Here’s my latest article in The Hingham Journal. It’s all about the new love of my life: the town dump.

Holy (Dumping) Ground

Hingham is charming. If you weren’t aware of this, you’ve either never been to Hingham or you suffer from charm deficiency disorder. Enough people have shared with me the famous Eleanor Roosevelt quote about Hingham’s having “the most beautiful Main Street in America,” that I’m beginning to wonder if longtime residents have this tattooed somewhere on their bodies. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

I’ve certainly succumbed to the wiles of Hingham since moving here in August. What’s not to love about the quaint historic houses on Main Street, the stunning vistas of downtown Boston from World’s End, and Nona’s homemade ice cream? You needn’t have attended charm school to realize that Hingham has, if not a monopoly on, at least an abundance of charm. So why is my favorite place in all of Hingham the town dump?

I first started hauling things over there when we were breaking down boxes from the move. It was fantastic to move boxes out as quickly as we could open them. At least from Thursday through Sunday. I’ve lived in a lot of places but never in a town with a dump. I understand that it used to literally be a giant hole in the ground. You’d go up to the edge and toss your bags into the pit – and hope you didn’t lose a child in the process.

But I admit I was shocked when I first heard there was no regular garbage pickup in town. A week or so after the move, the garbage started piling up in the garage. No sign of the garbage men. Not even a hint of the more politically correct term “sanitation engineers.” Definitely no “garbologists” in sight. I casually, with only a slight degree of desperation, asked a neighbor about the next trash pickup day. And he laughed in my face.

And thus began my love affair with the Hingham town dump. Now, I realize it’s technically called the “Transfer Station.” But I prefer “dump.” It’s much more emotionally appealing; to dump something feels cleansing. To transfer something feels like online banking. Plus, I love telling Bryna I’m going to the town dump – much more manly than saying, “Honey, I’m off to transfer the trash.”

It would be great if there were an emotional dump adjacent to the town dump. A place where we could toss our emotional baggage; a place to dump that which separates us from the love of God in our lives. Perhaps it could be placed between the paper and plastic recycling areas. For Christians, this is what confession is all about – a safe place to dump our sins. In the Episcopal Church, a general confession spoken together by everyone is part of the Sunday morning liturgy. Individual confession is also available with the basic rule of thumb that “none must, all may, some should.” Whether that confession is made one-on-one with a member of the clergy or as part of a church service, the point is the same: dump your sins and receive absolution in the name of Jesus. Not a bad deal.

One more thing about the Hingham town dump. My boys have discovered the swap area. If this isn’t the epitome of New England thrifty I’m not sure what is. The good news is that Ben and Zack like to come help me out at the dump. The bad news is that we sometimes leave with more than we dumped. It’s actually been fruitful – two skateboards and a basketball hoop. But I’ve had to institute the you-can-only-take-something-if-you-dump-something rule. It hasn’t been particularly effective or well-enforced but it’s a start.

Now that I have my permanent dump sticker, I guess I’m an official Hinghamite. See you there.

Panoramic views, granite sinks, walk-in closets, media rooms, and plush furnishings. A penthouse suite at Trump Tower? A luxury condo in the Caymans? Nope. It’s a dorm room at Boston University. According to an article in the Boston Globe students arriving in September encountered name tags with ”Skyview from the Center of the BUniverse” taped to their doors. Is it too late to become redshirt freshman for a year?

Maybe I’m just a bitter and jealous old man but that stings. I entered Tufts University in the midst of a housing crunch in the late 1980’s. The upshot was three freshmen crammed into a small room for two. My roommates and I made the best of it. Actually we had a great year. Sure, we had a few bumps along the way (smelly laundry, girlfriends who wouldn’t leave, etc). But that’s what freshman year was all about. Living into a newfound sense of freedom, making some mistakes, drinking too much, and learning to get along with others at close quarters. While sharing a bathroom with 15 other guys, having no control over the thermostat, and living in a veritable prison cell.

The reality is that colleges now have to compete for the best students by one-upping one another on student amenities. So they have on-campus coffee bars, gourmet dining halls, and state of the art workout facilities. We had tater tots and frisbee.

But I won’t rail against coddled kids and Little Lord Fauntleroys.  I would have loved the same treatment. But I also wouldn’t trade my Tufts experience for anything. We made the best of it, had no idea what future luxury we’d be missing, and developed a lot of character through the process.

Thanks to my roommates Steve Bleckner from Summit, New Jersey and Michael Jackson from Belmont, Massachusetts for making it a great first year at Tufts. We’ve gone our separate ways over the years but recently reconnected through Facebook. Perhaps for our 25th reunion we’ll jam ourselves into a 12×14 room with a case of cheap beer and do some serious reminiscing.

Wren Hall at Tufts University

NFL throwback jerseys have officially become a pet peeve of mine. I’m watching the Jets today. Go Green? Um, not with those old New York Titans uniforms. They look more like the Steelers (minus the Super Bowl rings). Does anyone even remember the Titans? And I’m not referring to the movie of the same name.

Each week some team trots out some dated unis in an attempt, one can only imagine, at selling more merchandise. The worst were the socks recently worn by the Denver Broncos. They looked like something worn by psychedelic clowns. Even the refs have gotten into the coyote ugly act.

But the throwback trend did get me thinking about what this might look in other professions. For Episcopal clergy, of course, every Sunday is throwback day. Clerical vestments haven’t changed much over the past couple of millenia. Sure there’s the fiddleback chasuble which you don’t see much anymore. And the maniple which you generally only see on a Christus Rex. Since we all know Jesus wore fancy vestments made exclusively in England.

But what about the military? Do you think soldiers wear suits of armor on throwback day in Afghanistan while tracking down the Taliban? Or do cab drivers pull out the old horse and buggy once a year? Of course not. Because that would be absurd. Not as ugly as NFL throwback jerseys, but absurd.

I got rear-ended last week. I’m fine, the car is fine, the other driver is fine, the other driver’s car is not fine. The hood and front grille of her dark blue mini-van got mashed in. My Honda CR-V has an exterior spare tire which acted like a giant bumper (whatever happened to rubber bumpers on cars anyway?).

Not that I’m laying blame but the accident was completely her fault. She admitted she wasn’t paying attention. Okay, I’m laying blame. I was leaving a popular shopping area – the Derby Street Shoppes in Hingham – where I had just left a Panera restaurant. I had brought communion to a woman in a nearby nursing home and stopped into Panera to work on my sermon and grab a bowl of soup.

I was stopped at a stop sign waiting to merge into traffic to head back to church when…Bam! The woman jumped out of her car apologizing for her negligence. I have no idea whether she was on her phone or texting but one can make a reasonablypositive assumption. I also don’t know what she thought when she encountered a priest wearing his clericals but if it made her feel a tad guiltier, fine.

I’m sharing this because it’s a good reminder that things in life don’t always go as planned. You can do everything right and still get blindsided. Just as you can be completely reckless and glide right through certain situations unscathed. The reality is that I could have just as easily been on the other end of this accident. I’ve answered tmy cell phone in the car even though I know I shouldn’t. Why? Ego, I guess. Or at least a feeling of self-importance and over-confidence.

And so it’s helpful to remember that we’re not in complete control of our lives. Not because of fate or chance but because God’s realm operates on a plane beyond human comprehension. That doesn’t mean God toys with us like a toddler playing with matchbox cars: “I think I’ll have this blue one smash into this red one. That seems like fun.” But it means we can make all the detailed plans we want – I’ll go to law school and get married and have three children and die in my sleep at the age of 102 – they just may not work out that way. The bar exam gets flunked, our spouse gets cancer, our sperm count is too low to have kids, and we’re dead of a heart attack at 52. Hopefully it’s not that extreme but the more we tell God our plans, rather than the other way around, the more we set ourselves up for disappointment.

All of which is to say that a minor traffic accident can point out some larger life lessons. And anyway, as the saying goes: “Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the bug.”

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.

Two boys with expendable energy plus Bryna trolling Craig’s List equals a new trampoline at the rectory. You also have to throw in borrowing the neighbor’s pick up truck to complete the cycle. Oh, and my mad put-it-together skills (worst grade I ever got at any level of school? C-minus in my 6th grade shop class).

All of this has combined to create the perfect trampoline storm. Which means Ben and Zack are free to go out and knock heads together at will. Actually trampolines are safer than ever. Well, besides the brain banging around the skull ad nauseum. Because when we were kids there were no safety net enclosures. If you jumped too hard on your friend’s trampoline you flew head first into a nearby tree. Or broke your arm. It was as simple as that. But today, while you might accidently get kicked in the head by your brother, you’re not going to fly off into the driveway.

Our new trampoline is only a year old. We bought it from a family whose mother was too nervous that one of her kids would get maimed. It was a gift from her in-laws, she told us. I quickly tossed the parts into the pick up truck to avoid getting sucked into a family counseling session.

Somehow I ended up putting the thing together without any spare pieces left over (as far as Bryna knows). It seems relatively sturdy but I’m still going to have a lawyer draft a waiver for the boys to sign. I don’t want them to sue me when they lose a limb.

It seems I spoke too soon about Amazing Grace Baptist Church in Canton, North Carolina. I lampooned them yesterday for releasing their “list of athletes going to hell.” But it’s worse than I thought: on Halloween night they’re holding a good old-fashioned book burning. Of Bibles.

Yes, they believe that the King James Version of the Bible is infallible and all other translations are “satanic” and “perversions” of God’s word. Duh. Everybody knows that Jesus spoke in Elizabethan English. And that every utterance that came from his lips was written in red ink.

But don’t worry. Pastor Marc Grizzard and his merry men (one can only assume) won’t stop at burning Holy Scripture. They plan to burn books written by Billy Graham, Rick Warren, and Mother Thersa, among others, since they had the audacity to occasionally quote from versions other than the KJV. I’m considering sending a courtesy copy of my book, What Size Are God’s Shoes, down to Western North Carolina to add to the pile — after all, I quote the New Revised Standard Version on several occasions.

And of course they’ll also be burning “Satan’s music such as country, rap, rock, pop, heavy metal, western, soft and easy, southern gospel, contemporary Christian, jazz, soul (and) oldies.” This all comes from the church’s website which has now either crashed or been taken down. Unless they torched their own server in a preemptive strike.

The church, and I use that term loosely, claims to be inspired by this passage from the Acts of the Apostles:

“And many that believed came, and confessed, and shewed their deeds. Many of them also which used curious arts brought their books together, and burned them before all men: and they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver. So mightily grew the word of God and prevailed.” (Acts 19:18 to 20 — KJV, of course).

I, however, think the inspiration comes less from the Bible and more from the infamous Disco Demolition Night held at Chicago’s Comiskey Park in 1979.

All I can say to any “witches” living down in Canton, North Carolina: watch your back.

Talk about grace under fire. Amazing Grace Baptist Church in Canton, North Carolina, has released a list of athletes who are going to hell. I’m not sure whether satan holds press conferences to announce such things but evidently the pastor of this church does.

Topping the list is New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady. “Tom Brady has an unwed child, but it’s okay because he wins Super Bowls,” proclaims the church’s web site. “Tom Brady is teaching us to have sex outside of marriage, to commit fornication, don’t marry and do the right thing, don’t take responsibility for your actions, have a good time no matter who you hurt in this world, go from sex partner to sex partner, and it’s okay because of who I am. How many of you dads cheer on Tom in the Super Bowl while your kids are watching?”

Also making the list:

Richard Petty: “Richard Petty’s god is racing, not God Almighty. He teaches that it is okay in life to cheat just don’t get caught doing it. Is Richard Petty your idol?”

Memphis Grizzlies forward Marko Jaric: “Engaged to the Victoria’s Secret supermodel (porn magazine) Adriana Lima.”

Wrestler Torrie Wilson:”Committed an abomination by kissing a female wrestler ‘Sable’ on the lips.”

The Chicago Bulls’ Joakim Noah: “Has long hair, which is disobedient to the Word of God.”

Arizona Cardinals backup QB Matt Leinart: “He is teaching teenagers not to save themselves for their spouse, but to live it up because you only live life once. Is Matt your idol?”

Football player Adam Archuleta: “Engaged to a Playboy Playmate Jennifer Walcott. They have one son. This is called fornication, and we all know what their son is called, the same thing the Bible calls him.”

In the Episcopal Church we tend to focus on lifting up those who have lived exemplary lives of faith. In contrast to the list of athletes going to hell, we have a little something called the Calendar of Saints. Athanasius might not be as glitzy as Tom Brady; FD Maurice might not be as titillating as Richard Petty; but  I think it’s a better use of our time to focus on the saints among us and let God sort out the rest.

As far as this list is concerned, where’s the “Amazing Grace” in that?

We have a new welcoming party at our house this year: Father Fright. He stands guard at the rectory as a beacon of right-living and paladin of piety. I do hope you’ll come by to meet him. If you dare. In the meantime, I’ve written a poem to honor his appearance at the Schenck household.

The boys have been rolling their eyes at my creation (the closest I’ll ever come to Dr. Frankenstein) but I think they’ve secretly been inspired by Father Fright: they’re both going as the Grim Reaper this year.

Father Fright 

There have been strange and disturbing doings at some nearby fast food restaurants. “McRage” erupted at a Quincy McDonald’s when an employee mistakenly gave a customer a small order of fries when he ordered a large. He then reportedly threw the change in the cashier’s face before hurling an orange cone from the recently mopped floor behind the counter.

Later this same week, a couple went off at a KFC in Norwell when they decided their order was taking too long. After a loud, profanity-laden encounter with the manager, they beat-up a man on line who requested they stop for the sake of the children in line.

This all gives new meaning to the ubiquitous “Want fries with that?” And it makes you pine for the days when the only crime in fast food restaurants was committed by the Hamburglar.

But of course it also makes you wonder what was really going on in the lives of the suspects involved. Desperation caused by job loss? Debt? Relationship issues? It’s a reminder that so much suppressed pain is lurking below the surface ready to boil over at seemingly inconsequential matters. That’s not to condone the behavior but an attempt to better understand where it comes from.

Most of us wouldn’t go nuts at a McDonald’s. But there are all sorts of unhealthy and sinful ways that these emotions get dealt with behind closed doors: addictions, abuse, adultery. These may not end up on the front page of the Patriot-Ledger but they are equally insidious ways of “dealing” with problems.

I will pray for the individuals involved in these two incidents of fast food rage. Just as I will pray for the unknown (to me) folks who are in the throes of emotional trauma and those who face the brunt of their behavior. It is only the risen Christ who can heal what ails us and bring peace to our souls. The one who bears our burdens is forever reaching out his hand, beckoning us to deeper relationship. Faith is not a quick fix but rather one that abides over a lifetime. In other words it’s the exact spiritual opposite of fast food.