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.