Riggins Christmas 2019

Christmas Blessings from Mike and Linda Riggins

Each year our aging hulls accumulate a few more barnacles. We no longer sail as smoothly, but we are still passing through the water. Thankfully, 2019 contained few storms and many pleasant passages. Linda and I each have completed sixty laps around the sun. We are filled with gratitude.

Theo at nineteen months, Thanksgiving 2019

(Click on each picture to see an enlargement.)

We came back to Indiana in 2018 in large part to return closer to family. We did not, however, appreciate just how right the move would be. Linda drives to see Laura, Sam and grandson Theo at least once a week. I have found time to do the same a little less often. More than once Dan and Lauren have left early on Sunday mornings to retrieve my mom in Bloomington, then attended worship with us in Terre Haute. After a well-earned nap they go back to Indianapolis and we return mom to her apartment.

Dan and Lauren bought an historic house on the Upper Canal in Indianapolis

We joined in the celebration of Linda's father's ninetieth birthday in October. Dozens of relatives from literally coast to coast attended. Betty and Jerry remain active. The are an example and a blessing to many. I feel lucky to have had two outstanding father figures to follow.

Jerry, born at the start of the Great Depression, with the riches of his life

Linda started cleaning a few houses again in order to buy some nice furniture. The house—a major project when we took possession—has come around nicely. We have begun entertaining rather more than ever before, with most of my family (including the English Division) celebrating Thanksgiving here. 

The role of Linda's lifetime

We also came back to Indiana so I might serve the Central Presbyterian Church in Terre Haute. I have sat here for a few minutes trying to think of words sufficient to describe how grateful I am that the Lord sent us here. I can say only that I almost cannot believe how blessed I am to enter this chapter in my career. Linda and I have been drawn into a healthy, warm, mission-oriented family. I suppose most of us write these Christmas letters wearing rose-colored glasses. But I do not exaggerate when I say that I have not felt more useful in years.

 

Baseball Hall of Fame plaque for 3-Finger Mordecai Brown,

with Central Presbyterian in the background

We hope that your lives are going well, too. May this season of waiting for Jesus's birth—in both senses of that expectation—find you healthy, happy and optimistic. Yes, our nation suffers through a nasty, divisive time. But we can, if not completely avoid the circus, at least keep it at bay through the care of our families and friends. As grandson Theo and I said to each other just a couple of weeks ago: “Happy!” “Happy?” “Happy!” “Happy?” “HAPPY!!”

Grandparenting is the best gig on the planet.

Of Geese, Death and Humanity

I just listened to the fourth movement of Mahler's Fifth Symphony three times in a row. I had to; it was the only think I could think to do. I needed to process the way this day has been saturated in death.

A massive flock of geese resides in our neighborhood, year-round. Most mornings, right at rush hour, for reasons that must seem compelling to geese, they troop single-file across the four lanes of Wabash Avenue. I have watched this happen dozens of times. Every time all the drivers stop and put on their flashers. Today, I watched a *&@#^% driver plow straight into the midst of those magnificent birds. He hit about eight of them. Several died instantly. Others were cruelly injured and lay suffering in the road. Drivers got out of their vehicles and lovingly, tenderly carried the injured to the sides, laying them in front yards, their necks slowly writhing in an agony that was horrific and beautifully graceful all at once.

The *&@#^% just kept going. Probably a wise move. I know of at least one driver who felt like twisting his neck horrifically.

Later, I performed a committal service for a couple who died some twenty years ago. Their ashes had sat on their niece and nephew's mantel ever since. They, the cemetery manager and I were the only attendees. Usually performing such a service makes me feel useful. Today, I felt an aching, redundant sorrow.

It seems like each week another truck driver on Interstate 70 in Vigo County fails to slow down in time and plows into the rear end of some benighted soul's car, killing all within it. I read these stories and get a little angry. But I admit they have not made me nearly as angry, nor sad, as this morning did. I suppose if I personally witnessed such an incident it would. I hope it would.

As Mahler played I found myself needing to share not only my feelings, but my prescription. That prescription has two parts:

1. To ALL DRIVERS (including me): there is literally nothing so important that pops up on your phone that it requires your attention while driving. (I watched *&@#^% drive on with his phone in one hand resting in front of him on the dash board.) Put your phone where you cannot reach it while driving.

2. To ALL MORTALS (including me): life is short. Savor it. Life is a gift. Receive it. Life is precious. Treasure it—your own, and the life of all creatures whom God has created and called good.

USWNT

What one topic has completely dominated pastoral conversations over the past week or so? If you guessed the US Women's National Team you get a rainbow star.

From a man lying flat in a hospital bed: “I think it's hilarious that Megan Rapinoe told Trump she won't visit him in the White House!”

From a Facebook friend of many years: “What did you think of those players stepping on the American flag?!?”

Others have carefully led up to very tentative discussions of the players' sexuality, of their annihilation of Thailand, of their demand for pay equal to the men, even one guy who really surprised me with a private message containing a link to a player's website where she sells swimsuits she designs herself. I did not click on the link—not even in the spirit of research—because knowing her name and appearance I suspected I would see something that...well...uh...

Let's just say that the straight guy in me probably wouldn't have minded seeing whatever is there. But the pastor in me does not need to engage in that kind of thing.

I think we ought to be talking about the greatness of this team. But in the era of social media smack downs it seems we can talk only of everything else. So here are my deepest feelings and thoughts about everything else: I am not sure it is possible for me to care less. I don't care who's gay and who's straight. I don't care about the flag thing because it was an obvious mistake. I don't care who goes to the White House. I kind of care about the pay but reliable sources have different accountings for the income generated by the men and women and until that's sorted out I am not going to waste time worrying about it.

This is one of the greatest national teams in any sport of any time. They played hard and did not whine (overly). I am no soccer expert but I fancy I understand the game reasonably well. I could see only one weakness: direct runs or passes between the two center backs. EVERYTHING ELSE WAS ACES. This team attacked and defended with lethal precision. And what a joy to watch them. All of them. I cared more that they are OUR women than I did that they ARE women.

Isn't that supposed to be the point?

Ministers' Wounds

I often say serving as a pastor is like playing quarterback. When things go well you get far more credit than you deserve. When things go poorly you get far more blame. In one week last month I received two pieces of feedback. For one anonymous letter writer I could do no right. My preaching was devoid of intellectual content. My comments about using story-telling in my preaching—as Jesus did—meant I think I'm just as good at it as he. I am too brusque. I pick lousy hymns. I express conflicting feelings that one person cannot have at one time without serious mental illness.

Truly. And that's not all the letter contained.

On the other hand I received a lovely (signed) card from a member. Of my preaching she wrote, “I never fail to attend to every word—you make it so inviting—and I learn something every Sunday.” She went on to say that my writing style reminded her of Ernie Pyle and my speaking of the comedian Tom Bodett. Honestly, I still tingle a little every time I read that. I also feel a bit awkward, as I know she has exaggerated on both accounts.

I have made enough laps around the ministry track to know that my critic is a classic case of psychological projection. He or she is desperately unhappy and unconsciously has thrown all of that on me. I truly wish he or she had signed so I could reach out but again, I know enough to realize that was not what this person wanted. They just wanted to spew.

Over the years I have occasionally run into broken people hard enough that we both get hurt. I carry my scars. Thank God I have an endlessly supportive wife and have served mostly healthy churches with people whose love has healed me. Or perhaps I should say the love of God has healed us through each other.

But I know so many hurting pastors. Their wounds are deep; they feel betrayed, conned, isolated, and above all, angry. Well, “angry” does not do their feelings justice. They feel enraged. My heart goes out to them. One of my best friends in seminary, a funny, faithful guy who could have done many other things with his life, wondered until recently if accepting the call to ministry was not the biggest mistake of his life. Listening to his tense, raw voice say this on the phone made me cry.

But then he found a healthy church that loves him and his wife. He has come almost all the way back to his old, wonderful self. I praise God for that and draw this lesson from his experience (and mine):

Find a healthy church and dive into it. If you're in an unhealthy church, or no church at all, find a healthy church and dive into it. You will not regret it. God will bless you. God will bless others through you. What are you waiting for?

Where's Waldo

The guys in the choir at our new church play a game each Sunday they call, “Where's Waldo?”. Linda decided when we came last September to sit in a different place each Sunday. She wanted to create connections with as many people as possible. Add to this her relatively small stature--and the fact she usually comes in at the very last second--and it can get tough to spot her. So the guys always try to be the first. It's only rumor that the winner gets a red- and white-striped long sleeve shirt.

We probably had our biggest attendance yesterday since coming here except for Christmas and “Zoo Day” (my first Sunday when they wanted to see the new animal). Because she gave the Children's Sermon, Linda sat right up front. I don't know which choir guy won Waldo but I do know this: I could hear her singing. Make no mistake, the singing in this church is enthusiastic. I could hear her because she was so near, not for a lack of general volume.

And it was sweet. So sweet. We love this church. Its people have drawn us right into their circle. Many of them have entrusted me so deeply into their stories it sometimes seems impossible to believe we came such a short time ago. A few of the women have involved Linda in mission volunteering with them; others have become “lunch friends”. To worship Jesus with these people, in our beautiful sanctuary, and to feel welcomed onto the team makes us happy. And what a blessing to hear the only girl I've had for 43 years singing her heart out in the midst of such a healthy, welcoming congregation.

Thank you, God.

The Thin Line Between Achivement and Obsession

This essay builds on the video “I Was Broken”, about Katelyn Ohashi, found at theplayerstribune.com

A few years ago Linda and I flirted with joining an elite program for cyclists. The invitation was seductive. People already competing for state championships in age-group competition were telling us—especially Linda—we could really help their team, and maybe even occupy the top podium spots ourselves. It made us feel good about ourselves. And it seemed like an incredibly healthy lifestyle.

Thank God we saw through it in time.

Soon after we stuck our little toes in those tempting waters we began asking ourselves why: why spend all that time, money and physical and emotional energy on riding bikes faster? The training program would have precluded doing anything with our lives outside of our jobs. And cycling is expensive with a Capital E. Some of those folks spend more on bikes than we do on our house—including the mortgage. I can prove this.

And we got introduced to “supplements”. Not drugs, mind you. Oh no. That would be illegal and unethical. No, supplements are GOOD for you. Sure they are: when taken in medically tested amounts. But by their very nature supplements tend to occupy a shadowy area hidden from verifiable medical, scientific scrutiny. Put another way, people we liked and respected were putting things into their bodies that had unknown consequences.

I came to understand that the stereotypical bad temper of elite cyclists stems partly from supplements—and whatever other murky things they ingest.

But the true kicker came when I started asking the why question of others. Their responses ranged from blank stares (the best possible answer, I came to realize) to angry, prepared rebuttals that only proved I had not been the first to ask.

Contrast all this with the happy, healthy Katelyn Ohashi in the video referenced above. She learned the hard way what obsession with victory can do to a person. And one important difference: whereas Linda and I had each other and decades of life to draw on as we reconsidered our choices, she had only the fierce elite gymnastics community and her maybe ten years on the planet to “help”.

To all parents of prodigies and would-be prodigies: PLEASE think about your children's whole lives, their spirits, their emotional health, their desires (not yours), their future beyond hockey or dance or robotics or whatever. Find the right balance between achievement and depletion, fun and grim determination, life and not-life.