Dear Mr. President,
Congratulations on being named the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. You now stand with a number of the most remarkable women and men in human history. I hope and pray you will now go out and earn it.
You campaigned, victoriously, on twin themes of hope and change. The nation endorsed that vision. So, now, has the Nobel committee.
I did not vote for you in the Democratic primary. I'm almost seven months older than you, and I'm still not sure people my age should be in charge of anything, much less be left in charge of the whole world. It's just a little hinky. But age notwithstanding, I listened and watched, and by election day, I enthusiastically cast my ballot for you.
You see, I want every American to have access to quality health care. I want us out of Iraq. I want Guantanamo closed. I want us out of Afghanistan. I want us talking to Iran, North Korea and all of those other people we had been accustomed to just bombing, or planning to bomb. I want the banks regulated. I want business watched like a hawk. And I want our civil liberties protected.
These are some of the things you named as your priorities as a candidate. I liked the laundry list. Clearly, folks in Oslo, and all over the world liked the vision you described.
As you know, we hadn't had a lot of hope in the world in a long time. Oh, say, eight years. You seemed like a breath of fresh air. We need the hope you talked about. We certainly need change from where we were and where we were headed.
Again, the whole world is longing to emerge from our own mini-Dark Age of ignorance, arrogance and fundamentalism.
So I encourage you, in the strongest possible terms, to take our endorsement, and that of the Nobel committee, and that of the tumultuous crowds that have followed your travels around the world, and fight for what you invited us to believe in.
The Republicans are not your friends, and they never will be. You cannot depend on them or wait for them. The same applies, increasingly, to the Blue Dogs. You're the boss. They aren't. Look up Lyndon Johnson, circa 1964-1965. "Get on the bus, or we'll find somebody to take your seat who will." It is time for some party discipline, even if we are Democrats.
If I may be so bold, sir, get health care done. Stop these perverse and illegal wars. Make it clear that we are part of the human race and know it.
Many, left and right, are saying that you received the Nobel Peace Prize because you are not George W. Bush. Granted, that is a good start. But it is time to act on your promises, your vision, in such a way that at the end of your term, the Nobel committee will be as proud of your selection as they are hopeful with it today.
Yes We Can?
Only with your leadership!
From one middle-aged white southern male (that's redneck to you and me): Git'er done!
Friday, October 09, 2009
Monday, October 05, 2009
Polanski
I don't get it.
Why is Roman Polanski's situation even being debated?
The man drugged a 13 year old girl. He had sex with her. He had anal sex with her. She repeatedly asked him to stop. He did not. These seem to be the stipulated facts of the case that Polanski acknowledged in his plea bargain, in return for being allowed to plead guilty to a lesser charge. (He was originally charged with heavier crimes, but in our legal way of doing business, he pled to a reduced charge. That does not change the facts of the case, that he owned in the plea agreement.)
He was to get no jail time. Simply a period of psychological evaluation prior to sentencing. 42 days into that process, word got out that the judge was likely to throw out the plea agreement and require some serious jail time. At that point, Polanski fled to France, where he had resided ever since. That's from 1978 to 2009.
At that point, he became a fugitive. Fleeing is a crime. That makes two crimes.
Roman Polanski was 43 years old when he raped the 13 year old child.
Some people who appear to be adults argue that since Polanski is an artist, he is somehow a victim of prosecution for his art. Huh? He isn't charged, and never has been charged, with making seditious films. He raped a 13 year old child.
Some have suggested that he should be given a pass given the brutal murders of his wife, Sharon Tate, and their unborn child at the hands of the Manson Family. Huh? Elie Wiesel survived Nazi Germany's concentration camps. He has spent his life working for peace and justice in the world. John Walsh suffered the kidnapping and murder of his little boy, Adam. He has spent the last 20 years working to catch criminals who perpetrate such crimes. Nowhere in the world is a victim of crime given license to commit crime. Polanski raped a 13 year old child.
To state the obvious, the only reason that Roman Polanski was ever offered a plea deal under the circumstances of his crime was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever able to flee the US during such a prosecution was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever afforded the protection of the French government for 30 years was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. To somehow argue that he is being mistreated for being an artist is just stupid.
As it is to argue that since he suffered crime, he should be excused for committing crime.
As the theme song to a police drama told us every week back when Polanski committed his offenses, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time..."
And I wonder whatever happened to that Baretta guy, anyway???
Why is Roman Polanski's situation even being debated?
The man drugged a 13 year old girl. He had sex with her. He had anal sex with her. She repeatedly asked him to stop. He did not. These seem to be the stipulated facts of the case that Polanski acknowledged in his plea bargain, in return for being allowed to plead guilty to a lesser charge. (He was originally charged with heavier crimes, but in our legal way of doing business, he pled to a reduced charge. That does not change the facts of the case, that he owned in the plea agreement.)
He was to get no jail time. Simply a period of psychological evaluation prior to sentencing. 42 days into that process, word got out that the judge was likely to throw out the plea agreement and require some serious jail time. At that point, Polanski fled to France, where he had resided ever since. That's from 1978 to 2009.
At that point, he became a fugitive. Fleeing is a crime. That makes two crimes.
Roman Polanski was 43 years old when he raped the 13 year old child.
Some people who appear to be adults argue that since Polanski is an artist, he is somehow a victim of prosecution for his art. Huh? He isn't charged, and never has been charged, with making seditious films. He raped a 13 year old child.
Some have suggested that he should be given a pass given the brutal murders of his wife, Sharon Tate, and their unborn child at the hands of the Manson Family. Huh? Elie Wiesel survived Nazi Germany's concentration camps. He has spent his life working for peace and justice in the world. John Walsh suffered the kidnapping and murder of his little boy, Adam. He has spent the last 20 years working to catch criminals who perpetrate such crimes. Nowhere in the world is a victim of crime given license to commit crime. Polanski raped a 13 year old child.
To state the obvious, the only reason that Roman Polanski was ever offered a plea deal under the circumstances of his crime was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever able to flee the US during such a prosecution was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever afforded the protection of the French government for 30 years was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. To somehow argue that he is being mistreated for being an artist is just stupid.
As it is to argue that since he suffered crime, he should be excused for committing crime.
As the theme song to a police drama told us every week back when Polanski committed his offenses, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time..."
And I wonder whatever happened to that Baretta guy, anyway???
Friday, August 28, 2009
A Reflection on Health Care
I woke up Wednesday morning to my daughter's screams. She was shrieking from the pain in her side. She hadn't felt well for several days; by Wednesday, it could no longer be ignored. We sought aid from the hospital that bears the name of the denomination that I have served for 25 years, my father has served for 50 years, by uncle has served for 30 years, and my grandfather served for 54 years.
Sara was there for six hours. She was barely examined. She was, for the most part, ignored. Then, at 2:30 pm, with no explanation whatsoever for what was causing her pain (which had not subsided), the nurse came in with her discharge papers and wished us well. We asked to see the doctor. He came in with a thoroughly condescending smile on his face, and told us, graciously but pointedly, to get out.
You see, Sara is a sinner. Her sin? She has no health insurance.
My daughter works an average of 46 hours a week at a local restaurant, for $2.14 an hour plus tips (and if you eat at restaurants and don't tip the waitstaff, your tongue should fall out). Those fine folks terminated her health insurance last fall when Sara was eight months' pregnant. They said she wasn't working enough hours to qualify for insurance. Which was interesting, given that they made out her schedule each week. My guess? Someone was ordered to cut costs, so they did.
Another family in our church has incurred an incredible amount of medical neglect. That neglect has caused significant damage. One of the doctors in that instance dropped a tirade on his patient, screaming at her that if she had better insurance, she'd have gotten better care!
Other families in our church have lost their insurance when the business closed. There are few scarier places in life than finding yourself unemployed and uninsured when you are several years away from qualifying for Medicare, or have young children, or you or your spouse already have health issues.
Shannon and I do not use the Annual Conference insurance program. The Conference program penalized us in ways we cannot afford for Shannon using brand name insulin rather than generic insulin. When there is no such thing on God's green earth as generic insulin. Fortunately, we have access to her collectively bargained program, that of the Mississippi teachers' union. But as good as it is, we can't put Sara on it, as she is 23 and not in school.
In Sara's case, we are fortunate. My father is still somebody within our little world. So this morning, he was able to call on a friend and former church member of his to get Sara examined, diagnosed and treated. She has a respiratory infection that, left untreated, could have gone into pneumonia and killed her. But she's going to be alright, because Dad knows somebody.
How many people don't know somebody?
How many people are being left to suffer and die because they are inunsured, and, therefore, in the eyes of far too many medical professionals, untreatable?
How many people are suffering needlessly, and becoming sicker than they should have to, because they don't even seek medical care, knowing they are uninsured and can't pay?
How much more expensive is it for all of us for the poor and indigent to show up at The Med when they are at death's door, bur never should have gotten so sick in the first place?
How much of the exorbitant premiums that we all pay are due to the expenses of those uninsured, whose "care" has to be covered somehow?
How long will the greatest and wealthiest nation in the world allow tens of millions of its people to suffer misery, physically and emotionally, over health care?
Do those who wring their hands over the prospect of "Death Panels" run by the government (which do not exist in any of the plans being considered) not understand that the insurance companies are, by their refusal or approval of procedures or tests that doctors deem necessary, acting precisely as the kinds of boards that they fear?
I don't know what the answer is. I wish I did. I just know that there has to be something better than the way we are (barely) functioning now.
Again, Sara will be alright. I'm thankful for that. But as we consider our church family, our community and nation, there are an awful lot of people who cannot say tonight that their loved one will be alright.
Because they don't know.
Because they cannot afford to see the doctor.
And may God have mercy on all our souls if we continue to accept this perverse and unjust system with our silence, selfishness and inaction.
With prayers for God's just future to come speedily,
+Bro. Joe
(from the September edition of our church newsletter)
Sara was there for six hours. She was barely examined. She was, for the most part, ignored. Then, at 2:30 pm, with no explanation whatsoever for what was causing her pain (which had not subsided), the nurse came in with her discharge papers and wished us well. We asked to see the doctor. He came in with a thoroughly condescending smile on his face, and told us, graciously but pointedly, to get out.
You see, Sara is a sinner. Her sin? She has no health insurance.
My daughter works an average of 46 hours a week at a local restaurant, for $2.14 an hour plus tips (and if you eat at restaurants and don't tip the waitstaff, your tongue should fall out). Those fine folks terminated her health insurance last fall when Sara was eight months' pregnant. They said she wasn't working enough hours to qualify for insurance. Which was interesting, given that they made out her schedule each week. My guess? Someone was ordered to cut costs, so they did.
Another family in our church has incurred an incredible amount of medical neglect. That neglect has caused significant damage. One of the doctors in that instance dropped a tirade on his patient, screaming at her that if she had better insurance, she'd have gotten better care!
Other families in our church have lost their insurance when the business closed. There are few scarier places in life than finding yourself unemployed and uninsured when you are several years away from qualifying for Medicare, or have young children, or you or your spouse already have health issues.
Shannon and I do not use the Annual Conference insurance program. The Conference program penalized us in ways we cannot afford for Shannon using brand name insulin rather than generic insulin. When there is no such thing on God's green earth as generic insulin. Fortunately, we have access to her collectively bargained program, that of the Mississippi teachers' union. But as good as it is, we can't put Sara on it, as she is 23 and not in school.
In Sara's case, we are fortunate. My father is still somebody within our little world. So this morning, he was able to call on a friend and former church member of his to get Sara examined, diagnosed and treated. She has a respiratory infection that, left untreated, could have gone into pneumonia and killed her. But she's going to be alright, because Dad knows somebody.
How many people don't know somebody?
How many people are being left to suffer and die because they are inunsured, and, therefore, in the eyes of far too many medical professionals, untreatable?
How many people are suffering needlessly, and becoming sicker than they should have to, because they don't even seek medical care, knowing they are uninsured and can't pay?
How much more expensive is it for all of us for the poor and indigent to show up at The Med when they are at death's door, bur never should have gotten so sick in the first place?
How much of the exorbitant premiums that we all pay are due to the expenses of those uninsured, whose "care" has to be covered somehow?
How long will the greatest and wealthiest nation in the world allow tens of millions of its people to suffer misery, physically and emotionally, over health care?
Do those who wring their hands over the prospect of "Death Panels" run by the government (which do not exist in any of the plans being considered) not understand that the insurance companies are, by their refusal or approval of procedures or tests that doctors deem necessary, acting precisely as the kinds of boards that they fear?
I don't know what the answer is. I wish I did. I just know that there has to be something better than the way we are (barely) functioning now.
Again, Sara will be alright. I'm thankful for that. But as we consider our church family, our community and nation, there are an awful lot of people who cannot say tonight that their loved one will be alright.
Because they don't know.
Because they cannot afford to see the doctor.
And may God have mercy on all our souls if we continue to accept this perverse and unjust system with our silence, selfishness and inaction.
With prayers for God's just future to come speedily,
+Bro. Joe
(from the September edition of our church newsletter)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Edward Moore Kennedy, 1932-2009
We all know his failings, one horrific, others, things he should have been above.We all know his family's tragedies, almost more than can be counted or believed.
But since Ted Kennedy entered the United States Senate in 1962,
If you have worked for a paycheck, and especially a minimum wage paycheck,
If you have worked in a safe environment,
If you have been fairly treated in your workplace,
If you have needed health insurance,
If you have sought redress after being discriminated against in any way,
If you have voted easily and without challenge,
If you love someone who has special needs,
If you have borrowed money to go to college or graduate school,
If you have purchased a home,
If you have had a problem with a landlord,
If you have been to public schools, and sent your children and grandchildren to public schools,
If you have treasured your individual liberties,
If you have lived in this nation, and this world,
you should say a prayer of thanksgiving for the life of Ted Kennedy, and another for comfort for his family.
He was, simply, the greatest Senator in our nation's history.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Jim Dickinson, Part Two
In response to a couple of questions, your humble blogger is back to gather you kiddies around the rocking chair to relieve you of your ignorance. (Please remember, ignorance isn't bad unless it's willful. It just means you don't know. And some things, you need to know.)Jim Dickinson wasn't God, but he certainly was about God's work.
How does a body go about explaining Jim Dickinson?
Jim was one of those rich souls who was born old. Not in the rigid, dead-to-the-world sense, but in the wise, seen-it-all-twice sense. In the "I remember everything" sense. He was a rocker. And a Bluesman. And a crooner. And country and jazz and...well, you get the idea. The music was in his bones. Then again, if it isn't in your bones, what the hell are you doing being from Memphis?
The city cannot be separated from Jim Dickinson. He loved it, just as an awful lot of us do. That would be the ones who don't sit around afraid to go downtown, whining about the former/future Mayor, the City Council, the School Board and whatever else you've got, no matter how much all that deserves to be whined about.
Memphis' sole excuse for existing is the music. You either get that or you don't. God help you if you don't.
Jim got it. He lived it. He preached it. He played it. He produced it. Jim was the music!
When he sat down with Lee Baker, Sid Selvidge and Jimmy Crosthwait and they became Mud Boy and the Neutrons, miracles happened. When he decided to make a solo album, a good 1/3 of the wonder was finding out what songs he had unearthed to include. Dixie Fried, Free Beer Tomorrow, Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger, Killers from Space and Dinosaurs Run in Circles...if you want to get Memphis, get those discs and wear them out as quickly as you can. Then you'll know.
He was a piano player. Like Lincoln was a President. Jim Dickinson at a keyboard could haunt your soul. He did it on The Rolling Stones' Wild Horses. He did it on almost all of the cuts on Dylan's Time Out of Mind. Dylan has been crazy powerful and prolific since crossing paths with Jim in 1997. I'll go to my grave believing that's no accident. That's Dickinson.
On The Bob: there's a line in his song I Feel a Change Coming On from the new album Together Through Life: "Some people say I've got the blood of the land in my voice." Long before Bob had totally blown his voice out, Dickinson had the roar, the earth-shaking, never smooth, instrument of apocalypse that was his voice. Listen to Mud Boy's Shake Your Money Maker or Money Talks, complete with his childhood experience of Rev. Robert G. Lee's Payday Someday sermon, the judgement of God delivered bluntly and as an End Time lecture to a beat you can dance to. Make that, you have to dance to.
Jim nurtured musicians. Look at his boys. Luther and Cody are ridiculously gifted musicians. They paid attention. They learned well. The North Mississippi All Stars are an experience every single time out. I'm getting redundant, but if you're not in the audience whenever the All Stars play the Home Town, you have no soul and you need help. Immediately.
But the sharing was never confined to the family.
Big Star, Calvin Russell, The Radiators, Mudhoney, Beanpole, Alex Chilton, Paul Westerberg and a thousand others, all found their music better after passing it through Jim Dickinson's hands. Not for Jim, the neurotic "Mine is the only" or "Why should I help anyone else" approach to art and life. Never Ever.
Mose Vinson was my point of contact. Jim's work with Mose taught me about the man.
Mose was an old man when I met him. He came to live in one of our retirement homes. He had gotten too well to keep his Medicaid in the nursing home where his niece had dumped him after his stroke. One of God's great saints, Mary Lee Moore, called me to her office to back up her judgement that the old man wasn't capable of living independently. When she asked the standard questions, the old man grunted, monosyllabic at best. Finally, divinely inspired and seeking any response from him, she asked, "What do you like to do?" The head lifted off the chest, the voice became strong, the one good eye fired to life, and the man said, "I play the piano!" Mary Lee being Mary Lee, she challenged him: "You can't play the piano; you're half dead." A smile played across the old man's lips. "You got a piano?" was his question. We led him into the dining room, to the pathetic old excuse for a piano that some Sunday School class had dumped on us when they bought something nice and new. Old hands became young on the keyboard. He ripped into Howlin' Wolf's .44 Blues. When he was done, our mouths were hanging open, and he was claiming to be the real composer of the great Blues standard. Later, Jim Dickinson told me that the Wolf may well have taken the song from Mose at Sun Studios.
Mose had been used his whole musical life. Sam Phillips had hired him at Sun Studios. To be the janitor. That way, any time a piano player was missing, Mr. Sam could have Mose sit in. Ike Turner often wasn't in shape to play when he actually showed up for a recording date at all. That sort of problem wasn't rare in the old days. But the janitor had to be functional. And God only knows how many of those incredible Sun sides actually featured Mose Vinson on piano, regardless of whose name was listed on the label. Mose certainly never got paid for any of that work. Somewhere along the way, Mr. Sam did credit Mose with a few sides, but they were never released until they were included in Bear Family's fabulous box, Sun Blues. Yeah, the Germans know their Blues. Who'd a thought?
Jim Dickinson gave Mose his moment in the sun, no pun intended. Jim produced, for Judy Peiser and the Center for Southern Folklore, the only album that ever carried Mose Vinson's name, Piano Man. Jim talked Mose through the recording. It sounds like two old friends sitting and talking in the parlor, around the piano. They even play some four-hand piano on the cd. Jim and Judy threw a cd release party for Mose. He was a star, if only for that night. Because Jim Dickinson said he was important.
Jim was a real-life Yoda. He spoke his own language. He saw and heard things others couldn't fathom. He lived richly and always saw the possibilities. He told Chuck Prophet, "You can burn out, but you can get lit again. I've seen it happen."
I knew Jim Dickinson just slightly, and that, only because of Mose. But I love him. I pretty much adore him. Jim was pretty much everything I'd love to be when I grow up. On several occasions, he'd spot me at one of his performances, and he'd ask, "Reverend, how's the Good Work going?" I'd say to him, "You ought to know. You're the one doing it."
I believed it when he was alive. I sure believe it now.
There's your lesson on Jim Dickinson.
Now you know something that matters!
Monday, August 17, 2009
James Luther Dickinson, 1942-2009
Our "celebrity culture" is a royal load of crap, because any society in which Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and any number of teenaged vampires are followed breathlessly from moment to moment deserves to be blown up. Filming your sex acts, not wearing underwear in public and teen angst over who is dating whom are not bases for choosing objects of worship.
That said, I have been thrilled to meet exactly three legitimate celebrities, truly accomplished people, in my life: Sam Phillips (not the woman who sings; the Real One), Stan Musial, and Jim Dickinson.
Jim Dickinson was Memphis Music. His resume is being widely rehearsed in his obituaries. Would Bob Dylan have had this late-career renaissance if he hadn't crossed paths with Dickinson during the recording of Time Out of Mind? Could he?
Would Alex Chilton have become, well, Alex Chilton without Dickinson at the board for those Big Star albums?
Would Furry Lewis, Bukka White, Son House and so many others hold their hallowed places in American music history without the efforts of Dickinson and several other young white boys in the 1960's to find them, get them performing again, and fight for their just due?
Would the Beale Street Festival have been conceived without the Blues festivals Dickinson staged and performed in at the Overton Park Shell?
Would anyone care about Wild Horses without Jim's piano?
And there is still the film scoring with Ry Cooder, the upbringing of the North Mississippi All Stars, the performances all over creation (Brownsville with Luther and Cody at the dedication of Sleepy John Estes' cabin, all the times at the Memphis Music and Heritage Festival, hundreds of others that I was privileged to hear), the gift to Mose Vinson of finally giving him an album under his own name, and so much more.
Jim was Memphis Music. Jim was American Music. And I'm sick that he's gone.
But as he left his own epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."
Amen, brother! Amen!
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Differences
Country Club: charges dues
Church: offers chance to give gladly to God's work
Country Club: exists for members' enjoyment
Church: exists to change the world
Country Club: members are to be served
Church: members are to serve others
Country Club: private playground to ensure members don't have to associate with anyone below an acceptable income status
Church: public Body of Christ intended to bring together people of all incomes, races, ages, genders, backgrounds
So why is it so often impossible to tell the difference in a Country Club and a church?
Church: offers chance to give gladly to God's work
Country Club: exists for members' enjoyment
Church: exists to change the world
Country Club: members are to be served
Church: members are to serve others
Country Club: private playground to ensure members don't have to associate with anyone below an acceptable income status
Church: public Body of Christ intended to bring together people of all incomes, races, ages, genders, backgrounds
So why is it so often impossible to tell the difference in a Country Club and a church?
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael Jackson
Coincidences being coincidences, three pretty substantial personalities in the American public life of my lifetime have died in close proximity. I don't know if there ever was anyone better at his or her particular job than Ed McMahon. If you ever saw The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, you know what I mean. Farrah Fawcett was the poster girl who was famous for being famous, along with being the subject of a great Steve Martin joke: "I wrote a letter to Farrah Fawcett. She never wrote me back. And after all the time I spent holding her poster up with one hand!" (And before you accuse me of bad taste, may I remind you that she posed for, sold and got rich and famous off the poster, not me.)
And Michael Jackson.
My first memory of Michael and his brothers is on Ed Sullivan's stage, in the theater where David Letterman now holds court. The Jackson 5 were amazing. And, obviously, not least because of the little brother with the big voice. Michael was just a couple years older than me, and was the first person of my generation to become publicly accomplished. Maybe the Osmonds were out there, but Donny? Really? Not so much.
Michael was cool. He just got cooler and better through the years. At his peak, with the albums Off the Wall and Thriller in the early 1980's, Michael really was the king of pop, and not just as some dopey marketing slogan. Those records were awesome. Pure pop perfection, guided by Quincy Jones, whose importance to American music simply cannot be overstated. Michael was one of the forces behind We Are the World, raising buckets of money for Great Causes.
Then things got weird.
Everybody knows the details. You don't need me to restate them. Michael Jackson became the poster boy for the dangers of immense wealth, immense ego and the power to make sure there is no soul in sight who will tell you "No" about anything. Somewhere amidst the accusations, the surgeries, the Howard Hughes-type behavior, Michael lost everything that mattered. His music got stale and self-serving, his wealth apparently was squandered, his behavior grew ever-more bizarre.
Our culture of celebrity worship is sick. It's pathetic for every person who has actually wasted enough of their lives to know that Jon and Kate, much less the plus 8, exist. But it is even more costly and dangerous for those who become the objects of such worship. You tell people they are God for long enough, most of them will start to believe it. It rarely ends well. It just tends to end.
And it has, again.
Pardon me if I just choose to remember the little boy who could sing his tail off, or the young man who could make perfect music and dance like he didn't have a bone in his quite tall body. The rest of it makes me sick.
R.I.P. Michael. Maybe now, at long last, you are at peace.
And Michael Jackson.
My first memory of Michael and his brothers is on Ed Sullivan's stage, in the theater where David Letterman now holds court. The Jackson 5 were amazing. And, obviously, not least because of the little brother with the big voice. Michael was just a couple years older than me, and was the first person of my generation to become publicly accomplished. Maybe the Osmonds were out there, but Donny? Really? Not so much.
Michael was cool. He just got cooler and better through the years. At his peak, with the albums Off the Wall and Thriller in the early 1980's, Michael really was the king of pop, and not just as some dopey marketing slogan. Those records were awesome. Pure pop perfection, guided by Quincy Jones, whose importance to American music simply cannot be overstated. Michael was one of the forces behind We Are the World, raising buckets of money for Great Causes.
Then things got weird.
Everybody knows the details. You don't need me to restate them. Michael Jackson became the poster boy for the dangers of immense wealth, immense ego and the power to make sure there is no soul in sight who will tell you "No" about anything. Somewhere amidst the accusations, the surgeries, the Howard Hughes-type behavior, Michael lost everything that mattered. His music got stale and self-serving, his wealth apparently was squandered, his behavior grew ever-more bizarre.
Our culture of celebrity worship is sick. It's pathetic for every person who has actually wasted enough of their lives to know that Jon and Kate, much less the plus 8, exist. But it is even more costly and dangerous for those who become the objects of such worship. You tell people they are God for long enough, most of them will start to believe it. It rarely ends well. It just tends to end.
And it has, again.
Pardon me if I just choose to remember the little boy who could sing his tail off, or the young man who could make perfect music and dance like he didn't have a bone in his quite tall body. The rest of it makes me sick.
R.I.P. Michael. Maybe now, at long last, you are at peace.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Annual Bleeping Conference
It's two days away. I just can't wait (insert sarcastic tone and rolling of the eyes here).
We're now looking hard at two and a half days none of us will ever get back.
We will do several things. We will be led in worship by someone who has done Spectacular Things in other places. Things that most of us would be moved from our churches for doing back home, as a result of complaints from the natives to the same conference leaders who are bringing The Star in to show us how to do things right.
We will listen to arguments about money. Specifically, arguments from pastors and members from our largest, wealthiest churches who have every bell and whistle on their properties and staffs, telling the rest of us why they shouldn't have to pay the lion's share of the way, in spite of having the lion's share of everything.
We will listen to (largely) mindless debates on way too many constitutional amendments, conducted by (largely) misguided people who think they are doing the Will of God, who will have their talking points from whatever interest group they represent well-memorized for easier regurgitation. And both ends will try to scare the middle with the Secret Intents of everyone who disagrees with them. And at the end of all of it, we will find, to paraphrase The Bob, "I looked beneath the sofa, beneath the chair; looking for them Gays/Homophobes everywhere; I looked up my chimney hole, even looked deep inside my toilet bowl; they got away!" And we will be left with nothing again, as, to quote the late, great Billy Preston, "Nothing from nothing leaves nothing."
I, for one, will leave Annual Conference calculating again at what speed Mr. Wesley must be spinning in his grave. Because we haven't done much of anything in the last decade, at least, except take the temperature of the institution that has become the bloated, dying carcass of The United Methodist Church, and find it to be lukewarm. As in "spew you out of my mouth" lukewarm.
So all is lost? Not so fast.
I went to church this afternoon.
John Kilzer played at the Italian Festival in Marquette Park on this glorious Friday afternoon.
John is like many of us, a middle-aged guy, but young in ministry, with an old soul nurtured by the collision of music that enriches our native turf. He, like the rest of us, knows some parts of the world too well, but writes, plays and sings spectacularly of the hope and promise and joy that are supposed to be at the heart of this faith we profess and are supposed to share.
John reminded me that the faith isn't Annual Conference. Hell, the faith certainly isn't my short-sighted, terrified congregation. God's ability to change lives through the presence of the living Christ is the story.
And one of these days God may even get around to bringing church to Annual Conference.
Hey, they say stranger things have happened...
We're now looking hard at two and a half days none of us will ever get back.
We will do several things. We will be led in worship by someone who has done Spectacular Things in other places. Things that most of us would be moved from our churches for doing back home, as a result of complaints from the natives to the same conference leaders who are bringing The Star in to show us how to do things right.
We will listen to arguments about money. Specifically, arguments from pastors and members from our largest, wealthiest churches who have every bell and whistle on their properties and staffs, telling the rest of us why they shouldn't have to pay the lion's share of the way, in spite of having the lion's share of everything.
We will listen to (largely) mindless debates on way too many constitutional amendments, conducted by (largely) misguided people who think they are doing the Will of God, who will have their talking points from whatever interest group they represent well-memorized for easier regurgitation. And both ends will try to scare the middle with the Secret Intents of everyone who disagrees with them. And at the end of all of it, we will find, to paraphrase The Bob, "I looked beneath the sofa, beneath the chair; looking for them Gays/Homophobes everywhere; I looked up my chimney hole, even looked deep inside my toilet bowl; they got away!" And we will be left with nothing again, as, to quote the late, great Billy Preston, "Nothing from nothing leaves nothing."
I, for one, will leave Annual Conference calculating again at what speed Mr. Wesley must be spinning in his grave. Because we haven't done much of anything in the last decade, at least, except take the temperature of the institution that has become the bloated, dying carcass of The United Methodist Church, and find it to be lukewarm. As in "spew you out of my mouth" lukewarm.
So all is lost? Not so fast.
I went to church this afternoon.
John Kilzer played at the Italian Festival in Marquette Park on this glorious Friday afternoon.
John is like many of us, a middle-aged guy, but young in ministry, with an old soul nurtured by the collision of music that enriches our native turf. He, like the rest of us, knows some parts of the world too well, but writes, plays and sings spectacularly of the hope and promise and joy that are supposed to be at the heart of this faith we profess and are supposed to share.
John reminded me that the faith isn't Annual Conference. Hell, the faith certainly isn't my short-sighted, terrified congregation. God's ability to change lives through the presence of the living Christ is the story.
And one of these days God may even get around to bringing church to Annual Conference.
Hey, they say stranger things have happened...
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Melancholy, Fun and Weird
It's been an up and down couple of weeks. While I am (slightly) happier with my government today than I was prior to January 21, I'm not really thrilled with the Department of [doublespeak=Defense, honesty=War]. Two truly fine families have been reassigned from our local Navy base to far away locations. This makes the tote board read three families in my current assignment ripped from our congregation. Of the first departure, the wife and mother is the most able and knowledgeable lay person I have ever been privileged to have serve alongside me in any setting anywhere. Anne is awesome, and should be a church professional in some capacity, and she is far more than competent to be a church professional any number of capacities. The husband and father in family number three is one of a group of active duty Navy men who made a commitment to our Cub Scouts, and then did stupendous things. Like growing the pack in one year from 37 to 84 boys. Like standing up with those kids for some of the genuinely good values in the world. With his colleagues, Tom made a huge difference in this program, and that means in the lives of each of these kids. Family number two is comprised of one of the neatest 4 year olds on the face of planet earth, a mom/wife who is as creative and generous as anyone you've ever met, and a dad/husband who was the best partner I've had (so far) in a Lay Leader in 24 years under appointment. Joe, you know who you are, and I know you look at this from time to time, so...THANK YOU, AGAIN, FOR EVERYTHING!
And there's your melancholy.
For the fun...we baptized two and confirmed four young people last Sunday, and we will be baptizing two more and confirming five more this Sunday (don't ask--it's about vacation schedules, custody decrees and the like). In four years at the current stop, I've had the high privilege of baptizing and confirming significantly more people than in the other 20 years combined. Yeah, seven of those other years were spent pastoring in the retirement homes, but still! I just don't think that it gets any better for Christian minsters than being allowed to participate in the growing of the faith of such a group of young people. It is, after all, pretty much the point.
And the weird...this year about to start should be the last one here. By the time four years are up, there are always people who are after your rear end, and I've got two or three of those. When you combine what will be five years of chewing by the same sets of teeth, with the growing pains of a quickly-expanding community, with the frustrations of being unable to implement the painfully obvious and simple changes that would allow the church to grow into what the community needs it to be, I feel strongly that five years will be enough. For them, I believe, and certainly for me.
I remember the sports reporting that Pat Riley had lost the ear of the players on the Miami Heat before he went back to presidenting the club last year. I think I'm starting to understand what they were talking about.
A few years ago my father had a church in a community that was about 15-20 years ahead of where we are right now. He had a very tough three years there, perhaps the most difficult years of his working life. He buried a few saints that had to go for things to move along, and when they were gone, and his work had taken him to a new assignment, things did indeed smooth out and run well so that that church became what its town and our conference need it to be.
I expect something similar to take place in my assignment. It just feels a little weird that I probably won't get to share in it myself. I have laid and am laying some of the groundwork. Someone else may have to drive in the connecting spike, to use an image from the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. How's that for obscure, Dennis Miller?
And there's your melancholy.
For the fun...we baptized two and confirmed four young people last Sunday, and we will be baptizing two more and confirming five more this Sunday (don't ask--it's about vacation schedules, custody decrees and the like). In four years at the current stop, I've had the high privilege of baptizing and confirming significantly more people than in the other 20 years combined. Yeah, seven of those other years were spent pastoring in the retirement homes, but still! I just don't think that it gets any better for Christian minsters than being allowed to participate in the growing of the faith of such a group of young people. It is, after all, pretty much the point.
And the weird...this year about to start should be the last one here. By the time four years are up, there are always people who are after your rear end, and I've got two or three of those. When you combine what will be five years of chewing by the same sets of teeth, with the growing pains of a quickly-expanding community, with the frustrations of being unable to implement the painfully obvious and simple changes that would allow the church to grow into what the community needs it to be, I feel strongly that five years will be enough. For them, I believe, and certainly for me.
I remember the sports reporting that Pat Riley had lost the ear of the players on the Miami Heat before he went back to presidenting the club last year. I think I'm starting to understand what they were talking about.
A few years ago my father had a church in a community that was about 15-20 years ahead of where we are right now. He had a very tough three years there, perhaps the most difficult years of his working life. He buried a few saints that had to go for things to move along, and when they were gone, and his work had taken him to a new assignment, things did indeed smooth out and run well so that that church became what its town and our conference need it to be.
I expect something similar to take place in my assignment. It just feels a little weird that I probably won't get to share in it myself. I have laid and am laying some of the groundwork. Someone else may have to drive in the connecting spike, to use an image from the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. How's that for obscure, Dennis Miller?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Thanks, Mom!
Yes, it's Wednesday night after. But that's pretty close for me.
One of the really fun things that goes with my getting used to being a grandfather is watching my parents become great-grandparents. Mom has taken to keeping Kaly just like she did with Sara and Emily a generation ago. Every time I see my granddaughter in my mother's arms, I am reminded of just how much Mom was my partner in raising my kids. On the occasions when something work-wise came up during all those afterschool afternoons (God Bless Paul Eubanks, a truly great man!), Mom was there. Every trip to the zoo or the Pink Palace, Mom was there. Vacations-especially the first couple of years when I was paying for the divorce and they paid for everything-couldn't have taken place without Mom every year and Dad most of them. We never could have made the Disneyworld trip with the girls being 9 and 6 without Nana going, too. It's just not simple being a single dad of two little girls in a public place without an adult woman. Mom made it work. Mom was always there.
She still is. Sara's working hard. Shannon and I have to work, too. Same with Emily, although she holds an amazing amount of time for her number 1 niece. Nana still fills all the gaps. But that's what she has spent her whole adult life doing, from the time she married while still a college student, to becoming a mom without a car or even a drivers' license while her husband was several hours away all week every week in graduate school, to being a mom to three kids all under the age of 4, to becoming an outside-the-home-working mom with that same husband and those same kids to take care of, to all I described above, and as much attention to her other four grandchildren from their births to the one she added when he was 12, she has always been there.
And I am grateful. Much more than I can say.
And we're all better people for her commitment to each of us.
Thanks, Mom! I love you!
One of the really fun things that goes with my getting used to being a grandfather is watching my parents become great-grandparents. Mom has taken to keeping Kaly just like she did with Sara and Emily a generation ago. Every time I see my granddaughter in my mother's arms, I am reminded of just how much Mom was my partner in raising my kids. On the occasions when something work-wise came up during all those afterschool afternoons (God Bless Paul Eubanks, a truly great man!), Mom was there. Every trip to the zoo or the Pink Palace, Mom was there. Vacations-especially the first couple of years when I was paying for the divorce and they paid for everything-couldn't have taken place without Mom every year and Dad most of them. We never could have made the Disneyworld trip with the girls being 9 and 6 without Nana going, too. It's just not simple being a single dad of two little girls in a public place without an adult woman. Mom made it work. Mom was always there.
She still is. Sara's working hard. Shannon and I have to work, too. Same with Emily, although she holds an amazing amount of time for her number 1 niece. Nana still fills all the gaps. But that's what she has spent her whole adult life doing, from the time she married while still a college student, to becoming a mom without a car or even a drivers' license while her husband was several hours away all week every week in graduate school, to being a mom to three kids all under the age of 4, to becoming an outside-the-home-working mom with that same husband and those same kids to take care of, to all I described above, and as much attention to her other four grandchildren from their births to the one she added when he was 12, she has always been there.
And I am grateful. Much more than I can say.
And we're all better people for her commitment to each of us.
Thanks, Mom! I love you!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
By Special Request...Here's Kaly!
Early on, my relationship with my granddaughter was based solely on shared hobbies:
As time has passed, she has obviously developed a fascination with great comedians:
She now loves the great books:
She helped with the Benediction on Easter:
She has even developed a strong sense of disgust at others' fashion sense (the problem is the hat; she hates anything on her head):
No, my dear, Granddaddy was not responsible for dressing you that day.As anyone can easily and clearly recognize, this is one extraordinarily advanced three-month-old we're talking about here.
And pretty much the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me, alongside her Mom, Aunt and Grandmother. Just don't ask me to rank anybody any further than this! The three bigger ones might get mad.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Household Changes
My daughter will now be a single mother. Her husband, the father of my granddaughter, has moved back to his father's house a couple hours away. His limitations, the source of my concern from the beginning of my daughter's relationship with him, led to the separation. In my opinion, he's just not ready to grow up. And I'm not sure it's really his fault. There is a good deal of evidence that there haven't been any grownups in his family in a couple of generations. When a kid grows up with an absent, alcoholic father and a drug addicted mother, neither of whom have ever worked regularly or finished high school, and the church was nowhere to be found in their lives, there just never was much hope.
On the good side, my granddaughter's parents were married. That makes a difference to me, and will, one day, to her, too. And at the time my daughter came home with her baby, she would never have come without the boy. And she needed to come home. So we made the effort, held our breath, and hoped and prayed for a different outcome, but here we are.
The update: our baby has passed 10 pounds. She is now 21 inches long. She smiles constantly, and laughs out loud often at all of us goofy people who make funny faces at her and speak to her in peculiar tones of voice. She especially thinks that her Aunt Em is the funniest human being on the face of the earth. My daughter is working full time, not something to be taken for granted in this economy. They are under our roof, with all of the necessities of life available to them.
There is only one problem: every now and then, the baby goes to visit with her birth grandmother, and when she's gone, none of us know what to do with ourselves. Kaly has become the center of the universe, and her schedule seems to regulate us more than it does her. Even the in-laws come searching when Shannon hasn't showed up for good night baby kisses by a certain hour. We all just sort of sit around forlorn until she is back home. She really is that much fun. And we are all-this whole crazy clan that comprises my family-thankful for the incredible blessing that is having Sara and Kaly home with us.
On the good side, my granddaughter's parents were married. That makes a difference to me, and will, one day, to her, too. And at the time my daughter came home with her baby, she would never have come without the boy. And she needed to come home. So we made the effort, held our breath, and hoped and prayed for a different outcome, but here we are.
The update: our baby has passed 10 pounds. She is now 21 inches long. She smiles constantly, and laughs out loud often at all of us goofy people who make funny faces at her and speak to her in peculiar tones of voice. She especially thinks that her Aunt Em is the funniest human being on the face of the earth. My daughter is working full time, not something to be taken for granted in this economy. They are under our roof, with all of the necessities of life available to them.
There is only one problem: every now and then, the baby goes to visit with her birth grandmother, and when she's gone, none of us know what to do with ourselves. Kaly has become the center of the universe, and her schedule seems to regulate us more than it does her. Even the in-laws come searching when Shannon hasn't showed up for good night baby kisses by a certain hour. We all just sort of sit around forlorn until she is back home. She really is that much fun. And we are all-this whole crazy clan that comprises my family-thankful for the incredible blessing that is having Sara and Kaly home with us.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
One of Those Calls
When you do what I do, and it's 8:00 on Sunday night, and you're at a gathering with your entire family, and your phone rings, it is never a good thing.
It certainly wasn't last Sunday night.
There had been an accident. One of my parishoners was being air-lifted to The Med. Her whole family is in our church, very fine, pillar of the congregation-type people. We all gathered at the hospital. The doctor came in, and as gently as he could, he told her family and friends that she had been in full arrest when she arrived, and even though they tried for a half hour, they never got any response.
An old man from a distant state had made a mistake. He pulled out onto the wrong side of the divided highway that runs through our community. It was a head-on crash at highway speed. The two drivers were killed. Two passengers, the man's wife and my member's son, were spared with scrapes and bruises.
Alicia was 39. Her husband suffers from Multiple Sclerosis. Their children are 12 and 7. Her dad has been in and out of the hospital with heart problems as long as I've known them.
Do I even need to say that it isn't supposed to go like this? Parents should never have to bury their children. Pre-teens aren't supposed to have do deal with this kind of situation. A young husband isn't supposed to have to deal with his illness and his children's future without his partner.
But here we are.
Our Baptist-dominated religious culture wants to say that it's just God's plan. He needed another angel, or it was just her time. My tradition doesn't buy that. We don't see God killing a young woman and an old man to fill seats in the choir. We often hear that we must accept it, and not question and surely not be angry with God. Have you read the Bible? Ever hear of the Exodus? You know, the whole "we'd have been better off to stay slaves in Egypt than be brought out here to die of hunger!" Or, "thirst!" And yet, God was with them and provided what they needed.
I'm not very happy with The Boss right now. But I'm confident that God is big enough to love me through this, and all of Alicia's family that feels about like I do, only much, much worse.
We have a funeral tomorrow afternoon. I'm still struggling for what to say to this family about what's happened to them.
We'll all do our best. And somehow, even if none of us can see how right now, God will be at work, tomorrow and in the days to come, to bring something good out of this awful, awful situation.
It certainly wasn't last Sunday night.
There had been an accident. One of my parishoners was being air-lifted to The Med. Her whole family is in our church, very fine, pillar of the congregation-type people. We all gathered at the hospital. The doctor came in, and as gently as he could, he told her family and friends that she had been in full arrest when she arrived, and even though they tried for a half hour, they never got any response.
An old man from a distant state had made a mistake. He pulled out onto the wrong side of the divided highway that runs through our community. It was a head-on crash at highway speed. The two drivers were killed. Two passengers, the man's wife and my member's son, were spared with scrapes and bruises.
Alicia was 39. Her husband suffers from Multiple Sclerosis. Their children are 12 and 7. Her dad has been in and out of the hospital with heart problems as long as I've known them.
Do I even need to say that it isn't supposed to go like this? Parents should never have to bury their children. Pre-teens aren't supposed to have do deal with this kind of situation. A young husband isn't supposed to have to deal with his illness and his children's future without his partner.
But here we are.
Our Baptist-dominated religious culture wants to say that it's just God's plan. He needed another angel, or it was just her time. My tradition doesn't buy that. We don't see God killing a young woman and an old man to fill seats in the choir. We often hear that we must accept it, and not question and surely not be angry with God. Have you read the Bible? Ever hear of the Exodus? You know, the whole "we'd have been better off to stay slaves in Egypt than be brought out here to die of hunger!" Or, "thirst!" And yet, God was with them and provided what they needed.
I'm not very happy with The Boss right now. But I'm confident that God is big enough to love me through this, and all of Alicia's family that feels about like I do, only much, much worse.
We have a funeral tomorrow afternoon. I'm still struggling for what to say to this family about what's happened to them.
We'll all do our best. And somehow, even if none of us can see how right now, God will be at work, tomorrow and in the days to come, to bring something good out of this awful, awful situation.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Insomnia's Little Playground
Will Shortz, if that is his real name, is the Crossword Editor for The Old Grey Lady, and puzzlemaster for Liane Hansen's Weekend Edition on Sunday mornings. (Note: my wife would include that my evaluation of the prospects of any given Sunday rest entirely on whether or not Ms. Hansen is at her appointed microphone or away on some specious member station visit with people who don't need her nearly as much as do we who are lurching toward functionality at an unholy hour that was surely not chosen by the God who loves us for the gathering of his people-I fault Paul, and we'd obviously have better attendance if we started after the NFL games were through rather than just as they're starting, but I digress from my digression-we need Liane to guide us smoothly to our alert states, somewhere between the shower and the car. Enough with the member station visits, already!)
Mr. Shortz is also the party responsible, if not for the introduction, then certainly for the popularization of the Japanese number puzzle, Sudoku, in the good ol' US of A. And therein lies my gratitude.
What would a committed insomniac do in this 21st Century without Sudoku? One shudders to consider. Just knowing that those little grids of nine innings-I mean blocks-are there, with their three outs-I mean rows-of mini-grids, where everything is ordered, logical, timeless...just like baseball........oh, pardon my reverie.
I have an enormous appreciation for the Japanese people. They love our national game even more than we do. (No, not the NFL-I didn't say our idolatrous national religion!). They love Bill Murray as proved in Lost in Translation. And they have given occupation to the sleepless everywhere, via Sudoku!
And don't tell anyone, but on a couple of recent nights, a puzzle from a level of skill marked "Insane" actually put me out! God bless you, Puzzle-sans!
Mr. Shortz is also the party responsible, if not for the introduction, then certainly for the popularization of the Japanese number puzzle, Sudoku, in the good ol' US of A. And therein lies my gratitude.
What would a committed insomniac do in this 21st Century without Sudoku? One shudders to consider. Just knowing that those little grids of nine innings-I mean blocks-are there, with their three outs-I mean rows-of mini-grids, where everything is ordered, logical, timeless...just like baseball........oh, pardon my reverie.
I have an enormous appreciation for the Japanese people. They love our national game even more than we do. (No, not the NFL-I didn't say our idolatrous national religion!). They love Bill Murray as proved in Lost in Translation. And they have given occupation to the sleepless everywhere, via Sudoku!
And don't tell anyone, but on a couple of recent nights, a puzzle from a level of skill marked "Insane" actually put me out! God bless you, Puzzle-sans!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
A Professional Perplex
The year is off to a remarkable start, unlike any other I've had in 24 years under appointment. At the seventh Sunday of the year we have six new members. And those six new members have brought 5 children with them. And we have four more adults and 5 children with them lined up for the next couple of weeks. And this year's confirmation class is looking like it will be 17 strong. That's looking hard at 27 new members (17 professions of faith) and 10 for the prep roll by Pentecost (May 31). And our giving in the new year is way, way ahead of last year. Way ahead.
Obviously, anyone could leap to the perfectly logical conclusion that the fabulous preaching, worship leading and teaching that is being done by the pastor explains everything. Sounds right to me. But that's been going on for 3 1/2 years here. Seriously, what gives? The Economy? Most of these newcomers are not as susceptible to the whims of this recession as are a good many others. Fear? If so, they are putting up one hell of a good front.
A more mature colleague (thanks, Dad!) advised to stop trying to explain it and just enjoy it. Maybe the best advice I've received in a long time. But I'm a "why" guy.
They aren't abandoning some other congregation that's in trouble: they are three Southern Baptists, a UM who's a Navy man fresh from Guam, two Lutherans, another UM getting out of the city for our bedroom community, a third UM-a retiree from Iowa, and two long-time in and outs who now want to be officially in. They aren't one age group or economic level. They just all want to be part of our church.
I can't figure it out, but it is, indeed, fun!
Obviously, anyone could leap to the perfectly logical conclusion that the fabulous preaching, worship leading and teaching that is being done by the pastor explains everything. Sounds right to me. But that's been going on for 3 1/2 years here. Seriously, what gives? The Economy? Most of these newcomers are not as susceptible to the whims of this recession as are a good many others. Fear? If so, they are putting up one hell of a good front.
A more mature colleague (thanks, Dad!) advised to stop trying to explain it and just enjoy it. Maybe the best advice I've received in a long time. But I'm a "why" guy.
They aren't abandoning some other congregation that's in trouble: they are three Southern Baptists, a UM who's a Navy man fresh from Guam, two Lutherans, another UM getting out of the city for our bedroom community, a third UM-a retiree from Iowa, and two long-time in and outs who now want to be officially in. They aren't one age group or economic level. They just all want to be part of our church.
I can't figure it out, but it is, indeed, fun!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Discrimination is Real, But Not Here
Elgin Baylor has filed suit against the NBA and the Los Angeles Clippers, alleging racial and age discrimination.
As both Clippers fans on planet Earth know, Baylor was, for 22 years, the General Manager of the Clips. Donald Sterling, renowned filthy rich tightwad owner of said NBA franchise, acted as something of a pioneer, naming an African-American as GM of a big 4 Major League Sports franchise in 1986. Evidence suggests that Sterling might have felt that Baylor, briefly an NBA head coach with no executive experience, would be less expensive than other, more established basketball execs. Whatever Sterling's motivation, there weren't many blacks serving at that level of the NBA in the mid-1980's.
1986-7 Clippers: 12-70, sixth place
1987-8 Clippers: 17-65, sixth place
1988-9 Clippers: 21-61, seventh place
1989-0 Clippers: 30-52, sixth place
1990-1 Clippers: 31-51, sixth place
Baylor's first five years on the job indicated modest improvement. All the way up to twenty games under .500! Still, Sterling kept him on.
1991-2 Clippers: 45-37, fifth place; lost in the first round of the playoffs
1992-3 Clippers: 41-41, fourth place; lost in the first round of the playoffs
1993-4 Clippers: 27-55, seventh place
1994-5 Clippers: 17-65, seventh place
1995-6 Clippers: 29-53, seventh place
Years six through 10 of the Baylor regime actually saw two, very brief, playoff appearances, but unhappy with that taste of incredible success, Elgin quickly oversaw the Clips return to form. Still, with the two first-round playoff failures, this period marks the most successful part of Baylor's oversight. Need it be pointed out that even with two postseason trips, this time still saw less than two full seasons of victories, and more than three full seasons of defeats?
1996-7 Clippers: 36-46, fifth place
1997-8 Clippers: 17-65, seventh place
1998-9 Clippers: 9-41, seventh place
1999-0 Clippers: 15-67, seventh place
2000-1 Clippers: 31-51, sixth place
108 wins, 270 losses in this spectacular term. The only bright spot: 32 games were not played during the 1998-1999 season, due to a lockout.
2001-2 Clippers: 39-43, fifth place
2002-3 Clippers: 27-55, seventh place
2003-4 Clippers: 28-54, seventh place
2004-5 Clippers: 37-45, third place
2005-6 Clippers: 47-35, second place; lost in playoffs' Western Conference semi-finals (more accurately known as the second round)
Baylor celebrated his 20th season as Clips' GM with his third playoff appearance. This, in the NBA, where every team with breathing bodies (Grizzlies, anyone?) is allowed into the playoffs every year!
2006-7 Clippers: 40-42, fourth place
2007-8 Clippers: 23-59, fifth place
The last two seasons of Baylor modeled his entire career as an executive: one season just below mediocre, the other utterly atrocious.
The only lawsuit that should be filed here is one on behalf of whoever it is that buys tickets to Clippers' games, questioning the mental competence of Mr. Sterling. Elgin Baylor's record of accomplishment in 22 years as the General Manager of the Los Angeles Clippers was 619-1153. Mr. Baylor claims to have been underpaid for his tenure with the Clippers. If he made a dollar, he was overpaid. His suit alleges racism and ageism led to his firing. His lawyers must have never seen an NBA record book.
Elgin Baylor departed from the Clippers on October 8, 2008. It should have happened twenty years earlier.
As both Clippers fans on planet Earth know, Baylor was, for 22 years, the General Manager of the Clips. Donald Sterling, renowned filthy rich tightwad owner of said NBA franchise, acted as something of a pioneer, naming an African-American as GM of a big 4 Major League Sports franchise in 1986. Evidence suggests that Sterling might have felt that Baylor, briefly an NBA head coach with no executive experience, would be less expensive than other, more established basketball execs. Whatever Sterling's motivation, there weren't many blacks serving at that level of the NBA in the mid-1980's.
1986-7 Clippers: 12-70, sixth place
1987-8 Clippers: 17-65, sixth place
1988-9 Clippers: 21-61, seventh place
1989-0 Clippers: 30-52, sixth place
1990-1 Clippers: 31-51, sixth place
Baylor's first five years on the job indicated modest improvement. All the way up to twenty games under .500! Still, Sterling kept him on.
1991-2 Clippers: 45-37, fifth place; lost in the first round of the playoffs
1992-3 Clippers: 41-41, fourth place; lost in the first round of the playoffs
1993-4 Clippers: 27-55, seventh place
1994-5 Clippers: 17-65, seventh place
1995-6 Clippers: 29-53, seventh place
Years six through 10 of the Baylor regime actually saw two, very brief, playoff appearances, but unhappy with that taste of incredible success, Elgin quickly oversaw the Clips return to form. Still, with the two first-round playoff failures, this period marks the most successful part of Baylor's oversight. Need it be pointed out that even with two postseason trips, this time still saw less than two full seasons of victories, and more than three full seasons of defeats?
1996-7 Clippers: 36-46, fifth place
1997-8 Clippers: 17-65, seventh place
1998-9 Clippers: 9-41, seventh place
1999-0 Clippers: 15-67, seventh place
2000-1 Clippers: 31-51, sixth place
108 wins, 270 losses in this spectacular term. The only bright spot: 32 games were not played during the 1998-1999 season, due to a lockout.
2001-2 Clippers: 39-43, fifth place
2002-3 Clippers: 27-55, seventh place
2003-4 Clippers: 28-54, seventh place
2004-5 Clippers: 37-45, third place
2005-6 Clippers: 47-35, second place; lost in playoffs' Western Conference semi-finals (more accurately known as the second round)
Baylor celebrated his 20th season as Clips' GM with his third playoff appearance. This, in the NBA, where every team with breathing bodies (Grizzlies, anyone?) is allowed into the playoffs every year!
2006-7 Clippers: 40-42, fourth place
2007-8 Clippers: 23-59, fifth place
The last two seasons of Baylor modeled his entire career as an executive: one season just below mediocre, the other utterly atrocious.
The only lawsuit that should be filed here is one on behalf of whoever it is that buys tickets to Clippers' games, questioning the mental competence of Mr. Sterling. Elgin Baylor's record of accomplishment in 22 years as the General Manager of the Los Angeles Clippers was 619-1153. Mr. Baylor claims to have been underpaid for his tenure with the Clippers. If he made a dollar, he was overpaid. His suit alleges racism and ageism led to his firing. His lawyers must have never seen an NBA record book.
Elgin Baylor departed from the Clippers on October 8, 2008. It should have happened twenty years earlier.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Well Now; Where to Begin?
I thought about just stopping when my long-standing prayers were answered at noon on January 20.
Naaaaaaaaaaaah!
Truth be told, life got hectic about then. Or a little before.
Did I mention that I have a new granddaughter? I thought I might have.
But then, said granddaughter's mom called to ask if they could come home. All three of them.
Did I mention that we weren't moving in the traditional line on this expanding family thing?
I didn't see that I could have my granddaughter and her unmarried parents living as though they were married under my roof. I shared that with my daughter and her significant other.
They understood.
They agreed.
They shared that they wanted very much to get married. And not, they said, simply because they needed a better place to be with their baby.
My daughter's mother told her she couldn't come home to her house. Said she'd be better off to stay in Lexington. Where they were about to be evicted from their Section 8 trailer. Oh, and by the way, she said they shouldn't get married, either.
Fortunately, none of us pay much attention to what their mother says.
So we planned a wedding in about five days. My wife, my mother and my younger daughter made Sara's day as special as was humanly possible. A friend of two dear friends produced as fabulous a wedding cake as I've ever seen, for an absurdly modest fee. Diana, you're the best; I'll be in your debt for the rest of my life. My partner in leading worship played the piano. Debbie, there's an awful lot I couldn't do without you! And Shannon, Nana and Emily took it from there.
The only problem with Sara's wedding is that Emily saw what we can put together in five days. Her wedding is three years off. She expects planning and execution in accordance with the extra time, God help us!
Then, it was only a matter of whether Sara's grandfathers would make it through conducting the ceremony, and whether I would get the words out in response to that satanic question, "Who gives his little girl to some guy, for him to take care of her instead of you, Dad?"
Oh, you guys who only have sons are such cowards.
I got the words out, somewhat strangled, but audible.
And my first baby became a Mrs. Only 25 days after becoming a Mom. Hey, we got it all done!
They moved in on Sunday night.
The current makeup of our humble abode: Kaly, 4 weeks yesterday; Emily, 20 years next week; Bryan (Mr. Sara), 21 in March; Sara, 22; Me, 48; Shannon, 50; Louise (Shannon's Mom), 85; Bill (Mr. Louise), 86.
I read that that goof in California who had the litter of 8 when she already had 6 more kids wants corporate sponsorships, a book deal, and to sell her movie rights. Whatever. I just want to know when our reality show will start filming. It is by far the most interesting household I've ever been a part of. You wouldn't believe.
Or maybe you would.
All I know is that my older daughter and her little family now have enough to eat, plenty of heat and as much safety as any of us can reasonably expect. And every morning and every night for as long as this lasts (which won't be nearly long enough), I get to hold/feed/change/play with my granddaughter.
And I'd take twice as many people in my house to get that little fringe benefit.
I spent most of January crying and begging The Boss to do something about this situation. I was sure that I'd never get to see Kaly, or Sara...sure I had lost them forever.
Thanks, Boss! For this and so much more, over so very long a time. I feel like I owe you, but I've read the manual. So I'll just offer you the same thanks as over the last 22-plus years: I'll be the best Dad I can, with your help and guidance. Only now, I'll throw in being the best Granddaddy possible, too.
Naaaaaaaaaaaah!
Truth be told, life got hectic about then. Or a little before.
Did I mention that I have a new granddaughter? I thought I might have.
But then, said granddaughter's mom called to ask if they could come home. All three of them.
Did I mention that we weren't moving in the traditional line on this expanding family thing?
I didn't see that I could have my granddaughter and her unmarried parents living as though they were married under my roof. I shared that with my daughter and her significant other.
They understood.
They agreed.
They shared that they wanted very much to get married. And not, they said, simply because they needed a better place to be with their baby.
My daughter's mother told her she couldn't come home to her house. Said she'd be better off to stay in Lexington. Where they were about to be evicted from their Section 8 trailer. Oh, and by the way, she said they shouldn't get married, either.
Fortunately, none of us pay much attention to what their mother says.
So we planned a wedding in about five days. My wife, my mother and my younger daughter made Sara's day as special as was humanly possible. A friend of two dear friends produced as fabulous a wedding cake as I've ever seen, for an absurdly modest fee. Diana, you're the best; I'll be in your debt for the rest of my life. My partner in leading worship played the piano. Debbie, there's an awful lot I couldn't do without you! And Shannon, Nana and Emily took it from there.
The only problem with Sara's wedding is that Emily saw what we can put together in five days. Her wedding is three years off. She expects planning and execution in accordance with the extra time, God help us!
Then, it was only a matter of whether Sara's grandfathers would make it through conducting the ceremony, and whether I would get the words out in response to that satanic question, "Who gives his little girl to some guy, for him to take care of her instead of you, Dad?"
Oh, you guys who only have sons are such cowards.
I got the words out, somewhat strangled, but audible.
And my first baby became a Mrs. Only 25 days after becoming a Mom. Hey, we got it all done!
They moved in on Sunday night.
The current makeup of our humble abode: Kaly, 4 weeks yesterday; Emily, 20 years next week; Bryan (Mr. Sara), 21 in March; Sara, 22; Me, 48; Shannon, 50; Louise (Shannon's Mom), 85; Bill (Mr. Louise), 86.
I read that that goof in California who had the litter of 8 when she already had 6 more kids wants corporate sponsorships, a book deal, and to sell her movie rights. Whatever. I just want to know when our reality show will start filming. It is by far the most interesting household I've ever been a part of. You wouldn't believe.
Or maybe you would.
All I know is that my older daughter and her little family now have enough to eat, plenty of heat and as much safety as any of us can reasonably expect. And every morning and every night for as long as this lasts (which won't be nearly long enough), I get to hold/feed/change/play with my granddaughter.
And I'd take twice as many people in my house to get that little fringe benefit.
I spent most of January crying and begging The Boss to do something about this situation. I was sure that I'd never get to see Kaly, or Sara...sure I had lost them forever.
Thanks, Boss! For this and so much more, over so very long a time. I feel like I owe you, but I've read the manual. So I'll just offer you the same thanks as over the last 22-plus years: I'll be the best Dad I can, with your help and guidance. Only now, I'll throw in being the best Granddaddy possible, too.
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