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