March 8^th, 2010

I spent yesterday morning with Pastor Gary and the dear hearts at Peace Lutheran in New Braunfels , Texas—a wonderful knap-sack of memories for my pernicious journey.  At the end of the morning, as I was just getting ready to pack up and leave, a gentleman walked in the door and said, “One final question.  What do you think politics and the church should do to make this a better world?”

He caught me a bit off-guard.  Let’s just say I wasn’t prepared to give an eloquent answer in the moment, so I promised him I would address it in this week’s Jonathots.  So, in honor of my dear friend and the good souls of Peace and those who seek a lasting peace everywhere, let me tell you what I think step one should be in a process to gain our sanity in the midst of all the garbled, over-stated philosophies.

Confront mediocrity.

Those are two words we don’t like to talk about in this country anymore.  It seems we’ve lost the intestinal fortitude to confront and are frightened to death to refer to an effort as mediocre, lest someone put a microscope on our attempts.  So we’ve developed a mantra.  “This is what I have so deal with it.”

In the process of compromising quality and taking polls to determine what’s right and wrong, we have become a church that no longer aspires to the higher notions of Jesus and a society that punches a time clock, always trying to cheat the system and leave early.  Mediocrity is mediocre.  And mediocre is less than what we anticipated or needed.  And less than what we anticipated or needed is insufficient—no matter how many ways you try to spin it.

We are so busy giving religious people absolution and creating a coddled environment that there is no time for the cleansing manifesto of Jesus Christ to enter humanity and do its marvelous, mystical work.  And in Washington , there is an acquiescence to the inevitable gridlock of grimness which renders those we elected insipid, instead of empowered with the responsibility to represent us wisely.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with saying, “This is what I have,” as long as it’s followed by, “Help me find a way to make it better.”

I don’t know what I’ll be doing on the day of my death.  I don’t know whether I’ll be killed, have a heart attack or succumb to disease.  But I do know this—I will be fighting the good fight the whole way.  I will be reviewing my life with the inspiration to make it richer and more real,and I will be keeping a sense of humor about my inadequacies instead of pretending they don’t exist.

If we’re going to have church, we have to be prepared to confront the mediocrity in our lives and not just create well-typed prayers of pretext and apology to gain temporary forgiveness for being lesser than we might have become if we would just have kept going. 

So what is the first step in making a better church and better government?  Stop believing that the congregation or the populous is supposed to be salved instead of saved.  Without condemnation, speak the truth in love.  Let the discussion ensue.  Allow the chips to fall where they may.  And let the spirit of God convince us to take another crack at it.

As long as we believe that church is a way we like to worship instead of a way to discover our better selves, we will water down the power of communion to a nasty, lukewarm cup of swill.  And as long as we believe or contend that politics is about parties instead of pursuing the common good, we will be stuck with fund-raisers instead of law-makers.

What is the most productive way to confront mediocrity? 

1. First and foremost, find it in ourselves.
2. Show the silliness.  Keep the humor in it and let the spirit do the convicting.
3. Stubbornly refuse to continue until we’re satisfied we really have discovered—or at least addressed—a better way.  For after all, failure is inevitable. Futility is to be avoided.

So to answer my friend from New Braunfels, step one to making a better church and a better government is to confront mediocrity instead of embracing it as our traveling companion—the great charade. 

            Step two I think I’ll give you tomorrow, if that’s not too mediocre.

March 7^th, 2010

            Singing.  Mine is a love/hate relationship with the piping.

            I don’t think there’s anything quite like singing to reach deep within the human heart, pushing away all the barriers to connect with real emotion instead of standardized fare.  Yet I have never seen anything as ego-driven and lacking in depth and purpose either.

            I started singing when I was twelve years old.  Being in a small town, surrounded by adults who were always trying to be encouraging, I was told I was good.  For the next six years, I sang in Gospel quartets—(every part, by the way—bass, lead baritone and even tenor.)  I got all the solo parts in choir, so I was fully convinced that I was a vocalist with which to be contended.

            Imagine my shock the first time I walked into a recording studio, and they played back my voice, and it alternated between begin flat and sharp—often settling in to an annoying drone.  I was so convinced of my prowess that I insisted there must be something wrong with their machines.  There wasn’t.  So I had my first choice in life.  Am I going to continue to sing poorly, while convincing myself that I was “just as good as some and better than most?”

            It was a struggle.  But finally I decided to not just practice, but to buy one of those new-fangled cassette tape recorders and record myself as I practiced.  God, it was ugly.  I didn’t have any vocal instructor; they cost money—which I had less of than talent to sing.  But I stayed with it.

            But that’s only half of it, you know.  The other half is that the human voice, although a remarkable instrument, is a little bit too gregarious for its own good, inviting in every germ and allergy to its home without any sense of trepidation. 

 I remember one year our group was given the honor of being invited to the National Quartet Convention in Nashville , Tennessee .  My voice selected that time to go on vacation to a tropical island called laryngitis.  But I was stubborn.  I tried every remedy—I breathed in steam, and, of course, I prayed.  A friend of mine said, “Don’t worry about it.  When you get up there on stage, your voice will come.”

            So I did—get up there on stage—in front of about five thousand people.  Our trio that evening turned into a duet with an occasional raspy squawk from a guy who should have been home in bed instead of on stage, making a fool of himself.  What did that teach me?  Respect.

Respect my body.  Respect my gift.  Respect my instrument.  And respect the spirit of God and life that I really want to sing about.

So it’s another Sunday for me.  I am in New Braunfels , Texas , at Peace Lutheran Church , and forty-six years after I first squawked a note, I will squawk once again.  I love what singing does, but I do hate how fussy it can be.  

March 6^th, 2010

            When do we finally get to stop being sinners?  When does that amazing stuff actually grant us the grace to cease being wretches and transform us into those creatures found, not lost—seeing instead of blind?  When will we have a moratorium on reenacting the death of Christ every time we slip up and have a particularly bad week?

            It has started again.  Every year—barely with two months passing—we are forced to trudge a death march to the cross, having only that brief respite to celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.  Easter comes so quickly after Christmas that we forget that true spirituality is not about constantly reprimanding and repenting, but “life and it more abundantly.”

            I grew up in a fundamentalist church where, in every single service, there was a message about the evils of sin and an invitation to come to Christ in front of a congregation that had already been “altared” at least once.  Now finding myself traveling in the mainline denominations, I am peppered and bombarded weekly by responsive readings and liturgy decrying my depravity and asking me to confess a multitude of iniquities so that I might receive my seven-day portion of absolution. 

            When do things improve? 

 If I get a speeding ticket I get to pay a fine, and as long as I don’t speed again the policemen leave me alone. They don’t stop me along the side of the road to warn me of the perils of breaking the speed laws.  Even if I fall into financial trouble, and am forced to select bankruptcy, after seven years I can be completely forgiven of that mistake and start my credit afresh.  I don’t receive a daily devotional call from the credit bureau, warning me of my past mistakes and the dangers that lurk in the foreground.

            When are the redeemed really granted redemption?

            We spend such a brief time kneeling at a manger to worship the promise of new life before we’re thrust into a countdown to Calvary and the ongoing remembrance of our inadequacy.  And then after that, it’s Pentecost, which means about as much to the common church-goer as the theory of relativity, and then to rub in the insignificance, we have the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, distancing ourselves even further from the irrelevant notion. 

            When do we get to be Christians instead of just miserable, inadequate mortals, barely saved by grace?  Where are the messages of new life, new ideas, new angles on spiritual growth, new revolutions in our thinking—to become better examples of the God whose image we mirror?

            No, it’s the same thing in both religion and politics.  Both of them need to prove how bad things are to get us good.  Both of them need to condemn the world and all of its occupants so as to get everyone converted (or voting) in a common cause.  Matter of fact, maybe we should just blend the two together to  form “religitics”—yes, the ultimate meshing of the secular and the sanctimonious.   And the two of them together can constantly remind us that without them, we are nothing.  Worse, damned nothing.

            Somewhere along the line, things that are bad have to be given a chance to improve or they weren’t things that were bad.  They were just bad.

            Jesus told us to be perfect, even as our Father in heaven is perfect.  How can we aspire towards growth if we’re constantly informed of our lacking?  Sooner or later, we must risk that people will find salvation as they need it.  But the message of Jesus needs to begin to anoint the minds of believers with greater power and greater initiative than to incessantly renew the vows of our failure.

            I think people who have sinned so much that their lives are broken can still find the hope of redemption in the midst of others who are being instructed in righteousness.  I don’t think every church service needs to be a retelling of the murder of a Messiah and a plea for sinners to come.

            When will we be given the freedom from sin to move towards the mission of being saints?  I don’t know, but if you’ll pardon me, I might just jump ahead and start on my own.

March 5^th, 2010

            Every week I gather up my particular collage of dirty clothes and put them in a black, net hamper and head off to a local laundromat to cleanse my garments of all unrighteousness.  I do this because I’m on the road.  At home I have laundry facilities in the house, but considering the fact that I travel in a car, it seems impractical to tote along a washer and dryer.  So I go to a laundromat, which is often referred to as a washateria, and even, in one city, proclaimed to be a clean-o-rama.  

 Whatever they’re called, I like them.  Many people extol the value of having laundry possibilities within their own homes, but my problem with that is that you only do a load or two at a time and end up doing laundry almost continually instead of having that blessed sensation of carrying all of your laundry into one place, stuffing it into a number of units, and walking out with all of your clothes clean.

            I think anything you have to do every day threatens to become boring.  And if it is allowed to become boring, it will eventually either be done poorly or ignored altogether.  So I like laundromats. 

 They are also teeming with humanity.  The one I’ve been going to of recent weeks has Spanish television on all day long.  Not being fluent in Spanish—shoot, really not knowing more than twelve words—I have to pick up from the emotion and energy of the shows what everything is about.  In any language, funny is funny, sad is sad, sarcasm is sarcasm and anger is anger.  Even if you don’t know what they’re saying, you surely know what they’re feeling.

            Yes, I like doing my laundry once a week, and I do it by myself because Jan has other activities she’s involved in at the time.  I can take a book with me; I can jot down notes for a future project.  Sometimes I write letters while I wait for the final rinse to merge into the final spin.

            And then there’s folding.  I like folding.  I’ve never become what I would call adept or professional at it, but I still enjoy the perfectly folded shirt and pant that will come from my hands and lay so beautifully within the basket.  Yes—the lovely part of the laundromat/washateria/clean-o-rama is that you go in with something undone and you come out with something completely achieved.  You don’t have to do it tomorrow.  You don’t have to worry about it for a whole week.  (Well, I guess I don’t worry, but I do contemplate.)

            We don’t have enough things in our lives that have a beginning, middle and end to them.  I guess that’s why we convince ourselves that we have a harried existence.  It’s not that we’re always busy—it’s just that we don’t have enough things that ever are done.  So as we finish one day’s activities, looming in the next twenty-four hours is a replication of the same project, now sporting tedium.

            So you can continue to wash your clothes in your house to your heart’s content.  To me, it resembles the pursuit of the Holy Grail—noble, but never really accomplished.  Give me a laundromat—where I walk in with grime and dirty and walk out clean. 

            I guess if religion or politics could promise that to us, we all might become true believers instead of just inactive observers.

March 4^th, 2010

            “Pulling my leg”—a phrase speaking of practical jokes, or even nasty tricks, performed on an individual to dupe them in a given circumstance.  Nowadays we call it punk’d.  It’s the same thing—except for the sake of my story, if you don’t mind, let me stay with the old phrase, “pulling my leg.”

            I was twenty-six years old—a good year.  I had appeared on the Grand Ole’ Opry, recorded at Johnny Cash’s studio and was also a guest on Jim and Tammy Baker’s PTL Club, which had an estimated audience of eighteen million at the time.  Having gained a little bit of visibility, our group, Soul Purpose, was invited to appear at the Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship International, to do a spectacular convention in Florida with all of the big names of the day.  And I’m not talking about Alexandra Naski Portabello Winthrop.  By big names, I mean really well-known folks.

            I was a bit star struck.  One of the (for lack of a better term) “acts” on the bill was a husband-and-wife team whose special focus of outreach and ministry was leg lengthening.  You see, what they would do is sit a person down in a straight-backed chair, have the person extend the legs, put both heels together and in so doing, show the individual that one leg was shorter than the other, which they insisted caused a myriad of problems, ranging from back-aches to diabetes.

            Now I was on stage helping out, as it were, and watched in amazement as one person after another had a leg lengthened right before my eyes.  I was exhilarated.  Of course, so were they.  Many of them were salt-of-the-earth people who had long ago fallen from their shaker, hitting rough times.  The notion that a longer limb would alleviate their suffering was enough to create a leap of joy. 

            I was backstage between performances when two of the roadies for the crew were drinking coffee and laughing.  What were they laughing about?  They were laughing about how ignorant and stupid the audience was to fall for the trick of leg lengthening.  I stayed quiet, obviously being one of those ignorant people myself.  One fellow explained that all the evangelist and his wife did was hold one leg a little shorter than the other, unknown to the participant, and then, as they prayed, they gradually pulled that leg forward.  They were so good at it that no one noticed.

            The roadies looked over at me to join in the laughter and I feigned a smile as I walked away, devastated.  You see, I’m just like the next guy.  I want a miracle.  I want to believe that everything is just like it was in the Bible and that human beings can tap eternity’s storehouse of energy and transform their broken bodies into wholeness. 

But instead, all we got at this crusade was our leg pulled.

            It didn’t make me lose my faith, because my faith was never in people anyway.  It didn’t make me believe that miracles were impossible, because I never thought they were up to the husband and wife team performing in the side show either.  It just made me a permanent enemy of any philosophy, ploy or attempt to pull people’s legs and deceive them—even if it’s for the cause of increasing faith.

            Because that’s what they told me when I asked them about it.  When I inquired of the husband and wife why they did this, they explained to me that it stimulated faith in people, and without faith it’s impossible to please God.  You see, they thought faith was blindly leaping into the air, thinking that the heavens were going to catch you.  That’s what the devil told Jesus to do.  Jesus’ response?  “Don’t tempt the Lord your God.”

            Faith is not a blind leap into the darkness.  Faith is bringing yourself and what you’ve got with the energized, tenacious notion that God and you together can make it better.

            I still go to church and see rituals, liturgy, practices, song services and all sorts of rhetoric that is just an attempt to “pull our leg” and dupe us into greater faith.  I hate it.  I always will. 

            Because if people cannot be excited about their own lives and believe that what they have is worth God using, no amount of deception or even repetition will resolve their situation.

            No—I’m a little older and a little wiser.  I watch out carefully for things that are just a foolish leg-pulling.  And because of that I still believe—but I don’t get punk’d.

March 3^rd, 2010

            What has happened to tomatoes?

            Along with strawberries, they have begun to taste more like their stems than their red, juicy bodies.  Do you remember when tomatoes off the vine actually resembled the taste of catsup?  It goes for most fruits and vegetables which we dub “fresh.”  Okay, they may be fresh, but could we take one more step and include tasty?  I guess bananas are still hanging in there.  I think that’s because they have their own appeal.  (Forgive me.)  Oranges are a crap shoot—usually you don’t know until you take one apart, whether it’s old and dried up.

            I really can’t blame tomatoes.  I think they’re just reflecting the whole nature of our society.  I call it S.A.N.T.O.—one of those inglorious acronyms for:   So As Not To Offend. 

                Tomatoes, like everything else, are trying very hard to look right, appear proper, but not overwhelm anyone by being too “tomato-ey.”  It’s in our religion, it’s in our politics and it’s in our art. 

 Religion clutches its bony fingers around traditionalism and ritual, grasping and squeezing out the last remnants of true feeling, desperately peering in all directions for anyone who might be the least little bit put off by the proceedings.  Politics stonewalls with debates and filibusters, trying to find the perfect law that will offend neither Republican nor Democrat, AND not end up being a real “poll-lock” when election time comes around.  And our art—we are so busy discussing propriety that we fail to deal with issues of excellence, relevance, beauty and expansiveness.

            S.A.N.T.O.—So As Not To Offend.

            A minister called me to the side before my performance one evening and asked me if I knew the doctrines of his particular denomination.  I said, “Of course.  I studied it thoroughly.  How else could I come up with the material to really upset you?”   You know what?  He didn’t think that was funny. 

            We spend all of our time apologizing for what we candidly have uttered in a moment of real revelation, only to swear to ourselves to never speak it again publicly, while persistently maintaining our private position.  Am I the only person in the world who would rather hear people say their stupid ideas out loud so I can know who they really are, instead of hiding them behind speech writers, apologies and verbal disinfectants?  It doesn’t bother me that people are bigoted—I would just like to know.  It doesn’t bother me that people don’t like me—the information would just be valuable.  When you live in a world of S.A.N.T.O., then everything becomes S.A.N.T.O.-ized, and all of our thoughts become private, locked in a prison in the brain where they gain additional insanity.

            Am I the only person in the world who thinks I probably will be offended today—and part of that is my over-sensitivity, and the other part is another human being who just doesn’t like me whom I probably should not aggravate with my presence?

            While everybody is insisting they want a better world, I just want a clearer one.  I want tomatoes to taste like tomatoes.  I don’t want my strawberries larger—or organic.  I want them to taste like strawberries.  Please don’t make my apples shinier or crisper.  I would like them to have the flavor of cider.  And don’t try to make everybody in the image of hand sanitizer.  Yes, I saw the ultimate S.A.N.T.O. last night.  Now we have created a hand sanitizer that you don’t have to touch because IT might have germs on it.

            I only know two things for sure—I am going to die and it probably will be caused by some sort of disease which I was unable to defeat with my purification rituals.  And, secondly, there is a lot of living available before I’m done in by that sneaky disease. 

            So, tomatoes of the world, arise!  And get some flavor!  And strawberries, please make yourselves identifiable without being sprinkled with sugar!  And watermelons, I don’t know what to do with you.  Because no one can tell from the outside what you’re going to pop on the inside.

            And people—if you think things you might as well go ahead and say them and get them out and find out how your little piece of the puzzle fits—or doesn’t fit—into the great picture of life.  Because always trying to say the right thing turns us into really bland-tasting tomatoes. 

For after all, the tongue contains all of the taste buds—not just sweet.

March 2^nd, 2010

            I meet a lot of sad people.  (Gee—I hope it’s not because they’ve met me.  I’ll have to think about that later.)

            One in particular is a gentleman working at a grocery store here in Houston , Texas .  Now, he’s not mad.  He’s not belligerent, crude or unmannerly—just sad.  Of course, we live in a day and time when if you say, “someone’s sad,” there’s always a choir of individuals chorusing, “There’s an awful lot to be sad about.”

            First of all, I don’t know whether that’s true or not.  And secondly, I don’t know what good it does us as human beings to give a common reaction to the common malady.

            When I run across sad people, I don’t try to make them happy; I just try to include them—find out their story and let them know that humanity is still with them because there is at least one person who is listening.  Well, maybe I don’t do that at all.  Maybe I just warm up my speech, dialogue and broaden my smile.  I don’t know.  But I do think I try—because I, too, am tempted to be sad. 

 I think sadness begins with belief in a sad God.  If you think God is sad, why should you be the exception to the Ruler of the Universe?  I recall a song—I think it’s called He—that has a line that says, “Though it makes Him sad to see the way we live, He’ll always say, ‘I forgive.’”  Now, I know the lyricist didn’t mean any harm when he or she constructed the song, but honestly, it really sucks.  I don’t think God gets sad over the way we live.  When my own children make mistakes, I don’t get teary-eyed, angry or frustrated over their errors.  My usual reaction is, “Oh, no.  Now they’re in a mess.  Let me get my wallet.”

Because I think if you have a sad God, you begin to see a sad world.  I know there are earthquakes.  I know there are famines.  I know there are wars.  But Jesus ended that list of “wars and famines” by saying, “Be of good cheer.  I have overcome the world.”  

Really?  Be of good cheer?

Because I find that people who believe in a sad God love to talk about a sad world.  And because they believe it’s a sad world, they anticipate—and therefore get—a sad life.  It seems like every cold that comes to town ends up stuck in their nasal passages.  Every hint of a recession devastates their bank account and every possible toss of the dice that could bring up a 7 or an 11 produces snake eyes.

Sometimes I wonder why.  Why do bad things tend to happen more often to those who can least afford the bad report?  Once again, Jesus gave us a warning on that.  He said, “To he who has, more shall be give but to he who has not, even the little he has will be taken away.”

Ouch.  Why?  Because sadness is a bull’s eye that we put on our chest, telegraphing to all the animals in society that we are fair game.  So a sad God reigning over a sad world makes for a sad life.

I know it’s silly of me to think my little smirk and word of encouragement is going to do much to generate hope in the mind of a Texan grocer.  But it’s the best I’ve got.  And I think the only way you can truly fight sadness is by always taking an inventory of your possibilities, to discover the best you’ve got.

Because situations are like children.  The littler they are, the fussier they are, and they always want their diaper changed first.   So if you’re always chasing down the little problems first because they scream the loudest, you’ll never nave time for the situations that have greater possibility but are quieter, softer, using a “still, small voice.” 

So in my own tiny way I try to daily eliminate a belief in the sad God who reigns over a sad world which fosters sad lives and therefore, manufactures sad people.  My efforts are so miniscule—almost invisible. 

But wait… I’m not sad.   You know, it’s the best I’ve got.

March 1^st, 2010

            He was eighty-seven years old and a member in good standing of Tom’s congregation in Texas City , where I found myself habitating for a few hours yesterday morning.

            At sixteen he had entered the Armed Services and fought in WW II, with a mother staying behind, praying that the bullets would not find their target anywhere near his person.  He continued to live a life—although four times he cheated death—to find himself standing in front of me at the end of a church service, smiling and asking the question, “Do you know what I do every day?”

            “No,” I replied.  “Tell me.”

            “I treat every day like it’s Christmas.”   He smiled, squeezed my hand and walked away.

            Now I’ve heard that sentiment many times before, but on this particular occasion I let it come inside and find a resting place past my ears, somewhere near my heart.  I, in turn, asked myself a question.  Do I really want every day to be Christmas?  

Do I want to rise early, with great expectation because my sleep was hindered by the excitement of the new day’s possibilities?  Do I want to decorate my human space with ornaments, lights and greenery, displaying to all those around me that I believe in the spirit of the time?  Do I want to conscientiously pursue a daily gift from my life that I specifically impart to everyone I meet and everyone I know, personally conjured by me, and me alone?  Do I want to remind myself of the reason for each day and give praise to the Creator, who was willing to hatch me from His great bag of cosmic tricks?

            Do I want to take the gifts I receive from others and enjoy them, valuing them for the tender loving care that was taken by each giver in remembering my personal desire?  Do I want to turn every meal into a feast of the rebirthing of joy and peace on earth, good will toward men?  Do I want to wrap my offerings in the best packaging and prettiest paper and bows available to me?  Do I want to sing songs of both sacred nature and silliness—all within the same breath, blending the two to form a great human echo of praise and appreciation?

            Do I want to embrace a little longer, carry on a conversation a bit more broadly and tear up without shame, knowing that all these things are a part of the daily human escapade?

                Do I really want every day to be Christmas?    It gave me great pause for thought.  And I came up with my usual human response: 

“Yeah.  Some days like that would be absolutely magnificent.”