Soccer Dad

As usual, we were rushing headlong to make it to my son's soccer game. Some people are perfectly punctual; others are punctually late. I'm in the latter group. I'm sure it's genetic.

Anyway, I was scurrying for the door and called to my older son, "Are you coming to the game?" Like most 17 year olds, he's got better things to do than watch his 13 year old brother play soccer. He peeked out from under the covers, "No, Dad; maybe next time."

I was frustrated. What I want is for my son to value doing the "family thing" without being coerced. I want him to realize that the world doesn't revolve around him, and to decide on his own that seeing his brother play soccer is a good use of his time.

The problem is, what I want is something my son can only give freely. If I force him to come he will, but that's not really the point. He's practically an adult; he needs to start acting like one.

So I mumble something about, "Well, I sure hope you'll find time somewhere to see your brother play. After all, you haven't been to a single game all season."

It looks more pleasant than it sounded. I'm really good at the "I'll act like I'm not really mad, but you know I really am" game. Or maybe I'm not as good at that game as I think I am. In truth, I was upset and my son knew it.

I got in the car and, like all good Dads, continued to ventilate on my wife. She, like all good wives, was deeply appreciative. I got the message and kept my fuming to myself.

"He's only got a few more months at home," I thought. "Five years from now, will he be glad he slept in, or will he wish he'd gone to his brother's game?"

Then I thought, "He's only got a few more months at home. Five years from now, will I be glad I got on his case, or will I wish I had been a more understanding Dad?"

I hate it when that happens.

Babbette's Blog

Good morning, Lord. Monday morning. Bored. It’s not as though there’s nothing to do. There’s just no motivation. What’s the matter with me? It’s a….

At the drop of a hat I leave my Quiet Time to peek at the movies on TV. Don't ask me why; does there have to be a reason? Maybe I’ll see some flesh! Whoopee! Who cares about responsibility? Who cares about doing the right thing? What's the harm in a little diversion?

It’s not likely I’ll get lucky, but you never know. With several hundred channels there's bound to be something. The quality of the movie is irrelevant: in fact, the worse the better. All that matters is finding the show most likely to give me what I want. Within a few minutes my hopes are aroused. I nervously wait. Alas, no luck.

I flip some more, chancing upon Babette’s Feast. I’ve seen it before; perhaps you’ve seen it too. Not much chance of titillation in this film. I pass it by, but return to it several minutes later.

Babette's Feast is a beautifully simple movie about an austere Norwegian religious community.
Babette, who had been a refugee from France, cooked for two women in the community. Their father had founded the sect years before. His vision had been to prepare for the new Jerusalem by strict observance of religious practices on earth. Poverty, simplicity, chastity, the denial of earthly pleasures -- these were their values. And they faithfully practiced them even long after their father's death.

Lacking their father's strong vision and stern hand, the women observe that their little group is growing fractious. Relationships are tense. Joy is lacking. The original dream is growing as old and tired as the members themselves.

The founder’s hundredth birthday is a few weeks away. Babette asks if she may prepare something special for the occasion. The sisters fear the potential extravagance but consent despite their reservations.

Their fears are not unfounded: all kinds of exotic foods and wines appear at Babette’s kitchen in the days preceding the feast. Horrified, the sisters call the community together. They’ve committed themselves to the denial of earthly pleasures: how can they honor their founder while engaging in such decadence?

The community shares the sisters' misgivings, but determine to attend Babette's feast. Sufficiently warned, they decide they’ll just ignore the taste of the food. “We have no taste buds,” one of them says. The rest agree.

But they can’t do it. As it turns out Babette had been a world-famous chef in France. She has used her entire lottery winnings to prepare a lavish meal for this small community of faith. The dinner is exquisite: beautiful settings, fine wine, a meal befitting royalty. Despite their reluctance they cannot help but enjoy the feast.

As the evening progresses a subtle change begins to creep around the fellowship. Barriers which had existed between them begin to break down. Pettiness melts away; in its place hints of joy, of forgiveness, of love. The visiting General who had left the community long before said it well: “Mercy and truth have met together.”

Extravagant grace was extended to an unsuspecting, undeserving and ungrateful community of saints. It worked its magic in their little fellowship. A wife kisses her husband. Estranged friends bury the hatchet. A blustery winter evening becomes a beautiful moonlit night. The community pauses around the well as they exit the home. They hold hands and for the first time in a long time sing with heartfelt joy and love. An elder gentleman remains as the others leave. His arms extended, he says, “Hallelujah!”

Twice during the meal a tear appeared in my eye. I thought of the lavish gifts of grace which have been given to me. I thought of the joylessness and pettiness of my life. I thought of the hard exterior which so easily characterizes my close relationships. I thought how much my world resembled that of the misguided though well-meaning saints around the dinner table. I wondered if joy would return to my life again. I thought of grace, like Babette’s feast, poured out to me, one so unsuspecting, undeserving, and ungrateful. I hoped it might work some magic in my own life, just as it had for them.

I returned to my computer intent on resuming my now midday journal with God. But the only words that will come out are the ones I’ve just written.

At first I was just sending anonymous messages to cyberspace. Now a few of you know I'm out there. I've mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, like any writer I want to be read. On the other hand, it's easier to write to an imaginary rather than a real audience.

I'm glad you're there. Sooner or later I'll get used to you. But for right now I'm a little skittish. Don't worry. I'll get over it.

Warehouse Engagement

It was a perfect plan: the three year and nine month anniversary of our first date. "Let's celebrate by going somewhere nice," I said. She was a little surprised but, hey, who's to argue about a nice dinner out?

We were students at schools about an hour away from one another, so we met at our usual place, the parking lot of the church we attended together. Our destination? The Warehouse Restaurant in Marina Del Rey.

She wore a mid-length orange-brown suede skirt and a colorful silky top. Very seventies. We sat at a quiet table overlooking the marina. I asked how her day was. She began to eagerly describe an education class she had taken that day. Something about how to develop a lesson plan: "Hook, Book, Look, Took," as I recall.

I had trouble concentrating because, like Frodo, I had a secret mission and carried a secret ring. The mission? Get the ring out of my pocket and onto her finger. Find Mount "Groom," I guess you could say.

Anyway, she rattled on, oblivious to my plan. I feigned interest in the ring on her finger, an opal I'd given to her long before. "May I see it?" I innocently asked. I slipped it off and pretended to look at it, and then at her as she continued her story. "Hook, Look, what?" I asked.

My hand slid down into my jacket pocket. Surely it was there somewhere. I'd secretly purchased it a week earlier from my roommate's father, a jeweler in a nearby town. He'd made me a sweet deal, allowing me to buy a larger stone for the price of a smaller one. Still, it was likely too small, though the setting was quite beautiful I thought: a floral pattern completed only once the wedding band was attached. As a poor college student, I'd pretty well depleted my meager savings. But who cares when you're in love?

Soon the ring found my finger. I quickly exchanged the opal for the diamond and snuck a peak to make sure it looked just right.

Trying to appear nonchalant despite the beating of my telltale heart I casually put the diamond on her ring finger -- as if it were still the opal. At first she didn't notice. She gave a second, incredulous look. She looked at the ring, she looked at me....

"Will you marry me?" I asked, looking her straight in the eye. An interminable moment. She took another breath, her eyes glistening a little. "Yes!" she said, leaning across the table, sealing her acceptance with a kiss.

That was twenty-five years ago today: December 5, 1979. There's a lot of water under the bridge since then: we're both a little wiser -- and a little wider. Together we've made three of the greatest kids any parent could want. Is it perfect? Of course not. But if I had it to do all over again, I'd do it all over again -- in a heartbeat.

'Coon Dogs

I always liked Chuck. He was a good old country boy who loved to 'coon hunt. Being from the west I knew nothing about that kind of thing.

Turns out its not really very sporting, as Chuck described it to me. Nor did it sound like much fun. First of all, you had to do it late at night. I like being up late at night, but traipsing around the forest in the cold doesn't sound like much fun to me.

Apparently the key to a successful 'coon hunt is a good 'coon dog. These dogs pick up the scent of the racoon and chase it until they run it up a tree. The hunter follows the dog and then shoots the 'coon -- sitting duck -- out of the tree.

As I said, it doesn't sound too sporting.

One day I saw Chuck getting ready for a late-night 'coon hunt. In the back of his truck were two cages into which he was coaxing his two hunting dogs.

"Why is it necessary for you to have two separate cages for the dogs?" I innocently asked.

Chuck looked at me, incredulous. "Are you kidding?" he said. "Why them dogs would kill each other if I put them in the same cage!"

"Really! Why is that?" I asked.

"Well, them dogs is made for huntin', and if they ain't huntin' 'coons, they'll be fightin' each other."

Made sense to me.

Later I mused: maybe that's why so many Christians and churches are fighting each other all the time. They were called to be fishers of men but instead they're caged up together. Denied their natural calling they resort to infighting, barking and -- dare I say it? -- territory pissing.

Kayaks and Riverboats

In her forward to the book Future Church, Sally Morganthaler wrote:

Many of us launched our boats on the Mississippi of church growth in the past two decades. We dutifully set them afloat in the world of big and simple. We followed those who had built massive riverboats, along with the equally massive paddlewheels of programs to propel them. But the landscape shifted beneath our feet. From big and simple, we entered the postmodern topography of small and complex, transforming American culture from homogeneous demographies, seeker-believer compartments, easy answers, and fill in the blanks to diverse neighborhoods, ubiquitous spirituality, paradox, and tell-me-your-story. The boats we need now are kayaks, but having spent our ministry years building and operating riverboats, some of us find ourselves not only up a creek without a paddle but without the expertise to use one if it were handed to us.

I've thought a lot about these words, having cut my own ministry teeth on the massive paddlewheelers Morgenthaler describes. Now I too find myself up a creek without a paddle. Meanwhile the riverboats pass me by and wave. Many of my compadres have opted for the riverboat life. After all, when you're a passenger, riverboat life is a lot easier. Why bother with the dangers inherent in the kayak?

I believe in the kayak. The riverboat may be effective in amusing the masses, but what about those shipwrecked in the nooks and crannies of an ever-dangerous cultural current? Those outside the scope of the wide berth required by the paddlewheeler? Those who would never feel comfortable boarding via the whitewashed docks of corporate church?

Last night I was giving an overview of the Bible story among a group of novice kayakers. That's not an easy task, by the way! Their knowledge of riverboat ways is minimal. At every juncture in the story, their only context of understanding is popular culture and it's portrayal biblical events.

"Oh, yes, I read about that in the book The Red Tent," she said as I mentioned Jacob and his family. That's only the latest. While exploring biblical themes the connencting point is always popular culture:

Joseph's story? Technicolor Dreamcoat
Moses' story? Prince of Egypt/Ten Commandments
Jacob's story? The Red Tent
Ark of the Covenant? Raiders of the Lost Ark
Mary Magdalene? DaVinci Code

I could go on, but you get the point. At each juncture I veer my kayak into another watering hole, hoping to find a contemporary context for biblical truth.

So, yes, while the paddlewheelers float by I'm scampering around nooks and crannies. I wish some of those who are safe and sound on these behemoths would join my adventure. But I can't worry about that. There are too many people with real spiritual hunger who don't really care about the bells and whistles on the riverboats. They just want a safe place to explore spirituality from a Christian perspective.

And I intend to see that they get it.