Trayvon Martin

As I attended the U.S. Senior Golf Open on Friday in Omaha, I pondered. Not about golf or how dumb I was not to apply sunscreen, but about something else. I pondered about my own privilege as a white man in the United States of America.

As I looked around at the spectators and looked at the golfers, I noticed their skin color. And I noticed my own. And I noticed the lack of skin colors other than my own. I'm not a statistician, but it appeared that 99 out of 100 people on the golf grounds were white.

I suppose that when everything seems the same, that's also when things seem very, very different.

So I pondered if it seemed different & odd to anyone else that at this tournament of golf, a sport I love & a sport that is often one of the more exclusive and expensive sports in existence, that there were very few minorities playing or watching. And I pondered if what I saw was actually a microcosm of the world outside of the country club grounds.

And then the Trayvon Martin verdict arrived on Saturday evening.

A decision so racially-charged that there was bound to be opposition and supporters, regardless of whether "guilty" was prefaced by the word "not" or simply left to stand alone. It didn't surprise me that there was outrage, relief, and emotional reactions on social media. What did surprise me was my own response to those reactions. My first thoughts revealed an ugly, disturbing part of privileged ol' me, and showed how far I have to go. Before you right me off, though, promise you'll read to the end...okay? Thanks.

"But maybe they got it right? Maybe the jury did its job?"

Those were my first thoughts. And then I realized. I realized that I have: No. Freaking. Idea. I don't understand what it means to be a minority in America. I don't understand that it might be a complete travesty that a black teen was murdered and no justice was served. I don't understand that it might be saddening, devastating, infuriating as a black man or woman to hear "not guilty." I don't understand that growing up as a minority comes with struggles and injustices that majorities never deal with. I wasn't wearing rose-colored glasses and assuming the best; I was wearing white-colored glasses and seeing only what I chose to see. My own white world.

As I struggle with this understanding that I don't understand, I think I know my response. It's not a response of guilt or shame for being white. It's not a response to fix everything and do racial reconciliation over social media before church at 10 am Sunday morning.

It's simply a response to listen to the hurt & frustration from my black friends. To admit that I don't fully understand. To agree that it's redonculous that a black 17-year old was murdered and there was no jail time involved.

And to marvel at how truly amazing the picture of racial & ethnic reconciliation is in Revelation 7:9. Every nation, tribe, people, & language in unison? God, make it be so.

Gimme! Gimme!

Prayer has kind of always been an enigma to me. From a logistical angle (i.e. how does it work, how often should I do it) to a practical standpoint of things like sitting and trying to keep my mind focused on God, not the truck driving by, my to-do list, or how good Hawaiian pizza sounds (which, by the way, does currently sound delicious). I've worked through many of my obstacles of praying, but today as I was trying to spend a focused fifteen minutes talking to God, I ran into an old problem.

I didn't know what the "right thing" to pray was.
I didn't know how to say what I wanted to say.
I tried repeating God's name. I tried speaking candidly. I tried the stream-of-consciousness technique. Nothing seemed to work...and then I realized there was a deeper issue than simply my "style."

I had made prayer all about me.
I had made prayer into a Santa wish-list.
I had made prayer about an agenda...my agenda.

The fact is, it's not all about me. Like this blog title says, my life is not my own. But somehow, I've allowed myself to place mirrors around me, so that everywhere I go, my world conveniently looks like...well, me. And my prayer life reflected that. Every time I prayed, I sprinted into my conversation with God, screaming out what I needed and wanted. "Gimme, gimme! I want that!" And the fact is, God is not a genie, or Santa, or anything else like it.

I'm definitely not saying we should come timidly to God with requests. And yes, there is importance in asking, seeking, and knocking (Luke 9:11). God gives good gifts to those ask (Matthew 7:11). But there's even more importance in simply worshipping the one who gives those gifts. It feels like, at least for me, there is something crucial to acknowledging how good God is before pouring out my requests.

So I did.

When I began to view God not as the means to an end, but instead the means and the end, it changed my whole view of the purpose of prayer. It allowed me to see prayer primarily as a time to sit with God, not talk at God. It really is like that beautiful (but sometimes cheesy) song "The Heart of Worship": "And it's all about you, it's all about you, Jesus."

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name...