My greatest challenge in broadcasting golf isn't keeping track of the scores, sharing heartwarming stories about each player's path to stardom, or even saying one thing while at the same time listening to the producer profanely count me down to commercial. No, for me, the real fun is making oblique, on-air references that crack up the crew but keep the viewing audience out of the loop. I may've hit the bullseye two years ago this week at an LPGA tournament in Corning, New York.
Thursday of that week, our veteran 18th tower cameraman, Dan-O, told me in his unintentionally dead-on Rodney Dangerfield brogue, "Hey, we're playin' butt darts tonight at The Glory Hole." (This was like an Oscar nomination: it was an honor just to be invited.)
The Glory Hole is one of a couple dozen sidewalk dives on the main drag in Corning, an otherwise sleepy little village in upstate New York that springs to life every May when the ladies come to town. And butt darts is an activity that could've only been concocted in a place where large quantities of alcohol are readily available. The object of the game is to keep a quarter securely tucked as you walk toward a shot glass positioned on the floor. When you get to the target, you "let go" of the quarter and try to land it in the glass. Not exactly the sport of kings, but, hey, it's Corning, and we're a TV crew.
During the next day's telecast, I waited patiently for the perfect moment to deliver the double entendre of all-time. Finally, 45 seconds into the show, the opportunity came:
"The players had hoped the overnight rain would soften up these greens and allow them to fire straight at the pin like darts. But with the windy conditions this morning, it's been anything BUT darts..."
In my earpiece, I could hear the guys in the production truck howling. I had to pause half a beat myself to keep from losing it. And if you looked closely, you could tell the camera at 18 was shaking ever so slightly. I'm sure viewers thought it was because of the wind. But I knew it was Dan-O, our cameraman-cum-Captain Ahab, laughing his head off and fighting for dear life to hang on to his Moby Dick.
I can't really recall a single golf shot from that day in Corning. But I'll never forget the crack about butt darts and my own personal Glory Hole.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Eat and Get Gas
I filled up my Jeep this morning at the cheapest place in town: 17 gallons for a mere $32.30. With gas prices averaging nearly $2 a gallon nationwide, I think it's only fair that professional sports team owners dole out a per troleum in addition to each player's per diem.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Carpe Per Diem
In this most incendiary of election years, one question being intentionally ignored by both sides of the political aisle is: How can today's professional athlete afford to nourish himself/herself on road trips? Elected officials play politics while the enfranchised of America get dissed. Where are the people's candidates like Steve Forbes?
Thankfully, benevolent team owners voluntarily assist their players with meal money (after each union voluntarily threatened to voluntarily strike). Here's the per diem amount during road trips for players in different leagues, according to the Dallas Morning News:
NBA: $96 (minimum annual salary - $366,000)
NHL: $85 (minimum annual salary - $185,000)
NFL: $80 (minimum annual salary - $230,000)
MLB: $77.50 (minimum annual salary - $300,000)
MLS: $41 (ironically, this matches the league's gross ticket sales from the 2003 MLS season)
SWINE (Sumo Wrestlers In Need of Employment): $1,400
...it's possible I may have made that last one up.
What's amazing for most of these players is that at least one meal a day and often two are provided in the clubhouse/locker room! They might toss in $30 for visiting clubhouse dues, but that still leaves multimillionaires with $45 a day for one meal. Shameless.
I know what some of you are thinking. You're wondering about my per diem when I broadcast tournaments for The Golf Channel. Well, if you must know, I get $45 per day. And while TGC does provide two meals a day at the golf course for the crew and while I'm not required to chip in clubhouse dues like the athletes and while I could pocket every nickel of that and live off twizzlers and beef jerky absconded from the television compound, there's a big difference. The difference is that what happens in my situation is none of your business while what happens with athletes is yet another example of how out of touch they've become with those of us who cheer them on. How do they sleep at night?
Thankfully, benevolent team owners voluntarily assist their players with meal money (after each union voluntarily threatened to voluntarily strike). Here's the per diem amount during road trips for players in different leagues, according to the Dallas Morning News:
NBA: $96 (minimum annual salary - $366,000)
NHL: $85 (minimum annual salary - $185,000)
NFL: $80 (minimum annual salary - $230,000)
MLB: $77.50 (minimum annual salary - $300,000)
MLS: $41 (ironically, this matches the league's gross ticket sales from the 2003 MLS season)
SWINE (Sumo Wrestlers In Need of Employment): $1,400
...it's possible I may have made that last one up.
What's amazing for most of these players is that at least one meal a day and often two are provided in the clubhouse/locker room! They might toss in $30 for visiting clubhouse dues, but that still leaves multimillionaires with $45 a day for one meal. Shameless.
I know what some of you are thinking. You're wondering about my per diem when I broadcast tournaments for The Golf Channel. Well, if you must know, I get $45 per day. And while TGC does provide two meals a day at the golf course for the crew and while I'm not required to chip in clubhouse dues like the athletes and while I could pocket every nickel of that and live off twizzlers and beef jerky absconded from the television compound, there's a big difference. The difference is that what happens in my situation is none of your business while what happens with athletes is yet another example of how out of touch they've become with those of us who cheer them on. How do they sleep at night?
Monday, May 24, 2004
Sweepless in South Abilene
Couldn't find a winning position (see previous post) to lead the Rangers to a weekend sweep of the Yankees.
The only rally I may've snuffed out happened when Mark Teixeira (pronounced "mark") led off the bottom of the 6th with a stand-up double. Instead of staying put, I disconnected from the internet, closed my laptop, and put it under the bed in preparation for a big rally. No doubt dizzied by my blatant disregard for viewer position etiquette, Texas promptly went pop-up, whiff, flyout to center. Clearly not my best stuff.
The only rally I may've snuffed out happened when Mark Teixeira (pronounced "mark") led off the bottom of the 6th with a stand-up double. Instead of staying put, I disconnected from the internet, closed my laptop, and put it under the bed in preparation for a big rally. No doubt dizzied by my blatant disregard for viewer position etiquette, Texas promptly went pop-up, whiff, flyout to center. Clearly not my best stuff.
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Best Seat In The House
History will record that the Texas Rangers have now taken the first two games of their weekend engagement with the New York Yankees. It's the most important series of the young season for the upstart Rangers while merely the most current for the fat-and-happy Yankees, who have nearly as many world championships as the Rangers do years of existence. You can read recaps of these two games in the newspaper or even the Abilene Reporter-News, but your intrepid reporter has the inside scoop on the real reason for this Texas two-step.
Yes, the key that unlocked these two triumphs can be found not in good pitching or timely hitting but instead in the west wing of my house, specifically the couch in the den and my bedroom rocking chair. (Don't expect regular updates from the Boone boudoir.)
Let's go back to Friday night. I'd helped the Rangers erase a 4-1 deficit and build a 9-4 lead through 8 innings by patiently sticking to the couch in the den, fully reclined with my right foot propped up on the coffee table, making it perhaps the only five-legged coffee table in the world. Long story short, things get crazy in the top of the 9th. (My exasperation over modern relief pitcher substitution patterns may turn into a book. Hey! Something for the five-legged coffee table!) Anyway, the Yankees chip away with a barrage of bad-bounce singles and 12-hoppers through the infield. Now it's 9-7, and the temptation to relocate begins to bubble. Undaunted, I stick to my guns and, more literally, my seat. Francisco Cordero rewards my loyalty by fanning Hideki Matsui with 99 mile-an-hour heat -
!!!BORDERLINE RACIAL EPITHET ALERT!!!
Matsui may as well have used a chopstick! He couldn't touch Coco's gas! -
then sending Tony Clark and the rest of the no-good New Yorkers home with a final helping of high cheese. Ballgame. Cordero was credited with the official save, but I knew I'd done my part, too. I'm not in this for the stats, people.
Saturday. New day. New game. These are the Yankees. It doesn't take them long to figure out how to counterattack your strengths. For the first part of the game, the couch remains red-hot, possibly due to bearing the brunt of my nearly 200 pounds two days in a row. The impressive young Ryan Drese is perfect through the first 4 2/3 innings before Bernie Williams and Tony the former Tiger go yard on consecutive pitches, turning a 1-nil deficit into a 2-1 Yankee lead. Meanwhile, Texas - apparently wielding Matsui's chopstick instead of their usual lumber - collect exactly no hits from the 3rd through 7th innings. With New York leading 3-1 and the bottom of the 8th fast approaching, I make my move, announcing my intentions to find better luck in another venue to anyone who'll listen. I reposition my aforementioned brunt and hunker down in the bedroom rocking chair. Hank Blalock, having looked awful in three previous at-bats, immediately rips a single into right to begin the 8th. Amy yells from the den, "Stay in there. It's working." (Is she not fabulous?!?) Fonzie Soriano dribbles a grounder toward the player for whom he was traded, Alex Rodriguez, who can't field it cleanly and throws late enough to convince the first-base umpire to rule Soriano safe. A bad call, for sure, but an error for Alex, leaving runners on first and second with no one out. You may recall the Rangers had to agree to pay some of A-Rod's wad each year to make the trade with the Yankees happen. I figure he's being paid by both teams, he ought to help each win. Thanks, E-Rod. And - oh, by the way - the chair is rockin'!!!
Nicholas, not aware of the geosportalitical ramifications of relocating during your team's rally, leaves the den and runs into the bedroom to celebrate with me. Lay off, he's only 5. I'll learn him yet. Sure enough, Brad Fullmer hits a comebacker to the mound, a perfect double-play ball for veteran reliever, Tom "Flash" Gordon. But the power of the chair is too much. Gordon throws a perfect split-finger fastball to Derek Jeter who watches it go through his wickets for another error. Blalock scores to make it 3-2. Soriano's now at third, and the crowd has no idea to what lengths I'm going to make this rally happen. Mark Teixeira (pronounced "teixeira") follows with a topspin lob to left field that would've made McEnroe drool (more so than normal). It lands safely, and the game is tied, 3-3. This is where I nearly blew it. Mistakenly thinking the power was in the room and not the chair (not to mention being discombobulated by the Nicholas shift), I get up from the chair - I know, I know, but it all happened so fast! - and lean back on the edge of the bed. David Dellucci hits another comebacker, and again Gordon goofs, throwing another one-hopper to short. This time, with the chair empty and the space/time continuum upset, Jeter scoops it up and salvages the out at second. With runners on the corners and me still clueless, Kevin Mench grounds into an inning-ending double dip. Tie game, but it could've, should've been a Ranger lead.
The double play does serve to snap me back into reality. I gently but firmly explain to Nicholas the impact his returning to the den will have on this epochal moment in world history. He laughs, as he often does at my offerings, and stays put. Desperate, I return to the den. I can't prove this, but I think my equivocation actually confuses these forces of fate! While they try to decide where I'm going to watch, Carlos Almanzar routinely retires the side in order! Hah! The game remains knotted at 3. Alas, said spirits self-correct in time for the bottom of the final frame.
Friday night's two-homer hero Laynce Nix - rendered powerless now with me in the den and the chair empty - strikes out to lead off the 9th. That's when it happens. Rod Barajas, suddenly the everyday catcher because of an injury to promising rookie backstop Gerald Laird, makes his way to the plate, stride for stride with my own epiphany.
THE CHAIR!!!
I dash back to the bedroom and begin rocking as Barajas falls behind 0-1. With cheeks planted firmly on felt and order having been restored, Rod and his Staff they comfort me, sending the next offering deep into the left field bleachers. FLASH! Gordon and the Yanks go down, 4-3! Rangers win! Rangers win!
The ballpark and our house - all 50,005 of us - simultaneously erupt. Nicholas strips down to his underwear and begins running around like a chicken with his head cut off. (Family ritual.) And I, exhausted, click off the TV and begin charting seat assignments for tomorrow's potential sweep. You're welcome to watch the game over here. Just don't get too comfortable.
Yes, the key that unlocked these two triumphs can be found not in good pitching or timely hitting but instead in the west wing of my house, specifically the couch in the den and my bedroom rocking chair. (Don't expect regular updates from the Boone boudoir.)
Let's go back to Friday night. I'd helped the Rangers erase a 4-1 deficit and build a 9-4 lead through 8 innings by patiently sticking to the couch in the den, fully reclined with my right foot propped up on the coffee table, making it perhaps the only five-legged coffee table in the world. Long story short, things get crazy in the top of the 9th. (My exasperation over modern relief pitcher substitution patterns may turn into a book. Hey! Something for the five-legged coffee table!) Anyway, the Yankees chip away with a barrage of bad-bounce singles and 12-hoppers through the infield. Now it's 9-7, and the temptation to relocate begins to bubble. Undaunted, I stick to my guns and, more literally, my seat. Francisco Cordero rewards my loyalty by fanning Hideki Matsui with 99 mile-an-hour heat -
!!!BORDERLINE RACIAL EPITHET ALERT!!!
Matsui may as well have used a chopstick! He couldn't touch Coco's gas! -
then sending Tony Clark and the rest of the no-good New Yorkers home with a final helping of high cheese. Ballgame. Cordero was credited with the official save, but I knew I'd done my part, too. I'm not in this for the stats, people.
Saturday. New day. New game. These are the Yankees. It doesn't take them long to figure out how to counterattack your strengths. For the first part of the game, the couch remains red-hot, possibly due to bearing the brunt of my nearly 200 pounds two days in a row. The impressive young Ryan Drese is perfect through the first 4 2/3 innings before Bernie Williams and Tony the former Tiger go yard on consecutive pitches, turning a 1-nil deficit into a 2-1 Yankee lead. Meanwhile, Texas - apparently wielding Matsui's chopstick instead of their usual lumber - collect exactly no hits from the 3rd through 7th innings. With New York leading 3-1 and the bottom of the 8th fast approaching, I make my move, announcing my intentions to find better luck in another venue to anyone who'll listen. I reposition my aforementioned brunt and hunker down in the bedroom rocking chair. Hank Blalock, having looked awful in three previous at-bats, immediately rips a single into right to begin the 8th. Amy yells from the den, "Stay in there. It's working." (Is she not fabulous?!?) Fonzie Soriano dribbles a grounder toward the player for whom he was traded, Alex Rodriguez, who can't field it cleanly and throws late enough to convince the first-base umpire to rule Soriano safe. A bad call, for sure, but an error for Alex, leaving runners on first and second with no one out. You may recall the Rangers had to agree to pay some of A-Rod's wad each year to make the trade with the Yankees happen. I figure he's being paid by both teams, he ought to help each win. Thanks, E-Rod. And - oh, by the way - the chair is rockin'!!!
Nicholas, not aware of the geosportalitical ramifications of relocating during your team's rally, leaves the den and runs into the bedroom to celebrate with me. Lay off, he's only 5. I'll learn him yet. Sure enough, Brad Fullmer hits a comebacker to the mound, a perfect double-play ball for veteran reliever, Tom "Flash" Gordon. But the power of the chair is too much. Gordon throws a perfect split-finger fastball to Derek Jeter who watches it go through his wickets for another error. Blalock scores to make it 3-2. Soriano's now at third, and the crowd has no idea to what lengths I'm going to make this rally happen. Mark Teixeira (pronounced "teixeira") follows with a topspin lob to left field that would've made McEnroe drool (more so than normal). It lands safely, and the game is tied, 3-3. This is where I nearly blew it. Mistakenly thinking the power was in the room and not the chair (not to mention being discombobulated by the Nicholas shift), I get up from the chair - I know, I know, but it all happened so fast! - and lean back on the edge of the bed. David Dellucci hits another comebacker, and again Gordon goofs, throwing another one-hopper to short. This time, with the chair empty and the space/time continuum upset, Jeter scoops it up and salvages the out at second. With runners on the corners and me still clueless, Kevin Mench grounds into an inning-ending double dip. Tie game, but it could've, should've been a Ranger lead.
The double play does serve to snap me back into reality. I gently but firmly explain to Nicholas the impact his returning to the den will have on this epochal moment in world history. He laughs, as he often does at my offerings, and stays put. Desperate, I return to the den. I can't prove this, but I think my equivocation actually confuses these forces of fate! While they try to decide where I'm going to watch, Carlos Almanzar routinely retires the side in order! Hah! The game remains knotted at 3. Alas, said spirits self-correct in time for the bottom of the final frame.
Friday night's two-homer hero Laynce Nix - rendered powerless now with me in the den and the chair empty - strikes out to lead off the 9th. That's when it happens. Rod Barajas, suddenly the everyday catcher because of an injury to promising rookie backstop Gerald Laird, makes his way to the plate, stride for stride with my own epiphany.
THE CHAIR!!!
I dash back to the bedroom and begin rocking as Barajas falls behind 0-1. With cheeks planted firmly on felt and order having been restored, Rod and his Staff they comfort me, sending the next offering deep into the left field bleachers. FLASH! Gordon and the Yanks go down, 4-3! Rangers win! Rangers win!
The ballpark and our house - all 50,005 of us - simultaneously erupt. Nicholas strips down to his underwear and begins running around like a chicken with his head cut off. (Family ritual.) And I, exhausted, click off the TV and begin charting seat assignments for tomorrow's potential sweep. You're welcome to watch the game over here. Just don't get too comfortable.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Red Light District
Before my unscrupulous colleagues in the fourth estate take this story public and the pictures permeate the net, I want you, my friends, to know the truth. Last month in Los Angeles, a large metropolitan area in southern California, I was caught on film perpetrating an act that for the purposes of decorum I'll describe only as "unlawful." The transgression occurred at the corner of La Brea Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. ("Hollywood after hours" + "someone named Grant" hasn't historically equaled a winning combination, though my experience wasn't as Divine as Hugh's.)
As I maneuvered the mean streets of Beverly Hills that evening, en route to my place of accommodation, I was flashed! as I drove through a busy intersection. Not by a human being, though for the right price I'm sure such things could've been arranged. No, this flash came from a camera tethered to a traffic light under which I had - as I later learned - too tardily traveled.
I ran a red light. And the Fuzz has the film to prove it. Somewhere George Orwell is giggling fiendishly.
Ten days after returning home, I was greeted by correspondence from the Los Angeles County Superior Court and Visitors Bureau, thanking me for my patronage. Enclosed was a series of snapshots, celluloid souvenirs, beginning with:
- a photo of where my rental car was when that particular light turned red
- then of my car recklessly rolling through the intersection (along with approximately three-fourths of Los Angeles County)
- then a close-up of me - hopeless miscreant that I am - behind the wheel, cavalier and criminal, ready at any moment to take an 11th item to the express checkout line or remove the tag from my hotel bed mattress. ("I have a pair of fingernail clippers, and I'm not afraid to use them!")
Go for a ride, and they take your picture. Kind of like Disneyland, except not as expensive. The court only charged me $340.
My own little Kodak moment in the shadow of the Kodak Theater. This ugly imbroglio begs a couple of questions. First, isn't this a violation of my rights, specifically my inalienable right as an American-born...American to obey only those laws which I deem worthy of my compliance and/or those which don't infringe upon my personal freedom to do whatever I jolly well please? What's next, asking accounting firms to open up their audit ledgers?
Second, can the cops get any lazier? I mean is it humanly possible? Can't we hook up television monitors in their living rooms so they won't have to get off the couch? Think of the money they'd save on uniforms. If Krispy Kreme would offer home delivery, we could start tomorrow morning.
I realize mine will not be the most widely-publicized or titillating controversy involving people in L.A. doing naughty things on camera. Thanks to sensationalist media sleazeballs like The Wall Street Journal and Barron's, we were all kept abreast of how the porn industry, concentrated primarily in the San Fernando Valley, was recently shut down for a couple of weeks because several "actors" tested positive for HIV. That headline, while sobering for the subjects involved, was about as shocking as "Bonds Draws Intentional Walk" or "NBC Cancels 'Whoopi.'"
But don't get distracted. The most pressing issue at hand is whether we as citizens will allow our personal and private privacy to be invaded by these invasive invasions. And also where am I supposed to get $340? I hope they at least throw in a set of mouse ears.
As I maneuvered the mean streets of Beverly Hills that evening, en route to my place of accommodation, I was flashed! as I drove through a busy intersection. Not by a human being, though for the right price I'm sure such things could've been arranged. No, this flash came from a camera tethered to a traffic light under which I had - as I later learned - too tardily traveled.
I ran a red light. And the Fuzz has the film to prove it. Somewhere George Orwell is giggling fiendishly.
Ten days after returning home, I was greeted by correspondence from the Los Angeles County Superior Court and Visitors Bureau, thanking me for my patronage. Enclosed was a series of snapshots, celluloid souvenirs, beginning with:
- a photo of where my rental car was when that particular light turned red
- then of my car recklessly rolling through the intersection (along with approximately three-fourths of Los Angeles County)
- then a close-up of me - hopeless miscreant that I am - behind the wheel, cavalier and criminal, ready at any moment to take an 11th item to the express checkout line or remove the tag from my hotel bed mattress. ("I have a pair of fingernail clippers, and I'm not afraid to use them!")
Go for a ride, and they take your picture. Kind of like Disneyland, except not as expensive. The court only charged me $340.
My own little Kodak moment in the shadow of the Kodak Theater. This ugly imbroglio begs a couple of questions. First, isn't this a violation of my rights, specifically my inalienable right as an American-born...American to obey only those laws which I deem worthy of my compliance and/or those which don't infringe upon my personal freedom to do whatever I jolly well please? What's next, asking accounting firms to open up their audit ledgers?
Second, can the cops get any lazier? I mean is it humanly possible? Can't we hook up television monitors in their living rooms so they won't have to get off the couch? Think of the money they'd save on uniforms. If Krispy Kreme would offer home delivery, we could start tomorrow morning.
I realize mine will not be the most widely-publicized or titillating controversy involving people in L.A. doing naughty things on camera. Thanks to sensationalist media sleazeballs like The Wall Street Journal and Barron's, we were all kept abreast of how the porn industry, concentrated primarily in the San Fernando Valley, was recently shut down for a couple of weeks because several "actors" tested positive for HIV. That headline, while sobering for the subjects involved, was about as shocking as "Bonds Draws Intentional Walk" or "NBC Cancels 'Whoopi.'"
But don't get distracted. The most pressing issue at hand is whether we as citizens will allow our personal and private privacy to be invaded by these invasive invasions. And also where am I supposed to get $340? I hope they at least throw in a set of mouse ears.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Sister Christian
Forty-eight hours ago, some dear friends of ours in Nashville were living the American dream. Today, they're desperate to wake up from one of every parent's worst nightmares. Late Sunday afternoon, the dad backed over his 3-year-old son with a riding mower. Most of the little boy's right foot is now gone. Best case scenario at this point is to save the rest of the leg from the heel up. The left leg was badly butchered, but it appears skin grafting will allow doctors to keep that entire limb intact.
Just curious. What's your initial reaction? Horror? Sadness? Anger? All are justified, I'm sure, but compare your feelings with the response of the boy's 7-year-old sister, who was standing next to him when it all happened but didn't know the severity of the injury.
Told Monday that her brother had lost his right foot and maybe more, she replied, "Is he going to be okay?" When told the situation was not life-threatening, she smiled and said, "Good," and that was that.
Big sis wasn't being cavalier or coarse. It's just that she got the answer she was hoping for when she asked the only question that really mattered to her: "Is my brother going to live?"
"Unless you become like a little child..."
My reaction to the news was much different because I thought other things did matter. And I certainly had more than one question...
Will he be able to function? What will it look like? Can he ever play soccer, the sport his dad coaches? Will he ever walk at all? Across the stage at graduation? Down the aisle at his wedding? Will the dad think it's his fault? How can he ever mow the lawn again? Will the mom wonder why she wasn't there to protect her son? When they quit praying for healing, what will they say to God next? And where exactly was He during this ordeal anyway? If He kept Abraham's blade from incising Isaac, how hard would it have been to stop the blade of my buddy's mower?
However legitimate or understandable my questions may be, each is constructed on a common and dangerous denominator: expectation. I didn't think I needed a refresher course in how fleeting all of this is. Family. Health. Wealth. Blood counts. Bank accounts. Today. Tomorrow.
Apparently I did. That little girl's reaction to what befell her brother brought me back. He's going to be okay. What he won't be is what we all prayed he would be. (Try again.) What we hoped he would be. (No.) What we figured he would be. (Keep going.) What we took for granted he would be? (One more time.) What we thoughtlessly assumed he would be because having perfectly healthy children is our God-given right as parents in 21st century America? (Better.)
This, by the way, is not a discussion topic for these friends of ours. Certainly not now. This is awful, no matter how holy the perspective. Their job is to grieve and pray and thank God and pray and mourn and pray and wrestle and pray and trust and pray. And keep praying.
My job, along with the praying, is to re-read the warranty. The real warranty. Not the American Standard Version. What's promised continues to be delivered by the manufacturer in spades. What's not in there continues to conflict with my conception of what life abundantly really is. Maybe it depends on what my definition of is is. And maybe I need to remember the words of Moses in Psalm 90, eerily apropos in this case: "...people are like new grass of the morning - though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered."
I still wish what happened to our friends hadn't happened. And I still hope my children stay healthy. But most of all, I still believe that little boy's sister got it right. One of these days maybe I will, too.
(NOTE: Amazingly, this article on ESPN.com was posted yesterday. I cried.)
Just curious. What's your initial reaction? Horror? Sadness? Anger? All are justified, I'm sure, but compare your feelings with the response of the boy's 7-year-old sister, who was standing next to him when it all happened but didn't know the severity of the injury.
Told Monday that her brother had lost his right foot and maybe more, she replied, "Is he going to be okay?" When told the situation was not life-threatening, she smiled and said, "Good," and that was that.
Big sis wasn't being cavalier or coarse. It's just that she got the answer she was hoping for when she asked the only question that really mattered to her: "Is my brother going to live?"
"Unless you become like a little child..."
My reaction to the news was much different because I thought other things did matter. And I certainly had more than one question...
Will he be able to function? What will it look like? Can he ever play soccer, the sport his dad coaches? Will he ever walk at all? Across the stage at graduation? Down the aisle at his wedding? Will the dad think it's his fault? How can he ever mow the lawn again? Will the mom wonder why she wasn't there to protect her son? When they quit praying for healing, what will they say to God next? And where exactly was He during this ordeal anyway? If He kept Abraham's blade from incising Isaac, how hard would it have been to stop the blade of my buddy's mower?
However legitimate or understandable my questions may be, each is constructed on a common and dangerous denominator: expectation. I didn't think I needed a refresher course in how fleeting all of this is. Family. Health. Wealth. Blood counts. Bank accounts. Today. Tomorrow.
Apparently I did. That little girl's reaction to what befell her brother brought me back. He's going to be okay. What he won't be is what we all prayed he would be. (Try again.) What we hoped he would be. (No.) What we figured he would be. (Keep going.) What we took for granted he would be? (One more time.) What we thoughtlessly assumed he would be because having perfectly healthy children is our God-given right as parents in 21st century America? (Better.)
This, by the way, is not a discussion topic for these friends of ours. Certainly not now. This is awful, no matter how holy the perspective. Their job is to grieve and pray and thank God and pray and mourn and pray and wrestle and pray and trust and pray. And keep praying.
My job, along with the praying, is to re-read the warranty. The real warranty. Not the American Standard Version. What's promised continues to be delivered by the manufacturer in spades. What's not in there continues to conflict with my conception of what life abundantly really is. Maybe it depends on what my definition of is is. And maybe I need to remember the words of Moses in Psalm 90, eerily apropos in this case: "...people are like new grass of the morning - though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered."
I still wish what happened to our friends hadn't happened. And I still hope my children stay healthy. But most of all, I still believe that little boy's sister got it right. One of these days maybe I will, too.
(NOTE: Amazingly, this article on ESPN.com was posted yesterday. I cried.)
Friday, May 14, 2004
Seen and Obscene
This week dawned with my sinuses empty and my parents' guest bed full, specifically of me. I retire tonight with the opposite being true. Actually, the entire week featured equal parts topsy and turvy, to wit:
Sunday: I spent as much of Mother's Day with Andy Rooney as I did my own materfamilias. Mom was violently ill, and Rooney didn't seem much better. He opened one of his routine rants on "60 Minutes" Sunday night by saying, "Am I the only one who's tired of this election campaign already?"
I have a question: "Am I the only one who's tired of Andy Rooney." Here's a guy who's paid roughly the annual GNP of Ghana to be crotchety. And no one puts the "crotch" in crotchety like Andy.
Monday: Word began circulating that an American had been decapitated in Iraq. Nothing could match the unspeakable evil done to Nic Berg, but the way we reacted back home ran a close second. No sooner had word hit the net than each side sent their Rumpelstiltskins to the spinning wheel to tell the world "why these monsters must be wiped out/why President Bush is a monster and why he should be wiped out of office." The Berg family gets a pass to say whatever the heck they want, in my opinion. But I can't imagine adding a more egregious insult to such a heinous injury than the shameless politicizing of Berg's demise. I suppose it's easier to have someone tell you what to think than to think for yourself.
Tuesday: Waiting for an appointment at CNN Center in Atlanta, I spotted the Jackson Five: Jesse (cutting an impressive figure, tall and trim) and four of his lackeys ushering him out of a studio where he'd been interviewed and into one of those BALCO SUVs, a Suburban stretched out across multiple zip codes. I'd never thought about what I might say to Jesse Jackson if given the opportunity, which is perhaps why I said nothing when I had the chance. The only thing that popped into my head was asking him to recite that "Green Eggs and Ham" riff from his Saturday Night Live turn a few years ago. Not sure that would've gone over well with his goons.
Has there been a more inescapable or enigmatic figure over the last 30 years than Jesse Jackson? His celebrity was born about the time I was. He's a Reverend, but I can't say I've ever heard him invoke the name of Jesus. He's been praised, parodied, panned, pandered to, and paternity-papered. No wonder he has so many minions.
Wednesday: En route back to Abilene after a week away from home, I popped into the Admirals Club at DFW. The Admirals Club is:
a) a must for busy businessmen who need a place to conduct their busy work away from the din of a busy airport
b) the only climate on the planet capable of growing fully-ripe, racquetball-sized apples
c) $400 a year
d) all of the above
Taking up 6 feet 10 inches of this particular Club was Jack Haley. Not the Tin Man from "Wizard of Oz" but the erstwhile benchwarmer for the Chicago Bulls' championship teams of the '90s. (Actually, the Tin Man had better moves than his namesake, even before Dorothy's lube job.) This Jack Haley seemed a perfect Admirals Club customer. A guy rich enough to separate himself from the bustling bourgeoisie but not big enough to fly privately. Guys like me. Who like really small apples.
It's good to be home and fill up my half of my own bed. And now that I'm heavily medicated, I'm ready to taken on the trials and triumphs of another week. I might even be ready for Andy Rooney.
Sunday: I spent as much of Mother's Day with Andy Rooney as I did my own materfamilias. Mom was violently ill, and Rooney didn't seem much better. He opened one of his routine rants on "60 Minutes" Sunday night by saying, "Am I the only one who's tired of this election campaign already?"
I have a question: "Am I the only one who's tired of Andy Rooney." Here's a guy who's paid roughly the annual GNP of Ghana to be crotchety. And no one puts the "crotch" in crotchety like Andy.
Monday: Word began circulating that an American had been decapitated in Iraq. Nothing could match the unspeakable evil done to Nic Berg, but the way we reacted back home ran a close second. No sooner had word hit the net than each side sent their Rumpelstiltskins to the spinning wheel to tell the world "why these monsters must be wiped out/why President Bush is a monster and why he should be wiped out of office." The Berg family gets a pass to say whatever the heck they want, in my opinion. But I can't imagine adding a more egregious insult to such a heinous injury than the shameless politicizing of Berg's demise. I suppose it's easier to have someone tell you what to think than to think for yourself.
Tuesday: Waiting for an appointment at CNN Center in Atlanta, I spotted the Jackson Five: Jesse (cutting an impressive figure, tall and trim) and four of his lackeys ushering him out of a studio where he'd been interviewed and into one of those BALCO SUVs, a Suburban stretched out across multiple zip codes. I'd never thought about what I might say to Jesse Jackson if given the opportunity, which is perhaps why I said nothing when I had the chance. The only thing that popped into my head was asking him to recite that "Green Eggs and Ham" riff from his Saturday Night Live turn a few years ago. Not sure that would've gone over well with his goons.
Has there been a more inescapable or enigmatic figure over the last 30 years than Jesse Jackson? His celebrity was born about the time I was. He's a Reverend, but I can't say I've ever heard him invoke the name of Jesus. He's been praised, parodied, panned, pandered to, and paternity-papered. No wonder he has so many minions.
Wednesday: En route back to Abilene after a week away from home, I popped into the Admirals Club at DFW. The Admirals Club is:
a) a must for busy businessmen who need a place to conduct their busy work away from the din of a busy airport
b) the only climate on the planet capable of growing fully-ripe, racquetball-sized apples
c) $400 a year
d) all of the above
Taking up 6 feet 10 inches of this particular Club was Jack Haley. Not the Tin Man from "Wizard of Oz" but the erstwhile benchwarmer for the Chicago Bulls' championship teams of the '90s. (Actually, the Tin Man had better moves than his namesake, even before Dorothy's lube job.) This Jack Haley seemed a perfect Admirals Club customer. A guy rich enough to separate himself from the bustling bourgeoisie but not big enough to fly privately. Guys like me. Who like really small apples.
It's good to be home and fill up my half of my own bed. And now that I'm heavily medicated, I'm ready to taken on the trials and triumphs of another week. I might even be ready for Andy Rooney.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Backseat Evangelist
You never quite know what'll happen when you bring a loaded Bible onto an airplane. (To see what happens when you bring a loaded cowboy onto an airplane, see my previous post.) As I was exiting a Delta flight Friday morning in Jacksonville, a passenger behind me said, "I noticed you were reading the Bible. Here's one for ya: the Jews don't recognize Jesus as the Messiah; Protestants don't recognize the Pope in Rome; and Baptists don't recognize each other in the liquor store." Rimshot.
Flying back to Nashville Saturday, I had a great view of my own little Bermuda Triangle from seat 10 C. Directly in front of me, an attractive, eloquent woman - maybe late thirties - was chatting up a spunky, outspoken girl, who introduced herself as Annie, an aspiring singer trying to make it in Nashville the hard way. Annie was impressed to discover Sharon is a globetrotting gospel evangelist, returning in this particular case from a speaking engagement in the Bahamas. (I said, "Now that's picking up your cross." No response. A prophetess is without honor at 28,000 feet.)
As Sharon started sharin', I handed her my Bible and told Annie to listen carefully to what she had to say. Sharon has spoken all over the world to thousands of people, but did that stop me from butting in with my little sermon nuggets? Yeah, right! Do Baptists recognize each other in the liquor store?
Imagine someone looking up at Michelangelo from the floor of the Sistine Chapel. "How 'bout painting Jonah getting puked up by the whale right next to that naked cherub?" Or co-teaching a mathematics course with Stephen Hawking. "Yes, class, what he said, and also, 2 plus 2 is 4. You'll be responsible for that on the final."
Despite my dabbling, Annie was drinking in this beautifully-presented proffer along with her two pops of Jack and Coke.
The enemy, losing ground on that front, drew a new battle line for my attention just one seat over. The guy next to Sharon, a fellow minister traveling with her, was watching "21 Grams" on his portable DVD player. Of course the screen was in my line of sight, and of course - because it's a Sean Penn movie - you're never more than a few frames away from at least partial nudity. Wait for it...wait for it...there it is! The booby prize! A tete-a-tete in seats 9 B and C and in 9 D...well, you get the idea.
Unbelievable. Is there no such thing as a "no fly zone" for temptation? Meanwhile, another weapon of mass distraction was sharing an armrest with me in 10 D. This Michigan man was more interested in the year of our Lord than the Lord's prayer.
"Let me tell you what really makes me mad. What year was it a hundred years ago?"
"Uh, 1904?"
"Okay, how 'bout 200 years ago?"
Expecting a punchline in here somewhere, I replied, "1804?"
"Exactly! So how come everybody says 'two thousand four' instead of 'twenty oh four?' We didn't say 'nineteen hundred four,' did we?"
"No, sir. This is important to you, isn't it?"
"Yes."
He went on and on A.D. nauseam. (I didn't dare ask him how I should say "21 Grams.") You can't make this stuff up.
The plane landed with Sharon promising to drive in from her rural home outside Nashville to see "The Passion" with Annie, who was touched by the offer and willing to give it a shot. I promised Millenium Man I'd try to remember to say "twenty oh four." And I resolved to avoid all "21 Grams" at Blockbuster...or at least wait 'til all the Baptists head for the liquor store.
Flying back to Nashville Saturday, I had a great view of my own little Bermuda Triangle from seat 10 C. Directly in front of me, an attractive, eloquent woman - maybe late thirties - was chatting up a spunky, outspoken girl, who introduced herself as Annie, an aspiring singer trying to make it in Nashville the hard way. Annie was impressed to discover Sharon is a globetrotting gospel evangelist, returning in this particular case from a speaking engagement in the Bahamas. (I said, "Now that's picking up your cross." No response. A prophetess is without honor at 28,000 feet.)
As Sharon started sharin', I handed her my Bible and told Annie to listen carefully to what she had to say. Sharon has spoken all over the world to thousands of people, but did that stop me from butting in with my little sermon nuggets? Yeah, right! Do Baptists recognize each other in the liquor store?
Imagine someone looking up at Michelangelo from the floor of the Sistine Chapel. "How 'bout painting Jonah getting puked up by the whale right next to that naked cherub?" Or co-teaching a mathematics course with Stephen Hawking. "Yes, class, what he said, and also, 2 plus 2 is 4. You'll be responsible for that on the final."
Despite my dabbling, Annie was drinking in this beautifully-presented proffer along with her two pops of Jack and Coke.
The enemy, losing ground on that front, drew a new battle line for my attention just one seat over. The guy next to Sharon, a fellow minister traveling with her, was watching "21 Grams" on his portable DVD player. Of course the screen was in my line of sight, and of course - because it's a Sean Penn movie - you're never more than a few frames away from at least partial nudity. Wait for it...wait for it...there it is! The booby prize! A tete-a-tete in seats 9 B and C and in 9 D...well, you get the idea.
Unbelievable. Is there no such thing as a "no fly zone" for temptation? Meanwhile, another weapon of mass distraction was sharing an armrest with me in 10 D. This Michigan man was more interested in the year of our Lord than the Lord's prayer.
"Let me tell you what really makes me mad. What year was it a hundred years ago?"
"Uh, 1904?"
"Okay, how 'bout 200 years ago?"
Expecting a punchline in here somewhere, I replied, "1804?"
"Exactly! So how come everybody says 'two thousand four' instead of 'twenty oh four?' We didn't say 'nineteen hundred four,' did we?"
"No, sir. This is important to you, isn't it?"
"Yes."
He went on and on A.D. nauseam. (I didn't dare ask him how I should say "21 Grams.") You can't make this stuff up.
The plane landed with Sharon promising to drive in from her rural home outside Nashville to see "The Passion" with Annie, who was touched by the offer and willing to give it a shot. I promised Millenium Man I'd try to remember to say "twenty oh four." And I resolved to avoid all "21 Grams" at Blockbuster...or at least wait 'til all the Baptists head for the liquor store.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
The High Life
To really crack up a cabin of airplane passengers on a pre-dawn flight, you either have to be extremely funny or severely drunk. Having never been either, I marveled at the work of a cowboy from Potosi, Texas this morning on American Eagle Flight 3624. He was unashamedly both.
Decked out in full wrangler regalia from hat to boot, he boisterously boarded and moseyed his way back to row 14. If his reputation didn't precede him, his pre-flight beverage did. The back half of the plane was secondhand drunk by the time we took off.
Removing all doubt, he announced to everyone and no one in particular that he'd been drinking. ("Really? You hold it well.") Continuing his unsolicited soliloquy, "We started out ridin' the buckin' harses. Then we hopped onto the dirt bikes. Then we got into the Crown Royal." Somewhere an out-of-work reality show executive has new life.
They say you let go of your inhibitions when inebriated. Not sure this guy ever had any, but if he did they were as non-existent as his whiskey at this point. He asked a casino-bound couple, "Where y'all headed?"
"Las Vegas," they replied.
"Vegas? D-mn, I'm on the wrong plane! I'm goin' to Dallas!"
I think he was kidding.
To the guy in front of him, a perfectly-chiseled (not that I noticed) rock of an African-American, he said, "Howdy. What are you, one of them linebackers?"
Guy (with perfect diction and eloquence, which obviously threw our friend off): "I'm the fitness director at Dyess Air Force Base."
Cowboy: "Huh?"
Guy (again with the diction): "I'm the fitness director at Dyess Air Force Base."
Perhaps subconsciously summoning his last extant instinct of self-preservation, he ended that conversation and started in on the flight attendant's futile attempts to show him and the rest of us how to buckle our seat belts.
"What she say? Sump'm 'bout everybody in Oklahoma's gettin' drunk."
The people next to him were howling hysterically. Officially on a roll, he began getting buzzed on their laughter. To the flight attendant's demonstration of how to use the oxygen mask (which the rest of us could've used by then):
"Breathe deep? Yeah, breathe deep as the plane spirals...
- there's no way to phonetically describe how this man pronounced the word "spirals" -
to the ground at 700 miles per hour."
Somehow I dozed off and missed the rest of his in-flight routine, but I woke up as we were landing to see him hand a quarter to the Vegas hopefuls and say in full throat, "Let 'er ride on red! H-ll, I don't even know how to gamble, but let 'er ride on red!"
As we exited the aircraft (such as it was), he fired off a couple of closing quickies. To the pilots:
"My turn! Fill 'er up! I'm 'on' take 'er fer a spin!"
To a smily infant in her mother's arms:
"I betcha you gotta pee, don't ya!" (My guess is both parties went in their pants.)
As I made my way to the next gate, I thought, "No wonder Jesus hung out with drunks and other 'notorious sinners.'" At least when you tell that crowd to turn from their sins and turn to God, they clearly understand what you're saying. As long as you're not talking to them over an airplane loudspeaker.
Decked out in full wrangler regalia from hat to boot, he boisterously boarded and moseyed his way back to row 14. If his reputation didn't precede him, his pre-flight beverage did. The back half of the plane was secondhand drunk by the time we took off.
Removing all doubt, he announced to everyone and no one in particular that he'd been drinking. ("Really? You hold it well.") Continuing his unsolicited soliloquy, "We started out ridin' the buckin' harses. Then we hopped onto the dirt bikes. Then we got into the Crown Royal." Somewhere an out-of-work reality show executive has new life.
They say you let go of your inhibitions when inebriated. Not sure this guy ever had any, but if he did they were as non-existent as his whiskey at this point. He asked a casino-bound couple, "Where y'all headed?"
"Las Vegas," they replied.
"Vegas? D-mn, I'm on the wrong plane! I'm goin' to Dallas!"
I think he was kidding.
To the guy in front of him, a perfectly-chiseled (not that I noticed) rock of an African-American, he said, "Howdy. What are you, one of them linebackers?"
Guy (with perfect diction and eloquence, which obviously threw our friend off): "I'm the fitness director at Dyess Air Force Base."
Cowboy: "Huh?"
Guy (again with the diction): "I'm the fitness director at Dyess Air Force Base."
Perhaps subconsciously summoning his last extant instinct of self-preservation, he ended that conversation and started in on the flight attendant's futile attempts to show him and the rest of us how to buckle our seat belts.
"What she say? Sump'm 'bout everybody in Oklahoma's gettin' drunk."
The people next to him were howling hysterically. Officially on a roll, he began getting buzzed on their laughter. To the flight attendant's demonstration of how to use the oxygen mask (which the rest of us could've used by then):
"Breathe deep? Yeah, breathe deep as the plane spirals...
- there's no way to phonetically describe how this man pronounced the word "spirals" -
to the ground at 700 miles per hour."
Somehow I dozed off and missed the rest of his in-flight routine, but I woke up as we were landing to see him hand a quarter to the Vegas hopefuls and say in full throat, "Let 'er ride on red! H-ll, I don't even know how to gamble, but let 'er ride on red!"
As we exited the aircraft (such as it was), he fired off a couple of closing quickies. To the pilots:
"My turn! Fill 'er up! I'm 'on' take 'er fer a spin!"
To a smily infant in her mother's arms:
"I betcha you gotta pee, don't ya!" (My guess is both parties went in their pants.)
As I made my way to the next gate, I thought, "No wonder Jesus hung out with drunks and other 'notorious sinners.'" At least when you tell that crowd to turn from their sins and turn to God, they clearly understand what you're saying. As long as you're not talking to them over an airplane loudspeaker.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Grant Boone, Esquire
Just when I begin to buy into the delusion that I'm a pretty good writer - insert laughter - I pick up a copy of Esquire magazine and see what real writing is. Real profane writing, occasionally, in a melange of man-friendly material. But great writing, nonetheless. The latest incontrovertible evidence was submitted in this month's issue by Tom Junod, an article entitled "Dude, Where's My Jesus?"
See if it challenges you as it did me.
See if it challenges you as it did me.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Bathroom Humor
Sooner or later, all of us will need to use the word "port-o-john" in a sentence. For that very moment, I thought you might find helpful these septic synonyms from CBS golf announcer David Feherty, who's both Irish and incontinent:
1) the blue room
2) squirtatorium
3) dungfunnel
You don't get this kind of stuff from Deepak Chopra, who's both Indian and in complete control of his bladder.
1) the blue room
2) squirtatorium
3) dungfunnel
You don't get this kind of stuff from Deepak Chopra, who's both Indian and in complete control of his bladder.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
He Would've Given It A Thumbs Up If Not For The Handcuffs
Dan Leach stopped short of giving Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ" his full imprimatur. In Leach's opinion, the film "didn't completely follow the Bible account."
Quite obviously, neither did Leach.
According to published reports, the 21-year-old Texan impregnated his girlfriend, Ashley Nicole Wilson, last year. In January of this year, inspired by the CBS hit series "C.S.I.," Leach hanged Wilson, then made it look like a suicide, right down to the note next to the noose found in her apartment.
March 7, shortly after seeing "The Passion of the Christ," Leach stood in front of his home congregation - the Avenue N Church of Christ in Rosenberg, Texas - and asked for prayers, saying he was embarking on a journey that would take him away for a long time. Later that day, he confessed to killing his pregnant girlfriend, an act that would have to be considered a double murder to remain consistent with how most conservative Christians view the unborn. Police didn't detect remorse in Leach's mea culpa; instead, he told them he had to fess up to keep his place in heaven secure.
The tragedy of this case begins and ends with the deaths of Ashley Nicole Wilson and the baby she carried. But somewhere in the middle is a disconnect between Bible knowledge and daily discipleship so drastic you don't know whether to laugh or cry.
A worldwide directory of churches of Christ lists the Avenue N congregation as "non-institutional," a term used to describe a church that doesn't believe in supporting parachurch ministries, such as missions and relief organizations. (No word yet if Leach will try to invoke his "non-institutional" status to try to clep out of jail time.) Somewhere along the way, Leach learned "the Bible account" of what happened to Christ on the cross and that you can't go to heaven if you haven't been forgiven.
What he obviously didn't get was everything Jesus said pre-propitiation. Subtle truths, such as, "Don't kill people" and "Don't tear apart what God has joined together." And more esoteric teachings, like "Whatever's in your heart determines what you do" and "I don't want rote obedience; I want your heart."
I'm sure it thrills the flock at Avenue N to know it took the work of a Vatican I Catholic, Mel Gibson - Catholicism being somewhat institutional - to convict unto confession one of its own. (I'll go out on a limb in guessing Avenue N doesn't genuflect toward Rome, seeing as how "The Christian Chronicle" quotes a member of another church of Christ in Rosenberg as saying there's virtually no communication between his church and Avenue N.)
Leach told authorities "The Passion of the Christ" was one of several "pricks in his heart" that prompted his profession of guilt. Fortunately for him AND for those of us who think our theology superior, the pricks in Jesus's hands and feet are sufficient to save us from both our unspeakable sin and our misguided doctrine.
Quite obviously, neither did Leach.
According to published reports, the 21-year-old Texan impregnated his girlfriend, Ashley Nicole Wilson, last year. In January of this year, inspired by the CBS hit series "C.S.I.," Leach hanged Wilson, then made it look like a suicide, right down to the note next to the noose found in her apartment.
March 7, shortly after seeing "The Passion of the Christ," Leach stood in front of his home congregation - the Avenue N Church of Christ in Rosenberg, Texas - and asked for prayers, saying he was embarking on a journey that would take him away for a long time. Later that day, he confessed to killing his pregnant girlfriend, an act that would have to be considered a double murder to remain consistent with how most conservative Christians view the unborn. Police didn't detect remorse in Leach's mea culpa; instead, he told them he had to fess up to keep his place in heaven secure.
The tragedy of this case begins and ends with the deaths of Ashley Nicole Wilson and the baby she carried. But somewhere in the middle is a disconnect between Bible knowledge and daily discipleship so drastic you don't know whether to laugh or cry.
A worldwide directory of churches of Christ lists the Avenue N congregation as "non-institutional," a term used to describe a church that doesn't believe in supporting parachurch ministries, such as missions and relief organizations. (No word yet if Leach will try to invoke his "non-institutional" status to try to clep out of jail time.) Somewhere along the way, Leach learned "the Bible account" of what happened to Christ on the cross and that you can't go to heaven if you haven't been forgiven.
What he obviously didn't get was everything Jesus said pre-propitiation. Subtle truths, such as, "Don't kill people" and "Don't tear apart what God has joined together." And more esoteric teachings, like "Whatever's in your heart determines what you do" and "I don't want rote obedience; I want your heart."
I'm sure it thrills the flock at Avenue N to know it took the work of a Vatican I Catholic, Mel Gibson - Catholicism being somewhat institutional - to convict unto confession one of its own. (I'll go out on a limb in guessing Avenue N doesn't genuflect toward Rome, seeing as how "The Christian Chronicle" quotes a member of another church of Christ in Rosenberg as saying there's virtually no communication between his church and Avenue N.)
Leach told authorities "The Passion of the Christ" was one of several "pricks in his heart" that prompted his profession of guilt. Fortunately for him AND for those of us who think our theology superior, the pricks in Jesus's hands and feet are sufficient to save us from both our unspeakable sin and our misguided doctrine.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Needle in a Haystack
Matthew 19:23-30
23 Then Jesus said to his disciples, "I tell you the truth, it is very hard for a rich person to get into the Kingdom of Heaven. 24 I say it again – it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!" 25 The disciples were astounded. "Then who in the world can be saved?" they asked. 26 Jesus looked at them intently and said, "Humanly speaking, it is impossible. But with God everything is possible."
A decade before Mel Gibson turned the movie industry (and religion) on its ear with "The Passion of the Christ," a guy named James Barden wrote, produced, and scored a film entitled "The Judas Project," which turned the movie industry (and the 11 people who paid good American money to see it) on its funny bone. The idea was to show what it might look like if Jesus first came to Earth today instead of 2,000 years ago. Instead, it showed what it might look like if a bunch of previously out-of-work actors read a really bad script on camera. The movie grossed roughly half a billion dollars less than Gibson's flick and became to Christian film what "Plan 9 From Outer Space" was to sci-fi cinema. (I can't decide which is funnier: the website panning "The Judas Project" or the one ripping "Plan 9.")
While I was too busy laughing at "The Judas Project" to seriously explore the idea it endeavored to posit, the above passage from Matthew 19 has me wondering how Jesus would tailor that text to fit '04. Best we can tell, wealth and holiness were first-century synonyms. That more fully explains the dumbstruck disciples when Jesus said a camel could navigate a needle's eye more easily than rich people could earn eternal life.
If wealth indeed equaled righteousness circa century one, then help me fill in the following blank: "It's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a __________ to enter the Kingdom of God."
(To bring it completely into present-day patois, maybe we should change the beginning of the equation, too: "It's easier for the Red Sox to win a World Series than for a __________ to enter the Kingdom of God.")
Would Jesus target political conservatives, who say they're Right while virtually ignoring those Left behind or at the very least attaching quids pro quo in their benevolence to the very "least of these."
Would he finger liberals, who blow the trumpet of tolerance to drown out their promotion of permissive behavior; and who'll defend the defenseless all the way, just as soon as you're all the way out of a mother's womb?
Each of those two types carry too much baggage to be considered the modern-day equivalent to the first-century wealthy. It would have to be someone who, though certainly not perfect, would be rendered reverent, even by those who didn't share his or her parochial perspective. People whose pictures of piety are taken not with zoom lenses but wide-angle. I'm talking the surface saved, the brazenly holy, the...uh oh...
"It's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a church-goer to enter the Kingdom of God."
Now that would make a great movie.
23 Then Jesus said to his disciples, "I tell you the truth, it is very hard for a rich person to get into the Kingdom of Heaven. 24 I say it again – it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!" 25 The disciples were astounded. "Then who in the world can be saved?" they asked. 26 Jesus looked at them intently and said, "Humanly speaking, it is impossible. But with God everything is possible."
A decade before Mel Gibson turned the movie industry (and religion) on its ear with "The Passion of the Christ," a guy named James Barden wrote, produced, and scored a film entitled "The Judas Project," which turned the movie industry (and the 11 people who paid good American money to see it) on its funny bone. The idea was to show what it might look like if Jesus first came to Earth today instead of 2,000 years ago. Instead, it showed what it might look like if a bunch of previously out-of-work actors read a really bad script on camera. The movie grossed roughly half a billion dollars less than Gibson's flick and became to Christian film what "Plan 9 From Outer Space" was to sci-fi cinema. (I can't decide which is funnier: the website panning "The Judas Project" or the one ripping "Plan 9.")
While I was too busy laughing at "The Judas Project" to seriously explore the idea it endeavored to posit, the above passage from Matthew 19 has me wondering how Jesus would tailor that text to fit '04. Best we can tell, wealth and holiness were first-century synonyms. That more fully explains the dumbstruck disciples when Jesus said a camel could navigate a needle's eye more easily than rich people could earn eternal life.
If wealth indeed equaled righteousness circa century one, then help me fill in the following blank: "It's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a __________ to enter the Kingdom of God."
(To bring it completely into present-day patois, maybe we should change the beginning of the equation, too: "It's easier for the Red Sox to win a World Series than for a __________ to enter the Kingdom of God.")
Would Jesus target political conservatives, who say they're Right while virtually ignoring those Left behind or at the very least attaching quids pro quo in their benevolence to the very "least of these."
Would he finger liberals, who blow the trumpet of tolerance to drown out their promotion of permissive behavior; and who'll defend the defenseless all the way, just as soon as you're all the way out of a mother's womb?
Each of those two types carry too much baggage to be considered the modern-day equivalent to the first-century wealthy. It would have to be someone who, though certainly not perfect, would be rendered reverent, even by those who didn't share his or her parochial perspective. People whose pictures of piety are taken not with zoom lenses but wide-angle. I'm talking the surface saved, the brazenly holy, the...uh oh...
"It's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a church-goer to enter the Kingdom of God."
Now that would make a great movie.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Hand in Glove
Amy has often said during our 15 years together, "You have the weirdest friends." It's a difficult point to argue on its merits, but I'm still usually able to muster some catty retort, such as, "Present company included."
What she really means is that, for whatever reason, I'm a nutcase magnet. (See my previous column for incontrovertible evidence.) Society's slag sidles up to me with frequency and abandon. Quite honestly, it's a badge I wear with honor, though it's nothing to brag about, for it's not intentional. Probably more like a genetic defect that resonates with the world's third wheels.
Well, Amy got a taste of my medicine Easter Sunday night as she exited the church building into the chilly evening air. (I'd say the weather was unseasonable but that would suggest Abilene actually has seasons.) As she was getting into her car to go home, a woman approached and asked, "I don't suppose you'd want to buy these gloves, would you?" Having never been asked that question, Amy was working without a net at that point, replying, "What do you need?" The woman - somewhat long in the tooth but short in stature and fragrance - answered, "I only have 11 cents, and I need something to eat."
Amy told her she'd take her to get some food, thinking they'd find the nearest drive-thru. Turned out, she needed breakfast for the following morning. Easter in Abilene means capricious climes and a good excuse for supermarkets to close early. The only store open was the one with the highest prices (starts with "Albert" and ends with "sons"). Then again, you only know these things when you actually have money to spend. Any amount over free is exorbitant when you have nothing. And this woman had nothing. Amy had a lot, so she shared, telling her new acquaintance to get "whatever she needed," which in this case totaled $42.
The stuff in the basket was legit - bacon, eggs, milk, peanut butter. No scratch-off cards or cancer sticks or cheap liquor. Amy took her home, which is to say the place she lived, a small shanty on Abilene's north side which she shares with a couple she believes is mentally unstable. (No word on what they think about her.) She has a son, a Marine now living in Germany who was recently hit by a car and is now convalescing on the other side of the world. She said she owed the couple she stays with $10 in rent and doesn't get her social security check for another 90 days and, "You don't - oh, God forgive me for asking this - you don't have $10 I could borrow, do you?" Amy, not knowing for sure, opened her purse and, of course, sticking out of her billfold was the corner of a $10 bill. What a coincidence.
Having invested $52 and 90 minutes in this woman and what with it being Easter and all, Amy figured she had nothing to lose when she said, "Do you know what Easter is all about?"
"Oh, yes," the woman answered, "I know all about God and Jesus. Maybe I'll come over and see your kids sometime at Highland."
"That would be nice," Amy said, then added, "Would it be okay if I prayed for you?"
"Oh, I wish you would," the woman replied, "and could you also give me a hug?"
Amy did both and drove back to her home on Abilene's south side that she shares with a husband she's now convinced is mentally unstable and three civilian children, all of whom were at the moment safe and sound and sleeping comfortably under warm covers near a full fridge.
As she recounted her own personal Easter service, I couldn't help but think that two millenia after the first Resurrection Sunday, Christ had indeed been raised once again.
What she really means is that, for whatever reason, I'm a nutcase magnet. (See my previous column for incontrovertible evidence.) Society's slag sidles up to me with frequency and abandon. Quite honestly, it's a badge I wear with honor, though it's nothing to brag about, for it's not intentional. Probably more like a genetic defect that resonates with the world's third wheels.
Well, Amy got a taste of my medicine Easter Sunday night as she exited the church building into the chilly evening air. (I'd say the weather was unseasonable but that would suggest Abilene actually has seasons.) As she was getting into her car to go home, a woman approached and asked, "I don't suppose you'd want to buy these gloves, would you?" Having never been asked that question, Amy was working without a net at that point, replying, "What do you need?" The woman - somewhat long in the tooth but short in stature and fragrance - answered, "I only have 11 cents, and I need something to eat."
Amy told her she'd take her to get some food, thinking they'd find the nearest drive-thru. Turned out, she needed breakfast for the following morning. Easter in Abilene means capricious climes and a good excuse for supermarkets to close early. The only store open was the one with the highest prices (starts with "Albert" and ends with "sons"). Then again, you only know these things when you actually have money to spend. Any amount over free is exorbitant when you have nothing. And this woman had nothing. Amy had a lot, so she shared, telling her new acquaintance to get "whatever she needed," which in this case totaled $42.
The stuff in the basket was legit - bacon, eggs, milk, peanut butter. No scratch-off cards or cancer sticks or cheap liquor. Amy took her home, which is to say the place she lived, a small shanty on Abilene's north side which she shares with a couple she believes is mentally unstable. (No word on what they think about her.) She has a son, a Marine now living in Germany who was recently hit by a car and is now convalescing on the other side of the world. She said she owed the couple she stays with $10 in rent and doesn't get her social security check for another 90 days and, "You don't - oh, God forgive me for asking this - you don't have $10 I could borrow, do you?" Amy, not knowing for sure, opened her purse and, of course, sticking out of her billfold was the corner of a $10 bill. What a coincidence.
Having invested $52 and 90 minutes in this woman and what with it being Easter and all, Amy figured she had nothing to lose when she said, "Do you know what Easter is all about?"
"Oh, yes," the woman answered, "I know all about God and Jesus. Maybe I'll come over and see your kids sometime at Highland."
"That would be nice," Amy said, then added, "Would it be okay if I prayed for you?"
"Oh, I wish you would," the woman replied, "and could you also give me a hug?"
Amy did both and drove back to her home on Abilene's south side that she shares with a husband she's now convinced is mentally unstable and three civilian children, all of whom were at the moment safe and sound and sleeping comfortably under warm covers near a full fridge.
As she recounted her own personal Easter service, I couldn't help but think that two millenia after the first Resurrection Sunday, Christ had indeed been raised once again.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Postcards From the Edge
Sneak a peek inside my mental scrapbook from a week in L.A.
Sign Of The Times
Runner-up for the best sign I saw in So-Cal goes to a dry cleaner in West Covina, which had this on the marquee: "Come celebrate March Madness with our 'full coat press.'" The undisputed champion, though, has to be the "Adopt-a-Highway" marker along the 101 that was sponsored by a company called 1-800-FUNERAL. I'm not sure which angle fits more appropriately: the fact that so much of that organization's business comes from that stretch of the 101; or that if anyone actually attempted to pick up trash along that route, their loved ones would know whom to call.
Do We Really Need This Much Convenience?
A convenient store in Puente advertised "Barbecue, Video, Liquor, Realty." I'd love to hear the guy telling his wife when he gets home, "I stopped off for some beer and brisket, and they were offering a free movie rental with the purchase of a beachfront condo in Santa Monica. I thought you might be upset, so I got Prince of Tides."
Nominated For Best Performance In A Printing Store
Where else but Hollywood do you see soap stars in a Kinko's? I'm in the store on Hollywood and Vine last Friday when in walks Thaao Penghlis (pronounced "thaao penghlis"), the veteran soap actor who was involved in perhaps the most unintentionally hilarious subplot in television history. Penghlis not only played Tony Dimera on Days of Our Lives but also his identical twin cousin, Andre. Read that last sentence again. Maybe that's why he was at Kinko's. He was making a copy of himself...or was it Andre... (cue the diabolical laughter, the goth music hitting a crescendo, and CUT!)
Honesty Is The Best Policy...Nudity Is A Close Second
One of the strip clubs that litter Sunset Boulevard took any mystery out of the decision for the Christ-follower struggling with purity. On the sign above the buliding was a caricature of a seductive woman...with horns coming out of her head. In case you were debating whether to patronize such an establishment, invoking the highly-underrated "Jesus Hung Out With Sinners" clause; the answer is yes, Satan is in here.
Maybe It Was My Red Boots And Cape
Living the bulk of one's life in Nashville and Abilene doesn't adequately prepare one for the kinds of conversations one has in a place like Hollywood. After a Palm Sunday worship service at the Hollywood United Methodist Church (the one with the huge pink AIDS ribbon on the side of the building), I stepped into a market around the corner and had this checkout-line exchange with a young man who did not share my interest in the opposite sex:
GUY: "Are you Christopher Reeve?"
ME (slightly stunned): "He can't even walk yet, can he?"
GUY: "I don't know. I was just going to ask you for your autograph."
ME (to the cashier): "Can I get a receipt?"
---
L.A. was good for my anecdote reservoir, but it's good to see my family again. I hope they like the beach.
Sign Of The Times
Runner-up for the best sign I saw in So-Cal goes to a dry cleaner in West Covina, which had this on the marquee: "Come celebrate March Madness with our 'full coat press.'" The undisputed champion, though, has to be the "Adopt-a-Highway" marker along the 101 that was sponsored by a company called 1-800-FUNERAL. I'm not sure which angle fits more appropriately: the fact that so much of that organization's business comes from that stretch of the 101; or that if anyone actually attempted to pick up trash along that route, their loved ones would know whom to call.
Do We Really Need This Much Convenience?
A convenient store in Puente advertised "Barbecue, Video, Liquor, Realty." I'd love to hear the guy telling his wife when he gets home, "I stopped off for some beer and brisket, and they were offering a free movie rental with the purchase of a beachfront condo in Santa Monica. I thought you might be upset, so I got Prince of Tides."
Nominated For Best Performance In A Printing Store
Where else but Hollywood do you see soap stars in a Kinko's? I'm in the store on Hollywood and Vine last Friday when in walks Thaao Penghlis (pronounced "thaao penghlis"), the veteran soap actor who was involved in perhaps the most unintentionally hilarious subplot in television history. Penghlis not only played Tony Dimera on Days of Our Lives but also his identical twin cousin, Andre. Read that last sentence again. Maybe that's why he was at Kinko's. He was making a copy of himself...or was it Andre... (cue the diabolical laughter, the goth music hitting a crescendo, and CUT!)
Honesty Is The Best Policy...Nudity Is A Close Second
One of the strip clubs that litter Sunset Boulevard took any mystery out of the decision for the Christ-follower struggling with purity. On the sign above the buliding was a caricature of a seductive woman...with horns coming out of her head. In case you were debating whether to patronize such an establishment, invoking the highly-underrated "Jesus Hung Out With Sinners" clause; the answer is yes, Satan is in here.
Maybe It Was My Red Boots And Cape
Living the bulk of one's life in Nashville and Abilene doesn't adequately prepare one for the kinds of conversations one has in a place like Hollywood. After a Palm Sunday worship service at the Hollywood United Methodist Church (the one with the huge pink AIDS ribbon on the side of the building), I stepped into a market around the corner and had this checkout-line exchange with a young man who did not share my interest in the opposite sex:
GUY: "Are you Christopher Reeve?"
ME (slightly stunned): "He can't even walk yet, can he?"
GUY: "I don't know. I was just going to ask you for your autograph."
ME (to the cashier): "Can I get a receipt?"
---
L.A. was good for my anecdote reservoir, but it's good to see my family again. I hope they like the beach.
Friday, April 02, 2004
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
There might come a day when I don't think it's cool to tell my buddies, "I'm in L.A. this week." But I doubt it. Just 24 hours into my latest So-Cal sojourn, I've already seen enough to bloat my blog for weeks. (By the way, "Bloat My Blog" is the name of a smoothie bar here.) And for every champagne wish and caviar dream, there's a hearty helping of hopelessness.
I landed yesterday in Ontario, one of roughly 900 airports in the Greater Los Angeles area. After spending all afternoon advancing a quarter mile on the 101, I realized why there's so much tarmac: it's actually quicker to fly from LAX to, say, Burbank than it is to drive.
I eventually reached Camarillo, a working-class burg about 30 miles north of L.A., where I hooked up with my good friend, Todd Bouldin, now the senior minister at Camarillo Church of Christ. He hoodwinked me into speaking to his Wednesday night class on evangelism - probably as an example of how not to do it. Todd strolled in a couple of minutes before 7 in a white, short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned to the navel, khaki slacks, sandals, and sporting a tan that didn't come from a bottle but after shave that did. I told him, "I'd love to see you trot that look into the pulpit at North Boulevard (his home congregation in Murfreesboro, Tennessee)." He flashed that impossibly-toothy grin of his and began rubbing in the fact that he doesn't live in Abilene and I do. ("The Toothy Grin," by the way, is also the name of a smoothie bar in Camarillo.)
After church broke up, we found the nearest sushi bar and talked about life in the mission field, his field being southern California and mine being the Latin world via Continent of Great Cities. Turns out the very reason Max Lucado's congregation took the name "Church of Christ" off their sign in San Antonio is one of the reasons people often wander into Todd's sanctuary. Seems our fellowship hasn't made enough of a dent in these parts to have scared people off. So when they see the words "church" and "Christ" on the same marquee, they step in to take a look. This is a congregation of regular joes with a genuine faith trying to figure out what it means to be Jesus in this sea of humanity. Praise the Lord.
Two days away from setting back the clocks, the sun rose at approximately 2:45 a.m. Thursday, which was fine because I couldn't sleep anyway knowing I was going to play golf at the famed Bel-Air Country Club that morning with my Uncle Pat. He joined Bel-Air in 1957 under the aegis of none other than Bing Crosby, who along with Fred Astaire, Clark Gable, Randolph Scott, and later Sean Connery, James Garner, Bob Newhart, et al established Bel-Air as the only place for Hollywood's "in" crowd to hang "out."
It's also a great club to join if you're exploring ways to "outsource" excess cash. Excluding initiation fees and monthly dues (which I can't even afford to type in this column), you could drop several hundy at Bel-Air without even getting out of your car. You can have your car washed, your shoes shined, your swing smoothed, your clubs caddied, your pants pressed, your thirst slaked, and your appetite sated, all while having your keister kissed. (Matter of fact, there's a smoothie bar right off the 10th hole called "Kiss My Keister.")
When one of the assistant pros said a "Mr. Pitt" would be joining us, I thought, "Forget Mr. Pitt, where's the missus, Jennifer Aniston?" Turned out our "Mr. Pitt" wasn't Brad or even "Mr. Pitt," Elaine's boss from Seinfeld. No, our "Mr. Pitt" was the caddy assigned to us. Guy named Joe Pitt, a Bel-Air bagger since '72. Joe's a Vietnam veteran and lifelong Cubs fan. He's not, however, much of a fan of our current President. Said Bush lied about why we went to war in Iraq. I didn't agree with all of his political persuasions, but I figured 8 months in Nam gives him the right to think whatever he wants...and out loud if he so chooses. Joe was one of a couple hundred working stiffs employed by Bel-Air to cater to the pretty people. Princes and paupers pari passu. What a place. And what a shot! I eagled the first hole, a par five, after my second swipe of the day came to rest two feet from the hole. Got around in 76, one of my best rounds in a long time on one of the finest courses on the planet. In the group ahead of me was Al Michaels of ABC. I nearly had a David-and-Goliath moment on the 17th when my approach shot missed his temple by an inch or two as he made his way back up the 18th. I apologized, but afterward thought it might've been better for my career had it firmly embedded in his forehead. Not the way I wanted to ascend to the microphone of Monday Night Football, but you take what you can get. Later in the grillroom, Uncle Pat and I chatted him up for a few minutes. Pat said, "Al, you and Grant are in the same business." I thought to myself, "Sure, Al, you've done a few NFL games in your day, but have you ever done play-by-play for the Canadian Tour's TravelTex.com Classic? I thought not."
As we wound our way through Bel-Air's surreal scapes, Pat would point out the homes of various stars and dignitaries belonging to Bel-Air. He remembered a great story from Jack Benny, legendary entertainer and notorious tightwad. Benny found himself "paperless" while sequestered in a restroom stall at the club one day. When he heard another member enter, he asked if there were any extra rolls of toilet tissue on the vanity. The man said no. Benny then asked if there were any paper towels handy. Again the man said no. Desperate but undaunted, Benny asked, "Got two fives for a ten?" Priceless.
Five minutes and one world away from Bel-Air, Hollywood's hookers and homeless wandered aimlessly down Sunset Boulevard where it intersects with La Brea Avenue. I was equally as lost as I searched for a hotel where I could hunker down for a day or so in preparation for producing a video for Continent of Great Cities. You could take an aerial photo of any city block in this section of town and the combined worth of the people in the picture might not match that of a single automobile the Bel-Air member is paying a hundred bucks to have washed at that very moment.
Meanwhile, coming through my rental car stereo speakers was the all-new Air America Radio Network, an election-year attempt by the liberal left to take back some of the ground Rush Limbaugh has gained for the GOP.
They don't have an Abilene affiliate.
My head is swimming from this 24-hour foray into the City of Angels. The hoi polloi and the high-and-mighty. The hackers, the whores, the holy. Many who fall into more than one category. All crammed together into a couple hundred square miles. And somehow Jesus Christ is Lord of all.
I need a smoothie.
I landed yesterday in Ontario, one of roughly 900 airports in the Greater Los Angeles area. After spending all afternoon advancing a quarter mile on the 101, I realized why there's so much tarmac: it's actually quicker to fly from LAX to, say, Burbank than it is to drive.
I eventually reached Camarillo, a working-class burg about 30 miles north of L.A., where I hooked up with my good friend, Todd Bouldin, now the senior minister at Camarillo Church of Christ. He hoodwinked me into speaking to his Wednesday night class on evangelism - probably as an example of how not to do it. Todd strolled in a couple of minutes before 7 in a white, short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned to the navel, khaki slacks, sandals, and sporting a tan that didn't come from a bottle but after shave that did. I told him, "I'd love to see you trot that look into the pulpit at North Boulevard (his home congregation in Murfreesboro, Tennessee)." He flashed that impossibly-toothy grin of his and began rubbing in the fact that he doesn't live in Abilene and I do. ("The Toothy Grin," by the way, is also the name of a smoothie bar in Camarillo.)
After church broke up, we found the nearest sushi bar and talked about life in the mission field, his field being southern California and mine being the Latin world via Continent of Great Cities. Turns out the very reason Max Lucado's congregation took the name "Church of Christ" off their sign in San Antonio is one of the reasons people often wander into Todd's sanctuary. Seems our fellowship hasn't made enough of a dent in these parts to have scared people off. So when they see the words "church" and "Christ" on the same marquee, they step in to take a look. This is a congregation of regular joes with a genuine faith trying to figure out what it means to be Jesus in this sea of humanity. Praise the Lord.
Two days away from setting back the clocks, the sun rose at approximately 2:45 a.m. Thursday, which was fine because I couldn't sleep anyway knowing I was going to play golf at the famed Bel-Air Country Club that morning with my Uncle Pat. He joined Bel-Air in 1957 under the aegis of none other than Bing Crosby, who along with Fred Astaire, Clark Gable, Randolph Scott, and later Sean Connery, James Garner, Bob Newhart, et al established Bel-Air as the only place for Hollywood's "in" crowd to hang "out."
It's also a great club to join if you're exploring ways to "outsource" excess cash. Excluding initiation fees and monthly dues (which I can't even afford to type in this column), you could drop several hundy at Bel-Air without even getting out of your car. You can have your car washed, your shoes shined, your swing smoothed, your clubs caddied, your pants pressed, your thirst slaked, and your appetite sated, all while having your keister kissed. (Matter of fact, there's a smoothie bar right off the 10th hole called "Kiss My Keister.")
When one of the assistant pros said a "Mr. Pitt" would be joining us, I thought, "Forget Mr. Pitt, where's the missus, Jennifer Aniston?" Turned out our "Mr. Pitt" wasn't Brad or even "Mr. Pitt," Elaine's boss from Seinfeld. No, our "Mr. Pitt" was the caddy assigned to us. Guy named Joe Pitt, a Bel-Air bagger since '72. Joe's a Vietnam veteran and lifelong Cubs fan. He's not, however, much of a fan of our current President. Said Bush lied about why we went to war in Iraq. I didn't agree with all of his political persuasions, but I figured 8 months in Nam gives him the right to think whatever he wants...and out loud if he so chooses. Joe was one of a couple hundred working stiffs employed by Bel-Air to cater to the pretty people. Princes and paupers pari passu. What a place. And what a shot! I eagled the first hole, a par five, after my second swipe of the day came to rest two feet from the hole. Got around in 76, one of my best rounds in a long time on one of the finest courses on the planet. In the group ahead of me was Al Michaels of ABC. I nearly had a David-and-Goliath moment on the 17th when my approach shot missed his temple by an inch or two as he made his way back up the 18th. I apologized, but afterward thought it might've been better for my career had it firmly embedded in his forehead. Not the way I wanted to ascend to the microphone of Monday Night Football, but you take what you can get. Later in the grillroom, Uncle Pat and I chatted him up for a few minutes. Pat said, "Al, you and Grant are in the same business." I thought to myself, "Sure, Al, you've done a few NFL games in your day, but have you ever done play-by-play for the Canadian Tour's TravelTex.com Classic? I thought not."
As we wound our way through Bel-Air's surreal scapes, Pat would point out the homes of various stars and dignitaries belonging to Bel-Air. He remembered a great story from Jack Benny, legendary entertainer and notorious tightwad. Benny found himself "paperless" while sequestered in a restroom stall at the club one day. When he heard another member enter, he asked if there were any extra rolls of toilet tissue on the vanity. The man said no. Benny then asked if there were any paper towels handy. Again the man said no. Desperate but undaunted, Benny asked, "Got two fives for a ten?" Priceless.
Five minutes and one world away from Bel-Air, Hollywood's hookers and homeless wandered aimlessly down Sunset Boulevard where it intersects with La Brea Avenue. I was equally as lost as I searched for a hotel where I could hunker down for a day or so in preparation for producing a video for Continent of Great Cities. You could take an aerial photo of any city block in this section of town and the combined worth of the people in the picture might not match that of a single automobile the Bel-Air member is paying a hundred bucks to have washed at that very moment.
Meanwhile, coming through my rental car stereo speakers was the all-new Air America Radio Network, an election-year attempt by the liberal left to take back some of the ground Rush Limbaugh has gained for the GOP.
They don't have an Abilene affiliate.
My head is swimming from this 24-hour foray into the City of Angels. The hoi polloi and the high-and-mighty. The hackers, the whores, the holy. Many who fall into more than one category. All crammed together into a couple hundred square miles. And somehow Jesus Christ is Lord of all.
I need a smoothie.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
A League of Their Own
The Highland Church spent parts of two Presidential administrations exploring ways in which the roles of women could and should be expanded within the congregation. Here's my question: did we decide if it's biblical for a woman to play third base? 'Cause we need one.
The Highland softball team (nickname: "Flings") fell to 0-2 Tuesday night with a 35-8 setback to our brethren from Hillcrest. No, not the church football team. Or basketball or bunko. No, it was softball. Sort of. In fact, to say that game was a setback is like saying Reagan edged Mondale. We had more torn muscles than runs.
A quick recap: The interim coach - okay, me - arrives seven minutes before game time and finds a total of eight martyrs, which happens to be the minimum number required to field a team. Game on! Our ninth stumbles in as the lineup card is being turned in. Another player - let's call him "Phil Schubert" to protect his identity - apparates five minutes, no outs, and four runs into the game as a substitute for regular outfielder Steve Shewmaker, who was serving a one-game suspension for violating team rules: specifically, hitting the occasional cut-off man and routinely advancing runners into scoring position.
The 'Crest Fallen (as someone - okay, me - names them) jump on our beleaguered pitcher - okay, me - early, plating six in the opening frame. We respond with two quick outs, an infield single, and a weak pop-up. Obviously staggered by our rope-a-dope style offense, they score but twice in the top of the second. Our third baseman answers in the bottom of the inning by pulling not one but two groins - both of which, thankfully, were his own - while legging out a routine grounder. We're scrappy, if not limber. We're also still scoreless.
In the top of the third, we see our last legitimate chance of winning go by the boards and, not coincidentally, we see our 270-pound shortstop's right hamstring for the last time. (Anyone finding it is encouraged to please return it to the league office.) If they ever do a remake of that cult classic "Seven Faces of Death," they've got to use the look that poor Hillcrest baserunner makes when he sees Joel airborne and heading right for him. It could be worse. The runner survives; Joel's hammy, however, does not. So he moves to pitcher where his batterymate is our bandy-legged third baseman-turned-catcher. More like an assault-and-battery.
Heading to the bottom of the third, it's now 15-nil and the only thing left to play for is the opportunity to fire off a couple of winning one-liners at the expense of our opponent. In the third, we stage what, by comparision, amounts to a rally - a couple of seeing-eye singles and three infield errors, leading to our first three tallies of the night. During this offensive explosion, the other team begins complaining to the lone umpire about one of our guys leading off second base - a no-no according to the rules, to be sure, but an understandable gaffe I think considering we'd never gotten that far before. That leads one of our players - okay, me - to shout, "Pharisees 15, Publicans 3." Everyone cracked up - okay, me.
Top 4, our new shortstop - okay, me - and second baseman graciously give way to the other on a sharp grounder up the middle. It goes through for a hit, upon which one of those two - okay, me - announces, "The top of the fourth is brought to you by Ephesians 5: 'Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.'" I believe Eugene Peterson's "The Message" translates that passage, "Let the other guy have his way, especially if you don't have the energy to move to your left and get a glove on it." Or something like that.
In the top of the fifth, the 'Crest - nervously nursing a 12-run lead - starts up again with the bellyaching over alleged "rules violations." Apparently it's not okay for our jailer-by-day/first-baseman-by-night Paul Mc Burney to handcuff opposing players while on the basepaths. Go figure. So this one guy on their team won't let it go, and it turns out he's still hot over the "Pharisee" remark. It probably doesn't help that one of our guys - okay, me - mutters, "Why would that bother you? You go to Hillcrest." Everyone understands it's meant in jest - okay, me.
After five innings, we've somehow crept to within a touchdown at 15-8, with one inning to go. Hillcrest - making the most of their three outs and several more that we generously supply them - ekes out an insurance run, then another, then another. They wind up with more insurance than an oral surgeon with Carpal-Tunnel. It's the first 20-run top of the sixth in Nelson Park Church League Softball history. All in attendance - okay, me - agree this moment in time is what Jesus prophesied in Matthew 24 when he warned, "Let no one in the field go back to get his cloak (which in Aramaic reads "groin")."
As they bat around for the eleventh time, one of their batters jokingly fires a verbal salvo. Paul, "The Flippant Jailer," suggests we charge the plate. Their guy says, "You better not. I've got the bat!" To which one of our smart alecks - okay, me - retorts, "We're not scared. We've seen you swing."
The inning mercifully ends when the umpire - after an unsuccessful attempt at committing harikari with his home plate mini-broom - calls a runner out who arrives at the bag roughly two revolutions of the moon prior to the tag. That prompts one of our players - okay, me - to yell, "Dr. Kevorkian, moonlighting as a church league umpire." That brings what's left of the house down - okay, me.
Down 35-8 and only three outs to play with, what we need is baserunners...and several tubes of analgesic cream. There may indeed be a balm in Gilead, but at the moment we're more interested in finding Ben-Gay in Abilene. Alas, the inning and game ends when our wobbly backstop is tagged after wandering off second base, perhaps having spotted one of the muscles he'd misplaced earlier. Final score: Hillcrest 35, Highland 8.
So as I was saying, it's time to expand women's roles at Highland. Tryouts start Sunday between services. I can assure you this has been approved by the elders - okay, me.
The Highland softball team (nickname: "Flings") fell to 0-2 Tuesday night with a 35-8 setback to our brethren from Hillcrest. No, not the church football team. Or basketball or bunko. No, it was softball. Sort of. In fact, to say that game was a setback is like saying Reagan edged Mondale. We had more torn muscles than runs.
A quick recap: The interim coach - okay, me - arrives seven minutes before game time and finds a total of eight martyrs, which happens to be the minimum number required to field a team. Game on! Our ninth stumbles in as the lineup card is being turned in. Another player - let's call him "Phil Schubert" to protect his identity - apparates five minutes, no outs, and four runs into the game as a substitute for regular outfielder Steve Shewmaker, who was serving a one-game suspension for violating team rules: specifically, hitting the occasional cut-off man and routinely advancing runners into scoring position.
The 'Crest Fallen (as someone - okay, me - names them) jump on our beleaguered pitcher - okay, me - early, plating six in the opening frame. We respond with two quick outs, an infield single, and a weak pop-up. Obviously staggered by our rope-a-dope style offense, they score but twice in the top of the second. Our third baseman answers in the bottom of the inning by pulling not one but two groins - both of which, thankfully, were his own - while legging out a routine grounder. We're scrappy, if not limber. We're also still scoreless.
In the top of the third, we see our last legitimate chance of winning go by the boards and, not coincidentally, we see our 270-pound shortstop's right hamstring for the last time. (Anyone finding it is encouraged to please return it to the league office.) If they ever do a remake of that cult classic "Seven Faces of Death," they've got to use the look that poor Hillcrest baserunner makes when he sees Joel airborne and heading right for him. It could be worse. The runner survives; Joel's hammy, however, does not. So he moves to pitcher where his batterymate is our bandy-legged third baseman-turned-catcher. More like an assault-and-battery.
Heading to the bottom of the third, it's now 15-nil and the only thing left to play for is the opportunity to fire off a couple of winning one-liners at the expense of our opponent. In the third, we stage what, by comparision, amounts to a rally - a couple of seeing-eye singles and three infield errors, leading to our first three tallies of the night. During this offensive explosion, the other team begins complaining to the lone umpire about one of our guys leading off second base - a no-no according to the rules, to be sure, but an understandable gaffe I think considering we'd never gotten that far before. That leads one of our players - okay, me - to shout, "Pharisees 15, Publicans 3." Everyone cracked up - okay, me.
Top 4, our new shortstop - okay, me - and second baseman graciously give way to the other on a sharp grounder up the middle. It goes through for a hit, upon which one of those two - okay, me - announces, "The top of the fourth is brought to you by Ephesians 5: 'Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.'" I believe Eugene Peterson's "The Message" translates that passage, "Let the other guy have his way, especially if you don't have the energy to move to your left and get a glove on it." Or something like that.
In the top of the fifth, the 'Crest - nervously nursing a 12-run lead - starts up again with the bellyaching over alleged "rules violations." Apparently it's not okay for our jailer-by-day/first-baseman-by-night Paul Mc Burney to handcuff opposing players while on the basepaths. Go figure. So this one guy on their team won't let it go, and it turns out he's still hot over the "Pharisee" remark. It probably doesn't help that one of our guys - okay, me - mutters, "Why would that bother you? You go to Hillcrest." Everyone understands it's meant in jest - okay, me.
After five innings, we've somehow crept to within a touchdown at 15-8, with one inning to go. Hillcrest - making the most of their three outs and several more that we generously supply them - ekes out an insurance run, then another, then another. They wind up with more insurance than an oral surgeon with Carpal-Tunnel. It's the first 20-run top of the sixth in Nelson Park Church League Softball history. All in attendance - okay, me - agree this moment in time is what Jesus prophesied in Matthew 24 when he warned, "Let no one in the field go back to get his cloak (which in Aramaic reads "groin")."
As they bat around for the eleventh time, one of their batters jokingly fires a verbal salvo. Paul, "The Flippant Jailer," suggests we charge the plate. Their guy says, "You better not. I've got the bat!" To which one of our smart alecks - okay, me - retorts, "We're not scared. We've seen you swing."
The inning mercifully ends when the umpire - after an unsuccessful attempt at committing harikari with his home plate mini-broom - calls a runner out who arrives at the bag roughly two revolutions of the moon prior to the tag. That prompts one of our players - okay, me - to yell, "Dr. Kevorkian, moonlighting as a church league umpire." That brings what's left of the house down - okay, me.
Down 35-8 and only three outs to play with, what we need is baserunners...and several tubes of analgesic cream. There may indeed be a balm in Gilead, but at the moment we're more interested in finding Ben-Gay in Abilene. Alas, the inning and game ends when our wobbly backstop is tagged after wandering off second base, perhaps having spotted one of the muscles he'd misplaced earlier. Final score: Hillcrest 35, Highland 8.
So as I was saying, it's time to expand women's roles at Highland. Tryouts start Sunday between services. I can assure you this has been approved by the elders - okay, me.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Turn the Other Cheek...That Way They'll Never See the Left Hook
Don't ask my sons a question if you're not interested in honest answers. Last week at preschool, 5-year-old Nicholas got into a couple of scrapes with the only appropriate opponent - his best friend, Kyler.
At this point you need to know the difference in my two sons, which is best summed up thusly: Nicholas is our publican, Andrew our Pharisee. Nicholas would prefer to confess his sin, accept the punishment, then get on with the business of loving us in a restored relationship. Andrew, on the other hand, has a preternatural passion for knowledge, a passion I believe God will powerfully use to draw people to Him. But the desire to be right creates such angst during those very rare occasions in which he's wrong that his first reaction is to concoct some complex, trigonometric equation that will either justify his iniquity or wear you down trying to figure out what in the world he's talking about.
Back to last week's pugnacious preschoolers. Nicholas walked in after being dropped off by none other than Kyler and Kyler's dad - imagine Tyson giving Holyfield a ride home..."Sorry again about your ear. It really doesn't look that bad..." - and immediately told my wife in great detail the truth and nothing but. The missus, not wanting to discourage his openness and confession, reserved judgment for later. That's when the fun began.
Later that afternoon in the car, my wife asked the boys what they think they should do if someone hit them. Andrew said, "You should go find a grown-up and tell them what happened." Nicholas was having none of that: "I think you should hit 'em back." He didn't say that in a mean-spirited or emotional way. It was more like, "What other option is there?"
Andrew (with his wide phylacteries and long tassels dangling) was quick to counter, "Nicholas! That's not what God wants us to do!" To which Nicholas replied quietly but matter-of-factly, "I still think you should hit 'em."
God bless those boys. They have way too much of me in them to be predisposed to perfection. But how can you not love these guys? I have such appreciation for Andrew's desire to act justly. I adore the way Nicholas loves mercy. And what a challenge for us to teach and model what it means to walk humbly with our God.
I can already see how the kingdom will come into their lives in powerful but very different ways. For Andrew, it will mean eventually embracing grace instead of his own righteousness. I suspect he will live a more holy life than most but ultimately have to accept that it's little more than filthy rags in light of a perfect God. Meanwhile, Nicholas will need victory over the visceral. I can see him waging a lifetime war against his human nature when it comes to personal temptation and the sin of others.
Different behavior, same Savior. Andrew may struggle to be part of a kingdom that eagerly welcomes people who act like, well, his brother. Nicholas could very well struggle with feeling so fallible and witnessing how holy living seems to come more easily to Andrew. But what's wonderful to watch is how beautifully the boys model unity. These opposite ends of the personality spectrum are utterly inseparable. Best friends by a mile, warts and all. And they don't have a single test of fellowship between them. All they have is the same blood coarsing through their veins, and that's plenty good enough for them.
So if you slap my boys in the face, beware: you're just as likely to get a fat lip as a turned cheek. But whatever happens, you can bet they'll ride home together.
Psalm 133:1 - "How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity!"
At this point you need to know the difference in my two sons, which is best summed up thusly: Nicholas is our publican, Andrew our Pharisee. Nicholas would prefer to confess his sin, accept the punishment, then get on with the business of loving us in a restored relationship. Andrew, on the other hand, has a preternatural passion for knowledge, a passion I believe God will powerfully use to draw people to Him. But the desire to be right creates such angst during those very rare occasions in which he's wrong that his first reaction is to concoct some complex, trigonometric equation that will either justify his iniquity or wear you down trying to figure out what in the world he's talking about.
Back to last week's pugnacious preschoolers. Nicholas walked in after being dropped off by none other than Kyler and Kyler's dad - imagine Tyson giving Holyfield a ride home..."Sorry again about your ear. It really doesn't look that bad..." - and immediately told my wife in great detail the truth and nothing but. The missus, not wanting to discourage his openness and confession, reserved judgment for later. That's when the fun began.
Later that afternoon in the car, my wife asked the boys what they think they should do if someone hit them. Andrew said, "You should go find a grown-up and tell them what happened." Nicholas was having none of that: "I think you should hit 'em back." He didn't say that in a mean-spirited or emotional way. It was more like, "What other option is there?"
Andrew (with his wide phylacteries and long tassels dangling) was quick to counter, "Nicholas! That's not what God wants us to do!" To which Nicholas replied quietly but matter-of-factly, "I still think you should hit 'em."
God bless those boys. They have way too much of me in them to be predisposed to perfection. But how can you not love these guys? I have such appreciation for Andrew's desire to act justly. I adore the way Nicholas loves mercy. And what a challenge for us to teach and model what it means to walk humbly with our God.
I can already see how the kingdom will come into their lives in powerful but very different ways. For Andrew, it will mean eventually embracing grace instead of his own righteousness. I suspect he will live a more holy life than most but ultimately have to accept that it's little more than filthy rags in light of a perfect God. Meanwhile, Nicholas will need victory over the visceral. I can see him waging a lifetime war against his human nature when it comes to personal temptation and the sin of others.
Different behavior, same Savior. Andrew may struggle to be part of a kingdom that eagerly welcomes people who act like, well, his brother. Nicholas could very well struggle with feeling so fallible and witnessing how holy living seems to come more easily to Andrew. But what's wonderful to watch is how beautifully the boys model unity. These opposite ends of the personality spectrum are utterly inseparable. Best friends by a mile, warts and all. And they don't have a single test of fellowship between them. All they have is the same blood coarsing through their veins, and that's plenty good enough for them.
So if you slap my boys in the face, beware: you're just as likely to get a fat lip as a turned cheek. But whatever happens, you can bet they'll ride home together.
Psalm 133:1 - "How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity!"
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Sects Education
Hangin' ten on the web the other night looking for a Christianity Today article about Max Lucado, I found everything but. What I did happen upon was a reservoir vast in its vitriol and possibly hatred toward Max, Rubel Shelly, John York, even Royce Money - heresy makes for strange bedfellows, no? - dished out in heaping portions onto endless web pages by people I've never heard of implicitly declaring themselves defenders of the one true church. Makes for a rather pretentious business card.
This discovery came on the heels of an historic ACU Lectureship and my viewing of "The Passion of the Christ," both of which served to reinforce to me the centrality and singularity of Jesus. Thankfully, I had these Grand Pew-bahs to remind me it's not about Jesus at all; it's about preserving what's already been decided as the way things are done in church. Campbell saved future generations from eternal damnation by restoring the New Testament church...with the minor exception of those things which don't translate well to 19th century America. Holy kissing, deaconesses, et Alexander. And there's no need for us to reinvent what Campbell's already saved us from. Think of it as "once saved, always saved..." Just don't tell them that.
But a funny thing happened as I was saddling up my own high hermeneutic horse. A friend came to visit fired up about the most amazing week he'd ever experienced. His church in central Texas whose attendance only occasionally tops 300 baptized 60 people in one week - 60! - matching their total baptisms dating back to the Coolidge administration. And here's what's amazing. The doctrine didn't change. Nor did the worship style. Or the color of the bulletin. Instead, they got this crazy idea that their community of roughly 8,000 might need something - perhaps material, perhaps spiritual. So they asked. In person. They set off in pairs, knocking doors and offering Christ. And a frightening thing happened: people said yes. Now they face the always unwieldy proposition of assimiliating 60 unchurched and unschooled-in-Restoration-Movement-tradition babes into their previously-moribund body of 300. God bless them.
I hope I'm never guilty of the very thing of which I accuse the aforementioned attack dogs. I still believe we're not saved by being right. But if being right about not being saved by being right doesn't compel me to deliver Christ to my neighbor's doorstep, well that's just not right either.
This discovery came on the heels of an historic ACU Lectureship and my viewing of "The Passion of the Christ," both of which served to reinforce to me the centrality and singularity of Jesus. Thankfully, I had these Grand Pew-bahs to remind me it's not about Jesus at all; it's about preserving what's already been decided as the way things are done in church. Campbell saved future generations from eternal damnation by restoring the New Testament church...with the minor exception of those things which don't translate well to 19th century America. Holy kissing, deaconesses, et Alexander. And there's no need for us to reinvent what Campbell's already saved us from. Think of it as "once saved, always saved..." Just don't tell them that.
But a funny thing happened as I was saddling up my own high hermeneutic horse. A friend came to visit fired up about the most amazing week he'd ever experienced. His church in central Texas whose attendance only occasionally tops 300 baptized 60 people in one week - 60! - matching their total baptisms dating back to the Coolidge administration. And here's what's amazing. The doctrine didn't change. Nor did the worship style. Or the color of the bulletin. Instead, they got this crazy idea that their community of roughly 8,000 might need something - perhaps material, perhaps spiritual. So they asked. In person. They set off in pairs, knocking doors and offering Christ. And a frightening thing happened: people said yes. Now they face the always unwieldy proposition of assimiliating 60 unchurched and unschooled-in-Restoration-Movement-tradition babes into their previously-moribund body of 300. God bless them.
I hope I'm never guilty of the very thing of which I accuse the aforementioned attack dogs. I still believe we're not saved by being right. But if being right about not being saved by being right doesn't compel me to deliver Christ to my neighbor's doorstep, well that's just not right either.
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