. By naming them we would be asking God to bless them and do what we are unable to do.

We spoke names, one at time. The names kept coming, often tumbling one over the other—rarely a gap of more than a few seconds. I felt loving concern echo off the cement block walls. After five minutes I spoke a brief closing prayer—not because of awkward silence, but because our time was up. We shook hands, embraced. They thanked me for coming. Robert said, “thank you I needed this today. I look forward to Friday’s. This is reorienting.”

After the correctional officer took the men back to their pod he came to unlock the closet where I turn in my report on how many attended. He asked me, “How were they?” From time to time a C.O. asks me a “how did it go?” question that feels supportive, interested. This felt different. I replied, “Fine, it was a good study. They engaged well. They treat me well. Thanked me for coming.” All he said in reply was, “they are the worst of the worst.” I assume he was making a general comment about them coming from one of two high-security pods in the building. I guess on paper, if you look at the number of past infractions, and assume that tells you who they are—then yes, “worst of the worst.” But the words shocked me. I did an internal double-take. “What did he just say?” Is he talking about the same men who just lovingly prayed for others? Who thanked me for coming? Yes, they acknowledge they have done bad things in the past, but they long for a chance to live differently and not be defined by their past. As I rode home on my bike I pondered those words, “worst of the worst.” How does that categorization seep out through the words, the looks, the actions of that C. O. and shower the men with shame? What does it do to the men to wear that label? If Gilligan is correct, that correctional officer and the shaming system he is a part of will increase, not decrease the level of violence in society. I do Bible studies to counter shaming voices frequently . . . perhaps not frequently enough.

Thankfully, however, not everyone in the system thinks and acts as that officer does. Earlier this year I was walking with a different correctional officer to same closet. I said, “How have you been? I have not seen you for a while.” He replied, “I was on yard duty.” I asked, “Is that good or is it better to be on one of the floors?” He said, “You could say it was punishment.” I did not press for more information, but he went on. “I refused to do something I was told to do, because it was not right. These men are people too.” He named the number of a legal code, and said, “I refuse to go against that code.” I then asked him if he had heard of Bryan Stevenson and told him about the line from his book Just Mercy, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we've ever done.”  He said, “yes, I have done bad things. These men have done bad things too, and yes, the quote is right.” Then he said, “I call them men, I do not call them inmates.”

He has worked in the jail and before that prisons, for years. This week I heard him say to another. C.O. that he had not had a break all day. I asked him why. He said, “A couple of the other guys working are new. I can’t leave them alone. The men would eat them alive.” (I assume he meant take advantage of them.) He is not naïve, but unlike the other C. O. he works with intentionality to lessen shame. He refuses to divide them into an inferior category.

Which of these two men represents more accurately the system as a whole, society as a whole?  Sarah Koenig, of the Serial podcast, has spent months interacting with people in Cleveland’s criminal justice system. How would she answer the question? I listened to the first episode of season three while working in our garden. Her words near the end of the episode led me to put down my spade and, through the lens Gilligan’s work, sadly ponder the implications of what she said.

A felony judge I was talking to for a different story in this series told me he was thinking of giving a defendant serious time. “What's serious time?” I asked. He explained, well, to someone with common sense, even one day in jail is devastating, life changing. To someone who's got no common sense, maybe they do three years, five years. Means nothing. They go right back out and commit more crimes.

I knew what he meant. Punishment is relative. What it takes to teach you a lesson depends on what you're used to. But there was a more disturbing implication as well. One that prowls this courthouse and throughout our criminal justice system. That we are not like them. The ones we arrest and punish, the ones with the stink, they're slightly different species, with senses dulled and toughened. They don't feel pain or sorrow or joy or freedom or the loss of freedom the same way you or I would.

“We are not like them.” What a potent shaming mechanism prowling through our justice system and society.

To be an agent of peace is not just to defuse and de-escalate a situation of active violence. It is also to work at the root causes of violence. James Gilligan would tell us that includes lessening the inequality gap, alleviating shame and building dignity. Clearly Jesus knew this before Gilligan. Whereas the first Correctional Officer’s words sound like things we hear from the Pharisees, Jesus’ words and actions match and go beyond those of the second officer.

What are ways we as individuals contribute to making distinctions between superior and inferior? What are ways our church communities do that? How do we participate in and go along with ways society builds the inequality gap?

What actions can we take toward dismantling or transforming systems that contribute to the inequality gap? How can we follow Jesus in alleviating shame and restoring dignity? What are ways we can lead the shamed to experience Jesus’s loving embrace?

Who Your Friends are Matters

Ursula lives in New York City. The apartment they own is worth $4 million. They have a weekend house in the Hamptons valued at over $1.5 million. Their children go to an exclusive private school. She is not currently earning a salary, but her husband is paid more than $2 million a year as a high-level executive at a tech firm. She states that she grew up middle class and still considers herself middle class. When asked if she ever felt guilt for having so much more than others, she said, “No.”

Karen and Keith also live in New York City. They own a house worth over $1.2 million. Their household income is over $300,000. They do not own a second house, and their children go to public school. Although significantly less affluent than Ursula, they viewed themselves as privileged. Karen said, “We’re both horrified by how much money we make.” Keith, talking about their house said, “My feeling is it’s a bottomless pit, renovation and home improvement. And I think that six Chinese people are camping out in some one-bedroom hovel in Beijing right now. So, like, the notion that you ‘need’ something is all BS” (29).

How is it that the family with significantly more wealth does not see themselves as “privileged” and view their lifestyle as extreme as Karen and Keith do? Rachel Sherman, a sociologist, interviewed 50 people from 42 New York City households—all earning more than $250,000 a year. She repeatedly heard perspectives similar to both views above. In the first chapter of her book, Uneasy Street: The Anxieties of Affluence, Sherman argues that what leads people to express one perspective or the other is not the amount of money they have, but whether they look upward or downward. Ursula, and others who said similar things, look up and compared themselves to those who earned much more, who had even more lavish lifestyles. Maya, an attorney turned stay-at-home mother, whose lawyer husband had an income of over $2 million, described her family as just fine, but not “really wealthy.” She said, “there are all the bankers that are heads and heels, you know, way above us” (33). Helen, with a similar household income said, “I feel like we’re somewhere in the middle, in the sense that there are so many people with so much money. They have private planes. They have drivers. . .” (33). So, even though the median income in New York City is $52,000, these people in the top one or two percent look up and feel in the middle.

Penny, a legal consultant, and her husband, make a more than the households listed above, yet they talk much differently about their wealth. Like Karen and Keith, Penny looks down. “You know, there’s always someone in New York, especially New York City, Manhattan—who has more than you do. And there’s always a lot of people who have less. … I would say we’re on the higher end of having more.” If one only compares oneself with those above it understandably leads to a different self-perception than those who look down as well. The deeper question, the aspect of the chapter that caught my attention, is this: what leads some to look up and others to look down? The answer is simple and has profound implications for followers of Jesus.

In essence, those who compare themselves upwards do so because they only socialize with people of similar or more economic means. They did not have relationships with people below them. “Those who faced downward tended to talk about friends, acquaintances, and colleagues in a wide range of economic circumstances” (49). Whether through family, workplace, organizations, or public schools, these people had cross-class relationships.

It is not just the contrast between calling themselves middle class or affluent. The actions, attitudes, beliefs, and perspectives of the two groups differ in various ways. As Sherman quotes and describes the people it becomes clear that who you relate with will influence you. Who you hang out with, who you eat with, who you play with, who you serve with, who you interact with matters. This is true for all of us, not just the wealthy in Sherman’s book. And, it is true of both groups in her book--not just those who befriend people different than themselves. Our actions and attitudes will be influenced by who we relate to.

The chapter led me to think about Galatians and table fellowship. In contrast to the society around them, Christians came together at one table–Jew and Greek, slave and free, male and female. I have thought of this as something that, through the transformative work of Jesus, we are able to do. With the people in Sherman’s chapter in mind, I had the thought: perhaps there is more imperative in that table fellowship than I had thought. Not just that through Christ Christians can sit down and eat with people who do not commonly eat together in our society, but that we are called to do so. Not just because it presents a beautiful picture of the fruit of the radical work of Jesus, but because it matters who we eat with, who we relate with. It will change us. Like the people in Sherman’s book, it will impact our empathy, actions, and attitudes.

I discussed Sherman’s chapter with my friend and New Testament scholar, Ryan Schellenberg. I asked, “What do you think of that interpretation of Galatians?” He affirmed it, and suggested I think about Luke 14. Jesus says when you host a meal don’t invite those from your own status circles, “but when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind” (Luke 14:13). Then he tells the parable of a host who ends up doing just that. Certainly this is a pro-poor, pro-marginalized command—give them a seat at the table! But through the lens of Sherman’s interviews we can see that Jesus gave the command thinking of the rich as well. Who we eat with, who we relate with matters. It will change us.

I recently had lunch with Anthony—just a few weeks after his release from prison. Four years ago, on his 36th birthday, he sadly shared during a jail Bible study that he has been in and out of jail and prison so much that he only had two birthdays for which he was not incarcerated since he was 17. Shortly before that birthday, however, Anthony had repented, had profound experiences of God’s loving forgiveness, and the transformative work of the Spirit was evident in his life. Of all the men who have been in my jail Bible study over the last ten years, Anthony is one of a handful I have corresponded with when they went to prison. Why? A special connection? A sense of great potential he has? A depth of sincerity? I am not totally sure, but I knew I took initiative to eat with him that day because I wanted to do whatever I could in the limited time I have to support him in his efforts to leave old ways behind. A good thing to do. I assumed I would continue to get together with him from time to time in the future. Reading Sherman’s chapter, however, left me with a desire to deepen my relationship with Anthony, not just for his benefit, but mine. I will be changed by friendship with Anthony.

I could easily respond to Sherman’s chapter by patting myself on the back and listing all the relationships I already have with people unlike myself. I could also paint a very different picture by listing how much of my time I spend with people very similar to myself. In any case I do not think Jesus or Paul had a quota in mind—neither in the number of relationships nor in the amount of life transformation that flows from those relationships. Let us extend the table. It matters who we eat with, who we relate with. It will change our perspectives, attitudes, and actions in ways that will benefit us and others.

I invite you to join me in making a commitment to seek out a new relationship or deepen a current relationship with someone significantly different than yourself—from a different social or economic class, different ethnically, different politically, different theologically, different life experience, etc. Who might it be? It matters. It will change you.

Which Gang are you Running With?

I am surrounded by gang members every Friday afternoon. Recently during a jail Bible study “Steve” asked me if God would accept him into the Kingdom if he was still a gang member. During the Bible studies I often make a comment or ask a question that invites them to contrast the ways of the street with the way of Jesus. But I never directly challenge them to leave the gang. Years ago I asked a seminary student and former gang member, Ivan Paz, for counsel on how to approach the gang issue with men in jail. He recommended I not focus on trying to get them to leave the gang. He advocated for leaving that to the Spirit, and recognize it will happen at different times in different ways.

Steve, about 40, explained that he was committed to doing the “family thing” when he gets out, and was beginning to take steps needed to leave the gang. He said, “But in jail you have to run with something.” So he is waiting until he is out. He asked me, quoting scripture, “am I ‘sealed with the Holy Spirit’ or not in this case? Will God consider me restored even though I am still in the gang?”

I tried to do three things in my response. First, I acknowledged that I have no gang experience; I even mentioned talking to Ivan to let Steve know that I do not see myself in a position to tell him what to do and when to do it. Second, most prominently, I sought to shift the focus to God and who God is. I referred back to our study that day. How had Jesus responded to Peter after Peter had denied him? Thirdly, although hesitant to tell him what to do, I also did not want to imply that it is no big deal, that it does not matter. So, seeking to move away from the punctiliar: restored or not, and from the bounded: right side of the line or not; I said, “You are being restored, God is in the process of restoring you.” I emphasized the “being” and underlined the “ing” in “restoring.” I affirmed the work God is doing in his life, and changes and commitments Steve has made. Then I again brought in Peter, and went over some of his ups and downs. We, like Peter, are in process and will have ups and downs.

I think pastorally I did well. Steve seemed to have received comfort from our conversation. But it did bring up in my mind this gang theme that is present every week, visible in the tattoos, and frequently referred to when they talk about “homies”—most often in positive ways. In the world I am from gang activity and membership is solidly in the “wrong” category. Yet when I stepped into Steve's situation it felt more complex. I reflected on what I had said. I clearly did not take a bounded approach. I tried to be centered, but not fuzzy. I was not sure I succeeded, but I also did not  do a lot of second guessing. Rather, my thoughts turned to myself. As is so often the case, entering into the lives of men in the study led me to think about things in my own life differently. This time a Debbie Blue sermon enriched those thoughts.

In reflecting on Herod’s (and all of Jerusalem’s) being disturbed by the news of the birth of a king, the Messiah, she writes: “Well, it does seem like it might be a little disruptive to suddenly have the kingdom of God break into the reality everyone’s gotten used to, after all. It seems like there would be maybe a little tension surrounding the emergence of a whole new order. Mostly it seems like there’s really not room for another king, a whole different way.” Then she turns from Herod to us and the king Jesus. “There’s not room for this king and his ways. It doesn’t mesh very well with what we know, it’s all the wrong shape for any preconceived space. It doesn’t fit. I mean how does ‘love your enemy,’ or ‘turn the other cheek,’ or ‘blessed are the merciful…’ really fly in the Pentagon or the White House or your own psyche? How about ‘you cannot serve God and Mammon.’ Does that fit? . . . It doesn’t fit with our evolutionary drives, for pete’s sake, to gain, to compete, to succeed, to strive for personal success, to make our own way in the world” (Sensual Orthodoxy, 19).

Through the lens of those lines I see how so much of my life is not that different than Steve’s saying, “but here in jail you have to run with something”—you have to be part of a gang. In so much of my life as a seminary professor I am in essence saying, “I have to run with something.” And the institution I run with, as it seeks to serve the King, is still in so many ways enmeshed with the State, the Department of Education, Mammon, academia—institutions and practices where the way of Jesus does not fit.

I think I do well at not coming across to men in the Bible study as holier than thou. I think I do pretty well at practicing a centered approach. Yet, honestly at some level in my being there still is the same sort of line-drawing going on that I did in high school. Being an active gang member is wrong. I am not an active gang member and do not do the sort of things that come with running with a gang. Yet as I reflected on Debbie’s sermon I saw Steve as being ahead, not behind me. He recognizes the tension, knows his running does not fit with the Kingdom of God. Society does not label my running as inappropriate, but fitting in as part of this society is actually a quite questionable thing through the lens of the Kingdom of God.

Debbie ends her sermon not by finger pointing, “Don’t be like Herod,” but rather by underlining the great hope of incarnation, of Epiphany. There is no room; God does not fit. But God came, and keeps coming. God finds a way in."

May we be open to the Light—as Steve has been. And may we all continue in the process of being restored.