The Best of 2023 - #1 (New Zealand, first impressions)

When we rolled out of the Auckland international airport, we woke up to a gray dream.  Anna noticed it first.  The highway's side-streets were littered with lava stones and feathery evergreen trees, the sort of landscape for which I think she was destined.  We were riding a large double-decker bus into the heart of the city, our backpacks slung against our knees and our heads weary from so much traveling.

Still, it was beautiful.  Achingly so.  

The clouds lifted in various parts over the hills, and wisps of rain made the city feel so fresh after so much dank air that is the purgatory of international travel.   We had no idea where we were truly headed.  Serpentine roads took us past rugby pitches and soccer fields, through commuter tunnels and past billboards that were just familiar enough:  large media promoting their broadband, cell phone companies, and sports cars.  The language was the same, but none of the brands or logos made sense.  

In front of us were a wall of hotels and business suites.  The sun would break through occasionally, and off in the distance you could catch a glimpse of the wide ocean.  The Pacific.  We had done it.  Twenty some hours of traveling, and we had finally landed in a land we circled first in our imagination.

New Zealand!? 

Why not?  I mean if we had the chance to go anywhere in the world, I mean, anywhere, why not go to the one place that seemed almost unobtainable, a land further than most maps would even chart.

But, here we were.  Auckland.  A city resting in the Pacific.  A city for adventurers and travelers.  Sticking up towards the upper end of the North Island, Auckland is a harbor for harbors.  Sailing ships and big merchant vessels festooned the boardwalks around the city.  Life radiated up and out, volanic hills circling the city like an emerald version of Rome.  From here you could launch out west towards Sydney or northeast towards the other Polynesian islands - Fiji, Somao, Tonga.  

The bus brought us to the base of the Auckland Sky Tower and city center.  What terrible good fortune!  Someone, we had managed to take the one shuttle destined to land us right at our first hotel's doorstep.  And after bumping our way through the Sky City Hotel lobby, trying to track down an ATM, we made our way to The Grand by SkyCity.

Even better, the check-in counter let us into our rooms at the ridiculously early hour of 8:30 am Auckland time, something like a day and a half ahead of our where our bodies had left.  They most have seen the desperation in our faces.

Languishing for rest, they gave us two key cards, and we checked into our room on the sixth floor.  We were determined to keep ourselves up for another few hours at least, determined to beat back the effects of jet lag.  So after dropping our bags and taking a quick shower, we headed back out to the street.  

The air in Auckland in winter seems clean, cleaner than most ofther cities I can remember.  And while big, it's nothing obnoxious.  The city seems decently sized for being the biggest commercial and economic center in New Zealand.  But, what smells I did notice were - easily - the food.

Down the way was a coffee shop selling the things you'd see in any shop around here:  cappuccino, latte, but also this.  A short black.  A tall black.  The place we eventually stopped must have featured a bit of the tall black.  Whatever it was, it was good.  So good.  The deep, smooth, rich flavor of European coffee without a hint of something bitter to ruin it all.  The kind they pour into white, sturdy mugs and that you take into your hands like a sort of sacrament.

Even better, the place we landed for breakfast gave us our first introduction to just how rich and fresh the food in New Zealand is.  It's like it's all farm-to-table fresh.  Ironically (or maybe not surprisingly), we had chosen the "Federal Delicatessan," a knock-off of a New York big-counter place, full of clanging plates, fried potatoes and creamy spreads of lox on toasted bagels.  I opted for the pastrami plate (the "Mish-Mash"), full of those crispy potato chunks along with charred cubes of pastrami and two perfectly over-easy eggs, their orange yolks ready to burst over the plate.  I picked up the "yellow" mustard and drizzled it over the potatoes and hash, not aware that the label actually read "yellow curry mustard."  It was sweet and pugent, good and spicy with just enough zest.  The same went for the ketchup, just enough different than anything you'd find stateside to make us realize we were someplace wonderfully new.

Anna's salmon lox bagel ("The Best Ugly Bagel") was equally delicious, her face softening as she closed her eyes after the first bite.  We knew we were in for a treat.  We knew we had landed someplace special.  We knew we were home. 

If New Zealand was one of the best breakfast plates I'd ever had and all on a random whim and chance drop-in, well, we were going to be okay.  In fact, we were going to be in love.

And such is the first memory I want to capture from 2023.  The one I had waited for so patiently.  The one I hung so much of that word "hope" on.  New Zealand, you did not disappoint.  And this will not be the last time you make the list.   

  

Dirty Kanza 2019 - Somewhere in Middle America

The Legend


There’s a scene in The Force Awakens that’s worth noting.  A pair of young, would-be heroes have just escaped a handful of dangers and are now on course with a destiny larger than either could have imagined.  Fin and Rey are about to face down not only a menacing new threat to the order of the universe.  They are also about to face down their own fears.  They find themselves tiptoeing up to something massive, something demanding.


There they are – standing in front of the Han Solo himself, when Rey asks with something of awe in her voice, “The Jedi were real?”


“I used to wonder about that myself,” says, Han, “I thought it was a bunch of mumbo jumbo, …”  Then he pauses, turns away from them and reminds himself, “the crazy thing is … it’s true … all of it.”


And in that scene, you have the essential allure of why some 2,600 cyclists from all 50 states and 26 different countries descended upon Emporia, Kansas this past weekend.  There are those who have experienced firsthand the trials and tribulations … who have faced it down.  They lean over to you before the race and offer one little bit of advice, “don’t go too hard too fast.”  


And there are those like me and my two friends.  The newbies.  The rookies.  The riders who find themselves tiptoeing up to something massive, something consuming, … something that will alter us.


The Event


The Dirty Kanza is no longer just a bike race.  Maybe it never it was.  It’s an event, an experience. 

As managing director and lover of this area of Kansas, Jim Cummings intentionally wanted to create something that would stretch people and push them to their limits.  In fact, that’s the tag line for the 200 mile version.  Go find your limit.  See what happens to you when you find it.  See if you learn something.  See if you can find a way to push beyond that limit and find something more to make it all the way back to town.


Jim Cummings is the event’s Han Solo, gruff and tender in equal turns, he had already told me everything I would need to know about this event.  He had put it all out there, in interviews over the last few years, in the riders’ mandatory meeting the night before the race, and in everything that went out to us as participants.


This race is an endurance race.


It will test you.


You are responsible for you.


We are not.


This is a self-sustaining ride. 


But, what Jim didn’t say in all of his talk is what might as well have been said.  It’s what I would figure out about three quarters of the way through my ride. 


“No one is going to be out there to give you a ride back, so you better figure out now what the hell you’re going to need to get back home.”


Everyone goes deep in Dirty Kanza.  Everyone.  The pros.  The endurance nuts.  The woman six months removed from chemo.  The guy doing the 200 mile edition with only one leg. 


You add it all up – the hills, the gravel, the miles, the sun, the isolation, the wind, the deprivation – and something is going to start gnawing at you.  Something on you or in you or underneath is going to give way.


If you’re lucky, your bike will hold up.


If you’re lucky, you won’t have a mechanical out there, rendering your bike into a rather heavy walker for miles on end.


But, even if your bike holds up, something will happen.  A blister.  A lack of water.  Maybe even a hallucination.


Yeah, it gets that bad. 


All you have to do is ask my friend, Mallen, but I’ll get that later.


Three Friends


Mallen is who I blame for all of this.  He’s the one who came up with the idea that Brian Bales should register for the Dirty Kanza 2019 lottery, and Bales in turn roped me into the foolishness.


Tip #1 – when an old college friend who flirted with the idea of riding professionally and who has continued to push himself to the extremes physically, suggests you enter an endurance event with him, maybe think twice about it.


Mallen was a beast even when I first met him.  He was a freshman at DePauw when I was a senior, and I was amazed at his girth, his strength.  He came to play football in the trenches of Division III.  But, he discovered a love for cycling and transformed himself from a linemen into a hulking coil of muscle and speed, what is known in cycling terms as a “sprinter.” He went off to Belgium after college to train with the “Euros,” the guys who eat, sleep and you know what this stuff.  It was there he learned the art of elbowing for wheels and grinding out 1000 watt pulls to lead out sprint trains.

Mallen’s the kind of guy who when he does something, he doesn’t do it in moderation.  He does it thoroughly and well and calculated.  In his day job, the place he’s known as Matt Allen, he runs numbers and uses his particular gift of obsession to analyze data trends for a tech company.  In his training rides, he prepares himself by putting himself up against the limit and then doing it again the next day.


Hands down, Mallen was the most prepared of the three of us.  He was the only one who would try to tackle the full 200 miles.  And his goal?  Beat the sun.  Get back to Emporia in just under 17 hours and earn a badge of honor, both literal and figurative. 


He had a mission, and nothing was going to stop him.  Not even that buffalo out there on the prairie.  Again.  Later.


Bales is about as considerate a person I know, and that’s saying a lot.  Bales is the kind of guy who will give you the shirt off his back and then ask if it’s the right size. 


He’s a doctor, but don’t let that fool you.  By this point in his life, he could easily have set himself on course for a life of ease and comfort, but instead he continues to see his calling as a doctor as his opportunity to give back, to instruct, and do the next good thing.


Here’s what you need to know about Brian.  Several months ago he seriously messed up his back riding in the bed of a rickety old truck somewhere off in a less privileged part of the world, giving medical care to a community that otherwise wouldn’t get it.  The ruts and bumps of that distant place twisted his paraspinal muscles and enflamed nerves deep near his spine. 


It got better.


Then it didn’t. 


He had to tone down his training for the Dirty Kanza, and maybe he would have been all right.  But, Bales you remember is not the sort of guy who will think only of himself.


So, there he is the night before he’s to spend over twelve hours driving in a car, and he’s in the emergency room giving care to the patients at Vanderbilt’s hospital.  There’s a guy needing to be moved from the medical stretcher to a bed.  And no one is around at the moment to help.  So, there goes Brian – lifting the patient.


And there goes Brian’s back.


Two hours later, he’ll run home just long enough to throw his prepacked bags into his truck and grit his bike over the edge of his truck only to drive five hours up to South Putnam High School where he will meet with a wince and a hug at 5:30 am in the morning.


Tip #2 – if you’re going to do Dirty Kanza, you might as well do it with friends.  They’re going to need you, and you’re going to need them.


The Journey


Why do we do these things?


What’s the point? 


It’s stupid from one perspective.  Three former athletes traveling out to the middle of nowhere in America, driving over 700 miles or more, all for the sake of spending an entire day on a bike to go literally nowhere.  Seriously, that’s what you do.  If you’re successful you end up in the exact same spot you left.  You don’t do anything out there during the ride except turn some bike pedals over in circles.  It’s not even environmentally friendly, regardless of what you tell yourself.


But you do it for the deeper journey. 


You do it because when you get that email from the race promoters, the one that says, “Congratulations, you’re entered for Dirty Kanza 2019,” something happens.  There’s a clarity that emerges for you, a purpose to get you through a winter in Indiana, something to peg yourself to mentally and physically.


You do it for the simple fact that the tediousness of life demands we find new things to surprise us and challenge us.


And you do it for the opportunity to share the journey with those around you.


I am pleased that I crossed that finish line on Saturday.


But, I am grateful that Brian was there awaiting me, already having packed up his bike and his day as a result of that poor back.  I am grateful he kept bringing me ice-cold rag after ice-cold rag until my socks were socked through and my body had cooled.


I am grateful for the street vendors who doled out five al pastor tacos complete with barbacoa just past the Episcopalian church.  I am grateful for the couple, one from Costa Rica and the other near Reynosa, who offered up chairs next to them in the shade as Brian and I ravenously ate our food.


I am grateful for the trip out to IHOP the night before the race and the chance to sit around and talk about the good old days.  I am grateful for trying not to choke on my harvest grain pancakes as Mallen relayed the time he and Bales built a four-foot snowman in Bob Dinn’s room back in the fraternity house at Delta Upsilon – lugging heaps of snow in fifty-gallon trash bins up a flight of stairs.


I am grateful for the guy who rode up next to me just before the first checkpoint and told me he had just been cleared by his doctor to ride outside again.  He had broken his pelvis some months ago, and here he was on his second ride out doors in the past week.  And all he had to do was go another 50 miles to finish this one.


I am grateful for that vista on top of some hill I had to walk to get to the top of.  I am grateful for the immediate friends I had around me as we all took out our phones and snapped pictures of endless green.  I’ve never been somewhere so high up where no matter where I looked, I couldn’t see a water tower, a petrol station, or some highway running through the land.


And I am grateful for that guy at mile 82 who pulled up his truck at an intersection so he could give out free water and cans of beer for those truly in dire straits. 


On the way home, Brian and I listened to a podcast on Fresh Air about the “stressed years of our life,” the reality of anxiety and mental health issues that seem to be overwhelming our culture and even our colleges these days.  Now, to be sure, it is a crisis.  And I know firsthand the importance of taking all of that stuff seriously.


But, part of me can’t help but wonder if a significant factor in our lack of mental health these days is our overwhelming fixation on what is right in front of us (which is often the screens on our phones) and on working towards some result.


Kanza, as Jim Cummings says over and over again, is about the process, the journey.  Kanza is about doing something so out there that it forces you out of your mental space, out of the four inches between your ears and into something that will assault you but also empower you … and excite you … and awe you … and curse you … and challenge you.


The psychotherapist on that podcast said that the hardest thing is when we lose hope.  When we are unable to see anything before us that is hopeful, that is inviting, that is beautiful, we can’t help but become worn down and fatigued by the weight we are carrying. 


Tip #3 – Go find hope somewhere, however you need to find it.  It doesn’t have to be some stupid bike ride out in the middle of nowhere, but do something you love.  Keep finding some vehicle and road that will take you into a future where you can see promise and where you can feel the connection of community.


The Race


Oh yeah, this is a bike race. 


It’s kind of hard to forget that when you’re sitting on your bike surrounded by about 750 others and Jim Cummings is counting down the final ten seconds before you roll out.  If you do lose track, just look down and take a glance at your heartrate.  It will likely be elevated.


One of the legit contenders for this year’s 200 mile version said his goal was to stay “as bored as long as possible.”  I should have plastered that immediately in front of my eyes for the first hour of the ride.


I, however, made the quintessential mistake in bike racing.  Go out too hard too fast.  Be a hero early and a zero later.


Shoot, though, it’s hard not to get swept up in those first forty miles.  It’s hard not to hang onto wheels as others drift off the back.  You’ll tell yourself you’re playing the game right.  You’ll tell yourself this group will pull you along and make it so much easier going into the headwind.


But, unless you’re insanely fit, you’re not going to be able to hold wheels, especially when the gravel gets worse (and it will) and the hills start coming (and they will).


The first forty-five minutes I essentially did a crit race to start Kanza


Tip #4 – Don’t do that.


I eased off finally and settled into a more realistic pace, latching onto wheels as they came up from behind.  We were still cruising, and we were crushing the miles, even the disastrous sections of road that were torn up by recreational vehicles and whose patches of gravel were seemingly dropped randomly from a helicopter.  True story, some guys told me about a dude who literally cartwheeled over his bike off into a ditch.  Said he tried to bunny hop a rut in the road, missed his mark, and jackknifed his handlebars – turning him into a real-life rag-doll, spinning over the gravel into the grass.


Brian passed a guy with a broken clavicle.


I did the same later on.


Meanwhile, this whole time, I just prayed I didn’t flat.  A flat spells bad luck.  Many flats makes for an incredibly hard day.  And so I went back and forth with myself in my head as the miles ticked by over this rough stuff.


“It’s okay.  It’s just a sandier road.  You’re good.”


“Shit!  You’re screwed.  Good luck catching up with these guys again.”


Somehow, my Donnelly EMP tires held up, and they should.  The EMP is the airport code for Emporia, KS – the tires were built specifically to ward off the sharp edges of the “flint” stones.


Tip #5 – Get yourself a good set of tires.  But, even more importantly, just pray that you don’t flat.  Seems like all the pros flatted.  Kanza is like anything else.  You better prepare, but nothing can prepare you for what is really going to happen.


Halfway through the race, I was making good time.  I rolled into the first and only checkpoint in about three and a half hours – having gone 54 miles.  I was averaging 15.7 mph and crushing Dirty Kanza.


I had no idea what sort of suffering awaited me in the second half.


By 11 am, the sun was near zenith, and it was getting hot.  I drank a full 32 oz. Gatorade at the checkpoint, downed another half bottle, ate a payday and swallowed four Endurolyte pill plus two shots of pickle juice to ward off any cramps down the road. 


I would have been wise to drop three more such caches down the road at 20 mile intervals.


Tip #6 – It is practically impossible to overhydrate for Dirty Kanza.  Drink until you feel like a tick on a bloodhound.  Then drink some more.


Honestly, miles 54 through 64 weren’t that bad.  We started to climb some steeper gradiants, but around mile 65 were turned westward for a long, lonely stretch of hills and headwind.  That’s probably where I first started to feel the small stabs in my quads and calves, the early indications of dehydration.


By the time we turned south to head back towards Emporia, I knew I was going to have “issues.”

There is a lonely stretch of road some thirty miles west of Emporia.  There are old rock fences where farmers have pulled sharp flint out of the fields, and grass along the side of gravel roads.  But, there ain’t much else.  Every five or six miles, you might happen upon a dip in the road where the water sustains a few shade trees.


Out there in one of those shady spots is where I laid down.  Yes.  I’m not ashamed to say it.  I pulled off my helmet and sunglasses, my gloves, my jersey, and I just laid in the cool, soft grass for five … ten … maybe fifteen minutes.  I listened as other riders went by, their voices barely audible over the gravel and their high pitched hubs.  I knew whatever prize I was chasing, nothing was worth heat stroke. 


I got myself cooled down, climbed on my bike and started slogging up the endless gravel that climbed before me.


People rode by in ones and twos.


We turned eastward, and I pulled out my Red Bull, downing it in four large gulps.


I crushed the gravel too at this point, hammering my way past some of the same people who had just passed me.  On the flatter sections, the stuff that reminds me of Putnam County’s gravel, I churned out 17 to 18 mph easy.  I hammered past three guys standing under another shade tree, and thought, “I know what they’re feeling.”


Around mile 75, the road turned north again.  This is when my body started giving out.  There was a long climb in front of me, and if I managed to hold my body just right and keep my cadence right around 85 rpm, I was good.  But, I had to go deep.  I churned my 32 rear cog, but had to do so at 60 to 70 rpm.  My left quad seized.  It went pancake flat, and I could see quaking underneath my skin.


But, I made it to the top, damn it.


And then I saw the next hill to the east.   And the next.  And the next.  Stretching off into the unforeseeable future.


I tried to find anything out there that spoke of civilization.


Nothin’.


Mallen would tell us later on this is where he cried.


He got to the top of one of those long, gnarly hills where all you could do was pedal and bake under the sun.  He was certain he would climb to the top only to see it descending before him, carrying him back to town.


But, oh no.


All he saw before him was another hill he’d have to climb.


And another.


And somewhere out there too is where Mallen hallucinated.


He said he was riding along when all of a sudden a bison jumped out of the ditch and started coming after him.


Yeah, a bison.


So, what do you do when you’re thirty miles from civilization and a bison is chasing you? 


Naturally, you stand out of your seat and sprint as fast as you can.


It was only after he threw his body into this vicious effort that his sanity reminded him that there was no bison behind him.  He returned to his normal effort, strangely wondering if that wasn’t in fact a bunch of twigs in the ditch.


I would pay so much money to see video footage of my friend, Mallen, sprinting away from an imaginary buffalo thirty miles west of Emporia, Kansas.


Tip #7 – If you see bison chasing you out on the course at Dirty Kanza, you might want to take a break.


When I would finally cross the finish line some four hours later from that vista, I would tell Jim Cummings, the founder and masochist behind Dirty Kanza, that there wasn’t anything out there “but pain and beauty.”


And I would cross the finish line. 


I would cross after walking several of those hills that Mallen kept pushing himself up one after another.


I would cross after riding the last ten miles through Kansas farm fields that had been flooded and were baking in the sun – the smell of that pond near my house in Colony Woods filling my nostrils, rank and summery.


I would cross after counting up to 60 in my head, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, and doing that for the last five miles that seemed to never end.


I would cross not really sure if I was proud of my time … or if I would ever do it again.

When it comes to a race, it wasn’t really my best.


When it comes to a journey.  It was worth every moment.


Epilogue


The night before the race, we slept in the Wyatt Earp Hotel & Inn just off I-35 near Lebo Junction.  There’s not much out there, and our sleeping was meant to be functional and short before the race.  My sleep was not heavy.


Two doors down from me, Brian slept a good sleep even though his back would soon re-awaken him to what lay before him out there.


But, deep in his psyche, way down there where the good stuff happens, he was dreaming that he was running.  He was running like he remembers many years ago.  He was smiling as he was running.  A

And he was free.


Sometimes we must put ourselves through much in order to reclaim what is core.


That’s what I learned.


Tip #8 – Go find your limit.

Galileo, Mr. Rogers & Learning to Love My Gay Neighbor

We're Sorry Galileo

Think about this for a moment.  The Roman Catholic Church didn't publicly acknowledge it was wrong in its condemnation of Galileo until 1992.

1992.

He died in 1642, living out his last few years under house arrest.

That's three hundred and fifty years.  Finally, three hundred and fifty years later Pope John Paul II worked up the courage to offer a papal "our bad" (not a direct Latin translation).

Now, let me ask you this:  in those three hundred and fifty years between 1642 and 1992, did the Church's unwillingness to acknowledge the truth of Galileo's theory and findings keep the earth at the center of the universe?  Nope.  Of course not.

The perception of the Church didn't nullify the truth of the reality. 

So, maybe there's another question in here.  Maybe the other question is this:  what makes us hold on so tightly to some ideas?  What makes us cling to some traditions so strongly?

Well, I know the answer to those questions because that's part of my story, and I'll get there in a moment.  But, first I have to talk about Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers

By pretty much all measures, Mr. Rogers is about as good as you can do when it comes to accepting and loving others.  Having experienced firsthand the reality of being taunted and teased as a child for being sickly and pudgy, Mr. Rogers set out to make sure that didn't happen for other children.  Formed and fashioned by the work of Dr. Spock, Erik Erikson and others, Mr. Rogers wanted to create a world where children especially could be free to express how they truly felt, to have their thoughts and emotions verified, and to know that they had value inherit within them.   What he said to Michael Keaton in a 2004 documentary captures his worldview:

"You know, I think everybody longs to be loved, and longs to know that he or she is lovable. And consequently, the greatest thing we can do is to help somebody know they’re loved and capable of loving.”

So, when Mr. Rogers set out to create a "neighborhood" for children to enter and learn and grow, he set out to make it an inclusive space, a place of differences that were seen, valued and loved.

That's why he sought out singer and actor Francois Clemmons.  Fred wanted Francois Clemmons (that's Officer Clemmons to you and me) to be seen as an African-American man who was to be valued and respected.  At first Francois resisted, knowing how law enforcement officials could be seen by kids like him from neighborhoods like his back in urban Ohio.  But, Fred Rogers insisted.  Fred intentionally wanted people to see Officer Clemmons as a person of dignity and worth.

All of which is great.

Except there's more to the story.  There always is.

It turns out Francois Clemmons was also gay.  He tried to be otherwise, fit himself into a marriage that ended in heartache and frustration, tried to fit the mold others thought he should be in.  And, while Mr. Rogers was willing to push certain issues, this one was maybe a bit too much for a new show.  There was too much on the line.  So, Mr. Rogers politely asked Francois to keep that one little fact about his identity from the public and the press.  No need to raise too much of controversy.

So, for many years, Mr. Rogers went around telling all sorts of people "I love you just the way you are," but Officer Clemmons had to listen to him say that and wonder, "Yeah, but what about me?"

Mr. Rogers and Me

Turns out Mr. Rogers and I share a few things in common, I mean, besides the fact that he too was a Presbyterian minister.

You see, for a number of years, I found myself trying to hedge my bets and have it both ways.  I liked to see myself as open and accepting, but when it came to taking a stand on affirming gay and lesbian individuals, well, that was a bit controversial.  That was a bit too risky.  That's the kind of thing that can blow up your church.  That's the kind of thing that can drive people away.

There's this moment, though, in the most recent documentary about Mr. Rogers' life where Francois Clemmons realizes his friend, Mr. Rogers, really is seeing him and loving him.  Mr. Rogers says that line again to end one of his shows, "I love you just the way you are."  But this time Clemmons realizes his friend, Mr. Rogers, is talking directly to him.  And with a heart that is full (and eyes that are teary), Francois Clemmons recalls how incredibly powerful and life-giving it was to have Mr. Rogers tell him this.  It opened up a wealth of dignity within the man's soul.

Somewhere over the course of the last five or six years, my own heart has changed.  Little by little and bit by bit, any and all insecurities I had about acknowledging the dignity and worth of someone who is gay or lesbian has completely disappeared.  In truth, it goes back even longer than that.  I was blessed to know some really incredible people in my time at DePauw, including some of my best friends and fraternity brothers in Delta Upsilon, who eventually opened up about their sexual identity.  And in recent years, I've been blessed by some of the most amazing people who have been bold enough to share their own stories with me - men and women who tried like Francois Clemmons to put themselves into a mold that wasn't ever going to fit.  It changed me to hear them relay their stories of struggle, of hope, of praying, of yearning, and of eventually coming to see God's love for them unconditionally.

I don't even know how to explain it.  It just happened.  I just found myself sitting there one day with this deep awareness that I had no problem loving and accepting the person sitting in front of me for who she was ... for who he was.  Honestly, it felt like grace.  It felt right.

Our Traditions Are Valuable

But, let's get this straight.  I'm not perfect, and I'm not pretending that I'm settling this debate.  I've spent many years wrestling with the "issue" of homosexuality, and I think I know why.  This is the part that goes back to Galileo and the Roman Catholic Church.

My church family growing up has meant the world to me.  It was there in ways I can't begin to describe.  I can't imagine where I'd be without that community of pastors and mentors and families who were there to support myself and my family during tough times.  And, to feel like I would be betraying that family ... like I would be walking away from that tradition.  Ugh.  That was tough.  That tradition was stability to me.  That tradition was my home spiritually, and I don't say that lightly.

But, at some point, my worldview changed.  I wasn't looking to change my worldview.  At least, I don't think so.  Maybe Galileo wasn't either.

But once you see something, you can't unsee it, as the saying goes.

Our understanding of human sexuality is changing.  It has changed.  That's happening right now in our lifetime.  And I believe the deep invitation coming to us from Jesus is to not shy away from those questions but to enter into them more deeply ... more humbly ... more humanly.  In other word, more like Mr. Rogers.

One Last Word from Mr. Rogers

Now, though, there's one last word for me to remember here.  This one is really important.  Mr. Rogers was right in that interview and what he said to Michael Keaton.  The fact of the matter is that each and every one of us wants to be seen, to be valued and to be loved.  That goes for ... each ... and ... every ... person.  Including my gay neighbor.  But also my neighbor who still finds it hard to see this matter differently.

In the end, "the greatest thing we can do is to help somebody know they're loved and capable of loving."

~Wes
 

My First Black Friday: "Save yourself" at Menard's

Keep this in mind.

There's never been a moment in my life when I've thought, "I can't wait until Black Friday."  Never.

Everything about it is diametrically opposed to my worldview and ethics:  rampant consumerism, bait-and-switch ploys that hamstring the economically impoverished, and - most importantly - early mornings.  Plus, large groups of people.  That's the deal-breaker for me.  I once abandoned a New Year's party in high school because the house - by my own estimation - was beyond capacity.  I pushed my way through a huddle of sophomores in the entryway like a salmon swimming upstream.  Keep this image in mind.  It will come around again.

So, I'm not sure what foolishness overtook me yesterday.  With some prodding and enticing from my brother-in-law after our Thanksgiving dinner, I agreed to go with he and his wife and my father-in-law to Menard's this morning.  Drew, my brother-in-law, waved his iPhone in front of me at the dinner table, complete with the Menard's 6-hour Black Friday promo.  Maybe it was the cordless tire compressor.  I could really use one of those.  Certainly, the barn door hardware was part of it.  $39.99!  50% off!  And, I really needed to get a ceiling vent for our bathroom.

Sensing my weakness, Drew threw his upper-cut.  "We can get Square Donuts" on our way.  I'm a sucker for donuts.  Every time.

We circled back to the topic of our Black Friday trip as we said our goodbyes for the night (Drew conscipiously avoiding the words "Black Friday" I now realize).  We agreed upon a time.  I'd pick my father-in-law up at 5:30 am.  We'd meet Drew and his wife at 5:50 and be in Terre Haute by 6:15.  I'd be eating donuts by 6:15 am.

The donuts is probably why I woke up ready to go at 4:30 am.  Definitely.

Sure enough, we get to Drew's house at 5:50 am.  His car is running, and we're back on 40 heading west bound while Brazil quietly rests.  There's hardly another car on the two west bound lanes, and we start joking about how we'll get there to find like ten people in the store - just a few retirees and insomniacs.

Just past Rose Holman I make some joke about the Terre Haute Air Show.  That was one of our last forays over this way, and it was a madhouse.  Traffic backed up for hours, poor planning, and - again - crowds:  all the makings for frustration.  How silly that was of us!  Man, I'll never make that same mistake again.  

Meanwhile, we were driving into a trap.  Everything was about to go sideways.

First of all, there was no Square Donuts.  Of all things, some family had the nerve to honor this cultural holiday by - you know - sleeping in ... and enjoying a quiet morning at home with their family.  I know this because I called the Square Donuts number and was told such.

No worries, though.  We were still in a jovial mood.  Pretty soon, we would be leisurely browsing the aisles of Menard's - picking up our two-pack of Stanley tape measures (25' & 30').  Pretty soon we'd be listening to the "save big money at Menard's" jingle in a cavernous retail store practically all by our lonesome.

This next thing is the best part.

We're approaching Menard's, but not quite there. Off to our right is a darkened retail store, one I had never previously noticed.  But for whatever reason, the entire parking lot was full.  Holly, Drew's wife, says, "That's funny.  Trader Buck's flea market sure looks busy, but the lights aren't on."

Then it hit us.  Trader Buck's wasn't busy.  Menard's was BUSY!  In fact, Menard's was so busy that not only was its parking lot already full, so was Verizon's and La Isla Mexican and Trader Buck's and the U-Haul drop-off place tucked back into the alleyway.

It was a trap!  But before we knew it, we were following a line of cars pulling into Menard's.  Dazed and confused,  Drew, who was driving, bypassed two customers pushing two over-loaded carts.  We nearly hit an Amish woman carrying an armload of Mason jars.  Eventually, after driving out to what I can only describe as the place where Clark Griswald parks the station wagon at Wally World, we realized we needed a plan.  Joe, Drew's dad, volunteered to drop us off.  He would sacrifice his Black Friday deals for us.  Heck of a guy that Joe Cooper.

But first, we drive past the front of the building.  I'm not sure why.  Someone said something about needing to see how long the lines were.  Unfortunately, we were duped it this moment.  The lines looked extremely reasonable.  So, Joe dropped Drew and me off.

The moment I set foot in the store, I knew we had a problem.  The place was teeming with people.  All the carts were gone.  And there was "caution" tap strewn about the front, directing the herds of customers through two designated checkout lines.

Drew and I regrouped in the tool section.  By this point, I literally could not think of any one single item I had planned to purchase.  Not a one.  I stared blankly at the tape measures in front of me.

Thankfully, Drew still had his iPhone and Black Friday promo.  I pulled up the pictures, recovering my wits and made a B-line for the cordless tire compressor.  I turned to Drew like a man desperate to avoid a coming plague or zombie acopalypse, "Where do you think the barn door hardware is?"  A man rolled a cart past me with what had to be a three foot slab of summer sausage.  Scores of people had oversized dog beds hanging over all sides of their carts.  I resorted to my salmon-swimming-upstream strategy.  I stuck to the side aisles, slipping through the masses gathered around the dog toy section.  Up in front of me - near where the barn door hardware was supposed to be - there was something resembling the beer line at a Colts' game.  I would discover only after what was causing this human whirlpool:  Menard's had dropped whole pallets of Chinese electronic items on its sales floor to lure its Black Friday shoppers into a feeding-frenzy of heavily discounted junk.  That is, of course, except for the barn door hardware.  That was a steal!

I made it out alive.  Never mind that Drew and I got separated.  He nearly got suckered into the 5-foot high blue-tooth speaker.  Thankfully, I pulled him out just in time, and I found a sales clerk.  "Where are the shop-vacs?  The ones in the promo," I called out over the blue-tooth record players.  "Down there, aisle 35," he replied.  "Look for the plywood section."  Naturally.

Now we came to a critical moment.  Up to this point, everything we had accumulated we could carry with our own two hands.  Shop-vacs, though, are large.  So are pancake air compressors for $74.99.  Same with rolling tool chests.

Drew put his stuff on top of the tower of shop-vac boxes.  I knew what he was looking for:  a cart.  Good luck with that!

I'm afraid to admit this, friends.  Here is your first peek into some of my darker recesses.  There I was in aisle 35 with my brother-in-law and the prospect of this casual morning turning into my final hour. I'm sad to say I could not be my brother's keeper.  "Drew, I'm going to go see if I can check out.  I'll be right back.  And I'll bring a cart if I find one."  That last part was definitely a lie.

I wove my way towards the front, hoping I'd find some lonely sales clerk with one of those Star Trek-like scanners, eager to check me out.  Ever the idealist.  Of course, nothing.  I looked around me and saw a sign pointing towards the appliances.  "Checkout line," it read with an arrow pointing back to some forelorn distant corner.

Do you know that part in A Christmas Story when Ralphie realizes the extent of his predicament - a Soviet-era bread-line stretching beyond sight?

Now I must tell the second awful thing about myself.

I saw a man struggling to keep command of his two carts near the fake Christmas trees.  A ten-foot gap opened between he and the two women in front of him.

Yes, I did precisely what you are thinking I did.  I was THAT guy.

But, I was also THAT guy who happened to be only forty feet from the checkout clerk.

Five minutes later, and I was unloading my meager gatherings (one cordless compressor, one box of barn door hardware, one pair fur-lined Thinsulate gloves, and one 50' Stanley Fatmax garden house.  The garden house was totally an impulse buy.)  Shell-shocked, I never even thought to look for the ceiling vent, the only item I truly needed.

I asked the two women in front of me what time they got there.

"2:30," they said.

"What!  Are you serious?  How much sleep did you get," I asked.

"Three hours."

"You're nuts," I said.

Says the guy who just cut two hundred people to buy an armful of goods.

And who never did get any donuts!

Yup, folks.  This is me.  And this is us.  Welcome to America.  Home of the Black Friday.

By the way, I just checked.  Barn door hardware.  $39.99 online.  Same price as I paid this morning.

Laughs and memories for next year's Thanksgiving, though:  priceless.

Wes










   

Calling All Inter-generational Missionaries

My sister sent me a message the other day through Facebook.  Somehow, she had caught a glimpse of my friend, Josh Husman, doing his thing on Facebook Live.  Josh and I go way back.  We met each other at DePauw.  Josh stood with me in my wedding.  And, to top it all off, we were also part of the greatest Fuller Theological Seminary flag football team ever created, although the actual documentation on this achievement seems scant.  Then again, we did have an Armenian track star lining up for us at wide-receiver, so there is that.

In any case, there was Josh on my computer screen, dressed in his hipster cardigan, standing in front of an elegant and sharp looking backdrop of neon tube lights.  Around him were the obvious displays of a modern worship band:  a drum set, several guitars in their stands, microphones, and a keyboard.  I may have even spied a banjo. 

Josh's story is an incredible story.  In five years, Josh and his fellow servants have seen a church grow from a small plant meeting in an out-of-the-way office building on the north side of Indianapolis to a congregation with four weekly services.  Oh, and it's also moved from that little office building all the way up to the heart of Carmel, Indiana, taking over an old Borders Book Store.  Inside it is now barn-wood and stainless steel and Kuerig machines and Ikea tables.  

Most church plants don't make it.  Like 80% fail.  But, this church - Mercy Road - is more than making it.  It is flourishing, and it is flourishing largely because it is engaging younger people.  Gen-Xers like me, to be sure, are coming to church.  But, primarily, they're hitting it big with Millenials.  I know Josh well enough to know it's more than just a young church.  Tom Abernathy goes to his church.  Yup, that Tom Abernathy.  That old dude from IU Basketball's glory days.  Still, Mercy Road trend's young.  You don't go there if you like choirs and robes.

Which is pretty much exactly like the church I serve, aside from the barn-wood and the worship band and the the neon tube lighting.  We pretty much trend young, if you count 60 as young.  Oh, well, I guess we do have a Kuerig machine.  We even have two!  And we have a projector. 

Anyhow, this explains why just after lunch, I found myself traveling up the road with three of my church family members up to Autumn Glen, one of our resident local assisted-living communities.  

Allie Peabody lives in one of the smaller condos at Autumn Glen.   She's been back there now for about six months, and normally she would make the short trip to our church on Sundays.  However, a few weeks ago she took a weird step, damaging a ligament in her foot.  She didn't think much of it at first.  Allie is tough, and if you want proof just ask her about the time she coordinated a protest to get a "STOP" sign installed at a local intersection.  She mobilized a crew, got everyone into action, and after the local authorities saw she was serious, they relented to her request.  But, time and age have a way of presenting challenges that are even too tough for people like Allie. 

At least, that's what I'm learning now as a pastor to Allie and others like Allie.  Like John McKee, a ninety-year old man who has worked harder and longer than I can even begin to imagine, who still walks his yard to pick up the sticks before mowing his lawn for the first time in the spring.  John is the sort of guy who puts us young whipper-snappers to shame, but recently his back has laid him low again.  He looked me in the eye today and told me he is thinking about going in for his third back surgery.  He's had four bypasses by the way, too.  One time they even went ahead and just replaced a whole artery in his neck because the old one was growing useless and constricting the blood flow to the width of the lead sticks in a mechanical pencil.  So, yeah, individuals like Allie and John, they've seen a thing or two.

When you sit with older individuals these are the stories that will come up.  It used to make me squirm a bit, but I've since grown to see that there is holiness even in this liturgies of illnesses and aches.  Besides, if mortality proves true, there's a good chance I'm headed down this road too.  i

More importantly, if you sit long enough with the Allie's and the John's of this world, you also begin to hear and see another story unfolding, a beautiful and deeper story.  That's precisely what happened as I sat with Allie and a few others in the library room at Autumn Glen.  We moved past the aches and pains.  We moved back in time.  Allie started telling me about killing chickens once a week for the family dinner, lopping off their heads and plucking out all those feathers.  You saw this fire called dignity start burning in her eyes.

To my left, Juanita took up the slack and added her own story.  For a year, she would take the bus all the way up to Indy, get off at the bus stop and walk thirteen blocks to her employment only to do it all over again each afternoon as she headed back for Coatesville.  So when Juanita tells me about her aching feet again in the future, I'll think twice before I write her off.  I can't say I've walked those thirteen miles in her shoes.

There are times I'm wise enough to shut up and just listen, and what I begin to hear is of a generation that isn't so much demanding respect as wondering how precisely the world has moved on so quickly.

But, as I watched these four individuals come alive in that library, this other thought really took control of me. 

Josh's church needs our church.   

And our church needs Josh's church.

For whatever reason, ours is a culture that compartmentalizes almost everything.  Advertising and marketing trends break us into generations.  Churches often follow suit.  Hands down, though, the healthiest young people that I know are the ones who are gaining wisdom from their elders.  Likewise, the healthiest senior adults I know are the ones who are actively interested in what is really happening in the lives of young people.  I don't mean harping or bemoaning on what is wrong with young people.  That is a different thing.  No, I mean those older adults who are still young at heart and longing to pass on their wisdom and love to the next generation.

I am reminded of a couple Anna and me met while we were out in Pasadena.  We were going to this hip church, for - you guessed it - young people.  Hey, we progress in stages, okay.  It was called Warehouse, and by intention it was the exact opposite of the morning service at the big church.  No choir, no pews, no hymn books, and no grand stage.  Everything was stripped down, and to suit the younger audience, church started at 6 pm in the evening.  Young people like Anna and I didn't start filing into until 6:05 pm at the earliest of course, and when we did, there was a worship band leading us through a series of songs to ease us into the service. 

Near the center of the aisle, though, in the middle of the congregation at Warehouse, there was this older couple, probably in their mid-70's.  He was tall with nicely parted hair and khaki pants and loafers.  She wore casual but classy clothes and often had bracelets or jewelry around her neck.  They stood out among the crowd, and at first I wondered if they had accidentally walked into the wrong room, as if they had come for a Primetimers Bible Study, but took a left where they should have taken a right. 

Not at all.  They were here, I came to find out, because they believed it was important to be there for the next generation.  They believed it was important to see how young people were connecting with God and to be there to support this next generation in their faith.

I don't know that they would have put it this way, but they were inter-generational missionaries.

We need more inter-generational missionaries.

We need mature, older Christians willingly stepping out of their comfort zones to befriend and encourage younger Christians.  And we need younger Christians to embrace ministries of help and service to older adults.  We need younger Christians to embrace opportunities for friendship and to claim a mentor in their lives.

We need to find each other because each generation has so much to give to the other.  We need to find each other because separated as we are, all of us languish.  But, perhaps most importantly, we need to find each other because the future of the church in America may just depend upon it.

Josh's church needs our church.

We need Josh's church.

Let's hope we find each other. 

Community: "To Boldly Go ..."

I'm more of a Star Wars guy myself.  That means something if you are a fan of science fiction.  That's all you need to say to some people for them to get you.  For there is a difference, you know, between Star Wars and Star Trek.  It's hard to pin down exactly what the difference is.  Maybe Star Trek is a bit more for the technically inclined.  Maybe Star Wars is more for those deep into Jungian psychology.  Ask my wife, and she says there pretty much the same thing.  She's probably right, but - please, oh please - don't try to tell that to a Trekkie or a guy wearing a Storm Troopers costume at Gen Con.

Anyhow, Star Wars guy that I am, I still couldn't resist seeing the new Star Trek movie that just came out:  Star Trek Beyond.  I read a few glowing reviews, and those endorsements combined with near record heat temperatures made the cool movie theater seem like a perfect place to spend a Sunday afternoon.  Turns out it was a great choice.  It turned into one of those moments that mirrored and clarified my life in the way that sometimes only fiction can. 

Without giving away too much of the plot, the story begins in a rather unexpected place for James T. Kirk and his crew:  boredom.  Well, not just boredom.  There's also a bit of relational strain among the captain and his crew.  The life of space adventurers is supposed to be glamorous, adventurous, difficult, sexy, challenging, and rewarding.  Sure enough, when we first meet James earlier in the series, he's a young, hot shot.  He's Tom Cruise in Top Gun:  brash, daring, and ambitious.  But, the James we meet in this film has been at the helm of the ship for awhile.  He's been into the depths of the universe.  He's faced his fair share of challenges, and - for better and for worse - things have become ... well, routine.  Or if not routine, than ... well, complex.  Difficult.

The same is true for the rest of the crew.  The thrill of venturing into unexplored territories and uncovering new mysteries is also, so we learn, coupled with the realities of relational difficulties.  Sure, the crew of the USS Enterprise is boldly going where no one has ever gone before, but they're also having to live in close quarters.  There's the rub.  For communities are made up of individuals, and individuals are prone to testing each others nerves from time to time.  Couples have their spats on board the Enterprise.  Some wonder if it might be time to jump ship for another adventure.  Some even find themselves wondering if what they are doing really is all that important.  It does, after all, feel like things are becoming a bit "episodic" as James puts it early in the movie.  Everyone seems after awhile to playing the role of their typecast.

Of course, the movie is tapping into something all of us have felt at one time or another.  Stay anywhere long enough, and you'll come up against this.  Doesn't matter if it's a job or a marriage or a church or even in a family.  At some point, if you commit to the work of community and unity, no matter what it is, you will face these challenges.  Is it worth it?  Maybe there are other adventures out there for me?  Perhaps I need a change of scenery for my life?

It is precisely here that I need to keep remembering that this place called struggle and that town called boredom is not a trap.  It is not something to escape.  It is the place we learn to die to our obsessive need for the "new" and "promising."  And it is the place where we begin to invest ourselves into something that goes beyond us.  It's where we have the choice to really be invested in our real community, not just some false or self-fabricated notion of what we want our marriage or church or school system to look like.  Here we come to what Walter Wangerin Jr. refers to in his great book on marriage as our reality, the person or place or community we are actually called to love and not just some wistful notion of what we wanted to love.  

I know I'm not alone in my experience of this step in "growing up into Christ."  Like many of my friends who are truly trying to root ourselves here in Greencastle and truly seeking to make this place a better place, I know that the so called easy option of moving onto another church or community is a short-cut that doesn't really go anywhere.  It's a "chute" that can actually lead us to regress.   

Personally, I'm facing it as a pastor.  Eight years into providing ministry to this place, I've been here long enough to see incredibly moving moments of grace, of healing, and of new life.  For all the bad press ministry gets about over-work and little pay, nothing in my mind can ever compare to the unbelievably gift it is to hold a four-month old child in my arms and proclaim the absolute depth of our faith:  God has uniquely made and knows this child, and God lovingly has already prepared everything needed for this child's life and salvation.  Nothing can surpass the joy of being so close to both God's glorious love and the precious, tender, vulnerable reality of being human.

But, of course, eight years also can make you realize that you're no longer the savior and that despite how present God is in this community, that doesn't mean that miracles are happening at every turn.  No, some challenges - like the perpetual weeds in parking lot - seem to always linger and refuse proper treatment.   Relational strains occur.  The easy work has already been done.  It becomes challenging not to typecast people. 

Now, what is left is the hard, important and daily work of community.  Or, as Henry Ford says it, "Coming together is a beginning.  Keeping together is progress.  Working together is success."  So it is that truly good pastoring, I'm discovering, is just like any other work of community.  Perseverance and grit and steadfast love are a lot more important than passion or feelings or thrills. 

Here, too, is the genius of Star Trek Beyond.  When we are faced with these moments of boredom and strain, we have a choice.  We can flee the boredom for something more attractive.  We can pine for a new job.  We can subtly start looking beyond our marriage for something to satisfy us.  We can begin to think that our better life lies in some community behind or before us.  OR we can make a re-commitment and double down on being a part of this marriage, this community, this job. 

Of course, the beauty of movies and parables is that they give us images to locate these types of moral decisions, and Captain Kirk's decision is clear enough.  Is he going to be a member of this ship?  Is he going to remain committed to his crew?  Will he go down with this ship even if it means giving up his own freedom and future opportunities?  Will he continue to boldly go into that place that is even more unknown, challenging, and at times significantly more frightening than the depths of outer space:  deeper into community?

The deep satisfaction at the end of this movie is the firm reminder that the investments we make in each other and towards something bigger than ourselves are of extreme worth.  They do matter!  The ship must be staffed.  The crew needs to continue to do its job, no matter how mundane the job.  The crew must persist in its bold hope and belief in its mission - especially when the threats of evil and crushing nihilism seem just too near and overwhelming.

Community matters.

Unity matters.

Being an invested member of life and living for others matters!  It is how we truly mature in Christ Jesus.

It takes great courage.  Tremendous courage.  Heroic courage, even.  The type of courage that is big enough for the big screens, even if most of us do it in homes and churches and jobs that aren't going to make the big screens.

Kudos to all of my friends out there with me who are making those courageous decisions to double down on being invested in this particular place of Greencastle.  I see you in the struggle.  We're all in it in some way.  And I just want to say it's worth it.  It's definitely worth it.

~Wes

Colonial Williamsburg

"We're really doing it," I said to my kids while leaning over Anna in the fifth row of the Jamestown theater.  It was copying a great line from Dumb & Dumber, the only appropriate way to emphasize this momentous occasion, a family trip we've been talking about since last year, a trip to Colonial Williamsburg.  

We had discussed making the trip this past fall, but once that didn't work out, I made sure to get it on the calendar for this spring.  By mid-February we finally had our lodging taken care of, thanks in large part to my in-laws and a time-share exchange program they've held onto through the years.  About a month ago, I started researching things-to-do while here, and three days ago, we set out about 9 o'clock in the morning from our home.  For the trip out, we took it in stages, traveling all the way down to Beckley, WV the first day and covering just over 400 miles.  By sheer luck, I managed to book a room at a Holiday Inn that was a mere 1/2 mile from a West Virginian attraction we knew absolutely nothing about.  But, just prior to leaving I made a call to a kind couple in our church to see if they woulld keep up the rhythm of our Sunday morning Bible study in my absence.  They were happy to do so, and in the course of our conversation, he revealed to me a lovely little place called Tamarack, a type of artisan and craft market right near Beckley.  That was the lovely little find that mere 1/2 mile from our hotel.  So, after grabbing dinner at Panera and relaxing in the pool Thursday evening, we took our time getting on the road Friday and spent part of the morning strolling through the wares at Tamarck.

Friday's drive was a bit shorter, but seemingly more difficult.  We had to push through the steeper climbs of West Virginia, crawling up and hurtling down as we marveled at the earlier ancestors who pushed over these passes on foot and on horseback.  By mid-afternoon, though, we were driving on the outskirts of Richmond, and we ended up at our condo at the exact hour of check-in.

Truth be told, Anna and I have actually been here before, although it seems like ages ago now.  The day after we were married, we landed on the runway of Newport News airport and spent the next week (our first together) at the Marriot's Manons Club just on the western edge of Williamsburg.  This time we are on the eastern side of the city, and we traveled with more cargo this time, of course.  

Today, we set out early after packing our lunches.  My goal:  tackle Jamestown first thing, eat lunch in the cargo on our way to Colonial Williamsburg, buy tickets for Colonial Williamsburg and Busch Gardens, and then spend an hour or so getting our bearings in the streets of Colonial Williamsburg.  Surprisingly, things pretty much went exactly as planned, and except for the fact that we didn't pack enough warm clothes, we had a great first day out exploring.  We stepped aboard a replica of one of the three English vessels that landed on the James River back in 1607.  We toured the simulated Jamestown fort, including a lively conversation with a well-informed and engaging blacksmith.  We witnessed another pair of colonists fire off a few rounds from their muskets.  We walked through a simulated Powhatan camp, with their more "integrated" living systems - much more to Anna's liking.  And we stumbled upon a few wild Wellsummer rooster that immediately brought back memories of good ol' Thatcher.

Colonial Williamsburg turned out to be much more fascinating than anything I had envisioned, and I'm already looking forward to returning tomorrow.  We stepped off the shuttle into the heart of the city, and immediately climbed the steps into the Magazine, the munitions storage on the opposite side of the courthouse.  Up in the Magazine, an period-actor dressed in the style of a British soldier gave us the tid-bits and history of arms development in the colonies, and he happily answered Wyatt's question about the efficacy of the bayonets by saying that they were quite effective, especially because their triangle shape made for wounds that "would not easily close."  

From there we walked about the streets, pausing at the gallows and much longer at the colonial garden.  Anna and Elise already have plans to return there first thing tomorrow, and we took many pictures of old ingenuities that Anna wants to employ in her own garden.

Lastly, I persuaded everyone to go listen to James Madison in the Hennegan theatre.  There were dubious, and I'm not sure the kids enjoyed his whimsy and whit.  But, Anna and I thoroughly enjoyed this man's ability to so thoroughly immerse himself into the language, the thinking, and the times of America's youngest years.  Plus, his description of the challenges of creating a just democracy without inevitably succumbing to either the tyranny of an unruly populace or the soul-sucking decrees of a heavy-headed empire seemed only too relevant.

We are eager for tomorrow's trip back to the Colony.  The fireworks start at 10:15 am with a public protest on the Capital steps regarding the imposition of taxes from the ruthless British parliament!

Until then ... We return to our rest.

Wes

The Future of Ministry

John the Evangelist had a revelation while serving a sentence of exile on the Patmos.

I think I just had mine in the parking lot behind Marvin's in Greencastle.

I just got off the phone with a former mentor of mine, Rex McDaniel, a Presbyterian minister who is on the cusp of retiring and "near the promised land" as I joked with him.  After a bit of catching up, I asked Rex how ministry was going.

His description of his church's position and his own floored me with its relevance for my own life.

Rex has been in ministry since the mid 70's sensing a call to love others in the name of Jesus when the Church in American still believed it's best years were ahead of it.  He grew up as a pastor out on the East Coast in the 1980's and early 90's, watching his congregation and his family grow with the suburbs surrounding them.  Then, in the late 90's he returned home to Southern California where he has been the pastor for Calvary Presbyterian Church in South Pasadena for over fifteen years now.  He came as a wise and experienced minister; the kind of man aptly capable of steering the ship of a large Presbyterian congregation that had enjoyed decades of life as a congregation.  The narthex of the church is lined with the pictures of former ministers - all men - who have stood in that same pulpit before Rex, like mighty captains overseeing and steering the vessel of the church:  sitting on committees, preaching on Sundays, visiting the sick, launching new programs, being the public face of the church in the community.

That role of being pastor to the flock and minister in the community is a role that Rex has enjoyed.  He wouldn't say this about himself, but I can:  he's done well in his role.  Calvary Presbyterian Church has been blessed by his ministry.  And, as Rex himself said, the church has been very good to him as well.  By that he means not just that specific congregation in South Pasadena.  He means too the overall mother Church and our denomination.  Because Rex was able to minister at least in the waning days of Christendom, he's been able to enjoy the benefits of having cultural relevance.  He's been asked to join Rotary Clubs and Kiwanis meetings in each place he's served.  He's been granted special discounts from time to time.  And, most importantly for a man on the cusp of retirement, he's been blessed with a pension and retirement plan that far exceeds what most Americans can expect these days, not to mention an incredible condo facing the idyllic scenery of the Rose Bowl of all places.  Rex, true to his name's sake, has a regal future in front of him, and he knows it.

But, he also knows this.

It's not going to be this way for me or for those in my generation.

The game is ending.

Time is running out.

And here is how Rex knows this is true.

For several years, Calvary Presbyterian Church has been running a preschool on its campus.  This preschool is a shining light in the community.  It has a waiting list and families in the area are eager to get their kids into it.  For years, though, very few of the families who have children in the preschool actually come to Calvary Presbyterian Church on Sunday.  That's nothing new.  But, this is.
During the week, Rex and the rest of the ministry team at Calvary hosts a mid-week chapel service for the preschool.  In the past, it's just always been there, and nothing much was made of it.  But, as Rex said, in the last few years, more and more parents are insisting that their kids not go to the chapel service.  They're afraid that their children will be force-fed some type of doctrine.  They are convinced that the church will be bad for their children.

And this is the change.

It's been happening so subtly, it's hard to really believe it's true.

But here we are.

There was a time when church life served as a type of center for American families along with the local school, sports teams, and civic life.  Back in those days, in the 1960's even up until the 1980's, if you were a middle class family, church was likely a part of your weekly rhythm.

"Now," Rex admitted to me, "the idea of a Lord's Day worship rhythm for families isn't even something they are considering."  It's not even on their radar.

Not that Rex and Calvary haven't tried to make it more appealing.  They, like so many other churches, have tried to make the packaging more appealing to the customer.  They first tried a blended style of worship and brought in the guitars and more expressive means of worship.  They then went full bore and completely contemporary, a move that has helped bring some passion back to the congregation that is already there.  Only problem is it hasn't actually brought in anyone else from the wider community.

No matter how attractive and appealing Rex and Calvary try to make Sunday morning, it's just not something many people in Southern California are interested in.

---

Here's the analogy that helps me conceptualize what is happening:

When I was growing up, I used to eat all kinds of sugary-cereal.  Coco-puffs.  Lucky Charms.  Fruity Pebbles.  You name it, I probably had it.  And every time I went to the grocery store, that's where I wanted to go.  I wanted to see Count Chocula and Tony the Tiger.

Now, when my wife takes the kids to the grocery store, they hardly even set foot in that aisle.  My wife bee-lines it to the value boxes of Raisin Bran or Grape Nuts, picks up the goods and gets out of their as quick as she can.  Or, she doesn't even make it that far.  She goes to the new organic section and picks up something that is healthier.

She knows that those "other" cereals are not good for our kids, or at least not as good as they could be.  So, she chooses not to expose them to what she calls the sugar of "white death" or tries to expose them to healthier dietary options.

Don't you see this is precisely the same shift that has occurred in how our culture views Christianity these days?

I doubt there are many here in our community who believe that Christianity is an out-and-out danger to their children, but I can assure you there are some.

But, even if that isn't the case, there are many more here in our community who might feel like what the Christian faith has to offer may be good ... it's just not as valuable as ... well ... developing those skills that will make your child attractive to a good college, becoming an honor student at school, or developing some musical or athletic potential.  Besides, there is something to the whole realm of faith that can be a bit too fanatical, as we've been rudely reminded of in recent weeks with the onslaught of visiting "street preachers."

Far more important to most parents these days is whether or not their kids get into a preschool like Calvary's got than finding a church community like what Calvary offers.

---

There's more.

There's another reason why Rex isn't so sure guys like me will be able to go the distance like he has in ministry.

In this modern reality that Rex is seeing so clearly, the question isn't, "How can we get people to come to our church?"  It's "How can we equip our members to go out and be church where they are?"

For so long, big, mainline churches like the Presbyterian Church have operated on the assumption that if they just open up their doors, people will eventually find their way to their parking lot and into their pews.

Those days are long gone.

The problem, though, is that big, mainline denominations don't make the transition from "come-to-us" to "go-to-you" easily.  In fact, they often don't make it all.  And that's precisely the tension Rex feels as he prepares to bless his congregation for the last time and ventures into retirement.  He's not sure Calvary Presbyterian is going to make it.

He can see that promised land where the church has to be willing to give up its very identity, but the church still has a lot of core members who aren't ready to admit that.  That core group is still chasing a fantasy ... an illusion ... a memory.  They still harbor the prospect of getting back to "1962 Calvary" as Rex describes it.

So there's this impasse.  Maybe there's a reason why Moses and his generation couldn't make that trip on into the Promised Land.  The transition is too severe.  The death and rebirth too demanding.

Churches like Calvary and Greencastle Presbyterian are not going to find their way by going backwards in time.

But, it takes a type of rebirth entirely to give away that image in favor of going out to be in the midst of the wider community.

It takes becoming a culture of Christian missionaries living as a minority within a dominant secular America.

And for me and my generation of ministers, it's going to mean giving up on a lot of those assumed cultural privileges that Rex readily admits are nice but never guaranteed for those who walk by faith.  That nice pension may not be there.  The prospect of watching a church grow through the decades with the minister is highly unlikely.

More likely, the time will come ... and perhaps not very long from now ... when I will have to find a way to return to the ways of Paul, to become a tent-maker of sorts and find another occupation, to find a means of supporting myself so that my work isn't about helping navigate a large, mainline vessel of a church.  Instead, my work will become a means of earning what is necessary to support my family, to live in a place, and to do the work of Jesus Christ in a more incarnational way.

---

And all that from one phone call in a parking lot from behind Marvin's.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Wes

This Year's Remodel

There are three significant challenges that invoke fear and trepidation in the souls of human beings.

The first is to scale the heights of Mt. Everest.

The second is crawl through that secret, bug-soaked passage way Indiana Jones had to traverse in The Temple of Doom.

The third is for a married couple to try to build a house together.

Anna and I are not quite ready for the Everest of home building.  So, we're taking smaller and smaller steps towards our dream, inching our way towards it.  We're starting with smaller peaks, something more in line with a 14,000 footer out in Colorado.

One room at a time.  That's been our motto so far, and it's served us okay in this old farmhouse.  We've made some improvements, and haven't died in the process.  Neither have we strangled one another. 

First the kitchen.  That was probably five years ago.  The guy we call Builder Bob helped us do that remodel.  Okay, he pretty much did it all, and I managed to botch the mudding and sanding job.  But, it's better.  And the roof has only leaked twice when it has rained.  But those were really heavy rains!

Sometime last year, we started on the front entryway room to our house, and this time my father-in-law helped me frame up everything.  I even did a pretty good job of putting up the drywall and applying the first coat of mud last fall.  I even sanded the mud a few times, but - as Joe has told me many times - sanding is a fine art.  Too much and you're back to square one.  Too little and you've got the imperfections equivalent to bad teenage acne.  I have yet to learn the finer stroke required of a true craftsman.

Nonetheless, I really did intend to paint the room - imperfections and all.

Well, winter moved into town, and more pressing things took over:  gathering and splitting firewood, swim season, espn.com.

Undeterred, Anna and I were determined to continue on with our home improvement projects.  This summer, we had one clear goal:  do all that was truly necessary to turn the backroom into a fully functioning bedroom for Wyatt, motivated as we were by the recurring bloody-scratches on my son's arms and wailing pleas of help from my daughter as my son struck back in retaliation.  Apparently, the ages of 9 and 7 are the limit for how long a brother and sister can stand being in the same room together.

Are we going to tackle the backroom? Anna and I would ask each other.

Yes, we have to, right?  Checking each other to see how long we could dance around fully committing.

But, no, we had to.  We just had to.  There's just something wrong about putting your first born child in a room that routinely grows frost on the windows in the winter.  And that's the good season.  I won't tell you what grew in there during the summer.

So I thought we were together ... all up until the point when I was 3/4 of the way into the demolition of the room, and Anna came with her mother to assess the job and to conference about our next steps.  It was clear enough to me.  We were going to do all the walls, tear the whole place apart and gut the ceiling before putting insulation back in.

But, as I started to explain this to Anna's mom, Anna said, "Are we sure?"

I may have looked at Anna with a furrowed brow, which she must have seen because she went on:

"Well, I'm just saying our track record for getting things done isn't all that great.  I mean we still haven't finished the front room."

What was this?!  A chink in our collective marital armor?  A frayed edge in our loving and tight bond?

---

Thankfully, fools rush in.

We're getting closer.  I won't jinx ourselves by saying that we're done.  But, definitely we're closer.

Tonight we bought carpet for his room that will hopefully be delivered and installed sometime next week.

After Anna's moment of probably justified pessimism, we did go on and tear the whole thing back to studs.  I put in all of the insulation in the walls and the roof.  Drew and Joe helped us hang the drywall from floor to ceiling, and I even managed to at least sure up the outside wall for the time being without making things look too bad.  Okay, the cedar trim boards are definitely a bit askew.  Shoot, though, who honestly looks at the back of our house.

Plus, we've finally figured out that I'm never going to actually finish a drywall job.  I swallowed my ego and called up some other guys to come do it.  Lo and behold, they've even got the first coat on everything, and all while not muttering too much about how it's so hard to do a job once some poor sap like me starts it out wrong.

Maybe we can even say that we've managed to make it up the Pike's Peak of home remodels? 

That's something, right?

Tell me that's something.

~Wes 

Pressing & Receiving

What a gift vacation was!  It's hard for me to receive such obvious gifts of grace, which in large part was exactly what this vacation was.  By my mom and Denny's generosity, my family was able to go on a trip that we wouldn't have otherwise taken:  seven full days down in a wonderfully spacious and beautiful home overlooking the Gulf of Mexico on St. George Island.  The word "bestowed" seems appropriate for the time we had.  Denny and my mom's generosity bestowed on me opportunities to rest and play in God's incredible creation.  Denny and my mom's generosity bestowed on me opportunities to be fully attentive to my children.  Denny and my mom's generosity bestowed on me quiet mornings on third level decks sitting in beach chairs drinking coffee and reading the Gospel of John.

For one week, in other words, I lived as if grace truly mattered and in the awareness of love and benevolence.

So ... I return to work yesterday ... and once again I am pressing.  Actually, it started even before that.  I figured this would happen, and it did.  By early evening on Sunday, I was beginning to stress.  For one entire week, my mind would casually drift into the evening, laughing and playing card games with family.  Sleep came easily.  Then Sunday night came.  At 2:00 am in the morning, sleep was no longer a gift.  It was a necessity that was relentlessly outdistancing me. 

My mind was astir.  Now that I was to return to work, I was falling into an old trap I've fallen into so often as a young pastor:  the trap of what Parker Palmer calls functional atheism.  For one full week, I had lived in the awareness of grace and blessing.  But, now it was time to return and prove to others that I am capable of doing my job.  More than capable.  I want to prove that I'm successful.  I want others to see that I'm worth their investment.  I need to demonstrate to others that I'm not just some sorry sack of a pastor.  Gosh dang it, I'm a Management Fellow from DePauw University.  I've been trained to justify my worth.

In other words, it only took a mere six hours for this sin-sick soul to completely forsake the reality of grace and to step full-heartedly and foolishly right back into the strictures of the Law. 

---

Almost ten years into ministry now, and you would think I'd have figured this out.  But like the old Caedmon's Call song, I'm right back at the first day of school.  The very thing that so fully won me over to Christ - the incredible freedom that is ours in his name - is the very first thing I leave as I step out the door to do ministry in Christ's name.  Foolish man that I am!  Who will save me from this endless backsliding into the need to perform and justify?

---

There's a little book Jonathan Carroll once gave me when I first started in ministry down in Owensboro, Kentucky.  It's called The Art of Pastoring by William C. Martin, and it - like the vacation from my mom and Denny - is a gift.  I consider it a gift "bestowed."  At the end of this gem of wisdom, Martin writes this about pastoral work:

"Yours is a difficult, impossible, frustrating, and spirit-killing profession if practiced without simplicity and freedom.

"Practiced with simplicity and freedom it is a noble, rewarding, delightful dance with the Spirit of God and with the souls of people.  I pray for all pastors, everywhere.  You are so deeply needed in our world. 

"Be yourself.  Be gentle.  Be happy." 

How true those words are!  And how strong those two currents rush within me as I enter back into pastoral work! 

No sooner do I set foot back on the land of our home than I find a river trying to pull me away from simplicity and freedom.  And so I step into my work with a stiff back and depressed vision of the world before me.  Perceived slights and spirit-killing attitudes of judgment seep into my heart and thereby poison my attitude.  So, I miss the joy of a community right around me that is alive and God-blessed and unique and holy.  I feel drawn to go down the road called blame, and to linger in back-alleys named resentment and envy.

But, by God's grace, I do feel that other stream.  Perhaps not as strong at first.  Maybe not a rushing river.  Maybe it's more like a gentle stream leading on into the overgrowth and the shadows of the woods.  "Come to the water," the voice of this stream calls.  "Let mercy and gentleness lead.  Don't worry about performing or controlling or protecting.  Dance.  Listen.  Love the world around you as if it were God's holy place.  For it is.  The Word has become flesh and dwells among you.  So be yourself.  Be fully yourself even when doing so feels woefully inadequate in worldly terms.  Be yourself even if in your simplicity you look the fool.  Be yourself even when that noisy rush of competition and performance threaten to drown out love and peace.

Life is not something to be mastered.

It is a gift.

It is bestowed.

It is, therefore, to be received.