I've been thinking - inspired, really, by Tim Pawlenty, former governor of Minnesota who is also a former candidate for president.
Pawlenty - at least I think it was Pawlenty; so many of those Republican candidates look so much alike - issued a challenge to, I supposed, anyone in America.
He said if anyone could provide a plan written by the President, Barack Obama, on anything having to do with the economy, he'd come cook dinner for you. Or cut your grass. Only he limited that grass-cutting offer to just one acre if it was presidential candidate and former Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney's massive estate.
I was thinking about this, wondering about how to save the American economy, when it hit me. In fact, it was so simple, I almost hesitate to share it. It's so simple, I can't believe no one has offered this up as a solution.
Who has all of our money?
Apparently, the Chinese. At least, that's what we're led to believe, and who am I to doubt? I mean, it's not like I have any money.
And how many Chinese are there? Something like 1.3 billion (according to that completely trustworthy resource, Wikipedia).
So if we could just get, say, $10 from every Chinese, we'd have something like $13 billion dollars. Hmm, that may not be enough. So let's throw in India, with 1.2 billion, and go after another $10 per Indian, meaning another $12 billion, added to the previous amount and now we have $25 billion ...
Wow. This saving the economy isn't going to be as easy as I thought. $25 billion just doesn't go as far as you'd think it would when we're talking about being $14 trillion in debt, or whatever outrageously astronomical sum of money they tell us this country is in debt.
But anyway ... how do we get our money back from the Chinese?
"As seen on TV."
Well, that's where it started. But I was thinking, what do we still do better than anybody in the world?
Catalogues. Mail order. Late night infomercials.
Billy Mays. Ronco. L.L. Bean. Bose. Hemmlecher-Shemleckler, or whatever that catalogue is that I always see on airplanes and think to myself, "I'd really like to have one of those" but thankfully the flight ends before I actually go through with it.
And of course, Victoria's Secret.
We take all those, put them on a plane, and drop them in every city, town, village, hamlet, farmhouse, mountain-top temple in China (oh, and India - I almost forgot), and wait for the orders to come rolling in.
Slice 'n Dice. Awesome Auger. The Waterproof Pet Seat Cover. Pajama Jeans.
Kymaro Bust-Up-Cups. Veg-o-matic. My Booty Belt. The Groutinator.
We laugh at them, but still, down deep somewhere, don't you secretly hope they work? That it really is that simple?
We flood the Far East with info-mercials and catalogues like we did our bank notes.
And pretty soon, all that money comes flowing back here.
You know what's really cool about all this? Most of that stuff is made over there anyway, so we don't even have to make it! We just process the orders, box 'em up, ship them out, and click the ol' Pay Pal button.
Before long, China and India is just as broke- financially and morally - as we are.
And it's a win-win for everybody.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Big Tent Revival - the story
So, as I was saying in the blog The Quality of Friendship is Not Changed, one night Dan, Keevil, Jimmy and I somehow ended up going to this tent revival near the old Fairgrounds in Atlanta for a healing service.
I did stuff like that back then.
Anyway, we drive down to this big field where the huge circus-style tent had been erected, park in the field among all the other cars, and make our way inside.
The inside of the tent was kind of rectangular. The stage was in the middle, but closer to the south side of the middle of the tent. There were rows and rows of these old wooden folding chairs fanning out from the front of the stage.
Up on the stage was a choir, and a bit of a band, and a music director, and of course the preacher/prophet/healer.
There was a ramp running parallel to the stage that led up to a platform that was on the same level to and connected to the stage, and a similar ramp that ran from that platform back down to the ground. At the bottom of the ground on the far side was a big barrel, and inside the barrel there were crutches and stuff like that; leftovers, I guess, from previous healing services and the stuff left behind by formerly crippled people who no longer needed these aids.
What I learned was that the most important person in any service like this was the organist. Even all these years later, I can remember just how good this guy was. It was like a Hammond B3 organ, and the sound filled the tent.
And he set the tone. Whatever the mood inside the tent was supposed to be was established by the organist. It was like the soundtrack to a movie that you don't really pay attention to because the actions is so riveting, except that you know the action is riveting because the music tells you that it is.
So there's singing, and some preaching, and the people are exactly the kind of people you'd probably expect to be there (present company excepted, of course!). The crowd looked economically challenged; lots of overweight women and rail thin, leather-skinned men. Mostly they were older.
But they were mixed in race, which says something. These were people who came looking for hope, something to believe in, something to make them believe that life had meaning.
The organist was black; the preacher/prophet was white. Remember, this is early 1970s, so that was still significant. Even in my own church, you'd never have seen racially mixed worship. (see Conflict of Growing up Southern Baptist).
Anyway, Dan, Keevil, Jimmy and I are kind of hanging out in the back. We decide to walk around the tent, staying close to the edges. The tent wasn't full, so staying back by the edges kind of put us in shadows where no one really noticed us.
We walked around, listening, and made our way back behind the stage. No one stopped us - maybe because we were four middle-class looking white guys.
Behind the stage there was an ambulance, backed up to the back of the stage with its rear doors open. The stretcher was out of the ambulance and standing just behind the vehicle, and off to the side there was this little old white woman, wearing what looked like a thin hospital-issue robe over hospital issue-night gown. She was kind of peering out in a gap in the stage, looking out at the audience.
We finished walking the perimeter, and went back to see the finish. After all, we wanted to see the healing. I wanted to get as close as possible, so we moved kind of halfway down to get in the middle of the audience, as best we could.
That was when the preacher/prophet began to talk about healing. The organ music started low and slow, but as the preacher got warmed up to the subject, the louder and more excited the music got. The sense of anticipation began to grow.
(To this day, no matter what church I'm in, whenever I hear the music start to play quietly while the preacher prays, usually just before he asks people to consider making a decision, I think of that night in the tent.)
And then the preacher/prophet said something to the effect of, "Now, who came to see a miracle? We have a woman with us, from Jackson, Mississippi, who has ... (some debilitating disease or was the victim of some accident, I can't remember) ... and has been confined to bed for the past seven years!"
At this point, the paramedics wheeled out the stretcher, rolling it up the ramp to the platform in the front of the stage, and on it - you guessed it - that little old lady in the hospital gown!
So the preacher/prophet talks about harnessing God's healing power, and he's sweating now, and talking about this poor, poor "sister,'' and the organ music starts building again, and then preacher/prophet puts his hands on this poor woman and bounces her up and down a few times, like he's really struggling with her, or really feeling the power flowing through his arms, and she's convulsing and kind of flopping and the people are screaming and clapping and crying and the organ gets to the crescendo and ...
She sits up! She sits up and some men help move her to the side of the stretcher! She looks like she's trying to stand up, and the men - aids to the preacher/prophet - help her up, and the preacher/prophet stands behind her with his hands thrust in the air, fingers stretched toward heaven, eyes looking upward as if he's frozen, and suddenly ... she takes a step forward! And another! She's walking like Frankenstein's monster, but she's walking!
And the place goes crazy. The organ is sounding like the heavenly chorus itself has descended into this tent in an empty field at the end of the Lakewood Freeway! Handel's Messiah had nothing on this, never got a reaction like this!
The curse is broken! She's walking, for the first time in seven years!
Except, of course, for those few minutes behind the stage when Dan, Keevil, Jimmy and I saw her standing up and peering at the audience. But then, maybe this was just a creative re-enactment of the time she actually did receive her healing! I mean, it can't be easy to find a woman from Jackson, Mississippi, with such a debilitating injury/illness that she hasn't walked in seven years!
Regardless, the crowd went wild. I remember this tall, skinny old farmer-looking man next to us who jumped to his feet and started dancing, swirling around in circles, kicking over chairs, his hands raised in the air, talking in tongues. ... A rather large woman next to us was on her knees, tears streaming down her face, hands clasped together just under her chin ... women were waving handkerchiefs, men were twirling, people were laughing and barking and falling to the ground, slain in the spirit.
And just like that, the 'elders' came through the crowd with what looked like Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets, taking up a love offering, because if you wanted to receive a blessing from God on this night you had to be blessing first, and being a blessing meant giving!
People began lining up on the lower end of one side of the ramp, stumbling up to receive their blessing/healing as the preacher/prophet prayed over them, touched them, and then they practically danced down the other side of the ramp.
It was amazing. It was sad and wonderful at the same time.
Was it real? I mean, I know the woman in the stretcher was a fraud, but what about the others?
Here is something else I learned: these people believed. And I'm convinced that as flawed as the preacher/prophet was, as manipulating as the organist and organization was, the faith and hope and feeling of the people was sincere.
I hope - I believe - God honored that, even while He was no doubt broken-hearted by the deceit.
Oh, and remember how I said that was back when Jimmy had a new pair of contact lens that he wound up wearing too long, and the next day when I went to see him he was sitting in a dark room, wearing sunglasses, his eyes all red and blood-shot?
He'd have been perfectly willing to try the preacher/prophet.
When your pain is great enough, you'll try almost anything.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Sidebar: the Princess Bear was home, at a family gathering, when two of her very young cousins asked her, "Do you believe in crystals?"
The Princess Bear was taken aback. Believe in crystals? How could anyone not believe in crystals? They are rocks ... you can find them all over. What was not to believe in?
Then her young cousins said, "Our Daddy doesn't believe in crystals like we and Mommy do."
And the Princess Bear suddenly understood.
People place their faith in all kinds of things, from crystals to doctors to prophet/healers.
Me? If crystals have any power at all, it comes from the power that created them - just like doctors, whose knowledge comes from the one who is the author of all knowledge. Quite frankly, I'd rather believe in the power that created the crystals than believe in the crystals that were created by some other power.
Unless we're talking about Krystals.
Then I believe.
Oh, do I believe.
I did stuff like that back then.
Anyway, we drive down to this big field where the huge circus-style tent had been erected, park in the field among all the other cars, and make our way inside.
The inside of the tent was kind of rectangular. The stage was in the middle, but closer to the south side of the middle of the tent. There were rows and rows of these old wooden folding chairs fanning out from the front of the stage.
Up on the stage was a choir, and a bit of a band, and a music director, and of course the preacher/prophet/healer.
There was a ramp running parallel to the stage that led up to a platform that was on the same level to and connected to the stage, and a similar ramp that ran from that platform back down to the ground. At the bottom of the ground on the far side was a big barrel, and inside the barrel there were crutches and stuff like that; leftovers, I guess, from previous healing services and the stuff left behind by formerly crippled people who no longer needed these aids.
What I learned was that the most important person in any service like this was the organist. Even all these years later, I can remember just how good this guy was. It was like a Hammond B3 organ, and the sound filled the tent.
And he set the tone. Whatever the mood inside the tent was supposed to be was established by the organist. It was like the soundtrack to a movie that you don't really pay attention to because the actions is so riveting, except that you know the action is riveting because the music tells you that it is.
So there's singing, and some preaching, and the people are exactly the kind of people you'd probably expect to be there (present company excepted, of course!). The crowd looked economically challenged; lots of overweight women and rail thin, leather-skinned men. Mostly they were older.
But they were mixed in race, which says something. These were people who came looking for hope, something to believe in, something to make them believe that life had meaning.
The organist was black; the preacher/prophet was white. Remember, this is early 1970s, so that was still significant. Even in my own church, you'd never have seen racially mixed worship. (see Conflict of Growing up Southern Baptist).
Anyway, Dan, Keevil, Jimmy and I are kind of hanging out in the back. We decide to walk around the tent, staying close to the edges. The tent wasn't full, so staying back by the edges kind of put us in shadows where no one really noticed us.
We walked around, listening, and made our way back behind the stage. No one stopped us - maybe because we were four middle-class looking white guys.
Behind the stage there was an ambulance, backed up to the back of the stage with its rear doors open. The stretcher was out of the ambulance and standing just behind the vehicle, and off to the side there was this little old white woman, wearing what looked like a thin hospital-issue robe over hospital issue-night gown. She was kind of peering out in a gap in the stage, looking out at the audience.
We finished walking the perimeter, and went back to see the finish. After all, we wanted to see the healing. I wanted to get as close as possible, so we moved kind of halfway down to get in the middle of the audience, as best we could.
That was when the preacher/prophet began to talk about healing. The organ music started low and slow, but as the preacher got warmed up to the subject, the louder and more excited the music got. The sense of anticipation began to grow.
(To this day, no matter what church I'm in, whenever I hear the music start to play quietly while the preacher prays, usually just before he asks people to consider making a decision, I think of that night in the tent.)
And then the preacher/prophet said something to the effect of, "Now, who came to see a miracle? We have a woman with us, from Jackson, Mississippi, who has ... (some debilitating disease or was the victim of some accident, I can't remember) ... and has been confined to bed for the past seven years!"
At this point, the paramedics wheeled out the stretcher, rolling it up the ramp to the platform in the front of the stage, and on it - you guessed it - that little old lady in the hospital gown!
So the preacher/prophet talks about harnessing God's healing power, and he's sweating now, and talking about this poor, poor "sister,'' and the organ music starts building again, and then preacher/prophet puts his hands on this poor woman and bounces her up and down a few times, like he's really struggling with her, or really feeling the power flowing through his arms, and she's convulsing and kind of flopping and the people are screaming and clapping and crying and the organ gets to the crescendo and ...
She sits up! She sits up and some men help move her to the side of the stretcher! She looks like she's trying to stand up, and the men - aids to the preacher/prophet - help her up, and the preacher/prophet stands behind her with his hands thrust in the air, fingers stretched toward heaven, eyes looking upward as if he's frozen, and suddenly ... she takes a step forward! And another! She's walking like Frankenstein's monster, but she's walking!
And the place goes crazy. The organ is sounding like the heavenly chorus itself has descended into this tent in an empty field at the end of the Lakewood Freeway! Handel's Messiah had nothing on this, never got a reaction like this!
The curse is broken! She's walking, for the first time in seven years!
Except, of course, for those few minutes behind the stage when Dan, Keevil, Jimmy and I saw her standing up and peering at the audience. But then, maybe this was just a creative re-enactment of the time she actually did receive her healing! I mean, it can't be easy to find a woman from Jackson, Mississippi, with such a debilitating injury/illness that she hasn't walked in seven years!
Regardless, the crowd went wild. I remember this tall, skinny old farmer-looking man next to us who jumped to his feet and started dancing, swirling around in circles, kicking over chairs, his hands raised in the air, talking in tongues. ... A rather large woman next to us was on her knees, tears streaming down her face, hands clasped together just under her chin ... women were waving handkerchiefs, men were twirling, people were laughing and barking and falling to the ground, slain in the spirit.
And just like that, the 'elders' came through the crowd with what looked like Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets, taking up a love offering, because if you wanted to receive a blessing from God on this night you had to be blessing first, and being a blessing meant giving!
People began lining up on the lower end of one side of the ramp, stumbling up to receive their blessing/healing as the preacher/prophet prayed over them, touched them, and then they practically danced down the other side of the ramp.
It was amazing. It was sad and wonderful at the same time.
Was it real? I mean, I know the woman in the stretcher was a fraud, but what about the others?
Here is something else I learned: these people believed. And I'm convinced that as flawed as the preacher/prophet was, as manipulating as the organist and organization was, the faith and hope and feeling of the people was sincere.
I hope - I believe - God honored that, even while He was no doubt broken-hearted by the deceit.
Oh, and remember how I said that was back when Jimmy had a new pair of contact lens that he wound up wearing too long, and the next day when I went to see him he was sitting in a dark room, wearing sunglasses, his eyes all red and blood-shot?
He'd have been perfectly willing to try the preacher/prophet.
When your pain is great enough, you'll try almost anything.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Sidebar: the Princess Bear was home, at a family gathering, when two of her very young cousins asked her, "Do you believe in crystals?"
The Princess Bear was taken aback. Believe in crystals? How could anyone not believe in crystals? They are rocks ... you can find them all over. What was not to believe in?
Then her young cousins said, "Our Daddy doesn't believe in crystals like we and Mommy do."
And the Princess Bear suddenly understood.
People place their faith in all kinds of things, from crystals to doctors to prophet/healers.
Me? If crystals have any power at all, it comes from the power that created them - just like doctors, whose knowledge comes from the one who is the author of all knowledge. Quite frankly, I'd rather believe in the power that created the crystals than believe in the crystals that were created by some other power.
Unless we're talking about Krystals.
Then I believe.
Oh, do I believe.
I've got a hell of an idea
Isn't that a funny phrase, "a hell of an idea?"
Such a common phrase, and a common use of the word 'hell.' We say "hell of an idea'' for a good idea; 'hell of a guy' for a good guy; 'hell of a run'' for a good run ... you know.
And yet, the reality is, most of us would say 'hell' is anything but a good idea.
(For anyone who actually hoped to read about my high school trip to a tent revival healing service, it's coming. Just not in this blog. Sorry.)
Personally, I think 'hell' is a perfect idea. I'll get to that in a minute.
From time to time, mostly when I'm teaching kids, I'll ask two questions:
"Who rules in heaven?" I'll ask.
You'd be surprised how many times kids kind of look at me, as if it's a trick question. But eventually, someone will say - rather timidly - "God?"
"Absolutely!" I say. Then I ask, "Who rules in hell?"
It's amazing how often that answer comes so quickly, almost invariably without hesitation.
"Satan!" someone will yell out. Or "the devil."
But of course, that's not the right answer.
Because God rules in hell, just like He rules in Heaven.
The Psalmist even wrote, "If I make my bed in hell, you (God) are there."
It's an easy mistake. You see it all the time. Cartoons of hell, where this guy in red with horns and pitchfork sits on a fiery throne, as if he's the god of hell. Poetry, classic literature ("I'd rather rule in hell than be a slave in heaven,'' said Satan in John Milton's "Paradise Lost"); movies, folklore, songs - there's no end to this idea that heaven and hell are somehow opposite ends of the spectrum, and that if God rules in Heaven then Satan must rule in Hell.
But of course, the same Bible from which we get the idea of Hell tells us that God created Hell as a place that Satan will one day be cast into, to face eternal punishment.
Which is going to come as a shock to those people who somehow believe if they 'serve' Satan here, Satan will look after them in the afterlife. Joke will be on them, because Satan will be one more God-forsaken schmuck.
If the idea that God rules in Hell bothers you, then let's say what makes Hell, Hell is the absence of God.
Perhaps that's the horror Jesus is addressing on the cross when He says, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Maybe that was God separating Himself from Jesus as Jesus took on the sins - and the punishment for those sins - of the world.
I don't know. Just a thought.
Hell isn't very popular these days. I hear people say, "How could a loving God create a place of eternal torment, much less punish even one of His creations by sending them there for eternity?"
However, my question is, How could God not?
If there is no hell, then there is no justice. I mean, what difference does it make whether you're a Christian or a Muslim or an atheist or a mass murderer or a pedophile or pick-your-poison ... what difference does it make if, eventually, we all end up in the same place?
That's not fair.
And God is a God of justice.
"Will not the judge of all the earth do right?" (Genesis 18:25).
People get offended by hell - and rightfully so.
The point is not that anyone should go there, but rather that God, despite being a God of absolute justice, is also a God of absolute mercy who made a way out for those of us who deserve to go to hell.
Now that's a hell of an idea!
But He can't just ignore justice and let everyone escape. But it's like the basketball coach that says, "If Jim here hits two free throws, nobody has to run suicides until they puke after practice." The rest of us don't say, "Aw, don't worry about it. Coach obviously doesn't want any of us to run. No matter what happens, we'll all get to go on home."
No. Doesn't work that way. And while the analogy isn't perfect, the point is the same. Jim hits the free throws, nobody has to run. Nobody chooses to run, either.
OK, occasionally you'll find some suck-up who stays behind to run. Or maybe it's a guy like Latrell Sprewell. who used to do that when he was in college at Alabama because he was determined to turn himself into an NBA all-star - which he did - by working longer and harder than anybody I've ever seen. I told you the analogy wasn't perfect.
Wait - maybe it does work. See some guys decide that Jim hitting those free throws isn't enough for them. So they stay on to work out their salvation for themselves, and run - although rarely have I ever seen a guy (Sprewell excluded) who actually pushed himself far enough to satisfy the coach. Running suicides after practice doesn't impress a coach as much as running your tail off when it counts - and the coach is watching.
Because usually in those situations the coach just walks off. Hey, he gave everyone a chance to get their legs back under them, and some schmuck decides not to do it. That's his choice. It isn't going to change the Coach's plans.
God is like that. He gives us a way out. If we choose not to accept it, well, we try to save ourselves. And it just doesn't work.
C.S. Lewis said it this way: In the end, either we say to God, 'Thy will be done' or God says to us, 'Thy will be done." I likethat. Because if we choose to reject God, we chose to exercise our own will.
And I'm a believer in free will. I know some Christians are not. That's a debate for another day.
The point, however, is not to be so focused on escaping Hell.
The point is to love God.
We love God because He is a God of justice, but also a God of love who realized early on that we can't satisfy His perfect Justice, so He figured He'd better do it for us through His Son.
If we understand and accept that, we appreciate God, and - oh, by the way, we don't go to hell.
But Satan will.
Which is a good thing. Do you really want to spend eternity facing the possibility of living next door to the Devil? Somebody would have to do it. And I have a feeling he'd the kind of neighbor who borrows your tools without asking and never gets around to giving them back; who has the dog that barks all night; who doesn't cut his grass or paint his house and drives the value of the entire neighborhood to ... hell.
You're only saved by grace through faith in Christ and not by anything you do.
I have a friend who has a problem with that. He says, 'You mean Hitler, if he accepted Christ in his dying moments, could be in Heaven? I just don't think a fair God could just forgive Hitler."
Fortunately, I don't have to make that call. It's up to God.
But the deeper question he was really asking was, how far can you go before you're beyond forgiveness?
Hitler killed millions. How many millions are too many? How many thousands? Or is it hundreds? What if it's 50? What if it's just two, but those two are your wife and child?
How much evil is too much, even for God?
I happen to know that: it's when I decide to ignore God because I want to be God.
And you don't want me to be God. I can guarantee you I wouldn't be near as merciful as God is; you hear me, Buckeye fans?
I've got an idea. You might even say it's a hell of an idea.
Let's trust God.
After all, it was all His idea to begin with.
Such a common phrase, and a common use of the word 'hell.' We say "hell of an idea'' for a good idea; 'hell of a guy' for a good guy; 'hell of a run'' for a good run ... you know.
And yet, the reality is, most of us would say 'hell' is anything but a good idea.
(For anyone who actually hoped to read about my high school trip to a tent revival healing service, it's coming. Just not in this blog. Sorry.)
Personally, I think 'hell' is a perfect idea. I'll get to that in a minute.
From time to time, mostly when I'm teaching kids, I'll ask two questions:
"Who rules in heaven?" I'll ask.
You'd be surprised how many times kids kind of look at me, as if it's a trick question. But eventually, someone will say - rather timidly - "God?"
"Absolutely!" I say. Then I ask, "Who rules in hell?"
It's amazing how often that answer comes so quickly, almost invariably without hesitation.
"Satan!" someone will yell out. Or "the devil."
But of course, that's not the right answer.
Because God rules in hell, just like He rules in Heaven.
The Psalmist even wrote, "If I make my bed in hell, you (God) are there."
It's an easy mistake. You see it all the time. Cartoons of hell, where this guy in red with horns and pitchfork sits on a fiery throne, as if he's the god of hell. Poetry, classic literature ("I'd rather rule in hell than be a slave in heaven,'' said Satan in John Milton's "Paradise Lost"); movies, folklore, songs - there's no end to this idea that heaven and hell are somehow opposite ends of the spectrum, and that if God rules in Heaven then Satan must rule in Hell.
But of course, the same Bible from which we get the idea of Hell tells us that God created Hell as a place that Satan will one day be cast into, to face eternal punishment.
Which is going to come as a shock to those people who somehow believe if they 'serve' Satan here, Satan will look after them in the afterlife. Joke will be on them, because Satan will be one more God-forsaken schmuck.
If the idea that God rules in Hell bothers you, then let's say what makes Hell, Hell is the absence of God.
Perhaps that's the horror Jesus is addressing on the cross when He says, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Maybe that was God separating Himself from Jesus as Jesus took on the sins - and the punishment for those sins - of the world.
I don't know. Just a thought.
Hell isn't very popular these days. I hear people say, "How could a loving God create a place of eternal torment, much less punish even one of His creations by sending them there for eternity?"
However, my question is, How could God not?
If there is no hell, then there is no justice. I mean, what difference does it make whether you're a Christian or a Muslim or an atheist or a mass murderer or a pedophile or pick-your-poison ... what difference does it make if, eventually, we all end up in the same place?
That's not fair.
And God is a God of justice.
"Will not the judge of all the earth do right?" (Genesis 18:25).
People get offended by hell - and rightfully so.
The point is not that anyone should go there, but rather that God, despite being a God of absolute justice, is also a God of absolute mercy who made a way out for those of us who deserve to go to hell.
Now that's a hell of an idea!
But He can't just ignore justice and let everyone escape. But it's like the basketball coach that says, "If Jim here hits two free throws, nobody has to run suicides until they puke after practice." The rest of us don't say, "Aw, don't worry about it. Coach obviously doesn't want any of us to run. No matter what happens, we'll all get to go on home."
No. Doesn't work that way. And while the analogy isn't perfect, the point is the same. Jim hits the free throws, nobody has to run. Nobody chooses to run, either.
OK, occasionally you'll find some suck-up who stays behind to run. Or maybe it's a guy like Latrell Sprewell. who used to do that when he was in college at Alabama because he was determined to turn himself into an NBA all-star - which he did - by working longer and harder than anybody I've ever seen. I told you the analogy wasn't perfect.
Wait - maybe it does work. See some guys decide that Jim hitting those free throws isn't enough for them. So they stay on to work out their salvation for themselves, and run - although rarely have I ever seen a guy (Sprewell excluded) who actually pushed himself far enough to satisfy the coach. Running suicides after practice doesn't impress a coach as much as running your tail off when it counts - and the coach is watching.
Because usually in those situations the coach just walks off. Hey, he gave everyone a chance to get their legs back under them, and some schmuck decides not to do it. That's his choice. It isn't going to change the Coach's plans.
God is like that. He gives us a way out. If we choose not to accept it, well, we try to save ourselves. And it just doesn't work.
C.S. Lewis said it this way: In the end, either we say to God, 'Thy will be done' or God says to us, 'Thy will be done." I likethat. Because if we choose to reject God, we chose to exercise our own will.
And I'm a believer in free will. I know some Christians are not. That's a debate for another day.
The point, however, is not to be so focused on escaping Hell.
The point is to love God.
We love God because He is a God of justice, but also a God of love who realized early on that we can't satisfy His perfect Justice, so He figured He'd better do it for us through His Son.
If we understand and accept that, we appreciate God, and - oh, by the way, we don't go to hell.
But Satan will.
Which is a good thing. Do you really want to spend eternity facing the possibility of living next door to the Devil? Somebody would have to do it. And I have a feeling he'd the kind of neighbor who borrows your tools without asking and never gets around to giving them back; who has the dog that barks all night; who doesn't cut his grass or paint his house and drives the value of the entire neighborhood to ... hell.
You're only saved by grace through faith in Christ and not by anything you do.
I have a friend who has a problem with that. He says, 'You mean Hitler, if he accepted Christ in his dying moments, could be in Heaven? I just don't think a fair God could just forgive Hitler."
Fortunately, I don't have to make that call. It's up to God.
But the deeper question he was really asking was, how far can you go before you're beyond forgiveness?
Hitler killed millions. How many millions are too many? How many thousands? Or is it hundreds? What if it's 50? What if it's just two, but those two are your wife and child?
How much evil is too much, even for God?
I happen to know that: it's when I decide to ignore God because I want to be God.
And you don't want me to be God. I can guarantee you I wouldn't be near as merciful as God is; you hear me, Buckeye fans?
I've got an idea. You might even say it's a hell of an idea.
Let's trust God.
After all, it was all His idea to begin with.
Monday, August 29, 2011
The quality of friendship is not changed, even if places do
No question, I was blessed to have a lot of really good friends in high school, friends who were not bound by neighborhood or even school, but by being members of the same church. It made for a very unusual bond between some kids that would normally have very little to do with each other.
Friendships come in concentric circles, of course, from the biggest group of people you know and have some level of interaction with down to that handful of people that, in my case anyway, I feel like I did something with every single day.
At the risk of leaving somebody out, if I had to boil it down to just what I'd consider my 'band of brothers,' that group included Mitchell, Keevil, Jimmy, and Clay.
Mitchell, Keevil, Jimmy and I went to the same high school. Clay didn't, but Clay had the house with the pool table, the killer stereo, the coolest car - but even if he hadn't, he'd have still been one of us.
There were others, of course: Charlie and Jeff and Kim and Brad and Art (and I'm not even going to start on some of the coolest girls a bunch of high school guys could ever get to hang with).
As tight as we were in high school, we kind of drifted apart during college. Or rather, perhaps I drifted away, because that's my personality. I'm not particularly proud of it, but I've always been one to move on. The Trophy Wife calls my personality disorder "out of sight, out of mind,'' meaning if I don't see you on a regular basis, I forget about you.
(That's not true of the Trophy Wife, let me say right now. She's never very far out of my mind - even though I don't do a very good job of making sure she realizes that.)
That's not exactly true, yet it is true that I have never done as good a job keeping up with people as I wish. Maybe none of us do. I mean, it used to be that generations of families were born, grew up, worked, married, had kids, retired, and died in the same place. I can go to a family plot where a couple hundred years worth of Melicks are buried.
But my generation - and certainly subsequent generations - didn't do that. We went out of state to go to school, moved to where we thought the better jobs were or where we just wanted to live. We were pulled along by opportunity or desire, not limited to living in one place simply because that's where we were from.
I sometimes wonder where I'll be buried when I die. My parents are buried in Atlanta, across a small path from one set of my grandparents. But I don't have any family left there. The bulk of my adult life was lived in Birmingham, but I don't expect my children to live there; in fact, I'm not even sure I'll retire there.
You're probably like that, too. We don't really have a sense of "place" when we think of "home." I will always think of myself as a Southerner, and probably a Georgian, but if my adult life has had any impact at all it has been in Alabama, even though now I'm in Mississippi and hope to have some kind of positive impact on this place.
At least I'm still in the South.
But - not surprisingly - I digress. This thing about "home" is not where I meant to ramble in this blog.
I was going to write about the time Keevil, Jimmy, Dan and I went to a tent healing service in Atlanta. It was one of those traveling revival shows that used to set up a big circus-style tent right by the old Atlanta Fairgrounds just where the Lakewood Freeway used to end in south Atlanta.
I'm not sure why we went, or whose idea it was. Even though Mitch and I were generally inseparable, I dont' think he went on this adventure. I know Jimmy went, because I remember he'd just gotten new contact lenses and these were the days when you could wear contact lens too long and they'd dry out in your eyes and terrible pain ensued. That is what happened to Jimmy that night; I remember, because the next day when I went to his house, he was in a dark room, wearing sunglasses to cover these horribly red, blood-shot eyes.
(Which also makes me wonder where our parents were back then. Obviously they were there; I just have almost no memory of the various sets of parents being around. It's like they'd make cameo appearances in the drama of our teenage lives. But it was as if Keevil's house belonged to Keevil, Jimmy's house belonged to Jimmy, Clay's house belonged to Clay ... and the parents just stayed in a closet somewhere until they were needed or simply intruded into our lives).
Anyway, the four of us drive to the 'healing service,' and ... ah, heck. I don't feel like telling the story now.
It occurs to me that I've written about my experience during an exorcism - Blessings and Demons -
and my experience in a healing service probably deserves its own full blog.
I know my kids have some very good friends from high school, some that I hope will be friends for life.
But even in saying that, I know the odds of really staying in touch are slim. I hope I'm wrong. But I recognize the reality of life.
The good news is, there are people scattered all over the country I feel confidant I could call on if needed.
I hope they realize that no matter how long it's been, I'd do the same for them.
Friendships come in concentric circles, of course, from the biggest group of people you know and have some level of interaction with down to that handful of people that, in my case anyway, I feel like I did something with every single day.
At the risk of leaving somebody out, if I had to boil it down to just what I'd consider my 'band of brothers,' that group included Mitchell, Keevil, Jimmy, and Clay.
Mitchell, Keevil, Jimmy and I went to the same high school. Clay didn't, but Clay had the house with the pool table, the killer stereo, the coolest car - but even if he hadn't, he'd have still been one of us.
There were others, of course: Charlie and Jeff and Kim and Brad and Art (and I'm not even going to start on some of the coolest girls a bunch of high school guys could ever get to hang with).
As tight as we were in high school, we kind of drifted apart during college. Or rather, perhaps I drifted away, because that's my personality. I'm not particularly proud of it, but I've always been one to move on. The Trophy Wife calls my personality disorder "out of sight, out of mind,'' meaning if I don't see you on a regular basis, I forget about you.
(That's not true of the Trophy Wife, let me say right now. She's never very far out of my mind - even though I don't do a very good job of making sure she realizes that.)
That's not exactly true, yet it is true that I have never done as good a job keeping up with people as I wish. Maybe none of us do. I mean, it used to be that generations of families were born, grew up, worked, married, had kids, retired, and died in the same place. I can go to a family plot where a couple hundred years worth of Melicks are buried.
But my generation - and certainly subsequent generations - didn't do that. We went out of state to go to school, moved to where we thought the better jobs were or where we just wanted to live. We were pulled along by opportunity or desire, not limited to living in one place simply because that's where we were from.
I sometimes wonder where I'll be buried when I die. My parents are buried in Atlanta, across a small path from one set of my grandparents. But I don't have any family left there. The bulk of my adult life was lived in Birmingham, but I don't expect my children to live there; in fact, I'm not even sure I'll retire there.
You're probably like that, too. We don't really have a sense of "place" when we think of "home." I will always think of myself as a Southerner, and probably a Georgian, but if my adult life has had any impact at all it has been in Alabama, even though now I'm in Mississippi and hope to have some kind of positive impact on this place.
At least I'm still in the South.
But - not surprisingly - I digress. This thing about "home" is not where I meant to ramble in this blog.
I was going to write about the time Keevil, Jimmy, Dan and I went to a tent healing service in Atlanta. It was one of those traveling revival shows that used to set up a big circus-style tent right by the old Atlanta Fairgrounds just where the Lakewood Freeway used to end in south Atlanta.
I'm not sure why we went, or whose idea it was. Even though Mitch and I were generally inseparable, I dont' think he went on this adventure. I know Jimmy went, because I remember he'd just gotten new contact lenses and these were the days when you could wear contact lens too long and they'd dry out in your eyes and terrible pain ensued. That is what happened to Jimmy that night; I remember, because the next day when I went to his house, he was in a dark room, wearing sunglasses to cover these horribly red, blood-shot eyes.
(Which also makes me wonder where our parents were back then. Obviously they were there; I just have almost no memory of the various sets of parents being around. It's like they'd make cameo appearances in the drama of our teenage lives. But it was as if Keevil's house belonged to Keevil, Jimmy's house belonged to Jimmy, Clay's house belonged to Clay ... and the parents just stayed in a closet somewhere until they were needed or simply intruded into our lives).
Anyway, the four of us drive to the 'healing service,' and ... ah, heck. I don't feel like telling the story now.
It occurs to me that I've written about my experience during an exorcism - Blessings and Demons -
and my experience in a healing service probably deserves its own full blog.
I know my kids have some very good friends from high school, some that I hope will be friends for life.
But even in saying that, I know the odds of really staying in touch are slim. I hope I'm wrong. But I recognize the reality of life.
The good news is, there are people scattered all over the country I feel confidant I could call on if needed.
I hope they realize that no matter how long it's been, I'd do the same for them.
Understanding 'rogue boosters'
In defense of "rogue boosters" ...
Yeah, I know. This is crazy, right? Me? Defending "rogue boosters?"
But not the way you think.
For those who might read this who aren't up on their college sports, "rogue boosters' is the name the NCAA gave to fans of a particular school who - by NCAA standards - cross the line by getting too close to college players.
But this is how college sports - particularly college football - works if you're a fan: you want season tickets? you have to pay for the privilege. You have to make a "donation'' of a prescribed amount (or higher) to have a chance at buying tickets (that's right, the donation doesn't get you the tickets, it only gets you the right to buy the tickets). The more you donate, the better your chances of getting better tickets.
Or you can "rent'' a skybox for, oh, $40,000 - but then, you still have to buy season tickets, even though you have exclusive access to a skybox inside the home team's stadium.
Then, the more you donate, the more money you give, the higher your level of support, the more access you get to the program: acess to the press box (not really nearly as much of a thrill as you'd imagine), maybe access to the athletic director's private box, access to the university president's box; access to the AD's office, maybe dinner with the head coach, certainly you can buy dinner with the university president, AD and coach at something like the National Football Foundation's annual awards dinner in New York City. ...
You get the idea? The more you invest, the more access you have, the more you are made to feel like you're part of the 'team.'
Only you're not.
We'll get to that in a minute.
What you don't get is anything tangible in return for your investment. At least, not according to NCAA rules. But quite frankly, if I was donating that much money to my favorite college team, I'd expect some of the top players to come by my place of business and pose for pictures; I'd expect to be able to invite those players to go on deep-sea fishing trips with me, and if they wanted a few souviners, so what?
But the NCAA has such a one-sided relationship with its fans that it's ridiculous.
Fans: give money to the school; are expected to buy only officially licensed products of that school; can't create any merchandise that might demonstrate their affection for that school without paying a licensing fee so the school's athletic department gets a piece of the business; buy tickets to sporting events that you may not even want to go to (some schools have a program where you can earn 'points' toward better season tickets by buying season tickets to non-revenue sports that have a hard time selling any tickets, much less season tickets).
School: take the money and loyalty all the benefit, but if the NCAA accuses a fan of being too close to the player, the university president, athletic director, coach, even the players disavow any knowledge or relationship with those fans.
So much for being part of the 'team.'
I've said it before and I"ll say it again: the problem is not with the NCAA. The NCAA doesn't make a rule that the majority of schools haven't voted on and agreed to, because somebody somewhere gained an unfair advantage by doing whatever this ridiculous rule is designed to address.
And quite honestly, I don't think most coaches or ADs are overtly involved in breaking rules any more (other than so-called 'secondary' rules that usually have to do with simple contact with a prospect).
Most of the major violations these days are because of fans. And fans violate those rules because they think they should get more for their money than they do.
And the athletic departments feed this by every year demanding more and more from its fan base.
When fans have so much invested financially in a team - and we're measuring that investment by percentage of fan income, not always in thousand or millions of dollars - well, as the verse says, "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."
Yeah, I know. This is crazy, right? Me? Defending "rogue boosters?"
But not the way you think.
For those who might read this who aren't up on their college sports, "rogue boosters' is the name the NCAA gave to fans of a particular school who - by NCAA standards - cross the line by getting too close to college players.
But this is how college sports - particularly college football - works if you're a fan: you want season tickets? you have to pay for the privilege. You have to make a "donation'' of a prescribed amount (or higher) to have a chance at buying tickets (that's right, the donation doesn't get you the tickets, it only gets you the right to buy the tickets). The more you donate, the better your chances of getting better tickets.
Or you can "rent'' a skybox for, oh, $40,000 - but then, you still have to buy season tickets, even though you have exclusive access to a skybox inside the home team's stadium.
Then, the more you donate, the more money you give, the higher your level of support, the more access you get to the program: acess to the press box (not really nearly as much of a thrill as you'd imagine), maybe access to the athletic director's private box, access to the university president's box; access to the AD's office, maybe dinner with the head coach, certainly you can buy dinner with the university president, AD and coach at something like the National Football Foundation's annual awards dinner in New York City. ...
You get the idea? The more you invest, the more access you have, the more you are made to feel like you're part of the 'team.'
Only you're not.
We'll get to that in a minute.
What you don't get is anything tangible in return for your investment. At least, not according to NCAA rules. But quite frankly, if I was donating that much money to my favorite college team, I'd expect some of the top players to come by my place of business and pose for pictures; I'd expect to be able to invite those players to go on deep-sea fishing trips with me, and if they wanted a few souviners, so what?
But the NCAA has such a one-sided relationship with its fans that it's ridiculous.
Fans: give money to the school; are expected to buy only officially licensed products of that school; can't create any merchandise that might demonstrate their affection for that school without paying a licensing fee so the school's athletic department gets a piece of the business; buy tickets to sporting events that you may not even want to go to (some schools have a program where you can earn 'points' toward better season tickets by buying season tickets to non-revenue sports that have a hard time selling any tickets, much less season tickets).
School: take the money and loyalty all the benefit, but if the NCAA accuses a fan of being too close to the player, the university president, athletic director, coach, even the players disavow any knowledge or relationship with those fans.
So much for being part of the 'team.'
I've said it before and I"ll say it again: the problem is not with the NCAA. The NCAA doesn't make a rule that the majority of schools haven't voted on and agreed to, because somebody somewhere gained an unfair advantage by doing whatever this ridiculous rule is designed to address.
And quite honestly, I don't think most coaches or ADs are overtly involved in breaking rules any more (other than so-called 'secondary' rules that usually have to do with simple contact with a prospect).
Most of the major violations these days are because of fans. And fans violate those rules because they think they should get more for their money than they do.
And the athletic departments feed this by every year demanding more and more from its fan base.
When fans have so much invested financially in a team - and we're measuring that investment by percentage of fan income, not always in thousand or millions of dollars - well, as the verse says, "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Katrina and George W. Bush
Just got back from an interesting "gala,'' a community event where Hancock County, Ms, celebrated its businesses, elected leaders, citizens, etc. Nice event, and well done.
I'll admit I wasn't paying much attention. There was something else going on that distracted me - until this long-time, apparently very successful county supervisor who was retiring stepped up.
"I'm going to thank some people, and some of them may not be very popular,'' he said, and among those he wanted to thank was "George W. Bush."
For all the talk about New Orleans, it is often forgotten that New Orleans was not devastated by Katrina; New Orleans was devastated by a levee that broke because of the water surge caused by Katrina.
Mississippi - specifically the bay on the border of Hancock and Harrison County - was devastated by Katrina, the full force of which hit right along the coastline of Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Waveland, Long Beach, Gulfport, and Biloxi. These communities are just now beginning to show significant recovery.
Yet George W. Bush, the villain of New Orleans, is the hero of Mississippi.
"I pray,'' said this retiring politician, "when I see places being hit by hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes - I pray they get the quality of support we got from our elected leaders - including George W. Bush."
And the mention of Bush got a huge round of applause.
The difference?
What I've found along the Mississippi coast - and this is a generalization, I realize - is the people don't ask for help. If offered, they accept it. They don't ask for more. They don't scream that they didn't get enough. They take what they get and go back to work. They've taken great pride in rebuilding on their own. It's taken six years, and they're not done yet, but every new business, every new road that's repaved, every building that's rehabbed and occupied, is a cause of celebration and pride.
And I like that.
I'll admit I wasn't paying much attention. There was something else going on that distracted me - until this long-time, apparently very successful county supervisor who was retiring stepped up.
"I'm going to thank some people, and some of them may not be very popular,'' he said, and among those he wanted to thank was "George W. Bush."
For all the talk about New Orleans, it is often forgotten that New Orleans was not devastated by Katrina; New Orleans was devastated by a levee that broke because of the water surge caused by Katrina.
Mississippi - specifically the bay on the border of Hancock and Harrison County - was devastated by Katrina, the full force of which hit right along the coastline of Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Waveland, Long Beach, Gulfport, and Biloxi. These communities are just now beginning to show significant recovery.
Yet George W. Bush, the villain of New Orleans, is the hero of Mississippi.
"I pray,'' said this retiring politician, "when I see places being hit by hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes - I pray they get the quality of support we got from our elected leaders - including George W. Bush."
And the mention of Bush got a huge round of applause.
The difference?
What I've found along the Mississippi coast - and this is a generalization, I realize - is the people don't ask for help. If offered, they accept it. They don't ask for more. They don't scream that they didn't get enough. They take what they get and go back to work. They've taken great pride in rebuilding on their own. It's taken six years, and they're not done yet, but every new business, every new road that's repaved, every building that's rehabbed and occupied, is a cause of celebration and pride.
And I like that.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Buy a Starbucks, and be sure and tell the manager (and CEO) why
One of the things that amazes me about people who call themselves "liberal' and "open-minded" is just how "conservative" and "close-minded" they often turn out to be.
And by "conservative" here I don't mean in a political sense. I mean in the sense that these people have their way of believing things, and everyone else is wrong - a very 'conservative' point of view, if you ask me.
It amazes me how people will claim to believe in things like Darwinian evolution or global warming or even those that believe either there is no God or that all religions are the same - yet not be willing to actually debate their beliefs.
Still, they love to proclaim how 'open-minded' they are, when in fact they are as close-minded - maybe moreso - because there is no end to the attacks on people who don't believe the way they do, who don't see the world the way they do, and no end to the measures they'll take to shut up dissidents to their way of thinking.
I don't mind someone disagreeing with me. Oh, let's be honest - it may frustrate me. But I'd rather have a good, honest disagreement with someone over an exchange of well-reasoned ideas than simply be told "you're close-minded, narrow-minded, and a fundamentalist,'' and expect that to be the coup de grace of their argument.
That being said, maybe you heard about Bill Hybels, pastor of Willow Creek Church. Hybels had a seminar at his church, and had invited the CEO of Starbucks, Howard Schultz, to speak because Hybels had read Schultz' book on leadership ("Onward") and was so impressed.
But when word got out that Schultz was going to speak at Willow Creek, a petition was started by people who said Willow Creek was anti-gay and if Schultz spoke there, they'd boycott Starbucks. About 700 people signed the petition, and Schultz decided to back out of his speaking engagement.
Hybels' explanation, shared below, is a great testament and a model of how to handle situations like this.
Hybels said (and you can find the video online):
"In the last seven days an online petition was started to boycott Starbucks if Howard Schultz did not cancel his signed contract to this event. The issue driving this petition, which so far has been signed by 717 people, is homosexuality. The petition claims that Willow Creek Community Church is anti-gay. Therefore, if the president of Starbucks speaks here, then Starbucks should be boycotted, or so the thinking goes. Now, Howard and his leadership team had a tough decision to make. [Willow Creek Association president] Jim Mellado and I spent 45 minutes in a very constructive conversation with the leadership at Starbucks, explaining to them in no uncertain terms that Willow is not anti-gay. But at the end of the day, they decided that the downside business risk was just too high for them, so Howard and his team decided to cancel and we decided to let him out of his contract without any penalty.
Now, this whole thing is sad to me on a number of different levels. First, if the organizers of this petition had simply taken the time to call us, we would have explained to them (as we have to many others ) that not only is Willow not anti-gay, Willow not anti-anybody.
Our church was founded on the idea that people matter to God. All people. All people of all backgrounds, all colors, ethnicities, and sexual orientation. The mat at every door on this campus has always read “Welcome.” And for over 35 years we have flung the doors of this campus open to the widest array of humanity I have ever witnessed in the global church. And thousands--tens of thousands--have come to learn the teachings of Jesus. So to suggest that we check sexual orientation or any other kind of issue at our doors is simply not true. Just ask the hundreds of people with same-sex attraction who attend our church every week.
Now what is true is that we challenge homosexuals and heterosexuals to live out the sexual ethics taught in the Scriptures--which encourages full sexual expression between a man and a woman in the context of marriage and prescribes sexual abstinence and purity for everybody else.
But even as we challenge all of our people to these biblical standards, we do so with grace-filled spirits, knowing the confusion and brokenness that is rampant in our fallen world. And at Willow we honor the journey of everyone who is sincerely attempting to follow Christ. So it’s unfortunate that we could not have explained this to those called us anti-gay and started this petition.
Second, what’s further saddening to me is the growing trend, specifically in the United States culture, to throw stones first and ask questions later. We see this in our political system and it’s rapidly making our country ungovernable. Jesus taught and modeled a better way: to treat everybody with respect, to believe the best about others, to seek to understand other we might disagree and if we must disagree then attempt to do so respectfully.
And by "conservative" here I don't mean in a political sense. I mean in the sense that these people have their way of believing things, and everyone else is wrong - a very 'conservative' point of view, if you ask me.
It amazes me how people will claim to believe in things like Darwinian evolution or global warming or even those that believe either there is no God or that all religions are the same - yet not be willing to actually debate their beliefs.
Still, they love to proclaim how 'open-minded' they are, when in fact they are as close-minded - maybe moreso - because there is no end to the attacks on people who don't believe the way they do, who don't see the world the way they do, and no end to the measures they'll take to shut up dissidents to their way of thinking.
I don't mind someone disagreeing with me. Oh, let's be honest - it may frustrate me. But I'd rather have a good, honest disagreement with someone over an exchange of well-reasoned ideas than simply be told "you're close-minded, narrow-minded, and a fundamentalist,'' and expect that to be the coup de grace of their argument.
That being said, maybe you heard about Bill Hybels, pastor of Willow Creek Church. Hybels had a seminar at his church, and had invited the CEO of Starbucks, Howard Schultz, to speak because Hybels had read Schultz' book on leadership ("Onward") and was so impressed.
But when word got out that Schultz was going to speak at Willow Creek, a petition was started by people who said Willow Creek was anti-gay and if Schultz spoke there, they'd boycott Starbucks. About 700 people signed the petition, and Schultz decided to back out of his speaking engagement.
Hybels' explanation, shared below, is a great testament and a model of how to handle situations like this.
Hybels said (and you can find the video online):
"In the last seven days an online petition was started to boycott Starbucks if Howard Schultz did not cancel his signed contract to this event. The issue driving this petition, which so far has been signed by 717 people, is homosexuality. The petition claims that Willow Creek Community Church is anti-gay. Therefore, if the president of Starbucks speaks here, then Starbucks should be boycotted, or so the thinking goes. Now, Howard and his leadership team had a tough decision to make. [Willow Creek Association president] Jim Mellado and I spent 45 minutes in a very constructive conversation with the leadership at Starbucks, explaining to them in no uncertain terms that Willow is not anti-gay. But at the end of the day, they decided that the downside business risk was just too high for them, so Howard and his team decided to cancel and we decided to let him out of his contract without any penalty.
Now, this whole thing is sad to me on a number of different levels. First, if the organizers of this petition had simply taken the time to call us, we would have explained to them (as we have to many others ) that not only is Willow not anti-gay, Willow not anti-anybody.
Our church was founded on the idea that people matter to God. All people. All people of all backgrounds, all colors, ethnicities, and sexual orientation. The mat at every door on this campus has always read “Welcome.” And for over 35 years we have flung the doors of this campus open to the widest array of humanity I have ever witnessed in the global church. And thousands--tens of thousands--have come to learn the teachings of Jesus. So to suggest that we check sexual orientation or any other kind of issue at our doors is simply not true. Just ask the hundreds of people with same-sex attraction who attend our church every week.
Now what is true is that we challenge homosexuals and heterosexuals to live out the sexual ethics taught in the Scriptures--which encourages full sexual expression between a man and a woman in the context of marriage and prescribes sexual abstinence and purity for everybody else.
But even as we challenge all of our people to these biblical standards, we do so with grace-filled spirits, knowing the confusion and brokenness that is rampant in our fallen world. And at Willow we honor the journey of everyone who is sincerely attempting to follow Christ. So it’s unfortunate that we could not have explained this to those called us anti-gay and started this petition.
Second, what’s further saddening to me is the growing trend, specifically in the United States culture, to throw stones first and ask questions later. We see this in our political system and it’s rapidly making our country ungovernable. Jesus taught and modeled a better way: to treat everybody with respect, to believe the best about others, to seek to understand other we might disagree and if we must disagree then attempt to do so respectfully.
Anyway, our team spent some time in prayer and discussion about the situation and here’s how we plan to respond. First, as I said, we decided to let Howard out of his contract with no penalties. He had a tough business decision to make and he made it.
Second, Howard had to read through some threatening e-mails. I read through many of them myself, and I must admit that the vitriol was quite hard to handle. So we would like to ask you to give Howard some other kinds of reading material. We would like you to write an email to Starbucks.com (and then it says how do you contact us, you click on that). And with genuine Christian love, I don’t need to say it twice, just communicate, Howard, our churches are open to anybody and we would love to have you back at the summit someday. And I think just reading that will have an impact on him.
Third, buy a copy of Howard’s book, Onward. It’s one of the best leadership books I’ve read in a long time. I had to read it four times in my preparation to interview him, so I’m really up on this book, Onward. Jim actually apologized to me when Howard had to cancel. He said, "Bill, I feel bad, with all you have on your plate you had to put all that work into an interview that you’re not giving." I shot an email back to him and I said, "Don’t ever apologize to me about this again because I read a great book four times and I’m a better leader because of it." And I strongly encourage you to buy a copy of Howard’s book, Onward. You’ll be a better leader if you read it.
Fourth, pray for Jimmy and me because we’re going to follow the teachings of Jesus in Matthew 18 and we’re going to see if we can meet with the people who started this boycott petition. We’re going to just sit down and see if we can talk. Then, with a reconciling spirit, we’re going to see if we can come to a better understanding and maybe a point of mutual respect moving ahead.
Fifth and finally (and finally means something this time), buy a Starbucks coffee in the next couple days and just show some Christian goodwill. Can you do that? All right, so that’s all I want to say about this.
The good news is that one of the highest rated faculty members in Summit history has agreed to step in and fill Howard’s slot. Patrick Lencioni is a best selling author and fantastic communicator and he’s not intimidated by anybody. He’s coming and he’s going to show up courageously and so you can look forward to that,"
I know. This is my blog, and I'm supposed to be the one that writes.
But this was just so dang powerful on so many levels, I had to share.
Second, Howard had to read through some threatening e-mails. I read through many of them myself, and I must admit that the vitriol was quite hard to handle. So we would like to ask you to give Howard some other kinds of reading material. We would like you to write an email to Starbucks.com (and then it says how do you contact us, you click on that). And with genuine Christian love, I don’t need to say it twice, just communicate, Howard, our churches are open to anybody and we would love to have you back at the summit someday. And I think just reading that will have an impact on him.
Third, buy a copy of Howard’s book, Onward. It’s one of the best leadership books I’ve read in a long time. I had to read it four times in my preparation to interview him, so I’m really up on this book, Onward. Jim actually apologized to me when Howard had to cancel. He said, "Bill, I feel bad, with all you have on your plate you had to put all that work into an interview that you’re not giving." I shot an email back to him and I said, "Don’t ever apologize to me about this again because I read a great book four times and I’m a better leader because of it." And I strongly encourage you to buy a copy of Howard’s book, Onward. You’ll be a better leader if you read it.
Fourth, pray for Jimmy and me because we’re going to follow the teachings of Jesus in Matthew 18 and we’re going to see if we can meet with the people who started this boycott petition. We’re going to just sit down and see if we can talk. Then, with a reconciling spirit, we’re going to see if we can come to a better understanding and maybe a point of mutual respect moving ahead.
Fifth and finally (and finally means something this time), buy a Starbucks coffee in the next couple days and just show some Christian goodwill. Can you do that? All right, so that’s all I want to say about this.
The good news is that one of the highest rated faculty members in Summit history has agreed to step in and fill Howard’s slot. Patrick Lencioni is a best selling author and fantastic communicator and he’s not intimidated by anybody. He’s coming and he’s going to show up courageously and so you can look forward to that,"
I know. This is my blog, and I'm supposed to be the one that writes.
But this was just so dang powerful on so many levels, I had to share.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Reading wisdom books - and this time, I don't mean "Travis McGee" (although that's a start)
Sometimes I think most of my worldview has come from reading the Travis McGee novels of John D. MacDonald - and let me say that if you're only going to get your worldview from one fictional author, you could do a lot worse than the chronicles of Travis McGee.
Recently (a relative term) I decided I needed to read straight through the Psalms. It occurred to me that over the course of my life I thought I had probably read everyone of the 150 Psalms, but I couldn't be sure. So I decided to read one a day. Sure enough, about 190 days later (hey, sometimes I forgot or was on the road or was buried in re-reading MacDonald), I put down the Psalms. I could honestly say now I had read them all.
Understood them all? Applied them all to my life?
No. But I do believe all those words will not go void.
Toward the end, I came across quite a few that I wanted The Heir to remember, in light of his facing the challenge of being a Knob under the merciless thumb of the cadres and upperclassmen who are intent upon molding him into a man of character in their own inimitable way.
Psalm 140: "Rescue me, Or Lord, from evil men; protect me from men of violence."
Psalm 141: "Let the wicked fall into their own nets, while I pass by in safety."
Psalm 119: "It was good for me to be afflicted, so that I might learn your decrees."
Psalm 116: "The Lord protects the simple hearted."
And so on. There are a lot of Psalms of protection.
Then I went on to read Proverbs and found chapter 13 "He who scorns instruction will pay for it, but he who respects a command is rewarded."
I figured as long as I was in the wisdom books - and had no more Travis McGee novels lying around - I would go on to Isaiah
I came across Isaiah 40: "even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength ..."
But anyway, this morning I came across Isaiah 59:4 "No one calls for justice; no one pleads his case with integrity. They rely on empty arguments and speak lies; ..."
The first thing that came to mind was "lawyers!'' Doesn't this sound like the legal profession today? In our courts, justice is over-run by rules (reminding me of Isaiah 28:10 "For it is: do and do, do and do, rule on rule, rule on rule, a little here, a little there.")
Of all the "tions'' that plague our country - inflation, immigration, lack of education, over-taxation, unionization - the one that seems to me to have really done the most damage is "litigation."
Because of courts that no longer actually care about justice, people can sue because their coffee was served too hot; or because they didn't see a step, tripped and fell; or they ate something that no person in their right mind would eat and then sue because there was no warning label telling them "not to be taken internally."
Comedian James Gregory used to do this entire bit about rules. Things like the sign on the hotel swimming pool that says "No animals allowed in the pool,'' which Gregory says meant that some nut, some where, said, "Hey, you know what we ought to do? Let's put the pony in the pool!"
My favorite is the warning label on certain hemorrhoid medicine that says, "Not to be taken internally," which means some nut, some where, thought to himself, "this stuff has done such a great job on my backside, I wonder what it tastes like on a cracker?"
You want to have some fun? Go read warning labels, and then imagine all the stupid things people must have done to cause that label to be printed and applied. Chances are, it was because of some lawyer who found a court that didn't believe in common sense.
There is no end to these ridiculous examples, of course. The other day, I was reading about John Edwards, the United States Senator and one-time vice-presidential candidate, who made a boat-load of money as a lawyer. One of his best-known cases (and I recognize this is an over-simplification, but essentially correct) was suing doctors on the premise that obstetricians caused cerebral palsy in babies by not performing cesarean sections soon enough. Apparently Edwards had jurors believing that waiting too long to deliver a baby caused some kind of stress that caused cerebral palsy.
Now doctors do cesarean sections as four times the rate as was done in 1970, with no reduction of babies born with cerebral palsy. Numerous studies have been done since to show that "in most cases, cerebral palsy is caused by fetal brain injury long before labor begins." (NY Times, Jan 31, 2004).
Shouldn't those doctors and their insurance companies be able to sue lawyers to recover the money they had to pay out? Shouldn't all of us who have had to pay higher medical expenses because of the cost of malpractice insurance be able to get a refund from attorneys like John Edwards?
Well, no. That's not how the system works.
It's not about justice. It's about "empty arguments and ... lies."
But then, it's not just lawyers (as much as I might wish it was).
A few years ago I was reading an article in the Chronicle of Higher Education (because I read it regularly for stuff like this) when some high-brow professor from a northeastern brainiac school said something profound. I wish I had the exact quote and documentation, but I don't have time to look it up so I'll paraphrase.
Essentially, this Ph.D. admitted, teachers had spent several decades teaching "critical thinking skills" to generations of American students and he was afraid all they'd really done was teach students to be 'critical' - but not to think.
You see it all around us. We take pieces of sentences or phrases out of context and try to hang people on those very words. This is one area Chris Mathews and Glenn Beck apparently agree on, because I've heard both do it over and over.
As current presidential candidate Herman Cain (himself criticized for something he said that any sane person would realize was a joke) said recently, "America needs to learn how to take a joke."
Oh, we're good at being critical.
We're just not very good at thinking.
And so we've forgotten how to defend ourselves or others with integrity, seeking justice. We reward those with the prettiest words, no matter how empty or irrelevant they are.
My youngest son is a master of this. He can take an argument and turn it six ways, inside and out, hanging on to pieces of sentences or the most abstract concepts.
And, I must admit, he probably learned it from me.
Because like Adam, given the chance I'll tell even God "It wasn't me; it was the woman - the woman you gave me! So really, if you think about it God, it's your fault!''
Let me say right here that is not a reflection upon the Trophy Wife, no matter how quick I am to blame her for the most abstract and ridiculous things simply because I am trying to get out of taking responsibility for my own actions.
"No one calls for justice;
no one pleads his case with integrity.
They rely on empty arguments and speak lies ..."
I read somewhere that "for lack of guidance a nation falls.''
Oh yeah, it was a wisdom book.
Proverbs 11:14.
Recently (a relative term) I decided I needed to read straight through the Psalms. It occurred to me that over the course of my life I thought I had probably read everyone of the 150 Psalms, but I couldn't be sure. So I decided to read one a day. Sure enough, about 190 days later (hey, sometimes I forgot or was on the road or was buried in re-reading MacDonald), I put down the Psalms. I could honestly say now I had read them all.
Understood them all? Applied them all to my life?
No. But I do believe all those words will not go void.
Toward the end, I came across quite a few that I wanted The Heir to remember, in light of his facing the challenge of being a Knob under the merciless thumb of the cadres and upperclassmen who are intent upon molding him into a man of character in their own inimitable way.
Psalm 140: "Rescue me, Or Lord, from evil men; protect me from men of violence."
Psalm 141: "Let the wicked fall into their own nets, while I pass by in safety."
Psalm 119: "It was good for me to be afflicted, so that I might learn your decrees."
Psalm 116: "The Lord protects the simple hearted."
And so on. There are a lot of Psalms of protection.
Then I went on to read Proverbs and found chapter 13 "He who scorns instruction will pay for it, but he who respects a command is rewarded."
I figured as long as I was in the wisdom books - and had no more Travis McGee novels lying around - I would go on to Isaiah
I came across Isaiah 40: "even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength ..."
But anyway, this morning I came across Isaiah 59:4 "No one calls for justice; no one pleads his case with integrity. They rely on empty arguments and speak lies; ..."
The first thing that came to mind was "lawyers!'' Doesn't this sound like the legal profession today? In our courts, justice is over-run by rules (reminding me of Isaiah 28:10 "For it is: do and do, do and do, rule on rule, rule on rule, a little here, a little there.")
Of all the "tions'' that plague our country - inflation, immigration, lack of education, over-taxation, unionization - the one that seems to me to have really done the most damage is "litigation."
Because of courts that no longer actually care about justice, people can sue because their coffee was served too hot; or because they didn't see a step, tripped and fell; or they ate something that no person in their right mind would eat and then sue because there was no warning label telling them "not to be taken internally."
Comedian James Gregory used to do this entire bit about rules. Things like the sign on the hotel swimming pool that says "No animals allowed in the pool,'' which Gregory says meant that some nut, some where, said, "Hey, you know what we ought to do? Let's put the pony in the pool!"
My favorite is the warning label on certain hemorrhoid medicine that says, "Not to be taken internally," which means some nut, some where, thought to himself, "this stuff has done such a great job on my backside, I wonder what it tastes like on a cracker?"
You want to have some fun? Go read warning labels, and then imagine all the stupid things people must have done to cause that label to be printed and applied. Chances are, it was because of some lawyer who found a court that didn't believe in common sense.
There is no end to these ridiculous examples, of course. The other day, I was reading about John Edwards, the United States Senator and one-time vice-presidential candidate, who made a boat-load of money as a lawyer. One of his best-known cases (and I recognize this is an over-simplification, but essentially correct) was suing doctors on the premise that obstetricians caused cerebral palsy in babies by not performing cesarean sections soon enough. Apparently Edwards had jurors believing that waiting too long to deliver a baby caused some kind of stress that caused cerebral palsy.
Now doctors do cesarean sections as four times the rate as was done in 1970, with no reduction of babies born with cerebral palsy. Numerous studies have been done since to show that "in most cases, cerebral palsy is caused by fetal brain injury long before labor begins." (NY Times, Jan 31, 2004).
Shouldn't those doctors and their insurance companies be able to sue lawyers to recover the money they had to pay out? Shouldn't all of us who have had to pay higher medical expenses because of the cost of malpractice insurance be able to get a refund from attorneys like John Edwards?
Well, no. That's not how the system works.
It's not about justice. It's about "empty arguments and ... lies."
But then, it's not just lawyers (as much as I might wish it was).
A few years ago I was reading an article in the Chronicle of Higher Education (because I read it regularly for stuff like this) when some high-brow professor from a northeastern brainiac school said something profound. I wish I had the exact quote and documentation, but I don't have time to look it up so I'll paraphrase.
Essentially, this Ph.D. admitted, teachers had spent several decades teaching "critical thinking skills" to generations of American students and he was afraid all they'd really done was teach students to be 'critical' - but not to think.
You see it all around us. We take pieces of sentences or phrases out of context and try to hang people on those very words. This is one area Chris Mathews and Glenn Beck apparently agree on, because I've heard both do it over and over.
As current presidential candidate Herman Cain (himself criticized for something he said that any sane person would realize was a joke) said recently, "America needs to learn how to take a joke."
Oh, we're good at being critical.
We're just not very good at thinking.
And so we've forgotten how to defend ourselves or others with integrity, seeking justice. We reward those with the prettiest words, no matter how empty or irrelevant they are.
My youngest son is a master of this. He can take an argument and turn it six ways, inside and out, hanging on to pieces of sentences or the most abstract concepts.
And, I must admit, he probably learned it from me.
Because like Adam, given the chance I'll tell even God "It wasn't me; it was the woman - the woman you gave me! So really, if you think about it God, it's your fault!''
Let me say right here that is not a reflection upon the Trophy Wife, no matter how quick I am to blame her for the most abstract and ridiculous things simply because I am trying to get out of taking responsibility for my own actions.
"No one calls for justice;
no one pleads his case with integrity.
They rely on empty arguments and speak lies ..."
I read somewhere that "for lack of guidance a nation falls.''
Oh yeah, it was a wisdom book.
Proverbs 11:14.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Am I in heaven, or am I in Miami? (Say it fast)
This is not going to go over well with college sports fans and some of my best friends who are either sportswriters/broadcasters or coaches, but I don't believe the NCAA is the problem.
College football and mens' basketball is corrupt. No question. When I read of the newest allegations (should we even call them 'allegations' when box after box of proof is presented?) at the University of Miami, I wasn't surprised. If you were, you don't know college sports.
A fan crossed the line between being a fan and trying to be part of the program.
It's such an old story I'm shocked if anyone is even shocked anymore.
In this case, a wiseguy named Nevin Shapiro, who is now serving 20 years in federal prison for his role in a $930 million Ponzi scheme, said he provided Miami players with cash, prostitutes, cars and other gifts over the past decade. He provided box after box of receipts and other evidence. He loved the Miami football program so much he had to buy his way in with money (which equals influence in college athletics), and then became such a common figure around the program there are multiple pictures of him with university administrators, including president Donna Shalala.
All across the land these days, schools are getting into trouble because of "rogue boosters,'' a term popularized by the NCAA in its investigation of the University of Alabama and its description of the late Logan Young.
It's always the same. USC to Miami - accusations fly of improper benefits, from cash to clothes to cars to houses to prostitutes to whatever, and the school responds with "we can't be held responsible for the actions of our fans!"
And it's true.
But they don't have to encourage the behavior either - which is exactly what schools do by demanding huge contributions for the best seats in the house, for access to players and coaches, for recognition.
It's also because fans have to pay so dang much just for the 'privilege' of buying season tickets. It's extortion by athletic departments, demanding larger and larger contributions in exchange for a fan improving his seat selection at home games.
Schools tightly control souvenir sales, making fans buy only officially licensed products, limiting competition to those who can pay the extortion fee required to have a "license."
No wonder fans feel so invested in the program. They are.
School presidents claim they can't keep up with all these "rogue boosters." But inevitably, they knows the people who are the biggest "rogues." They are the ones who contribute the most.
Shapiro was a regular in the Miami press box, and at functions attended by university officials.
I sat in a press conference listening to former University of Alabama president Andrew Sorenson sound to sanctimonious as he said, "We can't be responsible for the actions of thousands of our fans!"
I said to him, "But you're not being asked to be held responsible for thousands. In this case, it's three - two of whom had free access to the athletic department, one of whom you had dinner with on more than one occasion."
Sorenson quickly left the press conference without an answer.
I pick on Alabama only because I was there and know that program. But you can go up and down the college ranks and every school has at least one "booster'' who gives money in exchange for access and influence. Even the legendary John Wooden, who is so highly regarded as a man of high character and principle, had Sam Gilbert - credited with keeping all those incredible basketball players that played for Wooden 'happy' for all those years.
You know why I don't blame the organization of the NCAA for all this?
The rules are not the NCAA's fault. Everyone loves to talk about the overly-complicated NCAA rule book, but every rule in there is because some coach or booster somewhere first did something that gave him or his program an unfair advantage. College coaches live to find loopholes in rules. The examples are legendary.
But blaming the NCAA as an organization because its members can't keep the rules is like blaming immigration laws for the thousands of illegal immigrants in this country.
Oh, wait - people do.
Apparently what "fans'' and experts would prefer is that athletic departments just admit they are money-making machines and start paying players, thinking that somehow that would keep players from being enticed to break the rules.
Come on. Do you really think that would do it? That's like saying raising the speed limit would stop speeding, or making drugs legal would stop illegal drugs, or making gambling legal will stop illegal gambling, or educating young people about sex will stop unwanted pregnancy and abortions.
Pro athletes make as much money and get as much free stuff as anybody in society. It doesn't stop some of them - and I repeat, "some" of them - from wanting more, and going to illegal measures to get it.
Sorry. I just don't buy into the idea that because everyone does it, you just give up and say it's OK for everyone to do it.
Whatever 'it' is.
Now let me seem to contradict myself for a minute. I do believe football players and men's college basketball players deserve far more than the scholarship provides for. Coaches are making millions of their skills. Athletic departments are making millions off their skills. Everyone up and down the line is making millions off the players. Why shouldn't the players expect a piece of the pie?
First of all, athletes should be allowed to try to turn pro whenever they want to. Right out of high school, after their freshman year, whenever. Once they feel ready, let them go. That begins to eliminate a number of the kids who don't have any business being in college anyway, who really wouldn't be there except its the best way to get to the pros.
Let every player have one shot at entering the draft without penalty. If he doesn't get drafted, or doesn't like where he was drafted, let him come back to college. Some of them will realize they just might need something besides athletics to become successful.
No more extortion by the athletic departments. Athletic departments are tax-exempt entities of tax-exempt institutions of higher learning. Then make tickets affordable to all, and available on a first-come, first-serve basis. The millionaire has the same chance of getting a 50-yard line seat as the pauper, as long as the pauper can afford the price of the ticket.
Presidents and AD's say they want tougher penalties, so here goes: if a program cheats, shut it down for a year. Nobody gets paid. And penalties go with coaches so they can't leave and coach at some other college. If they want to coach, they go pro or high school or down to the local "Y." Cheat again, double the penalty.
Sure, such penalties hurt other schools, too, particularly the schools in the conference. But nobody ever said life was fair. The bigger you are, the harder the fall.
The 'death penalty' has to be real - but not just for the school, but for the coaches, the administrators, the fans.
There's more, but what's the point?
Do I sound angry? I am. I love college sports. It was my life. I know so many good, decent, honest administrators, coaches, players, and - yes- fans who don't deserve this.
None of these "get tough'' ideas will help keep a "fan'' from wanting to feel so connected to a football program that he or she tries to buy relationships with players by providing benefits - from simple things like baking cakes to big things like cars and prostitutes; none of that will help the problem of "fans'' who feel their money gives them the right to scream at school administrators in public areas, or those that do even stupid things like try to kill symbolic plants on a college campus.
The really sad part is there are so many good fans, who just enjoy the games, and do want nothing more than to let the players know they truly appreciate them without feeling the need to 'buy' those players' favor.
But as is always the case, the majority wind up paying for the sins of the minority.
And no change in the NCAA rules book will ever change that.
College football and mens' basketball is corrupt. No question. When I read of the newest allegations (should we even call them 'allegations' when box after box of proof is presented?) at the University of Miami, I wasn't surprised. If you were, you don't know college sports.
A fan crossed the line between being a fan and trying to be part of the program.
It's such an old story I'm shocked if anyone is even shocked anymore.
In this case, a wiseguy named Nevin Shapiro, who is now serving 20 years in federal prison for his role in a $930 million Ponzi scheme, said he provided Miami players with cash, prostitutes, cars and other gifts over the past decade. He provided box after box of receipts and other evidence. He loved the Miami football program so much he had to buy his way in with money (which equals influence in college athletics), and then became such a common figure around the program there are multiple pictures of him with university administrators, including president Donna Shalala.
All across the land these days, schools are getting into trouble because of "rogue boosters,'' a term popularized by the NCAA in its investigation of the University of Alabama and its description of the late Logan Young.
It's always the same. USC to Miami - accusations fly of improper benefits, from cash to clothes to cars to houses to prostitutes to whatever, and the school responds with "we can't be held responsible for the actions of our fans!"
And it's true.
But they don't have to encourage the behavior either - which is exactly what schools do by demanding huge contributions for the best seats in the house, for access to players and coaches, for recognition.
It's also because fans have to pay so dang much just for the 'privilege' of buying season tickets. It's extortion by athletic departments, demanding larger and larger contributions in exchange for a fan improving his seat selection at home games.
Schools tightly control souvenir sales, making fans buy only officially licensed products, limiting competition to those who can pay the extortion fee required to have a "license."
No wonder fans feel so invested in the program. They are.
School presidents claim they can't keep up with all these "rogue boosters." But inevitably, they knows the people who are the biggest "rogues." They are the ones who contribute the most.
Shapiro was a regular in the Miami press box, and at functions attended by university officials.
I sat in a press conference listening to former University of Alabama president Andrew Sorenson sound to sanctimonious as he said, "We can't be responsible for the actions of thousands of our fans!"
I said to him, "But you're not being asked to be held responsible for thousands. In this case, it's three - two of whom had free access to the athletic department, one of whom you had dinner with on more than one occasion."
Sorenson quickly left the press conference without an answer.
I pick on Alabama only because I was there and know that program. But you can go up and down the college ranks and every school has at least one "booster'' who gives money in exchange for access and influence. Even the legendary John Wooden, who is so highly regarded as a man of high character and principle, had Sam Gilbert - credited with keeping all those incredible basketball players that played for Wooden 'happy' for all those years.
You know why I don't blame the organization of the NCAA for all this?
The rules are not the NCAA's fault. Everyone loves to talk about the overly-complicated NCAA rule book, but every rule in there is because some coach or booster somewhere first did something that gave him or his program an unfair advantage. College coaches live to find loopholes in rules. The examples are legendary.
But blaming the NCAA as an organization because its members can't keep the rules is like blaming immigration laws for the thousands of illegal immigrants in this country.
Oh, wait - people do.
Apparently what "fans'' and experts would prefer is that athletic departments just admit they are money-making machines and start paying players, thinking that somehow that would keep players from being enticed to break the rules.
Come on. Do you really think that would do it? That's like saying raising the speed limit would stop speeding, or making drugs legal would stop illegal drugs, or making gambling legal will stop illegal gambling, or educating young people about sex will stop unwanted pregnancy and abortions.
Pro athletes make as much money and get as much free stuff as anybody in society. It doesn't stop some of them - and I repeat, "some" of them - from wanting more, and going to illegal measures to get it.
Sorry. I just don't buy into the idea that because everyone does it, you just give up and say it's OK for everyone to do it.
Whatever 'it' is.
Now let me seem to contradict myself for a minute. I do believe football players and men's college basketball players deserve far more than the scholarship provides for. Coaches are making millions of their skills. Athletic departments are making millions off their skills. Everyone up and down the line is making millions off the players. Why shouldn't the players expect a piece of the pie?
First of all, athletes should be allowed to try to turn pro whenever they want to. Right out of high school, after their freshman year, whenever. Once they feel ready, let them go. That begins to eliminate a number of the kids who don't have any business being in college anyway, who really wouldn't be there except its the best way to get to the pros.
Let every player have one shot at entering the draft without penalty. If he doesn't get drafted, or doesn't like where he was drafted, let him come back to college. Some of them will realize they just might need something besides athletics to become successful.
No more extortion by the athletic departments. Athletic departments are tax-exempt entities of tax-exempt institutions of higher learning. Then make tickets affordable to all, and available on a first-come, first-serve basis. The millionaire has the same chance of getting a 50-yard line seat as the pauper, as long as the pauper can afford the price of the ticket.
Presidents and AD's say they want tougher penalties, so here goes: if a program cheats, shut it down for a year. Nobody gets paid. And penalties go with coaches so they can't leave and coach at some other college. If they want to coach, they go pro or high school or down to the local "Y." Cheat again, double the penalty.
Sure, such penalties hurt other schools, too, particularly the schools in the conference. But nobody ever said life was fair. The bigger you are, the harder the fall.
The 'death penalty' has to be real - but not just for the school, but for the coaches, the administrators, the fans.
There's more, but what's the point?
Do I sound angry? I am. I love college sports. It was my life. I know so many good, decent, honest administrators, coaches, players, and - yes- fans who don't deserve this.
None of these "get tough'' ideas will help keep a "fan'' from wanting to feel so connected to a football program that he or she tries to buy relationships with players by providing benefits - from simple things like baking cakes to big things like cars and prostitutes; none of that will help the problem of "fans'' who feel their money gives them the right to scream at school administrators in public areas, or those that do even stupid things like try to kill symbolic plants on a college campus.
The really sad part is there are so many good fans, who just enjoy the games, and do want nothing more than to let the players know they truly appreciate them without feeling the need to 'buy' those players' favor.
But as is always the case, the majority wind up paying for the sins of the minority.
And no change in the NCAA rules book will ever change that.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
I think, therefore I drive
I'm about to type four words that will shock anyone who knows me:
I'm tired of driving.
That will particularly disappoint The Heir, who has always considered me The Road Warrior.
There was that time I drove 10hours from Birmingham to Dallas (roughly 630 miles) to pick up The Heir at my sisters' house, then after a quick dinner drove right back, all the way back to Birmingham.
The Trophy Wife still laughs at the time we drove back from Maryland, where we'd been to the funeral of her aunt just outside of Washington D.C., straight through to Birmingham - roughly 12 hours, something like 750 miles. Oh, she wanted to stop. We passed by towns where we had friends and relatives; numerous hotels and motels. And this was the final leg of a Christmas trip that had seen us drive from Birmingham to St. Louis (8 hours, right at 500 miles), then St. Louis to Maryland (about 14 hours, 850 miles - although we did stop overnight somewhere in West Virginia), then the aforementioned trip from Maryland to Birmingham.
I was just ready to get home.
The stop-over in West Virginia was funny, because it snowed like crazy. The kids were little and I'm not sure they'd ever seen snow that fresh and deep. In fact, The Heir and The Young Prince decided they wanted to run out into this field, but when they stepped off the parking lot, the Young Prince disappeared from view; turns out the snow was deeper than he was tall!
My single-mindedness in driving drives The Trophy Wife crazy. She learned that she'd practically have to stick a gun to my head to get me to stop for a bathroom break. My kids are almost afraid to ask me to stop. As I said, motels or meals where you actually had to stop and sit down to order food were anathema. Once I was behind the wheel, I was one with the car, the stereo, and the road. I could block out everything around me - including all conversation in the car between wife and children. I undoubtedly missed a lot.
I have some of my best ideas when driving, because I go way back inside my head. I come up with the solutions to so many problems (although I sometimes forget to act on those). I think about God, life, the universe ... everything.
Oh, and I do all the driving. I can't stand to ride.
There was a time when we were driving back from somewhere up in the North Carolina mountains, heading home from a family vacation, back to Birmingham (6 hours, 40 minutes; 400 miles), and The Trophy Wife was making comments about my driving, and in a rare fit of childishness, I pulled over to the side of the road, got out of the car, walked around to her side and told her she could drive.
Did I say 'rare fit of childishness?' Who am I kidding?
Anyway, that may have been the only time I willingly gave up driving. And while I don't remember, I'm betting she only drove to the next gas station, at which point I took back over.
Come to think of it, I doubt I've ever apologized for that fit of pique. I hereby apologize (which is probably as rare as my acts of childishness are not)
One time, because I was attending a seminar at the historic 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham on Urban Christianity that I didn't want to miss, I drove from Birmingham to Baton Rouge (6 hours, 400 miles) to cover a basketball game at LSU, wrote and filed my story, and immediately drove all the way back to be there for the first session at 8 a.m. the next morning.
I didn't actually drive straight through on that trip. I did stop at a Holiday Inn in Hattiesburg, MS., on the way back - sleeping for 45 minutes - and then was up and gone. I remember when I went down to check out, my registration card was still on the counter; the room clerk hadn't even filed it yet!
My dream vacation is to load up The Trophy Wife in a convertable and drive from Birmingham to Mount Rushmore, North Dakota - a mere 22 and a half driving hours, 1,450 miles, according to MapQuest
Needless to say, The Trophy Wife would prefer to fly and just meet me at various spots along the way.
I always thought I'd like to be a truck driver, except I don't want to drive a semi-truck; I prefer something smaller, with four wheels and no trailor. But a job where I got to drive, and expenses were covered?
Me and a car and the stereo and truck stop food = Heaven.
But this weekend got to me.
I drove from Gulfport, MS to Birmingham: five hours, 330 miles.
Then Birmingham to Charleston, SC: 7 hours, 30 minutes; 467 miles.
Charleston back to Birmingham, then Birmingham to Memphis, TN: 4 hours, 240 miles.
Memphis to Huntington, TN; 2 hours, 120 miles.
Huntington back to Memphis.
Memphis back to Birmingham.
Birmingham back to Gulfport.
It was over the span of five days, which should have been nothing for a real road warrior.
I hate to think I'm getting old. I mean, I know I am. It happens to all of us.
As Dirty Harry once said, A man has got to know his limitations.
I'm hoping all I need is a little break, and a good couple night's sleep. Because I don't know what I'd do without the call of the highway. I don't like to fly. I don't like boats. I don't like to take buses.
I drive.
But maybe just not the way I used to.
Like Toby Keith sang, "I'm not as good as I once was; but I'm as good once as I ever was."
I think.
I'm tired of driving.
That will particularly disappoint The Heir, who has always considered me The Road Warrior.
There was that time I drove 10hours from Birmingham to Dallas (roughly 630 miles) to pick up The Heir at my sisters' house, then after a quick dinner drove right back, all the way back to Birmingham.
The Trophy Wife still laughs at the time we drove back from Maryland, where we'd been to the funeral of her aunt just outside of Washington D.C., straight through to Birmingham - roughly 12 hours, something like 750 miles. Oh, she wanted to stop. We passed by towns where we had friends and relatives; numerous hotels and motels. And this was the final leg of a Christmas trip that had seen us drive from Birmingham to St. Louis (8 hours, right at 500 miles), then St. Louis to Maryland (about 14 hours, 850 miles - although we did stop overnight somewhere in West Virginia), then the aforementioned trip from Maryland to Birmingham.
I was just ready to get home.
The stop-over in West Virginia was funny, because it snowed like crazy. The kids were little and I'm not sure they'd ever seen snow that fresh and deep. In fact, The Heir and The Young Prince decided they wanted to run out into this field, but when they stepped off the parking lot, the Young Prince disappeared from view; turns out the snow was deeper than he was tall!
My single-mindedness in driving drives The Trophy Wife crazy. She learned that she'd practically have to stick a gun to my head to get me to stop for a bathroom break. My kids are almost afraid to ask me to stop. As I said, motels or meals where you actually had to stop and sit down to order food were anathema. Once I was behind the wheel, I was one with the car, the stereo, and the road. I could block out everything around me - including all conversation in the car between wife and children. I undoubtedly missed a lot.
I have some of my best ideas when driving, because I go way back inside my head. I come up with the solutions to so many problems (although I sometimes forget to act on those). I think about God, life, the universe ... everything.
Oh, and I do all the driving. I can't stand to ride.
There was a time when we were driving back from somewhere up in the North Carolina mountains, heading home from a family vacation, back to Birmingham (6 hours, 40 minutes; 400 miles), and The Trophy Wife was making comments about my driving, and in a rare fit of childishness, I pulled over to the side of the road, got out of the car, walked around to her side and told her she could drive.
Did I say 'rare fit of childishness?' Who am I kidding?
Anyway, that may have been the only time I willingly gave up driving. And while I don't remember, I'm betting she only drove to the next gas station, at which point I took back over.
Come to think of it, I doubt I've ever apologized for that fit of pique. I hereby apologize (which is probably as rare as my acts of childishness are not)
One time, because I was attending a seminar at the historic 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham on Urban Christianity that I didn't want to miss, I drove from Birmingham to Baton Rouge (6 hours, 400 miles) to cover a basketball game at LSU, wrote and filed my story, and immediately drove all the way back to be there for the first session at 8 a.m. the next morning.
I didn't actually drive straight through on that trip. I did stop at a Holiday Inn in Hattiesburg, MS., on the way back - sleeping for 45 minutes - and then was up and gone. I remember when I went down to check out, my registration card was still on the counter; the room clerk hadn't even filed it yet!
My dream vacation is to load up The Trophy Wife in a convertable and drive from Birmingham to Mount Rushmore, North Dakota - a mere 22 and a half driving hours, 1,450 miles, according to MapQuest
Needless to say, The Trophy Wife would prefer to fly and just meet me at various spots along the way.
I always thought I'd like to be a truck driver, except I don't want to drive a semi-truck; I prefer something smaller, with four wheels and no trailor. But a job where I got to drive, and expenses were covered?
Me and a car and the stereo and truck stop food = Heaven.
But this weekend got to me.
I drove from Gulfport, MS to Birmingham: five hours, 330 miles.
Then Birmingham to Charleston, SC: 7 hours, 30 minutes; 467 miles.
Charleston back to Birmingham, then Birmingham to Memphis, TN: 4 hours, 240 miles.
Memphis to Huntington, TN; 2 hours, 120 miles.
Huntington back to Memphis.
Memphis back to Birmingham.
Birmingham back to Gulfport.
It was over the span of five days, which should have been nothing for a real road warrior.
I hate to think I'm getting old. I mean, I know I am. It happens to all of us.
As Dirty Harry once said, A man has got to know his limitations.
I'm hoping all I need is a little break, and a good couple night's sleep. Because I don't know what I'd do without the call of the highway. I don't like to fly. I don't like boats. I don't like to take buses.
I drive.
But maybe just not the way I used to.
Like Toby Keith sang, "I'm not as good as I once was; but I'm as good once as I ever was."
I think.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Defining poverty, continued: what hasn't worked
(I apologize; in the first version of this blog, I referred to Kerry Kennedy as Robert Kennedy's son when in fact Kerry is the late Robert Kennedy's daughter. I have fixed it below).
OK, while we debate the definition of poverty (my last post), there still remains the problem of what we do about poverty. I mean, it's one thing to define the problem, but that could take some time.
Meanwhile, nothing gets done.
And what we have done - at least in this country - isn't working.
In a recent Huffington Post column by Kerry Kennedy, the daughter of the late Robert Kennedy, about a totally unrelated topic, Kennedy summed up the problem nicely and very unintentionally when she pointed out:
" ... I couldn't help but think of the trip that my father, Robert Kennedy, made to the Mississippi Delta in 1967. That trip transformed him. He was horrified by the poverty, the children whose bellies were "swollen with hunger"; he believed we had a duty, as a nation, to relieve their suffering and soothe their pain. He returned to Washington determined to extend food stamps to the poorest Americans, despite a cash-strapped administration and an unyielding Congress. Today, the children and grandchildren of those very same families continue to suffer from systemic governmental neglect, the debilitating heritage of communities -- African-American, Vietnamese, Laotian, Native American, and poor white -- marginalized by skin color, religion, education level, income, or access to power. It is long past time for federal action. ..."
Italics are mine.
In 1967, Robert Kennedy determined that it was the duty of this nation to relieve suffering and soothe the pain of the poorest by giving them food stamps. And now, 43 years later, a younger Kennedy inadvertently admits it didn't really work because those same families continue to suffer.
Here's the problem as I see it.
I have written about something called "Maslow's hierarchy of needs'' before. This guy Maslow teaches that humans have a descending order of fundamental needs: physical fulfillment (food, warmth, etc); safety (love, belonging); and self-esteem.
In its war on poverty, the government (through tax payer financing) has spent 50-plus years trying to provide physical fulfilment with subsidized housing, food stamps, etc.
And it has tried to provide safety, although not done very well, by providing child care, pre-school programs, after-school programs, etc.
What it has not been able to do is find a workable method for providing self-esteem.
It's not just the government. Most of our "charities'' - whether secular or church-based - have followed the same model. We're great at providing shelter, food, medical benefits, education, entertainment ...
But it's all about giving. And taking.
Which is not conducive to building self-esteem.
The other day I was listening to a debate between two women over government subsidized healthcare. One of the women, an African-American, confessed that she'd had four government-funded abortions and been on welfare. Then one day she realized that it was too easy not to take responsibility for her actions and decided it was up to her to change her life.
In fact, she practically screamed at the other woman, a Caucasian, saying something to the effect of, "I wish all of you white do-gooders would just leave us in the inner city alone. What you're offering is racism, pure and simple. Providing birth control and abortion is just a way of killing off blacks. All you do is tell us that no matter what we do, you'll be there to fix everything for us. And what has it gotten us?"
The other woman was, as you'd expect, equally angry. She argued that providing health care like birth control and abortion was critical, a right of all people. In fact, she said, it wasn't just poor minorities. She said there were college students who couldn't afford birth control. In fact, she was once one of those young college girls who at times couldn't afford birth control, and where would she be if she hadn't been able to go to the local clinic to get it?
It was suggested to this "white do-gooder'' that maybe if she couldn't afford birth control, she could have decided to abstain from sex or be willing to accept the consequences of her actions, but the woman scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous idea she'd ever heard.
But that was exactly the point: by providing clean-up services, "do-gooders'' take away responsibility. The African-American woman was screaming that the minorities in the poor areas would never learn responsibility if the government was always there to protect them from their consequences.
Somehow, even the most well-meaning "do-gooders'' among us, have to find a way to help people understand that accepting responsibility for their actions is the first step toward understanding their value as individuals, what the Founding Fathers wrote accepted as fact that "all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights ...'
But those "rights" never meant free food, free housing, free clothes, free health care, free cell phones ( http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/pittsburghtrib/news/s_749344.html - Pennsylvanians on welfare get free cell phones).
At the same time, we do have to find a way to treat all people - perhaps especially people in poverty - with respect. Because showing respect for people builds self-respect in those people. Even the most successful person in the world walks a little taller when invited by the President of the United States in for a private meeting at the White House. It's just human nature to feel a little better about yourself when you feel respected.
It's difficult not to treat people with needs as people "in need." It's difficult, because it is human nature to feel superior to someone when you are helping them; just as it doesn't take long for a person to feel less self-respect when he is forced to accept help too often.
See, people need to believe they have some control. Maybe not in the big things, at least not right away. But the little things are a start; decisions on how to live, regardless of circumstance.
Here is where those of us that want to help people in poverty come in.
Poet Maya Angelou said, "
Too many times we treat those we see as having needs as being "in need," and I think there is a difference.
Sometimes there is nothing we can do about the need. But we can let people know all of us have needs, and how we respond to those needs - the decisions we make to address those needs - is what builds self esteem.
You don't determine your worth by how much stuff you have. Poor people have stuff.
More and more, I think the key is respect. Even if it means respecting the fact that someone might not have what we consider to be the basic necessities.
Otherwise, just like Kerry Kennedy, in 43 years we'll be looking around saying, "It's still not working."
You know the definition of insanity, right?
Doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.
OK, while we debate the definition of poverty (my last post), there still remains the problem of what we do about poverty. I mean, it's one thing to define the problem, but that could take some time.
Meanwhile, nothing gets done.
And what we have done - at least in this country - isn't working.
In a recent Huffington Post column by Kerry Kennedy, the daughter of the late Robert Kennedy, about a totally unrelated topic, Kennedy summed up the problem nicely and very unintentionally when she pointed out:
" ... I couldn't help but think of the trip that my father, Robert Kennedy, made to the Mississippi Delta in 1967. That trip transformed him. He was horrified by the poverty, the children whose bellies were "swollen with hunger"; he believed we had a duty, as a nation, to relieve their suffering and soothe their pain. He returned to Washington determined to extend food stamps to the poorest Americans, despite a cash-strapped administration and an unyielding Congress. Today, the children and grandchildren of those very same families continue to suffer from systemic governmental neglect, the debilitating heritage of communities -- African-American, Vietnamese, Laotian, Native American, and poor white -- marginalized by skin color, religion, education level, income, or access to power. It is long past time for federal action. ..."
Italics are mine.
In 1967, Robert Kennedy determined that it was the duty of this nation to relieve suffering and soothe the pain of the poorest by giving them food stamps. And now, 43 years later, a younger Kennedy inadvertently admits it didn't really work because those same families continue to suffer.
Here's the problem as I see it.
I have written about something called "Maslow's hierarchy of needs'' before. This guy Maslow teaches that humans have a descending order of fundamental needs: physical fulfillment (food, warmth, etc); safety (love, belonging); and self-esteem.
In its war on poverty, the government (through tax payer financing) has spent 50-plus years trying to provide physical fulfilment with subsidized housing, food stamps, etc.
And it has tried to provide safety, although not done very well, by providing child care, pre-school programs, after-school programs, etc.
What it has not been able to do is find a workable method for providing self-esteem.
It's not just the government. Most of our "charities'' - whether secular or church-based - have followed the same model. We're great at providing shelter, food, medical benefits, education, entertainment ...
But it's all about giving. And taking.
Which is not conducive to building self-esteem.
The other day I was listening to a debate between two women over government subsidized healthcare. One of the women, an African-American, confessed that she'd had four government-funded abortions and been on welfare. Then one day she realized that it was too easy not to take responsibility for her actions and decided it was up to her to change her life.
In fact, she practically screamed at the other woman, a Caucasian, saying something to the effect of, "I wish all of you white do-gooders would just leave us in the inner city alone. What you're offering is racism, pure and simple. Providing birth control and abortion is just a way of killing off blacks. All you do is tell us that no matter what we do, you'll be there to fix everything for us. And what has it gotten us?"
The other woman was, as you'd expect, equally angry. She argued that providing health care like birth control and abortion was critical, a right of all people. In fact, she said, it wasn't just poor minorities. She said there were college students who couldn't afford birth control. In fact, she was once one of those young college girls who at times couldn't afford birth control, and where would she be if she hadn't been able to go to the local clinic to get it?
It was suggested to this "white do-gooder'' that maybe if she couldn't afford birth control, she could have decided to abstain from sex or be willing to accept the consequences of her actions, but the woman scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous idea she'd ever heard.
But that was exactly the point: by providing clean-up services, "do-gooders'' take away responsibility. The African-American woman was screaming that the minorities in the poor areas would never learn responsibility if the government was always there to protect them from their consequences.
Somehow, even the most well-meaning "do-gooders'' among us, have to find a way to help people understand that accepting responsibility for their actions is the first step toward understanding their value as individuals, what the Founding Fathers wrote accepted as fact that "all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights ...'
But those "rights" never meant free food, free housing, free clothes, free health care, free cell phones ( http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/pittsburghtrib/news/s_749344.html - Pennsylvanians on welfare get free cell phones).
At the same time, we do have to find a way to treat all people - perhaps especially people in poverty - with respect. Because showing respect for people builds self-respect in those people. Even the most successful person in the world walks a little taller when invited by the President of the United States in for a private meeting at the White House. It's just human nature to feel a little better about yourself when you feel respected.
It's difficult not to treat people with needs as people "in need." It's difficult, because it is human nature to feel superior to someone when you are helping them; just as it doesn't take long for a person to feel less self-respect when he is forced to accept help too often.
See, people need to believe they have some control. Maybe not in the big things, at least not right away. But the little things are a start; decisions on how to live, regardless of circumstance.
Here is where those of us that want to help people in poverty come in.
Poet Maya Angelou said, "
Too many times we treat those we see as having needs as being "in need," and I think there is a difference.
Sometimes there is nothing we can do about the need. But we can let people know all of us have needs, and how we respond to those needs - the decisions we make to address those needs - is what builds self esteem.
You don't determine your worth by how much stuff you have. Poor people have stuff.
More and more, I think the key is respect. Even if it means respecting the fact that someone might not have what we consider to be the basic necessities.
Otherwise, just like Kerry Kennedy, in 43 years we'll be looking around saying, "It's still not working."
You know the definition of insanity, right?
Doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Defining "poverty" - where most of us get stuck
How do you define "poverty?"
It's an intriguing question, isn't it?
If we're honest, our first instinct is to assign some kind of monetary value to poverty, as in, "earning less than X-dollars a year" or "not being able to afford X."
That's the gut reaction, and there's nothing wrong with that, because most of the world is raised on the most practical definitions of "rich" and "poor" as having to do with money.
But if you're serious about answering the question, no doubt you soon get past a dollar figure. You have to, because the people we call "living in poverty'' in the United States would be considered quite well off in other countries.
So recognizing that financial poverty is relative, the challenge is to come up with some kind of sweeping definition of "poverty" that transcends location.
And that becomes quite a challenge.
For honesty's sake, let me admit the question comes up because I'm reading a book called, "When Helping Hurts,'' subtitled "How to alleviate poverty without hurting the poor ... and yourself."
I've not finished the book. But it begins with that very question, "What is poverty?"
The authors of the book provide their idea of a working definition, but that's not what is important. What is important is how you or I define "poverty."
We can talk about moral poverty, or spiritual poverty, or economic poverty, or physical poverty - and agree there are a variety of elements to poverty, or being poor.
So how do we tie them all together? Can we?
A writer named Bryant Myers defines poverty (at least as quoted in this book) as "the result of relationships that do not work, that are not just, that are not for life, that are not harmonious or enjoyable. Poverty is the absence of shalom in all its meanings."
By "shalom" I'm assuming Myers means "peace" in all its meanings.
I don't know about that. I mean, I like what Myers says, but to say poverty is the result of relationships that do not work?
I'd rather offer another suggestion.
I think poverty is about the lack of choices - real or imagined.
If you feel you no longer have a choice in the direction of your life, then you are "poor," or suffering from poverty.
The reason I make this my definition (at least for now, until I arrive at a better one) is that it seems to encompass all the sub-elements of poverty, as well as has the ability to transcend location.
In other words, if you are trapped into place or position, you are poor.
I have known poor people who just couldn't see any way out of their economic situation, and as long as they couldn't see any way out of their lifestyle - their lifestyle was no longer their choice - they were poor.
Likewise I've known people who are economically advantaged in the extreme but who felt just as trapped because they couldn't afford to do anything other than what they did because it meant losing their lifestyle; and they were just as poor (although much more comfortable in their poverty).
Then again, I've known people who lived on next to nothing, who from all outward appearances were "poor," but who chose to live that way and therefore were not poor (think Mother Theresa, as an extreme).
Just as I've known people who were wealthy but willingly gave it up to live a different lifestyle, and were not poor. (More often than not, those people were only financially "poor" in comparison to their previous lives, but you get the idea).
Let me think this through further.
We look at the people we consider to be "poor," and I don't think they necessarily have chosen to be poor - to live on government welfare and food stamps or whatever subsidy they live on. But they just don't know any other way. That's how everyone they know lives.
While some would say they need to get a job, they would ask - and I believe in all sincerity - "why?" To get a job means you have to start paying rent and paying for food and paying for the things that right now are given to you.
And I wonder if those people look at the "rich'' who lives in their big houses and don't assume that somehow those people live for "free," too, but just somehow got a better subsidy. That is, those people have a "company'' that gives them money in the form of a giant salary. But come on - putting on a suit and sitting behind a desk all day isn't work. It's money for nothing (and the chicks are free - to quote Dire Straits). They got it because they were born into a different form of subsidy.
Meanwhile, those of us that understand work and earning money and paying for our houses and food and necessities as well as luxuries look at the non-workers and wonder why they don't see that getting a job and earning money just makes sense, because it "works."
(I do love my italics)
It's interesting that in the Bible, there is so much written about our obligation to take care of the poor - the widows, the orphans, the prisoners, the aliens (non-citizens) in our midst.
Yet at the same time, when the prostitute pours an expensive bottle of perfume over Jesus' feet and a disciple protests because that perfume could have been sold and the money used to help the poor, Jesus says (and I'm paraphrasing), "Come on, man! Do you really think one bottle of perfume will make a dent on poverty? Despite all the encouragements in Scripture to care for the poor, there will always be the poor among us."
I had someone whose opinion I respect more than she realizes (and I'm sorry for that) who is committed to trying to alleviate poverty tell me that the way we help "the poor" isn't by giving them stuff (agreed), but rather to help them sort of come to grips with their poverty, to recognize that God is there in their midst just as much as He is among the middle class and the rich, and they need to recognize their inherent "worth" as human beings created in God's image.
We bring value to their lives.
I like that (and I hope I haven't over-simplified or missed the point).
But it has a certain far-Eastern, Buddhist feel to it. The Buddhists would say the way you get rid of poverty is for the poor to learn to eliminate their desire for "things,'' to learn to be satisfied in their poverty. The Buddha said as much.
It's kind of like the Islamic belief of "Allah wills it." Talk to people in Arab countries who ask people why they live in a valley fed by contaminated water and infested with disease why they don't change, they answer, "Allah wills it." They mean, this is the life Allah gave them, and who are they to try to change Allah's will?
Christians, on the other hand, do seem to believe that we should engage in trying to change our station in life.
Born poor and starving? Pursue something better. Born and raised in a valley of contaminated water, infested with disease? Move.
So that brings us back to why I define poverty as lacking choice. As long as we believe we can change - that God doesn't condemn us to live a certain way forever - we're not poor. We're making choices.
The difficulty, of course, is how do you convince people who believe they are "stuck'' that they don't have to be?
At the same time, at least in the case of those we consider "poor," we can't refuse to give food to the hungry, clothing to the naked, comfort to the oppressed.
We just have to figure out how to do that, without furthering their sense of "stuckness'' by doing so.
And that's where most of us get stuck.
It's an intriguing question, isn't it?
If we're honest, our first instinct is to assign some kind of monetary value to poverty, as in, "earning less than X-dollars a year" or "not being able to afford X."
That's the gut reaction, and there's nothing wrong with that, because most of the world is raised on the most practical definitions of "rich" and "poor" as having to do with money.
But if you're serious about answering the question, no doubt you soon get past a dollar figure. You have to, because the people we call "living in poverty'' in the United States would be considered quite well off in other countries.
So recognizing that financial poverty is relative, the challenge is to come up with some kind of sweeping definition of "poverty" that transcends location.
And that becomes quite a challenge.
For honesty's sake, let me admit the question comes up because I'm reading a book called, "When Helping Hurts,'' subtitled "How to alleviate poverty without hurting the poor ... and yourself."
I've not finished the book. But it begins with that very question, "What is poverty?"
The authors of the book provide their idea of a working definition, but that's not what is important. What is important is how you or I define "poverty."
We can talk about moral poverty, or spiritual poverty, or economic poverty, or physical poverty - and agree there are a variety of elements to poverty, or being poor.
So how do we tie them all together? Can we?
A writer named Bryant Myers defines poverty (at least as quoted in this book) as "the result of relationships that do not work, that are not just, that are not for life, that are not harmonious or enjoyable. Poverty is the absence of shalom in all its meanings."
By "shalom" I'm assuming Myers means "peace" in all its meanings.
I don't know about that. I mean, I like what Myers says, but to say poverty is the result of relationships that do not work?
I'd rather offer another suggestion.
I think poverty is about the lack of choices - real or imagined.
If you feel you no longer have a choice in the direction of your life, then you are "poor," or suffering from poverty.
The reason I make this my definition (at least for now, until I arrive at a better one) is that it seems to encompass all the sub-elements of poverty, as well as has the ability to transcend location.
In other words, if you are trapped into place or position, you are poor.
I have known poor people who just couldn't see any way out of their economic situation, and as long as they couldn't see any way out of their lifestyle - their lifestyle was no longer their choice - they were poor.
Likewise I've known people who are economically advantaged in the extreme but who felt just as trapped because they couldn't afford to do anything other than what they did because it meant losing their lifestyle; and they were just as poor (although much more comfortable in their poverty).
Then again, I've known people who lived on next to nothing, who from all outward appearances were "poor," but who chose to live that way and therefore were not poor (think Mother Theresa, as an extreme).
Just as I've known people who were wealthy but willingly gave it up to live a different lifestyle, and were not poor. (More often than not, those people were only financially "poor" in comparison to their previous lives, but you get the idea).
Let me think this through further.
We look at the people we consider to be "poor," and I don't think they necessarily have chosen to be poor - to live on government welfare and food stamps or whatever subsidy they live on. But they just don't know any other way. That's how everyone they know lives.
While some would say they need to get a job, they would ask - and I believe in all sincerity - "why?" To get a job means you have to start paying rent and paying for food and paying for the things that right now are given to you.
And I wonder if those people look at the "rich'' who lives in their big houses and don't assume that somehow those people live for "free," too, but just somehow got a better subsidy. That is, those people have a "company'' that gives them money in the form of a giant salary. But come on - putting on a suit and sitting behind a desk all day isn't work. It's money for nothing (and the chicks are free - to quote Dire Straits). They got it because they were born into a different form of subsidy.
Meanwhile, those of us that understand work and earning money and paying for our houses and food and necessities as well as luxuries look at the non-workers and wonder why they don't see that getting a job and earning money just makes sense, because it "works."
(I do love my italics)
It's interesting that in the Bible, there is so much written about our obligation to take care of the poor - the widows, the orphans, the prisoners, the aliens (non-citizens) in our midst.
Yet at the same time, when the prostitute pours an expensive bottle of perfume over Jesus' feet and a disciple protests because that perfume could have been sold and the money used to help the poor, Jesus says (and I'm paraphrasing), "Come on, man! Do you really think one bottle of perfume will make a dent on poverty? Despite all the encouragements in Scripture to care for the poor, there will always be the poor among us."
I had someone whose opinion I respect more than she realizes (and I'm sorry for that) who is committed to trying to alleviate poverty tell me that the way we help "the poor" isn't by giving them stuff (agreed), but rather to help them sort of come to grips with their poverty, to recognize that God is there in their midst just as much as He is among the middle class and the rich, and they need to recognize their inherent "worth" as human beings created in God's image.
We bring value to their lives.
I like that (and I hope I haven't over-simplified or missed the point).
But it has a certain far-Eastern, Buddhist feel to it. The Buddhists would say the way you get rid of poverty is for the poor to learn to eliminate their desire for "things,'' to learn to be satisfied in their poverty. The Buddha said as much.
It's kind of like the Islamic belief of "Allah wills it." Talk to people in Arab countries who ask people why they live in a valley fed by contaminated water and infested with disease why they don't change, they answer, "Allah wills it." They mean, this is the life Allah gave them, and who are they to try to change Allah's will?
Christians, on the other hand, do seem to believe that we should engage in trying to change our station in life.
Born poor and starving? Pursue something better. Born and raised in a valley of contaminated water, infested with disease? Move.
So that brings us back to why I define poverty as lacking choice. As long as we believe we can change - that God doesn't condemn us to live a certain way forever - we're not poor. We're making choices.
The difficulty, of course, is how do you convince people who believe they are "stuck'' that they don't have to be?
At the same time, at least in the case of those we consider "poor," we can't refuse to give food to the hungry, clothing to the naked, comfort to the oppressed.
We just have to figure out how to do that, without furthering their sense of "stuckness'' by doing so.
And that's where most of us get stuck.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Time for a government garage sale
The deal is done. The government did what only governments seem to find logical: attempt to get out of debt by borrowing more money, putting off actually dealing with the problem of out of control spending and ridiculously expanding government until another time.
In a previous blog, I posted about how I couldn't believe proven, logical methods of dealing with dealt - the way people have successfully dealt with the problem of debt for centuries - was so hard for modern government to understand.
In "The economics of history; or everything I know about the economy I learned while being in debt", I wrote:
So one side, the liberal side, says the answer is we have to just raise our debt limit so we can borrow more money. Or else we need to print more money.
Of course there is the option of earning more money - but let's face it, anyone of us knows that's the hardest way to go. It takes work. And there are only so many hours in a day and so many jobs to go around, and borrowing based on the idea that I'm going to get a better paying job somewhere in the near future is kind of how the housing market bubbled and burst.
Further compounding the issue is that government really doesn't earn money. ...
I'm not going to rehash the issue here, except to say I forgot one very obvious way government can actually make money without taxing or cutting spending.
Following my belief that the same principles apply for individuals as well as governments, let's back up a step. One way millions of Americans raise money in a hurry is have a garage sale. Take valuable assets and sell them.
Well, as my friend Gary Palmer of the Alabama Policy Institute points out (go to Alabamapolicy.org/viewpoints/article.php?id_art=472 ) the government has a very similar option, and it makes so much sense on so many levels.
"Our nation," Palmer writes, "has abundant assets; we simply refuse to use them."
According to the U.S. Department of the Interior and the Bureau of Land Management, there are 800 billion barrels of recoverable oil from oil shale in the Green River Formation, located in western Colorado, Utah and Wyoming - about three times more than the proven oil reserves of Saudi Arabia. While the Green River Formation covers about 11 million acres of land, 80 percent of the recoverable oil can be found in a 1,224 square mile area of western Colorado.
Palmer goes on to say that "The federal government owns or manages 73 percent of the lands that contain significant oil shale deposits in the West and 80 percent of the recoverable oil in the Green River Formation. In addition, there are several billion barrels more offshore. In fact, only about 15 percent of the U.S. coastal waters have been opened to exploration. Including the known oil reserves in Alaska and other areas of the nation, the U.S. has oil reserves worth trillions of dollars."
That's just oil. It's estimated that the United States has an enough oil, natural gas, and coal reserves to last 249 years (Palmer says figures based on powering 65 million cars for 60 years; heat 60 million households for 160 years; and energy from recoverable coal for 249 years).
Now, I'm not suggesting we simply "rape the land." But protecting the environment at the expense of future generations is just as abusive.
Auctioning off select areas of federal land for energy generates income for the government; creates jobs that will put people to work; lessens U.S. dependence on foreign oil which will lower energy costs that make it easier for businesses to compete, products to be transported more cheaply that lowers basic costs of goods, and simply reduces the cost of living in the United States.
Palmer writes, "It is estimated that just allowing permits for offshore exploration and drilling to return to levels before the BP spill, including approval of backlogged permit requests, would generate 400,000 jobs and add $45 billion to GDP over the next two years."
I'm not a radical environmentalist, I admit. However, I do believe that God has ordained man to be stewards of the earth, responsible for the environment, and expected to treat all of creation - which was another victim of the fall of man - with respect and care. The Bible says God reveals himself through all creation. That is reason enough to protect that revelation of God.
But at the same time, the resources are there for a reason. And we're not talking about strip-mining or leveling mountains or polluting the oceans. I've been involved in the gas and oil business enough to see that energy companies are rightly held responsible for their impact on the environment.
Once again, it's common sense - the same approach you or I might take if we suddenly found our self facing out of control debt. Most of us don't walk away from debt. Most of us never consider simply defaulting. Most of us take a responsible approach that includes trying to generate more income while reducing expenses.
It hurts. Nobody likes it. It makes us unpopular at times, particularly with our children who don't understand why they can't have the new stuff their friends have, or why the family can't go on vacations like everyone else, or why they suddenly have to give up activities they enjoy because they cost too much.
But good parents who try to be good stewards of their finances know that ultimately that discipline and sacrifice will make a better future for their children.
Common sense, right?
In a previous blog, I posted about how I couldn't believe proven, logical methods of dealing with dealt - the way people have successfully dealt with the problem of debt for centuries - was so hard for modern government to understand.
In "The economics of history; or everything I know about the economy I learned while being in debt", I wrote:
So one side, the liberal side, says the answer is we have to just raise our debt limit so we can borrow more money. Or else we need to print more money.
Of course there is the option of earning more money - but let's face it, anyone of us knows that's the hardest way to go. It takes work. And there are only so many hours in a day and so many jobs to go around, and borrowing based on the idea that I'm going to get a better paying job somewhere in the near future is kind of how the housing market bubbled and burst.
Further compounding the issue is that government really doesn't earn money. ...
I'm not going to rehash the issue here, except to say I forgot one very obvious way government can actually make money without taxing or cutting spending.
Following my belief that the same principles apply for individuals as well as governments, let's back up a step. One way millions of Americans raise money in a hurry is have a garage sale. Take valuable assets and sell them.
Well, as my friend Gary Palmer of the Alabama Policy Institute points out (go to Alabamapolicy.org/viewpoints/article.php?id_art=472 ) the government has a very similar option, and it makes so much sense on so many levels.
"Our nation," Palmer writes, "has abundant assets; we simply refuse to use them."
According to the U.S. Department of the Interior and the Bureau of Land Management, there are 800 billion barrels of recoverable oil from oil shale in the Green River Formation, located in western Colorado, Utah and Wyoming - about three times more than the proven oil reserves of Saudi Arabia. While the Green River Formation covers about 11 million acres of land, 80 percent of the recoverable oil can be found in a 1,224 square mile area of western Colorado.
Palmer goes on to say that "The federal government owns or manages 73 percent of the lands that contain significant oil shale deposits in the West and 80 percent of the recoverable oil in the Green River Formation. In addition, there are several billion barrels more offshore. In fact, only about 15 percent of the U.S. coastal waters have been opened to exploration. Including the known oil reserves in Alaska and other areas of the nation, the U.S. has oil reserves worth trillions of dollars."
That's just oil. It's estimated that the United States has an enough oil, natural gas, and coal reserves to last 249 years (Palmer says figures based on powering 65 million cars for 60 years; heat 60 million households for 160 years; and energy from recoverable coal for 249 years).
Now, I'm not suggesting we simply "rape the land." But protecting the environment at the expense of future generations is just as abusive.
Auctioning off select areas of federal land for energy generates income for the government; creates jobs that will put people to work; lessens U.S. dependence on foreign oil which will lower energy costs that make it easier for businesses to compete, products to be transported more cheaply that lowers basic costs of goods, and simply reduces the cost of living in the United States.
Palmer writes, "It is estimated that just allowing permits for offshore exploration and drilling to return to levels before the BP spill, including approval of backlogged permit requests, would generate 400,000 jobs and add $45 billion to GDP over the next two years."
I'm not a radical environmentalist, I admit. However, I do believe that God has ordained man to be stewards of the earth, responsible for the environment, and expected to treat all of creation - which was another victim of the fall of man - with respect and care. The Bible says God reveals himself through all creation. That is reason enough to protect that revelation of God.
But at the same time, the resources are there for a reason. And we're not talking about strip-mining or leveling mountains or polluting the oceans. I've been involved in the gas and oil business enough to see that energy companies are rightly held responsible for their impact on the environment.
Once again, it's common sense - the same approach you or I might take if we suddenly found our self facing out of control debt. Most of us don't walk away from debt. Most of us never consider simply defaulting. Most of us take a responsible approach that includes trying to generate more income while reducing expenses.
It hurts. Nobody likes it. It makes us unpopular at times, particularly with our children who don't understand why they can't have the new stuff their friends have, or why the family can't go on vacations like everyone else, or why they suddenly have to give up activities they enjoy because they cost too much.
But good parents who try to be good stewards of their finances know that ultimately that discipline and sacrifice will make a better future for their children.
Common sense, right?
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Last Griffin
I can't remember when I wrote this - way back in college, or shortly thereafter - or whether it was supposed to be a children's poem or some kind of pretentious statement about the world's lack of appreciation for my unrecognized talent.
Surely I meant it as a children's poem ... and while it was the 70s, I didn't drink or do drugs.
Maybe I should have.
The Last Griffin
No one can see the Griffin
They believe it doesn't exist
And just because I've seen him
They think my mind has suffered a twist.
So they pat my head and smile at me,
But each smile says, "conform."
And I tried to, I really tried to -
Till the Griffin brought a Unicorn.
So I shouted to all the people,
"Behold the Griffin, with the lion's mane
And his guest, the magnificent Unicorn!"
But they whispered, "He's going insane."
I ask myself as I sit here,
if I were crazy, would I know?
I began to search inside myself.
(It seems the logical place to go).
But the answer continues to elude me.
How can I deny what my eyes can see?
A Griffin, and a Unicorn
Eating roses, climbing trees.
Then it hits me - I don't belong here!
I'm a stranger among my own kind!
I was born to ride a unicorn -
but it's too late, and I wake to find
The people have finally trapped me
With words of "treatment' and of 'cure.'
They never bothered to ask me
Since they agree and feel secure
That they're only doing what's proper,
They don't care what might be kind.
It doesn't matter to them that I'm happy
Or that the Griffin doesn't seem to mind.
So they leave me on this piece of paper
And somehow, live with their sin
Because they've kept from the world the pleasure
Of sharing the last Griffin
Surely I meant it as a children's poem ... and while it was the 70s, I didn't drink or do drugs.
Maybe I should have.
The Last Griffin
No one can see the Griffin
They believe it doesn't exist
And just because I've seen him
They think my mind has suffered a twist.
So they pat my head and smile at me,
But each smile says, "conform."
And I tried to, I really tried to -
Till the Griffin brought a Unicorn.
So I shouted to all the people,
"Behold the Griffin, with the lion's mane
And his guest, the magnificent Unicorn!"
But they whispered, "He's going insane."
I ask myself as I sit here,
if I were crazy, would I know?
I began to search inside myself.
(It seems the logical place to go).
But the answer continues to elude me.
How can I deny what my eyes can see?
A Griffin, and a Unicorn
Eating roses, climbing trees.
Then it hits me - I don't belong here!
I'm a stranger among my own kind!
I was born to ride a unicorn -
but it's too late, and I wake to find
The people have finally trapped me
With words of "treatment' and of 'cure.'
They never bothered to ask me
Since they agree and feel secure
That they're only doing what's proper,
They don't care what might be kind.
It doesn't matter to them that I'm happy
Or that the Griffin doesn't seem to mind.
So they leave me on this piece of paper
And somehow, live with their sin
Because they've kept from the world the pleasure
Of sharing the last Griffin
Portrait of the tortured cliche
I was sitting up late one night (actually early one morning) reading during the college years, feeling alone and unappreciated, when I realized I was a cliche. A stereotype. Just like everyone else.
It happened while reading the book of Ecclesiastes. I don't remember which part. I just remember that at that particular time of my life I thought I was the tortured artist, the unappreciated genius, so unique and different with an understanding of the world that no one else seemed to have, when I realized Solomon (the author of Ecclesiastes) sounded a lot like me - only better.
Which meant if some guy writing thousands of years ago was feeling many of the same things I was, how many other people had felt that way in the years since?
All that junk about how we're "individuals'' and there is "nobody else in the world like me" - and it hit me that we're all more alike than we are different. Think about it: there's a finite range of emotions, and we all share them, just in varying degrees. Sure, there's just a wide enough trough to draw from in our emotional make-up to make us different, but we're still all drawing from the same trough.
Anyway, that didn't depress me. For some reason it caused me to laugh at myself, and go on feeling much better about things.
I say all of that to get to the fact that there was a time in my life when I thought I was the tortured singer-songwriter-poet.
That was a long, long time ago, when I had visions of being the next Carl Sandburg/Jack Kerouac/Kris Kristofferson.
Needless to say, I wasn't.
But I did write poetry - some of it pretty bad - that I came across in an old notebook, in which I'd written things like:
Jarred to life by an unwelcome wake-up call
Struggling to discern reality out of the brain-fog of sleep
Papered walls, bolted down lamps
Pictures of flowers screwed into place
Is this Denver? Or Detroit?
Teased by the trace of perfume and reefer
Trying to remember through the dull throb of dead cells
That face in the mirror
Is vaguely familiar.
Haven't we met somewhere before?
Now, understand my life in imagination was much different than reality. It always is. That poem might suggest a much different life than I actually led. But that's part of living inside your imagination as a tortured, unappreciated artiste.
It was going to be a whole series of "road stories." I had a whole wad of them, including this one:
Arizona Desert
Telephone pole, or telephone pole
Mighty post of tar and wood
Clicking off the miles in unknown measures
Dodging beer can missiles fired from a '78 mobile cruiser
One more last stop 'til the desert
Followed by one more last stop 'til the desert
Is there a last stop?
Or are the deserts so small
they fit between stations?
And is this buzz only in my head ?
Or is there a fly
come along for the ride?
I know. I should be - and I am - embarrassed. But what the heck, right? I have a whole book of these things, including country songs that never found a tune (mercifully). And the truth is, some of them I actually like.
So I'm going to start a new category, and call it "bad poetry."
Call it the revenge of the tortured artist. Only this time, make it the torturing artist.
The Budweiser Lite light reflects across
the surface of the pool
Tom removes his shirt,
then dangles his legs over the side of the pool,
soaking his shoes and socks and pants up to his knees
Mitch sits at a cast-iron table
hustling the waitress who has no other table to wait on,
rubbing her back and caressing her neck
J.T. bounces a ball into the air
off the end of a beer bottle,
stealing quick drinks between each bounce.
It's one a.m. in a Holiday Inn
on the outskirts of some forgotten town.
Another alcohol induced dream
Chapter 104 of a rental car ramble
where progress is marked not in road signs
but in picture post-cards sent to a place called 'home'
and faces nearly forgotten.
J.T. takes the last swig, catches the ball on the bottle,
sets it on the table and wanders off to his room.
Mitch disappears into the dark, arm around a country girl
who giggles as he whispers in her ear.
And the reflection of the Bud Lite light is rippled
as Tom throws up in the pool.
There is more, unfortunately, and I'll get to them, also unfortunately.
Because what's the point of starting a file called "pathetic poetry" if you don't fill it?
It happened while reading the book of Ecclesiastes. I don't remember which part. I just remember that at that particular time of my life I thought I was the tortured artist, the unappreciated genius, so unique and different with an understanding of the world that no one else seemed to have, when I realized Solomon (the author of Ecclesiastes) sounded a lot like me - only better.
Which meant if some guy writing thousands of years ago was feeling many of the same things I was, how many other people had felt that way in the years since?
All that junk about how we're "individuals'' and there is "nobody else in the world like me" - and it hit me that we're all more alike than we are different. Think about it: there's a finite range of emotions, and we all share them, just in varying degrees. Sure, there's just a wide enough trough to draw from in our emotional make-up to make us different, but we're still all drawing from the same trough.
Anyway, that didn't depress me. For some reason it caused me to laugh at myself, and go on feeling much better about things.
I say all of that to get to the fact that there was a time in my life when I thought I was the tortured singer-songwriter-poet.
That was a long, long time ago, when I had visions of being the next Carl Sandburg/Jack Kerouac/Kris Kristofferson.
Needless to say, I wasn't.
But I did write poetry - some of it pretty bad - that I came across in an old notebook, in which I'd written things like:
Jarred to life by an unwelcome wake-up call
Struggling to discern reality out of the brain-fog of sleep
Papered walls, bolted down lamps
Pictures of flowers screwed into place
Is this Denver? Or Detroit?
Teased by the trace of perfume and reefer
Trying to remember through the dull throb of dead cells
That face in the mirror
Is vaguely familiar.
Haven't we met somewhere before?
Now, understand my life in imagination was much different than reality. It always is. That poem might suggest a much different life than I actually led. But that's part of living inside your imagination as a tortured, unappreciated artiste.
It was going to be a whole series of "road stories." I had a whole wad of them, including this one:
Arizona Desert
Telephone pole, or telephone pole
Mighty post of tar and wood
Clicking off the miles in unknown measures
Dodging beer can missiles fired from a '78 mobile cruiser
One more last stop 'til the desert
Followed by one more last stop 'til the desert
Is there a last stop?
Or are the deserts so small
they fit between stations?
And is this buzz only in my head ?
Or is there a fly
come along for the ride?
I know. I should be - and I am - embarrassed. But what the heck, right? I have a whole book of these things, including country songs that never found a tune (mercifully). And the truth is, some of them I actually like.
So I'm going to start a new category, and call it "bad poetry."
Call it the revenge of the tortured artist. Only this time, make it the torturing artist.
The Budweiser Lite light reflects across
the surface of the pool
Tom removes his shirt,
then dangles his legs over the side of the pool,
soaking his shoes and socks and pants up to his knees
Mitch sits at a cast-iron table
hustling the waitress who has no other table to wait on,
rubbing her back and caressing her neck
J.T. bounces a ball into the air
off the end of a beer bottle,
stealing quick drinks between each bounce.
It's one a.m. in a Holiday Inn
on the outskirts of some forgotten town.
Another alcohol induced dream
Chapter 104 of a rental car ramble
where progress is marked not in road signs
but in picture post-cards sent to a place called 'home'
and faces nearly forgotten.
J.T. takes the last swig, catches the ball on the bottle,
sets it on the table and wanders off to his room.
Mitch disappears into the dark, arm around a country girl
who giggles as he whispers in her ear.
And the reflection of the Bud Lite light is rippled
as Tom throws up in the pool.
There is more, unfortunately, and I'll get to them, also unfortunately.
Because what's the point of starting a file called "pathetic poetry" if you don't fill it?
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