On "Celebrating" the End of a War

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.

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"...

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

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.

r

On the Way Home

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.

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...

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