Category Archives: Personal Reflection

October 26, 2013 · 11:05 am

Hear them roar

Katy Perry has done it again.  Firework is one of my favorite songs.  Granted, its not entirely her doing.  Firework was one of the first song selections for my church’s Dramatic Worship team, which is a liturgical dance group.  One the dancers is my daughter, so now I cannot hear that song without thinking of her and her best friend singing it out loud with all their heart.

Well, Katy’s song Roar is a similarly awesome song about conviction, courage, and strength.  It is one I want my daughters to know and sing along to.  I had heard it once or twice, and enjoyed it.  Then I saw the video below, shared by a friend on FB through Upworthy on Tatiana Danger’s blog.  It contained a crying warning label, but I’m okay with a few tears every now and then.  I wasn’t expecting what came next.  Tears.  Then sobs.  My heart was at the same time broken and strengthened.  I was saddened beyond words, and yet inspired.  The video is apparently a fundraising effort for Children’s Hospital at Dartmouth-Hitchcock.  I don’t know if it will help them, but I will never hear this song again and not think of the courage in that building, and all Children’s Hospitals.

And by the way, the girl in the purple tie-dye is an awesome performer

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In a video full of inspiration and awesomeness, this girl stole the show for me.

In a video full of inspiration and awesomeness, this girl stole the show for me.

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October 16, 2013 · 3:36 pm

#JusticeforDaisy

anonymousI’m not sure how I feel about vigilante justice, but I do know how I felt last night as I read Dugan Arnett’s piece in the Kansas City Star about Daisy Coleman.  I made the mistake of reading the article in bed before trying to fall asleep.  The story made that task almost impossible.  The story is told very well by Arnett.  Read it, then come back and skip the highlighted part below where I try to summarize the story.

Daisy Coleman was a 14 year old freshman when she and her 13-year-old friend sneaked out of her room to go to an older boy’s house.  Matthew Barnett was senior.  He was a football star.  He was the object of many a school-girl crush.  By the end of the night, he was the subject of nightmares.

If Arnett’s story is to be believed, Matthew Barnett is a rapist.  He and his friends gave Daisy enough alcohol that she blacked out.  He then raped her in his basement, and left her passed out in her own front yard wearing nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants when it was 22 degrees outside.  He does not deny having sex with her, he just claims that it was consensual.  At 9 a.m. the next morning, about seven hours after her last drink, her blood alcohol level was .13.  The incident was apparently filmed on one of the boys’ iPhones, shared with classmates that week at school.  Daisy’s friend was also raped.  Though she was not as intoxicated, she claims that she repeatedly told her assailant “no,” while he undressed her and had sex with her.

As if the nightmare of being raped and left out in the cold were not enough, things got worse for Daisy.  Matthew Barnett was arrested, but never indicted.  Never tried.  Never stepped foot in a court room.  Charges against him were dropped.  Matthew Barnett was a football star in a football-mad town.  The ensuing victim-blame that happened in Maryville, Missouri, is enough to make any objective person boil in rage.  Daisy’s older brother, who was a teammate of Matthew Barnett, was threatened.  Daisy’s mother was fired.  Eventually the family moved 40 miles away.  Their house burned down while it was on the market.

Making things even more maddening is that Matthew Barnett is the grandson of Rex Barnett.  Rex is a former Missouri State Trooper and four-term Missouri State Representative.  He, of course, denies using his influence to gain leniency for Matthew.   The claim, of course, is dubious.

Where things stand right now, Matthew Barnett is a freshman at Central Missouri.  Daisy Coleman is a suicidal young woman who had her life turned upside down.  But that does not seem to be the end of the story.

The video below came out yesterday. Anonymous, a infamous group of online hackers have promised to take action.

Anonymous on Youtube

Like I said, I have mixed feelings about vigilante justice.  I’m afraid that in our culture we are much to quick to confuse vengeance with justice.  I understand the desire for someone to be punished, but too often people are quick to be judge, jury, and executioner.   It seems clear that someone needs to answer for what happened.  I am a big believer in grace, but not grace without accountability.  Anonymous has promised action, and though their move has not yet been made, others are sure to follow in some small way.

It has started.  The article mentioned the A and G Restaurant.  Its reviews on Yelp have been relentless.  The University of Central Missouri’s Facebook page has also been blown up with bad reviews.  There is a lot of anticipation brewing as to just what Anonymous is going to do.  One unfortunate side effect of this desire for justice has been some threats to another Matthew Barnett – the wrong Matthew Barnett, who is a pastor in California.  The Matthew Barnett in question no longer has a public Twitter account, although his last public statement on twitter showed how little he has learned from this experience.

The whole story is heartbreaking.  It seems as if Daisy has been made a victim over and over.  She was raped once, and it seems like she was raped over and over by the failed justice system and the community that turned their back on her.  When I consider this from the perspective of a father of two daughters, the rage is hard to contain.

I would be angry at my 14-year-old daughter if she sneaked alcohol into her room and then sneaked out of the house to party with older guys.  I need to do my best to teach her to be safe.  I need to teach her to make wise choices.  But do Daisy’s actions somehow justify her being raped, left in the cold for dead, and then tormented by a town that wanted to protect their football team?  I’ve written about his before.  It is clear that much more needs to be done.  Our culture of rape acceptance and victim-blame is terrifying.  Just last week a fraternity at Georgia Tech circulated an email that basically taught the brothers how to successfully rape girls. The problem seems to be getting worse, not better.  Luckily, there is another way to teach rape prevention that is probably more thoughtful than my hackneyed list AND avoids victim-blame.  Here is another great article on proper rape prevention education.  We have to do better.  For the sake of both or girls and boys.  We need to do better.

So where do we go from here?  I don’t want vengeance.  I don’t want retribution.  All I want is what Daisy deserves: compassion and a trial.  I want Matthew Barnett to answer for what he did.  Also, I want to know how the people of Maryville that abandoned Daisy in her time of need can sleep at night.

What can Anonymous accomplish in Maryville?

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Calvin, the Dad

Calvin, the Dad

I’ve always loved Calvin and Hobbes. When I came across this today, I teared up immediately.  At my Mom and Dad’s house, we kept a lot of the toys that my sister, brother, and I played with as kids.  Now my daughters, nieces, and nephews love them.   I do not know who created this meme, but I found it at http://copingkoala.wordpress.com/

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August 21, 2013 · 1:27 pm
August 15, 2013 · 3:09 pm

Every morning I build my own little Tower of Babel

tower of babel

Gustave Doré, found at http://www.textweek.com Art Index. Click on the picture for more from the artist

I held my daughter.  I crawled into her bed, and wrapped her up in may arms.  She nestled deeper into me.  I smelled her hair and kissed her soft cheek.  She took my hand, and pulled it under her head like a pillow.  The alarm clock flashed 6:30, but time stood still.  I prayed, thanking God for this moment.  I paused, And allowed. Myself. To. Stop. Breathe.  Deeply.  She was safe in my arms, and there was no reason for either of us to ever get up.

It would have been so easy to just remain there.  She was safe and warm, and as long as I could keep her there in my arms, nothing bad could happen to her. As soon as I whispered into her ear, “It’s time to get ready for school,” I would lose my grip.  As long as I held her there she would come to no harm.  She couldn’t have an accident.  She couldn’t stub her toe, or burn her hand, or get hit by a car.  No one could hurt here there.  No one would call her stupid or make fun of her shirt.  No one could exclude her from a game or break her heart.  We lay there together, drifting in and out of sleep, and there was no reason at all for us to rise.  Except for one: Babel.

The Tower of Babel story is found in the 11th chapter of Genesis.  The first 11 chapters are generally recognized as a separate section within Genesis.  Walt Brueggemann refers to it as the “Pre-History.”  Terrence Fretheim calles Genesis 1:1-11:26 the “Primeval Story.”  This section of Genesis includes the two creation stories, the first sin and expulsion from the Garden, the murder of Abel, and Noah and the flood.  These are the foundational stories of God and the people God created.  It is a myth in the sense that it is a story that explains why things are the way they are.  And like all myth, the truth of the story does not lie in the facticity of the events, but rather in the meaning we draw from it about God and God’s created people.

The story goes like this:

All people on the earth had one language and the same words.  When they traveled east, they found a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there.  They said to each other, “Come, let’s make bricks and bake them hard.” They used bricks for stones and asphalt for mortar.  They said, “Come, let’s build for ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the sky, and let’s make a name for ourselves so that we won’t be dispersed over all the earth.”

Then the LORD came down to see the city and the tower that the humans built.  And the LORD said, “There is now one people and they all have one language. This is what they have begun to do, and now all that they plan to do will be possible for them. Come, let’s go down and mix up their language there so they won’t understand each other’s language.”  Then the LORD dispersed them from there over all of the earth, and they stopped building the city.  Therefore, it is named Babel, because there the LORD mixed up the language of all the earth; and from there the LORD dispersed them over all the earth. (Genesis 11:1-9, Common English Bible)

Beyond the simplistic questions about historical accuracy, there are deeper theological truths that can be found from this story.  There are also troubling questions about the nature of God that rise quickly from the scattered remains of the people.

The main question is, “Why did God do that?”  It seems like a strange God that is in action here.  “There is now one people,” God declares.  This kind of unity sounds like a good thing.  In a world beset with division, barriers, walls, and wars, a united people sounds like a wonderful place to work toward, not a troubling situation that needs to be fixed.

The common interpretation of this passage is that the sin of the people was hubris.  Many see the problem to be the grandiose plans. The sky, they say, is no place for humans, but instead is the realm of God. The sin of the people was to make themselves too high, and to try to compete with God.  To understand the sin of Babel though, we must look closer at the motivation for the tower, and go back a little farther in human history.  The people state the mission of the tower is to “make a name for ourselves, so that we will not be dispersed all over the earth.”

The Tower would be a source of pride and strength.  A tower is an important part of any settlement.  The Tower draws travelers for trade.  Conversely, it helps detect invaders from a distance.  It provides a strategic advantage for defense, and serves as an economic hub.  The Tower is an important ingredient in protection, safety, and settlement.  The people knew that the tower will keep them from being scattered.  These things do not, on the surface, appear to be troubling.

It is no more troubling than laying in bed in the morning with the one you love more than anything in the world, and deciding to stay there forever.  Protection, safety, and settlement are not necessarily vices, but they are not innately virtuous either.

A look back at the beginning of the Pre-History reveals to us the problem with the Tower.  Look at the first creation story.  The work of God was started to create order and life out of chaos and emptiness.  This creative work culminates in Genesis 1:27-28, where God not only creates humans, but gives us mission in the world.

“God created humanity, in God’s own image, in the divine image God created them, male and female God created them.

God blessed them and said to them, ‘Be fertile and multiply; fill the earth and master it. Take charge of the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and everything crawling on the ground.'” (Genesis 1:27-28, Common English Bible)

God said, “Be fruitful and multiply.  Fill the earth and master it.”

The sin of Babel was disobedience.  Moreover, the people were creating their mission.  God gave them a purpose, and they were refusing to act.  The languages then, were not given as a punishment.  The languages were given to people to help them get the job done.  Not the job they intended, but the job God had given them.  What has often been seen as a curse is actually God empowering the people to do what they would not do on their own.  With this nudge, the Scriptures tell us that the people scattered.  They fulfilled their mission, were fruitful and multiplied.

I understand the sin of Babel, and I understand the gift as well.  I thank God every day for giving me those nudges.  Time and again I have thought to myself, “I’m settled.”  It seems like every time, God is there, confusing my language, pushing me to a new adventure, a new relationship, or a new mission.

Every morning I wake my daughter up to get her ready for school, I build my own little tower.  I crawl into bed with her and wrap her in my arms and want so badly to keep her from being scattered.  Every time I whisper into her ear, “Honey, it’s time to get ready for school,” I break the tower down.  It is one of the hardest things I do.

Settlement and safety are not inherently bad things, but anything that works against God’s mission for the world must be worked through.  It is so tempting to hold her and never let go.  It would be so easy to keep her in my own Tower, but in trying to protect her, I would be hurting only her.

God has great plans for her.  I’m not sure what they are, but who am I to get in her way?  Who am I to ignore God’s calling on her life?  She is made to love, to share kindness, to work for justice.  She, as she has said, “was born to dance.”  No one can dance with their Daddy weighing them down.  So I help her to get ready.  I send her out in the world equipped as best I can.

I kiss her goodbye, go upstairs and wake up her little sister.  Maybe I can stay in the tower a little longer with her today.

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August 9, 2013 · 3:56 pm

Rape prevention check list

I am the father of two daughters.  They are young now, but I hope that someday soon they will go to college.  At college, there are often safety tips.  I remember hearing them when I was a college student.  There will be warnings of the dangers of alcohol abuse.  There will be warnings about walking alone on campus, about finding yourself alone in someone else’s room, and even about how to dress.  The vast majority of these warnings will be directed toward girls, warning them of the ways that they can prevent themselves from being raped.

There are various statistics about the prevalence of rape on college campuses.  A quick google search put the number of women that are victims of rape or attempted rape at anywhere between 1 in 50 and 1 in 4.  The truth likely lies somewhere in between.  “Rape Culture” on college campuses seems to be growing, as evidenced by the recent debate that Daniel Tosh sparked when making “rape jokes.”  Much of the problem has lied with college administrations that are unwilling to punish, or sometimes even investigate, men accused of rape.  Notre Dame’s football program was one such case that gained noteriety, but activists across the country have been raising their voices.\

So I decided I would chip in.  I came up with this list of “Rape Prevention Tips For College.”  I think this is almost 100% fool-proof.

1. Don’t rape anyone.

2. If you go out on a date with someone, don’t rape her.

3. If there is a girl at a party, and she is dressed very sexy, don’t rape her.

4. If you are with a girl that has had way too much to drink, don’t rape her.

5. If you see a girl, and she is passed out; walk by her, or help her get home, or find her friends.  Don’t rape her.

6. If, at any time, you are unsure if what you are doing is rape, then stop doing that, immediately.

Maybe it is time that we start teaching men at college that raping someone isn’t okay.  Every girl that gets drunk is not looking for sex.  Every girl that wears a mini skirt isn’t waiting for you to get into it.  Should women avoid dangerous situations? Sure.  I will teach my daughters to be smart.  I will likely get them to a Girls Fight Back seminar someday, where they will learn to defend themselves.  I will teach my daughters to protect themselves.

As a father of two girls, I will do my part.  I will do my best to teach my girls to respect themselves.  But its not all on me, or on them.  You fathers of boys need to step up too.  Teach them, in no uncertain terms, that it is not okay to rape.  You teach them not to lie.  You teach them not to cheat.  You teach them lots of things.  You may be squeamish about it.  It might be an uncomfortable topic, so I provided you with this list to help.  Learn it.  Live it.

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July 5, 2013 · 4:26 pm

The anatomy of a backslide

y intersectionThis feels like a crucial moment.  Right now.  I feel as if I’ve reached a crossroads.

For the last 16 months I have experienced a spiritual and physical transformation.  From January 2012 through June 2013 I lost 80 pounds.  By paying closer attention to what I ate, and dramatically increasing my exercise, I transformed my body.  I went from size 44 pants to having some 38 pants feel big.  My XXXL t-shirts now look like garbage bags on me.  My doctor stopped my cholesterol medicine.  My blood pressure has gone down.  According to this chart, my resting heart-rate is “Excellent.”  As I have undergone this physical transformation, I have also experienced a spiritual renewal.  My writing, preaching, and prayer life improved.  I found new energy, focus, and drive.  I discovered my mission statement to Love God, Live Well, and Do Good.

My work at church blossomed with new relationships, avenues of ministry, and a vision to create a new participatory worship experience.  My blogging life expanded with the launching of the Pulpit Fiction podcast.  I was invited to speak at the Lion and Lamb Festival, and I felt a need to open a FP Shop.

As I got my personal discipline in order, it felt as if all the other pieces were falling into place as well.  People started asking me if I was going to change the name of this blog.  I kept the name for various reasons.  I never considered that one reason might have been the unconscious fear that this was all temporary.

The world of weight loss and fitness is littered with stories of people losing weight, transforming their bodies, saving their very lives, only to backslide. Many people have shared stories with me about their own adventures in yo-yo weight loss.  I promised myself that it would not happen to me.   Last summer I had an extended plateau.  This was expected.  After losing about 30 pounds in three months, I spent the summer months gaining 2 pounds.  When school started in the fall, I rededicated myself to working out and tracking my calories, and I promptly lost another 40.  When I reached my first goal weight of 260, I kept going.  At the end of the school year, I dipped under 250.

Then the backslide started. This is how it happened:

The school year ended, disrupting my routine.  During the school year, my workout time was built into my day.  I dropped my daughter off at school, I went to the gym, then I went to work.  Four days a week I had a built in date with the gym.  I ran three days a week for nine months. As I approached my first 10-mile race at the end of May, I was running about 15 miles a week.

Annual Conference and Vacation Bible School.  In addition to the lack of routine, I had two major events disrupt my whole schedule.  These two week-long events in June took up an inordinate amount of my time.  I could have gotten to the gym before sessions.  I could have gone for runs after VBS.  I didn’t.  Instead I spent two weeks active, but with virtually no cardio vascular exercise.

I stopped tracking.  Lose It! is a great tool for counting calories, but it is a pain.  My weight loss started almost immediately after using it.  Last summer I stopped using it for awhile, and stopped losing weight almost immediately.

I didn’t gain weight.  After two weeks of not working out and not using Lose It, and amazing thing happened.  I actually dropped a couple of pounds.

At the Railroad Days 5K, I placed second in my age group with a time of 26:28.

At the Railroad Days 5K, I placed second in my age group with a time of 26:28.

I ran fast.  Since June 1, I’ve run four times.  One of those runs was a 5K that I finished in 26:28, my personal best.  I also won a prize for my age group in that race, a first for me.  I ran another 5K on the treadmill this week in about 26:30.  It turns out that my fitness level is at a place that it could sustain a short break.

The Fourth of July.  Two cookouts.  Lots of bratwurst, chips, baked beans, creamy cole slaw, chips, cookies, pop, beer, and chips.  Did I mention that I ate a lot of chips in the last week?

The combination of events created in me a sense of complacency.  After almost a year and a half of changing habits, it took about four weeks for me to slip.  This morning I found that I have gained 10 pounds in the last two weeks.  What’s worse than the weight is how I feel.  For the first time in months, I feel fat.  I feel tired.  I feel like making bad choices.  I feel like staying home is easier than going for a run.  I feel like getting a quarter-pounder is better than making myself a grilled chicken salad.  I put off getting up early to get to the gym.  I put off tracking my food, and working hard to stay under budget.  I put off working on refocusing the mission of this blog.  I put off planning a new way to experience worship.  I put off trying to change the world and settled for less.  It has only been a couple of weeks, but it ends today.

I share this because I’ve been told I inspire people.  I am constantly humbled when people say that to me.  Today I offer not inspiration, but a warning.  Backsliding happens.  It happens slowly, sometimes imperceptibly.  It happens when we get busy, or when routine gets disrupted.  It happens even when we’re feeling fine, and all outwards signs indicate everything is going well.

Right now I’m struggling.  I’m tired.  I’m a little worried.  Yet I never thought this would be easy.  I’m not ready to give up now.  I’m not going back to the person I was, for I have been made new by the power of the Holy Spirit.  I’m confessing my weakness, and I’m praying for guidance and endurance.  I believe God can still use me despite my recent backslide.  God’s still working on me.  God and I have new goals and a new plan.  Today, right now, I have a new chance to love God, live well, and do good.

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May 24, 2013 · 11:21 am

Woman of Valor

mccoys girlsShe is my partner.  She is my strength, my inspiration, and my teammate.  We are Team Robb and Sarah, and we are a formidable pair.  We are undefeated.

I just finished reading Rachel Held Evan’s “A Year of Biblical Womanhood.”  It is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time.  In it, Evans describes her year of trying to live out all the rules for women in the Bible as literally as  possible.  She examines Proverbs 31, and digs deeply into Paul’s teaching about women speaking in church.  She re-discovers inspiring Biblical women, some named, some anonymous that must never be forgotten.  The book is about a lot of things.  It is about the Bible.  It is about a self-avowed feminist calling her husband “Master.”  It is about discovering ancient spiritual practices, communing with Quakers, and the value of a well-baked loaf of cholla bread.

As I read the book, I was enlightened by her expert examination of the Biblical texts.  I was touched by her vulnerability when sharing her fears about motherhood.  I laughed with her when she made mistakes, and worried with her as she prepared meals.  Evans’s writing grabbed me, and invited me not only into her experience, but into the Biblical stories in a refreshing and powerful way.

Perhaps her greatest achievement in the book was the way she re-framed Proverbs 31.  She takes a passage that is so often used (abused) to describe the ideal of Biblical womanhood, and transforms it.  Instead of being a nearly impossible prescription for what a woman should do, it is really a love song to men reminding them of all that women are able to do.  It is not a checklist for women, but a reminder for men.  I read this chapter in the Nashville Airport, and had tears streaming down my face.  I wondered if Sarah knew how amazing she truly is, and I worried that I had not done enough to let her know.  I felt compelled to take her, hold her, and tell her “You are amazing.  You are strong.  You are brave.  You are a woman of valor, and I am honored to be your husband.”

Evans’s book is about a lot of things, but to me it is above all a love story.  It is a story not just of a woman, but of a team; Team Dan and Rachel, they call it.

Tomorrow I am going to run the Soldier Field 10.  It is the next step in my journey to love God, live well, and do good.  Less than one year ago I ran in my first 5K.  Sarah and I did it together, and afterwards we nearly collapsed in each others’ arms.  At that 5K, I was able to jog for the first two miles, and had to walk/jog most of the third mile.  I finished 3.1 miles in about 35 minutes, which bested my goal of a 12-minute-mile pace.  Tomorrow, my goal is to run 10 miles in 100 minutes.  I don’t know if I can do it, but I know how far I’ve come.

I have only been able to do what I’ve done because of Sarah.  All along I’ve said I’m doing this for my daughters.  I’ve done this so I can see them grow up.  I’ve done it so I can carry them up the stairs at night and not be winded.  I’ve done it so that I will see them in caps and gowns and white dresses and business suits and hospital gowns.  I have done it for my daughters, but I’ve done it because of Sarah.  Tomorrow we are going to conquer the Soldier Field 10.  We have already conquered so much.

We have conquered ten (almost eleven) years of marriage.  We have conquered selfishness and over-sensitivity.  We have conquered snarky comments, rolled-eyes, and cold shoulders.  We have weathered floods, heat waves, Snowpocalypse, and power outages.  We have screamed and cried and punched walls.  We have laid in bed at night and pondered the great mysteries of faith, the universe, and life itself.  We have struggled with Scripture and shared in prayer and Communion.

We have grown, sometimes kicking and screaming, into a faith that embraces wonder and gray.  We have laughed hysterically and spit drinks out.  We have celebrated wildly and emptied a few bottles of wine.  We have built enduring, life-giving friendships.  We have endured sickness, and mourned loss.  We have started the arduous and amazing task of raising two girls in a world that is full of danger.  They have lost a tooth, but have broken no bones.  We met after a Theta Chi party 15 years ago, and because of that night I cannot believe the saying that “Nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m.”

Tomorrow when we conquer the Soldier Field 10, I might be the one that crosses the line, but she will be there. It will be her power that gets me there.  No, it will be our shared power.  It is the power that we share with Christ, who conquered even death.  It is our shared power that has given us strength to conquer all things.  It is our shared power that will guide us into the future, ready to face the next challenge, the next Mount Laundry, the next 10 miles, the next ten years, the next chapter in our shared lives.

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April 12, 2013 · 2:00 pm

I love it when a plan comes together

PART ONE of my story about GODSPELL
My wife and I during rehearsal. In the show, this became one of the little bits of magic onto which I will forever hold. Every time we rehearsed this, 'Jesus' cuts in and stops us from dancing. And I was supposed to say, "Yeah, but she's so, so..." Every time in rehearsal, I said something different to end that line. Nothing I tried ever felt right. Then during the show, I looked at her and our eyes met, and my heart melted again, and I finished my line perfectly "she's an angel."

My wife and I during rehearsal. In the show, this became one of the little bits of magic which I will forever cherish. Every time we rehearsed this, ‘Jesus’ cuts in and stops us from dancing. And I was supposed to say, “Yeah, but she’s so, so…” Every time in rehearsal, I said something different to end that line. Nothing I tried ever felt right. Then during the show, I looked at her and our eyes met, and my heart melted again, and I finished my line perfectly “she’s an angel.”

I messed up my line every time in rehearsal.  I only had two lines, and mine was the first line of the song.  There was no warm-up.  No lead-in.  No chance to find my way in the song.  No chance to start slow and pick up momentum.  It was just cue music, grab mic, and sing.  Sing.

I’ve held a mic on “stage” before hundreds of times.  I’ve given sermons, speeches, toasts, and prayers in front of large crowds and small gatherings.  I’ve even sung in front of people before, but always as a member of a choir.  I had not been nervous in a church in years.  Yet I knew my line was coming.  From the moment the previous song started I was already thinking about it. My turn to clutch that mic and sing was coming.

Every time in rehearsal I had messed it up.  I came in late.  Or I was way off key.  Or I botched the wording.  Up until the show I was ‘ofer.’  I should have been terrified.  It thought I was going to be terrified, but here’s the crazy thing, when it came time for my two-line solo, I wasn’t nervous.  I sang it.  “You are the light of the world,” I said as I pointed to one of the people in the audience.  And then the ensemble came in behind me  “You are the light of the world.”  I felt good, so I kept going.  I don’t know if I was off-key or not.  I knew at this point the only mistake I could make was to hold back.  “But if that light’s under a bushel, it’s lost something kind of crucial,” I sang. And for a moment, if only in my mind, I was Donnie Osmond as Joseph or Michael Crawford as the Phantom.  I was hooked.

A few months ago I sat in a coffee shop and met with the Director of the Center for Living Arts, Dino Hayz.  The Center is one of those little gems you find in old cities.  It is not a big theater, but it has a lot of heart.  Focusing mostly on youth theater, the Center specializes in doing quality shows quickly.  Before there was a Center though, there was Dino and his wife and friends that put together a company to do Godspell in churches.  They have been doing Godspell in churches for over ten years.  They consider it their life’s ministry to spread the message of love and community that is a part of Godspell to as many people as possible.  “It’s not so much a musical,” he explained to me, as it is an experience.  “I want people to experience Christ’s love through what is happening all around them.”

We sat together and talked about an idea.  It was an idea hatched by our children’s minister months (years?) before.  What if we did Godspell together at our church?  What could we create if we took a few of the experienced members of Dino’s company, and did Godspell with the talented and willing people from our church?  What if, instead of them doing Godspell at our church, we did it together with our church?

I left that lunch knowing that we were embarking on something good.  I had no idea just how magnificent it would become.

On the day of our placement auditions, I wondered who would come.  On the first night it was clear that we had created something special.  20 people came.  There were two kindergartners, a handful of junior high and senior high youth.  There were a couple of adults who had never been in a show before.  There were a few remarkably talented singers.  There was a senior member of our church choir, and regular singer from our praise band.  We ranged in age from 5-65(ish).  We were men and women, boys and girls.  Some brought members of their family in the journey with them, others came with friends.  Some came eagerly.  Some came only because they were dragged, almost literally, from other tasks.  We were scared, excited, and willing.

We supported each other.  As each person took turns singing a few lines a capella from a song of their choice  we cheered.  At least one youth simply had someone standing next to her for support, so she wouldn’t have to stand alone.  The truth was, none of us were alone.  On the very first night we were creating the community that Godspell is about.  From moment one, we were living the musical.  On that night, each one of us put a pebble in our shoe and called it “dare.”

They say live theater gets in your blood.  People talk about it in the same way they talk about addiction.  Intellectually, I accepted that it must be true, but until the word “crucial” left my lips, I had never experienced anything like it.  

Being a part of this production Godspell changed me.  I’m not even sure how exactly yet.  I know I want to be a in another musical.  I know that I want to have that 10-minutes-to-showtime excitement again.  I know that I want to have that it’s-almost-my-line sense of calm confidence again.   I want to look out into an audience and see their smiles, read their expressions, bask in their gripped silence.  I want to look into the eyes of a cast member in the midst of another show and whisper, “we’re really doing it,” with the same mix of fun and terror that I had last Saturday.  I want to put my arms around a group of friends after a show well done.  I want to crash into bed, emotionally spent, and dream about the songs I just sang.

When I think about the journey that started with a lunch in a coffee shop in October, and ended on a spring afternoon… Well, I have to stop myself.

This journey is going to keep going.  There are going to be more shows.   There are going to be more rehearsals.  There are going to be more chances to sing about love.  Nothing ended that night.  It turns out that something was sparked.  Relationships have been forged.  Dreams have been shared.  A vision has been caught.  There’s more to come.  The show will go on.

And if you’re looking for a ensemble to “do” Godspell in your church, I know just the group.

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March 13, 2013 · 1:41 pm

What is your favorite hour of the week?

What is your favorite hour of the week?  I asked this question the other day on my facebook page after pondering it myself for a few days.  A week is made up of 168 hours.  With 7-8 hours of sleep a night (bed around midnight, up around 7), that leaves about 120 waking hours a week.  Don’t worry, I used a calculator to figure it out.

Of those 120 hours, I couldn’t come up with one hour that I could define as my favorite, but I could think of a few every week that I genuinely cherish.

Sunday 8 a.m. -12 p.m. – Worship.

Riverside United Methodist Church in Moline, Illinois

Riverside United Methodist Church in Moline, Illinois

Okay, so it’s more than one hour, and it’s work.  And it’s not always knock-your-socks-off, Holy-Spirit-filled, blow-the-doors-off-the-church worship.  But sometimes it is.  Sometimes the choir settles me into a peace that I wasn’t expecting.  Sometimes the preaching inspires me to think about things in a new way.  Sometimes the praise band gets me swaying and clapping my hands.  Sometimes the kids singing or dancing fills my heart with unspeakable joy.  Sometimes when I kneel at the altar with my wife and daughters, I am moved to tears of joy and sorrow, and I am empowered by God to be a better man.  Sometimes I break the bread and share the cup and I know that I am in the very presence of Jesus Christ.  Yeah, sometimes worship is just another hour.  Most of the time it is so much more.

Monday 8-10 a.m. – Daddy Lucy Day.

Again, not just one hour, but these are two great hours.  Monday is my Sabbath, which I guard with great resilience because it is Daddy-Lucy Day.  There’s even a Daddy-Lucy Day theme song, which is remarkably similar to the Howdy Doody Song.  My wife gets up in the morning and lets me sleep in, which is a remarkable gift.  She then takes our daughter kindergarten and volunteers there all morning.  This means I get to get two-year-old Lucy up in the morning.  I take her first back to my bed, where we snuggle for as much as an hour.  Then we go downstairs and I make coffee and breakfast.  We sit together and read some books, and watch some Sesame Street or Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood.  Sometimes we are out of our pajamas when Sarah gets home.  Sometimes we’re not.  She never get annoyed if the pile of laundry has not been folded, and smiles at us even if the kitchen sink still has dirty dishes.  Those things can be done during a different, less favorite hour.  Incidentally, I think this time would be on the list of all four of us.  Ellie loves having Mommy with her at school, and my wife loves working with the students.  It might be Mrs. Larson’s favorite time of the week too (because Sarah is not only an amazing wife and mother, but an incredibly gifted teacher).

Monday 7-8 p.m. – Volleyball.

volleyball
When we fist moved to Moline, we were asked to be a part of a co-ed C-League Volleyball team.  The team of four couples – all with kids under 6 – have become our best friends.  We play hard, but we have a great time.  We have an almost perfect mix of competitive spirit and light-heartedness that makes it fun.  We like to win, but if we don’t we still have a great time.  Plus, we’ve improved a lot over the last couple of years.  Next Monday we are playing in the league’s Final Four!

Tuesday 6-8 p.m. Dinner with Friends

Our best friends and their kids come over every Tuesday for dinner. We say grace together, share a meal, then spend an hour or so talking and drinking wine while the kids play. The kids cry, they don’t like their vegetables, they make messes, they don’t share, they fight. We correct them. We don’t judge each other. We clean up. We hug. We share our lives; confess our failures; and celebrate our mundane, everyday triumphs.  We laugh and know that next week we are going to do it at their house, and it will be one of the best couple of hours of the week.

Wednesday 5:30-8:00 p.m. – Wednesday Night Alive.

Dinner is at church. After dinner the kids go do music ministries or to the nursery. I lead a Bible study. Leading Bible study is one of my favorite things to do. We sit in couches and chairs and open up the Scriptures to each other. Then we watch the Spirit move.

Friday 1 p.m-? – Hy Vee Salad Bar

One of the highlights of my week has become the Hy-Vee Salad Bar. I bring my computer, books, and a notepad. I eat a healthy, delicious meal. I work. I blog. I read. I drink coffee. I am at my most productive around people.  I leave full, but always happy that I passed on the fried egg rolls and pizza. The most unhealthy thing I have at lunch is the cream soup – which is always delicious.

How awesome is this outfit on this guy doing the Warrior One pose on my.yoga-vidya.org? I'm so wearing that to my next yoga class.

How awesome is this guy doing the Warrior One pose on my.yoga-vidya.org? I’m so wearing that to my next yoga class.

Saturday 11-12 – Yoga

The early part of Saturday is pretty great too, but if at all possible, Saturday morning is going to include Yoga with our favorite instructor Sara. Yoga has become an important practice in our lives. Afterwards we feel stronger, healthier, and refreshed. My flexibility has improved tremendously, and much pain that I was developing from running has abated. It is also a wonderful hour of prayer and reflection as I whisper, “Come Holy Spirit” and breathe. I have had a couple of remarkable spiritual experiences during yoga practice. It is a powerful act of merging my spiritual and physical health.

Okay, so I had a few more than one favorite hour of the week. When I posted my question on Facebook, I received a variety of answers.  Many involved times of quiet rest, or even sleep.  A few picked the first hour of the weekend, or the first hour of the day.  One said “the present one.”  The first response was from C, who said, “What a great question! Seems innocuous, but might actually get to the heart of a person!” I think she’s right. People say all the time, “I don’t have time for…” The fact is, we have 120 hours a week and the way we fill them tells us about our priorities. Yes, life can get in the way sometimes. Circumstances can dictate choices that we wouldn’t otherwise make. But sometimes I fear we allow “I don’t have time for…” to be a convenient excuse.

What matters in your life? What do you love about your life? If you don’t have enough “favorite hours” of the week, then maybe it is time to take a hard look at things and start asking some tough questions. Loving God, living well, and doing good should lead to a life that is joyful and full of meaning. This doesn’t mean that we don’t have stress, but if we can hold onto those “favorite hours” then the stress becomes bearable.  I invite you to reflect on this question, and as you start to come up with answers, see if there is a common thread or theme.  See if there are ways you can multiply those hours.  Cultivate “favorite hours,” even if it has to start with “favorite fifteen minutes.”  Cherish the time you have, and guard your Sabbath rest.

My week is full of friends, food, family, and the Spirit. My life isn’t perfect, and I’m far from it, but when I look at the “favorite hours” of my week I realize that I am incredibly blessed.  I hope you are too.

I want to thank Natalie Bannon, who inspired this question in my heart. She writes a blog called Modern Mind Old Soul. Follow her on Twitter @NatalieBannon

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January 31, 2013 · 2:21 pm

“Why I’m rooting for the 49ers,” or “The Shot Heard Round My Backyard”

John Harbaugh is the coach of the Baltimore Ravens. His younger brother Jim is the coach of the San Francisco 49ers

John Harbaugh is the coach of the Baltimore Ravens. His younger brother Jim is the coach of the San Francisco 49ers

Jim Harbaugh is the head coach of the San Francisco 49ers.  This Sunday Jim is leading his team into the Superbowl, and on the opposing sidelines will be his oldest rival, his big brother John.  Jim and John Harbaugh have justifiably received a lot of attention these last two weeks.  The Harbaugh brothers have reached the pinnacle of the football world.  On Sunday they will share the biggest stage in the world.  Not too long ago, they shared a bedroom.

Jim and John Harbaugh were born 15 months apart.  They were fierce competitors growing up.  Gifted with more natural talent, Jim went farther as an athlete.  He was one game away from playing in the Superbowl as the quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts.  Yet here they are, meeting as head coaches at the top of their career.

There are other famous pairs of siblings in the sports world.  Peyton and Eli Manning, and Serena and Venus Williams are two pairs that have made some headlines.  In most of these matchups, I tend to root for the younger sibling.  I root for the little brother because I know how that feels.

My brother got pretty good at the Figure Four Leg Lock.

This not my brother and me, but anyone that thinks wresting is fake has never been trapped in a figure four leg lock. This happens to be Ric Flair on the right, playing my brother, and I believe Steve Austin on the left, playing me.

My brother and I were born almost six years apart, so we weren’t exactly rivals.  My younger years were spent in perpetual servitude and resentment.  Yet at the same time, my older brother was always there.  He was someone for me to look up to and emulate.  He showed me how to swing a bat and a golf club.  He taught me how to put together a hot wheels racing tournament with my cars.  He taught me how to build lego cars, card houses, and do card tricks. He was even willing to demonstrate on me how to do a D.D.T, a Figure-four Leg Lock (pictured), and a Camel Clutch.  In time, he became my best friend, and we stood next to each other at each of our weddings.  There was no thought to asking anyone else to be there for me in that moment.

My big brother was always there.  Sometimes he made me angry enough to cry or scream or attack with a ferocity I didn’t know I had.  One time he tickled me until I puked.   Most of the time he was teaching me something.  And he taught me so much, the important stuff and trivial stuff.  He taught me about girls and sarcasm and sports, and life.  He taught me to like chocolate and peanut butter ice cream, and the Macho Man, and Seinfeld.  My big brother is the smartest person I know, and there are few people with whom I laugh more.  He still teaches me stuff.  I still look up to him, even though he stopped being my “big brother” by the time I was about 15 years old.

That’s why I usually cheer for Eli and Serena, and why I’ll probably be cheering for Jim (although he is kind of a lunatic, and I think I’d rather play for John).  I know a little of what Jim will feel when he looks across the field and sees John: pure love, admiration, and respect; and a desire to beat him that is pure and burns white-hot.

I didn’t beat my brother much growing up.  He was bigger than me, stronger than me, faster than me, and smarter than me.  It wasn’t until I was about 15 or 16 when some of those things started to change.  My brother and I had some epic basketball games over the years.  Some were Nerf games, where he had to play on his knees and there were no holds barred.  Some were on our back patio, where the flowers were out of bounds, the crack was the three-point line, and you had to take the ball back to the grill.

The summer after I graduated high school was our last summer together.  That fall, he started his second year of medical school,  and I went off to college.  We played a lot of basketball games that summer.  One-on-one, to 30, winner’s outs, win by two.  There were a series of intense games.  I discovered I had a distinct advantage inside.  He was still quicker than me and a better all-around athlete.  All were close, but he won them all.  He had a winning streak that dated back to the early 1980s.  It was the kind of streak that the Harlem Globetrotters could envy.  Finally, The Streak ended.  It was an intense game.  We were well into the 30s, going back and forth.

Michael Jordan’s last shot with the Bulls is one of those plays that is ingrained into the collective memory of thousands of basketball fans.  I can still see it as vividly today as I did when he hit it to beat the Jazz for his sixth World Championship.  Jordan’s shot, and that memory, have the distinct advantage of having been shown over and over for years.

The Shot was not recorded.  The only spectator was my Mom watching from the kitchen window.  Yet it was ingrained into my mind as clearly as any of my sports memories.  I have watched my teams win World Championships.  I jumped out of my skin as the Illini came back against Arizona.  I wept openly when the Paul Konerko clutched the last out of the 2005 World Series, and I still get goosebumps when I recall the Phillies beating the Devil Rays.

None of these moments are as important to me as the time I drove to my left toward the baseline, backed in a little, then pivoted to face the hoop, and took a little jumper leaning away from the basket from about five feet, just in front of the rock garden in the corner, and I beat my big brother.  It was, at the time, the greatest moment of my life.

Covered in sweat, drained, and tired, I simply pumped my fist.  We went inside.  Mom asked us, “Who won?”  I don’t think either of us answered with words.  We didn’t have to.

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