Catharsis in Baltimore

I've written much over the years about my life and times in Mayfield, Kentucky.

In fact, I guess this blog has given space for thoughts and feelings to be processed and considered.  As an old friend is want to remind me, all things unresolved always resurface.  As I've alluded in previous posts, I think that much of who I am comes from my understanding of what of me was left unresolved from those years--

• Friendship, and the fierce loyality attached to those you dare call friend.  The truest since of that for me is probably a confusion between loyalty and desperation that the friends you have are friends you'll lose.
• Living in the balance between self worth and self loathing.  That's probably always been there, but is exacerbated by not being able to process what it means to be "me."  Am I loved for who I am?  Do I even love me for who I am? 
• Saying goodbye to the world you know when you're not ready - but truth be told, when are we ever really ready to leave the comforts and protections of the world that is safe to venture out into the great unknown?
• Curiosity of what happened to that world you left with you no longer in it.  It's not like people you leave behind will never be the same without you, I mean, really.  But there is something about knowing you've been remembered, especially in your absence, that brings a depth of meaning to what you once knew.

I've called those years my "wonder years."  It's a romanticized past. I've enough self awareness to be honest about that.  It's a romanticism born from what never could be given my leaving it.  Feel free to peruse previous posts for my musings of that time and place.

And there's the tie....the worlds I've left, from childhood to the present moment.   For most of my life, those chapters never interact or overlap.  They are sequestered pieces of the overall puzzle of my existence.

Part of my own issue about what of me I'll reveal to another, and the biggest part of me that I won't is impacted by this realization.  It is part and parcel of being an itinerant family.  And almost literally from the day of my birth (the family mythology goes that the day I was born was the day dad got his first appointment - it's no "brand plucked from the burning," mind you, but it is something to hang your hat on), to this moment in time.

I've not known anything other than itineracy.  While my experience of it, and my reaction to it may not be that of others (and I certainly hope it's not), I can only claim what the impact of that covenantal life has had on me.

Just because you promise something to God, and honor that promise, doesn't mean it stops being hard.

So I've had this fascination with my life in Mayfield in recent years.  I think it may have been brought to the surface when Jimmy died.  Nothing like the recognition of mortality to make one look across the broad expanse of one's life and wonder what if?  And, what now?

A month or so ago I was asked to represent the Memphis Conference Board of Ministry at an event in Baltimore.  Apparently, no one else but the chair could go (which I take as no one else wanted to), but I was willing.  Because I value the work of that body so much, if there was something I could glean from representatives across the church who do similar work, it seemed well worth the effort.

That, plus my expenses would be paid.

As soon as I knew I was going, I was reminded that someone I knew lived there.  Someone from my Mayfield childhood.  Someone with whom I had reconnected on "the" Facebook.  Elaine.

So I wrote her, told her when I was coming, and wondered if she'd be available for a visit.  She was.  She and her husband were going to pick me up and take me out for crab--in Baltimore.  Not too shabby.

I was shocked by how excited I was to reacquaint with her. I had not seen her in over 35 years.  Me, whose emotional shield is usually always up, was venturing into something I never thought I would or even wanted to.

What would I say?  Would she recognize me?  We spoke on the phone to arrange pick up times and she said "you sound just like I remember you sounding."  And I thought, "really?"  I was like 11 or 12 when I left and now I'm 46.  Could that be right?  And all the while I was thinking "you do, too."

I sat outside the hotel to wait for her to come by after her work.  I saw her, and of course it was Elaine.  We smiled and hugged and sat to visit for awhile waiting for John, her husband to drop by and pick us all up.

We talked about our lives.  Where we'd been.  I asked about old friends and if she still goes home to Mayfield.  We small talked for awhile as I mustered up the courage to do something I could no longer avoid.

Make a confession.

Now some of you reading this will have heard my sermon in which Elaine is an illustration.  It has to do with growing up and she was always the one who'd score just one point ahead of me on a test.  For every 10 grades I might eek out a "win" on 1 or 2 of them.

Hmmm.  Maybe that's while I'm a Tiger fan?  Another post for another time.

I was the Methodist preacher's kid.  She went to the Baptist church...blah, blah, blah.
I was "confirmed," she was "saved."  You know, that old chestnut.

And I've told that story of my competitive engagement with her several times in ministry.  Why wouldn't I?  I'll never see her again.

Ooops.

Preaching 101 - don't tell stories about other people without their permission.  I'm just saying.

You should have seen her face when I said, "I need to make a confession to you."

And I shared my story.  She was most gracious.  Even laughing a bit.  I don't know if she needed to hear what I said, it's no big deal, really.  But I surely needed to say it.

John picked us up, and took us to Nick's Fish House.  We sat outside on the water, learned how to eat crab, and had a wonderful time.  We reminisced.  We laughed.  I heard about her life and I told her about mine.  She's always been brilliant, and her work career bears witness to that.

One of the first things she said to me was "so, you followed in your dad's footsteps, huh?"  Her inquiry came from a point of reference that few have.  She knew me for what I was and now sees me for what I am.  There was also a sense of "really?  you?  a preacher?"  I get that curiosity, bordering on surprise....I really do.

Resolution.  It felt like grace.

It was as profound a couple of hours as I've had in many a year.

I have no idea what our reconnection meant to her, but I know what it meant to me, and I was so glad.  I felt like I had a claim on the lives of that bunch of people with whom I shared a childhood.  Trapped no longer in the past, it now has new life and perspective.  The chapters of my life are no longer sequestered from each other.  And this word rarely (and sadly) comes from my lips--it makes me "happy."

Because the occasion that had me in Baltimore kept me in a hotel conference room, I didn't get to see much of the city.  She told me I'd have to come back one day, and they'd show me around.

I told her I'd want to see Lovely Lane Church, the birthplace of Methodism in America.

"Oh really," she said.  "I didn't know that."

Ahhh.  Score one for me!

Didn't Beaver Cleaver Live in Mayfield?

I lived in Mayfield, Kentucky, from June of 1970 until the second day of January, 1976.

I turned 6 a month after moving there and moved away in the middle of my 6th grade year.

Mid-year appointments...ahhh, ain't they great? Especially on the psyche of children who change schools in midyear?

Did I say that out loud?

Anyway, as I've alluded in other posts, those years were significant for me. Those were my Wonder Years.

Whatever Mayfield really was back then, it was the place I grew up. I knew it for what I could get from it.

Hill's BBQ ( I went to school with Molly and Mary)
K&N Rootbeer in Frosty Mugs brought to your car.
Summer days at the club swimming until water logged and learning to play golf (preacher's family had a membership).
Mayfield Cardinal Football games at War Memorial Stadium.

Friends and neighbors always near.
An easy walk to and from school.
A quick bike ride to almost anywhere that mattered.
And I was the preacher's kid at Mayfield First Church. Or, at least one of them. Dad was the Associate, and Mayfield was our home.

It’s what I knew.

I've rarely gone back over the years. I'm not sure why that's the case. Well, that's not entirely true. Initially it was the case because clergy don't go back to the places they've left---right?

It's just not done, and if you grew up with Jeffords as your last name, you're darned right it wasn't done.

And that was hard for me. I had a niche' of friends with whom I went to school and church and often those two groups were one, but not always. Whatever code of clergy ethics there was to abide by, I didn't know about it or care...I just missed my friends.

It's a pattern that has repeated itself more than once in my life, both as a PK and as a P in my own right.

It's a hard thing--probably necessary only because we clergy cannot be trusted to behave professionally toward one another--an indictment on all persons of the cloth and God knows there's far too many horror stories of preacher's past who can't and won't let go even though there is no longer any official authority to be pastoral in a former context – making it difficult for the new pastor and confusing for congregants.

The problem with that is PK's get caught in the vice between what was and what must now be.

A life lesson, me thinks, and one that's tough to take sometimes.

Well, over the years my contact with those who were my childhood friends has lessened and lessened to the point of being nearly nonexistent.

The people I knew and called friend are that only in my memory of what I knew them to be – almost 35 years ago.

I've always felt that Mayfield was an aborted chapter in my life. Maybe it would have been different for me to have left at a school year's end. It would have had some appropriate finality to it. And true enough, with each new appointment then and now has come the opportunity to be in relationship with wonderful people. And that has happened again as recently as my move this Summer.

Well, a couple of things have occurred that have reacquainted me with that place.

My sister has lived in Mayfield longer than anywhere else in her life, I guess. Beyond our time there are a family, she has lived just outside of town with her husband for the whole of her marriage. Earlier in life it was easier to get up there and visit. As my life has become more and more complex, the more difficult it has been to go.

Last week for the holiday break the family loaded up and went to Mayfield. It was the first time I have spent any meaningful time there, which is to say more than driving through on my way to Paducah, in about 5 years.

Jerriann and Colin moved into a new home last year, and she's been itching for us to come up.

It was a good visit and time I needed to spend with my sister. It's a hard thing, though. I know I'm not the brother to her that she had in Jimmy. I couldn't be that if I tried. So I haven't. But I've always known I could be better than I was.

We spent a couple of nights there. On July 4, she and I drove into town, needing to load up on cookout stuff, and I saw the town I once knew as home in the light of day.

My own sense of what I saw didn’t square with my memory. Maybe it’s that my memory, pre-life experience, is devoid of interpretation of what things mean in their realistic context.

What I saw was a small town that seemed smaller than I knew it. And it may, in fact, be smaller.

The General Tire plant is long since gone. The KT plant is gone. I don’t know what industry there is that generates the economic energy for the town to circulate around. I was left to wonder if Mayfield is hurting or if it has adapted to economic pressures and doing better than it seemed to me.

Well, since she and I drove into town to go to the store and because it takes only minutes to drive from one part of town to the other, we decided to go see the places I knew of as home in my childhood.

You know how time warps perspective? How is it possible that a place that seemed so expansive was the exact opposite?

Here's my first house. 1301 Longview. We lived there for the first couple of years. That spot in the front yard is a place a tree used to be- one I climbed and played in almost daily.

The curb in front is the one I hit my head on when I was 7 when I wrecked my bike after speeding down the hill coming from right to left in the picture. I think I see the indentation from here. A scary thing - concussion. What I remember about that is wanting to sleep, and my folks not letting me.

A couple of years later, we moved to 204 Heritage Drive.

Jimmy and I shared a room and the last window on the left, which is barely visible in this (drive by with your iPhone in hand) photo, was ours. The window just to the right was Jerriann’s room, and the reason we know it’s her window is that she spent more than a little time climbing in and out of it at all hours of the night! But that’s another story.

It was a brand new house in a brand new subdivision. It was so new that not all the houses around us were finished yet, and there were no houses behind us, only woods. To play in those woods was to enter into a world of another kind. In the heart of the woods was a creek - and much time and mischief ensued there. My stories of that place were less than the Hundred Acre Wood and much less than the adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but they were meaningful to me nonetheless.


I went to Longfellow Elementary School. We were the Tigers. Hmmm, seeds were sown early, I guess. I played football for the Tigers in grades 4, 5 and 6. I was starting center in 6th grade. In those days, we could chop block, and I was pretty good at it.

My mother still has the picture of me in Gold and Navy uniform. My footwear? Cleats? Nope…Red, high top Chuck Taylor’s. Nice.

Somewhere along the line, schools in Mayfield became something very different than what they are now. There were several other elementary schools back then – Washington and East College, I think. Now, there’s one brand new beautiful elementary school in town. Graves County schools didn't exist back then, at least not in the way they do now.

Longfellow is gone. The building is now being used as the Health Department on one side and an adult education facility in the back along the hallways where the upper grades once met. Other than my home and neighborhood, this was the building I spent more time in than anywhere else during those years.

If pushed, I think I could recall all my teachers from those years---I think.

This very bad picture is of the Church in which the soil of my spirit was tilled. First Church, Mayfield was a special place to me. I was confirmed there. It was from that pulpit that I was most powerfully aware of the art of preaching. It was there that I heard a voice from the pulpit other than my father’s.

I have vague recollection of Joe Leggett’s presence in the pulpit. What I recall more than his preaching was his crew cut, and during football season he’d ask Mayfield's golden boy, known to you as the Rev'd Dr. Gregory Waldrop, to stand up and announce how many touchdowns he had scored at the previous Friday night's football game, or how many points he had scored playing basketball. Greg and my Dad's relationship was powerful in those days. Dad was in Greg's life when Greg was sensing the call to ministry and he helped Greg to hone it as it was taking shape within him. There were many, many nights you'd find Greg at our home, late at night, popcorn popping and deep life conversations commencing. I remember Greg’s first sermon from Mayfield First's pulpit. It was titled “Go!”

But the voice from the pulpit that captured my attention in those years, other than my dad's, was Jerry Carr's. He was and is a master of the craft. His use of language and sense of presence in the pulpit had me riveted.

And there I'd sit. Very often I'd be on the second pew, pulpit right, sitting beside Chuck Stallins - who was the definition of a helluva guy.

I loved that Church. It was because of it that we lived in Mayfield. And when we left Mayfield, we left that Church.

Only in the recent past has some reconnection with Mayfield come about with folks other than family. One of my buddies in those days, Kenny, lives in Reidland and goes to church there with my friend and clergy brother, Sky, as his pastor. There was an email reconnect there, and that made me glad. Recently Kenny's dad died. A good man, as I recall, and I was thankful that Sky let me know that so I could convey my sympathies to Kenny. And I was thankful for a ministry peer I knew and trusted who could walk the difficult days of grief with them.

And then, dare I say it, there’s Facebook.

Liz was my closest buddy in those days. We went to school together, church, our families socialized. It was never boyfriend/girlfriend. Had we been in each others’ lives at another time, maybe? But we were buddies, and there’s always been a soft place in my heart for her.

Other than the rare news about each other communciated through our parents, we've not been in each other's company, or made direct contact, in a long, long time.

A few weeks ago I had a friend request from her, and I thought, “Ok, now I see the value of Facebook.” She still lives in Mayfield and has a great life. She’s helped fill in the blanks of folks I’ll never see again and always wondered what sort of life they ended up living.

My Mayfield trip was cathartic in ways I never expected nor thought I needed.

But I was wrong, I did.

It was good to be with my family. My boys loved being there with their Aunt Jerriann and Uncle Colin.

Don’t know when we’ll get back – although I doubt it’ll be 5 years from now.

We need those places, don't we? Wonder places for Wonder Years. Truth about them is never fully what we remember and was never really what was actually true. The value of the place and the meaning we attach to it is not dependant on that.

And that's a good thing.

A May Potpourri

A few random thoughts on a number of different issues:

Evidently, to be seen as a credible political candidate, you have to "denounce" your preacher.

Recent admittedly inflammatory, if not conspiratorial comments by Rev'd Dr. Wright have demanded a response from the political candidate who used to call him pastor, or spiritual advisor, or person he only sorta once knew. It all gets to be a bit much after awhile, doesn't it? I'm the first to make it clear that we clergy are not perfect and that some of us relish our "humanity" a bit more than others. Some of us heed well the maxim of the great Protestant Reformer, Martin Luther, who said that if we were to sin, then "sin boldly."

I'm not going to parse what Dr. Wright said or didn't say. Frankly, I was surprised he was silent as long as he was, but when he spoke, brother came out swinging, didn't he? Think about it - would you want the sum of your professional life reduced to a few words?

But one word of caution - it is easy to dismiss larger truths when they are wrapped in what appears to be rambling, if not at times irrational rhetoric. One thing's for certain, he didn't need any help from the YouTuber's who looped sound bites out of context - he can get it plenty stirred up on his own in context. But as I alluded in a previous post, to dismiss the prophet completely is to dismiss what the prophet points toward.

So if any of my congregants run for office (again), I give you blanket permission up front to "denounce" me if it helps the cause. But if denouncing me helps your cause, I have to wonder if your cause is one I'd want to be a part of anyway.

*******

The first of the month brought with it an anniversary. We passed the one year anniversary of my intentional efforts to get my weight down and live a healthier life. For about six months, I was a “JC”man - right there with the girls from "Cheers" and "One Day at a Time."

And I hated it.

Nice enough folks, to be sure - but in the end, the issue with JC is the cost against the basic tenet they preach. It's not nutrition so much (although that's there), but portion control.

During that time, I logged my progress on this blog. I did it as much as a means to make me be accountable at a time when it was clear that I was not able to do it on my own. I've appreciated the words of encouragement and support that helped assuage the powerful self-loathing I was experiencing for allowing myself to get into such a mess.

Since October of 2007, I've managed and progressed on my own. I've not weighed in some time. My guess, based on how I was charting before I stopped weighing weekly, is a total loss thus far of between 45-50 lbs. But the measure I go by is how I feel, and the daily-ness of being aware of what I'm eating. A regular day for me has me eating 1,750 calories. A splurge is 2,500.

And then there's this -

Today, Kristy told me to go into Andrew's room and pack up some clothes he can't wear anymore to take to Neighborhood Centers. In that stack was a pair of short that he wore last Summer for our family portrait on the beach. 34" waist. I figured, what the heck, let's see what happens. I had already achieved one goal and made it so I could wear 36" waist jeans again (I'm wearing a pair even right now as I write this). So, with the shorts, one leg in - so far so good, the other...uhh, a bit snug but they're on. And now, the moment of truth --yes, I fastened them. No, I can't wear them out of the house. I won't wear them in the house, not yet---but those shorts are not going to Neighborhood Centers. Nope, I put them in my drawer. August, 2008. That's my goal.

*******

And speaking of my beloved Andrew...
guess who's driving now on the streets of Memphis and Shelby County?

One more rite of passage to be sure. It's fun watching him transition from utter fear at the prospect of driving at all to asking virtually every time we get into the car, "can I drive?" Funny how one goes from willingness to receive any and all instruction to looks of dismissal at the very notion that we, the experienced drivers have anything to offer.

But watching him drive (and, by the way, he drives more with his mother than with me - wonder if that means anything?) it occurs to me that my family is growing up - right in front of my eyes. And I wonder how am I growing as a man, a father and husband - how am I growing as a pastor, now over 20 years under appointment? To stop growing, or even to try to be more than what we were is to be complacent with what we are - and no where in the Gospel do I get the indication that Jesus gives us room for that.

One more step on the journey.

This day.

Every day.

Four

Those of you who have suffered a soul wound through the unexpected death of someone close will understand.

I thought that this April 17 would roll by without much impact.

But the veil of grief doesn't take a year off - and today is one of those days in which I'll revisit the impact of loss four years on.

Four years. How is that possible?

After Jimmy died, I swore I'd be a better man than I was then. It has taken me four years - I think I can say I am - not yet what I could be, or should be - but better.

My deepest regret is living with the question never answered of the man he would have been four years later.

I love you, brother.

JC - Update - THE WALL

- .1

Are you kidding me? .1?

Is this where my age is catching up?

No worries - still plugging.

JC - Update

- 1.7

back to square

now, time to get to work - I've at least 25 to go.

JC - Update

+ 1.7

No excercise and ate out too much.

No worries, I got this.

JC - Update

for the last week of August

-4.5 (with jeans on)

Total lost - 30

JC - Update, Or, What Happens When You Don't Let Yourself Be Held Accountable Weekly

Haven't weighed-in for two weeks.

+ 2.7

Hard to be suprised. I got what I earned.

"Here comes that self-loathing feelin' again."

JC - July

-3.6

Total - 27.6

JC - Week Two

- 4.3

total -12.9

Conscious Re-Creation

"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me."

I didn't work this past weekend.

At all.

For the first time in a very long time, Kristy and I took the weekend apart for ourselves. Thanks to some very willing grandparents, we had no responsibilities for our children. We chose to have no responsibilities for our work - and focused, instead on each other.

I'm not sure I can communicate fully how badly I needed that. I've long lived with the mantra that I can only be as good a pastor as I am father and husband - and all of those characteristics have been stretched in the past year.

So this weekend was just what the doctor ordered.

Slept in every morning.

Went to the movies.

Sunday morning, got up, read the paper, and, while my congregation was worshipping, I was in the middle of a three mile walk with my wife.

Not too shabby.

And as much as the weekend was good medicine for body, soul, and the marriage, I'm left a bit uneasy.

I'm back at the desk this morning, on the meeting merry-go-round, and while refreshed, I'm concerned about just when it happens that the conviction I feel not to get too out of balance again will be overwhelmed by calendar, life, the grind of routine.

To what degree is that any of that a choice? And if a choice, what control have have I to keep all in check.

That's a question to be worked on. Is there a healthy way to manage life as it comes?

You'd think so.

And I'd so much prefer that to the usual feeling, when saturated with life, that one more thing is one thing too many.

When I've been at my best self, I get that. There is the intentional practice of non-doing that makes room for the sacred. It gives the body and spirit time truly to rest.

On this side of recent re-creation, I'm all in.

I know myself well enough to know, though, that I need to work hard to protect sabbath time in each day just as I had to work to protect this past weekend.

Otherwise, I'm back to what I was in no time at all.

JC - Week One

- 8.6

Nothing to brag about - rather, a simple indicator of the relative amount that needs to be lost.

I've spent most of this week really disappointed in myself - that I'm in the spot I'm in.

I'm a JC Man

A disclaimer - this one's a little raw, if your sensibilities are easily offended, move on.

You who know me, and love me anyway, which, by the by, I appreciate immensely, know that there are two "Johnnys."

The difference between Johnny 1 and Johnny 2 is about 50lbs.

Last week, as I stepped on the scale (more about that in a minute) it was clear which Johnny I was dealing with.

It's not like I didn't know it already.

I did.

The clothes in my closet I can't wear right now told me.

The physical disgust I feel when I look in the mirror, and my efforts to avoid doing that told me.

The blood pressure meds I take everyday told me.

Trying to avoid having pictures taken of me, told me.

Or, taking that typical approach that I have so many times before that, when someone dared ask me about my weight, and start with, "what do you weigh? 2what?" My pat response, "2damned much."

I recently viewed a rough cut of web-video we're preparing to tell Saint John's story. There's a jolt - watching what the video tells you.

And last week, my wife told me.

She did it in love, of course. But as she is prone to do, it was clear, it was of concern, and it was something she shared with me as well as her plan.

First of the year she started one of those famous weight loss programs (the name of the program and Jesus Christ share the same initials). Having never fully lost all of Jack's baby weight, and with a major age milestone inside a year away, her motivations were clear.

And she's done great, and she feels so much better.

So, with the aforementioned, or at least alluded to, program - there's a spouse rate.

Perfect. (some sarcasm here)

I don't need no stinkin' program, I can do that for myself, as I have every other time in my life. For that story, go here.

What she told me, in so many words, was that line from Dr. Phil that's made it's way into the pop culture vernacular - "How's that working for ya?"

Point taken.

Dammit, I hate it when she's right.

Is it a character deficiency on my part?

A sign of failure?

Lack of discipline?

Do I really want the answers to those questions?

So, I went, reluctantly.

Signed in, and was assured, that, despite all the adverstisements to the contrary, many men do this program.

Fine. At this point, just show me where to sign and let's get on with our lives.

From there we went to the back of the room and onto the scale.

Nothing like the truth, in numbers, to reveal and confront what we deny.

Holy Shit.

I cannot believe I've let myself do this again.

I'm mad at myself - my periodic visitation with serious self-loathing is just around the corner. I am pissed off, disappointed, and pretty sure I'm am an abject failure on this matter.

I was purely stunned by what I saw. I didn't have a clue. Really.

And then it occured to me that I have not been on a scale at all in years. Maybe 4 or 5 years?

Hmmm. Wonder why?

For all the talk I do about accountability, and even the ways I seek to practice it in the matters of the spirit, why, then, do I avoid it so deliberatley in the physical realm?

What is it they say about the truth? It is saying aloud what everyone else knows but dare not say.

Well there it was, as big as life - numbers that did not lie - a truth that could not be avoided.

And I freakin' hate it. If the humiliation was not complete enough, the person guiding me through pulled out her Polaroid camera for the "before" shot.

Oh, hell no. But before I knew it, it was done.

At this point, go ahead, make the biggest poster you can and put me up next to the "Cheers" girl and the "One Day at a Time" girl.

I got nothing left to fight this.

So for the foreseeable future, I'm going do this thing - God knows I need to.

No really, God knows I need to -

And on this matter I will be held accountable, weekly.

The one discovery that has hit me again is simply this - we are never ever too far removed from the capacity to slip into patterns of life, of body and/or spirit, that make us less that what we're meant to be.

This thing - is mine.

Oh, I have a few others - but this one is mine for right now.

And just as Jacob wrestled with the Divine, daring not to let go, neither will I.

I may end up limping when it's all said and done, but I ain't a lettin' go.

Three

Three years ago this morning, at about 4:30 a.m., I got the call from my sister-in-law that my brother had died in his sleep.

I happen to be staying with my folks this week as I do Board of Ministry work at Lakeshore. I'll call my sister today.

As I process my grief, I've been all over the place through the years -

• I've lamented unexpected loss
• I've grieved brotherly "stuff" never fully worked out.
• I've grieved him not being able to watch his son grow up

But today, I just miss Jimmy.

For more on my written journey of dealing with Jimmy's death, hit the "Jimmy" label below

A Freshman in the House

One more sign that life is about to change, again.

My wife and I, along with our oldest son, attended the incoming freshman parent/student meet n greet at
HIGH SCHOOL tonight.

That's right, kids, High School.

There's something about the smell of a high school gym - you know what they say about olfactory triggers of memory. When we gathered in the gym for orientation, I commented, "this smells like high school."

Eager parents were there along with their excited offspring (although the aforementioned offspring presented themselves as being nonplussed, gotta look cool don't you know).

Being the observer of people that I am, it was case study time.

And I've come to a conclusion. I don't think you can go into a high school, any high school, without the engrams of your own memory firing up reminding you of when you where in your own.

Now what you do with that remembrance varies. Some folks take that remembrance and place it proper perspective. For others, though, it was as if they were in high school again.

Those folks scare me.

With only a handful of notable exceptions, there really is not much about my own high school experience I would want to remember or relive, either in actuality or vicariously through Andrew.

But as I watched my boy, the young man he has become, I couldn't help but notice that glint of excitement in his eye - and maybe a little fear, too - that a new chapter awaits him this fall.

The stories, the joys and pains - the journey that awaits.

It's not one I can take for him - but I think I will be taking it with him.

"Imago Dei" - Homily for Baptism of the Lord, January 7, 2007

My homily for last week, posted on our church website, click here.

"What Do You Want From Me?" - In Advance of Pentecost 19

17 As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, ‘Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ ¹⁸Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. ¹⁹You know the commandments: “You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.” ’ ²⁰He said to him, ‘Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.’ ²¹Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’ ²²When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions. - Mark 10.17-22

So, a guy comes up to Jesus and needs help.

What's new about that? Nothing, really.

How many of those Jesus healed approached him first, sought answers to their problems, and found them in him?

This guy, incorrectly labled as "the rich, young ruler" has an existential question of the most serious sort.

Now, it's too easy for us to excuse ourselves of his issues because truly, we really don't think of ourselves as "rich." And I guess in comparison to big business CEO's, we're not. But on wordly standards, we know such an argument will never wash.

Because we know something of God's preferential option for the poor - it is chronicled in the whole of sacred texts. It cannot be denied, and to attempt to, I believe, is heresy.

We also know that money, in itself, isn't a bad thing. See "Of Hearts and Treasures" for more on that.

So, what's the big deal here - how is it that someone who seeks Jesus' counsel - seeks freedom goes away "grieving," and what has that to do with us?

Everything, really.

Don't we all, in some way or another ask Jesus "what do you want from me?"

And his answer is one that leaves us grieving more than we'd ever allow ourselves to admit in front of fellow church folks.

As I read it, Jesus simply asks of me to divest myself of what ever it is that I employ to define me. And let's make no mistake about it - we all seek to be defined by something or someone that communicates who we are without our ever saying so.

Power, position, prestige are all one end of the spectrum.

On the other end you'll find the capacity to perpetually wollow in misery, the adoption of victimization as a way of life, and the impotency of nondoing that accompanies each.

This "rich" man didn't go away grieving because he was rich. He went away grieiving because he was unwilling to divest himself of what he thought made him who he was.

The hard truth is, there is no room in our lives for the radical nature of Jesus' Kingdom program without some serious divestment in every realm of life.

And that means, each of us knows the answer to the question, "what do you want from me?" before it ever comes out of mouths.

Jesus is just honest enough to give us the answer we don't want to hear.

Turns out, I know what it takes to be free, to be whole - I've been shown the way - but I've got to want to go there.

"God Is Biased" Pentecost 14

The following is my sermon from Sunday last. It is based upon the lectionary readings from Proverbs, James and Mark.

There was some signficant response from this sermon, so I bring to this forum for any who may find value in it.

It is tied to my post from Monday "Of Hearts and Treasures."


There are some audio problems that are related to my wireless mic, and are not issues in the recording or playback.



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Yo, Rock! Save Me One More Time

They say that in Hollywood, everything is possible.

I learned well the lessons of my Theatre Appreciation professor at MSU (that's Memphis State University - and not The University of Memphis), Ken Zimmerman, who said whether on the stage or on the screen, in order for the art depicted to communicate with the audience, the audience must willingly suspend their disbelief, and enter the reality of the production before them.

So, when I heard that Sylvester Stallone, at age 60, was filming the sixth movie in the Rocky series, titled, "Rocky Balboa," rather than scoff and as a predictible effort to grab one more dollar from a tired, old character - I said - thank God! I need Rocky one more time to help me focus on personal matters that must get tended, and quickly.

Much of my journey and battle with my weight can be set alongside the release of Rocky movies.

Weird, perhaps.

But true?

Absolutely!

"Rocky" came out in 1976. I was in the 7th grade.

The story of a no name club fighter with a shot appealed not only to me, but obviously to the whole country. Stallone became a superstar.

I lived in Jackson. Was a part of a devoted group of friends, all of whom were about 3 years older than me. Even at that age, my role in the group, strange as it may seem, was pastoral counselor. To this day, I value that time with David, Buddy, Rusty, Amy, Greg, Chris, Brett, Joey, and all the rest so deeply. Only a week or so ago I saw Amy for the first time in almost 25 years.

I was immediatley back to 1979.

What are you gonna do?



"Rocky II" came out in 1979. I was in the 10th grade. I had just moved from my beloved south Jackson to Memphis. I went from a school with 300 students to a school with over 300 in my grade alone.

Culture shock.

Isolation.

Sadness.

I know what food as comfort means. I "self-medicated" and gained weight until I was up to over 280 lbs. My body still bares the stretch marks of the most painful time in my life.

"Rocky III" came out in 1982. The year of my gradution from high school. Starting at the tail end of my junior year and just before the start of my senior year, I lost 120 lbs. How you might ask? I sorta "came to myself" in a prodigal kinda way.

Being the rational person that I am, I figured that if I burned off more calories that I took in, I'd lose weight. I measured everything I took in. It was not to exceed 500 calories a day. I played basketball in my driveway daily while listening to music.

What music you ask?

Wait for it -

the soundtrack to "Rocky II," on a LP Album copied onto a cassette tape.

I used the degree of dizziness I felt from getting up too quickly as my measuring stick that I'm losing weight. My personal best one week weight loss under my "program?" 11 lbs.

My parents were worried about me. Of course, this was before we had diagnostic labels for particular eating disorders.

So, at the start of my senior year of high school, I was "smokin' hot," or so I thought. I found a girl and she became my girlfriend - the first of my life. Ginger and I dated for 4 years. That was a very important time for me.

As "Rocky III" opened, I'm graduating from high school and entering my first semester at Memphis State.

I had my first job at Fred Montesi's grocery(another story another time, but I did get to sack Sam Phillips and Dr. Nick's groceries), and with that money I joined the French Rivera Spa at Ridgeway and Park. Along with Tim, Brian, Stick - we'd go two to three times a week to pump iron. By 1984, I had muscled my way from 160 lbs. in 1981 to 200 lbs., and I was cut, for me.



"Rocky IV" opened at Christmas, 1985.

I was in good physical shape, but change was in the air. I was in the middle of my "first" senior year at MSU, I was moving jobs as youth director at Whitehaven UMC to Emmanuel. The realization that my relationship with my girlfriend had reached its end was upon me - and I had a painful choice to make. The soundtrack for that time was "St. Elmo's Fire."

Water was not my beverage of choice.

Beer, and lots of it, was. Anybody remember the Sports Page at Park and Mt. Moriah? Or, how about the V.I. on Highland? Then you get it.

There's a story I've been told by friends that due to my "loss" in a game of quarters, one night I table danced at the VI to "Walking on Sunshine" by Katrina and the Waves.

Glad I don't remember that one.

That semester at MSU was hardly stellar, but it was a benchmark.

My GPA for that semester was, are you ready? 1.0

How do you earn a 1.0?

Pretty easy.

Just don't go to class.

Don't study.

I didn't.

Somewhere in the middle part of '86 I found Kristy. Or, she found me. That's another story. Anyway, in finding myself again, so, too, did I find the Rocky IV Soundtrack to accompany my workouts. Through which medium? A Compact Disc, of course.

My "second" senior year was needed in part to rectify some of the damage done in my first, but the time was spent well getting to know the woman who would be my wife.


When "Rocky V" came out in 1990, change was in the air again.

I graduated from Vandy, was moving across the Tennessee River into the promised land of the Memphis Conference, I had been married for a year - and immersed myself in my work and not my physical disciplines. The label "fat and happy" applies here.

In 1998, I lost 40 lbs. Exercise and water by the gallon. Amazing. "Rocky" music was my companion. Got down to 218 lbs. It was as close as I had been to my optimal "fighting" weight than I had been in a very long time. By that time, I was able to mix the tracks I wanted and burn them on a CD.

It's 2006 - I'm over 40. A couple of years over 40. I have high blood pressure (it's in the family), but I can't ignore the factors contributing to keeping it high that I perpetuate. I have an elevated cholesterol level that I need to get a hold of.

And I need to get 30 lbs. off, and keep it off. 215-220 lbs. And hold there. That's what I need.

The death of my brother, my parents getting older, the reality of my own mortality is present in this my moment of ontological shock. But more than that, I watch the pure joy my children give my parents and Kristy's parents, and I long for the day (not anytime soon, mind you), that I can be Granddaddy. And I want to be an active one.

So, I've walked a couple of miles four times this week. The TotalGym is calling my name.

The ringing bell that starts Rocky's workout is ringing in my head. And downloaded on my mp3 player?

Yep - you got it.

This movie could not come at a better time for me.

One more time, Sly.

It's time.

Ding!