Getting Beat Down

I'm still swimming in the deep end of the pool with 1st Peter. This week we are moving into the experience of the first century Christians Peter was writing to, that is persecution. This was a marker of this little sect beginning with it's founder. He winds up executed. And he warned his followers saying, "they didn't understand me, they won't understand you." We'll ignore the cultic overtones of that statement for the moment and just recognize that what he said was true. For nearly three centuries, Christianity was seen as a subversive movement to the empire. Caesar, the Lord of Lords, couldn't have his citizens swearing their allegiance to some other Lord of Lords, even if he was dead. Beatings, abuse, killings. These were the common elements that filled the air they breathed.

I find it disturbing that after 300 years of oppression, Christianity made a pact with the empire, and then became the oppressor. Crusades, inquisitions, witch hunts, genocidal missionary pursuits. We who follow Christ today do not deny these atrocities, but we do downplay them. They are our history, and like it or not, we own them. We own them as much as we own the judgmental, condemning attitudes we have joyfully slathered over the heathens in our own time and places. (Tony Scott please forgive me. Listening to rock music will not send you to hell. Rap maybe, but not rock.)

What about today? There is real persecution of Christians going on worldwide, but is it happening in the U.S.? What I have seen described as persecution of American Christians are actions perceived to be infringing upon the Christian's rights. God being taken out of school. (Oh, wait that's prayer taken out of school. No, that's public prayer taken out of school. Side note: can God really be kicked out of school?) Taking Christ out of Christmas. We have a right to these things by God! Or actually, we have a right to these things by Constitution!

I wonder what Jesus would think about our rights and how we hold them so dear. Does it miss the point? Our master says, "the way to life is to die." Where do my rights fit in there?

This whole thing makes me think of Jerry. He's part of a newly formed church on the east end of Long Island, and they get together in a school. Some people in the community are suing them because it's a public school. Separation of church and state. (Which for the life of me I can't figure out why they aren't suing the school system instead - maybe they are. And if the school is open to all religions to use if they want to rent it, how is that showing preference to one religion over another.)

Is that persecution? I think yes. That is people hurting Christians just because they are Christians. And it makes me sad. It's likely that those who are aggressively trying to force Jerry out of their neighborhood have been injured by the church before. Christianaphobia runs amuck, and sadly often for good reason. It makes me sad for Jerry and his friends who have to wrestle through the difficult time of beginning with this stress added. It makes me sad that we have soiled the name of one who is so good.

Jer, I hope you find it to be a great exercise in "loving your neighbors", even the nasty ones.

Winter Comes To Rule The Varied Year

a soundtrack for winter

Blake's Big Mistake
Betty LaVette - Joy
Mike Doughty - Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well
The Decemberists - 16 Military Wives
Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek
Sun Kil Moon - Tiny Cities Made of Ashes
Bright Eyes - Road to Joy
Constantines - Draw Us Lines
Shout Out Louds - Very Loud
Leroy - Good Time
Mocean Worker - Right Now
The Go! Team - The Power Is On!
Elbow - Station Approach
Feist - Mushaboom
Matisyahu - Refuge
Andrew Bird - Skin Is, My
Sufjan Stevens - Chicago
Christopher Dale - Crazy Train
My Morning Jacket - Gideon
Trouble - Ray LaMontagne

W Ain't I Cool

This is cool. Surf on over to pandora and enter a track or a performer that you like. They will create a radio station for you. It's a great way to find new music. I tried it with an unusual band, Half Handed Cloud. They cranked out a very nice HHC song, In Holy Pursuit, and then followed up with Papas Fritas, The Mountain Goats and a guy I have never heard of, Chad Vangaalen.

I think I'll try the Gaither Vocal Band next.

Lunch Break

Here a few of my favorite sandwiches...

3. Quiznos Black Angus Steak - beef and two cheeses (mozzarella and cheddar) and a spicy sauce. I've missed this one since we moved from Visalia.

2. Penn Stations Philly Cheesesteak - steak and provolone grilled together with onions, banana peppers and mushrooms slathered with spicy mustard. Ooo la la. I found a Penn Station in Richmond last week.

and at number 1...
Kemo's Polaris - O.K. so it sounds like a space shuttle but pow, it's phenomenal. Six kinds of meat, toasted and bathed in this special salad dressing. Kemo's is this little local joint that I plan on keeping in business.

The world needs a good sandwich. God Bless the people who make 'em.

This World Is Not My Home

So I am preaching this weekend from 1 Peter, and we are discussing how he names his friends in the churches as "strangers". He literally calls them "resident aliens". Life in the Roman Empire was a temporary visit for them. They didn't belong to it. It was not their homeland. They were a pilgrim people traveling through a foreign land.

He tells them to live in the land. Interact with it. Love those in it. But he reminds them to live the life of their homeland within their temporary residence.

And what is their homeland like?

It could be a place where...

...everything happens in the open. No shady deals. No whispering behind your back.

...what is had is shared. Nobody goes hungry. No gifts are buried. Talents are used.

...time is spent on the things that really matter. Life cuts through the crap and gets down to the precious stuff.

...no one is excluded. Everyone is embraced for their differences. There is no "them", only "us".

...the focus is on the only truly good and beautiful one there. No one jockeys for position. No one is stepped on in the name of advancement. No obsession with rank.

I wouldn't mind calling a place like that "home".

Pilgrims on Interstate 75

My old friend Jerry has been checking in lately, and he's kicked up some nostalgia from the dusty corners of my mind. Last night this memory was kicked up.

It was Saturday night. We were bored. We were going bowling.

I had just pulled in to the bowling alley's parking lot, when Ed said, "you know, tomorrow is my brother's wedding reception."

From the back seat, Jerry said, "man, you need to be there for that."

Ed's family lived in Johnson City, Tennessee, a town in the far north-eastern corner of the Volunteer state, 5 hours away from the bowling alley.

We each ran home, packed a quick bag, met back up, loaded into my Nissan Pulsar, and started heading south. We hit the road sometime around 11.

We drove. We talked. We downed large quantities of caffeinated beverages. We laid the back seat down and took turns napping under the hatch.

We wheeled into Ed's family home at about four in the morning. June, his mother, was sitting on the front porch waiting for us. She hugged and welcomed us all.

We caught a couple of hours sleep and were woken up for breakfast. And the food kept coming. Plates of food kept making their way from the kitchen. Bacon on one. Sausage on another. Biscuits. Gravy. Eggs. Hotcakes. All of it homemade.

After breakfast, we joined the family at church, fighting hard to keep our eyes open being tired and exceedingly full. And after church, we were back at the house for lunch. 3 kinds of meats. Homemade rolls. Mashed potatoes. Fried potatoes. Corn on the cob. Greenbeans. Pies. Plates of food sat on top of plates of food. We felt the full weight of southern hospitality that day.

We spent the afternoon with Ed's brother and new wife at their reception. And then we said our goodbyes, told June how much we would miss her cooking, packed ourselves back in to the Pulsar, and rolled towards home.

I think, even at the time, we sensed that it was something more than just another road trip. It was a quest. It was a pilgrimage. It was a fellowship bonding together as the wheels turned beneath us. That little house in eastern Tennessee was our Mecca and June the goddess of fine, country cooking. We were exiles returning home.

It's been some fifteen years since then and occasionally still I dream about those two meals we ate there. And I wake up full.

Who's In Charge?

Shortly after we moved in the Queen Mother took the girl to a ballet recital. Man day at the Howard's.

We started the day with a little playstation, but then I turned my attention to the long list of things needing to be done around the house. This list was compiled and left with me by the
Queen Mother.

I decided that if I was going to work then my sons would work with me, like Pa Cartwright and the boys working the ranch. We put beds together. We hung shelves. We moved furniture.

I was putting blinds up in the boys room, and by that time they were begging for more playstation time. I reminded them that the Queen Mother had left this list and what the Queen Mother wants, she gets.

That was when the oldest said, "whatever happened to the man being in charge?"

Was the boy actually calling me out?

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you don't want to do all this work, but you are doing it because Mama wants it done."

Little Joe never turned on Pa like this. Then again, Pa was a widower.

I tried to explain that his mother and I are good as partners. We compliment each other. And yes, I didn't want to work on that particular day, but I knew that work needed to be done.

He just looked at me with "whatever" in his eyes.

I decided it was time to reassert my dominance. I arm wrestled him.

(I would've beaten him too if I hadn't strained my shoulder moving in.)

Story Time

James Frey wrote a memoir about his drug addiction and his journey back from it called A Million Little Pieces. It’s a national best seller. It was one of Oprah's Book of the Month Club picks. And he made parts of it up.

Fry turned an incident where a policeman found him passed out behind the wheel of his car into a brawl with a cop. He spent a few hours in jail. Fry turns that night into three months of prison time.

Ultimately, only 18 pages of the nearly 400 page book are in question.

I heard Fry, his publisher, and Oprah last week on NPR scoff at those who accused him of sensationalizing his story. “What’s the big deal? So a few facts were changed, we expect that in a memoir. Ultimately, what is important is the story of addiction and redemption and all the lives who have been affected by the telling of it.”

They are telling us that there are two kinds of true. There is the newspaper kind of true. “Just the facts, Mame.” And there is the Aesop’s Fable kind of true. Nobody believes that a mouse really took the thorn out of the paw of a lion. But is there truth in their story of friendship? Sure.

Fry want us to believe that the truth of the overall story far outweighs the falsehoods in the details.

I have no real bone to pick with Fry. I am prone to my own exaggerations every now and then. But I wonder what this says about what a memoir is. Is it the truth as best as I can remember it? Or is it the truth as best as I can imagine to be? Is it enough for a memoir to be true in the metaphorical sense while ignoring truth in a factual sense?

And now I wonder about the memoirs I most cherish. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. For some, it is enough that the stories there are true in a metaphorical sense. For others, they have got to be literally true. As for me, I want it all. I want these stories about Jesus to be true as myth and as fact. I want these memoirs by those who knew him best to capture truths that speak into my life today while still being told with integrity.

I want them to be like the stories told around our dinner table. At the table over pork chops, the kids beg and plead for another story about them even though they have heard these same ones over and over again. And they aren’t sensational stories. The day one fell down the stairs with M&M’s in his hand and he was more worried about losing the M&M’s than he was about falling. These are simple, honest stories, but they place us. They inform us Howard’s of who we are, and they provide us a sense of where we are going. They anchor us and send us. And we are changed, somehow made better for the telling and the listening.

Selecting a Reader
by Ted Kooser, our poet laureate

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

All Aboard

The Queen Mother has settled on a theme song. She's been listening to a cover version by a guy named Christopher Dale, though she's been spinning the original lately too. She listens to it often enough, the oldest has started singing it around the house.

Here are the lyrics...
Crazy, but that's how it goes
Millions of people, living as foes
Maybe, it's not to late
To learn how to love, and forget how to hate

Mental wounds not healing, life's a bitter shame

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train
I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I've listened to preachers, I've listened to fools
I've watched all the drop outs, who make their own rules
One person conditioned, to rule and controllT
he media sells it, and you live the role

Mental wounds still screaming, driving me insane

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train
I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I know that things are going wrong for me
You gotta listen to my words, Yeah yeah!
Heirs of a cold war, that's what we've become
Inheiriting troubles, I'm mentally numb
Crazy, I just cannot bear
I'm living with something, that just isn't fair

Mental wounds not healing, who and what's to blame

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train
I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

What's your theme song?

More From The Last Word

"...we may propose that Israel's sacred writings were the place where, and the means by which, Israel discovered again and again who the true God was, and how his Kingdom-purposes were being taken forward."
N. T. Wright

How do I encounter God through the sacred writings?

How do the sacred writings invite me into God's kingdom purposes (a world that lives in and continually experiences complete wholeness, Shalom)?

How do I discover my "self" in the sacred writings?

Last week, I was reading the story of Zaacheaus, a wee little man was he. Not only was the guy short, he was a despicable little man who thought, "how can I make some money off this Roman tyranny thing?" He collected Roman taxes from his own Jewish people, and he added extra percentages just to line his own pockets. He was the lowest of the low.

Jesus walks by and invites himself to dinner at Zaacheaus' house. The little guy is so taken by his encounter with Jesus, he makes a complete life change. He gave half of his possessions to the poor and paid back the people he cheated four times as much as he stole.

And I wonder what this sacred story tells me about...

...who is Jesus? Charismatic. Inspiring. Willing to enter in to relationship with real people, messy people.

...who I am? Am I the kind of guy who welcomes Jesus over for dinner after he's invited himself over? And when I face the injustices of my own hands and heart, do I react to correct it or do I simply throw up a quick prayer of forgiveness?

...what God's purposes are in the world? Half to the poor. Four times to the stolen from. Justice. Mercy. Shalom.

Shalom.

She Gave Herself Away

Last night I barked at the 6 year old. I sent him to his room and told him to stay there until I came in.

A moment later, when I walked in, I looked at him and said, "I know what you did. And you are going to tell me what you did or else I'm going to tickle it out of you."

The boy tried to run, but he didn't have a chance.

I held him down and tickle tortured him.

I paused and said, "are you ready to tell what you did?"

He nodded his head and said, "I didn't put the forks out." Gibberish.

Four times, I tortured him, and after each torturing, his answers made less and less sense.

By the time I finally let him go, the little girl had wondered in. So she was put to the test.

I held her down. I tickled her ribs and belly and pits. She screamed and squirmed.

I stopped and said, "tell me what you did!"

And then, very clearly, she said, "I've been taking food without asking."

Busted.

Better Words

I like words. I want my kids to like words and to use good ones. I like to try to help them think of words that best fit what they want to say.

A couple of days ago, I was sitting with the oldest at the dinner table. We were talking about Dr. King, and I was telling him about a sermon I had heard of Dr. King’s on NPR that morning.

He was telling a story about how his 6 year old daughter would ride with him to the Atlanta airport when he was traveling, which was often. On the way to the airport, they would pass a place called Funland, an amusement park. And every time they would pass Funland, his daughter would say, “Daddy, I want to go to Funland.” He would find a way to change the subject.

One day, at their house, Dr. King’s daughter came to him and said, “I just saw a commercial about Funland. Daddy, I’ve been telling you I want to go to Funland. Will you please take me to Funland?”

And though he did not want to introduce his daughter to the pain of prejudice at such a young age, he felt it was the moment to tell her. He said, “People like us can’t go to Funland because of the color of our skin.”

My boy looked at me with his big, chocolate eyes and said, “that’s just stoopid.”

I paused for a moment, trying to think of a better word.

I couldn’t.

The Bible, Authority, and Me

Here is a big deal for church dorks like me: Biblical authority. In fact, in the faith tradition I grew up in and am still a part of (I've not gone Anglican yet), the authority of Scripture is one of two major pillars of the movement.

Wright hits on this in The Last Word when he asks the question, "what kind of writing is the Bible?" It's not a list of rules, even though it does contain some. And it's not a systematic list of doctrines, even though there are many great truths in it. The Bible is a story.

And how is a story authoritative?

If I were a navy captain about to give orders for an important mission, I am not going to begin my briefing by saying "once upon a time".

Wright goes on to say that there are ways that a story can exercise "some kind of authority".

If the navy captain were to brief his men on what has been taking place in the region for the past few months the narrative would serve to inform them of their place in the ongoing story.

Sometimes a familiar story told with a new twist jolts us into thinking differently about ourselves and the world.

A story told with drama or humor or authenticity can invite us to imagine ourselves in similar situations, giving us new insights into what it means to be human or to know God enabling us to live more wisely.

He finishes this segment with this statement...
"...for the Bible to have the effect it seems to be designed to have it will be necessary for the church to hear it as it is, not to chop it up in an effort to make it into something else."

I, for one, have been guilty of making it something else.

Catching Up and The Church of England

I've been away from the blogosphere for a while. It's hard to jump back in when so much time has passed, so I thought I could pack several things into one post and maybe then the next one won't seem so daunting. So here goes...

• I met some cool Anglican's the other day. Nice people and enjoyable to talk faith with. (For the less-geeky-ministery types, Anglicans = Episcipalians = the Church of England.)
• We are settling in to our new rural life. The Queen Mother insisted on wood flooring being put down. (Thanks to those who helped trash the carpet in our old house... chili and green tea... you know who you are). It looks good, but I can't help thinking that I am walking on my big screen T.V.
• Last Saturday, I was up early. I was praying at a Religous Leader's/City and County Official's Prayer Breakfast over at the Church of God on Lexington. I showered up that morning, and my bar of soap was down to it's last little sliver. I washed up and finished off the Irish Spring. It wasn't until I was in the car, driving over to the church when I discovered what had happened to the tiny bar of soap. It was stuck to the upper right quadrant of the back of head. At least I found it before I got up in front of the mayor to pray... "son, you got bar of soap on your head." There was this mad guitarist at the breakfast who made me miss Andy something fierce.
• My grandmother Howard passed away four days after Christmas. It's still hard to imagine.
• I've read a lot in the last six months or so including two books by a new guru named Scot McKnight: Embracing Grace and The Jesus Creed. Blink by Malcolm Gladwell and Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell also ranked high on my enjoyable non-fiction list. (Kellie you would dig the Rob Bell book). In the non-fiction category was a series of books by Susan Howarth, mid-20th melodrama set in the Anglican church. Hmmmmm.
• Brian, regarding the Izze, have you tried one yet? Random? Maybe. But try one, it might just change your life. (or at least your next 30 minutes, which somedays is a lot).
• I had the talk with the 8 year old the other day. The talk. After spending months living at the in-laws where Good Morning America is on all morning, the kid had seen a lot of news. (We would get in the car and he would say, "don't take 275." "Why not?" we would ask. "Because there's an accident between Molhauser and Highway 75.") I didn't realize how much the word "sex" got bantered around on the morning news shows. The kid had heard too much. The other day he asked me about a commercial for the little blue pill. "Hey dad, why did that guy go back to bed with a big smile on his face?" It was time. When I gave him the basics, he said, "why would you want to do that?" "Two reasons," I told him. "One to make babies, and two because it feels good." He scrunched his nose and said, "you wouldn't think that would feel good." It was a good talk, but somehow I feel his innocence lost, and it makes me sad.
• I got another ticket.
• I've been missing the crew in Visalia lately. People are just too normal around here. (I don't miss your extra-chunky air.)
• New music I've been digging would include Anathallo (thank you Dan) as well as Kites and Clouds (thank you Dan again... oh and thank you that wonderful wife of Dan's for making such sweet music with him. Um... that kind of came out wrong, but you know what I meant.) On the Jazz end of things, Gold Sounds is a jazz interpretation of some Pavement songs that just makes me all wiggly inside.
• My "Theologian of the Year" (What does it say about me that I have Theologian for the Year? Don't answer that.) is N. T. Wright. His book The Last Word is kicking my can every time I pick it up. And he's an Anglican Bishop to boot.
• I'm wondering if God is trying to tell me something with the whole recurring Anglican thing. You know C. S. Lewis was an Anglican, as is J. K. Rowling. Maybe it's something to do with the initials. R. E. Howard. Not quite the same.

Mostly, the Queen Mother and I are glad to have 2005 behind us. It's been our toughest year. It included a 9 month job search that left me feeling very unwanted and 5 months living with the in-laws who are great, but living that long with no rhythm of our own just about did us in.

...therefore we do not lose heart. Though our outer man is wasting away, our inner man is being renewed day by day...