Men Behaving Badly

Everybody loves a scandal. Especially a sex scandal. And there’ve been a couple of high-profile cases recently, one involving late night host David Letterman and the other ESPN baseball guru Steve Phillips.

Both cases were reminiscent of a certain ex-President and an infamous blue dress. Older, famous, entitled, married male in a position of power. It’s an ancient, if distasteful, story.

Not to delve too deeply into pop psychology, but Letterman and Phillips must have profoundly deep-rooted insecurities. I mean how much affirmation and validation could one man possibly demand? Both are beamed into the homes of millions of viewers each day. Letterman has a studio audience that goes wild every time he walks onstage or even just smirks. ESPN has created a culture of celebrity around the ex-jock whose need for 50,000 cheering fans never fades even as his physical skills decline.

The sad part is I love Letterman’s humor (not that I can stay up that late anymore). And I always appreciated ex-Mets General Manager Phillips’ keen baseball sense and insights. But I’ll no longer be able to see them in the same light. Which in Phillips’ case won’t matter much since he was just sacked by ESPN. After several days of vacillating the network determined the scandal undermined Philips’ credibility. Ya think?

It’s easy to vilify these two. And they surely deserve whatever gets doled out. But I’ll also keep them both in my prayers because they clearly have very empty interior lives. From a perspective of faith, God’s love is all the validation anyone ever really needs. Sure the adulation of fans and camera lights feels good. But when it takes over completely, when the outside affirmation replaces God, the soul quickly dries up. And that’s a pathetic thing to watch play out in public.

When in the Course

If we had lost the Revolutionary War would we be suffering through “Tea Hour” rather than “Coffee Hour” after church? It makes me wonder. Actually the very thought makes me cringe. Chatting with parishioners over a cup of Sunday afternoon chamomile is sleep-inducing. But, fortunately, “God shed his grace on thee” and we won. Okay, that’s not quite how it went theologically. But it’s hard to imagine eating Shepherd’s Pie for Sunday brunch.

To mark this day I re-read the Declaration of Independence. It’s an amazing document, one that takes a prophetic stance on the issues of justice and human rights. We have yet to fully achieve the lofty ideals set forth, of course. But working toward helping everyone attain those “inalienable rights” endowed by our Creator is a worthy goal for all of us.

If we are all created equal by God, the deep disparity in how many of our brothers and sisters cannot adequately pursue “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” is a disgrace. So while it’s reasonable to celebrate our own independence on this day, it’s also important to remember in prayer those throughout the world who remain shackled by political, economic, and racial oppression. I encourage you to say a prayer before you eat one of the 150 million hot dogs that Americans will consume today.

And consider taking a gander at the Declaration — it never disappoints. Especially since it includes some great digs at the King of England. This document may well be the first recorded instance of “sticking it to the man.”

“Father Oprah”

“Father Oprah” has been getting a lot of press recently. And with a moniker like that how could it be any other way? It’s not everyday that a fellow clergyman ends up in the tabloids. Well, besides Jim Bakker, Jimmy Swaggert, and their ilk. Though I’d lump them more into the category of entertaining charismatic charlatans than clergy.

You probably know the ”Father Oprah” story by now. The Rev. Alberto Cutie, a popular Roman Catholic priest, was photographed canoodling (never thought I’d use that word in a blog post) with his girlfriend on a Miami beach. He since announced that he would join the Episcopal Church and was welcomed with open arms by the bishop of  Southeast Florida. He was officially received into the Church on Pentecost, though it will take a year before he is able to function as an Episcopal priest. He first needs his “Anglican dip” as we like to call it.

Part of me thinks, “Here we go again: the Episcopal Church is becoming a freak show.” Ex-New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevy announces that “I am a gay American” in one breath and then claims he wants to be an Episcopal priest in the next. It wasn’t the issue of his sexuality that bothered me — it was the lack of understanding about the ordination process. You can’t just “decide” that you want to be a priest; you must enter into a discernment process of several years. It was the notion of ‘If no one else will take me surely the Episcopal Church will.” Is that the reputation we really want?

But another part of me is delighted by this. Not because we’re stealing Roman Catholic clergy but because of the Episcopal Church’s emphasis on inclusion rather than exclusion. That isa reputation to be proud of. And on a personal note, I’ve seen a similar situation with one of my closest friends from seminary. A Roman Catholic priest for nearly a decade, Bill fell in love, left the Church, and got married. It was pretty scandalous for the Midwestern town where he served since his wife was the former youth director at his parish. 

He’s now serving a large church in Minnesota, thriving in ministry, and loves being both a husband and the adoptive father of an adorable little girl from Columbia. Bryna and I just happen to be her godparents which is a true delight. But the point is that if Father Cutie is truly called to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church, he may encounter similar fulfilment and affirmation of the decision. Time will tell.

And if “Father Oprah” does end up getting married perhaps he’ll need to change his nickname. How does “Father Family Guy” sound?

Shed a Tear

Am I the only one in America who didn’t cry during yesterday’s coverage of the inauguration? It’s not that it wasn’t incredibly moving. It was. It’s not that it wasn’t a grand historic moment for our country. It was. I just didn’t cry. And I somehow feel guilty because everyone I speak with — male and female — admits to shedding a tear.

Before you condemn me as an unfeeling, unamerican robot, let’s look at this. It’s not that I never cry. I’m not the John Wayne of the priesthood. Sure, I look and act a lot like him with my gunslinging manner and heroic ways. But I guess I reserve my tears for special, more personal occasions. I certainly cried when my father died 17 years ago. But not when Old Yeller did likewise. And I nearlycried when the Ravens lost to the Steelers on Sunday.

Everyone knows the shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). Weeping, crying, bawling, whatever you want to call it is a wonderfully expressive human emotion. It’s therapeutic and cleansing; there are tears of bitter grief and tears of abounding joy.

Some just let the tears flow easier than others. Like when watching an ad featuring the Budweiser clydesdales. Or any movie with Owen Wilson.

Obama’s speech was inspiring. It was soaring rhetoric that touched the nation. Combined with the celebration of Martin Luther King the day before, it was a moment that many who fought the Civil Rights battle never thought they would see. We haven’t entirely “overcome” but we have made great strides.

But part of me still sees the speechwriters behind the rhetoric. It may be because I ran political campaigns for four years before going to seminary. I’ve witnessed and participated in what happens behind the scenes. Which has forever jaded me to the process. So I loved what Obama said but I’m also ready to move beyond the rhetoric to the reality of the task at hand.

Who knows? Maybe the enormity of it will all hit me later in the week or in the next few months. If I start crying uncontrollably you’ll know why.

Fade to Black

I’ve always admired those who drink black coffee. Besides being more manly in a hair-on-your-chest kind of way, it’s just much simpler. For years, after ordering my coffee I’d have to take that little detour to the ‘fixin’s bar’ to add cream and sugar. While secretly envying those bold and rugged types who just took their coffee and went on their way.

For some reason when I think about strong, black coffee I envision an old cowboy camp. The cook rings the breakfast bell, and the cowboys stand in line for their grits and black coffee brewed on an open fire. I have trouble picturing the Marlboro Man asking for sugar and half-and-half. 

Regardless of how you drink your coffee, I think nothing’s more unappetizing than non-dairy creamer. I associate it with styrofoam cups, bad coffee, and dingy church parish halls. And it’s hard for me not to think about my Aunt Wanda. A dear woman, my grandmother’s sister had a knack for malapropisms. She would get Coffee Mate and Cremora mixed up and refer to it as Cremate. Which is kind of funny except that the consistency is remarkably like the ashes of the deceased.

I recently became aware that my cholesterol is a bit high. It’s annoying since it’s a very tangible sign of aging. And it’s not like I eat Big Macs five days a week — I get plenty of exercise and eat pretty well. So besides eating a bit less cheese and red meat I’ve started eating more fish and oatmeal. But the most painful realization was that half-and-half and I had to part company. For a long time I’ve thought that without cream, coffee almost wasn’t worth it. Almost.

But since I got this news I started putting whole milk or 2% milk in my coffee and it just doesn’t do it for me. So I’ve decided to go whole hog and just drink it black, which I’ve been doing all week down here in Mississippi. I’ve started to actually enjoy tasting my coffee as opposed to drinking what Bryna snidely referred to once as my “warm coffee ice cream.”  And I’m starting to feel more manly already. Not manly enough to change the oil in my car (no clue how to do this) but manly enough to “just say no” to all the fixin’s. And it feels, and tastes, pretty good. Plus it’s a lot easier to project my rugged image without having to ask for my coffee to be made “light and sweet.”

A Cool Hand

A strange thing happened to me the day Paul Newman died.

But first some background: My running buddy and fellow priest Patrick Ward is a movie buff. Since he’s got about 16 years on me, he’s always bemoaning the fact that I’m about a generation behind on classic movies. I admit I’m a bit lacking in this area. Okay a lot. Sure I’ve seen Casablanca and I love The Caine Mutiny. I think I saw Easy Rider.

But every time he mentions a scene from, say, The Bridge on the River Kwai, while we’re out on the trails I have to hang my head and fess up that I have no idea what he’s talking about. So he’s taken it upon himself to round out my classic film education. I believe he sees it as his “bounden duty” (whatever that means).

After one of our usual Thursday morning 6-milers, he initiated my remedial education by handing me a copy of “Cool Hand Luke” starring a young Paul Newman. Newman died later that day which was slightly eerie.

I waited a couple of weeks, until I was alone in a hotel room in Newark, to watch it. And while I usually don’t hang out by myself in Newark hotel rooms (I was there for a Provincial Council meeting, thank you very much), it did feel like the perfect place to watch it. If you haven’t seen it, it is a great movie – the story of a chain gang in the rural south – and it’s full of Christological imagery. Not the scene with Joy Harmon; but Newman’s character is a true Christ-like figure for the other inmates. And it’s where the line “What we have here is a failure to communicate” came into the lexicon.

The education will continue, I’m sure.

The Sub

Bryna’s been substitute teaching again this fall. She’s put her search for a full-time guidance counselor position on hold. Partly because I have a crazy fall schedule with lots of travel, partly because the job market’s lousy, and partly because she enjoys the flexibility of working a couple of days a week while the boys are still young.

She also loves it and is good at it. Which is amazing since you hear so many horror stories about substitute teaching. I know one thing: they’d eat me alive. I’d be the sub the kids hog tie and lock in the supply closet only to be found the following Monday morning by the custodian.

The calls Bryna receives are all computerized. She has a code she punches in and then decides whether she’s interested in the job or not. Second grade? Sure. High School English? Fine. Middle School phys ed? Not so much. Sometimes the calls come the day or even the week before. This is the best scenario since Bryna can then plan her week around her jobs.

The problem with this system, known as Sub-Finder, is when it calls at 6 am and Bryna’s at the gym. I’ve dubbed it Husband-Waker-Upper. There’s some code I could use to tell H-W-U to stop calling. But when I’m unceremoniously woken out of a deep sleep I can never remember it. And then it continues to call back every 10 minutes until they find someone willing to take the job. Like this morning.

I shouldn’t complain too much since she is earning money. Maybe I’ll just write that code on my pillow.

Wet Paint

I never knew what a difference a coat of paint could make. Well, that’s not entirely true. I just never knew what a difference a coat of white paint could make.

We’ve been painting the interior of the church this week and it looks great. A parishioner at All Saints’ put himself through graduate school by painting houses. He’s now a school psychologist with three kids but it  took years before he ever let anyone around here know about his past. Smart move because, needless to say, he ended up organizing the whole operation and did most of the painting himself over four and a half days.

The church hadn’t been painted in about 25 years and it showed. It wasn’t horrible, it was just a bit “tired” looking. Now the place looks clean, crisp, bright, and the stained glass windows really pop. Everyone who’s seen it is just amazed. 

But people always get nervous whenever you touch the worship space in a church. I’m waiting for the first “It’s too bright” comment. Actually I’ve thought about preempting this. Here’s my plan: take a photo of the inside of the church, use photoshop to make it look like we’ve painted it in pastels (yellows, pinks, and greens), and email it out to people asking for their feedback on the new paint job.

This might also increase attendance for next Sunday.

Reading List

This is how current I am with my reading: I just finished “The DaVinci Code.” Five years after all the hullaballoo I’m ready to jump into the fray. Actually I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It was a great read, lots of action, a compelling drama, and it kept me interested.

As for all the controversy? Two words on the book’s cover would seem to take care of everything: “A Novel.”

So I’m all ready to discuss the latest literary controversy with you. You may just have to wait a few years. In the meantime maybe I’ll go out and see “The Passion of the Christ.”

Ode to a Coffee Card

Out of a coffee-induced burst of inspiration, I offer you the following poem. It’s dedicated to those cards you get at coffee shops where you buy ten cups and get the 11th free. Schlock or genius — you make the call.

Ode to a Coffee Card

By Father Tim

Through the sly smirk of a pierced lip it appears. A challenge offered; a gauntlet thrown.

A lone hole appears. Enthusiasm fades to hopelessness.

An eternity. An insurmountable peak.

From the depths of despair more light appears. A glimmer of hope.

Like a musical crescendo, it rises. Higher and higher toward the pinnacle.

The Card. It gives meaning to life. An aspiration. A reason to go on.  

The barista punches; a validation of creeping wholeness.

Doggedness prevails. The climactic moment bursts forth. Free coffee flows!

And then a return to emptiness. Blank card, blank slate, blank soul.