I was asked about the reference to "my party" in the last post. Here's why:
While I understand the sentiment of "I vote for the candidate, not the party" I find that to be hogwash. Because in this country, there are no independents, and there are no smaller parties with any prospect of electing a president. Therefore, we are choosing between a person running as a representative of the Republican party, and a person running as a representative of the Democratic party.
There are, most assuredly, hypocrites on both sides. That doesn't deter me; I am a church professional. I live that, and live with that, every single day. When it comes to matters of personal integrity, Bill Clinton was the worst. Or, at least as far as we know, he was the worst. George II has steadfastly refused to account for himself beyond "I never used drugs after I turned 40." Fabulous!
It certainly troubles me that the single finest human being to hold the Presidency in my lifetime, Jimmy Carter, is widely reckoned (not by me!) as the worst president of that period. And it will gall me until I die that the only president that practiced a genuine Christian faith daily and thoroughly, again, Mr. Carter, was defeated by the platitude-spewing absurdity of Ronald Reagan. It seems to me that in politics, like so much of life, we have those who are Christians, and there are those who talk about being Christians.
And this is why I vote where I vote.
Democrats are accused of being "pro-abortion." Bullshit! I have been a Democrat for 30 years. I have never met anyone who thought, nor have I ever heard anyone say, "Hey, lets get some pregnancies going so we can kill some babies!" Doesn't happen. The question really is this: do we want to make criminals out of young women who feel themselves to be in such a desperate circumstance that it seems abortion is the only way out of their situation? I can't do that. And here's a little tidbit for you to chew on: abortion declined every year of the Clinton Administration. I can't supply all of the explanation for that reality, but maybe it had something to do with the program of detailed, thorough sex education for the children of our nation under the Godless Democrats, while the approach of the righteous Republicans tends to be "Abstinence Only." Oh, and have you seen those studies that reveal that kids who take the abstinence pledge are actually MORE likely to engage in sexual activity? Gee, who would have thought that teenagers would promise, while mom and dad and the preacher were standing there looking at them, that they wouldn't do those awful things? And then get caught up in the hormones of the moment in the backseat of the car later? This doesn't make them bad kids; just KIDS! Well, I guess in the last analysis, it's just more fun to stand on the street corner screaming "Murderer!" at the pitiful young woman who doesn't know what else to do about her unplanned pregnancy, since the sperm donor just told her to lose his phone number, and her sainted father told her she better never, ever come home knocked up and embarrass him.
The right-wing saints often accuse us of trying to rid the schools, and any other public sphere, of God. I have a couple of thoughts here. First, if God is to be acknowledged in those settings, whose God shall it be? The God of Abraham? OK. But shall we address that God as Allah, or Yahweh? Or, for the followers of Jesus, should we address God through the Son of God? Or should we speak of Buddha? Or should we turn the morning devotions over to the Hindus or Sikhs. Or if Allah, Sunni or Shiite? And if you think that doesn't matter, you haven't been watching Iraq for the last five years. All of these folks have to be considered, because my children attended public schools with some of all of these; my wife does speech therapy with children of all of them in Southaven, MS, and my parishoners' children go to schools with children of all these groups in Tipton County. Neo-cons may want to live in a homogeneous day-gone-by, but new Americans have arrived! And they are property owners and tax payers. So which of us should have the privilege of paying our taxes to have someone else's religion taught to our children? And that doesn't even address the position of those who have chosen to have no religion in their lives. They pay for these schools, city halls, fire departments, etc. too. And while we Christians certainly pray for those outside the church to come into the church, as free creatures of a generous Creator, and as Americans, they have the right to do otherwise.
Second, even if we are going to ignore all of our non-Christian neighbors, whose Christianity will be taught? This, by the way, is the question that produced James Dobson's attack on Barack Obama this week. Regardless of the current notion that it doesn't matter where you go as long as it's Christian (such sad, utter nonsense), we do not even begin to have a single notion of God within the Christian family. My church says that if you land on our doorstep as a baptized Christian, we'll honor that relationship with God and welcome you. Others believe that if you weren't baptized in their denomination, then it doesn't count. Still others think that if you weren't baptized in their own little church, then it isn't real. My church will gladly include you if you wish to share in the Lord's Table. Again, others won't serve you if you aren't of their denomination. Also again, still others won't share with you unless you're a member in their building. Whose version of Christianity would be used? And these questions don't even address understandings of the Bible, authority of the clergy, and so on.
I don't want the schools teaching the Bible. I don't want them teaching children to pray. I don't want our governmental institutions taking sides on doctrinal issues. In other words, I don't want them doing my job. And here's another little question for you: when was the last time that my dear brothers and sisters in the faith, those who are so worried about the Godless Democrats taking God out of the schools, etc. etc. etc., bothered to pick up a neighbor child and take them to church on a Sunday morning? Because God can surely be found at your church on Sunday, don't you think? How many people have you invited to join you there this year? Hey, wait; where'd all your fervor go?
Now let's talk about the poor. Who in hell ever gave Christians permission to pursue policies that punish the poor? You can't honestly call yourself "Pro-Life" when the rest of your program calls for the end of school breakfast and lunch programs, defunding of Head Start, elimination of safety net programs, reductions in unemployment benefits, destruction of Medicaid, wiping out funding of mental health facilities, cuts to low-income housing subsidies and the like while lowering the tax brackets for the wealthiest Americans. Those programs have all had their flaws-mostly to do with failure to fully fund them-but they were at least some degree of insurance that when people fall into desperate circumstances there would be some assistance available. But we've moved into the time of "Pull yourself up by your bootsraps." Which is damned hard when you don't have any shoes!
Republican economic policy used to be called "Trickle Down." You know, take all the taxes and regulations off the rich and they will smile down out of their beneficence and use their means to sprinkle drops of blessings down on all those beneath them. Sounds to me more like the title of the Texas judge's book: Don't Piss on My Leg and Tell Me It's Raining. And rich people didn't get that way by spending all their money anyway. To all those under the privileged 5%, trickle down feels a whole lot more like trickled on. When George II was pushing, ultimately successfully, for his tax cuts, Bill Clinton made a series of very pertinent speeches. The former President asked his audiences, "Why is President Bush so worried about giving me more money? I'm doing fine." And he was. The former President business is very lucrative. And Clinton's point was that he didn't need the help. None of the rich need the help! The government needs to be on the side of those who can't move on up on their own. Republicans decry "Big Government, Free Spending Liberals" with a straight face, even after Bush has turned a $600 billion surplus at the end of the Clinton Administration into a debt of more than $9 trillion as of the moment of this writing (google "national debt clock"). I say, thank God for them! It was Democrats who put the tremendous dent in elder poverty with Social Security and Medicare. It was Democrats who initiated Head Start and related programs so that the nation's poorest children would have a chance to start school on something closer to even footing with the children of those better off.
And moving on, it was Democrats who pushed to make the promise of the Declaration of Independence and the guarantees of the Constitution available to all people. Lyndon Johnson, before he lost his way in Viet Nam, signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 with the comment, "We just lost the South for a generation." He was right in pushing the Act through congress, and he was right in his political evaluation. And still, he fought for, and won, the Voting Rights Act of 1965.
My father marched with the Memphis pastors who went to city hall to demand that Mayor Loeb negotiate with the sanitation workers during the 1968 strike. Loeb was obviously threatened by the power of the clergy, the famous photo of the scene revealing his shotgun under his desk. My grandfather pastored the largest Methodist Church in Tennessee in those years, St. Luke's. During those same tense times in the 1960's members of the African-American community began to put Memphis' white churches to the test. Delegations visited the great white congregations on Sundays to determine whether they would be seated for worship. The ushers' captain called on a Saturday night to ask what they were to do if the group showed up at their church. My grandfather's response: "Do your jobs." The visitors were seated at St. Luke's, the first white congregation to treat them as worshippers rather than aliens.
Democrats believe that there is an obligation to see past color and economic status in regarding other people. And that America must be a land of promise for everyone, not just those who, to borrow the great line from the late, great Ann Richards, "were born on third, and thought they hit a triple."
For these and a multitude of other reasons, my faith leads me to vote the Democratic ticket. I have a high personal regard for Sen. John McCain. But no matter what I think of him personally, he is running on the Republican ticket. And while I find no perfection in the Democratic party, I cannot vote for the Republican platform, or any candidate that runs on it.
And, finally, Ann Coulter is a Republican, and that's reason enough for me to be a Democrat.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Congratulations, Senator Obama!
Good news for Senator Barack Obama: James Dobson finds your understanding of the Bible objectionable. Thank God! That's precisely why I will be voting for you in November.
Dobson is an interesting character. He made his name, and his early money, dispensing advice on how to raise your kids. It was, as far as I could tell, basic common sense stuff. But with the terrible lack of common sense in my generational colleagues, Dobson made out pretty well peddling his wares. Even if some of it was based on some weak/poor/flaky theology.
Then at some point, Dobson decided that it wasn't enough to be the fundamentalist Dr. Spock; he wanted to be Jerry Falwell. No accounting for taste or dreams, I guess. Dobson got political. Claimed credit for stuff he had very little to do with, and raised money based on his newfound "effectiveness." And in the process, he found out where the big bucks are.
So, now, Dobson has a problem with Obama's biblical interpretation.
Once, while on the staff of our retirement homes, I was involved in an intervention with a resident. The man in question, then in his late 80's, had a penchant for whacking members of our staff with his cane. Female members of our staff. African-American female members of our staff. I was brought in on the second conversation with the man. Since he'd already been warned once, this discussion was a little more direct. He was facing the loss of his residence with another incident. He didn't care. He told my dear friend, Mary Lee Moore, and me that if he could just call his nephew, he'd come up from Alabama and explain "all this race stuff" to us. He claimed his nephew was the Grand Dragon of Alabama. I had watched Mary Lee suffer many indignities in her office. Most from residents. Some from alleged superiors in the organization. She never let anyone see how much the epithets and insults hurt. She was better than all of them. That strong, gracious African-American woman would not grant them power over her life and identity. I wasn't that noble. I told the old man that if he wasn't going to be abiding by the rules as he had agreed to them when he signed his lease and moved in that I would be glad to go up and move him and his stuff to the curb right then. He stood up, raised his cane and took two steps toward me. I jumped up, and in one of my less than charitable moments, told him he better get a good shot in, because he wouldn't get another. Bravery from a 32 year old to a man almost 90...Priceless!
He thought better of his course of action, and said, "Well, you ain't much preacher!" I thanked him. He looked confused. He said that it wasn't a compliment. I said it was. He asked, "How do you figure?" I told him that since I wouldn't willingly be what was required for him to think well of me, I was grateful he acknowledged that I didn't meet his expectations.
So with Obama. I am glad that my party's nominee-to-be is not what James Dobson would want him to be, to find him acceptable in his faith or policies. Sometimes being declared unacceptable is the highest praise a Dobson can offer!
Dobson is an interesting character. He made his name, and his early money, dispensing advice on how to raise your kids. It was, as far as I could tell, basic common sense stuff. But with the terrible lack of common sense in my generational colleagues, Dobson made out pretty well peddling his wares. Even if some of it was based on some weak/poor/flaky theology.
Then at some point, Dobson decided that it wasn't enough to be the fundamentalist Dr. Spock; he wanted to be Jerry Falwell. No accounting for taste or dreams, I guess. Dobson got political. Claimed credit for stuff he had very little to do with, and raised money based on his newfound "effectiveness." And in the process, he found out where the big bucks are.
So, now, Dobson has a problem with Obama's biblical interpretation.
Once, while on the staff of our retirement homes, I was involved in an intervention with a resident. The man in question, then in his late 80's, had a penchant for whacking members of our staff with his cane. Female members of our staff. African-American female members of our staff. I was brought in on the second conversation with the man. Since he'd already been warned once, this discussion was a little more direct. He was facing the loss of his residence with another incident. He didn't care. He told my dear friend, Mary Lee Moore, and me that if he could just call his nephew, he'd come up from Alabama and explain "all this race stuff" to us. He claimed his nephew was the Grand Dragon of Alabama. I had watched Mary Lee suffer many indignities in her office. Most from residents. Some from alleged superiors in the organization. She never let anyone see how much the epithets and insults hurt. She was better than all of them. That strong, gracious African-American woman would not grant them power over her life and identity. I wasn't that noble. I told the old man that if he wasn't going to be abiding by the rules as he had agreed to them when he signed his lease and moved in that I would be glad to go up and move him and his stuff to the curb right then. He stood up, raised his cane and took two steps toward me. I jumped up, and in one of my less than charitable moments, told him he better get a good shot in, because he wouldn't get another. Bravery from a 32 year old to a man almost 90...Priceless!
He thought better of his course of action, and said, "Well, you ain't much preacher!" I thanked him. He looked confused. He said that it wasn't a compliment. I said it was. He asked, "How do you figure?" I told him that since I wouldn't willingly be what was required for him to think well of me, I was grateful he acknowledged that I didn't meet his expectations.
So with Obama. I am glad that my party's nominee-to-be is not what James Dobson would want him to be, to find him acceptable in his faith or policies. Sometimes being declared unacceptable is the highest praise a Dobson can offer!
Monday, June 23, 2008
George Carlin, 1937-2008
The Associated Press is reporting the death of George Carlin. He was 71 years old. The cause of death was heart failure. Heart problems had plagued George over the last twenty or twenty-five years.
I love George Carlin. He is my preferred philosopher of language. He has been my favorite professor on faith. He has tutored my search for what is real and valuable in life.
If you are the kind of person that has been offended by George's choice of words, I feel sorry for you. If you are the kind of person that has been insulted by George's view of organized religion, you haven't paid close enough attention. If you think George was a bad guy, please go away.
George started out as a comedian tame enough to be acceptable to the Ed Sullivan Show, the definition of middle-American sensibilities. It didn't work for him. He was bigger than that. He had greater work to do.
1972 was George's year. By then, the suit was in the closet and the beard, blue jeans and t-shirt were all in place. In January, FM & AM was released. It can legitimately be called the first Carlin album. But it was September's Class Clown that brought the United States Government to its knees. All because of 7:03 of very adult humor that ended the album: "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television." No, it was not titled "Seven Dirty Words." The routine did get blown up into "Filthy Words" on 1973's "Occupation: Foole." George was arrested in Wisconsin for a live performance of "Seven Words." The case was dismissed as a violation of his First Amendment rights. It was an FCC complaint against WBAI for playing "Filthy Words" that showed how our government couldn't care less about our Constitution. The Supreme Court upheld the FCC ruling, 5-4, calling George's performance "indecent but not obscene." And so, not for the first time and surely not the last, the United States Government declared itself afraid of words.
This was all very sexy to a twelve year old. I was learning, that summer of 1973, that Presidents could be crooks, and liars, and the Watergate tapes would prove all of that and more. And that a corrupt government still had time to be scared of a comedian, all because of words.
In later bits, Carlin reflected on the reality that words carry precisely and only the meaning we assign to them. And so, there are no "dirty" words; only our thoughts behind them. This is the greatest contribution that George Carlin made to our culture: do we people of the Declaration and the Constitution mean it? Do we believe in freedom of thought and expression? And do we get it, that those protections were written in precisely to protect UNpopular speech. Because you don't have to protect popular speech.
George challenged religion. How's that for understatement? He taught me long ago that if I was going to be anything more than a Mother Goose, I better know what matters about my faith; I better know what people can count on in it; I better have something substantial when the hell of life hits people in my care right in the faith. 'Cause "It'll all be better by and by" is a royal load of crap, and if you dish that garbage out, you get what you deserve.
Was there ever a better, more inspired moment of casting than Kevin Smith's brilliant placement of George Carlin in the Bishops' gear for the unveiling of the Buddy Christ in Dogma? That ridiculous, surfer-tanned, grinning, pointing, thumbs-up Jesus was everything George decried in his comedy, everything that is deadly about the church summed up in one godawful icon!
George challenged our rampantly materialistic culture in one of his greatest routines, "A Place for Your Stuff." Through George's eyes, American life is all about accumulating larger and larger receptacles for our stuff. And he's right, in many ways.
I could ramble on through the many phases (Hippy Dippy Weatherman, defender of Ali [The government wanted him to change jobs. The government wanted him to kill people. Ali said, "I'll beat them up, but I'm not going to kill them." The government said, "If you won't kill them, we won't let you beat them up!" Brilliant and priceless!], drug jokes, political pieces, total misanthropy) and praise so many bits ("Baseball and Football" was always big for me; his "People I Can Do Without" pretty much matched my list; "Euphemisms" is even more on target now than when it was released in 1990). But this is all the public George, the iconoclastic George.
George Carlin was married in 1961 to his beloved Brenda. Their daughter, Kelly, was born in 1963. Brenda died the day before George turned 60. He was never really the same again. As mentioned above, they named his cause of death as heart failure. What a joke! His heart had been forcibly removed when Brenda died.
Rest well, sir. You did good work. You spoke truth to power. You exposed the pompous. You ridiculed the oppressor and defended the little guy. You revealed our folly. And most of all, you demanded that we live up to the freedoms that we espouse. God bless you, whether you want it or not.
I love George Carlin. He is my preferred philosopher of language. He has been my favorite professor on faith. He has tutored my search for what is real and valuable in life.
If you are the kind of person that has been offended by George's choice of words, I feel sorry for you. If you are the kind of person that has been insulted by George's view of organized religion, you haven't paid close enough attention. If you think George was a bad guy, please go away.
George started out as a comedian tame enough to be acceptable to the Ed Sullivan Show, the definition of middle-American sensibilities. It didn't work for him. He was bigger than that. He had greater work to do.
1972 was George's year. By then, the suit was in the closet and the beard, blue jeans and t-shirt were all in place. In January, FM & AM was released. It can legitimately be called the first Carlin album. But it was September's Class Clown that brought the United States Government to its knees. All because of 7:03 of very adult humor that ended the album: "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television." No, it was not titled "Seven Dirty Words." The routine did get blown up into "Filthy Words" on 1973's "Occupation: Foole." George was arrested in Wisconsin for a live performance of "Seven Words." The case was dismissed as a violation of his First Amendment rights. It was an FCC complaint against WBAI for playing "Filthy Words" that showed how our government couldn't care less about our Constitution. The Supreme Court upheld the FCC ruling, 5-4, calling George's performance "indecent but not obscene." And so, not for the first time and surely not the last, the United States Government declared itself afraid of words.
This was all very sexy to a twelve year old. I was learning, that summer of 1973, that Presidents could be crooks, and liars, and the Watergate tapes would prove all of that and more. And that a corrupt government still had time to be scared of a comedian, all because of words.
In later bits, Carlin reflected on the reality that words carry precisely and only the meaning we assign to them. And so, there are no "dirty" words; only our thoughts behind them. This is the greatest contribution that George Carlin made to our culture: do we people of the Declaration and the Constitution mean it? Do we believe in freedom of thought and expression? And do we get it, that those protections were written in precisely to protect UNpopular speech. Because you don't have to protect popular speech.
George challenged religion. How's that for understatement? He taught me long ago that if I was going to be anything more than a Mother Goose, I better know what matters about my faith; I better know what people can count on in it; I better have something substantial when the hell of life hits people in my care right in the faith. 'Cause "It'll all be better by and by" is a royal load of crap, and if you dish that garbage out, you get what you deserve.
Was there ever a better, more inspired moment of casting than Kevin Smith's brilliant placement of George Carlin in the Bishops' gear for the unveiling of the Buddy Christ in Dogma? That ridiculous, surfer-tanned, grinning, pointing, thumbs-up Jesus was everything George decried in his comedy, everything that is deadly about the church summed up in one godawful icon!
George challenged our rampantly materialistic culture in one of his greatest routines, "A Place for Your Stuff." Through George's eyes, American life is all about accumulating larger and larger receptacles for our stuff. And he's right, in many ways.
I could ramble on through the many phases (Hippy Dippy Weatherman, defender of Ali [The government wanted him to change jobs. The government wanted him to kill people. Ali said, "I'll beat them up, but I'm not going to kill them." The government said, "If you won't kill them, we won't let you beat them up!" Brilliant and priceless!], drug jokes, political pieces, total misanthropy) and praise so many bits ("Baseball and Football" was always big for me; his "People I Can Do Without" pretty much matched my list; "Euphemisms" is even more on target now than when it was released in 1990). But this is all the public George, the iconoclastic George.
George Carlin was married in 1961 to his beloved Brenda. Their daughter, Kelly, was born in 1963. Brenda died the day before George turned 60. He was never really the same again. As mentioned above, they named his cause of death as heart failure. What a joke! His heart had been forcibly removed when Brenda died.
Rest well, sir. You did good work. You spoke truth to power. You exposed the pompous. You ridiculed the oppressor and defended the little guy. You revealed our folly. And most of all, you demanded that we live up to the freedoms that we espouse. God bless you, whether you want it or not.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Ready Or Not, Here We Go
I have two basically grown daughters. While it seems only yesterday since they were beautiful, tiny, wiggly, giggly bundles, it has actually been 22 years on the one hand and 19 on the other since they appeared, a couple of God's greatest statements of grace. It dawned on me a few months ago that I am, right now, only two years younger than my father was when I made him a grandfather.
Sobering thought! Me, I'm still a kid myself. Yeah, my girls are adults, but most of my friends and colleagues have little kids, many of them pre-schoolers (you know who you are!).
Three Wednesdays ago, I got a little reality check. It isn't happening in the order I would have preferred, but I'm going to beat Dad to the Grandpa punch: my older daughter is pregnant.
(Obligatory disclaimer: I know she isn't married; yes, I wish she was; no, there won't be a wedding before the birth; I have advised parishoners for almost 25 years that there is no need to follow one mistake with another; I have also preached throughout those years that in God's world there is no such thing as an illegitimate child--sometimes those sermons become maps for the inevitable roadtrips of life)
Sara asked me to go to her three-month doctor visit on Tuesday. So I made the surreal trek to the Baptist (Ouch!) Womens' Hospital with my little girl/soon to be mom on her own. And an ob/gyn who seemed like a genuinely good guy broke out a little mp3 player-type speaker and I heard my grandchild's heartbeat.
Since I already have the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth out of the way (and, I'm proud to say, all that was kept to an absolute minimum), I can now get on with the business of getting ready for this transition. I've seen the change in so many people, wondering what in the world could produce such differences in them. I'm already starting to understand. I've thought of several hundred things I've wished that I had done better or handled differently with my daughters; here's the chance to do better! I'm thinking hourly about my own wonderful grandparents and how they dedicated themselves to loving their grandchildren, with the guarantee of adoration that such dedication brings back. I'm thinking of how fully my parents have loved their grandchildren. I was divorced when the girls were 7 and 4. God bless my parents, with a special nod to Mom/Nana, they spent every summer vacationing with us so that I'd have the help needed to keep two little girls from missing out on things little girls shouldn't miss out on. I couldn't have taken them to Disneyworld at 9 and 6 without my mother's help. Some of those years I couldn't have managed it alone financially; didn't have to. They saw to that. As my grandparents had helped them before.
I have big shoes to fill. I pray that I will be as good for this child and others (hopefully) to come as Grandmother and Granddaddy were for us, and Nana and Granddaddy have been for my children and their cousins. I pray that I will have the quality of relationship with my grandchildren that I had into my 30's with my grandparents. I can only hope that when I'm gone, my grandkids will remember me as half the presence in their lives that Jim and Ann Fisher still are for me as I move toward 50.
A friend told long ago of his prayer during his wife's first pregnancy: "Lord, I don't care whether it's a boy or a girl; just make it a healthy baby." Then his older daughter was born with Down's Syndrome. While they awaited their second daughter, Bob said his prayer changed: "Lord, make me a good father."
I've long had prayers for my daughters: "Lord, let them find good husbands and have healthy children (in that order, please!)." Now, I'm doing better. These nights: "Lord, make her a good mom, and me, a good granddad."
Amen!
Sobering thought! Me, I'm still a kid myself. Yeah, my girls are adults, but most of my friends and colleagues have little kids, many of them pre-schoolers (you know who you are!).
Three Wednesdays ago, I got a little reality check. It isn't happening in the order I would have preferred, but I'm going to beat Dad to the Grandpa punch: my older daughter is pregnant.
(Obligatory disclaimer: I know she isn't married; yes, I wish she was; no, there won't be a wedding before the birth; I have advised parishoners for almost 25 years that there is no need to follow one mistake with another; I have also preached throughout those years that in God's world there is no such thing as an illegitimate child--sometimes those sermons become maps for the inevitable roadtrips of life)
Sara asked me to go to her three-month doctor visit on Tuesday. So I made the surreal trek to the Baptist (Ouch!) Womens' Hospital with my little girl/soon to be mom on her own. And an ob/gyn who seemed like a genuinely good guy broke out a little mp3 player-type speaker and I heard my grandchild's heartbeat.
Since I already have the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth out of the way (and, I'm proud to say, all that was kept to an absolute minimum), I can now get on with the business of getting ready for this transition. I've seen the change in so many people, wondering what in the world could produce such differences in them. I'm already starting to understand. I've thought of several hundred things I've wished that I had done better or handled differently with my daughters; here's the chance to do better! I'm thinking hourly about my own wonderful grandparents and how they dedicated themselves to loving their grandchildren, with the guarantee of adoration that such dedication brings back. I'm thinking of how fully my parents have loved their grandchildren. I was divorced when the girls were 7 and 4. God bless my parents, with a special nod to Mom/Nana, they spent every summer vacationing with us so that I'd have the help needed to keep two little girls from missing out on things little girls shouldn't miss out on. I couldn't have taken them to Disneyworld at 9 and 6 without my mother's help. Some of those years I couldn't have managed it alone financially; didn't have to. They saw to that. As my grandparents had helped them before.
I have big shoes to fill. I pray that I will be as good for this child and others (hopefully) to come as Grandmother and Granddaddy were for us, and Nana and Granddaddy have been for my children and their cousins. I pray that I will have the quality of relationship with my grandchildren that I had into my 30's with my grandparents. I can only hope that when I'm gone, my grandkids will remember me as half the presence in their lives that Jim and Ann Fisher still are for me as I move toward 50.
A friend told long ago of his prayer during his wife's first pregnancy: "Lord, I don't care whether it's a boy or a girl; just make it a healthy baby." Then his older daughter was born with Down's Syndrome. While they awaited their second daughter, Bob said his prayer changed: "Lord, make me a good father."
I've long had prayers for my daughters: "Lord, let them find good husbands and have healthy children (in that order, please!)." Now, I'm doing better. These nights: "Lord, make her a good mom, and me, a good granddad."
Amen!
Saturday, June 14, 2008
This is Getting Ridiculous
2008 Braves Baseball...It Just Doesn't Get Any Weirder!
How's that for an advertising gimmick?
It would at least be truthful.
For most of their incredible run from 1991's Worst to First through 2005, the Braves were remarkably injury-free. That's really the only way to have a great run. It doesn't matter how good your guys are, if they aren't on the field they can't help you. I can remember Greg Olson's ankle getting broken late one September as he blocked the plate; Smoltz had a couple of elbow surgeries over the years; Jeff Blauser missed a postseason after getting hurt. Otherwise, pretty fortunate run.
The Braves are making up for it this year.
Mike Gonzales was still on the DL from last year's surgery when the year began. Mike Hampton was looking to come back for the first time since 2005, but he's been kept out by a groin, a pectoral muscle and a hamstring. Then Raphael Soriano, the planned-on closer, went down with an arthritic elbow. And Smoltz tried to fake his way through Spring Training and a few starts before admitting that his shoulder was little more than ground beef. He tried to rehab it and come back as the new closer, but one outing ended that idea. Dr. James Andrews put him under the knife yesterday; he might come back next year. Or, at 42 by then, he may not. Tom Glavine had never been on the Disabled List in his long, distinguished career. Until this year. Trip number one came in late April/early May with a bad hamstring. Now, he's out with a strained elbow, until at least the All-Star Break. Matt Diaz wrecked his knee sliding into a wall trying to make a catch. Don't know when we'll see him back. Mark Kotsay had done a great job replacing Andruw Jones, at least until his back went out again. Jair Jurrgens has the promise of being a Number One Starter for a long, long time. But he fell down the steps in the Wrigley Field dugout the day before he was to start earlier this week. He hopes to pitch Monday.
Then there's Chipper Jones. Larry Wayne Jones, Jr., is now 36. He has had trouble the last three years with his feet, his groin, his hamstrings and his quads. So far this year, only nagging, chronic stuff. But prior to tonight's game, the Braves hadn't won without Chipper in the lineup. They did tonight, impressively, at Anaheim. Of Los Angeles.
Chipper was out of the lineup tonight due to an accident. During batting practice. While he was in the cage. No, not an oblique. Or a hamstring, groin, foot or quad. Even though he had a slight tear (slight tear?) in his left quad earlier this week. No, nothing so mundane. Not for Chipper. Not this year!
Chipper hit a ball, perfectly, right off of the pole that runs along the top front of the batting cage. Now, if you hit a ball off the top half of that pole, it just bounces harmlessly into the netting of the cage. If you hit a ball off the bottom half of that pole, it spikes into the grass between the cage and the pitcher's mound. But Chipper hit one perfectly. So that it came directly back at him, and hit him just under his left eye. He had to go for the obligatory (thankfully, negative) x-rays to determine if anything was broken, or simply bruised. His reappearance in the dugout in the latter half of the game was good news.
Until the next incident.
Be careful, boys. It's just not your year to be healthy!
How's that for an advertising gimmick?
It would at least be truthful.
For most of their incredible run from 1991's Worst to First through 2005, the Braves were remarkably injury-free. That's really the only way to have a great run. It doesn't matter how good your guys are, if they aren't on the field they can't help you. I can remember Greg Olson's ankle getting broken late one September as he blocked the plate; Smoltz had a couple of elbow surgeries over the years; Jeff Blauser missed a postseason after getting hurt. Otherwise, pretty fortunate run.
The Braves are making up for it this year.
Mike Gonzales was still on the DL from last year's surgery when the year began. Mike Hampton was looking to come back for the first time since 2005, but he's been kept out by a groin, a pectoral muscle and a hamstring. Then Raphael Soriano, the planned-on closer, went down with an arthritic elbow. And Smoltz tried to fake his way through Spring Training and a few starts before admitting that his shoulder was little more than ground beef. He tried to rehab it and come back as the new closer, but one outing ended that idea. Dr. James Andrews put him under the knife yesterday; he might come back next year. Or, at 42 by then, he may not. Tom Glavine had never been on the Disabled List in his long, distinguished career. Until this year. Trip number one came in late April/early May with a bad hamstring. Now, he's out with a strained elbow, until at least the All-Star Break. Matt Diaz wrecked his knee sliding into a wall trying to make a catch. Don't know when we'll see him back. Mark Kotsay had done a great job replacing Andruw Jones, at least until his back went out again. Jair Jurrgens has the promise of being a Number One Starter for a long, long time. But he fell down the steps in the Wrigley Field dugout the day before he was to start earlier this week. He hopes to pitch Monday.
Then there's Chipper Jones. Larry Wayne Jones, Jr., is now 36. He has had trouble the last three years with his feet, his groin, his hamstrings and his quads. So far this year, only nagging, chronic stuff. But prior to tonight's game, the Braves hadn't won without Chipper in the lineup. They did tonight, impressively, at Anaheim. Of Los Angeles.
Chipper was out of the lineup tonight due to an accident. During batting practice. While he was in the cage. No, not an oblique. Or a hamstring, groin, foot or quad. Even though he had a slight tear (slight tear?) in his left quad earlier this week. No, nothing so mundane. Not for Chipper. Not this year!
Chipper hit a ball, perfectly, right off of the pole that runs along the top front of the batting cage. Now, if you hit a ball off the top half of that pole, it just bounces harmlessly into the netting of the cage. If you hit a ball off the bottom half of that pole, it spikes into the grass between the cage and the pitcher's mound. But Chipper hit one perfectly. So that it came directly back at him, and hit him just under his left eye. He had to go for the obligatory (thankfully, negative) x-rays to determine if anything was broken, or simply bruised. His reappearance in the dugout in the latter half of the game was good news.
Until the next incident.
Be careful, boys. It's just not your year to be healthy!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Correcting an Oversight
I have been remiss in failing to acknowledge the passing of Bishop Ellis Finger. He died at age 91 on May 25. Bishop Finger was the president of Millsaps College when, at the age of only 48, he was elected to the episcopacy in 1964. His first assignment was to lead the Nashville Area, comprised of the Tennessee and Memphis Annual Conferences. It was a time when giants walked the earth.
None of that mattered to me. When Bishop Finger came to Memphis, whether traveling alone or with Mrs. Finger, he stayed with my grandparents. Granddaddy was pastor of St. Luke's-then the largest Methodist church in Tennessee-when Bishop Finger came to us. Granddaddy was the leader of our Annual Conference, heading our delegation to General Conference four times, and standing for election as bishop at four Jurisdictional Conferences. He had chaired the Southeastern Jurisdiction Board of Christian Education at a time when we were still serious about Christian Education. A couple of years into his time with us, Bishop Finger appointed Granddaddy Superintendent of the Memphis-Shelby District. He had all of the Methodist (and later United Methodist) Churches outside of Parkway. Granddaddy held the political power in the cabinet; Bishop Finger ruled over the cabinet.
I didn't know he was a bishop. I didn't know what a bishop was. I just knew that when Mr. Ellis came to Memphis, and Grandmother and Granddaddy's house, he would get down in the floor with my brother and me, and play with us. Whether it was cars or blocks or little green plastic army men, he played with us. That made him a pretty neat guy in our book.
As I grew up, I learned that some of the people in our Conference had resented Bishop Finger. He was a strong Christian leader. He stood for social justice at a time when a lot of (white) people didn't want to hear it. He stood forcefully for what he believed in at a time when a lot of alleged leaders were ducking. That's why he and my grandfather were close. They were cut from the same cloth.
My last encounter with Bishop Finger came during Ernest Newman's tenure in the big chair. Newman invited the retired Bishop Finger to be our Annual Conference Preacher. His visit fell during the last Annual Conference that my grandfather was to attend. Granddaddy died the next winter. The old friends visited for several minutes before the service. It was a joyous reunion. After a time, we helped my grandfather to the seating area, and Bishop Finger moved into place on the platform. When we had moved through the service to time for the sermon, Bishop Finger moved to the pulpit, opened his Bible and laid out his manuscript, picked it back up, inserted it back into his Bible and closed it. "I need to say something before I begin the sermon," he told the room. "Jim Fisher is here tonight. When I was elected Bishop in 1964, I thought I knew everything I could ever need to know. After all, the Jurisdiction had just been wise enough to elect me. I came to the Memphis Conference, and discovered very quickly that I had no idea what I was doing. But that was alright. Because when I came to the Memphis Conference, I found Jim Fisher. Every new bishop needs a Jim Fisher. Because of his presence and friendship, I was able to learn the task and do the job. Jim, I am grateful for your leadership and friendship to this moment." With that, Bishop Finger reopened his Bible and took up his sermon. We all sat around my grandfather with tears of gratitude rolling down our faces.
I am thankful for the life of a great servant of the church, but even more, for a good and gracious man who never forgot one who helped him become the leader of the church that he was.
None of that mattered to me. When Bishop Finger came to Memphis, whether traveling alone or with Mrs. Finger, he stayed with my grandparents. Granddaddy was pastor of St. Luke's-then the largest Methodist church in Tennessee-when Bishop Finger came to us. Granddaddy was the leader of our Annual Conference, heading our delegation to General Conference four times, and standing for election as bishop at four Jurisdictional Conferences. He had chaired the Southeastern Jurisdiction Board of Christian Education at a time when we were still serious about Christian Education. A couple of years into his time with us, Bishop Finger appointed Granddaddy Superintendent of the Memphis-Shelby District. He had all of the Methodist (and later United Methodist) Churches outside of Parkway. Granddaddy held the political power in the cabinet; Bishop Finger ruled over the cabinet.
I didn't know he was a bishop. I didn't know what a bishop was. I just knew that when Mr. Ellis came to Memphis, and Grandmother and Granddaddy's house, he would get down in the floor with my brother and me, and play with us. Whether it was cars or blocks or little green plastic army men, he played with us. That made him a pretty neat guy in our book.
As I grew up, I learned that some of the people in our Conference had resented Bishop Finger. He was a strong Christian leader. He stood for social justice at a time when a lot of (white) people didn't want to hear it. He stood forcefully for what he believed in at a time when a lot of alleged leaders were ducking. That's why he and my grandfather were close. They were cut from the same cloth.
My last encounter with Bishop Finger came during Ernest Newman's tenure in the big chair. Newman invited the retired Bishop Finger to be our Annual Conference Preacher. His visit fell during the last Annual Conference that my grandfather was to attend. Granddaddy died the next winter. The old friends visited for several minutes before the service. It was a joyous reunion. After a time, we helped my grandfather to the seating area, and Bishop Finger moved into place on the platform. When we had moved through the service to time for the sermon, Bishop Finger moved to the pulpit, opened his Bible and laid out his manuscript, picked it back up, inserted it back into his Bible and closed it. "I need to say something before I begin the sermon," he told the room. "Jim Fisher is here tonight. When I was elected Bishop in 1964, I thought I knew everything I could ever need to know. After all, the Jurisdiction had just been wise enough to elect me. I came to the Memphis Conference, and discovered very quickly that I had no idea what I was doing. But that was alright. Because when I came to the Memphis Conference, I found Jim Fisher. Every new bishop needs a Jim Fisher. Because of his presence and friendship, I was able to learn the task and do the job. Jim, I am grateful for your leadership and friendship to this moment." With that, Bishop Finger reopened his Bible and took up his sermon. We all sat around my grandfather with tears of gratitude rolling down our faces.
I am thankful for the life of a great servant of the church, but even more, for a good and gracious man who never forgot one who helped him become the leader of the church that he was.
Friday, June 06, 2008
A Night Out...Finally!
One of the sad and really weird things about life in my fair city is that The Home of the Blues has very few places where blues can be heard. Since the Center for Southern Folklore was deprived of its Beale Street address (Booooo John Elkington; we needed a daiquiri bar on Beale? Really?), B.B. King's, Rum Boogie and King's Palace have been among too few options for our music.
That's why I got excited when I read of the plans of Morgan Freeman and Bill Luckett to open their second Ground Zero Blues Club on Lt. Lee, right across from the Gibson Guitar Factory. The opportunities for exploration have been limited lately, but Tuesday night the roommate and I had the chance to sneak off briefly and check things out. The quickly obvious result: great food and great people. We were attended by a stealth waiter named Eric. Who mentioned as he stopped by the table that in place of Sirius Blues (the Chess Hour was playing as we ate--nothing wrong with that), the Eric Hughes Blues Band would be cranking up about 8 pm on Thursday. And who mentioned at a later stop that he was Eric Hughes. We found the burgers outstanding on Tuesday. Then on Thursday, we gathered up the baby and the future son-in-law and headed back for food with music. Or music with food.
Eric is a fine waiter. But he's a better singer/harpist/guitarist! They played Muddy, Hooker, several originals, and the Sesame Street theme as their into-the-break piece. No kidding. And it was great!
The club has Jimbo Mathus, Daddy Mack, Mississippi Morris, Reba Russell and Cedric Burnside, among others, scheduled for future engagements. Eric Hughes is listed for most Thursdays. Do yourself a favor, and get by the Ground Zero Club, listen to some great Memphis music, and enjoy one of the best burgers (we like the Crossroads) you'll ever put in your mouth. The Big Muddy Chicken is awesome, too. And spend the extra buck for a baked sweet potato. Thank me later!
That's why I got excited when I read of the plans of Morgan Freeman and Bill Luckett to open their second Ground Zero Blues Club on Lt. Lee, right across from the Gibson Guitar Factory. The opportunities for exploration have been limited lately, but Tuesday night the roommate and I had the chance to sneak off briefly and check things out. The quickly obvious result: great food and great people. We were attended by a stealth waiter named Eric. Who mentioned as he stopped by the table that in place of Sirius Blues (the Chess Hour was playing as we ate--nothing wrong with that), the Eric Hughes Blues Band would be cranking up about 8 pm on Thursday. And who mentioned at a later stop that he was Eric Hughes. We found the burgers outstanding on Tuesday. Then on Thursday, we gathered up the baby and the future son-in-law and headed back for food with music. Or music with food.
Eric is a fine waiter. But he's a better singer/harpist/guitarist! They played Muddy, Hooker, several originals, and the Sesame Street theme as their into-the-break piece. No kidding. And it was great!
The club has Jimbo Mathus, Daddy Mack, Mississippi Morris, Reba Russell and Cedric Burnside, among others, scheduled for future engagements. Eric Hughes is listed for most Thursdays. Do yourself a favor, and get by the Ground Zero Club, listen to some great Memphis music, and enjoy one of the best burgers (we like the Crossroads) you'll ever put in your mouth. The Big Muddy Chicken is awesome, too. And spend the extra buck for a baked sweet potato. Thank me later!
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Annual Conference
It would be an overstatement to say that I am glad that health and other issues in my parish limited my time at this year's Annual Conference. But probably not much of one.
I am 47 years old. I have been going to Annual Conference for 34 years. When I was a young teenager, Conference left me perplexed. I had no idea what they were talking about most of the time. When I was a young pastor, Conference often left me angry. I thought that those running the show had no idea what they were talking about. Now, at the point where there are more Conferences behind me than in front of me, I just find it a nuisance.
Several things happen in those meetings, and few of them have any real meaning for me. I am honored to be present and among my sisters and brothers for the annual ordination service. I feel deeply that we owe it to those who have passed muster to support them on that evening. Because some of them may never feel supported by the body again. I think that the Memorial Service matters, because those who have gone before us have made us who we are, and we should show respect to their families for the sacrifices they all, inevitably, made for their mom or dad to serve the church.
Beyond these items, ugh! We debate inane resolutions, comb through budgets, establish study committees, and year after year, watch our churches and membership dwindle incessantly and unceasingly. And yet we do the same things, year after year. I remember something about a definition of insanity as doing the same things in the same ways over and over again, and expecting a different result. Yeah, we're crazy. Stinking, steaming, whacked out crazy.
And then there's my favorite part: declaring to the clergy that we are expensive, non-productive burdens on the Conference's neck. Year after year, the insurance program becomes more expensive and less valuable. We are in one of the highest-risk groups, healthwise, because the demands that fall on us are inherently unhealthy in every way: physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. Just don't ask the laity to protect us or our families. But just wait until Aunt Jane has a hangnail. Then, we're the most important people in the world. And we better show up immediately. Or else.
And that leads to the hardest part of Annual Conference for me. We make great plans in those meetings. We get filled up with a bigger picture of the faith, the ministry and the challenge of the gospel. And then we go home. We go home to people who don't want us to do anything other than sit in the office and wait for the next terrible thing to befall a member of the church, so that we can run right over. That means that they want chaplains rather than pastors. And those who are outside the church better just find their own way in. In spite of the fact that most of us in the church were always surrounded by tour guides every step of the way. We go home to people who don't want to pay us or provide us with any benefits whatsoever. We go home to people who feel that they are active in and supportive of the church if they show up once a month. We go home to people who, in many places, don't care about ministry outside their own doors, and couldn't care less about paying the apportionments that fuel our shared work. And the bishop and district superintendents will implore us (clergy) to get them paid (implore means threaten). And in all of the churches I have served, there was nothing I could do in the churches that didn't pay their apportionment to get them to pay, and there was nothing I could have done in the churches that did pay them to make them stop. Either the given church was excited to be a part of the United Methodist connection, or they didn't give a damn. One or the other. (And I am thankful that my current assignment believes in being United Methodist!) We go home to try to share a vision that has never been seen in most of the pews, and most of them aren't looking. It is, in far too many places, a soul-killing disparity between the commission of Annual Conference and the daily reality of church life.
And yet, we who have promised to see the world as our parish continue to fight the good fight, reach out to those who need Christ, and take the best care we can of those who are in our charge. And we do that in spite of the inanity of the leadership, the routine ingratitude of those we serve, and frequently sorry circumstances we work in. Because we believe in what we are doing, and why we are doing it!
If you want to know where the gospel happens, and is lived out, don't look to Annual Conference. It is artificial. It is temporary. It is fleeting. It is far too safe. No, the real action is out in the trenches, one-on-one, where everything is on the line every day.
And that is where the battles will be won. Because the war is already over. The good guy won. But only because he got out of the fort. Like Lucy in Narnia. See the movie, thank me later!
I am 47 years old. I have been going to Annual Conference for 34 years. When I was a young teenager, Conference left me perplexed. I had no idea what they were talking about most of the time. When I was a young pastor, Conference often left me angry. I thought that those running the show had no idea what they were talking about. Now, at the point where there are more Conferences behind me than in front of me, I just find it a nuisance.
Several things happen in those meetings, and few of them have any real meaning for me. I am honored to be present and among my sisters and brothers for the annual ordination service. I feel deeply that we owe it to those who have passed muster to support them on that evening. Because some of them may never feel supported by the body again. I think that the Memorial Service matters, because those who have gone before us have made us who we are, and we should show respect to their families for the sacrifices they all, inevitably, made for their mom or dad to serve the church.
Beyond these items, ugh! We debate inane resolutions, comb through budgets, establish study committees, and year after year, watch our churches and membership dwindle incessantly and unceasingly. And yet we do the same things, year after year. I remember something about a definition of insanity as doing the same things in the same ways over and over again, and expecting a different result. Yeah, we're crazy. Stinking, steaming, whacked out crazy.
And then there's my favorite part: declaring to the clergy that we are expensive, non-productive burdens on the Conference's neck. Year after year, the insurance program becomes more expensive and less valuable. We are in one of the highest-risk groups, healthwise, because the demands that fall on us are inherently unhealthy in every way: physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. Just don't ask the laity to protect us or our families. But just wait until Aunt Jane has a hangnail. Then, we're the most important people in the world. And we better show up immediately. Or else.
And that leads to the hardest part of Annual Conference for me. We make great plans in those meetings. We get filled up with a bigger picture of the faith, the ministry and the challenge of the gospel. And then we go home. We go home to people who don't want us to do anything other than sit in the office and wait for the next terrible thing to befall a member of the church, so that we can run right over. That means that they want chaplains rather than pastors. And those who are outside the church better just find their own way in. In spite of the fact that most of us in the church were always surrounded by tour guides every step of the way. We go home to people who don't want to pay us or provide us with any benefits whatsoever. We go home to people who feel that they are active in and supportive of the church if they show up once a month. We go home to people who, in many places, don't care about ministry outside their own doors, and couldn't care less about paying the apportionments that fuel our shared work. And the bishop and district superintendents will implore us (clergy) to get them paid (implore means threaten). And in all of the churches I have served, there was nothing I could do in the churches that didn't pay their apportionment to get them to pay, and there was nothing I could have done in the churches that did pay them to make them stop. Either the given church was excited to be a part of the United Methodist connection, or they didn't give a damn. One or the other. (And I am thankful that my current assignment believes in being United Methodist!) We go home to try to share a vision that has never been seen in most of the pews, and most of them aren't looking. It is, in far too many places, a soul-killing disparity between the commission of Annual Conference and the daily reality of church life.
And yet, we who have promised to see the world as our parish continue to fight the good fight, reach out to those who need Christ, and take the best care we can of those who are in our charge. And we do that in spite of the inanity of the leadership, the routine ingratitude of those we serve, and frequently sorry circumstances we work in. Because we believe in what we are doing, and why we are doing it!
If you want to know where the gospel happens, and is lived out, don't look to Annual Conference. It is artificial. It is temporary. It is fleeting. It is far too safe. No, the real action is out in the trenches, one-on-one, where everything is on the line every day.
And that is where the battles will be won. Because the war is already over. The good guy won. But only because he got out of the fort. Like Lucy in Narnia. See the movie, thank me later!
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