NBA Finals MVP.....David Stern?

I have no credentials that can justify being a critic of NBA basketball. The last complete NBA game I sat down and watched probably featured Michael Jordon and Larry Bird. What I understand about today’s game comes from reading and watching highlights on Sports Center. But my number one source of information about the game comes from the hilarity that insues at 6 am on my Facebook feed after a playoff game, and I’m here to tell you, nothing is more entertaining than that.

I suppose I lost interest in the pro game when Magic and Bird and Jordon left and were replaced with Allen Iverson, Kevin Garnett, Dirk Nowitzki, and Lebron James types, all terrific players but somehow irritating to me what with the tattoo-covered attitude, “we talkin’ ‘bout practice” of an Allen Iverson, to the pretentiousness of Lebron James calling himself “the king” before he had won anything. With Garnett it was always that angry swagger, the utterly unlikable personality, and with Nowitzki, well, I’ve never been big on imports ( insert eye-rolls and heavy sighing from everyone under 40 ).

Having said all of this, I have thoroughly enjoyed this year’s playoffs, even though I haven’t watched one second of one game. Here’s why. After each game, I don’t have to check ESPN.com for the score, all I have to do is head over to Facebook, sit back and watch the show! It goes something like this”

SPURS FAN: The worst freaking officiating EVER! David Stern wants Lebron to get that second ring. It’s FIXED!

HEAT FAN: Are you kidding me??? The only reason this wasn’t over in four games is because the refs are in the tank for the SPURS!! David Stern is a racist JEW!

SPURS FAN:  Stern got what he wants, a game seven. Wonder how much money he spends every year fixing these games?

HEAT FAN: Erik Spoelstra is on Stern’s payroll too, worst coach ever! Imagine how much greater Lebron would be if he had Phil Jackson!

 

Who is this David Stern, you may ask? What team does he play for? No, no, he isn’t a player; he’s a very rich white guy who apparently has super human powers of manipulation. He’s that rarest of creatures in sports, an aging rich white man of stunning genius who somehow pulls the strings of athletic competition in such a way as to force the Spurs to shoot 60% from the floor to insure his desired outcome. He is the Commissioner of the National Basketball Association, and as such processes powers that Barack Obama can only dream of. A mere phone call from this man can alter outcomes of games. His devious schemes make millions of dollars for his league by insuring the perfect outcomes for games that have been focus-grouped to within an inch of their lives. In so doing, he has become the reason for every team’s success or failure, if my Facebook feed is correct. The upcoming game seven will not be decided by the exploits of Lebron or Tim Duncan, no, no. It will all be the refs fault, and everyone knows that the refs are in David Stern’s back pocket. What a game!

Movie Review: Man of Steel

 I went to see Man of Steel last night. I have always been enamored with this story ever since I used to watch the old thirty minute black and white television series back when I was a kid, the one that ruined George Reeves’ life and led to his suicide at age 45. I loved the Christopher Reeve version, and was saddened at his death too. With that tract record, I hope nothing terrible befalls British actor, Henry Cavill, who does a fantastic job of filling out his spandex uniform but little else.

The movie was a disappointment for me on many levels, but as I was walking to my car in the parking lot afterwards, I was finding it difficult to put into words just why. My wife, as usual, came to the rescue with the best one sentence movie review of all time, “It had a whole lot of too much and not enough of something.” There’s no way I can improve on that, so I will just list in bullet points the things that irritated me.

# At 143 minutes, this movie once again illustrates that Hollywood has forgotten how to edit. Story could have been told just as well if not better in less than 2 hours …easily. The final fight scene between Superman and General Zod was so overcooked and ridiculous it bordered on comical. After destroying half of Metropolis wrestling through building after building, then, just for kicks, wrestling all the way into orbit onto a satellite, it finally occurs to Superman, that he can kill Zod by simply getting him in a choke hold and breaking his neck. Apparently Superman’s superhuman powers did not include the power of deductive reasoning.

# So, in the 2013 version of this story, Perry White turns out to be black.

# Lois Lane, the Pulitzer Prize winning reporter famous for her inquiring mind, after being up close and personal with Superman in the most dangerous and emotionally powerful ways imaginable, hasn’t even the slightest hint of recognition when she is introduced to the newly hired Clark Kent at the end of the movie, a name she knew from her interview with his mother, and despite the fact that Clark’s only disguise was a pair of glasses.

# Although the story of Superman has always been heavy with religious imagery, Director Zack Snyder handles the religious themes with all the subtlety of a punch in the face. As Clark ponders what he is to do with his great powers, he wanders into a church, and as he explains his conundrum to a priest, behind his right shoulder is a huge stained glass depiction of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane in the background. Nicely done Zack. I see what you did there!

Snyder’s approach seems to have been, “let’s spend as little time as possible telling the story, and as much time as possible blowing things up.” In other words, a whole lot of too much and not enough of something.

Great Day, Bad Night

I’ve been making tremendous progress recovering from my shoulder surgery. Each day my range of motion is improving. Each day I have fewer and fewer moments of excruciating pain. Why just yesterday I was able to put on my socks and shoes all by myself. Granted, there were tears in my eyes and I was sweating like a pig by the time it was over, but the fact remains, I got dressed unassisted. Pam even let me drive out to Dad’s Saturday night. I felt like a kid with a learners permit!

Well, last night a minor setback. We had run out of Aleve. It was time for bed, and my shoulder felt pretty good since I had taken my stronger pain stuff only 3 hours earlier, so I took nothing before going to bed. So, at exactly12:45 am, my body, for the first time in eleven days had no pain medication whatsoever in it, big mistake. My eyes popped open and immediately I became aware of a raging fire burning in my shoulder. Weird pulses of terror were running up and down my arm. No cause for panic, I thought, probably just slept funny on it or something. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to take anything before I went to bed. Ok, no problem, I’ll just go down stairs, pop 3 Advil and a hydrocodone and be back asleep in no time. The trip down the stairs was as unpleasant a journey as I have ever endured. Each step rocked the shoulder, and by the time I made it to the kitchen, my hands were shaking like a crack addict on the third day of rehab.

To make a long story short, I finally fell asleep around 4:30 and learned a valuable lesson in the process…drugs are my friend.

Had a great Father’s Day even though both of my pups were away. They both called me with their wishes, and I had steaks on the grill with my wonderful in-laws. Even winged two squirrels in the back yard who should be thanking their lucky stars that I’m on medication, since ordinarily their rude excursion into my yard would have been fatal. Kaitlin sent me an e-mail that had a slide show that she had put together for my Father’s Day present. It was a series of still photographs, with captions and a soundtrack of computerized music trying to sound like 70’s rock and roll. By the time it was over, I had forgotten all about the shoulder. What an incredible gift it was. I thought about posting it on Facebook, so proud I was of it, but then decided it was too private and might come across as bragging. An hour later she had posted it on my wall. In so doing, she further ingratiated herself to her already adoring father and cemented her financial future in my very generous will.

Just kidding

Missing Molly

It’s been 5 weeks since my dog Molly passed away. By now you would think I would be past the raw emotion of her death and for the most part I am. But a day has not passed where I have not had at least one moment of sadness, one instant of loneliness upon her remembrance. One such moment happened last night.

It was a spectacularly gorgeous night, the air was clean, a hint of a breeze stirring in my backyard, the temperature a perfect 76 degrees, like a summer day in Maine. Pam and I were determined to spend the entire evening on the deck, despite the intolerable shrieking of our neighbors’ kids and the howl of lawnmowers from neighbors who always decide to mow their lawns at night just about the time we decide to eat dinner outside. Pam hooked up my cool wireless speaker system and dialed up the Frank Sinatra station on Pandora and soon, we were competing with the annoying soundtrack of suburbia with one of our own, Sinatra, Michael Buble, Ella Fitzgerald, it was no contest! I grilled up some veggies and beef sausages, Pam made some macaroni and cheese and some fresh sweet tea, and soon we were having an amazing night.

After dinner, we sat in our newly purchased recliner chairs, which are every bit as cool and comfortable as they sound, surrounded by beautiful hibiscus plants and Pam’s herb garden. The peacefulness of the moment had all but made me forget about my ailing shoulder. I began to watch the newly filled bird feeder hanging from the tree in the middle of the back yard. There were little wrens and sparrows, competing with rude blue jays, and majestic cardinals. At the base of the tree, an adorable chipmunk was scurrying around for the leftovers.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Molly came to mind. I imagined her laying in her spot in the yard, that one place where she could keep an eye on us on the deck while keeping a sharp eye out down the driveway into the front yard. It was her favorite place, so much so, she had worn a bare spot there. I glanced over at the spot and noticed it was green and healthy, no longer worn and brown as if finally even the back yard, her kingdom, had forgotten her. Maybe it was the pain meds, but in that moment a wave of sadness came over me, powerful and intense. What the hell is wrong with me, I thought. For a minute I thought I was going to start crying, so I got up from my chair, made some excuse for needing to watch the end of the second round of the US Open or something and beat a hasty retreat. Once inside, I quickly recovered in time to watch Phil Mickelson sink a birdee put on 18.

It’s the strangest thing, what the loss of this dog has done to me. About most things I am a logical realist, sentimentality not being something most people would associate with me. But when it comes to Molly, the littlest thing can bring on the most powerful emotions, turning me into a sentimental mess. At some point I’m sure it will all pass, and the memories of Molly will bring only happiness and laughter. But it hasn’t happened yet.      

A Fool's Errand

In the Syrian city of Aleppo, a 14 year old boy named Mohammad Qatta was working as a waiter in a coffee shop. A customer asked him to bring him some coffee to which Qatta replied in that overly dramatic, put-upon way so common with 14 year olds the world over, “Even if the Prophet Mohammad comes back to life I won’t!” In America this type of thing would result in Qatta most likely forfeiting his tip. In today’s Syria, it cost him his life.

A group of Syrian rebels happened to be driving by in a black car, somehow heard the remark, went inside the coffee shop, grabbed the kid, stuffed him in the back seat and disappeared. An hour later they returned, having whipped Qatta severely, covering his head with his shirt. After waiting for a crowd to gather, a crowd that included Qatta’s parents, the rebels announced that because the rude waiter had insulted the Prophet Mohammad, he would pay the ultimate price as would anyone else guilty of blasphemy. Then they executed him on the sidewalk in front of the café by shooting him point blank in the mouth and neck.

Yesterday, the Obama administration announced that the United States would begin immediately offering military support and assistance to….the Syrian rebels, murderer of 14 year old waiters. In addition, the Administration has graciously offered to accept thousands of Syrian refugees for relocation here in the United States. I hope they all end up in my neighborhood, don’t you?

Just over a month ago in this very space, I praised the Obama Administration for standing up to the “Let’s get involved in another middle eastern war” crowd, by being prudently cautious towards Syria and maintaining our neutrality. Now, it seems they have changed their minds, having been convinced that the Syrian government of Bashar al-Assad used chemical weapons on his own people. Sound familiar?

So, now we have embarked upon another fool’s errand in the Middle East. We have pushed our chips to the middle of the table in support of a hodgepodge of ruthless rebels who administer justice by murdering 14 year olds in front of their parents. Billions of dollars will be spent, dollars that we do not have. Eventually, American men and women will be asked to risk their lives in a war where there are no good guys, only evil and expedient ones. And as a bonus, we get a batch of new immigrants.

Once again, I have no idea what my government is thinking. What a hot mess!

An Open Letter to the Southern Baptist Convention

An Open Letter to the Southern Baptist Convention,

 

I have been a member of a Southern Baptist church for most of my adult life. I came to faith in Christ in no small part through the teachings and ministry of one such church. My Father is a retired Southern Baptist pastor, having said all of that, whenever anyone asks me about my religion, I never answer, “I’m a Southern Baptist.” Instead, I usually say that I’m a Christian. The reason for that is the subject of this letter.

There are many amazing things about the Southern Baptist church, things of which I am very proud. Through the Cooperative Program, Southern Baptists have found a way to leverage the giving power of 45,000 churches and turn it into an amazing missions organization that supports over 5000 missionaries who serve over 950 different people groups around the world. In the United States, whenever there is a disaster, a tornado, flood or hurricane, groups from local Southern Baptist churches are some of the first relief organizations on the scene and usually the last to leave. As a denomination, Southern Baptists have done more to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ than any other organization I know of. This has been the single focus of our existence and is worthy of great praise accordingly.

But then, once a year we have a convention. Each church elects “messengers” to attend. Speeches are made, songs are sung, and then like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, we do something stupid. This year it involved the Boy Scouts of America.

Recently the BSA changed its rules and decided not to prohibit openly gay boys from joining. Actually, the wording stated that being gay could no longer be the sole reason for an applicants’ disqualification. For reasons that escape me, the Southern Baptist Convention decided that it needed to get involved in the membership controversy of an organization that has nothing to do with the Southern Baptist church. Well, that’s not exactly true. In the United States, over 100,000 scouts do hold their weekly meetings in some 4,000 local Baptist churches. But the Convention has no power to force a local congregation to prohibit such meetings, so, why make a statement about it, which you had to know would be the one single headline to come out of your entire meeting, “SOUTHERN BAPTISTS SLAM SCOUTS”

I understand that homosexuality is a sin in both the Old Testament and the New. But, it has a lot of company, and gets nowhere near as much attention as good old fashioned adultery, dishonesty, pride and greed. Why no statement about the rampant adultery and divorce among the faithful? How about a statement coming out against the pornography business which has destroyed more traditional marriages than homosexuality ever thought about destroying?

I guess my problem with you guys is one of emphasis. Why pick a fight with the Boy Scouts? With all the problems facing the world today, it’s the Boy Scouts membership policy that tops your agenda? With traditional marriage divorce rates hovering around 50%, why do you spend so much time railing about the sexual practices of at best 10% of the population? And, what are we to make of this statement? Are we trying to encourage local churches to not allow local troops to meet in their buildings because they may have a gay member? Does this mean that we are against gay people coming to church? I guess I just don’t understand the method to this madness. Homosexuality is a sin. I get it. Lots of things are sins. The entire world is full of sinners. Isn’t it the job of the church to reach them with the message of salvation through Christ? How does this Boy Scout statement accomplish this? What it does accomplish, is reinforce the stereotype of Southern Baptists as a bunch of people who are against everything. We’re against drinking, gambling, dancing and gays. Well, there goes 75% of the country, and 100% of Washington DC.

Good luck dealing with the fallout from this. Oh, and the next time you’re sitting in a meeting pondering the problem of declining membership and influence, you might want to consider coming up with a list of things that you’re FOR.

Graduation Gift

Dear Graduate,

Congratulations on this important achievement in your life. I have no idea what the future will hold for you, and I’m not sure you do either. But, something tells me it’s going to be special. Ever since I’ve known you, God has had his hand on your life. Of all of the members of your wonderful family, you have always been the one who has reminded me most of myself. You have a rebellious streak, like me. You have a devilish wit and a gift for sarcasm, and the ability to not take yourself too seriously, things that I have been accused of all my life. Where all of these gifts will take you is anyone’s guess, but I bet it is going to be amazing, which brings me to your gift.

This United States 100 dollar bill is not just any old 100 dollar bill. It comes with strings attached. This is not to be spent on some new outfit, or Justin Bieber tickets, (I swear, if you buy Bieber tickets with this money I will hunt you down!!!). This 100 dollar bill is to be folded neatly a couple of times and hidden away in the depths of your wallet and forgotten about. First of all, an adventurous world traveler should never leave the house without a 100 dollar bill stashed away somewhere, but besides that obvious truth; God has plans for this money. Let me explain.

Someday, you might find yourself down on your luck, in a very hard place, thinking that you’re at the end of your rope. Then suddenly, you will remember this 100 dollar bill, and for you on that day, it will be a miracle, given to you not by me, but by my obedience to God. Or maybe, one day you will meet someone in your travels, someone destitute and truly at the end of their rope, for whom this 100 dollar bill just might save their life. You know better than I that in many parts of the world, 100 US dollars is life changing money. Imagine how awesome you are going to feel when you discover that God has used you as the instrument of their deliverance! Perhaps a day will come when you are presented with an amazing opportunity to do something for yourself, a chance to learn a new skill, or take a class, but it costs 100 bucks that you don’t have. Then you’ll remember this bill in your wallet, you’ll take that class, learn how to convert ocean water into gasoline and become a bazillionaire.

The point is, this is seed money. The huge string attached is this; whenever you use it, you have to tell me the story. Knowing you, you’ll probably be living in some hut in Zimchikastan somewhere so you’ll have to send me a letter or email. If you’re living anywhere near me, I’ll expect a personal visit. It may be next month, next year, or twenty years from now. If I’ve already passed away, tell the story to my wife and kids.  Another thing, don’t worry about using the money. Don’t think, “Man, if I use this money for this thing, he’s going to be disappointed.” No, when the time comes, God will let you know that it’s the right time. I can’t wait to hear all about it.

Now go out there and do something great with your life.