Someone Better Tell Tom Selleck...

I never really thought of it as a roadblock to anything, let alone employment.

It was pointed out to me today over coffee by a pro in the field of employment-finding that sporting a mustache can be a stumbling point for many people due to the stereotype associated with a man with a mustache. What is this stereotype?

A few years ago, when Holly first came to Mt. Tabor Presbyterian where I was working, (and it was later told to me) her initial reaction to seeing me (I was leading singing at the time) was to question, “Who’s the guy with the molest-a-stache?” Upon hearing that I was the Youth Director, she was in disbelief.

This might be a good time to point out that many of the jobs I am trying to be hired for work directly with teenagers. “If you were my client I’d make you shave it off,” said my friend in the café.

My brain really fought this one, as I have really gotten used to the ‘stache over the past few years. “Obviously whoever considers a mustache as a sign that someone shouldn't be in ministry has never been to a Pastor’s Conference, where the mustache (along with a comb over - or at least a side part - and a cell phone in belt case) is almost a cliché among those in attendance,” I told myself. But maybe that is a part of the negative stereotype.

I reflected back on a couple of really good interviews that I have recently had that did not result in any sort of employment, and I wonder if wanting to work with teens and young adults while sporting a mustache is a poor decision. Goatees, on the other hand, have become quite popular among our society these days, crossing a generational gap that stops many other fashion and/or style progressions. However, it takes me a month or two to actually get a decent goatee going… apparently I need Rogaine for the chin.

At this point the decision was quite simple: the mustache is gone. I may not agree with some of the stereotypes placed on mustaches, but I understand that other folk might see something other than a benign attempt at facial hair. After all, Paul wrote “Be careful, however, that the exercise of your rights does not become a stumbling block to the weak. For if someone with a weak conscience sees you, with all your knowledge, [with a mustache], won’t that person be emboldened to [assume there is a darker intention that they too can follow]? …Therefore, if [my mustache] causes my brother or sister to fall into [or assume] sin, I will never [sport a ‘stache] again, so that I will not cause them to fall.”  (1 Corinthians  8:9-10, 13) Well, maybe not exactly that, but I get what he was saying, and so will consider what others see in a man working with youth that has a mustache.

The whole facial-hair-marks-the-good-or-bad thing is about to become a major plot point, as this weekend is the last for Trek In The Park, featuring the episode Mirror, Mirror. You know, the one where we can tell that Spock is evil based on if he has a goatee or not?

Now I just need to spend some time in the sun so that I don’t have a pale line between my nose and lips.
UPDATE: In the interest of several offended people, and that Tom has an epic 'stache, the original Title referring to Hitler has been removed.

Just another Saturday Night...

So I wasn't expecting much in the way of deep thoughts or anything. I was simply driving across town to hang out with my friend Jenn, watch a movie, and chill. As I was driving on Powell, I passed a convenience store and noticed a rather overweight young woman sitting on a walker eating something from a paper plate. It's one of those scenes that often gets a humorous or stereotypical comment from me or someone else around. But that's not what happened. My brain recognized the scene as one where I would usually see a stereotype, but then there was a disconnect.

In that split second, as I glanced over while driving by at 40 miles per hour, I didn't see a stereotype, I didn't see the punch line to a joke; I saw a person, who is usually shunned by those around her. What I saw saddened me; not because of her situation, but because of mine...

I read in the Bible that Jesus would look at a crowd, or a person, or a situation and he would "have compassion on them," which would usually lead to him reaching out, healing them, touching them, welcoming them, going to them... and sometimes when he did that the religious authorities in witness just about lost it, that an up-and-coming young rabbi would touch an outcast, an unclean person, a sick person, a needy person, someone looked down on with disdain.

In this moment where I looked and saw this woman on the side of the road, there was a subtle connection made that strove to break my heart... I had compassion on someone, and my response was to reach out to them. Here is the horror: I don't know how to reach out to this person. I call myself a Christian, I look toward the teaching and example of Jesus Christ in how to live life, and I don't know how to touch.

And here I am again, writing about it on this blog. I did not go back and stop, taking time to say hello to the young woman. Apparently I can do that with homeless, with convicted criminals, with the sick and dying in a home or hospital, with liberals, with conservatives, with so many accepted stereotypes, but this situation, this person, shattered the illusion I have that I am actually caring about people in a tangible way.

I wonder if my discomfort, the opening of my eyes might be in the politics of it, or in my Lake Oswego upbringing, or my illusion of busyness, or the identification of a proper service-worthy demographic (ex: homeless, poor, imprisoned) as set forth by many churches, schools, colleges, non-profits, etc as the demographic [alone] that must be reached. Or is it simply that I saw a person that could have needed, or wanted, someone to acknowledge them as a person worth talking to, or even reaching out to in a more physical way (I know that part of my soul wanted to embrace her). I'll never know now...

But something has changed. My soul screams out to reach out and find people who are in need of a connection, of a neighbor, of someone to include them in the community [that I seem to be going on and on about so much of the time]. Years ago I remember waiting tables and feeling this way towards a couple of the regulars who were elderly widowers who would come in for a bowl of soup by themselves. I made a point to be available for a conversation if they were in the mood for it, much to the detriment of my tips (old single guys ordering soup don't tip much compared to heavily intoxicated groups of business men), but to the satisfaction of my soul. I'm not sure I understood it then... but maybe now, in the fleeting glimpse of a woman sitting on the side of a busy street, I get it. Maybe now I can learn to stop, to acknowledge, to touch...