Measure in love....

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes -
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love...
("Seasons of Love," from the movie Rent)

I wish you had the soundtrack to this show. It is so appropriate for this posting...actually, you can hear snippets of "Seasons of Love" A&B cuts here)

August 22nd, 2003. Just after noon. A seventeen-foot yellow Hertz rent-a-truck and a '98 Camry pulled away from a duplex in suburban Shawnee, Kansas - destination, Chicago, Illinois. On board the two vehicles was every material possession and almost all of the hopes and fears of one past-middle-aged seminarian, accompanied by the prayers and well-wishes of several hundred of the Lutheran faithful of suburban Kansas City. The horizon seemed filled with dreams and possibilities...

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes later, the dream of ordained ministry was deferred - no, demolished. My mentor and encourager had died the day after the dream did, the money was gone, and it seemed I was unemployed and unemployable. Life, on the whole, looked pretty damn bleak.

Another half-million minutes passed, and the scenery was both brighter and darker still. Leaving the seminary grounds, abandoning even the possibility of using what I had thought were God-given talents, fighting back depression and hopelessness, and hanging onto sobriety like a man adrift clings to a life-raft. Finding a refuge on the far south side of the city, and spending another half-million minutes trying to find peace and acceptance in the midst of struggles of faith, hope, and finances.

Tuesday will be my third anniversary in Chicago - and the beginning of the end of my stay here. But as I look back on a million-and-a-half minutes in the Windy City, I can only do what the cast of Rent would have me do - measure my journey in love...

My own self-centered search for significance has beaten me up so badly over the last year, asking variations on these questions: Was it worth it? After all the money, all the time, all the laughter and all the tears, what is different? Will it matter that I have been here? Will anyone miss me when I am gone?

I think that's why seeing the movie version of Rent with my sister this weekend was such a blessing. The powerful messages of that movie were exactly the Gospel I needed to see and hear at this point in my journey. It's such a powerful reminder that my life is not measured in stuff, but "in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee / In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife." And in love...

The community of recovery reminds me that the only lasting gift I have to share is my story, my truth, my love and my service. And it doesn't matter worth a damn whether anyone benefits from it, or even acknowledges it. It matters simply whether or not I offer it, to the glory of God and to the benefit of God's kids.

Perhaps the testimonies I shared in the short time I was active at seminary will bless some of my classmates on their journeys. I'm reasonably sure that the minutes that I spent in the rooms of recovery have blessed others. But who knows? Not I, for certain. Those are all in the hands of the One who can best deal with them....

The work week starts in five short hours. So as this milestone passes, I'm going to try very hard to focus on these simple words from Rent's conclusion:

There's only now
There's only here
Give in to love,
Or live in fear -
No other path,
No other way,
No day but today...

God, may it be so - today, in my life, and in the lives of all with whom I come in contact. Amen.

Catching up amidst crazy times....

My brother, Poor Mad Peter, sent me my semi-monthly reminder to post - and to be honest, I've been building up to this post. So here I am, and here it is...

A catch-up over the last month or so...

The Employer
The vacation I took really wasn't much of one. And a handful of tragic mistakes I made in my hurry to get away from work caused, oh, about thirty times the amount of work as if I had stayed in town and gone to work that week. God in heaven, what a mess.

My week away from work has been followed by two entire weeks from hell, trying to (a) atone for plain, simple, in-too-much-of-a-hurry mistakes I made in the rush to get the hell out of town, which never really happened the way I wanted it to, anyway, or (b) boneheaded maneuvers by my coworkers, trying to correct my errors, which generally made them worse. So the general reaction when people say, "How was your vacation?" is, "What vacation?"

I should have been working all day both days over this weekend - but just could not possibly bring myself to do it. I didn't even work long hours last week, but it was like being in a room with four needy two-year-olds, all saying, "Mommy ...mommmy ... mummymummymummy - MOMMYMOMMYMOMMY!!!" At one point, our Lotus SameTime instant messaging system was indicating 14 IM's flashing insistently at me. It was unbelievably draining. And I'm going to be working tonight, getting ready for another Hell Week this coming week...

There is one bright note - I have a second co-worker joining the team, who is going to be working remotely from Memphis, TN. She's brand-spanking new, and is going to be involved in "observing" during this Hell Week, and then going for three weeks of training - but there is hope, long-term, I guess.

The Vacation
The actual week away was in three phases:
- Sunday and Monday, spent in Chicago, futzing around, waiting for work to be done on the car. (I actually ended up working most of Monday anyway.)
- Tuesday and Wednesday, spent in Chicago instead of Saugatuck, dealing with a rather nasty bio-hazard-grade gastrointestinal plague of some sort.
- Late Thursday through Sunday, hanging out with my sister, ordering new glasses (under Sue's careful guidance), spending even more money on the car, and eating fresh-off-the-farm sweet corn and grilling steaks.

All in all, it wasn't bad having 4 days away from The Employer, but it sure wasn't worth the price I paid when I got back. I am convinced that Ohio sweet corn is one surefire way that God shows humanity that summer isn't going to be all hellish weather and humidity forever...

Life in the Big City
After some truly hideous weather (compounded by the fact that the current apartment-in-the-hood is only air-conditioned in the bedroom), we have had a break in the ghastly portion of summer weather, and this weekend has been truly, truly glorious. Just an absolute dream come true.

I missed out on the Gay Games (held here in Chicago last month), but since I never watched the Straight Olympics (even when they were on TV in my own living room) I'm not surprised that I didn't travel across town to see the gay version here, either. Oh, well. I caught the last day of the Tall Ships appearance in Chicago, but it wasn't anything I hadn't seen before - after all, living in Connecticut (30 minutes away from Mystic Seaport) it wasn't as big a deal for me as it might have been for some.

Traffic has been fractionally better in town - the "get off the Dan Ryan" traffic has been mitigated by vacation absences. So there have been blessings there, too.

The Living Situation
In this same two week period, my landlord received word that after trying to find a less-toxic job with the Chicago Public Schools (he'd been a high-school history teacher for four or more years), he'd finally gotten a new job - but in Alpena, MI (in the northeastern "lower peninsula" of the state).

And his new-job orientation started August 14th. (Yup, tomorrow.)

So he and his father have been doing all the "improvements" (like putting in new flooring in the kitchen, re-doing the bathtub enclosure, and replacing tile in the hallway, all the things to make the place less like a crack-house) that he originally told me he was going to do over last Christmas break and early this summer.

So the apartment has been turned upside down - all the kitchen, hall and bath stuff pushed into the living room. They also tore the back deck off the place (it was in imminent danger of falling down) so I had no access to the washer, dryer, or trash for two weeks (unless I wanted to walk two blocks around and come in off the alleyway). And the bath and shower were out of commission for three days.

So it's been insane, at a level that I can only begin to describe.

But I guess the big news is not really news at all...it's just kind of a surrender. Somewhere in this last week, my willingness to keep fighting it out here in Chicago broke, once and for all.

Part of it was need - my sister Sue is looking at some scary health issues, and she and her husband are going to need both physical and financial support over the next 3 to 6 months, at the very least. Part of it is my own need for healing and reconnecting with family and sane life - I've needed to withdraw, and just take it easy at some level, for some time. My meltdown earlier this year proved that.

But part of it is just being done with Chicago. I came here to go to seminary; I would not have chosen to come here, for all the charms of big city life, given the choice. When that dream fell apart, I thought that Chicago would be a viable life-hub, being close to Big Transportation, Big Business, etc., etc.

And I have come to learn a lot about myself - stuff that I wouldn't normally have chosen to learn, but good stuff nonetheless. At times, I still mourn the loss of my "regular ministry" career - much as Moses mourned not passing over into Canaan - and I wish I could still feel "a part of" the religious community that tossed me out. But more and more I can see that it was probably not for the best....but it's OK. Acceptance has been slow in coming.

But I've also come to see that this is just not my town. I am tired of the noise, tired of the hustle and bustle, tired of public transport, tired of it taking 30 minutes to go 5 miles by car, tired of the cost of living and the taxes and the fees and the politics and the parking and all the rest of the crap. I'm ready to be somewhere else.

And as much as I needed to put down roots here, I just haven't done so. When I leave here, the people who will miss me will be counted on both hands, and still leave a couple fingers free. And virtually every one will be in the recovery community. Part of that is my fault - my failure to stay connected to the few seminary friends who really worked hard to remain connected with me. But I can't help believing that my road lies elsewhere...

My sister Sue is not doing so good. She was already dealing with multiple sclerosis and fibromyalgia, two particularly ugly conditions. But in March, she fell at work, twisted her back up, and generally has been somewhere south of "damn uncomfortable" ever since. Walking from the parking lot to her work-site has been increasingly difficult, and finally the workers' comp folks signed her off for two weeks of recovery and alternative therapies.

As of last weekend, she ain't gettin' better. A visit to the neurosurgeon pretty much said, "We can try some time off, we can try some therapy, but surgery is on the horizon." Now she has some more definite guidance about when we're going to hit "the horizon," and I really need to be in Toledo when that happens.

So my primary goal with my employer is to get a title change and a pay boost by the end of August, and then give my notice that I need to do an "alternative work arrangement" (also known as "working remotely"). This shouldn't be a big deal - we already have people on our team working from Tennessee and New Jersey, not to mention the crew from Mumbai and Chennai, India. And after all, if I'm in such demand that people can't do without me for five business days, they should be able to accomodate me on this. My goal is to be in Toledo and up-n-running by September 24th, with any cleanup the weekend of September 30th.

It will be an interesting five weeks. Time to winnow out, time to toss and keep. God, grant me the serenity....

Which I trust God will.

How do you say goodbye to a church?

My former church's associate pastor, Ashley Masoni, is leaving Atonement Lutheran after three years. It's not uncommon for fresh-out-of-seminary pastors to move on to a new assignment after 3 years - but regardless of that truism, she leaves behind lots of folks who care about her deeply.

And there are a group of seminarians - some who are even crazy enough to be readers here - who are winding up their year-long internships at churches across the country in the next couple of weeks. For a year, they have been part of the family (and part of the drama) of local congregations - and, I'm sure, have been woven into the fabric of their respective communities. And now the time is drawing near for them to once again be torn out of that fabric, and returned to school in Chicago.

For both Ashley and my former fellow seminarians, I give you these thoughts. They are part of a collection of writings from my adopted "dad" and mentor, Pastor Tom Housholder. Tom had been my biggest cheerleader in my quest for ministry - and he died the day after my candidacy committee aborted my ministry career back in April, 2004. I miss him more than I can say...

Shortly before he died, his wife Delphine published an assortment of Tom's reflections, ruminations, sermons, and poetry. Included in those writings is his retirement sermon, on February 5, 1995 - delivered after more than 35 years of ministry to a number of vibrant congregations. The last portion of that sermon was titled "How To Say Goodbye to a Church." These are Tom's words:

I don't know how to say good-bye to a church. How do you say "good-bye," "farewell," "we will meet again one day at the feet of Jesus"? It is not difficult - it is impossible.

You have been involved in their lives. For some, it has been too little - for others, too much. You are leaving with memories of a rich, dedicated staff. You are leaving the community where forgiveness is a given. You are leaving the community of Saints where we speak of life without end.

Baptisms, both children and adults. Shouting matches at the church council, problems only God can solve. There are a few with tears - and some are smiling too much for a farewell party. Great faith in a gracious God, and small faith in a great God - either will work. You are the greatest people on earth because God is loving you into greatness. I expect to hear a lot about this congregation of believers in the future.  It is so hard to leave you - but we shall meet again at the feet of Jesus.

I can think of no better tribute to my friend Tom than if you might find some comfort - or inspiration - in his words. For my part, I still find great comfort in these words, and trust that others will, as well.

A glance or two over my shoulder

It has been an interesting week away from The Employer. The greedy part of me - the part that hears the alarm clock bleating and thinks, "Five more minutes?" - would like to take tomorrow off, too. But alas, it's not gonna happen. Reality is beckoning.

Things didn't quite go the way I would have chosen. But they have gone all right, I guess.

I didn't stay away from work the entire 5 days I was gone - but after Monday noon, I did. I didn't write the great manifesto I'd planned to send about how under-recognized and under-compensated I am, either. But I think I'll be much, much less resentful in five or six hours when I do start writing it than I would have been last week.

My apartment still looks like a pit - but I've at least moved the PCs into the air conditioned bedroom, so that working from home will be more tolerable.

I sure didn't want to be sick as a dog Monday night, Tuesday and Wednesday - but no one else got sick as a result, and I managed to get two books by Henri Nouwen read in between the both-ends gastric distress.

And the last three days have been damn good days.

It's 1:15 AM; and I should be in bed. But I was talking to folks in AA and responding to emails until 12:30 - and I was determined to have one last burst of "vacation" today. So it was that I sat down to four ears of the most absolutely-glorious "butter-n-sugar" bicolored sweet corn I've had in, oh, a hundred years or so. Even at 1:15 AM, it's still 84 degrees (and 86% humidity) in Chicago - so I guess perfect sweet-corn, freshly-picked this morning and freshly-boiled this evening, helps folks like me remember that even a little bit of Heaven can offset a big chunk of Hell. Well, that, and a well-blessed window air-conditioner...

"Hell Week" (and all it entails) and "the Monday after vacation" starts in about six-and-a-half hours. So I really do need to get to bed. But I'm going to bed in a lot better frame of mind than I did seven days ago, about this time. For which I give thanks to God for undeserved mercy and grace.

We'll see how long it lasts...

Memories of doing the right thing

Some of the best times of my mis-spent youth were spent in a youth group called the Order of DeMolay - a youth fraternity sponsored by the Masonic lodge.

(A side-note: please don't write in to tell me that I'm going to hell for having been a member of a Masonic organization. I've read all the debates about how the Masons are a cult, and how Masonic membership is incompatible with Christian teaching. We can have that debate later - but after 20 years of involvement with Masonry, I'm really not buyin' it. My experience with Masonry was entirely non-toxic - unlike my experience with the Church, and much of the rest of my youth.)

After turning 21, I was honored to be an advisor for DeMolay in northwest Ohio. And after a number of years, I found myself as the advisor for a chapter in Bowling Green, OH, and one of my best friends, Ted Korn was the governor (the advisor's advisor) for northwest Ohio.

Though DeMolay (and Masonry) filled a powerful role in my teens and twenties, one of the things that pained me about Masonic organizations in Ohio was their long-standing history of racial segregation. There were separate Masonic Lodges for black and white - each with their own youth organization. And that's the way it had been ever since DeMolay was founded in 1919. While I understood the history of it, and the long-standing prejudices that fed it, I still didn't like it, nor did many of my fellow Masons.

But in the late 80's (I don't even remember the year rightly) a group of young men from the Bowling Green chapter cornered Ted and me after a meeting. As I remember it, a couple of the real smooth-talkers among them started telling us about this guy they wanted to initiate - good looking, athletic, smart, concerned for others (wanted to be a nurse after high school) ... in fact, everything our Order said it represented...

"Yes....And?..." Ted and I said almost in chorus.

"And we really want to have him in the Chapter, and he's ready to join, and he's a great guy and you'll really like him..."

"....and he's black."

And then they looked at us...and waited to see how we would respond.

Ted and I both knew what we had to do; Ted's old enough to have participated in civil-rights marches, and I'd been half-expecting this ever since I joined the group. But we also knew the kinds of opposition we would receive from some of the men in the Lodge that sponsored our chapter. And so we took a deep breath, and moved forward.

In going through some boxes yesterday, I came across the picture - Ted and I flanking the chapter leader, who is shaking the hand of a handsome young black man named Ben. Behind us are twenty or thirty of Ben's new DeMolay brothers...every one of them with a beaming smile on their face. It's a snapshot of a magical, marvelous moment - one of the few times I can say that I was part of something that made a difference.

Don't get me wrong - there were all kinds of repercussions. One former leader of our sponsoring lodge confronted me later that week, and said, "So - I hear your boys desecrated the Masonic Temple the other night!" There were lots of discussions, a goodly amount of shouting, and isolated incidents of private ugliness. But in the end, brotherhood won out - and Ben became the "first small step" in Ohio Masonry.

Sadly, there has not been a huge revolution in the racial makeup of Masonic organizations in the last 20 years, at least not in Ohio. But this weekend, as the Ohio State DeMolay organization gathers for their statewide conference, among the DeMolays' honored guests will be a group of their black brothers from the Knights of Pythagoras. And as the black Knights are escorted into the conference by their white DeMolay brothers, another bridge across the chasm of racism will be built. The cause of reconciliation between black and white will, hopefully, take another step. And I have to believe that there will be at least a few smiles in heaven.

To my brother Ted, to all those men of integrity who supported us as we took those baby steps toward justice all those years ago, and to all who labor to guide and shape the hearts and lives of young people - you have my unending admiration and respect.

I have to admit that when I finally got around to meeting Jesus, it seemed he looked a lot like you folks.

Not missing Kansas a bit, today...

Temperature check-in, thanks to WeatherBug:

- South-side of Chicago (not "the baddest part of town," but a short drive from there) - 82 degrees F (27.8 C, for my international friends...)
- Lenexa, KS (a western suburb of Kansas City) - 98 degrees F (36.7 C)

Yikes. Even if I could "go home again," I wouldn't. Yuck-o-rama...

No, I'll take this, thank you very much...before the sun came out, it was darn near tolerable here in the 'hood, even with 72% humidity...

Time to stop, time to think...time to ramble

I am just beginning day 3 of seven whole days without The Employer.

It should have been nine days - five days of "PTO" (paid time off) bracketed by two weekends. But no - The Employer even managed to invade Sunday and Monday morning. Which infuriated me...I don't get paid nearly well-enough to be that "mission-critical." Part of me wanted to just say, "OK, so my life will was hell trying to get away for a week, and it's going to be hell when I come back...plus you will have accumulated an entire week's worth of resentments for all things left undone. So why even go on vacation?"

It has taken a day and a half of almost pure sloth to slow down and calm down from that.

The answer to the question, of course is, "Because you'll either die, kill yourself or kill one of us if you don't go..." I never actually heard that said, but it kind of hung there, in the background.

So I am gone.

Tom Welling and the cast of Smallville (season 2) helped start the detox process. And now Netflix has brought me an interesting present - an anniversary recording of Leonard Bernstein's Mass, recorded live at the Vatican (of all places). Now folks, that's gonna be interesting.

I had great plans to go up to Saugatuck, MI for a couple days - but a bad tire short-circuited that on Sunday night/Monday, and now a rather nasty case of some stomach/lower-GI "thang" has my guts all in knots and my nether-regions not very far from a restroom. So the side-step to Michigan will probably have to wait. Thursday, I will go to Ohio so I can go with Sue to her neurosurgeon's appointment on Friday morning.

Sue's prognosis may well determine whether I will stay in Chicago or not. If she gets as bad as I'm afraid she is, one of my alternatives may be to move back to my hometown and move in with them to help out with her (and to help support them financially). Big decisions, scary times...

It doesn't help that this is the time of year I hate most - it was still 82 degrees at 1 AM, and it evidently got all the way down to 80 this morning. There are people who just find all kinds of joy and glory when the mercury slips past 80, and just thrive on heat and sunshine.

I do not.

I have never been a trim, fit person. And I have always been of a size that would discourage public states of undress. As a friend often said (and I have often stolen), "In the winter, I can always put more clothes on. But in the summer, there is a limit to which I can with any propriety take clothes off...

And of course, the problem is also location...location...location. Down here in the historic/hysteric Pullman neighborhood, the electric supply in these old apartments will only support one "big" window air conditioner, so my choice was to keep the bedroom cool and leave the rest of the apartment open to the elements. This worked well in my seminary apartment - but that one was a ground level apartment, and it was a big bedroom, so the bedroom was combination bed-and-office. (And it had newly-replaced windows which helped keep the cool air in, too.)

The current apartment (a) is an upper apartment, so the hot air from downstairs rises, (b) has a flat tar roof that just soaks in the heat, (c) is as leaky as a sieve, so air-conditioning the whole place on one 1-ton air conditioner is impossible, and (d) only has an 11x11 bedroom, that already has a queen bed and two dressers in it. So the migration into "one air-conditioned room" is a wee bit tough. So keeping cool is a big challenge.

But that's really not the issue. At the heart of it all, I'm beginning to think my time here in Chicago is done. Was done quite a while ago, in fact.

Yes, it can be a fun city - but I came here behind the 8-ball, financially, and have never really made it out from under that, and Chicago is really only a fun place to live if you've got money to burn, I think. Regardless of all that, it seems I've never really made Chicago "home," I think. I came here for seminary, and tried to make connections - but when the seminary dream died, I think I really gave up on a lot.

While I enjoy mass transit, for the most part, I've never really reconciled myself to being a non-driver in the city - and it sucks driving here. And it's also an extremely expensive place to live.

Gas is $3.42 a gallon here in the neighborhood, $3.39 on the way downtown, or $3.29 if I drive the 8 miles across the border to Indiana. The general 9% sales tax here applies to food,too, and is supplemented by additional taxes on restaurant food and (another 2%), depending on where you are. If I can help it, I buy anything major either in Indiana or back in Toledo. Which is a mini-rant all to itself.

But I really think I could have stopped with "I never really made it 'home'." Despite the connections I've made in AA, I have never really felt "part of" the city and the community in the way that I have elsewhere.

So I am starting to think about next steps - and who knows? Maybe that's the reason for the distress in my gut.

Topics to come:
- pictures and a boatload of memories
- prayer, and why it "works" even when it doesn't work
- liturgy as "how you might do" rather than "how you ought to do"
- and whatever else comes to mind, of course.

Thank you, again, for your prayers, your emails, and your support. They all mean more than you can know...

Slogging through....

...I'm trying to commit to posting (something, anything) every couple of days. So this is just a flash-post, because we're in the middle of 24 hours of insanity that happens every two weeks.

I have four hours to do 8 hours work today before our 1:00 deadline. The insane Steve would have just stayed up all night and got it done, which would have been less pain in the end, but devastating to me personally. Instead, I went to bed from 2:30 until 6:45, and now am behind the 8-ball. So I took the time to write some absolutely-gotta-send emails, and now I'm off and running...late, as usual...

Basically, anything after 1:30 today doesn't really matter. So here's hoping for calmer days Thursday and Friday. And then I'm doing the unthinkable - five work days off in a row. Just thinking about the last time that happened will be a post in itself...

Well done, good and faithful servant...

"His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!' (Matthew 25:23, NIV)

My high-school/life friend John Zeigler's mother died Friday. The illness that overtook her was sudden, unexpected, and shocking...and in a week, she was gone. So it was that I was on the road to Toledo to be present for my friend in his loss.

My experience of Ann Zeigler over the last 30 years was of a woman who cared deeply for her children, her husband of 50 years, the schools she taught at for 20 years, and Park Congregational Church. The best time to visit the Zeiglers' was always when Mom Z had been baking pies - and it seemed there was always just one slice more for the next person who had stopped in to visit.

They worked hard in life, and they played well in retirement. Ann and her husband Ned traveled often, frequently bouncing from one set of grandkids to the next. I've known her son John long enough to know she was not without flaws by any means - but those flaws seemed long and far away as we gathered for the visitation in Toledo Sunday afternoon. Like the Barbra Steisand song says, "It's the laughter we will remember/ whenever we remember/The way we were." And as I thought of Mom Z's life, this verse from Matthew leapt to mind - there is no doubt that it applies to Ann Zeigler in spades.

These gatherings, sad as they are, are almost always a chance to reunite with friends and renew relationships that have drifted apart. But they also make me look at my life, if there were to be a final accounting for me this weekend. And the balance-sheet rarely looks all that positive.

I know I'm my own worse critic; as a friend often says, "Who better to judge than I? After all, I was there at the scene of all the crimes..." It becomes very easy to focus on the catalog of sins, of character defects, of all the times I turned left when I should have turned right, or the times when I could (and should) have stepped up to an opportunity, and instead stepped back in fear or doubt.

I know I'm not unique in this. As a wise friend often says, "I may not be much - but I'm all I ever think about." Self-centeredness is definitely at the top of my character-defect parade...

But my faith - cracked an wobbly though it may be at times - is that there is One who has redeemed me, who sees all my failures and sinful nature and yet still says, "I love you. No matter what you think about you, I know you - and you are Mine. I have gone ahead to prepare a place for you, and there is already a place for you at my Table. Come to me, and your soul will find rest."

And when I'm able to remember that, it's easier to put down the scorecard, to stop comparing myself and my struggles to folks like Ann Zeigler, and to simply accept the gift of grace. I can trust that Ann and I will both hear God say the words of one of my favorite praise songs:

Do not be afraid, I am with you,
I have called you each by name -
Come and follow me
I will bring you home...
I love you, and you are Mine.

Loving God, welcome your servant Ann into your presence. Let your love and your presence be like a strong, cool wind on a sweltering summer day - bringing comfort and relief to those who struggle with the loss of a wife, mother, sister, and friend. And let each of us who believe find renewed hope in the promise of life after death with you. Amen...

Awash in gratitude

I can no other say but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks. (Shakespeare)

"Thank you" is a very, very small phrase for the feeling of gratitude I have in my hearts for many of you.

Your outpouring of encouragement and of prayer blessed me beyond my ability to describe. I am humbled - and God (and many of you) know just how much work that takes.

There were many, many times in my life over the last year that I really, really, really felt like like I'd been in the car, with God as The Dad, and I'd been left at a roadside rest-stop. Not that I'd been rejected, or "dropped," but that somehow I had gotten out of the car, and the family of faith had left without me. It's a poor analogy - but it's the best I can do with the three remaining soporific brain cells I have left. I really felt like the community of faith had moved on, and I had been left wondering how I failed to get back in with y'all.

No, it's not rational. Yes, it does fly in the face of many folks who have affirmed me over the years. But it's also true, irrational though it may be.

Your messages of affirmation have shown the lie in all that.

So where am I today?

The morning will be devoted to one of the few rituals that have held through all this - the Saturday morning Fireside Men's AA meeting. I make the trek north from Pullman (South 115th St.) to my former seminary neighborhood in Hyde Park, and pick up oe of my sponsees. Then we journey north past downtown to North Avenue (North 22nd St.) and have breakfast at a little cafe' before the meeting. It gets me out of me for at least a couple hours.

Then I am headed to Ohio for a sad occasion. One of the only high-school friends I've kept in touch with, John Zeigler, emailed me yesterday to let me know his mother died. His mom was one of the sweetest women I've known, and she seemed to adore being a grandma. I'd not seen her in quite a while - seems to me I had just moved to Chicago, nearly 3 years ago - but even though they were older than many of our friends' parents, they were always welcoming and gracious. The funeral is Monday, but the visitation is Sunday afternoon. So I'll head out about 2 CT, get there about 6, and come back tomorrow night.

Then it's back into "hell week." (We have two seasons at work - "purgatory week," which is just medium stressful, and "hell week," which includes at least one 14- and one 18-hour work day.)

A bright note - sometime in the last couple months, as I've been off-the-map, one of my fellow bloggers, Jeff Jacobsen of So I Go, has published this remarkable book. I have to admit, his success (he's on Amazon, after all) has gotten my own writing juices going again. I'd strongly recommend Jeff's book - his blog, from which the book is taken, is filled with powerful images and a great understanding of Jesus. Very, very cool.

That's all for now - hopefully there will be a moment or two in Ohio to post...

Coming up, after a long descent into darkness

Hello Lord
It's me, your child - I
Have a few things on my mind
Right now I'm faced with big decisions and I'm
Wondering if you have a minute, 'cuz

Right now I don't hear so well, and I was
Wondering if you could speak up
I know that you tore the veil
So I could sit with you in person
Hear what you're saying
But right now
I just can't hear you...
(Sara Groves, "Hello, Lord", from Conversations)
---
If one man calls you an ass, pay him no mind
If two men call you an ass, pay them no mind
If three men call you an ass, get yourself a saddle...
(ancient parable)
---

When one person writes and says, "So...what's up?", it's easy to ignore it. Five people, it was pretty easy, too, to be honest. But when one email came from Canada, one came from Australia, and a bevy of emails came from people I hardly speak to any more, it was pretty hard to miss the notes of care and concern.

I am grateful to God for your concern, and your inquiries - even if I'm not grateful for much else, right now.

Yes, I am physically all right. No heart attack, no seizures, no strokes.
Yes, I'm still sober. No drinking, no drugs, no public lewdity.

Just an ever-increasing spiritual and emotional darkness that flowed into my soul over the last year, and just cut me off almost completely from the sunlight of the Spirit. If you have never known truly spirit-killing depression, I am glad for you. If you have, then you know where I've been.

How bad did it get? Pretty damn bad, actually. First, I stopped going to church; then I stopped praying; then I lost any belief that God even wanted to hear from me. Oh, I still said God wanted to hear from me; and I believed that God wanted to hear from you. I was being beaten to pieces by a battle between what I wanted to believe and what seemed to be absolutely, unarguably true.

I still have a shelf full of books on prayer; they mocked me in the silence. Trust me, there is an immense difference between knowing about prayer, actually taking the action to pray, and believing that God would want to hear my prayers. And when you've lost that belief, it's almost impossible to even "go through the motions" or "fake it till you make it," you know?

And in the midst of all this, I found an employer who was the perfect synergy of codependence and compulsive activity. My reason to get up and go to work became like the song from the musical Oliver:

I won't betray their trust
Though people say I must
I've got to stay true, just
As long as they need me....

The Employer (to protect their anonymity, too) became very much like an octopus - spraying inky blackness all around when threatened. Which, given the brokenness of their systems and procedures, was constantly. So yet another life-sucking vampire came into my life. In addition to being at work one to two days a week until 2-3 AM, I found myself not sleeping. That was when my brief adventure with anti-depressants turned me from a listless, uninspired, withdrawn, depressed man into a listless, uninspired, withdrawn, depressed man who couldn't sleep. That helped a lot, I've gotta tell you...

I stopped doing even the most basic of things - returning phone calls, cleaning the house, doing the laundry. It got pretty ugly. A series of increaingly strident demands from Codependent Associates made it even uglier. It culminated with a 32-hour marathon to meet an impossible deadline. And of course, being Dudley Do-Right, I made it...but at what cost, I wonder...

At one point, in a one-on-one with my Dilbert-esque boss, I told him that in the Spanish Inquisition, they would take heretics, place them between two immense planks, and then place large rocks on top of the top board, to crush confessions out of them. The only difference that I could see was that the Inquisition actually allowed people to DIE... whereas The Employer didn't seem that civilized. Like the sainted martyr, we indentured employees were evidently just supposed to say, "More weight...."

I wish I could say that it's all better now.

It is, in some ways. I actually started taking my blood pressure and diabetic medication again. (There was a nearly-disastrous time when I wasn't even doing that....)

Tomorrow will be my first day back at church in, oh, forever and a day, it seems. It will be interesting...the church also has a counseling center that may well provide some guidance out of the darkness.

And throughout all this, neither drinking nor suicide ever looked like serious options (though there were times when they both looked like "the easier, softer way.") That, in itself, is a gift, I suppose. (Although one might argue that my overeating and "just forgetting" to take life-prolonging medicine might have fit in the latter category...)

But the work situation, the financial situation, and the whole "WTF am I supposed to do with this insistent yearning to ministry" thing, still seems unsolvable. There are other issues - some involving one of my sisters and her health, and a couple others that don't bear mentioning yet - that are equally vexing.

It still ain't too pretty.

Like Tom Cruise in a scene from Top Gun, it seems like my fighter-jet of life has gone into a flat spin. I can hear the engines trying to re-ignite; the nose of the plane seems to be pulling up. But I've lost a lot of altitude, and there's no ejection seat in this situation....

Part of the spiritual sickness, of course, is that I would have rather had a gasoline enema than admit any of this to anyone. But I was also losing any ability to "fake it till I made it" with my writing. (Not to mention that being at a PC for 10, 12 or 18 hours at a time meant that the last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit back down in front of a PC.

This last week, though, I got several emails that basically said, "Car 54, where are you??" I got a phone call relayed by a reader to one of my old friends, basically saying, "Where's Steve?" But I have to admit that in the end, it was my Canadian blogo-sister, Erin, who sent the email that put the icing on the cake. She wrote:

If you're just too busy to write, maybe you could poke your head up so we won't worry.
If you're not alright, maybe you could poke your head up so we could know how to pray.

Either way...missing your presence...

So now you know...it's definitely the latter.

Tonight - well, earlier this morning - I pulled down my trusty (and dusty) copy of Prayers for Daily Use. This prayer, "for one in dire extremity," caught my eye...

God of all mercy, Shepherd of every hope, the Refuge of bewildered hearts, steady us with your most tender mercy, lest the darkness of this hour hide the providences of a lifetime from our sight.

Within the shadows of our fear, your love stands waiting upon the very threshold of our need. Though we cannot see the way, guide us step by step and strengthen us for each day's journey with a peace beyond our making.

Wherever we walk, in sunshine or in shadow, show us the sign of Christ our Lord, who has gone before us and suffered all things that we might be delivered from fear, and in every extremity trust you with our life. Amen.

Amen, indeed.

Making the invisible visible

For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, and that he appeared to Peter, and then to the Twelve.
(1st Corinthians 15:3-5)
----
This is my only passion,
The very reason why I live...
To make You known
And to make You seen
To be Your hands
And to be Your feet
Oh, I want to be
A revelation of love
Oh, I...I want to make
The invisible God
Visible....
(From the song "Visible," by 4Him)
----This passage from 1st Corinthians, and this song by the group 4Him have been ringing in my ears ever since I got back from visiting with my sisters over Memorial Day.

I had two-and-a-half days of pretty deep conversations with sister Sue and her husband Jeff. Maybe it was the visit to the cemetery that triggered the discussions. After all, Jeff's father is buried there; his mother, he and Sue all have plots there. But my parents donated their body to science, and the remains were cremated. There is no plot, no "place to visit" in our family. (My parents really taught us that there is no value in honoring the flesh, once the spirit has fled.) At any rate, that visit to the cemetery seemed to spur lots of serious talk, which was kind of a first in a long while.

Jeff has been a life long Missouri Synod Lutheran; their family was one of the founding families of their church. Sue, coming from my own tradition of lapsed Catholicism, goes to church when Jeff goes (which is not often). I found my way back to church and faith while getting sober; Sue went back to church with her husband, but I'm not sure she ever found faith again.

As we talked about issues of life, death, and faith, all they could see of church was a restrictive list of shall-nots, and not the living presence of Christ in the world.

They both questioned the validity of the church as a whole, because of lots of things related to their own church: its absolute insistence on belief in the "real presence of Christ" to receive communion, the refusal to ordain women (or to even respect women who are ordained in other denominations), the insistence that music not performed on a pipe organ is not holy music...the list went on and on.

I wanted to weep. Repeatedly.

Insistence on dogma. Raising tradition to the status of commandment. Clinging to this proof-text or that key verse of Scripture as a way of drawing people in or keeping them out. A select group of men deciding whether certain people are (or are not) going to Hell. Churches (like the one in question) who post signs on the wall saying, "Free Coffee. Eternal life. Yes, membership has its privileges."

::::sigh::::

Pointing to institutions and the traditions, instead of to the Savior.

Early on Memorial Day morning, I actually awoke while it was still dark from a dream that I'd gone to this church, grabbed the pastor by the lapels, and (misquoting a famous politician) declared, "It's the GOSPEL, stupid!" I found myself going back to 1st Corinthians 15 (my own personal credo) time and time again.

And I wished that churches who claim the name of Christ could put away all the petty differences, all the exclusionary and persecutory crap, and do the same. To preach Christ, his crucifixion and resurrection. To preach hope, rather than despair. To preach inclusion, rather than exclusion.

What a wonderful world that would be...

Lord God, help each of us as followers of Christ be sure of Who and what we are worshiping. Help us focus on the "first imporantance" things: life, death, and resurrection of Christ. In everything we do this day, let us ensure that we are sharing Your love and helping to make you Visible to a world that needs to see You so very badly. Amen...

Just bring 'em to the font...

We are witnesses of everything he did in the country of the Jews and in Jerusalem. They killed him by hanging him on a tree, but God raised him from the dead on the third day and caused him to be seen.(Acts 10:39-40, NIV)
---
While Peter was still speaking these words, the Holy Spirit came on all who heard the message. The circumcised believers who had come with Peter were astonished that the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles. For they heard them speaking in tongues[a] and praising God.

Then Peter said, "Can anyone keep these people from being baptized with water? They have received the Holy Spirit just as we have." So he ordered that they be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. (Acts 10:44-48a, NIV)

Sunday's lectionary reading from the book of Acts describes a flat impossibility. Couldn't have happened. Outside the realm of possibility.

You see, for centuries "the circumcised" - the Jews - understood themselves to be *the* people of God. And that understanding came by right of birth, from father to son. There was no way God's Spirit could move in those who were not "of the people of God."

Except, of course, that it happened.

Peter is preaching after Jesus' resurrection, and is in the midst of telling the crowd that "we are witnessses of everything [Jesus] did..." He's not even finished talking when the Holy Spirit decides to show up in power. And the ones who end up speaking in tongues are the ones who theoretically are "outside the pale" - those unclean non-Jews, the Gentiles. But it sure looks like God's power is on them...

Peter's not going to put up a fight. He says, "Hey, go ahead - anybody who can think of a good reason why these outsiders should be baptised, speak now!" Then he orders them baptized, even though they are not part of the historic "people of God." The Spirit is moving in them, and for Peter, that's enough.

Fourteen years ago, a pastor in Prairie Village, Kansas took the same chance with me. Outwardly, there wasn't much to work with: I hadn't been to church in 17 years, and I'd never been part of the Lutheran tradition. I was newly divorced and very angry, recently sober and not entirely stable, and given to frequent and impressive bouts of vulgarity, I was (as one friend put it later) "quite a piece of work." But that pastor saw something happening behind the exterior roughness, and trusted that it was the Holy Spirit. Some might look back, even now, and wonder at his choice...but despite everything, I think he was right.

Now, I have to admit: I understand why some churches today take seekers and put them through extensive training and classes before baptism. They see the decision to be baptised as a momentous decision, not to be taken lightly. They also see these classes as ensuring that people who join the Church are in full agreement with the statements of faith.

But I wonder if sometimes we take this "decision time" too seriously. I wonder if the question we have to ask, just as Peter did, is simply: is the Spirit moving in a person? Are there fruits of the Spirit present, or hiding just under a rough surface? If so, then maybe we don't need to wait for six months of classes. Maybe we simply need to ask, "Can anyone keep these people from being baptized with water?"

Lord God, help us to see when your Spirit is moving in those around us. Help us to see where you are moving, and welcome those persons into the family of God. Amen.

A Lake Delton evening

I have a kitty-cat rubbing her head on my toes, and purring.

In case you're wondering, this is a good thing.

It is still, and peaceful, and quiet. You can hear the wind in the trees...and not a lot else. Even the wind seems to whisper, "All is quiet..."

In case you're wondering, this is a wonderful thing.

Especially for a boy on the south side of Chicago, where communter trains and freight trains and highway traffic noise is a part of life at any hour of the day or night. It ain't heaven, but it's close.

I met up at noon with my good friends (and bloggers-on-hiatus) Tom and Michael, who have been my friends and confindants ever since I came to Hyde Park nearly 3 years ago. Tom retired back in December, and has built his retirement home on his ancestral farm in the Wisconsin Dells. After two months of trips back & forth, today was their final load-out - a large-ish dresser, a large and cumbersome sofa, and a couple hundred bits of "stuff that didn't fit in other boxes." So I helped them clean-out the last of their stuff (remembering the 80/20 rule: eighty percent of the stuff takes 80% of the time, and the last twenty percent...also takes 80% of the time).

But they got started only an hour later than they planned (by comparison, we just won't talk how late I was during my last move...), and we had a delightful drive up to the Dells. Tom led the way in his red GMC Canyon truck, with Michael driving the blue-n-white Budget rent-a-truck, and me in the rear with the elderly Camry filled with boxes.

The drive is about 190 miles. The first 24 miles (from Hyde Park to the O'Hare toll plaza) took an hour and a quarter. (It's drives like that which make me ready to pack my stuff and go anywhere away from a big city.) But the rest of the drive was a delight. Total elapsed time - 4 hours 30 minutes...not too bad, especially with the iPod to supply the movin-right-along music. I debated whether the lead-off song should be "The Great Adventure" or "Up, Up & Away," but in the end the 5th Dimension won out...

Once we got here, Tom treated us to dinner at a delightful little Italian restaurant called "R Place." We had delightful meals - my salmon was wonderful - and great fellowship. We then drove back to the house, and unloaded the truck into the garage (it took about an hour and a half to load it, and about 15 minutes to unload it, it seemed!). Then Tom regaled me with scenes from "RFD TV" - more country music and agricultural reporting than any city boy would ever need - and generally wound down the day.

Sunday will be a busy day - I will leave the Dells about 7:00, head down to a funraiser brunch for the Center on Halstead, which The Employer is proud to support. Then meet up with a sponsee for coffee, a meeting, and then out to to Oak Brook (a Chicago suburb) for a concert including Ken Medema. All in all, it should be the incredible wrap up to a great weekend.

It turns out that (just as a "what the heck" moment) I checked Ken Medema's schedule, and he was doing not one, but two performances in Chicago this weekend. He's doing a concert tonight, and worship tomorrow, at a Baptist church on the north side of Chicago. And then Sunday night he's doing a concert at a church in Oak Brook. I can hardly wait...if you haven't heard of Ken Medema, you'll be amazed if you ever get to see him.

So here I am, reflecting on a full and wonderful day. My kitty-cat friend (not sure whether this is Cassidy or Sundance) is now sitting next to the PC monitor, purring away and occasionally kneading the mouse and the keyboard (which has led to some interesting typos...). So I think it's time to head off to beddy-bye-land. Five thirty is gonna come really early...

Stepping away from the "great debate"

Over here at Paradoxy, there is a fairly positive discussion of the infamous Levitical texts related to homosexuality. And part of me really wants to weigh in on that discussion, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It's not that I don't think people should speak to these passages. It's just that I've grown a wee bit tired of discussing the same six or seven texts (depending on whose list you use), and whether and how they are meant to exclude gays and lesbians from heaven.

Part of the reason I've tired of the debate is because the religious right insist on cherry-picking the Biblical commandments they want to enforce. It's the same old discussion - which parts of the Holiness Code are you going to enforce? (In fact, I need to post that wonderful list of the 10 questions about the holiness code we should all ask the religious right...I'll do that in this post immediately below.)

Another part of the reason I don't want to ante up to the discussion is that in the end, it's mostly futile. First, homophobia is a phobia - by definition, it's an irrational fear. One of the wisest things I've heard about combating homophobia since I've been out is this gay truism: You will never be able to logically or rationally argue someone out of a belief or fear that is, by definition, illogical and irrational. A war of words won't transform 99.44% of anti-gay forces, because they aren't responding to words, they're responding to fears and boogeymen.

But even more important is this truth: in the end, both the homo-haters and the homo-supporters appeal to different parts of the same book to justify their attitudes. This is at the heart of a short but extremely useful book by one of the few sane ELCA voices in this discussion: Craig Nessan's Many Members, One Body: Committed Same-Gender Relationships and the Mission of the Church. Nessan is a pastor and theologian at Wartburg Theological Seminary in Dubuque, IA, and he wrote this book (at least in part) to help inform the discussions concerning homosexuality and same-sex ordination at the ELCA national assembly in 2005 (and beyond, since nothing was decided in 2005...)

Nessan suggests that the Old Testament writers had no knowledge of sexual orientation, versus sexual preference - any more than they understood astrophysics when they wrote that the earth was the center of the universe. So the concept of a created, inborn desire for the same sex was impossible for Biblical writers to understand. And the concept of committed same-sex relationships was an impossibility in a world where property and the social order depended on siring male heirs.

You see, I will agree with Levitical writers and with Paul - from a "survival of the people of God" standpoint, hetero men jumping the tracks and having sex with men, back then, was a bad idea - for the same reason that risking eating improperly cooked pork was a bad idea. The "people of God" weren't gonna last long that way.

But what the religious right refuse to acknowledge is the fact that for a number of men and women, they have not "exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones" (Romans 1:26) because they never had those "natural" desires to begin with. Those men and women never "abandoned natural relations" with the opposite sex - for them, those desires were simply absent, from the beginning.

Trying to enforce those rules on homosexuals today makes no more sense than having church officials persecuting NASA employees for saying the earth revolves around the sun. We simply know better, now. And the conditions that threatened the survival of the nomadic tribes of Israel simply no longer apply.

The trouble, Nessan says, is that both sides of the debate are appealing to different parts of the Bible, and both hold the Bible in esteem (though certainly to different standards), what you have is two mutually-exclusive hermaneutics - two completely irreconcilable ways of understanding the Bible and "those passages" in particular. And so both sides stand on either side of the Biblical chasm, shouting at the other side, who could care less about what's being said.

Nessan suggests that that at the level of "love God, and love your neighbors," both sides are essentially "one body, with many members." He makes the pitch that, if we aren't going to split the church over caring for the poor, and we aren't going to split the church over abortion, just war, divorce, hospitality to strangers and/or any of a hundred other topics that Jesus felt were more central to following him, then why should we even consider splitting the Body of Christ over homosexuality? Why can't we simply agree to disagree, as we have with these other topics? Why aren't we spending our time pointing people to Jesus, rather than focusing on this relatively small segment of the population?

Unfortunately, once again, this is a rational approach to an irrational fear. And the religious right has built up those irrational fears through outright lies and half-truths, turning gay men into predatory monsters bent on overthrowing the social order of straight Christianity. They need an enemy, and they've targeted gays and lesbians as the focus of their ire.

So I'll encourage my friends to carry on the discussion - when they find the occasional Christian who really want to hear facts an understand, rather than just shout at the "homos" and "fags." For me, I will sign up with the author of this great quote:

The Church says that the Earth is flat. But I know that it is round, because I have seen the shadow on the moon, and I have more faith in a shadow than in the Church. (Robert Green Ingersoll, erroneously attributed to Ferdinand Magellan)

Ten questions for the Religious Right

1) When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Lev 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

2) I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3) I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Lev 15:19-24). The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4) Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

5) I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

6) A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an Abomination (Lev 11:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. (After all, have you seen what whole shellfish look like?) Can you settle this?

7) Lev 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

8) Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev 19:27. How should they die?

9) I know from Lev 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10) My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? (Lev 24:10-16) Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

Here's a way to honk off the Religious Right....

Plan a screening of Camp Out.

It asks the question that the so-called Religious Right just don't want to hear: can you be gay and Christian? And, even better (or worse, depending on which side you're on): can you be a gay Christian teenager?

This is no work of fiction: this is a documentary of 10 gay/lesbian teenagers who attend a camp run by a maverick gay pastor in the ELCA and his partner (by itself, a big no-no in the ELCA...bad pastor...). Not just any camp, mind you, but a camp specifically for gay Christian teens. The plot summary says the pastor and his partner started this camp because they were tired of hearing about gay kids killing themselves because they believed they were going to hell.

Yup - those Religious Righters probably need to stomp on THAT ministry as quickly as possible (although I suspect their more liberal ELCA brothers will do it for them). After all, we don't want any of that good-news crap getting out to the queers, now do we?...
:-(

In fact, in one of the review of the screenings at various film festivals, it describes a scene where one of the teens asks the tragic question: "What if they're right? What if we are going to hell?"

Of course, the answer that conservative Christians don't want you to hear is, of course, that everyone is going to hell - absent the saving power of Christ. Jerry Falwell, James Dobson, Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling (the Enron execs), the addict living in the alley, the ACT UP! gay activists, and all ten of the teens in this movie are all damned - absent faith in Jesus.

I'll be interested to see if this movie makes it to any of the film festivals here in Chicago this summer and fall...if it does, I'll be near the head of the line to support it...

An old acquaintance gets a boost

At my Saturday morning AA meeting, it's an interesting group of (mostly younger) men who attend. There are playrights; artists in paints, wood, metals, and other media; musicians from rock guitarists to jazz pianists; at least two legitimate stand-up comics; and a variety of other talented folks.

One fellow is a cinematographer - a video/film cameraman. He's been all over the world, seen all kinds of things with all kinds of people. Some of his footage was on the Chicago news recently, and he spent an evening last week hobnobbing with Conan O'Brien. And I remember the insecure little-boy voice inside me saying, "Gee...I wish I could say I know famous folks, like these guys do..."

Tonight, I found out that I know a guy whose knowledge and skill just might save the world.

My friend Eric's college roommate was Rick Bright. Eric and Rick were great friends even after they left the University of Kansas, and Rick went on to other graduate studies.

My connection with Rick was meeting him by email in the summer of 1999. Rick had been born with a sunken chest (where the bone that joins the ribs up front actually grows inward), and in the middle of 1999 it had grown inward so much that Rick was having trouble breathing, walking, anything that required much in the way of oxygen. In a very short period of time, his condition degenerated to the point where he was passing out at the grocery store, or unable to walk up flights of stairs.

That's when I "met" Rick, by email. Our church had been doing daily email devotions, and Eric and I were pretty much the mainstays of that effort at first. Eric had evidently forwarded some of my stuff to Rick, and Rick seemed to enjoy it. So we started up a conversation - about his condition, both physical and spiritual.

Rick was trying to get a specific type of surgery done that would undo this damage, and the place to have it done, at the time, was the UCLA medical center. But (of course) he got tied up in a battle with his health-insurance company about whether they would cover this life-givng exercise. (They, of course, wanted some half-vast hack to do something locally). So the battle was on...

Rick was also struggling with the Christian faith, and the Christian church, on a number of levels. So our emails were about half physiology, and half theology. Rick eventually had the surgery, charging the cost of it on his credit cards, and actually came out to Kansas to stay with Eric's folks while he recovered.

At the time, Rick was working on his 3rd or 4th degree, a doctorate in Immunology and Molecular and Viral Pathogenesis (say that one three times fast), and was working on research at Emory University and at the Centers for Disease Control. I always knew he was bright, beyond just the name...

So in talking with Eric yesterday, he'd heard from Rick shortly after Eric's dad's funeral in March. Turns out Rick Bright has a new job at Novavax as Vice President of Vaccine Research. He'll be leading efforts to develop a vaccine for the H5N1 avian flu, which many experts expect will make the mutating jump from birds to humans in a few short years. And if his work so far is any indication, he's the man to do it. Two months after getting hired at Novavax, he was addressing the World Health Organization. Eric said he spends most of his time jetting around the world to wherever outbreaks of avian flu are occurring. His work, if it's as successful as some folks think, could well put him on the path of a Nobel Prize...

Oh, and his health problems? The 32-year-old guy who couldn't get to the grocery store without passing out in 1999 has participated in a number of bicycle marathons, including a 400-mile bike ride across Canada to raise funds for AIDS research. His management-team picture sure looks like he's in great shape! (Ricks's photo is here, at the bottom of the list.)

So it seems I have a famous connection after all. I doubt I'll be slowing him down long enough to have coffee, but it's good to see a happy ending to a story, once in a while.

Being restored to sanity - sorta

When you see some mud upon the ground
You lay down so she don't have to walk around
You think that will protect her from the rain
But she'll never, ever stop the pain

She walks all over you (she knows she can)
You're the carpet man, yeah, yeah
You're the carpet man...
("Carpet Man," from Up, Up & Away: The Definitive Collection by The Fifth Dimension)

Well, it's been an interesting week here on the south side of Chicago. Opportunities for growth, some of which have been accepted gladly, and some of which I have definitely backslid from. The song snippet from the Fifth Dimension leads us into the first topic..

Something in me broke (at least temporarily) last week concerning my work. I'd spent the last weekend bouncing between resentment and resignation about the hours, about my new boss, about what I felt was expected of me (cheerful martyrdom) versus what I was willing to commit to (snarking, resentful sloth, basically). I kept trying to get to the "we have ceased fighting anything or anyone" AA-standard for serenity, but it just didn't work.

Finally, I had a sort of epiphany. I realized that for the foreseeable future, the broken business model established by my employer means that Monday and Tuesday nights are going to be insane. Period. That part, at least, was undeniable.

Every Monday is going to last until about 8 PM, without fail. And every other Tuesday night is pretty much guaranteed to go to 2-3 AM on Wednesday. Since we have no shift workers, that means an 18 hour day (yes, since we're salaried, that means 10 hours of unpaid overtime). And there's nothing on the horizon that's going to spare us from that. So the breaking-point I came to simply said:

OK, that's fine. Mondays and Tuesdays are write-off's. Period. I can accept that.
But that's all the bastards get. Wednesday through Friday, and the weekends, are mine.

Now, I have no idea whether my new boss will accept that or not. But I have to admit that there is a part of me that really doesn't care, one way or the other. That's all I've got to give for what they're offering. If they wanted to make us hourly and overtime-eligible, that might be different. But not for flat salary. Sorry.

So as a French writer once said, les jeux sont faites - the die are cast. We'll see how the game plays out this week. "Hell week" starts in just over 12 minutes...

I started walking to and from the train this last week. A couple times, I had to drive, because of medical appointments on the south side. But I'm going to get more serious about it this week. I only "have to" drive one day this week - with a visit to a specialist on Tuesday and Hell Night Tuesday night. So the rest of the week should be good. I desperately, desperately need the exercise. Now if I can just get my ass out of bed in time to make it...

I'm finding a real spirit-healing reading The Wounded Prophet: A portrait of Henri J.M. Nouwen by Michael Ford. As I read it, I find that Nouwen was so much like me as to be uncanny. He lived a life of celibacy (at 12 years, I only feel like it's been a lifetime), and both of us struggled mightily with the desire for intimate contact throughout it. Though I would never compare my meagre speaking or preaching to his, we both had many others tell us of our writing and speaking skills, and how they touched others.

And I identify with Henri's simultaneous desire for humility, side-by-side with a need to be the center of attention. But most of all, I understand the drive to share spirituality out of my sense of brokenness, from my sense of not-quite-measuring-up, rather than from a sure and certain knowledge that "I've got the answer for you." Perhaps that gift - the understanding of being "the wounded healer" - is the greatest gift that Nouwen ever gave me. When I first heard of it in Don Messer's Contemporary Images of Christian Ministry, I knew I had found my vocatio, my calling.

So that's been pretty cool. The niggling annoyance is that the paperback version of the book (which I got fairly cheap) is now falling apart - the first 15 pages dropped out while I was reading it yesterday. (Amazon to the rescue - I found a used/very-good hardcover edition for not that much money to replace it.)

I'd been told by my GP physician that I needed to redo the sleep-apnea study I did 3 years ago - that it may well be my overnight oxygen levels that are causing my lack of energy and listlessness. Of course, in classic fashion, I was wait-listed with a date of August 4th. But last Thursday, I got the call - there's been a cancellation, it's short notice, but could I come in tonight? You bet I could.

That brought both good news and bad news - yes, additional CPAP pressure will help restore some vigor. But the other news is that my weight is apparently causing most of my apnea events - which means that added to all the other good reasons to start the walking is the fact that my sleep problems are at least partly tied to my obesity. As my sponsor said, "So...have you had enough yet?"

I continue to find hidden gems in my music collection as I digitize it. My post about the "up to your ass in brass" classical CD brought a message from a friend in KC who is a brass lover, which was cool.

I am looking for interests to pursue beyond just work and AA (yes, I know, I need to put blogging back into the mix!), but one of the blessings of being in Chicago is the Old Town School of Folk Music. You may find it hard to believe (I do, at 49,) but I'm actually thinking of taking a guitar class there. Gotta do something with my soon-to-be-free time, eh? (Now if I can just convince my friend Tom to loan me his spare guitar...)

Ok, that's it - gotta get to bed...

Blessings of new gifts, rediscovering old ones

Well, it has been a series of "opportunites for growth" here in the ol' Windy City. Lots of challenges, and a few changes for the better...

I'm not even going to bother talking about work. Suffice it to say that nothing has changed in the last two weeks, and my only change has been to accept that Monday and Tuesday nights are going to be insane; but I'm reclaiming Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Which, in the greater scheme of things, is progress...

In a spate of blatant self-gratification and commercialism, I broke down and bought myself five new things:

- I had to get crowns for two crumbling teeth (not much of an option, unfortunately, as both teeth had cracked - thank God for health spending accounts);
- I finally got a desperately-needed brand-new mattress and box-spring set;
- I finally broke down and got a new ground-line phone (I'd been living by cell-phone alone for 8 months); and
- I joined the 21st century gadgeteers, and got myself an iPod as a belated birthday present.

And no, I probably couldn't afford any of it. But that's the way it goes, sometimes.

The dentist thing was a tough one - most days, given the choice between a gasoline enema and a root-canal, I'd have to sit and think about it. But, as I said, when half of one tooth breaks off, and the other one shows up cracked, there isn't any choice about "just letting it slide."

The bed was probably more money than I should have spent - but I've spent going on 4 years trying to make my SelectDisComfort adjustable-agony bed work right, and it's just never worked out. The space between the two twin air-chambers always ended up being a hollow-spot, like the old joke about the "honeymoon" mattress (where both parties roll to the center) - no matter how hard or soft I inflated it. And I got to the point where the last month, I've woke up lame from a sore back. And let me tell you, not having that is worth every penny I paid for the new mattress set...

Getting set up with a "ground-line" phone may be a $25-a-month extravagance that I'll regret, but I don't think so. God knows, my schedule has not allowed me to be doing much phone calling - but when I do get the chance to call folks, the last thing I want to do is be having lousy reception or dropped calls (which this neighborhood "in the 'hood" is known for, regardless of carrier). So that seems to be a worthwhile thing, so far (of course, it's only been in since Friday...).

But the iPod...man, I'm still wondering why I held out so long.

I've always been a music freak, with widely divergent tastes. From Up, Up & Away: The Definitive Collection by the 5th Dimension, to Copland Conducts Copland including two of my favorite classical pieces, Hoedown and Fanfare for the Common Man, to Nickel Creek and Triumph and Jethro Tull and The White Album, it's pretty amazing.

I have a CD entitled Sonic Fireworks for Brass, featuring some of the most powerful classical brass music by the brass sections of several major orchestras. The back cover of the CBS Masterworks CD features a handwritten sign that shows the alternative subtitle for the CD, Up to Your Ass In Brass.) Not far away from it is The Carl Stalling Project: Music from the Warner Bros. Cartoons, 1936-1958 (an absolutely classic CD that, like Music From The Neighborhood, I heard about first on NPR). In the mix is El Debarge, Blood Sweat & Tears, a mess of Peter, Paul & Mary, Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie...it's amazing. And that doesn't even begin to describe the Christian music collection that's worked in thrugh that.

One of the amazing things I rediscovered a while back was a group called Prelude. You wouldn't recognize the name - they were mostly a UK group. But back in 1974, they performed an amazing acapella cover of Neil Young's After the Gold Rush. If you go to Amazon's site here, and click on the After The Gold Rush link, you can hear a bit of it.

For years, I had been searching for this recording...I had thought it was an all-women's group that did it, which threw me off the track. But thanks to the Internet, I found the name of the group, and then found the CD on Amazon. Very, very cool stuff...This version of After The Gold Rush came out when I was a junior in high school, at the height of the Watergate hearings (yes, that long ago), and I remember it being a slice of serenity in a time of insanity.

And then the storytellers - one classic of which is Patrick Stewart doing the narration for my favorite childhood recording, Peter and the Wolf. And then Bill Harley (Monsters in the Bathroom), Gamble Rogers' Sorry Is As Sorry Does, Heather Forest's SongSpinner...

Then the next challenge will be to digitize the pile of tapes I own, including about 2 dozen classic AA speaker's recordings.

I could have easily gotten a 360-gig iPod, if they made one - but for now, I think I can live with rotating things on and off the 30 GB one. But it's making driving, riding the train, even waiting in line at the grocery store so much more relaxing...

Today was also the first day of abandoning the bus to get into work. There's 5 blocks that I walk to take the Metra Electric line from 115th St. in to Van Buren station, but then there's a ten full city block journey to the office from the train. Up to this point, I've been taking the bus, especially in the morning - but yesterday I walked it back home. It cost me waiting forty minutes for the next hourly train - I can walk, but walk fast is something I'm going to have to grow into. But at least I was out and moving.

As a friend often said, the longest part of the journey is the part from the sofa to the front door... And I'm at the point of no longer having a choice about changing that part of my life.

So that's it, boys and girls. Off to another day in the capitalist's paradise...

Surpassing evil - and grace - in the Bible

And you, Lord - don't you dare forget
The ones who tore your city down -
You hear me?
They tore it down to its footings
Reduced your temple to rubble
And they laughed.

O Babylon, you Destroyer
I wish I could do it myself
I wish I could pay you back
I wish I could take your babies
And dash their heads against
The stones that you tore down.
(Psalm 137:7-9, a contemporary translation)

In my Old Testament readings class, I heard this translation of the end of Psalm 137, done several years earlier by a former student. I'd always struggled with Psalm 137 - but my struggles were nothing compared to another one of my fellow students, who all but yelled at the end of the reading, "That is awful! I don't see why we can't just pull those pages out of the Bible and burn them!"

I understood that notion then - and I still do. The idea of wanting to slaughter babies - even Babylonian babies - seems obscene, something that doesn't belong in a book of holy writings. But there is a lesson in that expression of anger and hate, one that I found expressed best by Bill Williams in his book, Naked Before God: The Return of a Broken Disciple. These words are Bill's:

There is grace in this passage - not in the text itself, but simply in the presence of the text. After all, think where you find it - the Psalms reside almost exactly in the center of the Bible, at its very heart. And the Psalms tell us a powerful lesson - that the ugliest, most vengeful coals we can harbor in our souls will not throw us out of God's presence. Hear the Good News: bitterness and wrath nearly consumed the psalmists....

...and God used them anyway.

Those people wrote words which are read and sung in churches week after week. Their words have given courage to millions of souls passing through the doors of death and destruction. One of their writings may be on your lips the day you die.

That's how God punished 'filthy' people filled with nasty human emotions....they helped write the Bible.

When I struggle with doubt, or anger and resentment, or fear that the riot of my own emotions can cut me off from being any use to God, I remember this passage and these words about it.

And I remember that I am not alone in the family of God - no matter how much the outside appearances of believers on Sunday morning may look much better than how my "insides" feel.

I remember that these struggles are not something which condemns me as a spiritual failure - but something that brands me as a human being, struggling to live a life of faith. It gives me the hope to move forward, to walk through the tough times "by faith and not by sight."

And it reminds me that the same Psalmists who wrote of such horrible violence also wrote of surpassing joy:

Praise the LORD, O my soul;
all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
Praise the LORD, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits -
who forgives all your sins
and heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit
and crowns you with love and compassion,
who satisfies your desires with good things
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.
(Psalm 103:1-5, NIV)

And, finding myself once again renewed, I can only say, "Amen, and ever amen."

How do we treat the defiant ones?

Now Thomas (called Didymus), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord!"
But he said to them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it." (John 20:24-25, NIV)

This Sunday's Gospel is one of my favorites, because it describes so much of my life in faith. And it points out a critical flaw in much of Christian practice today...

Our central character is frequently known as "doubting Thomas," but that's not how I hear it when I read this passage. I'd say that "Defiant Thomas" is probably more like it. Rejecting the claims of those who had been his friends and his fellow apostles, he says, "Nope - not gonna do it. Before I believe something that big, you're just gonna have to show me."

Unfortunately, that's the story of much of my life, even as a believer. "How can this possibly be true? Are you pulling my leg, or what? A God who loves you, I can believe...but a God who loves me? You're gonna have to show me..."

But here's the part I find so beautiful about this passage, in verse 26:

A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them.

Can you believe it? Thomas had rejected the heart of the best news the apostles could give him - and yet a week later, Thomas was still a part of the group, together with them in the house!

Weird, isn't it?

It's one of the reasons that I love the Alpha program - because it specifically does not say to the seeker or non-believer, "You MUST believe this!" In the spirit of the 12-step organizations, the Alpha program says, "This is what we believe - this is our hope, and our faith. Have dinner with us, stick around, check us out. This is our experience, strength and hope. Come and see..."

But this passage begs the question, doesn't it? How do most Christians today deal with people who don't want to believe as the group believes? How do many Christians today often deal with those whose beliefs or actions or lifestyles aren't acceptable to the church family as a whole?

Tragically, the history of Protestant Christianity is one of schism and splitting. We find the ones who don't believe like us or live like us, and either we drive them out (as heretics, unbelievers, unclean, unfaithful or blasphemers)- or we split the church into "them" and "us."

But look what happens to the apostles, who put up with the defiant one, the doubter! Thomas is there with them a week later - probably as doubtful and rejecting as ever - and what happens?

"Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, 'Peace be with you!' "

It seems that Jesus shows up for the church, even when there are doubters and unbelievers around. Even through locked doors. Perhaps even through locked hearts....

God, help us to remember that the ones who don't live as we'd choose, or believe as we'd choose, are still your children. Help us to be welcoming, inclusive and loving - trusting that your Son will show up, bringing peace and faith to those who need it. Amen.

Stepping gently out of the insanity

Ineresting thing I'm learning about codependent organizations and employees - they are like drug addicts dealing with drug dealers.

I'd heard the image first in connection with churches from a professor at St. Paul in KC -

churches are addictive and codependent organizations. Their drugs of choice are overwork, over-commitment and works-righteousness. And the only word they know is "more." Never "enough," only "more."

I've found it's true with employers as well.

My employer is an addictive group. Their drugs of choice are over-work, over-commitment, hyper-responsibility, and fear of financial insecurity. They too only know "more." There are no limits; only deadlines. If you've committed to doing six insane things before the weekend, and it's Thursday night, you stay until they get done.

Last weekend, I melted down. Completely. Easter weekend - Jesus came out of the tomb, and I retreated to my apartment. The proximate cause was a combination of bowel and bladder problems that ensured I wasn't going to go far from a bathroom all weekend. But the underlying cause was that I was done. I'd said "yes" when I should have said "no," I'd over-committed myself, and I'd failed. Deadlnes missed, emails and reports not sent, you name it. And I just didn't care - which scared me, I think, more than anything. At some point, my new boss (a kindly, but ineffective man) came in asking for the fourth time in 15 minutes about a task that was ninth on the list. I all but shouted at him, "I'm trying - I really am! But I've got only so much bandwith, and there's a lot more requests than there is throughput around here!!"

By noon on Friday, I had every intention of going to 7:30 Good Friday services, but by 5:30, all I could think about was going home and going to bed.

I dragged myself out for a Saturday morning meeting - but by the time I got home (just in the nick of time...) the bladder problems helped me redefine the term frequent urination for the whole rest of the weekend. And mind and spirit just shut down as the physical discomfort increased. So I pulled into my shell and stayed there.

I felt guilty for not going to Easter services - especially when I'd been thinking of how much I was looking to move forward with finding a new church home again - but my plumbing problems ensured that I would not be riding the Metra or El trains (no public restrooms on the trains or at the stations). So I spent my time listening to classic Christian music - Glad, Keith Green, Acapella - and I slowly relaxed.

Then I stumbled on my old recording of Leonard Bernstein's Mass - which will probably generate about a dozen posts, by itself. But more on that later.

So Monday and Tuesday were typical of our "purgatory weeks" - we ran late, and hectic, but I was home and relaxing by 11 (which feels like mercy, unfortunately). But then I heard that our "efficiency team" lead had taken yet another one of the leads "into the woodshed" over errors that were made - and my spirit just kinda broke. If, despite all our efforts, we're still failing, then why not do it gracefully?

The funny thing about employers and drug addicts. When you can't deliver the goods, they go to someone else. If the dealer is all out of pot, no addict just does without pot; they go from place to place, from dealer to dealer, until they find some. On Wednesday, I went to do a couple of tasks, and in each case, I heard, "You don't have to worry about that - it's been taken off your plate." I was introduced to Jason, a whiz kid from the Mothership headquarters, who was taking one of those pesky items "off my plate." It probably didn't help that he's 20 years younger than me, and a whiz at precisely the kind of stuff they needed him to be (SAS software systems) - and I'm not.

Part of me felt like a failure - oh, you're not strong enough to play with the team, so we're delegating it back to the "A" team. And part of me said, "Screw it - I couldn't do it anyway." So I had to just let it go. (I have to admit, I've got some work still to do on that...)

I sent out an email about my upcoming absence (I'm having some non-invasive medical tests done at the UC hospital Monday morning), and I went home. By 6 PM. And it felt good. I had dinner with a friend, then went home and watched Batman Begins, which had been sitting in my Netflix queue since, oh, February, and I still got to bed before midnight. And that felt good, too.

I'm going to do my best to be a worker among workers, today. No heroics, no "no problem, I'll take that bullet for you." Just my job, and to be helpful to others.

Just for today, I'll try that.

Time to make another decision

I can't believe how long it has been since I have posted here.

Early in sobriety, a man told me, "If you're sober, and you've made a bad decision, you have the option to simply make another decision. Drunk, the only option you have is to say 'the hell with it,' and keep drinking. Sober, you've still got a choice."

Well, I've made a bad decision. And it's time to make a new one.

Back on January 13th, I wrote these prophetic words:

Without being hideously disloyal to my new employer (who I really, really love), the process of "going live" for our latest major client has been a minefield of screw-ups, and we've hit a whole bunch of them in the 10 short days since we cut live. Our small band of intrepid warriors have been battling bad converted data, bad software and systems interfaces, and a genuine lack of disseminated data about the client. Consequently, I've been at the office until 1 AM the last three days, and this weekend promises to be another long one.

There have been thoughts, especially in the last 24 hours, that I've given up one form of being half-alive for a slightly better-compensated form of the same condition. That there has to be more to life than this. That I did much better at this schedule at thirty-eight than I am doing at forty-eight. My info-technology skills picked up a lot of rust and barnacles over the last three years of getting into (and out of) seminary, and I have heard the voices in my head saying, "You're just not the right person for all this."

That voice has gotten a lot louder, recently.

It's not even the biweekly "Hell Week" runs, which have consistently kept me at work (and as the last person on deck) until 3:15 - 3:30 AM. It's the fact that even as they have added more people - supposedly, to help out - my job has become more about helping them out, and less about doing my own work. The result is that today, I am further behind than I have ever been, with no end in sight. People are continuing to send everyone on the team messages like, "I expect an answer by 4:00 PM today" - and I'm getting the email at 5:15.

The simple fact is, I really don't believe I have gone three days without breaking down in tears at work since the first of March. When I left the office at 5:20 yesterday, I left with 6 hours worth of work that needed to be done before the stroke of midnight.

And I just didn't freakin' care. Not a bit. Not at all.

I've put on weight that I can ill-afford to carry. My blood-sugar regulation has been in the dumpster for months now. I'm not sleeping; my apartment looks like a crack-den, because I have no energy or will to clean it when I get home.

And I should have worked all last night, too. And I even brought my laptop home to do it.

Instead, I ate way too much carry-out food and watched Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith, which has been waiting to be watched since mid-Februrary. (Thank God for Netflix and no late fees...)

As a friend fondly says, "How low do you have to go before you know you've hit bottom?"

Well, I'm not sure, brother - but I'm in the right neighborhood.

I love my boss...well, my former boss. She was laterally-transferred off the project as a sacrificial lamb to the corporate weenies. She didn't fail - none of us have - but she was at the helm as things were going down (even though the engines and the rudder and the navigation were all sabotaged before we even got on board), so she was the one shunted aside.

My dear friend, to whom I gave the Music From The Neighborhood CD (back here), also ended up being set-up as the bad-girl for several high-visibility screw-ups - most of which were caused my our near-fatal lack of knowledge about the system we're running. She ended up quitting the day after I gave her the CD. She took a week off - and then came back, and was shuffled to a new client (a slightly less dysfunctional one). Sadly, she's no happier - although she is going home at 5:30 a lot more (whereas we are going home at 5:30 only when we can no longer stand it).

So yesterday was Maundy Thursday - commemorating the Last Supper. And it was my own personal Gethsemane...my "Can't You make this stop?" kind of cry. I made it to one of my three regular AA meetings a week (the only one I make during the regular work week) and it helped a lot. But I still feel like sitting down in a garden and crying out to God.

The two big differences, of course are that I am not even remotely like Jesus, these days - and that I also can choose to walk away from the cross.

So we'll see what this day brings. My employer may well try to crucify me for the work that has not been done. But I'm all done killing myself for the greater corporate good.

If you're the praying type, pray for me.

Cheers for the one we'll be killing

Many people spread their cloaks on the road, while others spread branches they had cut in the fields. Those who went ahead and those who followed shouted,
"Hosanna!"
"Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!"
"Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!"
"Hosanna in the highest!" (Mark 11:8-10, NIV)

Yessir and yes-ma'am...take a good look at that Jesus fellow! He's come in the name of the Lord God! He's bringing the Kingdom that we've been waiting for! We're praising him for all his wonderful works! An entry into Jerusalem so triumphant that they'll be calling it "Palm Sunday" for years!

And five short days from now, we're all going to be crying out for his murder.

Almost every mother's child standing here along the parade route will be down at the temple, or down at Pilate's place. And there won't be a "Hosanna" to be heard. Not one.

Nope. Almost all of us will be there, yelling "Give us "Barabbas!"

And "Crucify him!"

Yes indeed. If Jesus could have come back in the 1970's and made a guest appearance on "Laugh-In," he definitely would have won the "Fickle Finger of Fate" award.

How's this for a public-opinion collapse, eh? Hero on Sunday, servant of all at Thursday dinner, arrested on Thursday night, and the target of our hate and bloodlust Friday morning.

Wanna know the most amazing part of all, though?

Jesus knows all this. Today. Big-C-minus-five-days and counting...

Yeah, I know - it LOOKS like he's listening to all the adulation and praise...but he knows what's coming. He's been telling those crazy disciples of his for a week or more that he's going to be handed over and crucified. They don't believe it, today, any more than the rest of us do.

But Jesus knows.

And he came to Jerusalem anyway.

He knows we're going to turn on him in 5 days like a pack of hungry wild dogs, and watch him be torn nearly to shreds before he's crucified.

And he came to Jerusalem anyway.

He knows we'll betray him; that some of us will be jeering as he's dying.

And he'll go to the cross anyway. Even though a single word from him could have struck us all dead, and another word could have shattered that cross into splinters. And we would have deserved every bit of it.

Jesus didn't come to Jerusalem for the praise, or the ride on the colt.

He came for you. And for me.

Such is the Son of Man's love for us all: Jesus knew what the road ahead held...and Love led him here. For us.