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Not many of you knew me back in 2007.  And I’ve never publicly shared this video, but some of you have discovered it of your own accord.  So, for the very first time, I would like to publicly highlight my dance moves circa 2007. Enjoy the heck out of this.

I stood on the doorstep as he peered out. Two piercing white eyes set in a thick brown face. He opened the door just a crack, casting a glance into the dark abyss behind me.  Seeing no immediate threat, he opened the door a bit more – just enough to speak. “What you want?”, said the stranger.

“I’m here to see Pam and the baby,” I stammered. “I’m the photojournalist that she probably told you about? I’ve been spending time with her and Jeremiah over at the hospital.”

The man looked at me, suspicious.  After a span of several seconds, he said, “I’m Pam’s father. She ain’t here. The baby ain’t neither.”

He still hadn’t opened the door. I could sense his hostility and I knew that I was overstaying my welcome. Heck – I had no welcome.

Then I heard a more shrill voice beyond the door. “It’s alright – you can let him in.”

The man stopped a moment, as if he considered shutting me out. But then a thin frail woman appeared behind him. She placed her hand on his back, saying “It’s alright. He’s a friend of Pam’s.”  The man’s composure changed suddenly – and he opened the door.

–

This happened to me just last night.  I was a white boy with a camera invading a black neighborhood at 8pm.  My association with the University had left me disconnected with the real world.  While race doesn’t rear its head as a divisive issue in the Carolina community, it certainly plays a heavy role in the world beyond UNC.

This happened once before, during this semester.  I was driving through East Durham in the late afternoon, searching for an intentional living community that I hoped to spotlight in my latest photojournalism project.  This area of Durham was less developed than the surrounding neighborhoods.  Urban decay had set in years ago. Houses rested in shambles, cars sat abandoned.  And children ran in the streets.

I drove slowly, looking left and right up the roads for the house with the tall white columns and okra growing out front.  As I did so, I passed a group of eight to ten children – early-elementary-school-aged.  In my 2007 Hyundai, I was an uncommon sight.  The children saw me as I passed.  I waved warmly, hoping to receive the same welcome.  But that wasn’t at all how they responded.

First, they just stared.  Not a single wave back.  Just blank and empty stares.  Then one of them launched his toy car in my direction. Another yelled about the color of my skin.  Yet another hollered after me, “Get out of here, Honda!”

I drove around the corner of the block and parked. I turned off the ignition, placed my hands flat on the wheel, and let the cogs start to turn.  As the gears turned, I pulled out my Moleskine and started jotting my thoughts down.  These are my questions.  They’re pertinent.   Why would these children be so hostile towards a friendly smile?  What makes race such a divisive thing?  How will this play out in the future?  Will racism always be incubated in these inner-city black communities just as it is in white-run small towns across our state and nation?  If we strive to be a unified body, how can we allow such division to exist?

Last weekend, I sent out the following Tweet:

Afterward, I received a flurry of  calls, texts, and Tweets from concerned friends.  I appreciate your concern, and I thought it worth it to explain exactly what went down last Sunday night.  Here goes.

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It was nearly midnight when my fuel gauge hit ‘E.’  There was nothing around but fields and farmland.  I pulled off the highway onto the nearest exit, praying to find a gas station.  I hooked a right and cruised down the main street of some old, forgotten township.  Within a mile, I lucked out.

I pulled up to the pump and started fueling up.  Six gallons in, I heard a noise behind me.

An old, black Tahoe had pulled up right alongside my silver sedan.  Through the dark tint of the windows, I could see a young woman in the passenger seat.  But that wasn’t the source of the noise.

I heard the noise again as a man stepped out of the shadow of the truck.  He was a white, twenty-something fellow dressed in a wife-beater and shorts that dropped far below his natural waist.  I could tell he was saying something, but I couldn’t make out his exact words.

“I beg your pardon?” I (rather formally) said.

“Whatchu got in your wallet?” said the man.  This was the third time he had asked, and I could sense a tone of inebriation; whether from alcohol or drugs, I couldn’t tell.

“I don’t have a wallet,” I replied truthfully (I had only two days before swapped out my wallet for a fanny pack).

At this point, it occurred to me that this young man’s intention was to mug me.  I’ve always thought I’d be absolutely compliant in such a situation, valuing my life far more than a few Jacksons.  But for some reason, I decided not to submit.

“What you payin’ for your gas with?” said the stranger.

“Just my credit card – it’s all I’ve got,” I stammered.

“Give it to me,” he said, as he moved towards me.

His steps toward me should have warranted fear – and they did.  I had no clue if this guy had a gun or knife.  But I somehow remained obstinate.  I told him I was a college student on my way back to school.  I explained that I was just trying to get back to class, and my credit card was the only thing I had.  I shared that I had been at home on the Outer Banks celebrating my niece’s 4th birthday.

I don’t know if it was my appeal to his humanity, his doped-up state of mind, or the physical barrier that the gas hose created between he and I, but he backed off.  He stared at me for a moment, just steps away from me, then turned and got back in his truck and drove away.

I let out a gasp of breath as my heart pounded away rapidly.  I had nearly been mugged.  Or had I been mugged?  The only real difference was that the guy didn’t get away with my wallet.

So, that was my run-in with the mugger.  I don’t mean to compare my situation to that of folks who have been injured or threatened with a weapon and actually robbed of their possessions.  I only hope to illustrate evidence of God’s protection over us.  I’m convinced that the Lord was watching out for me last Sunday night.  And perhaps, in the process, some troubled wrong-doer’s heart was changed – I can only hope and pray.

In my last post, I went out on a limb, risked it all (chancing an excommunication from the SBC), and now what do I have to show for it?

Hopefully, a bunch of kind-hearted folks who want to share their favorite brews and bars with me! If that’s you, listen up.

I’m a big fan of food and friends – especially when the two collide. And now that I’m (going to be) 21, I can factor the forbidden (fermented) fruit into the equation!  So, use this genius scheduling tool to take me out to your favorite place in the Δ (Triangle). I’m here in summer school until June 15th. I’d love to share a meal/drink with you!

In just a few days, I’ll cross the threshold into manhood and drink my first (legal) beer.  That’s right.  I’m turning 21 on May 17th – this coming Tuesday.

A 21st birthday is reason to celebrate! Right, America?  That’s what I’m hearing.  I’ve gathered that I should head out to a bar as the clock strikes midnight, and engage in a bout of drinking with my buddies.  What’s more is that I think I’m supposed to get black-out drunk.

Welp, that’s not quite happening.  You see – I will be 21.  But I’ll  be 21 and Baptist.

<insert Baptist alcohol humor here>

Before you get started – no, I’m not a teetotaler.  While that’s been the traditional Baptist line of thinking in regards to alcohol, I don’t think it’s entirely Biblical.  So, then … what does the Bible even have to say about alcohol and drinking?  J.D. Greear shared a bit on that recently.  I’ll leave it to J.D. to dive into the nitty gritty, so take some time to check out his post. It’s chock full of Biblical truth.  I will, however, spend some time reflecting on my own thoughts surrounding alcohol and Christianity.

Throughout the Bible, we see alcohol referenced.  We know that some of the disciples drank wine, and Jesus certainly had no problem turning water to wine at a wedding.  These are all very subtle acknowledgments that alcohol can be a normal component of human life.  However, the Bible also gives warning about the dangers of alcohol.  Take a look at Proverbs 23:31-35.

Do not look on the wine when it is red, When it sparkles in the cup, When it swirls around smoothly; At the last it bites like a serpent, and stings like a viper. Your eyes will see strange things, and your heart will utter perverse things. Yes, you will be like one who lies down in the midst of the sea, or like one who lies at the top of the mast, saying:“ They have struck me, but I was not hurt; they have beaten me, but I did not feel it. When shall I awake, that I may seek another drink?”

So, where do I stand?  I don’t think drinking alcohol is a sin. (Hope the SBC doesn’t excommunicate me!)

I do, however, think sin often accompanies alcohol in the form of idolatry. Idolatry is the trap-fall that we are most susceptible to.  When anything replaces God as our focus, that’s idolatry.  And that happens a lot with alcohol.  We’re underage and we want what we can’t have, so we disobey to partake in it.  We turn 21 and we want to drink until we black out!  We’re teetotalers and we spend our time condemning our neighbors for drinking!  Each of these three things gives us a glimpse into the diversity and prevalence of idolatry in our lives.  We lose focus on the Gospel, and instead seek out our own desires and personal priorities.

The take-away: the Bible is spot on to show us a balanced view of alcohol. It’s healthy to see alcohol as a regular part of life, and it’s important to know and be prepared for the dangers of it.  When it comes down to it, it’s a matter of personal choice.  Whichever side of the spectrum you stand on, just leave some room for grace.

[I'll do a follow-up to this post shortly.]