Fat Idiot

Like any good camp counselor I was doing my best to be sociable. Sitting among a crowd at a large wooden table during lunch I spied a quiet girl. She was aloof and substantially overweight. Feeling sorry for her, I tried to initiate a conversation. "Are you enjoying camp?" I innocently asked. "Yes," she said in an oddly squeaky voice. We exchanged a few pleasantries. She didn't seem too bright. "Too bad," I thought. "When fat kids are smart, at least they've got something going for them."

One of my duties at camp was to lead worship around the campfire each evening. This was in the days when we thought nothing of combining camp songs with worship songs. Anything to get the kids involved! Since this was the last night of camp, emotions were high and we had a great time of worship. I sat on the corner of the stage feeling rather pleased with myself.

The speaker got on the stage. "All week I've been introducing you to people who've had significant life experiences with God. I've saved the best for last. The person I'd like you to meet has been with us all week. You wouldn't know it now, but she came within a few minutes of jumping off a bridge to take her own life. Born deaf, abandoned by her family, her life had been one disappointment after another. When she'd lost all hope, her friend came and coaxed her from the bridge. She introduced her to Jesus Christ, and her whole life changed. She's become a much sought-after interpreter for the deaf and even was asked to interpret for President Reagan on his last visit here."

By this time I was incredibly curious: who might this be? What an interesting person! She's been here all week? Who was she?

I soon found out. She was -- you guessed it -- the fat girl across the table from me. The one with the squeaky voice. The one I thought was missing a few marbles. Turns out the only fat idiot at that table was me.

Canseco Fiasco

There’s no question about it: Jose Canseco is a money-grubbing sleaze ball. He’s an embarrassment to the game of baseball -- the very game which made his name a household word. He has broken the athlete’s honor code: don’t rat out a teammate.

It serves baseball right that someone with Canseco’s dubious pedigree finally forced players and managers to talk honestly about steroid use. After all, management could have pushed the issue in the past, but kept their mouths shut for fear of the player’s union and their love of money. And the player’s union, which in my view is the main culprit in this sordid affair, has never taken the issue seriously. The recent steroid agreement, in response to government pressure, is only a bad joke.

It’s pathetic. The integrity of the game has been compromised, as has the health of the players. My goodness! Three former MVPs are now admitted steroid users (four, if you don’t believe that lame story about Cream). Older players who gave their lives to achieve important milestones have watched helplessly as their records have been shattered by bionic men. And fans, who live and die by their teams’ fortunes, have been shortchanged.

Meanwhile, the players union and management danced around the issue – until the federal government got involved, and a rat like Canseco began naming names.

Serves them right. Seems to me there’s more than one rat in this fiasco.

Slow Down

We'd been on the road nearly five hours. It was a beautiful night but we were tired and anxious to make it home before 11:00 p.m. After all, I had to preach in the morning. The weekend had been miserably chilly and wet. It was a lonely desert road, the kind where the speed limit is merely a suggestion. I'd set the cruise control on 79 hours before.

As we neared civilization the speed limit changed for no apparent reason. An uncharacteristic thought entered my head. "Slow down." Usually it's just my guilty conscience and I treat it as a reminder to look carefully for lurking highway patrol cars. This time, however, it seemed more like a prompting than a warning. I stewed on it for a moment, doubting that a cop was nearby. Maybe I should slow down, at least a little. I began to coast downward.

Suddenly, I found myself crashing into standing water. As is common in our state, water was on the road even after the rain had passed. I hit it like a load of bricks, nearly losing control of the van. We bounced to the right like a ball off a tennis racket. I hung onto the wheel and we nearly overturned as I veered back left across the road. I turned back to the right and we found ourselves back in our own lane. As soon as it began, it was over and I was cruising again.

My legs went faint. I caught my breath. I looked at my wife and she at me. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, wondering how close we had come to death. I thought about the two cars facing me on this otherwise empty road. It's a good thing they were already past when I veered into their lane.

Once I got home, I mused about our near accident. My first reaction was one of guilt. I should have slowed down more. I should have responded more quickly to the prompting, rather than to question it at first. I might have gotten ourselves or others killed.

Why is it that I am so quick to criticize myself? A more sane reaction would have been to be grateful that God had prompted me, to be thankful that I had slowed down, to have thoughts of praise and thanksgiving for God's protection. After all, I had slowed down -- probably enough to ensure that the opposing two cars were safely behind me rather than in front of me when I veered into their lane.

I imagined God saying to me, "Son, won't you relax a little? There's no need to feel guilty. I was proud of you tonight. I prompted you to slow down, and you did. You did good! Quit being so hard on yourself. Give up the self criticism and relax in my grace. "

As I write this, I'm reminded of a cheesy little song (there's that self criticism again) I wrote many years ago.

I can see you watchin' me
Standin' there and watchin' me
And I'm tryin' so hard to make you love me.

I'm afraid to stop and listen
But finally you speak to me
With eyes filled with grace you are saying,

"I love you my son
And I am proud of you
Slow down, you don't have to run,
'Cause there's nothing you can do,
For I already love you."

"Slow down." Hmmm. Guess I've heard that twice now. 'Bout time I paid attention....

Lost Liturgy

I didn't grow up in a liturgical church. In fact, I grew up thinking or assuming anyway that liturgical churches didn't really believe the Bible, and that they put more trust in their traditions than God. We, on the other hand, believed the Bible and were not bound by religious tradition.

That's a lie, of course, but I didn't know any better. In fact, I'm still trying to figure it out. In my church tradition we never observed the church calendar or the lectionary. I never heard of Whitsunday until I was in college. And the idea of some nameless source choosing your readings and sermon texts for you -- why that was unthinkable! Let the Spirit lead! And throw away traditions!

Only we didn't. I've since learned that our lack of using the lectionary meant that we ignored whole sections of scripture. And in later years, our sermons became little more than pop psychology with a scriptural proof text. "How to affair proof your marriage." Remember that one? As if there's any text in the Bible whose original purpose was to teach that topic.

As a pastor committed to preaching on marriage, I always found it to be a very difficult task. Honestly, how many marriage texts are there in scripture? Certainly not enough for an annual series on marriage! In fact, I was always troubled by this conundrum: name one example of a good marriage in the Bible. Go ahead, I dare you. Give me the text and the principles it teaches. Thought as much. Now, name me five examples of a poor marriage in the Bible. Easy to do, right? Abraham, who twice pawned his wife as his sister? Isaac, whose played favorites with his wife over his children? Jacob? (Which wife is our model?) David? (Don't forget about Bathsheba.) Solomon?

But who needs biblical texts when you've got itching ears to scratch? So every year, sometimes twice a year we rehash marriage principles, usually between Mother's Day and Father's Day. The fact that these holidays often obscure Pentecost Sunday doesn't matter to us. After all, isn't it more important to preach a practical and relevant message than to honor the coming of the Holy Spirit and the birth of the church on Pentecost?

So while evangelical and fundamental churches feel secretly prideful that they don't honor the formalism of the "catholic" church year or the lectionary, we follow a more subtle liturgy of our own. We have our stewardship emphasis, our family emphasis, our Mother's Day and Father's Day events, our Independence day festivities, our Back to School emphases, our Harvest Festivities -- oh, and Christmas and Easter. And to accomplish these things we recycle the same tired texts every several years or so. In so doing, we unconsciously cultivate a consumer-oriented clientele.

Meanwhile, our liturgical brothers and sisters follow a time-honored calendar that removes church from the horse and pony show. By design, their focus is not on the parishioner, but on the Savior. So this week they showed up on Ash Wednesday to receive the mark of the cross on their heads just as it has been done for over a thousand years. They're oblivious to the pressure to perform that so characterizes our evangelical show. They're not after the contemporary and relevant, but rather the ancient and timeless.

This year I decided I would observe Lent. I'd gather with a few friends on Ash Wednesday to talk together about self denial and discipline. I thought I'd take some time to reflect on Jesus' sufferings along with my liturgical friends. I decided I would give up caffeine. It's a lame sacrifice, to be sure, more symbolic than real. But you wouldn't know it by the revolt my body is waging against me. I'm tired, I'm lethargic, I'm depressed. I'm really ticked off by my dependence on this drug. But that's probably a topic for a different blog. All I know is that right now I could really use that sermon on Stressbusters.

Mini Me

I've been leading a double life. It's time for me to come clean.

For some time now I've had two blogs: a public blog and a secret blog. The one identified me, the other didn't. One was known to only a few friends, the other was posted on our church website.

I'm tired of living an edited life. It's just too much trouble trying to post on one site and edit it (or omit) on the other. So, with a fair amount of trepidation, I've decided to have one blog, warts and all, for anyone to see.

If you're reading this blog as a guest to our church website (www.sanctuarytoday.com), I welcome you and ask you to extend me a little grace. Most of what I write is manifestly innoccuous. A few things might raise an eyebrow, depending on where you're coming from. Please don't think that what I write is meant to be the "official church position" on each subject. It's just likely a bad case of indigestion on my part.

Some of you will think my fears are misplaced. I hope you're right, but I doubt it. I've been around the Christian block enough times to know what the boundaries are. In the event you're unclear, let me offer you a few samples....

On moral issues: Give answers, don't ask questions. Black and white is good; shades of grey are bad; rainbow is unacceptable. Tell people what to think; don't teach them how to think. Reduce scriptural teaching to principles and propositions.

On personal issues: Conceal your failures, don't reveal them. Don't let them know you're human with real problems, questions, doubts, sins. Promote honesty, but don't model it.

On church issues: Church success is measured by bodies, buildings and bucks. Be successful, aspire to be, or pretend to be.

On political issues: Refuse to question the Republican party. Be passionate about the rights of unborn children and curiously quiet about the rights of impoverished children. Be prolife and prodeath (penalty) all at once. Need I go on?

While squarely within what is commonly known as "conservative evangelical Christianity," I've never been comfortable endorsing all its trappings and assumptions. For the most part I've kept these concerns to myself. Some of my motives are good: I do not want to erect unnecessary blocks to the gospel. I've always wanted to die on that cross, not the cross of social action or other worthy causes. In addition, taking my cue from Ivan Karamazov, I've been cautious about unnecessarily confusing people who might mistake a question for a command.

But there's another side to my reticence: worrying too much about what others think. Honestly, while I privately rail against "crusty christianity" I never shake the boat too much. I tell myself that I'm looking out for the gospel and respectful of the immaturity of others -- but am I just a wimp? Afraid to take a hit? If people knew I sometimes surfed the seedier side of the internet, would they string me up? If they knew that I wonder why "Christian" politics always favors middle class white America, would they leave the church? If they saw my family warts would they stop respecting me? And on....

On the one hand, this blog has given me an outlet to express creative thoughts about life and critical concerns about Christianity without agenda or fear of reprisal. It's been rewarding to feed some of my creative juices. It's been a relief and a pleasure to get some of my thoughts out of my head and into cyberspace. I've thoroughly enjoyed myself: I think I'm hooked. When I write I feel, in the words of Eric Liddell in Chariot's of Fire, "the pleasure of God."

But it's become a guilty pleasure. For how can I honestly promote authenticity in our church while concealing this more reflective side of myself? How can I expect to offer grace to others while not trusting them to extend it to me? How can I claim to teach the scriptures while minimizing some of its less popular implications? How can I model thinking outside the box when I stay inside it all the time?

The truth is, I can't. I need to come clean. It's time for Mini Me to come out of the closet. I just hope he doesn't get squished.

(If this paragraph is still here, Mini Me's still in hiding.)