From Away....

One week from today. Seven days, a half a fortnight. That's how long before Pam and I will depart Short Pump for three weeks on Quantabacook Lake in Searsmont, Maine. The closer we get to the 7th of September, the less I am able to concentrate on anything else. It's like there is a gigantic black hole with a powerful gravitational pull on that day on the calendar, impossible to resist.

Each day I'm crossing more things off my to do list. Most of those things have revolved around preparing my business to function effectively without me. However, the fact that I will not be there to screw anything up is a big plus, making the planning much easier! 

Ominously, the ten day forecast for Searsmont has suddenly turned cooler, with high temperatures dropping out of the 70's. There is a chance that we will be, once again, making the drive up in the rain. Although the accuracy of weather forecasts a week out are spotty, ultimately the weather falls into a category of things that I can do absolutely nothing about, and as such, I will give it no more thought.

As long as I will be living in this place for three weeks, the weather is very much a secondary concern. At this point, the only guests we have scheduled are my inlaws who will be coming up for a week, and some friends of ours from Maine who will be coming to visit at some point yet to be determined. The rest of the time it will be Pam and I and our manic, mentally disturbed Golden Retriever, Lucy. We will sit on that deck in the mornings drinking our coffee. The edge of the lake is less than twenty-five feet from our bedroom, those French doors to the right. If it's not too chilly, maybe we will have our breakfast at that table to the left. We will walk out on the dock and read a book. We will launch out on the lake in the kayaks which will be delivered to us by Dan the Man from Ducktrap Kayaks in Lincolnville. At night, we will build a fire in the fire pit down next to the small beach on the property. 

Some days we will drive into Belfast and Camden to nose around in the shops. Our favorite store in the entire world, The Smiling Cow, will get several visits. They will know us and greet us as long lost friends. We will eat several meals at restaurants next to the ocean. We will have blueberry pancakes at the Camden Deli, lobster rolls at Hazel's, and ice cream at River Ducks. We will take a ride on a lobster boat called the Lively Lady. We will hike up to the top of Mount Battie, then walk the Oceanside trails of the Camden Hills State Park directly across the street from the mountain, one of the geographical oddities about this place that enchants us every year.

But mostly, we will just be there. It's very hard to explain the feeling that comes over me just being there. When I'm at home, there are many things that compete for my attention, that pull me out of the present. I have a business and responsibilities. Everything that causes me stress is essentially within two miles of this house. That's not a knock against my home. I love my home, love Short Pump. It's more like a simple fact of life. But, when I'm in Maine, I'm truly and totally...away. Mainers actually have a term for people like us, those worn out souls who come there for relief...they refer to us as people from away. It's true. For me, every place that isn't Maine is....away.

The Heartbreak of Houston

Houston has turned out to be a giant heartbreak. When a 500 year flood comes calling, it's what happens. I watch the videos and stare at the pictures, amazed and horrified at the devastation that over 40 inches of rain has brought to this slice of our modern, technologically advanced world. Build your gleaming cities, trust in your towering machines...then cling to a sapling when the rains come.

We have friends in Houston. They are in harm's way, they've been relocated, and have endured the unimaginable trauma of being separated from infant children. But they tell us that there are so many suffering far worse. They actually feel lucky. 

I see the photograph of the small child found shivering, clinging to the dead body of her mother. My heart breaks for them both.

I see the image of the cowboy-tough Texas redneck carrying an Asian woman and her baby through waist deep water to safety and I think...there is a real man.

I see another picture of a black man wearing a slick yellow pancho carrying two white toddlers in his arms through rising water and think...this is an image worth making into a statue for a town square.

I watch a video of a reporter approaching two men, one white, one black who are preparing their fishing boats for battle. He asks them what they are doing. The black man says, we're going to try to save some people today.

I remember the thing my Dad used to say about how a life crisis doesn't build character, it simply reveals it. Once again, Dad was right.

I get momentarily sidetracked by reading about some professor who earned his fifteen minutes of fame by suggesting that the people of Texas deserve this because they voted for Trump, and I marvel at the hardness of the human heart, the inability of some to set aside politics. But when I hear how this professor was denounced by both sides I take small comfort.

But, through all of this I discover that there is something wrong with me. For, although I am moved by all of the human suffering, nothing moves me like the sight of an abandoned dog on a rooftop of a car. I see pictures of terrified dogs in cages, wet and wild eyed and I have to look away. I just can't take it. I literally walk away from the computer and leave the room. Why? Why am I so quickly moved to tears by the suffering of family pets?

It's because they don't understand. We can't sit them down and explain what is happening. They trust us for everything. They never doubt us. They have cast their lot with their humans without reservation. And now, they have been abandoned in the midst of a 500 year flood. The images are too much for me.

But, they are there and I am here, safe and dry. I can only pray for all the people of Texas. I can donate to the Red Cross. 

I remind myself that this is Texas we're talking about. Those people are tough as shoe leather. They will recover. They won't sit around waiting for someone else to save their fellow Texans. They will fill up the Evinrude with gas and do it themselves.

God bless them...everyone.

Scaramucci To Speak at Liberty Convocation

Liberty University has announced that Anthony "The Mooch" Scaramucci will speak during convocation. Something called the Office of Spiritual Formation booked the former hedge fund manager and political gadfly to speak to the mandatory gathering of 10,000 plus students at the Christian school in Lynchburg, despite the fact that Scaramucci has previously had no known connection to anything vaguely associated with Christianity. Scaramucci, best known for his expletive-laden interview which appeared in The NewYorker, served as President Trump's Communications Director for eleven days. Complaints about selecting someone of Scaramucci's dubious character and paper thin list of accomplishments were directed at Liberty President, Jerry Falwell Jr. who vigorously denied any involvement with the choice, noting that the selection of convocation speakers was the responsibility of the Office of Spiritual Formation. A spokesman for that office pointed out the invitation to Scaramucci was made prior to his stormy tenure at the Trump White House and his profane rant in the New Yorker. This "explanation" is quite odd since, if true, begs the question...what had Mr. Scaramucci done prior to his stint at the White House that would have suggested him as an appropriate speaker for Liberty University students?

He ran hedge funds. He wrote three books, all three of which celebrated his ability to make lots of money. Along the way he managed to have five kids with two women, both of whom he ended up divorcing, the last one while she was eight months pregnant with his child. At various times over the past ten years he had been involved in supporting the Presidential campaigns of Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, Scott Walker, and JEB Bush. What aspects of spirituality are the leadership at Liberty trying to form here?

Listen, it's none of my business what Liberty University does. They are a private university and can invite anyone they want to speak on their campus. All sorts of really bad people get invited to speak at colleges all the time. But for a school like Liberty, dedicated as they are to producing "champions for Christ," it seems an extraordinarily odd choice. Yes, I know that simply by inviting someone to speak does not equal approval of the message. Liberty has had many speakers over the years that fall outside their wheelhouse...Ted Kennedy and Bernie Sanders come to mind. But, Anthony Scaramucci??

Jerry Falwell Jr. has transformed himself in the minds of many into the chief apologist for Donald Trump, at least among evangelicals. Again, that's his choice and his business. But, when he does so, like it or not, he also represents his university. It should not surprise him that many of his current and former students are appalled by the strident support that he offers a man who has lived a life antithetical to the Gospel of Christ. In an interview with Fox News after Trump's hamfisted remarks about Charlottesville, Falwell, with not an ounce of self awareness offered up this insight...

Trump doesn't say what's politically correct, he says what's in his heart.

Yes, Jerry. He does say what's in his heart. And, isn't that the problem?

Seven Essentials

Don't worry, I'm done with church talk for a good while. However, there was one aspect of this past weekend's class that I found fascinating, and I'm wondering if there might be a secular version we could rally around as a nation. On matters of theology, the Christian faith is a cauldron of factions and denominations. Hope did not trivialize those tensions, but rather boiled them down to their essence with their Seven Essentials of our Faith. I will not list them here since that is not what this post is about. The larger point made by Hope is that, as a church body, they allow disagreement on a great many things about doctrine...but not with respect to the seven essentials. There is, after all, no point in organizing a church around no guiding theological principles. Anarchy is not a workable doctrine. Chaos is not the foundation of a functioning church, or anything else.

This seven essentials business has launched me into thinking about my country. We are at a point in our history where all of the things that divide us seem overwhelming, a way forward seems elusive. If we were so inclined, what would the seven essentials of American citizenship be? For years I would have thought that it would have been the Bill of Rights. But, with each passing day, I hear more voices claiming that freedom of speech needs a few tweaks. Once that iconic freedom falls, how many others are safe?

So, if you could construct a seven essentials for American citizenship, what would it contain? I suppose I'm not committed to the number seven, there's nothing sacred about that, but, I think the fewer, the better. More importantly, are there a set of rules that free citizens must agree upon in order to live together in peace and stability? I'm not asking how everyone should be forced to live their life. I'm not asking you to impose your personal political ideology on the rest of the public. Rather, in the spirit of compromise and accommodation, what are the principles that are vital to living together in peace, principles that all human beings could coalesce around?

Go.....

This just in...I'm an idiot.

This morning I had a major cognitive breakdown, a new low in the inexorable decline of mental acuity for those of a certain age. It is embarrassing to admit that it has come to this...

I woke at the usual time after an uneventful night's sleep. My morning routine was virtually unchanged except for the latest contest of wills with Lucy, the psycho dog. Suddenly, she has decided that going down the stairs is beyond the pale. In her disturbed mind, our staircase is now the gauntlet of death. At first, she would only go down them if we walked along side her. Then, it became walk beside her with the leash securely attached to her collar. Now it's, I ain't going down those stairs for love nor money!! I have been forced twice this weekend to carry my 65 pound dog down the stairs of my house. But...I digress.

After this absurd encounter with Lunatic Lucy, I began laying out my clothes for the day, before  jumping in the shower. Pam made the odd remark, Wow, that's a fancy shirt. Nothing. Then I went to take my daily medication and noticed that I had failed to take yesterday's allotment. Still...nothing. Then I hopped into my car and started driving confidently to my destination, wondering why I couldn't get Sport's Phone with Big Al on the radio. Again...nothing, zip, nada...

It was only when I got to the corner of Pump Road and Three Chopt that I got the strange sensation that something was not right. Where was all the traffic? I picked up my cell phone and looked at the lovely picture of Pam and me on a boat in the Caymen Islands taken back in a time when I had not yet been turned into a blithering idiot by the ravages of time. Clear as day in white, block lettering came the announcement that today was, in fact, SUNDAY, AUGUST 27...not Monday, and if I continued on my present course, my clients in Mechanicsville are going to be shocked by my appearance on their doorstep before they had even had a chance to eat their bran flakes. 

I made an embarrassed u-turn then sheepishly drove back home where I promptly confessed to my concerned wife that her husband had indeed lost his mind.

A Life...in Church.

I am a 59 year old man, and for all of that time, I have been in church, the first 20 years by conscription, the last 39 by choice. I was born into Kingsland Baptist Church in Chesterfield County. While my Dad was in seminary, I was a member of the church he pastored on the weekends, Nicholsville Baptist Church in Nicholsville, Alabama. But, I don't remember much about either of these places. The two churches where I spent the majority of my life were Winns Baptist Church in Elmont, Virginia, and Grove Avenue Baptist Church in Richmond.

All of this is on my mind today because Pam and I have spent the last two days in a prospective new members class at Hope Church. There are several unique things about this. First, it's only the second time we have actually joined a church as a new member in 33 years of marriage, second, Hope is a Presbyterian church, and third, Hope is the only church I've ever attended which requires people to go through two days of meetings in order to join, and even then it's very much a take it or leave it proposition. It's like they're saying, Sure, we're really glad you're interested in Hope, but let's not run off half-cocked and do something stupid without knowing what you're getting yourself into, ok? I'll have more to say about Hope a little later on, but right now, I want to write about what my church life, for lack of a better term, has been like. Some of you will identify and relate with what follows. Others may be bewildered by it. But, for better or for worse, being in church all of my life has shaped me. It has been an enormous force for good in my life, while simultaneously being a force of anger and frustration. It's been a complicated relationship, between me and this institution, one that I feel compelled at this stage of my life to write about. For me, it all began when my dad was hired to be the senior pastor at Winns Baptist Church. I was ten years old.

Winns Baptist Church

When you're a preacher's kid, you're not really a member of a church. It's more like you are part of the package, a collateral accoutrement that had to be tolerated. At age ten I got the distinct impression that first Sunday at Winns that I was expected to be seen, often, as in--every single time the church doors were opened, and heard from, never. In addition, they would greatly appreciate it if I was never seen swinging from the chandeliers. My Dad was the pastor at Winns for sixteen years. There were good times and bad times. Some of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever met were there. I had my first kiss there, met and eventually fell in love with my wife there. It was at Winns where I actually came to a personal faith in Christ myself.  But, it was also at Winns where I learned that not everyone claiming faith in Christ was a nice person. In fact, some of those who cried, "Lord, lord!" the loudest were more like the spawn of Satan.

 I experienced my first church fight at Winns, complete with several knock down, drag out business meetings, and anonymous letter writing campaigns, (back before the Internet and social media, character assassination was very much a retail business). When the source of a church fight is the question of whether or not your Dad is competent enough to justify his continued employment, things tend to get personal. At age 16, enduring a church fight did a great job of feeding the growing cynicism already running wild in me and most other 16 year olds I knew. I responded to it by writing a play which was performed by the youth group one Youth Week Sunday. It was a send up of a raucous church business meeting where I put very little effort into hiding the real world identities of most of the characters. It was not well received by it's intended targets, and I was thrilled by their anger. The last service I ever attended at Winns was my wedding. Soon afterwards Dad moved on to a Church in Charlottesville. So, for the first time in my life, I was tasked with finding and joining a church in which My father was not the pastor.

Grove Avenue Baptist Church

The first couple of years of married life saw Pam and I not trying very hard to find a church. We discovered that we very much enjoyed two day weekends, and not having to wake up so early on Sundays. But, once Pam was pregnant with Kaitlin, we began the search in earnest. Since my two sisters had both landed at Grove, post-Winns, we decided to visit one Sunday. Vander Warner was the pastor and I throughly enjoyed his sermon, but hated the church for two reasons...it was too big, and it was broadcast live on television. The presence of TV cameras up and down the aisles was a huge turnoff. But, we were going to soon be parents and thought that we needed to settle on a church home sooner rather than later. A few Sundays later we found an amazing Sunday school class taught by a young architect, filled with other couples our age who were also expecting. The next week we joined. This being a Baptist Church in the mid-80's, joining consisted of us walking down the aisle during the alter call, shaking a minister's hand and then being swept off into a room which was decorated like a funeral home, where some guy asked us ten minutes of questions. That was it. We were in! It's called moving your letter, a process by which the new church contacts your old church to verify your membership there, then presto, the paperwork gets done, you get a fresh box of offering envelopes and it's all good. The procedure is spelled out somewhere in Malachi, I'm told.

Pam and I both grew to love Grove. We raised both of our children there with the invaluable help of countless people who poured their time and talents into our children. My wife began a 13 year run working and teaching in children's church, while some idiot thought I would make a great chairman of the Finance Committee since I was in the "financial business." It was a disaster. My leadership style is way to heavy on sarcasm and highjinks to make the necessary adjustments to church finance....

Random ministry leader making his pitch to my committee for funds: So, we need a 20% increase in our funding for this year because of all of these great ministry plans we have for the new year.

Me: You're kidding, right? Dude, you didn't even spend the money we allocated you last year. What do we look like, Central Fidelity Bank??

Yeah, so that didn't go well. It didn't take long for the church leadership team to realize that my skill set needed a different outlet for expression. An amazingly humble, godly ex-marine named Gary Stewart soon asked me to consider becoming the Sunday School teacher for a group of ninth grade boys who had scared off three teachers in three months. For reasons that remain a mystery, I said yes. Thus began a ten year run as a leader and volunteer in the youth ministry at Grove. It was easily, the best ten years I've ever had in church. Spent a fortune. Gave up weekends. Quadrupled the wear and tear on my house since nearly every weekend, the place got overrun with a couple dozen hormone-crazed kids. Spent a week every summer with over 200 teenagers at summer camp. But, as crazy and as difficult and demanding as it was, I loved it, primarily because I was making a difference. In all of that time, I was oblivious to what was going on in the rest of the church. I'm sure there were fights and disagreements going on throughout the church at the time, but I never noticed any of it, because I was busy with the kids. It was beautiful.

Then came a three year stint teaching college students. Also fun and satisfying. But after three years there, my time had passed. Then, for the first time in thirteen years I reverted back to just being a regular member, one of those guys who comes every Sunday morning, sits in the same pew, and slowly, quietly starts getting annoyed by church. It's the disease that afflicts most people in church who aren't involved in some sort of ministry. People in church, left at leisure, become critics. That sermon was lame. Could those sopranos possibly be any flatter on that song? Reading the announcements to us right out of the bulletin. Seriously? Who does he think we are, a bunch of illiterate morons?

So, after a few years of this spiritual whining, you look at yourself in the mirror and realize that you need to make a change. It's not the preacher, it's you. Then it occurs to you that you've been at the same church for 30 years. Somewhere during the last few years, you've stopped listening, you are no longer hearing the voices there. You need a new voice, a new season of growth, a time for renewal. 

Hope Church

A year later, you find yourself at a two day prospective member class event at Hope Church. There will be no moving your letter nonsense with this group. These guys are Presbyterians, and if you want to join this church, much will be expected of you. There are slick handouts on glossy paper spelling out what it means to be an owner/operator. One speaker after another tells us, here are the seven essentials of the faith that we believe. This is our mission statement. Here are our plans for the future. Here are the areas of service that you will be expected to move into at some point. If you want to be a member of something, go join Hermitage Country Club, or the YMCA. We don't want members, we want spiritual entrepreneurs who are ready to work, ready to lead and ready to sacrifice for the mission of the Gospel. Oh, and when you give, we take cash, checks, EFT debits, PayPal, and coming soon...pay by text!

There was something invigorating about such an unvarnished airing of expectations. It's good to know that we will not be allowed to sit around being a critic, that something will be required of us. We will be expected to make the church a better place than how we found it. This will not be some cheap, resume stuffing title, Member, Hope Church. Rather, it will be a call to action.

I think, we just might be ready.

Hefty, Hefty, HEFTY!!!

Hurricane Harvey is set to pound the coast of Texas with 100 mph winds and upwards of 35 inches of rain. Early reports indicate that the citizens of Corpus Christi have suddenly lost all interest in the raging Confederate statue controversy. Funny how the prospect of eminent death focuses the mind.

I'm not suggesting that the statue uproar isn't a legitimate thing. It surely is. I mean, when suddenly the sight of them has become so heinous, so provocative that the city of Charlottesville has taken to wrapping giant black trash bags around them to hide them from public view, it most definitely is a thing.

I'm told that under this giant tarp is a statue of Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson astride a horse. The Charlottesville city government, after a tumultuous town council meeting where they were loudly jeered, mocked and cursed by an angry assembly of concerned citizens, made the decision to shroud the offending statues. The move was met with varied reactions. Some called it a good first step, while others considered it a desecration, while still others lamented, Seriously, Charlottesville?? A black tarp?? No orange and blue?

Apparently, the city fathers opted for the black tarp only after they received a price quote on surrounding the statue in giant mirrors, which was too costly. Although the mirrors had the added advantage of encouraging citizens to examine our souls, and gaze upon ourselves for inspiration instead of venerating our troubled past, the cost was prohibitive.

Still, the tarp play was seen by most observers as only a stop gap measure and carries with it a new set of problems. Prior to "The Covering" as it has quickly become known, local police only had to concern themselves with protecting the statues from vandals on the left who might descend upon it in a mob and tear it down Raleigh-style. Now, they must protect the tarp from pocket knife wielding hooligans from the right. 

As a good capitalist, I smell a huge opportunity here for the folks over at Glad, the trash bag company. If I were them I would be all over this picture with the greatest virtue signaling add campaign of all time...Glad...taking out history's trash, one rebel at a time. Or maybe the guys over at Hefty can beat them to it with...Don't risk sanitizing your public square with some whimpy bag. Go with HEFTY, HEFTY, HEFTY!!

I suspect that the Charlottesville city council is in for a rude awakening if they think covering Confederate statues in platstic bags is going to calm the crowds that so reviled them at their last meeting. The next one might be even worse, since now angry citizens can make the case that by covering Jackson and Lee with bags, the city has actually protected the statues by muting the spray-painting graffiti free speech rights of urban artists. Hopefully, cooler heads will prevail and some compromise can be struck. Either way, the next meeting for the Charlottesville town council will be must-see TV.