I was a gangly, mop-headed 13-year-old during the 2000 presidential election. And in between local news stories touting apocalyptic rhetoric, because the next president would ultimately determine the existence of humanity as we know it (as they always seem to), I remember seeing images of balding white men in suits accusing the Democrat nominee, John Kerry, of being a “Flip-Flop.” This was, of course, deemed Breaking News by cable news networks, and my (barely) teenage mind was convinced it was a big deal. How could someone ever change their mind about something as important as their position on a war?
Now, as anyone familiar with American politics can tell you, you’re nothing if not consistent. I mean, we look at decades of voting history in order to ensure that our candidates are rock solid representatives of their party’s platform, voting consistently since the Civil Rights Movement, despite the ebbs and flows of our unpredictable cultural climate. But for some reason, once you’re old enough to grab a six-pack of Keystone from 7-11 and pay with stolen money from your dad’s sock drawer, you’re expected to have a cemented position on issues that range from when life begins to the fundamental nature of our sexuality as a species.
No problem.
I mean, let’s think about this for a second: When I was around 18-21 years old, my entire mind was driven by calculating the next time I would be able to make out with my girlfriend, TCU’s ranking in the (corrupt) BCS football poll, and whether or not I should skip class to play Super Smash Brothers with my roommates.
I was a kid—I don’t think anyone would fault me for the aforementioned behavior. But “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”
I got a job. I got married. I had kids. I stopped playing (as many) video games.I stopped eating hot dog buns with mustard for a meal. But for some reason, our expectation of humanity seems to stop there. We see maturity as something that affects our ability to get shit done like taking on a mortgage, going into credit card debt, and having a job we don’t like, but not our fundamental understanding of the world.
The unwritten rule engraved in the hearts of our communities is that we can’t shift our views about…
Abortion.
LGBTQ rights.
Guns.
The death penalty.
The Bible
or God.
We can’t change. We are forbidden to progress.
Somehow, those psychological states are grounded in millions of metric tons of concrete, sealed until the white, laughing Jesus with flowing, straight locks returns to save us from the Muslims and their gay agendas, who want to cap carbon emissions and take away our AR-15s.
But we flip-flop, shift, change…
Progress.
When I was 10, I was obsessed with Texas Rangers. I could tell you the starting line up, the backups for each position and the batting averages of the guys slotted to pinch hit. And in the tiny part of my mind that wasn’t occupied with sports, I saw God as a disgruntled bearded man that waited with baited breath for me to say His name in vain or use taboo words like butt, crap, or freak whenever my brother would piss me off by not letting me onto AOL instant messenger. I thought like a child.
When I was 20, I was fed up with the Rangers for their impressive inability to pick up quality relief pitching. God became more sophisticated. He loved me because of my faith in Him. I was part of a special group, protected from God’s wrath unlike the rest of humanity who couldn’t work up the correct psychological states in their brains to pass God’s salvation test. You were either right like us or wrong like them. I reasoned like a child.
Then somewhere in this decade… I think I started to become a man.
I turned 30. I started to accept that all my teams would break my heart if I let them—I started thinking an idea that would make me foam at the mouth years earlier: it’s just a game. I made friends and met people that weren’t like us, but them. And ever-so-slowly I came to the realization that there is only us. God became unknowable. She became something beyond my comprehension. It, the Divine, is something that loves all people. He is someone who is profoundly for each and every one of us, regardless of our race, sexuality, gender, class—despite our positions on abortion, guns, and even the Bible.
I’m not 40 yet, but I can imagine that I will see God differently then, too. I think the process of continually putting childish things away is something that takes a lifetime. Hopefully, by then, I’ll stop throwing a fit when the Rangers have a strikeout with runners in scoring position. We are human beings established in a beautiful trajectory of progress—a long arm that bends toward justice, love, and peace—a vision I want to embrace fully even if my politics and faith shift away from my family, even if I see the Bible differently than my community, even if God has now grown into a cosmic force beyond anything metaphors or words could articulate.
Call me a Flip-flop if you want.
But change,
evolution,
progress…
These are all fundamental aspects of a healthy, growing organism. So unlike the way I thought when I was 13, I’ll happily label myself as a person willing to change his mind, to put away the childish things of the past, and submit to a growing, living understanding of a dynamic humanity, an ever-changing culture, and an infinite God.
