How do you baptize someone who's 6-foot-11?

See Dwight Howard's other dunking here.

I long to be, in a church by the sea ...

"For more than 15 years, I didn’t go to church (except for lots of visits in my professional capacity). When I was in my early 20s, the Episcopal church I attended regularly split. Factions formed, sides were taken, harsh words were spoken. A spiritual tug of war ensued and left the community in tatters. It was awful, traumatic — the worst that church has to offer."

That's not my story. The only part in common is that I didn't go to church much in my 20s because I worked until 2 a.m. Sundays (Saturday nights). At least, that was my excuse.
The above, rather, is the story of one of my former religion writer colleagues — and I'm stretching the truth to include myself among her ilk, as she was one of the best.

Her tale — here — is worth reading, regardless of what you believe about church.

Cubs turn their backs on Sandberg

It's another frustrating day in Cubville.

I seldom agree with what the Chicago Tribune writes about the Cubs, but this one is right on the mark. Ryno deserved better.

Tribune story

Chicago Tribune photo

Membership has its privileges

Groucho Marx reportedly said: “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”

When the church is being the church (and not a club), it will have us as members. Isn’t that outrageous?

I'm learning

A few things I’ve learned (so far) as a pastor:

• Speeding into Cornell at 10 o’clock at night is one way to meet the local police. Probably not the best way, however. But we had a nice conversation, I left with a warning, and he departed with a blessing. God is good.


• The children of the community aren’t the “church of the future.” They are the children of today, in need of love, guidance and nurture in this present moment just because.


• Where else besides the church can you find young, old, liberals, conservatives, extroverts, introverts, rich and poor side by side? It’s as if we had made a promise to each other: to have and to hold, for better or worse. Wait, we did make that promise.

Blink and you'll miss it

The 2002 Honda CR-V hits a milestone, September 2010.

P.S. As you can tell from the speedometer, I was not driving when I took this picture.

In and out of jail

The past month has begun a great journey, as I have been introduced to three wonderful congregations whose stories and lives I will be sharing as their new pastor.

Today comes word of a former seminary colleague who really has been on a journey. In fact, she's still there: in Arizona, where she was among 30 people arrested two days ago for an act of civil disobedience against Immigration Measure SB 1070. She's now out of jail and writing about it here.

Peace.

The shell of the once-great WGN

One of the great joys of my life has been listening to WGN Radio in Chicago. It was a station unduplicated across American airwaves. It sounds corny, but it was like having family and friends within reach of the dial, whatever the time of day:

Wally Phillips, Bob Collins and Spike O'Dell in the morning; Roy Leonard's celebrity interviews; Orion and Max with biz and farm reports; Larry Schreiner chasing cops; Steve Cochran chasing laughs; news, weather, traffic and sports from the likes of Lyle Dean, Wes Bleed, Dave Stewart, Andrea Darlas, Dick Sutliffe, Tom Peterson, Judy Pielach, Trooper Linc Hampton, Steve Bertrand, Leslie Keiling, Jack Brickhouse, Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau, Pat Hughes, Chuck Swirsky, David Kaplan, Dave Eanet.

There were truly one-of-a-kind shows: Kathy and Judy, and Extension 720 with Milt Rosenberg. And the quirky: Steve and Johnnie, the Al and/or Ed show, and "Chicago Ed" Schwartz. Paul Harvey was a hometown broadcaster at WGN. (I'm too young to remember Franklyn MacCormack's Meisterbrau Showcase.)

Not to mention broadcasts of Cubs baseball since 1948.

"The Voice of Chicago." "Live Coverage of Your Lifetime." "The radio home of millions throughout North America." "The sound that says Chicago."

This may sound like a paid ad. It isn't. It also may sound like an obituary. If WGN isn't already dead, it's on life support.

A new and grossly misdirected management has badly underestimated us listeners and rendered WGN just another blathering voice. John Williams is valiantly carrying on (while moonlighting at the Twin Cities' WCCO), and Uncle Milt is still illuminating the would-be intelligencia. But WGN once brought us warmth and wit; now it's just a conduit for politically opinionated outsiders who, at best, are vanilla and forgettable.

I suppose I shouldn't take a radio station's programming so personally. But WGN succeeded at capturing the ears and hearts of millions of us over the years.

Related:

• From Sunday's New York Times: "At some point, this will be a case study of how to dismantle a radio station"



• WGN Hell-Bent on Self-Destruction: several recent entries on this blog



• WGN Gold, the history of Chicago's WGN Radio 720

Just down the road ...

We toured the byways today near the churches I'll begin serving on July 1. These photos are about a half-mile down the road from one of the churches. John Wesley traveled from parish to parish on horseback. I think I should get a Chris-Craft. Or a kayak.

Class of 2010

Top photo by Jason Tetzloff

Welcome to Cicely

As I've imagined my first appointment as a full-time pastor, I've fancied living in Cicely: preaching at the village church on Sunday mornings, meeting people during the week at Ruth-Anne's store, grabbing breakfast at The Brick, driving into the country to see parishioners or take in the peace of woods and waters.

Fiction has become reality: I've been appointed to Cicely!

You might remember Cicely, Alaska, as the home of Northern Exposure, the warmly quirky television show of the 1990s that is one of my all-time favorites. In real life, I have just been appointed to serve the United Methodist Churches of Anson, Holcombe and Jim Falls. The three parishes lie roughly along the Chippewa River as it meanders southward through Chippewa County -- past two state parks, county forest, farmland and small towns. Not far south are the cities of Chippewa Falls and Eau Claire.

The congregations love their current pastor, and she loves them. She will leave for a new appointment on July 1, when I will come into their communities as an outsider. I respect their grieving, the difficult task of letting go and facing uncertainty.

I don't know who I'll meet there: the town doctor who moved there from the big city, the widow who owns the corner store, the orphaned American Indian whom the village raised, the master chef who lives in a log cabin, maybe even the philosphical ex-felon who lives the intellectual life and rides a Harley.

They will be real people with real stories. Someday, with God's blessing, we will share our stories. For now, mine is to honor theirs. Meantime, I'll be at The Brick, cup of coffee in hand, grateful to be in their midst.

Photo: Northern Exposure's "Cicely, Alaska" (actually Roslyn, Wash.). Photo by Sue Frause, Seattle Travel Examiner.

Out of ashes

The gunshots rang out at 4:16 in the morning. I remember the exact time, because the minute I was startled awake I looked at the clock. But I really wasn’t sure about the shots. One pop after another. Even in my fog, I thought, “Why would someone be hunting in February? And why in the middle of the night?”

The pops continued, almost rhythmically – pop, pop, pop. I noticed a glow outside my bedroom window. I got out of bed, and stumbled in slow motion to look outside, as if I were sleepwalking.

I stared for what seemed like several minutes, frozen, not shaken into action as I should have been. The barn – not 40 yards from my sleeping quarters – was ablaze, flames shooting out of the roof. Miniature explosions – probably from jugs of chemicals – punctuated the night. The metal siding that covered one side of the 100-year-old, red, wooden barn was peeling off like candle wax, flames whipping every which way. It was like I had been transported to the Cineplex, and I was watching this inferno on the large screen.

I should have been running, picking up the phone, doing something. I was transfixed. It was horror and it was theater at the same time. I finally made my legs move, grabbed jeans and a sweatshirt and a parka and found my cell phone, but the first volunteer firefighters were pulling up as I dialed.

Outside, in subzero night, I learned what “surreal” looks and feels and smells like. What to do? Nothing. There is no picture here of the burning barn, because I couldn’t even think to do that.

No one was hurt. Even the three barn cats got to safety. What was lost were two Bobcat tractors, a quarter-ton pickup truck, a 40-foot-motorhome, a brand-new snowmobile, and Dean’s livelihood.

Dean, the owner of the farm where I rent an outbuilding, is the proprietor of a swimming pool and home-heating business that he ran out of the old barn. He stood next to the firefighters and looked helpless – the only time I’d seen him so before or since. His own home, 50 yards the other direction, was in no danger, nor was my hovel, but his business was lost.

Outside, he said stoically, “This isn’t a good night, Steve.”

Inside, an hour later, as his wife made coffee for some of us who stood around trying to lend support, Dean disappeared around the corner and sobbed.

Unlike the death of a living being, whose remains are carried away and tended to, the bed of this fire lay bare and smoldering for days. The stench of smoke entered the houses and cars, and soot was frozen into the ground to await a spring thaw that was weeks away.

But today, that thaw has arrived. Piles of twisted metal have been hauled away. The air smells clear again. Dean has survived through the second stage of his grief: dealing with insurance companies – he spared no colorful vocabulary in telling me, his pastor friend, about how he was robbed.

He found a Wick Building for free elsewhere in the county, disassembled it, reassembled it on the farm, and is converting it into his new office and warehouse – by adding windows, insulation, plumbing and electrical.

He’s back on his Bobcat 14 hours a day.

The future isn’t clear, his business plan is in disarray, his losses are known only to him, but he has purpose again. He suffered, but he didn’t wallow. He’s doing what he’s always done: work hard, be kind to other people, and make use of every moment of available daylight.

I saw him the other day, which happened to be Good Friday, and he was smiling again. I hope he’ll be smiling on Easter, too.

What's new?

What in your life, or in you, is alive this year that wasn't a year ago?

Really, I'd like to know ~ click on COMMENTS below.

Ideology vs. grace and hope

I've scanned the status messages of my Facebook friends this morning (see below). If we were in a room together, we'd probably get along fine. (I have thoughtful and fascinating friends, of course.) But this ideological divide is distressing. Because it's ideological.

Marx understood ideology as a system of thoughts and beliefs constructed by one class seeking to project it onto society as a whole in order to gain control. In other words, ideology is about wielding thoughts and beliefs to get or keep power.

When the conversation turns ideological, the real economic question -- unlimited wants vs. limited resources -- is obscured. As a journalist, I grew weary of ideologues. How can I now be a pastor, Christian and citizen who doesn't live by ideology but by grace and hope?

* * *

The status of my friends:

"Finally! HCR is really beginning. The haters lose."

"Will the government cover the sickness I feel over the passage of this health "reform" bill? Did I wake up in a different country?"

"Those phone calls, letters, and contributions feel like they mattered. Thrilled to hear the news about Health Care Reform Bill passing in Congress!"

"Expected a nasty morning rush hour, what with all the Army tanks and black helicopters after last night's health care vote."

"Victory"

"Really?"

"Why did the health care legislation take a whole year of "epic struggle"? What can we do to improve our legislative process and political system?"

"Both John Lewis and Bart Stupak deserved more respect. Shame."

"Sign the Repeal ObamaCare Pledge and help elect true conservatives this November who will repeal President Obama's health care takeover."

"I feel like my team just won the Super Bowl!!!"

No statute of limitations on compassion

I have never been to Haiti. Dan Dick has. Ann made Dan’s acquaintance just a few months ago, when he came through Eau Claire for his work. This is what Dan remembers of his visit to Haiti:

• We had three teenage women with us on my first trip. They played rhythm games with the Haitian girls in the lantern light, laughing and hugging, though they could not communicate with words.
  
  
• We brought a bag of used tennis balls and the children acted as though we gave them gold when we passed them out. They played with them non-stop for hours on end.
  
  One day we made balloon animals for the children, and they stood wide-eyed, mouths agape at the magic we performed. Even when the balloons deflated, the children collected the colorful rubber scraps and proudly treasured them — making bracelets and belts from them.
  
  
• Administering very simple first aid — people lining up as far as the eye could see, then bursting into tears over the simple acts of removing splinters, applying salves, or confirming that a child wasn’t seriously ill.
  
  
• The willowy young woman who sang and danced throughout worship and led a procession to the offering baskets where coins were deposited before she herself stepped into the basket, making an offering of her life to God.
  
  
• The voodoo priestess who told me she was also Catholic, Jewish, Presbyterian, and a Rotarian (she proudly wore a Rotary pin…) who had pictures of the Pope, Jesus, and Tom Selleck in her small shed.
  
  
• The little boy who belonged to the village but had no parents. He would take every possible opportunity to sit on the lap of any person who stopped to sit down for five minutes. He would climb up and almost instantly fall asleep.
  
  
• Landing at the airport and walking through platoons of unsmiling armed military guards — and the five-hour customs process where a third of our possessions were confiscated.

That is the Haiti one visitor remembers, and it was the Haiti before last week. It was the Haiti that most of us didn’t know, never saw. The Haiti we know is the one we’ve watched on television or read about the past six days.

One friend of mine said she couldn’t sleep Thursday night after watching the images of this earthquake ravaged country for an hour before she went to bed. If we’re not there, we can’t grasp the enormity of such a disaster, so we grasp at images, clips, snippets of the devastation.

• The man wandering into a pile of rubble of what used to be his house, opening the refrigerator to see if he could find any food there.
  
  
• Hospitals collapsed upon themselves.
  
  People fighting with one another over food rations that are only beginning to trickle into the country.
  
  
• Maybe it’s that Cuba has allowed U.S. planes to fly over its normally closed airspace to relief supplies can reach Haiti’s people faster.
  
  
• Or the impromptu parade of Haitians in Port-au-Prince who took to the streets singing on Friday, because when you can’t do anything, what can you do but appeal to God with every bit of your voice?

Their singing was an inspiration, but there is no brilliant diamond to find in this rough, no “feel-good moment” that puts it all in perspective and makes it OK. Some have asked this week: there is so much suffering in the world. We still remember Katrina, on our own shores, or the tsunamis of the Indian Ocean in 2004 and Sumatra last year. How much limit is there to our compassion? Is there a statute of limitations on our ability to respond?

Maybe this one hurts the way it does because it’s so close, only a couple of hundred miles off the shore of Florida. It’s devastation that – if it doesn’t hit close to home, then it hits close to America’s vacation home (the Caribbean.)

Or is it really about proximity? Is it that this week’s Scripture (1 Corinthians 12:1-11) becomes real in a new way even in the midst of this tragedy?

If we are the body of Christ, then we remember that the body of Christ represented a great paradox: It was a crucified body. We, as the body of Christ, aren’t perfect. We are subject to death and suffering. When the Haitians hurt, we hurt, too. They are us, and we are them.

In this body of Christ, we do have different gifts. That’s not just an observation. It’s how we are made, for the good of the entire body. In the response to tragedy,

• Some are gifted, and therefore called, to go to Haiti – maybe now, maybe months from now – to join in the struggle, to bring relief, to help rebuild.


• Some are gifted, and therefore called, to give – maybe this morning, maybe in a systematic way over the coming weeks – in order that this enormous humanitarian effort might be helped in every way possible.


• Some are gifted, and therefore called, to make clothes, so that those possessing only what’s on their backs might regain some dignity.


• Some are gifted, and therefore called, to pray – with fervor, with focus, with sustained intent, with sincerity, for all members of the body of Christ … for us, that we remain compassionate, and for those who don’t know where to find food, where to sleep, where to go to the bathroom, where to drink, where to bathe.

To say that we are the body of Christ means we feel it when other parts suffer. It means because we have different gifts, God can work through us in different ways to respond. It means that God works through us for healing and redemption.

How we respond to another in need is a good measure of how we respond to God. When we participate as the body of Christ in the life of Christ, we are participating in the work of Christ, which is resurrection and hope.

Finally, because we are the body of Christ, God hurts with us. God is with us amidst our grief. A former seminary colleague, Eric Conklin, said this as well as anyone last week:

“God is with us and is more faithful than even the strongest bond between parent and child. And this is good news. One day, we too may be trapped in the rubble with only our thoughts: no food, no water, no sign of life around, the very breath being crushed out of us. And God will be there with us. One day, we too may be mourning at the tremendous loss of life that surrounds our house. God will be there with us. One day, we too may be piling up our friends and neighbors into mass graves, and God will be there with us.

The images are grim, but they are the reality for a million of our brothers and sisters in Haiti at this very second. There is hope amid the calamity. There is friendship amid death. And all the while there is a God who has been a partner through the very worst of it all. As a people to whom Christ has turned, we respond with faith to our brothers and sisters who have God comforting them now in their moment of grief.”