LIFE AFTER ALL...FINALLY!

It has arrived. You can read more about it and order it online here. If you are shopping here, you can buy it in person. It will soon be available in a variety of regional book and music stores.

If you know the artists, you can purchase the disc direct. This is the recommended method, since it allows them to look you in the eyes and work their sorcery on you, seducing you into buying multiple copies for family, friends, and co-workers. It's painless, and relatively inexpensive. Of course, if you experience an erection for more than four hours you should consult your physician.

Live performances and CD release party information will be forthcoming. There are plans to assemble the entire cast from the album for at least one live show. Watch for it. Sign up for the mailing list at mincksmiller[at]sbcglobal.net.

Listening samples won't be available on the MayApple site until next week. But you can hear four songs in their entirety here.

Happy New Year.

MY CHRISTMAS JEREMIAD

The New York Times ran an article recently that was a nice companion to this column. In the article, David Cay Johnston reviewed a study conducted by the NewTithing Group challenging the assumptions that the most wealthy are the greatest benefactors for charities. The study is unique in that it looked at investment assets as part of income, rather than simply salary.

Relying on IRS data from 2003 (the most recent available), the study reveals that the "super rich" are the least generous group in our society. Here's the "take away" from the study:

If affluent young and middle-aged filers had donated as high a proportion of their investment asset wealth to charity in 2003 as did their less affluent peers, total individual charitable donations that year would have been over $25 billion higher, an increase of at least 17%.

Sure, the rich still make up an enormous amount of the charitable giving in this country, but when you consider that much of what they give does not actually go to the poor, and that they are not living out the charge - to whom much is given, much is expected - it appears that a high tide raises all yachts...but leaves those on life rafts to fend for themselves.

Do the rich have the right to use their income however they want? I suppose. Should they be forced to share the wealth? Probably not. But, at least they should have to face up to the fact that they are in it for themselves, that they are not saviors of the downtrodden. Where are the religious leaders on this topic? How come we don't hear sermons about this in our churches? Because the pursuit of individual wealth is sacrosanct. You can gain much more traction attacking gays and liberals than telling your parishioners to give away everything and follow God. If the leaders of the evangelical Right want people like me to ever take them seriously, they must address this disparity with the same prophetic fervor as they pursue the conservative agenda.

By the way, there's plenty of criticism to go around. The study shows that even the most charitable among us give at about a 3-4% range, with most of us giving in the 1% range. That's a far cry from 10% tithe I was taught growing up. My family gives over 10% each month, with the bulk of it going to Rainbow Network (I spent a week in Nicaragua and saw that the money goes exactly where it should). But it still isn't enough. When I pray, I don't pray that God will smite the wicked, I pray that God will give me the faith to do with less so I can give more.

I believe that giving is largely about bringing comfort where there is suffering; but it should also bring suffering where comfort is too much with us. It's an overlooked and underappreciated symbiosis. If our giving does not create any kind of discomfort for us, it probably isn't fulfilling the giver side of the equation.

May you have a merry Christmas. And, if you don't celebrate Christmas, may you experience the spirit of grace and generosity.

May we all learn to take less and give more.

GRADUATION

Last Friday I was reminded what I love about teaching. No, it is not the fact that I get to dress in academic regalia - fully chevroned, hooded, and topped with a 6-pointed tam o' shanter in odd imitation of my medieval forebears. And, no, it is not the semi-annual reminder that "...commencement is not an end, but a beginning...."

It is the spectacle of completion. I love witnessing the personal and corporate climax of students who are sharing a cocktail (for you, John) of emotions: the sorrow of departure and relief of completion, blended with the thrill of anticipating a future yet unknown. It's an intoxicating atmosphere. All of us are a little more real than we are during the rest of our semester groove.

It always surprises me that some of them made it. I selfishly wish some of them would never leave; but, there they go - out the door into all the rattle and the hum of the world. I always hope that more of them would take risks and tilt at windmills than will probably come to pass. Unfortunately, we work hard to tame them when they are with us. Produce, produce, produce. Too often we have driven them into submission so they can be meaningful contributors to the economy and the faith. What thrills me are the subversive glances I catch from behind mortarboard tassles assuring me that not all will go gentle into that good night. Thank you, sweet Jesus.

I have to say, the thing I enjoyed most this semester was the speech by the reigning president of the state denominational convention (the one that muscles the University). He did fine, I guess. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Managed to avoid talking about gay marriage or the secularizing influence of evolution.

But, he told a story about when he was playing football in high school. His hero at the time was Dick Butkus, famed middle linebacker for the Chicago Bears and ubiquitous shill for Miller Lite (the speaker didn't mention the latter). He claims that in the state championship game, he took a page from Butkus' playbook and bit another player on the leg, while they were both at the bottom of a particularly fierce dogpile. The captain of their defensive team brought them back into their huddle, fuming about an opponent who had bitten him on the leg!

Heh, heh. That was a good story.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't think it was particularly funny or meaningful as a graduation story; but considering the way our current evangelical leaders often end up harming those on their own teams - through lawsuits, witch hunts, and power plays - I thought it was an especially appropriate metaphor.



The dying of the light? Rage against it.

WAR ON CHRISTMAS

Have you heard? Of course you've heard. Christmas is under seige by the radical liberals. By removing "Merry Christmas" from the holiday lexicon, liberals have declared war on God, faith, America, heterosexuality, and life itself.

Admittedly, this whole "Merry Christmas" ban is out of control. Those who support it are overly sensitive and those who are aggressively opposing it are nuts. Are we to believe that God-With-Us is somehow affected by the policy of Target department stores?

By the way, what is a greeting anyway? Do we offer greetings to declare our socio-political sympathies, or do we offer them as a salve for the wounds of those who struggle through this life? If your "Merry Christmas" is an instrument of cultural warfare, if you are more interested in the content of a greeting than the content of a poor person's cupboard, then I know a place you can stick it. The sun doesn't shine too brightly there, and your "Merry Christmas" will find company with the all the religious cliches that are meant to declare your allegiances without helping anyone much. "I'll pray for you" is there. "God bless you and God bless America" is growing old in the darkness. If you rummage around in there you might find a "Smile, Jesus loves you."

If you want to fight a war on Christmas, why don't you put your efforts into banning this:

This is a photo of my terrified wife sitting in Santa's lap at Heer's department store in 1966. It's a wonder she made it out alive! St. Nick looks like he is about to send Prancer and Vixen to the liquor store for a refill of high octane egg nog.

Alcoholic, pedophile Santas should be banned.

(If this particular Santa was played by your grandpa, I'm sorry. It's just...do I really have to explain? The guy looks waxed. Maybe he was the president of the Kiwanis, but he looks like he's got a snootful of MD 20/20.)

Seriously, if you want to strike a blow for Christmas, why don't you declare war on the greed and materialism that is enfolding your family? If you want to fight a war for Christmas, do like the original St. Nick and give away all your riches to serve the poor. If you want to fight a war for Christmas, learn to forgive this December and quit looking for people to blame.

Don't talk to me about wars against language if you can't find the time and resources to give something to the least of these. God is not impressed with your righteous indignation. You may get Sears to reinstate their holy greeting, but the weak will still huddle in the cold while your nephew plays with his new Xbox.

God, forgive us.

Visit us this season with a new sense of hope, and a bountiful dose of grace.

Merry Christmas.
And Happy Holidays.

UNCLE

I quit.

This will be my last post on this topic. They win.

I am taking the dog out of the fight, even though a fair amount of fight remains in the dog. It's just that I have come to the conclusion that there would be no value in furthering the conflict, other than some narcissistic fulfillment of a primal skirmish-urge. I ain't skeered, just tired. And lonely. And wondering how one remains loving and faithful in a struggle for justice. As our president (of the US, not the University) says, "It's hard...it's hard work." I don't want to become some angry, twisted activist; especially if the battle is futile.

The University has been circulating a message that goes something like this:

1) Dr. H is not being "fired;" he is loved and valued by the university.
2) He and other senior faculty were approached last year with a retirement offer; Dr. H refused.
3) He was approached again this year, and he accepted.
4) We can't talk about the details of a personnel issue.
5) No one is being told what to teach in class.

That's a very different version of the story than the one I heard. But Dr. H has decided to remain publicly silent on the matter. I respect that. There is something elegant, even monk-like about exiting the stage free from the need to answer all the questions. Just like the Dylan he so enjoys.

You always said "People don't do what they believe in,
they just do what's most convenient, then repent."
I always said,
"Just hold on to me, baby, and hope the roof stays on."
("Brownsville Girl")

For the record, I have not been threatened or intimidated. And, I haven't reread everything, but I don't think I retract anything I have said on the matter either.

Who knows, maybe it's not all over; but for now, I'm going on to talk about other things and tilt at other windmills.

For instance, some of you have been asking about this: There will be major album release news within the week! We deliver the goods to the printer tomorrow. Sample mp3s and online ordering info coming soon.



Is that Freedom Rock? Well, turn it up.

WHERE'S THE REACH?

My last post clearly sparked some interest.

Since the date of that entry, "The Reach" has registered well over 2,000 unique visits to the site, over 5,000 page views, with about 150-200 visitors a day. Regular and returning readers hail from such places as the UK, Germany, the Czech Republic, Finland, France, Thailand, Japan, Singapore, Australia, South Africa, Brazil, Canada, and a bunch of other global locations I have forgotten - not to mention the heaviest traffic from all corners of the US, with a growing cluster of visitors near the University. Apparently I am being "outed" by super sleuths.

By the way, if my knowledge of your location is unnerving, don't worry, I can't tell who you are, just where you're network is located...oh, and what you're wearing.

For the record, I continue to maintain my anonymity and to protect the identity of the school, because my purpose is not self-promotion or aggression. I clearly have some pointed things to say from time to time; but the intent is not to harm, but to reach.

Speaking of reaching, where's the reach on this topic? Those of you who have been around awhile will remember that the original purpose of this site was to boost reaching over grasping. If all this discussion achieves is the polarizing of supporters and detractors, victors and vanquished, I will move on to other topics. Sure, it's fun to watch a dog snarl and try to pull an old sock out of your fist (although it's arguably more fun to watch a dog try to find her way out from under a blanket), that's just novelty, a parlor trick. I'm not interested in just creating spectacle here. If all you want is polarizing media, switch on Hannity or Franken. I want our conversations to matter for more than boundary work.

Clearly the topics of intelligent design, academic freedom, and Christian higher education are compelling to lots of people, but where does all this get us? If your interest is in wounding your opponents, please leave me out of it. If my interest is scoring more more hits on my site, I could achieve a better result by abandoning conversation for porn.

So, where do we go from here? Do we just retreat to our predictable corners: conservatives over here, liberals over there? Do we blindly defend an idea or a university simply because we like them? What do we say to each other? How do we say it?

How do we reach each other through all this? While I deeply appreciate all the supportive comments - public and private - that I have received on this topic, there's something immensely more satisfying about seeing those who are separated by ideology or allegiance come together through their common interest in reaching beyond their grasp.

How do we make our world? How do we treat each other in times such as these? Where's the reach?

INTELLIGENT RESIGN: WHEN FUNDIES MONKEY WITH ACADEMICS

For the last eight years, friends would ask me, "How can you teach at a place that has such a narrow view of the world? Surely you don't fit in there." I would defend the University. I would comment that many of our students are pretty bright, and that there is a nucleus of faculty committed to academic rigor and fair inquiry. Most of all, however, I would satisy them and myself by saying, "Even though the jack-booted thugs sometimes come knocking, the administration has historically been good about protecting our freedom to teach what and how we choose."

I kept making that argument after Dr. N was forced to retire as a religion professor and dean. He had publicly supported a moderate shift away from the conservative denominational control over the University. When they came for him, I did nothing.

I kept arguing that we still had academic freedom when, a year or two later, another religion professor, Dr. L, was denied promotion for supporting the same moderate denominational shift. Dr. L resigned after feeling pressured out. That time I did a little bit. I raised the issue as a point of concern in our bid for regional accreditation. I was regularly told that I was mistaken and that I was only going to hurt the University if I kept up such public naysaying. I resigned from the accreditation steering committee in protest.

I was still arguing that "at least my personal academic freedom is intact" when the campus moral squad came after the theater program. My good friend, Dr. F, is the director; I serve on the theater advisory board. I waded in a little deeper that time, writing pointed screeds to colleagues and powers, and going mano a mano with the provost on issues of academics, aesthetic freedom, and the theological politics of public morality. Apparently my efforts had little effect. The provost has just announced that he will be censoring cuss words in the next University theater production. It appears we may soon lose another immensely talented educator. Gosh darn it. Shucks.

All of this establishes a clear pattern of creeping fundamentalist control, and a profound erosion of faith (Anne Lamott, says "The opposite of faith is not doubt: It is certainty."), not to mention a serious problem for academic freedom and integrity. The purveyors of religious paranoia continue to ride the recent momentum of conservative populism, cracking whips and taking names, in case anyone dares to step outside their box. No one is being tortured on campus yet, but if your interests run more toward independence than indoctrination, it's a good idea to sleep with your rump to the wall.

This renascent evangelical inquisition has recently showcased its latest blunt object: Its name is Intelligent Design.

After 40 years of faithful service to the University, Dr. H is being forced out.

He came as a student in 1960, and went on faculty as the sole biology professor in 1966. He and his family suffered low pay and tough conditions: for years qualifying for food stamps and free lunches, but not accepting them. He was faithful to the school and the community, maintaining membership at First Big Church. For years he served as a Gideon, helping get copies of Christian scriptures into the hands of people around the world who hadn't really read them before. He became one of the most scientifically literate and well-read professors the University ever had. His personal collection of books currently fills bookshelves that stand seven feet high and span about 70 feet in length. He is a colossal mind with a warm heart. Sure, he's a little more churlish than the happy clappy college-is-like-Sunday-school teachers, and he is an unapologetic old school liberal--and I think he has read every book ever written about Bob Dylan--but, hell, er, I mean, "heck," that's what tenure's supposed to be for, right? Trustees and administrators are fundamentally prohibited from coming to a professor and saying, "We don't like what you teach, and you get our panties in a wad, so we are firing you."

Through the years some detractors would object to his refusal to teach a Genesis account of creation. He would respond with a simple, "Well, it's not science, you see," and that was usually the end of it. On the occasion that it went any further, the administrators of yore would assure him, "You let us fight those battles for you." They may not have personally agreed with him, but they recognized that his academic freedom was sacrosanct, if they hoped to have any credibility as an institution of higher education.

Emboldened by their recent rise to political dominance, conservative voices have grown louder. Three or four years ago, a University trustee, who is also a pastor in the community, convinced the Gideons to kick Dr. H out of the organization. I guess teaching evolution doesn't make you fit to worship or share Jesus. The pastor never talked to Dr. H. Hasn't ever met him. Coward. Oh, the Gideons? They're cowards too.

The University gave Dr. H his walking papers this week. They aren't making it too hard on him financially, but it's a firing. They are taking him out of the sensitive classes for the spring, then he's done for good in the classroom. And we are all worse off for it.

I am not going to rehearse the public debates over evolution, from Scopes, to McLean, to Aguillard. I'm not going to mention Dover or Kansas. My purpose is not to settle the dispute over the teaching of intelligent design; you can find an interesting discussion of the topic here. My interest is broader: How do we treat those with whom we disagree?

Apparently, the new stategy for people of faith is to love everyone (who agrees with you); and, if anyone stands in the way of your cultural agenda, recognize that the principles and the agenda are far more important than any stinkin' relationship. I have a good friend, soon-to-be Dr. S, who argues that the marker for fundamentalist communication is a form of "chaos rhetoric." She says the implied message is always, "Accept my argument, or our society will be catapulted into ruin."

Lucky for the University, Dr. H is not a crusader. Even though he has been treated like a plate of warmed over shinola, he maintains his commitment to the campus community, and refuses to hurt them publicly or financially.

He's a better man than I. I am fed up with the spiritual arrogance and academic ignorance that impels them to continue cherry-picking those they see as ideological threats. I'm also upset that they are allowed to keep acting with impunity, enabled by this guilt-trippy, "You don't want to make a big deal out of this and hurt the university, do you?"

What infuriates me even more is that this purging really has nothing to do with morality or scholarship, it's about money. The University, like most colleges these days, is facing tough budgetary times. They hear of a redneck kid from Gravel Road High School who decides not to come to the University because we teach the evil evolution, and they run scared. They lack the courage and the capacity to lead. Instead they circle the wagons into a tighter and tighter knot, until everything we were attempting to protect has been squeezed out onto the trail and trampelled by the stampede out of Dodge.

I know Dr. H wishes everyone would just forget it and go on. There's nothing we can do about it, and what would be the point anyway? I am in awe at his mind and at his enduring humility. Unfortunately, it's not in my nature to sit idly by when innocent people are treated unjustly, particularly when they mean so much to me.

Since everyone I respect on campus has been targeted, my day must not be too far off. Well, in the words of our commander-in-chief: "Bring. It. On." In fact, I doubt I'm going to wait. I think I'll bring it to them. Soon.

I won't call the media, or write op-ed pieces...at first, anyway. I will communicate with people honestly one on one, in hopes of restoring relationships. I have little hope that I can help Dr. H keep his job, but I hope I can help him regain some of the honor and respect he deserves.

Since there may not be anyone left to do anything when they come for me, I may be out of a job soon.

WILL BLOG FOR FOOD.

DOG IS MY CO-PILOT*

Dog doesn't follow a point. She just licks my finger.

"Over there," I say.

"Right here," she replies.

"No," stretching and shaking my pointer, " in the distance."

"I'm right here." Lick. Lick.

"Worry."

Wag.

"Heaven, up there."

Lick.

"Hell, back there."

Lick. Lick. Wag.

"I should have...Could have...Need to."

Lick. Sneeze. Slurp. Wag.

Do I dare take my cues from this mongrel love? Is finger-licking...good? Is this existential cross-breed my monk? My seer?

It is a fetching image, this canine mind that knows no regret, shares no guilt. Sheds no tears, only hair. But, will I miss God if I make this mutt my prophet? Can she lead me beside still waters? Restore my soul? Can she take me to the promised land? Deliver manna? What about my guilt? How should I then live? What should I do with my life?

Wag. Wag. Lick.

Her presentlust shames me.

Dog exists. In her image she makes me.
She never leaves or forsakes me.

Wag.

Wag.

Lick.

*The title idea came from a conversation with this wordsmith.

HOLY HALLOWEEN

I thought about writing a Halloween screed. I considered writing about the absurd belief among many evangelicals that participating in the practices of All Hallow's Eve is to lend yourself to the pagan forces of darkness. Yes, friends, carving pumpkins and passing out candy can become a stumbling block to the weak of spirit. Let's not consider how ridiculous it is that we celebrate Christmas, a monthlong celebration of unbridled consumerism, or Super Bowl Sunday, a ritual of masculine bloodlust and gluttony; let's point to toddlers in puppy costumes and say, "Get behind me, Satan!"

I was once part of a Sunday School class in late October where our teacher, an optometrist, started in on Halloween as a "worldly practice." He went on to argue that for us to participate in the dark ritual was to compromise our faith and endanger our witness. I sat in the back of the class (yes, we were already on our way out the door of that particular church) seething, while my wife patted me on the arm and attempted to calm me. This was before we moved to our hundred-year-old neighborhood where Halloween is like a national holiday, but I still had strong feelings about Christians who turn off their porch lights on Halloween and join the faithful for a holy huddle and a Bible heroes costume party.

When the teacher equated children's costumes as masks of deception, I said nothing. When he said that giving out candy was like offering sacrifices to demon gods, I said nothing.

When he said, "If what we do and what we are around does not bring glory to God, it glorifies the work of Satan. We are to be without blemish." I couldn't take it anymore.

I raised my hand. "Don't you work at LensCrafters in the mall?"

"Um, yes."

"Can you explain how the mall brings glory to God? I mean, using your standard, is there anything spiritually redeeming about store after store of merchandise that is not necessary for our survival? Isn't the entire focus of the mall designed to create an addiction to consumption that distracts us from a life of purity and holiness? How does the mall draw us closer to God? In fact, couldn't one make a pretty compelling case for the mall as Satan's church?"

"Um. Well. I'm actually trying to relocate to a vision center outside the mall."

"So, you concede that the mall is evil?"

"Um."

"If the mall is evil, couldn't we say similar things about the movie theater, the ballpark, or the bowling alley?"

"We should always be careful to not associate with anything that conflicts with the will of God."

"And you are prepared to declare for all of us what the will of God is? Don't you think that's kind of dangerous? At the end of the day, aren't we better off living lives of grace rather than judgment? I mean, are our efforts best spent criticizing beautiful little children going out into the streets to meet people, building community, and learning to share candy with their neighbors?"

Things continued along this line until the end of class. In his closing prayer, the teacher spoke about "the spirit of dissension" that had entered the class. I guess God listened and cleansed them of unrighteousness, since we never went back after that.

Yeah, I considered writing something about all that Halloween crap, but I decided not to. Instead, I thought I would just tell you about something that happened last night.

My youngest daughter went trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. She and her friends thought it would be cool to stop by the governor's house - he just moved in about four blocks from us. It turns out that he was the one answering the door and giving out the goodies to future voters.

Later, when she joined us at the bacchanalian feast we were enjoying at a neighbor's house, I asked her if the governor was passing out Butterfingers, since it would be an appropriate metaphor for his handling of Medicaid (denying coverage to the "least of these"), among other things.

She couldn't remember what candy he offered, and she had no overtly political comments.

She just said, "His face was completely without blemish."

Beautiful.

MOVE TO THE FRONT, ROSA

Rosa Parks, 1913-2005

May your tired feet find rest, Rosa.

The weak have become strong. The last have finished first. You have moved from the back to the front. Take your place in the driver's seat.

When you make it to your final destination, dance. Step out the front door and dance.

DRIVE BY

My oldest daughter took her driver's test yesterday. She turned 16 last week, and we finally made it to the license bureau.

I made her take the test at the downtown office in the middle of our metropolis. Her friends all took their driving tests in the surrounding suburbs. It's supposed to be easier in the smaller towns. We live near downtown. That's where she will be driving most of the time. If she can't pass the test on the streets she'll be driving, she shouldn't be driving.

I made her take the test in a 16 year-old Saab with a stick shift. Lots of her friends used the nicest vehicle available to them, complete with power steering and the easy-to-navigate automatic transmission. My daughter will be driving the old 5-speed Saab. If she can't pass the test in the car she plans to drive, she shouldn' t be driving.

I made her take the test with a leering pervert in the back seat. Most of her friends were only accompanied by the evaluator. My daughter is quite beautiful and will regularly be distracted by leering perverts. If she can't pass the test while enduring constant leering, she shouldn't be driving.

I made her take the test with a live mongoose wrapped around her neck. Most of her friends had to carry no live animals on their person, or even in their cars. My daughter is going to be wearing a live mongoose, or at least some weasle-like carnivore most of the time she's driving. If she can't pass the test wearing an animal, she shouldn't be driving.

I guess a small part of me mourns the passing of her childhood. Part of me anticipates her adulthood. Most of me is just delighted with her as she is. In fact, I may be the luckiest father alive. My daughters are both teenagers and we really like each other. I don't wish for them to be little girls again, and I don't long for them to be grown and gone. I am in awe at the way they are--the ways they change and grow every day. And I feel incredibly blessed that I get to share the ride with them. I really like my kids. At a point in their lives when many parents are sick of their teenagers, I can say that I really enjoy spending time with them. In fact, I would generally choose to hang out with my daughters than most other people. Maybe it's because I can ground them. Maybe it's because I can say things like, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out." Ohhh boy, do we laugh over that one. Or, maybe it's because God smiled on me (and my wife) and gave us better children than we deserve.

Anyway, she passed her test. Now I have to stock up on mongooses. Mongeese?

TOPEKA, 1973

Something happened in Kansas.

We lived in a first-phase subdivision, one of the early housing developments still close in, near parks and the city infrastructure, full of ranch homes and split levels. What I remember most were the vacant lots. It didn’t make sense: mature neighborhoods with untended piles of dirt on empty lots. I didn’t think to question it then—when I was ten—but reflecting on it, I know that the lots were vacant because potential buyers had lost interest when space suddenly became available in rapidly sprawling suburbia. Why build infill among ten-year-old homes when you can be part of one fell swoop in a brand new cul de sac?

All I remember is that those vacant lots were heaven for a boy on a bike. We didn’t plan after-school activities in those days. No playdates, carpooling, or adult supervision. We just showed up on our bikes with a bucketful of mischief. It was in the lot across the street from my house that Chris Wiggins asked me if I worshiped Satan.

“You must be a Satan-worshiper if you talk like that,” he said. I had just lobbed a “Goddamn you” at Chris for side-swiping my new Schwinn Stingray. Sure, I used the Lord’s name in vain, and I was expecting a lightning bolt, or at the very least a bar of soap in my mouth, but he had just dented the chain guard and scuffed my shiny banana seat. Pissant (I learned that one from Mary Ellen on The Waltons).

“My dad says the only people that say g.d. are Satan-worshippers and Jaycees,” Chris continued.

I wasn’t even a practiced swearer. I had only learned the word the year before from a Baptist deacon’s son in Sedalia. He taught me the word as we played catch and dropped the ball on purpose. “Goddamn it,” he’d say. We’d giggle, then he’d pick it up and toss it to me. I’d drop it and repeat the deliciously forbidden profanity. There was something powerful about biting into that word. Until that night I hadn’t dreamed of using such language. But there was something strangely liberating about it. I had just recently been released from a life of serious constraint; to be able to utter the most egregious of curse words and survive was a testament to my immortality. In reality, I think I felt like God just wasn’t looking right then. Sort of like a surveillance satellite that loses contact with certain points in its orbit for a few hours at a time. This was my time.

Before we were done with our cussfest, God had returned to a position of perfect triangulation, directly over the Missouri State Fair and its surrounding neighborhoods. My hubris found me prancing and pointing at the ground, performing my curse on the errant baseball. I didn’t know the storm window was up and my mom could hear me.

It was like my transgressions had been beamed from above. She was NORAD. She was Strategic Air Command. She was on the red phone. Sitting at the table, talking with the deacon’s wife, the call came. She sat up and shot out the door faster than gunfire.

My friend was a deacon’s son. My daddy was the pastor. A Southern Baptist pastor. Satellite God was not amused.

Yessir, I tasted some Ivory that night. For real. She twisted a bar around in my piehole and sent me to bed early. Man, that soap tasted bad. It worked, though. I didn’t say that particular curse word too much after that.

Except for that day in Topeka.

So, when Chris started in on me, all the old guilt and fear started to creep in. But, there was more to it than my language. Chris’ dad was a deacon too. And there had been some trouble at the church.

It was the early 1970s, so if you looked past the mutton chops and leisure suits, you might have noticed the tail end of the Jesus Movement. Since the late '60s, teenagers and college students had been getting into Jesus as the original hippie, the righteous flower child; and "one way," with the forefinger extended, was replacing "peace" as the greeting of the day. Topeka was no San Francisco, but we had our share of Jesus Freaks.

It seemed that the entire population of Topeka Jesus People started coming to our church. I'm not sure why, but they did. They were coming to prayer groups and Bible studies at first. Then they started coming to Sunday morning worship services. They were long-haired, barefooted, and liberated from the regimen of daily bathing. The church members were excited, to say the least. You could just hear them exclaiming their joy, "This is so great. Now they will bathe, cut their hair, wear some decent clothes, and get jobs."

It didn't happen. The hippies didn't clean up and they didn't start playing along with the status quo. They did start coming to church and making a scene. My dad would be bringing it from the pulpit, and they would jump and shout, "preach it, brother!" or "right on" at strategic points in the sermon.

My dad was diggin' it, but people like Chris' dad were not. They told him to have those kids get their act together. Dad told them to shove it. Those kids were children of God, and they were a lot more real in their faith than anything he was seeing from the members who were fat and tenured. I'm not sure about all the details during that period. I just remember peeking through the door of the sanctuary when they voted to fire him.

He changed after that. There was a bitterness and an anger that entered his life that never really disappeared. He was okay, though. The hippies all left the church, with half the original members. They started a new church and asked Dad to be their pastor. He said yes. A couple of years later, when the hippies had all gotten jobs and families, they started to become the thing they had once hated, and he decided it was time to leave. Wounded and a little less hopeful, he moved on.

Thankfully, we had a mom in our home who believed in prayer. We still struggle with our demons, but her faith caused Grace to keep filling us and eventually start mending the broken parts.

But, before we left Topeka, I was sitting in a vacant lot, having just said, "Goddamn you" to Chris Wiggins. I don't know, maybe it was about the chainguard and the banana seat. Maybe I was just pissed at this kid for running into me. Or, maybe I was remembering the nights I had heard my parents crying. Maybe the weight of their pain had begun to leak into my ten-year-old heart. Maybe I had been wounded as well, and I wanted someone to pay for it.

Here's what I do know: That little prick never did fix my bike.

WHAT DO WE HAVE TO SAY?

Last night I watched the final installment of the Scorcese-directed Dylan documentary, No Direction Home, on PBS. It was a compelling narrative about the perplexing Dylan persona as it evolved from the early days in Hibbing, Minnesota to 1966 and the motorcycle accident. But, the best moment in the film was a comment by artist Bobby Neuwirth.

In those days, artistic success was not dollar-driven. It was, you know, those were simpler times. If you had something to say, which was basically the way people were rated, you know, they'd say, "Have you seen Ornette Coleman? Does he have anything to say?" And it was the same with Bob or anybody else, you know, do they have anything to say or not?

Forty years later, there is no shortage of talking. But are we saying anything?

It's so easy for us to commodify our experiences as lovers, preachers, poets, and bloggers. Does size matter? What's your attendance? Have you been published? How many hits do you get? When we let salaries and test scores define us, when contracts and media attention signify the quality of our existence, we become less human and more widget-like. The result is just clutter.

When we grant a hearing to whatever whirling dervish catches our attention, we just perpetuate the problem. We're like kittens responding to the loudest TRUTH claims dressed up like tempting balls of string. We give them a swat, then claw the couch and look for the next distraction. Every time it happens, we just increase orders at the yarn factory.

That's all I have to say about that. You?

PRIORITIES

I'm not abandoning the previous conversation, but I thought you might want to get this soon. A fellow MayApple artist, Eric Leick, recently wrote about our failures in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He muscled a bunch of folks into the studio (most of whom are showcased on our upcoming disc), and made this song. Give it a listen. Pass it on. It only takes a spark.

THIS BLOG, IT IS A'CHANGIN'

But not much.

I'm not planning a big redesign. Mainly 'cause I don't know how...and don't really care.

However, there are some issues to address. Traffic has picked up quite a bit, but - with the exception of the more controversial topics - comments are holding steady or dropping off. This leads me to believe that there are numerous "lurkers" who, for whatever reason, don't feel comfortable jumping into the conversation. If you don't want to speak up, that's fine; but I don't want anyone to feel like what they have to say isn't appreciated. So, let me propose these guidelines for users:

1. If you have something to say, say it. Contrary to what some have assumed, you do not have to have a Blogger account to leave a comment; although I recommend it. Entering the blogosphere brings certain spiritual, financial, and physical rewards (I'm getting rich...and you should see my abs).

2. You can choose to name yourself in the comments section, or you can remain anonymous. Makes no difference to me, but it is easier for people to engage your ideas if you put a name to it. If you don't want to use your real name, make one up. I think "Biscuit" would be a cute name for someone...or "Cheryl."

3. Try to limit your comments to a brief paragraph or two, Biscuit. I don't know this for sure, but my sense is that the novel-length comments work to discourage the less verbose. If you have more to say on a topic, that's a good sign that you need to start your own blog. You can leave a link to your site in the comments section, and we'll go read what you have to say.

4. You will notice that I have started using a word-recognition security step for comment postings. That has nothing to do with you, it's designed to filter out spammers (scourge of the planet).

5. In case you didn't pick up on this recently, abusive attacks on me or others won't be tolerated. I am completely accepting of strongly-worded disagreements mixing up a cocktail of truth. I even support those who hope to muscle everyone into their perspective (if they can pull it off, more power to them). However, angry profanity-laden screeds will generally be removed.

6. If you have a personal message for me, send it to my email (thereacher [at] sbcglobal.net). The comments section works best if we are all engaging the content of the post, or the other comments.

Of course, you have the right to ignore my patriarchal ramblings; but, then, I have the right to put a boot in your rhetorical pooper.

One of the reasons I started this blog was to encourage dialogue. If you have ideas of how I can do more to improve things, no matter how absurd, let me know. Perhaps I'll present an award for the best idea (even though I'm pretty sure Biscuit will win).

AN OPEN LETTER TO CLOSED MINDS

This message is for Christian fundamentalists.

First, let me say that I'm not particularly fond of you right now. On any given day I can tolerate you. Sometimes I even like some of you quite a lot. But now is not a good time.

Before I explain why, perhaps I should clarify who I'm talking to. I am not referring to honest, sincere believers who simply hold to a set of principles they consider fundamental. If this is as far as "fundamentalist" goes in describing you, we're okay. We may have contrary views on any given day, but usually the greater aims of love and mutual respect allow us to, at our worst, agree to disagree.

No, the fundamentalists I am speaking of are the religious operatives who use the theology of biblical inerrancy and reactionary moralism as a thinly-veiled strategy to harness the power of cultural certainty and ride their way to theocratic dominance. Slapping leather. Cracking whips.

If you have been paying attention to my blog, this should come as no surprise. So, I guess the play is the thing. Last weekend, the University staged a student-directed production of a Pulitzer and Tony award-winning play. It was magnificent. Maybe the best performance of its kind I've seen in my eight years on faculty. The play opened to rave reviews and audiences stunned by the vibrancy of the production.

Then it came. The shit. Hitting the fan.

Dr. Fussy Budget, the religion professor, sent an email of rebuke to the theatre professor and his advisory board. Among other things, he referred to the play as "shameful," "an embarrassment," "garbage," and "waste." He went on to comment that "We don't have to crawl into the mud with the pigs in order to know that it's dirty in there."

Was there nudity? Gun play? Were animals harmed in the making of the play? No. There were about a half dozen curse words, "alcohol" consumption, and the suggestion that two of the characters had been sexually intimate offstage. Far less offensive than the average half-hour of broadcast television.

Fundamentalists, this is where I remind myself that I'm not fond of you right now. I know you didn't do it. But, given the chance you would have. If not, the culture of intolerance you promote emboldened this guy to come after his colleagues with both holy barrels ablazin'.

He completely missed the point of the script, disrespected the efforts of the students, and villified the performance by way of a bastardized theology that has more to do with his own provincialism and personal hangups than it does with the nature of God.

I wrote him a lengthy response. I haven't sent it. It's harsh. I mean it's pretty brutal; and I struggle with how much I am prepared to become like him in my rebuttal of him. I am tempted to use Matthew 23 (where Jesus opens up some whoop-ass on the Pharisees) as my justification; but I'm not sure that's enough. On the other hand, I fear that too many believers let crap like this go unanswered because they have been taught that good boys and girls shut up and smile pretty.

What I do know is that it's bullshit. It's exactly this kind of bullshit that prevents us from being a light in the world. It is this kind of bullshit that corrupts and distorts the message of love and grace eternal. (If you are still wondering if this message is directed at you, ask yourself if my repeated use of the word "bullshit" bothers you more than the response of Dr. Fussy. Hint: If it does, this message is for you.)

What's even more disgusting is that Dr. Fussy goes on to suggest that the immorality of the University theatre will cost the campus recruits. Marketing. That's what it's really about. Not Truth and Goodness. I guarantee you, if we were flush with funds, this issue wouldn't have come up. Isn't that usually the case with Fundies? At the end of the day, it's about who has the power (financially, morally, emotionally, etc.).

Before you start weighing in with your charges that I am hoisted on my own petard because I deliver the very intolerance abhor, let me just save you the time and cop to the charge. Guilty. I am stuck. "One dead, the other powerless to be born," as Walker Percy said. I don't want to abandon the field to rhetoric of legalism and control; but I don't want to become the thing I despise.

It's amazing to me that anybody believes in God anymore. I mean, other than those of us who grow up believing because that's what our families did. It seems that the Holy has to cut through a tremendous amount of detritus, wade through a lot of slop, to get to us. I'm just glad Jesus is willing to crawl into the mud with the rest of us.

Oink.

EVERYBODY'S FREE (TO WEAR SUNSCREEN)

Interesting confluence of events.

I had just finished watching one of my favorite films, and I was reading columns about the post-Katrina world. I kept mumbling the song that played over the credits of the film. After a while the song got to me, so I looked it up. It sounded like literate advice put to a dance beat. Turns out the original song scribe is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, who just happened to author a good piece on New Orleans.

The song is called "Everbody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen) Mix." The song's origin is another story unto itself. After its birth as a newspaper column, the song made an appearance in an Internet hoax, starring Kurt Vonnegut and MIT. Ultimately it became a hit in Australia, then found its way onto a soundtrack of a largely ignored, but brilliant American film.

It would probably be more appropriate to save this posting until graduation time, but I've never been much for timing. So, here it is.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but in your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

Not the most groundbreaking lyric...or performance for that matter. But, settle it into the tail end of an amazingly dramatic closing scene, and mix it with just the right amount of techno to give it gravitas - or street cred - and you have the makin's of a fine piece of news column-commencement speech-cyber spoof-spoken word-dance track-movie theme-media convergence phenomenon.

HURRICANE HOUSING

Well, we did it. We registered to receive refugees into our home; and now we wait to be contacted. I think there are others in our neighborhood doing the same. We are hoping that we can get some families with children so they can all attend the neighborhood school together.

We have heard from most of our New Orleans friends. One couple's house was undamaged. They are still home with running water and gas, but no electricity. They are running low on food, so they'll have to leave soon. For now they are staying inside with their guns, since there are roving gangs in the streets.

Another family found out that their house is sitting in 15 feet of water. Fortunately for them they are pretty wealthy, so they were able to buy a house in Baton Rouge. Had to give more than the asking price and pay cash to get it. The husband's brother is an ER doc at one of the hospitals. He and the other hospital personnel are all packing heat in shoulder holsters to defend themselves against the drug addicts suffering from a disrupted supply.

We haven't been able to locate two other friends. They had just finished restoring a century-old house in one of the hardest hit neighborhoods. May God shine his face upon you, Greg and Art.

Let me encourage you to become a haven. You can register here to take a family into your home. If you can't give your home, give something: time, energy, money, etc. Do something that hurts a little. Check the comments here and in the post below for some good ideas from readers.

I'm going to go help load a truck. Have a good weekend.

A HURRICANE OF EMOTIONS

This morning I was listening to some of my students talk about all the cool stuff they're going to do over the three-day weekend. It sounded great. Lots of sun, fun, and family.

I lost it.

I had just watched video footage of poor, black people literally dying before my eyes. The dispossessed, the least of these. Right. There. In. Front. Of. Us. Chanting "Help. Help. Help." Is it okay to go back for seconds and talk about the game when people need help? I have always struggled with the rationalizations we use to justify our inaction.

So I said this -

Before you load up the car for a bitchin' time at the lake, don't forget to take a look at the people who will be sitting by their own lake this weekend. A lake full of disease, violence, and the bodies of their neighbors. Be sure, when you go to church this weekend, and you join with fellow believers in a celebration of your life in Christ, that you at least mention the single mom who now has no job, no home, no peace, no rest. Remember the filth, as you sleep on clean sheets. Remember the starvation, as you grill your burgers. Remember your homework, while so many look at the rubble that used to be their school. Be grateful for what you have, when so many others have lost it all.

If you think about all the suffering and do nothing, you are a liar. You say you are a disciple of Jesus; that you are committed to loving and living like him. But if you stare in the face of the newly homeless and do nothing, you lie. Write a check, if it will make you feel better. But I don't think Jesus called us to be check-writers. It's better than doing nothing; but I think Jesus asks us for more than a payoff. He asks us to get into relationship with the poor. Anything less is game-playing. Understand, I'm as guilty as you. I want to bring a family of refugees home with me, get them jobs, put their kids in school, etc. It scares me to think about bringing a strange family into my house. It might cost me. It might interrupt my comfortable existence. But where's my faith? I say I'm willing to die for my beliefs...just don't ask me to share my room.

In a strange way I am energized by times like these. It is an opportunity to separate the true believers from the bullshitters. You'll recognize the bullshitters as the ones who are more concerned about the word "bullshit" than the fact that thousands of innocent people are suffering. You can only trade on piety for so long, until the people in need recognize you for the phony you are. So, before you finalize your plans for a day of jet skiing this weekend, ask yourself who you are.

Okay, I didn't say the "bullshit" part, but it was definitely implied.

I am at sea here. I'm a little paralyzed. I have made some inquiries about housing a family. Dear God, give me the faith to follow through, if someone accepts my offer.

TURBO

After a recent rainstorm, my daughters found a baby squirrel that had been blown out of its nest. It barely had hair, and its eyes were not yet open. So, being the tenderhearted people they are, they brought it home.

After setting up an old aquarium in the garage, they used one of my syringes (sans needle)—left over from my smack habit—to feed it milk. They soon discovered that it was a he, and they named him Turbo. I don’t know why. Maybe because squirrels are fast...?

They kept up the feedings for a few days, and Turbo seemed to gain strength and vitality. He would crawl around some and cling to them with his little claws when they fed him. But his good health was creating a certain degree of tension in our home.

My wife is a gardner. She raises all kinds of flowers and herbs. She grows some vegetables too; but it’s a hardscrabble life in a yard surrounded by 80 year-old trees giving heavy shade. In her attempt to cultivate a tomato crop each year, she suffers from lack of direct sunlight, and she regularly loses to the ranks of the thieving squirrel population. She’s tried fencing and home remedy repellents; I’ve even trapped squirrels for her and released them outside the city. They call in reinforcements and continue chowing down on the convenient crop. It makes her furious. Damn yard rats.

But after a couple of days I noticed my wife starting to warm to the little fella. I'm not sure she was loving the idea of nurturing a future enemy; but as a mother she saw her daughters caring for a vulnerable creature and it changed her.

Love has a way doesn't it? No matter what your beliefs or experiences; no matter how dogmatic you might be, witnessing the selfless love of another bends you to a new way of thinking. There is nothing quite as beautiful as an act of authentic grace.

Well, after three or four days, Turbo took a turn for the worse. He was showing signs of dehydration and malnutrition. We could mother him, but we didn’t have what his momma had to give. We called the local conservation office to find out what we should do.

"Take it back where you found it."

"Excuse me. It's just a baby; it wouldn't stand a chance."

"It stands a better chance of its mother finding it and caring for it than it does surviving in your care."

This was hard news to take. We were not optimistic. The next day we formed, what looked like a funeral procession, to take Turbo home. We walked the block in silence. When we got to his tree, the girls set him down and covered him with dry leaves, so he would stand a better chance with the neighborhood cats. They considered saying a few words, then decided to just say goodbye for now. The youngest got red-faced and wet-cheeked; she's always had a soft spot for the underdog, the neglected. It was killing her to give up and walk away.

All of a sudden my eyes began to sting.

"It's just a damn squirrel," I told myself.

"It's a wild animal. Wild animals die every day and no one in their world gives a shit. Grow up."

Call me weak and childish, but I couldn't get that squirrel out of my mind.

I went to look for him the next day. I searched and searched; then I saw him. The poor little guy was a couple of feet up the tree, spread out wide, clinging on for dear life, still breathing, but not looking too good.

The next day he was gone.

Maybe his family found him and carried him home. Maybe his aunt is teaching him the fine art of tomato theft at this very moment. Or, maybe he became a meal. Contrary to the anthropomorphizing of Disney, there was no celebration or mourning in the squirrel community. They moved on. Life and death are just part of everyday existence.

But I find myself still thinking about how that vulnerable creature changed our family. How it turned my children into mothers and how it changed my wife's heart.

I think about how, even though he was insignificant, Turbo did not fall to the ground without God's knowledge.

I think about how we don't live in isolated boxes. Our lives affect the world around us.

I think about how we sometimes do the wrong thing, even when our intentions are pure.

I'm not sure what the Lesson, or Higher Purpose was in Turbo's visit to our home; but I'm leaving a tomato out for him.

WHY I DON'T PRAY IN CLASS

As you may know, I teach at an evangelical Christian university. It seems like a strange fit sometimes, what with my progressive ideologies and occasional snarky attitudes toward the religious right, but on the whole it's a pleasant experience. I don't mind being an enigma. In fact, I quite enjoy it sometimes. I recognize the danger of slipping into my own sanctimonious martyr complex, so I try to engage in regular self-examination and criticism. Valuing honesty over agendas works pretty well for me.

At the University, many of the faculty begin classes and meetings with prayer. Makes sense: Christian school, prayer, etc. I, on the other hand, do not begin classes with prayer. It's a college, not a church. After having my faith questioned by a student a year or so ago, when he challenged me on my class prayer platform, I wrote this essay that I distribute with my syllabi.

WHY I DON’T PRAY IN CLASS

Okay, so I don’t pray in class. This is a relief to some, a concern for others.

You might assume that I am opposed to praying in class. You’d be wrong. You can pray if you want to. I know some praying professors, and I completely support them. If they are compelled by the spirit to begin class with prayer, who am I to discourage, denigrate, or otherwise diminish them in their obedience to God? And it’s not like I’ve never prayed in class. I just don’t make a habit of it.

You might also assume that I am not the praying type. You’d be wrong again. Many mornings (but not as many as I should) at 6:30 a.m. I settle in and center down. I begin with a time of contemplative meditation, where I discipline myself to remove all distraction from my mind except the holy presence of God. I do that in complete stillness and silence for 15 minutes or so, until the spirit of Christ fully inhabits me. I offer my thanks, confess my sins, and ask for help. After that I join my family and my dog. We read scripture and pray together. Justice, the dog, is a canine mystic. She puts her head on her paws and usually lets out a gentle grunt, as though she is in touch with a deeper spirit than we silly humans.

It is rare for me to finish a time of prayer with dry eyes. Something about the truth and grace of it just gets to me. Sometimes it's hard to pull myself out of the world of the spirit and into the step and fetch of the here and now.

I have taught at the University for eight years, and I have seen hundreds of meetings and gatherings begin with prayer. Sometimes it strikes me as humble and genuine, but too often it is sort of like calling a meeting to order - like a pledge of allegiance or a national anthem.

I take this cue from Jesus’ teaching in the Gospel According to Matthew:

And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

I don’t pray in class because prayer shakes me, it shatters me, it breaks me into a thousand pieces, and puts me back together. It gets me lost and finds me. It tears me up and mends me. It’s like nudity: beautiful and grim, and rarely appropriate for public consumption. I know that every prayer doesn’t have to be so intimate and intense. I do pray in a “normal” way at times. But, I’m not a big fan of “normal.”

Now that I’ve told you far more than you ever wanted to know, you understand why I don’t pray in class. Feel free to disagree, and even criticize me if you wish; but if you do, I may ask you to join me at 6:30 in the morning.

PERSPECTIVE

In April I wrote about this ill-fated battle to save a neighborhood school. Well, blow the bugle and sound the shofar; they're baaaaaack. The School Closers are back and they’re packing multiple warheads. It’s not just about one or two small schools this time. They are discussing a proposal to abandon a dozen neighborhood elementary schools with the aim of consolidating them into regional education supercenters.

Among the targeted is Rountree School, in my neighborhood. My kids went there. Their grandpa went there. Many of our friends are graduates. It's more than just an educational institution, this 90 year-old, red brick structure is the heart that pumps the life through our little part of the city. At the very least, Rountree acts like a matriarch, shaping each new generation of neighbors in her image. As each new resident moves into the 'hood, or grows to the age of awareness, the old girl slows them down, fills their hearts with history, and puts a healthy glow on their faces. They learn that places aren't just spaces; they are meaning-makers that influence the way we inhabit the world. The gaggle of young voices passing by on the sidewalk each morning is not an insignificant curtain of sound; it is a sound and a sight that cuts a goove in our hearts.

The district hired an outside consultant, who has determined that small historic school buildings do not "achieve maximized facility usage" standards. Yeah? Maximize this.

He would have us believe that modern buildings, housing 500 students, are far more economical and conducive to education than decrepit old buildings that drive students and teachers to failure and mayhem. He's wrong.

Well, true to our reputation as an activist community, the Rountree neighbors have rallied, organized, protested, and persuaded. We continue to fight for, not only our school, but all the small schools that anchor neighborhoods throughout the city.

I have spent countless hours researching, writing, calling, etc. I hate what the Walmartization of education does to us as individuals and as communities. The good news is that I'm building buns of steel, what with the angry butt-clenching all day. Righteous indignation can be liberating. But it keeps me up at night. It's exhausting.

Friday night I got some perspective.

I watched Born Into Brothels. It's a documentary about an American photographer, Zana Briski, who befriends a group of children in Calcutta's red light district. Their mothers are prostitutes and the men in their lives are criminals and drug addicts. Zana gives them cameras and teaches them photography. The result is beautiful and heartbreaking. The work they produce is quite good, and they garner a great deal of international attention for their art. However, in her attempt to get the kids into boarding schools and out of the hellhole they're in, Zana is only partially successful. Some of these amazing children are doomed to a life of poverty, humiliation, and violence.

As documentaries go, it isn’t the most amazing piece of cinema I’ve ever seen; but the story vandalized any notion I had that my life was difficult. It didn't lessen my resolve to continue fighting for my neighborhood and the value of community; but it gave me perspective.

If we win and our school is preserved, it will be hard to go home, prop my feet up, and feel like we’ve actually done something, when Gour, Puja, Manik, Shanti, and Suchitra are still searching for a chance to escape the red light district.

When I pray tonight, I will pray that the consumeristic minds of my generation loosen their grip on the worlds within their fists. May we reach beyond the convenient. May we see beyond our desires. May "the least of these" be moved to the front of the line.

God help us.

MY HERO

I have been away, mentally and physically, for the past couple of days. I may try to unravel the incredibly tangled web we created with that last post. I just don't have the energy or desire at the moment.

I spent this afternoon with her and her family.

I sat in the courtroom, at the county courthouse, in my college town, watching a preliminary hearing. My presence was motivated by nothing but her desire to be surrounded by people who cared about her.

What a weekend. She graduated on Friday, and this on Monday.

She sat up there on the witness stand, still in her neck collar, and was the bravest person I've ever met. She told all the awful details to the judge, the attorneys, a room full of people, and the accused. She never faltered, never wavered. When she pointed at him, in his orange jump suit, she looked at him for a moment, then she was done. He would maintain no hold on her today.

She made it look easy, even though I'm sure it was excruciating. I know I hurt. I know I couldn't stop thinking about my daughters, until I had to force myself to stop thinking about them so I wouldn't start weeping or cursing. But something about her courage and strength rebuked me. In a strange way, I felt like she was supporting me. Her faith and her bravery surpass anything I've seen lately. I lost the urge to romanticize my pain as a father. She revoked my permission to grieve as a dad. I had no right. We didn't dwell on destruction, we moved on to live and love another day.

When she was talking with her counselor at home, she said, "I'm glad it was me."

What?

"There are a lot of women who wouldn't have been able to handle this. I can. I'm glad it was me and not one of them."

That's one of the most disturbing and beautiful things I've ever heard.

GOD HATES FLAGS

Flags have been on my mind lately.

What an interesting thing, a flag. What’s it for? Vexillologists tell us that flags were originally designed for identification and signaling purposes. They were meant to communicate important information in an efficient manner. Most flags have evolved past that, to become largely ceremonial or symbolic. But, events often conspire to reinvigorate flags with new potency.

The tragedies of 9/11 prompted a renewal of the U.S. flag as a sign of mourning, hope, and solidarity. Some used the war in Iraq and the election of 2004 to further reshape (or return) our national view of the flag as an ideological marker. So, for some the U.S. flag is a matter of honor and recognition, for others it’s a signal of pride and aggression. There are endless debates about the flag as a symbol of patriotism, and I won’t play Chomsky and submit a “flag theory” in this space.

That’s not what’s on my mind.

The U.S. House recently passed a resolution in June, supporting a Constitutional amendment that would ban flag desecration. It will likely move to a vote in the Senate any day now. Having failed to get the necessary votes the last five or six times it’s been tried, legislators apparently stand a much better chance of passing it this time around. While there are some compelling issues surrounding the issue of flag desecration, that’s not what’s on my mind.

The confederate flag has also received a great deal of attention lately. Several Southern states and numerous local institutions continue to debate the balance between heritage and offensiveness.

But, that’s not what’s on my mind.

THIS is what’s on my mind:

The United States Christian Flag

I first heard about this flag here and here.

Some of you may be familiar with the original Christian flag, designed by a Sunday school superintendent and a Methodist minister in 1907.

The original pledge to the Christian flag was,

I pledge allegiance to the Christian Flag and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands. One brotherhood, uniting all mankind, in service and love.

Most conservative Protestant churches, feeling that the message was too broad and liberal, modified the pledge to read,

I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag, and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands; one Savior, crucified, risen, and coming again with life and liberty to all who believe.

While more than a little disturbing in its crusade-ishness, for decades the Christian flag sat stoically next to the American flag in Protestant churches, proclaiming a strange and benign version of patriotism and faith. It received little attention beyond mumbled rituals of punch-stained preschoolers at vacation bible school.

Well, apparently, the Christian flag’s design and pledge were too anemic and inclusive for Marcia Thompson Eldreth and her pastor.

The Betsy Ross of American Fundamentalism designed the new U.S Christian flag, which carries this pledge:

I pledge allegiance, to the Christian Flag, of the United States of America, and to the Lord, who made us great and free. I purpose, to band together, with all believers, to protect the truth and liberty of God.

Holy. Shit.

Where to begin. Why a flag? Why an exclusively U.S. flag? Is the U.S. unique in its "greatness" and "freedom?" When we "band together," is that a thinly-veiled call to arms? By "all believers," does that imply only American believers? Since when did God's truth or liberty need your protection? And that's just for starters.

I know this represents a perverted extreme of the American Christian Right, and I know that many of my conservative friends will recoil at this too; but where is this God-is-on-our-side stuff going to end? Star-spangled bibles? Pistol-packing missionaries? Seeing the cross by the rockets red glare?

Whenever we fly something, wave something, or display something designed to signal our cultural location, our religious identity, or our ideology; and whenever the flying, waving, and displaying become more important than the living and the loving, we have completely missed the point.

My neighbor, Bill, regularly displays an American flag on his house. While Bill and I do not agree about most things political, and I am not much for flag-waving, his flag is not offensive to me at all. Bill is a good guy whose son is in the military, and who is simply proud of his country. He doesn’t fly his flag to say something about me, or to draw some line of division between us, and he would never let his flag come between our relationship as neighbors.

The U.S. Christian flag bothers me a lot. My God and my faith are not things to be possessed by an exclusive group or nation, or weapons to be wielded in a nationalistic culture war.

Jesus said that his followers will be known for their love, joy, peace, kindness, etc. He didn’t say, “They will know you by your flags.” Someone needs to remind Marcia that Jesus taught that we win by losing.

So, does God hate flags? I don’t know. I honestly don’t think God gives a damn about our flags. But I feel sure that God hates it when we spend more time and attention on banners, edifices, proclamations, and policies than we do loving God and loving our neighbors.

ON THE MEND

This is the latest in the story. My sister and brother-in-law just returned to Texas after the VA docs in Madison, Wisconsin removed parts of his frontal and temporal lobes.

Rick wanted to pass this on to all of you--

To the faithful readers of The Reach, from Reacher's bro-in-law: I simply must say that I appreciate being in your prayers while I was going through the whole head surgery thing. I kept a journal, as is my habit, while all this stuff was happening; but there was nothing I wrote that seemed exceptional, or that I would grasp better at a later time.

What I would like to say is that I am a disabled vet who was in on the end of the Vietnam War. I zigged when I should of zagged, going through a hatch. I got injured, started having seizures, and was discharged. My intention was to join the Navy out of high school, stay 20 years and retire at 37 with a pension. But things don't always go the way a guy plans or expects.

Such is life.

In a way things did go the way I planned....It has been 29 years since my injury. Each month I get a disability compensation check. I feel I should send every taxpayer in America a Christmas card. Were I working at just a job I can only imagine how I would be cared for.

Here's the update: I returned home yesterday. I have been seizure-free since the surgery, and when I have been so for a year I will be eligible for a driver's license. Being unable to drive is the most exasperating aspect of having seizures - and the most inconvenient. Fortunately, my wife and family hang in there. My self-esteem would not break any records, because I feel I have fallen short of any meaningful contribution due to the limits thrust on me. However, because of everybody's prayerful support I now see that things might quickly change. I appreciate y'all's prayers. Thank you. It is my belief that without them there is no hope.

I thank God for my Wonder Woman wife who has been by me the whole time. I believe that without her I would have soon become unfit to live with. And while I would not wish anybody to be injured I can only say head injuries are a strange, intense, and peculiar way to go from day to day. And this is especially true for the caregiver! It takes a special person to provide direct care to someone with a traumatic head injury. Thank you, Sister, for your aid and support. You are my superhero and I can't imagine a pedestal tall enough for you. Nor can I picture me without you.

Reacher Readers: I have been seizure free now since June 15th or so. Texas law requires one year seizure-free before a driver's test can be repeated. That is my first goal. My year is getting shorter all the time. And a restorable '74 Ford Thunderbird or a '67 Mustang is my second. It is even possible I could get back in the classroom.

Reacher: Thanks for being in Wisconsin with us. Our chat on the bank of the lake was great. And it was something out of the routine that my days were quickly becoming. In the event I appeared calm, truth was I was scared. I can't say it any other way. The two stronget feelings I experienced were fear and uncertainty. Yours and everybody else's prayers brought me comfort and gave me the stamina to get through another day.

We're all glad to hear it, Rick. It sure is nice to know you'll be with us a while longer. Here's to your health, and may you refuse to give up the fedora, even after the ugly scar heals.

And let me say this about my big sister. Rick's right, she is a superhero. But, her heroics don't come without a cost. She does the heavy lifting like a caped crusader, and she walks through fire for those she loves; but she gets tired and burned, and most of us don't see it. May you heal as well, Sis. And may you rest.

MORE "LIFE AFTER ALL"

For those of you who have paid attention to the recording project, you might be interested to know that all the thumpin', strummin', stringin', singin', hummin', and rat-a-tat-tattin' is finished. For those of you who have not paid attention to such matters - my wife is a covert operative for the CIA. Now, for God's sake, don't tell anybody.

As for the album, we have entered the mixing stage. This is the period where MayApple maestro Mark Bilyeu performs, what Bill Thomas calls, digital witchcraft. He will take all of our raw ingredients and mismatched tomsongery, mix it with an eye of newt, and boil it in his cauldron. When it's done, beasts will be beautiful, frogs will beg for kisses, Howard Dean will know the difference between the Old and New Testaments, and Karl Rove won't be a meany head. He ain't no Gandalf, but what Mark does for guys like Todd and me is the equivalent of turning Rowling into Tolkien. No, wait, that's not right. It's like turning a sad little writing-in-his-pajamas fantasy blogger into The Lord of the Rings.


Mark, practicing his dark art.

Actually, magic had some help in this project. We have been incredibly blessed to be joined by some phenomenally talented people. Here they are...


We're thinking about using this photo for the CD cover. It is by Julie Blackmon She is a good friend, and an absolute pro at what she does.


Kenny Wirt played all the drum tracks. He plays with...everybody. He's a rock.


Todd laid down most of the bass tracks. This photo is a reminder that you should never operate heavy machinery while playing funky bass lines.


More dreamy flushed looks for Todd? It's the intoxication of playing Mark's '46 Martin.


Along with his mandolin licks, Jody Bilyeu, of Big Smith, sure beefed up things with his piano, and Hammond organ virtuosity. Oh, and he taught us how to moosh our own chips.


My usual posture: sitting around drooling, while real pros do their jobs.


Jay Williamson, warming up his bones for some old-timey percussion.


Dude, he can make those mothers fly.


Mark heats it up with some of the rock, and the roll. We hear it's what the kids are listening to these days.


In our attempt to carve our niche in the folky-pop-rock-country genre, we brought in this feller. Dean Holman has played with just about everybody who uses peddle steel guitar ( Ricky Skaggs, Tanya Tucker, Desert Rose Band,etc.) He is considered about the finest steel guitarist in Branson.)


Molly Healey is the proud mother of a beautful baby girl and a beautiful baby CD. We asked her to lend her life-giving powers to our project. Just this side of heaven, I tell you. Just this side of heaven.


It's good to know the King watches over us.



I mean, everyone needs someone to watch over them.