Healing Voices in the Night

Tuesday night, for the first time since I was a teenager, I went to bed before a presidential race was called and without hearing the expected speeches of concession and victory. By the time I slid beneath the covers, the outcome was all but certain, awaiting only the final stamp of approval from the pollsters, most of whom were already hard at work framing excuses for their monumental failure to accurately project the grizzled anger of the country.

A political junkie for most of my life, I have spent untold hours reading about issues and listening to the candidates and pundits examine them. I have loved the inside stories, the inner workings, the gossip and the strategy of campaigns. Canadian by birth, I saw myself as an outsider looking in (as I chronicled in a recent post), until I became a naturalized citizen in 1965.

I first voted in a presidential election in 1968 and this year marks my thirteenth presidential vote; I cast winning ballots six times and losing ballots seven times. In only one case did I ultimately regret my choice and in no case did I believe that the candidate I opposed would either destroy Western civilization or promote the killing of puppies. Peaceful transitions were made; we licked our wounds and waited for the next cycle.

I approached this election much the same way but quickly began to see that we were in for a slog--an election cycle that began to imitate life itself, interminable debates between insufferable candidates, a 24/7 media frenzy that sopped up anything that would fill airtime, and a new low in civility that should alarm anyone concerned with the political process.

We ended up with two deeply flawed candidates. One was fighting a historically symbolic battle with a sterling resume but with accusations of corruption that cost her the trust of the electorate. The other was the consummate outsider, flaunting traditional values, brutal in his characterization of others, paying his own way from his vast personal resources, and promising change with nothing to offer by way of policy or program except "trust me."

For me, the choice was clear. My abhorrence of one candidate's appeal to the dark underbelly of our country--racism, bigotry, misogyny, and many others--was more than sufficient to nullify my disappointment in the other's mishandling of emails and a questionable interplay between fund-raising and political access.

An ignorance of critical foreign policy issues and a cavalier attitude toward nuclear weapons left me deeply concerned about global stability. I had never experienced an election that featured a candidate so frightening to me and so dangerous for the world. I took solace in believing in my heart and thinking in my head that he could never be elected.

I wrote the previous two paragraphs not to stir emotions or rekindle the political firestorm, but only to explain the depth of feelings that prompt these reflections. I do understand that people of goodwill were deeply committed to the other candidate. I wish it was possible for both sides to engage in a dialogue that might not change minds but would at least help us to understand each other. That seems a bit elusive at the moment, but perhaps it will come another day.

Feeling as I did, one can perhaps imagine how the story that began to crawl across my television screen became a horrifying truth. The impossible was happening, the unelectable was being elected, the so-called carnival barker was to become the leader of the free world.

There was a lot to listen to and learn, but my body was rebelling. I couldn't deflect the fist that kept pounding me in the gut every time the networks announced they had a new projection. And my Parkinson's Disease, which usually behaves when I take my pills, announced it was going to have its way with me this night. It doesn't play well with stress, and it had apparently discerned that I was experiencing a fair measure of that. So here came the tremors and dyskinesia and other annoyances. I wasn't about to let the specter of this frightening moment in history invade my nervous system. I went to bed and slept soundly.

When I awoke, I first reached over to my iPhone to make sure it wasn't just a bad dream. Alas, no. Then I realized I had been processing ideas during the night because new thoughts were swirling within me. The most prevalent one was personal defiance. It went something like this:

"You know what? I'm 69 years old and I don't have to take this. If this is the kind of country you people want, go for it. I've got hundreds of books in my library that I would love to read, while sipping good coffee. I can watch basebalI, which imitates life better than almost anything. I don't know much about music, but I enjoy the haunting beat and unruly experimentation of great jazz. With a few clicks of a key, I can bring the world's finest movies into my living room. I can turn off the news, quit watching Rachel and skip the New York Times daily update. Let the victors reap the spoils and be damned." 

As of this moment, that is still sounding like a pretty good plan, But this incessant voice keeps muttering from deep down inside me. It first came in the night and stirred me awake with inelegant phrasings and incomplete sentences. Stuff like this:

-- "pretty cute granddaughters you've got there, Grant"

-- "be gracious, give him a chance to succeed"

-- "coward"

-- "in Missouri, if you don't like today's weather just wait until tomorrow"

-- "all persons are of inestimable worth in the sight of God"

-- "first the Royals, then the Cubs...see, hope can never die"

-- "that peace and justice thing you've talked about all these years--do you really buy into that?"

-- "about those blog posts you put up over the last ten years -- did you believe that stuff?"

-- "you're not so old -- sounds like an excuse"

-- "dream big dreams"

-- "pretty smart granddaughters you've got there, Grant"

I turn in my bed and stare at the ceiling. I am angry and hurt and frightened. Then I hear those soft voices again, over and over, still quiet, but unrelenting.

The sun sneaks through the slats in the blind and begins to draw lines of light across the ceiling. I get up and go get my pills.

It is the dawn of a new day.

Five Reasons for My Malaise in 2015

On July 15, 1979, with the country facing runaway inflation and long gas lines resulting from a frightening dependence on foreign oil, President Jimmy Carter addressed the nation to discuss the dire issues facing the American people.

"The threat is nearly invisible in ordinary ways," said Carter. "It is a crisis of confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our nation."

The speech was one of the most significant of Carter's presidency, coming about two-thirds of the way into his term, which would end 16 months later with a defeat at the hands of Ronald Reagan. The speech described a flagging spirit in the country and called on Americans to sacrifice in an effort to stem the energy crisis and overcome our economic woes. Initial response was fairly positive, but soon thereafter political miscalculations and international issues started to take hold and the Carter presidency began to unravel, resulting in a humiliating defeat in 1980.

Then and ever since it has been tagged as his "malaise speech," although Carter never used the word in his address. In some respects it was an indictment of the American lifestyle, blaming consumption as a reason for the costly dependence on foreign oil. It was an unusual tone struck by the nation's leader; the president is usually expected to convey optimism and hope, delivering the message that all is well or at least that whatever ails us can be readily fixed.

Carter's speech came to mind as I have been thinking about what is going on in this country, trying to define a sense of unease, a fundamental discomfort, that I am feeling these days. Those words--unease, discomfort, a lack of well-being--are the very definition of "malaise." Maybe that is what I am feeling. If so, is it a justifiable response to the issues facing our American lives?

Here are some of the things that are informing my unease:

1. Money and Politics. This past weekend two billionaire brothers known for political activism around right wing candidates and causes announced that they planned to contribute and raise almost $900 million to support Republicans in the 2016 elections. This staggering sum is made all the more ominous when you realize that in the last presidential election the entire Republican National Committee and its two congressional funding arms contributed a grand total of about two-thirds of what the Koch brothers aim to infuse into the 2016 campaign. It is clear that the 2010 Supreme Court ruling in Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission, which opened the door to unlimited corporate funding of elections, has been even more disastrous than predicted five years ago. The source of my malaise? Our election process, once a pillar of our democracy, has been bought and paid for. It feels like nothing you or I can do will make a whit of a difference.

2. Income Inequality. Oxfam has reported this month that by next year the wealthiest one percent of the world's population will control over half of the world's wealth. A year ago a similar study demonstrated that the 85 richest people on the planet have the same wealth as the poorest 50%, totaling 3.5 billion people. These numbers are so overwhelming that we mere mortals have no framework with which to understand them. Perhaps this will make it more applicable: data compiled by the AFL-CIO and published in Forbes shows that in 2013 American CEOs earned an average of $11.7 million, 331 times more than the average worker and 774 times that of a minimum wage worker. Current indicators are showing that this gap is widening, sometimes in dramatic fashion. I believe this is perhaps the signature issue of our time and it will lead to severe consequences if it is not brought under control. The source of my malaise? The guiding principle of our constitutional democracy, that all persons are created equal, is becoming a sham; inequality is the norm and division of the economic classes is the dangerous status quo.

3. Beheadings. Let's cut to the quick and blow off the bravado that deems to persuade the world that we are unmoved by these terrorists and religious or political extremists, no matter how horrific their acts may be. I am haunted by these images, terrified by what they mean to our families, to our kids and grandchildren. It is not the question of whether this might happen to someone I know or within some close circle of people or institutions I care about. It is instead the increasing foundation of violence that emerges naturally from a world increasingly defined by such brutality. It means more guns, more children dying in the streets, more crazed teenagers with disconnects in their brains and machetes in their hands. The source of my malaise? They don't just chop off heads in Friday the 13th movies anymore; terrible things are done by people who don't care what happens to themselves, and I don't know that we can stop it.

4. Justice and Fairness. It has been a tough year for justice in the streets of America. The debacle in Ferguson, Missouri, highlighted problems with policing, but even more it pointed to the sorry state of racism in our country. Ferguson, along with similar cases in other cities, demonstrated how fragile black/white relationships really are, despite the progress made over the past few decades. Other issues reinforce that point. Economic disparities, especially unemployment, fall disproportionately on African Americans. Race and economic class have more to do with prison incarceration and capital punishment than do guilt or innocence. And, despite the seriousness of the conflicts, there seemed to be an absence of leadership around these issues. The source of my malaise? Although I may have more hope here than other issues, I still found it deeply disturbing to see a return to riots and looting as a way of protesting inequities. By the same token, some police actions were reminiscent of the racial conflicts of the American South in the 1960's. I thought we were past that.

5. Deflation and Inflation in Entertainment:  If I may be forgiven a bit more whimsical point, I take it with assurance that there is a serious issue at its heart. I am weary of our preoccupation with deflated Patriot footballs and inflated Kardashian bosoms. I am a sports fan, sometimes enthusiastically so, and I can certainly understand the appeal of an attractive woman. I am not a prude nor an advocate of Queen Victoria, of whom it is said she would awaken in the middle of the night, fearful that someone, somewhere, was having a good time. But the fascination with trivialities like "Deflategate" and the obsession with celebrity culture is troubling. I know people who can enumerate the dating partners of obscure Hollywood personalities, many of whom are without talent, character, or ideas. But they walk the red carpet and that is why they matter. The source of my malaise? We are easily diverted from important things by a celebrity culture that often offers neither worthy ideals nor adequate role models. But widespread media coverage of this nonsense gives me little hope that it will change.

I considered other candidates for my malaise list, but some of them give reason for hope, so they don't qualify. Our healthcare system is a mess, but millions of people now have insurance for the first time and health care is on the national agenda, unless it gets derailed by money and politics.

I was tempted to grumble about the ineffectiveness of the church in the midst of these crises of confidence, hanging as many do on mindless Biblical literalism. But more and more we are seeing people of faith discovering fresh understandings within the texts, opening pathways to social justice. We will miss Marcus Borg, who died this month, but left a legacy of scholarship informing faith. And Pope Francis? Wow! I didn't think I'd see the day when I would point to the Catholic pope, especially in this time of ecclesiastical scandal, as a reason for having hope for the Christian Church.

I came of age in the 1960's, not an era of goodwill and harmony to be sure. People died in race riots across the country. An unpopular war in Vietnam put generations in conflict, many thousands perished in the jungles of southeast Asia, and college students emptied the classrooms and protested in the streets. Women defined their status as second class citizens and social, corporate, and family institutions conformed as women's roles evolved. Communitarian experiments vied with traditional family structures to reshape the way we live in relationship to one another.

It was a divisive time, but it was not a time without hope. To the contrary, I felt confident about the future and empowered with friends and colleagues to be agents of change. And we did make a difference. The country changed, especially on human rights issues, and ordinary people made that happen.

I want to believe that is still possible, but I'm not sure it is. This is probably the most pessimistic piece I have ever written and that saddens me.

There is one ray of light, however, and it is a bright and shining one. It is called Ashley and Ayla. They call me Papa. It is their world that we are creating. How can we give up on it?

Begone, malaise. Begone.

Redemption Cometh - Baseball and the Soul

The Sports Page of the Kansas City Star says it all in one word following the Royals stunning victory
over the Oakland A's in the AL Wild Card Game of Major League Baseball's 2014 Post Season
(Photo by John Sleezer, The Kansas City Star)

In the end, the cast of characters was as improbable as the game--a booming triple off the top of the wall by a season-long underachieving first baseman, a high bouncer in front of the plate by a rookie infielder with a broken finger, and then a screaming line drive down the third base line by a much-coveted young catcher, but one mired in a horrible 0 for 5 in the game, sometimes swinging haplessly at pitches, looking completely lost. But this ball smacked against the wall and ended a four hour and 45 minute classic, propelling the Kansas City Royals past the Oakland A's 9-8, and extending to another day their first post-season tournament appearance in 29 years.

The catcher: Salvador Perez. The headline: Salvation.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. Once was lost, but now is found.

There must be some reason why baseball attracts some of the best writing in all of sport. Names like Red Smith, Roger Kahn, Ring Lardner, Jimmy Breslin, Roger Angell (the best of all), and W. P. Kinsella have for decades graced newspapers, magazines, and anthologies with poetry masquerading as baseball stories. Unlikely contributors like the biologist Stephen Jay Gould, the political columnist George Will, and the novelist John Updike have all written signature books or essays demonstrating that this is more than just a game. 

The titles of some of the most notable baseball books point to a reality beyond the stadium: 

Triumph and Tragedy in Mudville: A Lifelong Passion for Baseball

The Boys of October: How the 1975 Boston Red Sox Embodied Baseball's Ideals -- and Restored Our Spirits
The Faith of 50 Million: Baseball, Religion, and American Culture

Mickey Mantle: America's Prodigal Son 

Baseball: A Literary Anthology
Baseball as a Road to God: Seeing Beyond the Game

The Duke of Havana: Baseball, Cuba, and the Search for the American Dream
Memories of Summer: When Baseball Was an Art and Writing About It a Game

There is something about this game of baseball that transcends bats and balls and gloves. It has something to do with a dad tossing a baseball to his son--and thankfully these days to his daughter as well--but that isn't all of it either. It is about the rise and fall of heroes--"There is no joy in Mudville, Mighty Casey has struck out." It is about moments frozen in time--Bobby Thompson's home run, Willy Mays basket catch with his back to the infield, Jackie Robinson's first step onto a Major League baseball field after which everything is different.

It is about historic team rivalries and nail-biting match-ups between Cy Young Award pitchers and MVP hitters--two men all alone it would seem as a blazing orb collides with a pine bat, launching it to God knows where--the extended leather hand of a diving shortstop, or that sweet spot between the racing outfielder and the unmovable wall, or perhaps beyond the wall, into the seats where suddenly everyone becomes an outfielder, $10 beers splashing into the wind, popcorn tubs converted to mitts, and hopefully a ball ending up in the hands of a kid, now a baseball fan forever.

Transcendent themes weave through every game--hope and dreams, failure and loss, tragedy and comedy. It is about odds that are overcome and statistics that lie, surgeries and rehabs, youthful exuberance and veteran wisdom. It is about blown calls and managerial missteps, rules and reviews, hirings and firings. It is about patience and waiting for your chance, one that may never come.

In other words, baseball is about "life writ large."

Cardinal fans have never forgotten "The Call" in Game Six of the 1985 World Series
while Royals fans patiently remind them of the 11-0 thumping delivered in Game Seven.

I was there in 1985. It was Game One of the World Series between the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals--the I-70 Series they called it, after the freeway connecting the two Missouri baseball franchises on opposite sides of the state. We lost the game, but there was magic crackling in Royals Stadium that day. Six games later the Royals scrapped their way back, winning Game Seven after a blown call of epic proportions effectively snatched Game Six from the Cardinals' grasp. They never got back on their feet and the Royals cleaned up in a runaway.

In the 29 years since that jubilant final out the Kansas City Royals have never sniffed a playoff game, the longest playoff drought of any major sport in North America. Not even a sniff!

That is why the response to a play-off clinch on Saturday night triggered the expected celebration. It was loud and reckless, champagne bottles spraying their eye-stinging contents into a surreal, Star Wars-like locker room with players donning goggles and slickers to protect their eyes and skin from the burning liquids. If it seemed a little kissy-sissy--can you imagine Mickey Mantle with goggles and raincoat in a playoff celebration at Yankee Stadium? But it did not blunt the sheer sporting achievement of this historic win. It was a grand day in Kansas City.

But then came Tuesday night and the wildest of wild cards, the most unbelievable of scripts, and the most unfathomable of outcomes. Tuesday night became... well, it became downright theological.

The wonderful "Salvation" headline was much more than a clever spin on the name of a redeemed player. It was about this city, this team, these individuals. And if the cable sports channels, the radio talk shows, and the social media have it right, it would seem to be a time of redemption for us all.

I've got an M.Div. and I can only imagine my seminary professors snorting and snarling upon hearing the subject of many thousands of treatises being likened to a baseball game.

Well, maybe not Dr. Tex Sample. I thought of him while fingering some books and pondering the meaning of this baseball season, and darned if I didn't stumble across a piece by Sample, one of my favorites, now Professor Emeritus of Church and Society at St. Paul School of Theology in Kansas City, Missouri. His essay, "Baseball: A Spiritual Reminiscence," is collected in a wonderful book, The Faith of  50 Million: Baseball, Religion, and American Culture. Sample, an accomplished athlete and one-time semi-pro baseball player, writes movingly of a spinal condition that prevented him from playing football and redirected those talents to a baseball field. There he experienced the range of human emotions, likening a time when he walked the bases full to "being gutted," (p. 208) or describing his inability to play at the level he thought possible as a "failure of being, a failure to be a man" (p. 209). His reminiscence is often more tortured than redemptive. He recognizes that one can take it too far:

Yet baseball is not war; it is not a struggle over dignity; it is not the ultimate stage on which the reason for life is lived out...Turning baseball into a life-and-death struggle destroys it as a game, and it is the love of the game that makes it so right. (page 213)

Undoubtedly so, but the mere fact that Sample chose the game of baseball as a metaphor for his life journey clearly illustrates its power to define and describe one's very soul.

The fine writers listed above, and many others, have written about baseball as cultural history, social transformation, religious fervor, and literary achievement. Though an unrelenting fan throughout these insufferable 29 seasons, I might be a bit jaded about all of that had I not been listening to the voices in Kansas City this week. Women calling in to the radio shows and weeping in gratitude that the long ordeal is over. Hard-bitten sportscasters, choking up as they reached for words to describe the moment, and failing. Kids out in their driveways throwing the ball against the wall, imagining themselves in the bottom of the 12th at "the K" ripping that line drive just inches past the outstretched hand of the diving third basemen.

Silly or not, people got out of bed on Wednesday morning and life was different. If Kansas City's version of the Boys of Summer could pull off that most unlikely of achievements, how bad can my problems be? There is joy and hope in Royals Land and now we will see where it takes us. But no matter where it goes nothing can take back what has been done this week. It is here for the ages.

There is just one little troublesome thought burrowed into a corner of my mind, one that I can't seem to shake, one that keeps nudging itself into these theological ruminations.

Tonight is Game One of the American League Division Series. The Royals are in Anaheim and ready for the first pitch about 8pm CST.

Their opponent:  The Angels.

Damn!

The Page Turns

What is to be said?

Today Barack Obama rests his hand on the Lincoln Bible and becomes the 44th president of the United States. Throughout the nation and around the globe pundits, historians, politicians, bartenders, celebrities, educators, students, preachers and plumbers have reached deep inside their souls to find words to match this moment. And still, however eloquent, words fail.

I cannot recall a time when I have experienced a public event in such an intensely personal way. One cannot understand how it feels to me without having walked in my moccasins and lived my life, complete with its moments of soaring joy and wrenching loss. I sense that many people feel similarly. What happens in Washington, DC today will put a face on this country that will resonate around the world. But in a strange way the importance of this day is not about civics or politics. It is not even about history. It is about autobiography. Not Obama's autobiography. Mine. And yours.

Among the trinkets marking moments of my life there is a lapel pin, plain in design, on which the letters FMBM are engraved. Few would know the meaning of that acronym--"For McGovern Before Miami." These pins were distributed to people who worked for or contributed to the anti-war candidacy of George McGovern before his nomination at the 1972 Democratic National Convention in Miami. It was, of course, a doomed crusade (McGovern was clobbered by Richard Nixon, winning only a single state). But for me, a seminarian at the time, and for many of my generation, it was personal. I still think we were right and I take a certain amount of pleasure in looking at that pin and remembering.

I mention this only because I was also drawn to Barack Obama well before he became a viable candidate on the national stage. In this case it was words that did it. One day in Costco I saw a copy of what looked like an interesting book--Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance, written in 1995 by a virtually unknown figure named Barack Obama. It was liberally discounted so I bought it. The writing was thoughtful and lyrical, personal and transparent. And I, like him a son without a father, connected to his story.

Most impressive was the way in which he drew upon his own search for identity, particularly his multi-racial family, to frame his emerging social and political convictions. He discovered his story, incredibly complex though it was, could be knitted together with the totally diverse experience of others to form community. He wrote:

...they'd offer a story to match or confound mine, a knot to bind our experiences together--a lost father, an adolescent brush with crime, a wandering heart, a moment of simple grace. As time passed, I found that these stories, taken together, had helped me bind my world together, that they gave me the sense of place and purpose I'd been looking for. (Dreams from My Father, page 190)

You see? It's personal. My story. Your story. We're in there. And he gets it.

The picture included with this post is of our son Brian and his one year old daughter, our beloved granddaughter, Ashley. It isn't posed. She loves to look at books and magazines. Please note that it is right size up. By sheer chance she picked up Sojourners, a magazine addressed to people of faith who seek social justice. The cover of this issue was Barack Obama and the content was devoted to a series of letters written to the President-Elect expressing their hopes and dreams.

My hopes and dreams are embodied by Ashley. I cried on election night and the tears are flowing on this Inauguration Day. At first I couldn't understand why it was so emotional for me. But now I know. It's because my story, our two sons' stories, and Ashley's story, is in that podium today.

Almost a year ago I posted here some reflections on Obama's candidacy that I entitled, Dare I Trust Obama with my Mind and Heart? Some of the experiences I wrote about there are at the heart of the emotions that have welled up within me these past weeks. I chose to trust. Now, as I post this, the oath of office has just been administered.

The page has turned.

Learnings from Ashley - Part 2 of 2

A few days ago I had some fun with this blog when I posted some reflections from the experience of caring for my granddaughter over a period of two months. It is easy to smile at Ashley's expressions or to cluck our tongues because of how cute she is. We love her innocence even in knowing that life will soon make it over into something else. But enough of that--for now we shall embrace the joy and allow it to lift our spirits and fill our hearts.

But there is something more to all of this than diaper stories. I am learning how a young child unwittingly provides us with a chance to peer deeply into our own souls and to discover things that might even transform us, but will at the very least cause us to ponder. Here are a few things I stumbled onto.

Born to be Ashley. When Ashley was in the womb the family used to talk about what she would look like. Those sonograms are pretty awesome, but once the genitalia issue was resolved it was difficult to determine much else about her features. And then she arrived. Our response was, "Of course, THAT is what she looks like. She's Ashley. She resembles....." (well, take your pick on that one--kind of depends on what branch of the family tree one hangs on). But this we knew--she's Ashley, looking exactly like she should, like we knew she would all along.

Born as a Person of Worth in the Sight of God. One of the centering principles of my life comes from my own faith tradition, in which it is proclaimed that all persons are of inestimable worth in the sight of God. This concept has profound implications for how we live our lives, conduct our relationships, and shape our political and economic priorities. I love this principle. Now comes Ashley to embody it.

Born Joyful. When Ashley was about two months old I found myself fascinated by her smiles, her laughter, and her joy. Where did this come from? What made something funny? I wrote about this a few months ago in a blog post I called "From Whence Cometh Joy?" I still marvel at it but Ashley has persuaded me that joy is birthed within, written on our inward parts. I don't know that I can defend this in College Anatomy 101, but it passes the Ashley test. Joy is in there somewhere, maybe swimming around with the intestines and the kidneys for all I know. So here's the deal. My little granddaughter has made it clear that her joy is something to be nurtured. We're going to help her with that. And don't anyone dare try to snuff it out.

Born to be a Healer. This is a little personal and perhaps a bit presumptuous but I claim it as something I learned from Ashley. Over the course of those weeks we spent together Ashley and I had some conversations. Our faces were just a few inches apart during these times. We looked into each others eyes while talking and, miracuously, she didn't divert hers. She kept her gaze focused as I told her some things she needed to know. But I also talked with her about some pain and loss that has come into my own life in recent years, largely of my own doing. When I was done talking she kept her gaze and then she did something remarkable. She gurgled forgiveness and her little hand wrapped around my finger and squeezed out a dose of redemption. I embraced the gift with tears.

Ashley is growing up in a difficult time. An unconscionable war is being waged in Iraq. Gasoline prices are spiraling upward at a record pace and the American economy is in trouble. It is a political season, one with some positive signs but also serious dangers. Ethnic, religious, and political divisions threaten our global culture.

Part of me wants to shelter her from all that. But another part of me knows she cannot be sheltered, indeed must not be. After all, she is the one who brings me the most hope, the most promise for a better day, the best reason to believe in the possibilities of tomorrow.

And a little child shall lead them...

"The Show" - Sun City Style

In the great baseball film Bull Durham a career minor league ballplayer named Crash Davis (Kevin Costner's best role) uses his limited major league experience to bedazzle the young players, all of whom live and breathe only one goal. That all consuming desire is to make it to baseball's Nirvana--the Major Leagues. In the locker room they call it "making it to the show."

Crash has had only modest playing time in the Majors, but enough to make him the resident expert for those doomed to play on the perennially woeful Durham Bulls, a Class A minor league team. It is far from the glamor and glitter of the Majors so Davis can hold the young players in the palm of his hand while spinning tales of life in the big leagues:

Yeah, I was in the show. I was in the show for 21 days once - the 21 greatest days of my life. You know, you never handle your luggage in the show, somebody else carries your bags. It was great. You hit white balls for batting practice, the ballparks are like cathedrals, the hotels all have room service, and the women all have long legs and brains.

My point in all of this isn't to do a movie review, although I certainly recommend it as a moving and thoughtful film about many more things than just baseball. (Look it up on the Internet Movie Database.)

Actually, this is all brought to mind because my baseball-loving son and I are spending a few days in Arizona visiting some spring training sites and attending meaningless but thoroughly enjoyable games. Jeff has done this with friends for several years. This time I get to be his spring training buddy, which is pretty cool.

We're seeing a game a day in different spring training parks. Our primary focus has been our much beloved but long-suffering Kansas City Royals, scrapping this year to escape from their two decades of ineptitude. We're here to help.

Those who know me, or have read this blog for a while, know that I subscribe to the notion that baseball is life, or at least that it informs life in helpful ways. A couple of years ago I blogged here about Opening Day in baseball and how life needed one. We could all use a fresh start when anything is possible. If Royals fans can believe that anyone can.

I'm here to report, however, that life in the minors isn't as gloomy as one might imagine. There are several municipalities around Phoenix that have built excellent sports complexes that include training fields and a very nice stadium. The facility becomes identified with one or two Major League teams and team loyalty is fostered thereby. Residents, many of them seniors, work as volunteer ushers, concessionaires, souvenir store clerks, and parking attendants. The latter needs a little work. When pedestrians, SUVs, and wheelchairs converge simultaneously in one intersection it becomes clear that elderly men with whistles and waving arms do not necessarily assure public safety.

All in all, life seems pretty good here. Oh, the stadiums are smaller but the amenities aren't bad and the enthusiam is high. I'm guessing it gives the young players a foretaste of what may come. Here they live out their hopes to make it in the Big Leagues.

As for us fans, it's up-close baseball and a lot of fun to experience. Ticket prices are not proportionally lower. But if you're going to emulate "the show" why not do it in pricing, eh?

Cup holders would be appreciated.

Dare I Trust Obama With My Mind and Heart?

Barack Obama in Guthrie Center, IA, 9/4/07
Originally uploaded by Barack Obama

I am admittedly a political junkie. I moved to the United States from Canada in 1959 when I was eleven years old. Even at that young age I remember being interested in the likes of Lester Pearson and John Diefenbaker, who were the luminaries of Canadian politics in those days

True to form, I quickly got intrigued by American politics and can recall participating in school debates about the virtues and vices of John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon in the 1960 presidential election. I'm sure there was compelling interest among my classmates in the political views of this annoying kid who had just moved to the States from his Canadian igloo.

Nonetheless, politics became an ongoing interest of mine. I grew up and went to college in the 1960's and, like many students in those days, was deeply concerned about the war in Vietnam. I took out American citizenship in 1965 and cast my first vote for president in 1968. I will confess here what I tend to avoid admitting except when waterboarding is involved. That vote went for Richard Nixon, who said he had a "secret plan" to end the war. I believed him and thereby earned my first dose of cynicism about American politics.

I will never forget that election of 1968, particularly the Democratic National Convention, which was held at the International Amphitheatre in Chicago, Illinois, from August 26-29. Only part of the convention was in the Amphitheatre; the rest of it was in the streets where massive protests and violent confrontations were unfolding on national television. I vividly recall watching Senator Abraham Ribicoff (D-Conn) in the podium nominating George McGovern and declaring, "If George McGovern were president, we wouldn’t have these Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago." That led to a finger-pointing, expletive-laced response from Chicago Mayor Richard Daley.

But here's the thing. I spent that summer living with a friend at his grandparents' trailer home in Manteno, Illinois, where we were working at a bridge building plant. That night, in the tight confines of the trailer, my friend's grandfather was shaking his fists at the television and yelling at the "hippies" in the streets. I, in turn, was yelling at the police for clubbing college kids protesting a seemingly fixed convention. (For a wonderful, well-written book about this incredible year in American politics, read Theodore H. White's The Making of the President 1968.)

That week had a profound impact on me. I saw how politics divided generations, raised and dashed hope, and stirred cynicism and indifference. In 1972 I was excited to support the anti-war candidacy of George McGovern, only to see him crushed at the polls. In the years that followed I continued my interest in the political scene but no candidate captured both my mind and my heart.

And now comes Barack Obama. Something is going on inside me. I am far more hardened by cynicism and resistant to illusion than in those "loss of innocence" experiences of the 1960's. But I'm listening and I'm feeling. I don't think the pathway between my mind and heart has been entirely lost--just overgrown with brush and missing signage. But I think I'm going to hack at the weeds and look for directions. I'm going to allow myself to be a bit vulnerable and open myself to the possibility of hope.

It feels kind of good.

Words Matter

I have long believed that words are extremely important. I'm notorious for lingering over a phrase or incessantly massaging a paragraph. It's very annoying to editors when I'm slithering past a deadline, which I usually am. But words have power and they should be handled with care.

Word
Originally uploaded by jovike

I have been thinking about this as I have observed the emergence of Barack Obama as a presidential candidate. His oratorical skills are remarkable and he has used those to good effect, making this political season not only interesting but also important. People are drawn to him even if they do not share his political philosophy.

I think one reason for that is that Obama seems to understand the importance of words. His delivery has something of the feel of the black preacher, but there is more. There is a depth behind the words that goes beyond the rhythm and cadence by which they are spoken. One senses that the response to his oratory signals that there may be the potential here for the formation of a national movement for change, or at least a historic realignment of American politics.

It is both inspiring and frightening. Words like this can be used for good or ill. History is the witness to both.

Ronald Reagan was a master of words. Whatever one thought of his policies no one could deny his ability to light up a room and to unify people around a core of ideas. And who will ever forget the speech he gave on January 28, 1986, when the space shuttle Challenger exploded in midair. He used 648 words to comfort the families of the seven astronauts who died, and to lift the spirits of a country in mourning. His speech, written by Peggy Noonan, ended thusly:

The crew of the space shuttle Challenger honored us by the manner in which they lived their lives. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved good-bye and "slipped the surly bonds of earth" to "touch the face of God."

I cried.

There are phrases that continue to resonate over the years. Patrick Henry's "give me liberty or give me death." FDR's "nothing to fear" wartime challenge. JFK's "ask not" inaugural. Martin Luther King's "mountaintop." Words change lives, frame ideas, and embolden people.

This election year we will once again experience an avalanche of words, most of them justifiably forgettable. But perhaps a few will have the power to linger, to inspire, and to change us all. We must listen attentively so that we can embrace the words that speak justice and truth, and reject those that demean and delude.

Blogging and Birthing - A New Beginning

Over the past months I have been reminded, most vigorously by my sons but also by others, that my blog came to something of a cliffhanger ending a year ago.

Having announced that some traditions withstand all change I then had to confess I was wrong. Some traditions, no matter how virtuous or significant, must yield when life intervenes with demands of a higher order. I said such had happened to us on Christmas Day 2006, chose not to give specific details, but assured everyone that all was well.

I did not intend for a year to pass without further posts, nor can I explain why. My sons have goosed me about it a few times. They seem to think that declaring all is well and then dropping off the face of the blogging earth tends to send a mixed message. Some of you have gently inquired and expressed hope that we might begin again.

And so we shall.

The picture accompanying this post is of our son Brian, his wife Lyda, and our first granddaughter Ashley. (If you cannot wait to see more pictures you may find them in abundance here.) She arrived on December 18. 2007, a beautiful burst of new life, and a whole new reason to talk about those things for which I still care very deeply--the creation of community that embodies heritage, diversity, and peace.

I'm not sure where we'll go with the blog. I'm thinking a lot about faith and politics these days. I wonder why? I've got some rants in me and they're looking for an outlet.

The clinic lost my urine sample one day and I think that needs to be discussed. I'm troubled about the fact that restaurants rarely include spoons in their table service anymore. This needs to be exposed.

I'm upset about Darfur, worried about health care, angry with politicians, and optimistic about the Kansas City Royals. Again.

But I'm also feeling kind of soft and gentle these days. You see, I get to hold Ashley quite a bit. And therein is all the hope one needs.

And therein is a good reason to begin again--blogging and birthing.