Being from Atlanta, and a Braves fan, October always brings me a sense of fulfillment or resentment about my hometown team. The truth is I was a Braves fan before my family moved from the coast of Mississippi to the capital of Georgia. I started young. I can still name the starting lineup for the Braves from 1982--I was in second grade.
In the summer, our lives dripped baseball like a cold glass of water on a sunny Mississippi afternoon. And each night as we returned home, my mom would flip on the television to the SuperStation. Intermingled with countless commercials from Georgia companies compelling consumers to buy outdated records, were the Atlanta Braves--and they were terrible. They did much more losing than winning, except for the occasional offensive break-out wherein they might score 18 runs. That would be soon followed by an a ten game streak of minimal scoring.
The only bright spot for the Braves was Dale Murphy, my hero. I loved Murphy! He was tall, great with the glove and batted in the four spot. I batted in the four spot, too. He was the clean-up man. He was the guy responsible for driving in the runs, producing the offense--he was "The Man." Every little boy wants to be THE MAN! I was no exception. Dale Murphy hit home runs, won Gold Gloves and won the National League's Most Valuable Player Award two consecutive years.
Boy, did I want to be Dale Murphy. What could be better than getting paid to play baseball for a living? On my first trip to Atlanta, I found an autographed baseball signed by Murphy under the bed of the hotel. A day later I got the real thing. Dale Murphy signed it for me before my family watched the Braves fold like a cheap accordion at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. I love those balls. Even today they sit alongside myriad Little League trophies my brother and I won as children. They are trophies unto themselves. Something about those balls belongs with my childhood--they are too precious of memories to be tarnished by "maturity."
Dale Murphy was more to me than a picture of a great ball player. When the Braves traded him as his career was coming to a close, I remember feeling hurt and betrayed (kids do not know and do not care about the business side of heroism). I pledged to never watch the Braves again. In search of their own redemption, the Atlanta Braves celebrated 'Dale Murphy Day,' shortly after the slugger retired. I watched every minute of it. The team showed a montage of highlights from Murphy's career. There were great catches, terrific throws, and of course, hundreds of homers. Any sane person would question why the Braves traded him in the first place. Then I remember very distinctly what Dale Murphy said immediately after the highlight reel. He said, "they only showed the good stuff, I probably struck out one-hundred times for every home run."
It was at that moment that Dale Murphy taught me his greatest lesson: humility. I learned in an instant that it was okay to fail at something, but it's not okay to stop trying. Murphy attributed all of his success to God, not his own abilities. Truthfully, I don't remember any plays Dale Murphy made, but I do recall what he said. And every time I feel a twinge in my ego to take a little credit for something I may have done well, I hear Dale Murphy in my ear telling me, "it wasn't your ability, it was God." I think that's what heroes are supposed to do!
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Monday, September 29, 2003
Mosquitoes
It was like a plague! Friday night my garage was the Red Cross for mosquitoes in need of a fresh blood transfusion. My wife and I spent the evening hours Friday staining a newly bought dresser and changing table for our soon-to-arrive tax deduction. We thought it would be a good idea to save a few hundred dollars and stain the dresser ourselves. So after work Friday, we tucked our dog away in the backyard, opened the garage door for fresh air and popped open a new can of Rosewood stain.
I thought the staining would take about an hour--it took three. It was a three-hour buffet of blood, and every mosquito in Houston must have been on the guest list. We sanded, scrubbed and stained as these flying vampires feasted on our flesh.
A funny thing happened while Rochelle and I allowed ourselves to be dinner for bugs. I was reminded of my childhood along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. My brother and I were children of the outdoors, it was the only place we wanted to be. From sunrise to sunset we longed to be outside and my legs are permanently scarred from the thousands of mosquito bites I endured as a child. A minute taken to put on insect repellent was a minute too long for a third grader. I would bolt out the door without any preparation and my arms and legs paid the price.
The memory of each of those scars is special to me. They remind me of drippingly humid afternoon baseball practices that soaked through sunset into evening. Those marks remind me of playing touch football under the glowing street lamps of El Camino Drive. The world, at least my slice of it, was a safer place then. The dark of night posed no greater threat than the noon-day sun. That's why my legs bear their scars. We would play baseball, ride dirt bikes, and throw footballs under the dawning moon of the Mississippi summer.
Childhood has to be the best part of life! For His own divine reasons, God calls us into His banquet table and let's us eat dessert first.
I suppose the mosquitoes of Friday night swarmed at a good time for me. I was reminded of the wonderment of my childhood as Rochelle and I prepare for childhood again. Hopefully, our hearts can regain the daring playfulness and moments of miracles that are so often lost in adulthood. More importantly, we hope that our child can experience a childhood of beauty and magic.
The early years of my life are among my fondest memories. I was blissfully ignorant of war, death, taxes and mortgages. All there was was summer, baseball and mosquitoes.
I thought the staining would take about an hour--it took three. It was a three-hour buffet of blood, and every mosquito in Houston must have been on the guest list. We sanded, scrubbed and stained as these flying vampires feasted on our flesh.
A funny thing happened while Rochelle and I allowed ourselves to be dinner for bugs. I was reminded of my childhood along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. My brother and I were children of the outdoors, it was the only place we wanted to be. From sunrise to sunset we longed to be outside and my legs are permanently scarred from the thousands of mosquito bites I endured as a child. A minute taken to put on insect repellent was a minute too long for a third grader. I would bolt out the door without any preparation and my arms and legs paid the price.
The memory of each of those scars is special to me. They remind me of drippingly humid afternoon baseball practices that soaked through sunset into evening. Those marks remind me of playing touch football under the glowing street lamps of El Camino Drive. The world, at least my slice of it, was a safer place then. The dark of night posed no greater threat than the noon-day sun. That's why my legs bear their scars. We would play baseball, ride dirt bikes, and throw footballs under the dawning moon of the Mississippi summer.
Childhood has to be the best part of life! For His own divine reasons, God calls us into His banquet table and let's us eat dessert first.
I suppose the mosquitoes of Friday night swarmed at a good time for me. I was reminded of the wonderment of my childhood as Rochelle and I prepare for childhood again. Hopefully, our hearts can regain the daring playfulness and moments of miracles that are so often lost in adulthood. More importantly, we hope that our child can experience a childhood of beauty and magic.
The early years of my life are among my fondest memories. I was blissfully ignorant of war, death, taxes and mortgages. All there was was summer, baseball and mosquitoes.
Friday, September 26, 2003
10 Reasons
Recently I was reading articles from one of my favorite websites, The Ooze. I was amazed by the honesty and accuracy of a great article by John O'Keefe, entitled, "10 Reasons Why Your Church Sucks."
O'Keefe recounts having lunch with a friend when the two are approached by a leader at his former church. This is the friend's response after being prodded by the church leaders' incessant and invalidating questions.
First he said, your church is totally irrelevant to the community. You all talk a good game, but you do not see the dynamic of the community changing around you. Second, your church is filled with poor leaders and over bearing bullies who believe the best way to get anything done is to frighten people. All you have are people who will tell you what to do, and not lead us in doing it. Third, your church has no vision. You guys are just dead in the water. Fourth, your church is old. Your church is filled with old people who have no reason to move ahead. They have more life behind them then they do ahead of them. Fifth, your church is inbred. The people my age in your church are all related to the older people so change is impossible. People who are part of the outside don't feel welcomed into the inside and voice an opinion; it's filled with mama's boys. Sixth, your church is more concerned about image than reality. You all seem to be more concerned with the condition of the building then with building the condition of your people. The carpet looks great, because no food is allowed near it. The stain glass is wonderful; because you spend more money on cleaning and maintaining it then you do on mission work. Seventh, your church sees no need for change. You are all happy in your fortress and are not interested in opening your doors to the outside. Evangelism is a dead concept, and community is only those inside the building. Eighth, your church doesn't share a relevant message for a relevant time. You are so concerned with doctrine, you are not allowing me to explore the faith and question the unquestionable. Ninth, your church doesn't care about me as a person, only as a checkbook. Over the time I was with the church I heard more sermons on how much I should be giving and not one on how much you were willing to give up. The only time I had anyone from your church visit me was when pledge time came around and you needed me to increase my giving. It got to the point were I felt no matter what I gave it would never be enough. Tenth, your church is all politics and infighting. Things only get done if you can muster enough political support form others to get your point to be heard, press your issues and lobby for approval. You have to wheel and deal to get anything done.
WOW! This guy fillets his old church. Unfortunately, his critique is all to familiar for many churches. The institutional church has been blessed with Jesus and oftentimes traded Him for counterfeit comfort. It's become a country club with a cross.
My prayer is that every church, everywhere continue to convert and re-convert the church of our Lord. It is the only way we can be the place of peace, love and purpose God calls us to be.
O'Keefe recounts having lunch with a friend when the two are approached by a leader at his former church. This is the friend's response after being prodded by the church leaders' incessant and invalidating questions.
First he said, your church is totally irrelevant to the community. You all talk a good game, but you do not see the dynamic of the community changing around you. Second, your church is filled with poor leaders and over bearing bullies who believe the best way to get anything done is to frighten people. All you have are people who will tell you what to do, and not lead us in doing it. Third, your church has no vision. You guys are just dead in the water. Fourth, your church is old. Your church is filled with old people who have no reason to move ahead. They have more life behind them then they do ahead of them. Fifth, your church is inbred. The people my age in your church are all related to the older people so change is impossible. People who are part of the outside don't feel welcomed into the inside and voice an opinion; it's filled with mama's boys. Sixth, your church is more concerned about image than reality. You all seem to be more concerned with the condition of the building then with building the condition of your people. The carpet looks great, because no food is allowed near it. The stain glass is wonderful; because you spend more money on cleaning and maintaining it then you do on mission work. Seventh, your church sees no need for change. You are all happy in your fortress and are not interested in opening your doors to the outside. Evangelism is a dead concept, and community is only those inside the building. Eighth, your church doesn't share a relevant message for a relevant time. You are so concerned with doctrine, you are not allowing me to explore the faith and question the unquestionable. Ninth, your church doesn't care about me as a person, only as a checkbook. Over the time I was with the church I heard more sermons on how much I should be giving and not one on how much you were willing to give up. The only time I had anyone from your church visit me was when pledge time came around and you needed me to increase my giving. It got to the point were I felt no matter what I gave it would never be enough. Tenth, your church is all politics and infighting. Things only get done if you can muster enough political support form others to get your point to be heard, press your issues and lobby for approval. You have to wheel and deal to get anything done.
WOW! This guy fillets his old church. Unfortunately, his critique is all to familiar for many churches. The institutional church has been blessed with Jesus and oftentimes traded Him for counterfeit comfort. It's become a country club with a cross.
My prayer is that every church, everywhere continue to convert and re-convert the church of our Lord. It is the only way we can be the place of peace, love and purpose God calls us to be.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Woeful, Wonderful Worship
Wednesday night is one of the best parts of my week. Our student ministry has a mid-week meeting called VineLife. It is essentially a youth praise and worship service. It's very simple in nature; we play a game, share prayer request and worship.
Occasionally, like yesterday, the worship leader and I will step out and introduce and new song. Last night we did two. One was great! The second wasn't so great. Few of our kids knew it, the leader had just learned it and it's not the easiest song to sing. The song wasn't bad, it was just new.
Surprisingly, no one said anything about this subtle stumble in our worship service. Well, that' not quite true. Several of them spoke later about how excited they were to learn it and they looked forward to singing it again.
I've never had an adult become excited after a service didn't go well. Somewhere in adulthood we forget that life with God is about passion and not the perfection of our (and others') performance.
That's the beauty of a child-like faith! Kids seem to know that life with God is going to have glorious stumbles and moments of magic and adventure. They don't expect Christianity to fit into the nicely ornamented charm-boxes so many of us call life. Kids instinctively know that faith is something to be lived, something that moves and flows. That's why they have so much trouble sitting still in church.
They know that Jesus is passionate, risky, wild and free. They know that with Jesus, nothing can be bottled or hermetically sealed. So when things don't go exactly as planned it's no surprise to them. They would never try to fit God into a DayRunner or financial statement. It's much more joyful to let the wind blow where it pleases.
As Dan Taylor puts it, "Mistaking this active life of faith for an institutionally backed and culturally bound belief system is similar to reducing the Mona Lisa to paint-by-numbers."
Occasionally, like yesterday, the worship leader and I will step out and introduce and new song. Last night we did two. One was great! The second wasn't so great. Few of our kids knew it, the leader had just learned it and it's not the easiest song to sing. The song wasn't bad, it was just new.
Surprisingly, no one said anything about this subtle stumble in our worship service. Well, that' not quite true. Several of them spoke later about how excited they were to learn it and they looked forward to singing it again.
I've never had an adult become excited after a service didn't go well. Somewhere in adulthood we forget that life with God is about passion and not the perfection of our (and others') performance.
That's the beauty of a child-like faith! Kids seem to know that life with God is going to have glorious stumbles and moments of magic and adventure. They don't expect Christianity to fit into the nicely ornamented charm-boxes so many of us call life. Kids instinctively know that faith is something to be lived, something that moves and flows. That's why they have so much trouble sitting still in church.
They know that Jesus is passionate, risky, wild and free. They know that with Jesus, nothing can be bottled or hermetically sealed. So when things don't go exactly as planned it's no surprise to them. They would never try to fit God into a DayRunner or financial statement. It's much more joyful to let the wind blow where it pleases.
As Dan Taylor puts it, "Mistaking this active life of faith for an institutionally backed and culturally bound belief system is similar to reducing the Mona Lisa to paint-by-numbers."
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