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.

Proud of You, Son

Ben.

Benjamin.

Benjamin Bunny.

What do you say when your little baby is on the brink of moving out of the house?

I guess I assumed there would be some linear series of thoughts and conversations that built up steadily to the big moment. But in reality, it's just been more of a scramble of everything, everywhere, all at once, as the days move steadily along, with now just hours to go before you drive away to Ohio.

Over the last few months, I have felt so many things.

Excitement for you, pride in your accomplishments, dread of your departure, worries whether you will be OK, confidence that you'll do great, uncertainty over all the uncertainties, random memories flashing through my mind, the normal, busy distractions of every summer as a principal, which in a way, have kept me from savoring this time as much as I wanted to, but also in a way, perhaps, have kept things moving and spared me some anguish.

Most interesting to me has been the increasing realization that this time and place is not where you can remain. This in-between period, which I've recently learned is called "liminal space" is not permanent. As much as it turns my world upside-down, you have arrived at a moment when you have to make a move. 

It's not that I wouldn't love for you to stay here a little longer; it's just that this moment, this window, is temporary, and the chance for you to step forward into this new stage of growth is not something to miss.

Yes, you could stay in our house, keep working part-time, and just do college online, at least the first two years.

But...no.

I don't believe that's what you need. I don't think that would be good for you. I think the chance to strike out on your own and have a new adventure is a priceless opportunity, and you should jump into it with your whole heart. 

It's time to leave your comfort zone, create a new comfort zone, and then come to see this time and place and all these previous years through new eyes.

First, and I know you have heard this countless times: I love you, and I am immensely proud of you.

There is nothing you need to do to ensure these two facts remain. They have always been, since before your birth, and will always be. Nothing about this next stage of your life is about securing these two facts, but I hope these two facts will help move you forward, and will comfort you in lonely moments when you might wonder what on earth you are doing so far from home.

I also want to express to you that I accept and affirm you for who you are. You are you, and I love that about you. I do not expect or desire for you to be me, or Mom, or Jonathan, or anyone else. There is a fine line between trying your best to guide your child with good advice, vs trying to force your child to do what you think you would do, and I suppose every parent has to struggle with where exactly that line is. I hope I have been a good judge of that throughout your life, and I am sorry for the times when I haven't been, as I'm sure there have been many. I hope you will remain open with me and Mom and Jonathan about the joys and challenges of your life, and the decisions you face. We will all do our best to help you, always.

I was so happy to see the handmade card you received from one of your managers at work, to celebrate you on your last day. One of the things I have wanted for you for many years is for you to understand how fondly people feel about you, and for this love to ease your insecurity. I know how much peace you miss due to feeling insecure about yourself, and I know I can't fix that. Probably nothing or no one can, other than the gift of time. But I hope you can see and feel how much genuine fond feeling there is for you among all who know you. And I hope this can work to erode your anxiety over time as you continue to grow up.

That right there..."continue to grow up"...remember you're not done yet. You are on a journey, and really still just setting out on it. Give yourself time and grace to continue learning how life works, even who you are and how you work, knowing that you're going to keep changing.

I still remember you disappearing for a time during my grandfather's visitation at the funeral home in Pecos. Later, you did a 5th grade career project on being a mortician. Later still, you and Mom researched Cincinnati College of Mortuary Science, and all this became a real path for you. Only later did we learn that when I lost track of you that evening at the funeral home, you were actually walking around with my Dad, who was showing you around and explaining to you what all happened at a funeral home. Apparently, this is where the seed was planted for what may be a great career path.

I'll offer two things here: Yes, absolutely finish your degree path, but no, don't feel like you must choose an entire life's journey in one moment and never deviate from it.

Being a mortician is a great career, and I would love to see it work out for you. But if it doesn't, you have a lifetime to try other things, and that's OK. We are with you for the ride. But one step at a time. Complete this step that you're on, see how it shakes out, and go from there. Yes, getting a degree is a process, and some steps along the way can feel pointless. But...it's still worth it to finish it, even if you end up doing something else later on.

One of the things that amazes me the most about you is your work ethic. You have been a diligent worker all your life, and everyone who knows you celebrates this, from your teachers to your supervisors, to your aunt, uncle, cousins and grandmother, who observed you running the counter at Game X Change. Ever since you were little, you have been a person who is willing to stick with the task until it is done, and this mindset will make you stand out as an adult. 

Keep it up.

Not everything has come easily for you. In fact, many of your milestones have been achieved through struggle, perhaps even some degree of suffering.

Mom and I were always committed to helping you stretch beyond your comfort zone, and sometimes this has been really hard. There have been chapters of your life in which anxiety and fear seemed to be winning, but we have always had faith in you that you could work through whatever is in front of you.

This is just as true today as it was when you were little. Don't ever give up or think the effort isn't worth it. It is, and it will eventually pay off.

Another area in which you have made me so proud is your commitment to be real when it comes to your faith. You have challenged me to be real with you, and I hope I have done so. Faith is another area of life that hasn't come easily for you, but your honesty about this struggle will be more than worth the pain of the struggle. 

I assure you with everything I have that God is real, that He knows and loves you, and has been with you this entire time. He will be with you in Ohio, and with you wherever you go. He understands your anxiety, your struggles with belief, your questions about why life can't just make sense and work like it should, if He is really there and loves us. He doesn't mind that you have these questions; in fact, I believe He loves how these questions influence your relationship with him, just like we are all more at ease with someone who is real with us than we are with someone who is fake.

There is nothing fake about you, my son, and I admire you so much for that.

Keep talking to God and make room for Him to talk to you. He understands when you don't understand, and He loves that you acknowledge where you don't understand Him.

And I believe one of the evidences of His love is the connection you have with the people at St. Joseph's. Keep that connection strong, and forge new connections up at St. Paul's in Fremont.

I do hope the right "someone" comes along in your life at the right time. Despite your doubts, I think you will make a great husband and father someday, if you choose that path.

I know this is no comfort right now, but I really do think these things happen when we least expect them, and they find us when we're not chasing them. At least, that's how it has happened for me in my life, and that's how you came to be, so hang in there. I really do believe the right relationship will be there when you're ready, and when that person is ready. Try to be patient, and focus on being the kind of person someone else will find a comforting presence in their life.

Yes, having a family is a lot. But believe me, it's more than worth it.

Speaking of family, I want to put in a good word for your brother. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a sibling, and not everyone with siblings is fortunate enough to see them a lot. Make a point of keeping Jonathan in your space, even when it's not absolutely necessary. Don't let space grow between you. You don't have to have lots in common to be good brothers. Support him, keep track of what he's up to, be acquainted with his friends without overstepping into his space, celebrate his successes, and heaven forbid, when he is struggling, you be the first name he sees pop up on his phone.

Mom and I are counting on you guys taking care of each other after we're gone.

Thinking of family members who are no longer here, please be sure to keep Al & Marian Pawlik with you in your mind, your heart, and your life. You were blessed to have two of the most wonderful grandparents a person could have, and Mom and I frequently lament the fact that they were not here to see you graduate from high school and begin this journey. They were so proud of you, so invested in your life, and proved it in so many big and small ways. Keep a picture of them in your space always.

And, more than any other person, I want to praise your sweet Mom. I still remember the pure joy on her face and in her voice the moment she saw the pregnancy test and learned we were having a baby. I remember how she received you in her arms at the moment of your birth, and just said your name, over and over. I remember how she made connections, enlisted help, and drove all over creation to find the therapists you needed in your earliest childhood, which got you on solid footing to start school. I remember how she made every occasion so special. I always say, "There's nothing like your kid's birthday", and I learned that largely from your Mom.

Of course, you're grown now, and the mother-son relationship must evolve, but this woman...I pray you keep her in your mind and treasure her. She has been the most devoted mother a person could have. Truly, if all the world had a Mom like yours, a whole lot of things would work out better.

Stay close to her, receive her love in the way she expresses it, continue to grow up and create your own adult boundaries, but also recognize how much she has allowed your relationship to evolve as well, and appreciate that. 

As I said, my mind is popping with memories, random and sweet.

One of them really hits home right now.

You were four years old, we lived at the Killeen house, and you were learning to ride your bike without training wheels. I took great pride in doing the Dad thing, running alongside you with my left hand on your left handlebar, and my right hand on the back of your seat. We would go down the sidewalk to Don's house next door, up Don's driveway and back down to the sidewalk again. Slowly but surely, you were getting better and better at it, and less and less fearful.

I hope I never forget what you said on one particular trip up Don's driveway:

"Daddy, you just have to let go."

Now, that's a lot of wisdom for a four year-old. Letting go isn't easy, and sometimes you need someone to tell you it's time.

It's funny when I think of the progression of your independence:

*Watching you ride your bike around the perimeter of Timber Ridge Elementary, and praying so earnestly for you during the 30 seconds or so when you were out of my sight, knowing I could never forgive myself if something happened to you during that brief interval, yet how much that brief interval meant for you and your growth.

*Watching you ride your bike away from our house, suspecting you might be riding all the way to Market Heights, even though you knew Mom was not comfortable with you going that far. But of course, this was another important level of independence, not to mention an opportunity to name sections of the shopping center after NYC boroughs.

*Seeing how seriously you took safety while learning to drive, and how suddenly you shifted from still needing my help while driving to finding my coaching a nuisance. It all happened so fast.

*How proud I was of your prioritizing low mileage over bells & whistles when making the commitment to take on a used car payment.

*How much I treasured the picture Mom took of you reporting to class for the first day of Kindergarten, with flowers in your hand for Mrs. Weatherford.

*How you poked fun at that same picture when you were coming to the end of 5th grade, calling that previous version of you a "pip-squeak". :-)

*How you said, "Liberty Hill is my home!" at Meet the Teacher Night as you got ready for middle school to begin. :-)

*How nervous I was about you coming to Ellison. How aware I was that your arrival meant Ellison wasn't just mine anymore; someone else in our household had just as much claim to those hallowed halls as I did. And yes, I still remember your very first day of 9th Grade, 1st period in the portable with Ms. Strovers. I still remember announcing the Band for the hundredth time, but feeling very different knowing you were out there marching. How comforting it was to me on Bus Duty in the afternoons knowing you were out there on that practice marching pad. Seeing you zip past me in the hallways during passing periods at my downstairs elevator spot, and sometimes trying to snap a secret photo of you in the crowd. Laughing along with Mrs. Espada as she would tell me about trying to startle you in the halls. Seeing your excellent grades, report card after report card, as the academic load of high school became routine for you, and the occasional struggles of middle school faded away. Watching you steadily rise in class rank year by year. Seeing you join Tech Theater late in your career, and loving your Instagram post about "the best seat in the house"...

And then, somehow, I remember you coming toward me on the graduation stage...

How can it already be time for a change?

I don't know how it can possibly be that time, but here it is...

My son, it's time for a change, a pretty big one, and it brings me great joy and pride to know that you are ready for it. (But am I ready for it?!? LOL, we'll see...)

But the best part is: This isn't really the end at all, just a shift to a new chapter, and one that I'm really excited to see unfold.

I don't know how else to say it: I'm just really proud of you, really excited for you, even as I feel emotional about my morning routine being changed, likely forever, and marked by your absence rather than your presence.

But I'll adjust, and I'll be thinking of you every day. I'll be ready for any and every text from you, any and every Instagram post or story, just to make sure you are OK.

I can't wait to see what you do with this chapter in your life.

I know it's going to be good.

I love you, son, and I'm so proud of you.

Go, Ms. Marvel!

 A month or so ago, I enjoyed one of my favorite days of every school year as a high school principal: 

Scholarship interviews for outstanding seniors!

Imagine a day spent hearing the stories of young people who have overcome and achieved, whose journeys have taken them all over, who have earned accolades while carrying heavy loads, whose smiles outshine the sorrows of life, and whose dreams make you dream again.

If you're imagining being inspired, uplifted, sharing laughter and shedding tears, then yes, you've got it. 

It's an amazing day, and a privilege to be a part of.

Our most recent round of scholarship interviews included one of our Theater all-stars, whose record spoke for itself. This is someone you would readily hire for any job in any organization, and someone I'm confident we will see on the stage or screen someday.

But the thing I remember most from her interview was her comment about the series Falcon & the Winter Soldier.

Our committee was so accustomed to seeing this student command the stage with confidence, that it was surprising to hear that she had grown up wondering whether there could be a future in acting for her, because she didn't see people who looked like her on TV or in movies.

But then she saw Falcon & the Winter Soldier, and there was actor Erin Kellyman on the screen in a major role, and suddenly this high school Theater star in central Texas saw her dream in a different way, as something that can really happen, and something she must and will pursue.

All because of seeing one actor in one show.

My family has enjoyed the first two episodes of Ms. Marvel, and we really wish the whole season had dropped at once so we could just binge it. :-)

Our younger son shared with us that there has been some online criticism of Ms. Marvel, claims that its Muslim protagonist and her family are merely representation for representation's sake, just some kind of disingenuous gesture to score some kind of diversity points.

I have zero sense of how to judge the quality of a TV production, but here's what I will say about this criticism:

The first thing I thought of when I heard it was our scholarship winner's comment about the impact it made on her to see someone who looked like her cast in a serious role in a major production.

It was so important, it made it into a short conversation with a scholarship interview panel.

It meant everything to her.

And it's not like we're in the 1950's anymore. It's 2022, and it still matters.

I grew up watching Sesame Street and integrated sports, and it still matters. (Though I'm old enough to remember it being rare to see a black NFL quarterback...)

I refuse to be swayed by cynical responses to expanding representation of people in popular media.

To me, it comes down to the fact that since every example of representation matters a great deal to someone, it deserves our most open-minded, good-faith reception, even if it's not an example of representation we had ever thought about before, even if we don't like the show, and even if, perhaps especially if, we hear voices casting doubt on the sincerity or validity or appropriateness of the representation in question.

Lack of representation has never been a point of hurt for me; I've seen people like me in popular culture my entire life, and have never doubted that I belong in this society. It didn't come naturally to understand that there are lots of people who don't share that experience, and it's past time to embrace the need for every person to share that fundamental feeling of belonging that often comes through seeing people who look like you accepted and featured in popular culture and positions of leadership.

Go, Ms. Marvel!

It's the Culture

I've always been haunted by the statement made by Clint Eastwood's character in the movie Unforgiven: "It's a hell of a thing, killin' a man..."

I still remember a sermon Dad preached sometime back in the mid-80's.

The main idea of the sermon is gone now, but there is a line that stands out. I can still hear it in Dad's voice:

"...and I'm sure if someone came into this assembly today with a gun, telling us we would die if we didn't turn our backs on Jesus Christ, there's not a person here who wouldn't say, 'Fire away'..."

This was in the days before, but not long before, American gun culture and American evangelicalism became so intertwined as to become more or less one and the same. I'm not sure if my delayed awareness of gun culture was a regional thing as a Southern California kid, but we were not quite up with the speed of the move toward people thinking everyone should be able to carry a gun with them everywhere they go. 

(I still remember the first time I ever heard this idea, as a freshman in college in Texas in 1991, and I was so shocked I questioned the professor in front of the class, certain I must have heard him wrong.)

But back when Dad preached this sermon, his assumption was, like mine, and like that of everyone in the congregation that day, that if someone entered an assembly threatening the people with a gun, it would be for some discernible ideological reason, (renounce Jesus or die), and that the victims would be more or less at the mercy of the shooter.

I'd like to think that if such a thing had happened, we would not have just sat there and been shot, that people would have at least tried to subdue the attacker, risking being hurt or killed in the process. It seems like that would have been the normal human reaction, rather than a dramatic, conversational scene playing out according to the attacker's script, as Dad presented in his sermon.

Of course, I'm glad we never had to find out.

But how the world has changed since that time.

A few years ago, a congregation from the same denomination in which Dad once preached, nearly had a mass shooting in their assembly, but the shooter's attempt was snuffed out when several church members pulled their concealed handguns and shot to kill.

As American gun culture became our very heartbeat, and mass shootings became so common we can't remember most of them, it makes sense that this scenario went from an obviously fictitious hypothetical in a mid-80's sermon, to a very real part of life. It's no wonder a church would go from never contemplating this at all, to having an actual plan for what to do when this happens.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but part of me wonders: Did we even realize we had made this move? Did we talk about this? Did we discuss a shift away from saying "Fire away" if we were ever threatened for our faith, to saying instead that if anyone comes in here with a gun, we'll send them to meet the Maker we happen to be worshipping right now?

I don't recall any evolution here, just suddenly being in a different reality than we were before. Again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I do find it...I don't know...it's something...that we made this shift, from not contemplating the taking of a human life, perhaps even the assumption that we never would take a human life, to the other end of the spectrum, an automatic assumption that we will kill without hesitation and not be much bothered about it.

What I've said so far is already enough for some to cast me aside as a fool, and I get it.

No, I'm not saying that it would have been better if the would-be shooter had had free reign to conduct a massacre. I am greatly relieved the worshippers were spared.

I'm asking whether we have wrestled with what this transition means, and why we made it.

I understand that to even question being ready to kill someone nowadays is laughable to many, but...there's still something here that I just can't shake.

In the denomination in which I was raised, in which Dad preached, and in which the would-be mass shooter was put down, we fervently believed that we were under constant pressure, if not outright assault, by "the culture", "the world", the "winds of doctrine" that threatened to blow us about and fracture our foundation. The world out there was not anchored in Scripture, but was constantly evolving with the self-seeking whims of man, as people drifted further away from the truth and further into the darkness of their own thinking.

We cautioned constantly about the mindset of the Israelites in the Old Testament, who turned to idol worship while Moses was on the mountain, then later wanted a king like all their neighbors, then later, when they had no king, did whatever they all saw fit, all of which were mindsets we recognized in everyone around us, from our neighbors next door, to every wrong-party politician, to many celebrities, to much of society's popular entertainment, and especially in so-called Christians who allowed themselves and their churches to cave and conform to the culture.

In my experience and upbringing, this always meant that some group of believers had gone liberal.

Yet here we are, like frogs realizing the water has already boiled us, having made a 180 on a matter of life and death without anything like the kind of scriptural and theological deliberation we have applied to so many doctrinal disputes that we can't even remember them all, and may not even be sure anymore which ones we've divided ourselves over.

The conviction that we are entitled to shoot to kill, even in what we believe to be self-defense, is not something we arrived at through careful scrutiny of Scripture, open debate among believers, or consultation with the older and wiser among us.

It is a conviction we adopted from the culture around us.

It is culture, pure culture.

It is culture, just as much as every worship innovation, scriptural translation, clothing style, family dynamic, popular song lyric or movie script we ever agonized over, as much culture as anything we ever told ourselves we'd better resist for the sake of our children and the future of our faith.

Just because it's Dirty Harry instead of Harry Potter, doesn't mean it's any less "culture" or any less of a "worldly" influence on us, on our thinking, on our faith and our practice.

In fact, it's even more "culture" than all those things, as it has greater potential to define us in the eyes of our neighbors, who are supposed to know we are Christians by our love.

Is our call still to resist "the culture"? If so, what does that mean? Do we think it means resisting only the cultural influences we happen to find offensive at our moment in history, while conforming to the cultural forces that turn us on?

It's interesting to me that since American gun culture became one and the same with American evangelical culture, I don't see the old 90's "What Would Jesus Do?" wristbands much anymore.

I really don't even hear that phrase anymore.

No matter how we rationalize it, I can't see Jesus pointing a gun at anyone. 

A Year

 Dad,

Over the last few weeks, I thought a lot about today, the first anniversary of your passing.

I woke up from a dream shortly before 4 am today, and couldn't go back to sleep.

In my dream, I heard your voice in a voicemail message, but I can't remember now what it was you were saying. It was random, as dreams are, nothing coherent or of consequence. But still, it was nice to hear your voice at such a time, and the dream prompted me to look up your blog and listen to one of your sermons this morning. I found one from about five years ago, and it's really nice to hear you.

I didn't really have the opportunity to be alone with you at your funeral, but I did have the chance to tell you, silently, with people all around, how sorry I am that I hurt you.

In fact, that's when I finally broke down.

It's not just imaginary or sympathetic; I know firsthand how I made you feel when I left the fold, and I know there was nothing anyone could have done to make it better or easier. I know what I did was unthinkable, too taboo for discussion, and that all we could do for the last decade of your life was step around the broken glass and pretend the wound wasn't there.

I know those were just the realities, and you couldn't change them any more than I could.

I wish that could have been different.

I longed to share my spiritual journey with you, and would have loved to spend hours, years, comparing our lives and perspectives, sharing where the Spirit was leading each of us and why our paths were so different, yet so much the same.

This right here is why the resurrection means so much to me.

It's no longer just about "seeing" my loved ones who have gone before. Now, it's about having the conversations you and I were never able to have. 

Part of me is confident we never could have been real with each other, no matter how long each of us had lived in this life. But then, part of me wonders if maybe it could have happened, if maybe it was in there somewhere, and you just couldn't open that door for some reason. 

I don't know.

But I know this: If the resurrection is real, and I believe it is, when I see you again, all that inhibition and barrier will be gone, and we will finally be able to be real with each other. (That is, unless you're right, and I'm lost, and we won't see each other again at all, but my chips are all in that you're wrong about that.)

I promise you this: Being real with me will be worth it, and we will both wish we had put our shields down long ago. And I think being real with you will be worth it for me, too.

As I remember Samuel's text that day, telling me you were gone, it's ironic to me that I'm currently holed up in a room, isolating from my family because I have the same virus that took you away. Only, for me, instead of shredding my lungs and leaving me without hope of survival, it's just been like having a cold.

My experience with this plague has been totally different from yours, mainly because I had the protection of a vaccine that was still a few months away when you got sick. I imagine it would have saved your life if it had come in time, and this makes me sad.

And I wonder if my experience with life, especially with spiritual things, is different from yours because of protections I have had that perhaps you didn't have. And how ironic that you were one of the main providers of those protections and benefits that shielded me and then equipped me to go in a new direction, even a direction you couldn't contemplate.

There's a great lyric in a song that goes, "I know I took the path that you would never want for me..." and I have always thought of you when I heard that song. And even as I continue on this path that you were certain was folly, going even further than you feared, I know I owe you a debt I can never repay:

Thank you for your love for the Word of God. I know you think I turned my back on it, but I promise you I didn't. Your esteem for the Word was imprinted upon me at the earliest age, and it will never cease to be a part of my DNA. I wonder how different this was for you. Your love for the Word was something you learned from others outside your childhood home and came to through your own devotion. I don't mean "works" in that way, lest anyone should boast, but this is something you worked for, not something you inherited, as it was for me. It's something you built, and then I grew up in, and growing up in something will always be different from building it.

Thank you for you and Mom's marriage. Life was good in our home. There was never a day when I didn't know where I was going, and where I was coming home to. There was never an awkward moment at school when I wasn't comforted by the knowledge that I would soon be home again where I belonged and where everything would be fine. There was never a meal missed, never an occasion uncelebrated, often a cause for laughter, always a routine that was life-giving, always hope that the future was bright. No, every moment was not pleasant. Your temper and brooding were difficult, often scary. I often assured myself I would not be that way when I grew up, even as I copied most of those behaviors. A lot was never said that needed to be said, for fear of you, and it has taken most of my adult life to unlearn the inhibition that was often needed to stay out of your way. But as hard as that was, it was mold in a house that kept us safe and warm, and that's not the same thing as losing it all in a fire, or never having a safe home at all. We were never without recourse or hope, and I confess I have little idea what all it took for you and Mom to provide this for us. I am grateful.

Thank you for our church life. No, I didn't stay there, I know. But a church family is a necessity in my life because of you and Mom, and again, this mindset is something you built and I grew up with. So many people made loving imprints on my life through church, and I am grateful.

Thank you for cheering on your favorite childhood teams when I was a kid, and making room for me in your bleacher seats. I know this was not nearly as important to you later in life, but it still was when I was young, and I am so glad it was. My childhood trips to Dodger Stadium are right up there with Disneyland in my mind, and I am so grateful. You got to see both the Dodgers and the Lakers win another championship before you got sick, and you even got a Cameo video from Dave Roberts! :-) You were never as into the Rams coming back to LA as I was, and that was sad to me, but it's OK. After you were gone, I got myself a USC shirt for the college football season, and I plan to keep an eye on them for you for years to come. I know sports don't really matter, but like the guy in City Slickers said about talking baseball with his Dad, "that was real", and I am grateful.

Thank you for taking us up to Big Bear, up to Sequoia, out to Arizona, up to Oregon. Man, for people on a limited budget, somehow we traveled! I wish I could have taken you to NYC and shown you how to ride the subway. You and Mom made it real to go see unfamiliar places, and I am grateful.

Thank you for something I overheard you say to Mom: 1983, all five of us walking out to the driveway, getting into the car to go see Return of the Jedi. You turned to Mom and said, "Don't worry, we'll take it out of the savings." I wasn't supposed to hear that, and I only understood it years later. You didn't really have the money for this outing, but we were going anyway, because you knew how important it was to us. My friends and I had been sharing rumors for months about the movie, and how we had heard that Darth Vader's helmet was going to come off. (How did rumors like that spread before the internet?) I have never forgotten how you somehow made this important moment happen for us when it wasn't easy to do, and I am grateful.

Dad, I wish the cultural winds of the last 30+ years had not pushed us so far off into the political ocean. For a very long time, I was right there with you, adjusting the sails of our ships for maximum wind. And I know you were proud. And I know you didn't think our politics and our faith got too intertwined or became indistinguishable.

But...I became convinced they did. I became convinced of a lot of things.

As I caught a different wind and changed course, I'm sure it broke your heart as much as it did mine that our courses kept growing further and further apart. Some parents and kids find each other again in later life, in their 60's and 40's, after having grown apart earlier. We were the opposite, it seemed. The times of the world post-2010 just seemed to become more polarized than ever, and by then, we weren't seeing the world much the same way at all, and weren't talking about these things at all, either. There wasn't much "common ground"-finding going on, and finding common ground that didn't readily present itself was never one of our strengths.

I'm sorry we couldn't resolve this while you were here. If we had tried, I don't know that it would have been possible. But I do wish we could have tried.

Since you've been gone, I have found myself dwelling more on a younger version of you, a version I was just old enough back then to remember now. A version of you that still had most of life ahead, that was convinced ministry was the way, and was determined to pursue it, even though that meant leaving behind a military life in which you thrived.

I treasure this young man's smile and laugh, his Gospel preaching that was simple and unencumbered with partisanship, his Snoopy tie pin, his left-handed softball swing, his mustache, his handwriting, his '78 Chevette, his hair part that he imparted to me, with neither of us ever imagining I would go bald.

Dad, I know I don't know what all went into making you the person you were, especially the things that were difficult, but I have thought about you every single day for the past year, and in all of it, what turns up the most is that I am grateful.

If you have awareness of me now, and when you have awareness of me again later, I pray our wound will be healed. Not gone as if it never happened, but your heart left stronger for having been broken by a son, and then healed again by a Father. 

May God's rest continue to be upon you, dear one.

Are You Sure You Want to Come Here?

It's Christmas Eve, Lord, and I want to ask you:

"Are you really sure you want to come here?"

His eyes meet mine without judgment, drawing honesty out of me:

"More than ever before, I look around and see doors closed to you. We love our wealth and our weapons. We're not willing to sacrifice for one another. We won't work together, not even to save people's lives. We celebrate killers, liars, and con artists. We scorn 'outsiders'. We just want power, and we'll burn up every good thing we have in order to get it...Where do you even fit in here?"

He listens as always, absorbs my heartbreak as always, unflappable as always:

"Sorry, I lost track...are we talking about 2021 in the USA, first century Judea, 1930's Germany...some other verse of the Rolling Stones song? Seriously, where's this coming from? Of course I don't fit in here. Of course there aren't doors open for me. I'm used to that; I don't need much of a gap to squeeze through, don't worry. I always find a way in, the last place anyone would expect."

He senses I'm still sulking: 

"You really think I haven't seen all this a thousand times before? You really think I don't know what I'm getting into?"

His hand is strong on my shoulder, but somehow not heavy.

"You really think you're the only person who thinks my mission is doomed? The only person here who gets it? The last one left? Eh, 'Elijah'?"

This breaks me into a short laugh. His smile reassures me, even though nothing has changed.

Then, dead serious:

"If you had any idea the number of hearts inclined to me all over this world...people who are free and who freely love, who have nothing here to keep them from me...people you'll know someday with me on the other side...oh, my friend, my brother...if you could see them, you would look right into the face of all this ugliness and not despair. In fact, you would love all those you are despising right now."

The gentleness of this piercing...

His love for me...his love for all those I'll never know here...his love for those I thought made his arrival here a hopeless cause...

Yes, Lord, please do come into this mess.

This mess that I would call "God-forsaken", except somehow you never forsake it.

I'll never understand why.

And I'll never stop being thankful.

I Still Can't Believe He Said That

"...how else is the son to continue living if he must not also forget—that no matter how hard we try we can never entirely know our fathers.”  -- Hisham Matar, The Return: Fathers, Sons, and the Land in Between

************

Sometime in my late teens or early twenties, I ran across a story about a controversy that happened with The Beatles in the 1960's, something about being more popular than Jesus, and church-going people being offended to the point of protesting and burning records.

I am a lifelong Beatles fan, but I was a late arrival to the party, born three years after they split up.

But Dad, though...he was legit.

He was a young teen during the British Invasion, collecting new music on vinyl, both singles and albums, relics he kept the rest of his life.

I must have asked Dad about this story of people protesting The Beatles, because I remember him telling me that John Lennon had replied to an interview question by making an observation about young people's church attendance compared to their devotion to The Beatles, followed by the poorly worded comment about being more popular than Jesus.

Dad was no wilting lily when it came to a defense of his faith, but it was clear to me in this conversation that he felt the unfortunate comment had been taken out of context and overblown by people looking to be offended. Of course, he himself was an ardent Beatles fan when this comment was made, so he wasn't exactly an unbiased observer of the controversy. Who knows whether his response would have been as moderated if this type of remark had come from a celebrity he wasn't a fan of, or perhaps even some entertainer whose work he really did find threatening.

But the part of this conversation I remember the best was something Dad said that shocked me. Nearly 30 years later, I still don't know what to make of it.

Dad's story about the John Lennon quote came to a head with his response to all the hullabaloo at the time, which apparently stirred up his own church and his parents. He didn't say how pointed this issue became in his household, but he did tell me that he told his parents, "You guys aren't throwing away my stuff."

(First of all: "You guys" is exact and correct. This was ages before he ever dreamed of living in Texas, and he would never have said "y'all" at that stage of his life.)

But what he said to his parents stunned me. I didn't react at all, just listened, let him finish his story, and I guess moved on to other things. I don't remember ever speaking of this again.

But that statement: "You guys aren't throwing away my stuff."

I still can't believe it.

I can assure you, without the slightest exaggeration, I have never, in childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, ever addressed my parents in this way.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I guess I gave my parents as much bad attitude as any other kid, but openly directing them that they would not have their way in a situation taking place under their roof while I was a child under their authority? 

Never, literally never. 

When Dad told me he had said this to his parents, my immediate sense was how unthinkable it would have been for me to ever say such a thing to him. Had I ever addressed him in this way, I am confident he would have lost control. It would have been an absolute scene. And, without painting an unfair picture, I would say that I'm not even sure he would have been able to control himself physically if I had made such a statement to him.

At least that's what I thought, and I was never willing to test it. And yet, Dad shared this story with me, apparently without the slightest sense of irony, seemingly without noticing the clash between the way he had related to his parents and the way I related to him. 

The very first thing that came to my mind never seemed to occur to him at all. 

When it came to his responsibility and authority as a parent, Dad was not one to entertain challenges to the order of things as he saw them, at least while we were children in his home. He did shift to adult boundaries for his authority when we kids grew up and moved out, but there was still never a sense of his having "chilled out" about this kind of thing.

Most of us mellow over time, and it's true that the older version of Dad was more laid back than his younger self had been, in the years when people are climbing and conquering, trying to prove themselves in this world and fearing that any false move could spell doom for the future. Most of us would do some things differently if we were changing our children's diapers again, with the perspective we have after our kids no longer need us for everything.

So, yes, Dad and I did have a more relaxed relationship later on, with some of my anxiety about displeasing him having dissipated in the mix of my own marriage, parenthood, and career. And yet, this was still a conversation I never returned to, a subject I was never willing to broach with him. It was something I felt I deserved an answer to, but I was never willing to seek it. 

To have borne the strain of being afraid to tell him off a few key times when I really wanted to, and then to realize he had taken this liberty himself when he was a teen, only to make clear a generation later that this same freedom was not available to me was...embittering.

Our family was always big on movie quotes, and one of Dad's favorites was from The Princess Bride:

"Get used to disappointment."

I suppose I made peace some time ago with never really having a clear answer to my questions about this conversation: "Why was I obligated to grant to you a level of deference you did not extend to your parents? Why did the needle have to swing so far the other way when it came to me? It wasn't easy to respect such a difficult boundary, and that burden was not limited to my childhood."

On another vein, is it possible I misread Dad to some degree? Is it possible the kind of pushback he gave his parents, and I could never muster up to give him, might have actually been a good thing in our relationship? Could it be that there was more room for rebellion than I thought, and I just couldn't see it, and he didn't know how to show me, or just never thought he had to tell me? Was I wrong to think he wouldn't have been able to process it?

No answers to these questions are likely to ever come, and I'm old enough now that it's OK.

Along with those questions would have to come the follow-up questions: How much defiance can authority absorb before it is no longer authoritative? How much can a child be allowed to push back before they have breached a barrier that will put their own character at risk?

I suppose humanity will wrestle with those questions forever, and I'm sure I will wrestle with them from now on, whenever I think about Dad.

But as I continue to process my 47 years with Dad, another movie quote comes to mind, but not from a movie Dad ever saw: The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, a story of a woman who is wrestling with her relationship with her aging mother.

Toward the end of the movie, one of the older ladies says, referring to Sandra Bullock's character, "She doesn't know sh*t, and what she does know she's making the worst of." This quote has been a salvation for me since I first heard it, a bookend against Dad's mysteries, giving me at least some reassurance that I probably have little idea of everything that went into making him who he was, and I might very well be making the worst of what little I know or imagine.

Yes, the perfect resolution at the end of this movie is idealistic, and probably unrealistic for many, including me and Dad, who never had the kind of full-disclosure conversation that filled in all the blanks, made sense of everything, and ended in a parade with everyone smiling and embracing. But still, unrealistic doesn't have to mean undesirable, uninspiring, or unworthy of being fantasized over. 

I think I will always imagine that conversation in which this gap is bridged, all is made well, all tension is dissolved, and I never feel afraid about anything again with Dad.

"...we look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come." 

This phrase in the creed often brings tears to my eyes, and I think this is why. Perhaps for the first time, there is something tangible I am banking on happening when that day comes, something that can't happen here, and was probably never going to happen here. 

When things are left unsaid and undone, there is so much more hoped for than some abstract sense of "seeing" someone again.

Or maybe a conversation won't even be needed; maybe it will all just wash away at first sight.

I want it, either way.

And then, as I write this, what comes into my ears but the beauty of the John Lennon song "In My Life" from The Beatles' Rubber Soul album, and tears come, right here in this lobby where I am waiting for my own son to come back out from his appointment.

Of these moments and memories and questions, Dad, I sing along with John, whose smart-a** comment in 1966 led you to be a smart-a** to your parents: 

"...I know I'll often stop and think about them; in my life, I love you more."

And, Dad: I still cannot believe you said that...

Repentance on 9/11/21

Like everyone, I remember where I was and why I was there.

More importantly, I remember how I felt as I stared at the screen and watched the first tower burning, then the next, then the Pentagon, then the field in Pennsylvania, and both towers falling.

Forgive me, Lord, for you know my first feelings were anger, hatred, and vengeance, just as much as, possibly more than, grief over the lives lost, for they were strangers to me. You know I had literally never heard of the World Trade Center before that day, despite having lived in this country my whole life, yet I quickly adopted an image of those towers and all they meant to us, so that I would "Never Forget". 

And you know I practically salivated, before the sun set that very day, at what I assumed would be forthcoming military strikes by my invincible nation. You know how it took no time at all for me to shift from shock to visions of mowing down armies of enemies who had no idea who they had provoked, and stood no chance against us.

You know I took this occasion to mock our previous president, expressing relief that he was no longer in office to respond to this crisis while simultaneously pursuing his own sexual gratification. You know I held the naive view that the right things would be done simply because "my person" was in charge.

You know I thought it would be easy, like Grenada.

You know I thought it was just as simple as that, that peoples and nations and histories could be bent and redirected at our will, just because we said so.

You know I rejoiced inside that day when I saw on the news that we were dropping bombs in Afghanistan.

And now, here we are, twenty years later, finally walking away, not only with basically nothing to show for what we have done, not only with a path of destruction behind us so vast we can't even comprehend it all, not only with the possibility that we only sowed the seeds for future terrorism, but, to add insult to injury, with the very same cruel, theocratic leaders in place in Afghanistan that we overthrew twenty years ago, not just people like them, but the very same group, now with untold weapons and resources at their disposal that we left behind.

Father, it's all just sickening to me now, what I see in myself when I think of that day. 

I am sorry for the ungodly feelings and desires I nurtured on 9/11 and throughout its aftermath. I had a choice on that day to reject a spirit of vengeance and embrace peace, and I chose a spirit of vengeance instead.

Lord, it's a mystery to me how twenty years of time can so profoundly change how we view things, yet we don't always get twenty years of time. Why do some people get to live long enough to evolve, while others have this evolution cut short, and simply have to leave things where they are?

And I suppose another question is how sometimes we don't change, or even want to change, even when we do have twenty years of time.

*For the lives lost on 9/11, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the lives lost in the twenty years since 9/11 in all the actions taken in the name of that day, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the countless lives destroyed as collatoral damage in all this fighting, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the wounded and haunted survivors of 9/11 and survivors of our 9/11 wars, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the brokenhearted thousands still mourning loved ones lost on 9/11 and in the twenty years since, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace, and for protection against the despair that must come in light of the seeming fruitlessness of it all.

*For Americans, I pray for wisdom and humility, for a recognition that riches and strength do not mean we are right, nor that we understand how every corner of the world works, nor that we can have our way in any corner of the world, nor that we will always be rich and strong. Remind us we are not the only people in the world, and not the only people You love.

*For people not from the US, or not connected to the US, or not fond of the US, I pray that feelings of hostility toward the US may wane, even if miraculously and for no self-beneficial reason, that the door may be open for peace, even if the US is viewed as the opponent of peace and not its author.

*For Americans, I pray that we may stop, slow down our breathing, and be silent before You and before our own self-annihilation in progress at this moment, as we cannot even agree on what is true and what is false, and as we readily accept the deaths of thousands as a reasonable price to pay for our individual freedom to claim that reality is whatever we want it to be.

*Before I become too proud of my humility, Father, remind me of how long I have been just one more of your children who didn't know their right hand from their left. Remind me of what a blessing it is to see what I now see in my own life, even as painful and embarrassing as it sometimes feels. And remind me that I still don't even get it yet, no matter how far I have come. Keep walking with me, Father, helping me to see.

*For my children, I pray for godly instincts, for a spirit that moves first toward Jesus, flows first with the Holy Spirit, leans first toward love of the stranger rather than first toward suspicion of the enemy.

On 9/11/21, I finally repent of my personal thoughts and wishes on 9/11/01.

Lord, as St. Francis prayed, make me an instrument of Your peace.