Proud of You, Son III

 Hey, Ben...

I know this isn't the message any of us anticipated for this moment in your college experience, but I want you to know right now just how proud of you I am.

I know you're not feeling very proud of yourself, and not very happy overall, but I still want you to hear this.

Your struggle with anxiety has taken a serious turn over the last several months, and it has become clear you need help beyond what we can give. That's not something any parent wants for their child, or any person wants for themselves, but I promise it's OK. I really do believe it's a matter of medication and therapy. 

I really believe you still have a bright future ahead. I really am confident you are going to find happiness again, and someday see the point of it all again. I am here for you through all of it, no matter what it takes, and not just me, but Mom, Jonathan, all of our family, everyone at church, everyone who knows you.

We are never going to let you down or leave you alone.

Just don't give up.

But I want to focus right now on how proud of you I am.

I know that might be a surprising thing to say in the midst of what is going on, but I mean it.

You are enduring a period of acute suffering, and there is no other way to describe it.

But in the midst of this suffering, you have consistently told me and Mom the truth about what is happening, so we could understand exactly what you are facing. You have never left us in the dark. You have never hidden the truth or lied to us. You have never shielded us from the difficult reality for fear of disappointing us. You have never sugarcoated it or tried to keep up a false front.

You have given us the most important gift in any relationship: the truth.

We are so thankful to you for telling us the truth, even when it is hard, even when it isn't what you or we wanted, even when it has forced us all to change our plans.

I am so proud of you for being honest and making sure your loved ones know what is going on in your life. 

Please don't ever change this approach in any of your relationships.

Be a person who tells the truth, even when it's hard, and even when the truth changes your next steps.

We will get through this together, whatever these next few months might bring. We are with you, and you can always count on us.

We love you, son, always.

A New Fan of Reggie!

All I knew is that he was one of the bad guys.

It was the fall of 1981.

I was a little kid, just 8 years old, barely grasping the gravity of it all, but I desperately wanted our beloved Dodgers to win the World Series.

Fernandomania had set my soul on fire, and I took great pride in the hometown of my first favorite Dodger, Steve Garvey, who was from Lindsay, California, where I also happened to be born during the year my parents lived there for Dad's first preaching job. (A big deal for a little Dodger fan!)

I loved Pedro Guerrero, Dusty Baker, Rick Monday, Mike Scioscia, Kenny Landreaux, and of course, the famous infield of Garvey-Lopes-Russell-Cey.

Tommy Lasorda felt like another grandfather to me, and Vin Scully's voice was a presence in my life as consistent and comforting as any preacher I grew up hearing on Sunday.

Most of this world, of course, sailed over my little head, with glimpses sticking here and there in bits and pieces of childhood perception. My memories of this time are just specks, most probably manufactured from the You Tube videos I can see now of games I know I must have watched at the time, but don't really remember.

But one of those glimpses that stuck in my head was a moment of relief and elation, when, in what I knew even then was a lucky fluke for us, Yankees' right fielder Reggie Jackson misplayed a fly ball, which bounced off his chest and fell to the grass, allowing the Dodgers to score and break open a rally.

This moment was such a shock, but in a good way!

If this could happen, maybe there was hope for us after all. 

Maybe there was hope for good in the world!

At this time, my little 8 year-old self had no idea who the Yankees really were, probably didn't yet fully understand that my beloved LA Dodgers were only mine because they had done the unthinkable and left Brooklyn behind after decades of rivalry with these same dreaded Bronx Bombers. 

(And the San Francisco Giants were also from New York? Far too much for this little California kid at that point...)

And I didn't even know that these same Dodgers and Yankees had just recently met in the World Series in '77 and '78, with the Yankees taking both titles, pretty much just like old times. And, of course, I was still a baby when the Dodgers lost the '74 World Series to the Oakland A's and this same slugger named Reggie Jackson.

I had no memory or awareness of any of this. It was as though the world of baseball dawned for me right then during that 1981 season, and all I knew of Reggie was that he was on the other side, and that side was pretty scary.

They had this mean-looking pitcher with a big mustache (Goose Gossage).

They had this hotshot infielder who smiled in victory as he rounded the bases after a homerun early in the series, prompting me to jump up and turn off the TV, unable to even watch it. (Willie Randolph).

They had this guy on third base who clearly wasn't afraid of anything, and dove to stop a Dodger line drive from going down the left field line. (Craig Nettles).

And yes, they had this really confident slugger with swagger, and glasses, and a mustache of his own, who seemed to be bigger than everyone else, and who you somehow knew could hit it a mile if he got the barrel on the ball. I didn't even know that he had hit three consecutive homeruns off my Dodgers in the '77 World Series, yet I somehow knew that he could do us in all by himself.

And I knew he wasn't the least bit afraid of my little old Dodgers.

None of them were afraid of us, but I was definitely afraid of them.

Fortunes favored us that time, with the Dodgers winning that World Series, and Reggie fading from my awareness, as that version of the Dodgers and Yankees never made it back to the Fall Classic.

As time went on, I know I saw the Reggie! candy bar in the stores, but I never had one. 

Why not? 

Obviously, because he was one of the bad guys.

I regret that my devotion to the Dodgers led me, unnecessarily, to ignore the cross-town California Angels, who I never understood until years later had actually been the Los Angeles Angels of the old Pacific Coast League, long before the Dodgers ever came to town. 

But back in the 80's, I totally blew off the Angels.

Somewhere in the jumble of my awareness, I knew Reggie had played with the Angels after his time with the Yankees, but I paid no attention, as he didn't cross the Dodgers' path again.

Another random moment sticks in my mind, at some point seeing the movie The Naked Gun, which featured Reggie on the Angels, but playing a game in Dodger Stadium (which bugged me).

And that's about it, for what amounts to about a ten-year span of my awareness of Reggie, from childhood through late adolescence, with "awareness" being the key and limiting word, as I never invested any attention in coming to any kind of understanding of him, as I, of course, would have done if he had played for the Dodgers.

Amazing then, just this week, when I caught an interview with Reggie, who attended a special event, with a Major League Baseball game being played at an old minor league stadium in Birmingham, Alabama.

Much to my surprise, Reggie had played minor league baseball there in the mid-1960's, and commented at length about the racism he experienced during that time.

The interview is powerful, and Reggie's description is vivid and haunting.

Everyone should watch this interview and listen carefully.

But beyond the obvious pain of these hateful experiences, what struck me the most was that this wasn't very long ago at all.

As a Dodger fan, even as a kid, I took pride in the fact that it was my team that broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball. But with that pride came an assumption that the color barrier was something from the distant past, that Jackie Robinson's generation had overcome for all time.

As a kid, I had read about Jackie Robinson, and noted that he died in 1972, the year before I was born, and I found it sad that his lifetime and mine had not overlapped. I knew his playing career had been long before my time, but we didn't even share the planet at the same time.

And now here was Reggie, one of the bad guys, whom I had watched play against my Dodgers, who had brought me such joy when he misplayed that fly ball, and whose candy bar I would not eat, and it turns out that he personally endured the same hatred that Jackie Robinson had overcome.

And of course it's ridiculous that this came as a surprise to me, because we all know this wasn't very long ago, and we all know that hatred toward black people in America was not vanquished by the signing of Jackie Robinson, the passage of the Civil Rights Act, the election of President Obama, the Emancipation Proclamation, or any of the victorious moments that can become opportunities to relax and assume everything has been made right, and everyone just needs to move on.

But no matter how much we might think we don't need to be reminded, we do.

We need to be reminded of exactly what happened to so many, what continues to happen to so many, how little has ever been done to make any of it right and root it out, and how deeply so many want to hold onto a notion that if it wasn't me personally, then I have no connection to it, should bear no burden for it, and don't want to keep hearing about it.

But this story is about all of us, and we are all in it together.

In my childhood, I remember singing a hymn at church called, "I Love to Tell the Story", which proclaimed that the gospel story needed to be told, and told, and told again, from here to eternity, as hearing the story would never become old or unnecessary.

And it's the same with stories from our shared past in America.

Along with all the good in our history, these stories of hatred, racism, and injustice must be told, and told, and told again, from here to eternity, so they cannot be forgotten, no matter how much so many want them to be forgotten, because we all know that if these stories are ever forgotten, powerful people might have the opportunity to repeat them.

And yes, there are people who want to repeat them.

So, thank you, Reggie Jackson, for sharing your story.

And my apologies to you, Mr. October, for my ignorance.

No, you weren't a Dodger, but this lifelong Dodger is a brand new fan.

Notes to Dad

 Dad,

It's been 3 1/2 years now since your passing, and I still think of you all the time, I believe literally every single day. I hope that never changes. I had been told that would last a year or two before I would notice that the daily thoughts had faded into longer intervals. But with you, the daily thoughts have remained, and I'm glad for that.

But even as I love you, the daily thoughts are not always pleasant or fond.

Something jumped in my spirit this morning as I was listening to an audio book. The author was sharing a story from decades ago, when he was busy writing a manuscript that later became a book, and received word that his father had passed away the previous day. The author described quickly packing up and traveling to his hometown for his father's funeral, and then dedicating the book he was completing both to his mother and to the memory of his father. 

Naturally, any story of someone losing their father makes me think of you.

And right now, my feelings about you are a little more raw than they were a few years ago.

I have two sons of my own, who are coming of age, so I know intimately the kind of flexibility it takes for a parent to be what their child needs them to be. No child grows up into a clone of their parent, or at least it's not likely that they will, and I doubt any thinking parent would want them to. I don't think you wanted me to. Both of my sons have grown up into young people so different from each other and so different from anything I imagined for them. 

So, as a parent, yeah...it can be a game of Twister.

And no, it isn't always easy or comfortable.

That's just how it is. I kind of thought everyone knew that.

So the gnawing, nagging question that will haunt me till we meet again is this:

Why was your devotion to abstract ideas so important as to allow there to be a barrier between you and me for years, a barrier that probably could not have been broken down, no matter how long you had lived?

Why were your religious and political commitments more important than a connection to me?

How could you do that?

I am a parent who is as flawed as anyone, and I don't plan on giving much advice, but I could never do that, or allow that to be. I am living this right now, so I can speak with integrity. When it comes to my children, I would rearrange my world, no matter how hard that was for me, to ensure they could feel comfortable in it, not expect them to come to me on my terms only.

And something just hit me now, as I wrote that last line:  That's how you viewed God.

You viewed God as "my way or no way", with human beings bearing the entire responsibility to come to God on God's terms only or simply be shunned, with everyone expected to be content to live with that, so maybe it makes some sense that this mindset had some level of permission to take root in other relationships as well.

But still, even though I "get it" more than most people would, because I was raised in your world, I still can hardly believe it, when facing it in real life, with my children growing up in front of me, becoming their own people but still needing me to hold them, emotionally, in just the same way I did when they were born, and when they were little.

I needed you to hold me that way, too.

Every kid needs that, even after they're grown, and even after they've become different from their parents. 

I think especially then.

Every kid needs from their parent what you never believed God would give to anyone.

When I frame it like that, I realize it may not be fair to you. It's a framing that is especially unflattering to your belief system, and probably not exactly the way you framed it. But I know your belief system intimately, and I have arrived at this framing through living it, so I think my perspective should be respected and not tossed aside as a jab from a biased opponent.

And I think this framing captures what I see as the fork in the road where we separated and eventually could barely see one another anymore.

I tried to be open with you in the way I could.

I know it was ridiculous that my statement to the entire family about changing church affiliations had to come via email rather than an in-person conversation. Believe me, I was embarrassed to announce such personal news to loved ones in that way, and I was ashamed of what this meant for the nature of our relationship.

But your response made clear why I felt I had to do it that way.

And when you immediately went from engaging enthusiastically with my spiritual writings online to ceasing all connection with my blog postings, the message was clear, and the validation was unmistakable that I had made the right choice in not trying to engage you in person about the most important decisions I was working through at the time. 

I knew then that I had become radioactive to my own father, because of religion and politics.

And that's where we finished our relationship in this life.

This breaks my heart, but it also angers me, because I don't believe this was necessary, and I think you were wise enough to have known better.

And as we carry on in this ever-sinking political hellscape around us, and the political and religious personalities you once identified with are becoming more openly hateful in the public sphere, I shudder to think where you might have been by now had you not died in January 2021.

I wonder whether there could have been any hope that you might have seen your conservative heroes as the Christian Nationalists and Fascists they are now proving themselves to be, or whether you would have followed them headlong. I wonder if you would have turned back from the edge and maybe reached out for me, or if you would be flying an Appeal to Heaven flag by now.

I wonder, but I'm afraid I know.

This is probably why, since your passing, I have leaned heavily into my memories of a younger version of you. Yes, this version of you was more hot-headed and scared me sometimes, but I'll take that over the more political version that evolved later and was apparently content to live across a chasm from me.

The younger version of you was angrier about more trivial things, but more normal about the big stuff.

The younger version of you still loved sports, and cheered on our favorite teams with me by his side. Oh, how I loved that, and how I miss it. I wish he had not let this flame die in his later life. I think it could have been a very healthy connection to stay engaged with something so joyful.

The younger version of you took pride in his Marine Corps service, yes, but this had not yet turned into scorn or superiority toward others.

The younger version of you preached a simple, direct gospel that no one would perceive as being infused with a larger ideology.

The younger version of you was always perceived by others as Mexican-American, though he didn't speak Spanish and identified more with white culture, and was struggling more than I realized with how to work out this identity, but this version of you would never have made room in his world for anyone or anything even tangentially connected to white supremacy. I cannot fathom how you became comfortable in the right-wing world you did later on, so I reach back further to the brown young Californian I remember in the late 70's and early 80's, and the deep, DNA-level pride I took in everyone telling me I looked just like him.

I dream of a scene with me now, 50 years old, treating that young guy to tickets to Dodger Stadium, and taking in a game and a Dodger Dog while we visit freely about how our lives turned out, no inhibition, no filters, no gauging whether topics are safe, rejoicing in how we can see it all better now, how we never should have allowed distance to develop between us, how we now curse the names of every person who created a religious and political world that would separate a parent from their child, how we needed each other more than those power-seekers needed another voter.

This is my Resurrection dream, my Easter fantasy.

This is what I want from Jesus.

This is what I want from you, and hope to give to you someday when we meet again.

I needed to say all this, Dad, but I say all this while still saying that I love you. They say the opposite of love is not hatred, but apathy, and I hope you know my feelings toward you are anything but apathy. 

You don't think every day about someone you don't care about. 

Rest now, Dad, and if you have awareness of me, know that every Sunday as I recite the Nicene Creed, which you would have considered a form of false religion or idolatry, when I say the words "...we look for the resurrection of the dead..." and make the sign of the cross, I am thinking of you. 

I am imagining that conversation we could never have when you were here.

May it be so someday, Dad. May it be so.

Amen.

Proud of You, Son II

May 19, 2024 

 

Jonathan,

 

What to say, man?

 

How many parents look at their 17 year-old and say, "This kid is so ready"? 

Not many.

I continue to be amazed at the steps you have taken and continue to take in life. I still remember that dinner when Ben said to you, "Dude, you're goin' places! I think you could make Drum Major!" There was something about him saying those words, a ripple in the space-time continuum, a movement in The Force, a whisper from the Holy Spirit...I don't think I will ever forget that moment. It was such a bold thing to say, almost too bold, too brazen, a little unsettling, just thrown out there with a confidence beyond what the rest of us at the table felt at the time, yet so clear and accurate as to be prophetic.

 

Now?

 

LOL.

 

Now, it just seems plain obvious. Of course you made Drum Major. Of course you were a leading part of the quickest course correction in the history of the Screaming Eagle Band. Of course you auditioned for Phantom Regiment. Of course the Phantom staff was amazed by this 16 year-old kid from Texas and decided they needed to get him into the fold before another corps could get him. Of course you received the John Phillip Sousa award as a Junior, a feat I don't recall seeing before at Ellison. Of course you played a rousing jazz solo that brought the house down and mesmerized a sleeveless, intimidating, but appreciative jazz fan at the Spring Show.

 

It all seems obvious now, but no. It wasn't obvious, and it didn't just happen.

 

It had to be spoken first. 

 

It had to be seen in the imagination before it could become a reality, and it only became a reality through an awful lot of hard, unglamorous work. Your work. Your imagination. Your devotion to your craft. Your relationships with mentors and fellow musicians. Your self-discipline and your talent.

 

As you now embark on this summer tour, I hope you will remember Ben's words and his faith in you, remember your fellow Drum Majors here at Ellison who are so intensely proud of you they can't contain it, remember your fellow Band members here who love and respect you so much, and are probably telling people about how their Head Drum Major is touring with Phantom Regiment. 

 

Remember your Band Directors from Liberty Hill who planted those early seeds and watered the soil. Remember Mr. Smith and Mr. Young, who made an imprint on your life in the closing moments of their careers, even if that imprint was sometimes comical, sometimes distracted by the computer screen and not really listening to you, sometimes more an example of playing it safe and running out the clock, but also an example of a lasting legacy and generations of excellent teaching. Remember Mr. Younger, who has shown such courage in literally stepping into his father's footsteps, and Mr. Ballard, who has shown such grace in finding his niche and giving everyone time to come to appreciate him.

 

Remember Mr. Reynolds, who made you a Drum Major, opened the door to DCI and, most of all, set an example of how to replace a legend, how to survive the trials of a new beginning, how to endure the rejections of the old guard who won't let go of the predecessor, how to face heartbreak, how to envision a recovery and assemble the team that can bring it about, how to be joyful even when things are hard, how to be funny without ever being mean, how to own success and failure, how to share credit but take blame, how to keep it real without ever being bitter, how to let your work speak for itself so you don't have to brag, how to be a person of faith whose circle is inclusive to all.

 

Remember your people back at St. Joseph's, who will miss you more than you can imagine, and will be asking for updates every time they see us. Don't view the tour as something that pulls you away from God or your family of faith, but rather as an opportunity to be God's fully inclusive, loving presence, in your own way, in the way the Spirit forms it in you. I believe this tour will show you something about God and faith that you couldn't learn at home. Yes, we are keeping our fingers crossed that you might be able to visit a few Episcopal churches along the way, but know that this is not a matter of trying to control you, but rather, a knowledge on our part that churches you visit in other places become treasures in your memory, often landmarks of unanticipated blessing, and we want that for you.

 

Remember your brother, even as both of you are drawn into the gravitational pulls of your adult lives, which bring different journeys and different destinations, even as your life becomes joyfully filled with friends and mentors whose paths and personalities are more similar to yours than Ben's is. Sibling relationships come in wide varieties, and you and Ben have one that is unique. Don't let the path between you and him become overgrown and hard to travel. Don't be like me and my brothers. Keep a connection, even if it takes a deliberate effort, and even if it doesn't seem like it matters right now. It will matter someday, and the connection will only be strong if you make it strong.

 

Most all of, while you're on tour, remember your sweet Mom.

 

She has been the mainstay your entire life, and has facilitated all the amazing things you have done, from gymnastics to dance to tee ball to Upward basketball to Mary Poppins to Camp Broadway, and on and on. More than that, she is a daily comfort, a safe place where everything is always going to be OK, the provider of the magic of home wherever you happen to be. She is so proud of you and so excited about all this, but also has very mixed feelings about her baby being gone, even if just for the summer. Don't be too busy for her, even as you move closer to your adult life. This summer will be your Mom's first taste of not having you in the house, and she will be adjusting to your absence every minute.

As for me, rest assured I'll be holding it down in your absence, and walking around with a Jonathan-shaped hole in the middle of my heart, treasuring every text and Facetime, glancing into your bedroom for no reason, hearing your voice at the dinner table telling me a story, counting down the days till I see you again when Mom and I come up to join the tour in late June.

 

But most of all, just know that I am busting with pride in you and in what you are doing, and filled with confidence about your readiness for this challenge in your life. I'm so pumped about the tour, so excited about the new friends you will make, so hopeful about the new mentor relationships you will build with professionals in your field who will help you begin your own career someday, and so eager to see the young man you will be on the other side of this experience, heading into your senior year at EHS.

 

There will be times this summer when you really miss home, when you really miss us, when you miss your friends back here, when you wonder what on earth you are doing so far away. There will be times when you are enjoying yourself so much that it all feels perfect, and there will be times when you are so busy and working so hard you don't have time to feel anything. All of this is normal, and will be right for the moment you are in. Let the feelings flow when they flow.

 

Prepare yourself for the hits and the misses. There will be moments when you nail it, and moments when you don't. There will be moments of success, and moments of defeat, moments when this feels no different than conducting the band here at Ellison, and moments when this feels so much harder than anything you have done before.

 

And in this high-stakes environment, the moments of struggle will be more biting and painful than what you are used to in your high school band life. The directors will be harsher, the criticism more severe, than what you have received at EHS. It hurts to know that our child may be out there hurting because of the words of a frustrated authority figure, and we won't be there to comfort him. We may never even know it happened. Just know we are there in spirit, and always just a text away, ready to listen, and you have what it takes to overcome and succeed. If you didn't, we would not have sent you. 

 

Celebrate the wins, take the hits, shed the tears, face yourself in the mirror, hug your conductors, and then set your mind to grow and improve, and let the directors see you as a person who is growing into a future conductor in your own right. And know that we are holding you close in our hearts every minute of what will be a life-changing summer.

 

At the end of it all, I am just so stinking proud of you.

 

I love you, son, more than I can even say. 

Thank you for being who you are, and remember we are always here.

And the Little Congregation...

When I was a little kid, there was a TV show called Sha-Na-Na, with these really cool 70's guys who sang 50's songs and played up this whole mid-century NYC vibe, with all the pop music from that era.

In one episode, the guys were dressed up in some kind of church-acolyte-type robes, and sang a really comforting song about a little church, that went something like, "...and the little congregation...prayed for guidance from above..."

Eventually, I heard the real thing, and it's a lovely song:  "The Three Bells" by The Browns.

Growing up in church, and spending my entire adult life in church, I'm accustomed to the ambitions we church people sometimes assume we're supposed to have: to grow in numbers exponentially, to influence a community in overt ways, to make an impact for good (or at least for what we believe is right) in the broader culture, and I've even heard wording along the lines of "making Jesus famous" or "taking this city for Jesus".

I don't believe I've ever been a part of a church that achieved these ambitions, though we've all heard the stories and compared ourselves to the churches that seem to, the ones that explode, the ones that change the skyline, the ones that become a household name.

It seems obvious from a distance that these superstar stories are few and far between, and that most churches are known to relatively few people.

Before we feel sad about that, though, I wonder if we've been missing something, or at least rushing past it because it seems to be a given, when it may just be everything we need.

This charming little song, "The Three Bells", tells the story of a small church, a "little congregation", that marks the occasions in the lives of the members of its body, the song highlighting the birth, marriage, and death of one person, "Jimmy Brown".

As the song moves through the chapters of Jimmy's life, the moments are each honored in their turn, with the momentum of the song moving along with the momentum of history, each generation welcoming the next and honoring the previous.

This little congregation does a few things, and seems to do them well:

*Rings the chapel bells in celebration and in mourning. 

*Prays for guidance from above, for protection from temptation.

*Prays for divine blessing on their meditations and celebrations.

*Prays for these moments to be filled with love.

*Prays for the souls of the departed to find salvation.

The ambitions we know so well, and burn energy over, are seemingly absent here.

This little congregation does not appear to be in conflict with itself or with its community, but seems to exist simply and with contentment within its space, not appearing to swing for the fences in Jesus' name.

It is possible to hear this song and picture perhaps a complacent congregation, or at least one that is part of the dominant culture, and thus does not feel that sense of being outsiders in this world that the first century church must have felt. The church depicted in this song does seem to live a rather placid, unchallenged life, and it's not unreasonable to have these questions about what makes such a life possible.

But even considering this, is there room to learn something from the little congregation that marked the moments in the life of Jimmy Brown?

I think so.

This little congregation is a humble place, self-aware regarding its vulnerability to temptation, and open about its need for guidance. This does not seem to be a place where people think they have all the answers or have everything figured out. 

This little congregation is a connected place where the events in people's lives are important and recognized. This is a church where a child's dance recital, ball game, or Honor Roll certificate would matter to everyone there, and that kid would remember into adulthood the feeling of being affirmed and loved through these milestones.

This little congregation is a relational place for belonging, not for conquering.

This little congregation does not appear to be winning or trying to win.

Of course, this little congregation is filled with human beings, so certainly there have been and will be times of conflict among them. But what doesn't seem to be present is a spirit of conflict or antagonism from the little congregation toward the community around it. And again, maybe the absence of conflict with the community could be explained by this little congregation being culturally indistinguishable from the society around it; sounds like a simpler time, small town, middle America, likely a predominantly white church in a predominantly white community, not exactly a lightning rod for social tension, not exactly a time of persecution of Christians, etc. 

All probably true, but still...

I think there is still something here. 

Many Americans today would readily say that we are living in a time of intense internal conflict as a society. And many Christians would readily say that we are living in a time of stark difference between "our" Christian values and the values of "the world" out there, a time when "our" Christian faith is threatened, even under siege, by the forces of evil.

And many Christians today are convinced "we" had better "do something" about it. 

And that "something" usually means grasping for political power, however it can be gotten.

And sadly, many of our political leaders know this, and are tapping deeply, deliberately, into this lust that is diguised as a spiritual awakening, to increase their power for their own reasons, stoking the fears, feeding the scorn, leading Jesus' followers to think they are fighting his fight, hoping we don't remember what Jesus said about his followers not fighting because his kingdom is not of this earth.

It's a heartbreaking split screen: 

On one side, a political rally fueled by religious fervor and scorn of neighbor, and on the other side, the little congregation of Jimmy Brown.

No, I'm not assuming this little congregation is perfect. 

"The Three Bells" was originally a French song written and performed in the late 1940's, while the English language version most Americans have heard was released in 1959, an interesting time period to imagine a song about an unassuming church marking the milestones of a quiet life. 

Placing this congregation in that time period, and assuming this little congregation was likely a white church, I wonder what these parishioners thought of Brown v Board of Education, whether they welcomed (or at least made peace with) public school integration, and what they thought of some churches organizing private Christian schools as a means of defying integration, and some Christians protesting in public when black children enrolled in previously all-white schools. I wonder how they reacted to Senator McCarthy stirring up the country about Communism. I wonder what they thought of Elvis. 

But maybe I'm placing this little congregation all wrong; maybe the 1959 hit song was actually referencing a church set sometime prior to that, back even further in the good old days, a simpler, quieter time.

OK...

Let's place the little congregation, say, in the 1930's...

I wonder how many of them were wiped out financially in the Great Depression. How many were out of work for years? Lost everything? Were they Oklahoma Dust Bowl refugees who packed up and moved to California to work harvesting crops, only to be called "Okies", as a slur? I wonder what they thought of the New Deal?

Let's place this little congregation in the 19-teens...

I wonder if any of them sent a son "over there" to fight in Europe as a "Doughboy", in the war they thought would end all wars. I wonder what they thought of the Ku Klux Klan. Were any of them members?

Let's place this little congregation in the 1860's...

I wonder what these parishioners thought of President Lincoln. Of slavery, the Union, the Confederacy.

Let's place this little congregation all the way back at our nation's founding:

I wonder what these folks thought of the people and events from the Hamilton soundtrack. Were they loyalists to the crown? Did they cheer on the Boston Tea Party? What did they think of the Declaration? The Constitution? The Bill of Rights?

No matter what era we choose, this little congregation faces the same choice it would face today:

Will it be an outpost of selfless love in an unjust, greedy, and turbulent world?

Or will it be just another local chapter of the national voice of the powerful?

Is this a body in which any member of the community could find the peace and safety in which Jimmy Brown was raised? Or is this an exclusive group into which Jimmy Brown just happened to be born as an insider?

The song leaves these questions to our imagination.

But what a thing to imagine:

A little congregation that does a few things well, foremost, living out the genuine love of Christ in whatever chaos is churning in the world around it; a church providing shelter for the hurting, rather than a cadre doing the hurting, or a council blessing the hurting, or a club concealing the hurting being done by themselves and others; a church whose concern is for the vulnerable, not the powerful.

A little congregation not playing to win, not fighting to conquer, but humbly going about the mostly ignored business of loving real people up close, likely unaware of countless other little congregations in other places doing the same, likely unaware of the work of the Spirit to bring about great change from these small gifts, likely unaware of what a victory it is when a day can pass without human strife, when people can share space in peace, when neighbors are known well enough to be seen with fondness, when children are safe to grow up and find their way, when human connection is strong enough to fill the spaces in the mind where propaganda can take root, when the desire for spiritual insight is deep enough to occupy the heart more than just on Sunday morning, when humility is sincere enough to prompt the prayer for divine guidance that fills every chorus of "The Three Bells", when that prayer for guidance and love is granted, and people find themselves content and enough at peace with God and neighbor to ignore the chorus of carnival barkers trying to turn them into useful political zealots.

This little congregation that welcomed, loved, and bid farewell to Jimmy Brown may be just vague enough in our memory to become whatever we want it to be, and it's probably not fair to them to shape-shift them too much in any direction to fit our vision.

But I think this same principle is true of any church today: It can be what we want it to be.

In fact, it probably is what we want it to be.