I choose to believe in certain things.
Like how the color of my socks impacts a college basketball game.
Or how Duke’s mayonnaise is the only acceptable condiment for a proper tomato sandwich.
I’m prone to believe my hair looks better on the second day after washing it, and that my fingers can style my fading red locks in a way no brush or comb can mimic.
I hold tight to the notion that Christmas won’t start until I watch a particular movie on Thanksgiving night.
I believe that, on a long enough timeline, all institutions, regardless of their best intentions, inevitably turn inward and become self-centered.
I am of the belief that season 8 episode 19 of the television series “Scrubs” is cinematic perfection.
I believe, too, with blessed assurance, that macaroni and cheese is a vegetable. Most restaurant menus in the South are with me on this.
I believe that Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U” is the greatest hymn ever written.
I believe my wife sticks around because I make her laugh.
I believe my children are gifts from God who came to purge me of all my wrongdoings.
And as of late, I believe all that holds back the boogeyman from creeping out of my closet, descending on my bedroom, and snuffing out the last threads of hope in a world gone mad is the faint glow of a hallway light.
All this is radical, but not scandalous.
No, scandalous is believing people can change. And I do.
I might be alone in my opinion, and that’s alright. “A leopard can’t change their spots” and “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” are respected idioms for a reason.
Still, I’ve seen it happen. Small moments that crack a cynic’s heart and make me feel like I’m walking on fresh grass, my toes tickled, my spirit in stitches from the goodness of how it feels. I crave the experience the way children crave the first day of summer.
I saw it happen this week, with a man I know.
We are both part of a book study. We meet with a group once a week to talk about the importance of community. We sit at round tables like King Arthur’s knights.
Everyone contributes thoughts and ideas. We make it a point to ensure that all voices are heard, regardless of whether they finished the assigned reading for the week.
We strive in our fellowship hall to grant the pious and procrastinating equal footing—democracy at its finest. Leaders in Washington take note.
Part of our time together involves idle banter. You know the type. Chitchat. Small talk. The practice of prattling on about our coming and goings while nibbling on homemade cookie squares.
“Mmms” fall out of mouths, and crumbs spill on shirts. The conversation flows freely.
This is where I’m told it all began.
I don’t know what recent event spurred the spiel. It could have been building for a while. Tucked away on the back of the tongue, itching and swelling like an allergic reaction to pineapple.
Finally, someone tossed my friend a low ball inside, and he swung with the tenacity of Red Sox great Ted Williams.
What followed was a string of words braided with equal parts confusion, sadness and shame. The word “nationalism” came up along with the question, “Why is it wrong to love one’s country?”
Those who sat with him listened as he began describing the pride he felt for his country and its people. He talked about a call dedicated to his community, one that showed care and concern for anyone who came into his business. He thought service and sacrifice for the common good was an alright way to live a life.
Ears attached to those who knew him for many years listened with Job-like patience.
“You know, what you’re talking about is patriotism, not nationalism,” someone said.
“Well, what’s the difference?” he asked.
For the next ten minutes, they talked.
He listened.
I’m told he nodded in silence.
I don’t know what it takes to see infrastructural change occur in someone’s mind. Qualified folks would probably tell you that something happens in the prefrontal cortex of your brain.
An opportunity presents itself, new information is registered, and a decision to adapt or discard commences. My brain doesn’t think in such ways (it most likely does, but I’m too ignorant to comprehend).
I think it’s more like a fire, or better yet, a spark—a compact burst of sizzling particles, gifted to humanity by the hands of Prometheus. Change then pours down on us, as we try to catch vapors that will explode our sacred preconceived notions. Only then, with certainty in disarray and in ruin, do we open to other possibilities.
The same was true for my friend.
A gentle breeze of the Holy Spirit followed the spark that night—a neighbor went the extra mile. They reached out with a request. “I got this book you should read. I think it talks about what you’re talking about. Would you read it and let me know what you think?” the woman said to him.
He took the book, John Fugelsang’s “Separation of Church and Hate: A Sane Person’s Guide to Taking Back the Bible from Fundamentalists, Fascists, and Flock-Fleecing Frauds,” home with him. And by God, would you believe it, he actually read it.
This truth was told the following Sunday. I saw the book tucked under his arm, slapped right on the top of his Bible.
“You reading this?” I asked. He told me yes and shared the story of how it came about.
“You know I’m glad I read up on that because, you know, I was thinking nationalism was patriotism. You believe that?”
If I hadn’t been in the belly of a Baptist church, I would have clapped, but I was too afraid others would join in and cause a revival. I regret I didn’t, because maybe that’s what we need.
Revivals that start with confession, remove indifference, and end in humility.
Hearing an outward expression of admittance was refreshing and damn near holy.
I wish more people believed change was possible.
I wish more people were like my friend—not afraid to shake old dust from their feet and set about walking a new path.
- About the Author
- Latest Posts
Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and McAfee School of Theology where he earned his Doctor of Ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.
