Concerning THE Conservative: Finding Humanity in Disagreement

What I’m trying to say is that we shouldn’t let our legitimate differences with people strip us of the ability to see our common humanity. It’s something Mr. Brand and I actually agree on. The crisis of dehumanization surrounding the border is now so large that we’ll have no hope of “fixing” it unless we set aside our differences, no matter how legitimate, and start working together for a solution.

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Protest, Pandemic, and Perspective (Part 4): The Night of Chaos

There was a bang and then a text message. I don’t know what the bang was.  The text was from my wife: 

I grabbed a shirt, a camera, stuffed some charged batteries into my jacket pocket, threw the jacket on, got my mask on, and out the door I went.  About halfway down the elevator, I noticed that I didn’t grab my clergy shirt…. I grabbed a plaid shirt and while there is some notoriety in my town about “the Pastors in Plaid” bible study I have on Facebook, I highly doubted that a plaid shirt would signify “clergy” in downtown Chicago.  I told myself it wouldn’t matter.  It wasn’t worth going back upstairs for.  Just get out there. To do what? I have no clue… 

The moment I saw the shattered window in the hotel lobby, I should have thought to myself that now would be a good time to turn right back around and watch the whole thing on tv in a nice air-conditioned hotel room with a large bed. I think that’s what a rational person would do.  Maybe they’d still go, but I bet they would have at least paused and thought about it.  

“What happened?” I asked as the snap, snap of my camera went off. 

I have no idea who Becca is…

I have no idea who Becca is…

The lobby of the Hampton Inn on W. Illinois where I was staying was smashed in with a baseball bat early on Saturday evening. (click to enlarge)

The clerk looked at me, “Why weren’t you down here? They smashed the window out with a baseball bat.”  Now, I’d talked to her a few times and she’s a really nice lady but I have no idea why she would have wanted me to be there when they smashed the window.  I looked at the two gentlemen who were cleaning up the glass, “Everyone ok?”

“Yeah we’re good.  Just be careful.  There’s glass everywhere.” 

I stepped carefully through the lobby, opened the door, and stepped out. 

I’ve been struggling trying to figure out the best way to explain this feeling.  It felt like an episode of Dr. Who or one of those Star Trek episodes or the Matrix where they find a portal or something and they walk through the door of a room to find themselves on a different planet or in a place on the other side of the world.  I don’t know if it was really like this or just how I remember it and looking at the pictures from that night I’m greeted with the same exact feeling.  It felt like a vacuum or like this city, this block was the only thing in existence.  I don’t know what your feelings are on these things and I have no interest in trying to convince you one way or the other about the existence of a God or spiritual matters in these blog posts.  Call it the Holy Spirit, the Force, the energy in all creation that flows through all things… All I know is it felt like this whole existence that I was in was holding it’s breath and at some point it was going to be too much and it was going to exhale in an explosion.  It felt like someone was winding the tension like a rubber band and it was going to snap.  

The car with the Muslim ladies in it. I still haven’t figured out where the smoke was coming from…

You remember those muslim girls from the last post?  The one standing on a car and the other hanging out the window in their hijabs?  The first thing I remember after stepping out the door was them driving past me.  For some reason that grounded me and allowed me to remember I wasn’t just transported to some alternate universe or dystopian future.  I followed where their car was going.  Just a block away I saw the flashing lights and some smoke.  When I got there I instinctually stood close to the police with a side view to them and the protestors as they faced off.  I knew this was a safer position.  For one, when I noticed the police exploding into a situation, I never saw a single officer swing a sharp left.  They usually sprinted straight forward. Two, they could see exactly what I was doing. Three, people causing trouble like to be a little further from the police.  You’ll notice the early pictures in this post will start from this vantage point and eventually begin to move as I foolishly got a little more comfortable.  

I won’t bother to describe the scene, I’ll just show it to you. 

Grand and Dearborn Saturday night in Chicago. (Click to Enlarge)

I want you to notice a few things because reflecting back I think there are clues here that help us understand the situation and what happened.  First, notice the water on the ground and the plastic water bottles.  Those were thrown at the police.  Water bottles were the only thing I saw thrown at the police.  I’d hear stories from both protestors and police officers that in other places people were throwing rocks and sometimes bricks too.  The protestors who were initially telling me about it were pissed that it happened.  I didn’t talk to anyone that wasn’t angry that people were throwing things at police. But people were throwing things at the police and I don’t want to diminish the pain or injury that being hit by a projectile water bottle can cause. Second, I want you to notice the officer up front who already has a bandage on his elbow.  They’ve already had a long and difficult day of being yelled at and having things thrown at them or worse.  Third, look at how calm the police seem to be except for one who is turning and looks irate.  I have a 90-10 theory - 90% of all the protestors and police officers were there for legitimate reasons and wanting the best outcome for everyone and 10% of protestors and police were there to either cause chaos or to shut people up by any means necessary.  Most of the police look really calm, but there’s one guy who looks furious.  Now, this photo is a snap in time, 1/250th of a second to be exact.  I could be catching him right as he’s about to sneeze or maybe he’s trying to yell because the crowd was loud.  I have no way of knowing anything about this man or who he is or why he had that expression on his face.  So, please understand that I’m just saying that this photo is indicative and speaks to a “truth” I noticed.  I’m not saying anything about that specific man.  

Now, I want you to look at the crowd.  They’re pretty calm.  They’re pretty young.  It’s a pretty diverse racial crowd.  Notice where the other photographer is?  He’s in the safe spot.  You see that one guy in the middle with his hands up?  Unlike with the police officer, I can tell you exactly what he’s doing and saying.  He’s antagonizing the police.  He’s calling them names and telling them how “tough they look” in the riot gear with all their buddies and how they’re cowards.  You see the people in the far back that are coming to join? 1/250th of a second is a short amount of time but it can tell you a lot.  It can’t tell you everything and it can be deceiving, but it can still tell you a lot.  It can’t tell you the feeling that was starting to build.  It can’t show you how it was like someone had flicked a switch while I was back at the hotel and it seemed like a different protest and a different police force.  These two forces didn’t understand that each other had a job to do like that afternoon.  They felt like they were going to keep upping the ante on each other until one side exploded.  I had the sense these protestors wanted the police to explode. And I very quickly began to get the sense that the police were just waiting for someone to step out of line so they could be unleashed.  

Let me give you another example.  Here’s what we need to pay attention to in this photo and what you’re missing:  I want you to notice the headband, the mask, the pants with the zippers,, the sweatshirt, and the face of this protestor.  I want you to notice something else.  What is he holding?  What’s on the ground behind him?  Now, what is he looking at?  He’s looking at a police officer who’s just out of frame.  Why is he looking at that police officer?  Because that police officer is telling him what a “piece of shit” he is and how he’s going to beat his ass. 

A young man walks in front of the police with his hand raised Saturday night (click to enlarge)

The first clashed I witnessed Saturday evening in Chicago (click to enlarge)

Right after I took this photo, the young man walked passed me and muttered, “This is unbelievable.” That’s when I heard the “Come here, mother fucker!” And the police came sprinting out at the protesters.  People started to scatter.  The police sprinted after anyone they could their hands on and took off down the street.   I slowly started to follow them.  I don’t know why they took off and I don’t know if they took off after a particular person..  

Chicago Police giving chase to a crowd on Saturday evening (click to enlarge)

Here’s what I can tell you with absolute certainty; what I know to be the truth and factual to the best of my ability.  That guy in the hoodie from the first picture was still antagonizing the police when they launched out.  That kid was detained in handcuffs later.  My initial thought was that he must have thrown something or crossed a line.  However, I have no proof they were going after him. As I turned and looked where the police were running to, there were dumpsters on fire down the road and people appeared to be smashing and trying to overturn mail trucks parked on the side of the road.   An uber food delivery guy was clubbed by a police officer and knocked off his bike and then hit again.   When I got to the postal vehicles they were spray painted, shattered, and one was catching on fire.  Some police officers ran back to make sure the fire was going out and not spreading.  The fire department is right next to my hotel and they were on the dumpster fires super fast.  There was a crowd around the dumpsters but by the time I got there they were mostly taking pictures and generally looking concerned.  There was no yelling at the police or throwing things.  Everyone moved out of the way and allowed the police and firefighters to do their job.  

An Uber food delivery driver who was struck off his bike Saturday night in Chicago (click to enlarge)

Police inspecting a smashed up mail truck that was beginning to smoke Saturday night (click to enlarge

Firefighters and police working to put out multiple dumpsters on fire in Chicago Saturday evening. Everyone stood aside and let them do their job (click to enlarge)

It seemed like things were starting to quiet down after that and I found myself curious as to why the police were blocking this particular block off where everything first started.  I walked around to the other side of the block where no one really was.  It looked like the aftermath of a war zone.  Nothing of what I saw said protest.  It said riot.  A smashed out and abandoned police car.  Police near a police school bus resting looking exhausted.  They were roping off the block and there were dumpsters here too that had been on fire and overturned.   The  walls of buildings had been spray painted.   Whatever had happened on that street before I had left my hotel that evening and arrived on that corner wasn’t a protest.  It was a riot.  

The remains of chaos. A smashed and abandoned police cruiser Saturday evening in Chicago (click to enlarge)

Police trying to secure and “take back” portions of the city in Chicago Saturday night (click to enlarge)

Police line on Grand and Dearborn Saturday evening in Chicago (click to enlarge)

Before I get in to what happened next, I want to take a second to try and process with you…  I feel like I both understand and can’t understand what happened next.  I talked to a few Chicago Police officers in the following days trying to understand what happens in these situations.  I have no idea how a police officer can distinguish between someone protesting vs. someone rioting.  In that way, those standing on the other side of the line have it much easier.  We can pretty much tell who and where the police are and what they’re doing.  It’s fairly obvious.  But if I’m standing in a group of people dressed in normal clothes with a mask covering my face, I don’t look like a minister who’s there trying to be a voice of calm and trying to be a cooler head.  I look like a white guy covered in tattoos with a shaved head, beard sticking out crazily from under the mask (there’s no beard maintenance with one on) and cauliflower ears.  How do you know who I am or what my intentions are?  Being yelled at and having things thrown at you for hours would wear down the self-control of even the most patient saints I know.  I asked an officer how the decision is made for the police to break rank and charge the crowd or disperse the crowd.  I was told the guys in the white shirts are supervisors who stand directly behind the front line spotting and observing people.  When they observe someone who is a “threat” or someone who has crossed the line from protester to rioter and into criminality, the supervisor will authorize detaining that person or dispersing the crowd.  And while I understand all of that, I still don’t understand what happened next.  

Demonstrators on Grand and Dearborn Saturday night in Chicago (click to enlarge

I can understand the anger and frustration of those in the streets.  You know, where I live is pretty much an upper-middle class community and it’s a relatively small community.  When there were rumors that the looting and rioting may extend to our area, people were angry and afraid.  They were angry that the roads would be closed, that there was inconvenience and life was interrupted.  They were angry people may come into their community and destroy things.  They were afraid for their safety and what may happen.  And while I am vehemently against riots, looting, violence, and terrorizing people and in no way think it’s “right,” I can’t help but think we are probably experiencing a small taste of the fear and anger many people live with every day - that fear of the police, of being pulled over and killed, that anger for being limited, looked down upon, viewed with suspicion just because of your skin color; the fear and anger that comes with feeling targeted; the fear and anger that you may never fully get a chance to realize your full potential because there are still many people who view you as less than human.  To live in that fear and anger day after day, month after month, year after year, and there doesn’t seem to be any hope of changing it does something to a person.  You bottle it up. You bury it. You take it over and over again because you feel powerless and there’s nothing you can do about it. And then one day enough becomes enough.  If you try to non-violently protest by taking a knee or raising complaints through proper channels, you’re told to shut up and sit down.  They want to throw heroes like Martin Luther King in your face to say how you’re doing it wrong, but they unleashed dogs and fire hoses on him. They arrested and beat him.  Then one day while he had the reputation of the most hated person in America, someone shot him… for protesting non-violently and insisting on being seen as an actual human being.  No, that doesn’t seem to work.  You want those who are disempowering you to feel the same fear, the same rage, the same powerlessness that you’ve been forced to feel your whole life.  So, one day enough becomes enough and all that fear, all that rage, all that powerlessness just comes exploding out like a pipe who’s pressure has built up and backed up to the point of exploding.  And while I understand all of that, I still don’t understand what  happened next…

Justin Crosby being arrested Saturday night in Chicago for allegedly throwing a water bottle at police. (click to enlarge)

An onlooker pleads with police to relent and ease up on Justin Crosby as he was arrested Saturday night in Chicago (click to enlarge)

Justin Crosby was thrown to the ground, pinned there, beaten, and arrested just as I was arriving back to the corner I started on.  There were so many police around him and on top of him that I couldn’t see what was really going on, but I heard him crying out and telling the officers he’s not trying to resist.  People on the outside were begging the police to let up on him, that they were really hurting him.  The police were yelling at him to get up off the ground.  He was pleading with them that he couldn’t.  They were standing on him and pinning him to the ground.  He told them that if they would even just stop crushing his legs, he’d stand up.  The police accused him of throwing a water bottle.  Did he?  I don’t know.  I didn’t see one way or the other.  But I’ve been thinking about something.  You remember that picture above that I asked you to pay attention to the young man with his fist raised and water bottle in his hand?  He looks a lot like Justin, doesn’t he?  They have similar hair and are both dressed in black clothing.  That’s not Justin.  Now, let me ask you something:  You’re chasing a crowd of people who are running away from you.  You’re told to grab the black kid dressed in black.  How do you know you grab the right one?  If he stops running like Justin apparently did, and puts his hands up like Justin apparently did, what do you do?  They threw him to the ground, beat his ass, and arrested him.  

Justin was missing for days after this.  This was the last photograph taken of him.  His family and friends called the police who said they didn’t detain him contrary to what I clearly saw, contrary to the photographs I’d taken, and contrary to what his friends who were present saw and said.  His family called hospitals and posted on social media. No one had any proof of what happened to him until they found my photograph on instagram.  Finally, the police released him and he’s safely at home now.  Justin is a really active and really well liked guy in the Chicago comedy scene and from what all his friends say, he’s one of the most gentle, calm, sweet, and funny guys you’ll ever meet.  My gut tells me he didn’t throw the bottle; that they grabbed the wrong guy.  But that’s just my gut and I’ll never really have any way of knowing.  

A car pulls up to taunt police and then drives away Saturday night in Chicago (click to enlarge)

After Justin Crosby was arrested and taken away, all Hell broke loose.  The crowd was pissed.  The cops were pissed.  The stoic nature of the police standing there was gone.  The crowd was yelling at the police and while I never saw exactly who was throwing water bottles (and I looked in hopes of trying to stop them) the water bottles were flying through the air.  And the police were yelling things back at the crowd, jeering at them, taunting them, telling them they were going to kick their asses.  Things were at a boiling point.  A car pulled up right in front of the police. A kid hung out the window and gave the police the finger before peeling out and driving away.  Another man stood right in front of the police line yelling something I couldn’t really hear at this point because everyone was yelling.  And that’s where I noticed where I was standing.  I was facing the police in the middle of it and not off to the side in the “safe zone.”  I was on the corner with my back to the entrance of Mastro’s Steakhouse. I was both on the corner and in the corner and I realized that I was in a very bad spot should this thing actually explode.  “Do what you have to do, but please be careful,” I heard her say as I kissed her goodbye that morning.  I began pleading with people to calm down, to hold on, to just wait a second… 

I have no idea what happened but all of a sudden more angry police officers than I even realized were there came flying forward toward us.  The crowd screamed and began to run.  The police were grabbing anyone they could get ahold of and beating them to the ground.  Just beating them.  Here I was trapped.  Officers were now running directly at the few of us trapped against the door of Mastro’s Steakhouse. We had our hands up hoping that this feeble act of compliance would be enough to be overlooked, unseen, or passed by.  I remember thinking this is going to hurt and then, *CRACK!* He swung his baton so hard into my shin that he tripped and fell.  

I was afraid of pain my whole life until I was 20 and I shattered my forearm trying to impress my girlfriend (that’s a different blog for a different day). That’s when I realized that adrenaline and your approach to the pain can dictate how much something hurts.  This lesson has been reinforced to me over and over again in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu where I once heard my toe break,, moved it relatively back into to place, and said to my training partner, “That’s going to hurt in a few minutes.” And boy did it once the adrenaline wore off.   When that baton crashed against my shin, there was no pain.  I’m really not that tough. There just was no pain.  Instead, the only thing I felt was pure rage.  I would have rathered the pain.  I’d be less embarrassed by telling you I felt pain than by the pure, burning rage I truly felt.  I wanted to grab that police officer, rip the club out of his hands, and beat him as hard as I could.  When I was younger I had rage like that but it’s been another lifetime ago since I’ve felt this much rage towards another human being.  But that’s just the thing.  In that moment he wasn’t a human being to me and I wanted to absolutely destroy whatever it was I thought he was.  I heard my voice speaking. It was like I had no control over myself, that I was merely an observer of my own actions.  It was maybe the closest thing to an out-of-body experience that I ever felt.  “What the hell did you do that for??” I screamed at this officer as I realized I was towering over him while he was trying to get up.  “Not smart, Quincy,” I thought to myself.  

He looked up at me wide-eyed.  There was genuine human fear in his eyes.  That’s when I realized his perspective. He’d just clubbed a man in the leg as hard as he could and yet that man is standing over him enraged as he’s on the ground trying to get up.  Now, I’m not a scary person.  If you know me, you know that I really am a gentle person. I don’t even think I look scary if I try.  I don’t have some killer instinct.  It’s one of the reasons I’m not that great at Jiu Jitsu.  I hate hurting people and I do it for the exercise and the mental chess aspects of the game.  But in that environment?  He was scared.  He was scared of me.  “Sorry,” he said and he ran off.  I was shaking.  The fear and adrenaline were pumping through me.  I looked around me.  I couldn’t even bring myself lift my camera to show you what I saw.  The police were beating everyone they could get ahold of.  Indiscriminately.  I saw nothing but pure rage on the face of the police and I was genuinely afraid for the first time that this might not end so well for me… I stood there with an overwhelming sadness growing in me.  Is this what we’ve become?  Is this who we’ve always been?  Is there really any healing or moving forward from any of this?  Are we so entrenched in our side, in being right, in our absolutism, in our dehumanization of others who we see as so different from ourselves that we’re just going to provoke each other until we destroy it all?  

A person being arrested after the explosion of chaos on Grand and Dearborn in Chicago Saturday night (click to enlarge)

It was a massacre on that street.  And every single one of us - cop, pastor, and protester alike - was to blame for it.  I wish now, looking back, that I could have seen that we - everyone there - were passing a point of no return; that there was a point where it was going to be impossible to ease tensions and allow cooler heads to prevail.  But in that moment watching the terror I was now engulfed in, all I could do is stand there on the side of the street watching the beatings, the shoutings, the curses, the carnage and feel like I was just waiting until it was my turn.  And then, just like that, just as quickly and unexpectedly as it all began, it was over.  People were crying.  Tears of anger, of fear, of horror, of a thousand different things I can imagine were beginning their slow, initial descent down the cheeks of protester and police officer alike in some cases.  Those who managed to not be handcuffed were picking themselves off the ground and leaving. Some of the police were still yelling and taunting the protesters or rioters - depending on who you ask. But if there are really sides in all of this, it’s pretty clear which side lost and which side was broken.  The police began to form rank again.  A few officers were helping people off the ground and helping them leave and walk away.  My leg began to throb.  I could feel my pulse in the area I was hit.  Still no pain but I had that thought: “This is really going to hurt in a few minutes.” 

A supervisor walked up to me.  “You ok?” He asked looking genuinely concerned.  

“Yeah… I think so.  You?” He just kind of shrugged. 

“Listen, I don’t know if you heard… You should have gotten a notification on your phone, but there is a city curfew that’s ben instituted and it’s past that time,” He told me.  “How far is your home?”

I said, “I’m staying at that hotel,” point just across the block.  He looked surprised.  “A friend got me a room there a week or two ago so I could get away and relax.”  He chuckled. 

“Not so relaxing…” 

“No…” I said. 

“Listen, please go back to the hotel and stay there the rest of the evening. For your safety.”  I’ll never forget this - the look on his face, the concern in his voice, the weariness in his eyes, the pause he gave before finishing, and the honesty in his last. two words “…and mine.”  

“Ok.  Thank you,” I said.  “And be safe.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “You too.”

I went back into the hotel and sat on the side of the bed trying to wrap my mind around what I had just seen and been through.  As I could feel my heart rate begin to slow down and my muscles start to relax a little, I realized how tense, how tight I’d been.  My leg began to throb, then ache, and then truly hurt.  “Ow!” I said to no one there.  I pushed up my pant leg and put my hand on the spot.  It was wet.  The skin had broken.  I called my wife. Told her I was ok.  I was safe and back in my hotel room. Then I tried to just casually mention that I may have been struck in chaos.  

“You just don’t listen,” is all she said. 

She’s right.  I don’t… 

(To be continued…)

The Under Armor Store on Michigan Ave. in Chicago after looting Saturday night (click to enlarge)

Protest, Pandemic, and Perspective (Part 3): Choices and Their Consequences

Two young women holding protest signs on the back of a Toyota Tacoma (I liked them instantly) on Saturday (click to enlarge)

My Dad still reminds me from time to time that a life isn’t defined by a single decision no matter how big that decision is.  He says it’s defined by the little choices we make; the ones we’re asked to make repeatedly, day after day.  These little decisions, they stack up.  You make enough of them in certain ways and it defines your character.  Are you going to be a person of integrity or of selfishness?  Are you going to care for others or more about yourself? Are you going to try to make the world around you better for you or better for everyone?  Huge questions that are answered by how we answer the small questions. Are you going to return that $5 bill you saw someone drop?  Are you going to be nice to the clerk in the store who’s moving slowly but looks like they’ve had a hard day?  Are you going to stick up for the kid being picked on by all your friends or are you going to pick on him too? If you did something wrong whether you knew it to be wrong at the time, will you take responsibility?  Even if you don’t have to?  Even if you can get away with it by not?  These are the decisions that define a lifetime. 

I saw many signs from many ethnicities and faith showing support and solidarity with each other. Here two young Muslim women encourage the crowd Saturday afternoon. (click to enlarge)

One of the things I’ve learned throughout being a pastor is that usually no decision I make - whether its something small in worship or a big decision about the direction and vision of our congregation - no decision I make is going to please everyone.  Someone is always going to be mad.  Don’t believe me?  Sometimes my beard length is a controversial discussion.  Some pastors find this paralyzing.  We love our people.  We want them to love us too. Even the ones we don’t like. (Yes pastors have people in their congregations they don’t like.  Jesus tells us to love everyone.  He doesn’t say we have to like them.)  We want to be accepted and we want to be universally liked.  It used to paralyze me too.  I didn’t want to rock the boat.  I just can’t help it.  I blame my Dad for making me like this.  I follow my convictions.  If I think something is the right thing to do, I’ll do it because it’s the right thing and face the consequences later..  But what I found is that I couldn’t be universally liked and also do what I knew in my heart to be right.  I came to a conclusion, though.  If no matter what I decided or what I did someone would be mad, then it didn’t matter.  I could just do what I felt was the right thing to do.  I didn’t have to worry about IF it would make someone mad.  I knew it most likely would upset someone.  Making everyone universally happy with me and my decisions just wasn’t and isn’t on the table.  

I’m bringing this up because when I pulled out of the driveway Saturday morning, I had no idea what I was actually going to do.  I knew I needed to go to the church and record the announcements for worship and get that done.  I knew that I had to eventually make it to Chicago by Wednesday morning at the latest to get my clothes and cameras out of the hotel room.  I knew that sometimes there’s talk and sometimes there’s action and I don’t believe a minister can be effective if the only ministry s/he is doing is in the confines of the church whether that mean the building or the community. I knew if I went to Chicago and there were protests or riots or both that there would be people in my congregation who would be more than upset and decry my bringing politics into the pulpit or that my actions were reflecting the church and people would think my stance is the church’s stance and therefore their stance.  

Those people aren’t entirely wrong.  It may be a small public, but I’m a public figure just by the nature of my vocation.  It’s one of the hardest things for me about being a pastor I am unapologetically who I am.  I make a lot of mistakes and try to own them but I can’t help but be myself.  I’m not good at trying to pretend I’m someone I’m just not.  I’m goofy and weird and embarrassing at times.  I like encountering and wrestling with ideas and opinions and rarely take the critique of ideas personally where sometimes people do.  If you say someone’s idea is stupid and wrong, even if you show why, they can still think you mean that they are stupid and wrong; not just their idea.   I love my tattoos and getting beat up on the jiu jitsu mats.  I’m not what you think of when you close your eyes and try to picture someone named “Quincy Worthington” who’s a Presbyterian minister.  What I’m getting at is that I realize that my congregation already puts up with enough just by having me as their pastor.  So, I try really hard to pick my fights.  Find the important ones, let go of the small ones.  I don’t post politics on social media too much.  I don’t endorse candidates or put signs on my car or in my yard.  This year we had two church members, one a Democrat and one a Republican, running against each other for the town board.  I love both of them to death and was mad they put me in the situation of privately having to choose. So, I totally understand why members of my church get frustrated with me when I am highly visibly  posting or engaging in things that can be controversial even if I don’t feel that it’s all that controversial for a minister to stand on one side or another of any particular issue. But I also come from the same tradition as Karl Barth who decried that every preacher should preach with the Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

I finished recording the announcements, took a deep breath, stood in the sanctuary, and this verse from Genesis 4 that’s been ringing in my head for a week came to the forefront, “The Lord said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?”

Cain said, “I don’t know. Am I my brother’s guardian?”

The Lord said, “What did you do? The voice of your brother’s blood is crying to me from the ground.” 

A woman’s sign expressing her frustration Saturday afternoon (click to enlarge)

It’s that last part… That indictment:  “What did you do?  The voice of your brother’s blood is crying to me from the ground.”  It’s the little decisions that form your character; not the big ones.  It’s the decision to get in the car and go knowing that there may be a cost but going anyways because you think it’s the right thing to do.  It’s these decisions to go to the need of a distressed brother or sister - whether they’re a protestor, rioter, or police officer - because you feel the calling of Jesus to go instead of staying home where you’re comfortable and safe, where you sometimes suffer the tears of a fearful daughter for her father because you want the world to be in a way where she doesn’t have to make the tough choice of trying to be an agent of God’s peace in a world thrown into chaos.  I believe in my heart that’s what it means and looks like to pick up your cross and follow Him. So, I decided to risk it and go to Chicago Saturday as I pulled out my clergy shirt from my office closet because I heard a story about another little girl with the last name of Floyd and her daddy wasn’t coming home and if chaos broke out when I was there, if the world caught on fire in Chicago that evening and I was there… If I could keep somebody safe, if I could be the voice of cooler heads prevailing, if I could be a presence of peace, of ministry, of help, if I could maybe make some sort of positive difference at all, then didn’t I need to go?  I decided to go back into Chicago Saturday understanding there may be a very real risk to my safety and my reputation because I couldn’t get that voice out of my head: “The Voice of your brother’s blood is crying to me from the ground.”  

The whole ride up there I thought who was I kidding?  I’m going to get up there and maybe there will be a march and that will be it.  It’s dead in the city.  No one is there.  The highway was open, there weren’t many cars out, no congestion or busloads of people heading into the city. I was going to get to my room, relax the rest of the day and then call Beverly and convince her to come up Sunday so we could at least have a day together just her and I.  The moment I got into the city itself, I started to suspect that it wasn’t going to be a quiet afternoon.  I was heading through the financial district to get to my hotel when a “gang” of bicyclists blocked the intersection traffic for a parade of honking cars with protest signs driving through.  “Hey,” I thought, “How smart is that?  They organized bicyclers to help with traffic and keep people safe and are physically distancing by making it a protest drive!” I was kind of excited to take pictures of this parade.  It was fun!  Even the people who were being blocked by the bikes seemed to understand and from what I could see, they were smiling.  

Some bikers helping with traffic and protesting Saturday afternoon (click to enlarge)

I got to the hotel, parked the car, got up to my room, changed into my clergy shirt (when I was 18, we called tattoos “nerd armor” because only tough guys had them. So people messed with you less.  Now that everyone has matching tattoos with their mother, my clergy shirt is my nerd armor.  People are less likely to punch you if you’re wearing one <- notice I said LESS.  I choose words carefully!), and grabbed my camera stuff.  I set out to find the fun car protest.  I didn’t find it.  Instead I found myself turning a corner and running into a full-blown protest.  

A bus that was spray painted and people climbed on Saturday afternoon. The driver was still inside. (click to enlarge)

Now when I say protest, I mean protest.  I’ll use the word riot freely later but in my mind and in what I saw there are distinct differences between protest and riot.  Protests aren’t necessarily peaceful just by their nature.  There’s rarely anything peaceful about demanding change.  There’s nothing peaceful about confronting systematic racism or facing down dehumanization. The protests I’ve been a part of have all stared down power in the face and that creates conflict, not peace… However, I believe in my heart that protests are non-violent. I believe protests exist to make a point.  They have a higher goal and purpose.  Riots exist to make chaos and that’s usually the only goal and purpose of a riot - destruction and chaos.  

I couldn’t hear what was said but the two men pointing at each other started cracking up right after this photo was taken on Saturday… (Click to enlarge)

Let’s just get this out of the way now.  I saw people spray paint a bus, a police vehicle, and several buildings.  I saw a few water bottles flying through the air.  I saw people trying to turn a vehicle over for about 10 minutes unsuccessfully.  I smelled a whole lot of pot smoke in the air which is still illegal to smoke in public in Illinois. Are those actions antithetical to a protest and more inline with a riot?  Well… Maybe not the last one but yes.  But that’s the worst I saw.  It was really just a few kids spray-painting and when they saw me in my clergy shirt with a camera, they quickly stopped and ran away giggling.  They were kids doing stupid kid things.  They weren’t organized extreme leftist or terrorists.  To be perfectly honest, a vast majority of the time, I don’t think anybody even knew where we were walking.  We were just walking following other people, allowing the police to kind of corral and and guide us where we could go and couldn’t.  

“Oh crap! Here comes the minister!” (click to enlarge)

“Oh crap! Here comes the minister!” (click to enlarge)

Some people yelled some pretty awful things at the police officers who stood stoically.  Some people would talk with them and most of the police would engage in a conversation.  Even though they were in riot gear, I never personally felt threatened by them.  They seemed to just be there.  I couldn’t figure out any rhyme or reason to why they chose to block of certain strips of road or certain blocks.  But they were just there.  I can’t say I had a sense of mutual respect between protestor and police officer.  It’s kind of hard when NWA’s “F*ck the Police” is blaring half the time to say it was respectful.  But I had the sense Saturday during the day that both protester and police had the understanding that the other one was there to do a job, and they were going to do it. The protestors were going to protest. The police were going to make sure it didn’t “get out of hand.” Almost everybody understood the roles each were playing.  

A vandalized police truck that some protesters briefly attempted to overturn Saturday

One of the more unique approaches to protesting (click to enlarge

After a few hours of walking and taking pictures with a mask on, trying to stay to the outside to avoid as much human contact as possible and draining an entire small bottle of hand sanitizer that fit in my pocket, I headed back to the hotel to recharge both the batteries and myself.  I got some dinner, checked in with my family, and took a quick nap thinking that if that’s really what the protest was or is, then it really wasn’t going to be that bad.  I set the alarm on my phone for an hour or two feeling my eyes get heavy, I started to drift a little bit, and as I closed my eyes for that brief hour I had no idea that when I opened them both the city and my perspective would be vastly different than when I closed them…. 

Young people protesting non-violently Saturday (click to enlarge)

A man leads a group of protesters in chants, encouragement, and calm Saturday afternoon. He was one of the more impressive protesters I saw calling for urgency but also respect and nonviolence. (click to enlarge)

Taken Saturday in front of Chicago theatre (Click to enlarge)

Protest, Pandemic, and Perspective (Part 2): How I Got Here...

The streets were quiet Thursday night leading to a feeling of post-apocalypse. (click to enlarge)

I keep wondering if it weren’t for the set of circumstances that led me to be in Chicago… would I have gone anyways?  I can’t honestly answer that question one way or the other… And I don’t know if I’ll ever know the answer…

A few weeks ago, my good friend Dan called me and said he had an extra hotel room in the city starting the Wednesday after Memorial Day for a week. Dan works in the medical field.   He said he knew how tired I was, how trying to pastor a church in a time of pandemic was starting wear on me, and how it was potentially burning me out.  For weeks I’d been a one man recording studio writing, lighting, recording, and editing worship and sermons often by myself and then sending the chunks to Jeff, our Communications Coordinator, to add the Children's’ Chat and work done by our Associate Pastor and the music that people were recording at home to edit into one service with a flow.  I’ve been trying to figure out how much time it actually takes to put together an online worship service each week from start to finish.  It has to be close to 80-100 hours if you put the time of everyone together.  I needed a break.  I needed a few days just to get away to relax, collect my thoughts, and try to refill my cup a little.  

These buildings will forever be known to me as the “Wlico Cover” buildings because the first place I saw them was on a Wilco album and not in Chicago.

As the date approached to head into the city, a funeral for a close friend’s relative was scheduled for that Friday.  My wife and I talked.  She could see I was worn out.  We’d talked about it a lot.  She encouraged me to go up to the city Wednesday, take my camera, relax and explore, come home Friday for the funeral, and then the two of us would head up together for some time away Saturday through Monday.  It’s one of the advantages to having a service recorded ahead of time.  You can do things on a weekend when the work is done.  

I met Dan in the city Wednesday evening and it was fantastic and strange.  The city seemed almost completely empty.  There were times we’d catch ourselves just walking down the middle of what would normally be a crowded street talking and taking photos.  It was surreal but incredible to see and witness.  Thursday brought some rain and Dan had some work to do during the day, so I explored alone.  I had my mask on.  Social distancing was super easy because barely anyone was out even during the day.  It felt good.  It felt good to be moving and active.  It felt good to be outside.  It felt good to be taking photos and not having a timeline or someplace I had to be.  It just felt good.  Friday I got up, worked on the funeral, straightened up my stuff in the hotel room, grabbed my computer and laptop, left everything else in the room, and went to the lobby to request room cleaning because my wife was coming.  I didn’t need the lecture about how I can make a hotel room messy in less than 36 hours.  I headed back to Munster for the funeral.  

Even fashion has changed in the time of Covid. Many of the stores in the loop feature mannequins in the latest fashion with matching face masks. (click to enlarge)

By the time I got back to the house after the funeral, it was around 7:30pm.  I hadn’t been home since Wednesday night.  I made a very intentional decision not to listen to any news in order to unplug.   I walked into the house to my wife asking me if I had heard about what was going on in Minneapolis.  I turned on the news and couldn’t believe it.  My friend Bryce who was guest preaching for me that coming Sunday and I started to exchange texts about what he’d say and his sermon.  I went back into church where he and I spent almost 2 hours on zoom talking and processing what was going on. 

When I got home, my wife and I began to talk about Chicago.  My stuff was still there.  I HAD to go back. There’d probably be protests but would they be all that bad?  Should she still come with me?  We woke up Saturday morning.  She kissed me and decided that with kid schedules and everything going on she’d stay behind.  She told me to be safe.  She said she understood who I am, what was going on, and that I had to go if for no other reason than to gather my stuff from the room. 

She said she knew that if anything should happen, if things flare up in Chicago, that I couldn’t just stand by; that if I thought I could make a difference, be a voice of calm and peace, and minister to people she knew I’d be there in the middle of it trying to do what I thought was right.  She kissed me.  She told me she loved me.  She urged me to be safe.  She supported me and trusted me to discern and weigh the difference I could make vs. putting my safety at risk.   Not every spouse would be that brave and selfless as someone they love leaves to potentially end up in a protest during a time of pandemic.  Sometimes love gets proven.  Beverly Worthington proved to me yet again that she loved me - warts and all. 

She didn’t ask me to change who I am.  She supported me and I took her courage and strength with me as I left to go back with no idea what I was going to find.  

A homeless man seeks refuge in the doors of St. Peters in the Loop Thursday evening. (click to enlarge)

Protest, Pandemic, and Perspective (Part 1): Introduction to a Blog Series

I’ve been struggling with how to do this; how to tell you about the past week, what happened, and what I saw.  I decided that there are too many photos, too many stories to share in one blog post. So, I going to make a few posts about it.  But before we get started, I think we need to address a few things about what this is and isn’t and what I am …and am not…. 

I’m not a journalist.  I have no training as a journalist.  I don’t regard my photography or what I’m going to write in these blogs as journalism. I am an academically trained Theologian and a professionally trained pastor.  It’s important we both understand that because I don’t claim that this post is going to be fair and balanced.  I’m not trying to offer equal weighting to all sides of the story or making sure everyone’s views are represented objectively.  I am trying to share with you a certain perspective - my perspective - of what I saw and experienced and that perspective will almost always be viewed through the lens of my faith, my vocation, and my inner convictions.  That is a distinctly different point of view than a journalist and has distinctly different goals than a work of journalism.  However, while I am a pastor and while I am a Christian of deep faith who is sinfully proud of both my denominational affiliation and the particular church that I serve, I’m not writing to you as a pastor right now.  I’m writing to you as Quincy, the person.  What I’m writing and saying in these posts are in no way a representation or the views of The Presbyterian Church (USA) or the congregation I serve.  They are solely my own and I own them and take responsibility for them.  

The best tattoo award goes to this guy…. An officer helping to secure a permitter during peaceful protests Saturday afternoon

A young man peacefully protesting Saturday afternoon

A young man peacefully protesting Saturday afternoon

All that being said, I didn’t go and I don’t write this to score points or tally them to figure out which “side” is “right” - I wouldn’t begin to know how to score that.  I’m not interested in proving my views over yours.  Because I’m writing this as a person - a human being - who believes deeply that the secret to knowing God rests in knowing yourself and other people, that to know Christ, we must not only know but love our neighbors, I am interested in the human element of this story.  I can tell you that I cried with protestors who had moments of being totally overcome with grief and the weight of the moment.  I prayed with Police officers who were tired, beaten up, and frustrated that the hard work they put in to building relationships with the people they serve also died as another police officer squashed the life out of George Floyd.   I saw them all as people; people struggling; people confronting the brokenness of this world; people in need of a pastor - maybe a pastor like me…. 

You can choose to agree with me or not.  You can choose to agree with my approach or not.  You can choose to agree with what I did or not.  That choice is yours.  But, no matter where we stand on any particular issue or in any particular party,I hope that we can all agree that both the killing of George Floyd and the senseless looting and destruction of property are wrong.  Acts of violence should be condemned and I condemn them outright.  But until we can look across the side of protest line and see that it’s another human being looking back at us, we will never open a meaningful dialogue that doesn’t dehumanize another person into a broad stereotype like “thug protestor” or “crooked cop.”  What I’ve learned is that the situation on the ground, in the midst of the chaos, is far more nuanced than a binary choice. So, I offer you my perspective as I seek to understand, as I seek to find the humanity in other precious children of God, and as I seek to find my own humanity amidst the fear, the chaos, and the hope of the world in which we live….  

Protestors sitting in front of a Police line during relatively peaceful demonstrations Saturday afternoon in Chicago.

Finding Light: How the Journey Started

“So, I’m looking at this photo, thinking about the Esther and my conversation with Chris and the news. And I wonder to myself, “What if the world needs to be different/better sure, but what if I need to see the world differently? What if I could look at this world in a way where I could find and see the beauty that’s already there in front of me like this rhino? What if I could show other people the beauty I’m trying to see and I am finding?” What if…. I could literally look at this world differently?”

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