Friday, June 10, 2016

On Minutes, Stories, and Grandchildren

Readers of this blog will know that I previously served for 33 years as a denominational officer of the Community of Christ, eight years as its president. In retirement, I have written this blog with only occasional reference to the church and its issues, preferring to reflect on other things. This post is an exception.

The church's World Conference is underway in Independence, Missouri. My friend and colleague, Richard Howard, Church Historian Emeritus, posted on Facebook a comment on a seemingly minor matter of procedure. Dick found it to be significant, as do I. After reflecting on it, I decided to post some reflections on it here and invite anyone on Facebook interested in the issue to pop over here and make a comment.

What follows is Dick's original post and my reflections on it.
Richard Howard: Not able to attend legislative sessions of the 2016 World Conference of Community of Christ, I am reading with interest the daily Bulletins. My largest interest is in reading the minutes of each previous day's deliberations (just as I had done for every World Conference since my first in 1954). Surprise--no minutes! Just a paragraph or two summarizing a few highlights.
I learn now that compiling the minutes each day for the next is too daunting a task, given the available time. Things (but not the number of hours) have really changed since pre-computer days. I had no idea that computers, electronic files transmission, and the technology enabling oral language-to-text "translation" eventually would slow the minutes production process so much! There's nothing quite like technological miracles--in reverse! "-)

Out of respect for church leadership, and particularly in view of my previous responsibilities with the church, I rarely make any public comment about issues of controversy at World Conference or any other time. Those who carry the burden of leading have enough on their plate without having to hear from me about what I might have done differently. My effort is to support church leadership in their onerous task, and I do.

Forgive me if I make a brief exception and weigh in on behalf of Dick’s post about the handling of World Conference minutes. I do so not so much as a former member of the First Presidency, but as a former staff executive in the History Department for ten years and then as World Church Secretary for a decade, in which role I had the responsibility of preparing the minutes each day of World Conference.

There are only a few of us around who understand the daunting task of working deep into the night so as to publish a comprehensive and accurate record of conference business by 6am the next morning. Then, of course, we awaited the verdict of the handful of eagle-eyed delegates who read every word and jumped to their feet to correct the spelling of a name or point out a dangling participle. But it was worth it, because the conference bulletins had a detailed record of what was done each day and, more importantly, that record is available in the conference materials for all time.



I understand that budget reductions mean staff reductions and that priority decisions have to be made. I would point out that for many conferences the Church Secretary had the assistance of skilled stenographers and court reporters who volunteered their time in recognition of the importance of this function.

I have enjoyed reading the summaries that have been prepared this week and I realize they are more entertaining than minutes. I have chuckled at several of the observations made by their author. They are a wonderful addition, but not an adequate replacement.

I fear that we are losing the voices that continually remind us of the importance of having a record of our journey as a people. The church history offices are shuttered, for the first time since 1831 we are without a Church Historian, and I understand the Library-Archives which we proudly opened to all scholars and students is now available only upon request and official approval.

We robustly sing, “I love to tell the story,” and proudly declare “We’ve a story to tell to the nations.” I agree. On Sunday, I sat in the Conference Chamber and watched my granddaughter receive her first communion. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about how urgently I wanted her to know the story of this beloved people so important to me and my family for six generations.

But stories can only be told if they are remembered. And they can only be remembered if they are recorded. My granddaughter’s name is Ashley. Please help me make sure that she and her sister know “the old, old story of Jesus and his love."

If you think that doesn’t have anything to do with conference minutes, please think more deeply. It does.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

The Justice and the Unjust

Is there any chance that the presidential candidates who are lauding the judicial legacy of Justice Antonin Scalia might also learn from his style and temperament?

Now I need to be clear and state unequivocally that I am no fan of Scalia's legal philosophy, and I believe that many of his decisions have been damaging to the country.

But as I watched the Republican debate last night, coming just a few hours after the announcement of Scalia's death, I was struck by the horrible contrast between the whining, backbiting, inelegant, and completely shameful performances of those who would be president, and he whose death was being measured as much by the person he was as the views he held. To be honest, I didn't really know that side of Scalia and have to confess that my immediate reaction upon hearing of his death was one of satisfaction that this ultra-conservative voice would no longer be a block to issues I cared about.

But the more I reflected upon it, the more I thought that sometimes style can be just as important as substance, and may even be a pathway to achieving one's goals and fulfilling one's hopes. There is a long-standing American principle, and perhaps a larger human principle, suggesting that one does not have to make enemies of those who hold differing philosophical, religious, or political views. It appears that Justice Scalia was one who shared that perspective.

Justice Ruth Ginsburg, arguably the most liberal justice on the Supreme Court, is one of Scalia's closest friends. While he was the most intellectually rigorous conservative voice on the Court, he is also known for constantly seeking new insights, This can be illustrated by his role in transforming the importance of oral arguments.

Prior to Scalia coming on the Court, justices rarely asked more than a few questions and were mostly silent during Court hearings. Scalia changed all that, peppering the lawyers appearing before him with many questions in an effort to explore the legal boundaries and learn something. And most importantly, the warmth of his personality, his sense of humor, and his love of life injected a human element into his decisions and his relationships. Reading and watching television tributes about him has changed my view of the man, although not my view of his jurisprudence.

But like everything, there is a context, and it was the setting of last night's debacle in South Carolina that stirred these thoughts. Like a masochist, I feel that I'm tethered to these debates, unable to shake the notion that I must keep watching, no matter how painful it is. Last night was horrible on many levels, not just for the unseemly jousting over Scalia's replacement before many people had even heard of his death.


This country is in need of political debates worthy of the name, not the train wrecks we see in the Republican debates, and increasingly in the Democratic ones as well. The arguments are often demeaning, replete with name-calling, and accusations that opponents are liars. But rarely are these tactics constructive or informative. These politicians seem unable to prevent themselves from uttering outbursts that are immediately destined to become soundbites for hundreds, if not thousands, of replays on the 24/7 media. To the casual observer and to the international community, this is what our country is all about. Perhaps they are right.

How grand it would have been if one message emanating from the death of a doctrinaire but widely respected Supreme Court justice, sometimes acerbic but often playful, willing to befriend those he opposed, would have been to see those values embraced in that debate. Within sixty seconds it was obvious that such was not to be. Instead, we got children playing in the sandbox and arguing over a pale of water and a plastic shovel.

At the beginning of the debate, the moderators asked everyone to pause for a moment of silence in honor of Justice Scalia. The best thing that could have happened for the late justice and his family, for the candidates on the stage, and indeed for the entire country, would have been for that moment of silence to have extended the entire two hours.

Monday, November 23, 2015

When Death Tries to Defeat Love, Death Loses


My circle of friends and family have been mourning the premature and altogether tragic death of a good and honorable man. Terry Read, just 57 years old, was struck and killed by an automobile while walking his dog near his home in Los Angeles. He and his wife, Linda, serve as full-time ministers in the Community of Christ, a small denomination with international headquarters in Independence, Missouri. Together with their daughter, Andrea, they are a remarkable family committed to their faith, to community service, and to each other.

Terry was a giant of a man, hovering over almost anyone he encountered, but carrying the most humble and gentle spirit imaginable. He spoke softly, listened intently, and touched tenderly. He was tenacious and yet considerate on a basketball court, quickly lending a hand to those he knocked over, couldn't help himself, graciously apologizing. He is one of those people about whom one never hears a bad word. Truly.

This reflection is not intended as a tribute to Terry or his family, although I could write into the night about their lives and accomplishments. There are already many hundreds of those on their Facebook pages, soon rippling into the thousands, demonstrating the constellation of relationships that grace their lives. There one will also find the remarkable words of his beloved wife, Linda, and their wonderful daughter, Andrea. They are each embodying what Henri Nouwen called the "wounded healer," distilling from their grief words of hope and redemption that comfort others.

Terry, Andrea, and Linda Read
I have found my own response to be more tears than words, unusual for me. I tend to look to language as my way of working through difficult times, but instead I found myself inconsolable for a while--disbelieving, unaccepting, angry, denying, pounding my fist and erupting with "No, no, no!" I cried out for justice: "This is as good a human being as I know. Why Terry? Why this family that gives so much of themselves? It's not right! It's not fair!"

When I write it down like that it sounds like a petulant third-grader with a lower lip curled out declaring the world to be unfair because their little brother got a bigger scoop of ice cream. And I suppose in the grand scheme of things, my cry for justice is about as shallow as that, although it didn't seem so at the time the telephone call pierced the night with the horrible news.

Terry is not letting go of me. I am haunted by the fact we share the same birthday, although not the same birth year. Photographs of him are popping up everywhere and they speak to me  of his life, not his death. I hear his voice, I remember conversations we had at camps and retreats, walks in a nearby neighborhood when he came to town, projects we worked on together, some going back decades. The other day while I was looking up some things about Terry, I came across a letter he and Linda wrote me several years ago at a particularly needful time. It touched my heart then, and now, over a decade later, it touched me again as if he was beside me, arm over my shoulder, speaking those words of love and support.

It may sound like we were the closest of friends, inseparable. But that is not so. I'm sure there are hundreds of people who would speak this way. Terry had only friends; there were no enemies.

That's where love comes in. When you give it out, it comes back. It is not just that it survives, it thrives. Given my initial soul-sobbing, fist-pounding, death-denying, love-ignoring response to this tragedy, you can imagine my surprise at reading the hundreds and hundreds of responses from family and friends who saw only love, who looked at it the way Terry would have seen it, not with anger or questions or despair, but with gratitude for this gentle man and with love for the community that embraces him. It was as he had been taught and as he had taught.

I should have known. I do know. I guess I just forgot for a while. None of this is to take away the profound sadness, the terrible hurt, the numbing sense of loss. But already, those are being overcome by a family choosing to be healers, knowing that the healer will also be healed.

"Oh death, where is thy sting?" That question is posed in I Corinthians 15:55, and is answered by Terry Read and by those who love him. And here is the answer: "Death, you came up against love, and you lose."

Love wins. Every time.

Rest in peace, Terry Read, awash in the love of those who have been loved by you, and assured that your wonderful family will be enveloped in the love you saved up for them. Stay with us awhile and you will see.


Monday, November 02, 2015

"Oh the Losses I've Seen. Glory Hallelujah": The Spiritual Significance of the World Series

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen
Nobody knows my sorrow
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen
Glory, Hallelujah

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes
I'm down, oh yes, Lord
Sometimes I'm almost
To the ground, oh yes, Lord

The old Negro spiritual describes a horrific kind of suffering, but in the process it also manages to define the human condition itself, both in its sorrow and its redemption. The spirituals sing of life in its lowest moments, in its deepest despair, but within the same verses embody faith ("Glory, Hallelujah") and hope ("oh yes, Lord"). These powerful lyrics have been sung around the world, applied to all manner of trouble and all forms of salvation.

I certainly wouldn't want to equate baseball to the conditions that birthed the spirituals, but it does offer an analogy that helps explain what is going on today, especially in Kansas City, but many other places as well. Last night, as the clock ticked past midnight on the east coast, a band of lads in blue erased three decades of baseball futility, bringing a World Championship to Kansas City for the first time since 1985. A significant number of those players were not even born when the pain began.

I'll be quick to acknowledge that sports is an imperfect metaphor for ruminations about life, marked as it is with greed, cheating, mistaken priorities, and moral ambiguity. But since life suffers similar shortcomings in virtually all its expressions, we can probably let it serve without undue apology.

I am a lifelong fan of the grand game of baseball. I truly believe that the kind of game it is, the multitude of human stories that are played out in every contest, and its respect for its own heritage and tradition, infuse it with meanings beyond itself. Some say "baseball imitates life." Others go further, claiming that "baseball is life"--a tad pretentious, perhaps, but I respect the sentiment. At the very least, the game offers parallels to life that are useful and worth pondering. I think that is evident on the streets and airwaves of Kansas City today. What happened isn't just silly playfulness. It is about people allowing a game to speak to the hole in their souls.

Today there are scores of writers and pundits pounding out elegant descriptions of the World Series and its meanings. The game lends itself to literary endeavors; there are dozens of anthologies that collect thoughtful prose about America's Pasttime. It's just that kind of game.

A year ago I wrote several pieces about that enchanted season that foreshadowed last night's triumph. The 2014 Wild Card Game, still the greatest game I've ever seen and arguably the best ever played, prompted some musings about "baseball and the soul." And the excruciating loss in the seventh game of the World Series led me to a "joyful lament" about what had been gained and what had been lost. I was clearly captured by the quixotic journey out of the wilderness. It had provided a salve to year after year of 100-loss-seasons, embarrassing video lowlights that reminded one of the Katzenjammer Kids, and where baseball's classic promise to "wait till next year" became a cruel hoax. Such angst triggered reflection, hence the blog posts.

I was a little surprised therefore to discover that during this historic season of winning--seven straight victories out of the box, sole possession of first place in the division for virtually the entire season, and the best record in the American League--I had hardly written anything about baseball, and then only tangentially. It's as if defeat was worthy of attention, but I had nothing much to say about winning.

My initial thought of a title for this post was "When Losers Win." But somehow it felt kind of like a junior high kid in a schoolyard spat calling another kid "Loser!" It didn't capture the intent.

But the truth is that this baseball season, with its Houdini-like escapes, its personal drama (three Royals players lost parents in the last few months), and its embodiment of what national commentators came to call Royals-style baseball, has been about losers becoming winners. In doing so, legions of fans, many of them newly-minted fans, have sensed something personal--that amidst disappointment comes hope, within despair there is nested joy, and "the trouble I've seen" is not my trouble alone.

Eric Hosmer dives headlong to score the tying run in the ninth
inning of Game 5 of the 2015 World Series, an 
improbable dash
 that led to the first KC Royals World Championship in 30 years.
Last night with one out in the ninth, a loss was imminent. The opposing pitcher had dazzled the boys of virtue and truth throughout the entire game. The crowd was roaring, mocking, waving flags, urging the scoundrels on.

Then came the convergence of every moment into one moment.

A kid who was born to play baseball stood at third base, down by one run, remembering in a nanosecond everything his dad, his coaches, his baseball heroes, had ever told him, buoyed by scouting reports about the range of the shortstop and the arm strength of the first baseman, aware not consciously but instinctually of the speed of his feet and the length of his stride.

A slow ground ball on the infield was handled routinely. The defender checked him, looked him back to third, then threw to first. The kid’s body coiled, his instincts prickling, his timing impeccable. He broke down the line at warp speed, launching his body headfirst toward the plate, his arm stretching, stretching, the ball threatening to beat him there. And failing.

And then his hand found home. The game was tied, and soon to be won. The dugout erupted as he lay face down on the ground.

I'm down, oh yes, Lord
Sometimes I'm almost
To the ground, oh yes, Lord

And then Eric Hosmer was up again. Human again. A winner again. For the first time again.

And so are we.

Glory, Hallelujah!

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Taking the Fork in the Road: The Words of Yogi Berra and Pope Francis

It's unfortunate, in a way, that the death of baseball's philosopher-king overlapped as it did with the visit to the United States of the "people's pope." Yogi Berra is one of the most beloved baseball personalities in the history of the game. Pope Francis doesn't have as many years in the limelight, but he is making his mark in the world, even among those not members of the Catholic faith.

Both of them have a rightful claim to the world's stage and on another occasion they would only have had to joust with Donald Trump for front page news and airtime on the network broadcasts. Trump would have been buried in either case, and that is a break all Americans needed, however one might feel about this aspirant for the presidency.

I suspect Trump would have been highly interested in Catholicism if he had heard about the canonization of a new saint. Among other things, you are supposed to have been credited with two miracles to qualify. He could easily cite the last two Gallup Polls as evidence of Trump fulfilling that requirement. Since he also recently claimed that he had nothing for which to ask forgiveness, it would appear that Donald Trump could well be a candidate for sainthood. Better a saint than president, one is tempted to observe, at the risk of sounding snarky.

I have been transfixed by the arrival of Pope Francis, his first visit on American soil. The reception by the 78 million Catholics in the United States is perhaps predictable, although the church has been experiencing significant losses as a result of the sexual abuse scandals involving Catholic priests, and the resulting coverup attributed to the church's hierarchy. Pope Francis has moved resolutely to resolve the problem, beginning with asking forgiveness of both God and the victims.

But it has not been just Catholics rejoicing in the visit of this good and humble man. The media, usually jaded by matters religious, has been almost fawning in its coverage. One suspects that reporting on the American political scene leaves one yearning for words of hope, softly spoken, and sincerely lived.


Which takes me back to Yogi. If it is the use of words that gives the Pope the ability to encourage and inspire his followers, it is the misuse of words that gave the Yankee catcher the charm to state things that everyone could understand, despite the malapropisms that made English teachers cringe.

Now some spoilsports at the New York Times have done research that shows that some of Yogi's sayings didn't come from Yogi at all.  In some respects it doesn't really matter; we don't just read those quotes, we "hear" them and it is always Yogi we hear. Even he acknowledged that he may not have been the source of all those sayings, admitting such in a book entitled, The Yogi Book: I Really Didn’t Say Everything I Said!

I recognize that it is a little unusual to be mentioning Yogi Berra and Pope Francis in the same sentence, especially in reference to their use of words. But listening to the message being eloquently delivered by the Pope this week, I think there are a few Yogi-isms that are Pope-worthy.

  • The Pope declared that he was anxious to engage in a time of listening and sharing. Yogi said, “You can observe a lot by watching.”
  • The Pope talked about the direction of the church. Yogi cautioned, “If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.”
  • The Pope invited the faithful to keep moving forward. Yogi warned, “The future ain’t what it used to be.”
  • The Pope acknowledged that many had erred and made mistakes. Yogi commiserated, noting that "If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be."

And finally, the Pope took on his critics and at the same time impressed the faithful with his openness and his loving spirit.

As Yogi said, “It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.”