Fare thee well, Brandon Inge

I just now read the news that Brandon Inge got cut today.  I will miss him.  Not because of his bat, of course.  Last year he hit below the Mendoza Line for the first time since 2001, a mighty .197.  This year he has gone 2-20 since joining the team, which gives him an early season .100 batting average (a mark which is, by the way, worse than the Charlotte Bobcats’ 2011-2012 winning percentage).  It seems like he hasn’t been the same since his 0-fer during the 2009 Home Run Derby.  He had hit 21 home runs going into the break that year.  He hit 6 the rest of the way.  He only hit 3 last year, and he lost his regular 3rd base job last year to Wilson Betemit (who didn’t really pan out himself) mid-season before being permanently sent from the hot corner this year by Miguel Cabrera (with an assist from Prince Fielder).  He has simply not been hitting since the first half of 2009.  The way he swings at pitches in the dirt and watches a fastball go right down the middle, something must be going on in his head that keeps him from being the player he could be.  He has never been an élite hitter, but he used to be a guy you could slot late in the order and feel good about his contributions.

His defense isn’t what will cause me to miss him either, though in this case he is still very good.  I will remember fondly some of those incredible plays he made at third.  The way that he could get to balls, the way that he would gladly sacrifice his body just to keep any possible hit from getting past him.  He had instincts out there, and a work ethic like none other.

I think the reason I will miss him is that, like the final box you unpack five years after moving into a new house, his departure truly marks the end of an era.  In 2003, the Tigers lost an American League record 119 games.  The regular shortstop was Ramon Santiago, and the regular catcher was none other than the man of the hour, Mr. Brandon Inge.  This morning they were the only two players on left from that team.  Even Santiago spent two years playing in Seattle between then and now.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the era we are in.  I like that the Tigers have grown from being a team that would perennially lose 90 games or more to a contender.  I like that I saw them play in the World Series just a few years ago.  I like that, the 3rd inning of Game 6 notwithstanding, they played a real good ALCS last year and came closer to another World Series than many give them credit for.  But I was still a fan in that earlier era.  Like a northsider, I kept holding out hope for next year, and next year, and next year.  And Brandon Inge was a major part of my favorite team for so long.  He was a mainstay, a fixture, to use the sports clichés of the day.  Having a Tigers roster that does not include Brandon Inge will not make sense to me for a long time.  And if he signs with another team?  If he plays in Comerica Park wearing another jersey?

Anyway, while it was probably the right move for the Tigers, you, Brandon Inge, will be missed.  I hope you do get picked up.  I hope a new team gives you a new lease on baseball.  I will cheer for you wherever you go, and I wish you the best.

Cured or Healed?

I preached this week, which means that I spent a lot of time last week writing, and little to none of that time was spent writing for this blog, erring on the side of none.  But I know that my faithful reader is pining for my words of wisdom, so I will take the preacher’s way out and let you read what I wrote and what I spoke.  As you are reading, please remember that I wrote this for preaching, not for reading.  It might be a good idea to imagine the words spoken in my deep (high-pitched?), rich (nasally?) voice.

The gospel lesson of the day was Mark 1:40-45, which reads,

A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, ‘If you choose, you can make me clean.’ Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’ Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was made clean. After sternly warning him he sent him away at once, saying to him, ‘See that you say nothing to anyone; but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them.’ But he went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly, but stayed out in the country; and people came to him from every quarter.

And now, brace yourself, the text of the sermon itself:

        Father, part of his double interest
Unto thy kingdome, thy Sonne gives to mee,
His jointure in the knottie Trinitie
Hee keeps, and gives to me his deaths conquest.
This Lambe, whose death, with life the world hath blest,
Was from the worlds beginning slaine, and he
Hath made two Wills, which with the Legacie
Of his and thy kingdome, doe thy Sonnes invest.
Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfill;
None doth; but all-healing grace and spirit
Revive again what law and letter kill.
Thy laws abridgement, and thy last command
Is all but love; Oh let this last Will stand!
-John Donne
Holy Sonnets XVI

In 1968, Jose Ramirez was living in Laredo, Texas, when, after years doctor and hospital visits, he was diagnosed with Hansen’s Disease.  Throughout his childhood, he had been afflicted off and on with high fevers, lack of sensation in his arms and hands, and sores that would not heal for days or even weeks.  He was twenty years old when he finally got his diagnosis.  Again, it’s called Hansen’s Disease, but you may know it better as Leprosy.  At the time the Texas Health Department required that he be sent 600 miles away to the National Leprosarium in Carville, Louisiana.  The thing is, Laredo’s ambulance companies had decided that ambulances were for the living, while hearses were for the dead, so he rode those 600 miles in the back of a hearse, with people peeking at him through the windows every time they stopped for gas.  In other words, as soon as Mr. Ramirez was diagnosed with leprosy he was cast out, away from his family, away from his community, to a hospital campus filled with people whose only connection to one another was a dreaded disease.  Indeed, as far as the city and the state were concerned, he was left for dead.  What was the healing this young man was looking for as he was taken from his family, from his home?  Was it a cure for the disease?  Or was it something else?

In the book of Leviticus, in the midst of the law as handed by God to Moses, chapters 13 and 14 are entirely devoted to the issue of leprosy.  Honestly, leprosy as referred to in the bible is probably not the Hansen’s Disease that Mr. Ramirez had, but that doesn’t really matter for our story, because the first person to recognize his condition, a Mexican curandero, called it “a disease of the bible.”  Whatever the disease actually was, the connection in society’s mind to a biblical plague got him banished to Louisiana.  You see, in these chapters of Leviticus, a person with a skin disease—with certain sores, spots, and rashes—was instructed to present to a priest, and the priest was to make a decision, and if that person was deemed to be leprous, then he or she was deemed unclean and forced to live outside the community.  Sound familiar?  Then, as if the physical distance from the community wasn’t enough, the person diagnosed with leprosy was supposed to wear torn clothes, muss his hair, cover her lip, and shout continually, “Unclean! Unclean!”  You know, to warn people.  The law had the effect of turning the person diagnosed with leprosy into a pariah, something which didn’t change in the thousands of years from Sinai to Mr. Ramirez’s diagnosis.

That is the context of today’s gospel passage.  A man, “A leper,” according to the scripture, approaches Jesus asking to be made clean.  At this point, according to our translation, Jesus is “filled with pity”.  Interestingly, the New International Version tells us that Jesus is “indignant”.  So one translation says “indignant,” as in angry; and another says “filled with pity,” as in compassionate.  And these are somehow to mesh together?

I should mention that while I was in seminary, my Greek professor warned us to be careful putting too much interpretive stock in the meanings of single words.  Maybe the literal translation of a word, he was telling us, has little to do with its actual meaning as it is used in any particular sentence or passage.  For instance, let’s say that centuries from now a class in Ancient American English dissects such historical documents as the description of last week’s Super Bowl.  They quickly find the word, “football”.  As good Ancient American English students, they break the word into its component parts.  They check the lexicon and find that “foot” is the thing at the bottom of your leg, and “ball” is that spherical object that people play games with.  So what is a football?  Is it a something round with the picture of a foot on it?  Is it a sphere stuck to the bottom of the leg?  Maybe the running back wears one in order to run faster and jump higher?  Don’t get me started on the term “Super Bowl” itself.  Maybe a cereal bowl with a spoon sticking out and a red “S” painted on it?  But, of course, those words are obvious to today’s American readers.  They are simple vocabulary words.  When we read Greek or any other ancient language, we can’t just find the fifth definition down in a word’s dictionary entry and shout, “Eureka!  This changes the entire meaning of Christianity!”  We need to look at the word in its context: the whole sentence, paragraph, chapter, book…even the entire bible.

And yet, even as I say that, I am intrigued by single words from today’s passage, the Greek word that is translated in our version as “filled with pity,” and, in its place, in the NIV as “indignant”.  You see, most translations render the word as, in some form, compassion.  But others don’t.  Indeed, a significant number of scholars would say that something about anger is probably correct.  So I want to do a bit of a thought experiment with you this morning.  How can one version talk about Jesus’ compassion, and the other about his anger?  In this case, it’s not about two different translations of the same word, it’s about two different words.

Let’s remember that the New Testament as we have it comes from the careful, critical study of many Greek manuscripts.  Some of these manuscripts have the word splangxnistheis–which means “moved by pity”—while others have orgistheis–which means, “was angered”.  Two words, two different sets of manuscripts, each thought of highly enough to make it into a well-respected translation.  So they each have a pedigree, they each have their place in the tradition.  They are each legitimate words in the context of this passage.

Now far be it from me, especially 2000 years later, to pretend that I know what exactly Jesus was thinking especially based solely on these two words, but what if there is not a mistake here?  What if both words are correct?  What if Jesus was moved by pity for the man who knelt in front of him, and was angered by the real cause of his suffering?

When this man knelt before Jesus, he did not ask to be healed.  No, let us make no mistake, he did not ask to be healed, and he did not ask to be cured.  He asked to be made clean.  Did you catch that earlier in our discussion about Leviticus?  A person with leprosy is exiled from the community upon being declared unclean.  Hear it again, the person is declared unclean.  And, particularly as the nation of Israel grew, something that is unclean, be it a food, an object, or a person, cannot have a place in society.  So Jesus felt pity for this man whose physical condition holds him out of society.

Mr. Ramirez—you remember him—felt this exile while in residence at the National Leprosarium in the late 1960s.  He felt it during his treatments, wondering if walking might be a thing of the past.  He felt it as he missed Magdalena, his girlfriend back in Laredo, asking himself while seeing the scars the disfigured others’ hands, if he would ever again be able to hold her hand.  He was in exile from his friends, from his family, from the girl he loved, from the ones who might hold him close, tell him that things will be okay.  How does one not feel compassion for that story?

So, back to our scripture passage, Jesus felt compassion for this man who wanted to be declared clean, who wanted to take part in society, who wanted to take his rightful place as one of God’s chosen people.  The man said, “if you choose…you can make me clean.”   And by doing so he was saying something powerful about Jesus.  He was saying that Jesus had the right, that Jesus had the power, that Jesus had the authority not to cure him but to make him clean.  You see, Jesus did cure him, but that, friends, that is not the healing; that, saints, is not the miracle.  The miracle is that this man who had spent I can only imagine how long in exile, rejected by society was brought back.  He could see his family, he could spend time with friends, he could proclaim to all who would listen that Jesus had taken away the shame which had been imposed upon him.

As we said, compassion is not the only emotion given to Jesus in this case.  The other one is anger.  I work with kids, we all know what it is like to hold two emotions around the same moment, how on one hand we need to be stern when they rig up their newest contraption that they hope will allow them to jump safely off the second floor balcony, while on the other hand we think, “That’s really clever, I should try that sometime!”  So Jesus felt compassion, and also anger.  I would suggest his anger was pointed toward the system that forced this man into exile; toward the system that was enslaved by law rather than free to show compassion under that same law.

I think this is a good time to point out that I am not ridiculing the laws as we find them in Leviticus.  Those laws came from God, and in their moment, I think large parts could be thought of as revolutionary.  In this case, the law was there to keep people from spreading a dangerous, communicable disease.  If somebody enters a hospital today with a highly contagious disease, the first thing to happen is that person will be quarantined.  The person will be taken away from the rest of the population while being cared for.  And this law from Leviticus, thousands of years before such things as bacteria were even thought of, was doing the same thing.  Or, at least, it could have been if it was used correctly, if it was used while keeping in mind a few very important words from the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy: “Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord alone.  You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”  For when we love God with our entire beings, with everything inside of us, we will not help but follow up this greatest commandment like Jesus does when he says, “And the second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’”

Perhaps, looking at Mr. Ramirez’s situation, we can get angry at the state’s Health Department, which sent him into exile.  And yet I say this with all respect due to public health officials who work so hard for the well-being of so many.  Or we might find our anger pointed toward those decided it was better that he ride in a hearse, for that is how the dead travel.  And yet I know personally how much respect must be given those who normally drive and operate ambulances.  I have myself more than once been lifted by their caring hands.  These structures find our anger not due to their existence nor due to those who serve and operate them.  No, we become indignant, as the scripture may say, when those structures are used without compassion.  The law commands that the one who is found to be unclean must live outside the camp and must live alone, but does it command that he must journey through life without love?  Does it command that we deride him for this illness which already brings him suffering?  Or can we dig deeper and find a command to show compassion, to lift him up, to love him when society has come around to say that he is unlovable?

In compassion toward the man and in anger toward the system that brought him to his state, Jesus works a miracle.  “Be made clean!” he says.  Then, we are told, leprosy leaves the man and he is made clean.  Jesus works a miracle and he cures the disease.  The miracle is not the cure, or rather the cure is not the miracle.  Yes, the curing of the disease shows Jesus’ power over the ways of nature.  It shows that Jesus is more powerful than even our best antibiotics.  But if the cure is the miracle, then is it in the lab that we are getting so close to being like Jesus?

I submit to you that the miracle of today’s gospel passage is not in the curing but in the healing.  The man was healed when he was found to be clean.  Not when his skin cleared up, but when people looked at him and said, “He is again one of us.”  He was healed not when the disease left, but when Jesus, whom the man had already compared to God when he spoke the words, “If you choose, you can make me clean,” he was healed when Jesus said, “I do choose, I call you clean, I call you God’s child.”  Would it have been any less of a miracle had Jesus not closed up the sores, but moved the hearts and minds of those around him to embrace this man regardless of what was on his skin?  Would he have run into the streets and proclaimed Jesus’ name any less passionately had he, diseased and all, been able to again go and hold his loved ones?  This, my friends; this, beloved; this, saints; this is how we can work miracles.

There is a joyful, or at least hopeful, ending to the story of our friend Mr. Jose Ramirez.  At first he had lost hope.  He had lost hope listening to the stories of the people who knew best what he was going through, the stories from the lips of his fellow residents in Carville where he was sent by the State of Texas.  But then those same people, those same fellow-journeyers, built him back up and showed him hope again.  Of them he says, “The community definitely was self-sustaining, and they are the ones who helped me to overcome that feeling of hopelessness. They – I think they saw something in me that they did not want to be repeated. I was the youngest person at that time, and even now when I go and visit, they all call me son.”  I don’t want to put words in this man’s mouth, but it sounds to me as if he described two parallel paths—one in which he was cured by medicine, and one in which he was healed by people.  Eventually Jose left Carville and he went back home, and he was loved by his mother, who made sure he knew that he held the same place in her heart as any of his brothers or sisters.  He went home, and he not only held Magdalena’s hand again, but he married her.  His cure came from medicine, but his healing came from people.

It is true that we are not whole when we are sick, and it is then that we need a cure and sometimes a healer.  But neither are we whole when we fear; neither are we whole when we are guilty; neither are we whole when we are hopeless; neither are we whole when we are in chains; neither are we whole when we are ashamed; neither are we whole when we are in exile from a loving and caring community.  It is then, when we are in exile, when we are afraid, hopeless, in chains, it is then that we are in need of a healer.  And we, here, in this space, we can heal.  We, here, now can work miracles.

Soon after what we read today, Jesus will call the twelve to him, and he will send them out, giving them authority much like his own—to teach and to heal.  This is why they were called apostles, called the ones who were sent.  Well we, too, are apostles.  We, too, are sent by Jesus.  We, too, are sent to be healers, to recover sight for the blind, to set the captive free.  The man in our Gospel passage was healed when he was once again embraced by a society.  Are we not here, in this room, and within the sound of my voice, and all those called by Jesus, are we not a society?  Can we not reach out and love those unloved by the world?  Can we not hold tight to those the world calls untouchable?  Can we not say to every person who literally or figuratively crosses our threshold, “I don’t care what you have done; I don’t care what the world says you are; I don’t care what scars you hold either in the flesh or in the soul, you are one of us, I call you clean, I call you God’s child”?  Can we not be that force in the world?  Here, I’ll start.  I say to each one of you who can hear my voice, I don’t care what you have done; I don’t care what the world says you are; I don’t care what scars you hold, I call you clean, you are one of us, I call you God’s child.  And I love you.

Amen?

Always Preaching

“Preach the gospel always, and when necessary use words.” – Attributed to St. Francis of Assisi

How do I know I’m old?  This June will mark a full decade since I graduated from High School.  Ten years since I sat on the lip of the auditorium stage after my last concert, not wanting to leave, not wanting to give it up quite yet.  Ten years since I looked with excitement and trepidation at college and the career of music and teaching that I thought would follow.  This also means that an unknown day late this fall will mark ten years since I decided to go to seminary.  Note the wording there, “since I decided to go to seminary,” not, “since I decided to become a pastor.”  I am beginning to realize that in describing the path of my life and the path of my calling, those two statements are entirely different.

When asked about my call into ministry, I usually tell about the moment in college when I was helping to serve communion.  I was in the middle of my first semester, at a Sunday evening meeting of our Methodist Student Fellowship.  After dinner, as usual, we went into the chapel for worship, and our pastor asked me to help offer communion, you know, hold a loaf of bread, offer to my friends the body of Christ.  I tell about how I offered the blessed elements with hands that I knew were dirty.  Incidentally, the reason behind my guilt is nothing extraordinary, and only between myself and God.  I tell about this moment, about how my heart was filled, about how the spirit moved, but I am usually unable to connect that story to why I feel called to ministry any more solidly than by saying, “I knew that’s what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.”

What did I want to do?  Did I want to serve communion?  Did I want to preside over it?  Did I just want to be around it?  Because I can do that and still work at the mall.  What brought me to seminary?  What brings me to ministry?  I described what happened.  I synthesized it with other parts of my life, with how God moves, with how faith seems to work.  I feel, though, as if I have not yet analyzed the whole situation.  And that analysis, my friends, is what we call discernment.  Perhaps I can begin the analysis right now.

On Sunday mornings I have been talking with my middle school class about sacraments.  In the United Methodist Church, as in most Protestant churches, we recognize two sacraments: Baptism and Holy Communion.  These sacraments are sign-acts, rituals ordained by Jesus Christ, moments that John Wesley called special means of grace.  God uses the sacraments–along with all the other tools at God’s disposal–to reach into a person’s heart, to show God’s incredible love, to strengthen that person with God’s grace, to turn that heart toward love for all people.  That is, regardless of words spoken, these rites communicate things which we cannot comprehend, let alone fit into any of Earth’s languages.

I love to talk about faith, truly I do.  In a couple of weeks I get another chance to stand in my church’s pulpit and, I pray by the guidance of the Holy Spirit, proclaim words of faith.  But then they are just words.  Words are important, yes.  It is important to speak of faith in ways we can understand.  It is important to teach with logic, important to inspire with rhetoric, important to impart the words of life; but they are just words and there are so many ways to communicate this thing we call faith.  We live a life of love, grace, and compassion; we offer and accept sacraments; we teach and preach; we support others; we speak with them about life, about troubles; we laugh with them in times of joy; we sit with them in times of sorrow and fear; we work for justice and for peace; and, at the risk of repeating myself, we love, we love, we love.

This is what I really enjoy; preaching and teaching yes, but it is broader than that.  I love to learn about and study matters of faith and find ways to communicate these incredible truths of hope, grace, and love to those around me.  So the question of the day asks how I connect this communion experience I had in college to my calling into ministry.  Frederick Buechner explains, “The place to which God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”  I just explained where my deep gladness is, and what could be a greater need than for the world to know that there is unquenchable love which is now, always has been, and always will be for every blessed child of creation.

So there is my calling.  Now, I am not done yet.  This is, I realize, a pretty broad description of a calling, and there are many ways something like this might be acted upon in the real world.  There is more thinking and discernment ahead of us, but I am comfortable in calling this a pretty good start.

Grace? Judgment? Baseball

Today I was going to finish a post on grace, beginning something of a series.  Failing that, I would have fleshed out a piece on judgment and one reason why we leave that to God.  However, around 4:00 this afternoon, I received news which preempted all of this.  So I decided that today I would post about the very thing that most Detroit Tigers‘ fans will be blogging about, writing about, talking about today, namely that Prince Fielder will, over the next near decade, be paid an inordinate amount of money by my beloved Tigers to hit a baseball.  Fortunately he hits baseballs quite well.

Somewhere deep inside of me, I am torn by this deal.  I cannot wrap my head around the amount of money it includes, and I would rather not think about the broken down, overpaid designated hitter who will be getting north of 20 million of Little Caesars’ dollars nine years from now.

But then I put aside those thoughts, however practical they may be.  At that point I think about what this lineup will be.  I think about the fear the heart of this order will instill in opposing pitching staffs–and the confidence it will give the Tigers’ own pitchers.  I think more about the 2013 lineup when Victor Martinez has healed and returned to the team.  I think about how this is Cecil’s son.  That’s Cecil, the three-time all-star, two-time silver slugger, fifty home run club hero of my earliest fan days.  I think about how Prince was five months old last time the Tigers won the World Series, and how today’s deal–though they will still need to contend with Albert Pujols’ Angels, Yu Darvish’s Rangers, my may-they-win-every-game-they-don’t-play-against-the-Tigers Red Sox and, of course, (feel free to boo as you will) the Evil Empire in the Bronx–just might win them another.

In other words, when I heard about Martinez’s injury, I tweeted “V-Mart… Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!” with the vehemence of Luke Skywalker upon learning the true identity of his father.  I saw my dreams for a second straight deep playoff run fizzle that day.  But today there is once again hope.  Fielder is not a savior, but he does bring hope.

Grace Begins at Home

To fully appreciate the title of this post, you need to know that I live alone.

In keeping with the-goals-that-I-happened-to-set-while-the-sun-was-shining-on-what-the-rest-of-society-calls-January-1st, I just finished David McCullough’s book 1776.  It was a good book, I enjoyed it, I like having a deeper knowledge of Washington’s crossing of the Delaware (not crossing Delaware, that would have taken longer, especially since he began the journey in Pennsylvania), but this is not about the book.  This is about grace.

You see, if my calculations are correct, I have read 574 pages worth of books and short stories since the first of the year.  My goal is to read 50 pages of something every day.  Today is the 18th, so if I were up on my goal, I would have read 900 pages by now.  You may notice that 574 is a significantly smaller number than 900.  Indeed, I am only at 63.78% of my goal.  That is a solid D.  Not so good.  My mother always told me, “I don’t care about your grades, but you are too smart for C’s.”  Sorry mom, it turns out that may not be true.

This is where grace comes in.  My first instinct is to say that I will be failing at my goal until I make up the 326 pages I have lost up to now in addition to keeping up with my 50 pages per day going forward.  It is only January, and already that would be a fairly onerous request.  I need to offer myself some grace.  I need to allow myself that the goal, while set in terms of numbers, is not actually about reading 18,300 pages by the time Ryan Seacrest next shows up in Times Square.  The goal is actually to read more than I have been reading and to be intentional about it.  In fact, if I were to insist on making up the lost pages, I would probably leave the effort behind before the month is out.

Grace is the second chance, but it is not only that.  Grace is forgiveness, but it is not only that.  Grace is seeing value where some would see only empty space (the 326 empty pages).  Grace is showing love, whether or not that love is deserved (who, after all, loves a D?).

In a much wider sense than just my self-improvement goal, grace is a necessity for changing the world for the better.  You see, I believe in people.  I believe that almost every person would do better next time if only he or she can dig out from under last time.  How freeing would it be told, “forget last time”?  How would the chains be broken if we could just hear, “it is in the past, let’s move forward”?   This is not to say that there is no room for justice, but there is always room for grace.

Now, leaving the 326 pages behind, I ask you, what book comes next?

 

ED: I just updated this post to correct my math.  As my lovely brother reminds me in his comment below, 900-574=326, not 226.  In my defense, I went to college for music, where we usually aren’t expected to count past 4, and then off to seminary where we don’t deal with many numbers beyond 3, 7, 12, and 40.

Welcome Back

May 5th?  That was a long time ago.  2011 was still driving around his fire engine red Corvette, but has now taken his long white beard into retirement after handing the baton to an unsuspecting cherub.

I recently logged into my personal Facebook account (as opposed to the ministry one I use every day), and I immediately received an e-mail which I assumed to be from Mark Zuckerberg himself under the subject, “Welcome back to Facebook”.  Part of me felt good when I read it, after all our benevolent overlords were looking down on me and smiling.  That part of me was proud, ready to go out and serve my social network (forgetting for the moment that I also carry a Google+ passport).

The rest of me was both confused and a little bit sad.  Confused as in, “Has it really been this long since I signed into Facebook for my own amusement?”  Sad as in, “Has it really been this long since I signed into Facebook for my own amusement?”  This just goes to show how bad of a millennial I really am.

If I were preaching, this is where I would begin my cogitation on how everybody is welcome and invited, no matter how long absent, into the Body of Christ.  It wouldn’t be a bad way to go if I were preaching, but I don’t feel like making that cheesy of a transition today.  Not that I am opposed to online cheese.  See all of my other posts for evidence.

All I really want to say is that it has been a long time since I posted anything, but I enjoy this, as, I am sure, do my millions of fans.  (I can only assume WordPress’ hit counter contracts its numbers by six powers of ten for convenience sake.)  I like writing about baseball among other sports, I like writing about theology, and I am not convinced that there is anything else in the world worth writing about.

Also, this is one of my New Year’s resolutions (or, being a good postmodern, the goals that I happened to set while the sun was shining on what the rest of society calls January 1st).  I’m behind on the rest of them–except, surprisingly, early though it may be, the “Lose 50 pounds” one–so I might as well start from behind on this one, which I originally set at two posts per week.  I read my 350 pages last week, but it looks like I may not reach 700 by Saturday.  I don’t really know much more Italian now than I did on December 31st.  And 11 days into the year, here is my first post.

But fret not, I will return again soon, within days if not hours.

Ciao belli.

My Geekiness

I hate the Yankees.  I would like to make it clear to all who come upon these words that I hate the New York Yankees.

(Honestly, I should probably choose my words better.  To speak from the “Theological” portion of this collection, we should not hate.  We are called to love, and even if the Yankees are indeed the Evil Empire, we should respond with love and not hate.  So I offer a disclaimer: I do not literally hate any person or any group of people.  When I write that I hate the Yankees, it is in sports terms, and I simply mean that I want them to lose.  The same would go if I were writing of particular Bombers like A-Rod or Mark Teixeira.  I do not hate them as people, but I would not be upset were they to never hit a home run or, even, get a base hit in the Major Leagues again.  This is what you get for joining the Bronx Zoo.  Disclaimer over.)

Indeed, I occasionally hypothesize that a win over the Yankees should be worth a game and a half in the standings.  Not because they are so much better than everybody else–though I ache to admit that they often field an extraordinary baseball team–but because beating them is that much sweeter.  Though, if that were to happen, we should even it out by only giving a half game for beating the Washington Nationals.  Let’s face it, that’s so easy that it sometimes feels cruel to finish a game against the erstwhile Expos.

I intend all of this Yankees and Nationals bashing as merely and introduction to my main point, which is to show off the depths of my geekiness.  You see, while I hate the Yankees (again, in a sports sense only), I love the history of sport, particularly the history of baseball, and the history of baseball often goes through the Bronx.  With that in mind, I have long been enamored by Don “The Gooney Bird” Larsen, a fifties-era right-handed starter for the Evil Empire.  If you don’t know, on October 8, 1956, Don Larsen pitched the only perfect game in World Series History.  He was facing off with the Brooklyn Dodgers who were led by such names as Gil Hodges, Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, and the incomparable number 42, Jackie Robinson.  These great bats, and none of them made it as far as first base on that night.

I hold Larsen’s feat so highly that I was a little offended last year when some pundits asked whether Roy Halladay’s no-hitter on the opening day of the playoffs–as incredible and historic a moment as that was–might actually be bigger, better, or more impressive.  In case you misunderstand my meaning, until somebody pitches a perfect deciding game of the World Series, there will be no more important full game pitching performance.  If you choose to argue with me, go ahead, but be sure your debate skills are polished.

Another piece of background you should know for this story is that I keep score at baseball games.  No, I am not sixty years old, but I believe happiness to be sitting in the stands with a scorecard in my lap.  While keeping score, I can watch any level of baseball–Major League, semi-pro, amateur, high school, little league, even church league–and be content.  I have been known to keep score at home, whether listening on the radio or watching on television.  I could quickly find the scorecard for the Tigers’ 2011 Opening Day if asked.  I once explained my penchant for keeping score to my confirmation class, even showing them the basics of how to do it, and the essential question they asked me was, “Why would you do something like that?  Can’t you just look at the box score?”  I feel that my gut reaction of, “It’s just awesome, okay?” would not have satisfied them.  Not that whatever answer I gave did.

My true geekiness shines through, if it has not already, when I tell you that I recently picked up the book Perfect by Lew Paper.  This book gives a background for all the players involved on that historic night along with a pitch-by-pitch account of the game.  As you have probably guessed, I am keeping score while reading the book.  My goal is to have a clean scorecard of Larsen’s perfectly timed perfection that I could hang on my wall should I so choose.  I know I am a geek, I embrace it.  I even embrace the thought that I am sure some of my loved ones will have upon reading this, “That only scratches the surface.”  Thank you for your time, you may now return to your much more normal lives.

Faithful Thomas in Full

Last week I posted a preview of my first sermon at my current church.  What follows is that sermon fleshed out, at least one of its drafts.  For reference, the text is John 20:19-31, and this is the second week of Easter.

We know how this story goes.  We were here last Sunday; we understand that the tomb is empty.  We understand that even death could not hold Jesus.  Thomas, though, he wasn’t here, for him the story hasn’t been written yet.  For him it is Sunday night, and just a couple days ago Jesus died.  This man to whom Thomas had pledged his life, the one who was supposed to change the world, bring about an unrivaled time of peace and joy has been executed like a common criminal over some vague charge of sedition.  Thomas is scared, hurt, grieving; he set all of his hope on this man, and now hope is dead.

So he draws away.  I understand that.  I remember this time a few years ago, I was in a position not entirely like where Thomas is, but I was hurting in ways I had never felt before.  Over the course of about a week, I had lost somebody I cared deeply for, seen tragedy in kids I had been close to, seen evil touch the life of a friend, and seen the end of a romantic relationship.  I was hurting and grieving, I was angry, I was scared.  I remember sitting with a group of pastors, I was in the middle of an internship at the time, and after I told them the story the group just looked at me.  “What is it we could do for you?” they asked.  What I needed was to withdraw, I needed to find some time to be alone.  No roommates, no friends—as much as I might love them—nobody to even kindly and gently draw me into social life.  I needed time to myself to balm raw nerves and begin to deal with the new reality of loss.

For Thomas, the new reality is that Jesus is not there.  Jesus, with whom Thomas was willing to march toward his death, who was supposed to be the Messiah, the king, who was supposed to lead the people of Israel from the clutches of the Roman invaders, who above all was not supposed to die, is gone, and Thomas is just beginning to deal with that fact.  He is just beginning to accept the new truth.  His heart was ripped out by that death once, and when the other disciples, his dearest and trusted friends, come to tell him that they have seen Jesus, that they have seen the Lord, he could not possibly be ready to hope again and risk the pain without evidence, without a sign that could only be provided by the risen Lord.  How could I blame him for that?  How could you?  How could we, understanding his situation, continue to call him “doubting”?  In fact, as we continue, we may see his deep faith shine through.

This is faith in the way that Thomas has sworn his allegiance to Jesus and only to Jesus.  He absolutely refuses to allow anybody else into the role that Jesus would hold.  It would not have been out of the question for these deep emotions held by the disciples, whose whole worlds has just been thrown off their axes, to play tricks on their eyes and on their minds.  Have you ever lost a dear loved one, and maybe you see somebody on the street who has a similar haircut, or is the same height, or the same build as the one you lost?  And perhaps your first thought is, “Hey is that…?”  No… no that can’t be him, that can’t be her.  This is where Thomas has been, in his grief, in his pain, in his confusion, he recognizes that he needs to be disciplined to protect himself from tricks of the mind, tricks of the eye, tricks of the heart.  He will follow Jesus, and until he gets a sign that only Jesus can give, he cannot, will not, shall not open himself up to the possibility that this person they saw might actually be Jesus.  This could cause havoc in his life and his ministry, and if he does start to believe again and it is not actually Jesus, this pain, which was so searing the first time around, just might kill him the second time.

Today, now, it has been a week since Easter, a week since Jesus made his first resurrected appearances to his disciples, to his friends.  It has been a week since, in the quiet and dark, he stood next to Mary, who did not recognize him until he spoke her name.  It has been a week since the ten, as we read in the beginning of today’s gospel lesson, had locked themselves away in a room out of fear.  And it has been a week since, as they gathered, Jesus disregarded locks and doors and barriers to seek them out and find them where they are.  Now, today, the scene is the same.  The disciples are gathered, afraid, the door is locked, but this time there is one more character.  Thomas is with them, all eleven are there.  And suddenly, locks or no locks, doors or no doors, barriers or no barriers, Jesus seeks them out.  More specifically, Jesus seeks Thomas out.

Thomas is still afraid, Thomas is still grieving, Thomas is still, though in the midst of at least ten of his friends, alone.  Jesus knows what Thomas needs, he knows Thomas’ heart, he knows Thomas’ mind and his soul.  And so, just as Thomas said he would believe when he sees the marks in Jesus hands, Jesus shows him his hands.  Just as Thomas said he would believe when he can touch the wound in Jesus’ side, Jesus opens up and invites him to touch.

And now Thomas knows that hope is alive.  Now Thomas knows that hope cannot, will not, shall not be defeated by death.  Thomas knows that because hope sought him out, hope knows what Thomas, called Didymus, called the Twin needs, and hope gives that to him.  Hope digs deep into his soul, does not let doors get in the way, does not let locks get in the way, does not let Thomas’ own heart get in the way, but burrows deep, deep into his soul and blossoms.  Hope is alive, and hope just walked through a locked door, and when Thomas recognizes that hope, when Thomas knows who he is, he names that hope, “My Lord and my God!”

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention today what happened in the Southern regions of the United States on Wednesday.  A once in a generation storm ravaged parts of Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Georgia.  Thousands are hurting right now, hundreds dead, unimaginable numbers out of their homes and their livelihoods.  Hope probably seems gone for many of them.  Let me say here, now, from the depths of my faith, that hope is not gone.  God was not in those storms, God was not in those tornadoes, they were not God’s hand, God did not wreak havoc and destruction on God’s own people.  But the storms did happen, and God is there, hope is there, present, alive.  God is with those who are hurting, God is with those who are grieving, God has left none of them.  God grieves with the grieving, weeps with the weeping, and lifts up all who are hurt, who are scared, who are confused, who do not know where their lives go from here.  God is not absent, hope lives, and hope cannot be confined.  That is the joy of Easter, that hope will not be confined, even by death.

So now we have a job; it is our job as God’s people, it is our job as Christ’s body to personify that hope.  The first time Jesus appeared in that locked room, when he stood among his disciples, when Thomas was absent, he breathed on them.  He spoke to them, “Peace be with you, as the Father has sent me, so I send you.”  Jesus personifies hope and always will, and Jesus sends us, just as he is sent, to be that hope to all others.  We are empowered by the Holy Spirit—Jesus says “Receive the Holy Spirit.”—we are empowered by the Holy Spirit to go and be that hope.  We are empowered and we are called to go and seek those for whom hope seems lost.  Because we know, we were here last week, we know that hope is not lost, hope is never lost, even death could not keep hope, and so hope lives.

Some of you know that I spent most of a year serving with the Red Cross in Lansing as an AmeriCorps member after I finished seminary.  This was a fantastic experience, and one that comes to mind when disasters happen, like the one we were just talking about in the South.  While most of the work I did was preparation, I spent some time during that year responding to disasters.  If you were to ask me to describe what the Red Cross does in response, I would say it is something akin to bringing hope.  When a disaster strikes–particularly in a local disaster like a house fire–when a family is cast out into the elements because their home is simply gone, the Red Cross has decided that the family’s greatest need is to figure out what happens over the next three days.  After three days insurance might kick in, other assistance might be there, or, at the very least, the family has had a chance, after three days, to come to terms with the situation and begin to get life in order again.  These initial three days are when people are most likely to fall apart, or to fall through the cracks.  The Red Cross does not let them fall through the cracks.  The Red Cross, by ensuring that the family has food and shelter and clothing for the next three days, makes sure that they will land on their feet and be in a position to re-build their lives.  The Red Cross brings hope.  Disaster strikes and very soon there are people wearing one of the most widely recognized emblems saying, “We are here to help.”  And in doing so, they say that there is hope.

The Red Cross is just one example.  United Methodists from around the country, from around the world, working through the United Methodist Committee on Relief, are on their way down to Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia, Mississippi, as they already are in the Carolinas, in Japan, in Liberia, in Côte d’Ivoire.  These volunteers have left home to go to people and to bring hope into their lives.  The Red Cross, UMCOR, United Methodist Volunteers in Mission, The Southern Baptists, the Salvation Army, and many other relief agencies are finding people and bringing hope directly to them when all might seem hopeless.  They are identifying people’s greatest needs and are, thereby, showing them that hope is not dead, hope is indeed alive, hope can never be conquered.

Of course, it has been said before, you don’t need to go abroad, you don’t need to cross the state line, you don’t need to leave this city.  Any of us can seek those who feel lost, who are grieving, who are hurting, who are struggling, who don’t know where to turn, who have lost sight of hope and we can, as Jesus called us and calls us to do, bring hope into their lives.  Yes, we bring hope when we respond to disaster.  Yes, we bring hope when we feed the hungry, when we clothe the naked, when we heal the sick, bring sight to the blind, when we set the prisoner free.  Yes, we bring hope then in grand gestures.  But we bring hope by simple means as well.  Jesus brought hope to Faithful Thomas simply by showing him his hands, showing him his side.  We can bring hope when we visit somebody whose greatest desire is the comfort of a friend, right Stephen Ministers?  We can bring hope when a child’s greatest desire, greatest need is an open, loving, safe, and judgment free group of peers to gather with, to fellowship with, to learn from, right youth group?  Right, Sunday School teachers?  We bring hope when someone’s greatest desire is to praise God by making a joyful noise, by producing sweet, sweet music, right choir?  We bring hope when we gather around the altar, when we gather around the table, when we engage in this most holy of meals.  We bring hope when we embody the love of Christ, for we are the body of Christ.  We are empowered by the Holy Spirit, we are called by Christ, to show love, to bring hope.

Hope is always present.  I don’t know if I have said it yet this morning, but hope is alive, hope is not dead, cannot be kept by death.  We are empowered by the Holy Spirit to show that hope, hope for a better world, hope for the future, hope for love, peace, justice, and joy.  Thomas named that hope when he found it, or, more accurately, when it found him.  He named it, “My Lord and My God!”

Faithful Thomas

Poor Thomas.  He was the one who was ready to march toward Jerusalem and die if that is what his master wished, and yet he is known in our age as the faithless one, as “Doubting”.  If you are unfamiliar with his story, you can find it here.  It is Sunday’s lectionary gospel reading.

Thomas gets called doubting in spite of the fact that Peter and John, who ran to see the empty tomb in the morning, must be among those who locked themselves away through fear.  He gets called doubting in spite of the fact that Mary, perhaps the most faithful one in the story, cannot recognize Jesus standing in front of her until he speaks her name.  He gets called doubting in spite of the fact that Jesus showed his wounds to the other disciples, the exact proof that Thomas asks for, before they are filled with joy.  As far as nicknames are concerned, Thomas got the raw end of the deal.

I may actually suggest that Thomas was resolutely faithful.  The man he follows, whom he deeply loves, had just been violently killed by the state over some vague charge of sedition.  The nerve is still raw and he is just starting to deal with it when the other disciples come to him and tell him that Jesus is back.  He had opened his heart to this man once, and the grief had almost killed him.  He will do it again, he will open himself up, he will be the one to declare Jesus as “My Lord and my God,” but only once he knows that this is not just somebody playing on the emotions of those whose world had just been thrown out of orbit.  He needs to see for himself that this is the man to whom he has pledged his life before he will allow himself to hope again.

The next scene is much like the one in which Jesus appeared to the rest of the disciples.  They are once again gathered together in a locked room, and Jesus is suddenly in the midst of them.  This time, though, Jesus goes directly to Thomas.  Thomas had asked for proof, and this exact proof is what Jesus gives to him.

How is that for hope?  Jesus is not absent when one of his sheep is lost.  He seeks out Thomas, calls him by name, and brings him into the fold.  I would argue that Thomas is faithful and strong, and that Jesus’ faith in Thomas is well placed.  Personally, I admire this disciple, and I know that I can count on his witness.

For more on Thomas, his witness, and his part in the Resurrection, I invite you to worship at First United Methodist in Greenville on Sunday.  Or, really, any one of the many churches that will be focusing on this passage.

Love Won

A young man recently asked something to the effect of, “Why did Jesus have to die for us to be forgiven?”  We were discussing Holy Week that day, and more specifically we were on the topic of Good Friday, so there was no more appropriate moment for the question.  I did not have a great answer for him right then.  This is a question that has vexed me for a long time.  Substitutionary atonement has never really satisfied my longing for an answer to why Friday can be called Good, though that doctrine does have its basis in scripture and in the tradition of the Christian Church.

It was not until we had progressed a couple days in our discussion that I was able to give a substantial answer.  In other words, Good Friday, with the cross and with its violence, does not make sense to me until today, until Easter, until the resurrection.

“Ours is not a faith of death,” I finally replied, “but a faith of life, of hope.”

On Friday, you see, hope had died.  We read stories of these disciples whose lives had been torn apart, whose whole world had been thrown off its axis on Friday.  Hope had died, love had died, and they were lost.

But on Sunday, in the darkness, in the quiet, something happened.  Death was set up against hope and love; and death, which up until then had been known to take away hope as leaders and heroes were lost to the grave, death which had been known to remove the only love that a person might know, death which had previously been victorious over life, death was now found wanting.

And so this morning, as Easter people shouting Hallelujah and Hosanna, we know that we serve a risen savior, a resurrected Lord.  This morning hope won.  Life won.

Love won.