“SCHIAVO.” “POLO.”

I am a peculiar blogger. Unlike every person in the world with a modem, a pen, a microphone, a bully pulpit, a snarled lip, or a bucket of bloodlust, I don’t really have much to say about the Terri Schiavo case. I just wanted to write "Terri Schiavo" a bunch of times so I could get more Google hits.

Pathetic? Disgusting? No more disgusting than the people who are crowding around the corpse, posing for the cameras. No more disgusting than the sick bastards who are sending their pre-teen kids through police barriers with cups of water, all the time knowing their children will be handcuffed, detained, and photographed by the national media.

"I know you don’t know her, Son. And I know you’re just doing this because you think Jesus won’t like you if you don’t; but Terri Schiavo is a very important symbol for our movement. If folks see a nice youngster like yourself trying to save a life, they’ll see that we mean business, and that even kids support life, not just angry middle-aged white people.”

“But, Daddy, if we respect life so much why don’t we take life to gays dying of AIDS, or to people on death row, or to the poor folks across the street from our church who are living without health insurance?”

“Alright, you insolent little crank, gimme that cup; I’m gonna send your sister instead. Now we’ll see who gets invited to the celebrity Bible toss at this year’s Holympics. Do you think you will? No, sir. Do you think you will receive Focus on the Family’s Lifesavior Award now? I don’t think so. You had a chance to make God proud, Mister, but I guess you’re just gonna be a biiiiig disappointment.”

No more disgusting than Tom Delay, who defends his own family’s private decision, yet feels the need to federally mandate another family’s decision.

No more disgusting than Calvary Baptist Church, in Clearwater, Florida, that pressured Judge Greer to give up his church membership after publicly condemning his decisions in the Schiavo case.

No more disgusting than (Dr.) Bill Frist, who claims to be able to diagnose a persistent vegetative state from 10 seconds of four year-old video.

Here's my take: I don't have a take. I'm not there, at her side. It's not my pain and not my call. I am inclined to say that feeding tubes are hubris, and that the desperation with which we hold onto life defies our supposed belief in the sweet release of heaven. However, if my daughter were on that bed, showing even a glimmer of recognition when I kissed her cheek, I might be tempted to firebomb government buildings, if it meant my baby girl wouldn’t be hurt.

It seems inhuman to hold Terri in this world by force. It seems barbaric to starve her to death. I can’t begin to understand the anguish the family must be feeling.

Terri, I refuse to play games with you. I refuse to objectify you as a representative of some ethic or ideal. I refuse to make you a martyr for a pro-life movement you never joined, or a poster child for a dignified death you may not have chosen. I'm sorry we have taken your tragic, beautiful life and turned it into the movie of the week. I’m sorry we have taken your humble, quiet spirit and placed it among the American Media Pantheon of celebrity child molesters, thieves, and wife killers. I’m sorry that your death—whether it happened 10 years ago, or will happen tomorrow—fills so many of us with self-righteous satisfaction.

Regardless of how you leave this world, may your entry into the next one be better. May you dance, sing, and feast in the presence of glory. And may you be far, far away from talk radio.

If you ended up here because you Googled “Terri Schiavo,” or you wanted to fan your particular political flame even hotter, get lost. I’m not interested in your patronage. If you were looking for congruence or opposition, because that’s how you get off, go to hell. You’re what’s wrong with this country and culture.

I’m not saying discussion, debate, and conversation aren’t important, even vital to our survival; I just don’t think most people are interested in real exchange anymore. Controversy has become a game, or a war, that is designed to declare winners and losers and create profit, not build understanding and relationships.

So, if you’re looking for a fight, look somewhere else. I’m taking the day off.

THREE DAYS

In three days I will be pounding down the hottest cup of coffee and the biggest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen. I gave up caffeine and sweets for Lent, and in three days it will be Easter. Growing up Baptist, "lent" was the past tense of lend, and "lint" was what I pulled out of my pocket and bellybutton. I didn't know Lent from Shinola.

Last year was my first time to follow the liturgical calendar. I think I gave up something nebulous like having bad attitudes about people who speak badly of cultures in southern latitudes. I probably broke my vow hundreds of times, because I wasn't exactly sure what it was I had pledged. This year the line was unambiguous; and I have been good. I haven't cheated once, except for the one Diet Coke I drank on accident. I didn't realize my error until I found myself in a frenetic daze on the roof wearing nothing but a toolbelt, after having built a room on the house and tuck-pointed the chimney in less than an hour.

I'm not sure the Lenten sacrifice has been as fulfilling as it should be. Sure, I've lost about five pounds; but I've also nodded off more than usual during my morning commute. And, yes, I have managed to focus on the suffering of Christ when the urge for frozen custard has crept into my brain. On the whole, though, it has not taken me to a higher plane. I don't know what I was expecting. I guess I thought the discipline would cause me to become more reflective and self-controlled. Or, maybe I assumed the loss of hypertension and unnecessary fat intake would transform me into a wise sage or prophet whose gaze would cut to the soul of all who dared approach me. Wrong on both counts. I desire a java buzz and a head-swirling sugar fix as much as I ever did. And people still giggle when I try to look serious. But, I guess it's not about me is it?

May I never forget that True Love comes at great cost.
May you have a blessed Easter.

GOOD SHOW

I am not a big sports fan. I was never obsessed with sports; although there was a time in my life when I could at least hold up my end of a sports-related conversation. With the cultural shifts that have brought us the punch-throwing, beer-tossing, pill-popping, wife-beating, waitress-raping, rule-breaking, salary-skyrocketing, corporate-influenced kind of fun we used to know as games, I have reached the end of my tether. I don’t pay much attention to professional sports anymore.

I am not so naïve as to miss the fact that big-time college athletics falls prey to the same afflictions as the pros, but I am still a sucker for March Madness. I don’t keep up with college basketball during the regular season, but when it comes to tournament time, I get a little crazy…mad even.

So, I don’t know if it was the beginning of my annual sports addiction or the start of my new Netflix membership (a good deal if you love watching great films and shows, and are cableless and disgusted by TV and Blockbuster), but I have recently become reacquainted with one of the best television shows ever made. My Sports Night revival really began last summer when I was marooned in New Jersey for several weeks without my family. My friend and Rutgers grad student, Ben Johnson, loaned me the DVD box set to keep me company. I recommend it. Rent, buy, or borrow it; but see it soon.

Before Aaron Sorkin’s West Wing, there was Aaron Sorkin’s Sports Night. The show debuted on ABC in 1998 as a “dramedy” about a third-place sports show not unlike ESPN’s SportsCenter.

The multiple Emmy-winner features the on-air stylings of glib co-anchors Dan Rydell (Josh Charles, Dead Poets Society) and Casey McCall (Peter Krause, Six Feet Under) who are supported by their energetic and intelligent producer Dana Whitaker (Felicity Huffman, Desperate Housewives) and quirky associate producers Natalie Hurley (Sabrina Lloyd, Numb3rs) and Jeremy Goodwin (Joshua Malina, West Wing). The cast is held together by CSC executive producer, Isaac Jaffee (Robert Guillaume, Benson and Broadway’s Phantom of the Opera). During the second season, the cast is joined by the enigmatic ratings consultant, Sam Donovan, who is played by the veteran film actor (and Huffman’s husband), William H. Macy.

While much of Sports Night’s success comes from this enormously talented cast; perhaps the real star of the show is Sorkin’s writing. Sure, it took a season or two of West Wing before the general public got hip to Sorkin’s Mamet-esque obsession with rapid-fire dialogue. And, yes, maybe the dialogue can be a little too self-congratulatory in its speedy verbosity. But in a vast primetime wasteland where pratfalls, hijincks, and emotional gimmickry continually pander to the lowest common denominator, the Sports Night banter is sweet relief. The dialogue doesn’t just push plot or reveal character, it sings.

"Any time you write words for performance, they have the exact same properties as music," says Sorkin. "There's rhythm, tone, pitch, volume. You'd be silly to ignore the sound of music."

Witness this exchange between Casey and Dan.

Casey: It's a vicious circle.
Dan: Yep. Just keeps going around and around.
Casey: Never stops.
Dan: That's what makes it vicious.
Casey: And a circle.

Or Natalie and Jeremy dealing with a relationship and a card game:

Natalie: How do you know I don't have a big house?

Jeremy: A FULL house. Dan already folded the six you needed, and I have the other one. You don't have a house of any sort; you don't even have a pup tent. You've got trip sevens, and I have a straight. I want you to trust me right now. I want you to say to yourself, yeah, I've dated a string of jerks in my life, they were stupid, they were mean to me, but maybe this one's different. Maybe I should take a chance and not adopt the break-up-with-him-before-he-breaks-my-heart strategy. I want you to remember that when I started liking you, I didn't stop liking tennis. And I want you to know that I don’t think there's a woman in the world that you need to be threatened by, no matter how glamorous you think she is. But mostly, I want you to trust me, just once, when I tell you, you have three sevens, and I have a straight.

It is just this smart blend of comedy and drama that distinguishes the show as a giant among its contemporaries. With the possible exception of M*A*S*H, there has never been a show that so consistently prompted laughs and tears in a 23-minute time span. Most episodes contain an emotional crescendo that succeeds because Sorkin and the cast make it believable without resorting to manipulation or jokes.

A classic example is found in the pilot episode. Casey is recently divorced and depressed about the world of sports. He is thinking about leaving the show, because he is worried about the influence all the scandals and misbehavior are having on his young son. During the episode the staff decides to do a story about Ntozake Nelson, a 41 year-old South African distance runner, who had been jailed and tortured for years, and was running the 15,000 meters that night in the World Pacific Games. The network objects to them doing a segment on Nelson, but that night they all gather around the TVs in the newsroom watching Nelson win the race and set a new world record. Casey scrambles to a phone near the end of the race and calls his son.

“Son, turn on the TV. Turn on my channel. I want you to watch this guy named Ntozake Nelson run. I’ll tell you more about him later, but for now just watch him run faster than any human being ever has. If your mom will let you, you can stay up and watch the first part of the show when we talk about him. When I give you the signal, you need to turn off the TV and go to bed.” As he speaks, you can’t help but be buoyed by Casey’s reanimation: the belief that there is hope; there is good left in the world.

The show succeeds because it does well with workplace comedy, romance, and intrigue. But the show is great because it reveals grace. It reminds us that relationships are more important than…anything. The characters regularly rally around the one among them who is in need, even if it means sacrificing ratings. Whether it is Isaac’s stroke (Guillaume suffered a stroke in reality) or Natalie’s assault, the show testifies to a system of values that has been obscured by our current lust for profits and celebrity.

This spirit is apropos of the show’s demise. In spite of Sports Night's quality appeal to comic nobility, it was cancelled after a mere two seasons. It could have had something to do with the lame laugh track (that was slowly phased out in the first season). The title could have been off-putting to non-sports fans (even though you don’t need to like or know anything about sports to enjoy the show). But I imagine it was the cognitive dissonance caused by the frenetic dialogue and the difficult-to-categorize nature of the show. The average viewer didn’t know what to do with Sports Night. What is the show? Is it a comedy or a drama? How am I supposed to feel? Tell me what to think. I’m a sheep. Baahhahhahh. Baahhahhahh.

I don’t care to dedicate space and time analyzing the reasons Disney’s ABC made the boneheaded decision to cancel Sports Night. I can only assume it didn’t satisfy the public’s appetite for mind candy.

"It's very difficult to do something new on TV," concedes Sorkin, who acknowledges that "especially with half-hour TV, you need to feel comfortable and familiar." Sports Night, he says, "isn't actually very good background music. You need to give it attention, and maybe people don't feel like doing it."

Even though Sports Night was smart without being inaccessible, funny without being gag-driven and serious without being maudlin, the American public’s short attention span and maddening addiction to consensus narratives doomed the show. Perhaps ABC’s strategy to repeatedly preempt the show for Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and other asinine programming options had something to do with it as well. As a result, we never got the chance to integrate Sports Night into our water cooler discussions or the cast’s pre-show wish and a post-production validation, “Good show” into our lingo.

I suppose the purpose of this post was to lament the loss of a great show. I know it is available on DVD, and until recently, those of you with cable could watch reruns on Comedy Central. It’s not that the show is unavailable; it’s that there won’t be any new episodes. And, I suppose it’s more than that: It’s that we live in a society that has become so addicted to the empty calories of reality shows and Must-See TV, that when they are served something of substance, they choke on it.

Perhaps this post is best ended with a line Casey delivers at the end of a broadcast:

“If you had half as much fun watching this show as we did making it, well, then we had twice as much fun making the show as you did watching it.”

Good show.

HELPLESS

So there I was driving to church listening to k.d. lang’s Hymns of the 49th Parallel. When I got to her cover of Neil Young’s “Helpless,” my heart broke. In that moment, Young was the author and lang was the finisher of my faith. I can’t explain it, but I was smitten with a belief that was at once rank and pristine. It was like being lifted on the wings of a pigeon: hopeful and foul.

Baby can you hear me now?
The chains are locked
and tied around my door
Baby, will you sing with me somehow?

Helpless, helpless, helpless
Helpless, helpless, helpless
Helpless, helpless, helpless
Helpless, helpless

Blue, blue windows behind the stars
Yellow moon on the rise
Big birds flying across the sky
Throwing shadows in our eyes
Leaves us

Helpless…

(“Deja Vu” Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young © 1970 Atlantic Records)

Perhaps it had such an effect on me because I have been a religious vagrant and rambler for 20 years, and I am pretty damn tired of it.

I grew up the son of a Southern Baptist preacher. In 1985, when my parents left the state and I stayed, I found myself at sea without a pastor. For several years my spiritual DNA kept me in the Baptist culture, but I was increasingly drawn to folks who were tired of easy answers and were resisting the rightward shift by becoming subversives or expatriates. I reached a point where I couldn’t take it anymore. Even though there were Baptist people I loved (and still love) like family, the denominational leadership-sponsored violence toward women, the poor, homosexuals, public schools, Democrats, etc. in the name of God just became too much for me. So I split.

For years my family and I shopped around and experimented with different denominations (I won’t bother you with the details of that excruciating journey.). After a while we discovered we had a community of friends and neighbors that felt very much the way we did. We all wanted to be connected to God and other believers in a tangible and important way, but we also wanted to serve the aims of social justice within an urban, historical community of faith. None of us was interested in the pop religion of the Six Flags Over Jesus out on the highway, or the society churches where jackets, ties, and Lexus SUVs were mandatory.

We were not the picture of church perfection (or maybe we were). Our group ranged from agnostics to fundamentalists. Our gatherings were more likely to include pitchers of beer and rowdy debates about the divinity of Jesus than they were to involve polite conversations about Focus on the Family.



So like pigeons, all dirty and hopeful, 20 or 30 of us converged on a dying Methodist church. We had decided Methodism represented the closest thing to Baptist passion without the dogma. This particular church had a new pastor we liked and a great old red brick building in the middle of an urban setting. The existing congregation had dwindled to under a hundred, and consisted largely of elderly people who refused to flee to the ‘burbs like everyone else. They were unbelievably kind and welcoming; but the grip they had on the past was not allowing them to move into the future.

Shortly after our move, our more conservative friends left for a church that was more passionate about the Bible and evangelism. I suppose our more liberal friends slowly quit coming because there wasn’t enough social action and energy. Some quit because change was coming too slowly.

Soon we were left with about four pigeon families from the original flock. We were all vigorously flapping our wings: teaching, singing, cooking, and serving on dozens of committees. The original members of the church continued to be supportive of our presence, and we maintained a certain faith in and passion for change. This too has begun to pass.

Some of our remnant are leaving because they decided to divorce themselves from a United Methodist structural hierarchy they believe to be corrupt and dishonest—consumed with attendance figures and money more than grace and justice. Others are discouraged because they feel like the enormous amount of resources they are committing to fight institutional and spiritual lethargy could be more effectively applied elsewhere.

I’m left helpless. That’s me in the corner, losing my religion.

Why does it have to be so hard? Why have I had to search these last 20 years for a true community of faith, only to be repeatedly disappointed or betrayed? Should I just settle? Should I join the JC Supercenter (credit for that metaphor belongs here) out on the highway and just enjoy the show? Should I let inertia overcome me and quell my irreverent passions? Should I just give up? Does faith require religion? I don’t know anymore.

I believe in a personal God who is in love with me. I believe that God dances at the sound of my name, not because I am worthy or special, but because God is Grace. My desires sound pretty simple: I want to build a fire with that Grace and huddle amidst the storm with a group of fellow refugees. I want to invite the poor and the cold and the lonely into the warmth, even into the fire itself so they are incandescently transformed, not patronized. Is that asking too much? Is it impossible? Appears to be. Believers in and out of the church tend to just huddle, with no fire to warm them and little concern for outsiders.

So maybe I’m just as well off out of church as in it. But Middle Class Tool cautions:

But there's no community in that. There's no communion of souls, no chance to hold hands and sing, to chance to bare ourselves to one another. There's no family, no discussion, nobody to help you along your path. If we have the opportunity, if we have others, shouldn't we come together and eat and sing and read and reflect and discuss and argue and hold each other and laugh and weep, give thanks for our lives and celebrate the one we hold to be responsible for those lives? Shouldn't we pool our resources and use them to help feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and heal the sick? Isn't that also what religion should be about?

Of course, ‘Tool recognizes that all those things can exist outside the organized church. They just don’t usually.

In response to my current angst, a dear friend pointed out to me that my “friend community” was much larger, more diverse, and more vibrant than my organized church community; and that it is full of energy and grace. He pointed out that the Good Samaritan was portrayed as our model of Christ-like behavior, and he was outside the “church.”

He’s right. I have been blessed with a wonderful family and an extraordinary community of friends. I love them with all my heart. I guess I just don’t trust myself. If I have no liturgy or ritual, no official call to prayer and service, will I do it? Probably. But at this moment I can’t be sure.

So, back to my helpless trip to church. I can’t make the move my friends have. At least not today. Maybe I will and together we will defy the religion cartel and create something wonderful and holy together. Or, maybe I’ll be filled with inspiration and the power of 50 men as I reform the church with the jawbone of an ass. Or, maybe I’ll worship at Bedside Baptist Church, slouching downstairs for coffee and pancakes as I sing the Doxology and scratch. I don’t know.

For today, some homing signal still calls me to church. On the way, my prayer will be the one penned by Bruce Cockburn, once again given voice by k.d. lang.

Oh I have been a beggar
And shall be one again
And few the ones with help to lend
Within the world of men

One day I walk in flowers
One day I walk on stones
One day I walk in hours
One day I shall be home

(“One Day I Walk” High Winds White Sky © 1971 Philo Records/Rounder Records)

LIFE AFTER ALL

About two and a half years ago, my friend Todd Mincks and I started writing and performing music as the acoustic duo "Brother Wiley." It was just two guys, two guitars, three chords (quite literally), and the truth (sorta). With the friendly help of Beth and Mike at Well Fed Head Books, and proprietors of a few other local establishments, we started playing for whoever would listen. Some people said they liked our music. And they weren't even drunk. A few months later we made a homemade recording of our songs. It was pretty good for a 24-hour recording session on cheap, crude software; but as the songs evolved and we wrote new stuff, Todd and I developed the urge to create something more substantial.

Some months ago we started working on a studio CD tentatively entitled, "Life After All." Performing now as "Mincks and Miller" (We got tired of explaining the name--it had something to do with a road trip to Colorado, a trucker, and Jesus--and having people named Wiley asking us if we were kin.), we enlisted the recording help of our good friend, Mark Bilyeu. As a singer-songwriter, guitarist, producer, and indie record company executive, Mark has few equals. Best known for his work with Big Smith, Mark's soon-to-be-released self-produced solo CD is going to blow people away. So, we're in good hands.

Since we probably won't finish the album until late spring/early summer, I thought I would occasionally fill you in on our progress.


Dog is his co-pilot: JB 

After laying down the percussion tracks with drummer, Kenny Wirt, we gathered in the woods a few weeks ago for some bass and acoustic guitar work. Mark and Jonathan Bentley had just finished a marathon session for JB's new disc (watch for it), and Jonathan was kind enough to allow us to use his cabin.

I didn't have much to do that day, since my contribution as an instrumentalist is an occasional splinky-splink on the rhythm guitar and the mournful train whistle, so I took some photos.


Todd's Elvis entrance: I'd like to thank each and every one of you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you...


King Midas at work: Mark Bilyeu 


I sound just like Jackson Browne...I'm serious 


What's it? Who's it? Aren't we? 


My Wingman 


Bass-slappin' Liz 

MayApple Records exec and Mark's bride-to-be, Liz Lairmore, came by to see her honey. Liz is becoming quite the upright bass player (I mean, the bass is upright. I guess Liz is upright too...in a scoundrely sorta way.); and while she was there, Todd showed her a few licks on the bass geetar.

Things are going well. The album will probably end up with 12 tracks (we figure, 12 disciples, 12 steps...huh? huh?). A few of them will be new versions of songs on the original Bro. Wiley disc. We are pleased with the content of the songs, and Mark is making us sound so good, our mommas will cry. We're expecting several other talented friends to sit in over the next several weeks, and make the sound even better.

Stay tuned for updates. When we finish some tracks, we'll make them available for online listening.