Mercy, Me, Jim, and Pudge

Day 10 of 46 c Lenten Season 2010

Show and Tell

Although I’m not a sports fan, I have to admit I sense a palpable whiff of spring when Texas Rangers baseball training camp opens each winter. And open it did this week in the oddly-named city of Surprise, Arizona. Yay! The season of soft, mellow breezes, longer sunny days, and newly-green trees can’t be far away now.

Of course, here in Texas, spring’s beauty only lasts about three weeks before we’re pelted with hail from vicious thunderstorms. Then the dreaded heat of summer takes over until Thanksgiving. But we won’t think about that right now. Spring training is the time for optimism, opportunity, and the perennial question about whether the Rangers will have any decent pitching this year. Isn’t it funny about how the more things change, the more they stay the same?

Arlington, Texas, has been home to the American League’s Texas Rangers since our legendary mayor, Tom Vandergriff, lured the former Washington Senators down from the nation’s capital back in the mists of time. Which, for Texas, is about 40 years ago. I remember when they played in a dumpy yet oddly comfortable minor-league stadium next to I-30, where you could get a sunburn from practically any corner of the stands. These days, the Rangers play in a grand baseball palace that former president George W. Bush helped build when he owned part of the team.

Fields of Dreams

Not that I’m an expert on baseball stadiums. Besides the Ballpark in Arlington – a more obvious name you’ll never find – I’ve only been to the old Yankee and Shea stadiums in New York City.

While the old “House that Ruth Built” in the Bronx was dated and gargantuan, history oozed out of every square inch. When you attended a game at Yankee Stadium, you were there for one purpose only: to watch a baseball game. Here in Arlington, a lot of people come to games on dates or in groups with friends. They chatter, wander around, spend ages in line for food and drinks, and generally use the game as a sideline for when their conversations trail off. Not at Yankee Stadium. You go, you sit, and you watch. You yell, you argue, you complain, you cheer, and you order from the vendors walking the stands if you have time to eat or drink anything. Have to use the restrooms? Fuggedaboudit. Hold it until the inning – or the game – is over.

One time, a little kid with a fishing net was trying to capture a pop fly ball over the net at home plate. The kid had the ball momentarily, but it rolled out of his net. The whole stadium – we were all watching – erupted into a deafening “BOOO!” as the poor kid sank into his seat. Wow, I thought. Talk about a tough crowd! Even a little kid can’t catch a break in this place.

Over in Queens, Shea Stadium didn’t have nearly the historic vibe or white-collar-ish crowd you can find in the Bronx. But Mets fans held their own in a stadium boasting all the charm of an aircraft hangar. There, too – attending a game wasn’t a social event. Hard-core baseball happened there, and the intensity for what was taking place on the field was the same as at Yankee Stadium. Once people got to their seats, they stayed there all nine innings.

I have yet to visit the new stadiums for the Yankees and the Mets. I hear they’re somewhat disappointing, especially considering the cost to build each of them, and the irreplaceable aura each old structure held. Judging from the pictures, I also think they tend to look a bit like our own Ballpark in Arlington, but with different facades tacked on. Ours is smaller than theirs, but size isn’t the only thing that matters in baseball.

Good Athletes Play Good Baseball

Skill - that matters more. Skill is one of baseball’s hallmarks that helps me respect it as a sport. Any overweight clod can wrestle another overweight clod while a skinny white guy runs around behind them, trying to throw a football. Kicking a white ball around a huge field has become the world’s largest sport, but I just don’t get why people riot over it. Basketball used to be a sport, but now, it’s just a few seconds of dribbling followed by endless fouls. Hockey? My nephews love it, but up in Michigan, baseball fields don’t thaw out until August, so that’s understandable.

You have to admit that baseball requires real, admirable skill. Hitting a little white blur of leather shooting towards you at 90 mph? Sliding along ten feet of dirt on one thigh? Running towards a ball sailing high in the air, catching it with one hand, and turning to throw it in the other – all within seconds? I’ve got a lot of respect for people who can do that while making it look so easy.

I don’t know all the stats, rules, or players, but I did once work for a former Texas Rangers star. Jim Sundberg is a six-time Gold Glove winner who used to be a catcher for the Rangers, and he helped win the World Series one year when he played for Kansas City. Sundberg and his wife, Janet, used to own a company that developed and marketed sports training material for young athletes.

I’ll be honest – one of the reasons they hired me was because I know so little about sports, so I’m not in awe of superstar athletes. Yes, I admire their skill, but I’m cynical enough that celebrities of any type don’t make me gaga. Since the Sundbergs know so many people in the sports world, they didn’t want employees who would drool all over their friends and business partners. They hired me as their first full-time employee, and I worked for them for three years.

Mercy!

Their very first employee, however, was a vivacious woman named Mercy Hukill. She worked part-time for the Sundbergs. A merry, older-than-she-acted widow who attended the same church we all did, Mercy had a great sense of humor, although I never did appreciate her always calling me “Timmy”. And she’s the only person I let call me that – so don’t even think about it.

Mercy passed away a couple of years ago after a valiant struggle with cancer. She shrunk down from the woman you see in this photo to literally skin and bones. The story goes that as she was being wheeled into ICU after her last surgery, all weak and IV’d and emaciated, her sister walked up alongside her bed and asked, “Mercy, can I get you anything”?

Mercy motioned for her sister to lean in closer, and she whispered hoarsely: “A man”.

Knowing Mercy, she was probably only half-kidding.

The day this photo was taken, Mercy and I were busy working while Jim was preparing to attend a press conference at the Ballpark with the Rangers. Ivan “Pudge” Rodriguez had just won his sixth Gold Glove, tying Jim’s record.

Jim thought Mercy and I would get a kick out of going with him to the press conference, so I went and asked Mercy if she wanted to go.

“Hmmuh” Mercy retorted, not looking up from whatever she was doing.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Jim says he'll arrange for us to have our picture taken with Pudge afterwards. You know you want to meet him”.

“Yeahhh, well, I don’t know…” Mercy hedged, her indifference a marked contrast to her usual brightness when it came to conversations about Rodriguez.

So, I went and informed Jim that Mercy didn’t want to go. He immediately went to Mercy and managed to persuade her that he would like the two of us there for business purposes, or something like that. So begrudgingly, Mercy went along with us.

Of course, we got to the Ballpark, watched the press conference, and then Jim invited us to pose with Pudge. Mercy still had an uncharacteristically frumpy look on her face. But when she turned around to face the cameraman, here she is with a ready smile and a look of, “Oh, yes, I guess I can have my photo taken with Pudge”!

Maybe to people who didn't know Mercy, this is just a faintly silly story. But considering some of the conversations the two of us had, be thankful this is the one I chose to tell!

Rounding the Bases

After a rapid-fire series of consolidations in the sports retailing world reduced their customer base, Jim and Janet decided to change their business model and ramp down the company. Jim is now the senior executive vice president of the Texas Rangers. As an interesting sidenote, one of Jim’s business partners, Dave Burchett, writes a blog for Crosswalk.com, when he’s not directing Texas Rangers broadcasts on television.

For the record, Pudge is the guy in the black shirt and jeans. He went on to win 13 Gold Gloves, and he’s been an All-Star 14 times. Now 38 years old, he’s a $3-million-a-year back-up catcher for the relatively-new Washington Senators. Remember the Senators? The franchise was revived for the nation’s capital to replace the team that left to play here in Texas.

And as a Senator, Pudge will probably be one of the most productive people with that title in all of Washington, DC.

Aren't you glad spring training is here?

I’ll Tell You No Lies

Day 7 of 46 c Lenten Season 2010

Do I look fat?

Don’t answer that – it’s a rhetorical question for demonstration purposes only.

“Oh, no, you don’t look fat” you’re supposed to reply… “Your clothes have just shrunk in the wash”…

Which brings us to the real question – is it OK to lie in superficial and inconsequential ways, such as mild flattery? Or is lying always wrong?

Yesterday, I mentioned falsifying your personal information when filling out online forms. The idea is to try and protect your identity. For example, I routinely put an incorrect date on non-official forms asking for my birthday, but doing so troubles me a little bit. You see, Wes Kelly, a NASA engineer and a friend of mine, enjoys positing conundrums like this: is falsifying information to protect yourself a sin? Aren’t you still lying?

Maybe in your circle of friends, ethics topics rarely come up in normal conversation, but among my friends, questions like this aren’t uncommon.

“Ah,” you say… “that explains a lot”.

Isn’t a White Lie OK?

Telling falsehoods is wrong, right? A falsehood is intentionally denying your audience the ability to evaluate a situation based on the same information you have. However, if you reply to a question about a subject for which you don’t have complete expertise, and you’re wrong, you wouldn’t be lying; you’d just be wrong. Wrong or incomplete answers aren’t lies unless you intentionally manipulate your answer for the benefit of something other than the truth as you know it to be.

Most of the time, we manage to avoid the blatant, flat-out lies that politicians are known for, but the issue of white lies – or the oxymoron, “half-truths” – is usually ignored in favor of politeness or downright apathy, isn’t it? But should it be?

If the wife of your best friend is trying to throw a surprise birthday party for him, what do you do if he catches on? If he asks you, “Hey, is my wife throwing me a surprise birthday party”? do you say “I have no idea” or “I don’t think so”? Or, do you blow the wife’s hard work and planning and spill the beans?

This is the type of question my friend Wes is asking. Is it a lie to deny that a party is in the works? If you lie, you spare your friend’s wife the agony of doing all the planning for nothing. If you tell the truth, you get the wife mad at you, plus everybody else who’s been lying all this time to keep things secret. It’s not telling a falsehood when you’re trying to spare an innocent party their feelings, right?

I’m not married, but I hear a lot of men get asked by their wife for responses to the way they look. Is this dress flattering? Do you like my new hairstyle? And the queen of all questions: do I look fat?

Now, while some women may actually want the literal truth, my male friends say that’s more myth than reality. So, suppose you don’t want to offend her. Suppose the easiest thing would be to just reply in the manner that she is expecting. That’s actually the polite thing to do, right?

Granted, politeness has become an under-rated virtue in our society. But these types of leading questions aren’t asking for a polite response. They are designed to solicit a form of flattery that is beguiling and self-centered.

Whether it’s women preening over their appearance or men seeking similar types of affirmation, isn’t it improper to set up your audience with a question that puts them on the spot? That’s more than impolite, and it’s more than being self-centered. You’re relying on the protocols of etiquette, practically inviting them to lie.

Half of the Truth Equals a Negative

How about if you respond to a question with only half of the answer? Can a person withhold part of the answer, even though they have possession of it, and still avoid telling a lie? What if the part of the answer that you withhold can add a shade of meaning or difference to the overall answer?

Well, if you give an answer that contains only part of the whole truth, and the part you’re leaving out changes the meaning of your answer, you’re denying your audience the ability to evaluate a situation, aren’t you? So that’s a sin, right?

Let’s say a corporation wants to sell one of their divisions. If they just provided one year’s worth of profit statements, but didn’t provide statements for all the years they lost money in that division, that would be a form of lying, correct?

But let’s bring it a little closer to home. Suppose you’re trying to sell your house, and you know of five problems that need to be fixed. A prospective buyer asks you point-blank what is wrong with the house, and you truthfully tell them about four of the five problems – didn’t you just lie? Yes, you did. You have conveyed the impression that there are only four problems, when in reality, there are five.

White Lies Aren’t Necessary

Let’s revisit the scenario where your friend’s wife is planning the surprise birthday party. To the extent that surprise parties can be enjoyable, there’s nothing wrong with keeping the party’s existence away from the honoree. However, if you have to engage in any deceit in order to pull off the party, since when do the ends justify the means? Is the fun of watching the look on your loved one’s face when you yell “surprise!” worth the deception?

But hey – the husband shouldn’t be such a boor about it; he obviously knows when his birthday is. And if his wife loves surprise parties, it shouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility that she’d want to throw a surprise party for her husband. So he shouldn’t set her up for needing to lie. Maybe she’s planning something, maybe she isn’t. Don’t ask questions, and don’t make other people lie on her behalf! Don’t be so concerned about looking goofy when everybody jumps out from the corners when you least expect it. If she loves you and respects you, she’ll plan something that you’ll enjoy. And if you absolutely despise surprise parties, a loving wife won’t be planning one for you anyway.

A friend related the scenario about the time a terminally-ill relative, floating in and out of lucidity, asked him if she was about to die. Already grieving because he knew her time was short, he tried to calm her with a comforting “no”. Was that a lie?

We’re taught, aren’t we, that gentle answers calm the soul, even if they’re another one of those “white” lies. Wouldn’t it be so easy to soothe an anxious relative with hollow words of encouragement? Are there times when we can abdicate the responsibility to speak the truth in love and just tell people what they want to hear? Can’t we evaluate the merits of telling the truth or a lie based on the circumstances of the case?

Maybe instead of a lie, we can rephrase our answer with truth. For example, in the deathbed scenario, a better response might have been to recite a favorite Bible passage or remind the loved one of God’s sovereignty. Obviously, I wasn’t there, and I wasn’t asked that question. But I’d like to think that is how I’d have responded if I had been.

Why This Is Important

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? A lot of times, we don’t plan out the lies we’re going to tell. We don’t plot fiendish pursuits of overt deception and cruel hoaxes. Unless you’re a particularly selfish and corrupt person, lies don’t usually stalk our every ambition and motive. In reality, lies sneak up on most of us, even when we’re trying to be helpful, encouraging, and loving.

But lies are still lies, aren’t they? Black or white. We forget the power of words, and that what we speak often belies the temperament of the soul. And truly, what is any lie except an exercise in self-centeredness. To the extent that lies can lay the groundwork for skepticism and cynicism, seeds of discord have a more fertile soil from which to spring, either now or later.

Community happens best when participants can rely on an atmosphere of transparency and honesty. Even if you’re a party animal and your birthday is rolling around. But even when you’re online, and you put down the wrong birth date to try and protect your identity? Shouldn’t you trust God to honor your truthfulness, even on a form only a computer will evaluate?

If I was perfect, I could say no, put down all of the information correctly and if your ID gets hacked, have faith that God will help work it all out. I also think we have some level of personal responsibility for how we protect ourselves.

You know those supermarket shopper-reward cards? You fill out your information and get a card that entitles you to discounts. I have friends that refuse to participate in those, because they don’t want to give out their personal information to obtain one. They would rather give up the money they would save and maintain their integrity than go ahead and pocket the savings even though they lied on the application to get a card...

I think I’ve just answered my own question.

A Church Without A Congregation

Day 3 of 46 c Lenten Season 2010

Show and Tell

You’ve got three guesses!

Three guesses to name the geographic region of North America where this stately church can be found.  And the first two don’t count!

Yes, this iconic New England church is located along the coast of Maine, in the village of Sedgwick.  Near the town of Blue Hill, in Hancock County.

The congregation of First Baptist Church was formed in 1804, and this structure constructed in 1837. But while the building remains, the 209-year-old congregation does not.

That’s right. After 209 years, the last two active members of the congregation, the pastor and his wife, decided to fold the church after a summer which saw themselves as the only people attending services. Several times, over the years, they had offered to step aside if other members thought another preacher could stoke its fires, but even after membership dipped below 20, then 10, the congregation knew the problem wasn't with the pastor.

Indeed, those members who were unhappy had already left years earlier to form a more fundamentalist church (yes, even more conservative; not liberal, as is generally the case). Over time, other local villagers in the town of 500 simply rejected the culture of church. While nobody’s surprised the end has come to the 209-year-old congregation, a more disturbing realization is that only a handful of people are even disappointed.

The Challenges of Rural New England

Coastal Maine stretches from the state's highly-trafficked southeastern corner, near exurban Boston, to its sparsely populated northeastern tip. In between lies Sedgwick, which even in its heyday around 1900 wasn’t much more than a humble fishing, granite quarry, and lumber community. A couple of stately sea captain houses grace the town’s short Main Street, and the old country store now caters to the refined and pricey tastes of wealthy summer people (as of 2017, it has closed). Some middle-income families remain, but have to commute miles to schools, grocery stores, and whatever work they can find that pays a living wage.

Indeed, the only economy left in town revolves around summer people – the expensive properties they buy and sell, and all of their renovation, maintenance, and construction projects. Not enough day-trippers or tourists come through town because it’s too far from Boston and too close to famous Bar Harbor. Even popular Deer Isle, with its world-famous Haystack art school and picturesque Stonington Harbor, makes Sedgwick a wallflower along the rocky shore.

Not that any church could survive on tourists anyway. Without the interest of local residents, and as long-time members simply passed away, Sedgwick's church marched headlong into what some people would call oblivion. Remaining true to his calling, the Rev. George Springer refused to compromise the Gospel message to put people in the pews, even after years of meeting with ambivalence from townspeople when it came to spiritual matters.

Who Cares?

Nobody in town was unaware of the church or its ministry – indeed, the Springers were broadly admired for their care of elderly residents in Sedgwick and Deer Isle. And virtually all of Sedgwick’s life-long residents had, at some point during their childhood, been to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School there.

Plus, you can't miss it: the church building proudly commands the highest point in town – with a gold-leaf steeple that used to glisten in Maine’s all-to-infrequent sun. When the 4-level steeple began to collapse into the sanctuary several decades ago, wealthy summer residents who valued the look of the church took up a collection to repair it. Indeed, having such an iconic structure in an otherwise undistinguishable village was good for real estate values. So it was in the year its steeple’s supports failed, the church received over $250,000 from people who’d never even been inside – including a vacationing Walter Cronkite – so it could be fixed and the building's structural integrity restored. Not for worshipping in, mind you – but for the quintessential New England aesthetic that the building provided the community.

And speaking of aesthetics, consider its windows. In 1904, to commemorate the congregation’s centennial, six towering stained-glass sanctuary windows - plus three portal windows in the vestibule - were commissioned from the studios of Louis Comfort Tiffany. An unsolicited appraisal by an independent stained glass expert in the mid-1990’s placed their value at between $4 to $6 million – and even more, if as rumored, one of the vestibule windows was by Tiffany himself.

Gone, But Not Entirely

Not that its closing means First Baptist Church has completely died. During its 209 years, Sedgwick's First Baptist spawned several other congregations in nearby hamlets, as well as smaller, seasonal chapels, although today they’re mostly private homes. Two nearby churches remain in North Sedgwick and nearby Brooklin, and they, along with the dispersed progeny from First Baptist's 209 years of ministry, will be its legacy.

As far as the building itself is concerned, the Springers turned over the sanctuary, a smaller chapel building, and a traditional Colonial-style parsonage to the town's preservation trust a few months ago. The church was independent, not belonging to any denomination, and without any debts or lienholders. Currently, it is unknown if the preservation trust has enough funds to maintain the level of upkeep the Springers struggled to perform. The windows from Tiffany’s studios have been in need of professional – and prohibitively expensive – attention for years. How long they – and the church they adorn – will remain standing in coastal Maine's unforgiving climate is anybody’s guess.

First Baptist Church of Sedgwick is where my mother’s parents came to Christ. Indeed, a number of my mother’s relatives were faithful members of the church for decades... until, one by one, they passed away. And as my mother and others of her generation moved away, they were never replaced. This has been due partly because of faltering economic dynamics familiar to many New England villages, but mostly because of an increasing embrace by New England residents of the post-religion ethos sweeping across the Atlantic from Europe.

Coming Soon?

Indeed, what’s happened in Sedgwick has become de rigueur for churches across the oldest parts of our nation; churches which have been dwindling to nothing and either torn down or converted into homes, restaurants, and even nightclubs.

But just as the United States couldn’t be contained in the original 13 colonies, it has been surmised that neither will the march of post-religion society. What has been happening for years in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Massachusetts is sweeping through places like New York City and the coastal Southern states.

Heading west, just like the fabled pioneers. And just like the last migration, the natives may not survive this time either.
_____

Ashes to Ashes

Day 1 of 46 c Lenten Season 2010

Walking past the venerable St. Stephens Church on my way to the Subway, I noticed the usual clutch of elderly parishioners gingerly descended the stairs, clinging to the railing, but with dusty patches on their foreheads.

Every morning, passing the circa-1854 edifice on my way to work, seeing almost the same little group of people leaving morning Mass at the same time, I’d never noticed the smudges before.

Down at the 28th Street Subway station platform, other people waited for the train, the same smudges on their foreheads; on the train, more smudges. Down in the Financial District, still more smudges. I got to work, and co-workers were arriving with smudges, too.

New York City, of course, is a city of Catholics. Jews, yes, and Greek Orthodox, with a considerable Episcopalian presence; a few Baptists, and Korean Presbyterians thrown in for good measure, with a quiet Buddhist community in the city’s multiple Chinatowns. These days, Islam is the new kid on the block, but Catholicism has been Gotham’s most widely-practiced religion for almost two centuries, first brought over by Europeans and sustained today by Hispanics, Philippinos, and a few still-vibrant Italian and Irish neighborhoods tucked among the boroughs.

But as a recent transplant from Baptist Texas, the smudges on foreheads baffled me. It wasn’t until a couple of people started complaining about the long line at the little chapel down by the Staten Island Ferry that I learned the reason: Ash Wednesday!

Isn't Mardi Gras Redundant?

Ash Wednesday, today, marks the beginning of Lent, which runs through Saturday, April 3. Most people know that Lent is what follows Mardi Gras down in New Orleans, and most of us also know the kind of hedonism and carnality that just wrapped up down there. I won’t get into that mess except to wonder – like I do during every Mardi Gras – what makes the days leading up to Lent such an acceptable time for people to participate in and celebrate debauchery and fornication that would be considered inappropriate during other parts of the year. I know WHY people do it – sin usually is pretty fun at the time – I just don’t understand how they can justify it, especially those that claim there’s a religious significance to it. But like I said, that’s as far as I’m going on that tangent today.

Yes, the decadence of Mardi Gras serves to mark the contrast from celebration to somberness, as during Lent, people give up something to help them observe the time leading up to the crucifixion of Christ. You don’t have to be Catholic to give up something for Lent. In fact, it can be a good exercise in restraint and piety, as long as we don’t objectify it and expect it to have curative or salvific powers. Some people start off in the shallow end, cutting chocolate from their diet, while others try to wean themselves from TV, the news, or some other habit. Very few of us actually try to tackle an overpowering sin issue or some other vice with which we struggle daily. I know I don’t. I’ve never even tried to give up chocolate.

Die to Self

Back in the mists of time, my good friend Clyde Eure led a single adults Sunday School class at our “seeker” church while he attended seminary. Our class had a good-sized group of core participants, plus we normally hosted a number of visitors on any given Sunday. Being in a “seeker” church, and a singles class, we were expected to walk a tricky line between social fluff and solid Bible teaching. In practice, we did the Bible teaching much better than the social fluff (although some of Andrea's parties were legendary).

One Sunday, Clyde started the class with an uncharacteristically long, rambling soliloquy about sacrifice and suffering. Clyde has a burden for teaching the Gospel with simplicity and starkness – no adornments of gratuitous humor, anecdotes, and illustrations; not quite on par with the "seeker" teacher model, but that day was stark, even for Clyde.

He drew an outline on the whiteboard, with arrows, underlines, and circles, taking up almost all of the space. After what seemed like ages, although he kept us all spellbound with his conviction and sincerity, Clyde concluded with a dramatic challenge he’d already spent the time diagramming: die to self. In everything we do, give ourselves over to the leading and purposes of Christ. For His glory, not ours. Period.

Then he (Jesus) said to them all: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it…” Luke 9:23-24

We all sat there in silence. The room, full of people, both regulars and visitors, quiet and still.

Finally, doing what I do so well, I piped up inappropriately, “well, thank you for coming today, visitors. I hope we'll see you again”! And the whole class chuckled awkwardly in thinly-veiled relief.

Ever since then, at our infrequent “reunions”, former class members sometimes dredge up that “die to self’ story. We know what Clyde was teaching, and we know how far we continue to fall from that metaphoric standard. Maybe we think there's some sort of delay clause, or maybe since everyone we know is balking, it makes our own inaction comfortable. And what if we actually put to death our own desires and dreams for what Christ may be wanting us to do and be? Do we really want what Christ wants? Maybe we know what we’re supposed to do, but still we hesitate, almost like kids on the banks of a river someplace, daring somebody to be the first to jump in and tell us if the water’s fine or not.

Jump In!

Maybe this season of Lent, some of you could join me in jumping into the river, whether we think the water is fine or not. I don’t know that I’ll necessarily commit to giving up a habit or comfort food, because dying to self means giving up something more than a pleasure I plan on resuming after Easter.

Smudges on foreheads represent the Genesis 1:13 reminder that we are dust, and to dust we will return. The ashes used on Ash Wednesday come from the ashes of palm fronds burned after the previous year’s Palm Sunday services. Ashes from the burned palms are crushed into soot, signifying death and repentance. Thus, Ash Wednesday provides a liturgical symbolism of dying to self.

But while the message behind Ash Wednesday carries somber significance, denying ourselves and taking up our cross – the wordy version of “die to self” – isn’t just a one-Wednesday-a-year process, is it? It’s not even a Lenten process, during which we prepare ourselves to observe Christ’s death but also His glorious resurrection.

Indeed, Christ Himself acknowledges that death to self represents a daily process of confession, commitment, and expectancy. Paul said he died daily. Some people may consider this a dour interpretation of the sanctification process, because our culture exalts self-gratification. We in faith communities still try to pack as much fun as we think we can into our lives, but this pesky “death to self” won’t be denied.

If and when you see people today with the sign of the cross smudged in ash across their foreheads, or even if you participate in this observance yourself, let’s commit to making this more than a one-day exercise.

Dying to self is a life-long process. But isn’t today as good a day as any to start?

One Can Hear the Falling Snow...and Trees

Show and Tell

Wintertime in north central Texas generally means a generous mix of cool and cold days, with some deceptively balmy ones thrown in for good measure. Some years we’ll get a fierce ice storm, and maybe a flurry or two, but usually we just coast through, biding our time from when the summer heat abates in October until it cooks up again in May.

This winter, however, has seen an extremely rare white Christmas, and then yesterday, the most record-breaking snowfall of all, up to nearly a foot across Dallas, Fort Worth, and our sprawling exurbs.

The photo above was taken yesterday, when the snow was only half as deep as it is today. Even though we have much more snow now, the streetscape isn't nearly as pretty. Yards and streets are littered with branches and limbs that have fallen from the weight of so much snow, and things are considerably messy. It’s a sticky, wet, thick snow, which while ideal for snowmen (our neighbor's is probably nearly 7 feet tall), has decimated our heavily-treed neighborhood.

Late yesterday, two limbs crashed down onto the end of our driveway, and the 50-foot-tall magnolia in the back yard lost several major limbs. In other parts of the country, losing limbs off of trees is an inconvenience. Here in Texas, trees are our major source of protection from the summer sun, and many people value big trees over a lush lawn. So seeing the damage around the yard was hard – but at least, nothing fell onto the house.

This morning, I went out to clear away the driveway, and was making very good progress. Despite losing two limbs, the tree canopy over the driveway remained full. All of sudden, a telltale cracking and popping of limbs about to fall struck me with fear. I was right underneath them! As fast as I could scramble, I charged the opposite way, towards the garage, but with all of the snow and slush on the concrete driveway, I couldn't establish a solid footing. I found myself sprawling arms-first into the slush, as two more large branches exploded onto the driveway where I had just been standing.

Years ago, lightening struck that tree, and it hasn't performed well in storms since. Wind and rain have battered it considerably, but yesterday’s snowfall more than took its toll. I’m not sure if there will be enough remaining to make it worth keeping – with all of the snow still on it, making a determination is rather difficult. At any rate, a neighbor who owns a landscaping business just happened to be driving by, and said he’d clear away everything for $100. Sold!

Snow Daze

From Virginia to New England this week, snow has also been the big topic, and maybe instead of a snow scene from Texas, a photo from a tropical paradise would be more enjoyable – for all of us! However, we have winter for a reason, even if some of that reason is to make us appreciate the other seasons all the more!

I remember a winter years ago, when my family lived in Upstate New York, when the snow was so high it was above our kitchen window. You could look out the window, and see just a bluish frost. Another winter, my brother and I built impressive forts in the huge snowbanks down at the end of our long driveway. I remember it was so cold, we carried pans of water from the house down to the forts and reinforced our structures with ice! The next day, we were in the house when I heard a snowplow coming down the road... and then the hollow, muffled “crunch” as the plow hit the iced forts. I’m sure the snowplow driver thought he had hit our mailbox, although he’d never hit it before. Needless to say, Mom had neither realized where exactly we had built our forts, nor would she allow them to be rebuilt when she heard my brother and me lamenting the destruction.

Indeed, I think kids get far more out of wintertime than adults to. Kids don’t have to get up at 5am to dig out the driveway. Kids don’t have to drive in the winter precipitation or worry about too much snow on the roof. And best of all, kids get snow days from school – what fun those are! You can play in the snow and come inside for some hot soup mom has made. Sure, grown-ups can go skiing and ice fishing, but by far, kids get the better end of the deal.

Life's Cycle

For people who live "up North", wintertime is the season around which they plan their year. For example, if you built a house, you automatically built a steeply-pitched roof in anticipation of snowfall accumulations, and some roofs have built-in shields and spikes to prevent ice buildup. In rural areas, mailboxes are set away from the road, to give room for snowplow blades. Everything is insulated, even before it became tax-deductible, except winterized buildings are also taxed at a higher rate. Many towns build sidewalks further away from the streets, to allow for snowbanks. Exclusive new homes are built with heated driveways and mudrooms with plenty of storage for bulky coats.

Here in Texas, life tends to rotate the opposite direction, with summer being the season that dominates the year. Air conditioning is standard equipment in cars, homes, businesses, stores – everything! Eaves of roofs are wider to help shield homes from the sun. You think twice about wearing dark colors during the summertime, you can skip buying coats every year, short sleeves stay in the closet year-round, and insulation is meant to keep the heat out, not in.

Still, even in Texas, we get cold snaps and snow that, like yesterday, can wreak havoc on ordinary life. Our neighborhood looks like a disaster zone, with limbs resting on cars, laying across roofs, and even one whole tree that fell over, slicing right through a two-level wooden playset (maybe the kids in that family are hating winter right about now?). People "up North" might scoff at our comparatively wimpy trees and amazement at all the snow, but hey - who's better at living in months of 100-degree heat? Well, nobody, actually; but at least that's what we brag about, instead of how much snow we get each winter.

Yes, a photo of a tropical paradise would be nice, and being there in person right now might be even nicer.

But then again, maybe not... That heat will be here before you know it. And don't believe any Texan when they say, "but it's a DRY heat"!

Super-Bad Super Bowl Ads

Sunday night’s television coverage of the Super Bowl provided the annual event its largest viewing audience in history. Forgive the New York analogy, but the Super Bowl is the Times Square of television, isn’t it? It’s the one place where you can attract the attention of the most people at one time. Replace the traffic and subways with the game, and replace the billboards and neon with commercials, and you’ve got the intersection of Broadway and 42nd Street right in your living room.

Sometimes, the two teams who end up playing in the Super Bowl don’t draw the national audience the NFL might prefer. Undaunted, the NFL began pitching the game’s commercial time to advertisers as, well, the Times Square of television. Madison Avenue has risen to the challenge, tucking their elite talent between snippets of the game in an arrangement that has become famous in its own right.

Reviled throughout the year, commercials suddenly become their own desired genre. The game sometimes risks becoming a sideshow as thirty-second vignettes manage to keep viewers entertained even after we know which team will win. Indeed, those of us who gathered to watch the big game Sunday were treated to the NFL’s idea of a jolly good time, wrapped up in a slick package of marketing with some football thrown in for good measure.

Get Your Game On

I am not a football fan, so only rarely will the game trump the commercials in entertainment value for me. In our little group Sunday, I was quite content that we watched repeats of all the commercials, but hardly any game replays. It’s the one thing you know everybody in the party will watch – the advertisements. And what do you think generated the most conversation: the ads, or the game?

This year, the controversy over Tim Tebow’s ad had far more punch before the game than the actual commercial aired after the kickoff. Kudos went to the Denny’s Grand Slam chickens for providing a fair amount of hilarity. But the thing I noticed most about the commercials in general centered on their blatant disrespect for wholesome gender roles and senior citizens, and goofy, overt sexuality. I don’t know about you, but I was embarrassed to watch some of them in mixed company.

Yesterday, the day after, a considerable amount of discussion took place in the blogosphere regarding the vilification and/or objectification of women in many of the commercials. However, these discussions seemed to occur mostly among feminists who were furious at the gratuitous overgeneralizations portrayed in the ads. But just because feminists were the largest audience offended doesn’t mean they don’t have a point. Actually, I think more people should have been offended.

We Know What They Weren't Thinking

Obviously, it’s not just the commercials at fault, but the mindset to which the creators of these commercials are attempting to appeal. It’s the lowest common denominator at work again, and while few ad agencies managed to maintain any dignity Sunday night, it’s questionable whether any were even trying to begin with.

For some men, the Dodge “Man's Last Stand” commercial probably resonated more strongly than its feminist detractors would like to hear. I can’t deny I know of several guys who are henpecked this way by their significant others. However, the balance of authority and submission in a healthy relationship doesn’t have to get blown out of proportion if the couple respect each other in the first place, so is Dodge saying they make cars for wimps?

Dove’s sensuous mans’ bath might have been a good introduction for their products if it didn’t actually slam their target audience at the same time. Of course, that’s assuming they were marketing their masculine soap products to men; maybe they were trying to get women to buy these items and subversively stock the shower stall with them. Either way, Dove missed the mark with both women and men in our group.

And what was up with CareerBuilder’s idea for having people wander around in their underwear? Does winning customers for a job site now mean grossing them out with your ad? Not only was it immature and in bad taste, but how do middle-aged exhibitionists in briefs and bras make your product compelling? If CareerBuilder’s employees watched this commercial on their office computers, couldn't they be fired for sexual harrassment? Our group was so disgusted watching it that although we’ll remember “CareerBuilder”, it won’t be for the purpose of respecting their resume service.

Correct me if I’m wrong, Madison Avenue, but to me, most of the drivel passing for commercials seemed to have been contrived by poorly-educated interns raised on little more than MTV and pop-tarts. Some executives older than they try to look and fighting to maintain relevance among the flood of marginal marketing school grads apparently gave obscene budgets to their vapid proteges to regurgitate the prepubescent drivel they consider self-expression. How accurate is my guess?

If women stripping in front of Danica Patrick is being creative, then I guess beer jokes about little women fit right in. Punching an old guy in the groin when you spy a VW is hilarious, isn’t it? Tackling Betty White and Abe Vigoda seems relatively tame after Tim Tebow does it to his own mother in a tired football theme betraying a woeful lack of creativity.

Does a Hyundai SUV symbolize financial prudence by its driver pulling up outside a Las Vegas casino? What do animated stuffed animals and a sock puppet dancing provocatively have to do with a kid riding safely in the back seat, anyway? Is it artistic expression for a beautiful woman to send a suggestive photo of herself via her phone, or is it just porn when teenagers do it?

Accepting Bad Behavior Isn't Acceptable

Now, I don’t look to commercials for lessons in grace and good manners. But neither do I expect them to be so insulting – to my intelligence, as well as my morals. Where is the respect for elders? Where is the virtue of Godly womanhood and manhood – or even simple civility? Don’t we have an epidemic of “sexting” among teenagers today? If a husband doesn’t respect his wife, should he be rewarded with a V8-powered Chrysler product?

A lot of people will simply wave their hand and say it’s all just in fun. You can’t stifle creativity, especially just because you don’t like how it’s expressed. These companies paid a lot of money to make and air these commercials, so they must know what they’re doing. After all, they’ve gotta keep pushing the envelope to keep people watching.

After Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake pushed the envelope way too far during their Super Bowl half-time romp several years ago, the NFL begrudgingly admitted their flagship presentation should still be family entertainment. But we all know the NFL couldn’t care less about family entertainment. They want beer-guzzling blue-mouthed skirt-chasers watching their games, leering at gratuitous shots of gyrating cheerleaders. They want guys who may or may not want to drink responsibly, drive recklessly on a closed course, or talk to their doctor before using any medication. They want an audience who thinks and acts simplistically, with self-gratification as the end goal. Why? Because that’s the kind of audience the NFL can easily deliver to advertisers, and that’s the kind of audience advertisers know they can manipulate.

If Virtue is so Valuable, Why Can't It Sell?

It may be that morals and ethics just don’t sell. Google made an attempt with their commercial chronicling the dating, marriage, and maternity of a search engine customer, although I wonder if they threw in the Paris church search more as another product demo than an endorsement of getting married before starting a family. And the Tebow ad, heralded by his fans as a must-see, fell flatter than Tim’s mom after her son’s sack of her, which was weird on so many levels. What were they trying to say?

I’m not calling for a return to the old cigarette commercials with painted canvas backdrops, or for the censorship police to cull everything that isn’t politically correct. Audi may just have had the most clever ad with the green police arresting a cop for using a Styrofoam cup – probably one of Al Gore’s fondest dreams for our country.

It’s just that after seeing such a dismal parade of sexist, ageist, immoral, and downright explicit commercials, I felt like one of those shrill Denny’s chickens, screeching in horror at today’s Grand Slam promotion.

Of course, I liked the astronaut chicken the best – its screeching was absorbed in the wonderful, silent void of space.

Begin With the Content of Character

 

Back when I was in graduate school, I interned one summer for the City of New York. Although my program was urban planning, I ended up in one of the first welfare-to-work programs in North America. And although the internship lasted only three months, what an eye-opener it proved to be! 

The official name of my department was The City of New York Human Resources Administration Office of Employment Services Work Experience Management B.E.G.I.N. Program, or NYC HRA OES WEM BEGIN. 

Whew! 

“B.E.G.I.N.” stood for “Begin Employment Gain Independence Now”, and it was headquartered in a faded beaux-arts monolith between a then-gritty Union Square and exquisite Gramercy Park. At first, I didn’t know anything about it, or social work in general, but a city employee who lives in my aunt’s Brooklyn co-op thought it would be a good resume filler. I’d have my own assistant (a public high school student) and the opportunity to attend special intern meetings at City Hall. 

 

When I arrived, B.E.G.I.N. had been going about a year, with the objective of weaning welfare recipients off of public assistance and into the workforce. Its comprehensive scope extended from English language education and basic job skill classes to one-on-one job placement services, provided through a sprawling network of sites across the city.

Being an intern, my responsibility was to compose a sort of “other perspective” of what and how they were doing. I attended executive meetings and made site visits across Manhattan, interacting with a surprisingly dedicated and diverse group of staffers trying to make a difference. 

 

Stories From the Front Lines 

 

One day, security called my boss and told us the building was in lock-down because an angry welfare recipient visiting a lower floor had brandished a gun, threatened a social worker, and stormed up a stairwell to elude guards. Another day, in one of the building’s once-elegant stairwells, I passed two welfare recipients... well... being very friendly.

Then I lost my sweet, quiet teenage intern when she was sexually harassed by a clerk in the employment office, and my boss couldn’t get him to apologize because his union refused. 

I hated visiting the lower client service floors because they were always jammed with people who were confused, loud, angry, smelly; children cried in fright at the cacophony, with city clerks and social workers physically and emotionally drained by it all. 

 

One bright morning, I found my way west of the Port Authority bus terminal to a dilapidated city building where ESL classes were being conducted. I sat in on a session in a big, airless room where Hispanic, Russian, and Bangladeshi immigrants – mostly women, mostly in their 30’s or older – were smiling and laughing along with their gregarious instructor. Their good nature filled the dark hallways of that decrepit structure, although I never understood what was so funny.

My boss and his staff made a big deal out of my visit to a client site in Harlem, me being a white boy in what was then still very much a ghetto. I actually didn't know what to expect. I stepped out of the subway onto the platform, immediately engulfed in a swarm of police officers. I learned later that a major drug bust had just gone down, and mine was the first train allowed to stop in the station. After that auspicious welcome, I briskly walked down 125th Street and found the client site, a remodeled walk-up that boasted new carpeting, paint, light fixtures, furniture… but no clients. Actually, I think one came in before I left. I remember one of the social workers saying they were having a hard time getting welfare recipients to keep their appointments. Apparently, the idea of transitioning from welfare to work hadn’t yet gotten a lot of buy-in from clients there.

Contrasted with Harlem was my visit to the “Yorkville” site on east 34th Street, several blocks from Macy’s. I would call this neighborhood Murray Hill, not Yorkville; nevertheless, east 34th Street as a neighborhood was mostly middle-class with public housing mixed in. This location was bustling with clients, although the building itself was decorated in the typical grime, grays, and dim light of most city offices. It was so busy, in fact, that I couldn’t visit with the staff who were to show me around.

Our offices in the beaux-arts pile provided interest as well. One long-suffering manager – I’ll call her Martha - headed up part of the program from her corner of our long suite. Martha seemed to spend her entire day on the phone with people trying to get out of having to go to work. Often, I would hear her on the phone – in her nasal Queens accent – with the same guy (who I’ll call Arthur) with whom she had a long-running struggle. You see, not only did Arthur target Martha for his many complaints, but Arthur had gotten ahold of then-governor (Mario) Cuomo’s private phone number, and occasionally he would chastise Cuomo personally about having to find a job. Arthur also had learned one of the office numbers for then-mayor Dinkins, and he’d call Dinkins' staff with the same complaint. The staff for Cuomo and Dinkins would then call Martha – and Martha would call Arthur and tell him to quit bothering the mayor and governor - they weren't going to give him any waivers. It was a silly, farcical circle of phone calls and veiled threats through which Martha patiently suffered. Once, Martha told me that she’d told Arthur, “Do you realize, with your skills at finding out private phone numbers, needling major politicians, deceiving your caseworker, and constantly whining about this program, you could be making a killing on Wall Street with less effort than you’re using trying not to work?!”

Coloring Between the Lines 

Now, I’m not going to draw the simplistic conclusion that clients of a particular race were working harder to get out of welfare and into mainstream employment. If I remember correctly, Arthur was white. The secretaries for both my boss and the director of B.E.G.I.N. were both former welfare recipients; one was black and the other Hispanic. Both of them were actually earning LESS working full-time for the city than they were getting in welfare benefits, but they both were trying to break the welfare cycle as single parents. One of them, Madeline, I saw years later on the Lexington Avenue subway line. She got on the same car as me at Union Square Station. I went over to her, she recognized me, and we chatted until our stops came. She was still working, still with B.E.G.I.N., and instead of a jaded welfare recipient, was now a jaded taxpayer. Which, in my book, is a success story.

So... Did It Work? 

B.E.G.I.N. began in 1989, and I worked there during the summer of 1990, when it was still fresh and full of optimism – a rare quality in any New York City employee. 20 years on, what has history told us about this then-groundbreaking program? Has it worked? How many New Yorkers have been moved from welfare to work?

Well, of course, a lot of the answer depends on who is running the statistics. And like any other over-used terminology, “welfare” can mean different things based on government classifications and agencies. Still, the number that seems to stick for New York City is approximately 350,000 people on welfare, down from nearly one million back when I worked at B.E.G.I.N. 

So, how much of the drop can be attributed to B.E.G.I.N.? Again, a lot of the answer depends on who you ask, but of the 650,000 people weaned from welfare in the past 19 years, the best number I could find in B.E.G.I.N.’s favor is 100,000 success stories. Most experts agree that a combination of programs like B.E.G.I.N., a relatively healthier economy and job creation during New York’s recent boom years, different counting methods, more stringent eligibility rules, and an increasingly complex application process can all be attributed for the welfare decline.

But what about the cost? What does that translate into when factoring in the cost of the program? How much are these people earning now? Do they earn incomes that afford them private housing? Are they working in New York City, or have they taken what NYC provided them to another city in another state? How many of these people were recent immigrants who likely would have worked hard to make it in their new country, or how many had been welfare recipients for years?

Valued By the Content of Their Character 

So the numbers don't tell the whole tale - at least, not yet. What lesson I think can be learned from this, however, is a lesson preached by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and which no reasonable person can deride. 

It's from the same Lincoln Memorial speech from which I quoted earlier, his resounding "I Have A Dream" speech: 

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character". 

Being "judged... by the content of their character". If King wanted that for his children, surely he wanted that for his race and for his country. Not that people who are on welfare don't have integrity or are of low character content - or are of a specific race. What the phrase means is that people with integrity act upon that integrity in the best way they can with the opportunities they are given - or find despite obstacles. 

Whatever our race, if we were on welfare, and had the opportunity to transition from welfare to work, our moral obligation would be to take advantage of that opportunity. We are individuals, but we are part of a society, whether we like it or not.  However, depending on the circumstances, some people may not rise out of poverty and may need some form of welfare to survive. These are the people for whom our society needs to care and remember.  It's what a moral society does.

We want to be judged by the content of our character, and employment contributes to character (sometimes the hard way!). If we as a society can transition to having a legitimate safety net - either through our churches or through other civic organizations - race and ethnicity won't be a factor as much as content of character. 

Those with integrity will look for a way up, just as those with integrity assist those who need it. 

Poverty, like wealth, is not wrong, or a sin; it's what you do (or don't do) with it that could be.  And that often helps define the content of our character.

_____

Update:  I've written more extensively about my internship experience here.

The Woman By the Side of the Road

I was actually working on a post about poverty, racism, and classism in America, but towards the end of the morning, I got the bright idea of paying my respects to the Arlington police officer killed in the line of duty last week (see earlier post, "Death of an Officer").

The funeral for Craig Story took place this morning at a mega-church south of Arlington, and the funeral motorcade’s route from the church to a north Arlington cemetery came up a freeway near my home. I knew of a spot on a bridge over the freeway where I could watch the motorcade and the impressively long lines of police vehicles that usually accompanied police funerals.

So, I threw some cookies and a banana into a plastic baggie, grabbed a coat, and drove to the bridge. Being unemployed, you can just take off and do spur-of-the-moment things like this.

As I turned the corner near the bridge, I saw there were already some emergency vehicles parked on it with their lights on. A couple of passenger vehicles were also parked, and a small group of civilians and uniformed civil servants had already formed. I parked, got out of my car, and was stunned by the velocity of the wind that swept across the bridge! I was glad I had brought a jacket.

I had also brought a large American flag, which I hoped to suspend from the bridge’s railings. A fireman and I tried fastening it, but the wind was so strong, we didn’t think anything we had would really secure it. So three of the firemen held onto it, and even though the wind prevented it from flying freely, drivers speeding below us on the freeway could still see the stars and stripes undaunted by the gale.

Eventually, we saw the traffic in the freeway’s northbound lanes begin to dwindle as cops further down the freeway began closing off entrance ramps in preparation for the motorcade’s passing. Finally, the northbound lanes were empty, still, and quiet. Meanwhile, the northbound service road paralleling the freeway quickly became jammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic.

After waiting some more, in the distance our little group could see a moving glob of red pulsating lights. As they crested a nearby hill, we could distinguish a long, snaking line of police motorcycles – over 200 in the first group, one of the firemen heard through his radio. The line of motorcycles, two abreast in the center lane, snaked down the hill and under our bridge, and kept coming, and coming.

Traffic in the southbound lanes, which had been flowing normally up until now, began to slow dramatically as many drivers, realizing what was happening, began pulling out of the main lanes and stopping.

Several southbound drivers got out of their cars and stood quietly as the line of motorcycles kept cresting the hill and coming towards us, lights flashing, two by two. Those of us on the bridge marveled at how long it took those 200 motorcycles to pass. I wasn’t looking at my watch, but considering they were traveling at a rather slow, dignified speed, I’d say maybe it took five minutes. That’s a long time when you’re standing on a bridge in a strong wind, watching the flashing lights continuing to crest the distant hill.

When the motorcycles had passed, the hearse and a number of stretch limousines came by. All of the uniformed police officers and firemen on the bridge were standing stiff at attention in a salute. No one said anything.

Then came another impressive line of police vehicles with officers representing various parts of the state. They came from towns I’d never heard of, plus some close to home, like Cedar Hill, University Park, and a lot from Fort Worth. Standing as I was on the bridge, right over the center lane, I couldn’t make out most of the names that were on the sides of the police cars, but a woman standing near me was calling them out, almost like she was taking inventory.

Situated as we were in such a prominent spot, all of the passengers in vehicles going beneath us could see us, and many of them waved to us or took our picture. A few cops whipped their sirens. Sometimes, as the motorcade would slow down ahead, we could tell the drivers further back were paying too much attention to us, and they’d have to slam on their brakes because they weren’t watching the vehicle in front of them. At least a couple of times, a squad car had to veer off to the right to avoid rear-ending another vehicle. Wouldn’t that have been embarrassing – going to the funeral of a fallen fellow officer and rear-ending another cop in the motorcade?

It was during the long parade of police cars that I noticed a woman who had parked and stopped on the southbound side of the freeway. She had pulled off onto the shoulder back when the first motorcycles had passed, and gotten out of her car. But now, as I looked again at her, I realized she was standing still, like she was at attention. I pointed her out to another person on the bridge, and we watched her occasionally as other drivers would pull over; some would get out of their cars, but they would then drive on to whatever appointment they needed to keep.

Not this lady: she appeared to a shortish, middle-aged black woman driving a late-model silver Chevrolet Malibu. She didn’t move – as the motorcade passed her in the opposite direction, she just stood there, traffic in her lanes crawling past her just a few feet away.

And then I realized – she was shifting her arm, and she repositioned it in a salute. She had been standing at attention, saluting the entire time! In the wind. Without a coat. Obviously on her way someplace, otherwise she wouldn’t have been traveling on the freeway. But she felt obligated to stop and stand in salute, for the entire procession.
She stayed that way until the very last vehicles in the motorcade had passed by, with regular traffic following close behind.

Those of us on the bridge were impressed. Not only at the sight of all those motorcycles, police cars, fire trucks, at least one SWAT armored vehicle, limousines, and a surprising number of luxury cars for a police officer’s funeral. We were also impressed by that lone lady in the southbound lanes, standing still at attention, with a salute, and undoubtedly, a story.

Was she the mother of a cop? The wife of a cop? Was she a cop herself? Obviously, she had some sort of deeper connection to the funeral procession than most of the rest of us had. Maybe she was simply deeply civic-minded, or maybe the police had helped her deal with a tragedy of her own.

The idiot driver who caused officer Story’s death should have watched this woman. Respectful, and patient; two virtues she displayed without knowing we were watching her. Two virtues that speeder could have employed that would have avoided the very funeral whose motorcade we watched today.

Death of an Officer and Lack of Gentle Men

"Speeding Driver Causes Officer’s Death"

By all accounts, Arlington (TX) police officer Craig Story was trying to apprehend a speeding motorist during yesterday morning’s rush hour on one of our city’s busiest streets, but Story died after his motorcycle clipped a school bus and exploded.

While I don’t normally like sensational headlines like the one above, I believe it is still technically correct. I mean, when our time comes, nothing can stop it, but the speeding driver served as the trigger.

None of the news accounts I’ve read mentions whether or not the speeder was ever caught. But as our society moves further and further away from the ethos of respecting law enforcement, I suppose these types of incidents will continue to claim fine officers. Story became the seventh officer to die in the line of duty in our fair city.

Did I mention that Story, who was white, also knew Spanish and was being tutored to better serve Arlington’s significant Vietnamese population? During his 7-year career, Story had received 19 commendations and a nomination for his precinct's “officer of the year”. And his wife recently discovered she is pregnant with their second child. About the only good news in all of this is that nobody on the bus was physically injured, although they witnessed it all.

No one can pretend police work isn’t dangerous. Story and his wife probably knew the risks. But obviously, the speeding driver didn’t care about anything except eluding that cop.

Either way, that driver will have to live with this for the rest of their life. You know, there are easier ways to learn a lesson… like just paying the speeding ticket.

_______________________

Can't We Reason Together?

Have you ever heard of Tim Challies? I hadn’t until today, when I read his online review of the book, “Can We Rock the Gospel?” by John Blanchard and Dan Lucarini. You’ll recall that I included comments on that book in three posts about the church music wars that I wrote last week.

I didn’t think I would be returning to this subject for quite a while. Believe me, I’m well aware that the majority of evangelical Christians oppose my position on this issue, and I found it quite exhausting just to write those three posts and be as cheerful as I was about it.

However, this issue obviously hasn’t left my mind, otherwise I wouldn’t have found myself at Challies’ review, getting a deep, sinking feeling in my stomach as I read his blog, http://www.challies.com/.

Not that the deep, sinking feeling came from Challies’ relatively insubstantial review itself, because it didn't seem we had read the same book.

No, those awful, sinking feelings started when I perused the reader comments following the review. I probably shouldn’t have been caught off-guard, but I was. In their comments, many of the readers belittled and sneered at Blanchard and Lucarini (whom I refer to as B&L) in a brazen display of arrogance and condescension.

One person claimed the “lack of logic” by B&L was “pathetic”. Someone told B&L to “get over it”.

As the replies multiplied down the page, however, readers began to belittle not only B&L, but each other as well! Objectivity and sensitivity were lost on these people as they used the anonymity of the Internet to dwell on the very argument B&L were trying to avoid: personal preference. The discord, negative insinuations, and occasional blasphemy actually upset me.

What characteristics of this conflict elicit such malevolence? Has rock music become such a sacred cow in churches that now it's the "classicists" who must plead for their rights?

Most of the people who posted comments on Challies’ blog have not displayed the love, gentleness, and meekness that are part of the Fruits of the Spirit. In addition, it doesn't seem any of them have actually participated in a God-centered, Biblically-based classical worship service. I’m not talking just “traditional” with fluffy old Gospel songs like “I Come to the Garden”. Nor am I talking about high church services where the pomp and circumstance is all they've got.

I’m talking about a church service that strips away so much of what we see and hear every other moment of the week to help recalibrate one’s attention from self to God. I’m talking about music that provides a setting of exquisite exaltation, so that God can be worshipped “in the splendor of holiness”. Is classical worship the best there is? No, but I believe until we get to Heaven, it's the best we've got. And isn't the best we've got what God asks for?

“Can We Rock the Gospel?” serves as an invitation to consider one of the most prevalent fallacies in our day. Maybe it’s not going to win a Nobel Prize for literature. But that’s no reason to be so disdainful. Being disrespectful towards fellow believers is a sin that may even belie where one's true spirit rests – not with a sincere desire to proclaim God’s majesty, but with one's own narcissistic tastes.

Let's even step aside (not outside!) from B&L's book and Challies' review: not that it's likely, but how much better is it to be wrong on this topic even after earnestly seeking the truth, than to be right on points but blaspheming the Gospel in your treatment of others?

Oh, and one more thing: my Bible study group heard this week from a former member who is now working in a closed country. She related to us the story of a Christian church in her town allowing the indigenous tribe to use their ceremonial drums at the opening of a new building. When the beating of the drums began, evil spirits - true story! - began shrieking from the crowd, wanting to know why the ceremonial drumming had returned to rouse them.

I'm just sayin'...

I Want Happy Pilots

Yesterday marked the resumption of labor talks between the parent company of American Airlines, AMR Corporation, and its flight attendants union. Considering the fact that negotiations on a new contract began in 2008, it’s either remarkable that the two sides are still talking to each other, or it’s shameful that it’s taken this long to reach an agreement.

About a century ago, unions actually symbolized progress in this country, as workers joined forces to stop worker exploitation by industrialist power brokers. Unions pushed for humane working conditions, decent pay, and an end to child labor, among other things, all in an effort to make workplaces safer and jobs worth keeping.

But like anything else, too much of a good thing can wreak havoc on the system it’s supposed to help. For example, a significant share of the blame for the implosion of America’s auto industry rests with unions that demanded much but delivered little. New York's transit unions, specifically for the Long Island Railroad, run notorious benefits rackets for their members. There are critics of airline unions who say that the worker bees at companies like American Airlines just don’t understand they’re asking for more than the airlines can pay. Times have changed, and the industry has to cut back and do more with less.

Do the Airline Unions Have A Point?

That argument, as a plea to the workers for joining with management on common ground, succeeded once before, right after the 9/11 attacks, when the entire airline industry was suddenly in free-fall. Flight attendants, aircraft maintenance workers, and pilots all agreed to reductions in pay and benefits to help American Airlines ride out the air travel bust.

However, as economic conditions began to improve, some greedy executives started getting bonuses that amounted to millions of dollars. While that payoff made perfect sense to MBAs used to Wall Street-esque "compensation", the unions thought they had been bamboozled, and wanted their lost pay restored.

So far, it hasn’t been, and that’s one of the problems keeping the flight attendants’ union in talks for two years. But the real battle won’t be with the cabin crews, it will be with the people in the cockpit.

Pilots Get No Respect

Talk about an under-appreciated workforce: the pilots at American Airlines have watched along with the flight attendants as corporate accountants and other inner-circle golden children at HQ have gotten their millions in bonuses. When the pilots – often as well-educated, professional, and highly-qualified as the white-collar pencil-pushers in corporate – tried to complain at the inequity, they were told, “oh, these guys in corporate are really valuable to AMR. They tricked us into signing employment contracts with these huge bonuses in them. We need to pay them all this money, or they’ll leave us and go to another company where they can get even more money. That’s how the game is played.”

While that argument works in other industries, it likely won’t fly with airline pilots. I'm no aviation expert, but it seems the airline industry may be unique because its business model isn’t the typical power pyramid. Most companies have authority and responsibility that runs from the top down, and executives in such companies expect to be paid in accordance with the value they provide the organization. However, at an airline, only one employee cohort stands between life and death every minute of every day, and that cohort receives extensive, exhaustive, and continuous training to remain at the peak of their game and literally keep their customers alive.

It's Not Rocket Science (Technically)

Think about it. An airline’s business is flying planes. The more people you fly safely, the more money you make. Here’s the trick question: who does the flying?

Plane by plane, one to three people in a cockpit fly dozens and hundreds of passengers whose very lives actuarians can quantify in dollar amounts. Hour by hour, as hundreds of planes crisscross the globe, an airline’s very existence hangs not on the marketing presentation going on in Conference Room B, nor the finance committee’s executive retreat in Vail, nor the human resources roundtable on gender roles in the workplace. American Airlines day-to-day existence as a company depends squarely upon each and every pilot in every cockpit of every plane in service.

Can you think of any other industry with a class of workers whose job is so critical yet, surprisingly, so marginalized?

"We Love To Fly, And It Shows"

I don’t know about you, but when I fly, I want happy pilots in that cockpit! I want pilots who think American Airlines is treating them wonderfully. Obviously, their lives won't be perfect, but I want pilots who have trained hard and have the professionalism to be able to handle all sorts of in-flight situations. I want pilots who are rewarded for their skills, encouraged to remain diligent, and respected for the value they bring their employer.

When I fly, I don’t care if my pilot’s compensation doesn’t fit the conventions of corporate America. If an airline thinks their airfares will be too high if they pay pilots what they’re really worth, then maybe some trimming among the headquarters’ ranks needs to happen instead. Isn’t part of the capitalist system based on workers being paid what they’re worth to the company? Who decides who’s worth what?

Now, I’ve heard the stories about pilots earning $200,000 and flying one or two trips a month. I’m not saying that the pilots union doesn’t need to clean house, get rid of scheduling loopholes, and get their members to fly right. After all, my position here depends heavily on pilots being professionals, and American Airlines has a right to expect fixes to valid problems in any union.

Neither am I saying that all ivy-leaguers and MBAs are bad people. Their expertise helps airlines run more effectively, and contributes to the many ancillary responsibilities airlines have to their employees, the Federal Aviation Administration, and the flying public.

However, the fact remains that no headquarters executive can save the lives of anybody aboard a jetliner going through windshear. There’s not one person at any AMR facility anywhere in the world that can land a plane with only one engine. Do you know why? BECAUSE THEY’RE NOT FLYING THE PLANES! The people upon whom rests the very survival of any airline are the pilots.

They’re literally the lifeblood of an airline.

And every time they get into the cockpit, shouldn't they be as happy as they can be?