Lies and the Lying Liar Christians Who Tell Them (with apologies to Al Franken)

Throughout the primary and now convention season, I have received two or three emails per week, forwarded by parishoners, purporting to tell "the truth" about Barack Obama. Those that include citations of their sources invariably come from Fox News, James Dobson or Rush Limbaugh. More of them are simply anonymous. The messages recount how Sen. Obama makes fun of the Bible (Dobson). How he holds Kenyan citizenship (Limbaugh). How he attended a Moslem school as a boy (Fox News). The anonymous ones are, of course, even more enthusiastic and absurd. Obama trained as a terrorist. He's a member of a Moslem cult. My favorites are the ones that within one message make the Moslem accusation, and criticize him for his membership in Trinity Church (supporting that preacher, of course). Can't beat that! And, of course, there are the "Michelle hates America" ones, and the "Obama won't wear a flag pin or put his hand over his heart during the Pledge of Allegiance or national anthem" business. (I wish that last one was true, as it seems to me just about time that someone in this faith pointed out that when the Ten Commandments that are so cherished by the right wingers say that there are to be no other allegiances but to God, and no graven images to be worshipped, that means the ones we like as well as those we don't; ours, as well as other peoples'. Perhaps, intead of simply seeking to post them in courtrooms, classrooms and in public squares, they should try reading the Commandments?)
On my better days, it breaks my heart that good people will accept, unquestioningly, the pronouncements of people who set themselves up as oracles.
On more days, I marvel that some people never seem to have a thought until Dobson or Limbaugh fart. Yes, that is, indeed, a "head up their ass" reference.
My deepest anger over this nonsense is that it is coming from groups that present themselves to the world as Christian. No one else would make the Moslem accusations.
The last time I checked, there is nothing illegal about being a Moslem in America. I know several. They have been guests in my home, and in my churches. After 9-11, I participated in several community meetings with leaders of Moslem congregations near where I was serving at the time. But those who pass on this garbage know their audience. And as though it's not enough for that crowd that Obama is seen as a black man (odd, as he is just as white as he is black, but that's America--any drop of "black blood" and you're "marked"), they seek to define him as Moslem.
Here's the thing: he is a brother in Christ.
Regardless of November's vote totals, "Christian" people in this country are denying a member of the family. They are cutting him out of the body of Christ. They are rejecting his baptism and his profession of faith in Jesus Christ. They are dismissing his discipleship, his marriage before the altar of God, and his commitment to raise his children in the Christian faith.
In short, they are putting their own souls at risk.
And they are selling their souls for nothing more lasting or valuable than political advantage.
Obama is not Jesus Christ, but these persecutors are Pontius Pilate. They know full well that Obama is a Christian, and they condemn him anyway. Wash your hands as much as you want, it doesn't change what you are doing, or what you are.
Remember, brothers and sisters, that you stand before God. You will have to answer for your actions. And attempting to injure a member of the family, in Jesus' own words, leads to such unpleasant consequences that millstones around the neck in deep water would be preferable.
Debate the issues. Vote for who you want. But deny a fellow Christian? The truth is not in you!

Lies and the Lying Christians Who Tell Them

With apologies to Al Franken,

Hillary Makes the Case

I voted for Hillary Clinton in our state primary.
This isn't a lecture from outside the fold.
It is a lecture to say, much as Senator Clinton did tonight, that if you voted for her in the primaries, you cannot vote for John McCain in November. What did Hillary run on? The same things that she has worked for her entire adult life! Opportunity for all. Healthcare for all. Education for all. You know, as in "...and liberty and justice for all!"
That is the Democratic platform. That is Barack Obama's purpose in life, too.
The Republican party is about keeping what they've got and acting like they accomplished something, when all they've done is keep their boot on the neck of the poor, shovel out money to the rich like coal into a steam locomotive, start wars that are basically fought by the children of families who can't find jobs, serve their shareholders by refusing to raise the minimum wage, provide adequate healthcare or keep college affordable for working families dreaming of moving up. All this and much more as bad if not worse.
If you voted for Hillary Clinton and now intend to vote for John McCain, what were you doing in the primary? The Senator asked the question herself tonight: were you in it just for her, or for the people and causes that she has fought for all her life?
Sober up! Straighten up! Get back to work, and stop this Republican madness while we still have a country at all!

Teddy Stole the Show

After a beautiful, heartfelt tribute from his niece, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg, and a majestic filmed tribute, Senator Edward M. Kennedy was introduced to the Democratic National Convention tonight. Unless you've been off the planet the last six months, you know that Sen. Kennedy is fighting a brain tumor that typically takes the life of those who are stricken with it within a year. There was a lot of speculation about the Senator's attendance at the convention, and if he were able to appear, whether he would be able to speak. He answered both questions powerfully.
At 76 years of age, with a miserably bad back that causes him to stoop and keeps him from raising his arms above his shoulders, and just a short time removed from brain cancer surgery, Teddy was awesome. He again lent the Kennedy imprimatur to Barack Obama. The Old Lion of the Senate and the party roared out the great theme of his legislative life: healthcare for every American. He invoked his brother's inaugural speech in calling for the passing of the torch to yet another generation of American leader. He was strong. He was clear. He was Ted.
I will readily confess that I cried throughout Caroline's speech, the film, Teddy's speech and his farewell as his children, nieces and nephews and all of their children crowded the stage around him. Any realistic reading of his prognosis suggests that this will be the last time that Ted Kennedy will rally the Democratic faithful in convention. We can hope and pray for better, and, after all, I didn't think he would make this one. But the Kennedy name has been The Name in Democratic politics longer than I have been alive. Ted Kennedy has been in the United States Senate since the year after I was born. He couldn't go earlier, when President Kennedy left the seat upon his election to the Presidency, because he wasn't old enough yet. I cannot imagine our country, and certainly not my party, without him.
He has done more for the unemployed, the working poor, the old, the young, those without healthcare, the immigrant, the disabled, minorities, women, and any other downtrodden person you would care to name, than any other person in this country, period. He has taken seriously his obligation as a privileged man to work for the good of others. He is reckoned by many as the greatest Senator in the history of our country.
Ted Kennedy is anathema to the right wing. They raise great amounts of money off of his name to this day. But they raise that money from people who do not want others to succeed, or find assistance. Ted is the boogeyman to everyone who wants to keep the minimum wage below a living wage; who wants to abuse their employees by witholding healthcare; who wants to be able to discriminate in hiring and firing; who wants to keep poor children poor by denying them an equal start; who wants to throw the elderly to the wolves; who thinks that disabled people don't deserve to have lives. He wears that great label, "Liberal," as the badge of honor that it is. Ted has room for all people, and believes that government should always, always, always act in the interest of those having trouble making their way.
He is not perfect. Everyone knows that. But Ted Kennedy has served this country well. He has fought for those who couldn't fight for themselves. And he will be one of my heroes as long as I live.

It's Joe!

Senator Barack Obama has passed his "first decision test" with flying colors: on Saturday morning he will name veteran Delaware Sen. Joe Biden to be his running mate. Biden brings tenure. He brings gravitas. And, most importantly, he brings long experience on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, as both Chair and Ranking Member. He has also chaired the Senate Judiciary Committee. Biden's Senate credentials trump those of John McCain. He will be an articulate and energetic partner for Sen. Obama, and is, quite simply, an excellent choice.
Biden has stood at the top of the Democratic party for twenty years. He has a compelling personal story of loss and triumph. Shortly after his election to the Senate in 1972, Biden received the telephone call that every person dreads. His wife, Neilia, and baby girl, Naomi, had been killed in an automobile accident that also critically injured his young sons, Beau and Hunter. Democratic leaders pleaded with Biden not to resign his seat. He finally agreed, beginning his continuing practice of commuting to the Senate everyday from his home, so that he could care for, and then raise his sons. Biden married Jill Jacobs in 1977, and they celebrated the addition of a daughter, Ashley. His family then cared for him when he suffered two brain aneurysms in 1988, and was away from the Senate for more than two months. Beau is now the Attorney General of Delaware, and also a member of the Judge Advocate General's corps. He is due to be deployed to Iraq this fall.
A powerful orator, and highly credentialed legal and foreign policy expert, and loving and committed father, a husband and devout Roman Catholic, Biden is a marvelous choice to serve alongside Barack Obama in the White House. He will be an exceptional campaigner for the ticket until November's election.
Senator Obama has done very, very well!

Baseball Is Life on the Road Again: Baltimore

Through the good offices of The Most Generous Friends Ever, your humble blogger has spent enough time in Charm City to look forward to going back for a full-blown vacation trip at some point.
Baltimore holds more significance, professionally, than I realized before arriving. I knew that I would find there the home of The United Methodist Church. John Wesley concluded late in his life that his Methodist Movement would need to become a church in the new United States of America. To that end, he did something (just what Father Wesley did with Francis Asbury has been debated to this very day) to enable the establishment of a church through the 1984 Christmas Conference that met at Baltimore's Lovely Lane Methodist Church. The good people of Lovely Lane, still a worshipping congregation, had organized in 1771. I knew that the site of the current church housed a museum of Methodism, and that it is not at the original 1771 site. What I did not know was that the Old Otterbein Church, the mother church of the United Brethren in Christ, one of the lines that led to the 1968 merger that produced The United Methodist Church, was also in Baltimore. Philip William Otterbein became pastor in 1774 and stayed 39 years, the rest of his life. Otterbein was close to Francis Asbury, as was his church. Testimony to relations between the two: Lovely Lane Methodist Church organized and met at Old Otterbein in its infancy; it was the original site of the congregation that would birth the Methodist Church! Little wonder that Otterbein so frequently had Asbury fill his pulpit. Remarkable that the seeds in this relationship led, almost 200 years later, to a joined church.
It was a joy to experience this part of my history first hand.
It was also not at all unpleasant to have the opportunity to study another piece of Baltimorean architecture, just a couple of blocks from Old Otterbein. A beautiful patch of green over the hallowed grounds of the George Ruth Saloon. Oriole Park at Camden Yards is as absolutely and completely beautiful as it has appeard on television for the last 17 years. It is not at all difficult to sit in the stands and envision the 2,131 banner that hung on the old B&O Warehouse along Eutaw Street when Cal Ripken, Jr., saved Baseball in 1995. It is a blast to shake hands, take a picture and get an autograph from John "Boog" Powell, former Orioles' first baseman and 1970 American League Most Valuable Player, as he presides over Boog's Barbeque, also on Eutaw. Think John Goodman, only with a believable swing. The Booger is having fun, and likes for everyone else to do the same.
While there does not appear to be a bad seat in the place, I can attest that the section behind home plate, about 18 rows up, is specatcular beyond belief. How Mr. Most Generous Friend Ever managed to get those tickets is beyond me! Combine that with a Red Sox offensive onslaught and a now-typical performance by my hero, Jon Lester, and Monday night was, to use the Bay State vernacular, wicked awesome!
Tuesday was more of the same, hits and runs galore, with only the indigestion of an also now-typical performance by Daisuke Matsuzaka, and seemingly 75-80% of the park occupied by Red Sox Nation. It was a two evening riot.
Along with the daytime educational exercises, this was one terrific road trip!
My thanks, again, to Mrs. Most Generous Friend Ever for allowing the loan of her husband for a couple of days, along with the chance to sit in a seat she might have had without me along. And to the Mr. for giving up a Monday night that he might have spent at home with their totally awesome two year old son. And everybody should see the family portrait that my friend carries with him--oddly, in the very front of the photo album--where the boy is gazing adoringly at his dad. Great, great stuff!
And now, (yawn) back to real life, work and home. And even gone only for two days, and really nice days, life, work and home are pretty darned good.

A Memphian Mourns on August 16

Today is one of those truly historic days. A day when an historic life ended, a life that changed the world, overwhelmingly for the better. A life that will be remembered forever, honored, researched, celebrated and imitated. It was a life of genuine accomplishment, achieving feats no one else could duplicate, even years after the death that ended this remarkable person's journey. Only that assessment doesn't cover things, because, if anything, the individual's face, story and records are better known today than during his lifetime.
Babe Ruth died on August 16, 1948.
Babe Ruth was the Home Run King. His long ball escapades are not generally appreciated accurately. Last year, when the artificially enhanced Barry Bonds was surpassing the thoroughly honorable Hank Aaron, it was continually reported that Aaron had broken Ruth's 39 year old record, and Bonds was taking down Aaron's 33 year reign. Only problem: Ruth didn't become the home run champ upon his retirement in 1935; he set the career home run record in 1921, with number 139. Roger Connor, a first baseman pricipally for the New York Giants in the 1880's, had held the record since his 1897 retirement. Ruth lifted the record from 138 to 714, and held the record for 53 years. (Take just a moment to consider the extensions: Aaron went from 714 to 755; Bonds from 755 to *762; Ruth went from 138 to 714. That is an increase of 417%!)
It took Ruth only 8 years, and just three of those as an every day player, to make the record his own. You see, there is one simple basic reason that Ruth will always stand as the unquestioned best player in baseball history: before he was the greatest slugger in the game, he had been the best left-handed pitcher in the game.
As much as we enjoy Rick Ankiel's exploits this year, Ruth was the best lefty in the majors from 1915 through 1918, and the greatest hitter from 1918 until 1935. There is no comparison, and give the age at which kids are forced to specialize today, there never will be.
To this day, fantastic exploits are "Ruthian." Players who look younger than their years are still "Babe." Top guys must still be given nicknames, and we're not talking about that Chris Berman junk, either. The Sultan of Swat. The Maharishi of Mash. The Bambino. The Big Bam. That's why we have The Hammer, both Iron Horses, The Say Hey Kid, both Pudges, Mr. October and The Goose. They are all following in the footsteps, the larger than life footsteps, of George Herman "Babe" Ruth, who died sixty years ago today.
Thanks, Babe! We'll never forget you.
Or that other King who died today. You know, the rock'n'roll guy.
(It is interesting to me that Aug. 16 has seen a number of notable deaths: The two noted, Babe Ruth in 1948 and Elvis Presley in 1977, but also Bela Lugosi-1956, Admiral Bull Halsey-1959, Margaret Mitchell-1949, Gunsmoke's Miss Kitty, Amanda Blake-1989, Stewart Granger-1993, Newsman and Timex shill, John Cameron Swayze-1995, Idi Amin-2003, and, after the Babe and the King, dearest to my heart, legendary Bluesman Robert Johnson-1938)

Swiftboaters, Round 2

To call Jerome Corsi a lying bastard is an insult to lying bastards everywhere. He was the author of 2004's campaign screed that created a character named John Kerry out of whole cloth, a character who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the very fine public servant who was the Democratic Party's nominee for President. Now he's back for more, with a new character named Barack Obama. This new character bears no more resemblance to the current Democratic nominee than Corsi's Kerry did to the real man.
What does it say about this pathetic man's confidence in his obviously weak candidates-George II in 2004 and John McCain today-that he attacks his opponents so viciously and inaccurately? He clearly knows that, just like Bush the last two times, McCain can't win on the truth. So he rehashes all of the gooper crap that has been circulated in emails, whispered in the back rows of "Christian" churches and passed from the lips of such exemplars of virtue as Limbaugh, Hannity and O'Reilly. At least they have peddled this trash when they haven't been busy defending themselves against drug charges (Limbaugh), sexual harassment suits (O'Reilly) and being just plain stupid (Hannity).
Obama is a Moslem! Only he's not. He attended a Moslem school! Only he didn't. He's a tool of the terrorists! Yeah, the Senate is full of them. His (white) mother married an African, and then a whatever-it-is-that-comes-from-Indonesia, wherever that is! Yeah, so?
The only reason the Corsis of the world haven't put Obama in the pilot's seat of one of the hijacked planes on 9-11 is that he's still alive. And they'll probably find a way to do that even yet.
Lying about your opponent is a long-standing, time-honored tradition in American politics. But this has gotten ridiculous.
And it shows just how scared the right-wing is!
Ooh! The big, scawy bwack man giving the itty-bitty wepubwican boys nightmawes?
Hey, you jackasses! Remember those Ten Commandments you're so fond of? Thou shalt not bear false witness. It made the Top Ten list, so check into it!

Revival Preaching

So a colleague had one of his members call a month ago with the request/order that I had to preach their church's revival. At the time it was a while off. I said I'd be glad to do it.
Then time passed, and Sunday night will bring the beginning service. And I'm not so glad I'll be doing it.
I mean no disrespect to my colleague, his revival chairperson, or their congregation. I just puzzle over the revival's place in our world.
I don't even know how these worship series came to be named such a thing. Words have to matter to someone in my line of work, or at least, they should matter greatly. And one does not require much familiarity with language to understand that "revival" refers to a rekindling or renewing of life.
In many communities, or lack of communities, people would come from great distances, gather for days or weeks at a time, eat, dance, worship and whatever else all together. Those pioneering souls could go some time without a member of the clergy passing by, or a neighbor, or any face that was outside the family. So the camp meetings/revivals were special times spiritually, but also socially.
And they became times when conversions were expected to happen. New life was to be sought, often by hard-headed children of the families involved, but also by community drunks and other sorts of reprobates.
But these days, the only people who show up for revival services are the same ones who show up for Sunday evening worship: the ones who could be leading the thing themselves. OK, there is the "we all need..." dogma to acknowledge, but the folks I will be facing Sunday night through Wednesday night will be the finest, most devoted participants in their church.
What in the world am I going to "Re-" with them? And why would I aim for evangelism with this group that is already so firmly entrenched in the faith?
You who know me well know that I don't do well in the realm of "Since this is what's always expected and done, we'll just ignore reality and keep the fantasy in place." Not my best thing! And I won't do it in the coming week, either.
So, we will lay aside the fantasy of wailers from the Mourners' Bench wending their way to the altar, convicted by the overwhelmingly powerful preaching brought to bear by the visiting Evangelist. We will, indeed, shoot for revival. I continue to struggle with aspects of my own faith, and will, as always, work out of that. It seems to resonate.
I believe that I have been more changed by the revivals that I have preached than anyone who was parked in the pews. That's no insult to those faithful people. It's probably a confession about where I've stood on my journey, compared to where others have been positioned on theirs. But it is one of those odd Southern phenomena, to be paid something to show up at someone else's church, fill someone else's pulpit and work on my own faith.
I do hope that someone else will get a little work done next week, too.

Skip Caray, 1939-2008

This dreadful season for the Atlanta Braves has, finally, hit rock bottom. Now it just can't get any worse: Skip Caray, the long-time voice of the Braves, collapsed and died this afternoon while filling a bird feeder in his backyard. (Initial reports were that Skip had died while napping. His wife, Paula, corrected that information in the afternoon on Aug. 4)
Skip Caray and Pete Van Wieren were hired in 1976 by Ted Turner to join Ernie Johnson in the Braves' booth. Turner had bought a baseball team-an absolutely dreadful baseball team-to be a part of the backbone of his tv station's programming, and he needed broadcasters who could keep the fans' interest, because God knew, the team wasn't going to keep them tuned in. So, to Johnson, perhaps the nicest human being in the world, Turner added Van Wieren, perhaps the smartest human being in the world, and Skip Caray, certainly the most passionate and sarcastically funny human being in the world.
He came by his passion for baseball honestly. The son of Harry Caray grew up on the game, and gave his life to it, too. But where Harry openly and lovingly accepted most everything that happened in front of him, Skip brought the more skeptical sensibilities of a person who was a young adult through the 1960's. Many nights in the late 70's, Skip would grant late-inning permission to viewers who had watched the Braves take another drubbing to "go ahead and walk the dog, as long as you promise to patronize our sponsors." In the days of the 2 am Braves replays on TBS, Skip would speculate on the mental health of anyone who would "watch this junk in the middle of the night." Or, "If you're watching the replay, we welcome all dozen of you to the broadcast." Or, on a brutally hot August night at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, "I'd like to personally thank all of you folks who came out tonight, and it wouldn't take very long to do that." Skip was a wiseass, and that made him a cult hero to fraternity boys all over America, who would put on the Braves as we came in for the night, to listen to Skip let somebody have it. That spirit continued to the very end, as the Georgia Department of Transportation had become the main target of the last couple of seasons, due to their endless "improvements" to I-75/I-85.
Skip was sick last fall, sick enough for the doctors to call his family in. He made it through, and we got to have another half season with him on the radio, at least for home games.
Braves baseball will still be uncommonly well covered. Pete Van Wieren is still on the radio, sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of the game. Chip Caray has carried the family business very ably into the third generation. Joe Simpson and Jon "Boog" Sciambi are an excellent team. But Braves broadcasts will never again be as much fun as they have always been since 1976. Skip, just like Harry before him, always, always, always made the game fun. And after all, it is still a game.
God bless you, Skip. And your wife, Paula; your sons Chip and Josh; your grandchildren; stepmom, Duchy; and millions upon millions of Braves fans who loved listening to you explain the infield fly rule to some dope on the call-in segment, pontificate on the wave whenever the non-fans broke it out, share the home town of the last fan to catch a foul ball, attack the club-level fan who dropped a foul ball, and capture the drama of the game in your call of Sid Bream's slide, Smoltz blowing away another batter, Chipper cranking another homer, or Marquis Grissom securing the fly that gave the Braves their World Championship.
Well done, sir! We'll miss you.

The Privilege of His Company

I should be asleep (preparation for a good Sunday, don't you know) but I just got home from AutoZone Park, home tonight of the Dave Matthews Band and their opening act.
I will confess: I'm not the biggest DMB fan, or, at least, wasn't until tonight. I like their weird instrumentation and the unusual rhythmic structure of many of their songs, I've enjoyed the songs that have made the radio, and I share their politics; they just haven't been must-have when the new albums have been released. I may have to rethink that.
After all, anyone who can incorporate the Talking Heads (Burning Down the House) and Peter Gabriel (Sledgehammer) into their set is OK by me. And there is also the number they did with the aforementioned opener, a guy who put DMB's Gravedigger on his last album: Willie Nelson.
I will confess again: I got to the park wondering how Willie could be the opening act for Dave Matthews. I don't think that Willie Nelson ought to be opening for anybody, unless he and Dylan undertake another joint tour (no pun intended).
Willie is America. Now, he wasn't born just yet when the revolution was undertaken, but, apologies to Pogo, he is us. He's been on top, he's been on the bottom, and he's hit every rung in between. How could one man have written all those songs? And how could he have forgotten to pay his taxes on all the money those songs brought him? And how did that cowboy gain such a powerful, poetic sense of the language? And why does Grandpa still get caught smoking a little pot? OK, a lot of pot?
Well, that, and so much more, is all Willie.
And when he comes to town, he walks out on stage and plays his music. Barely stopping to breathe in between songs, he plays. He throws in one for Waylon. Sometimes one for Cash. Something of Kristofferson's. A Haggard song. He introduces his sister, on piano; his drummer's intro leads, always, into Me and Paul. Paul's the drummer.
Willie was the only guitar player in his band tonight. First time I'd seen him without someone playing alongside. And my great Willie Nelson suspicion was confirmed: he's one terrific guitarist.
He's been into all kinds of other things, too. He's been an actor. I thought he was hysterical in Electric Horseman. Kind of scary in Barbarosa. He has spent years helping people. He started Farm Aid in the mid-80's farming crisis, to do something for the American family farmer. Those benefit concerts have drawn the biggest names in music, and continue to this day. He is big into the production of bio-diesel to replace fossil fuels, and big against the slaughter of wild horses which are seen as nuisances by big western landowners. In short, if you have a cause, Willie will be on the right side of it, and raise a lot of money for it.
But it always comes back to the music. I love Dylan dearly, and his Neverending Tour gets a lot of press. But Willie's ten years older (75 last April), and he hasn't sat down in the last fifty years, either. I hope neither one of them every does. They make real, powerful, American music, and we are all richer for their efforts.

The Future of the Church (A Riff for Friends Suffering Far Away Places)

We know the painful truths. The church is declining. All mainline churches are losing. The ones with the highly-educated clergy. The ones organized for grand tasks on an international level. The ones that send good people great distances at great expense to grand workshops where they don't find the answers. Because the people leading them often don't even know the questions.
We're losing ground almost everywhere.
Meanwhile, this highly-educated, grandly-trained clergyman had lunch with Bob today.
Bob is 85. He is the proud owner of two new hips, installed over the last year. I buried his wife of 50+ years while I was his pastor at one of my previous stops. His son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren moved in with him a few years ago, so that when he needs a little more help, they'll be there.
He's also never been to seminary, isn't ordained, and hasn't attended any important workshops (and I dearly hope you understand that "important" is typed as sarcastically as my little fingers can manage).
What Bob knows is Jesus Christ.
That's why he declined to call the police a few years ago when, already into his 80's, as he was tending the little bit of yard that his church has, a couple of hispanic children who had moved into the neighborhood stole his lawnmover off the back of his pickup while he was using the weedeater. Oh, he made a very strong response; he just wouldn't put those kids in jail and give them a criminal record for the rest of their lives. Bob pushed, instead, to invite all of the hispanic children in the apartment complex next to the church to that summer's Vacation Bible School. And when a couple of those kids began to attend our church regularly, and later, serve as acolytes, he befriended them, asking after their families and schoolwork every Sunday. He may have been the only person in that church (outside of my household) that knew which name went with which boy.
See, Bob has never studied Current Something, Effective Whatever and that scourge of the faith and the faithful, Church Growth. He just happened somewhere on his journey through life to bump into a carpenter's son from Galilee, and his life changed. He loves as he has been loved. And it is just that simple, no matter how damned hard we sometimes try to make it.
The good news is that while Important People are figuring out Important Things to shower upon the rest of us dopes, simple everyday people like Bob are out there living the faith.
And some days, my better ones, I am pretty sure that the Bobs know more about the faith, the church and discipleship than any given barrel full of us well-trained, well-educated leaders will ever know.

Time for Manny to be Manny Somewhere Else

I love Manny Ramirez. I will be grateful to him and for him for the rest of my baseball-infatuated life. But enough is enough.
In the winter of 2000-2001, Manny parlayed his wildly successful years with the Cleveland Indians into an eight year, $160 million contract with the Boston Red Sox. The contract, negotiated by former agent Jeff Moorad-now the President of the Arizona Diamondbacks-included two additional seasons (2009 and 2010) at club options for $20 million each season. What that means is that at the end of the contract (this offseason), the Red Sox would have the ability to pick up the option for next year at an already agreed upon price, or decline it and make Manny a free agent again. And if that option were exercised for 2009, team and player would then go through that process again prior to the 2010 season.
Manny has always been eccentric. Listen to him, look at him, watch his visits to the Green Monster during pitching changes; the guy is put together differently from most people, and that's ok. The problem isn't those eccentricities. It's the other stuff. Like playing when it suits him. Like screaming for a trade every summer for the last six years. Like careless play in left field. Like turning doubles into singles by assuming they would be home runs. Like not even making it half-way to first on infield grounders, several of which have been kicked by the infielders over the years.
Oddly, for their $20 million per season, the Sox expected Manny to play hard. Had they reacted more aggressively early on when he didn't, things might not have reached this point. But they didn't, and they have.
Manny knocked down the Sox' Social Security-eligible traveling secretary when the man couldn't provide all of the complimentary tickets that Manny wanted for friends and family on this summer's road trip to Houston. That's free tickets, for this multi-multi millionaire's family and friends.
Manny made his annual pitch to be traded.
Manny called the Sox ownership underhanded and deceitful.
Manny took himself out of the lineup against the Mariners in the last game of a long road trip, complaining of a sore knee. Understandable for a 36 year old player.
Manny stayed out of the lineup in the first game of a home series against the New York Yankees. Unforgivable for a Red Sox player.
Manny was sent by the club for MRIs on both knees, and after they came back negative for any damage, was told that he would play the rest of the Yankee series or face suspension. Only then did he decide he was fit to play.
Manny shot off his mouth to ESPN about his desire for a trade.
Manny then complained that the Red Sox didn't "deserve a player like me." He likened himself to Nomar Garciaparra and Pedro Martinez, other past stars, Manny alleged, who had been mistreated by the Sox when they were on the way out of town. Reality check: Nomar had an unpleasant departure in 2004 because he also developed an inability to play when it didn't suit him. Pedro's departure was amicable; no one in Red Sox nation had anything bad to say about Petey.
What has Manny in such a snit is the fabulous work of the agent who replace Jeff Moorad: Scott Boras. Boras has one basic problem with Manny's situation: Boras ain't getting paid. The agent's fee for the current contract still goes to Moorad's former agency. If the Sox picked up one or both years of options they hold on Manny, Boras still doesn't get paid. So Scotty just doesn't care how much money was available to Manny from the Red Sox.
Boras has engineered a situation that is certainly going to cost Manny Ramirez millions of dollars. No sober GM or owner, not even Hank Steinbrenner, is going to give more than $20 million dollars per year to a temperamental, seemingly unreliable and maybe even unstable, declining 36 year old former superstar. If he gets more than $10 to $12 million he will be very fortunate. But then again, Boras will get paid. And that's what all of this is about.
Boras has, again, badly served a client. He cost Alex Rodriguez a small fortune last winter with the stunt he (Boras) pulled, opting out of the previous contract ARod had signed. Alex only came out of it as well as he did because he took a break from visiting Madonna's apartment, went hat in hand to Hal Steinbrenner, and apologized for following Boras' advice. Oh, yeah, he fired Boras in the process, too. Prince Hal then took Rodriguez back, at a lower salary and fewer benefits than the opted-out-of contract had contained.
It is a shame that Manny is so immature and/or foolish that he can't seen what is about to happen to him. And he's done it all to himself. At Boras' encouragement.
Sadly, it's time for Manny to go.

Elite is Bad?

To say that our little political process sometimes boggles the mind is an obvious exercise in understatement. Barack Obama is being labeled an elitist. Sneeringly, critically, insultingly declared an elitist!
Stupid me, I thought elite was good.
My home town sure thinks so. Compare the attendance figures between the woebegone Grizzlies and the National Runnerup Tigers. Michael Heisley's highly paid professionals can only dream of the passion and support routinely heaped upon John Calipari's college boys. Think about the problems that the Redbirds have had drawing flies for the last few, losing, years. And why more of us are finding our way to the beautiful park at Third and Union this year. Amazing what a pennant race does for putting butts in seats.
Consider my little area of expertise. The strongest years that churches tend to have are those when a building is being constructed and right after...in short, the growing, successful years. What moves people to move? Not enough kids here for my children to have a program. Not enough people in the choir for me to sing with. More competent (ie more highly paid) preacher at the new church.
We like success. We like to associate with the best.
Not sure? Who do you want doing your bypass surgery? Dr. Top-of-the-Profession, or one repeatedly sued for malpractice? Yeah, me too!
But then comes politics.
There is no surer demonstration of the political genius/innate evil of Karl Rove than the fact that he managed to make just enough people in this country believe that it would be better to have everybody's dopey, lovable cousin as President than two of the most able, highly intelligent, accomplished people ever to run for the office: Al Gore and John Kerry. Just enough, that is, that any attempt to have the true results of the 2000 and 2004 elections was doomed to look like whining or sour grapes.
We are in that same position again.
John McCain has lived an honorable life. He has demonstrated his personal bravery in ways that few Americans (me obviously included) can even begin to understand. But for John McCain to turn to the politics of Karl Rove to find his path into the White House would be laughable if it were not so disgusting.
McCain's campaign is labeling Obama an elitist?
Obama grew up a biracial child in America. McCain grew up the son and grandson of admirals in the US Navy.
Obama was raised by a single mother. McCain's significance was understood even by the North Vietnamese captors who held him all those years.
Obama skipped a ridiculously high paying job in a corporate law firm to go work in the slums of Chicago's South Side as a young man. McCain married the beer heiress.
And Obama is elitist?
Let's not dicker over definitions.
In this election, Barack Obama is clearly the elite candidate. That means he is clearly the better candidate.
I respect McCain. But he is a Republican. He is of the party that has wrecked our economy fighting an unjust war in Iraq. He is of the party that has allowed the oil interests to rip off the whole nation. He is of the party that has extended tax breaks to those who just don't need them, while shifting the National Debt onto the shoulders of those already carrying more than their share.
And he wants to further Bush's policies.
And, while I dearly love my parents, McCain is older than either of them. And I don't want Mom or Dad running the country.
Obama is about the future. He has a vision about where we need to go as a country. At this point, I'm ready to try something new. What we've been up to ain't been that great.
And I want an elite President. For a change.

Vacation Matters

Meant one way, we had a great time. We didn't leave town but for one shopping excursion at the Mall formerly known as Opryland. As we are at the door of enjoying her son, my daughter and my future son-in-law in education beyond high school and a new grandchild just a few months away, we couldn't afford it. So we enjoyed our fair city. The Memphis Redbirds are better than they've been in years, even with that pesky team up the river taking our best players off and on all summer. The city music scene--no, not that Beale Street crap; the REAL Memphis music--is thriving and readily available. My supervisor's scrapbooking and my MLB Extra Innings package provided us with glad diversions from what we normally do, where we normally go, and what we normally think about. And that's the point.
The other meaning of vacation matters is that a vacation really does matter. I never took more than a one week break until about six years ago. That was the time when a valued friend (you know who you are) shoved an article into my crowded hands that explained in blunt medical and psychological terms just why it is that we can't do the same thing all the time. I needed that. Now, I take three weeks. That period allows disengaging, rest and renewal. It takes time to change gears, reorient and just plain think on different things.
I am in a profession that attracts insecure people and cultivates insecurities in the strongest people. We are afraid that our parishoners will find out they can get by without us, or that they will like a fill-in's preaching better than ours. I have actually been told by colleagues that they invite the worst pulpit people they can find, so that they'll look good when they get home. Wow! Does it even require saying that we can't be at our best with all that garbage running around in our heads and hearts? And we can't be at our best when we are torched and running on fumes, either.
It was time for me. I was to the point of dreading planning that next service, that next sermon. I was in need of re-creation, refreshment, reenergizing. And this break has provided all of that. I'm looking forward to getting back in the morning. I'm ready to celebrate Holy Communion next Sunday. I'm eager to sit with the children, and preach to those who don't go to children's church. But none of that would have been the case without the vacation time well spent.
I would encourage my sisters and brothers in the clergy to take your break. We are protected at this point: the Conference guidelines call for legitimate vacation time. Take advantage of them. If need be, have your Superintendent explain it to your Pastor-Parish Committee. It is simple. They will get a better you all year by being without you for a few weeks. I testify out of my own experience. Amen!

Vacation Matters

Meant one way, we had a great time. We didn't leave town but for one shopping excursion

Sunday Night at Huey's

If you know Memphis, and I have no idea how you found my little dog and pony show here if you don't, you know about Huey's. For 873 consecutive years now, Huey's has been voted Best Burger in the Flyer's Best of Memphis annual polling. (Sadly, we lost the founder and owner of Huey's, Thomas Boggs, this year. Tom was one of our best corporate citizens, the kind every businessperson should be.)
On various Sunday nights, mostly at Huey's Downtown (Third at Union), but occasionally at Huey's Midtown (Madison at Tucker), DiAnne Price and Her Boyfriends hold court. Yes, I've written about DiAnne and her band before. You need to hear it again. Trust me.
(Disclaimer: DiAnne has been my friend for 17 years. We worked together for seven of those years. That friendship influences my opinion of her performing not one iota. This is Music, people! Friendship with Your Humble Blogger gets you nothing!)
DiAnne Price (vocals and piano), Tim Goodwin (electric and upright bass), Tom Lonardo (drums and percussion) and Jim Spake (soprano and tenor saxophone) are, plain and simple, the most accomplished musicians in Memphis. Don't trust me? How about some credentials: Goodwin and Lonardo are both professors in the University of Memphis music department; Spake's discography is utterly mindboggling-check it out at jimspake.com; and DiAnne won Memphis Magazine's Best Female Vocalist award in their music poll for so many consecutive years that they retired the category! They are the best.
And they are the best at everything. Blues, Jazz, Standards, they've got it. Covers and originals. Live and on any of their five cds. The only problem with the recordings: no cd can capture what they deliver live.
One of the mysteries of Life in River City: why are people like these playing in a hamburger restaurant? For the same reason, I guess, that Rufus Thomas was sort of a joke here in town, but has a civic park named in his honor in a city in Italy. For the same reason that B.B. King always plays at his local club to a number of empty seats.
I don't know what that reason is, by the way. I've heard several reflections on the matter. Memphians have so great a musical heritage that we've become jaded. Too many terrific active musicians. Downtown's dangerous. Too far to drive. And downhill from there.
I tend to think that it's a problem with priorities. Music's intrinsic value to life cannot be overstated. Meanwhile, we've done everything possible to devalue music: removed it from school curricula, stopped learning to play instruments since everyone can operate a cd player, even making a mess of recording now with all levels being pinned to the maximum possible volume.
Most people at this point have never heard the gentle fade into night of Mahler's Ninth Symphony, most of the fun that the Beatles and George Martin had with the endings of any numbers of their songs, the plaintive sigh of Robert Johnson in Hellhound on My Trail, the glorious work of John Pizzarelli's hands on a guitar. But I digress.
Unless you are such a vegan that you cannot be in a place where meat is being served (and my niece is one, and still loved the show!), then you really should make time to check the Huey's website (hueyburger.com, follow the Live Music link), find when DiAnne is scheduled, and show up. I unreservedly guarantee that you will be glad you did!

Your Winner: Josh Hamilton!

Seems I've been a bit short on baseball lately. And since that was the premise for the whole deal, let's try to correct things, shall we?
The (sponsor's name not reported on principle) Home Run Derby was earlier this evening. Justin Morneau, the outstanding young first baseman of the Minnesota Twins won, qualifying for the final round and hitting more out at that moment. But the real thrill of the evening, in more ways than one, was provided by Josh Hamilton of the Texas Rangers.
Hamilton had the single greatest round in the history of the Derby. He hit 28 out in round one. He hit so many that he didn't have to hit in the second round. He took a few swings to keep loose, but he didn't have to numerically. His pitcher was a 71 year old man, Clay Counsil, from back home in North Carolina. Mr. Counsil has the baseball sickness. He has volunteered to help generations of kids learn the game all his life. Hamilton rewarded the gentleman's decency and kindness by taking him along to The House that Ruth Built for only the second time. Mr Counsil's first visit was the day that Don Larsen pitched a perfect game against the Dodgers in the 1956 World Series. Magic attends Mr. Counsil's visits to The Stadium.
They were a magic team. Josh Hamilton's opening round was awe inspiring. But tonight's blasts aren't even close to the best story about young Mr. Hamilton. Not even close.
Josh Hamilton was the first pick in the country in the 1999 draft. The then-Devil Rays took him. And he took his $4 million signing bonus and lost his mind. Some reports say that it took as many as 8 trips to rehab to help him find his way. And then he found God. Or, more properly put, he realized God was with him.
After three years of nothing related to baseball whatsoever, Hamilton started back. In this Roy Hobbs-comes-to-life story, the kid flew to the Majors. Tampa may regret it now, but can anyone blame them for being relieved when the Reds took him off their hands in the Rule 5 draft a couple of years ago? Then it was a decent year in Cincy, and a trade to Texas for Edinson Volquez. It really is cool when trades help both teams.
Now, Volquez is in the discussion for the National League's Cy Young Award, and Hamilton probably heads the list at this moment for the American League's Most Valuable Player Award.
Rick Reilly made sure, on the Worldwide Leader's broadcast of the Home Run Derby, that everyone knew that Josh's problem was with heroin. If he mentioned it once, he named it ten times. As usual, the greater insight was delivered by the inimitable Peter Gammons. He said that the great thing about Josh Hamilton's story is that we don't live in Nancy Reagan's world. (You know, "Just Say No!" A load of crap in the '80's; just the same today) We live in a world where a lot of kids are in trouble. And Josh Hamilton's is the kind of story that can inspire other young people who've lost their way to get back on track. Josh works for that every day out of gratitude to those who have helped him. Gammons always hits the nail on the head.
You're the winner, Josh! I don't really care how many homers you hit, or how many any of the other great players hit tonight. You're winning the battle every single day. You're smart enough to travel every step with a helper to be there when you feel those old pulls. You're dedicated enough to not put those who care about you in those old positions any more.
Reilly whined incessantly about your tattoos tonight, how they embarass you now, how it's just too physically painful to have them removed. Don't worry about them. Let them be markers for where you were, and where you are, and where you will never be again. Let them testify to the possibilities. Wear them as badges of honor and accomplishment.
And keep winning the game! You know, the Big One. Life.
One day at a time.

Why the Home Town Feeds the Soul!

After sweltering at AutoZone Park for the first five innings tonight, the roommate and I decided to forego the remainder of the game-and the Redbirds' late inning heroics that delivered a 3-1 win-to move on to the next portion of vacation entertainment: a Burnside at Ground Zero!
Tonight it was Cedric, a gifted drummer and singer, with his partner, Lightnin' Malcolm, a serious guitarist. Cedric Burnside is a grandson of the late legendary north Mississippi hill country bluesman, R.L. Burnside. R.L. and his musical soulmate, Junior Kimbrough, did plenty for us just leaving their collection of late-life trance boogie blues. But musicians of their power and vision don't die; they fertilize the souls of the young musicians that come after them. The best known purveyors of hill country stomp are the North Mississippi All Stars. The sons of James Luther Dickinson were blessed to grow up in the company of great musicians of every stripe, those their father played with, recorded with, and produced. They literally sat at the feet of Burnside and Kimbrough, and the ordination of these acolytes took. But alongside the All Stars are various children and grandchildren, especially among the Burnsides. Duwayne Burnside was the fourth NMA for several years, in the pattern of all those who claimed to be the fifth Beatle. Only Duwayne contributed.
Cedric and Malcolm are a two man band. They don't need any help. Malcolm's slide gets it done, and his finger picking provides a powerful bass line. Cedric takes care of the rest behind his kit. No vocal harmonies here, they double the lead vocal All Night Long. Seamlessly.
The Burnsides, and those who play with them, have IT in their bones. Jim Dickinson calls it World Boogie, and preaches that It Is Coming!
Taking out after John Lee Hooker's stomp and relentlessly driving beat, Burnside and Kimbrough refined it, made it hypnotic (connecting all the way back to the Moroccan trance/dance music at its core) and plugged it in.
The kids go even farther.
An evening spent listening to Cedric and Malcolm can give you hope that there is still a chance for humanity. Wars and economies and bad policies and worse politicians are all swept
away before the tidal wave of The Boogie. Hypocritical religion and vanity of every sort are wiped away. The joy in Staying is savored. The power in Surviving Josef Conrad's Horror is celebrated. The victory of Living In Spite of It All is proclaimed and relished.
Do your soul a favor, and get thee to a Burnside's side as fast as you can get there. It just might save your life, as it does mine everytime!

Conflicted

I like being American. Oh, I cannot bear the George Bush/Dick Cheney vision of America, but they really aren't what we're about. Theirs is a perversion of who we are and what we aspire to. I want my children to be safe. I want my grandchildren to grow up like I did.
But how far does that desire go?
Budweiser is currently running a spot that portrays a group of soldiers going to, or coming home from, the wars. Spontaneously, all of the others passing through the airport, or working there, erupt into applause for these heroes. There is a closeup of a little red headed girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old. I wonder if anyone will tell her the truth?
The truth is that those young Americans, or at least the real ones the people in the ad depict, are in foreign lands to kill people in that little red headed girl's name. And mine. And yours. They are also very likely to be killed or maimed physically, and are surely to be wounded emotionally and psychologically and spiritually, in the process. Certainly they'll be left with images that will disturb their sleep for the rest of their lives.
And we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt or Bill O'Reilly rant, that because human beings are not perfect, some of those young Americans have made mistakes and killed groups of Iraqis holding wedding parties, racing to hospitals to have babies, acting strangely because they were scared, and on and on. And because weapons systems don't always work as advertised, there is often "collateral damage" in their wake. That's government for "we blew up people and stuff we didn't mean to hit."
I am a person whose sacred text says that in my faith there is no difference between "Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female." That's ancient Mediterranean for "American and Iraqi, American and Afghan, American and anything else." No difference.
And that same sacred text says that my God is no respector of persons, and "we are all sinners who have fallen short of the glory of God."
I have no particular righteousness for winning the lottery and being born in this place at this time. The only reason I believe that the Taliban, bin Laden, Hamas and the rest are wrong is because I see the world through eyes trained in the view from the western world. Had I been born in the West Bank, the slums of Jerusalem, Saudi Arabia or if an errant missile had killed my children in the name of democratizing my country, I'd see things exactly as those in that part of the world do.
History is written by the winners. The only reason that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, et al, are considered heroes is that England tired of fighting the war, Revolution to us, rebellion to them. Had George III had the desire to push the point, the great patriots would all be remembered as terrorists, executed for disturbing the peace.
By my faith, and by the reality of human history, I can't applaud any more. I can only ask that no one else kill in my name. Please, stop it!
I have family, friends, and parishoners that are all in the military services. I love and respect them all. Now, I only want them to come home safely to their families, and stop making me more important that all those other people who are children of God, made in God's own image, just like me. It's wrong. It needs to stop now.

Yes, I'm a Democrat

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!

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!

Customer Service

It has become cliche to say that customer service has gone to hell. Complaints can now be met most places with a hearty "So what?" The former time's "This isn't my department" and "I just work here" are now the good old days we long for. As gas and food prices rise and jobs disappear and war goes on forever, we live on edge now, and that makes everybody grumpy. And just as everything gets tighter, we now hear that airlines are charging for every checked bag, and this is probably just the warmup for seeing those tip jars in all of those inappropriate places becoming additional charges. You know, cashiers charging us for making change, letter carriers asking $.50 per piece to deliver our mail, and disgraced Republican congressmen earmarking the federal budget to benefit their illegitimate children.
If you're mad as hell and can't take it anymore, come to Atlanta. Go to the ballpark. Sure, the food and drink cost too much. But if you just need somebody to be nice to you, you need Turner Field. Remember how everybody was just nice to each other in Andy Taylor's Mayberry? Turner Field would have been their ballpark had they had one.
It starts with the security guards. I've been to a lot of ballparks. Most of the time the customers are in an uproar by the time they are brusquely permitted to come in and spend their money. Not at Turner Field. Here, the security man is smiling from ear to ear and talking to the children of the families in line. "Who's your favorite player?" started the conversation, and in two minutes, the man-of a different race than the family-had become a friend. The wait seemed to disappear. We were having fun. At the turnstiles, smiling ticket takers thank the ticket holders for coming to the game. And wish them a fun evening.
Then you move to the kids handing out that evening's promotion. Most of the time in most of the places, promotions are employee hell. Grasping, rushing people are trying to grab and go. At Turner Field, things move comfortably, items being handed out with a "Here you are, sir" or a "Here you go, buddy" to the little kid. Every person is spoken to and smiled at.
Workers in the clubhouse store thank you for coming in, and whether you buy anything or not, thank you again as you go out. Every concession stand attendant wears a smile and thanks you for stopping at their booth, and coming to Turner Field. Every vendor smiles, speaks and visits, not slacking, but being human. One vendor handed a beer to a customer during a discussion of Chipper Jones' OPS before moving on. Three seconds later, the section's usher brought the vendor back to issue an apology. The offense? The vendor hadn 't removed the twist-off bottle cap for the patron. Told it wasn't a big deal by said patron, the vendor said, "Yes, sir, it is. We're all about customer service." He wasn't kidding!
The Braves' spectacular veteran radio men, Skip Caray and Pete Van Wieren, repeatedly thank fans for coming to the game during each broadcast, dropping in our ears the same message that the behavior and manner of all the other staff people have already communicated throughout the experience.
When the game is over, on the way out, most parks have people positioned to speak sternly to anyone who might be attempting to leave the park with a swallow of beer still left in a bottle or cup. At Turner Field, at the end of the game and workday, smiling faces meet you again, and, once more, thank you for coming before inviting you back for the next game.
If your life has been beating on you; if you have recently felt slighted or mistreated; if you think there is no more customer service; if you just want to spend an evening being treated like a human being, come to Turner Field.
And the baseball ain't bad, either!

Baseball is Life on the Road: Atlanta

Flashback: September 1, 2006, Red Sox rookie pitcher Jon Lester, 7-2 on the season, has been diagnosed with lymphoma and required to begin immediate treatment, ending his season. Lester is 22 years old.
How does a person deal with that news? By accepting the embrace of his family, counting on the resources of his faith, allowing his friends to be his friends and seeking the best medical assistance available.
And when those elements fall together, wonderful things can happen.
Flashback: July 23, 2007, Second year Red Sox pitcher Jon Lester made a triumphant return to the mound in Cleveland tonight, gaining a victory over the Indians. And on this one night, not even the losing team could be upset about the loss. Lester, diagnosed with lymphoma less than a year ago, overcame his nerves to demonstrate his return to the form that made Sox fans' hearts beat faster with each appearance last year. The lefthander is 23 years old.
What a night that was! With his parents in the stands, the kid came back and was awesome. The Sox brass was right on target in handling Lester, letting him stay at Pawtucket and make 3 more starts after everyone said he was ready for his return to the bigs. They made sure. The good baseball fans of Cleveland are also due a tip of the cap. They knew what was happening, and even if they wanted their club to win, they certainly weren't rooting against the Sox pitcher.
Flashback: May 19, 2008, Jon Lester pitched the 18th no hit, no run game in Red Sox history, throttling the Kansas City Royals. Lester, whose victory over cancer in 2006-2007 will always be the biggest victory of his life, was never in danger tonight. He got stronger as the game wore on, still throwing in the mid-90's in the ninth inning as he worked toward the 130th and final pitch of the game. The celebration was marked by a bearhug from catcher Jason Varitek. The Red Sox captain tied a Major League record courtesy of Lester's effectiveness: this was Varitek's fourth no hitter caught, tying him with Ray Schalk of the White Sox for most times behind the plate for a no-no. Another touching moment came with Terry Francona's embrace. The emotion was evident as the manager, often described by Lester as a second father from the growth of their relationship during Jon's illness. The pitcher told Joe Castiglione and Dave O'Brien during the post-game interview that there are few people, much less managers, like Tito.
Friends, there are few people so young who have lived the valleys and mountaintops of life that Jon Lester has. He is 24 years old, and his future has never been brighter. And baseball is going pretty well, too!