brushback pitches: hot-stove edition

now that i've burdened you with my spiritual struggles, let us turn to a discussion of my second religion: baseball (insert sound clip from the team america anthem here). these are just a few thoughts that are ricocheting through my mind right now.

• shame on major league baseball for naming the washington team "the nationals." they had the option to name the team after the washington "grays" of the negro league, thereby honoring a cherished past of baseball history and building the legend of josh gibson, but they chose instead to ride the wave of nationalistic frenzy that currently characterizes usamerica. hey, at least their colors aren't red, white and blue. wait a second... shame on you mlb, shame on you!


• speaking of mlb...one of the only upsides of a second bush term is that he won't have the opportunity to seek the commissioner's seat. here's a guy who by most accounts wasn't allowed to fiddle with the day to day operations of the texas rangers. and he wants to be commissioner of our national pastime? right. i'll continue to do my best to quench my criticism of bush's presidency, but if he ever attains the commissioner's seat, the gloves are coming off.


• i am glad that fans are finally realizing that sammy sosa is a childish whiner and all around mal-content. if a star player has problems with dusty baker, the prototypical player's manager, you know something is seriously wrong. i hope that he either rots in chicago's six hole or is shipped to flushing this winter. the new york post is probably one of the only organizations that is advocating the mets acquisition of sosa. think of the fodder.
  
• speaking of whiny dominicans, if the sox end up falling for this transparent steinbrenner/pedro ploy and guarantee him three years at 40 million, they're nuts. they would be much better served by spending the same money on pavano and a three man like radke/milton/lieber. count me among those who would be thrilled to see pedro go to the yankees. then we could unabashedly root for him to blow his cuff. (sidenote: if pedro includes the services of his dominican midget in his contract negotiations, my opinion might change).


• espn reports that the cardinals are not sure that they will be able to land rj so they are going hard after eric milton. i find this news more than mildly disturbing. if they can't get rj they should offer calero/haren/ankiel for hudson. assuming, of course, that they can get huddy to sign a contract extension before coming over. if our "big pickup" this off-season is milton, we are going to be left with a #2 guy, three #3 starters and a warm body in the #5 hole. that rotations will win a lot of games, but won't take the series.


• scott boras is one of the worst things to ever happen to baseball.


• if someone can get alou to sign a 2 year/12 million kind of deal or even a 2/16 they are going to get one hell of a bargain. expect him to go to the giants, where he could provide adequate protection for #25.

i am an unbeliever

i believe that you sent your Son among us, that he was born of a virgin, crucified for purposes both religious and political, and rose victorious three days later. i also believe that His death was the perfect sacrifice for our sin and a powerful invitation to enter the Kingdom that is now and not yet.

but i don't believe that you are calling me to a cross. i don't "always carry around in my body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus might be revealed in my body" (ii cor. 4:10). so, instead of responding to your call and picking up the cross i pour my energy into trivial pursuits and set aside the cross in order to enjoy yet another hour of leisure.

i realize that it is meaningless to confess Christ with my tongue if i refuse to incarnate that confession. and i realize that a life of incarnation demands that i carry the cross.

Lord God, i want to believe in the call of Jesus. help me in my unbelief. through the agency of your Spirit, enable me to incarnate the confession i often repeat by choosing to pick up the cross. teach me how to carry the death of Jesus in my body so that he might be truly revealed in my life and in the life of my community. Jesus died so that others might live. please lead me down a similar path.

an unexpected harvest

i am barren. the field of my heart, which once produced a sustainable, if not bountiful, crop now lies completely fallow.

due to the dearth of production i am tempted to despair. i regularly find myself standing on the edge of the field where i smoke camel lights, occasionally piss on the soil and try to discern what went wrong. has the acidity of disobedience tainted my soil for good? has the salt water of sin, which courses through my heart and steadily drips from my tongue rendered the field useless? or is the field merely awaiting the sharp blade of another plowman who can furrow deeper and plant more fertile seed?

answers are allusive. so, as my eyes well up with tears, i strike another match and light another camel. i realize that on the solitary fringe of my heart there is little solace to be found. yet, i am neither completely famished nor devoid of hope. for, during this barren period, i am able to subsist on the fruit of a larger field, of which i am merely a tenant. fortunately, the oddly misshapen and bruised fruit of that field has not failed to provide the sustenance that i need.

thank God for the misshapen, and wholly unexpected, produce of the larger field. after years of living solely off the fruit of my field, i am finally realizing that i am dependant upon other resources to survive.

happy haiku friday!

confined in a cube

a monkey pushes buttons

then throws shit at rhys


note to the easily offended: i didn't actually say shit. i merely spelled it.

link-a-matic

last night, after reading the sports guy's links page more carefully, i realized that gary wayne rodgers committed suicide about a week ago. it is one thing to laugh at the living, but another to desecrate the memory of the dead. thus, this link has been removed.

for more quirky links, visit the sports guy page.

to go, or not to go. that is the question

last week kevin and amy clark, two of my favorite people, came out to visit. between conversations that fluctuated from the absurd (including their tale of naughty middle schoolers who have been nicknamed "the fondeleros") to the significant (including discussions of how our sociological and ecclesiological place influences our interpretation of the gospel as well as the particular method that my Dr. used to assess the state of my prostate) amy mentioned that she had recently attended her ten year high school reunion. i condescendingly asked her if she was joking and she assured me that she was not. apparently, she even geared up for this shindig by visiting that snotty little republic and sharpening her, already formidable, claws in preparation for engagements with long-time adversaries. i punctuated her story by teasing her about attending such a meaningless affair until kevin rose to her defense. apparently he is going to attend his reunion as well.

in an attempt to both empathize with their decisions and to develop an appropriate response to the reunion invitation that i will undoubtedly receive this spring, i have decided to weigh the pros and cons of attending the ten-year reunion of Bishop Kelley's class of 1995.

first, since i am ever the optimist, i will consider the pros:

1. attending the reunion would provide an opportunity to key the h2s, lexus suvs and bmw3 series that the trust fund babies received from their parents.

2. after locating another marginalized, jaded soul we could play a game of plastic surgery "i spy." i can picture the joy of this competition in my head..."i spy a rhinoplasty." "i spy a britney job." "i spy a bo-tox injection!"

3. the freshman baseball team from 1992 could gather together and tell inappropriate jokes about our pedophilia stained baseball skipper and baptist deacon, coach webber. my first joke, due to unexpected pangs of conscience, has been edited.

4. i could finally discover whether paul finally came all the way out of the closet and wrote the script for "angels in america" under an assumed name.

5. i could drink alcohol with my classmates without receiving an m.i.p. (minor in possession) and smoke within 50 feet of school grounds without being fined $100. however, using the lingering incense in the school chapel to cloak the meeting of the 420 club would probably still be prohibited.

now, and you knew they were coming, the cons:

1. most of my friends in high school weren't in my class. in fact, most of them lived in canada...you wouldn't know them.

2. i could avoid conversations about my vocation without being interrupted by comments like "you became a pastor?" "what is it like? some kind of cult?" to which my response would be that (1) God has a sense of humor and (2) the boston church of christ congregation i lead is not a cult. just kidding...God doesn't have a sense of humor.

3. i don't have a pink oxford shirt of pair of navy blue dockers in my wardrobe. furthermore, while i thought cowboy boots with slacks were the "bomb" in 1995, i wouldn't be caught dead "duding up" now.

4. my failure to make the varsity baseball team is up near the top of my list of regrets. i can live without conversations about how i drilled fritz with 3 out of 5 batting practice pitches or about the time i got tossed out of edison field for using one of my favorite words.

5. i cannot endure another night of Bishop Kelley girls killing me softly with the blight on humanity that is known as karaoke. even if alcohol is involved...

at this point, i'm thinking that the cons outweigh the pros. but only time will tell how i will respond to that eagerly awaited invitation.

"There are two kinds of people in this world: Those that enter a room and turn the television set on, and those that enter a room and turn the television set off." ~Raymond Shaw in the original Manchurian Candidate

unfortunately, i am one of the latter. baseball tonight and back-to-back-to-back episodes of law and order are my kryptonite.

listening with a lump in my throat

as i settled into my cube this morning i instinctively reached for my pile of scratched cds. recently i have been relying on audiobooks to help wisk me through the day, but after a bad experience with 'sense and sensibility' (i know it's considered a classic, but my disdain for 20th century chick-lit apparently extends well into the 19th) i quickly returned to the tunes.

anyway, as i shuffled through the cds in a vain attempt to locate ben folds' rockin' the suburbs (i have been singing gone in my head all weekend), i ran across indelible grace, a cd that i lifted from a friends wallet sometime ago. indelible grace is a beautiful collection of reframed hymns (same lyrics with a new americana sound) that was crafted by the numerous musicians at Christ Community Church in jesusland, tennessee.

after the third track, entitled "i need thee every hour," brought tears to my eyes, i realized that, on this day, indelible grace was a sacrament i needed to receive. uncle buechner has always encouraged me to be aware of the times that i have a lump in my throat or a tear in my eye, for those are probably times that God is working. since the third track on the album inspired both a lump and the aforementioned tears, i listened to it again and again.

i thought you might find the lyrics of this old baptist hymn beneficial. then again, you might not.

i need thee every hour

I need Thee every hour,
Most gracious Lord;
No tender voice like Thine
Can peace afford.

Refrain:
I need Thee, O I need Thee;
Every hour I need Thee;
O bless me now, my Saviour,
I come to Thee.

I need Thee every hour,
Stay Thou near by;
Temptations lose their power
When Thou art nigh.

I need Thee every hour,
In joy or pain;
Come quickly and abide,
Or life is vain.

I need Thee every hour;
Teach me Thy will;
And Thy rich promises
In me fulfill.

I need Thee every hour,
Most Holy One;
O make me Thine indeed,
Thou blessed Son!
~Annie Sherwood Hawks, 1835-1918

may God grant us the courage to repent of our independent streaks so that we can grow into a deeper dependence upon Him and a deeper interdependence with one another.

well slap my ass and call me sally

mrs. howland always said that we deserved it. between lectures on the phallic symbolism in candide and chastizing us for improper use of the thesaurus, she reasoned that if she had to settle in the stirrup chair at least once a year, then men should have to deal with the magic fingers as well.

we always laughed at her. she was always talking to us about such things, which perched on the edge of sexuality without actually taking the leap, and we loved her for it. she was nearing forty and had a five year old son as well as a bespectacled, c.p.a. husband, but to us she was lady godiva. we openly proposed that she leave her husband and shack up with us. she laughed at us before taunting us with yet another explication of the sexual tension in ibsen.

she wasn't kidding about the pain of the magic fingers though. we should have seen the lust for revenge in her eyes. today the doctor had me drop my shorts, lay on the examination table, pull my knees up to my chest and put a quarter in the magic fingers machine. the result wasn't pretty.

damn you mrs. howland! after all that talk all you put out was a cold dish of revenge.

"sir, it's mega-maid. she's gone from suck to blow!"

insert rant about your meaningless job here.

draw a parallel between your professional life and that of Joe (who eventually mustered the courage to take on the volcano).

finally, speak melodramatically about the way that your outdated, piece of shit terminal is sucking your will to live.

once you have completed template, hit "publish" four or five times (unsurprisingly, the damn server isn't working again).

and there you have it. your mid-week, vocational lament is complete.

opening a vein

i decided not to preach last weekend. the first sunday of every month you can find me at hill memorial baptist in allston, massachusetts. at hill memorial i preach a twenty-five minute sermon, preside over communion, drink a couple cups of colon-cleansing coffee, listen empathetically to a couple of stories and collect a $100 check (which is subsequently applied to my comcast bill). the congregation is filled with lonely middle aged and elderly women who seem to enjoy my company and have found a way to endure my idiosyncratic preaching. as far as supply preaching goes, hill memorial is easy pickin'.

i usually look forward to my two hours at hill memorial, but last week, i avoided its approach like the plague. after failing to frame a sermon out of wood that was long since hewn, i put out an anxious s.o.s. to the other prospective preachers at cbd. i carefully sculpted my e-mail to make the preaching slot sound like a wonderful opportunity. but, as one of my friends realized after lightly scratching my surface, i was absolutely desperate for relief.

being vulnerable in the pulpit is unquestionably valuable. but, as my old prof would be quick to remind me, bleeding all over the pulpit is another thing entirely. sunday would have been an exercise in the latter. right now, my heart is a cracked desert, my mind looks and sounds like a snowy television screen and my eyes are threatening to reach flood stage.

why am i telling you all this? i am asking myself the same question. i guess the most basic reason is to remind us both that even depression is a sacrament that we need to receive. as saint john of the cross, henri nouwen and others would remind us, depression is not a detour from the spiritual life, but a road that we must all endure. so, by God's grace, i pray that we begin to view depression not as an opportunity to retreat into the fetal position, but as an opportunity to deepen our faith. furthermore, i hope that the cliche that "the darkest hour is always before dawn" is indeed true. finally, instead of falling into the self-destruction of sin during these times or relying on our silly, external crutches (such as my cigarettes), i hope that these dark times lead us into a deeper dependence upon our Savior, who in the midst of the greatest depression found the strength to submit to God's will and a more tangible interdependence upon one another. friends, this is a road that we all walk. but there is no reason to walk it alone.

happy haiku friday

oh rabbit angstrom!

literate theology

sex as sacrament

enjoy

every once in a while someone sends me an article or a link that i find entertaining. here are a couple that i think are worth sharing:

a different take on those damned massachusetts liberals

the flying lawnmower

please note: the inclusion of these links is not a request for more forwards or unsolicited email. i get enough junk already.

receiving the sacrament

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and the pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace." ~Frederick Buechner

I've read this paragraph innumerable times, hoping that the nutrients within will sink down to the roots of my soul. today, this pregnant phrase, which is one of the most precious clues i have found to the great treasure hunt called life, is suggesting that every experience of life has the potential to become a sacrament.


for this reason, i believe that i can receive kerry's loss as a sacrament that is calling me to both identify my political idolatries as well as my trust in the 'chariots and horses' of the world in order that i can take one more step towards believing in, and living as a generative citizen of, the Kingdom of God. as i receive this sacrament, gracious God, i repent of my allegiance to the city of man and, begging the help of your Spirit, seek to live more fully within the sphere of your sovereign rule.

moreover, i am beginning to realize that the role of internet product editor at christianbook.com is a sacrament as well. by this means of grace you are teaching me the virtue of perseverance, as i deal with the fact that i push buttons for a living, leading me towards a more nuanced understanding of providence, as i struggle to believe that you can work through the life of someone who openly commodifies the gospel in order to preach and live a non-commodified gospel, and the value of solidarity, as i begrudgingly start to identify with my brothers and sisters around the world whose work seems to be devoid of any apparent meaning.

Lord God, thank you for the gift of life. please help me to realize that all moments are key moments and to receive such as a means of grace.

thank you for calling initech. just a moment

when you dressed up for career day in elementary school or talked to your high school guidance counselor did you have any idea that you would end up in your current job? me neither.

this question arose in my mind after i came back from a (thanks to my prostate far too frequent!) pit stop only to find my co-workers eagerly exhibiting their flexibility. apparently Art is double jointed, Christine, our middle-aged copywriter still has the flexibility of a freshman cheerleader and Dr. James is more pliable than your average yogi (bear).

don't get me wrong...i don't have anything against such exhibitions. i just find the office environment increasingly odd.

failed reality show pilots

on the border: cameras record the pitfalls and pratfalls of mexican immigrants as they struggle to make it to america. the show's host is chuck norris, fresh from walker, texas ranger and the tagline is "america the beautiful! are you in or are you out?"

the emergent makeover: viewers watch as graduates from evangelical seminaries try to establish emergent ministries in traditional churches. segments include:

• fashion: contestants decide what color to dye their hair, struggle to grow goatees and agonize over which body part to pierce


• theology: contestants try to find the one t.v. show, movie or music artist that will serve as a perfect illustration of the gospel. by the end of the show each contestant must publish a relevant book that is entitled: the gospel according to _______. as viewers quickly realize, filling in the blank is more difficult than it looks.


• liturgy: contestants struggle to develop the most creative worship experience. will they rent laser tag equipment and turn the gymnasium of generic community church into an arena for a lesson on spiritual warfare? will a skydiving adventure take 'trust falls' to an entirely new level? in order to teach compassion will the members of the community live on the front lawn of generic community church for a whole week with nothing but refrigerator boxes to call home?

have you heard of any intriguing, reality show pilots that didn't make the cut? if so, feel free to share.

happy haiku friday!

burnt orange autumn sky

pie chart speaks of time gone by

what is the result?

the cardinals are done. i can see it in their eyes. well done, boys, well done. not too bad for a team that had third place written all over them.

and congratulations to the red sox. i love being a sojourner in their nation and am glad that they are finally hurtling towards destiny. i only have one request for the sox: have buckner throw out the first pitch of the year next season. it would be a nice touch.

also, i would encourage you to read the sports guy as often as possible over the next couple of days. no one can explain the passion of red sox nation, or the measurements of lindsay lohan for that matter, quite like him.

i have reached catharsis. now, it's time for another cigarette.

alex just called to tell me that last night he saw a church marquee that read:

"Jesus reversed the curse. against sin!"

that is my favorite marquee of the year. last year's best:

"warning: weapon of mass salvation found inside."

the deconstruction of a cardinals fan

10:26 p.m.: calero just walked pedro martinez. first, he loses game one for us. second, he walks a freaking american league pitcher. kiko, you stupid bitch.

10:48 p.m.: at this point, i am so glad that i did not have enough money to go out to st. louis. i would probably be kicked out of a good, clean midwestern park on a night like tonight. i am such a hard hearted bastard. at this point, i'm just glad that the sox won't have the opportunity to clinch in boston.

10:58 p.m.: as rick just noted, the red sox feel so confident that they just dropped ortiz in favor of mienal;skjq3w4ei. that's just depressing. it was good to commiserate with a fellow cardinals fan though. we moped together for 45 minutes. come on reggie! can't you give us a meaningless homer here?

11:06 p.m.: if larussa leaves the cardinals i would like jocketty to interview the following candidates: larry dierker, jim leyland, terry pendelton and sweet lou.

11:09 p.m.: least favorite product placements in the world series. tom hanks pitching polar express, jimmy fallon pitching fever pitch (which promises to be the worst nick hornby adaptation yet), thousands of unwitting fans popularizing 'slama-lama-ding-dong,' and a farcical 'interview' with 'leon' of budweiser fame.

11:32 p.m.: at least we won't be shut out. thank you mr. walker.

11:35 p.m.: i would like to thank the red sox for the beating and wilco for the theme song. my heart is broken.

yet another narcissistic running diary

a number of you have emailed or called me, wondering about my thoughts concerning this god-awful world series. well, tonight i hope to provide some answers along with a side dish of sarcasm and other unconstructive thoughts.

before i start, please note that i fully realize that: (a) running diaries are even more narcissistic than blogs (if you think the latter aren't an example of narcissism, at least to some degree, you're kidding yourself and (b) that this format is a complete rip-off of the sports guy's work (i, along with Jesus, consider imitation to be the supreme form of flattery).

8:08 p.m.: i realize that equality requires that we have women sportscasters. i even appreciate the work of, um...thinking, at least one such sportswriter (jackie macmullen of the boston globe) i can't think of one female sportscaster who's even remotely watchable. in short, i think hannah storm is awful. not only does she spout out meaningless drivel, she isn't even that hot. note to the networks: if you're going to sell us on the idea of female sportscasters, select ones that look like reese witherspoon, keira knightley, or, if they're a little older, frances mcdormand.

8:14 p.m.: for everyone who's tried to encourage me by speaking of this situation as a "win/win" for me. let me provide one point of clarification: you're off your freaking rocker. i was literally raised at busch stadium. at different points in my life i have had extended conversations with enos slaughter (whose 1946 mojo we could use a lot of tonight) and lou brock and have met almost every living cardinal great you can think of. i will never, ever root against the cardinals nor will i delight in their demise. whether by curse, scratch hits or, god-forbid, adequate pitching performances, i hope that the cardinals crush the collective heart of red sox nation.

8:22 p.m.: hearing the anheiser-busch anthem played at a world series game reminds me of the pre-game in the 1987 series when one of the budweiser clydesdale's took a giant dump on the artificial turf. instead of dispatching one of the groundskeepers to go clean it up with a shovel and a bucket, they sent out the artificial turf vacuum cleaner to clean it up. bad decision. as a result there was a 15 foot shit stain in right field for the rest of the evening.

8:32 p.m.--it's funny. due to their cardinal credentials, mccarver was a member of the 1967 cardinals who bested the red sox in 7 games, and buck is the son of the cardinals legend, you would think that i would love this broadcasting team. but nothing could be further from the truth. when mccarver isn't kissing yankee ass, he's making some kind of insightful comment that i made 30 seconds earlier and buck has been completely co-opted by the fox mission of providing less substance and more style. announcers i would rather hear this evening: jon miller, uecker, vin scully, al leiter, mike shannon, hell, i'd even take the understandably biased rem-dawg over these guys.

8:43 p.m.: i think i just threw up. somebody woke up manny ramirez.

8:46 p.m.: while i'm nervously trying avoid the t.v. let me offer one thought. as a former pitcher and a fan of pitching duels i think the armadillo size elbow pads that hitters (i.e. bonds, ortiz, varitek and pujols) are wearing need to be illegal. these pads are basically another offensive weapon that encourages hitters to dive out over the plate and drive the ball. it also makes them less vulnerable to the inside pitch. so, that's commissioner gentry's decision. elbow pads are verboten! either that or we raise the pitcher's mound back to its pre-gibson height of 16 inches. hitters, you decide!

8:55 p.m.: there is one out, walker is on first, pujols is down 0-2 and i am rocking back and forth like an autistic child.

whew, runners on first and second. one out. please, please, please stay out of the double play!

9:00 p.m.: pedro walked the bases loaded. now, edmonds, our one lefty who loves high fastballs is coming to the plate. please, please, please make a mistake. unfortunately, or fortunately considering your perspective, the world series came smack dab in the middle of one of my holidays from alcohol. on the dark side, it's also leading me to pick up smoking again. of course, i could buy a pack of chewlie's gum.

9:02 p.m.: when did jose oquendo turn into dale sveum? i cannot believe we ran ourselves out of that f*cking inning.

what are the odds of us winning if we go down 3-0? how about 1-237.

9:16 p.m.: you know you are idolatrizing baseball when:

1. you snap at your coworkers. i left an anonymous note on a double pahhked ford expedition today in the cbd lot today. the note read: "learn to park your suburban assault vehicle." i also almost killed an employee earlier in the week when he called me a "traitor" for supporting the cardinals. i have had to avoid other co-workers all week in order to stave off an outburst.

2. you begin to think your team is cursed. i can empathize with the pain of elderly or middle aged red sox fans, i really can. but when i hear red sox fans my age, especially those who are non-natives, talk with pathos about red sox woes it makes me want to wretch. yeah, they had '86. but i've dealt with a blown call in '85 that ruined a series, two game seven blow-outs and three flame outs in the NLCS. you want to see my scars? i'll show 'em to ya! on the bright side, i've been thinking about spinning the tarp incident into the genesis of a "cardinal curse." i could write a book about it, build a career as a post-dispatch sportswriter and send my kids to college on the royalties.

3. your wife threatens to leave you. fortunately that hasn't happened, yet.

9:36: at least suppan didn't spike himself. 2 outs between third and home before the fourth inning. we're going to give this game away. this is the worst fundamental baseball the cardinals have played all year.

9:59 p.m.: wow, where did the last inning and a half go? answer: a smashed fist against our faux wood paneling followed by a trip to the Hess for cigarettes and a trip to the bathroom that saved my pants.

10:03 p.m.: first and third and no outs. can we say 4-0? this has all the makings of a blow-out. time for another cigarette.

the mad mission of patty griffin

it started out simple enough. after our saturday morning guy's group had finished a greasy breakfast and spent some time in prayer we headed over to the thrift store that is located in the musty basement of the episcopal church. after we descended the stairs and turned the corner into the small, cinder block room that houses the thrift store, i was immediately startled, for right there in front of me was an ex-girlfriend who i often refer to as "o'hare." as she alternately glared and ignored me, i tried to find something, anything, that would attract my undivided attention.

i found just what i was looking for on the cluttered south wall, which boasted one of the most eclectic music sections i have ever seen. on the cd shelf a brand new, unwrapped copy of r.e.m.'s out of time was located right beneath a worn copy of please hammer don't hurt 'em. on the other end of the shelf was an album by the artist who sexually stimulated millions of evangelical boys with her breathy hit "baby, baby," and an album by two dread-locked men who shuffled their way to an undeserved grammy. however, since my not-so-secret infatuation has moved from a Christian pop singer to a certain, unnamed middle-aged actress and if i want to celebrate lip syncing i can always watch ashlee simpson, i was more interested in the cassette tape section. it was there that i found, underneath a copy of the breakfast club soundtrack, a number of mix tapes that were worth purchasing. so it was that for seventy-five cents i picked up unauthorized copies of shawn colvin's cover girl, albums mark cohn and bruce cockburn that i have yet to digest and living with ghosts, an album by one of the first ladies of contemporary americana, patty griffin.

i was so excited about finding the patty griffin tape that i wasn't even bothered when i had to squeeze by "o'hare," whose vibe was unsurprisingly dissonant, to drop my 75 cents on the counter and make my merry way out of the store. later on saturday afternoon, while cleaning the toilet that the recently departed bastard defiled, i heard "mad mission" for the first time. this song rent my heart as quickly as the tracks on hiatt's meet the family. this song spoke, simply and eloquently, about the beating heart of the missional life and the ever-allusive beauty that is often found therein. when i realized that the song clarified the deepest intentions of my heart, i felt a lump in my throat. furthermore, as i listened to it time and again i was reminded of one mission (read: my relationship with o'hare) that i am glad i aborted.

all of this by way of introduction...here are the lyrics:

mad mission

We were drinking like the Irish
But we were drinking scotch
Bartender turned on a movie
Everybody turned to watch
And every single eye was gleaming
As he reached the final scene
Well, at least mine did
Here's lookin' at you, kid

It's a mad mission
Under difficult conditions
not everybody makes it
To the loving cup
It's a mad mission
But I got the ambition
Mad, mad mission
sign me up

I think I've seen the look before,yes,
it's kind of non-commital
It says come hither, baby, but then he's hard wood to whittle
it says it don't mean a thing, but still, somebody does
He'd like you to join the club that likes to say
there's no such thing as love and

It's a mad mission
Under difficult conditions
not everybody makes it
To the loving cup
It's a mad mission
But I got the ambition
Mad, mad mission
sign me up

Sometimes you find yourself
flying low at night
Flying blind and looking for
Any sign of light
You're cold and scared, and all alone
You'd do anything just to make it home

It's a mad mission
Under difficult conditions
not everybody makes it
To the loving cup
It's a mad mission
But I got the ambition
Mad, mad mission
sign me up

Sign me up

happy haiku friday!

sitting in my cube

cracking jokes about calvin

cute cat, what's its name?

a love letter

when telling a story, establishing the setting is essential. although i often forget the content or 'message' of a story, i can always remember details about the setting. for instance, i can still see the immense, riverbed rocks that Henri collected for the abbey of genesee's new chapel. likewise i can see the misshapen roof in ted cole's squash court and can hear the wind rustling through the corn fields that framed the ball fields of the iowa baseball confederacy. all of this to say that i love our current setting. if you'll indulge me for a moment, i would like to share a few things i love about our setting.

• i love living in the little, unfinished condo at the top of the hill that is judson street. i love that i cannot look around the house without seeing the handiwork of the defranza's and my father. i love that when i look out my screen door i see the ancient brick of the majestic, marquee laden cabot cinema. i love that most of my friends live within walking distance (i also love making fun of my friends when they are too lazy to walk).


• i love that when a plane touches down at logan international, i feel like i'm at home. if i land at any other airport, including manchester, new hampshire but excluding tulsa, ok, i do not feel as comfortable, nor exhale a sigh of relief. there is nothing better than landing at logan in the summer. coming over the harbor, which is accented by little white sails, looking over at our unique clock tower and the pru, straining to catch a glimpse of the citgo sign...there's nothing like it.


• i love that massachusetts is a book lover's paradise. from the palatial boston public library, which has a reading room that takes your breath away, to the independent booksellers like jabberwocky's in newburyport, the boston area does books right.


• i love the gravity and solemnity that characterizes the new england shoreline. our beaches are the perfect setting for long walks, writing poor, melancholic poetry and engaging in trenchant, uncensored prayer. even on the hottest summer days you don't get the dirty, MTV spring break feeling when you go to the beach. there are no hordes of multi-colored beach balls, drunken, half-naked coeds of half-hearted volleyball games to be seen. our beaches are too serene, and almost too serious, to invite such trifling pursuits


• i love that i live in the best baseball town in america. i'm a cardinal fan, so for a long time that truth was hard to admit, but there is nothing like following the red sox in the boston area. for instance, these fans are so passionate that while they're uncontrollably ecstatic about the sox vanquishing the yankees (which prompted a gentle edict from our management, reminding us that work is a good thing), they're still level-headed enough to realize that after the seventh-inning pedro debacle francona should be fired. i've never been surrounded by more intelligent, passionate and critical baseball fans in my life. i absolutely love it!

i am beginning to realize that if i did not live in this setting, i might have trouble understanding who i am. that's enough romantic sentiment for now. ignoring work because of blogging will not be taken as lightly as ignoring it on account of the sox.

overheard

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and the pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."

~Frederick Buechner, Now and Then

"someone has a case of the mondays”…my first running diary

9:28pm—the red sox are fighting for their lives in the tenth inning. the cardinals are knotted at zero in the fifth and most important game of the nlcs. wilco’s "i am trying to break your heart is running through my head." and tonight i inherited a demon possessed cat. i think i’m going to throw up.

9:33pm—the red sox just squandered another scoring opportunity. the longer they go without closing the deal the less likely they are to score. trust me, dude. i know from experience.

the cat, which is named pounces (a rather unfortunate name), attacks everything that moves. the latter include fingers on the keyboard, images on the television and, especially, kellie.

9:36—have they ever had a caucasian model for those dancing i-pod commercials? yeah, i didn’t think so. so why is u2 performing on the new ads? did they suddenly get some street cred?

9:42pm—did I mention that the cat has fleas? did i mention that i hate cats? did i say that the cat was as possessed as a neighborhood church in a peretti novel? not good times.

9:54pm—the cat just cut the yarn that was attached to the jingle ball that kellie bought him at the store. the little yarn and ball device has kept him occupied for 15 minutes. but no longer. he has already attacked the keyboard twice and my bowl of peanut shells once. that little bastard.

the red sox are still holding on, but with every passing inning, well, you don’t need me to tell you what I think will happen. suffice it to say that wakefield is warming up in the pen.

the cardinals have yet to get a baserunner and i am typing with one hand while fending off a demon with the other. even rick types faster than this…

10:09pm—-i just tried to imprison the cat in a laundry basket, but had no such luck. little bastard.

10:15pm—alex just got home and was subsequently attacked. screw "pounce." the cat’s new name is bastard. the cat is now officially imprisoned.

10:30—2 on, 2 out, pujols at bat. and he pops out. insert curse word here: .

that carmen electra/gym coach commercial would be a lot more horrifying if the hybrid wo-man didn’t look like one of my ex-girlfriends. of course, the latter was less attractive.

10:34pm—-pujols just made a spectacular play on beltran. consider the sin atoned for.

10:40pm—the cardinals are still knotted at zero and the sox are still playing, 5.5 hours after their official start. will someone tell me why I’m not drinking?

10:54—two out, two on, Ortiz at bat. could he possibly do it two nights in a row? holy shit! the sox are headed back to new york!

in the midst of our celebration, the bastard bit alex.

11:25pm—trying to break my heart indeed. time to put the bastard in his cage and try to get a little sleep.

just thinking...

this past weekend, i began to realize that the 'second generation' of sinners and saints has a perspective on the christian journey that is quite distinct from that of the first generation. the former has very little christian background. thus, they do not have to struggle to extricate 'the gospel' from the encrusted fossil bed of christian culture. they never encountered 'the gospel glove,' wet their bed after watching an end-times movie or felt the need to testify to their faith in three-minutes or less. for this reason, when the first generation excitedly discusses the beauty, goodness and truth we have discovered as we've learned to live the gospel in community, the second generation either looks at us with blank stares, or, as was the case on saturday morning, falls asleep. they were not presented with the gospel as a principle, nor have they ever been lead down the romans road. hence, the gospel has always been as much a lived experience for them as it has been a theological truth.

moreover, the second generation never grew up attending weekly 'worship services,' looking forward to dawson mcallister conferences or spinning 'passion' cds in their discmans. thus, while the first generation looks forward to the possibility of large group worship settings in which we can belt out erotic worship tunes like 'hungry' and connect with other groups of believers, the second generation couldn't care less about the lack of large group settings. for instance, last night, mikey, who is one of our newer members went with us to a joint worship service in salem. the church that hosted the evening is a quirky little emergent group known as 'the gathering.' since they come out of the charismatic tradition, it was not surprising that the beating heart of the service was musical worship. as the rest of us sang the heart of worship, vineyard standbys such as find me in the river and even a campfire tune or two, mikey couldn't sit still. one moment he was going next door to get coffee, the next he was pacing in the back of the room and, somewhere in the midst, he also found the time to field a phone call or two. at first i was a little annoyed by mikey's behavior (especially by his lack of cell phone etiquette, a topic that deserves full treatment in any postmodern catechism), but, after thinking about it for a bit, i realized that he simply doesn't connect with this style of worship. mikey doesn't know the songs in the evangelical cannon, is more accustomed to interactive than passive worship and simply wasn't designed to sit still. as a result, the actual 'service' did little for him. that isn't to say that mikey didn't worship. he took full advantage when the floor was open, went out of his way to spend what little money he had to buy a fellow worshipper a cup of decaf coffee and engaged in lengthy discussions both before and after. however, i don't think mikey will be itching to buy tickets to the sixth 'one-day' conference anytime soon.

all of this to say that i am so thankful that God is moving the church in new directions. although alex never shook the gospel glove, he is one of the most vibrant, engaging disciples i have ever met. he rarely speaks openly about his faith, but co-workers and friends are asking him if they can come to church. moreover, while mikey has never prayed the sinners prayer and has a pentagram tatooed on his shoulder, he told me last night that he is 'leaning' towards following Christ more than he follows wicca.

in this moment i realize that his mercies are indeed new every morning. now, if you'll excuse me, i have some marketing to do.

happy haiku friday!

christmas, christmas time

is near. time for joy and time

for credit card debt.

do you ever get stuck on a song?

from the first note you feel a lump in your throat. as you listen to the song you realize that somehow, in this moment and by God's grace, this song has become a sacrament. so you partake of the song not just once, but time and again. once that song is lifted up and transubstantiated, you can never listen to it in quite the same way again.

allow me to share with you a few songs that have become, for me, sacramental:

have a little faith by john hiatt
faith my eyes by derek webb
we are not as strong as we think we are by rich mullins
freddie freeloader by miles davis
big country by bela fleck and the flecktones
come thou fount
a mighty fortress is our God by martin luther

imitating terry gross

i'm not crazy about my job. i hate rotating featured products like a virtual bookwhore, constructing a feature page for the way of the master products and counting myself among those who make their living off the commodification of christianity.

however, from time to time i am able to interview an author i am actually interested in. these brief conversations (almost) make my job worthwhile. so, as a means of career therapy, i have provided links to a few of these interviews on the right. i intend for these links to serve as a constant reminder that, occasionally, my job is palatable. if you happen to find the interviews interesting, that's an added bonus.

gratitude

on friday evening i took advantage of a commercial break to go into the kitchen and turn on the kettle. in the fraction of a second between turning the knob to 'light' and seeing the blue flame scorch the bottom of the kettle, i realized that this was our stove. this appliance as well as the cold gray tile under my bare feet was entrusted to us by God and the DeFranzas. the latter commissioned us to 'use the house for Jesus.' we are incredibly grateful for the opportunity they have given us to do so.

today i give thanks to God and the DeFranzas for the home they have given us. i pray that kellie and i will never take our home for granted, but will remember that it is sacrament of God given for the people of God.

"there is a difference between being vulnerable and bleeding all over the pulpit"

he said. i couldn't agree with him more. and yet, when i stand behind this pulpit that we call a 'post' i almost always feel the need to bleed. as i strike the keys the voice of my mentors ring in my ears. "that which is most personal is most universal" henri gently reminds me. likewise, quoting the tempest, buechner constantly beckons me to realize that "the weight of these sad times we must obey, and speak what we feel, not what we ought to say."

i've rarely felt the need to bleed as strongly as i do today. however, i also realize that this blood needs to gush out of the wound called repentance. thus, these drops should be shed in the closet instead of this pulpit.

that being said, i could use your prayers though as i slog through this process. repentance is damn hard work.

clogged up and confused

today there is more flem in my throat than mirth in my heart. i started struggling with allergies over a month ago when the wilcoxs took us camping up in the white mountains. i haven't really enjoyed a full day of health since. the doctor prescribed claritin as well as flonase and promised that 'hope is on the way,' but i'm beginning to doubt.

i started to write a longer post, but, due in large part to my flem infused brain, it reads like ninth-graders essay on a separate peace. i'll keep working on it with the hope of posting later.

go cards, go cards, go cards.

hhf you, hhf you, you're cool, hhf you, i'm out...

dour thoughts on the mind

melodrama all the time

talkin' about memphis

welcome to Oklahoma!

where cowpie throwing contests and civil war reenactments are verbotten, but cockfighting is still legal. did we tell you about our 3.2% beer? the state legislature has long said it is non-intoxicating.

altogether y'all, let's hear it: "you're doin' fine Oklahoma, Oklahoma, O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma, OK!"

is this heaven?

it's 2:27pm on a school day. the cardinals are up 6-0, i'm drinking a beer, lounging on my leather couch and looking forward to seeing schilling and santana tonight. i live for this.

even joe morgan can't soil this afternoon.

11 games to glory

a hung over grover cleveland alexander ambling out of the bullpen and striking out tony lazzeri to save the '26 series.

enos slaughter's 'mad dash' that unraveled the red sox.

gibson ensuring that boston's impossible dream was just that.

whitey's rats scampering around the carpet and dismantling harvey's wallbangers in 7 games.

i live for this.

confession

although i would like to say otherwise, my cynicism is a choice. cynicism is not a necessary result of my environment nor a certain consequence of my sin. i choose cynicism and so eschew hope. i confess that this choice is, in itself, sinful and must be remedied.

Spirit, with your assistance, i would like to work through my cynicism, so that i might become more enamored with, and subsequently colored by, the living hope of the gospel.

things i know now that i wish i knew then:

• ray miller's preaching mantra: throw strikes, change speeds, work fast


• that baseball was willing to teach me one of life's most important lessons: how to fail


• nashville country isn't good for you, but cash, haggard, jennings and nelson nourish the soul


• religious people who warm up too quickly are not to be trusted


• one should not bypass an opportunity to see braveheart on the big screen in order to watch the bridges of madison county. especially if the girl accompanying you to the latter is not easily persuaded


• with regard to women: if you think you can live without her, do


• the citadel is not the best place for students with a past history of insubordination


• one should not scale nine-foot, barbed wire topped fences in order to collect aluminum cans. even if the proceeds are going to charity


• spiritual formation is vastly more important than spiritual information. thus, i should have shunned gordon-conwell for l'arche


• although you might enjoy dumping a girl at an airport, it's probably best not to tell others about it

if you would like to share a piece of your accumulated wisdom, feel free.

remembering one of my best days

around 3 p.m. i quit practicing. you can only run through a liturgy so many times before your voice begins to sound stilted and your humorous asides shopworn. there was nothing left to do but get dressed and wait.

two hours later i was clothed in a sharp new ck suit that i bought with macy's credit and a fifty dollar tie that belonged to the impeccably dressed father of the groom. while jon and i waited in the small parish kitchen, we were both visibly anxious, which was unsurprising since this was our first time. his anxiety was betrayed by eager chirping about this and that. though i said little, mine was betrayed by trembling hands and one too many visits to a water closet that was small enough to merit the name.

finally, after fifteen minutes that anxiety compressed to five, we walked up the narrow stairs and out of the vestry door. we positioned ourselves in front of the altar, smiled for the cameras and waited for the sound of the organ. my hands were still shaking so i gripped my little black binder and held it in front of my package, just as i had been taught to hold the musical score in eighth grade choir. though his tongue was still, jon's eyes darted over the faces of family and friends as if to ask them if this event was really happening. then the organist struck the note. the doors quickly opened and jon's new land, his jerusalem, approached as if from above. with blue eyes and light blond hair, jenny was made to wear white. in response to her revelation, jon's eyes focused and my hands stood still.

at that moment, i realized what a wonderful privilege it was to be a part of jon and jenny's life. my role in solidifying their covenant was not the result of a title i held nor a mere function of an ordination which i have yet to seek. rather, my role grew out of a relationship that was grounded in hours of worship, distraught tears over tea and a liberal dose of good natured taunting and teasing. on that beautiful saturday evening, i shared in the sacrament of jon and jenny's marriage. i am a better man for having done so.

jon and jenny, i love you more than most. thank you for allowing me to share in the sacrament that is your marriage. happy anniversary.

alex just reminded me of bill mallonee's warning that there are times "when all the best metaphors, are hittin' to close to home. when all the best metaphors are bleeding from your bones."

amazing post alex. thank you for opening a vein.

wrestling with jean

jean vanier has constantly reminded me that 'the poor are our teachers' and my experience at l'arche confirmed this. however, i don't want to live it.

yesterday i left the office early because of a last minute doctor's appointment. over the past few days i've been experiencing numbness that stretches from my left shoulder down to the tips of my left index finger. i tried to ignore the numbness as long as i could, but eventually gave in and decided to contact the doc. i hate visiting the doctor on account of both the cost and a deeply held fear that i'm always on the edge of being a hypochondriac. nevertheless, eventually the numbness annoyed me to the point that i was willing to go in.

the doctor on duty, who seemed more interested in practicing his spanish with an overweight nurse than diagnosing my problem, quickly hammered my shoulder and elbow with his instrument and proclaimed that i was dealing with a pinched nerve (the same self-diagnosis that he scoffed at when he first entered the room). after performing an odd, robot-dance illustration of what kind of neck movements can produce a pinched nerve he instructed me to purchase an orthopedic collar and exhorted me to wear it faithfully for two weeks. after that period ended, he said, we will know if further treatment is necessary.

i don't know if you've ever seen orthopedic collars, but they don't reflect the height of fashion. likewise, they restrict your movement to such a degree that you resemble joan cusack's character in sixteen candles. thus, i may be typing this entry with trembling fingers, but at least i'm not wearing a damn collar.

unsurprisingly, kellie was not pleased by my defiance. she told me that she will not listen to me bitch, if i will not respond to the doctor. more jarringly, james told me that i should remember my reluctance the next time i admonish our friend with cerebral palsy to wear her leg braces, which she refuses to don for the same superficial reasons that i employed above.

for some reason, james' barb struck me like a revelation. i am willing to exhort and instruct the poor in our community as long as i am not expected to live like them. i have often complained about our friend's unwillingness to wear her braces, which she will probably have to wear for the rest of her life. however, when faced with the prospect of wearing an orthopedic collar for two short weeks, i opt out. as long as i am unwilling to put one foot in their lives and experience the world with and among them i am not going to learn what they have to teach me. this grieves me, for their lessons are many. they want to teach me how to set aside the illusion of control and embrace my powerlessness. they are offering to show me the life of dependency and interdependency that i have long valued but never lived. the poor want to teach me the faith of a child.

but i am unwilling to learn. i don't want to wear the damn collar.

fondling francis' midsection

I loathe student presentations. They aren't quite on par with group projects, but I detest them nonetheless. Thus, you can imagine my reaction when Prof. Guider, whom we affectionately called Meg, announced that our final assignment would require us to explain how a particular work of art was influenced by the Franciscan tradition. "Great Meg," I cynically mused, "why offer us another insightful lecture on the incarnational theology of Bonaventure when we can endure a few poorly-prepared presentations by students don't have the least idea what they are talking about. That's well-worth my hard-earned tuition dollar!"

Like every other student, I put the project out of mind until the last week of the course. It was only then that I decided to talk about how the life of Francis was refracted through Rich Mullins' well-scored but poorly executed Canticle of the Plain. As I walked into the stone chapel with the CD and the ubiquitous Giotto reproduction in hand, I felt the queasy feeling that always accompanies a distinct lack of preparation. Meg gave us a few minutes to walk around and take a closer look at everyone else's Giotto reproduction as well as the calligraphy marred poems and cheaply produced icons that that were going to be discussed before settling down into a circle of chairs in the center of the chapel.

As soon as I sat down my anxiety level began to rise. After the odd exploit that is kindergarten show-and-tell I have always been more than willing to let someone else endure the penetrating questions and sharp critique that rains down upon the opening presenters. I always try to find a plush time slot in the middle period of the class, when fellow students are both thoroughly bored and not yet ready to launch the terse, antagonistic questions that come near the end of the period. Usually when the professor asks for volunteers in these situations, it's quite difficult to find the first victim. Fortunately, this day was different, for our class included Daniel.

Daniel was a friendly autistic student who always found his way into the center of attention. His questions and statements always included at least one word that was emphasized by an acute inflection (i.e., 'when did francis walk naKED before the bishop?'). And when he raised his hand, you never knew what you were going to get. He could go from questions about "ontological founDATION for Fransiscan natural theology" that belied a considerable amount of insight, to questions that were patently absurd, such as when he asked Meg "Did Francis smELL funny?," without any warning. In addition to his erratic reflections, you never knew whether Daniel was being totally sincere. His autism led you to believe that the absurd, and often sexual, questions were sincere, but the gleam in his eye always left you wondering.

Though I should have expected it, I was surprised when Daniel responded to Meg's question by waving his hand in the air as vigorously as a first grader who wanted to be 'line leader' would. "I'll go firST" he told Meg. My response was a mix of relief and expectation. As per usual, Daniel did not fail to upset the latter.

He began by holding up a little kodak photobook that had been half-heartedly covered with a piece of notebook paper. Scribbled all over the notebook paper were the 'tau' crosses that are used by Franciscans as well as 'sco' which was Francis' nickname. "For my creative proJECT" he intoned, "I created a photo album of my trip to the St. Francis prayer garDEN at the old north chURCH." "When I entered the prayer garden," he said matter of factly, "I realized that FranCIS was quite short. Moreover, he was regular size. He wasn't fat like most Americans, nor skinny like most concenTRATION camp survivors." The last phrase elicited subtle, but noticeable reactions from people throughout the room. The Jesuit priest across from me quickly inhaled, the beautiful Muslim girl who sat next to me giggled and my eyes began to well up with tears. "As I got closer to the statue," he continued, "I realized that there were two pigeons on the nearby rooftop of the Old North ChURCH. This made me feel like FranCIS and Clare were right there with me, in the garden of the old North ChURCH. As I walked closer to FranCIS I realized that many of the tourists were looking like me like I was crAZY. I felt just like FranCIS did before his father and the bishop of Assisi." At the mention of the word "crAZY" several eyes darted around, as if the reaction on other students faces would confirm that this experience was real. However, our attention did not lapse for long, as Daniel quickly continued his story. "After sitting on the bench that is opposite of FranCIS, I went over to the statute itSELF. When I got there I looked deep in FranCIS' eyes while I fondled his midSECTION." At the word fondle, the beautiful Muslim and I began to laugh uncontrollably. She was doubled over, hiding her face in her hands, and I was trying to control the volume of my laughter while tears rolled down my eyes. Surprisingly, the rest of the class was more effective in maintaining their composure, leading me to wonder whether the reason the Muslim girl and I couldn't control ourselves was because we had missed far too many off color jokes that were muttered in the midst of early-morning Mass. At that point, Daniel concluded and said that we could take a closer look at the pictures "if we liKED." No one signaled a desire for the photos to be passed. Obviously, there was no physical picture that could be quite as striking as our mental picture of Daniel fondling FranCIS

happy haiku friday!

sitting in my cube

lead me to a sacred space

pay sprint bill at lunch

and now for something completely different...

i just agreed to interview john eldredge on october 12. in order to prepare for the interview, john requested that i climb mount washington, canoe the snake river and run five miles of the appalachian trail stark naked. by the end of this experience, i'm going to be so wild. i am MAN, hear me roar!

longing to be stoic, yet so damn emotive

i have no desire to be tossed this way and that by every wave of emotion. but, in all honesty, i usually am. while this realization is nothing new, it is usually something i am able to suppress. but not today.

earlier this week, the only other home church in our network decided to officially disband. our personal relationship with the remarkable families and individuals in this church will continue, but their church will cease to exist.

thus, the network formerly known as 'city on a hill' will cease to exist. sinners and saints is on its own and it feels like we're performing on a trapeze and preparing to fly without a net. henri, at this point i would love to say that i am fully trusting the catcher, but it is far more accurate to say that i am filled with fear.

i am afraid that i am unable to lead a home church, much less create a new network.

i feel like at some point i stopped walking with you and started to work for you. hence, i hardly have the character that befits an elder.

i realize that you can, but fail to believe that you will, transform the dying seed that was 'city on a hill' into an organism that is glossy with new life.

yet, with trembling hands i receive the new task you have set before me. fill me with your Spirit, so that i might participate in, and help guide, a community that is engaged in your mission. once again, i ask you to bring life out of death and to call something that is not as though it were. Lord, i really don't want to fuck this up. help me, help me, help me.

avoiding work, yet still pimpin' product

last week i had the opportunity to interview doug pagitt of solomon's porch. we had the opportunity to talk about his excellent reimagining spiritual formation and converse in the strangelanguage that is emergent speak. in the off chance that you would find the interview interesting, you can access it by clicking here. i will also be interviewing brian mclaren in late october. i'll post the interview when it's complete.

also, if you haven't already noticed, i really enjoy reflecting on the experience of the sinners and saints community. if you find those posts interesting, you should check out dr. james' post entitled 'finding a place for jim grace.' props to the doctor for providing an eyewitness account to the resurrection.

monday morning musing

i awoke this morning to evidence of a weekend well spent. the body of evidence included:

• 1 completed novel


• 2 torn ticket stubs for the door in the floor


• a half painted study


• a half primed bookcase


• 4 x-box controllers strewn across the living room floor


• 1 partially read, but wholly dismembered sunday edition of the globe


• 1 reconciled relationship


• 2 empty bottles of wine


• 2 empty boxes of prinzi's pizza


• 10 empty bottles of sam adams' octoberfest


• 5 empty bottles of harp


• 3 empty bottles of mike's hard limeade

as i spent the morning hours carefully cataloging, and then dispatching of , the evidence, i realized how each piece points to the presence of our community. due to this realization, the act of collection became not merely a task, but an embodied prayer of thanksgiving.

Remembering a Man Above Reproach

A reminder has been flying over my head for days as if to ensure that I wouldn't forget. On this day, in 1943, Preston A. Davis, my grandfather, flew his last mission over occupied France. Though his crew had completed more difficult assignments, including being a lead plane on the first Schweinfurt raid, a dead engine over Nantes, France led to their demise. My grandfather and three of his crewmates were captured on that very day and detained for the rest of the war. Three other crewmates were lucky enough to escape occupied France and make it back to Britain. And, tragically, three others were buried inside the burning B-17.

By his own admission, my grandfather was largely shaped by his wartime experiences. For it was his wartime experiences that made him aware of providence (only a minuscule number of airmen completed their tour of duty), tempered him with endurance and taught him that life itself (especially such luxuries as 45-minute showers!) is grace.

Preston A. Davis is not only my Pa-Pa, he is my mentor and my best friend. I thank God for him on this day.

happy haiku friday!

sitting in my cube

avoiding seminary

brushing and flossing

simkins' call, my response

if i keep my feet moving
  i'll never find a place to stand

i must submit to being planted
  and absorbing the nutrients of this land

but as soon as it's time to root
  i'm off and running with a start

for though He called me to be planted
  i'd rather serve my vagabond heart

my current coordinates

listening: iris dement's infamous angel. iris lays down tracks that are somehow overwhelmingly sentimental, yet still insightful. thank you, iris for providing more proof that you can take the boy out of oklahoma, but...

reading: john irving's a widow for one year. irving creates characters with such depth that you cannot help but be intrigued by their lives. his characters are both sinners and saints, capable of unmentionable sin as well as a willingness to forgive. i can only hope that i value the complexity of those in my community in the same way that he values the stories of his fictitious creations. i also relish the slight hint of buechner that i detect in his work.

thinking: about carving out time to finish irving's novel and the possibility that the cards peaked at the wrong time. also questioning why i've put off visiting the dentist for so long. i am a rabid anti-dentite, but i'm even more averse to root canals.

wondering: when krista is going to start a blog.

a confession, a commitment and an attempt to properly use the hyphen

first, a confession. as a teen i was a power tie sporting, state senate paging, card-carrying member of the young republicans. i was the youngest member of 'jed' wright's reelection team and considered myself an up and-and-comer in the dirty little business that is oklahoma politics. my extra-curricular activities in high school included protesting at abortion clinics, where i could barely conceal my contempt for and the violence i longed to inflict, upon those who held the other side of the line and trying to read newt gingrich's 'contract with america.' in 1994 i was a seventeen-year-old foot soldier in the republican revolution. i even had the rush limbaugh license plate frame to prove it.

then, in the spring of 1995 i enrolled in mrs. stitch's legendary writing and research class. stitch wasn't nearly as intimidating as advertised, but she did: relentlessly push me to develop my voice, heartlessly repossess my thesaurus (she didn't appreciate my discovery of 'ergo') and constantly harp about the length of my sentences. as we approached the conclusion of the semester she assigned the dreaded research project. she wanted us to develop a twelve to fifteen page thesis that showed original thought as well as a thorough grasp of mla style. since i was a battle hardened republican, still enamored with the capture of congress in 2004, and a lapsed but culturally committed christian, i chose to explore the virtues of the religious right. when i proposed my thesis to stitch at our teacher-student conference she fell somewhat short of rolling her eyes, but i could tell that she was less than enthused. she said that she hoped the research process 'left a mark on me.'

needless to say, it did. as i read the literature of the religious right and listened to the rhetoric of ralph reed, falwell and robertson, i found it hard to distinguish their approach from that of other special interest groups. i shared the religious right's position on many social issues such as abortion and the welfare system, but their tactics as well as their intent seemed to be somewhat less than christian. when i watched interviews and read articles with the leaders of this movement, i did not hear them speak words of love, but thought that i detected a lust for power. furthermore, as i began to consider their intent to reestablish judeo-christian morality through legislation, i began to question how their approach squared with the life and teachings of Jesus. as i thought about the latter, it seemed like they were either misinterpreting or ignoring Jesus' teaching about the Kingdom as well as, perhaps, expecting republican governance under the 'right' leaders to produce a form of salvation. needless to say, i was less than intrigued by what i found. quite quickly, my paper turned from a paean to the republican right into a critique that questioned their tactics and expressed deep suspicion of their intentions.

'why the long-winded story,' you ask. good question. this story illustrates how my political resolve has often been grounded on unsure convictions, if not mere opinion. once i took a good long look at the platform and personalities of the religious right, i questioned all of the slaving i had done on their behalf. the same thing happened later with the republican party as a whole.

now that i'm older, i don't find that i'm much wiser. i am still tempted to pick up the rhetoric of a party, in this case the democrats, and resolve myself to seek their ascension. in the midst of my current political fervor, i have also found myself as unable to sympathize with republicans as i once was with the pro-choice supporters who held the other side of the line. on more than one occasion, i have openly and, unfortunately, verbally questioned the intelligence of those who support the president. yesterday, i blatantly insulted a co-worker, fellow pastor and erstwhile bush supporter by considering him an illustration of p.t. barnum's dictum that 'one can never go broke underestimating the intelligence of the american public.'

i started with a confession and, in accordance with good ole' evangelical tradition, i am going to seal the deal with a commitment. i am committed to keeping my mouth shut regarding the particularities of american politics. i will not fail to speak out on behalf of my poorly-defined but deeply held values, but i will not engage in political partisanship of this blog. it is my prayer that i will also be able to set aside partisanship in my other interactions as well, but i am going to take things one step at a time. i intend to explore this commitment in greater detail at a later time. but for now, i need to get my ass back to work.

a post-confession comic

i found this comic in a books and culture issue a couple of months ago. it is used without permission.

coupland's confession

i've carried this confession around in my wallet for years. today, i really need to hear it. thought you might appreciate it as well.

"Now--here is my secret:

I tell it to you with the openness of heart that I doubt I shall ever achieve again, so I pray that you are in a quiet room as you hear these words. My secret is that I need God--that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem to be capable of giving; to help me be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love."

~douglas coupland, life after god

a stupid story for a fall morning

although a rebel at heart, i rarely skipped classes. during my time at soybean bible college, i never cut christian character and leadership to visit wrigley and wouldn't forego a monday morning greek class to go snowboarding with 'the community.' at the time i considered such fidelity a mark of character. now that i am more aware of my tendency to elevate task over relationship and realize how closely my identity is tied to achievement, i consider it conclusive evidence of narcissism. nevertheless, on that day it was not difficult for kevin to persuade me to cut. after all, our purpose was not merely male bonding, but religious mission, for on that crisp october morning dogma was to be released on dvd.

on the way up to the overgrown suburb that is bloomington-normal, kevin remembered that the berean bookstore was having a liquidation sale. since they had recently converted all of their sample tracks into mp3 format they were selling their scratched up sample cds for bargain prices. so, we stopped by berean on the way to best buy, hoping to find a couple of decent jewel boxes among the christian contemporary music rough. unfortunately, by the time we arrived the hordes had already descended, leaving nary a geoff moore or shitty smalltown poets album to be found. so, almost as quickly as our quest was diverted, we continued.

we arrived at best buy around 9:45, eager to pay homage to kevin smith with yet another purchase. unfortunately, best buy didn't open until 10. so we stood outside the store, sharing second hand jokes about britney spears and listening to a yuppie lawyer in a pant suit bark on her cell phone. just as the time was beginning to drag a shriveled old woman, in a long green gingham jacket and a purple beret started to shuffle by. i stepped off the sidewalk so that she could proceed, but she surprised me by stopping to talk. after she greeted me in customary fashion and i returned the favor, she looked at me through pale blue eyes and said "i'm 88!" "that's great" i replied, while internally wondering what stage of dementia she had stumbled into. "do you ever watch the rose bowl," she queried. "of course," i replied, "my family watches it every year." "that's where i'm from," she said! "pasadena," i asked by way of clarification. "yes, pasadena. during the war years i was a rosie the riveter out there. at the height of the war, we completed 4 million rivets a day." "that's great," i replied and added that my grandmother was also a riveter at a consolidated plant during the war. when she heard me mention my grandmother, she smiled, and i wondered where this little conversation would take us next, though i never could have suspected the turn it was about to take. "yes!" she said. "it was in pasedena that i learned to rivet, and it was in pasedena that i learned to yodel." she then snapped her head back and sang "yodel-lay-he, yodel-lay-he, yodel-la-he-hoo!" needless to say, after this outburst, my jaw dropped and i tried to look at kevin, who was clearly ignoring me lest he explode. the yuppie clicked her cell phone shut and began a cynical, staccato clap. and as quickly as she burst into song, the old lady stopped. she smiled and said, "i'm off to pay my phone bill now" and shuffled off in the same manner that she had arrived.

minutes later, best buy opened and we made our way inside. the purpose of our trip was confounded when the clerk told us that dogma had been delayed and i was dismayed when my back up purchase, oops, i did it again was marked well above expectation. however, as i realized immediately, and still believe today, that was one skip that was well worth it.

here's to Jesus, here's to you!.



photo courtesy of...

we find the time to do the things we want to get done,
  i proclaimed so haughtily to her.
i mentioned keys, bills and excel,
  she responded without a word.

this morning, in the damp quiet of the seven o'clock hour,
  as i sat with the scriptures, being primed for prayer,
i was pierced by the sharp edge of my statement
  and confronted by my most practical err.

i find time for bills, sweating the circle, even playing a little bond,
  but often ignore the draw of this sacred hour
  when i call and am called upon.

learning about labor, day

this weekend my parents came out to visit. the stated purpose of their visit was to help us put the condo together. so, with the foresight of an interior decorator that seems to be hardwired into most women, kellie planned for my dad and i to build a bookshelf for the study. no problem, i thought. after all, during college 'building' a bookshelf consisted of resting 2 x 4 x 8's on a pair of cinder blocks and in post-college it consisted of purchasing a couple of sauder quality bookshelves from target and hastily putting them together. of course, nothing could have been further from her mind.

when she determined last tuesday that the measurements of the bookshelf would be 6 x 8, thus covering the north wall of my study, i began to get a little worried. it was going to be a bigger undertaking than i expected, i reasoned, but nothing we couldn't complete in a day or, possibly, two. when my father and i spent two and a half hours carefully selecting and purchasing $200 worth of wood on friday night, i knew i was in over my head. when my dad spoke of me using the circular saw, which i had last seen being utilized as a weapon in Commando and had never used myself, i began to sweat.

now that my body is beginning to recover, on wednesday of the following week, i realize that my anxiety was warranted. over a (count 'em) four day period, my father and i built one of the most sturdy, spacious and, dare i say, impressive bookshelves that i have ever seen. i learned how to use the circular saw, a mitre box and a tape measure. and i learned, yet again, that when you are working with a man as industrious as my father, hemorrhaging mucus, upcoming sermons (i preached on sunday as well. how's that for planning?) and labor day picnics are no reason to stop working. thus, this september sixth, instead dominating yet another game of whiffle ball, i truly learned about labor. thanks for the lesson dad. you'll always be my blue collar hero.

discretion suggests that i leave the following incidents untyped. but the delirium brought on by the sudafed/alka-seltzer/claritin cocktail i've been sipping since the sawdust started flying has impaired my judgement. thus, i will do what i rarely ever do on this blog, tell a family secret...

my dad is a very articulate, well-spoken man. however, he has a problem pronouncing two words, hawaii, which comes out ha-YY, and peanuts, which is pronounced as though the 't' is silent. my beloved wife stocks peanuts for me to snack on and i indulge in them regularly since they are a part of my low-sodium diet. over the weekend, i got my atkins-loving father to partake in my practice as well, which, due to his pronunciation problem, led to the following, horrifying, statements:

when dr. james walked into the study and asked my dad how things were going the response was unintelligible. dr. j. politely told my dad that he could not hear him and asked him to repeat. my father, responding to james in kind, said "i'm sorry, i just had some peanu(t)s in my mouth."

later on in the evening, when dad's exhaustion was effecting his grammar, he looked staight at me and asked "hey jeff, where is your peanu(t)s?"

needless to say, both dr. j and i about died.

by the way...mom, i'd appreciate it if you keep the last part of this post between us.

a word of encouragement for those returning to work

"one who is slack in his work is brother to one who destroys."
~Prov. 18:9

happy haiku friday!

grandparents dying

parents in a.a.r.p.

time to be a man

i realize that this isn't much of a haiku, but it clearly reflects my current state of mind.

overheard...

"we learn to praise God not by paying compliments, but by paying attention. watch how the trees exult when the wind is in them. mark the utter stillness of the great blue heron in the swamp. listen to the sound of rain. learn to say 'hallelujah' from the ones who say it right."

~Frederick Buechner in Beyond Words

some days are essays, others incomplete sentences

today is one of the latter. thus, instead of a complete unit of coherent thought, i am going to share a couple of fragmentary thoughts and reflections.

i don't know whether it's the 32 ounces of equal exchange coffee pulsing through my veins or the faint scent of innovation, but for some reason i am interested in my job once again. when our company was recently sold from one brother to another i thought that business would proceed as usual. as is often the case, my assumptions were far from correct. someone up top is shaking the tree and coconuts are falling all over the place. we are in the process of reconsidering how to do everything from site design to spam, er..., i mean newsletters in a more effective way. for so, for the first time in this department their seems to be room for innovation. consequently, for the first time in months i am not tempted to drool on my keyboard. good times...

for the moment, my homiletical paralysis has abated. over the past four months i have had the damnedest time developing sermons. early on, i considered my condition a result of my spiritual apathy and context of transition (i.e., married eight months ago, new homeowner, fairly new job, sex change (just kidding), etc.). however, i have realized that my condition has abated when i write first person narrative sermons. thus, in my current three sermon series on the prodigal son, my narrative sermon from the perspective of the elder brother went swimmingly, my deductive sermon on the prodigal absolutely sucked and my narrative sermon on the role/call to be the father is developing quite nicely. i don't want to discount the influence that the small, yet distinct spiritual renewal that is taking place in my life and community is having upon me, but i think that the primary cause of the paralysis is a stylistic shift that is taking place in my preaching. i'll probably discuss this in more detail at a later date.

i've realized, once again, that one of the great temptations of church leaders is to exert power over the lives of the members. i thought that by checking out of the institutional structure i would have lessened this temptation, but i couldn't have been more wrong. in relational ministry there are constant opportunities to guide people towards personal decisions or commitments that would apparently serve the best interests, or lessen a burden upon the church, but would not be the best choice for the individual. i must constantly recommit myself to searching out what is best for that person and for the community rather than what appears to work best with my vision for our community. i am rambling and probably making little sense...but there is a big issue buried in there.

shit. this post is less a record of fragmentary thoughts than it is a collection of uncompleted essays. nonetheless i am going to let it go.

blessings upon you and yours.

oooo sweet nectar!

first he blessed us with clerks X. now, he has revealed that he is working on a sequel, the passion of the clerks. all hail kevin smith!

and that other kevin, the one that lives in the sticks of a swing state, better be ready for my visit. i ain't gonna to see this one without you. snootch to the nootch!

yet another sign that the wheels are falling off...

if i was pitching like kyle farnsworth, i'd try to injure myself as well. this has been a tough year on the north side, with more bizarre injuries and underperforming aces than you can sneeze at. hell, even wrigley field is falling apart.

i hope that the cardinals get to play the (barely) walking wounded in the playoffs. the cubbies have consistently been an easier mark than the giants and there will be nothing quite as gratifying as seeing nomah implode in october (you might love him now, but you'll hate him when the games really count...mia can't hold his hand when he's hobbling towards a ball in the hole).

good words on marriage from lauren winner

when i heard that books and culture was producing an issue on marriage, i winced. because of my geographical location as well as my occupation i have heard evangelicals proclaim that 'the sky is falling' on good, godly, traditional marriage one too many times. fortunately, books and culture upended my expectations by publishing this excellent article by lauren winner.

i assume that, on occasion, you find 'excerpt entries' quite annoying. i know that i do. however, one of the purposes of this blog is to keep a record of insights, excerpts and websites that i find interesting. so, even if you hate excerpt entries, i hope that you'll bear with me now and again. now, without further qualification, let's hear what winner, one of evangelicalism's finest young writers, has to say...

"And, yet, marriage is meant to be communal as well as couple-centered both in its means and its meanings. At the most practical level, it is our friends, our brothers and sisters in the church, our aunts and uncles and colleagues, who can remind us why we got married in the first place. It is this community that, when we lay our marriages bare before them, are able to hold us accountable, and also celebrate with us...If we Christians want to get our divorce rates down below the national average, rendering our marriages visible to our communities—opening ourselves up to our friends' support, prayers, questions, and rebuke—would be a good place to start.

But recalling the communal dimension of marriage is not merely a strategy for sticking it out and navigating the rough patches. It is rather an assertion of God's purposes for marriage. Our surrounding society tells us that marriage is a private endeavor, that what happens between husband and wife behind closed doors is no one else's concern. But in the Christian grammar, marriage is not only for the married couple. Insofar as marriage tells the Christian community a particular story, marriage is for the community. It reminds us of the communion and community that is possible between and among people who have been made new creatures in Christ. And it hints at the eschatological union between Christ and the Church. As Catholic ethicist Julie Hanlon Rubio has put it, "marriage consists not simply or even primarily of a personal relationship. Rather, it crystallizes the love of the larger church community. The couple is not just two-in-one, but two together within the whole, with specific responsibility for the whole. … They must persevere in love, because the community needs to see God's love actualized among God's people.

The inflections of community are important because they get at the very meanings of marriage. Marriage is a gift God gives the church. He does not simply give it to the married people of the church, but to the whole church, just as marriage is designed not only for the benefit of the married couple. It is designed to tell a story to the entire church, a story about God's own love and fidelity to us."

blow wind, blow...

Last night I found myself on a park bench on the Beverly common. I was sweating out my upcoming teaching and muttering a few prayers. There was a group of local toughs sitting on the art college steps right behind me, greeting one another with their 'fuck yous' and gleefully haranguing each car that drove down the adjacent street. Suprisingly, they said nothing to me. Perhaps they considered a geek sitting alone with buechner in one hand and the bible in the other too easy of a target.

Anyway, as I sat on the bench I was thankful for the relative peace as well as the autumn twinged august breeze that was drifting through the park. As I was putting my holy books into my satchel and preparing to walk to church I saw a lady walking down the brick path towards me. She was thin, middle-aged and, by all appearances, homeless, though she seemed fairly well put together. In that moment, either the wind or the Spirit (even the Apostles had difficulty distinguishing between the two) seemed to suggest that she needed direction. I reflexively suppressed the voice, as I am wont to do, but as the woman shuffled closer I saw her eyes lift expectantly and she prepared herself to speak. 'I'll be damned,' I thought. Maybe there was substance to that voice after all. I gradually made eye contact with her and softly smiled so as to welcome her approach. Perhaps this will be an instance in which God provides an opportunity for me to see the power of the gospel at work, I thought. These moments never happen to me on airplanes, but perhaps it could happen on the common.

After five seconds of real time, but fifteen minutes worth of internal monologue, she asked me if the library was open. I told her that it was and would remain so until nine o'clock. She exhaled quickly and told me that 'I have to pee like crazy.' I walked about fifteen yards towards the library with her, told her where the john was and went on my way.

Obviously our conversation defied my expectations and the direction she needed was quite different from that which I was prepared to give. And yet, I am thankful for that brief encounter, for it reminded me yet again of my need to receive people as well as my desire to help guide them along the way. In the end, I can't help but wonder whether pointing her to the john was just as important as pointing her to Jesus.

happy haiku friday!

eggs 0800

breakfast 1300

faithful in the midst

overheard

"if you want to go fast, go alone.
if you want to go far, go together."

frustration.

work in a web company,
 on a computer that runs like a 386
without even trying
 i come off like a dick
frustration, what am i going to do with you?
 it'll take a lot more mercy and a little more grace
 to get me through

it seems the harder i try
 the less i get done
i am dying in this cubicle
 with no access to the sun
frustration, what am i going to do with you?
 it'll take a lot more mercy and a little more grace
 to get me through

You command us not to be anxious
 to consider flowers in the midst of complication
but it's hard to hear you from where i stand
 i'd like to comply but doubt that i can
so, steeped in cynicism, i remain exiled in this land
 of frustration.

frustration. what the hell am i going to do with You?
 Who speaks of home and promises to see me through

sinners and saints gathered to worship last night

our worship gathering took place on the corner of rantoul and federal street. no songs were sung, no overwrought teachings endured and no offering collected. our theme for the evening was returning and the tone of the evening was celebration.

as soon as the u-haul creeped onto rantoul street our gathering began. for the next four hours there were many hugs, excited chatter and not a little laughter. the gathering was characterized by a good deal of work, as we carried hundreds of boxes, odd pieces of furniture and even mr. potato head into the primary colored apartment. however, grounded in the context of celebration, the work was a delight. through the front door, teams of two carried a sleigh bed as well as an animated conversation. through the back door stretched an assembly line of sinners who were eager to pass dishes, share michael jackson jokes and proclaim the good news to one another.

and the people...what a collection of sinners. there was a former hippie, a frat boy impersonating a pastor and two flaming gay pagans among our number. yet our sweaty, practical expressions of love, the dreams shared in the intimate company of good ole sam smith and the easy transition from unrestrained conviviality to fervent prayer suggested that the Spirit is once shaping nothing into something. He seems to be fashioning a community of sinners into saints.

i have stumbled into Your presence many times, but there was something special, dare i say sacred, about last night. though our values are undefined, our network is tattered and the consequences of discipleship are leaving many of us torn, You are working among us. You, O Lord, are indeed in the process of making all things, even this community of sinners, new. gracias.

yet another disturbing report from the campaign trail

as politicians on both sides of the aisle continue to conflate Christianity with constitutional government I find myself overwhelmingly thankful for, and longing for a healthier expression of, the separation of church and state. Sovereign Lord, please ensure that these two will never become one. Except in a certain county of south carolina. they can run their sanitarium in whatever way they see fit.