Bunt

I really don’t want to drag the baseball metaphors out too long, but right now I live in a town that is absolutely out of control with Phillies phever. I know other towns have gotten excited about their wins, but I suspect that this town is a little over the top in general – so winning has made our city almost a caricature of itself.

One thing about the final game that I found intriguing was Jimmy Rollins’ bunt. I know that bunting is a regular part of baseball – a strategy to move a runner along the bases – and I also know that a good player does whatever the manager asks him to. That said, I kept thinking to myself, after watching Jimmy lay down a perfect bunt that moved Jenkins to third, that it must be CRAZY difficult in the middle of the World Series to give up your shot at heroism. There is a World Series MVP award, after all, and I cannot remember a time it was given to the best bunter. Home run hitters, on the other hand, have often won the coveted prize. Rollins knows he can do it, having hit clutch homeruns in other games, and the desire to just SWING BIG must have been burning inside him as he stood at the plate with 50,000 people chanting his name.

But he didn’t. Swing big, that is. He did sacrifice his turn at bat, his potential stardom, to advance the runner as the world watched.

Now, I am not martyring dear Jimmy. He’s a baseball player who wanted to win the World Series and so he did what was best for the team, the game and the city. But, man, I would have longed to swing.

I have been doing a lot of big swinging lately (though I’m not necessarily making contact). If you have never met me (those that have can agree or disagree here), I am, well, verbal. By that I mean, I freely express my perspective and I can be difficult to argue with because my mouth works on hyper-drive. I do not always think I’m right, but I think it's fun to test the limits to see if I am, which can be confusing (and a real pain in the butt) for someone trying to relate to me. Perhaps I am an acquired taste.

Lately, though, as people are trying to navigate a complicated election, I am trying to learn to bunt. Believe me, I’m no martyr, but continually trying to hit my argument out of the park may not be the right thing. As a matter of fact, leaders and communicators, far more influential than I, may want to consider some bunting too. God does not need any more MVPs.

There's nothing else to say today

Less than a week

If you are a regular reader of this blog, it is pretty obvious that I tend to lean left on the political spectrum. If you need to skip reading today, I completely understand, but my ideology isn't a bandwagon thing. I have always seen things from this angle, even in the 80s when it was an unfashionable perspective to adhere to at the conservative Christian college that I happily attended. Earlier this week, an old college friend that I Twitter with, made an interesting comment. He wrote, “I bet no one would care if a preacher endorsed Obama from the pulpit. Bizarre country I live in.”

I did not respond to the Twitter because, well, I don’t really know why – but I have given it considerable thought.

Once before, I mentioned that one of my favorite presidents was Jimmy Carter. This fact inspired some sneering, and emails that generally said, “Oh, poor, poor, idealistic, naive Wendy who has no understanding of the real world.” Now, I like Jimmy Carter because I believe he is a man of peace and I believe that he chose to be transparent in a country that only wants to hear what they want to hear. Jimmy basically committed political suicide, but he's been resurrected to build homes for people through Habitat for Humanity.

So, I started asking myself – can Christians even aspire to be president? I do not believe that we have a Christian candidate (or vice-candidate) this election, but I'm not sure that bothers me. I’m beginning to think that it would be impossible to be a Christian and run for president. I don’t even think Jesus Himself would make it past the primaries, given the crazy system in America.

I mean, what does it mean to be a Christian? Is it defined by being pro-life and pro-heterosexual marriage?

Christian=
Love enemies.
Do not judge.
Tell the truth.
Keep no record of wrongs.
Say only things that build other people up.
Feed the hungry, give to the poor, clothe the naked, visit the sick and imprisoned.
Promote peace.
Do not hoard for yourself, but be generous with time, talent and treasure (btw – I think this is suppose to happen OUTSIDE the church building).
Love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength. Love neighbors too.
Do to others as you would have others do to you.

OK – you get it, right? No one who aspires to honor God in these ways would survive a run for President, in my opinion. How could he or she? So much of the process violates what we intrinsically believe to be of the Gospel.

As a Christian and a voter, I look for a candidate who demonstrates a caring for the things I care about. I deeply care if people have enough to eat. I am deeply distressed over war. I believe nationalism has gone awry and that Americans have become so insular in their thinking that we have forgotten the power of humility and global cooperation. I value diplomacy and the ability to listen. So, I have to watch closely and decide whose thinking is more congruent with my own belief system, and simply realize that it's up to ME to change the world - every day, faithfully - even though I will never sit in the Oval Office.

And while I wholeheartedly support the idea that the unborn have life, I suspect that we have limited the definition for our own convenience and even for political reasons.

For a person to claim that they believe in the sanctity of life is enormous. It is a wide and encompassing issue that would demand pro-lifers be just as concerned with the children who currently live in poverty as with those who are in someone’s womb. It would insist that we help the morbidly obese. The heart of this belief would demand that we protest outside of death row just as much as Planned Parenthood, not too mention adding a passionate voice to support environmental protections. Sanctity of life would care for Africans dying from mosquito bites and whether all people have adequate health care just as much as abortion statistics. I do not believe we have a candidate that is pro-life. I can hardly find Christians who are pro-life.

The good news is, God doesn’t need us to defend Him (or what we perceive as His morality) with our votes. As a matter of fact, I suspect that God hardly cares about Election Day (bold enough for you?) because I believe He’s far more interested in whether we demonstrate the truth of Him - with the way we live out the Gospel - the other 364 days of the year. He's not looking for truth from places where grace has not been realized.

This is not an endorsement - from a pulpit or a blog. This is a simple call for generosity of spirit, for deeper thinking, for demonstrative love, and dare I say, a little idealism.

Scare crows

Walking through the park yesterday, I had the most unusual experience. Several hundred crows occupied a large tree next to the path I was using. They were all vocalizing at once and I stopped as I found myself feeling the definition of cacophony. The moment was overwhelming and loud and chaotic and beautiful. There was no rhyme or reason to the noises, there was no source of disturbance – just hundreds of birds filling the sky with their brand of sound. I lifted my head up, closed my eyes and allowed the texture of what was happening to make a memory inside me.

In the same minute, a gaggle of low-flying geese appeared overhead as well, honking and talking in perfect formation, and, without warning, the crows became unhinged. The sky was instantly filled with both crows and geese as they flew and swerved to miss one another in mid-air, their combined voices almost deafening. Even my dog was looking up, mesmerized by this event we were the only ones fortunate enough to witness.

Before I could take it all in, the birds dispersed and all was quiet again. My attention was drawn to a squirrel dashing through the higher grass, almost as if he had taken a break from his work to watch the boisterous sky as well, but was now back on task, preparing for a fast approaching winter once again. Sunny and I continued on our way.

For the rest of our trek, I pondered what God hears. Does He ever just sit and listen to the cacophony of earth all at once? The laughter of school playgrounds, the cheering at Citizens Bank Park, the gunfire in Iraq, the cries of starving children, the anger of road rage, the mourning of an American Idol whose family is shot to death, the singing in churches, the rapes of the Congo, the crashing of Wall Street, the presidential candidate speeches, the whispered prayers of underground Christians… With all the noise around us, I think it is tempting to believe that God cannot – or will not – hear our individual sounds in the chaos and fear creeps in. Does He know the unique voice that is me?

A friend was sharing with me once and was lamenting the fact that God thought everyone was special. Her exact words were, “How do I know if God thinks I’m special if He thinks everyone is special? In reality, no one is really special at all.” Spoken like someone whose sounds were still so young.

I think that maturity means seeing the bigger picture of the Kingdom, and longs for everyone to feel special. When everyone feels secure in the love and grace that God extends to them, His Kingdom is realized, and peace is established on earth as it is in heaven. I have heard snippets of peace before, but I still wonder what a cacophony of peace would sound like in my ear.

Funny, though, even though I cannot hear it, I keep asking Him to teach me its sounds from a deeper, inaudible place. And often, when I’m there, I become aware of a still Voice that assures me that I am heard after all. Nothing to become unhinged about.

You are what you read

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

- Asphodel, that Greeny Flower

Something in the Way She Moooooves (or doesn't)

I do not listen to him every day, but I have been known to go through a James Taylor phase about once a year. It lasts anywhere from 2 to 4 weeks, and I play his 2-CD live album non-stop.

When my kids are in the car, I always forget that Sweet Baby James starts one of his songs, “Damn, this traffic jam!” It’s actually a great song, the following lines being, “How I hate to be late. Hurts my motor to go so slow. When I get home my supper’ll be cold. Damn, this traffic jam!”

My children look at me with their “Mom, that’s a bad word” look on their faces. I want to say something like, “Yeah, but isn’t that EXACTLY how it feels when you’re stuck in bumper to bumper nonsense?” I don’t say that, of course, because I want them to choose better ways to express real frustration.

Yesterday, I skipped church. Noah, Mia and I decided to visit with Diana in the hospital instead. She has been really struggling, her blood levels sinking to scary lows, and confined to her bed most of the time. She loves my children and they love her back, so hooky somehow seemed right.

On our way into Center City, we encountered serious traffic. We turned on the radio to see how bad the situation was and learned that besides the fact that the Eagles and Phillies played at home yesterday, there was a concert by The Who at the Spectrum and a special event at the Philadelphia Zoo. To make things more complicated, there were two accidents in the east bound lanes and a large 5K race on Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd. At moments, we were at a dead stand still.

We did make it to the hospital, took Diana her laundry and a bag of Munchos for the Phillies game later, and eventually started home. As we left the hospital, we were dismayed to encounter complete congestion in the west bound lanes. This time, however, the radio offered no reason – just the fact that there was no escape. We watched the minutes tick by, sang some songs, told stories, and crept down the highway. After traveling about 6 miles at a snail’s pace, I looked ahead and saw the cars starting to move. I told Noah to watch the shoulder to see what the hold up was, and here is what we saw:

Thankfully, we had Diana’s camera so we could record the GIANT cow on the highway. No accident, no runners, no sporting event – just a gaper delay as cars slowed to see the huge bovine.

Yeah, that's it. Do something out of the ordinary and endure the frustration today just to assure someone that, "You've Got A Friend."

And the winner is...

Todd: "What a stolid choice for the weekend word."

Stolid, indeed.

Weekend Word

Well, it's Friday and the Phillies are off. I think that is a good thing, because they could use a little time to regroup. If you are looking for a restful weekend, I would suggest staying away from Philadelphia over the next three days. Phillies fans do not see themselves as mere fans. No, we are PARTICIPANTS.

So, grab your bat, ask for William Penn's favor, and refuse to leave a man on third. Then click on the word below, read its definition, use it on the person sitting in the stadium next to you, and then put it in a witty and thought-provoking sentence. Post said sentence in the comments section. Do all of this before 10 p.m. est on Sunday evening, because that is when I will choose a winner while I watch the Phils win.

P.S. No anonymous entries will win this week. Just this week, so that I can remain predictably unpredictable.

stolid

They're purple, by the way

I know you already think I reveal too much. Someone once sent me an email wondering if I was going to begin updates on the color of my underwear daily. I don’t think the person meant it to be nice, but I strongly suspect he is a tighty whitey guy – that alone would make anyone cranky.

Regardless, I have a confession to make. I am worn out. I am worn out in almost every way. Physically (I really need extra sleep, but those darn Phillies are in the World Series), emotionally, and mentally - I am profoundly tired. I have been here before, because I tend to live a little too close to the edge of over-extended. I only actually fall off the edge into the Valley of Complete Breakdown once a decade or so, and I’m certainly not anywhere near that cliff right now, but I could consider the idea of going to bed for a week or so with an electric blanket and vanilla cream puffs.

I think that when we choose to participate in real life, it can be awfully draining. A lot of people choose not to, and I suspect they want to avoid the exhaustion of it all – the hardness of opting to know and be known. We stay away from difficult family members or strange coworkers or uncomfortable past relationships. I’m guilty too.

Although there is a healthy self-preservation, a protection from dangerous people and situations, I think we elect our own interests way too often in an effort to feel good (or relaxed or blameless or satisfied or undisturbed). Funny though, over the long haul, I don’t think it feels good at all. At the very best we are left with things unfinished, and at the worst, we are left alone.

Somebody told me to look up love this week. The well-know love passage (1 Corinthians 13) says:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.

I think Paul (the writer) should have added:

Love is hard. Love is worth it.