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.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, March 31, 2008
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!"
(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!"
Sunday, March 30, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, March 28, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
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!)
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!
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!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Undeniable Brilliance of Theo Epstein
Theo Epstein, wunderkind of the Boston Red Sox' front office, has demonstrated his growth and maturity by way of the great deal that he did not make this winter. Johan Santana is going to the New York Mets. This is absolutely the best news a Sox fan could have heard. I love you, Theo; let me count the reasons:
1) The Yankees didn't get one of the two best pitchers in baseball. (We already have Beckett)
2) The Red Sox will have Jacoby Ellsbury in center this season, providing a legit leadoff man and, in all liklihood, letting Dustin Pedroia slide into his natural #2 slot, with Youk dropping to an RBI spot, I'm guessing #6 behind Mikey Lowell.
3) Jon Lester will take the 4 hole in the rotation, and may very well pitch better than #3, Curt Schilling.
4) Jed Lowrie will continue his progression toward ss in 2009.
5) Justin Masterson will continue his progression toward the 2009 rotation.
6) Clay Buchholz will get to start the season at AAA Pawtucket, thus avoiding the horrific glare of the Boston media. But should #3, Schilling, or #5, Tim Wakefield, find themselves unable to defy the calendar, there's another starter waiting in the wings, one who already has a ML no-hitter to his credit.
7) Wang will be the Yankees' #1. And they will have to count on Mussina and the baby brigade.
8) The National League will have to deal with Santana all summer, and the Sox won't face him at all, while the Yankees have two series against the Mets.
Our prospects are all wearing red this year. The Yankees didn't get any better. Santana's out of the American League. Nice work, young Epstein!
1) The Yankees didn't get one of the two best pitchers in baseball. (We already have Beckett)
2) The Red Sox will have Jacoby Ellsbury in center this season, providing a legit leadoff man and, in all liklihood, letting Dustin Pedroia slide into his natural #2 slot, with Youk dropping to an RBI spot, I'm guessing #6 behind Mikey Lowell.
3) Jon Lester will take the 4 hole in the rotation, and may very well pitch better than #3, Curt Schilling.
4) Jed Lowrie will continue his progression toward ss in 2009.
5) Justin Masterson will continue his progression toward the 2009 rotation.
6) Clay Buchholz will get to start the season at AAA Pawtucket, thus avoiding the horrific glare of the Boston media. But should #3, Schilling, or #5, Tim Wakefield, find themselves unable to defy the calendar, there's another starter waiting in the wings, one who already has a ML no-hitter to his credit.
7) Wang will be the Yankees' #1. And they will have to count on Mussina and the baby brigade.
8) The National League will have to deal with Santana all summer, and the Sox won't face him at all, while the Yankees have two series against the Mets.
Our prospects are all wearing red this year. The Yankees didn't get any better. Santana's out of the American League. Nice work, young Epstein!
Monday, January 14, 2008
Hallelujah!
The clock is running! One month until the four most wonderful words in the world: Pitchers and Catchers Report! We may survive. We just may survive.
Memo To: Sens. Clinton and Obama
Friends,
I think the world of both of you. I will be pleased to have either of you as my President. For now, let's get a clue.
There is nothing to argue about regarding the Civil Rights movement. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. provided the necessary moral leadership to force the government into action. President Lyndon B. Johnson acted with the necessary political leadership to enact the Voting Rights Act and the Civil Rights Act. King without Johnson never moves beyond being a prophetic voice in the wilderness. Johnson without King never risks the political capital to do the right thing.
Got it? Good! Now, let's get on with the campaign!
I think the world of both of you. I will be pleased to have either of you as my President. For now, let's get a clue.
There is nothing to argue about regarding the Civil Rights movement. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. provided the necessary moral leadership to force the government into action. President Lyndon B. Johnson acted with the necessary political leadership to enact the Voting Rights Act and the Civil Rights Act. King without Johnson never moves beyond being a prophetic voice in the wilderness. Johnson without King never risks the political capital to do the right thing.
Got it? Good! Now, let's get on with the campaign!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Oh, Well
What was so promising on Thursday night blew up today. A charitable presentation: a group of older, scared people simply cannot see what the possibilities are. They are captives of a world view that is drawing down. I have come to see life as a diamond (of course; I am a baseball fan). We spend the early part of our lives growing out into the world from the little point that is our entry into the world. Everything expands until somewhere in mid-life, we turn the corner. Usually it's not even perceptible to us when we make the turn. But from that moment on, our world begins to draw down again, until advanced age or illness or some brand of dementia or a combination of them all makes our world very small again. Some of these poor folk are well down the road of life's reduction. Perhaps the younger folk, who haven't to this point participated in meetings, will learn their lesson from this.
The paperwork has been requested to make a change of scenery. Didn't want to. Don't look forward to it. But I can't afford this anymore, in any of the ways "afford" can be interpreted. Such is life.
The paperwork has been requested to make a change of scenery. Didn't want to. Don't look forward to it. But I can't afford this anymore, in any of the ways "afford" can be interpreted. Such is life.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
D-Day, Part 1, Part 2
So, the fateful meeting got put off a week...what's a few days amongst friends?
Tonight we got down to business. And they looked at the situation, discussed it, and did everything that needed to be done. As we are so Methodical, there are additional steps for the various aspects of the results. But that said, my committee stepped up and our church grew up a little bit tonight. They are making a very positive salary proposal. They are making an extremely positive staffing request. They are proposing a goal for the new year that is brilliant. They flatly rejected the continuing complaints of the one household (required in each church-and you're really lucky if it's only one) that is unhappy with the current shepherd. In fact, in my 24th year at this task I have never, ever, had a committee take such a strong position against frivolous complaints, and in favor of affirming my work. Their generosity-financial and in spirit-is an energizing experience for the new year.
I had hoped and prayed for the opportunity to stay and work in this community with these good people. We ain't there yet, but we're way down the road in that direction!
Resolution number one comes Sunday afternoon. Stay tuned...
Tonight we got down to business. And they looked at the situation, discussed it, and did everything that needed to be done. As we are so Methodical, there are additional steps for the various aspects of the results. But that said, my committee stepped up and our church grew up a little bit tonight. They are making a very positive salary proposal. They are making an extremely positive staffing request. They are proposing a goal for the new year that is brilliant. They flatly rejected the continuing complaints of the one household (required in each church-and you're really lucky if it's only one) that is unhappy with the current shepherd. In fact, in my 24th year at this task I have never, ever, had a committee take such a strong position against frivolous complaints, and in favor of affirming my work. Their generosity-financial and in spirit-is an energizing experience for the new year.
I had hoped and prayed for the opportunity to stay and work in this community with these good people. We ain't there yet, but we're way down the road in that direction!
Resolution number one comes Sunday afternoon. Stay tuned...
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
PEDs, Again
Performance Enhancing Drugs. Perhaps the most complicated issue that has ever invaded the game of baseball. Six days after the Mitchell Report was released, the matter has only gotten more complicated. Let's start with the statistics. Baseball is, after all, more about the numbers than any other game. Numbers are history. They define the legends, the very goods, the adequates and the Chico Esquelas (I saw a picture of Garret Morris this week, in honor of his turning 70 this year!). Now that we know that the pitchers were gluteus maximus-deep in the steroid pool as well as the hitters, are we to have more respect for the home run totals? Should we just disqualify those numbers beyond age 37 or 38 (standard decline time for over 125 years of baseball) that saw individuals getting better into their mid-40s? Should every user be Joe Jacksoned or Pete Rosed? But even those banned for life still have their numbers in the record books...and the numbers are what's cooked with PEDs.
Mentioning Pete, I don't want to hear from him about this. If Pete had any integrity, he would have owned up to betting on the Reds in 1989, owned up to an addiction, asked for baseball's help in getting through treatment. If he had done those things, he might still be banned, unable to work in baseball, but I'd bet (pun intended) that his placque would hang in Cooperstown today. Americans love nothing more than the fall of the high and mighty, followed by the phoenix-like rise of the fallen. I'm so skeptical of Pete at this point that it wouldn't surprise me if we someday found out that he really didn't bet on baseball, and only admitted doing it to get another book contract (My Prison Without Bars, $24.95 at a bookstore near you! Surely remaindered for $.99 by now.) For all of that, he is right, however. PEDs skew the on-field result. They mess with the game in a way that he never did. And yes, no known steroid user can possibly be inducted at Cooperstown ahead of Pete Rose.
Another issue: we still don't know the extent of the matter. Apparently all the teams have Kirk Radomskis, and most of the players have one or more Brian McNamees. And with the movement of Free Agency Era players, names and phone numbers of eager, willing assistants have obviously been passed from millionaire and would-be millionaire to the next 250 of the same. There can be no possible accurate accounting of how many of who did what when it comes to PEDs. This may be the reason that Senator Mitchell advocated the amnesty that he recommended. Since you can't name them all, how can you selectively punish some? Bud? Are you listening? Anyone? Anyone?
As for individuals, how bad does Andy Pettitte's confession make Roger Clemens look? In fact, the more people who own up to McNamee's role in their behavior, the more the Rocket looks like he has a faulty fuse. But I don't want to let Pettitte off the hook just yet. Baseball players are pretty smart as professional athletes go, and it is clear that the new crop of identified users has studied up on the idiocy of the original crew. Only Clemens seems to be reenacting Raphael Palmeiro's finger-wagging, "I never did it" routine. No one has suffered Mark McGwire's amnesia or Sammy Sosa' misplacing of his English. Instead, Pettitte, Brian Roberts and Fernando Vina (trying to hold onto his ESPN gig) have each acknowledged, and framed, their usage. Pettitte and Vina tell stories of using to get well, to be able to get back from injury to help their teams, and allowing bad judgement to aid their recoveries. Brilliant! How much better would Big Mac be remembered if he had said that as his foot-woes became worse in his late 30s, he felt he owed it to the good fans of St. Louis to try to play every day as people drove in from all over the Mid-West, spending their hard-earned money to see him hit. And it was wrong, and he wished he hadn't done it. I'll tell you what would have happened: Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn would have had a big, redheaded third at last July's induction ceremonies. The agents and publicists have these guys much more prepared to respond to the embarassment and fear of being exposed in 2007.
Then there is Bonds. Again, Barry isn't under federal indictment because he used steroids or HGH. He is facing trial and jail time because when he was asked by the feds about his behavior, he lied to them. As with Marion Jones, learn the lesson: tell the cops what you did. None of the current crop of baseball players is going to be stupid enough to lie to the authorities like Bonds did. Even Clemens will tell the truth if some special prosecutor puts him on the stand under oath. After all, Jason Giambi may have gotten booed in Yankee Stadium and everywhere else after his grand jury testimony, but the Giambino will never see the inside of Leavenworth over steroids.
At the same time, Bonds' performance has regained some amount of credibility. If only hitters had been using, and the poor pitchers were all under assault by these swelled-headed, hulking, testicularly-shrunken louts, then nothing's been a fair fight since about 1990. But if the pitchers were shooting up with something resembling the same amounts and frequencies, then the hitters weren't so far ahead of them. As the old saw holds, you can't compare the numbers of different eras; never more true than today.
The numbers also raise the issue of awards. Curt Schilling wrote today on 38pitches.com that Clemens should forfeit the 4 post-1997 Cy Youngs if he was a user. Here's the best example I know of. (At this moment, a disclaimer is needed: Albert Pujols has not been publicly accused. That's all that can be said.) In 2001, Pujols finished fourth in NL MVP voting. He finished behind Bonds, Sosa and Luis Gonzalez, three men widely associated with PEDs. Albert was second to Bonds in 2002 and 2003. He was third in 2004 to Bonds and Adrian Beltre, another widely suspected player. Albert won the MVP in 2005. Now, there's an argument to be made about who would have gotten the votes if these guys hadn't been in the running, but it certainly is a possibility that Albert Pujols would have won the National League MVP award in each of his first five seasons if the illegal substances had not been in play. What would such an incredible accomplishment have meant to a guy who is not known (today) to be dirty? How do you undo the injury he has suffered? The Olympics have a history of awarding medals to the highest finisher who didn't cheat. Should baseball do the same? It makes a good deal of sense.
No matter how ready I am to see this settled and done, we are a long, long way from that point. And it sure looks to me like this will remain the biggest story in baseball for another year or two, minimum.
Mentioning Pete, I don't want to hear from him about this. If Pete had any integrity, he would have owned up to betting on the Reds in 1989, owned up to an addiction, asked for baseball's help in getting through treatment. If he had done those things, he might still be banned, unable to work in baseball, but I'd bet (pun intended) that his placque would hang in Cooperstown today. Americans love nothing more than the fall of the high and mighty, followed by the phoenix-like rise of the fallen. I'm so skeptical of Pete at this point that it wouldn't surprise me if we someday found out that he really didn't bet on baseball, and only admitted doing it to get another book contract (My Prison Without Bars, $24.95 at a bookstore near you! Surely remaindered for $.99 by now.) For all of that, he is right, however. PEDs skew the on-field result. They mess with the game in a way that he never did. And yes, no known steroid user can possibly be inducted at Cooperstown ahead of Pete Rose.
Another issue: we still don't know the extent of the matter. Apparently all the teams have Kirk Radomskis, and most of the players have one or more Brian McNamees. And with the movement of Free Agency Era players, names and phone numbers of eager, willing assistants have obviously been passed from millionaire and would-be millionaire to the next 250 of the same. There can be no possible accurate accounting of how many of who did what when it comes to PEDs. This may be the reason that Senator Mitchell advocated the amnesty that he recommended. Since you can't name them all, how can you selectively punish some? Bud? Are you listening? Anyone? Anyone?
As for individuals, how bad does Andy Pettitte's confession make Roger Clemens look? In fact, the more people who own up to McNamee's role in their behavior, the more the Rocket looks like he has a faulty fuse. But I don't want to let Pettitte off the hook just yet. Baseball players are pretty smart as professional athletes go, and it is clear that the new crop of identified users has studied up on the idiocy of the original crew. Only Clemens seems to be reenacting Raphael Palmeiro's finger-wagging, "I never did it" routine. No one has suffered Mark McGwire's amnesia or Sammy Sosa' misplacing of his English. Instead, Pettitte, Brian Roberts and Fernando Vina (trying to hold onto his ESPN gig) have each acknowledged, and framed, their usage. Pettitte and Vina tell stories of using to get well, to be able to get back from injury to help their teams, and allowing bad judgement to aid their recoveries. Brilliant! How much better would Big Mac be remembered if he had said that as his foot-woes became worse in his late 30s, he felt he owed it to the good fans of St. Louis to try to play every day as people drove in from all over the Mid-West, spending their hard-earned money to see him hit. And it was wrong, and he wished he hadn't done it. I'll tell you what would have happened: Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn would have had a big, redheaded third at last July's induction ceremonies. The agents and publicists have these guys much more prepared to respond to the embarassment and fear of being exposed in 2007.
Then there is Bonds. Again, Barry isn't under federal indictment because he used steroids or HGH. He is facing trial and jail time because when he was asked by the feds about his behavior, he lied to them. As with Marion Jones, learn the lesson: tell the cops what you did. None of the current crop of baseball players is going to be stupid enough to lie to the authorities like Bonds did. Even Clemens will tell the truth if some special prosecutor puts him on the stand under oath. After all, Jason Giambi may have gotten booed in Yankee Stadium and everywhere else after his grand jury testimony, but the Giambino will never see the inside of Leavenworth over steroids.
At the same time, Bonds' performance has regained some amount of credibility. If only hitters had been using, and the poor pitchers were all under assault by these swelled-headed, hulking, testicularly-shrunken louts, then nothing's been a fair fight since about 1990. But if the pitchers were shooting up with something resembling the same amounts and frequencies, then the hitters weren't so far ahead of them. As the old saw holds, you can't compare the numbers of different eras; never more true than today.
The numbers also raise the issue of awards. Curt Schilling wrote today on 38pitches.com that Clemens should forfeit the 4 post-1997 Cy Youngs if he was a user. Here's the best example I know of. (At this moment, a disclaimer is needed: Albert Pujols has not been publicly accused. That's all that can be said.) In 2001, Pujols finished fourth in NL MVP voting. He finished behind Bonds, Sosa and Luis Gonzalez, three men widely associated with PEDs. Albert was second to Bonds in 2002 and 2003. He was third in 2004 to Bonds and Adrian Beltre, another widely suspected player. Albert won the MVP in 2005. Now, there's an argument to be made about who would have gotten the votes if these guys hadn't been in the running, but it certainly is a possibility that Albert Pujols would have won the National League MVP award in each of his first five seasons if the illegal substances had not been in play. What would such an incredible accomplishment have meant to a guy who is not known (today) to be dirty? How do you undo the injury he has suffered? The Olympics have a history of awarding medals to the highest finisher who didn't cheat. Should baseball do the same? It makes a good deal of sense.
No matter how ready I am to see this settled and done, we are a long, long way from that point. And it sure looks to me like this will remain the biggest story in baseball for another year or two, minimum.
Monday, December 17, 2007
D-Day Part 1
Thursday is Decision Day, Part 1. The immediate course of the old career will be determined. The committee that deals with little things like salary proposals will convene to make the 2008 recommendation. I pushed this as close to the end of the year as is possible in our system, so that the financials will be about as complete as they can be. Results: the third straight Best Financial Year Ever for our little arm of the Lord's Work. Now, it's really put up or shut up. I have done the missional, serve-at-a-discount thing for three years. That's ok. But now, we're looking down the barrel of three kids in college at the same time this fall, and the options are gone. After two salary cycles, we're still $12,000 behind the old assignment, which was a dying, no-hope type of situation. It is time for this thriving, growing, rolling in dough place to act like what it has become.
I cannot claim that I'm a big enough person that last year's disappointment hasn't been hard to carry around at times. When you have a double digit surplus, and they moan that 4% is absolutely all they can afford, they just aren't telling the truth. But thie time, another inadequate sharing of the proceeds of good work will mean a change of venue. I can't see how they won't step up, but then again, I thought the same thing last year. Last year's 12% budget surplus has become about 22% this year. Last year's decision to stick it all into a savings account will not fly this year. And what has become a financial emergency for me is turning into a tragedy for the church. They just can't afford any more to hang around that starter or never-made-it type of salary, given the church that they now are. And I don't know if they get that or not.
Pardon an ego moment here, but the growth in the town predates my arrival by a good 8 years. Why didn't the church grow before? Why didn't the membership rise? Why didn't the attendance swell? Why didn't the program grow? Why didn't the giving increase (18% in new dollars this year)? The people in the pews didn't suddenly begin to be friendly. They didn't conjure up a new, shiny space in which to worship. An immodest evaluation: only the guy in the pulpit changed. They really need to understand that I came down about three salary levels to serve here. They cannot afford to return to the level they are paying for. If they don't come up, I'm out, and they are out of luck. It seems a very, very simple fix: just turn loose of some of what we've accomplished together, and we can keep going.
Please! I don't want to go anywhere! Give me the option of staying!
I cannot claim that I'm a big enough person that last year's disappointment hasn't been hard to carry around at times. When you have a double digit surplus, and they moan that 4% is absolutely all they can afford, they just aren't telling the truth. But thie time, another inadequate sharing of the proceeds of good work will mean a change of venue. I can't see how they won't step up, but then again, I thought the same thing last year. Last year's 12% budget surplus has become about 22% this year. Last year's decision to stick it all into a savings account will not fly this year. And what has become a financial emergency for me is turning into a tragedy for the church. They just can't afford any more to hang around that starter or never-made-it type of salary, given the church that they now are. And I don't know if they get that or not.
Pardon an ego moment here, but the growth in the town predates my arrival by a good 8 years. Why didn't the church grow before? Why didn't the membership rise? Why didn't the attendance swell? Why didn't the program grow? Why didn't the giving increase (18% in new dollars this year)? The people in the pews didn't suddenly begin to be friendly. They didn't conjure up a new, shiny space in which to worship. An immodest evaluation: only the guy in the pulpit changed. They really need to understand that I came down about three salary levels to serve here. They cannot afford to return to the level they are paying for. If they don't come up, I'm out, and they are out of luck. It seems a very, very simple fix: just turn loose of some of what we've accomplished together, and we can keep going.
Please! I don't want to go anywhere! Give me the option of staying!
Friday, December 14, 2007
The Mitchell Report
Today has been a day of great heat, but little light in the world of Major League Baseball. Former Senator George Mitchell of Maine, director of the Boston Red Sox, member of the board of the Walt Disney Company (the parent of ESPN), the arbiter of the peace in Northern Ireland, is also a former federal prosecutor, former Federal judge, and most importantly, former Majority Leader of the United States Senate. He was tapped almost two years ago by Allan H. (Bud) Selig to investigate the presence of performance enhancing drugs in baseball.
We already knew that steroids had changed the landscape of baseball permanently. We knew that Mitchell had at least the appearance of at least two conflicts of interest. Would he name Red Sox players? He serves the team as a director. Would he damage the value of ESPN's relationship with MLB? He is on the Disney board. Could he get anything done? He did not have subpoena power. And all of the loudmouths are being heard now. What good did it do? What did we get out of this? He went too far, or not far enough. He encouraged Selig to do everything possible to avoid punishment for past behavior, opting instead to push for using the knowledge of past mistakes to shape a cleaner future. Ken Rosenthal is upset over the Mitchell Report, which pretty well guarantees it was a good thing to undertake.
All of the wind and fury misses the point. This project wasn't about getting Roger Clemens' name out of the rumors and into the record. It wasn't about further burying Barry Bonds, or covering his enhanced anatomy by putting 75 others in the boat with him. It wasn't to solve all of baseball's problems. No, not all of them. Just the biggest one: Congress.
Bud and MLB President Bob Dupuy have been summoned to Capitol Hill again; they will appear next week. One congressman has already called for Bud's oily head. (Now that's a real demonstration of what Mick Foley used to call "testicular fortitude": a member of the United States government telling anyone else that they should resign their position due to incompetent performance.) But the Kommisar-for-Life and his right-hand guy are going to swear to tell the truth, look warmly at the members of the committee, and tell them, over and over and over, "We are serious about steroids and all the rest now! See? We hired your guy to investigate it all!"
Members of Congress want TV face time. They want to look like they are protecting the youth and children of America. They like to lecture the powerful who have been dragged in and turned into whimpering puppies by congressional subpoenas. But they do not insult, attack or belittle their own. Especially not one of their own as prominent as George Mitchell. Bud's people were either prescient enough, or just plain lucky enough, to benefit from the change in congressional majorities in the last election. If anyone was going to attack Mitchell's work, it surely won't be the members of his own party who now run the show. You should expect to see the small, mousy Selig (so close to Zelig) hide in the long, broad, dignified shadow of the former Democratic leader of the Senate.
This is why Mitchell was chosen. This is sportswriters' screaming about imagined conflicts of interest doesn't matter. Because those who can compel testimony, take away the anti-trust exemption, regulate, regulate, regulate, and force the owners to open their books will take George Mitchell's word for it that the truth has now been told, and the corner of enforcement has been turned. No one in congress will attack George Mitchell's integrity. No one in congress will accuse George Mitchell of ineptitude. No one in congress will throw dirt on one of their own. That's why Bud hired him. That's why Bud was on TV this afternoon telling one of his questioners that it really didn't matter how expensive this investigation has been. Because he knows that when he sits before the members of congress next week, he's bringing protection with him. Kind of like Michael Corleone walking into the committee room to hear Frank Pantangeli's testimony in Godfather II, with Pantangeli's older brother, fresh off the plane from Italy, on Corleone's arm. Frankie Five Angels proceeded to forget that he'd ever even heard of Michael Corleone.
When Bud shows up with the Honorable George Mitchell on his arm, all of those congressmen/women who have expectations of having big law firm/lobbying jobs when their terms are ended will promptly forget that they ever heard of Winstrol or HGH or McNamee or Radomski. And then, Bud will have gotten his money's worth.
We already knew that steroids had changed the landscape of baseball permanently. We knew that Mitchell had at least the appearance of at least two conflicts of interest. Would he name Red Sox players? He serves the team as a director. Would he damage the value of ESPN's relationship with MLB? He is on the Disney board. Could he get anything done? He did not have subpoena power. And all of the loudmouths are being heard now. What good did it do? What did we get out of this? He went too far, or not far enough. He encouraged Selig to do everything possible to avoid punishment for past behavior, opting instead to push for using the knowledge of past mistakes to shape a cleaner future. Ken Rosenthal is upset over the Mitchell Report, which pretty well guarantees it was a good thing to undertake.
All of the wind and fury misses the point. This project wasn't about getting Roger Clemens' name out of the rumors and into the record. It wasn't about further burying Barry Bonds, or covering his enhanced anatomy by putting 75 others in the boat with him. It wasn't to solve all of baseball's problems. No, not all of them. Just the biggest one: Congress.
Bud and MLB President Bob Dupuy have been summoned to Capitol Hill again; they will appear next week. One congressman has already called for Bud's oily head. (Now that's a real demonstration of what Mick Foley used to call "testicular fortitude": a member of the United States government telling anyone else that they should resign their position due to incompetent performance.) But the Kommisar-for-Life and his right-hand guy are going to swear to tell the truth, look warmly at the members of the committee, and tell them, over and over and over, "We are serious about steroids and all the rest now! See? We hired your guy to investigate it all!"
Members of Congress want TV face time. They want to look like they are protecting the youth and children of America. They like to lecture the powerful who have been dragged in and turned into whimpering puppies by congressional subpoenas. But they do not insult, attack or belittle their own. Especially not one of their own as prominent as George Mitchell. Bud's people were either prescient enough, or just plain lucky enough, to benefit from the change in congressional majorities in the last election. If anyone was going to attack Mitchell's work, it surely won't be the members of his own party who now run the show. You should expect to see the small, mousy Selig (so close to Zelig) hide in the long, broad, dignified shadow of the former Democratic leader of the Senate.
This is why Mitchell was chosen. This is sportswriters' screaming about imagined conflicts of interest doesn't matter. Because those who can compel testimony, take away the anti-trust exemption, regulate, regulate, regulate, and force the owners to open their books will take George Mitchell's word for it that the truth has now been told, and the corner of enforcement has been turned. No one in congress will attack George Mitchell's integrity. No one in congress will accuse George Mitchell of ineptitude. No one in congress will throw dirt on one of their own. That's why Bud hired him. That's why Bud was on TV this afternoon telling one of his questioners that it really didn't matter how expensive this investigation has been. Because he knows that when he sits before the members of congress next week, he's bringing protection with him. Kind of like Michael Corleone walking into the committee room to hear Frank Pantangeli's testimony in Godfather II, with Pantangeli's older brother, fresh off the plane from Italy, on Corleone's arm. Frankie Five Angels proceeded to forget that he'd ever even heard of Michael Corleone.
When Bud shows up with the Honorable George Mitchell on his arm, all of those congressmen/women who have expectations of having big law firm/lobbying jobs when their terms are ended will promptly forget that they ever heard of Winstrol or HGH or McNamee or Radomski. And then, Bud will have gotten his money's worth.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Who Is He?
A tale of two seasons:
2-0; 34 games; 16 saves; 33 1/3 IP; 23 hits; 8 runs, all earned; 12 BB; 29 K; 2.16 ERA
2-2; 20 games; 0 saves; 18 2/3 IP; 26 hits; 14 runs, all earned; 9 BB; 22 K; 6.75 ERA
Two seasons, but only one pitcher: Eric Gagne. The first half, as closer of the Texas Rangers, he was good enough to return a package that included a promising 25 year old pitcher, Kason Gabbard, and a fast 26 year old outfielder, David Murphy. Upon his arrival in Boston, Gagne blew up. He was terrible. Granted, his role changed. He wasn't about to be put in Jonathan Papelbon's spot, so he became a setup man, the 8th inning guy. Even that was problematic: Hideki Okajima was wicked awesome pre-Gagne, merely very good upon being pushed back to the 7th after Eric's arrival. No one, including Gagne, can ever argue that Tito Francona didn't give him a chance. Terry kept running him out there long past the time the Fenway Faithful began to boo with a passion normally reserved for the MFYs.
All of this reflection is, of course, occasioned by the decision by the Milwaukee Brewers to sign Mr. Gagne to a one-year $10 million contract. I'm going to let that sink in for a moment. Now I'm going to say it again: Eric Gagne has 10 million extra-extra-large coming for 2008.
The problem: who is he? Is he the capable, surgically restored closer that the Rangers had prior to July 31? Or is he the ticking time bomb who always seemed to explode about the time he reached the mound for the Red Sox? Gagne will be 32 the first week of January. He had three great seasons as the closer for the Los Angeles Dodgers. But he is now two major surgeries and three seasons removed from those dominating days. And right now, with the cash falling out of the pockets of Major League Baseball's owners, it is apparently even within the reach of smaller market teams to spend questionably, if not downright foolishly. Doug Melvin has said that he paid more money to avoid more years on the deal. If that isn't a plain proclamation of the economic state of the game today, then I don't know what is.
I have a very warm spot in my heart for Ned Yost, and Bob Uecker is one of the great figures of the game, so I hope this move doesn't blow up on the Brewers, but if I were a betting man...well, I know where my money would be. And it wouldn't be on Gagne. Or in his pocket.
2-0; 34 games; 16 saves; 33 1/3 IP; 23 hits; 8 runs, all earned; 12 BB; 29 K; 2.16 ERA
2-2; 20 games; 0 saves; 18 2/3 IP; 26 hits; 14 runs, all earned; 9 BB; 22 K; 6.75 ERA
Two seasons, but only one pitcher: Eric Gagne. The first half, as closer of the Texas Rangers, he was good enough to return a package that included a promising 25 year old pitcher, Kason Gabbard, and a fast 26 year old outfielder, David Murphy. Upon his arrival in Boston, Gagne blew up. He was terrible. Granted, his role changed. He wasn't about to be put in Jonathan Papelbon's spot, so he became a setup man, the 8th inning guy. Even that was problematic: Hideki Okajima was wicked awesome pre-Gagne, merely very good upon being pushed back to the 7th after Eric's arrival. No one, including Gagne, can ever argue that Tito Francona didn't give him a chance. Terry kept running him out there long past the time the Fenway Faithful began to boo with a passion normally reserved for the MFYs.
All of this reflection is, of course, occasioned by the decision by the Milwaukee Brewers to sign Mr. Gagne to a one-year $10 million contract. I'm going to let that sink in for a moment. Now I'm going to say it again: Eric Gagne has 10 million extra-extra-large coming for 2008.
The problem: who is he? Is he the capable, surgically restored closer that the Rangers had prior to July 31? Or is he the ticking time bomb who always seemed to explode about the time he reached the mound for the Red Sox? Gagne will be 32 the first week of January. He had three great seasons as the closer for the Los Angeles Dodgers. But he is now two major surgeries and three seasons removed from those dominating days. And right now, with the cash falling out of the pockets of Major League Baseball's owners, it is apparently even within the reach of smaller market teams to spend questionably, if not downright foolishly. Doug Melvin has said that he paid more money to avoid more years on the deal. If that isn't a plain proclamation of the economic state of the game today, then I don't know what is.
I have a very warm spot in my heart for Ned Yost, and Bob Uecker is one of the great figures of the game, so I hope this move doesn't blow up on the Brewers, but if I were a betting man...well, I know where my money would be. And it wouldn't be on Gagne. Or in his pocket.
Friday, December 07, 2007
A Wonder Autumn Night
I have seen, and more to the point, heard, most all of the significant artists of the rock and roll era. Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Elton John, Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, U2, REM, The Eagles, and Don Henley as a solo, James Taylor, Billy Joel, ZZ Top, BB King, Buddy Guy, Van Morrison, Al Green, Paul Simon, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Bob Dylan more times than I can count anymore (14, I believe), are all among the performers/bands that I have seen on multiple occasions. One glaring omission on my concert resume was Stevie Wonder. Stevie is, of course, one of the towering figures of American music. He is our Paul McCartney in terms of his prolific command of melodies and lyrics, and our John Lennon in his use of his platform to change the course of history through protest.
He is universally admired for his refusal to be limited or defined by his blindness. That complete and total lack of self-pity was instilled by his mother. She would not abide anyone (including Stevie himself) treating her son differently from any other child, and through that insistance she enabled him to accomplish everything that he has done. He has won 25 Grammy awards, sold more albums (eleven top tens) and singles (29 top tens) than can be counted, and been a reliable performer for more than 40 years now. When Paul Simon won the Album of the Year Grammy in 1976 for Still Crazy After All These Years, he thanked Stevie Wonder for not putting out an album that year. Stevie had won Album of the Year in 1974 for Innervisions, and 1975 for Fulfillingness' First Finale; he would win again in 1977 for Songs In the Key of Life.
I had never seen Stevie perform until his visit to the FedEx Forum last Sunday night. He walked onto the stage, guided by his daughter, Aisha. She was the little girl giggling and splashing in the bathtub as the subject of Isn't She Lovely, now grown, and one of her dad's backup singers. He began by introducing his daughter, and talking about how all of the men in the audience were probably ogling the very attractive Miss Morris. He told us to be careful, as, "I carry a shotgun. Blind man with a shotgun, yeah; Bang! Hah, Steve, you missed me. Bang!" That was his line. He has always put others at ease about his blindness. If it's not a problem for him, why should it be for anyone else?
He explained that this tour started on May 31, 2006, with the death of his mother. After the worst day of his life, he decided that he wouldn't play, write or perform any more. Then, he saw her come to him in a dream between her death and the funeral. She said to him, "Boy, you better get your ass up and get to work!" And the tour started. Stevie said that he was traveling the country to thank everyone who had supported his music, and allowed him to give his mother a better life than she could ever have had otherwise. It was truly a sweet moment. He than sat down and played.
And played, and played, and played. For the next two hours and 45 minutes, Stevie told stories, had fun, and played that spectacular music that he has shared with the world since the early 1960's. There were only two songs in the whole show whose lyrics I didn't know. We all know Stevie Wonder, but when you sit in his audience, listening to him go from hit to hit to hit, it is stunning. He performed two 45 minute medleys with everything a major song following major song. One of those sets:
My Cherie Amour
Uptight (Everything's Alright)
I Was Made to Love Her
For Once in My Life
Do I Do
Sir Duke
I Wish
You Are the Sunshine of My Life
Superstition
The other lengthy medley was just as impressive.
And it was fun. I don't know that I have ever had more fun at a concert than on Sunday last. The first McCartney show I attended, at the Liberty Bowl in 1993, was close, but an evening with Stevie Wonder is a blast. Even when he preached a far better sermon during the song Visions (from Innervisions) than I had delivered that morning, it was fun. And how great is it to see someone who has been famous all his life, and still lives up to the image in person that he has carried all those years. His audience reflected his universal appeal, with equal numbers of black and white in attendance. The only down note of the night: Memphis' notorious indifference to musicians was on full display, as the house was barely more than half full. Even that didn't affect Stevie, as he acknowledged our traditions with a talkbox medley of Soul Man, Shaft and Return to Sender, followed later by Sitting On the Dock of the Bay. He also threw in a little nod to the dear and departed Godfather of Soul, with Say It Loud-I'm Black and I'm Proud. Anybody who can conjure up Sam and Dave, Isaac Hayes, Elvis, Otis Redding and James Brown in the middle of his show is plenty good enough for me!
Do yourself a favor: if you ever have the chance, get thee to a Wonder show! He will lift your spirits; he will challenge your conscience; he will entertain you; he will play a significant portion of the soundtrack of your life; he will insist that you sing along with him, and, at points, instead of him. And unless you are very, very careful, he may even have you up dancing!
He is universally admired for his refusal to be limited or defined by his blindness. That complete and total lack of self-pity was instilled by his mother. She would not abide anyone (including Stevie himself) treating her son differently from any other child, and through that insistance she enabled him to accomplish everything that he has done. He has won 25 Grammy awards, sold more albums (eleven top tens) and singles (29 top tens) than can be counted, and been a reliable performer for more than 40 years now. When Paul Simon won the Album of the Year Grammy in 1976 for Still Crazy After All These Years, he thanked Stevie Wonder for not putting out an album that year. Stevie had won Album of the Year in 1974 for Innervisions, and 1975 for Fulfillingness' First Finale; he would win again in 1977 for Songs In the Key of Life.
I had never seen Stevie perform until his visit to the FedEx Forum last Sunday night. He walked onto the stage, guided by his daughter, Aisha. She was the little girl giggling and splashing in the bathtub as the subject of Isn't She Lovely, now grown, and one of her dad's backup singers. He began by introducing his daughter, and talking about how all of the men in the audience were probably ogling the very attractive Miss Morris. He told us to be careful, as, "I carry a shotgun. Blind man with a shotgun, yeah; Bang! Hah, Steve, you missed me. Bang!" That was his line. He has always put others at ease about his blindness. If it's not a problem for him, why should it be for anyone else?
He explained that this tour started on May 31, 2006, with the death of his mother. After the worst day of his life, he decided that he wouldn't play, write or perform any more. Then, he saw her come to him in a dream between her death and the funeral. She said to him, "Boy, you better get your ass up and get to work!" And the tour started. Stevie said that he was traveling the country to thank everyone who had supported his music, and allowed him to give his mother a better life than she could ever have had otherwise. It was truly a sweet moment. He than sat down and played.
And played, and played, and played. For the next two hours and 45 minutes, Stevie told stories, had fun, and played that spectacular music that he has shared with the world since the early 1960's. There were only two songs in the whole show whose lyrics I didn't know. We all know Stevie Wonder, but when you sit in his audience, listening to him go from hit to hit to hit, it is stunning. He performed two 45 minute medleys with everything a major song following major song. One of those sets:
My Cherie Amour
Uptight (Everything's Alright)
I Was Made to Love Her
For Once in My Life
Do I Do
Sir Duke
I Wish
You Are the Sunshine of My Life
Superstition
The other lengthy medley was just as impressive.
And it was fun. I don't know that I have ever had more fun at a concert than on Sunday last. The first McCartney show I attended, at the Liberty Bowl in 1993, was close, but an evening with Stevie Wonder is a blast. Even when he preached a far better sermon during the song Visions (from Innervisions) than I had delivered that morning, it was fun. And how great is it to see someone who has been famous all his life, and still lives up to the image in person that he has carried all those years. His audience reflected his universal appeal, with equal numbers of black and white in attendance. The only down note of the night: Memphis' notorious indifference to musicians was on full display, as the house was barely more than half full. Even that didn't affect Stevie, as he acknowledged our traditions with a talkbox medley of Soul Man, Shaft and Return to Sender, followed later by Sitting On the Dock of the Bay. He also threw in a little nod to the dear and departed Godfather of Soul, with Say It Loud-I'm Black and I'm Proud. Anybody who can conjure up Sam and Dave, Isaac Hayes, Elvis, Otis Redding and James Brown in the middle of his show is plenty good enough for me!
Do yourself a favor: if you ever have the chance, get thee to a Wonder show! He will lift your spirits; he will challenge your conscience; he will entertain you; he will play a significant portion of the soundtrack of your life; he will insist that you sing along with him, and, at points, instead of him. And unless you are very, very careful, he may even have you up dancing!
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