heart&soul

More on the Lowe's Muslim Issue

2012-01-13T07:55:00.000-08:00

I have spent the morning answering several more letters regarding the Lowe's issue. I thought I'd post this reponse, to "John." He wrote, accusing me of ignoring all the violence and rape and murder of Muslims around the world and, strangely, of failing to express "concern at the cointnued assualts on the simple expression of 'Merry Chrstmas.'" (Where did that come from?) Here's my response...

Dear “John,”

I am sorry that I am just now responding to your letter of December 20. Christmas is a busy season for us, and I am just now digging out. Despite the condescending tone of your letter, it was a Merry Christmas, and I trust yours was as well. I wished many Merry Christmases this season, as I do every season.

I have read and re-read your letter, and I don’t honestly know how to respond, yet I appreciate you taking the time to write and wanted to respond in kind. Respectful discourse is a key to our society’s success, and I trust you will receive my letter in that spirit.

Many in the religious community were concerned about the decision by Lowes – because it was perceived as an act that discriminated against one religious community in this country, or because it was perceived that they were pressured to act by one religious group, speaking out against another. The officials at Lowes greeted our delegation respectfully, and we dialogued openly for more than an hour. It was the kind of civil discourse that is woefully missing from our public life – and when it was over both the religious leaders and the Lowe’s officials celebrated the discourse as a success. In that hour the officials at Lowe’s reiterated their support of American Muslims, and people of all faiths, and no faith. Their statement and defense of diversity is quite vigorous and a core value of their corporation. In fact, Lowe’s knew that the show, “All American Muslim,” was part of the advertising block they had purchased – and they saw no need to block it, because they support the Muslim community in this country. It was only after listening to the social media “chatter” which came to surround the show that they made an advertising decision (not a religious or ethical one) to pull their advertising. The officials admitted to us that their response to the rising controversy had been handled “clumsily” (this was their language). They admitted that they had allowed the small group in Florida to claim a religious victory in pressuring Lowe’s to pull their advertising. So, Lowe’s admitted that their handling of the issue allowed it to become a perceived act of religious intolerance. Over and over they defended their values statements, their belief in religious toleration, their support of American Muslims, and adherents of all other faiths.

You do not know me, John, so you have no right to accuse me as you have. I have not ignored the abuses of Islam around the world, as you suggest. I am quite aware of these issues. But neither have I ignored the countless atrocities committed in the name of Christ in the last 2,000 years. Unfortunately, no religion is free from the idolatry of violence. So I am acutely aware, and deeply concerned about religious violence in this world – regardless the perpetrator, and regardless the victim – and I am deeply concerned about the hostility between religions, which I believe only increases the tensions, and inevitably leads to more violence. It was for this reason, and because I am a Baptist, that I chose to speak with Lowes about our concerns.

Baptists were founded as a protest to the tyranny of State Religion. Roger Williams, the first Baptist in American, was exiled to Providence, Rhode Island, because of his unyielding insistence that “papists, Jews, and Turks” be allowed to worship as the saw fit. This dissenter’s voice was not popular in 1639, and the voices of religious tolerance are still not accepted. (As I have been reminded so keenly in the last few weeks!) Roger Williams did not agree with all of the tenets of the Turks (Muslims), nor of the Native Americans, who practice animism, nor of the atheists, who practiced not at all – but he was convinced in the urgency of “liberty of conscience” – that only religion affirmed, free of coercion, could be true. Out of that conviction he willingly defended even those whose religions were in degrees of opposition to his own. In that regard I am Baptist to the core, and will continue to defend the rights of Americans to practice the religion of their choosing , or no religion at all – and without coercion, and without violence, and without the discriminatory condescension that so many cast on the religion of another.

Finally, you say that the separation of church and state is nowhere to be found in the constitution, yet the very first amendment to the constitution ensconces this separation – in both the “establishment clause” and the “free exercise clause.” The Bill of Rights became law in 1791, the work of most of the same founding fathers who created our beloved Constitution, which had become law only four years earlier. Just as the second amendment is “gospel truth” for so many in this country (and I support second amendment rights), the first amendment, guaranteeing the freedom of religion for all in this great land (which sounds pretty Baptist to me!), is a core principle of this nation.

Believing that this nation was founded to be free from state tyranny over religion, and believing that the nation was founded on the value of pluralism – an openness to people of every creed and culture (“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”), I will continue in my defense of religious liberty.

It is too late to wish you a Merry Christmas, but in a spirit of religious conviction and of liberty of conscience…

Grace and Peace,

Russ

Lowe's and All-American Muslim

2011-12-23T08:05:00.001-08:00

As if I had nothing else to do this week of Christmas, I have devoted a great deal of time on this issue -- and have never done anything that has drawn so much attention, and so much fire. I've given interviews for about a dozen media outlets, and was contacted by the Keith Olbermann show on Current TV... Here's my synopsis of the events of Tuesday. I welcome your comments.

I spent most of my day Tuesday wrapped up in the delivery of a box of signed petitions to the headquarters of Lowe’s, Inc. As a representative of Mecklenburg Ministries, I was part of a 5-member clergy delegation who visited Mooresville, signatures in hand. The signatures were from six organizations around the country and ended in my hands through some cyber-miracle and laser printing. The signatures represented petitions protesting Lowe’s decision to withdraw advertising from the show “All-American Muslim,” and asked Lowe’s executives to reconsider their decision.
If I have a “soap box” it’s that we have lost the ability to communicate in this country. No one listens. We’re just obsessed with talking points. And lobbing grenades toward the other side. So, we didn’t know what to expect from Lowe’s. They didn’t know what to expect from us. But both parties were pleased.
I’m not afraid of differing viewpoints, nor even of ideas I consider wrong-headed. I am afraid of the future of a nation that cannot dialogue. But in a second-floor conference room at the Lowe’s headquarters in Mooresville, NC, dialogue happened. They talked, and we listened. We talked, and they listened. In the end, we didn’t necessarily agree – but we walked out understanding one another’s positions, with a real sense of respect and trust, and with hope for the future. Chalk one up for dialogue.
The dialogue was healthy and respectful. We delivered a message from 200,000 Americans, frustrated that Lowe’s had made a decision that seemed biased against the Muslim American community. Baptists, like all true Americans, have always stood for religious freedom (our nation was founded on this principle, and so were Baptists), so as a Baptist minister I stand against any decision discriminating against any religion. And as a Baptist minister with Muslim friends who are All-American: hard-working and honest, peace-loving and God-fearing, who have the same dreams for their children and the same hopes for our country – and who hold as central many of the same religious imperatives that I do, I was sorry to hear of one more event that further divided us.
In that board room, though, four executives told us that the decision was not based on intolerance or discrimination, and it was made before they ever heard from the Florida group that has now taken credit for pressuring Lowe’s into withdrawing its ad. Lowe’s has an impressive policy and record regarding diversity and holds commitments to pluralism, tolerance, and respect. The decision to pull their advertising was made as all of them are made – based on the rules governing advertising decisions. This was just a business decision. The wisdom of advertising experts and the numbers influenced the decision. They make these decisions, based on these same rules, every day. I trust that report. Dialogue will do that for you. And I understand making business decisions. Our country was also founded on this principle.
So, as a Baptist minister I support my All-American Muslim friends, and sympathize with their frustration, feeling once again stereotyped and alienated, and I support my new friends at Lowe’s (who should be old friends by now, given the money I’ve spent there in a decade!), and I sympathize with the predicament they are in, being a company founded on values such as diversity and integrity, yet embroiled in controversy over a business decision.
We went to Mooresville because we thought this was a teachable moment for all. The clergy learned the perennial lesson that things are not always as they seem, that people should listen more carefully, be sure of the facts, before they speak. It’s not my place to assume what Lowe’s learned, though they freely admitted they made errors in this, and wish they had done things differently. But perhaps there is a lesson for us all in being aware that the bottom line shouldn’t always be the bottom line, and a reminder that real people often get caught in the wake that business decisions always leave. Life is about relationships. And no business decision can ever guarantee a real relationship.
We’ve got to have dialogue for that.

Nothing Has Changed About Israel. Except Everything.

2011-08-11T18:50:00.001-07:00

This was my first post from Israel during my recent visit.

r

I was here 26 years ago and everything is the same. Nothing has changed in 2,000 years, in fact. Except, well... everything...

Let me back up. I'm in Israel, sitting at a computer in the library of the Scots Hotel, St. Andrews Galilee. The window in front of me overlooks the Sea of Galilee. In the morning the sunrise is spectacular (not that I've actually seen the sun, actually rise), but the water glimmers as daylight breaks over the Golan Heights, visible on the eastern shore. After a fabulous breakfast we board the bus and head out. Our Palestinian Christian guide, Claudia ("cloud-ia"), who was raised in Germany and has a Jewish husband and two beautiful Hebrew-speaking, Palestinian-Roman-Catholic children, is our guide. As that last sentence might hint, her insight is fascinating. She speaks as we drive... Kafer Nahum (Capernaum), the Mount of Beatitudes, the traditional sight of the feeding of the 5,000 and the site of Jesus' breakfast with his disciples (on the shore of the Sea following his resurrection), Magdala (home of Mary Magdalene), the Jordan River, Nazareth (the cave which was Mary's home and the spring where she undoubtedly drew water)... So far...

26 years ago I saw many of these same "traditional" sites. Archaeologists and biblical scholars recognize that many of the sites hardly even purport to be authentic locations – it was not until the conversion of Constantine in the 4th century (and especially the "Holy Land" pilgrimage which his mother, Helena, took) that these sites began to be venerated. But for the 16 centuries since, churches have marked virtually every miracle, every significant moment in Jesus' ministry, and Christian pilgrims have visited these sites, paying homage, saying prayers, making commitments, reflecting... wondering... doubting... genuflecting... offering the whole range of spiritual responses you might expect to come when you stand in the shadow of such (sometimes gaudy) edifices, built on some "holy ground." Nothing has changed. And for 26 years one of the lasting impressions left me not remembering a trip to the "Holy Land," but remembering a quite unholy place – a land marked by bitter divisions, between warring factions of Jews and Christians and Muslims (and warring factions within each of those religions, themselves), and the trinkety excesses that commercialism has made of some of the sites. (You should just see "baptismland," as one of my traveling companions dubbed the amusement park which honors Jesus' baptism by John! And I'm sorry that we couldn't stop at the "First Miracle Souvenir and Wine Shop" in Cana – I was hoping they might actually have one final bottle of that original wedding wine left on a shelf – just for me!) No, it hasn't changed. In 26 years. Or in 2,000...

But I have.

Strange, you know... with the journey that has been my life since 1985, I approach Israel much less devotional in my piety than when I traveled here as an enthusiastic, ministry-bound college junior. I would have expected to have trembled with more excitement, "walking today where Jesus walked," 26 years ago. But even looking at the whole world with a more critical eye, a product of what scholars have called a "hermeneutic of suspicion" (come on, did this really happen...), as the pastor of a progressive church and one who now possesses a distinctly interpretive understanding of scripture (I read virtually none of it now as "just black and white")... I stood in the excavated town of Capernaum, which the gospels say became Jesus' hometown during his ministry in Galilee, walked in and out of the synagogue which he undoubtedly knew, stood over the site which even skeptical archaeologists agree may very well have been the actual home of Peter... and I had a sense of the old song, which betrayed me 26 years ago: "I walked today where Jesus walked – and felt his presence there."

All I can tell you is that my experience is common with millions who have sought to follow that strange and challenging and life-changing "man of Galilee." What I need most is precisely what he gives me – when I need it.

The land is the same. So are the sites. And so is Jesus, after all this time. Strangely, though, I've only been here four days, and think I'll be coming home changed.

That's still my prayer...

Learning to Pray in Jerusalem

2011-08-11T16:43:00.001-07:00

I just returned from the Holy Land. This post comes from last week, a reflection I sent in for our church newsletter. Love to have your comments...

r

The Jews were "greeting the Sabbath Bride" at the Western Wall – which means something of a religious party at the world's most sacred Jewish site. Young men and old come to the wall to pray on Friday nights at sundown. Many are dressed in orthodox garb. The hats are a sight to behold, all shapes and sizes. All are wearing their fringes (which hang below their shirts), and many have "ear locks" (hair just in front of their ears that grows long, sometimes hanging down below their shoulders, twisted fashionably-religiously). Their praying takes many forms. Some stand quietly. Some approach the wall and place a hand on it. Some bend to kiss these ancient stones. Many practice prayer through '"davin" (bending at the waist, mildly or wildly). Some read from Hebrew prayer books. Many gather in circles and sing happy songs, laughing and dancing excitedly. (The women are there, too... only, on their side of the fence. I'm assuming their party looks about the same as the men's side.) It really is an amazing, beautiful, moving sight. Though this kind of Jewish worship is foreign to me, I was moved by the piety, the excitement, the reverence with which they approach this 2000-year-old retaining wall, which once supported the Temple. Last Friday night we stayed for more than an hour. We offered our own prayers and enjoyed the spectacle (I mean no disrespect by the word spectacle, but for our un-initiated eyes, it was something to see!) Several men walked by our small group, excitedly reaching out to embrace three American strangers, and offering "Shabbat, Shalom" (Sabbath peace). We returned the greeting with enthusiasm, and were impressed with their hospitality – being there for the "spectacle" and all – the enthusiasm for this weekly observance just seemed enough to overcome any offense they might have otherwise experienced.

When our small group of pastors re-convened outside the enclosed area of the plaza, we stood, viewing the whole panorama. It was a beautiful Jerusalem night. The moon was rising behind us over the stone structures in the old city. The lights on the Western Wall and the sights and sounds of that Sabbath prayer filled our senses – when high above that wall a new sound emerged. The Al Aksa mosque, the third holiest mosque for the world's Muslims, sits within a few hundred feet of the top of the Western wall – and from the mosque the call to prayer was wailing through the city. Here we stood, American, Christian pastors, experiencing the worship of God, now in two foreign languages, and the mix of that beautiful, nasal Arabic cry along with the hushed and shouted Hebrew prayers is a sound I will not soon forget. I can only imagine it pleases God's ears as well.

As we made our way back through the city, to the Notre Dame Center, our home for the week, as we attempted to enter one of the narrow intersections our progress was completely halted by the mass of Muslim pilgrims heeding the call of prayer, and making their way to the Temple mount, which contains the Al Aksa mosque and the Dome of the Rock (the spectacular gold-domed shrine which is the visual centerpiece of the old city of Jerusalem). It was like a stampede – the beginning of the holy month of Ramadan – so there was no way to cross that mass of bodies. We waited. The Jews behind us. The Muslims in front of us. Leading us all to pray...

Speaking of this experience later that evening, one of my colleagues mused in amazement that there is no more violence here, given the close proximity of these conflicting children of Abraham and their religious holy sites. Our Wake Forest Divinity School leader, however, reminded us that since the Muslim conquest of Jerusalem, 1400 years ago, the Jews and the Muslims have gotten along amazingly well. Sharing this city. Sharing these holy streets. Virtually sharing the sacred ground on which their faiths call them to pray. There's a sermon in that. You'll probably hear it soon!

I’ve done my own share of praying this week, remembering you... remembering Jesus... reflecting on my life as his follower and your pastor, and as a parent of two and a husband of one and a joy-filled (if sometimes still confused!) wanna-be-disciple. But I'll have to tell you that it's not the Christian pilgrims to this city that have inspired me the most this week – though we've also encountered thousands of Christian pilgrims from around the world. Ironically (and when we open our eyes to God's amazing presence around us, "irony" may become a more and more frequent encounter for us!), I'll leave the Holy Land in 10 hours with the inspiration of Muslim and Jewish followers, leaving their busy lives, herding through crowded city streets, singing and dancing and praying quietly, in that discipline that is as old as human self-consciousness. Among the many things I have learned on this trip... I think I'll come home a better pray-er.

And maybe that's what this pilgrimage was supposed to do for me – even if I learned it in a very surprising way!

More on Obama's Libya Campaign

2011-04-09T08:04:00.000-07:00

This is the dialogue from my Facebook page that followed my article on Obama and a new military offensive in Libya:

Russ: So, my latest newsletter article (that I'm posting on the church blog) drew some praise, and more than a touch of ire! No great surprise, when you bring politics and theology together. (But what choice do we have? Read the Bible lately!?) I'm glad to post your response if you're intrested... http://amy-russ.blogspot.com/

Don Polaski: Beyond expressing disappointment, what does this piece *do* actually.

Russ Dean: I don't know that this piece "does" anything -- any more than any sermon (or lecture for that matter!) -- unless it changes someone's mind, open's someone's view, inspire's someone's heart... that's all words can do. From Don Flowers (in re...sponse to the article): "This is one of those times when I am grateful that I am not the president. I cannot imagine the moral quandary of deciding when and when not to intervene… But that isn't your job. Your calling is to raise the religious/theological question -- and you did it well. But know that prophets are without honor in their hometown, and often get thrown off cliffs, or worse!" Those of us who traffic in words for a profession can only hope the people who hear them will end up being the "doing" of our own words.
Don Polaski: I still think you're being really vague -- what then should we do, beyond adopting a pose of a world-weary superiority?

Russ Dean: I'm not intentionally being dense, Don (that's just a natural state)... help me with this. What are you suggesting I might have said that was more "doing" oriented?

Don Polaski: I think when we write we implicitly or explicitly do so for a reason, and well-crafted writing will move an audience in some way (even if that audience is us and the writing is an attempt to bring us some clarity). In my view, this piece (...unlike other stuff you've written) just sort of lies there -- I see the disappointment, but I don't sense productive grappling that might lead the way out of disappointment to somewhere. Right now the "somewhere" is a vague notion (and WB is vague as well) of an alternative consciousness and (pace Don Flowers) I think you have come back around and say explicitly that weapons, etc, are not the solution to Libya, but rather something else is. At some point you have to take on the responsibility of fleshing out what that consciousness looks like and how it relates to world we live in. That's where your work here is heading -- you might was well say so.
Shosha A Capps: This is beautiful and brave, Russ. It does everything it should.

Russ Dean: Thanks, Shosha... great to hear from you. As you might expect, I've had mixed response. But at least I've made a few people think! Hope you're well...

Jeff Rogers: If I focus on the first four paragraphs, I am left with the impression of the world-weariness of Russ's perpetual Groundhog Day experience (Is it 2003 or 2011? I'm old enough to add 1988 and the Reagan air attack in retaliation for the 1986... bombing of a discotheque in Berlin, which in turn resulted in Libya's retaliation by downing of Pan Am 103. What year is it? What difference has it all made?). However, if I focus on the last two paragraphs, I hear a call to formulate a counterscript to the prevailing narrative of U.S. military intervention as the solution to everything that ails the world, especially in the predominantly Arab portion of it. I hear Don P. saying, "Don't just call for a counterscript, write it!" Russ wrote heart&soul; Don wants him to write hands&feet: what the alternative actually looks like in a world of Gaddafis and Saddams and Ahmadinejads and bin Ladins--and Reagans and Bushes and Obamas--and us, us, us, because we are as complicitous in this as they are. While I do understand the arguments of each and why they are compelling to their adherents, neither the impulse toward "Bombs away!" on the one hand nor to toward all joining hands and singing, "Give peace a chance," on the other hand moves me. That's the hardest part to write, I think, not because it's "in the middle" but precisely because it must be predicated on an entirely different rationale than either the typical pro-military or predictable anti-military responses.

Craig Zello: I loved the last newsletter! It was my 2nd favorite ever (any guesses on my favorite?).
I owe so much to my time spent in the Army. It paid for my college which landed me a good job. That has taken around the world. All thanks to 4 years in ...the Army. I was in during the 1st Gulf War and came very close to going. Recently, I have questioned if we should have been involved then. I don’t know. I’m not saying we should be isolationists, but why are we doing what we are? What are the true motivations. I still believe in supporting our soldiers in a conflict. But, am tired of the same bad decision being made! I’m gaining more apathy toward politicians. Keep up tackling tough topics like this!

Russ Dean: Thanks for this, Craig. I've had some interesting comments. Most positive, but not all. I know that politics and theology and military are all difficult subjects, and I threw then all in together. I'm grateful for your military service, and stand with you that we should suport our troops. I can do so, even standing as I do against many of the missions they're called to serve... Thanks for the comments.

Chris Ayers: Great piece Russ!

Kathy Capps: What we do is to change our life, step by step, to be less dependent on Arab oil and to harass our representatives even when it feels so futile on a regular basis, letting them know that we do not support these unending wars. What we do is support with our finances things like Mercy Corps and Three Cups of Tea building schools for Muslim girls. What we do is pray and change our little piece of the world into a place of grace in as many ways as we are able to. What we do... is whatever we can to bring about peace.

Sharing a Little Poetry

2011-04-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

I've asked several folks in the church to help me to share poetry. This one comes to me from Ron Pelt. I love the phrase "a stretcher will come from grace to gather us up." Sometimes I need just that. Thanks for sharing, Ron...

r

Zero Circle,
by Rumi

Be helpless, dumbfounded,
Unable to say yes or no.
Then a stretcher will come from grace
to gather us up.

We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.
If we say we can, we’re lying.
If we say No, we don’t see it,
That No will behead us
And shut tight our window onto spirit.

So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally,
With tremendous eloquence, Lead Us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.

Seeing that New Day

2011-04-05T12:29:00.000-07:00

I had as much comment from my last blog as anything in a long time. I'm in the process of gathering all the responses, from email and facebook, and will post them. The dialogue has been very interesting.

Today someone sent me a copy of this prayer -- I'm told Romero prayed it just moments before he was assassinated. He speaks to the future vision that my last blog accused the President of not having. Nor should I expect this to come from the President -- but I believe the Church must keep demanding it.

Praying with Romero, and all the other prophets among us... alive and dead.

Archbishop Oscar Romero Prayer

It helps, now and then, to step back and take the long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
It may be incomplete,
but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference
between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation
in realizing that. This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
Amen.

r

What Preachers Should Say About War

2011-03-31T14:03:00.000-07:00

The following article, printed in this week's newsletter, generated some passionate reponse (for and against). I invite your response as well (and glad to post if you're interested).

***
In the 1993 comedy “Groundhog Day” the lead character, played by funnyman Bill Murray, wakes up each day to find that it’s February 2nd – again (and again, and again). Every day, more of the same, in a mind-blowing, insanity-producing cycle. In the movie, it’s funny.

But two days ago I listened to the President of the United States give justification for bombing an Arab country. He was addressing a country spiraling in confusion and frustration and its own pain. I had to look at the calendar to check the date. Phrase after phrase, justification after justification, I heard a Republican President assuring the American people that in this case, bombs are ok… in this case, we’re protecting innocent people… in this case, it’s a deranged lunatic we’re protecting from his own people… in this case Presidential powers allow… in this case, the intelligence tells us… in this case, American integrity and compassion and character call us to… Oh, wait, no, that was 2003, this is 2011… this is a Democratic President now, who campaigned against the wars?… But the language was virtually identical. Did you hear it? Am I losing my mind? Or is it just Groundhog Day, all over again?

I’ve given up my paper reading for a short spell and have not followed the recent events in the Middle East and Northern African, even the tragedy in Japan, nearly as closely as I should have. Our morning get-to-school schedule has changed, and I’ve confessed to you that I’ve never been so depressed over reading the news and never so despondent and helpless feeling about the sad state of American politics… so I figured I might give up the Observer for Lent, and then some – and we’ve quit listening to the ridiculous harangues between Fox News and Fox for Liberals. So, maybe it’s just because I’m not as closely in touch with the state of a world that seems to have lost touch, too, that the President’s remarks caught me so off guard – but I was dumbfounded.

Does power really do that to you? To everyone? Does the pressure of politics always force leaders to the same, sad conclusions? As if we have no other choice? Presidents may think we have no choice. Republican leaders and Democratic leaders may arrive at the same conclusion: no other option. But, there is a choice. Always. What is it that so blinds us that so many of us can actually believe the only solution to the world’s problems is more weapons and more violence and more death? Was it Einstein who said that the solution to a problem can never be solved by the same level of thinking that created the problem? And weapons and violence and death got us into this mess.

Walter Brueggemann, one of the world’s foremost Old Testament scholars, says, “The dominant script of both selves and communities in our society, for both liberals and conservatives, is the script of therapueutic, technological, consumerist militarism that permeates every dimension of our common life.” The Bible’s genius, why it may yet save the world, is that it offers a counterscript to this narrative that everyone seems to accept. We need to develop a creative imagination… to see the world in a new light… to imagine new possibilities… to think beyond the same old, same old, same old, same old box….

I don’t expect American Presidents to be theologians. (After all, we don’t elect them to be Pastor of the U.S.) But the Christian voice in this world needs to counter this same old script they offer. Democrats. Republicans. Bush. Obama. Groundhog Day… All over Again.

That’s what Resurrection is all about. There really is the potential for a New Day to dawn in God’s world.

Praying for February 3rd…

Are You Motivated?

2011-03-09T14:37:00.000-08:00

Jackson was taking a hitting lesson. (When I was a kid, there was just one team bat, and the only lesson available was, “Keep your eye on the ball, son, and hit it hard!”) There’s more to it than that, now. (And the one-team-bat version was cheaper, too!)

His coach goes by “Shore,” and as he was pitching to Jackson and barking instructions faster than my keep-your-eye-on-the-ball batting experience could process, he casually said to me, “What do you think about Joel Olsteen? (“You’re long, Jackson. Shorten it up!”) Knowing I’m a pastor, and given his reaction to my response, I think Shore thought I’d be a bit more effusive in praise. Or that I’d at least have one good word to say. But the best I could offer was, “I can’t say that I’m a fan.” Maybe he thought I was jealous of the big crowds, or the full head of hair, but Shore completed my thought for me. “I go over here to (such and such) to church (“That’s what I want to see, Jackson!”), but I listen to Olsteen when I’m not there – which is a good bit of the time. I like him because, well I’d have to say he’s more an entertainer, or a motivational speaker, but he makes me feel good.”

You don’t say.

We moved from the batting cage to the pitching mound, and while I was catching Jackson (and doing my fair share of praying, given the speed and movement he’s now putting on the ball – I’d guess I’m no more than one hit pitch away from retirement!), Shore walked back by. “I’ve given a little more thought to your question, Shore. And a more complete response would be to say that I just don’t think Jesus was much of a ‘motivational speaker.’” I think Shore understood. But he and millions more will be tune in again Sunday morning at eleven.

With no sense of arrogance intended (as if I’m more like Jesus than Joel is), I do think this is part of why we’ve not yet had to add a third service and two satellite locations with a televised feed for the Sunday sermon at Park Road Baptist. It’s hardly surprising to say that more people would rather leave worship (or get off the sofa) “feeling good,” than being challenged with the difficulties of faith. But if you really want to listen to the Bible, you’re not often going to close the pages with one of Olsteen’s signature smiles on your face.

This stuff is hard.

I hate your worship – the liturgy I want is service... Turn the other cheek... Go the extra mile... The greatest will be the servant... Give to everyone who begs... Forgive (until you’re sick of it)... Take up your cross (not the trinket on your necklace), and FOLLOW ME...

Christian faith, lived, requires discipline, which has become a bad word. But without discipline, no one can hope to become a disciple. So we'll be talking during this season of Lent about discipline, not about God giving you everything you want through prayer. Our theme is “The Disciplined Life: A Journey to Easter,” and we’ll spend each week on one, three-word discipline. This week’s is “Run the Race.”

I hope it will be motivating!

Strength From Beyond

2011-02-24T13:36:00.000-08:00

For more than a year our church family has been praying for the 8-year-old niece of our own, Steve King. Beth had been diagnosed with cancer, and through various treatments we lent what support we could to Steve and Tammy, and we held a beautiful girl in the light of God, praying with Beth in our thoughts. We had all celebrated a notice of remission. Then came bad news. And after a few difficult weeks for those who love her, even worse news: the hand and forearm where the cancer had returned would have to be removed. That surgery is coming next Tuesday -- and Beth and her family will again be in our hearts, on our minds.

I asked permission of Beth's mother, Lisa, to share a reflection that she wrote, which Tammy had passed on to many of us. I was touched by the incredible strength of a mother and a young child, by a "strength from beyond" which came to me in these words (from beyond), which lifts us all, in moments of great need.

Thank you, Beth, for teaching us all, from your great strength. And thanks be to God for that strength that comes, from a place we cannot name, to touch the deepest moments of our pain. Our prayers go with Beth for next Tuesday...

***

Last Friday, my family gathered in a doctor's office at Aflac Cancer Center, where my three children were told that Beth's cancer was indeed back. They were then told that Beth's hand would need to be removed in order to remove the cancer. Of course, I knew ahead of time, what was going to be discussed. My children did not. I sat beside my daughter and braced for the tears, the anger, the terror. I watched as her cheeks began to flush, I held her hand as she reached for me. I stood and put my arm around her waist even as she wrapped her arm around my neck and drew my cheek to hers. I was scared to look her in the eye - I was scared what I would find.

When I met her eyes, what I found there was God.

I have always been a very logical, passive and unemotional Christian. I have come to my Faith through a lifetime of increasing awareness - baby steps leading me down my path. I have always wanted to experience an uncontainable encounter with the Holy Spirit - one that would send me crying or dancing to the alter - one that would forever banish any tiny crumb of doubt that creeps into the heart of most Christians at some time or another.

Last Friday, that all changed. I was near vomitting as I waited for the breakdown of my children that I knew was coming. This is what happened instead....

Garett walked to me and took my hands. He asked me if I was going to cry, I told him no, and he looked at me and said that we were going to be OK. He sat back down and began to ask questions of the doctors. Becky came and stood silently by her twin sister, as if to pass her strength onto Beth and to take some of her pain onto herself. And, as for Beth, the "star" of this show, when she finally looked at me, there was this peace and calmness to her that was not her own. She held me as much as I was holding her. She listened and accepted what was being told to her. She asked questions about what she would be able to do with her replacement hand, she asked if she would need chemo, she asked if she could still have a hamster. She asked if she could still have a hamster. A hamster.

Garrett told me that Luke Skywalker had a replacement hand and that he was the best Jedi Knight ever. Beth told the doctor's that she had a talent show to perform in and needed to be out of the hospital for that. Becky just said that her sister was cool and always would be. Two doctors a nurse practitioner and a child life specialtist were poised in that room for damage control and counseling. Two doctors, a nurse practitioner, a child life specialist and two parents were taught a lesson by two eight year olds, a nine year old and the presence of the Holy Spirit.

I have said before, that first Beth heals us, then we set about healing her. How profound that small statement was. Beth has made only one request since last Friday. She has asked that we remove the cast on her arm a day before the surgery. She wants to "spend some time with her arm before she loses it". So for those who think she does not understand what is going to happen, she understands better than any of us. She will lose nothing that God or any of her family cherish about her. She will lose a diseased part of her body - her soul and her spirit shine brighter than ever.

By the way, this weekend we spent time with my childhood best friend and her daughter, we saw the Justin Beiber movie (Beth made plans to marry him) and we looked at hamster cages. Beth's cast will be removed next Monday. Beth's forearm will be removed on Tuesday. Any of my lingering spiritual doubts were removed last Friday. What is precious in Beth, what is precious in ALL OF US, can never be removed.

I pray that the Grace that God has given to Beth spread like wildfire to all of us. That His peace be with us and that His strength be in my little girl as she begins her walk down the path that God has chosen for her.

***

May it be so!

G-7b5, C7b9, F-7, Bb7, Ebmaj7

2011-02-09T12:50:00.000-08:00

It’s easily in my top ten things to do. Things that make my blood flow. That speak to me of the goodness of life. Of the sacred wonder of creation. Of the mystery we call Incarnation (God-with-us). I’d be afraid to try to prioritize, but it would rank somewhere in there with a crystal-glass lake at dusk and the thrill of feeling your toes just above that surface, skimming at almost 40 mph… somewhere in there with a snowy, fresh-powder day, chasing two boys in and out of snow-covered pines… somewhere in there with the smell of fresh-shaven wood chips, a finished product emerging under sandpaper and a coat of polyurethane… somewhere in there with the taste of home cooked food, a gathering around a table, the natural conversation that flows among friends, and the Spirit which that setting evokes. I wouldn’t want to prioritize, but it’s in there.

The first time I played in a jazz band, I was a would-be trumpet player. A band friend had initiated me with several invitations to community concerts. Benny Goodman, the Count, Woody Herman… I couldn’t believe it. Silky strains… syncopation with unimaginably tight tolerances… screaming horns… and chords I’d never heard before. I’d later learn to call them by their names: A7, C6, Ebmaj7, G-7b5, C7#9… but when I first heard them, they were just cool. Opening a new world of music. A new world.

Harry Boughknight was an old-school band director. We marched block-band style and played everything in 4/4. I learned Sousa in marching band. But Mr. B also loved the Big Band. In the next few years, that high school jazz band would play concerts at school, dances in town, and country club bookings, every performance further engraining in me the love of bee-bop and swing and Latin and jazz waltz. I progressed through high school, and Furman’s jazz program notched it up a couple levels – you see, those guys could really play! I loved every minute of it. But life moves on, and unless you’re very diligent, keeping up your lip is nearly impossible. So the bands fell by the wayside, and a couple years after moving to Charlotte, even the all-jazz public radio station went under, diminishing my jazz exposure to a shameful dearth .

Then came Jazz Vespers…

It’s easily in my top ten things to do. Things that make my blood flow. That speak to me of the goodness of life. Of the sacred wonder of creation. Of the mystery we call Incarnation (God-with-us). Our Jazz Vespers have given me a chance to re-discover the world of jazz. This time at the piano. And it’s a thrill – because I’m not a real player, but I’m getting to back up some guys that are! In that first jazz band, 1979, John G. Franklin played first-chair trombone, and then bass. He could play then. He can play now, and he knows the world of musicians in Charlotte, and has brought some really fine players to share their chops with us.

We’re up again, Friday. 6:00 pm. The combo is practicing this week, and we’ll do some sacred jazz for you (if you don’t mind swinging a few Baptist hymns) and some standards (just to prove that “secular” music is sacred, too). We’ll meet in the Chapel. There will be no sermon, per se. We’ll serve fair-trade coffee (which you can drink while you listen). And we’ll enjoy scripture and poetry and silence, and will seek to encounter the mystery we call God, as we gather as a community of faith, around the Godly strains of Jazz. Bring a friend and join us. I think it might make your top-ten, too.

G-7b5, C7b9, F-7, Bb7, Ebmaj7 (Translation: a benediction from Errol Garner’s “Misty”)…

Seeing God... in You

2011-01-25T13:17:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd pass along another piece from a church member. Many of you know that Chase Bengel had surgery last week. His mom, Marinn, shared this email with many supporters. I thought I'd pass it along because it speaks as a living witness to the words of Hebrews 13: "Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it." For all who have been, according to Hebrews, literal angels to the Bengels: Thanks be to God!

***
My dear friends....Gosh how blessed I feel!

One said to me this morning, "Oh Marinn, you must be so stressed?" But my answer is, "Most of the time...not...because....You literally see the best of humanity and feel the touch of God!" And I mean that from the humblest part of my heart.
Let me tell you how God showed up for us.....
During Chase's first test at the hospital, one of the assisting nurses looked down at our chart and saw that Scott worked for Shelco. Her young husband also works for Shelco...Thanks be to God!
Before surgery, lots of God (I can't name you all) sent us emails, phone called and texted to say they/God would be with us, and you were. Thanks be to God!
When we got to the hospital, God came in greeted us as the Pre Op nurse Jo Aiken who has know us for years...Thanks to God for Jo being on our team...I would have requested her if I had know. Thanks be to God!
Then God (Amy and Michael) came and prayed with us. Then God (russ, amy, michael, sue, mom, kathy) came and waited with us during the surgery and made us laugh and passed the time. Thanks be to God!
And God (kathy) drove my other children around while we waited. Thanks be to God!
And then we went into our room in the hospital...10 minutes later...God walked in as the Child Life Specialist, Andrea, that is Howard Peabody's daughter, one of Scott's partners...and we haven't seen "cute her" in 5 years...there she was to check on us and take care of us..Thanks be to God!
And more God called our house to check on us and texted and called our cell phones...Thanks be to God!
And every day more God brought food and recipes and boost and biscuits, jam and a frosty and smoothie cards and movies and wine and....visits and....Thanks be to God!
So thank you God for being with our family every day....Thank you for holding our hands, whispering in our ears, feeding us and loving us...
Some will say that we never see the face of God, but I believe differently, and he/she looks like you. Thanks be to you!

Marinn

PS… Chase came home on Friday...a textbook operation and is happily and grumpily eating soft foods...3 to 6 weeks is a lot of soft food! He did end up with some pneumonia which has caused a lot of coughing and more sleeping. He is regaining strength and should be on the other side of this soon.

I Can Imagine

2011-01-19T08:40:00.000-08:00

So it's been a while since I posted, but I had to share this. Not my own, thoughts, but some words that our own, Ron Pelt, sent me this morning. Ron and his wife, Carol, are newer members who have been very active in church and in our Babylon's Class. Ron writes beautifully and occasionally sends me some of his work. I read this morning's offering and had to find a way to make it available to you. I think it speaks well of our God-experience -- and may speak particularly well to those of us who enjoy the give and take of theology and its inspiring, but also bewildering questions. The Psalmist says, "Be still and know that I am God" (Ps. 46.10) -- sometimes we need to pause from our asking, our wrestling, our important-doubting... and just "know."

Thanks, Ron, for sharing. I'd love to have feedback from the church -- and other submissions, as well. Maybe we need a church-wide blog that we write together. Could this be our first entry?

***
Sometimes I can imagine myself in the future, having a conversation with God. God is somewhat puzzled and says to me,

“I gave you so much: from the amazing gold glowing orange of a peach slice (not to mention its incredible sweetness), to the taste of marmalade in the morning. I gave you the soft warmth of your puppy’s belly and the fluffy subtle cotton of the morning clouds. And yet you seemed so unhappy much of the time. And when you cried out in fear and loneliness, I was there, although your pain often blocked your awareness of my presence. I have been trying to tell you day after day, year after year, I know you. I am here for you. Come bring me your burdens and lay them here. I’ve got you.”

And God would go on to say, “When you were a young child, you knew all this. You would wake up each morning and wonder what miracles you would accomplish that day. The sun was brighter, the ice cream was sweeter, and you tasted it not just with your tongue, but with your whole face. You weren’t afraid to get your head right down into things. You jumped into mud puddles with both feet, delighting in the simplest things.”

I would be deep in contemplation and God would continue with his discourse. “Your faith in me was simple then. You saw me in the stars you looked up at on summer nights, marveled in my light from fireflies, and played with my hot orange coals in campfires. And you knew that you could do anything, because I made you that way. You could dance, sing, draw, imitate animals, and once you even tried to fly. And your dreams! Oh, your dreams! I loved to watch them at night. They were my favorite movies.

You didn’t expect too much from me in those days. Just for me to be big, really big. You didn’t question my power. That never even came up. You just assumed I was enough. And you weren’t afraid of me; that is, not until the grownups started trying to teach you about me. Then you started hearing all the lies, all the misunderstandings, and all the rules, rules, rules. Why in just a few short months I went from being a close loving warm blanket to becoming a jealous, cruel, judgmental, condemning monster, who sent people to some awful place where they burned forever and cried out in pain and loneliness.

I’m sorry for that. I knew it was happening but I couldn’t stop them, not the way things are set up. I tried to help you think about how silly all that was. And I did get through to you some. Are you listening now? Do you get it? I’m still here, and I still want to play. I love you and I want you to learn to love yourself, and marvel at what a miracle you are. If you can do that, then you can turn and look at others, and see how they are miracles too, and learn to marvel at them, like you used to a long time ago.”

Ron S. Pelt
***

ReDreaming the Dream -- A Vision As It's Supposed To Be!

2010-10-26T08:10:00.000-07:00

On Sunday the church will vote on a new vision that our Vision Team has been working on for nealy seven months. We knew going into this one that it was going to be different from the last (2003). Maybe harder. You see, the last time, the church was in a kind of "jump start" mode. Their new co-pastor team was still fairly new (3 years, and there were lots of "systems" that needed to be repaired or created. Everything from the phone system to the outreach system...

That 2003 process was begun because about a two years prior a church consultant, called in to give us advice about a "Master Plan" that was in the works, had made this striking statement: "I hear you saying what you want to do. I don't hear you saying who you are." So that Vision began, as all visions must, with a commitment to define who we are, which we accomplished in a mission statment that truly spoke of this church: "Becoming disciples through worship and service." That statement guided the the remainder of that process, and has led us as a church ever since. And that vision also set us on a track of completing some bricks-and-morter systems that needed to be put in place. In December, 2007 we dedicated a new Community Center, which will always stand as a kind of symbol to the 2003 Vision.

But we knew when we started in March of this year there would be nothing as tangible as a building to come out of this process. So it would be harder. It was. It is. Harder to see... harder to explain... harder to grasp (especially if you've not been in seven months of meeetings!) But it has the same potential to guide this church, define this church, change this church, as "Commitment Made Real" did, in 2003.

I hope you have taken the time to read and reflect, ask questions and study "ReDreaming the Dream: Reaching Up... Reaching In... Reaching Out...," which we will vote on as a church this coming Sunday. The document can be found on the church website (www.parkroadbaptist.org). Please take a look. I wanted to share with you the presentation that LeDayne McLeese Polaski made to our Deacons on Sunday morning. Her words mean something to me because of how well she knows The Church, and because they capture the excitement that this vision should. Amy and I hope that if we move forward on Sunday, we'll do so with this much enthusiasm -- it will virtually be required to make "ReDreaming the Dream" the success it deserves to be.

Here are LeDayne's remarks:

"In my job, I work with churches throughout North America. And because of that, I think about churches – what they do and why and how – and how they work or not – pretty much all day and every day – so I want to start with a very brief professional assessment.
PRBC is a healthy, vibrant church with excellent clergy and lay leadership – This expansive vision plan is both proof of that and reason to believe that it will continue as such. That’s my professional opinion.

But I think that Crystal (Crystal Smyth, Chair of Diaconate) invited me today to offer my personal opinion -- so here’s my personal option – I’m so excited that I just cannot stand it!

I had no idea of what to expect from the Vision Team and wasn't, to tell the truth, all that invested one way or the other. I’ve been in churches that created vision plans – I’ve watched churches create plans – and usually, to be honest, it isn’t very interesting. BUT – when I attended the presentation of the Vision Team a few weeks ago -- well, I thought it was the most exciting thing I'd ever seen in my 42 years of going to church. I already LOVED PRBC – but I was blown away by how good, how exciting, how visionary, how comprehensive, and how energizing this plan is. And – oh, by the way – by how faithful it is to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

My Sunday School class has been reading Shane Claiborne’s Irresistible Revolution – a book that makes me wonder if its possible for me to live a truly Christian life. I’ve been fretting about it, actually – wondering how I might move myself closer to being what I want to be – a faithful disciple. And then I went to the vision presentation and found the answer. I don’t have to do this alone – I have a community to help me – to support me, to challenge me, to walk with me, to care for me all along the way. And this community has a vision as big and deep and hard as I want mine to be. It makes me feel that I am in the right place to help me live out the call to discipleship. It makes me grateful to be a part of The Church and this church. It even makes me ready to give more and be more – and I would have sworn that I was already doing as much and giving as much as I could.

I am excited – energized – grateful – and ready to get started."

Thanks, LeDayne, so am I!

The Real Meaning of Church

2010-10-03T18:45:00.000-07:00

It happens occasionally. maybe only occasionally. Even for those of us who spend nearly every waking hour within its doors. So when church really happens, it's worth remembering. It happend this week.

(I told this story with her permission on Wednesday night, but for the internet I won't disclose any names.)

She came by the office early one day last week. She seemed excited. For more than a year there have been health questions for her husband. Tests here. Anxious waiting. Tests there. More waiting. They've both been amazingly upbeat (he probably more than she -- not surprising for an anxious spouse!). Not unrealistically cheery, but healthily optimistic. Hopeful.

And they'd gotten a report from the doctor that once again sounded like good news. I'm not at all being skeptical, just saying what we all know, namely, that listening to a report from the doctor can be notoriously difficult. There's the polysyllabic medical lexicon (the big words!), the complicated, often contingent procedures (this one if this... that one if, well, something else...), and the doctor's understandable need to be positive, even if realistic, and yet somewhat hestitant (they do call it the practice of medicine -- since no one has absolute answers when it comes to our health). What she heard (along with the other four listening ears from their family -- always a good practice to take along several extra sets of ears for doctors' conferences!) sounded good. Very good. and she just had to share.

So, standing in the church office, she did just that. We could hear the excitement. The absense of tension in her voice, for the first time in a while. (That's how you spell relief.) We asked a few questions, though there was little we needed to know other than the smile on her face. And then she said, "And I need a little thanksgiving prayer."

So right there, we joined hands. Our whole ministerial staff. The office staff. The office volunteer. And Amy prayed. (She knew I wouldn't have made it through such a tender moment -- and she was right! I hardly made it through her prayer!) It was a beatiful prayer of thanks and grace and community. Just what she needed. And what a gift she had given to us. Sharing life's difficult moments. And life's joys. Together. Wrapped in a spirit of prayer.

I don't know when I've had a more meaningful experience of church.

But I trust there will be more.

Russ

On "Celebrating" the End of a War

2010-08-31T19:00:00.000-07:00

I missed the parade. You know, celebrating the end of the war. Cheering the victory. Honoring the dead. But it’s hardly the only thing I’ve thought missing about our war in Iraq.

Yesterday marked the official end to our “combat operations” in Iraq. I heard it on the news, a little lower in priority than the 5-year anniversary of Katrina and the obsession with the recession. There was no fanfare. According to the website, http://nationalpriorities.org, military and non-military spending in Iraq now exceeds $745 billion, this for “incremental… additional funds.” (Regular military pay is not included, for example, but combat pay is included. Future anticipated costs are also not included.) “icasualties.org” lists the much greater costs, in human lives, at 4416 American troops killed in action. According to Patrick Goodenough, the International Editor for CNSNews.com, this is one death for every 15 hours of war. In addition to these grave numbers are the disturbing reports of the high number of combat injuries, especially traumatic brain injury, that are leaving thousands of our soldiers wounded – many with injuries that are not identified as combat related (mental health injuries), nor treated with the care which they deserve.

Because of the way the current and previous administrations and our news networks have chosen to provide coverage for this war, these losses are mainly nameless, faceless young people. Of course they are not nameless, nor faceless – that’s the point – they are beloved sons and daughters, parents, children, siblings, and friends whose faces and names are well-known, but they are largely forgotten because our War on Terror is a non-war in the traditional sense. In other words, we have conducted this war as if it were not costing us the precious resources, and the beloved children which are being lost every single day. At one point the former President remarked that the best we could do for this war was to “go shopping” – this war against the terrorists was about economic recovery – about not letting “them” steal “our way of life” (which may very well be caricatured by “shopping,” sadly enough) – not about deadly combat. There have been no calls for national participation much less for the kind of collective sacrifice that has been required of other national wars. As a result, while we have conducted life as usual, our daughters and sons have been giving their lives away – and the disconnect between those two concurrent lifestyles has far more serious consequences than we are prepared to admit. Though far harder to document (it was difficult enough to find a website that simply provided the numbers), another cost with which people of faith should be concerned is the loss of Iraqi lives. www.iraqbodycount.org places the estimate of documented deaths at between 97,461 and 106,348. To be sure, neither do those numbers represent nameless, faceless individuals.

While we should celebrate the end of this war’s combat operations, it should not be out of bravado or a sense of nationalistic superiority. We won! (I have never had any idea what “victory in Iraq” would really look like.) We should celebrate out of deep gratitude that this sad chapter is finally over. That the insanity of 7 ½ years is coming to an end. The sooner we can put this endless war behind us, work on repairing the broken relationships, the wounds of the horror of war, the better for our common humanity.

I don’t know what we have “won” in Iraq, if anything. I know that the quiet passing of “the end of combat operations” indicates a great defeat. We have conducted this war in a way that makes it clear that we mostly do not care. About the troops, the civilians, the “opportunity costs” lost in this nearly trillion dollar campaign. The commentators, hawks and doves alike, agreed that our plan for war was lacking. Now that the combat is over, I’d like to think we could do better with a plan for peace. To that end, I’ll be praying with you…

On Celebrating the Construction of New Mosques. A Baptist Response.

2010-08-12T06:18:00.000-07:00

I watched with dismay and sadness a recent edition of Anderson Cooper's CNN news show as Rev. Flip Benham, of "Operation Save America," spoke out against the building of a mosque in New York's "ground zero" area. But the Right Rev. (better named, Rev. Wrong), hardly stopped there. His opinion is that no mosques should be built -- anywhere. "Islam is a lie born from the pit of hell." (I may not have that quotation exactly right, but this is close to his exact words.)

I am dismayed that this kind of biggotry exists, and though I support our freedom of speech, sad that such a misguided viewpoint is allowed a nation-wide viewing.

I happened to be listening to this with some family members, one of whom opined that Bentham's words seemed on target. Bentham had said that though not all Muslims are terrorists, all terrorists are Muslim. This family member couldn't separate the heinous acts of a handful of misguided fanatics from the religion which birthed their own prejudices and hatreds. And though it made for a slightly tense family moment, I could not not respond.

You simply cannot say this. It is NOT true that Islam is a religion of evil or violence. That some have perverted it as such is undeniable. So have some Jews and Hindus and Buddhists and Christians made their religion the basis for God's supposed sanction of their own violence. And I asked if this family member knew any Muslims. He did not. And I told him that he needed to meet the handful of active, participating, faithful Muslims that I work with on a regular basis, through Mecklenburg Ministries, and hear their stories... see their lives... They are living testimonies to the fact that of the world's 1 billion Muslims, the vast majority are God-fearing, peace-loving, justice-oriented members of a religion whose name, Islam, is derived from the Arabic word for "peace."

Fundamentalism is our enemy. Whether Islamic or Christian. And education -- and relationships -- are the keys to moving our world forward.

Skip Bentham is wrong. And we need to say it boldly.

I'm grateful to my Muslim friends whom I consider partners in faith, brothers and sisters on the journey of finding and knowing God. Through our distinctive understandings of our approach to God, there is, yet, more that draws us together than divides us.

To that common end, we should celebrate the construction of houses of worship around this great nation -- regardless their shape. (I understand that there are political issues at hand, with the proposed NY mosque. I am not addressing these issues, but the larger religious and philosophical framework of this conversation.) And Baptists should lead the way in this -- as historic supporters of the freedom of religion.

May it be so.

Just Home from "Preacher Camp"...

2010-07-23T21:06:00.000-07:00

For seven years I've been meeting, annually, with five other pastors for a week of self-designed study leave. Being in similar kinds of Baptist churches, and all preaching from the lectionary, the format of our annual study/retreat is a preview of the coming year's lectionary texts. (If you're unfamiliar, the Revised Common Lectionary divides the Bible, for preaching/worship purposes, into a three-year cycle, presenting an Old Testament, Psalm, Gospel, and Epistle reading for each week.) We take the coming year, divide it into six seasons, and prepare a preview of that season's texts, along with theme ideas, suggestions for preaching, and brainstorms about other worship elements. It's been a wonderful way to prepare for a year -- and great just to be together for the fellowship. And, if you can imagine a minister's retreat that begins with "Margarita Monday," it might not sound quite so boring! (Don't worry, Mom... we're all still Baptists!)

At our last gathering someone suggested that we should bring our families next time. We've grown quite close, and share not only in these annual retreats, but through Facebook and email we stay in touch throughout the year. These are colleagues as colleagues should be. Our sessions usually begin by "checking in" -- providing a safe, understanding group of ears to hear our joys and sorrows, our trials and successes in ministry. Someone generally breaks out a box of Kleenex. There's lots of laughter as we walk through the liturgical year together. (You just can't imagine how funny preparing for Pentecost really can be!) And the food and fellowship are, generally speaking, spectacular. We are two women and four men, serving churches from Baltimore, MD to Waco, TX, and scattered all in between, and the only thing that could possibly have made the last six years any better... was bringing our families along for the ride.

So... thanks to the generosity of a PRBC family with a fabulous house on a nearby mountain lake, seventeen of us gathered for this edition of "homipalooza, family style." (Homiletics is the study of preaching, and a "lolipalooza" is a hum-dinger of any variety!) And you can see from the picture that in addition to coming home with a year's worth of preaching/worship ideas, we also had time for more than a little family fun. There were the evening dance parties (fantastic to see such esteemed Reverends "bustin' a move" with the teenagers and kids among the group!)... the campfire sing-along, complete with s'mores... the conversations in the hot tub... plenty of water time for swimming and floating... and even enough time for the Dean boys to work on their Cypress Gardens Act.

I'm grateful to Don and Dorisanne, John and Jim and Amy (not my Amy... she's not been privy to such wonderful company until this year), for their creativity, their passion, their scholarship, their deep Christian convictions, but most of all for their frienship, which I treasure. And what a special joy to know that my family now knows how wonderful you are, too.

Preacher Camp? You betcha... can't wait 'till next time!

Russ

Church for Real Men

2010-06-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

I've been promted to re-start my blogging by an email I just got -- someone forwarded a link to an Observer article about "Ultimate Man Sunday" at a local church. (Today was Father's Day, you know. In case you, or God, forgot.) What a great idea -- and why didn't we think of that!? Instead of a warm, friendly welcome in the narthex, and an invitation to spend a few quiet minutes preparing to worship God together, we could have offered cigars and turkey legs in the narthex, and put in a big screen TV above the mantel, showing sports clips to help the men really prepare to meet God -- in a sermon chock-full of sports illustrations and all male heroes, I'm sure -- and maybe a NASCAR-themed centerpiece on the communion table to boot.

Call me a sissy, guys, but if this is what it takes to grow a church (and maybe it is... noticing the numbers in our sanctuary lately, compared to the reports of some of our competitors who are packing their pews)... I'll have to settle for being the pastor of "Pretty Woman's Church" instead.

I just don't get it. Really. What is it that people don't understand about the difference in worship... and unadulterated entertainment? You know, if it takes buying a church humidor and grilling turkey legs in the narthex fireplace to get guys to come, then maybe (just humor me a bit here, guys), maybe they're coming for the wrong reason! And if sports and cigars and big hunks of smoked meat is what brings you -- maybe it really isn't Church you will find when you get there. (Crazy theory, I know... but it just seems to me that God might actually appreciate it if we really came to church just FOR GOD'S SAKE... not for all the same freebies they hand out at local sports bar.)

You know, I might be able to make an argument that I'm a real man, too, if I tried really hard... There's my pickup truck... The Harley... The shop full of well-used power tools... The radio presets for Country and Classic Rock... Waterskiing on my hands at 36 mph... (sorry, you'll have to see the picture in Amy's office for proof!) But if thoughtful, well-crafted worship, minus the gimicks and all the smoke and mirrors, makes me a "girly man," then pass the pink paint for my Sporter. I'm sure the rest of the girls will love it.

Yes, I'm concerned about our worship numbers... our budget numbers... our growth numbers. (But more than the concern is the excitement I have about the church I'm honored to serve.) But if that's what it takes to get men to come to church, then I'll be worshiping with the girls, and the other wimpy guys who don't need a Monster Truck in the parking lot to attract them.

Apparently I won't be the pastor of a mega-church anytime soon. And I'm obviously not a real man.

Suits me fine.

On the Way Home

2009-08-18T11:55:00.001-07:00

I'm typing from the floor of the airport at Sky Harbor International in Phoenix, AZ. It's 101-degrees outside, but we're cool as cukes here on the floor. Just enjoyed a spectacular lunch from the Blue Burrito Grill (Jackson says, on a scale of "1-to-Moe's," this is a definite 9!), and Amy and the boys are playing cards. (No money has exchanged hands, at least to this point.) We're heading for Minneapolis and then back to Charlotte. We'll arrive at 10:15 p.m. tonight... just in time for a good night's sleep... a little grass cutting and unpacking... and repacking... and a final summer trip -- to the lake. We'll be in Greenwood until Sunday, and then we're back in Charlotte for school, and PRBC. Though it's been an incredible summer, we are all feeling a bit antsy to be back home and in a routine.

I woke up yesterday morning having endured a nightmare... Carson Allen's funeral was in a few moments. I was in my robe. Carol Cramer was there, hurrying me on to the sanctuary. We were at PRBC (though it didn't look like PRBC in my dream). I was to speak the eulogy. And I had not written a single word. Panick. And... I couldn't find any paper. Any paper! I was working through what I wanted to say... but I wanted to at least write notes... Give me some paper! I finally found a few scrap squares, but... there was no flat, horizontal space on which to write. NONE! I finally found a little square block of some kind and I turned it over, put the paper on it, and began to write, only to find that the block was filled with little knobs of some kind, so I had no smooth surface for writing. Carol wouldn't quit beckoning me to the sanctuary and I was PANICKED...

That's when I woke up and realized... I need to be home! It must be about time to be back in the pulpit (because this is a recurring theme for Saturday night dreams in our house!)

We're parked on the floor under a large ad for Sky Harbor's free Wi-Fi, and Jackson asked... "Who does that look like?" (the girl in the advertisement). Without hesitation we all answered in unison -- RACHEL STONE!

How good it will be to see Rachel... and Carol... and to have those Saturday night dreams again. Really. It's been an amazing summer. Can't wait to tell you more and show you all 2500 pictures the boys took (no shortage of Wednesday evening material for the fall!).

And again, we're grateful.

Trusting that we all will be made better by this absence. Our hearts are growing fonder by the moment.

See you soon.

Two Worlds. One Sky.

2009-08-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

It was hard to reconcile the two. As I sat in Supai, Arizona, on Friday night, my niece, Ali, was in Orlando, FL competing in the Miss America Teen Pageant. A month ago she became Miss SC Teen, and the Deans of Charlotte were virtually the only members of the family who did not make the trek to the Miss America Teen pageant. But it was not as if we missed the festivities all together.

You see, last weekend was the annual Peach Festival in Supai. A pretty big Supain deal, and among the festivities were... you guessed it, the Miss Havasupai Pageant! The pageantry started at 7:00 p.m. (Well, it was actually 7:35 p.m. before the emcee welcomed us to the pageant, but who's counting.) The downtown "civic center" was the home of the pageant -- Supai's newly built outdoor basketball court, complete with bleacher seating, and extra chairs brought in by helicopter for the standing room only crowd... At about 8:05 p.m. -- not having seen a single Miss Supai contestant yet -- we left, but Don wanted to go back for the 9:00 p.m. concert, featuring "Midnight Red." So...

After putting the boys to bed, Don and I headed back down the street, hoping for some good evening music. It was 9:40 p.m. when we got there -- and the 3rd Miss Havasupai contestant was just on stage: "I haven't practiced anything for my talent... my mother kept bugging me, 'What are you going to do...' So... I think I'll... sing a traditional Indian song..." And this is where the obvious incongruity began to hit me. You see, Ali has practiced her original arrangement of "In the Mood" about 3.25 million times in the past three months (and she plays it spectacularly!), so as this little miss struggled through her traditional song, I thought of Ali, playing Glenn Miller's famous dance... and I looked around.

There were at least 25 dogs in attendance at the pageant. And occasionally, a bark from beyond the gym fencing would send 15 of them howling to that side of the stage growling and barking wildly. (If you're not a fan of leash-less pit bulls, I recommend another vacation destination!)

Several saddle-less horses ran through town, one "neighed" wildly -- sparking another bout of wild dog madness.

The 40+ children in attendance mostly gathered at the back of the audience, and beyond the fence, and spent the night loudly hooping it up, playing with the dogs, yelling at one another, tossing their glow-n-the-dark necklaces at each other. (Completely oblivious to Little Miss and her traditional song.)

Several of the contestants offered a traditional Indian "circle dance" as their talent, and as Don and I had walked through a gauntlet of teenaged Indian boys, who looked at us with great inquisitiveness, I was prepared to be unnerved -- but the piercing Indian war scream that was offered at an ear-splitting volume, over and over, just behind me was about more than my ears (and heart) could stand. I'm not prejudiced against Indians at all (the Havasupai prefer "Indian" to "Native American"), but I couldn't get out of my mind the image of the only two white men in the audience, scalped, hog-tied, and twisting over a spit, as the focal point of Miss Havasupai's celebratory circle dance -- just as her way of saying thanks to the judges!

Don and I kept looking at each other as the night wore on (the band was supposed to begin at 9:00 p.m.) -- and about 10:25 p.m. the emcee declared that the judges had made their decision. So, after a few more audience-participation traditional dances, "Little Miss" and "Toddler Miss" and the "Little Brave" were announced... and as the band noisily positioned their instruments and their stacks and stacks of speakers and amplifiers on the center of the stage, Tokea Euquala was announced as the 2009-2010 Miss Havasupai. There were a few claps, but they could barely be heard over the Bob Marley reggae that was now blaring from the loudspeakers. The emcee invited all the "royalties" to come forward for a picture (the runners-up would have to be announced the following night, since they were "almost out of time"!), and as they tried to find room on the stage, among the band members and their equipment, "Brown Eyed Girl" and then some R&B piece akin to "Gitt'n Jiggy With It" blared.

And I thought of Ali. And I thought of all those Miss Teens in their thousand-dollar dresses onstage in Florida... And I thought of Tokea. And as someone killed the stage lighting, to prepare for the band's light show, the outline of the Supai's red cliffs, and a billion trillion sparkling lights became visible. Through the middle of that sky, the Milky Way ran clear as a river of cloud, peering down on them both.

And I thought about Ali. And I thought about Tokea. And I realized that they live under the same starry sky, have the same basic hopes and desires, and are loved by the same infinite God.

Congratulations Ali (who made it into the Top Ten at the Miss America Teen finals), and Tokea.

I'm proud of both of you, and wish you, and your worlds, the very best.

(The first picture is Amy and the boys with her sister and brother-in-law, in front of Supai's only hotel. The second is a traffic jam in Supai -- it was delivery time at the only grocery store. Pictures were not allowed at the pageant, but the grocery store is next door to the "civic center.")

Catching Up...

2009-08-14T08:53:00.000-07:00

It's been too many days, but we've been in between trips... unpacking... repacking... catching our breath... heading out again. Since I wrote, we've been to and through the Grand Canyon. What an incredible experience. 22 people on our 30-foot raft... 87 miles down the Colorado River, with some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. Spent two nights on the banks of the river, watching God's handiwork in a starry sky that is not available in any city in America... the Milky Way, flowing broad and clear through a dark Arizona sky... and a rising moon that lit the night almost as if it were day. (And Amy survived both of these nights without a tent!) And the food... well, it was not what John Wesley Powell and his men enjoyed on that first exploration down the river more than 150 years ago. The first night we enjoyed prime rib... the second night we feasted on a brilled halibut that was to die for. Roughing it on the Colorado!

From Phantom Ranch, the National Park Service's signature lodge at the bottom of the mile-deep gorge, we enjoyed a restful afternoon in the Bright Angel Creek and another fabulous meal. After a 5:00 a.m. breakfast, loading-up on eggs and bacon and pancakes (no grits in Arizona!), we hit the trail at 5:30 a.m. determined to make the 9.5-mile trek in time for lunch on the South Rim. We made the first half in record time, but a little queeziness set in for Katie and Sue on the second half, so we backed off our pace (taking Bennett out of the trail-blazing spot helped!) But still came through the tunnel just shy the top of the Bright Angel Trail before 1:00 p.m. And, though the thermometer in the campground registered 131 degrees the afternoon before (OK... so it was only 109 in the shade!), we had a beautiful-weather hike... Indian Gardens (the half-way mark) showed an incredible 81 degrees in the sun (almost brisk for the Canyon!) If you've not been to the Grand Canyon... if you 've not been IN the Grand Canyon (whether a mile or 10), you simply cannot know why it's called "Grand." We're grateful for these days to explore the beauty of this country from the river, and up that Bright Angel fault to the rim.

Amazing.

After reconnecting with our rental van we traveled West to Peach Springs, Arizona, and then down the 8-mile triail, through the Havasupai Canyon, to the "most remote city in the lower 48 states" -- Supai, Arizona. Supai, population 450 (or, 600 if you count the dogs!), is on the Havasupai Indian Reservation, and is one of the most interesting places we've ever seen. The small village is... interesting... the people are... interesting... the scenery, tucked into this canyon (still several miles away from the Colorado River) is... INTERESTING. What incredible views from the Lodge (the only "hotel" in Supai) -- towering red-limestone cliffs that rise hundreds of feet above the floor of the canyon. The hike in was beautiful, after the opening switch-backs, that drop to the canyon floor, the hike is a slow, easy descent into Supai.

We're getting ready to make the 2-mile hike down to Havasu Falls, which has been called one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the country. We'll take a few pictures, and let you know.

And, for the record... between the seven of us, NO lost toe-nails this time! And no need for "Doctor Katie's" toe surgery mid-trip!) Only a few blisters -- what a great trip!

We're planning to take the horses out of the canyon tomorrow morning (in pursuit of our pilgrimage by every means of transportation possible!), and then head for a few days of rest and relaxation in Sedona. We'll be in church at the Cathedral of the Rocks on Sunday, and then will be back in Charlotte on Tuesday.

I'll post more from Sedona, but again... thanks for the time and this opportunity. We wish you could be with us!

r

From Buenos Dias to Welcome to Moes... What an Incredible World

2009-08-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning began early with a beautiful breakfast spread at the Hotel Senator on Madrid's very alive Grand Via (street). "Buenos dias," we offered to the waitress on our way to a buffet of fruits, breads, meats, and cheeses. "Buenos dias," she smiled in return. A few minutes later we were packed into a small Spanish taxi, speeding through the city en route to the aeropuerta. I was doing my best in the front seat to converse in my "fluent Spanish." (The boys and Amy have had their share of laughs -- and they have no idea (nor do I!) how many gaffs I actually made through the week practicing my language skills.) I suppose it was worth the 33 "monies" we spent to get there -- not having to drag our full array of luggage through the underground (which we did several times) -- was probably worth the cost, alone. (Early on we realized that we couldn't keep up with pounds and euros and dollars, and all the relevant exchange rates, so we just started speaking of how many "monies" such and such would cost.) By 10:15 a.m., along with about 300 other passengers, we were at 30,000 feet and heading west at 600 miles an hour.

We had determined during our trip that we would fully emerse ouselves in the culture. Not long for home. Not complain that they don't do it (whatever "it" may be) like we do it back home. And we stayed true to this commitment -- until the last evening. During that, final, 9:30pm dinner we did allow ourselves a little leeway. "I'm looking forward to eating meals when you're SUPPOSED to eat -- not lunch at 3:30 and supper at 10!..." "I'm looking forward to ICE..." "I can't wait to have FREE REFILLS..." "I want to eat tomorrow night at... MOE'S!" So it was set... wake up in Madrid, have supper at Moe's. What an incredible world.

So when we walked in the door and heard that (too) familiar, "Welcome to Moe's!" we knew we were home. Ice. And Refills, to our hearts' content! (We did laugh with the irony that though we were eating supper at the "right" time according to our re-set watches -- according to our body clocks (which woke up 6 hours ahead of Charlotte time) -- we were really still on a Spanish schedule for dinner!)

From eels and nettles to steamed octupus to those little bitty cups of strong-enough-to-walk "coffee," we put our best Spanish foot forward for nine days. But there's no place like home, is there!?

Back in Madrid for one afternoon before our return flight, Amy and I commented that though we could spend another week or so on the Camino trail, we had both had our fill of European cities, and being tourists. As fabulous as was our time in Westminster Abbey and the Eiffel Tower and the Palacio Real, etc... give us 12-hour days covering our 16-or-so miles "a pie" (by foot) ANY DAY. What a trip!

As I type, the boys are at the pool and we're enjoying the comforts of 3126 Eastburn Road. Amy's up to her eye-balls in laundry (and thanking God for clean clothes and washing machines with each load!), and we're enjoying three days before we shove off again. On Saturday we head for Arizona and our third pilgrimage.

I'll post more this week, but wanted to let you that we're home. Safe. Happy. And missing you.

Gracias!

On Arriving in Santiago

2009-08-01T15:03:00.000-07:00

At 4:00pm on Saturday afternoon, we named Amy “Lorena.” Camino tradition has it that the first person atop Monte de Gozo (mountain of joy) who spots the long-awaited cathedral in Santiago becomes king, or queen, for the day. The boys were vying for the privilege of becoming “Le Roi” (King Lee Roy!), but Amy spotted the spires among the tall pines across the valley first. Since the Spanish word for queen is “reina,” Lorena seemed the most appropriate designation. After a quick visit to the nearby chapel, and another requested round of both of our two original pilgrimage songs, we again headed West, with Lorena leading the way through the valley and into the city of Santiago.

Our last night was not spent as a traditional pilgrims would have spent their last night along the Camino… but it didn’t bother us one little bit to spend it in the lap of luxury instead of curled up by a fire along a creek or in a densely forested wood! The Paxo do Areana, a few miles off the Camino in Pedrouzo, is a 300 year-old Spanish manor house that is now a county inn, a haven for pilgrims and other Galician travelers. The original stone stables have become a very comfortable suite of rooms for tired pilgrims, and the grounds and gardens are still immaculate. Dinner, three courses served in the main house, was amazing, and we were treated to an unusual, slightly spooky indulgence following the meal.

In the middle ages, when penitents began walking to Santiago to pay homage to the bones of St. James and to seek absolution for their sins, more than Christian mystery and ritual (and a healthy amount of its own superstition) was alive and well in the hills of Galicia. There were spirits and goblins, witches and warlocks running loose. The “queimada” (kay mahdu) was developed as a pagan ritual to cleanse its participants of the curse (or the power to curse) of the evil spirits which ran amuck in the land. A potion of coffee beans, sugar, lemons, and a liquid spirit that might as well have been kerosene, was boiled in a black cauldron and then lit and stirred until the flame died. While it's burning, the fiery brew is lifted high with a ladle and released, over and over, back into the cauldron. As the potion was prepared, a pagan priest/ess read an incantation which, in combination with the consumed potion, was to protect the innocent from the harms of the night. As our hostess prepared the traditional brew (including the traditional kerosene spirit!), Kate, our guide, read the enchantment – the only line of which any of us can remember is the naming, among dozens of other evil spirits, of “the eternal flatulence of everlasting bums” (OK, so that was Kate’s Bri’ ish interpretation, but our Galician host agreed that she had pretty well nailed the original content!) Well… a sip or two of this magical potion was all we could take – but it must have been enough. At 5:45 pm today the Deans of Park Road Baptist Church were standing in the plaza of the spectacular cathedral, and a few minutes later, had collected our official “Compostela,” complete with our Latin names, and authorization of Rome.

Our "compostelas" will make a nice souvenir, an interesting conversation piece – but arriving at the cathedral, though spectacular in its architecture, and collecting our official document, was almost a let-down. I simply cannot put into words this experience… the physical exertion, the camaraderie along the way, the inspiring views, the connection to a thousand-year history (walking in the footsteps of countless thousands of other pilgrims), the family bonding, and the spiritual anticipation… Our prayer had been that we might find “The More” along the way… and “more” hardly scratches the surface.

Daily, we prayed and sang together. Daily, we read letters that many of you had prepared before we left Charlotte. Daily, as we passed the frequent marking stones, engraved with the ubiquitous scallop shell and either a directional marking or a number indicating the diminishing distance in kilometers, we placed a rock on the top, naming a friend or family member, or a family member from Park Road Baptist Church – so many of you, literally, became our prayers of thanksgiving as we walked. And when we arrived in the square in front of the cathedral, upon that final shell, etched in the stone pavement, we placed a rock and named Park Road Baptist Church. So even here, so far from home, you are connecting us to an ancient Christian history… you are woven into this experience of a lifetime… you are helping us to see God…

Even here, you are with us, and even here -- we are grateful.

Russ, Amy, Jackson and Bennett

Day Three (Hump Day!) - Arzua

2009-07-31T00:37:00.000-07:00

The Road Hotel (Pension Rua) is just inside the city limits of Arzua, Spain, on the left, at the top of a long, long, long walk across the beautiful green valley just east of town. We approached the valley in awe of the view. Then someone noticed that the peak of the other side was higher than the location from our viewing point. And Kate’s words came back to us from our last stop in Boente: “This last 8 kilometers (5 miles) is down and up and down and up and down and… up.” There was a slight hesitation and a British-tinted accent on that last “up.” And for good reason.
We walked in the front door at 8:30pm – exactly eleven-and-one-half-hours after we set out this morning. A considerable amount of those eleven-and-one-half-hours were spent on our “pies”… putting one foot in front of the other, marching to Santiago. The first three coffee bars were closed, so it was nearly noon before our first stop – and a rather-usual 3:00pm before lunch. That left us with 13.6 of our 27.5 kilometers (17 miles and a little change) to complete after 4:00 p.m. According to Tony and Kate’s pedometer the day took at least 44,974 steps. But who’s counting.

Along the way, a biking pilgrim (that’s bike con pedals, not bike con rumble!) stopped to inquire of Bennett: “Quantos an[y]os tiene?” When I told him our boys were 12 and 10 years old, his eyes widened. “Y quantos kilometers… hoy?” Our noticeably young fellow pilgrims led the way, strengthening their stride as we finally found the Pension Rua: 27.5 kilometers for the day (but were just as glad to see those four beds, lined up like a barracks, as we were!)
We tried to have a coffee in Casanova, in honor of Amy’s Spanish-descended maternal grandfather, Miguel Cassanova, but no one was home.

In Melide, as promised, we dined at the Pulporia. Though the octopus is imported from Morocco, it’s a local favorite, and at the open, street-side window, an employee lifts eight large, purple arms from a steaming barrel and chops it into bite-sized pieces with a pair of scissors, offering samples of the clean, tender, white meat (along with the soft suction cups) to passersby. Covering it generously with olive oil and cayenne, served-up on a wooden plate, it’s ready to be served – and he never slowed his pace throughout our meal. As fast as he could ready a plate, a waitress was there to deliver it, usually along with a bottle of “home brew” white wine, which they serve in white, ceramic bowls.

In the old town of Furelos we viewed the contemporary, life-sized crucifix, depicting a (too graphic) savior, with only one hand nailed to the cross beam, and the other showing a bleeding stigmata, but reaching downward to mediate between earth and heaven. The church attendant was pleased to tell us that though there are three similar crucifixes, this is the only one of its kind – in the world.

So it’s 11:34pm pm as I type, and the boys have just turned in. Because of the customary Spanish siesta, a 10:00pm dinner is not uncommon – even if you’ve walked 48 miles in the last three days and can hardly keep your eyes open till the first course is served.
At this point, we have 40k left to walk… and at this point, a 20k day sounds like a gift from heaven.

Just like today.

Day Two - Portomarin to Palas de Rei

2009-07-29T23:12:00.000-07:00

We finished our second day, a 15-miler, at about 8:00 p.m. We are enjoying the days… taking our time… stopping at the local “bars” for a “café con leche” or a coke (not to mention a “ban[y]o”!)… enjoying conversations with our new friends… still inspired by the beautiful countryside…

Today we took a little side trip, by van, to visit a 13th century Greco-Roman Church. It’s old beauty was oddly awe-inspiring. The members of our group had heard a hint of our family singing somewhere along the way, and made a request while at this church. Before we could sing another group had gathered, but our friends insisted, so our guide inquired of the church attendant. When we walked back into this vaulted stone cathedral, to our surprise, the gathering of pilgrims had taken seats, as if preparing for a concert. This was not what we signed up for! But we quietly took our place in the apse, behind the altar, beneath the high dome covered in fading frescos of saints and martyrs, and Bennett began the 10-bar prayer that has become something of an anthem for our trip: “Do not be afraid…” When we finished the last notes, “Peace, be still.” There was complete silence except for the harmonies swirling high overhead. Though our serendipitously-gathered “congregation” were mostly non-English speaking pilgrims, the harmonies communicated, even when the words could not, and to our amazement, there were tears on several faces as we walked quietly out into the world and back onto the Camino for our final 5 kilometers.

There is a surprising expectancy to the spiritual aspect of this walk – which is, undoubtedly, why the path to Santiago has now been worn by countless thousands of pilgrims, Christian and otherwise, spiritual and those who begin the pilgrimage as non-spiritual pilgrims (I don’t know that anyone finishes it with no spiritual insights gleaned). We’re not seeking absolution. Not offering penance. We have no need to pay homage to St. James… but there is something more than a 62 mile walk across a beautiful countryside that is attracting us to that cathedral. Something more.

Something more.

Which is, after all, what we came in search of.

Day One - Sarria to Portomarin

2009-07-29T23:07:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to imaging looking forward to anything for two years and the event living up to the kind of expectation that comes along with that. And it’s hard to imagine how much we underestimated our expectations for walking El Camino de Santiago.

I simply cannot tell you what I feel. For two years we’ve wondered about the weather… today could not have been any more pleasant – early morning “mist,” burning off into a beautiful 75- degree, humidity-free afternoon, warm at times, but mostly clear, blue skies and shady, near-perfect walking conditions. For two years we’ve wondered about the company on the trail… Andrea, Tony and Katie, and Kate (our guide), have quickly meshed as a very comfortable group, entertaining good conversation and lots of natural, good-hearted laughter, on the trail and at meals together. For two years we’ve wondered about “Spanish Steps,” the company who is guiding our trip… Kate could not be any more accommodating, helpful, and pleasant, and our guided journey is first class, all the way around. For two years, we’ve wondered about the Camino… and today exceeded our expectations – beyond measure. (You can have Paris – give me 16 miles on the Camino, any day!)

1,000 years ago pilgrims began walking to the cathedral in Santiago, de Compostella, Spain, to pay homage to the bones of St. James, which had purportedly been discovered there. Eventually the Pope named Santiago one of three pilgrim destinations (Rome and Jerusalem) worthy of full absolution. Though there are actually several routes, the path we have chosen is apparently the best known and most well-marked. Along this 1,000 years a trail has been carved through the landscape. The kilometers we walked today (nearly 16 miles), took us along paved and dirt roads, up rocky routes amidst cows and corn, along winding quiet streams, through narrow tree lined lanes, and parallel to miles and miles of moss-covered, stacked-stone walls which have bordered pastures and property lines for centuries – and at every turn, literally, following painted yellow arrows, and stone markers embossed with the scallop shell, and enumerating the dwindling distance to Santiago. At every ½ kilometer marker of our nine-hour walk, we joined countless other pilgrims by placing a single stone atop the stone, naming one of you, for whom we are thankful.

In one community we entered the Romanesque church with the other members of our group and sang and prayed our morning prayers. Two or three times along the way we stopped at the local “bar” (café) for a coffee or a snack, and for the “sello” (stamp) in our Compestella Passapuerta (without two stamps a day, proving the legitimacy of the walk – at least 100 kilometers – pilgrims are not eligible to receive “The Compestella” in Santiago. In Fereirro we ate lunch at the Café/Bar Crucieros (“Bar of the Cross”!) My “squid pings” (calamari) and olives stuffed with anchovies were even better than last night’s eel and algae!

The views were spectacular. The fellowship along the route was inspiring – with our group and the dozens and dozens of other pilgrims with whom we exchanged “Buen Camino”s as we passed. The anticipation of our destination, even after only one day of walking, is virtually tangible. (The marking stone at Portomarin, from where I’m typing this, reads “89.5 km” [to Santiago].) Tomorrow holds another 20+ kilometers, and another day to exceed expectations. I have no doubt.

We share your notes, prayers, poems, and well-wishes every day, and in so many ways, they are keeping us going.

We’re glad to be walking with you.

Buen Camino!

2009-07-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

The beautiful Rio Min[y]o flows through the Spanish town of Sarria, fast and clear. From the little bridge that crosses at the Rua Malecon, the fish are thick as thieves, and look like Appalachian brook and rainbow trout – though the river is famous for its eels. We settled down with our new group of friends at one of several restaurants along the Malecon plaza, overlooking a little section of rapids in the Min[y]o river. When I found a dish of scrambled eggs with nettles and eels, I’m thinking, “Who could pass that up!?” Kate, our new Spanish speaking guide with a north England accent (she’s from Lancaster) had just asked in our orientation if we “had nettles where we come from.” On our recent hike to Chimney Rock I had pointed out stinging nettle to the boys, so I clarified the Spanish brand: “Stinging nettle?” “Yes,” she said. “Watch out for it… though they actually eat it around here!”

So as Amy and the boys shared two plates, steak and pork loin (we had originally been told it was “tail of pig”), Andrea, our Canadian/Qatarian fellow traveler, enjoyed a brothy cabbage soup, Tony and Kate, our blind companion and his wife, who hale from near Manchester England(!), tried out the baked hake (a filleted white fish), and Kate, our vegetarian guide, filled herself on a plate of hot, green peppers… I worked my way through a dish that looked for all the world like scrambled eggs in spaghetti noodles, with a good measure of blue-green, sautéed algae thrown in. Though I have no regrets in my order (I would honestly say the dish was good), I confessed to Amy back at the hotel that the faintest hint of a gag reflex slowly crept up my esophagus throughout the meal. Though it’s against my personal culinary ethic, I had to leave two, maybe three bites of little baby eels undigested!

And so we begin – as benignly-eventful as I had hoped. The six-hour bus ride out of Madrid was the closest thing to airline-quality First Class we’ve ever enjoyed, and when we arrived in Lugo, at least a dozen obvious pilgrims filled the station. We followed three of these travelers (from Milan, Italy) to the ticket window, and 45 minutes later were following them, and their broken Italian-Spanish (which is one “pescado grande”-of-a-lot better than my Spanglish), through the streets of Sarria, in search of the Alphonso IX hotel. (Which, by the way, is probably the nicest digs we’ve had in all of Europe.)

More on our Camino campan[y]eros later, but we like them all so much, at this point, and have a premonition of good things to come regarding our rapport on the trail and off. What a nice bonus this will be if it comes to fruition.

Several hours ago, on the bus from Lugo to Sarria, as we passed (with way too much speed, I might add, for our comfort!) through the beautiful rolling hills of Galithia (the province/“state” which looks something like the Shenandoah Valley and contains much of the Camino), I said to my three closest companions, “This is my best day in Europe, so far – hands down!” After our night with these new friends, I’m even more convinced.

We will begin our travels, “a pie” (“by foot,” not by pie) tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. And as we prepare to embark, we’ll be thinking of you, and wishing you, too, on whatever road you may be “traveling,” a “Buen Camino!”

Two Quick Posts Before El Camino

2009-07-26T13:45:00.000-07:00

1) I Just Never Thought to Pray

It's not as if I'm a world traveler -- hardly is that the case, but over the years, I've seen a few Cathedrals in my wanderings. With every visit I've been amazed at the architectural grandeur, awed by the depth of history (did I say they've had an evening prayer service at St. Paul's in London every night for 1,400 years... talk about being connected to something larger than yourself), and moved by the mysterious power that something as mundane as stone and glass can glimpse... I've gawked and staggered and groped for words and felt the inspiration of the Christian story in these places...

I just never thought to pray.

I mean pray, beyond the gawking and staggering and groping and being inspired (which I believe are kinds of prayers in themselves). But in this summer's visits: Washington's National Cathedral, and London's St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey and Bloomsbury Central Baptist, and Notre Dame and Sacre Couer of Paris, and Madrid's Cathedral of Our Sister de la Almudena, all became places of prayer for our family. Specific, stop, and sit, and talk (about who or what), and kneel and sing and meditate, places of prayer.

Today, in Madrid's very Catholic cathedral, we prayed for our hopes and expectations for a pilgrimage that will only begin, in earnest, tomorrow: safety... a good time... endurance, strength, patience... that we may experience God with all of our senses... Prayers offered, simply, quickly, quietly... it's amazing what that kind of experience can do to a cathedral.

An intentional, thoughtful moment. All the difference.

Maybe you can find yours, in some "cathedral" today.

May it be so.

2) It Only Starts Tomorrow

The last week has been too wonderful. Before we left, I was prodding the boys a bit, trying to get them ready for our adventure, and at lunch one day I said, "Hey guys... let's do something really wild this summer... let's go to... London! And, maybe while we're there, we should go down to Paris, too -- we may miss the Tour de France, but I hear there are a few other things to see, too! And, maybe we could take in Madrid, Spain. And, hey... what would it be like to... like... walk across Spain!? And... while we're dreaming... well, why don't we just get someone else to pay for all of this!? OK? Who's in!?"

Who could have dreamed anything wilder than what we've just experienced as a family. All I can keep saying is... amazing... and thanks, to all who've made it possible.

But it really only starts tomorrow. The real thing. The reason we're here. So tonight, as we prayed together, we talked about how tomorrow's "touring" would be different from the kind we've done for the last 9 days. No museums -- unless you call the towns of Spain a museum of life... no exciting travel -- unless you call 62 miles of walking in the heat exciting... no crowds, pushing and shoving -- maybe the four of us, and God, will be crowd enough. It's called "pilgrimage." And it starts tomorrow.

The clock is set for 5:30 a.m. Some of you will just be turning off the late night news and tucking in when we set out for the Metro station... one transfer, and we'll arrive at the city's south-side Autobus Station. From there, we're in for a 6-hour ride up to Lugo. And then all the fun is to begin. We have no tickets, you see -- and our travel agent (who couldn't make reservations) encouraged us to brush up on our Spanish, as we'll be completely on our own to get from Lugo to Sarria, to meet our "Spanish Steps" guide, and our three fellow Pilgrims.

Pray for us. We may need it after arriving in Lugo at 1:30p.m.!

From there, I have no idea how much internet service I'll have, but I'll do my best to post a short clip each day, and maybe a picture.

It starts tomorrow. And after almost two years of talking about it. We can hardly wait.

The Perfect Day in Paris (July 24)

2009-07-25T00:53:00.001-07:00

I think we had it today...

Got to Notre Dame at 9:30 a.m. We had toured the church already, but wanted to climb the bellfry, so we got there before it opened. Still waited in line 90 minutes, but the views and the gargoyles were worth it!

While standing in line we ate breakfast (crepes with... strawberry, apricot, and chocolate [yes, for breakfast!]), and when we finished, it was time to eat again. "Remember yesterday." So we headed to the Cite Metro station for tickets and a subway ride. After having been really overwhelmed by the friendliness of the French on our last trip (everyone asked: Do the French hate the Americans?), we have, unfortunately, found the stereotype, in the flesh, on more than one occasion this trip! The woman at the information booth would hardly even look at us to help us with the automatic "Vente" machine to buy our billettes. It helped a little bit to see her be just as inconsiderate and rude to a French family who walked up as we were walking away in disgust. Anyway... with the help of other folks in line (none French), however, we managed to get the tickets we needed, and about a half our later were at Montmartre, the artsy community on the hill, north of the main tourist part of town. (This is the home of the famous Moulin Rouge -- they boys and I wanted tickets for the show, but couldn't convince mama!)

Sacre Couer (sacred heart) is a beautiful stone cathedral overlooking Paris, that we had seen only from the outside three years ago. As we entered, an attendant "shhhshed" the crowd just ahead of us, made the women cover their bare shoulders, and required the tennage boy to remove his ball cap. The quiet sanctity we found in the heart of this very Catholic church was renewing. We explained to the boys, as well as two protestant pastors could, why the woman had brought a dozen red roses to the statue of Mary along the ambulatory, and what all the lit candles were for -- just before we spent a few moments of prayer thinking of/thanking God you (and not in the name of the Blessed Virgin!)

After these holy moments, we found our way to the square that makes Montmartre a favorite for tourists, and though it's a bit overdone, it's still a wonderful visit. Artists are packed in to the square, offering their wares, oil and watercolors of Parisian scenes, and portrait artists, busily at work, in pencil and chalk and brushes of various media. Amy had wanted the boys portraits, but, they were a bit pricey on the square (not expensive, but "pricey," for the poor/cheap at heart!) So, after an excursion to find a public "twallette," we ran across Njegos (go figure the pronounciation -- I can't say it even after he introduced himself!), selling his artisic services in front of a little cafe, a block from the square. "Guaranteed. You don't like. Don't buy." So Jackson sat first. Fascinating it is to see a portrait artist at work, and to behold your son's face -- and more -- emerge. With one faint line, a pensive mood is revealed... when Bennett sat, a nuanced curve of the lip captured mischief in the making. In the midst of the sitting, a Parisian downpour. "Don't worry," Njegos assured, "This is Paris. We wait. It will clear." So we waited... under the cafe awning. "I am not in good relationship with the owner, " he said. So, when the rain slackened he suggested we purchase a drink so he would finish his work there. So, the boys enjoyed a $6.00 glass of coke (with no "free refills" -- anywhere in Europe!), and the pencil rendering, just as Njegos promised, looks "just like them."

Taking the train back to the heart of the city, we arrived at Charles de Gaulle Etoille, and emerged from the subway to an incredible view of the Arc de Triomphe. We viewed the spectacular arch, but passed up the tour to the top, in favor of dinner on the Champs Elyesees. Though the boys seemed a bit beyond one more interesting fact, when we sat down under the streetside tent of George V restaurant, we reminded them that they were now dining on one of the most famous streets in the world. (Yea. We want spaghetti!)

Following the meal, we walked the famous avenue all the way to the Tuilleries gardens, outside the Louvre, and finished our day with a visit to the city carnival that was set up parallel to the street. (The city is in the midst of planning for its largest annual incursion of visitors -- as the Tour de France bike race concludes here tomorrow!) So after an icecream, the boys and I rode the swings, and the four of us finished the night riding the huge farris wheel we had been seeing from views all around town. It was an appropriate end to a wonderful day.

You don't have to come to Paris for this -- we've had these moments on occasion at home -- but enjoying one another as we did yesterday and, for me, watching Amy and the boys laugh and play together in a day of exploration and discovery... well, this is what life is about.

And I'm grateful to all who have made this possible.

Mama... when are we going to EAT!? (July 23)

2009-07-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

Only two things on the agenda today: Versailles and the Eiffel Tower. Easy enough.

Let's get up early (which we didn't -- because I was blogging until about 1:00a.m. [as I'm doing again right now!])... go to the RER station, get a train ticket to Versailles, and eat breakfast in Versailles. Great idea...

All went according to plan until the RER station. "I'm hungry..." We bought a muffin a piece and shared two orange juices. Who would know this would be our last meal until 10:30p.m.?

If you've not seen Versailles, there are simply no words to describe it to you. (The 800 pictures the boys took today would be a start, but even these would fail to do it justice!) Amazing, the scale, the scope, the architecture, the investment of time and money... 40,000 workers spent 50 years building the place. Also amazing, the thoughtlessness of such an opulent waste -- when the people were going hungry. (As Louis and Marie-Antoinette found out later... as it cost them both their lives.) Most fun we had was on the Grand Canal. Too bad Jackson couldn't row any faster -- would be a PERFECT place for a good slalom or barefooting run -- but the rowing expedition was great. I'm sure just what King Louis intended.

Several times we thought of eating, but we were never near a cafe... of the one we were near wasn't right (wrong food or wrong price, etc...). So, we snacked. We had to pay weight-overage to bring all the food Amy brought, to keep her boys fed! We'll eat... at the next cafe. Snack... wait... pass up the cafe... snack... look for another one... etc...

In the town of Versailles, we stopped for dinner, but of course the Europeans don't eat supper at 5:30 p.m. (literally couldn't find a restaurant open -- but after having walked about 10 miles at Versailles, we weren't looking too far!) We'll eat dinner at the Eiffel Tower, maybe in that restaurant in the tower. Great plan.

Arrive at the tower... lines are shorter than usual... better take advantage... only an hour in line, and we're on level two... looks like the rain is coming... let's go on to the top... we'll eat later... another snack...

Amazing thing at the top of the tower. Clear when we arrive...within 15minutes we can see what appears to be a big storm coming... watch the rain cross the city of Paris and very quickly the top of the tower is shrowded in a cloud (can't even see the bottom)... so we head down... time to eat... we chose to walk the stairs rather than wait in line (need to eat)... but at the second level the food was 1) too fast-food-ish or 2) too expensive... After a snack, we head down, walking again, to the street. We'll stop at the first restaurant we pass. (By this time the weather has cleared, and there is the most brilliant rainbow that any of us have ever seen... more time... more pictures... supper still on the way...)

Down the street there's a restaurant... Amy and Imiscommunicate. She thinks I think it's too expensive. I think she thinks the food isn't right for the boys. We'll stop at the next one. No matter what. Forty-five minutes and another mile down the road (walking, of course), and now we're told the restaurants are closed -- unless you want to drink. (Which actually sounded like a pretty good idea.) "One restaurant is open... 200 meters down this boulevard... but you must hurry..."

At 10:30 p.m., still light outside, we arrived at a restaurant on Rue Solferino, not far from the Musee D'Orsay, and our little (LITTLE) hotel... First actual meal of the day. OK... so it cost $137 USD -- Bennett said it was WELL worth it.

Don't tell our parents. Don't call DSS. We were all having too much fun. But tomorrow, we're looking for three square meals. Around the time they are supposed to be eaten.

Now, it's 1:00 a.m., and we're headed back to the belfry of Notre Dame early in the morning, so I better stop...

It'll be time for breakfast before you know it!

Too Much... Too Late (July 22)

2009-07-22T15:08:00.001-07:00

... to write much. Another wonderful, full day:

Notre Dame Cathedral (amazing history and architecture, but note skepticism about the actual crown of thorns worn by Jesus, a piece of "the actual cross of his agony," and one of the three actual nails used in his crucifixion, held in the church's treasury... Oh, ye of little faith!)

Musee du Louvre (incredible museum... at 3 seconds per artifact, would take 3 months to see everything. We did not see everything, but were very impressed with the Code of Hammurabi, and very unimpressed with the Mona Lisa. "What's the big deal. Just a picture of a woman..." -- But that didn't stop us from taking about 20 pictures. Glad to share.) And the immodesty... just HAS to stop!

River Cruise on Seine (from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower and back... just before the rains came)

Dinner at La Petit Flore (nice little Parisian restaurant along the Rue Croix de Petit Champs a block over from the Louvre... interesting to actually know our way around this part of Paris well enough to return home sans map... Lighted Pyramid at entrance to the Louvre was a highlight of the day as we returned... and the rains came down!)

More tomorrow... Headed to Versailles and back for an evening at Tour Eiffel...

Just Too Much to Say (another July 21)

2009-07-21T15:11:00.001-07:00

Monday (still typing from the train, still somewhere west of Paris)…

We ate a breakfast of leftovers (stretching our fifteen-pound purchase into three days!) before taking the Tube to the Tower Bridge. As is our habit, we spent more time than expected, loving every minute of every view, and every information plaque posted up and down the 198 stairs, and all along the East and West foot-bridges connecting the two towers and spanning the River Thames. Tearing ourselves away we enjoyed one, token, “Fish and Chips” on the plaza outside the Tower of London. Once inside its walls, the Tower became our home for the next three hours, as we completed three of the five audio tours available. The high-point for most folks was the source of curiosity for the Dean boys… all those Crown Jewels. And for what!? Just to be worn (only) when there’s a new king or queen? (If Bennett were king, he would hold a wooden baseball bat signed by Hank Aaron, instead. Just in case you were wondering.) And all that history. Amazing… “800 years ago, guys… Someone stood right here and laid these stones, mortaring them in place… right here… 800 years ago…” (Maybe he was, like, your Great-plus 19-more-greats-Grandfather!)

Too late (read above!) for a tour at St. Paul’s (amazing) Cathedral, we did make it in time for Even Song (a “said” service, since the choir is off in the summer). This brief Anglican service of scripture and prayer was a meaningful experience for the religious pilgrims in the crowd, even if we did pray for God to “save the Queen.” (Yes, and all the paupers, too.)

Since we prayed for her, we thought we should pay a visit to “Buckerhand Palace” (you can thank “B” for this fun naming!). The flag told us that she was home, but, unaware we were standing out front, we didn’t get an invite for dinner, so we moved back to the Thames and had an amazing meal on the R.S. Hispaniola, a floating restaurant “with a Mediterranean flare” just across from “Big Ben” and the London Eye.

No trip is complete, if you’ve read all the Harry Potter books at least once, without a stop by the 9 ¾ Platform at King’s Cross station, so we located the gate to Hogwarts and took a few pics before another later-than-we-had-planned arrival at 300 City Road, and a bed that could hardly have felt any better, anywhere.

Today’s lesson was from the faces and the sounds of the world’s people who call London, England their home. Speaking of amazing… from everywhere... Every shade... Every shape (except over-weight!)... And every sound. Amazing. All these people. Doing their thing. Living. Learning. Loving. Just like me… and not at all like me. World views hardly recognizable to the boy who grew up a Baptist preacher’s son from Clinton, SC, “their” world, is a different world. Their God, a different God.

And yet, as I now believe, it’s the same world -- regardless your “view.” And the same God.

May our World, and our God, be enough – for all of us!

Can't Seem to Get Out of Church! (July 21)

2009-07-21T14:23:00.000-07:00

So it happened again -- We're in church for half the day!

That this church happened to be built a thousand years ago is beside the point. It was church. And it had much of the same effect it always should. Awe... mystery... gratitude... remembrance...

Since our pack-a-day mentality had left us with travel-to-France day (but we still haven't toured Westminster Abbey yet!), we left our short-term apartment this morning, early, and bolted for the Angel Station. From there we traveled to "Bank," noting all the coats, ties, and brief cases (is there a BoA in London!?), and transferred lines, winding up at the Westminster Station at 9:15 a.m. We waited 15 minutes in a drizzling rain and were among the first guests in the Abbey -- but it was elbow-to-elbow by the time we had our individual audio guides tuned for exploring.

There's that beautiful altar screen, gilded and ornate... the intricately carved choir ("quire") stall... Edward the Confessor's tomb -- and Mary's and Elizabeth's and about a thousand people we'd never heard of before -- before Oliver Cromwell's little niche in the floor (at every opportunity, I'm trying to put all the pieces of pilgrimage together for the boys: "Cromwell's rule [mid 1600s] was related to the Puritan dissatisfaction with The Church of England that also led to the Separatists and the Baptists and the Pilgrims (remember them, guys, from a few weeks ago in Plymouth -- "Plymouth Rock 1620"?..." [I know it's too much, but they humor me anyway!]) And then "Poet's Corner," with Chaucer and Tennyson and Hopkins and Shakespeare... and the museum, with the patient English guide who clarified all 27 of Amy's questions about who will succeed Queen Elizabeth if she ever dies and why ("...and will Camilla be 'Queen Bowles,' etc... etc... etc... etc...)... and back in the nave, there's Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin -- what a likely pair -- there on the lefthand side... and Amy (hear this, people, Amy, not me this time!) lecturing the boys on Creationism and Evolution, Darwin and the Church... because at this point, I'm trying to GET OUT OF THERE!

All you need to know is that we made it. Back to Bank. Back to Angel. Back to the apartment. Back to Angel, again. Over to St. Pancras International. Onto the train. And into Paris.

But before we leave London, my favorite moment, maybe on the trip, so far.

Just beyond Poet's Corner, before Handel's tomb, is a small wooden door labeled "St. Faith's Chapel." The sign in front indicates that the room is used for quiet prayer, but the obvious lack of tourist attention tells us, perhaps not now. I inquir of a guide, though, and he gladly opens this beautiful chapel just for the 4 of us. Pausing there, where God's people have prayed for nearly a millenium, we did, too... Naming a few of our Park Road friends who are dealing with special issues this summer (and Bennett's Sunday School friends... and, yes, "Miss Wendy"), we paused for a moment of silence. And then "B" started: "Do not be afraid," and the quartet followed: "Peace Be Still!" It's just a simple little refrain I wrote, with tight harmonies for this trip, but when we ended, "Peace, Deep Peace, Be Still (Amy: Do Not Be Afraid!)," the almost perfect intonation of a G Major chord resonated in those stones... as if it had been lingering there for a thousand years. Just like it was supposed to sound.

And for a moment. As long as it took that sound to decay into those living stones. All things were right with the world. And the Deans were at peace.

If you have to travel all the way to Westminster for just such a moment -- whatever the cost -- don't pass up that potential. Such moments can hold us for a very, very long time.

Peace. Be. Still.

The Witness of the Church (July 20)

2009-07-21T09:26:00.000-07:00

Now that we have internet service, I'll add some pictures soon, but just catching up on old blogs...

(I’m typing onboard a train, that appears to be going well over 100 mph, and we’re somewhere along the countryside of England – or maybe we’re under the English Channel by now [the windows are completely dark]… When we arrive in Paris, one of my first missions is to get the whizbang computer guy at the hotel to make the doomaflotchy and the gadget talk, so I can post all this stuff. So, if you’re reading this, know that I found the computer doc… or you’re witnessing a cyber-miracle of the most impressive sorts.)

Here are my notes, filled in, from Sunday’s touring…

We did something today that few tourists do… we spent three=and-a-half hours at church. (And we’re supposed to be on Sabbatical!?) At Matt and Martha Kinney’s recommendation, we took the tube over to Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church. The building has been standing since 1848, but the welcome and the sermon and the wonderful meal following worship were all completely up to date. During the service, a student from Wake Forest Divinity School (yes, the one just down the road from you) was interviewed. Will Henderson was finishing a two-month internship, at the recommendation of our former professor and current friend, Dr. Bill Leonard (Dean of the divinity school); following worship we introduced ourselves. As it turns out, Will is the son of Bill Henderson – the same Bill Henderson who was one of my childhood heroes. (As the, then, youth minister of FBC, Rome, GA, we met Bill over a series of summers when my family traveled to Jekyll Island, GA, for a week of youth retreat. My parents are lifetime friends of the former Minister of Music there, hence our connection to Rome. As an impressionable young boy, I was quickly taken with the enthusiastic youth minister. One summer, Bill sported a blue, denim hat all week. I opinioned how much I liked it, and at the end of the week, it was mine for the taking. For many years, that had stayed in my room as a reminder of Bill’s influence. I haven’t seen him since then (35 years?), but it was good to be reintroduced to his son, in London!)

We dined with friends of Brian and Jenny Haymes, Brian and Faith Bowers, and their son, Richard. Richard, an adult who suffers from Down’s Syndrome, offered the blessing for the meal, “Grant bread to those who are hungry, and a hunger for justice to us who share this bread,” and during the meal he offered us a copy of a book of blessings used for these meals. Apparently Richard always offers the blessing – this is his “ministry” at the church, as the suggestion of a former minister – and a collection and printing of various of his offerings was sold to the church, the proceeds of which Richard returned to the church for a fundraiser. (He proudly contributed over 400 pounds to the offering.) This meal is offered every Sunday, prepared by volunteer teams, and diners include church members and guests – most who are comprised of some of London’s homeless and hungry.

One of our problems, quickly noted in this trip, is our proclivity to stay too long at EVERY PLACE… pushing us into the next and the next and the next item, at increasingly delinquent hours. No difference here… we arrived at the British Museum not long before 3:00 p.m.

NEWS FLASH… light just appeared in the windows, and the first road sign was in French. So I suppose we have emerged from the Chunnel dry and unscathed. (Just the thought of it is a little creepy!)

In trying to hit the highlights we spent too much time with the mummies. But we were not alone. You can hardly see all the swaddlingly-clothed for all the morbidly-interested, pressing their noses (or their lenses) to the glass. (Just ask the boys if you’re interested in seeing the 5,500 year old Egyptian – or any of the others – I think we’re bringing home a picture of every one!) And we glimpsed the Rosetta Stone, but only from a slight distance. Apparently the masses are even more interested in this black slab, inscribed with three languages, than they are the dead.

Which only proves that nothing ever dies – a language… a culture… a mummified corpse… Resurrection IS all around, if only we dare to see the ways God continues to give life, and to make it more abundant.

As a thumbnail of the rest of the day: though the shows were sold-out, we stopped by Mr. Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre for a sneak-peak… took in a cruise along the Thames (which the boys are still learning to pronounce)… and ate a real English dinner, at Porter’s restaurant in Covent Garden… before Tubing on home. (And navigating this underground maze is almost the highlight of the trip, in itself!)

The lesson for today was our impression of the work of the Church in the world. From our recent visits to the National Cathedral in Washington, St. Martins-in-the-fields, and Bloomsbury Baptist, we’re inspired by what Sam Lloyd, Dean of the Washington Cathedral, calls the “gospel work” they’re all doing. Even as world-class showplaces of art and architecture and history, places which could easily make their mission the taking of admission and selling the audio tours, these churches remain churches first – committed to worship and service in their own communities and throughout world.

A museum is a nice place to visit. But the world still needs to witness of the Church.

Thanks be to God.

What a difference a Day Makes (July 19)

2009-07-21T09:24:00.000-07:00

Posted on Monday, July 21, after finally getting email service in Paris.

[Written Saturday night, July 18] We woke up “this morning” at 7:00 a.m. in Cooperstown, NY. After a quick but thorough cleaning and packing and loading, we stopped by “Jackie’s” for breakfast on the way out of town, and then followed “Nora’s” advice (Nora is our GPS; see a prior blog about this spectacular woman) all the way into and through New York City, navigating flawlessly through the Big Apple – by LaGuardia and all the way to the Hertz return station at JFK International Airport. After a weather delay on the runway, we lifted off at about 8:00 p.m., EST, but a handsome Easterly tailwind kept us on track for a 7:25 a.m. touch down at Heathrow Airport – London Standard Time. As I type this, it’s just 4:40 p.m. according to the body whose internal clock went to bed last night in Cooperstown (actually it was about 1:00 a.m. this morning). That body slept very little over the Atlantic, and so is working on around 5 hours of sleep in the last 65… and that with all the transitions – and a full day of London Touring. (Bennett commented during the day that he was afraid to blink – because he might fall asleep!)

Since I’m an idiot with this computer, I can’t get the whatchamacallit in the laptop I’m dragging all over Europe to talk to the gizmo here at our London hotel, so at the moment, none of you knows that we’re actually alive.

We are.

Very much. Though we all had our sleep-walking moments today, as we made our way through the London Underground… the 400+-foot London Eye… some fascinating street performances (in one of which I was the star performer)… Nelson’s Column in historic Trafalgar Square… and then an incredible meal at St. Martin-in-the-field’s “Dead Body Deli.” (OK, the actual name is “Crypt Café,” because it is a café and because it’s smartly outfitted in the now-bodiless crypt of this 300-year-old structure. The boys thought it was cool to eat in a morgue, but they preferred the alliteration of the “Dead Body Deli” [my own name], to the Martin’s official name.) Anyway… it’s probably the best meal we’ll have in Europe, and now that all the sarcophagi are gone (those “flesh-eating” stone slabs), it’s a pretty appealing place to dine out.

When I can get “my people” to talk appropriately to “their people,” we’ll send this blog along. By that time, though, we’ll have taken in church at Bloomsbury Baptist and the British Museum, at least…

Somewhere in London.

On Being My (Big) Brother's Keeper

2009-07-14T18:24:00.000-07:00

We arrived at Cooperstown Dreams Park last Friday, and since the crack of dawn on Saturday have been in baseball heaven. Opening in 1996, this amazing park represents the fulfilment of a dream for the (North Carolina native) Lou Prescutti family, who had visited the Baseball Hall of Fame more than a decade earlier, and then began to dream of a place where boys could play the game,which is so thoroughly represented at the Hall of Fame. (There's more baseball there than you can shake the proverbial stick at!) Dreams Park came to fruition with the purchase of a beautiful tract of upstate New York farm land, within a few miles of the Hall of Fame, and the construction of a player's village and a dozen fields. For the last thirteen years Cooperstown has been the site of lifetime memories in the making, for thousands of 12-year-olds across America.

Now expanded to 22 playing fields, the every-week-of-the-summer tournaments host teams from every state in the union, and beyond. Jackson's team, the Charlotte Crush, has, so far, faced competition from New York, Maryland, Ohio, Illinois, and Michigan. Even as I type, we're awaiting the seedings for the single-elimination tournament, which begins at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Cooperstown boasts baseball "as it should be," and in a word, it is. Everything is first class, and the boys are the beneficiaries. Memories for a lifetime.

Though, after six games of preliminary play, we approach the tournament with a 2-4 record, and ranked 62nd out of 104 teams, we've lost three games by one run, and have come from behind to contest every outing we've lost. Our two wins were convincing, including a 17-1 rout. "Show me some heart," Coach Pat exhorted, and this team has played its best ball ever.

We've had a great time watching. In addition to the families of Jackson's teammates, some of Amy's family -- Rut, Ginger, and Katie Jacks, and Susan and Don Adams -- have also made the northern trek to catch a little of their favorite Charlotte Crush on the mound. None has been disappointed. We've cheered and groaned, been elated by victories and downed by hard-fought losses. We've laughed, held our breath in high hope, and been amazed at the maturing we're seeing before our eyes, as individuals and as a team. As to our player, he's not ready for the Majors just yet, but he's throwing a pretty good game these days. One of our wins was at the hands of a complete game he pitched, with impressive control.

Now, the little brother is a ball player, too... but this week is about Jackson.

And there has been no better fan.

It's good to see. In addition to all the "brotherly love" expressed in those not-so-loving ways (from personal experience, I'm guessing that's "normal"!?), there's a good bit of it expressed genuinely, through cheers and hearty 10-year-old congratulations. Let's hope the goodwill continues for at least two years, because Bennett already has his sights set on playing here.

We'll just have to see what kind of cheerleader his older brother will be.

Thanks, "B," for what you're teaching your old dad about being a brother's keeper!

So Far, So Good

2009-07-13T19:40:00.000-07:00

So... we're finally away.

And not a minute too soon! The last three weeks have seemed like three months. "What would you do if you won the lottery?" I can tell you that after these three weeks, it would not involve giving up my job! I am thoroughly enjoying the time with my boys, and thoroughly enjoying a morning mainly structured around reading... but I can't shake this restlestness... and this quiet tinge of guilt that I'm not doing something.

So I'm glad to be on the road, again.

In the last week or so my reading has alternated between No Armor for the Back, a detailed recounting of the imprisonment and death of dozens of our early Baptist forebears, mostly 17th and 18th century English Baptist pastors and visionaries, and Into the Wild, the disturbing narrative of the last two years of the life of Chris McCandless, the Washington, DC native who, upon his graduation, with honors, from Emory University, abandoned his name, his family, and his future in the American dream, for a life of increasingly solitary... pilgrimage... which ended when he starved to death in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan wilderness. I recoiled a bit when Jon Krakauer, the author, called McCandless's strange voyage a "pilgrimage." (We're counting for a better culmination to our summer!)

But this parallel reading, depressing as it has sometimes been, has suggested to me an element of pilgrimage that we've not yet acknowleged. This is, that when we are fully immersed in a passion, that immersion will necessarily move us -- and that movement may, of necessity, involve some element of... danger.

Mind you, we are taking a map with us, and Amy has made sure there will be plenty of food for the trip (McCandless did not), and we have no plans to speak out against the Queen when we pass by Buckingham Palace (as so many of our Baptist founders did)... so we hope to get nowhere near any prison, other than the Tower of London, and we have full plans to stay together, enjoy the company of relationships, old and new, and to harbor no alienating grudge against the world -- but I will admit that there is a little anxiety tucked uncomfortably away in our backpacks.

Two boys... three countries... 62-miles of unknown Spanish land to cross on foot... some of America's wildest whitewater to conquer... nearly 30 more miles in and our of the deepest ditch on the globe to brave, on foot and horseback...

We're trusting the challenge will do us good -- not kill us. All I can tell you is, so far, so good.

But we'll keep you posted!

seeing familiar faces

2009-07-13T05:05:00.000-07:00

I know Russ is planning to blog in a few minutes about our happenings since last you heard from us - but I thought I'd jump in first to say that our last "training" walk last Thursday went very well. We walked almost 11 miles from our house to NoDa - much of it in the rain (some of it pouring rain!) and the lightening - which once struck WAY too close for comfort!!! We took refuge under Selwyn Presbyterian Church's front porch where Bennett suggested that we sing a new song that we have learned that Russ has written. The words are very simple - "Do not be afraid. Peace, be still." It helped. It was good to try out our rain gear and to practice what it feels like to walk this distance with our packs and hats and shoes. It was even more important to get mentally prepared. We did well. We had walked a 3 mile trek and a 6 mile trek, but I'll tell you, something happens to your hips at about mile 9 1/2 - they start to hurt. And nothing pleased me more than when Russ had to take several rounds of Ibuprofen for his aching joints - misery does indeed love company!

But the best part of the journey was the conclusion. We arrived at Cabo Fish Taco a little early. It was great to serve as the welcoming committee as Dave and Sally Silden arrived. And then Wendy Watson. And then Anne Hunter Eidson. And then Gray Clark. And then Jim and Jean and Liza Veilleux. I had not realized how much I missed everyone. I felt myself honestly lighting up from the inside out to be with members of our church family. They served as representatives of our larger PRBC family and it was simply good to catch up. We didn't talk church. We simply shared a meal and friendship and laughter. And it was good.

Bennett was the one that really made my day though. We were walking somewhere around Presbyterian Hospital - he and I side by side - when he said to me - "You know the favorite way I like for you to look?" Could be a loaded question, but I took the bait . . . ok . . . what's the favorite way for me to look? "With your baseball hat (which I've worn about 50% of the summer), no make-up (more than 50% of the summer), shorts and T-Shirts." What??? Better than the way I dress for work? "Yep - you look more relaxed." Don't you just love it when a 10 year old absolutely makes your day?!

More to come from Russ about Cooperstown and baseball . . . but today you may just find me in my baseball hat and hoarse voice from all the screaming that all good baseball moms do!

Amy

Getting Ready... Will You Join Us?

2009-07-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

We leave Friday... and we're not quite ready yet! The packing is, itself, a major undertaking. We're going for a week of 12-year-old baseball in Cooperstown, NY before spending a week in London, Paris, and Madrid, before walking 100km across Spain. And all the packing has to be done together -- and there's a 30-pound per person limit, due to the requirements of our Camino walk. What a challenge!

To get ready, then, we've been doing lots of preparing... last minute emails with our travel agent... last minute financial preparations... last minute practice packing (really!)... and some last minute walking.

Interesting what funny looks you get, walking in Charlotte! I guess we just don't do that much of it -- especially with packs and water bottles. Here we are on today's walk, from Eastburn Road to the "Taj Mateeter," on Morrison Boulevard. Have you noticed the spectacular architectural arch there? It's fascinating what all you see, really see, when you are walking.

On Thursday, we'll take a final walk -- and we'd love to invite you to join us. We'll leave our house early in the afternoon, and plan a 12-mile hike through down-town Charlotte, ending at the Cabo Fish Taco in NoDa. We'd love to see a few of you, if you're interested in a Taco and a hug... and maybe someone will show up to bring us home, so we don't have to walk another 12 miles! We'll plan to eat at 6:30 pm at Cabo's place, 3201 North Davidson. Hope to see some of you there.

The rest... we're still thinking of you and praying for you, and will be doing so throughout this next pilgrimage.

As a reminder of our schedule: Cooperstown (July 10-17), London (July 18-21), Paris (July 22-24), Madrid (July 25-26), El Camino de Santiago de Compostella (July 27-August 2)... back to Madrid... back to Charlotte on August 4. (And as much as we're looking forward to all of that travel, we know that we'll be glad to see our plane touch down at Charlotte-Douglass at 4:13pm!)

Hope to see you Thursday for a taco... But if you can't make it, keep us in your prayers.

r

Until We Find Our Rest

2009-07-06T07:22:00.001-07:00

St. Augustine, one of the giants of Christian faith, once prayed, "Our hearts are restless, until they find rest in Thee."

I can relate.

Restless.

After two weeks of active sabbatical-ing, we've mostly been home for the last three weeks. Resting. Reading. Reflecting. It's good work for a sabbatical.

I can't say that I much like it.

Amy said yesterday that she, too, was feeling a bit restless. "These weeks have been hard," she noted. We passed by the church yesterday morning at 11:00 am, and it was good to see a few cars there(!), as we drove to Friendship Missionary Baptist for their 11:30 am service. Weird. Restless.

When we arrived, I had another momentary experience of that "Deep," tugging at my emotion -- JUST WALKING IN. The beauty of that sanctuary, the vaulted ceiling, the mahogany facade, the pipes of that glorious organ, the splendid color of the stained glass, which tells the story of Christian liberation on one side, and African-American slavery-to-freedom on the other... I enjoyed the nearly two-hours we experienced there, but I didn't need nearly that long -- for that moment, "just showing up" (a hint at Amy's last blog post), was Worship in itself.

Last night we had a wonderful conversation with our boys about church... and baseball! It never seems to end for us, this conversation about our commitments. We're already talking about fall teams, and playing options, most of which (ok, all of which!) involve some Sunday time on the diamond. The bottom line for us, and I think our boys understand this, is that church is about the community of fellowship we experience -- and are missing now -- not about some legalistic/moralistic obligation to please God, or to ease our consciences. When they're playing baseball on a Sunday, it's not so much that God is disappointed, as that they are missing time with their family of faith. And the more time we miss with you, the more restless we feel.

I think that will end, come Friday... not because we'll stop missing you, but because we will leave for our second Pilgrimage, and for the next three-and-a-half weeks, I think we'll be too busy to be anything near restless! Cooperstown, NY for a week of non-stop baseball action... London for three days... Paris for three more... Madrid, en route to our 62-mile Camino pilgrimage... an extra day in Santiago... and then home.

So I'm looking forward to hitting the road again -- and hoping this restlessness is not an indication of some failed spirituality (are our hearts not at rest, I'm asking, because they are just not at rest with God, or do some hearts actually "rest" better "on the run"?)

Running from this restlessness...

r

Just Showing Up

2009-06-28T19:41:00.000-07:00

You know most of these posts will come from Russ, but I had to jump in again! One of my goals for this sabbatical time is just showing up. I think I've done pretty well at just showing up for work and just showing up in times of crisis and just showing up for meetings and just showing up at the hospitals and just showing up to preach. One of my hopes for these 12 weeks is to just show up for my boys. I've actually been pretty pleased over these 8-plus years of being pastor and mother that I've shown up as much as I have for my sons, but I have honestly been looking forward to this devoted kind of time with them as much as anything about the whole summer. This weekend, Bennett and I traveled to Myrtle Beach for his baseball team's final tournament of the year while Russ and Jackson stayed in Charlotte for Jackson's final tournament before we all head to Cooperstown in two weeks for a week of baseball mania at the Little League Hall of Fame tournament for Jackson's team.

Russ and I kept the phone lines hopping - calling each other every time one of the boys was at the plate or in between every inning. Between the two of us, we showed up for 9 baseball games in two days. We lived through wins and losses (no one brought home any hardware this time!) We witnessed strikes and balls, pitching and catching, outfielding and first base coverage and a little bit of bench warming. We enjoyed hits and walks and pop flies and some strike outs. We did our fair share of cheering and encouraging. We repeated to each other play by play moments when baseball really happened for a bunch of 10 year olds and 12 year olds who still hold on to the dream of many young boys to play in the Bigs - making their way to the Show. And all we did this weekend was to show up. And it was good.

Today was my father's birthday - he would have been 84 today, and he did love baseball - especially the Atlanta Braves and any team that his children/grandchildren played on. He was a big believer in just showing up for your children's events. He sat through more tennis matches (which he felt was about as exciting as watching paint dry!) and piano recitals and girls' softball and even many of Jackson and Bennett's baseball games. And when he wasn't at a game - I kept his phone line hopping with play by play details of "just the facts" of his grandsons' baseball action!

This weekend, my brother and sister-in-law and niece showed up for Bennett's games at the beach. It was hot, but we did have fun. In a couple of weeks, Russ, Bennett, my brother and sister-in-law and niece, my sister and brother-in-law, and I will show up for Jackson's week of games in Cooperstown. We'll cheer and laugh and have a great time. We'll quote Daddy when they get a big hit that goes right into the glove of the outfielder - "You reckon he didn't see that guy standing there?!" And we'll help the ump make better calls from the stands.

I can't think of a better place to spend Daddy's birthday than on a baseball diamond. I'm simply glad and grateful that I was able to show up today!

Amy

You Don't Have to Travel to Europe

2009-06-26T07:43:00.000-07:00

We know this summer's opportunity fits in that once-in-a-lifetime category, and are obviously excited about the "exotic" nature of our upcoming travels to Spain and the Grand Canyon... but you don't have to get that far to find God. In less than two hours, you can be in some of the most spectacular country, well... anywhere.

I85 south to Hwy 74... through Shelby to Hwy 9, north, to Chimney Rock. The lake is beautiful, the town is quaint (if over commercialized), the "rock" is breath-taking.

In 1949 a man named Morse was determined to make this natural wonder accessible to the public, so he carved a tunnel deep into the granite, and an elevator shaft rose 26 stories, to a rock platform within a few steps of the top of the chimney. We recommend the hike to Hickory Nut Falls, and taking the stairs up (this route is 26 stories, too, but much more scenic... and a touch better for your heart!)... but for the faint of heart, Mr. Morse didn't want you to miss it.

It's amazing that this kind of scenery is accessible to us -- so what are you waiting for? Nice as it is, you don't have to have a Lilly Grant to enjoy the benefits of a sabbatical -- you can have yours, before lunch! And if God is not to be found at Chimney Rock, I don't think we need to travel another mile in the search.

Happy trails to you...

All of Charlotte

2009-06-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I had an interesting experience. The last two Sundays I've attended an early Sunday school class at Myer's Park Baptist; a discussion of John Spong's book, Jesus for the Non-Religious. (Interesting stuff, and interesting, always, to see how many people, and from how many different places, are so engaged with such a progressive treatment of the Jesus story.) In an email exchange with the teacher, I proposed a lunch meeting for further discussion, and Dan was open to my invitation.

So we gathered for Brixx Pizza (I recommend the Mediterranean Salad, add the blackened salmon) and a really nice, comfortable, conversation about all things Baptist and Christian and Spong and Dan and Russ... nice conversation. Amid my sabbatical reading of Baptist history, I'm into a well-written theological history of Southern Baptists, The Way We Were: How Southern Baptist Theology Has Changed and What it Means to Us All. Written by my former doctoral supervisor, Fisher Humphreys, The Way We Were is reminding me why Fisher titled his book in the past-tense... and my conversation with Dan is reminding me all that is present-tense about all I believe. What an appropriate two hours of a sabbatical summer.

I was on my motorcycle, as I'm want to be as often as possible these days, but I've never been a fan of the interstate. That motorcyle versus 18-wheeler thing is not appealing to me, so I asked Dan, who lives on the lake, near Birkdale Village (where we met for lunch), to recommend a more "interesting" way home (read, safe!). He pointed me toward the lake, and down the rural end of Beattie's Ford Road. What a fascinating ride.

Sabbatical is about seeing God along the journey, and what an interesting journey this was. All of Charlotte, in about 25 miles.

There's Birkdale Village, a.k.a., Yuppie-Heaven. I've never seen so many soccer moms "doing lunch" and white, upper-middle-class strollers and BMWs and Lexi (the little-known plural of Lexus)... in all my life. And just down the road, the Charlotte Lake Class. I was on the "poor side," but just across the water Lake Norman offers NASCAR and Bobcats and Panthers millionaires the homes they all deserve. (Don't they?) No sooner had I left Lake Society than I entered North-of-Charlotte, yesterday: actual, down-home, farm land... wide open spaces... homesteads that are being sold one after another for the next Gated Community. This farm-become-sprawl zip code runs directly into University Park Baptist Church, and its mostly-African American neighborhoods. Moving south along this corridor, these nice neighborhoods slowly become metro Charlotte, the inner city. Evidence of poverty and crime, homelessness and a drug culture run-amuck are visible on every corner. Then there's downtown Charlotte, everything from inner-city-life to Johnson and Wales to Bank of America stadium to the financial district... And then, before you turn around there's Dilworth and all those quaint little bungalows on Queens Road West. And from there, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump, to my own south-Charlotte home.

Amazing... Maybe every socio-economic status known to the U.S., all in a 25-mile ride.

And every mile... a glimpse of God. Still made flesh.

It's what this sabbatical is about. Thanks, Dan, for pointing me down this "road less taken."

r

Form and Function

2009-06-21T19:29:00.000-07:00

So Amy asked, "What made you emotional in worship today?" And, of course, I said... "I don't know." (Do I ever!?)

The Psalmist says "deep calls to deep," and I know there is deep truth in these poetic words. At moments I can hardly predict, for reasons I cannot always name, something stirs the "deep" within... and in these moments I can only affirm that some other "Deep" is speaking.

So it was today. In worship...

Since we've missed so many of our boys' recent baseball games, we've been determined not to miss any this summer. (Why they insist on scheduling these tournaments on Sunday mornings!?...) And the last two weeks we've spent about 12 hours on a baseball field on a Sunday. But today, we had time to slip out to Myers Park Baptist for the 10a.m. service (before baseball!). I was there a 9:00 a.m. for a discussion of one of Bishop Spong's latest books, Jesus for the Non-Religious; Amy and the boys then joined me, and we sat together. And I cried.

As a minister, who worries his fair share about where all of his parishioners are on Sunday mornings (are you watching baseball, too!?), I also spend a fair amount of my brain's "down time" wondering about the effectiveness of worship... both the function and the form. And as something of a skeptic, one who's prone to be at least a little influenced by the real cynics, I sometimes wonder if all the effort we put into it is really worth it. Or if we need to change the way we structure it at PRBC. But after just two Sundays away from it, as I sat there, a full participant (and nothing more)... the tears welled-up from somewhere deep within.

Today's worship was excellently conceived -- about as formal as ours -- and with the same basic style... format... length... etc... Why was I moved by the experience? Well, as best I can tell... it wasn't just the magnificent room... not just the choir... not just the order of service... not even the excellent sermon...

Plain and simple, it was just the experience of... worship. The discipline of putting myself in the place and with the people and with a disposition to listen.

Listen.

I'm sure I'll start worrying again (irrationally, of course), about our style of worship (form and format) when I'm back in the pulpit (again wondering where you are!), but for now, all of my questions about our "liberal" or "liturgical" or "formal" or "traditional" style of worship are gone.

GONE.

It's not about the form. It's about the function.

Somewhere... somehow... we need to find that place where the deep can call. I found it today, and I'm grateful.

I need that hour.

2 Things after 2 Weeks

2009-06-20T19:35:00.000-07:00

Well, Russ is the usual one to post, but I thought I'd add a word. I've had several objectives for this sabbatical: spend some real quality time with the boys, rest, read, observe, get away, restore. Well, two weeks down and I am well on my way to achieving my goals! For now, two full weeks and two aha's. Week One and the first aha: I read a book The Way is Made by Walking by Arthur Paul Boers. He is a Mennonite minister that has walked the whole 500 miles of El Caminoa de Santiago and written a book about his experience. While we will only walk the last 100 kilometers of the Camino next month, I have already been helped in our journey by "traveling" with Boers. One observation that he made is that on the Camino everyone is a pilgrim. He says, "Pilgrimages have always been spheres for folks to mix across dividing lines of culture, age, nation, class, politice, language and ethnicity. Pilgrims - like other groups on the edge of society, even those who are voluntariy marginal - cross boundaries that normally separate. Pilgrimages resist hierarchy and structure; folks temporarily suspend regular roles. Simplified dress codes, strenuous challenges and pared-down life styles, in the context of a supportive community, all contribute to what anthropologists call `liminality.' This describes a betwixt-and-between state that can help convert people from one way of life to another . . . It made sense that disintinctions elsewhere did not necessarily apply on the Camino. Sure, we might be blue or white collar, middle class or well-off. True, we were different ages. But now we were also notably similar. All of us where on a comparable quest, with corresponding struggles. We shared bathrooms and bedrooms . . . we lived simply and sweated profusely. Just as the Camino was not a place of comptetition, nor was it a place of status. Our only rank was our strong odor. Here there was no hiding behind social designations or distinctions. That too had a Gospel feel."After I read that, Russ and I headed out for a day's ride on our Harley and I realized one reason we love riding so much. It's the Harley code - the wave. When passing another Harley rider, the driver of the motorcycle points his or her left index finger toward the ground. That's it. That's the wave. The passenger does nothing. It's the unwritten code of acknowleding the commonality of Harley riders. We have no idea if the Harley folks we are passing drive 18 wheelers or are surgeons. There's no way to know if they are school teachers or pastors. Everyone is connected no matter race, class, religion, vocation, gender. And so the Camino and the Harley Davidson motorcycle made me think about church - The Church - and our church, and the strong desire I have for us to put aside all that keeps us distanced from one another so that we might truly know one another. I'm going to keeping thinking and dreaming about this.

Week two and the second aha: we were at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC waiting for the tour to begin when we decided to walk around the beautiful gardens. You'd think that 2 boys would find this boring, but they were too busy taking pictures of black squirrels and birds. (We have about 20 of the black squirrel from every angle if you want to see one!) Bennett got a great picture of a robin. He zoomed in for a great close up and the first thing he thought was that he couldn't wait to show this picture to Mr. Alan Eakes. I love that he knows that Mr. Alan loves birds. I love that he wants to share his find with his friend from church. I love that he was elated about a picture of a bird. I love that we weren't so focused on getting in line for the tour that we missed the black squirrel and the robin. I love that we shifted all of our plans for our time in Washington and took the Behind the Scenes tour of the Cathedral instead - opting to spend 4 full hours at the National Cathedral instead barely of glimpsing many sites in a hurried pace.

So weeks into this and so far so good - so very, very good.

Still reading and watching on the journey,

Amy

Walking Together

2009-06-19T20:01:00.000-07:00

So we're walking together, along the way... and even when it's the "Monkey Walk" on the green in Plymouth -- we're still in step as a family. And, at least for a few moments, with the God who fills those moments.

We're back at home, and what a wonderful trip... 2007.4 miles on the odometer, and every moment, pilgrimage as we planned it.

There was the travel itself, and all the picnicing along the road...

The tour of FBC Providence with our buddy, Pete, and the behind-the-scenes bonus... here are the Deans in the Baptistry. (You know... "B" joined the church the week before we left... too bad the pool was dry!)

The Mayflower II was fascinating, but we cannot imagine the conviction that held 102 people (plus about 30 crew and more than 100 tons of cargo) together for the 66-day crossing of the Atlantic.

But we were all smiles!

In Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvannia, we studied the Amish for a few hours... even catching a buggy ride with a new friend named John. Here are the boys giving old Bertha a spin...

Our emphasis during these travel days has been to experience God with all our senses, and, boy howdy, let me tell you that we were singing with the Psalmist when we left the Amish: "Oh, TASTE and see that the Lord is GOOD!"

And, speaking of "taste and see," in Plymouth, Jackson had his first taste of lobster, and as you can tell... he's hooked!

And our last stop was at the National Cathedral in Washington... amazing. If you've not been -- plan your trip today! What an incredible architectural wonder. By design, we arrived in time for morning prayers at 8:45 a.m. After this time of worship with the staff of the cathedral, we spent a few moments as a family, singing in one of the nine, ornate chapels. (And, do those stones make harmonies come alive!) We spent the morning -- and could have spent several days. The architecture... the artisan-inspired theology... the history... What a fitting end to our brief study of the wonderful, yet diverse, religious picture which is America.

You should know that we've been praying for you. By name. With the directory in hand during our morning and evening prayers. From Monday to Friday, we've covered Abounader to Fletcher. This has been a wonderful experience for us. Calling your names. Reminding the boys of your work, your children, your place in our lives at PRBC.

And, we've remembered those to whom Anne and Michael are giving special attention... the family of Evelyn Roberts, Lexa and Wallace Taylor, Jerry Gerald, Trish Bishop, Hilda Moulton. You are never far from our thoughts.

We hope you are joining us... and would love to have your comments, so we can keep in touch.

Our first pilgrimage was all we had hoped, and we're back home -- "in and out" for about three weeks -- before heading to Cooperstown, NY for a little baseball, before the European adventure begins...

We are well. And grateful. And finding God with us, all along the journey.

Pilgrims, with you...

They Knew They Were Pilgrims

2009-06-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful first pilgrimage this has been for our family. After putting about 1200 miles on Marmie and Dean-Dean's van, we got our first glimpse of Plymouth Harbor. Not in exactly the same location as the pilgrims of 1620... but close. And though that now-famous rock is probably a myth (there's no actual, historical evidence "Plymouth Rock" played any part in the pilgrim's landing), like all good myths, it's worth its truth.

So we've seen the rock... and what a solid place to begin our travels -- with that group of families, who set out to secure the freedom to worship, as they chose. (They were not unlike our Roger Williams (see my last post) -- they were Puritans, and Separatists... but not Baptists.) That group who had no particular expertise in travel, or pioneering, or self-defense... these were "butchers, bakers, and candle-stick-makers," who simply wanted the right to worship, where they chose, when they chose, as they chose.) So, the Deans have traveled... enjoying the freedom they found for us, and in our own way, looking for God.

And without the help of a few friends along the way, there is little doubt that their venture would not have been successful. And these friends were a surprising lot... a handful of Adventurers, traveling with them on the Mayflower, whose intent was not religious freedom but financial gain, and a few Native Americans, like the great sachem (chief/leader), Massassoit. The two documents produced by the pilgrims upon arriving in this new land are significant -- perhaps even forerunners for a later Declaration of Independence, and a Constitution, that would make manifest in the world an entirely new experience of living (inter-independent and respectfully free). The Mayflower Compact was an agreement between the pilgrims and their Adventurer-companions, that they would live and work together toward a common end, and the written agreement between Massassoit and the pilgrims, expressing a similar hope for harmony, have stood the test of time, as the continuing experiment in American-style democracy attests.

So their commitment and conviction and example of industry and harmony have been the cornerstone of this nation's success, and serve as an appropriate stepping stone for our family's journeys together.

As the pilgrim leader William Bradford said, of the rag-tag band who intrepidly sailed across that wild North Atlantic so long ago, "They knew they were pilgrims."

And so do we.

Feeling Baptist

2009-06-17T04:16:00.000-07:00

Pete let us in, and I promise you I could hear Roger rolling over in his grave as we entered the First Baptist Church of America -- under that huge American Flag, flying just above the front door. Roger Williams, that is. Yes, the Roger Williams who founded this, the (very) first Baptist Church in America, in 1638. Roger Williams, who was banished from the Massachusetts Bay Colony for his vehement insistence on religious freedom -- yes, that those Native Americans ought to be able to worship their spirit ancestors, instead of Jesus, if that's what they chose -- or that the Jews and the Muslims and the Atheists, along with them -- could worship (or not) as they chose. It was a bold, daring, audacious claim for an English Puritan-Separatist-Baptist believer...

It is what put Baptists on the map.

The Baptist churches I most appreciate understand this difficult-to-understand issue of separation between church and state. And one evidence of their understanding is the noticeable lack of an American flag in their sanctuaries (though the flag is an ironically prominent fixture in most Baptist churches these days). It's not at all that these Baptists are un-American, it's that they are so Baptist they recognize that an American flag is a symbol of a nation, not of God, and they recognize that God is not an American, and that Americans have no monopoly on the Divine. As a Christian church, worshiping a universal God, every Christian should be equally welcome... but a visiting Korean Christian (for example), might feel that she is in the wrong place if the church is paying homage to the nation that is not her own. (As might an English Baptist minister serving as a supply preacher for a Charlotte, NC church, while its ministers were on sabbatical!)

But Pete, who is the very nice (and very opinionated) sexton at America's First Baptist Church, told us that he told them that if they removed that American flag (as apparently they recently discussed) -- they would have to find a new sexton. (If I were the pastor I'd be reading sexton resumes!) I don't know how much influence Pete-the-sexton had on the to-fly-or-not-to-fly question. Pete, the former member of America's First Baptist Church. (You know, the church is "too liberal" for Pete these days. He goes to a (real), Independent Baptist, church now. (One which still teaches that the world is only 6,000 years old!)) I don't know how much influence Pete had. But I feel sure that Roger, who would otherwise be proud his church is still standing after almost 400 years, is turning over in his BAPTIST grave, with every flap of Old Glory.

Of course, Pete is feeling pretty Baptist in his position. Sure wish the equally opinionated Roger (the real Baptist) were here to have a conversation with him!

Come Away with Me

2009-06-14T21:07:00.001-07:00

We call her Nora.

But her voice is not nearly as soothing as her name-sake. Nora Jones, with her amazing jazzy, silky, sexy, crooning, inspired Amy with her "Come Away with Me," and our own "Nora" was born.

She sits on a little cradle, suction-cup-mounted to the front windshield, and she anticipates every turn for you (in a very un-Nora (Jones) monotone): I N 1 point 7 M I L E S P R E P A R E T O T U R N R I G H T... She's annoying But incredibly accurate. And what a memory! The girl has every street in the US, and most of the ones in Europe memorized. Seriously. She comes in a little packet the size of a wallet, and is an amazing traveler on the journey.

I don't know that she'll be much help with finding God, but she's doing one whale of a job helping us find the shortest route to Plymouth, MA... and the nearest Cracker Barrell.. and a much needed CVS Pharmacy... and (OK, she got a little "scenic" on this one) the Quality Inn in Front Royal, VA...

We're here for the night. 5 hours north. 8+ to go. We're still looking for God.

And if Nora will keep us on the "straight and narrow," I hope we'll have a sighting to report. Soon.

Sleeping on Saturday Nights

2009-06-14T05:30:00.001-07:00

It's the main difference between being at work and being on sabbatical: I sleep on Saturday nights!

It started almost nine years ago -- that writing-my-sermon-on-Sunday-morning thing. Oh, the first few months I had a sermon ready before the end of the week, but as my weekly schedule filled up the sermon writing kept getting postponed. Somewhere along the way, making a conscious decision to never sacrifice any family time (because I couldn't get my work time "together"), I decided that Sunday mornings would be a pretty good time to write. When I first started this crazy thing, it was sometimes 4:30 a.m. that I'd stop by the Exxon for a cup of coffee, and then unlock my office door... It's usually about 6:00 a.m. that I arrive nowadays.

Understand, it's not as if I show up on Sunday and only then start THINKING about what to say. I've been doing that all week. Reading... Studying... Preparing the bulletin... Thinking (when I should be sleeping). And, I do try to have an introduction written before I leave the office, usually on Friday... It's just that the whole thing doesn't come together until Sunday a.m.

And, though I've gotten very comfortable with this, and can say that I've learned to enjoy the "freshness" that such an approach gives to sermon writing, it is somthing I'd like to change about my weekly schedule.

Maybe a sabbatical will help?

Push back the email... schedule the meetings a little more strategically... close the office door... JUST DO IT, starting by, say, Thursday... (We'll see.)

And it's not just for the Sunday morning, it's-time-to-write-that-sermon, preachers that Saturdays are bad for sleeping. Amy doesn't do any better. I think this is part of the job -- seems to be a common Saturday theme for preachers I know.

Anyway, the last two Sunday mornings I've waked up and realized -- I slept all night. Saturday! What a novel idea.

I think I could get used to this.

Keeping it Between the Ditches

2009-06-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

OK... you don't have to ride a Harley to really live. But until you've experienced the NC mountains on a motorcycle, you can't say you've fully lived.

There's just nothing like it.

Amy and I have started our sabbatical with two days on the Blue Ridge Parkway -- the only "pilgrimage" we'll undertake without our boys. (Originally we had written a week-long bike trip along California's famed Highway 1 into our grant proposal, but for various reasons, we dropped this. These two days have been a reasonable exchange!) We're staying at Jim and Jean Veilleux's wonderful house on Lake James, and from here have ridden out the last two mornings, for about 150 miles each day, to and around the Parkway. Yesterday was as good a biking day as we've ever had. Though the rain chased us home (we literally walked in the front door and the bottom fell out of the sky!), we had an amazing weather day and spectacular scenery.

Western NC boasts its famed "Tail of the Dragon," the 12-mile stretch from Deal's Gap to the Tennessee line, but since we've ridden that, too, I can tell you, objectively, that the Dragon has NOTHING on Highway 80, from Marion, north, to the Parkway. Even on our little Sportster, I met Amy coming around some of those hairpin turns behind me! From the Parkway, we rode to the highest peak on the Blue Ridge, Mt. Mitchell, and then down into Black Mountain, and home (after a stop at Thai Basil on Black Mountain's main drag) via Highway 70.

Until you've leaned into those turns... breathed in the freshness of Laurel and Honesuckle... taken in the goodness of blue sky and open road... you've missed something.

We're trying not to miss anything as we travel this summer. Thanks for the opportunity.

Primed for the Journey

2009-06-09T06:01:00.000-07:00

We've been told to "expect the unexpected" along the journey. Such is the nature of pilgrimage. And my first "unexpected" came last week, when Dr. Tom Polaski told me he had a book for my travels. Great, what is it?

Before I tell you, a little background. Tom and I were classmates at Furman, but in our studies while he was majoring in math I was only plodding through "Math 16: Math for non-science majors." (This is the collegiate equivalent of, "If you put $2.74 worth of gas in your Harley, and give the clerk a five dollar bill, how much change should you get back?") I had taken the five math courses offered in my four years of high school, but high school calculus, now LOOOOONG, forgotten, was the apex of my mathematical career. (I'm still pretty good at getting the right amount of change back.)

So, when Tom shows up with The Millenium Problems: The Seven Greatest Unsolved Mathematical Puzzles of Our Time, I didn't know whether to be honored that the good math professor thought highly enough of my mind to expect that I could actually understand this stuff (which I can't, Tom!), or just laugh and say thanks. I laughed and said thanks.

Now let me tell you what I've learned so far. Which has very little to do with math.

The first problem is the 140-year-old conundrum named for Bernard Reimann, who first stated it. It has something to do with determining the density of prime numbers (which apparently get more sparse the higher you count them). Apparently there are significant implications for computers and internet usage in the "proving" of The Reimann Hypothesis. (Which also comes with a $1,000,000 prize from the Clay Mathematics Institue. Their money is safe with me, but you are welcome to buy the book and give it your best shot!)

In the Reimann chapter, written for the lay person (???) the author reviews: counting numbers (a really good start for a Math 16 whiz), which are now called the "natural" numbers... fractions, called "rational" numbers... all the other numbers on the number line (which are... exactly... what!?), called "real" numbers... and then, if "real" numbers aren't unreal enough, there are the "imaginary" numbers, and, if this is not complex enough, you've also got your "complex" numbers.

OK... so here's the point (for a pastor on pilgrimage)... in his method for solving any cubic equation, the Italian mathematician, Girolamo Cardano, discovered that to get to a final result one has to journey through several intermediate steps, which involve numbers that are not "real." Though the final result is (an actual, real number).

That which does not exist (an imaginary number)... helps a mathematician find a solution, which does exist (a real number, in a real world). Are you with me?

And...with the Reimann Hypothesis itself: his hypothesis about prime numbers has been used (however mathematicians use these things!) for more than a century, though it has never been proven. Of it, Keith Devlin, the author, says, "Suspecting that it is true, mathematicians have been investigating its consequences for years."

Do you see where a pastor is going with this?

Devlin opens up his book with this disturbing quotation from Landon Clay (the benefactor of the $1 million prize): "Curiosity is part of human nature. Unfortunately, the established religions no longer provide the answers that are satisfactory, and that translates into a need for certainty and truth. And that is what makes mathematics work, makes people commit their lives to it. It is the desire for truth and the response to the beauty and elegance of mathematics that drives mathematicians."

The disdain for religion that many people have comes from religion's inability to "prove" itself. God? What God? Where, God? Show me God... and I will believe.

So, why does mathematics deserve a "bye" in the proof department? If mathematicians can use numbers that are "imaginary" to yield a real result, and the "consequences" of a hypothesis that is "unproven" are practical and well-known... why can I not believe, likewise, in a God who cannot be proven -- even while I work out the very practical, effective, "consequences" in my life?

Such is the nature of faith. To work out the consequences of a God who is beyond proof. Of the mathematician. And even the "proof" of the believer.

Thanks, Tom, for priming me to see this God, the "beauty and elegance" of faith... even in that which is "imaginary" along this life's journey.

r

Praying With My Hands...

2009-06-08T04:59:00.000-07:00

So the summer looks to be... fairly, let's just say... "active." (But could you imagine that we'd plan a sabbatical any other way?) Yesterday, a baseball friend, who'd just heard we were on sabbatical, asked Amy if we were goign to "do any travelling" while we were off! Amy said she was almost embarassed to tell her... motorcycle trip to the mountains... New England... New York with Jackson's ball team... London... Paris... Spain... Arizona... "Yes. We'll be travelling. A little."

And it suits. We've always packed our vactions so full, and enjoyed such an active time, that work has always seemed a little more like "vacation," when we returned!

So, I said to Amy that I was a little worried about our non-travel time. Would I be able to enjoy it? Sitting still is not my thing. Nothing gives me "the bots" (to borrow an expression from Amy's dad) any worse than having a day off and having nothing scheduled to do with it. Fix something. Make something. Go somewhere. Do... something.

So a summer to sabbatical. I'm not so sure. I recently made a gift of wood and in my note to the recipient I commented that I "do my best praying with my hands." So the summer of pilgrimage will suit just fine. Pray with my feet.

As to the other 40 days, with no agenda... I'll keep you posted!

r

6:24 pm... But who's counting...

2009-06-06T18:31:00.000-07:00

"B" and I counted down the minutes as I closed out Microsoft Word and "x-ed" out that blessed/cursed Microsoft Outlook. (To date, two days without email is probably worth 12 weeks of sabbatical, already!) I want you to understand that it's not that our boys are embittered by our work. Nor are we. They fully understand the benefits that we, and they, receive as pastors. But as we have prepared for the beginning of our sabbatica, it's not the trip to Plymouth, MA, with their grandparents (who will travel with us on this pilgrimage) they are most looking forward to... not their first trans-Atlantic crossing... not London... not Paris... not walking 62.1 miles across northern Spain (definitely not what they're most excited about!)... not even the two-and-a-half day rafting trip down the Colorado River, or another excursion in the Grand Canyon with Sue-Sue, Don, and Katie (who ventured into the Canyon with us in 2006). When we talk with our boys about what they are looking forward to the most during this sabbatical... having mom and dad home for the summer seems to be the hands-down winner. No "Sorry, we can't make the baseball game today, Jackson -- you know, it's Sunday..." no, "Sorry Bennett, but we've had to cancel the camping trip -- you understand that we have to do funerals, whenever they are needed..." and no, "Boys, we hate to break it to you, but one of us is going to have to leave vacation... but we'll be back." We understand that when ministry calls, we've signed up to answer. They understand this, too. But they are 10 and 12, and like all other children their age, they like their parents to see them play, and so far (everyone knock on wood!) they still like spending time with us. So... as we closed down the computer, Bennett could feel the gravity of this moment, and as we pulled out of the church driveway, at 6:24 p.m., I announced, "Sabbatical has officially begun."

OK... so we came by the office twice on Friday and I spent 45 minutes doing work with Mecklenburg Ministries, and left one "last" phone message for Anne Neal, but... sabbatical has started.

I'm typing this on a Saturday night, out on our patio kitchen. The Cubs and Reds are playing, and that cloud is not hovering in the back of my mind. That undeniable weight that slowly gathers on Saturday afternoons/evenings (regardless the degree to which a sermon is complete). That almost-unconscious reminder that tomorrow is "the day." And it comes every week. (At least!) Yes, it's a weight we've accepted. Gladly. How can something you so truly love be the thing you most look forward to deleting from your life for a few weeks? (To be sure, we'll be in church, somewhere, every Sunday the boys' baseball is not calling. But we're looking forward to three months of well-slept Saturday nights, and sitting on your side of the pulpit for a while.)

6:24... and, OK... we are counting! Thanks for the opportunity to do just that.

r

The Sendoff

2009-05-31T18:31:00.000-07:00

I don't think most pastors are this well-loved.

In fact... I know they are not. Oh, it's not that we don't know that in any church (especially those which practice congregational polity) things can change at any moment (any church conference)... but in too many churches the tensions between pastor and church, or church leadership, are just below the surface. Or they are the tempest ever roiling the surface. In many cases, this tension exists in a kind of quiet animosity between pastor and church. In our neck of the woods it's a polite, southern, "Oh... everything's just... 'fine'!" animosity, that shows itself with rolled eyes and with sighs (yes, sighs, too deep for groanings!)

So, things could change. We know. But at the moment, we are cared for and cared about, respected... and deeply loved.

Today's pot-luck (Amy's favorite dining experience) was just one more evidence of this love-fest, now nigh-unto 9 years old. (OK... everyone doesn't love us. We're also honest about that, too!) But the sentiment is communicated across a broad swath of this church. And it is reciprocated. With very little reservation.

So, we prepare to leave (we'll be in this office this week), and know that we go with your blessing. You should know that as we go, you will be in our hearts. We are not escaping you, but, honestly, escaping for you. Hoping that this little experiment in "absence makes the heart grow fonder" will make our mutual affection deeper, more honest, more understood. And that when we return, there will be a little more spring in our step. (You know, love has a way of taking a little of it out of you!)

Thanks for the sendoff. For the gifts. For the thoughts. The prayers.

Thanks for the love.

It's what will bring us back.

I promise.

r

When We're Not Preaching...

2009-05-13T08:57:00.000-07:00

OK... so water skiing is one of our favorite family things to do... and here's a little sample...

Amy on her onside turn...

The Deans... showing off as a family!

Dad has taught both of the boys to love "footing," and here's Jackson on some really nice water...

Even the old man, making a few turns...

And last, but not least, Bennett, getting in on the action. 9 years old... one of his very first footing runs after learning to do a deepwater start.

And... anyone who's still reading is a guinea pig. I've jsut been trying to learn how to upload pictures, so, hang in there. (Hopefully there will be something actually worth reading just around the corner!)

Time Flies When You're Having Fun

2009-05-05T12:36:00.001-07:00

I had prepared Bennett for what they were going to do and say. “Ooh. Look at you!” Hug. “I can’t believe how big you are!” Pinched cheek. “Wow. How old are you now? I remember when you were just a baby. I used to hold you in my arms!” Tussled hair.

I love to be right. And I was. After almost nine years, the “XYZ Club” at Mountain Brook Baptist Church could hardly believe their eyes. Bennett had not yet celebrated his second birthday when we left our Birmingham home and headed for PRBC. We accepted Dottie’s invitation to join her (Dottie and I worked together, daily, for four years), and the senior adult group she still leads, for dinner in Belmont. It was a great meal, a wonderful reunion, and an amazing reminder of how time flies. When you’re having fun, of course!

And we are. If you consider packing and unpacking… Meeting hundreds of new people… Rebuilding “systems” of all kinds in a new environment…Hiring and rehiring staff, until you finally get it right… Meeting with a Vision team for twelve months… Meeting with a Building Committee for a year… Meeting with a Capital Campaign Committee for another year… And another Building Committee for yet another year… And planning programs… And writing sermons… And conducting more than a dozen funerals a year… And raising an annual budget… And overseeing the creation of three new endowments… And making outreach calls… And pastoral care visits… And marrying, and baptizing, and dedicating… And thinking and dreaming and planning and executing and implementing and evaluating… And cooking family night dinners for three summers… And renovating and building and hauling and cleaning and dumping… And teaching and mentoring and learning and colleague-ing and partnering and sharing… And hosting meals of every imaginable kind… And dropping in, and dropping out, dead tired… And raising two boys… And honoring two fathers and mothers… And trying to remember that you’re still married, and have a life outside of Park Road Baptist Church… You know, if you call all of that “fun,” (and we do)… then we’re having a ball.

But when we consider the above paragraph, in honest terms of what it has actually taken to do all of that, sometimes (on a bad day), it makes us tired. And the word “sabbatical” sounds even better than it should. Please understand: We know we don’t work any harder than most of you. We know we don’t put in more hours in the office than some of you are also spending away from your kids (and a good bit less than a few of you [take the hint!]). We know there aren’t any more headaches in our job than in many of yours. So… we know we don’t deserve a sabbatical any more than many of you. Which just makes us all the more grateful that we have been granted one. (If we can put in a good word with your boss, or your industry, for the same, please let us know. We really believe sabbatical is as old as the first Sabbath (which is pretty old), and that everyone needs one. Let us know what we can do to help you get your own. We’ll be glad to put in our four cents. [You know, two, each.])

We have four more Sundays, and ours begins. As most of you now know, we’ll be out of the pulpit (and the office and email-shot and phone range, etc…), for twelve Sundays. Brian Haymes and Maria Hanlin will be filling the pulpit for eleven of these Sundays (see their bio’s, enclosed), Christine Kellett will preach the twelfth. Anne Hunter Eidson and Michael Kellett will handle any and all pastoral care needs. Tom Applegate and Anne Neal will hold down the fort in the office. Greg Blum and Crystal Smyth (our Deaconate leadership) are on standby, as needed. Carol Cramer and Matt Kinney will continue to support you and us as our Sabbatical Planning Committee.

I tried the line out on Amy once when we were dating. I’d just gone off to college, and one (OK, maybe it was more like fifteen) of those freshman cuties had caught my eye. The brass and rock powerhouse called “Chicago” had just released another hit, and it seemed to fit: “Everybody needs a little time away… Even lovers need a holiday.” Let me just say that I’m hoping the line is better received by you than it was by Pastor #1! We are looking forward to being away. For what it will do for our renewal. And for the fresh look and outlook it will give to you as well. It is hard to believe it’s been nearly nine years, and we’re looking for a little “second wind” that the next nine will be just as full, just as fulfilling, and, yes, just as fun.