A few weeks ago I wrote a blog called “I want to get punched in the face.” Let me just say now that, “I take it back.” I do not want to get punched in the face. Getting punched in the face hurts. It is not fun.
I’ve been going to about two boxing classes a week for the last few weeks, and it has been fun. I love hitting the bags. I love going through the combinations. Until Wednesday night, I even loved sparring. Guys have been really cool about taking it easy on me. I’ve sparred with a couple of different guys, and we’ve traded some light punches, worked on some combinations and counters, but nothing real hard. After each round I am wiped out. Even though I know we’re not really fighting, there is something about sparring that turns up the adrenaline.
I said a couple of weeks ago that I wanted to get punched in the face. Most of my sparring didn’t include very many punches to the face. There were a couple, but none that were very hard. Then came the shot I took last Wednesday night. I made a few mistakes.
1. I was sparring with someone I didn’t know. Big mistake. The guys I had sparred with before were guys that I watched for three weeks before I stepped in with them. This guy was a new guy (at least to me). I watched him spar once, and he seemed like he was punching kind of hard, but I didn’t think much of it. The guys I spar with punch each other hard, then turn it down a notch to fight the new guy.
2. I didn’ t wear headgear. But I never wear the headgear. It doesn’t fit (big surprise). I think this guy interpreted my unadorned head as a sign of toughness instead of what it really meant – a sign of big-headedness.
3. I let him punch me in the face. We were sparring. He was dancing around a lot. Every once in awhile he would take some weird dipping punch at my stomach that meant nothing. I was getting bored. I decided to scrap with him a little. Then he punched me in the face. It hurt. We kept going. It’s not like he knocked me out. I wasn’t cut (though there was a distinct mark on my cheek the next morning). I wasn’t injured. It just hurt, and I decided that I had been terribly wrong before.
In conclusion: I no longer want to get punched in the face. I tried it. It sucks. I will probably continue boxing. I will probably keep sparring, just not with young kids that want to prove something against the Fat Pastor.
I was going to start this blog by saying, “I used to hate my birthday,” but I realized that wasn’t really true. I never hated my birthday. Let’s just say I had a mixed relationship with my birthday. I’ve never been one to dread the passing of another year. My ill-will toward my birthday never stemmed from a fear of aging or lamenting lost youth.
It was just that if no one noticed that it was my birthday, I would not have minded. I liked having a small party, but I didn’t like any of the parts where all the eyes were on me. I didn’t particularly like the spotlight. I liked the presents, but I didn’t like opening them up while everyone watched. I liked the cake, but I didn’t really want the wait staff at the restaurant to serenade me.
I liked my birthday just fine, but I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. I really liked that my birthday was in the summer. That meant I was never on the bulletin board in my classroom. It meant that my Mom never brought cupcakes to class. I never had to wear a goofy hat all day. That’s why I was so mortified the day my Mom showed up at basketball camp with a cooler full of popsicles.
I think I was turning 11. I was at basketball camp, toiling on my birthday as if it were any other day. A few of my friends probably knew it was my birthday, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I just wanted to play ball and go home. My party was probably later that night with a few friends. When camp was over I didn’t find my Mom in the car waiting for me as usual. Instead, she was right outside the door and had a big cooler. As the kids filed out of the gym she was there handing them all popsicles, making a big fuss over my birthday.
Looking back now I know that it was an act of pure love. She wanted to make a big deal on my birthday because to her, it was a big deal. Her baby was turning 11, and she thought everyone should know and celebrate. At the time though, I was humiliated.
For most people, their love for their birthday wanes as they get older. What was once a big deal and cause for celebration becomes a source of stress and anxiety. As we pass the big milestones of youth, we start to look toward those nice round numbers with dread. Each decade becomes a symbol of aging that most want to avoid.
I’m the opposite. I actually enjoy my birthday so much more as an adult than I ever did as a kid. Why? Because I like myself more now than I did as a kid.
Yesterday was my 34th birthday. As one friend said, I “made it through my ‘Jesus Year.'” So on the plus side, I wasn’t crucified. But there is so much more that I can chalk up on the “plus side.”
The last year of my life was incredible. I became a father again. I went to Africa. I played football. I started boxing. I started at a new church in a new community. I believe I’ve taken my preaching to a new level. I’ve made new friends and stengthened relationships with old friends. My marriage is stronger than ever. Relationships have been reconciled. Tears have been shed. Laughter has endured. I’ve been forgiven and I have forgiven others. I’ve learned. I’ve grown. I’ve fallen. I’ve gotten back up.
Why would I not celebrate another year? Why would I not look forward to the next? I woke up on my birthday and held a strong, healthy, growing baby girl that loves to snuggle and coo and eat and crawl. Another little girl came running into my room and hugged me and squeezed me and kissed me and just let me hold her tight because she knew that was all I wanted for my birthday. She is brave and kind and compassionate beyond measure. I held a woman that loves me with a strength and passion that I fall far short of deserving.
Above all, I woke up with a God that loves me unconditionally. I think realizing that was the moment my attitude toward my birthday started to change. When I realized that nothing can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus, I knew that a birthday is something to celebrate. When I learned that I am created by a great and wonderful God that made me with a mission in the world, I knew that it was okay to be in the spotlight every now and then.
Yesterday dozens of people commented on my facebook page. Each of them wished me a happy birthday. I can say with conviction that I had a happy birthday – I had a party that was greater than my wildest dreams. And what’s more, I have had a happy day-after-my-birthday. And I will have a happy year, and a happy life.
I don’t believe that my life will be without hardship. I know that pain and sickness and death will come to me and to those I love. I will endure aging and stress and anxiety. I will suffer injustice, hunger, sickness, and oppression because the world does, and as long as one child of God is in pain, I should be too. Yet I know with all of my heart, with all of my mind and with all of my strength that I love God. God loves me, and there is nothing I can do about it.
So yes, I had a happy birthday. Thank you for the well-wishes. Thank you for reading. Thank you for sharing this space on the internet with me. Here’s to another year of striving to live well and do good in the world.
Okay, so maybe the title for this blog is hyperbolic, but when I went grocery shopping on Sunday evening with my nails painted hot pink, I felt a little odd. And maybe it was just my imagination running away with me (another song allusion) but I felt like I had a few strange looks. Its okay, I think I would have looked at me strangely too. Picture this for a moment – a 6 foot 2 inch man with a big belly, a 56 inch chest and athletic-looking arms and legs wearing a pair of gym shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt, pushing a shopping cart with a 11-month old baby in it. Then you see him reach for a bunch of bananas and you see it – hot pink fingernails, a few with purple glitter too.
I had to be a strange sight. It was strange for me too. Whenever I forgot that my fingernails were painted, I would see them out of the corner of my eye and have a double take – at my own hands! It made me wonder, why? What is so disconcerting about a man that – on the surface at least – is 100% masculine wearing fingernail polish (and what, I might add, does it mean to be 100% masculine? Is that even a real thing?).
I mean seriously, was I somehow less manly because I was wearing fingernail polish? Would someone see me wonder about my sexuality? What if they connected my fingernails and the clergy sticker on my car? Would they deem me unfit for the ordained ministry? Nevermind the fact that my two most recent hobbies are playing football and boxing. Did the color of my fingernails somehow change me?
To be honest, I don’t have the answers to all of these questions. I’m not sure why I felt so out of place. Why does something as menial as finger nail polish seem to matter? Why was I sure to remove it before I went into church on Monday? It made me wonder about all sorts of gender issues. What makes one thing feminine and another thing masculine? Who defines these things? It seems like some traits of gender are more about society than biology, but I think there are important evolutionary differences between our genders. And why does crossing those gender lines make us so uncomfortable? It made me think briefly of Jesus telling Martha to come and sit with him and the guys – breaking down important gender barriers. Like I said, the whole thing made my head spin a little, and I have more questions then answers.
The fact is, going out in public with my nails painted was probably one of the “manliest” things I’ve ever done. My four-year-old daughter painted them. When she approached me, the conversation went something like this:
“Daddy, I know that boys usually don’t where fingernail polish, but I think you should try new things. You should try finger nail polish and see if you like it.” She expertly used my own words against me. I have told her dozens of times that it is good to try new things – whether it is food, games, or meeting new friends, I tell her all the time, “it is good to try new things.” So how could I argue with her?
So I let her crawl up on my lap, and I helped her paint my nails. Of course she picked out the loudest color possible. She did a great job. She was so careful and so proud of how great my nails looked afterward. Later that day I was washing my hands, and she told me, “be careful Daddy, don’t wash the polish off.” So I told her that I would probably take it off pretty soon. She looked at me and said, “But I want you to wear it to church so everyone can see.” I promised her that I would leave it on for the rest of the day.
That night when I was going to the grocery store, I was going to bring both girls. I figured she would provide great coverage for me. But then she decided to go with my wife, so it was just me, the baby, and my hot pink nails at the Hy-Vee.
Afterwards, I felt strange sense of pride. I realized how silly it was to feel bad about how my nails looked. It made my daughter happy, and she might always remember that lesson, “its good to try new things.” I reinforced it to her in a very powerful way. The next morning I told her, “Well, I tried it, but I don’t think I like it.” She was a little disappointed that I wasn’t going to leave it on until next Sunday, but she respected that I at least gave it a try. Plus there was a small consolation – I bumped into the head usher of our church at Hy-Vee, and he promised that he would “tell everybody.”
“The Five Thousand” by Eularia Clark, 1962. Click on the image to be taken to the Methodist Church Collection of Modern Christian Art.
As an athlete, one of my favorite times was the few moments before a game. I loved the anticipation of getting ready – putting on the uniform just right, lacing up the shoes, sharing eye contact with a teammate communicating a sense of common purpose in nothing more than a nod. I loved getting ready with music playing. It was like I was in my own movie, and the song I chose was my soundtrack.
Today I go through a similar ritual before worship. I get myself ready. I breathe a little deeper. My adrenaline starts to flow. I sit in my office for a few moments, and sometimes I crank up the music. Often it is the same song: Come to the Feast, by Christopher Grundy (Grundy is professor at Eden Theological Seminary and a great musician. You should go to the link and listen to and buy his music).
“Come to the Feast” speaks to the heart of the gospel. “Come to the feast. There’s always room for one more and there’s all you can eat. Come and take some to go. Gather all you can hold and then go. Go spread the feast.” We are a people of the feast. We are a people of the Table.
At the heart of everything we do as Christians is the table of Jesus Christ. How we think about the table informs how we think about everything else. Where does the pastor stand? Behind the table in a gesture of welcome and inclusion, not with her back to the congregation.
What do we serve? Bread and grape juice as a sign of hospitality to those that cannot have alcohol.
Who is invited? Everyone. Children? Yes. They may not understand what is going, but then again, are we kidding ourselves if we think we do understand?
Unbaptized? Yes. The moment of communion is so powerful that it can be a moment of conversion and transformation.
Democrats and Republicans? Yes. We don’t bar you for voting a certain way.
Rich and Poor? Yes – and they each get the same amount.
Black and White? Yes, although we repent for times when this wasn’t true.
Gay and Straight? Yes, for God created all and said it is “good.”
The Lord’s Table is a table for all. On it holds the feast which has transformed lives. On it rests the bread that has been broken for us all. Jesus broke the bread and told us to “do this in remembrance of me.” It was not simply to remember that Jesus’ body was broken. It was remember that his body held life. When we break the bread we are to remember that Jesus was more than a sacrificial lamb led to the slaugher.
When we hear “Do this in remembrance of me,” we should hear Jesus saying: “When we got together in the home of tax collectors and sinners – Remember that. When the women came to me and broke free from their man-made roles of servitude – Remember that. When you guys tried to keep the children from getting to me, and I said ‘let them come’ – Remember that. When we sat in the crowd of 5,000 people and all we had were five loaves and two fish and you all thought there was no way that we would have enough, and then everyone ate – Remember that.”
“Remember when the Pharisees tried to use the Law to put up barriers between who is in and who is out – Remember that I broke those barriers as easily as I break this bread. When they used the Law to condemn and tried to trap me in legal issues – Remember when they asked me what was the greatest commandment, hoping that I would trip on my words – Remember what I told them?”
“And things aren’t looking good right now. The Romans and the leaders are coming. They are going to beat me and crucify me. After that happens I want you to remember me at this table saying to you, my body is broken for you. And when I come back, maybe then you will get it. Maybe then you will finally see. Maybe then you understand all the things I did and said and showed you. I break the bread so that you may have life.”
When we come to the Table of Christ we are invited to a feast. We are invited to a table of plenty. We are invited without merit. We are invited without deed. We are simply invited to come and be loved.
But when we are invited to come to the feast, it is imperative to remember that we are also sent. We are not invited to get full and go home fat and satisfied. We are invited to be fed so that we may feed. We are invited to forgiveness so that we may forgive. We are invited to be empowered so that we may go out and empower. So, as the words of the song so elegantly say, “Come and then go. Go spread the feast.”
“Come to the Feast” is (c) by Hand and Soil Music. Visit www.christophergrundy.com to listen to more music.
So my journey to battle middle age and a bulging belly continues. Last summer I tried to reclaim my youth by joining a football team. It was an absurd proposition that turned into one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I’ll never forget the feeling I had on the first day of full-contact practice. I looked around and saw a bunch of guys younger, more fit, bigger, stronger and meaner than me and I wondered, “What the heck am I doing here?”
I was a little worried about how I’d do but it turned out, I held my own. I wasn’t the most valuable player on the team, but I certainly had value. I started a few games. I had some minor injuries (my shoulder finally stopped hurting about a month ago, so I can do push ups again). I made a lot of friends and developed relationships that opened up dicussions about God and religion. Like I said before, it was a great experience.
A few weeks ago I had sense of deja vu as I walked into a boxing class. As I looked at a bunch of guys that were younger, stronger, more fit, more experienced, and more fit than me, all I could think to myself was, “What the heck am I doing here?”
Since moving this spring, I’ve been looking for a gym and I’ve been intrigued by a multitude of martial arts gyms in the area. After doing some calling, I finally decided to give a boxing class a try. A few years ago my wife and I took a cardio kick-boxing class. We really enjoyed it, and I dropped a lot of body fat doing it. So I found a boxing class that was fairly reasonable and decided to give it a try.
Let me tell you one thing, this is not a cardio kickboxing class. I walked into the gym and saw a dozen guys punching, kicking and clutching at each other. It was a mixed martial arts class that was going on before the boxing class, but I had a feeling I was stepping into something I had never experienced before. This was not a bunch of people punching bags to the beat the music. This was a bunch of men and women learning to beat the crap out of each other.
I have never punched another person in my life – at least not with any intent to do any harm. But there I was on the first day of class going through punch combinations against another person. Again, we weren’t hitting bags, we were hitting each other. Granted, I was mostly hitting gloves, but it was still a very strange feeling. Our coach is Nile Pena. He comes from a boxing family. His Dad has had a gym for years and has trained Olympians and world champions. He knows what he is doing, and he’s a really good teacher. The hour and a half workout went something like this:
Jumping rope. The other people in my class picked up the rope and jumped for three minutes straight. They didn’t miss. They didn’t pause. They just kept going. I would go for awhile, then stop and catch my breath. Then go for awhile, then try to do the cool shuffling style they were doing, then get tripped up. The I would go for awhile, and stop to put my arms up to breathe. They just kept going.
Combinations. We would go through combinations to try and simulate fighting situations. We worked on footwork, throwing punches, moving, bobbing and weaving.
Bag work. Mostly for strength and conditioning we hit the bag for awhile.
Sparring. Put on the headgear (they don’t have any that fit me – big surprise), put in your mouth guard and box. I sat this out for the first few weeks and watched or did bag work. Guys would box for three minute rounds. No one was throwing knock out punches, but they weren’t playing paddy-cake either. It looked like so much fun, but I didn’t have the courage to try at first.
Sprints. Well, sprints is a relative term. I keep going, which is the important thing. I’ll work up to sprinting.
Last night I sparred for the first time.
After watching for a few weeks I decided to give it a try. There is a guy in the gym that has clearly been fighting for a long time. That was the guy I wanted to spar for a few reasons. One, there was no way I was going to hurt this guy. Two, he was super laid back and really helpful. I told him to talk to me to let me know if I was doing anything wrong. I did not want to be the guy the comes and starts throwing haymakers to a guy that could clearly destroy me if he wanted to.
As we started, my heart was racing. I threw a couple of jabs half-heartedly. He countered a couple of times and sort of tapped me on the head. We danced around a little bit, and he told me, “Come on, throw some punches.” So I started to a throw a little bit more. He threw some back. That helped. When he hit me, I felt like he was giving me permissino to hit him back. I tried some combinations. He countered and tagged me in the face a couple of times.
I sparred two more rounds. One with another guy who was just as helpful, and one more with the first guy. There is no question that if we were really boxing, I would have been knocked out – quickly. But I got some good punches in, and I took a few decent ones. I’m looking forward to doing it again. I know it sounds crazy, but I want to get punched in the face. I’m not sure if I’ll ever do anything more than spar, but it is a lot of fun.
After every class I go home exhausted, soaked in sweat, and feeling really good. I’ve been trying to get there two nights a week. Hopefully it continues to be a great experience. At the very least, it will give me some blogging material for awhile.
From Top Left: Winking smiley, the twitter bird, the cross and flame of the United Methodist Church, hulu, The logo for the greatest blog ever written, the Orwellian behemoth known as Google, an iphone, the logo for Riverside United Methodist Church, another winking smiley, Oh My Gosh (cry of astonishment), facebook, youtube, Laugh Out Loud (something people are rarely doing when they type those letters) an icon for a Bible iphone app, Yahoo.
I wonder how many people would be able to look at the picture above and know what all of these pictures mean. Considering one of the images is the logo from this blog, and another is the logo from my church, I’m guessing that very few would know all of them. I wonder though, how many from our churches would know what the little blue bird represents? How many people in our congregations haven’t the slightest idea what a tweet is?
Many of the same people who are (sometimes proudly) technophobic, digging in their heals against the use of social media, technology, and other new forms of communication, are also despondent about the lack of young people sitting amongst them in their pews. They talk longingly of the “good old days” when the churches were full and the Sunday school was bustling, and the building was growing, and the budgets were plentiful (never mind that the good old days also included silence on issues like domestic violence, racial equality, and an utter lack of understanding or compassion surrounding gender issues).
Youth culture has always been misunderstood by adults. That is why it is called “youth culture.” Youth have a different way of communicating and relating to their friends. They have a different understanding of what it means to be a citizen, what good music is, and what is funny. Youth are no longer satisfied with consuming media – they want to participate in it. Things like twitter, facebook, youtube have given young people a platform to broadcast every detail of their lives. And the funny thing is – people are listening. A video of some kid lip syncing a song in front of their computer camera has been watched by millions of people. Millions! Big downtown cathedrals that were filled in the 50s might have reached 5,000 – maybe.
All this boils down to this: If you want to communicate to young people, you need to know a new language. The church needs translators. In order to reach people with the good news of Jesus Christ, people need to be able to speak the language of those we are trying to reach. And if we are trying to reach young people, you have to at least know what those things are.
The images above represent vast changes in culture and language. Google used to be a number. Then it was a website. Now it is a verb. Hulu – and other technologies – have rendered such cultural stalwarts like Primetime Network Programming obsolete. There are no networks. There is no prime time. Facebook has changed the way we think about things like privacy, photo albums, prayer, politics, and even wedding invitations.
There is a new language, and if we are going to translate the language of Jesus Christ – the language of grace, forgiveness, compassion, justice, and love, we need to know the new language. It doesn’t mean that you have to run out and get a twitter account, but you should at least learn what it is. Translation however, is about more than facebook pages, blogs, and tweets. Translation is about taking the time to build relationships.
It is my deepest conviction that the heart of the Gospel message is relationship. It is about our relationship with God and our relationship with one another. The best way to translate the Good News of Jesus Christ is to live the Good News of Jesus Christ. The best way to teach a young person about a faith that changes the world is to go out and change the world. Jesus Christ has the power to transform lives, but it doesn’t always happen with a well-reasoned argument or an insightful Bible lesson. It happens when someone who is already in love with Jesus tells somebody else about that love.
We need translators of the Gospel. We need people who are willing to take the time to live authentic relationships with young people. And authentic is the key. We cannot put on airs. Young people are savvy. They see through BS. That is why knowing the language is so important, we can’t fake it. Translation only happens when people sincerely care. Translation begins at home. Young people might rebel, but their most important influence always has been and always will be their parents.
But here’s a warning for you: If you are willing to be a translator of the Gospel, that means you are willing to put the power of the Bible into the hands of inexperienced, energetic young people. It means that you are going to open up the power of the Holy Spirit to speak directly to people that might not think about church the way we think about church, people that might not think of music the way we think about music, people that might not think about God the way we think about God. They might not think of our institutions, our meetings, our buildings, our worship, or our barriers in the same way we think about them. Young people with the Holy Spirit might not do things the way we want them to because they might stop listening to us and start listening to God (Kendra Creasy Dean, Almost Christian, p. 130). So be warned. Translators are needed, but translate at your own risk.
Schadenfreude: Taking pleasure from the suffering of another.
Lisa Simpson taught me this word many years ago. She used it to describe how Homer was feeling when Ned Flanders’ Leftorium was going out of business. It is not a noble feeling. It mostly stems from jealousy, which is never pretty. In sports, schadenfreude is pretty common. In recognition of the Heat’s recent loss, which has to be one of the top sports schadenfreude moments in history, I have compiled a list of other great moments.
10 and 9. Anytime Duke or the Dallas Cowboys lose. No real reason, I just can’t stand Duke or the Dallas Cowboys 8. Maybe Free Throws should move up on your list. In an interview on Pardon the Interruption, Coach John Calipari was asked about the importance of free throws. He responded, in his ever glib manner, “If I made a list of 100 things I use to evaluate a player, free throws wouldn’t be on it.” A few days later his star player Derrick Rose was at the free throw line with national championship on the line. A couple of missed free throws later, Kansas beat Coach Cal’s Memphis Tigers and cut down the nets. A few years later, the Final Four banner in Memphis was taken down. In light of recent scandals, I’ve actually gained respect for Coach Cal. At least he isn’t out there writing books about moral values and spirituality. With him, you know what you get – a few temporary banners to hang in your gym.
7. The Patron Saint of the Sweater Vest resigns. Under normal circumstances, I don’t take pleasure in someone losing their job. As unemployment in this country remains over 9%, it seems particularly insensitive to laugh when someone new is added to the list. But when the guy in question has written a book called The Winners’ Manual for the Game of Life, and he resigns in the midst of a growing cheating scandal that suggests systemic corruption, I can’t help but enjoy his downfall. I’m not sure if there is a chapter in Jim Tressel’s book about maintaining a culture of lies and intentionally turning a blind eye as his spoiled athletes cheat the system. I haven’t read it, and don’t plan to. I think what’s worse are reports from Buckeye fans that are defending this guy. They are blaming Terelle Pryor for “bringing down” their god. Pryor certainly isn’t blameless, and he might have been the catalyst for getting him caught, but being mad at him for exposing Tressel is like getting mad at Toto for revealing the Wizard. That whole good-guy image was just smoke and mirrors.
6. Timeout! The Fab Five was one of the most polarizing teams in college basketball history. Love them or hate them, they helped define an era of basketball. Count me in the group of people that couldn’t stand ‘em. Looking back now, I can see that much of the vitriol aimed at Michigan was about class and race, but I don’t think that was why I didn’t like them. I just don’t like Michigan. So when the Wolverines and North Carolina were playing for a national championship in 1993, I was pulling for the Tar Heels. North Carolina was up 73-71 with 19 seconds left in the game when Chris Weber snagged a rebound. He awkwardly took the ball up the court, and then got caught in a trap along the sideline. Fearful of giving up the ball, and unable to find an open man, Weber called a timeout.
Usually that would be considered a good move. The only problem was that Michigan didn’t have any more timeouts. With 11 second remaining, a technical foul was called against the Flub Five. Two free throws plus the ball meant that Carolina won 77-71.
The Fab Five produced two Final Fours, but neither banner hangs in the Crisler Arena anymore. In 2002, a widespread cash for play scandal was revealed. There were indictments, forfeited games, and for all those that couldn’t stand the Fab Five, a lot of schadendreude.
5. The Rich Rodriguez Era. When I was in High School I was visiting my brother at the University of Illinois. One of his fraternity brothers taught me a filthy version of “Hail to the Victors.” I didn’t even understand what all the words meant, but I knew one thing: Michigan sucks. Unfortunately, this was more wishful thinking than actually describing the quality of Michigan’s football teams. They (along with Ohio State) have dominated the Big Ten. They’ve won 42 conference titles, and been to 20 Rose Bowls. Seriously, Michigan is the worst. Even their colors are pretentious – It’s Yellow!
After hiring Rich Rodriguez from West Virginia, there were lawsuits, players quitting, an NCAA investigation and mediocrity on the field. I watched it all with glee. In three seasons with Rich Rod at the helm, the Wolverines went 15-22 and won only six Big Ten games. He was fired last year after a 7-6 season and a loss in the Gator Bowl.
5a. The Charlie Weis Era. For pretty much all the same reasons. Some think that College Football is better when Notre Dame and Michigan are good. I’m not one of them. I hate it when they play each other, I honestly cannot decide which team I want to lose more. The Brian Kelly era hasn’t exactly been stellar either – I still cannot believe he wasn’t punished more severely for his irresponsible actions surrounding the death of Declan Sullivan.
4. The Exception to the Rule: Corey Wooten’s first career sack. When I started thinking about this list I thought to myself, “No injuries.” I have never taken joy out of someone getting injured while playing sports. Then I remembered the exception. I’m not sure if anyone in sports history has ever done so much to lose respect and appreciation without doing anything illegal as Bret Favre. As a Packer, I hated the guy because he beat my Bears so much, but I always respected him. I respected his play, his joy, and his toughness. He seemed like the kind of guy that would be fun to play with and against. Then the retirement carousel began. It was all so narcissistic. Every August for three – or was it four – years, the Favre Watch would start. Would he retire? Would he call a press conference? Who would he play for? It all got so tiresome as he held one franchise after another hostage.
He ended his career with the Packers by throwing an interception in the NFC Championship. He should have ended his career with the Viking the same way. Instead, he came back for another year in 2011. This is how it ended, maybe.
3. One word: “Bartman.” The Cubs may be the lovable losers for everyone else in the country, but to White Sox fans, only one of those terms applies. In 2003, the Cubs were five outs from going to their first World Series since 1945. They were up 3-0 over the Marlins in the top of the eighth inning of game 6 and held a 3-2 series advantage. Mark Pryor was rolling, and Cubs fans everywhere believed that the temperature in hell had reached the mid-40s. I was watching the game in my living room, sitting on my chair. A Lifelong Phillies and Sox fan, I was actually half-heartedly pulling for the Cubs.Chicago baseball had been so bad for so long, I was ready for a World Series in Chicago.
Then Luis Castillo hit what seemed like a meaningless foul ball. Leftfielder Moises Alou was under it, but against the wall. A Cubs fan, wearing a Cubs hat, ear phones, and a green turtleneck under a black sweatshirt did what any other fan would have done in the same situation. He tried to catch a foul ball. In the process, he knocked it away from Alou. Instead of being the second out of the inning, Castillo walked. Before the inning was over, eight Marlins crossed the plate. The Cubs lost 8-3. After the inning, I laughed and told my wife, “That is so Cub-like.” In game 7, the Cubs had their ace Kerry Wood on the mound with a 5-3 lead after four innings. Bartman had nothing to do with them losing that game 9-6.
In the aftermath, the ball has been destroyed, Steve Bartman was forced into a semi-exilic state. Bartman will forever be remembered in Chicago. Some will remember him with pain and anguish. Others, like me, will remember him with a light chuckle and a dash of schadenfreude.
2. The Yankees lose. Ttttthhhhhheeeeeeee Yankees. Lose!
Yankee-hating is a long-standing tradition in America, and for good reason. Steinbrenner, Jackson, Martin, Cashman, Jeter, A-Rod, and a legion of annoyingly arrogant New Yorkers created the original Evil Empire. The majority of the 80s can be added to this list as the Yankees floundered, much to the joy of most long-time baseball fans. In the mid-90s though, the golden era of Yankee-hating ended. In 2004, the Yankees had won 5 of the last 6 league pennants. The Yankees had beaten the Red Sox in seven games the year before. The Yankees owned the Red Sox. The Yankees were THE dominant force in baseball. After getting trounced 19-8 in game 3 of the 2004 American League Championship Series, it looked like another horrible end for the Red Sox. Thus began the greatest collapse in the history of baseball. There was a rare Rivera blown-save, a bloody sock, a bunch of “idiots” with long hair, and David Ortiz hitting what seemed like a dozen home runs, including a two-run walk-off bomb in the bottom of the 12th in game 4
Looking back, Schilling has become more and more annoying, Ortiz and Ramirez have both been implicated in the steroid-era, and the ultimate “idiot” Johnny Damon joined the Dark Side. The Red Sox have their own brand of annoyingly arrogant fans – a sort of Mini-Me to the Yankees Dr. Evil. But at the time, for Yankees haters everywhere, the 2004 ALCS was prime schadenfreude material.
1. LeBron James and the Heat lose to the Dallas Mavericks.
I used to like Lebron. When he was a rookie, I picked him a little early in a fantasy draft. Other managers ridiculed me, telling me he was “all hype.” I believed the hype, and his all-around excellence helped my team win the league championship. He has since developed into what appears to be an unstoppable force. When the Bulls were struggling through the Del Negro mediocrity, the Cavs were my second favorite team. Even after The Decision, I didn’t join in the venomous attacks on Lebron. I figured, he took less money to play with friends and go after a championship – that’s not all that bad. I was afraid a lot of the venom was more racially motivated than people admitted. But the guy just wore on me, and here’s a quick list of why: 1. The team just seemed to whine all season, and never understood why they weren’t liked. They painted a big target on themselves, and then wondered why people were taking shots. 2. “The Chosen One” is inked on his back (chosen for what?) 3. The pre-season self-predicted Seven-Peat (or was it eight?) 4. The early celebration in game two. It was just a pattern of self-promotion and premature celebration. So when they basically quit playing with about 60 seconds left in Game 6, I was in full schadenfreude-mode.
So there it is – my all time Top Ten Sports Schadenfreude moments. I’m not proud of any of it. Takeing joy from the suffering of others isn’t exactly “Love your neighbor” kind of stuff. But this is sports, and part of what makes sports are fun is that it’s a fantasy world. It’s a world where I cheer for the good guys and everyone else is bad. It’s a world where I care deeply about the results of adults playing kid games. It’s a world where I can forget about war and poverty and justice and just enjoy great athletes, great drama, and great joy and great suffering – especially if its the Yankees, Wolverines, Cowboys or Favre doing the suffering.
A few weeks ago I threw my name into the hat to be elected to be a delegate for General Conference. At the time, I figured it was worth a shot. All it took was a 100-word essay and a picture. It was simple enough. All I thought was, why not? But now it is almost time to start voting, and I’m thinking that I’d better put a little more thought into it.
Why do I want to be a General Conference delegate?
This comes down a simple statement – I love the United Methodist Church. I want to be a part of the largest and most important body of United Methodist Christians. I want to enjoy that kind of fellowship of kindred spirits. I want to be a part of the legacy that started at the Christmas Conference over 200 years ago.
I know the United Methodist Church is not perfect. I have seen it at its ugliest. I have seen it fail to live up to the calling of Jesus Christ. Yet the United Methodist Church is the place where I have found grace. It is the Church that has nurtured me from birth. It is the Church that has shown me what it means to be a Christian, a servant, and a disciple.
How will I vote?
I probably sound like a politician here, but I honestly do not know how I would vote for controversial issues at General Conference. there are many issues that face the Church I love, and I want to do what is right for the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I can say this: I believe that the slogan of the United Methodist Church: “Open minds, open hearts, open doors,” resonates with me. I also believe that the word “open” that is repeated in that slogan needs to be understood as a verb, not as an adjective.
It is my sincerest hope and prayer that none of the controversies that the church faces will create widespread schism. I believe that the things that hold us together – the mission of Jesus Christ and the loving grace that is offered to all – are stronger than any of the controversies that would tear us apart.
What will you get if you vote for me?
You will get a pastor that is dedicated to doing what is best for the United Methodist Church. I was ordained in 2010, and am still considered “young clergy.” This is my first chance to be a delegate, and I believe that General Conference needs as many new people involved as possible to continue to breath life into the church.
I will go with great joy. I will worship with great passion. I will vote with my whole heart, mind and spirit. I will bathe myself in prayer, always seeking the Holy Spirit to guide my decisions. I will seek to be guided by Scripture, tradition, reason and experience.
I came across an opportunity the other day that I found interesting. I have the chance to take an online course through United Methodist Communications to learn how to use the program Moodle. This is a program that designs online courses. I haven’t been able to figure out many details about it, but apparantly if I take this course I will be able to build an online Bible study that can be accessed by anyone with their own computer and the internet.
The possibilities for such a dynamic teaching tool are very exciting to me. I would love to start with a New Testament Survey course that I designed a few years ago. There are a couple of factors I am still trying to figure out, but first and foremost I want to try and gauge interest. I am not sure if there would be a cost to taking a the course. I know the software is free, but I’m guessing moodle has to make money somewhere. If you are a reader of The Fat Pastor, would you be willing to enroll in an online Bible study? Please answer the poll question below, and please leave comments too.
So the news today in Illini Nation is that Ron Guenther has retired. After 19 years of service as the athletic director at the University of Illinois, he will step down on June 30. As a huge Illini fan, I have mixed feelings. I think Guenther has run a pretty good program. They have had spots of success in many sports, and there has no been no major controversies surrounding their coaches. There was the Jamar Smith incident, but that seemed to be more of an isolated case than a part of a program-wide problem.
My first reaction to Guenther is that he ran a clean department that had excellence in non-revenue sports. Under his watch the Illini became the only school outside of Florida, California and Texas to win an Men’s Tennis national championship. I think that is pretty cool. There also seemed to be a steady flow of national champions in track and field, wrestling and gymnastics. The volleyball and soccer programs seem strong as well. Most ignore these achievements, but I think it is a source of pride that Illini athletics seems to be pretty well-rounded.
Under his tenure Memorial Stadium underwent major renovations. The entire football experience has been improved (although the ILL-INI chant is not as cool with the new alignment of the students). Before the economy went belly-up, there were plans to renovate the Assembly Hall, and the practice facilities – which play a major part in recruitment – have also been improved.
On the field three seasons stand out: the 2001 Sugar Bowl football team, the 2005 Final Four basketball team and the 2008 Rose Bowl football team. All three provided great memories and lasting records, but ended up falling short of championships. And in the end, I feel like that is going to be the most enduring feeling over Guenther’s tenure – coming up short.
The football and men’s basketball programs have been frustrating to follow over the last 19 years. They show signs of improvement and glimmers of excellence, only to slip back into maddening mediocrity. Bruce Weber and Ron Zook seem like decent guys, and I appreciate their character, but I think the University of Illinois deserves better than decent. It should be possible to have both character and championships. While the athletic department seems to have character, the Illini don’t have enough championships. Is it too much to want both?
Maybe in the current climate of college athletics it is too much to ask for. I’m glad the Illini didn’t run out and hire Tom Caliparri or Kelvin Sampson. But it would be nice to hire a college basketball coach that knows how to beat a zone defense. It would be nice to have football coaches that help players get better over four years instead of recruiting high school all-stars that never reach their potential.
There are some Illini fans that are celebrating today. I’m not one of them. I believe that Ron Guenther is a decent guy and ran a decent program. I just think the Illini deserve better.
5K 36:00 (Race for the Cure, Jun. '12)
35:15 (Firecracker Run, Jul. '12)
33:47 (Crimestoppers, Aug. '12)
31:40 (Lagomarcino's, Oct. '12)
26:52 (CASI St. Patrick's Day, Mar. '13)
26:28 (Railroad Days, Jun. '13)* *2nd place in age division
26:40 (Casa Guanajuato, Nov. '13)
30:30 (Modern Woodmen Knockout Hunger, Sep '14)** **3rd place in age division
Debut on 10/02/2008
1,000 total views on 12/04/2008
100,000 total views on 11/30/2011
200,000 total views on 5/26/2012
300,000 total views on 9/7/2013
400,000 total views on 5/23/2014
500,000 total views on 8/22/2015
All of the writing on this, and all pages at fatpastor.wordpress.com, are the sole possession of Robb McCoy, and are in no way affiliated with the United Methodist Church, or with any local congregation of the United Methodist Church.
Permission to use the written material on this site is granted for non-profit use, as long as credit is given to Robb McCoy and a reference to https://fatpastor.wordpress.com is used.
Comments and discussion are encouraged. However, any comment that is degrading, profane, violent, vulgar, or offensive will be removed.
All opinions and ideas are my own, unless otherwise noted. All opinions and ideas are subject to change depending on my own social location, events of the day, or my mood (it's all about the context, man!)
The Fat Pastor 