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los angeles, one last time

One last time... Relax, have a drink with me. One last time... Let’s take a break tonight.  And then we’ll teach them how to say goodbye.”

(drinks coffee...inhales deeply...begins to type...)

This is my last week as a resident of Los Angeles, California. 

Wild. Double Wild. 

There’s so much I want to talk about. 

I want to talk about picking the right church -- no church is perfect, no people are perfect, but go to a place where you can grow and find community. And if you can’t find a place that works for you, just watch online. You’ll need the boost.

I want to talk about dating and relating -- you’re bound to date someone who’s way too into spiritual tailsman as apartment decor.

I want to talk about what I have learned, the hard-won wisdom I have earned. But as my wife (and many, MANY others) will tell you, I’m a known rambler. So, I’ll condense all of my lessons into one simple phrase, and get back to packing.

I am enough.

For the first time in my life, I believe that with a tranquil confidence.

I am enough. 

For most of my life, I didn't believe that I was enough. I believed that what I did made me enough. So, I did more and more things. I deeply imbibed the American gospel -- I pursued life, liberty, and happiness through the acquisition of nouns (people, places, things, ideas) in an effort to find self-satisfaction.

I became very proficient at noun acquisition. I buried myself in accolades and Atta Boy's, in my longstanding bachelor eligibility ("you should date MY daughter!"), in wedding invites and groomsman attire, in international terminal white chocolate mochas, in the trappings of American Christianity, in big sports-themed jamborees -- in the love and adoration of the world I had made.

The nouns loved me. And I loved them. But I didn't love myself.

(a quick conversation between Fear Me and Faith Me...)

“Mike, why are you sharing all this! They’ll say you’re weak.” “No, they’ll see I’m strong.”

“Your position is so unique! Why show your story?” “Because He’ll use it to move us along.”

I was running too fast. 

I was thinking too far ahead. 

I was fighting and writing like I was running out of time. 

I was sacrificing my todays for my tomorrows, scripting my life out like the Queen’s Gambit, trying to build my own palace out of paragraphs and passions.

God used LA to slooooooooooow me down. The city tripped me up as if it were a speedy safety and I a tight end who was a bit too slow to reach the end zone.

It took all the might of Zeus to steel me in my tracks. Therapy. A letter to my father. A resignation from all of my leadership roles and volunteer efforts, and eventually, my church. A pandemic. More therapy. The erasure of the entire sports calendar, and a girlfriend too far away to use as a project.

Me, myself, I, LA sunshine, open highways, and Him. With nothing else but time.

Yes, the Good Lord works in mysterious ways.

“I'll never be more loved than I am right now Wasn't holding You up, so there's nothing I can do to let You down It doesn't take a trophy to make You proud I'll never be more loved than I am right now.”

God used these last 5 years to fix my walking gait and my running gait. He took me back to basics: I’m already loved. I’m already chosen. That is enough. 

I have embraced my limits and my boundaries. I more often realize the sweet enjoyment of my body, soul, and spirit being in line with my Maker’s design.

Less is more. 

I live from the inside-out, not the outside-in.  

I am acquainted with grief, but choose joy. 

I dream audacious [unrestrained] dreams, and bravely walk in obedience to God. 

I hold God’s beer, and watch Him work. 

"I anticipate with pleasing expectation that retreat in which I promise myself to realize the sweet enjoyment of partaking. In the midst of my fellow-citizens, the benign influence of good laws under a free government, the ever-favorite object of my heart, and the happy reward, as I trust of our mutual cares, labors, and dangers."

My purpose, for coming to LA in this season, is complete. There’s no more lessons to be learned, no more friends to make, no more hills to conquer. 

I moved to LA to love others, but God taught me to love myself.

I am enough. Because He is enough.

-- mb, ii

[mbii]

4/11.

(Thoughts...while running at sunrise with my brother...) "If you can't fly, then run. If you can't run, then walk. If you can't walk, then crawl. but whatever you do, you have to keep moving forward." -- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Some days are sprints. Some days are marathons. Some days are long meandering walks with no end in sight.

I review the past. I glance at the future. I live in the present. I can't stare for too long. I command my feet to step, step, step. One in front of the other. Whether I want to, or not.

Forward, always.

[mbii]

4/10.

(Thoughts...24 hours after learning of Magic Johnson's decision to step down as President of the Lakers...)

"Then David shouted to Saul, “Why do you listen to the people who say I am trying to harm you? This very day you can see with your own eyes it isn’t true. For the Lord placed you at my mercy back there in the cave. Some of my men told me to kill you, but I spared you. For I said, ‘I will never harm the king—he is the Lord’s anointed one.’

“May the Lord judge between us. Perhaps the Lord will punish you for what you are trying to do to me, but I will never harm you." -- Commander David, 1 Samuel 24:9-10, 12

If I announced to social media that I was going to leave my sister company without AT LEAST calling her first, that's grimy.

No matter how toxic the work environment may have been, there's no integrity in me doing that. Or love.

Even when I hear God's will, I have to do things God's way.

[mbii]

4/8.

(Thoughts...)

"I discovered [dancing] was simply letting your feet, hands and body spontaneously act out whatever impulses were stirred by the music." -- Malcolm X

TAP. TAP. TAP. TAP.

I tapped my foot in rhythm while waiting for the bus on Myrtle. I was in my 20's, I was black, and I didn't know how to dance.

To practice, I would dance my way to work. I'd turn the volume up in my earbuds and pop on subway cars, waltz through Grand Central Terminal, mambo down 5th Avenue, and spin into my swivel chair at the office.

The more free I felt, the better I danced. The Obama years were good to me. Never before had I felt so boundless, so necessary, so alive. My body was mine. And I belonged.

[mbii]

4/5.

(Thoughts...)

"I've discovered the hard way, and I'm beginning to discover in a hopeful way, that mess and transformation are directly proportional. There's always a link." -- Heather Zempel

Man, I wish there was a way to grow without grime.

I try to sidestep the sludge, duck the gook, and skip the slime, but find that I only stunt my growth and stop my total transformation.

I have to stop dodging and start digging.

"Who am I?" "Who does God say that I am?" "Who do I want to become?"

I have to allow the rose to grow from the concrete.

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los angeles, year 2

“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.” -- Romans 5:3-4   I'm convinced that the apostle Paul was a big fan of sports. I had planned to write about Paul’s love of sports for my undergraduate thesis back at Howard, but I didn't want it to turn into a theology paper. (I digress...) If I were to summarize my first 2 years in LA, it would be with Romans 5:3-4.  “The joy of the Lord is your strength”, an accomplished black architect once told me when I lived in Washington, D.C. Since then, I’ve held on to his exhortation with my incisor teeth.  But LA has tested my jaw strength. It is a very hard city, perhaps the hardest I’ve ever lived in. It’s as tough as NYC, maybe even tougher, because it purports to be the fullest realization of our decaying national ethos. Like I said last year, “the allure of Los Angeles lies in its [supposed] powers of temporal reincarnation.”

When I was a kid, I liked to fight the ocean. I would imitate Ryu and shoot imaginary Hadoukens into the water, and would try to stand upright as the rising tide gladly knocked me off my feet. Living in LA, without a purpose, is like fighting the tide.  But I was made for this. I am being built to last and to love this city. 

“Don’t be good. Be great.” -- Michel Moore, LAPD Chief of Police, speaking to the 916th graduating class of the police academy.

For a long time, I just wanted to be good in life, like Clipse. Be a good Christian son, be a good student, be a good employee, be a good boyfriend, eventually be a good husband and father. Be better than bad, but never dare to be great. Set easy targets and overachieve.

My thesis was simple, “if people spend all their time acknowledging my goodness, then they’ll never recognize and challenge me to greatness.” That is, until my desire for intimacy forced me to allow people into my broken places. Eventually, I was exposed as a potential great guy masquerading as a nice and good guy, an oxymoronic reality that soon gave way to unceasing friction. And as my Dad likes to say, pressure bursts pipes. CRRRRRRRRACK.

There I was. Broken at age 28. Identity shattered. Foundation frail. Little direction. I exercised all of my options – healthy and unhealthy – but only one option bore fruit: Connecting to God. And He dove deep into my life to heal my broken places.

God broke me so He could use me. Who knew that brokenness could be a good thing?

“Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.” -- Psalm 51:8

I live in a house in Playa Vista with three roommates.

I ride my bike to the beach.

I still fight the ocean.

I am a leader at my church and in my community. I like my church.

I watch sports television and engage with sports fans for a living. I like my job.

I go on dates. I also go to civic events, museum parties, and NBA games.

I still have my share of problems, some self-inflicted. 

Less now than before though, ‘cause therapy. And inner healing.

I know who I am, and I love me some me.

I am walking in my purpose. The same one God laid on me in my crib on Myrtle Avenue.

I am learning to love what I know. It is SO much easier for me to love what I don’t.

I am way outside of my comfort zone.

I am excited, riveted, full of life and truly happy.

I am deeply thankful.

Los Angeles has developed my endurance, polished my character, and cemented my hope in Jesus. Old Me would've brushed this off and chalked it up to good luck or "everybody does it"...but that’s just not true. Many don't endure. Many quit. Many run out of stamina and succumb to the quicksand.

I’m still here and I’m still standing…with God's help, Girl Scout Cookies, and true friends and family along the journey, holdin’ me down from (Space Ghost!) coast-to-coast.

Last year, I told myself I’d go hard or go home. But I miscalculated.

“Do I keep going hard if I’ve found my home?”

For now, LA…you got me. This is home.

Go hard and BE home. I’ll love what I know, and love what I don’t.

- MB, II

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Raw Talent

(Thoughts...on hearing of the passing of Aretha Franklin...)

"Being a singer is a natural gift. It means I'm using to the highest degree possible the gift that God gave me to use."

"I'm happy with that." -- Aretha Franklin.

In high school, my church friends called me "Raw Talent".

I'd like to think it was because I had a devastating pull-up jumper that I'd unleash in transition, as I watched my enemies fly by like enemy fighter pilots in Top Gun. But it's probably because while at a tournament in Long Island, I ate a chunk of raw shish kebab meat that I thought was already cooked. Yuck.

The name stuck, just like the meat did to my lower intestine.

In basketball and life, raw talent has its limits. Sustained discipline is what transforms goodness into greatness. The people and circumstances of our lives can grow us for seasons, but discipline sustains us. It is the engine of lasting success.

I'm as guilty as anyone in reveling in my raw talent and limiting myself by society's convenient definitions. Beloved Son. Church Team Leader. Creative Manager. Writer. Black Man.

I love these titles, but I am much more than these. Tucked deep within me is a burning passion to maximize my gifts and squeeze all the water from my sponge (as Dad would say). I must believe that I am more, and discipline is the path to become more.

This brings me to Aretha Franklin. Aretha Franklin wasn't the only woman of her generation with a creamy rich voice, with swoop and rasp and fervor that could shake foundations. But she was the one of the few we deemed royalty. Why?

God --> Raw Talent --> Discipline --> Love = Royalty

We called her the "Queen of Soul", but to me...that title always felt limiting. Aretha was larger than soul, larger than music. And perhaps, even larger than life.

Her legacy will live forever, but she will be missed.

[mbii]

los angeles, year 1

“I’M STILL STANDING! I’M STILL STRONG!

On my good days, I yell this into my soul. 

“IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU TRIED TO DO TO DESTROY ME!”

On my bad days, I run from this phrase and hide from my shadow like a groundhog eager for Spring, burying myself under an avalanche of emotions.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

And so it begins…

Writing this as my plane descends from the skies, dropping me and my 2 bags of goods into LAX to start my new life. I’m numb b/c I’ve done all of this super fast & with no real time to process it all. New friends. New job. New apartment.

Let The Praise Begin.

God, be with me as I begin this leg of the journey. Give me friends. Give me an apartment. Give me a sensational work experience. And give me this wisdom & strength to represent you well in my life here. Favor! Blessings! AMEN.

I’ve had days in Los Angeles where I’ve stood on the edge of an expansive ridge and watched as the sun’s reflection turned the ocean into lemonade. I’ve had other days where I’ve wanted to jump off that ridge. 

It’s the gift and the curse of this Western Xanadu. You see, America’s greatest export is spectacle, and no one does spectacle better than Los Angeles. And since I work in the business of spectacle, it makes sense for me to be here. But under LA’s glimmering facade lives an insidious darkness that festers like maggots under an aged shag carpet. 

This deceptive gloom is indistinguishable to the naked eye of a tourist or business traveler. After all, LA is the perfect host, eager to cater to your every desire. And as a short-term guest, there’s not enough time to sift the culture. You’re here to shuttle through paradise and outrun your own phantoms.  

If you’re trying to ditch your demons for good, don’t run here. Go somewhere calm, like Des Moines or Baton Rouge. Or get thee to a nunnery or monastery. LA will pour water on your problems and grow them into ISSUES.

Friday, February 3, 2017

The question of the day: “Am I going to buy into the current system of being here in LA, or…am I going to fight the culture?

I think the allure of Los Angeles lies in its powers of temporal reincarnation. You leave your dusty bowl or urban squalor or nominal cul-de-sac to become someone special. No one knows you here. You can be whoever you want!

That’s true. In LA, no one knows you. But no one cares about you. And if no one cares about you, then you must care about you. And since you must care about you, you can’t care about me. So I must care about me. 

ME. ME. ME. ME.  

ME. ME. ME. ME. 

Tragic, ain’t it?

Thursday, April 6, 2017

God was good today. I mean, He will be good today, but He was really good yesterday. A classic “ram-in-the-bush” moment. My honesty with God in the AM, prone on the floor in my apt, allowed Him to bring encouragement [to me] when I really needed it.

In New York City, if you love me, I know it. And if you hate me, I know it. So at least I know where I stand.

In Washington DC, you only care about me if I resemble or agree with you. So I know to just find people who will agree with me.

In Los Angeles, you pretend to care about me when you really don’t care about me at all. So I have to fake it until I make it.  

NYC and LA will either destroy you, build your character, or both. But New Yorkers glory in their battle scars while Angelenos conceal theirs. Scars don’t look good on camera. If you show your pain, you’ll shatter the glass.

I’m speaking in broad generalities. Everyone isn’t like this. There are people who are so rich and so powerful that they force us to care about them in any city...even if just trivially. 

Okay. Okay. You’re right. There are Bethesda pools here. People who are walking tourniquets and renew one broken life at a time. And each life, once restored, slowly and collectively joins with other lives to renew a broken city.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

I feel an abundance of love today, man. What a day!

Felt surrounded by God’s presence all day, and feel so empowered to live for Jesus in a new way. Need to keep going, one step in front of the other, pushing ahead to see God’s plan for my life realized. Also, felt so much JOY. Feel like my heart is bursting with JOY. That I can really enjoy life and GROW!

So, why did I come here?

Because I am a wildflower. I aim to live a life tethered to light and inspire others to do the same. I am the brazen pilot who cracks jokes in the cockpit while flying headfirst into danger. I am able to do that because I am also the man who measures twice before takeoff.  

I’d been staring down Los Angeles for years, like a dweeb at the homecoming dance. For all the things that one can lament regarding LA, it’s still the world’s creative engine. LA is full of people who live with a subtle defiance, who challenge the status quo, who wear whatever they want and refuse to be silenced. It’s a city full of weirdos like me. 

Saturday, July 15, 2017

AHHHH!

I’m trying to solve for my life, trying to answer for what God wants. Why do you push me this way Lord? I’ve moved out here by faith. I’ve reached the end of my intellectual & game-planning rope. But then again, I’ve said this before.

FIRST & 10. Ball on the 20 yard line. UGGGGH.

TRUST  THE  PROCESS.

In California, every theoretical understanding of my faith in God and self has been put to the test. I have had some dark and lonely days, but my identity isn’t in my brokenness.

I have learned to take life one day at a time.

I have learned the importance of living life outside of my head.

I have fully enjoyed the good times and seal them in my heart.

I have been stiffed by flakes and have made some rock solid friends.

With all respect to Gloria Gaynor, I have done more than survive.

I have thrived.

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps – Proverbs 16:9

Year Two. Los Angeles, California.

Go hard or go home.

- MB, II

[mbii]

Mission Possible: Bison in Vegas, Brotherhood, and “The Upset”

I just wanted to run.

I wanted to run away from all of my problems, either self-made or world-made, and bathe in a shower of shoulder slaps and full body hugs. I wanted to go a place where I wouldn’t judge or be judged, or have to measure up to some illusory standard, or have to wear the mask or play a character for their delight or my survival. Orange Julius Caesar was still in office, and I was still reeling from Charlottesville.

I wanted to run. I needed to run. I’d promise to return and fight for oceans of justice and rivers of fairness, but for now, I needed to escape to my alma mater in the interest of self-preservation.

I wanted to be a lovable goofball. I wanted to sport an embarrassingly honest smile that spanned the width of my contiguous country, wear some ill-fitting alumni gear, and throw my arms around complete strangers while singing the aggressively long song of my university.  Winning the weekend for me wasn’t about SCOREBOARD. It was about family coming together at a Kairos moment to share love when we all needed it the most.

But I’ll take the W.

HOWARD OVER UNLV! YA HEARD! WHAT WHAAAAAAAAT?  

According to the sports books, this was the biggest upset in college football HISTORY.

The prediction? PAIN. We were supposed to lose by 45 points. $100 dollars on Howard with the right bookie would’ve gotten someone out from under a year of school debt.

YEP. THAT HAPPENED. Howard went ahead and became a football school. AND I WAS THERE.

Los Angeles is an urban sprawl. The numbers will tell you that it’s full of black folk, which is true, but we’re spread across this coastal city like a drop of grape jelly across two slices of white bread. I knew this was something to keep in mind as a DC transplant and native New Yorker, but even still, I was caught way off guard. Out here on the Left Coast, melanin just ain’t connected to each other like that.

Needless to say, I was eager to meet up with my HU family. I didn’t know anyone else going to Vegas – and part of me liked this, since I had quickly created a highly imaginative alternate reality where I would sneak into Vegas, act totally out of character for 72 hours, and jump back in my Prius for home (because why not save money on gas?). Walter Mitty would’ve been proud. But I caved to my better, more responsible self and invited two of my new LA friends to keep me in line – Gipp and Silk.

Gipp was a four-letter athlete at Howard, a starting wide receiver for our forlorn franchise for as long as his academic scholarship allowed. Gipp came from South Carolina as a two-sport guy in his high school days, but ditched his sprint spikes for a college career in cleats. Although Gipp and I didn’t attend Howard at the same time, we became fast friends through our shared Los Angeles church community and an equal zest for life and faith. He’s also the perfect Goose to my Maverick, unlike most sloppy husband types who forget what it is to navigate the perilous waters of young adult male singlehood.  

Gipp and I added Silk later, after running into him at the Whole Foods in Playa Vista. He’s the hyper intelligent black computer engineer friend who writes code for dating apps that everyone should have. Silk lives a sneeze from new Silicon Beach (which is how he got his name), has forgotten more about cryptocurrencies that I’ll ever know, and is addicted to CrossFit. No lie. Silk may not have Gipp’s football pedigree but he’s built like an Olympic decathlete. This, of course, made me the fat guy of the group.

Once the group was set, weeks felt like days. Gipp’s wife said YES, I snagged a room at Aria, Silk rented a gluttonously large Ford Explorer, and we piled in and zipped across the Mojave Desert to Vegas.

After sleeping across the middle row for nearly the entire drive, I yawned like a hibernating bear, rubbed my eyes with my fists and looked through the front windshield at the fast approaching city. Las Vegas is quite charming from a distance, like watching a handful of middle-aged uncles proudly march into church on Easter Sunday with neon suits.  Vegas’s skyscrapers touched the sky like Babel’s towers, but exist as nameless and faceless trophies until you get in range. Mandalay Bay. Tropicana. Luxor. Planet Hollywood. This was Las Vegas, in its marvelous splendor, standing as a symbolic affront to restraint.

We parked the Explorer at Aria, opened our doors, and got smacked in the face by the heat. It was God’s reminder that we were still in His desert, and we hightailed it for the hotel lobby. We checked in, inhaled three burgers at Gordon Ramsay’s, and strolled through the adjacent indoor mall like conquering heroes, analyzing the Labor Day horde that we were about to share our weekend with.

You see, Las Vegas is a city without duplicates. You’ve got your red hats, your coastals, your warlocks, your hookers, your fixed incomers, your derelicts, your grandmas and grandpas, your fiends, your infants, your sultans, your tycoons, your hipsters, your dancing girls and your degenerates, of all colors and shapes, crammed along one long strip of concrete, baking in the desert heat.

Not one person looks the same in Vegas. Gipp and I walked past a six-foot-three black man in the middle of the mall wearing a black welding visor that covered his face down to his mustache, a second golf visor above the first that stretched horizontally from his forehead (presumably, to shield the sun), a black fishnet shirt, and pink marina shorts that squeezed his quads like they were pigs in a blanket. And the man stared at us as if we were out of place.

After a Friday night alumni event catered by the good folks of HUAA (free food!), a superb community service project that I hear went GREAT! (we, umm, overslept), and a full day of soaking in poolside rays and Top 25 football games over family-style meats (although the food at the book left MUCH to be desired)…we made our way to Sam Boyd Stadium, home of the Runnin’ Rebels.

Yes, we were late. In our defense, we were afraid of getting barbequed by the Vegas desert. So, from the parking lot, we heard the public address announcer yell the first score of the game at us:

“TOUCHDOWN! FIFTY-TWO YARD RUN BY CAYLIN NEWTON! HOWARD UP 7 TO 0!”

I looked at Gipp. His mouth had already hit the asphalt like a grand piano.

“Wait, WHAAAAAAAA???”

We darted into the stadium, looked for our seats, and scanned the field turf for clues. The alumni section murmured politely, with a select few engaging in cautious celebration. Let’s keep it 100. We were pretty, pretty confident that this was a fluke. I remember the Jay Walker tales, but come on man: this is Howard football. We had to crumble sooner or later, right? Right?

For starters, UNLV’s QB was a cool six-foot six-inch black Randall Cunningham clone who could get seven yards a snap. UNLV also had a running back who I derisively called NUMBER 3. Dude moved like a Create a Player in Madden whose speed and agility were maxed to 99. And our diminutive defensive front made their offense look like The Monstars from Space Jam.

But, to our surprise, our defense bent without breaking. They were the unsung heroes. UNLV would hit a big play – like a monster play-action pass at the end of the first quarter to put them in the red zone – and our Bison would burr their noses into the goal line and hold them to chip shots.

A long run by College Randall Cunningham. Only 3.

A short field after a short punt. Still 3.

Later, a HUGE mistake by their QB…he was rushing to the line after another one of his backbreaking downfield plays…fumbled inside our 30-yard line, and our senior linebacker Rollins scooped the loose ball (he bobbled for a second in our line of sight and we GASPED) and rumbled down the sideline with an envoy of his comrades to pay dirt. 21-9. BISON.

UNLV quickly got some of it back, but the halftime score told no lies. In the face of open disbelief, Howard football was WINNING. 21-19 after 30 minutes.

It was a short halftime show. Showtime marched with a skeleton crew and UNLV danced their pirated moves. Meanwhile, the winds at Sam Boyd picked up to Dust Bowl levels. The debris blew so much that I watched most of the third quarter through my sunglasses like a freshman at his first nightclub.

The third quarter was rough. The Rebels ran out like dogs with their tails on fire, scoring two quick touchdowns and sending some of our alums straight to the strip. 33-21, UNLV.  We got the ball back and Philyaw – our ex-quarterback-turned-running back and runner-up for Player of the Game – quickly scored on a short run from three yards out. 33-28, UNLV.

Throughout the half, the wind was catching kickoffs and pulling them directly to Earth. On our ensuing kickoff after the score, the wind forced the ball into the hands of a clumsy UNLV up man, who promptly fumbled the ball right back to our squad. Short field. Back to Philyaw. Touchdown. Go for TWO? Why not! 

36-33, BISON.

Now, it was the fourth quarter. The wind flipped to our backs and our kicker booted the next kickoff into the UNLV end zone. UNLV started their drive at the 20, with a healthy dose of NUMBER 3, their all-Madden man. Six handoffs later, he was dancing in the far end zone, giving UNLV a 40-36 lead with just over 10 minutes left in the game. Gipp groaned, I stared deeply into the cement stands, and we began to prepare for the inevitable.

And then, Caylin Newton went to work.

Cam’s little brother is a tidy 5 feet, 10 inches. He looks and plays like a miniature version of the 2015 NFL MVP minus the alligator shoes and Popeye arms. Still, Caylin’s deft handling of the offense – read optioning, audibling at the line of scrimmage, jump passing, and getting to the edge on designed QB runs – proved far too skilled for the Howard program I knew. How did we get this guy? Did his family owe a pound of flesh to the Merchant of Venice?

On this go-ahead drive, Caylin picked apart UNLV’s defense like a NASCAR pit crew mechanic. Handoff. Handoff. Run. Handoff. BIG PASS. PLUNGE. SIX! Howard up by 3, with a half quarter to burn.  

UNLV got the ball back, Howard held, and UNLV decided to punt into the wind. BAD IDEA. Only 10 yards in net distance, and we braced for the kill. Lil’ Cam got us to their goal line, but finally: UNLV’s d-line held firm. Turnover on downs.

Clone Cunningham got the ball in his hands at his own 2-yard line with a vendetta, firing a deep in route across his body to a streaking Vegas WR. His man caught it, had the angle on the Howard corner, slowed down for no apparent reason, and FUMBLED. HU with another recovery. Time to milk the clock.  

Penalty. Run. Run. Run. Pooch Punt. Touchback. And UNLV got the ball back, 19 seconds away from becoming an opening weekend trivia question.

I stood up. My hands were on my head like a sprinter after interval training. I had done no running.

Pass one? COMPLETE for 19 yards. UNLV now on their 38. Could Randall throw a Hail Mary from here?

Pass two? Incomplete. My heart was beating out of my chest. Why is our defense so far back? MOVE CLOSER. OHMYGOD. SOMEONE TELLS ME WHEN IT ENDS.

13 seconds left.

Pass three? CAUGHT. By speedy NUMBER 3, my personal nemesis.

He made his first man miss, and sprinted across the 50. We had men on his tail, but he was just FASTER.

To the 45. SOMEBODY STOP HIM.

To the 40. WE CANNOT LOSE LIKE THIS.

Down. Tackled at the 30.

GAME OVER.

HOWARD 43, LAS VEGAS 40.

You remember the scene from Goodfellas, when Henry Hill is showering while listening to the radio for details on the Lufthansa Heist, hears the juicy goodness, and begins to shrill like a banshee?

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! JIMMY!”

That was me, in the backseat of our rental, yelling and pounding the mats with my feet like a rebellious toddler.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HOWARD! THE REAL HU! LET’S GOOOOOOO!”

We arrived back at Aria still delirious with excitement, cackling as black men do when richly enjoying the company of their own, sauntering into the casino at Aria like three sumo wrestlers after a buffet. We were using our outside voices inside, but we didn’t care. Something unbelievable had happened, and we were chosen by God as Las Vegas’s first apostles. And the whole world needed to know.

The tomb was empty, and our football program was alive.

MISSION POSSIBLE.

- mb

[mbii]

S. P. E. C. T. R. E.

I’ve been here before

But always hit the floor

I’ve spent a lifetime running

And I always get away

But with you I’m feeling something

That makes me want to stay

Alton Sterling. Philando Castile.

Brent Thompson. Lorne Ahrens. Patrick Zamarripa. Michael Krol. Michael Smith.

Eric Garner. Michael Brown. John Crawford. Tamir Rice. Freddie Gray. Sandra Bland.

SO MANY NAMES. They pour from headlines like rain from the Amazon sky.

I’m prepared for this

I never shoot to miss

But I feel like a storm is coming

If I’m gonna make it through the day

Then there’s no use in running

This is something I gotta face

I am exhausted.

My righteous anger is turning to despondency. Emotional condensation is settling in my heart.

I know what I’m supposed to do. I get it. BLACK LIVES MATTER.

But I am tired. Is that OK? On some days, the fight leaves me as a shadow boxer punching ghosts. Maybe it’s best to meander through life, chasing ghastly spectres with my smartphone.

IF I RISK IT ALL,

COULD YOU BREAK MY FALL?

No. The complete adoption of survival mentality is a curse. I’ve done this before. Medicating in the white noise of blind dates, alcohol consumption and sports blotter only delays the inevitable. I must face my fears as Yusef did.

I am black. But I am not cursed. I am blessed.

I fight. But I am more than a fighter.

And I know what it takes to win at life.

It’s a fearlessness cemented by faith in Christ. It’s confidence and contentment in the person God has made me to be. It’s living an honorable and just life that inspires others to follow Christ as I do, despite the odds. It’s the discovery of my purpose and its active application.

I still fight. I must fight. My God wants oceans of justice and rivers of fairness. I will not take the deaths of my countrymen lying down.

But, on those days that I box the air, I stop swinging. Instead, I trust fall into the arms of my Savior, believing His security detail of Angels will break my fall.

Senor, te necesito.

How do I live? How do I breathe?

When you’re not here I’m suffocating

I want to feel love, run through my blood

Tell me is this where I give it all up?

Remember! You promised! That You would never leave me or forsake me! That Your Goodness and Mercy would chase me until my dying day!

I’m counting on You. Word is Bond.

Tu presencia es El Cielo para mi.

For You I have to risk it all

Cause the writing’s on the wall.

There’s only one life to live. And only one way to make it worth living. Nothing will separate me from that.

- M.B, II

[mbii]

Me, Beyonce + LEMONADE

I don’t know Beyonce.

I thought I knew her. I mean, she’s hard to miss. On Pepsi. On Capitol Hill. With Michelle. And Jay-Z. On America’s Holiday. In black leather. In my sister’s iTunes.

I remember “Crazy in Love”. It would play once or twice an hour on Z100, on the Morning Zoo. I would bum a ride to school with my neighbor, whose Mom gave him radio rights. So lucky! Not in my car. My Dad was the quintessential black man when it came to his radio, so all we got on our AM rides with him was “FAMILY RADIO! OAKLAND CALIFORNIA! 94621!”

Beyonce was a tease. She would sing to me in the car on the way to my all-boys high school, then taunt me on the way home through the headphones of the Catholic school girls joining our route. And then I’d see her on MTV and BET as I jockeyed with my sister for television control. Dragonball Z! TRL! Tenchi Muyo! 106 & Park!

Beyonce was ubiquitous. And it bothered me.

First: I was undergoing a physiological transformation at the time. My body was discovering the appeal of the fairer sex and reacting to them like a caveman to fire. “Ugh! GIRLS HOT!” Beyonce’s fierce leans and alleyway dances didn’t help matters for her younger sisters as I related to them on our shared New York City streets.

Second: As Beyonce’s popularity grew, so also did her retainer of defense lawyers. This isn’t just a Beyonce problem: SLAYER fans own canisters of black paint, Justin Bieber’s fans nearly broke the Internet, and Elvis fans worship Graceland. But the BeyHive was so vociferous, so bleeding, so close to home. It felt weirdly spiritual, like an unorthodox form of worship, and one that I grew uncomfortable with as the years progressed.

But still: I don’t know her. I’ve never tried to know her. I’ve maintained a respectful distance. And because of this, I’ve never formed a honest-to-goodness opinion about her art.

That is, until LEMONADE. A writer friend had reviewed the visual album for an online magazine and asked me to review her piece, so I did. She and I had previously discussed Beyonce, so I was curious to see her approach. And after that read, another friend shot me a dissenting opinion.

Hmm. My interest was officially piqued.

Small Group. Gym. Shower. Sibling Phone Call. Rurouni Kenshin Binge. Sleep. Z-Burger.

After a quick check on TNT to make sure LaMarcus was still raining jumpers on Ibaka, I flipped to HDMI-1. And then it began.

She’s 34. I keep forgetting that. Beyonce is a part of my generation. She’s an upper millennial, tied in matrimony to a true blue Gen Xer. Have I always considered Beyonce in his shadow? Have I failed to see her for who she truly is?

She is excellent at what she does. Mute her messages for a second and just LOOK AT IT. You just can’t argue against the technical mastery of her work. True visual artisans have crafted this artistic masterpiece from top to tail.

She loves being black. This is important. Many artists use blackness as a catapult to mainstream success. Beyonce isn’t divorced fully from this. But LEMONADE closes the career loop, pulling the mainstream closer to her true identity in all its forms. The French Quarter. Her Daddy. Second Line parades. Her Husband. Jazz. Weddings. Parenthood. Serena Williams. MICHAEL BROWN.

She embraces black womanhood. Celebrates it. With no ounce of shame.

She knows that female empowerment isn’t a curse word. She knows that it doesn’t have to be linked to black masculinity at all times. There’s something special, sensitive, revelatory about all this that captivates her, sans the bluster and psychoanalysis.

She loves her daughter. And wants her to live in a world where she can be unencumbered. Isn’t that the dream of every parent walking the face of the Earth?

She is bold. She made a visual album as folks lament the death of the same.

LEMONADE represents a rebirth. In an awkward analogous way, it reminds me of when Kobe switched from No. 8 to No. 24. And like his number change, LEMONADE doesn’t erase the past. It’s not trying to. In fact, LEMONADE builds on the past. In the hopes for a better future.

I still don’t know Beyonce. That’s not the point.

Beyonce knows Beyonce. And we get to watch her turn lemons into LEMONADE.

-MB

[mbii]

I joined tumblr just to follow your blog, sir! 🙌🏾😁👏🏾

Thank you! About to post a 2,000 word piece that I think you’ll love...enjoy!

[mbii]

I’m Going to Los Angeles!

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you. And you will be my witnesses, telling people about me everywhere—in Jerusalem, throughout Judea, in Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” - Acts 1:8, NLT

Jerusalem. Judea. Samaria. Planet Earth.

For much of my Christian life, I hadn’t considered doing missionary work. I thought missions meant flying some umpteen odd hours halfway across the world to a “Land of the Lost” third world country to fix other people’s problems. But over time, I’ve learned that a mission trip is simply an opportunity to change lives through sharing the good news of Jesus and serving others no matter where they live. Personally, I’ve always had a heart for “Samarias” - those places just on the edge of our extended reach that are broken and need spiritual renewal through Jesus Christ.

For me, Los Angeles is one of those places. So, I’m out.

I’ve been selected by Grace Covenant Church, my church here in Washington D.C., to join a team of missionaries traveling to Los Angeles, California! Our team will be on the Left Coast from May 17-25, 2015. During this time, we’ll work with Grace Covenant’s church plant Renew Church LA under the leadership of Pastor Dihan Lee to assist in church growth. In addition, we will conduct evangelism and outreach activities on both the campus of UCLA and Venice Beach. 

Wanna tag team with me on the trip? I’ve got to raise $1,500 by May 3, so any little bit you can give would be awesome. If you're led to give, the best way is online (click here and look below for directions). 

Thanks! Stay tuned for crazy faith stories from your boy in the City of Angels.

- M.B., II

LA Mission: Giving Directions!  1. Click here to go to the church’s SecureGive website. Be sure to create an account if you would like to receive a giving summary for tax purposes.

2. In field 8 - Other Designated Gifts, enter your contribution amount.

3. In the Message text box type "Fund Code 18, Mike Benjamin.”

4. Confirm & you’re done!

[mbii]

The Longest Yard

"You see a guy like Chandler Jones get a free shot at Marshawn Lynch...and [Jones] barely slows him down!" - Cris Collinsworth, Super Bowl XLIX.

He didn’t have the longest running play of the night (hat tip to Ryan Turbin).

His 102 rushing yards don’t make him tops in Super Bowl history, or even put him among the top-10 gainers in the Super Bowl running back annals.

And the credit for his longest play of game (a 31-yard catch) mostly goes to his quarterback, who slipped a tight spiral down the seam and into our man’s waiting arms.

But on the biggest play of Super Bowl XLIX, with his team on the edge of the end zone and almost certain victory, and after THE CRAZY CATCH that will now get the Men in Black treatment, we all wanted the Beast to get the Rock.

72,200 University of Arizonians stood, with the Boston half wearing their hands as hats. The people at my Big Game party were going nuts. Don Cheadle screamed. And we all knew where the ball was going. Or so we thought.

That was the worst play call in the history of the Superbowl!!! Worst QB decision Ever!!!!! Ever Ever! Naw I mean Ever!

— Deion Sanders (@DeionSanders)

February 2, 2015

Why were we shouting for Marshawn Lynch to get the football? Why are drivetime sports talk radio programs and television studio shows calling Pete Carroll’s decision the biggest gaffe in Super Bowl history? Why did the Patriots have eight down lineman protecting the goal line on that now legendary second down, leaving three lone cornerbacks in pass coverage? It was only a YARD.

You see, Marshawn Lynch had won us over with jab steps, double moves, half spins and human power cleans. He put us on notice after his Samsonian march through the Saints, but was already leaving dents in dudes by running hard on every down. His legs stretch wide to stay up after body blows, his knees stay low to squeeze through tight spaces, and his arms drag bodies across television’s yellow first down lines. For extra energy, he treats Skittles like power pellets.

But I’m not sure if Lynch’s beast runs translate to the common viewer. Like, if I wanted to make a quick NFL convert, I might skip to Antonio Brown kicking punters, Emmitt Smith doing George Bush impressions, or someone playing Madden on 360 with Pey Pey at the helm. Marshawn Lynch has his meast moments, but try explaining the beauty of his four yard runs to a football freshman.

That’ll preach. (Really Mike?) Yes, yes it will. Gimme a second.

“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.” - Paul, Romans 5:3-4

“YESSIR! Way to pick up the FIRST on 3rd and 2! Keep the chains moving BIG DAWG! LET'S GOOOOOOOOO!”

Have you ever watched football with THAT DUDE? The dude who claps after every play on offense, talks louder than the TV play-by-play guy, and yelps after every big defensive hit? The dork that picks his feet off the floor when his QB throws a deep pass and leans left when his kicker lines up a game tying 40-yarder from the right hashmark?

Well, as it relates to our lives as Christians, God is THAT DUDE. If angels throw a party every time a sinner becomes a saint, imagine how crazy it gets in Heaven when Christians actually do the right thing! I can almost see God cackling manically in Heaven and elbowing angels as he watches us LIVE on Earth from his God-cave.

“Yo Gabriel, you see my boy MLK give that “I Have a Dream” speech! LEHGO! Quick Moses...rewind that! LOOK AT THE FAITH ON THE WOMAN WITH THE ISSUE OF THE BLOOD! ARE YOU KIDDING ME! YO PETER, check out how my son in DC decided NOT to cheat on his taxes! He looks like a young YOU out there! WOOOOOOOOO!”

In Heaven, God’s got his big screen television tuned to our network, watching us make plays on Earth. He could care less if our play is big or small, only that it’s done with 100% faith effort. God wants us to play every down like Marshawn Lynch. We humans care about scale, but what does it matter to a God that sees us all as grasshoppers?

Proof? Check out the Gospel Hall of Fame in Hebrews 11. It has folks we’d consider Biblical heavy hitters (hello Abraham! hello Noah!) and glorified unknowns (who the heck is Enoch?). They all made the Hall because of their faith level, not because of the big or small action that resulted due to their faith. Enoch walking with God = Noah building the ark = Rahab hiding the Israelite spies.

Pretty cool, but there's one problem with all this: I’m human.

I’m flawed. I’m NOT built to last. Running 100% on every play of my life wears me down. Every touch nets positive yardage for the Kingdom but I still take parting shots from Sin. And when Sin sees me gaining momentum, he’s not against spearing my side with late hits.

Geez. Even Michelins get rotated every 7,000 miles.

I spent much time complaining about this during my quarter-life crisis. It’s hard to get amped about running hard and getting killed for minimal gains when you’re not entirely sure if there’s victory ahead.

It’s not about you. It's all about Me.

That’s what He whispered to me on a Bethel pew in ‘08 before Beijing, yelled at me during my temper tantrum in ‘12 and reminded me of after the Emmy win in ‘13. It’s the same message Paul caught in Romans 5, the one that had him all excited about his problems. “Hey Romans! Good news! Problems CONFIRM our faith and our destiny!”

We were born to run for his glory. No matter our station in life, that's our ultimate purpose. It seems trivial in a vacuum, but here's the algebra: if we run for God, and if God always wins, we always win!

God enjoys winning more than we do. He wants us to run with the desire to score on every play and to celebrate the tiniest successes. “You got a first down! You picked up 2 yards! It's not a TD this time, but the ball's still moving! You've still got possession! And you did it again!”

I bet Jesus took this attitude as He performed miracles during his 3 years of ministry. Giving this dude sight ain’t gonna save everyone, but someone got healed and I'm moving the chains. Now I’m a few yards closer to the end zone, a few feet closer to that rugged cross, and a few hours closer to fulfilling my true destiny as God's son. AWESOME.

I've never been a big fan of running hard for what seems to be no reason. Life's challenges block my line of sight. Faith gives me a glimpse, but I'm no soothsayer. I don't see the full blueprint. I could be the next great Senator or next great street sweeper. Beats me. I am forced to rely on God's track record and promises, run on this linear plain and squeeze through microscopic holes.

If I want to WIN, I have to run expecting to score on every down. The perfect play will soon be called. He promised. My linemen will create a crease, my body will be toughened to handle Sin’s blows, and my legs will churn up the field turf, step through the pesky secondary and carry me to the end zone. Where I'll pause to soak up the satisfaction.

But the game doesn’t end after I score. There’s always another drive. Another 1st and 10. I’ll eventually have to stop gulping Gatorade and strap up. Get the play from Coach, tuck my dreads in and run even harder against Sin’s defense, who's now super eager to stop me.

I wasn’t born ready. But I’m now ready.

Bring it.

- M.B., II

[mbii]

Skyfall

This is the end Hold your breath and count to ten Feel the earth move and then Hear my heart burst again...

"Do you love black people? DO YOU?"

I yelled these words at God from the cold hardwood floor of my studio apartment. My conversations with the Christian God tend to be cordial and honorable, but this was no time for pleasantries. The men who murdered Eric Garner got their walking papers without the benefit of due process. This was no backwoods Appalachian case. Eric died in my aggressively blue home city and moderately blue home state.

I was confused. I was scared. I was FURIOUS. I bore witness to a human rights atrocity, and the Man upstairs was silent.

"God, you'd better know what you're doing, because people are dying out here!"

With that, I gave God the silent treatment. For a week. I balled my fists, pounded my pillow and began to cry. Again. I've cried more over the last month than I have in 2 years. 

...for this is the end I've drowned and dreamt this moment So overdue I owe them Swept away, I'm stolen...

My eyes peered through the foggy windshield that next Sunday morning. The steering wheel twisted under my grip as I drove angrily through overcast skies to the theater. After a week attempting to drown God's voice in vice, I felt anger's slow burn melting my heart. The anger began to snowball, began to frustrate, began to rip me apart. I needed to find a way to channel this anger into something constructive, something life-giving. My personal time bomb was engaged, and it was only a matter of time before detonation.

I'll admit: church was a last option. I didn't want to go and get washed down with Christmas carols, but it's the only business in town that stocks hope and peace in its pews. With my anger creeping towards critical mass, this visit was a necessary tradeoff. I was determined to stay focused on the week's events but knew I had emotional wounds to treat.

....let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together...

Pastor Donnell Jones paced along his makeshift movie pulpit, peered into the distance, and carefully began his Sunday sermon as a law professor might a lecture.

"This morning, I really want to express what I believe to be God's heart. Some of the things I'm going to share have been on my heart for an extensive period of time."

YES. Finally, an everyday pastor with the intestinal fortitude to speak freely without coercion. Come on preacher. Talk about the bad hand dealt the black man. 

"Prayer and worship are vehicles that bring us into the presence of God. Making the most of this moment is about engaging our hearts and understanding how prayer and worship works."

The eff? I want restitution. There is blood in the streets. FISTS UP. FIGHT BACK.

"There is no change on Earth, however desirable, that happens apart from a revelation. But any demonstration that does not begin with Heaven will not produce God's ends. I'm all for grassroots efforts, as long as the seeds were planted by Heaven."

ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH. I was pissed. I wanted a quick fix antidote prescribed for the margins, but Pastor Donnell shared a message that forced me to raise my eye level. I want life's medication without the doctor's visit, a trip to CVS without the office wait. But God, via Pastor Don's sermon and Isaiah 6, showed me how ill I truly was. I have to be healed before I can heal. 

...Skyfall is where we start A thousand miles and poles apart Where worlds collide and days are dark You may have my number, you can take my name BUT YOU'LL NEVER HAVE MY HEART!

For many years, I'd thought the minds of our generation best equipped to engage these issues to only be housed in secular spaces. These great poetic and philosophical minds have a blessed ability to deconstruct society's cursed condition in ways that make me thankful and creatively envious. However, very few of these same individuals have laid out a true blueprint for societal redevelopment. Laws can be altered and pieces fixed, but what can change the heart of a man? 

Conversely, I've considered Christians a rather selfish lot. In study, I've found many great minds hidden in their Bible's pages, minds whose experience ought be considered in historical tradition. The best of these Biblical thinkers exhibit a rare double consciousness, able to highlight society's desperate state while providing the world with concrete answers. 

But as I dig deeper, I realize how troubling these answers are to the Christian layperson. I understand why Christians are afraid to share their beliefs. Faith in Christ reveals an obvious human inability to discover nirvana. Christians explain Christ as the only vine to everlasting life and us as mere twigs dependent on Him for sustenance. Admission and surrender are the only catalytic converters.

The faith's simple solution for life's issues is embarrassing. I admit. It shows I have no tangible involvement in the process. I can take no credit for success. The Christian God only requires my heart in full, which forces me to commit uncomfortably. I raise my arms to Daddy and he sweeps in with the answers. To share the Christian message with my neighbor is to admit personal defeat. Which makes me want to snap.

But the Christian God doesn't stop here. He layers his medication with spoonfuls of love and gives us mental rest with his gospel of peace. It's a consistent and daring love, one that He understands uniquely from personal experience. My furious anger at the world subsides only when He replaces it with sacrificial love.  

Where you go I go What you see I see I know I'd never be me Without the security Of your loving arms Keeping me from harm Put your hand in my hand And we'll stand

I'm not protesting a moment in time. These days, my anger extends far beyond the death of Eric Garner by chokehold. I'm now protesting the historical experience of my kinsmen.

But in doing so, I must exhibit a righteous anger. An anger that highlights society's problems and calls me to love beyond my manufactured borders. I must extend myself in this way to keep from explosion. Perfect love is the only way to dispel fear, redirect hate, and slowly transform the heart of a nation.

How can I represent Christ while having a healthy and necessary involvement in current affairs? I must do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.

- Michael A. Benjamin, II

[mbii]

The Art of Surrender - Part 2

"The most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe." - Albert Einstein

Everyday, I dance. It's a simple dance, set to the tune of streetcars named Desire and Road Rage, and takes place on a sidewalk two blocks from my office.

My dance partner is a homeless man. Most days, he squats on the well-worn concrete floor and squints his eyes in my direction from afar. This is his signal for me to begin my steps.

I saunter casually to his makeshift bunker, suddenly pretending to make that OH SO IMPORTANT fantasy football waiver wire request on my smart phone. This is a respectable action that would freeze most beggars in carbonite, but not my dance partner. My move only encourages him to make his move. Out tumble those sentences I dread, filled from head to toe with syntax errors.

"You have change? Just wanna get something to eat."

99% of the time, I act as any good man would: I dance. I pat my pockets, shrug, and apologize in a single motion. (Without taking my ear buds out!) The guilt piranhas my heart for a few seconds...but I fight it off courageously and continue my trek uphill to work. Fin.

My dance partner lowers his guise and looks for another friendly face. He wants to eat but none bother to assist. My dance partner has no reason to believe that he lives in a friendly universe.

I ended part one of this journal series with my fists balled, yelling that "surrender is only valiant when you surrender to the right person and for the right reason." Don't worry...I didn't misspeak. There is a person. Consider part two my introduction speech for the guy.

The "friendly universe" theory that Einstein posits is one that quickly crosses from science into philosophy. How can a purely scientific universe - one governed by natural laws and even Einstein's theory of relativity, which itself was built on the "what goes up must come down" discoveries of old Ike Newton - be classified as "friendly"? How is it possible to assign an adjective to something that lacks emotion? Einstein's quote is impossible to consider unless I first believe that there's someone way out of my line of sight pulling the strings. And that person is God.

  Why? I answer this question with a scenario.

Would you let someone drive your car without a license? No way! There's a pretty good chance of that person steering your car into a cement truck. Similarly, you wouldn't trust someone to guide your life into a friendly universe unless you also believed in that person's ability to understand and manipulate said universe. Even I could find someone just skilled enough to drive your car from Point A to Point B unscathed...could I find a sentient being who lives outside of the universe skilled enough to operate that same universe? (There's levels to this.)

  God's the only one capable of steering the ship, so to speak. We can't steer our universe because we exist inside our universe! How can a created video game character in a game beat the game unless he allows himself to be controlled by someone outside the game entirely? (SPEED RUNS FTW.)

Why surrender to God? Easy! Because he beat us to the punch and laid his arms down before we could. He chose to check out of Heaven, jump into a baby's body, live a lackluster human existence (when compared to His time as God's right hand man), and die an embarrassing and gruesome death. 

  Think about it: In America, there are some states where criminals are executed by lethal injection. But have you ever seen a criminal forced to carry his death syringe to the execution table before getting tapped with that same syringe? Crazy right! 

  But that's what Jesus did for us by carrying his cross to Golgotha. He bled from the face down, fell a few times, got stapled to his own death instrument, and then died naked. Absolute surrender in order to give us a real shot of beating the game of Life and making the Pearly Gates.

Our most important moment in life isn't when we finally decide where to stand on the whole "Hostile or Friendly?" universe debate. The most important moment in life is when we decide to get off the sticks and let God show us how to play the game.

- M.B., II

(We're still light years away from fully unveiling Jesus - the Christian God - and His role in all this. I don't wanna get into an apologetics skirmish here, but check out Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. Dude spits game on all this in the first section of his book.)

[mbii]

The Art of Surrender - Part 1

"Surrender is a powerful word. It runs directly counter to everything Dave was taught. Dave was taught to fight for dominance -- to struggle to be the best. And after years of doing just that, Dave finally arrived at the mountaintop, the pinnacle, the hallowed place where eagles crap. But Dave was still unhappy, because no matter how hard he fought, winning was an illusion -- a mirage. But then, Dave thought, what would happen if I just gave up? This universe isn't meant to be dominated. It's an incomprehensible vastness which created us and to which we'll all return. So Dave surrendered and discovered a happiness he never dreamed of." - Chuck Lorre, executive producer, CLP Vanity Card #18.

Chuck Lorre, creator of successful sitcoms like Dharma & Greg andThe Big Bang Theory, announced last week that he was going to end his split-second tradition of writing specific vanity card messages. (A vanity card is a logo placed at the end of a show/movie by movie studios and TV production companies to brand what they produce, to let people know "Hey! This show you watched is mine! You're welcome!" The most famous vanity card? #MGMLION.)

Lorre took the practice one step further: instead of simply branding his work with CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, Lorre would pen suggestive sentences to the millions of viewers who watched his shows. Some are anecdotes from his roller coaster career, others potshots directed at unappreciative talent, and even more are his assorted musings on life. 

What genius! Why not use every alloted second to challenge and entertain the masses! In a stroke of genius (or madness), I decided to comb through the 300+ vanity cards that I had missed over the years, my interest piqued by Lorre's quiet announcement. And I stumbled on this vanity card about surrender.

  *******************

Just saying the word "surrender" aloud makes me feel weak. My mind flashes back to ninth grade Global History with the muscle brother from the local Catholic diocese, who taught us of Germany's surrender in that train car to the Allies after World War I. Surrender reads like my last rites, like I tried all other avenues to success and settled on surrender as my last, best option. Surrender makes me uncomfortable. 

  At its core, surrender is an acknowledgment to the world that I don't have the answers. I'm no good. I'm less than perfect, and may never be perfect. Surrender is sexy to shout from the pulpit but hard to whisper when you realize you're beat.  

Lorre hits on some good stuff here, though. Surrender does runs counter to everything we've been taught. As a man, society teaches me to either (1) have all the answers or (2) fake like I do. As spaghetti western actor Robert Woods or Coach Dan Reeves would say, "never let them see you sweat. Everyone feels pressure! Winners don't let it show!" In this dog-eat-dog America, I have to fight to be the best.

  It's funny though: I've found that the harder I fight in this archaic way, the further away I get from success. I dig my heels into the bedrock like Fred Flintstone to accelerate my life and all I get are blisters. 

Still, I hate crying "Uncle!" If I'm forced to surrender, I'm not going to surrender to just ANYBODY. I don't want to end up like Hershel from The Walking Dead and (SPOILER!) get my head chopped off when I let my guard down. Surrender is only valiant when you surrender to the right person and for the right reason. 

Otherwise, it's just stupid.

- M.B., II