Where does God belong?

Traverse City has an incredible tradition of excellence in choral music. Mel Larimer, one of the godfathers of TC choirs in the public schools, died a few years back. His son and others created an annual choral festival in his honor. This year that festival blew up.

We have a deep divide in our country. I refer not to the conservative/liberal divide, but to the Christian/Not Church divide. Like the political divide, people do not communicate across the Christian/Not Church divide. They get their information from different sources with different slants. Each side mystifies other. Like in the political divide, each side in this one cannot believe THOSE PEOPLE think/believe/act the way they do.

This year, the Mel Larimer choral festival featured a work that included elements from different religions. Among these was an Islamic call to prayer that mentioned Allah by name. The composer wanted to create a piece that would advocate for peace. It caused a local war. A Christian church hosted the event. When the church's leaders learned of the call to Allah they asked the conductor to delete it from the performance. He argued to keep it, but eventually agreed not to. Then, out of concern that he not upset his students, he did not tell them. Finally, shortly before the opening performance, he announced the change. A Muslim girl in the choir became upset. Her family contacted a reporter. The local paper, always happy to rouse the rabble, put it on the front page with a totally misleading, incendiary headline.

Now we have almost daily letters to the editor from people on the Not Church side of the divide. Without exception they take a superior tone, scolding the church for being prejudiced, closed-minded, haters. The idea that a Christian church might choose not to permit the name of Allah to be extolled in its sanctuary does not strike these people as permissible. Christians must submit these days to progressive cultural values, among them the idea that all religions have equal value. (Of course, for many of these people the “equal value” is zero.) Truth is whatever works for you. Judgment can flow only in one direction: from culture to religion, never vice versa.

I have followed this story closely. The problem is not that the church asked not to have Allah mentioned, but that the choir director failed to handle their request in a timely fashion. I know him. He's a great guy. He's smart. He genuinely cares for his students and for the music. But he probably just wished the whole thing would go away. When it didn't and the clock ran out, he had a “Houston, we have a problem” moment.

But in the aftermath the Not Church folks are using this as yet another lever to get Christianity pried out of our communal life. It would be sad, unconstitutional and even tragic should they succeed. I ask not, “Can't we all just get along?” but, “Did I miss the meeting where we all decided together to boot Christianity from our civic life?”

God knows, we Christians are not perfect. Many of us defended slavery. Some of us are busy killing Muslims in Africa (and the Muslims are busily returning the favor). We're all hypocrites, Christians included. But we Christians have given deeply and foundationally to our society. Had we never allowed Christianity in we would have half as many hospitals and colleges, and an even coarser culture. We have the right to be Christians, particularly within our sanctuaries.

Christians: stand up for your beliefs but respect others and their beliefs. Others: please reciprocate.

Running Together

“I don't want to live my life this way.” I have repeatedly said these words all year. But “this way” does not refer to what many might think. Dominoes keep falling at the church I pastor. We have lost an elder and his family, plus our two worship music leaders and their families. Though I joke that I am an insensitive jerk the fact is, I have feelings. I hurt when I think about any of these people. I miss them and I regret my part in pushing them away.

But when I say that I don't want to live my life this way I refer to the training I started in February. The third orthopedic surgeon I consulted had finally diagnosed the debilitating pain I had felt for over four years in my calves. He referred me to Excel Physical Therapy. (I absolutely recommend Excel. Another P.T. business I patronized before did nothing for me. Call if you want the name of that place.) Excel got me going and at the end my trainer asked for my next goal. “To run a marathon without walking a step,” I heard myself say.

I had never consciously thought about running a marathon. But as soon as I said it, I knew it was true. So the work started. I did leg exercises, balance work, upper-body strength training, stretching, icing and running. Then I ran some more. For eight months I gradually ramped up mileages and frequency of running. By summer my long runs required the placing of water along the route in advance. They ate up my entire day. I calculated that if I had run all my miles from this year in a continuous path I would have gone from Traverse City down the east coast of Lake Michigan, then west to Mt. Rushmore.

I felt great most of the time. I was not tired. I loved getting really strong. Every so often I would have a fantastic run. I could eat as much as I liked. Even the blood clot I got in my lung in late August did not put me down for more than a couple of days. But I hated the relentlessness of it. It became a mental and emotional drag. I kept after it, through prayer and stubbornness. But I had no time to do more than my job at church and basic chores around the house. Forget about going to the beach. Or taking a bike ride for fun. Or staying awake later than 9pm.

Finally, race day arrived. I ran the marathon without walking a step. I got a really good time. And I am absolutely delighted it's over. I do not understand people who live this way all their lives, people always in training for the next race. What motivates them? In my darker moments I accuse them of insecurity, narcissism, neglect of their families. In my more charitable moments I recognize that I too have compulsions, things over which I have no control. Maybe we all do.

And besides, I have received a tremendous blessing. That blessing has empowered me to face the training and the church troubles with real peace in my heart. That blessing is the sure knowledge that I am not alone.

I ran wearing my father's ratty old IU baseball cap and a shirt of his from a 100-mile cycling race he and I rode together in 1983. I felt his presence with me, though he died 2 1/2 years ago. Friends from church popped up to encourage us along the route. I prayed a few times along the way and felt Jesus was with me.

Most importantly, my wife Linda ran beside me every step of the way. She had run with me all summer, after completing her first marathon over Memorial Day. She has become an excellent distance runner. Had she run her race she would have finished well ahead of me. But she held back and we crossed the finish line holding hands. I know that I am not alone. I know I never will be. With that kind of support I can face falling dominoes and blood clots. Praise the Lord for the web of connections in which I live my life.

And at your age!

To finish a longer run today I took a lap around the Traverse City Civic Center. I passed moms pushing strollers and toddlers on training wheels. A pretty young woman jogging in the opposite direction gave me a thumbs up. The track forms a circle. Just before I finished around she came again. Though I was nearing nine miles I straightened up and tried to look tough. She smiled and said, “Good going, and at your age!”

After I crossed my finish line a truly old man came shambling along. With one shoulder hiked above the other, he scraped his shoes on the asphalt. He wore earplugs. As we passed I clearly heard Magic Carpet Ride by Steppenwolf. He had it cranked. He was listening to a song about a rock musician taking a “little girl” (groupie) on a “magic carpet ride” (drug trip).

Maybe I am getting old, after all.

Last Friday I failed for the second night in a row to get to sleep. A dull pain that had first appeared two days earlier grew more intense. I could put my finger in the small of my back exactly where it hurt. Then it hurt more. Then I could not find a posture in which it did not hurt. Now, I thought God put our appendixes in the lower left abdomen. It turns out God put them on the right side. But because I misunderstood I felt a rising panic. I awakened Linda and said, “We have to go in. I think it's my appendix.” Thank God I was wrong. If I had not feared a rupture I probably would not have said a word.

After oral and physical exams, cat scans and a couple of visits from the vampires (for tests, they alleged) in came the verdict: I have a blood clot in my left lung. They guess it came from an arm or leg, then traveled through the veins to my lung, which trapped it. Turns out this happens all the time. Virtually all these clots harmlessly dissolve into the tissues surrounding wherever they stop. But this one was too big. As the Bible says it “set its tent”, stayed long enough to prevent blood flow to a small portion of lung. That little piece of my lung is dead. It will not regenerate, but my lungs will—in yet another proof of God's incredible design—develop added capacity to compensate. As long as I am a good little boy, take my drugs and follow my diet, I have no restrictions. Hence the nine mile run today.

Hence the young woman putting me in my old place. How humbling aging is. Only the most obtuse man can retain the illusion of control over his own mortality while laying in a hospital bed, wearing the “Summer Breeze” gown, and being told by the nurse to “roll over so I can stick you in your tush”. Another nurse, listening to my lower lung, said, “Hmm. Not much going on in this part.” I wondered whether my life insurance policy is paid up. I think this way as often as, well, I think this is the first time I have ever thought this way.

On the other hand, life is good. God is good. Today I got to go running. It is a perfect Up North day. The sky is a pure blue and the gentle wind was in my face on the homeward leg. I passed groves of cedar and pine, families on bikes, disabled people being rolled down the path by their helpers.

My roommate at the hospital had been incarcerated there for three weeks. His doctor had told him he would go home that afternoon. Then the “wound team” came to re-bandage his foot. As they took off the old gauze they could not help making sounds of dismay. I could smell the rot from fifteen feet away. “What? What do you see?” he kept asking. They paged a doctor. The doctor told him his last two toes have to come off. He won't leave the hospital anytime soon.

Getting older happens only to the fortunate. Living well while we age happens mostly to those who remember who really is in charge. Sometimes it gets extraordinarily difficult to believe in a loving God. I pray that my experience will prepare me for far sterner tests to come.

And in the meantime, I hope to savor every last mile my feet carry me.

A Wedding Gift to Laura and Sam

Here is the poem Jerry Smith (Linda's father and Laura's grandfather) wrote and recited at the wedding.

Laura, princess of parents' hopes and dreams,
you always wanted to dress up, never wanted to grow up,
but you did with the voice and beauty to lead a choir of angels.

Sam, son of two Muses, what an auspicious birth.
At a young age mastered a pedal car, Hot Wheels and
later a Mazda RX7.  You focused early energy on growing tall.
Now it takes size 14 shoes to keep you grounded.

As children, you crossed paths for the first time
at Camp Pyoca, each invisible to the other.

A decade later, in a basement room at the same camp,
you huddled together as staff under a blue tarp of togetherness.
Curious Sam, reaching out to explore, cut his finger on a ceiling tile

Spinning a web of entanglement for the summer and beyond,
Laura said, Let me help you with that nasty cut.
Soon, you were a duo, twosome, couple, pair,
two parachutes in the air, hoping never to come down.

Today you make a pledge to begin
a journey on earth.  May it be long and fruitful.

Each offers yourself freely to the other,
no strings attached.  You promise to love, honor,
and cherish the other, come what may.

We gathered here to celebrate with you,
wish you a life of abundant blessings and joyful surprises.

Laura, the Muses are giving you a precious gift.
Treat Sam with love and respect.

Sam, the Riggins are giving you a precious gift.
Treat Laura with love and respect.

When the other laughs, let your laughter bubble up
till you double over and fall on the floor.

When the other is sad, let sorrow hang from you
like Spanish moss from a live oak.

When your marriage ship sails
on a steady course through a calm sea,
find time to dream and plan new adventures.

When blown off course by stormy winds,
seek safe harbor and with a cup of cocoa
or a bottle of beer, reminisce over where you've been
and how far you've come together.

Remember to use these magic words in time of need.
            I didn't mean to.
            I'm sorry.
            Please forgive me.

Seal them with a kiss
before you go to sleep at night
and when you wake in the morning.

You are fortunate to begin your journey together
in the same faith.  It provides a strong foundation
for your marriage.

Keep each other in prayers as steeped in care
as your loved ones' hearts and hands have cared for you.

God willing, sixty or seventy years from now,
you will hold hands, reminisce at lakeside,
listen to the yodeling loons
and admire a striking sunset.

May it be so and may the years between
fill you with the generous love
you now share with us and each other.

Wedding Day

Strong coffee, mimosas, kringles (as they call them in Wisconsin, stollens elsewhere) and bagels for breakfast. Friends from various life stages surrounding us. Our children and their friends with us. We started our day like that. It got better.

Linda, Laura and her bridesmaids left for the wedding site mid-morning. They needed to set up the decorations, the games and a special table. The rest of us sat on the deck watching two mamas with their train of a dozen ducklings paddle by, the cloudless sky, each others' aging but still-beloved faces. Nieces and nephews splashed in the lake. Cousins kidded each other between extended gazes into their smart phones.

Mid-day brought the invitation to come into my daughter's bedroom to view her in her dress. She stood in front of the mirror. As I approached from behind her eyes sought me out in the reflection. We smiled. I knew I should cry but I felt deep happiness. She wore the emblem of pure, true love I had seen on dozens of young women over my years as a pastor. This time it was my own flesh and blood, the apple of my eye. The fact that her mother had worn that same veil thirty-one years before added to the joy.

People came and went. An opening in the schedule popped up; I climbed into a kayak and stroked the length of the lake. There, at the nature preserve owned by a local tribe, sat this year's eagle nest in the fork of a tall red pine. As I drifted close a female soared low over the water, fishing. Two eaglets, now almost as large as their parents, sat in the nest. They preened and posed. The mother came back with a fish in her talons. She tore it with her beak and tossed part to each of her brood. I paddled away, marveling at God's creation.

The time came to suit up; I ironed my shirt and donned charcoal pinstripes and black shoes. Linda came out in her new dress. To her mother's dismay, her sister-in-law had straightened her hair. I thought she looked like a million bucks. Our daughter climbed into our car and we became her limo service to the ceremony. We said we thought we should have profound things to say to each other, but all we could think of was how happy we were.

Most of the guests had assembled by the time we arrived. Our little family of four gathered, our last time as a discrete unit, and had our picture taken. Linda and Dan left together. Through the screened porch we watched the ushers and groomsmen usher the older generation—including our son walking his grandmother down the aisle. Suddenly the time came to escort my daughter. All too soon we arrived at the front, I shook Sam's hand, hugged and kissed her, joined their hands, and sat.

The hot sun beat down in the still air as the minister spoke. Linda's father offered an original, heartfelt poem. Dan read a scripture. Sam's sister played the flute. Linda cried happy tears. Before we knew it Sam and Laura faced each other and made their promises, exchanged their rings, kissed. Laura pulled him down and made him kiss her again.

Pictures and more pictures.  (Thank you, Carlsons.)  We finally went into the hall for a blessing, toasts, knives clinking on glasses, and an excellent meal. The claustrophobia that hits me in noisy, crowded places eventually drove me outside. I sat at the back of wedding chairs beside that special work table, which my dad had built for his garage. Laura wanted to use it for programs and bubbles. I ran a hand over the rough boards, expertly joined. I finally cried, but only a little. Not for the first time I thought, “Oh dad, why couldn't you have been here?” But then I thought again that maybe he was. I went back inside.

Cupcake time. Laura and Sam had them in lieu of a big, fancy, ultimately uneaten wedding cake. He smeared her chin a little; she got frosting from his chin to his cheeks. The bride and the groom danced first, then came my turn. She chose Stevie Wonder's You Are the Sunshine of My Life. I used to sing it to her as she went to sleep. Then nobody danced for the longest time. Finally, Frank Sinatra's recording of I Got You Under My Skin played. Five couples from Northern Lakes Church had the floor to ourselves. It was a wonderful, serendipitous moment—though we did have to tell Bill Scott that he was supposed to dip Rene, not the other way around.

Back out on the lawn guests were playing Corn Hole and other camp games. People began drifting away into the night. A deer tentatively stepped onto the grass. We loaded games and plates into our vehicles. Brother Matt helped mom into his van. Sam and Laura left to applause. I settled the bar tab.

We drove back to the compound. One by one we went to bed. My brother-in-law Paul tried to teach my son and his friend Tim how to play a video game that none of them fully understood. They laughed like exhausted, happy, comfortable-with-each other guys. Finally they all went to bed—except Dan. He came over and sat next to me. He handed me a book and said, “I wanted to give this to you. Granddaddy was reading it before he died. Here is his bookmark, still in the same place.” Then he hugged me and went to the other house, where he will sleep with his cousins.

Thank you, God, for this day. I really don't want it to end. But now it must.

I began coaching Odyssey of the Mind teams in 1995. I am reasonably certain I never will again. Before I explain, allow me to make a few points.

First, I'm getting old. The time has come for me to step down.

Second, the young people I have coached—especially this year—have been delightful. You have given me far more than I have given you.  I have loved working with you. As near as I can figure I have coached something like 50 of you. Many are Facebook friends who will read this. You are wonderful. Thank you for letting me take part in your lives. I mean it.

Finally, this is not sour grapes. By the grace of God we have met with great success. We have finished 6^th, 10^th and 24^th in the whole, wild world. We have won four state championships. I am proud of this. And the reason I write it is not to brag, but to prove that my point below comes not from envy, but from experience.

Finally to my point: the second reason for my retirement is the cheating I see condoned by the OM system. I know these are big, angry words. I have prayed about whether to convey them. In the end, I believe somebody needs to say it and there are few people better qualified to do so.

Over the years I have watched certain teams cheat again and again. I refer not to inadvertent breaking of the rules. Anybody can make a mistake—especially in an endeavor as detailed and pressure-packed as OM. Six weeks ago I became aware that something I had done on behalf of my team might have broken the rules. I asked the powers that be and learned that indeed I had. I immediately took action to rectify the situation. No, I refer to intentional, cynical cheating. And I refer to an organization that enables it.

This weekend I watched as the coach of another team tried to rally her kids. She and they (older teens) were crying.  They stood in line behind a team from one of the schools that repeatedly cheats. Every person in the room—coaches, youth, parents, judges—could tell at a glance this other team had broken the rules. To take one of any number of violations, every member of every team signs a paper that says they have not spent more than a specific number of dollars on their presentation. The team in question had obviously spent seven, ten, twelve times more than the limit. They also employed a technical device explicitly prohibited by the rules. But because they are very well connected to the OM hierarchy, they got away with it.

OM is supposed to value creativity. And it does: it values creative cheating, Again, I know these are strong words. I do not believe the people in the OM hierarchy mean for one second to enable cheating. But they do. Their whole positive-thinking, self-esteem, “It's all about the kids” mentality blinds them to a fundamental fact: the system they have created rewards cheating. Uber-competitive people from uber-competitive places are taking advantage of their naiveté. Unless they somehow develop the courage to enforce the true spirit of their rules, this will never change.

And that is really, really sad.

Hater? Really?

I recently got labeled a “hater” by a person who has never met me and—as far as I can tell—does not understand my thoughts on the issue in question. It happened on Facebook. Somebody had shared one of those posts by a Foundation for This or That. The post took one side of the issue without concern for people literally losing their lives on the other side. I asked that we think about them, too, in what I tried to make a light-hearted manner. “Hater” was my reward.

I pastor a congregation in the Presbyterian Church (USA). This church is falling apart. And I insist that what's killing my church is not the issue everybody thinks we're fighting. On the surface we're fighting about the ordination of gays and lesbians to church leadership. (And coming soon to a Presbyterian Church (USA) congregation near you: an argument over gay marriage.) Sure, these issues divide, but I insist we're fighting something far deeper. We're fighting over whether we can see people with whom we disagree as beloved children of God.

Groucho Marx once said, “I would never join a club that would have me for a member.” Well, we all belong to the same club: humanity. Sadly, we all share the same fallen human nature. I give you a few examples of the consequences:

1. By FAR the biggest sexual sin I encounter in ministry is not homosexuality. Gay and lesbian issues almost never come up in the church I pastor. No, the “winner” is promiscuity. Sleeping around. It gives us adultery, broken marriages, teen pregnancies. All three have happened repeatedly in all three churches I have served.

2. Certain issues do not permit compromise. Even wise people of good will cannot find a middle ground. Gay ordination and marriage are good examples, as is abortion. Sadly, people who have strong opinions on these and others likely will have to find a church that takes the same sides they do.

3. Electronic communication empowers us to treat others with contempt few of us would dare to use were we talking face to face. Conservatives and liberals are equally adept at leaving carnage in the wake of their tweets, emails and newscasts. (Bill Maher and Rush Limbaugh have a lot more in common than either could admit, as do Fox News and MSNBC.)

I want to follow the example of Jesus when it comes to dealing with poopy people. As I read the Gospels, he stood up for God's truth AND he treated all kinds of people with loving respect. As a fallen human being, I will fail in this, but I hope to God I can find the spirit to keep trying. This is not weakness, but strength.

If you have read this far, don't know me, and do not know which side of the issues referenced I take (and believe me, I take one on every last one of them), good. Please think about what I have written, not which side I take.

4th of July

Fourth of July at the lake

I sit alone on the swing, down at the water's edge.

This morning I rode past miles and miles of pine forest, broken by the occasional open ground where once a lake was and glimpses of blue where one still is. I pushed myself hard. A young woman, a strong rider, appeared well in front of me on a straightaway. My dark side kicked in; I geared down and accelerated. It took more than a mile but I passed her. “On the left,” I said loudly then, as I drew ahead added, “Good morning!” in the cheeriest, calmest voice I could manage. She answered, “Perfect day!” and stood on her pedals to try to match my pace. I did not let up until I could no longer see her in my rear-view mirror.

If you want to know what makes me tick, this would be an excellent incident to ponder.

Once back at our lake house I ate sliced turkey and fruit salad while pounding down glass after glass of water. I took a nap. Then I headed down to the lake with my book.

The occasional firecracker pops along the shore but the crowds have dwindled. Two young ducks paddle by, the one behind softly calling, “chup chup chup chup chup.” Cotton ball clouds roll by in the hazy summer blue. A great blue heron glides down into the shallows and stands mortionless, fishing. The wind and waves roll in over the water. The smell of lilies and lake grass washes over me. Time erodes.

My wife and her father sit on the dock directly in front of me. They talk but I cannot make out their words. They sit in the same posture, stooped forward with legs splayed open. They have much in common. Both feel the water is too cold for swimming yet. Both love to name and to understand the various birds' behaviors. Both work at any job with relentless intensity until external forces make them stop. Both have finely-tuned senses of justice. Both will love the people they love come what may, forever.

It hits me. My daughter and I have a few important personality differences. But we are every bit as much alike as my wife and her father. Maybe thirty years hence my daughter and I might sit together on that dock. Maybe her husband will observe us with fond tolerance. Maybe her children, though grown, will be here with us, even as mine now are.

May God grant it.

Sunset Years

Linda and I saw the Old Town Theater's production of On Golden Pond. It was a matinee and a full house. Without question we--at 52--were among the ten youngest people in the place. It has been years since we attended a performance of any kind for which the audience was so respectful. Though it was amazing to see all the smart phones come out at intermission. And near the end, when the two leads spoke more quietly, an elderly woman behind us said, in her best cranky, hard-of-hearing shout, "I CAN'T HEAR A DAMN THING."

Back to the smart phones. I get how helpful they can be in some circumstances. But the posts I see on Facebook belie just how profound many people's usage is. ("Two tamales and a cosmo for Girls Night Out." "Just saw a dog!" "OMG!! Go to barbiemakeuplesson.com!!!")

As I often say, I am not looking for ways to be MORE connected.

On Golden Pond tells how a couple live out their love for each other over the long haul. The story takes place during one summer at their lake house. Author Ernest Thompson created two wonderful characters: the cranky patriarch with a good heart, and the long-suffering yet strong matriarch. It is their love, earned through years of compromise, that is the real star of the show. The aged audience with which we saw the play understood this very well indeed.

Linda's family has had a lake house since before we started dating in 1976. When I came on the scene they had no telephone, no water into the cottage and a privy. Now they have wireless Internet, land-line phone service and when you Google Earth their waterfront you see somebody sitting on the dock apparently talking into a cell phone. It is hard to explain the romance that has been lost. But I feel it all the same.

It turns out that being connected has nothing to do with technology. It has everything to do with spending time together, getting to know each other warts and all, and working to love. Whether you are at the play, the lake house or in the car, put down the smart phone and back away slowly. Try looking somebody in the eye. I'll try, too.