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!

Apologies

Let's set aside forgiveness for a moment, because forgiveness and apologies are not the same thing, and I would argue that they aren't even connected.
Let's think about apologies.
We hear them all the time. There is The Celebrity: "If I have done anything that has offended anyone, I am truly sorry." This is barely an apology, and what is being apologized for is not the behavior behind it. Rather, the individual who depends on us to provide them with album sales, tv ratings or movie/sports ticket sales is sorry that we are so unhip as to be offended by what they did. If we, the great unwashed masses, just understood that being young, famous, great looking, and/or rich is an entitlement that exempts those fortunate few from the normal standards and requirements of life, then there would be no problem. Asleep in a running car facing the wrong way on a one way street at 3 in the morning with a pharmacy of illegal substances scattered around me? Sorry you're offended. Driving around drunk with the kids up running around in the car? Sorry you're offended. But if you'd just get with it and learn who I am, then you'd understand I'm entitled to act like this!
Another prominent apology is The Connected. It goes like this: "I have behaved/thought/taught/preached this way for years, but if being me is going to cost me my fortune/access/audience, then I'll pretend to be someone/something else." Think Jimmy Swaggart. Brother Jimmy, you'll recall, reached out to a series of women who had fallen into the prostitution profession. Only he wasn't bringing the good news that Jesus repairs broken lives; only the good news that he had a hundred dollar bill burning a hole in his pocket. The first time Jimmy got caught he gave a tearful performance in the platform of his church telling God and everybody how sorry he was that he had fallen short. Scary, the prospect of losing a cash cow TV ministry! But Jimmy being Jimmy, he shortly after got caught again, and that time he was far more honest. He told the world that this was between him and God and it was nobody else's business. Except like the police.
The newest proponents of The Connected are Jeremiah Wright and John Hagee. Each of these fellows was drooling over the prospect of having their dog winning the race for the White House, Wright with Barack Obama and Hagee with John McCain. Each could almost taste the sweetness of filling the role cornered by Billy Graham over the last 40 years: spiritual advisor to the President of the United States. Only one problem: There are so many slow news days during our interminable election cycles that finally, when everything else on God's green earth had been covered, the media got around to some stories on the candidate's preachers. That's precisely when the remarkable sound bites from Rev. Wright's sermons started making the rounds. Because there is no media person in America that can't appreciate the attention that an angry black man with a microphone can generate in these United States. Wright's first response was to give a calm, sedate interview to Bill Moyers to demonstrate his intelligence and share his biography. He tried to be someone other than who he is, to hold onto his access. But when it became apparent that Obama couldn't afford to keep this relationship, Wright was then freed up to be himself at the National Press Club and before the NAACP convention. And all while the great majority of white America still has no grasp whatsoever of the prophetic nature of black church preaching, which is all about hyperbole, energy and protest. White America doesn't understand this, because white preachers don't engage in much prophetic preaching, because prophetic preaching makes people uncomfortable, and uncomfortable people may not want to pay or even keep around those who make them uncomfortable.
Now, John Hagee is getting some attention. Hagee is a nut of long-standing. He equates the 1948 political resolution of "What do we do with the Jews?" with the biblical chosen people, and talks about the "special responsibility" we Americans have to fund the defense of Israel, no matter what they do to the Palestinians, Lebanese, or anyone else within their reach. That's us non-Catholic Americans. Because the Catholic Church, in Hagee's estimation, is the "Whore of Babylon" mentioned in Revelation. Not the Roman Empire, but the Roman Catholic Church. Bright guy, this Hagee. But as John McCain was fearful of not looking conservative enough to get the Republican nomination, the great political maverick from Arizona began to pander to clowns like Hagee and those who run Bob Jones University. Now, with the cameras turning on McCain's new BFF, some of those old statements are causing trouble. Hagee's afraid of losing his access (which can't happen soon enough), so he has rethought his lifetime of whackiness, and has now apologized for that whole "Whore of Babylon" thing. How do you call that a mistake? "Uh, I now realize that it's just an escort service"? After all, "whore" of the great enemy of ancient Israel and, symbolically, of the early church isn't like "That's a Dodge Caravan! No, wait, I'm sorry I ever said that. I now realize it's a Grand Caravan." There is a bit more difference here.
No, Pastor Hagee is apologizing for being who he has been his whole adult life, and who he is today. And he better be careful. Jeremiah Wright can do what he wants because he's retired now. Hagee has to keep his standing with his whacky Texas church (double redundancy, I know), especially if he loses out on the Succeed Dr. Graham Sweepstakes.
Here's a thought: how about from now on, apologies offered only after getting caught don't count; and neither do self-serving apologies, or those that blame the recipient of the apologies. Unless you have realized on your own that you screwed up, and aren't scrambling to save your career or position, just keep it to yourself.
Thanks for not wasting my time!

Hillary Clinton, Disciple of Lee Atwater

"I have a much broader base to build a winning coalition on," she said in an interview with USA TODAY. As evidence, Clinton cited an Associated Press article "that found how Sen. Obama's support among working, hard-working Americans, white Americans, is weakening again, and how whites in both states who had not completed college were supporting me."
"There's a pattern emerging here," she said.

Brother, is there ever!
It is a pattern that goes back to George Wallace's 1968 and 1972 efforts (the latter, prior to the assassination attempt, obviously). It's the pattern that Lee Atwater recognized when studying past campaigns for a way to convince white southern men that Democrats are not their friends. It is the pattern that every Republican president in the last 30 years has used to enter the White House: convince the working poor whites that the blacks are their problem. And that the Democrats are more concerned for "those" blacks than "us" whites.
There is a remarkable quality to Americans when it comes to our public life together: we mean to get ahead. That is why so many of us are resistant to appeals based on economics, which inevitably means class. We just can't bring ourselves to see the rich as our problem, because we all hope to be them someday. So we accept "Right to Work" which is spectacular double-speak for "Right to Fire Whenever It Suits Me Whether I Have a Reason or Not." We accept all-time high corporate profits for ExxonMobile, among others, when they are destroying the economy with their price-gouging on gas prices. We admire Bill Gates and Warren Buffett for their fortunes. Hell, we even made a celebrity out of a chump hustler like Donald Trump. Why? He has, to date, been rich once more than he's been poor.
Those in the poorer classes will not blame the wealthy, because we're all sure that we're just one promotion, one authored book, one computer innovation, or, at the bare minimum, the right sequence of numbers on our lottery ticket from moving into Manhattan's Dakota, the Kennedys' Palm Beach, or the Governator's block, and living the high life with all of the people on the cover of the National Enquirer.
So someone else must be the problem, the reason I haven't gotten there yet. George Wallace had an explanation: those smart Washington lawyers have handed the country over to the [blacks]. Atwater used it to elect Reagan. They attacked Affirmative Action, and interpreted it to mean that Reconstruction had returned with a vengeance, and that vengeance was in the hands of angry black people. George I advertised Willie Horton, and his idiot son ran an ad with white hands opening an envelope and reading the enclosed letter that informed the recipient that their job had been given to a black person. Why? Washington mandates! From the old Republican whipping-boy, the Democratic Congress! This is hideously brilliant! In one fell swoop, racism becomes acceptable, and anti-intellectual biases are embraced. If you think this is hyperbolic, remember the basis of the last two Republican campaigns for president: smart, accomplished people like Al Gore and John Kerry aren't like us. We shouldn't vote for them, thinking they're smarter than we are and all. We like the other guy, the one who can't form a complete sentence. The one who stumbles over his words. The one who lost every business he ever ran until his buddies gave him a piece of the Texas Rangers baseball team, and the only reason he didn't run that into the ground is that the Rangers were already the worst franchise in Major League Baseball. He makes us feel good about ourselves. Let's have him! He's no elitist like Gore, with his Harvard education. No, our boy has the Common Man's Yale degree! That he got through a legacy admission, not any merit or accomplishment on his own. Now, that's Affirmative Action!
Now, on Wednesday, Hillary Clinton joined this parade of shame. She made the statements at the head of this post, to scream from the mountaintop that the black candidate and his black supporters are about to steal our party and our country. If Hillary means to join the Republican Race Brigade, she needs to remember one thing: Obama can't steal this nomination. He's earned his position through a long, hard campaign. HE'S AHEAD, for crying out loud. And what eats at Hillary Clinton is that she can't catch him at this point.
Then again, perhaps she has studied the Atwater Manual so thoroughly that she has grasped the concept that she might be able to steal the nomination if she can tell the Big Lie often and loudly enough.
After all, that's how Rove got dubyer two terms in the White House.

Decision Time

The final counts are not yet in, but at this moment (10:35 pm cdt), it appears clear that Sen. Barack Obama has won North Carolina and there is no more than a 5%-point spread between Sens. Obama and Clinton in Indiana. Make no mistake: that Indiana circumstance is a victory for Sen. Obama. (Edit: at 1:48 am, with 99% reporting, the margin is 2 points. Stick the fork in this race. It's done.)
In the interest of full disclosure, I voted for Hillary Clinton in our state's primary. I respect her for many reasons. I respect her husband's work as President. He remains the only winner that I have voted for in a presidential election. (At least the only one who was sworn in after winning the election. Come to think of it, I have voted for as many winners as losers: Bill Clinton, Al Gore and John Kerry vs. Jimmy Carter (1980), Walter Mondale and Mike Dukakis. Bush/Rove stole two of them.)
It is now time for Sen. Clinton to concede the nomination.
The math is clear: there is no way that she can surpass Sen. Obama. The only thing she can accomplish by continuing to contest the nomination is electing another out of touch Republican who has made it painfully clear that he will disregard the will of the American people and remain in the Iraq quagmire. Sen. McCain has also refused to reject George II's bloodlust for Iran.
The Clintons seem to have made a couple of decisions. President Clinton has acted abominably over the last several months. He seems far more concerned with his legacy than his wife's campaign. He could have done far more to protect his legacy by telling the intern to put her skirt down when she flashed him her thong.
Senator Clinton seems to have decided that a McCain presidency is preferable to an Obama administration. Maybe it has to do with 2012; maybe she really believes that Obama's pastor speaks for the Illinois senator; maybe, maybe, maybe.
I, for one, would rather have a president associated with Jeremiah Wright than one associated with John Hagee. Wright is angry. Hagee is crazy.
I, for one, would rather have a president short on foreign policy experience than one who has already enunciated his BAD foreign policy intentions.
I, for one, am ready for a president who started his career as a community organizer, working through the church to make a difference in the lives of our poorest, least-educated, most abandoned citizens, rather than another from the pious party who, no matter how good a game they talk, betray no knowledge of or commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I, for one, am ready for a president who has the fortitude to call on us to dream big dreams and aspire to noble aspirations, rather than these who practice the gospel of Lee Atwater and Karl Rove: slash and burn personal destruction, and manipulation of the fears of people.
Would I like for Obama to have the economic experience of FDR, the foreign policy accomplishment of Nixon and the personal diplomacy expertise of Jimmy Carter? Sure. But maybe right now, we need a president who can inspire like Jack Kennedy. One who embodies in his person the changes we have experienced in who we are as Americans. One whose very election would say to the world that we are growing up and growing beyond our historic pettiness, racism and exclusionary policies.
The time has come, Senator Clinton. Do the right thing. Do it now.

Missing and Presumed Dead

What a cold phrase. It seems like one of those military euphemisms designed to cushion reality's blow. Or somehow hide it.
Mickey went fishing Friday. He went by himself, as he so often did. Preachers need time away from people, because our time with people tends to be terribly intense. They found his boat, upside down in the lake. They found his truck parked where he had left it. They spotted his life jacket, floating on the water. It didn't do its job. They haven't found Mickey.
I met him in 1973. His first assignment out of seminary took him to Murray, KY. He was appointed Associate Pastor at First Church. The Senior Pastor was my grandfather. Mickey was news to me. Preachers were like my dad, or my grandfather. Great men, both, they weren't like me. Nor were their generational colleagues. Mickey was. He was young. He was fun. He was corny. He loved the church and God's people. He knew everything that was wrong with the church and how to fix it, if only those older guys (in those days, almost exclusively guys) would just listen or turn him loose. I was almost a teenager when I met Mickey. He made it cool to be part of the church at a time when little about the church seemed cool.
Later, he was the lead pastor in a county where several of us were in our first full-time, on-our- own assignments. He was the gracious, patient, wiser older brother that we all needed. Especially, say, on a night when a young dope forgot to pay his utility bill, or didn't have the money to pay it, and it got very dark after the power got cut off. Mickey and his wife, Marsha, showed up with kerosene lanterns and the cash to turn the power back on. And would never discuss it again after that night; wouldn't even discuss repayment of the cost of the bill.
Mickey was always the same. Nobody ever had a better heart. And he knew how important it was to care about people. In addition to their wonderful twin girls, Mickey and Marsha had a son named Rusty. Rusty had brain tumors that just grew too fast. They had to bury their son. He knew how people could hurt, because he hurt. He believed in the grace of God, because he was sustained by it.
You always felt better after seeing Mickey. I hate like hell that I won't ever see him again. He was a good man. He was a good influence on a kid who would be called to ministry a few years after that first meeting. And he was a minister that I could relate to, could see myself being. I wish I had told him more often how I appreciate him.
God bless Marsha and Megan and Michelle. They are grieving again. That same grace that sustained them when Rusty was sick and died will sustain them now. I just wish they weren't having to rely on it without Mickey's bearhugs to put meat on the bones of God's promises. Mickey was 60. Too young, too young, too young.

Humility Day

A request: if you do not understand the differences between self-confidence and dispassionate assessment on the one hand and arrogance on the other, please don't read this post.
Still here? OK.
I am as good a preacher as anyone in our little club. Sunday in and Sunday out, I do better than all but a select few, and as well as they do. Preaching and leading worship is clearly my best thing, I enjoy it, have enthusiasm and passion for it, and have a better grasp of the scriptures than the vast majority of our appointees. I get the principles of effective communication and am not coordinated enough to work from a manuscript, which benefits me and my congregation.
Still, there are moments when The Boss will very effectively remind me of the source of this gift.
I sucked this morning. Bad. Big, stinky, lousy sucking. I left the church embarrassed at what my people had been subjected to.
This is a good thing. There is nothing that reenergizes the preparation process like one of these days; nothing that guarantees maximum effort in the weeks ahead. Much like Big Papi starting the season 3 for 43, there will be some payback coming. Some lectionary texts are going to get a workout these next few months!

Very Little Time in the Middle Lately

47 years in, I had become persuaded that most of our time is spent somewhere in between the mountaintop experiences and those in the valley of shadows. Not so much lately. Small things don't seem to happen in my current congregation. Just a few weeks ago one of the great disciples in our church seemed clearly to have a heart attack on a Friday morning. After all of the appropriate care and testing was extended, they discovered that she had a massively pinched nerve. No fun, but, blessedly, no heart attack. That led into the time when Joshua (see previous posts) was diagnosed, and during his hospitalization, his dad suffered his second detached retina in a month. As previously shared, Joshua's results were spectacular, and his dad reports vision that is back to the level he had before all of this came about.
Then came Friday night's call. My father was on the phone. He wanted me to go to Jackson with him. It was about 9 pm. Jason had died.
Jason was the second son of my cousin Billy. Billy was about 12 when his dad dropped dead in their front yard from a massive heart attack. He and his two brothers and three sisters lived through pretty much the worst thing that can happen to kids: the death of a parent. Now, in middle age, Billy and his wife, Karen, are living through the nightmare of every parent. Jason was 30, a husband and father, son and friend, and one of those guys who always made everybody in the room happy that they had seen him. Hundred thousand watt smile, life of the party, always a joke or a stunt of some sort in progress.
He was at work. Jason operated the crane at a steel plant in Jackson. It was shift change, and the man he was to relieve saw him come in and climb up. He saw him walking the gangway toward the cab. He never got there. He fell 40 to 45 feet, and did not survive that fall.
Now, a young mother is a widow, her 4 year old autistic son has no father, her 9 year old daughter lost her stepdad, Philip and Lindsay have lost their brother, and Billy and Karen are grieving their boy.
It isn't supposed to go this way.
I'm spending my time participating in the grumbling tradition of our faith. I expect to do a good bit more of it over these next days. At times like this, I want to take my copy of Why Bad Things Happen to Good People, hunt Rabbi Kushner down, and whack him over the head with it.
I'm longing for some of those boring days in between the mountaintop and the valley of shadows. They look awfully good right now.

Still Celebrating Easter

This afternoon, in the same hour of the same day that one week ago brought the phone call about Joshua's diagnosis, his mom called to say they were home. Before they were discharged, Dr. Boop (God help him for all the dumb jokes about his name he must have endured) told my friends that while the biopsy report won't be in for another ten days to two weeks, he didn't need to see any paper to know where things are. And where things are is Joshua's tumor was benign, and his surgeon got all of it. Dr. Boop is a world-renowned authority in the diagnosis and removal of childhood brain tumors. People come from all over the world for this good man to take care of their children. We are very, very blessed to have him in Memphis.
I have often enjoyed the sight of Joshua and his brothers, the full regiment of quads, playing, singing, painting or whatever else that four four-year-old boys can think up. I don't think that sight was ever more beautiful than this afternoon. And we now know that we will be watching them throughout their growing up years.
Up from the grave he arose! Alleluia!

Lost: A Little Piece of Childhood

Granted there aren't that many left, but one of the ever dwindling pieces of my childhood came to an end tonight. The Nature Boy is retired.
(Disclaimer: If you don't know what that means, you probably should stop reading right here. The rest of this will seem kind of silly to you........alright, you've been warned.)
Last night at Wrestlemania 24 (wrestling, like football, is not important enough for roman numerals, no matter what the people in charge of each think) The Heart Break Kid Shawn Michaels, 42, defeated The Nature Boy Ric Flair, 59, to bring an end to the greatest career in the history of professional wrestling. Ric debuted in 1972 with Verne Gagne in the Minnesota-based American Wrestling Association. But it wasn't until Ric signed on with Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, run by Jim Crockett, and relocated to the Carolinas, that he became The Nature Boy. Ric was The Heel. Universally hated by the fans, he could make anybody, and I mean anybody, into the crowd favorite just by calling the guy's name. For crying out loud, the National Wrestling Alliance put their championship on Ronnie Garvin because they knew Ric would make him look like a million bucks. And he did.
As I grew up, 11 am on Saturday was sacred time. That was when Championship Wrestling aired on Channel 13 in Memphis. The dignified and respected weatherman Dave Brown got his start at Channel 13, making a little extra money on the weekends by joining Lance Russell at the announce desk for wrestling, and jumping into the ring to clean house when the bad guys got a little too much out of hand. Memphis' memory will tell you that Dave Brown gave instant credibility to Channel 5's move with his jump to their news broadcast. The reality is that Channel 5 hired Dave Brown to help get the wrestling show to follow him. In those days, the Memphis wrestling show was the highest rated locally produced tv program anywhere in America. As Yogi says, you can look it up.
When cable arrived in the early 1970's, the sanctity of Saturday stretched to 6 pm. That's when Ted Turner's little Channel 17, WTCG, broadcast Georgia Championship Wrestling. On Saturday mornings, we inhaled Lance Russell's disgust with the latest shenanigans of Jerry Lawler, his admiration for the little Australian Bill Dundee, his frustration with Jimmy Hart, and his respect for Tojo Yamamoto and golden boy (and company owner) Jerry Jarrett. On Saturday night we studied under the Dean of Wrestling Announcers, Gordon Solie. Lance Russell was as blustry as the wrestlers; Gordon Solie was serious as a heart attack. Solie ruminated on the consequences for later life of a suplex (always pronounced by the gravel-voiced Solie as "soo-play"), explained the risks of the Battle Royal (pronounced as "royale" as in Casino Royale), analyzed the differences between a regular punch and a Flair open-hand chop, and turned a phrase like few great writers have ever been able to do.
Gordon Solie told us how good Ric Flair was. And Flair carried every opponent, the almost-equally-able ones like Rick Steamboat, Terry Funk and Sting, and the ones like the aforementioned Mr. Garvin who couldn't find their way around the ring with instructions in hand. Ric Flair took care of his opponents, and without exception, made them look dangerous. Flair knew the business. He knew that if he insisted that he never lose, or never look weak, then he would have no strong rivals. No strong rivals, then no strong feuds, then no fan interest, then no ticket sales, then no business. Ric made us care. For 36 years.
Wrestling promoters recognized that Ric was money. Beginning in 1981, Ric was given different versions of a World Heavyweight Championship at least 16 times across the years. This, in the days when a world champion wrestled 45 to 60 minute matches 300 nights a year, all over the country and overseas. Ric made people in Atlanta, Dallas, Minneapolis, New York, the Phillipines, Japan, Korea, England and everywhere in between show up to see him get his butt kicked by the local favorite. Because as he always said, "If you want to be The Man, you have to beat The Man." And every wrestling fan, regardless of the language they spoke, knew Ric Flair was The Man.
Long ago, fans stopped booing Ric the Heel. In the last analysis, it really is up to the fans to determine who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are. We wouldn't boo Ric anymore. He meant too much to us. He still engaged in some of the dastardly behavior that had earned him the moniker "The Dirtiest Player in the Game," but now we were grown up and working and would have loved to have been able to get away with doing some of those terrible things to people around us, too. You might almost say that Ric laid the groundwork for the anti-hero, Stone Cold versus Mr. McMahon, fight all authority story that brought the then-WWF back from near extinction in the late 1990's. He still presented himself as the "Limousine riding, jet flying, kiss stealing, wheeling-dealing son of a gun" and we ate it up as we settled into middle age and routine lives. We lived vicariously through the outlaw Nature Boy.
Now he's done. Vince McMahon wrote Ric's impending retirement into WWE storylines several months ago, declaring that the next match Ric lost would be his last match. The time came last night, and Ric did good business again, looking at the lights, doing the job, for HBK. You see, when a wrestler is leaving a company, the tradition says that he goes out with a loss so that someone who has to wrestle again tomorrow will be made to look good. But no one will ever look as good as Ric Flair, The Nature Boy; not even the great Shawn Michaels. And there will never be another like him.
Thanks, Ric. It has been so, so, so much fun. To quote Naitch, "Whooo!"

Riddle Me This

What do you get when you combine
1) an arrogant self-promoter who can recruit but can't coach,
2) players who couldn't make a free throw if their lives depended on it
3) a team that wasn't challenged all year because of their pathetic conference
4) the team picked by every analyst and every fan poll to be the first #1 seed knocked out
5) a bunch of undisciplined outlaws with no heart?


A TRIP TO THE FINAL FOUR, BABY!!!

Go Tigers!

A Very Long Week

One of the families in our church has a 17 year old daughter and 4 year old quadruplets, all boys. In the time I have been here, this family has become something more than church members to my family, but that has been common for me with families with kids. Truth be told, I often prefer hanging out with the children and youth, and those of great ages, to dealing with those in between. Kids and old people are honest. They tell you what they think. When they connive it is to get their hands on a toy, or an extra piece of pie, not as an exercise of power to beat somebody up. In short, they are fun. I believe, unequivocally, in fun.
That is why I almost had a wreck on Tuesday when the mother of the quads called to tell me she and her husband had taken one of their little boys to LeBonheur for a CT Scan, and had to go back that afternoon for an MRI. Because Joshua had a tumor on the back of his brain.
I can't comprehend things like this. I stand firmly in the biblical tradition of grumbling at such moments. You know, the "We'd have been better off to stay slaves in Egypt than come out here with you" type grumbling. Which means, translated, "We'd be better off without you, God, if this is how you take care of us."
I had what I believed at the time was the worst pastoral situation I'd ever see in November, 1991. A grandfather in my congregation ran over the three year old granddaughter that was the apple of his eye, the joy of his life. The little girl was the child of his son, a young man who had suffered a brain injury on a job, and was left unable to function normally. So his parents bought a house trailer, parked it in their backyard, provided all of the hookups necessary to live, and moved their son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter into the mobile home, and began to provide for them. The little girl had ridden out to the field to feed the cows with granddaddy every day, but somehow, on that awful day, she got out of the back of the truck-chasing the dog, we thought-and in front of the truck when he stopped to open a gate, and she was too little for him to see when he got back into the cab. Pure hell. One little girl stopped breathing that day, but, believe me, all five people in that family died that day.
That day came rushing back to me as Joshua's mom told me what was happening.
At the end of an intense week, I am way past glad to be able to say that it sure looks like Joshua is going to be just fine. He has had his surgery. The biopsy isn't in yet, but the wonderful surgeon that is caring for Joshua has been as positive and encouraging as I've ever heard in 23 years of sitting with families listening to reports from surgeons. He is awake. He knows everyone he's supposed to know. He knows that nurses give shots, and so doesn't want any of them near him (Amen, brother!). His speech is unaffected. They never had to put him on a ventilator, and he was less than 18 hours in ICU after his surgery.
As all this unfolded, I went Israelite all over again. "Oh, yeah. Sorry about that better off without you business. And that better off in Egypt thing? Well, not so much." And Christian: "If it's all the same to you, let's just run with this Easter thing. And, by the way, thanks!"
Most days, the Footprints poem is cornier than I can bear. Then there comes a week like this one, and it makes perfect sense.
And thanks, again! Amen.

And Another Thing...

If there is anything more bizarre than The Evil Rush Limbaugh deep-frying John McCain on a daily basis, it is surely the White House Propaganda Office (known to the public as Fox News) being so deeply offended by the preaching of the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, pastor of Sen. Barack Obama. There is just nothing better than a set full of privileged, wealthy, young white people challenging how a 67 year old black man has experienced and perceives America. Having actually spent time in conversation with older African-Americans, I have heard stories of what it meant to grow up in these United States in the 20's, 30's, 40's and 50's as a person of color.
We who feel mistreated when someone moves into our lane without signaling first would have been poor candidates to live through what our black seniors had to endure. And as for Rev. Wright's feelings about America, he served six years in the military, split between the United States Marine Corps and the United States Navy. Wonder how long the Fox News punks...oh, what's the point? They're Chickenhawks just like Bush and Cheney. Always ready to someone else to get their ass shot off to demonstrate the patriotism of the warmongers.
Their objections to his sermons are funny for a couple of reasons: 1) Rev. Wright has been pastor at Trinity United Church of Christ since 1972. The only reason that they are interested in him now is that one of his congregants is running for president; 2) Nobody cares what preachers say. We spend most of our time trying to impact human behavior, but the extent of our effectiveness is typically a "Hey, preacher, you really told THEM this morning!" 3) Rev. Wright's clips, as I have seen them presented, are a challenge to America to be what America is supposed to be, from someone who has experienced America settling far short of what we aspire to. Only the current, pathetic "America: Love It or Leave It" crowd could begin to argue that we shouldn't seek to live into the nobility of the Declaration of Independence and Constitution.
I might never phrase some of Rev. Wright's objections the way he does, but I just don't find him to be the "Un-American racist" that he has been labeled by Murdoch's Morons.
(And, by the way, they mean biggot, not racist. A member of a minority group can be a biggot; such a person can never be a racist. Being a racist has to do with reaping the benefits of being a member of the majority without standing for those who are deprived of those benefits because of their race. For example, whatever my attitude toward my black colleagues, if I unquestioningly spend my career enjoying the benefits of being appointed to the more affluent white congregations of our Annual Conference without objecting to the limitations placed on the appointments of those black colleagues for no reason other than their race, then I am, indeed, a racist. Perhaps not a biggot, but certainly a racist. Because the field is tilted in my favor. That's racism. And that's why members of the minority cannot be racist. Ever!)

Nothing Since January 30? Really?

Nice unintended vacation. That's what New Year's Resolutions (I won't go longer than a week in 2008 without entertaining myself in this way!) get you. Or me.
On to various catch up topics:
1) Did I actually manage to sit at the table with the baby and have a rational conversation about wedding invitations (who would get them, what would they look like, etc.) without losing it and weeping uncontrollably? Yes, I did! Darned proud of the old daddy! Then again, it's probably three years out. Still, marvelous self-control.
2) I am thrilled with our Memphis Tigers. Yes, John Calipari is one of the greatest self-promoters in the history of self-promoters. But he's also one heck of a basketball coach, and this is one excellent team he has assembled, and shepherded to a 33-1 record and a number 1 seed in the NCAA South Regional (and number 2 overall!). This Memphis team has the best shot ever at a national title, and yes, that includes the 1973 team that got to the championship game.
3) Nobody is going to enjoy playing the Atlanta Braves this year. Chipper Jones and Mark Teixeira in the middle of the order is unprecedented in MLB history. Never before have two switchhitters of this ability anchored a lineup. Yunel Escobar has done nothing this spring except further his argument to be seen as another Jose Reyes-type ballplayer, and that's pretty darned good. Jeff Francoeur has learned the strike zone, and seems to have had the epiphany that walks aren't a bad thing. If his OBP goes up to .380, Jeff goes to the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. You heard it here first. Last year's New York Mets' ace is this year's Braves' number three. Tom Glavine will follow Tim Hudson and John Smoltz, and that is really, really close to the quality of the 90's Braves' rotation. Kelly Johnson and Brian McCann are another year more mature, and Matt Diaz looks to be ready to take over full-time in left. Some order, some rotation, and Rafael Soriano at the end makes the Braves look very formidable to my eye.
4) The Red Sox should beat the living hell out of the MFYs this year, and I can't wait to watch it unfold, because, as always, the YANKEES SUCK! That's solely for my friend in Knoxville. And me.
5) I probably should update the job situation for the two or three of you outside the family that actually waste the time to read this little piece of my mind. A United Methodist congregation stood up for a preacher under persecution. Yeah, I couldn't believe it either! I do regret that two households have apparently taken their leave over this thing, but if they weren't going to let it go, pitch in and become productive parts of the church, then they needed to go. Their choice, not mine. I'll be here another year, and we'll see after that. Commitments about salary and staff growth have been renewed, acted on, and improved. So we'll see how it goes from here.
6) When it's needed, there is nothing on earth better than a good backscratcher.
7) There's really something wrong with St. Patrick's Day (as celebrated in our fair country) falling on Monday of Holy Week. Actually, it's thoroughly appropriate, as anyone who drives out snakes is obviously doing the Lord's Work, but we've allowed the patron's day to become an amateur hour for dopes in search copious amounts of green beer. Hey, morons: BEER ISN'T GREEN! Just freaking grow up, will you?
8) I have become an absolute devotee of the prehistoric game show What's My Line, airing on the Game Show Network every night/morning at 2 am. In the age of "reality" crap (we've all spent a month on a remote island with no modern conveniences, in a house with a bunch of hideous people placed there to provoke us, or trying to get a job with a jackass tycoon haven't we?) WML as we devotees refer to it, is a half-hour of elegance, intelligence, wit and class from before I was paying any attention to television. Set your DVR/VCR and thank me later!
9) Since the last scribble, I have marked my sixth year with my significant other, for which I am deeply grateful. She's an excellent playmate for this big, dopey kid, and even if I don't tell her often enough, I am delighted that she graces my world on a daily basis. That she is such a fine mother to my daughters (and along with my mother, the finest mother my children have ever known) is just gravy. That wasn't meant to be a shot at anyone, but the truth is the truth.
10) We had the birthday dinner for the son-in-law-to-be tonight. He's a good kid who has every excuse in the world to be a jackass, but has chosen to turn the challenges of his life into becoming something better than what he has known. I am proud to know any young person who has chosen such a path in life. He treats my baby well, and that's all anyone can ask for. My goodness, 19 is young!
11) As much as the Good Friday Tenebrae service means to me, I'm really glad that it runs about 40 minutes. 7 pm worship start, 7:45 departure from the church, 8:30 arrival at home and gathering of the snacks for the Tiger's tipoff at 9 pm. Sounds like a schedule to me! University of Texas-Arlington, beware! Hungry Tigers are looking for you!