johncarl in words

The Spiritual Significance of the 2010 National Championship

2011-01-23T11:28:00.000-08:00

If you know me, or anything about the family that I come from, you know that Auburn University is a big part of my story. We were the quintessential family on Saturdays in the fall: alumni parents, trailed by three kids, all decked out in orange and blue, pointing out classrooms they learned in, buildings they lived in and places they formed their relationship. Yes, you could say my understanding of what Auburn is was forged on those Saturdays from 1992 to 2004 with those people who are absolutely closest to me.

Auburn football was a source of great joy and agony for me as a child. My emotions were tied to every win and loss, often retreating to my bedroom after those unfortunate games when the cosmos got it wrong and Auburn lost to bury my face in a pillow and cry like my favorite pet had just died.

It was in many of those times that have great meaning in my relationship with my father, be it shooting up into his arms after the Tigers scored or him quietly consoling my fits of anger and outrage at what I was convinced had been a conspiracy of crooked refereeing that had led to a loss. One such turning point in the maturation of my college football-laden personality came in the Georgia Dome in December of 1997, when Pops and I had just watched our Tigers turn a 17-point lead over favored Peyton Manning and Tennessee into a gut-wrenching one point loss. As the Vols celebrated, Pops asked,

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I am.”

“Win, lose or tie, we’re for Auburn till we die, right bud?” Pops said, in that Joe Hastings tone which is often imitated, but never replicated.

“Right, Dad.”

+++++

It has only been in the last few years when I have really began to consider how my passion for college football, namely my Tigers, intersects my calling and faith in Jesus. For a while, I struggled with this issue, thinking that Jesus could not possibly be ok with the amount of energy and passion I put into such a trivial endeavor. Surely Christ calls me to a life of something more than worrying about the results of a bunch of college kids playing sports…

…and God does…

But at this point in my life, I can’t really help it. I’ve spent my life living and dying with Auburn on the field. As my brother said a few months ago, “Telling John Carl not to care about it is like telling the ocean not to create waves.” As I expressed these thoughts and feelings to a friend in ministry a year or two ago, I got a bit of an unexpected answer. Emily, my friend, colleague and own personal theological sounding board, reassured me that while one’s emotions shouldn’t be tied so closely to the outcome of a football game, maybe there is something that draws us to this kind of stuff; “maybe it’s something a little more holy than we realize.” Comforting words, indeed.

Over the past year, I’ve seen myself “trend Anglican” as some say. My preferences for worship have become much more liturgical, with a greater appreciation for the Christian sacraments and liturgy. This is altogether not surprising, as many Methodists who come to Duke Divinity find themselves in the same boat (pun intended). In the days of youth group and high school, I would never willingly choose to attend a high church service, much less enjoy it. Nowadays, I get all weepy during the Communion liturgy, find myself searching amazon for liturgical resources and get a little snarky when people don’t value the Sacraments enough.

At Duke, first year students are required to participate in spiritual formation groups, along with two spiritual formation retreats during the year. Yesterday, I attended “A Crash Course for Non-Anglicans in the Book of Common Prayer.” Led by Fr. Ben Sharpe, an Anglican priest from Winston-Salem, NC, we learned how to use the BCP, learned about the history and learned the meaning of many rites included. Father Ben did a great job of relating to his audience, largely comprised of Methodists, concerning the role of the BCP in the church and individual’s spirituality.

He explained how when we pray from the Book, we participate in a living liturgy that has been prayed since the First Century; when we pray, we participate and pray in community with people, both living and dead, who are citizens of the same Kingdom. Praying communally teaches us how to pray, both for others, and ourselves as we are formed by the liturgy of the Church.

On Tuesday, as I met with my spiritual formation group, we were instructed to share a way in which we were blessed over the Christmas holidays. When the term came to me, I looked down at my shirt, which read, “2010 National Champions,” apologized for the irreverence and cliché, and explained to my group and leader, Sister Joanna (a Catholic nun), about how I’ve waited for Auburn to win a national championship my entire life and how surreal it was that it was finally here. More so than that, I explained was what Auburn actually meant to me.

What I discovered about myself in that moment was that Auburn, like the Church and the community of faith, mean what they mean to me because of the people that form the image of that community in my mind. I am who I am as a Christian because of saints and sinners that have gone before me, like the apostles Paul and Peter, like Justin Martyr, like Saint Thomas Aquinas, like John Wesley, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, like Martin Luther King, Jr., like Joe Ed and Betty Hastings and Bob and Bette Schaffhausen, like my parents, like Mary Bendall and Matt Smith.

Likewise, I am an Auburn man because parents took me to games, taught me the cheers and clothed me in orange and blue. I am an Auburn man because people like Neal NeSmith stood beside me to face the horrid bammers at school on Monday after we lost the Iron Bowl. I’m an Auburn man because of all my friends at Auburn, who I will have lifelong relationships with directly because of that special place that brought us all together.

Coming to the realization that you are a part of something bigger than yourself is an intimidating and humbling moment. Knowing that you wouldn’t be who you are without certain people Divinely placed in your life is at the same time scary and beautiful.

For Auburn to win the National Championship, in the grand scheme of things, is rather trivial. Yeah, it’s great publicity for our university (and only our university – please don’t fill me with rage by suggesting this has anything to do with our state – it doesn’t). It’s great to have that kind of notoriety.

Even greater, though, is that when Wes Byrum’s kick sailed through the uprights in University of Phoenix Stadium on January 10, 2011, decades of Auburn men and women were vindicated in their long-suffering. That victory represented not only a victory for Cam Newton, Nick Fairley, Kodi Burns, Josh Bynes et al, but a victory for Shug Jordan, for David Langner, Bill Newton and the “Punt, Bama, Punt” team – for Pat Sullivan, Pat Dye, Bo Jackson, Randy Campbell, and Tracy Rocker – men who pulled Auburn out of the shadows of Bear Bryant and Alabama and laid the groundwork to make Auburn a national power. For the 1983 team, unjustly robbed of what should’ve been its own championship. For December 2, 1989, when the collective Auburn Family grabbed the pretentious other school in the state by the throat and demanded they treat us as the equals we were. For 1993, a team unblemished, but robbed by the actions of greedy individuals. For Tommy Tuberville, who got us where we are today. For Jason Campbell, Carnell Williams, Ronnie Brown, Travis Williams, AT Williams, Carlos Rogers and the rest of the 2004 team, unmatched on the field, but robbed by a corrupt system. For David Housel, Jay Jacobs and James E. Foy, men that knew and understood what it meant to be Auburn men. For players like Kodi Burns, who exemplify what Auburn is in every way, selflessly put their own interests subordinate to the interests of the greater whole.

To pray ancient prayers and sing ancient hymns in the Church is to participate in the living reality that we are part of an ongoing narrative of redemption held together by Jesus Christ and His saving work of redemption in a cruel and fallen world.

Not quite the same, but similarly, to be a part of the Auburn family is to understand the words in our creed, to know that loving Auburn means loving Auburn, with football only being an added bonus. When we gather together on those eight precious fall Saturdays, we participate in our own, almost spiritual, reality, realizing that what we do in Jordan-Hare is more than football, but a participation in the history and story of Auburn University.

We grow up learning the cheers, our holy orange and blue liturgies. “Please stand for the call to worship…” beings to sound like “Alright Tiger fans, get your hands up for Bodda Getta!” Our doxology, after the holy act of breaking the plain…War Eagle. The Gloria Patri following the doxology, Glory to Ol’ Auburn. Our recessional becomes “On the rolling plains of Dixie…”

We participate in the “outward signs of an inward reality” as Aquinas said, when we partake in the sacrament of Tiger Walk, greeting and supporting those men who approach the field to represent all of us. Our offering of praise to Shug is manifested as we gather together to hurl rolls of Charmin, decorating our town in the whiteness of victory.

Perhaps all these metaphors are a bit over the top. I don’t mean to say that Auburn football is on the same plane as the work and ministry of Christ’s church. There are, as Emily pointed me to, similarities between the two, though. There comes a point when, after a touchdown or game-changing play, in the midst of high-fiving and hugging everyone within a reasonable distance, you feel you are the midst of something transcendent.

I love Auburn not because of the football, though I love them. Not because of the great instructors and classes I had there, though they were great too. I love Auburn because of the countless afternoons and nights I spent driving to and from the game next to my dad, analyzing each play, embracing after each touchdown and celebrating after each victory. I love Auburn because it is the place that introduced me to my soon-to-be wife. I love Auburn for giving me two greats years to spend around college with my sister. I love Auburn because of Glenn Elliott, Levi Rogers, Kaylor McCain, Jonathan Blocker and all my other friends who I would do anything for.

Like the Church, Auburn is who it is not because of the institution, but because of the people who comprise it.

To win the BCS National Championship was great, but even more special was that when I watched the kick that I had waited so long for split those uprights, I was able to hug Tori Bray, Mitchell and Megan Hastings, Meredith Hastings and Sarah Montgomery. We were able to scream together, cry together and roll Toomer’s together. Even though my parents were thousands of miles away in the Arizona desert celebrating in person, they were there, too. They were there because we are all part of a larger Family – A Family that wins together, loses together, celebrates together and agonizes together. Saying ‘War Eagle’ to a complete stranger in an airport in Europe or Asia or anywhere across the globe isn’t just a simple acknowledgement of a common fanhood, but a mutual nod to an understanding that we are part of something way bigger than ourselves. We’re in this together.

Champions. Together.

War Damn Eagle.

-jc

A New Identity

2010-04-28T08:53:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday, I experienced a sort of monumental shift in my life. It was essentially like any other Sunday I’ve had the past three and a half years, yet strangely different. Yes, this Sunday marked the last time I would stand in front of the Auburn Wesley Foundation’s Sunday Night Worship with my guitar, leading worship. Without a doubt, it was a bittersweet evening.

My journey with Wesley’s worship life began in late 2006 when I was approached by Joe Davis, the Worship Chair at that time. Joe and I hadn’t met, so pretty much all he knew about me was I was “that new guy from Belmont that majored in bass.” As fate (God?) would have it, the band he played drums in had a bass-shaped hole, so he extended an invitation for me to join in the upcoming semester. I readily accepted, as I was still searching out my place not only at Wesley, but at Auburn as well.

From the spring of 2007 on, every other Sunday afternoon consisted of me arriving at Wesley around 5:00 pm, setting up and preparing to lead that night at 8:00. Shortly after I began playing bass in Joe’s band, the worship leader for the other band at Wesley decided to leave, thereby leaving another need. I auditioned and was selected to lead that band as well, so every single Sunday went about the same.

I’d be lying if I said that every single group I’ve played with here has been a rosy experience. In all honesty, that first band I’d ever actually led was miserable. There were personal conflicts, musical conflicts, and even theological conflicts. Not a great recipe for the worship life of your ministry. Through it all, however, God was hammering me like a piece of metal to form me into what He needed me to be. From that point on, I led worship at Wesley.

A friend and mentor asked me about my last experience on Monday morning. “What was it like last night, knowing it was your last time?” she asked. Bittersweet, I told her. It was refreshing, knowing I would finally have Sunday afternoons to enjoy, not having to set up equipment for practice or make copies of sheet music because the members of my band keep losing theirs, and being able to pass the torch I’ve held for probably too long to someone else. It was tough, though. This had been my home. At that point, she agreed, and added this stark realization:

“I mean, it’s kind of been your identity.”

My identity. Who I was. Nothing could’ve been truer. I’ve done a lot of things at Wesley. Almost all of those things have been tied to worship. Worship for me has been the way that I serve.

To leave that all behind has in a way left me without something to cling to.

We are called to sometimes leave those identities behind I suppose. To offer ourselves to God to be hammered and formed into the next tool for the Kingdom. To pick up our Cross and move to the next station, whereby God says to us, “Helluva job. Now let’s get to work.”

God has blessed me tremendously through worship. I’ve never pretended to be a good musician, singer, or worship leader. It’s been pretty horrible at times. Those times that have formed this identity for me, though, are the times that it’s been just that. Times when my mind would wander in the middle of a song, only to be Divinely corrected and centered by butchering a chord or forgetting the words. Times when I would get either frustrated with my partners in worship, or worse, apathetic. Times when I hear my recorded voice and cringe at the pitch-iness of it all.

For me, that’s what worship is. Bringing before God your brokenness, your troubles, fears, anxieties, vices and hurts and laying them down saying, “Holy are You.” We try to bring our best, knowing that it’s not and will never be good enough. Yet we still come, singing of the mercy of God, all the while not being completely sure if we’ll get it again…

…but we do.

We praise in our songs the glory and majesty of God, even though sometimes we wonder if it will still be available to us, even after all the awful stuff we’ve done…

…but it is.

We sing of loving one another, even though when we leave we’ll go back to our computers and newspapers and read of the suffering, oppressed, hurting and alienated and do nothing…and I mean nothing…about it, or even do things in opposition to them, then realize it and think, “Surely God cannot do anything with me now…”

…but He does.

Worship is pouring out our love to God and receiving His love in return. I’m undeservedly blessed to have been able to pour out and receive for almost four years.

So now as I trade my worship identity for another…

…oops I mean…

...I go forward in whatever God has for me next, proclaiming the mystery that is in us:

Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Revisiting Latvia: The Accents

2010-04-05T15:10:00.000-07:00

One of the best parts of my trip to Latvia was listening to Beesh, Mitchell and Bob communicate almost exclusively in accents they deemed "Latvian." None were really close, but they made for some really, really funny moments. I've been meaning to do this since the trip, but am just now revisiting the idea. So, without further adieu...

sounded like

Beesh was known as the Latvian Borat, randomly yelling "Whatsup Girl" out the window of the Europcar and shouting insults about gypsies at the 100-foot statue in the Vilnius square.

sounded like

Jimmy Swaggart-wannabe Mitchell Nelson took Beesh's accent, warped it a little bit, then came out sounding like Waluigi off Mario Kart. Hello, Lady!

sounded like

Honing his French skills in high school and college, Bob-o dropped the language but kept the accent as we traveled the Baltics. Photo inspiration courtesy of Neal NeSmith. Check out his blog Tri-Like-An-Eagle.

So there you have it. Next time you're in Latvia and Lithuania, unless you have these three accents surrounding you at all times, you probably won't have as much fun as we did.

Fin.

Beck-oning for a Revolution

2010-03-10T09:44:00.000-08:00

“You can surely tell you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.” -anne lamott

My feelings toward Glenn Beck are not a secret. Any length of time spent scanning my facebook page would reveal any one of Jon Stewart, the dailykos or the Huffington Post reaming the Fox News personality for the latest black-hole-stupid thing he’s said.

If you’ve ever watched or listened to a select piece of his TV or radio program, you’ll know that Mr. Beck sincerely loves his country. So much so that he is willing to willingly broadcast complete falsities with no repercussions or accountability from his network or fans to make sure that his country doesn’t fall into the hands of those he hates.

For months now, his program has featured an actor dressed up in Communist garb sitting on the set waiting to answer a fake phone from…somebody. I’m not really sure what this act of pure grandstanding seeks to accomplish to be honest. His radical claims that the Obama administration is slowly ushering in socialism, communism, Nazism, or any other –ism you can think of goes not only unchecked, but also unchallenged by the viewers of his program.

It was no surprise, then, that this week Beck urged Americans to leave any church that preached a message of social justice.

I am now convinced that Glenn Beck is merely a tool of the Dark One to focus my attention away from anything important and to get me so riled up that I can’t even think straight.

As I discussed this on the phone with Pops yesterday, he said as he laughed, “Well, I guess Jesus would have to leave His own church.” I guess He’s right, assuming we’re talking about white-skinned, red-blooded, apple pie eating, brown flowing haired American Jesus. That assumption wouldn’t deal with Jesus the Christ at all.

The Gospel without a message of social justice is simply no Gospel at all. Rob Bell says in Jesus Wants to Save Christians that God always fights for victims of injustice. For Glenn to assert that churches, synagogues and parishes that preach social justice are just veils of communism and Nazism is to surely say, as Anne says up top, that he, much like many Americans, has created God in his own image.

When we use our American Tea Party hermeneutic to interpret Scripture, we will most certainly come to the same conclusion that those who tune into the Glenn Beck Program experience. When we read the Bible objectively, being as faithful to the historicity of the text as we are able, then we see that Jesus was ALL about justice…even social and economic justice!

What it comes down to, though, is that no matter our philosophy on government, no matter what party and politician we align ourselves with, the call of Christ remains that we are to love our God and neighbor with all that is in us.

Even those that seek to divide the country with false information and vitriol, without so much as a college degree to back it up.

Even, much to my dismay, Glenn Beck.

For more views on this check out "An Open Letter to Glenn Beck" by Jack Hinnen at A United Method

Hurting with the Hurting

2010-01-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I drove to Duke to visit with a friend and poke around the Div School once more. While I was there, I was fortunate enough to catch a forum/discussion between a local news anchor and Stanley Hauerwas, Duke professor and one of the more renowned theologians in the country. The forum, titled, “Christianity in the World Today: A Conversation with Hauerwas,” centered on current and cultural events and how they related to Christianity in the world.

Inevitably, one of the first topics that Dr. Hauerwas was asked about was the then-hot topic of health-care reform. If we’re being honest, I expected a much different answer than “America’s Best Theologian,” dubbed by Time Magazine, gave. Being the academic bastion of modern Christian ethics that he was and is, I anticipated an answer that indicted the current health-care system in its for-profit nature; I expected a scathing attack on the insurance industry, the far-right supercapitalists who held no regard for each human life that deteriorated because of inability to afford costs, and lastly (and probably least) the lobbyists and politicians that fought for the current system to stay in place. I’m sure my expectations weren’t much different from everyone else in the room, either.

What I got was much, much different.

Hauerwas instead spoke of modern aversion to pain, suffering and mortality. In a short, slightly annoyed sounding response, he spoke of how people today are so sickened by the thought of death we try to avoid it at whatever cost. The human touch, he said, is a lost art. Instead of being there with a loved one as they die, we insist on looking for the newest cure that will, at best, lengthen the life by a few years. We are so insulated from feeling pain and being with those that are sick, he added, that we cannot imagine having to actually care for someone in their last days.

On the hoof, I felt it was an overly callous response. What could someone, high atop his or her ivory tower in the academy, know about real pain anyway? Isn’t this just another example of people like him talking at an issue rather than speaking words of wisdom?

That was all before Haiti.

When the earthquake struck, I simply could not bring myself to watch the videos and look at the pictures. It was a catastrophe for which I saw no light, no hope and no way out for a nation that had no hope to begin with.

Why could I not allow myself to feel some of the pain that an entire country was feeling? Sure, I jumped quickly to donate money through the Red Cross, UMCOR and other organizations that would aid the victims. I knew they needed prayer, so we collectively prayed at Wesley on Thursday. But, what held me from feeling the pain through the pictures and videos?

Could that brilliant, cranky old professor have been right?

It is easy to throw money at a situation. It is not so easy to get down on the level of the victim of a situation, to feel that pain with them, to hurt with them, to cry with them. What I discovered through my episode with the pictures and video was that I, indeed, had become insulated from feeling such immense pain and suffering.

Walter Brueggeman submits it is easier for us today to practice charity, when, what Christ actually calls us to is solidarity with the poor and those that hurt. How true I’ve found that to be. When we open ourselves to the hurts of others, we allow ourselves to feeling that hurt ourselves. Just as Christ poured Himself out for us, we pour ourselves for others, taking up their cross just as He, in a sense, took up ours. Our humanity is tied to their humanity. This ubuntu leads us to feel the same pain they feel.

The same pain we've somehow managed to insulate ourselves from.

Solidarity…not charity.

Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, kyrie eleison.

Wesley Advent Devotional

2009-12-08T11:19:00.000-08:00

Here's my annual Advent devotional I wrote for Wesley. Thought I'd share.

Read 2 Samuel 7:11b-16

I think it is safe to say we’ve all experienced the feeling as children. The date is December 21 or 22 and the presents are starting to accumulate under the tree. It’s less than a week till Christmas Day, but the calendar seems to stretch on forever before Christmas Eve, much less the actual day. Some years I could feel my excitement grow so strong that it was almost a pain. Anticipation for a coming promise is a pretty arduous journey. You know it is coming yet it seems so far away.

In the text for today, God makes David a promise. He promises His anointed King to make [him] a house…to raise up offspring after [him]…to establish a kingdom. These are all promises intended to fulfill the covenant made with God’s people long ago. The interesting thing about this passage comes in the first promise: “I will give you rest from your enemies.” Yet, in my translation, the next passage is titled “David’s Wars.” I think this highlights a simple element that we’ve lost in our culture today; an element that we’ve lost in our Church today.

Our microwave society has conditioned us to expect things immediately, to look for things as soon as we ask for them, to never wait on anything. In 2 Samuel, God makes David a series of promises, but still needs David to wait, to endure, to be patient. God needs David to be faithful.

The season of Advent requires us to wait. It, however, is not an idle period. It is a period in which we fervently prepare for that which is promised to us; that pledge is the coming of a King who makes all things new.

The word Paul uses many times for patience is often translated as “long-suffering.” When we come to Christ, we are not automatically equipped to bear the cross we are called to take up. Again, we are called to be patient, called to prepare, called to love.

Advent calls us to a time of preparation for a coming promise. It is such in our day-to-day lives as well. We cannot expect the promise of sanctification, of being made holy and perfect in God’s sight, to come automatically. Christ calls us to a long, sometimes treacherous journey; He also gives us the promise of walking with Him.

In this time of celebration that is Advent, let us rejoice in the promise that God has made us in the coming King. Let us also prepare to receive that which is love, that we may be ultimately perfected in the promise of an almighty God.

Rejoice, for unto us a child is born. Hosanna!

JC

Rasslin' With Them Angels

2009-11-24T14:19:00.000-08:00

Let me make one thing perfectly clear:

I carry an unhealthy disdain of the University of Alabama...every single thing about that crimpsun-and-white wasteland of a campus and the legions of bubbas who have never even set foot on the aforementioned area of real estate.

Some have asked me, “Why get so riled up about something as trivial as football?” The simple answer? It’s not just football. It’s a job, a vocation, an M.O. Whenever a person is either born or moves into the Yellowhammer state, said job is assigned. You pick a side, not because you want to, but because it is foreordained. You are either orange-and-blue or red-and-white. It cannot be both ways. It cannot be “Well, I cheer for Auburn until they play Alabama.” It just cannot. We are Auburn, they are Alabama. With that assignment, comes a specific personality and job description. It is what it is.

Alabama fans are not insufferably arrogant, delusional, and mistakenly prideful because they want to be…nay, they just are. Auburn fans are not eaten up with an inferiority complex because we want to be, but because we are. It is our job as followers of The Creed to loathe all things crimson, and it is their job to act like, no matter how different reality may seem, those poor little aubies who come to beg at the table of the mighty Tahd are just a forlorn little brother who only wants to be like him.

My personal frame of reference comes from many personal experiences, starting all the way in elementary school. To be clear, most people included were born in 1986-7, the middle of Auburn and Pat Dye’s four year streak. We were barely in kindergarten in 1992, but for the sake of maintaining a seeming objectivity, we’ll include it. So, most of my Tide-loving peers knew little if any of the “tradition” that was constantly wagged in my face and others, namely my PIC, Neal. Yes, the Auburn fans were few, but even then, we acted as our job required. The years Alabama won, school on Monday was insufferable. Taunts came from every direction. Jokes were made, laughs were had, as if Auburn had never won a game…ever. The years the Tigers won, Neal and I would walk into school wearing the same proud Auburn grin we always carried around, saying little to nothing about the game, while our peer group from the West carefully explained away what should’ve happened the Saturday before; the mistakes that were made, the calls that were missed, and almost always, the excuses of why “Little Brother” had managed to be blessed with a win. It is the way it is.

I use the phrase “it is what it is” as partial truth and partial jab. The reference obviously comes from 2007 when newly hired part-time-coach and full time savior Nick Saban suspended receiver DJ Hall for the Louisiana-Monroe game, only to be on the brink of losing and “un-suspend” him. (They still lost, by the way). The partial truth comes from the fact that this is the way it will always be. While this particular action speaks rather profoundly to the Tahd’s ultimate corporate personality, I’ll leave it be for now. Auburn and Alabama fans alike will always be the way they are. Years from now, some child, born in the mid-90s, will claim “12 national championships” in the face of an Auburn friend, when really, he doesn’t even know that half of those championships are worth nothing more than some homer sportswriter’s word. That same Auburn fan will turn around to his friend, looking for some kind of affirmation from his friends that yell “ARR TEE ARR WOOOO!” because that is simply the way it is.

Despite the facts that since some long-deceased coach passed Auburn holds a decisive five-game lead, Alabama fans will continue to claim we are their “little brother.” Even though they’ve had almost as many scandals as they have head coaches since the early 90s, they will still feel like they are one of the most respected programs in the country. And though they will still feel like they have a right to win every game and every player they have will be at least All-SEC just because they are tha Unibuhsitee of Alahbumma by GAWD, they will still only be a moderately successful program by national standards.

Twenty years ago this year, a very large wrench was thrown into that personality, though. Most, if not all, Alabama fans swore that Jordan-Hare Stadium would never see the game played on its field. After years of haggling, the moment finally arrived. In what was undoubtedly the biggest Tiger Walk in history, the air that day has been described by many as nothing short of “electric.” As you probably know, the Tigers defeated the previously undefeated Tide, and suddenly, things began to look a lot more even. This event, possibly the biggest and most significant event in Auburn sports history, speaks tremendously to what I’m describing in this post. Alabama, the juggernaut of the 70s, finds it utterly beneath them to come to “that cow college.” To this day, most Turd fans will heartily deny that Auburn is even their biggest rival. Don’t blame them, though. It’s simply who they are. They will always be arrogant, dismissive, and high-and-mighty no matter how good or bad they are. It’s not a crime, it’s just their job.

We might not win on Friday. Hell, we probably won’t. But I will never stop pouring the most burnt orange and the navy-est blue liquid you’ve ever seen when I’m cut. I will never stop getting chills when the first drawn-out intro comes from the beginning of “War Eagle.” I will never stop bending my shaker into an L from effort put into cheering. I will never stop getting misty-eyed when my alma mater is played. I will never cease to be in awe when Spirit or Nova circles the stadium. I will not stop standing for those things listed in the Creed I love. Why? Because I believe in what Auburn is. I believe in those things, and by God, I love Auburn University with everything in me.

So if we win, I will have never been more proud. If we lose, I will never stop being proud of being an Auburn Tiger. Auburn is not and will never be simply about one person, player or coach. We will never worship a coach like some people do. The men that are lucky enough to wear the AU on their helmet stand for something more. They represent a people, not all consumed with simply winning and championships. They are concerned with those things, but they are about being better people for having experienced what Auburn University is. They are better people for wearing the orange and blue. They are a part of something bigger.

Why?

Because it is our job.

“I ain’t smart enough to tell you how I feel about ya. I mean…it’s family, every one of you…you know it. Sure I’d like to be 11-0, ya know, but lemme tell you somethin’. I wouldn’t swap this year for any year that I’ve been at Auburn. I wouldn’t swap it, men. I wouldn’t swap because I’ve watched you struggle and I’ve watched you rassle’ with them angels…and I’ve watched you grow up and become men. I’ve watched you become men.”

-Patrick Fain Dye, December 2, 1989 :: Auburn 30, Alabama 20

Weagle weagle WAR DAMN EAGLE, kick the ever-loving crap out of the tooth in their houndstooth skull BIG BLUE.

War Damn Eagle.

War Damn Top 10

2009-09-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

In honor of Football Season Eve, I’ve complied a list of my Top Ten games. I was in attendance at all of these, although that had no bearing on the list. Call it coincidence.

10. Ole Miss at Auburn, September 2, 1993 :: 16-12
I’ll start the list off with a little honesty. I don’t remember much about this game. I was a ripe six years old and this was my first game. I do remember thinking how ugly the old powder blue helmets that the Rebs used back in the late 80s/early 90s were. I remember something about Stan White being the quarterback, but other than that, this game bears little significance other than it was my orange and blue baptism, where I was forever changed ($1 to Scott Van Pelt).
Gross.

9. Alabama at Auburn, November 18, 1995 :: 31-27
My first Iron Bowl. Like #10, that is the most significant point in this game getting a mention. It was, unlike the ’92 OM game, a very exciting game, with the good guys coming out on top 31-27. This game is mostly known for the “controversial call” in the endzone on 4th down in which Freddie Kitchens threw the ball a little too wide for some dude, ending the Tahd’s chances in that contest. What stands out to me most from this game is not so much the football, but rather this really obnoxious Alabama fan that sat behind us with his puffy red jacket and huge honkin’ nose. I mean that thing was big. He yelled, cursed, grumbled and did all the annoying things that that token visiting fan does that somehow gets a ticket in your section. He especially said things that most wouldn’t say when you’re sitting right behind an 8 year old, but whatever; I didn’t care. As the famous last play came to pass, he celebrated wildly because the play was below us and we couldn’t see the sideline. As the official ran in to make the incomplete call, my dad came the closest I’d ever seen him come, or have ever seen him come to this day, of taunting another fan, when he turned around to the guy, smiled, and slowly shook his head and said, “nope.” After he did this, he gave me a huge high five and picked me up with one arm, pumping the other as we both wildly did a bit of celebrating of our own. It marked the beginning, in my mind at least, of the special football relationship we carry to this day.

8. Auburn at Alabama, November 22, 2004 :: 21-13
During the first half, the undefeated Tigers farted around, allowing the Tahd to get up 6-0 at halftime. The second half was much different with Campbell, Brown and Williams waking up and the clearly dominating team cruising to a relatively easy win. This is to take nothing away from Alabama’s effort in the game, because they played one of the better games of their seasons, but c’mon. Jason Campbell? Ronnie Brown? Carnell Williams? It should’ve been over by the first TV timeout. This is also a classic example of that maddening, awful, disheartening contraption we Auburn fans came to know so fondly as “The Tubershell.” After coming off an impressive 18-point drubbing of a top 10 Georgia team, everyone knew we had to kill Alabama to have a chance in jumping Oklahoma. (Editor’s Note: In case you care, my children will be raised to hate the University of Oklahoma because of this season. What a bunch of posers. Sheesh.) So what happens? We come out, put on a show in the third quarter, the run the ball up the middle series after series to run out the clock, changing what would’ve been a seemingly convincing 21-6 win into giving field position and allowing them to score to make it a seeming nail-biting 21-13 win. Stupid. It was my first real road game with Pops, though, which makes it pretty memorable (sorry Vandy, you just don’t count); that, and capping off an undefeated regular season.

7. Alabama at Auburn, November 18, 1997 :: 18-17
My 2nd Iron Bowl. What was going to be a family affair turned into another JC-Pops expedition when Mitch and Moms neither felt particularly well enough to battle the bitter cold. It was again, a game with a heavy favorite in the Tigers and a struggling Tide, their first year in the Clappy era. The good guys had a chance to clinch a West division title and a trip to Atlanta with a win, so hopes were high. The Tide, though, fought hard and was in perfect position to run out the clock with a 17-15 lead and just over a minute left when possibly the dumbest play call in history occurred. Run twice and the game’s over. Instead, that now-famous swing pass to Ed Scissum on the left happened and the rest is history. The fumble is forced and recovered by the Tigers, the ball is driven down the field, and Jaret Holmes splits the uprights for a dramatic 18-17 win. It was an exciting affair with a similar celebration to the ’95 game.

6. Auburn at Tennessee, December 4, 2004 :: 38-28
This game represented my second SEC championship experience, both times with the Vols as the opponent. The first came in ’97 when Peyton Manning decided to wake up in the second half, edging the Tigers out by a point in the end. After laying the wood to UT in Neyland earlier in the season, we all felt pretty good about our chances in the Dome. After showing the country in the first half that we were, in deed, deserving of a title shot, our old friend the Tubershell reared its ugly head in the second half and allowed the Vols back in the game. After realizing what was happening, the boys woke back up and put to rest any doubt that remained and secured the first SEC title of my recollection. It was a jubilant night.

I realize this wasn't the same game, but poor Jason Allen. It's just too sweet not to reference.

5. Georgia at Auburn, November 12, 2004 :: 24-6
Coming into this game, the Tigers hadn’t been played closely since the nailbiter in September against LSU. A top-10 matchup brought the three dweebs from Gameday as well as all eyes from across the nation to see if AU was for real. In what can be titled as nothing less than a good, old-fashioned beatdown, Campbell, Brown, Williams and Co. pulled out all the stops to hang 24 on a vaunted Bulldog defense. The defense didn’t disappoint, either, with Junior Rosegreen delivering the famous blow in the third quarter that left UGA receiver Reggie Brown motionless on his face, which come to be known simply as “The Hit.” As Brown was being attended to, the Auburn student section did something I won’t soon forget. Chanting “Reggie” in unison showed the class and integrity that embodies so much of what we are about.

4. Alabama at Auburn, November 19, 2005 :: 28-18
I struggled to not put this one higher on the list, but for some reason, it wound up at No. 4. The first quarter was what can only be described as pure bliss. The Tahd was 10-1, had been proclaimed “back” and adorned the cover of SI. Brodie Croyle was ascending to the throne to take his rightful place at the Bahr’s right hand, opposite Joe “I Wanna Kiss You” Namath. Two sacks in three plays on the first drive had the crowd stirred up in a blood-thirsty frenzy, along with a few impressive drives by the Tiger offense. We found ourselves up 3 scores before the deer in the headlights look could even descend on Shula’s face…and that is saying something. The reason this game falls on the list is for the infamous Tubershell. This game, coming the year after the Biggest Screwjob in BCS History, had a chance to put some pressure on the throat that our orange and blue boot was currently on. The live-to-punt philosophy prevailed, though, turning what could’ve been a real mudhole into a rather underwhelming ten point win. I will never forget, however, Brodie curled up in a ball as McClover stood over him. What a sight.
The Predator

3. LSU at Auburn, September 18, 2004 :: 10-9
The true turning point for the 2004 team. It was an incredibly hard fought game, all the way to the end. Not much is remembered by anybody before the last AU drive. The now famous fourth-and-long can be argued to be the turning point in Jason Campbell’s career as well. With the game hanging on this play, JC stood in the pocket, took a hit from the oncoming defender, and delivered a strike to Courtney Taylor just over the first down line. A few plays later, the same connection was made in the back of the endzone to take the lead for good. As soon as the ball hit the 86 on Taylor’s jersey, an eruption happened that is only surpassed by a moment in the number one game on this list.

2. Auburn at Florida, September 29, 2007 :: 23-20
This game for me is remembered not only for the game, but the whole trip as a whole. I secured an extra ticket from Tiger Hosts for Pops, so after we met in Auburn, we headed towards Gainesville. Saturday morning, the IHOP Breakfast Sampler was number one on the list. UA-FSU was happening in Jacksonville, so there was plenty of representation on both sides. An aside: (bammers in the booth behind us) The waitress asks us, “Which game are y’all going to?” to which Pops replies, “Which other game? The Auburn game of course! Oh yeah, I forgot…isn’t there a high school game in Jacksonville?” The bammers, waitress and Pops and I all shared a good-natured laugh, and returned to our grease-soaked sausage. We met up with some other TTHs at their tailgate and all walked around Jortville together. Some guys had enjoyed more liquid encouragement than others, making for one of the funniest walks I’ve ever taken. Example of such: “Hey that’s a nice scooter! Where’d you get that scooter? Well, if you weren’t a Florida fan, you’d probably be straight.” Hilarious.

The game was one of the most exciting games I’ve ever been to, culminating with the two game-winning kicks by true freshman Wes Byrum. The most memorable moment of perhaps my football-related stories came on those kicks, as well. As Wes trotted out on the field, the entire Auburn section found itself with arms locked together in one huddled mass, to the dismay to the police officers who patrolled the section all night telling us to get off the bleachers. As Wes nailed the first, we all went nuts, then became subdued again when we found out timeout had been called. So we linked up again. It was one of those moments where you feel like something bigger is going on…where community transcends football, where you get a real sense of what the Auburn family is all about. Holding each other up, praying together, celebrating together. It was surreal.

The next morning we returned to the same IHOP that held the same Breakfast Sampler, along with several hearty War Eagles, as well as your fair share of dejected bammers. We ate our breakfast in relative silence, letting our orange and blue do the talking.

1. Florida at Auburn, October 17, 2006 :: 27-17
Florida came into this game ranked number 2 in the country, with Chris Leak
and Tim Tebow putting up rather impressive numbers. The crowd was crazy at the beginning, but was quickly taken out of it by the Tigers’ inefficiency in scoring points and at being able to stop Leak, Tebow and Co. Going into halftime down 17-11, having scored only field goals and a safety, I felt as if it was only a matter of time before our defense wore down and the Gators blew it wide open. Tuberville, in the locker room, had a different idea. In the third quarter, the defense came alive, barely giving Leak room to breathe. On a particular third down, Leak stood in the pocket and then scrambled left, but was run down by Quentin Groves. As he hit the ground the crowd became louder than I had ever heard in almost 14 years of being in that stadium. Then, as the Gators were backed up in their territory, it happened. Snap, fumble, step, dive, block, scoop, flip. The Pontiac Game Changing Performance winning play saw a blocked punt by Tristan Davis and Jerraud Powers block the fumbled snap and attempted kick and Tre Smith scooped it up and flipped into the endzone, creating such noise that I thought the walls in the stadium would crumble. To this day, I’ve never been in an environment louder than that moment.

After a field goal from the Tigers, the Gators had one chance left, but a botched lateral led to the fumble that led to the final touchdown of the night. It. Was. Wild.

So that concludes JC’s Top Ten. War Damn.

Standing on the Shoulders

2009-08-23T14:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I attended the memorial service of a loved one, albeit one that I felt I barely knew. My great aunt Jane, better known as J.J., passed away at the age of 85 on Wednesday. When I received the text from my dad informing me of the news, I found it hard to describe the emotion of the event, most likely because, as I said, it had been a few years since I had even seen Aunt Jane. I was definitely sad, but I hurt more for those that would be affected by her passing. I thought of my grandmother (Bet Bet, affectionately), and her loss of a sister. My mind went to my dad and his sisters at their loss of a beloved aunt. Finally, I went to my distant cousins, those I knew and had relationships with, but barely ever saw or communicated with, yet those that I hurt for at their loss of a mother and a grandmother.

These were all people I empathized with, relating to because the sting of losing my grandfather a year and a half ago is still fairly real. While I didn’t know Aunt Jane incredibly well, these people did, and I could almost feel their hurt. They were the most affected, having encountered this woman in a real way, knowing and loving her, being directly affected by her loss. What I didn’t realize going in, however, was all the people that my mind didn’t immediately go to when I learned of her death.

Rev. Joe Elmore, who officiated the memorial, spoke of looking through the archived history of J.J.’s church which bore the title “Standing on the Shoulders of Saints, Servants and Sinners.” I sat through the service hearing stories about my great aunt and her groundbreaking work in Tuscaloosa as an attorney, her service to her church, and her love for her family. Having these thoughts in my head, I decided to look up the article that was written in the Tuscaloosa News after her passing. This article chronicled her achievements all the way from being the first practicing female attorney in Tuscaloosa County to her work in starting a United Methodist Children’s Home for at-risk children, as well as her advocacy in Chapter 13 bankruptcy.

It was reading this article that got me to thinking. No, I didn’t know Aunt Jane that well. The hurt I felt for her loss extended more so to the people that I was closest to rather than her actual loss. But, I realize now that the influence we exert in our lives goes far beyond those we come in direct contact with. Aunt Jane’s passion for “unselfishly doing good for people” [my loose paraphrase], as my cousin Julia spoke of at the service reaches out beyond those clients she dealt with on a daily basis. Her heart for advocating for those who had no voice touches many more than those children that were provided a home at the Genesis House.

Aunt Jane’s influence reaches past two generations to touch even my life, as I see those values that were apparent to her family such as Bet Bet and later Pop, as well as to her nieces and nephew, my aunts and father. All these people that, unlike Aunt Jane, I am close to, have instilled in my life a passion to serve the poor, to do good at all costs and, as Jane used to say, to never give up when your cause is just.

All of this is evidence that we, as a people of faith, stand on the shoulders of those saints, servants, and sinners that go before us. The values and ideals of those that teach and lead us, whether in our lives directly or indirectly, guide and shape ultimately the disciples that we become. We go forward and learn more not because we are smarter, but because we stand on their shoulders, seeing further not in spite of, but rather because of. May we take those examples of women like Jane Dishuck and learn. May we recognize that because of women like her we move forward to accomplish that which has been set out for us. Doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly.

Thank you, J.J. May you rest in peace after a life well lived.

"Give Me My America Back"

2009-08-16T09:44:00.000-07:00

I was watching the Daily Show the other day when I saw a clip of a recent town hall debate on health care reform. A woman held the microphone and, while sobbing, pleaded, “This is not my America. I don’t know what you’ve done with my America, but I want my America back! Give me my America back!” As Jon Stewart quipped in reply, "Go tell that to the Indians." To see the actual crazy person-ahem...excuse me-crazy citizen, click here. The aforementioned clip begins around the 1:10 mark.

Obviously, she didn’t want “socialized” medicine, “government death panels,” “hostile government takeovers of our entire health care system,” or whatever else Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Ann Coulter, Glenn Beck or any other Fox News talking head had been telling her the President’s reform measures would bring.

My question immediately was, “What and where is this America that she was talking about?”

The root of her fear, it seemed was that the government would invade every facet of our daily lives and ruin all that is good with “her America.” Fear of the government, as the Great Beesh would tell you, is a very healthy thing. But, fear based on blatant misinformation can be completely destructive.

Now, I don’t know this woman. I don’t know what her exact political views are. But, I think it wouldn’t be too irrational to assume that she longs for the days of Republican/George Bush power. Power that brought warrantless wiretapping, secret CIA prisons across the globe, torture, Dick Cheney and Halliburton tomfoolery, waterboarding, even more torture, the Patriot Act and the politically-motivated firing of US attorneys.

Programs and acts, it appears to me, expand government’s role far, far more than a public option so forty million of Crying Woman’s fellow citizens can proceed without fear of being tossed into financial ruin because of a broken health care system.

These programs fly in the face of the sacred document each President swears to uphold. Those are forgotten, though, when a Democrat takes office. Bigger government role in social programs? Nay…it is socialism, we’re told.

Fear, when kept in check, is a healthy thing. The fear of the Lord, for example. But fear of Uncle Sam in a SWAT team outfit kicking your door in and killing your grandmother because she is unproductive is destroying democracy.

In a blog written by my man Bob, he tells that it’s time to get back to school, where you don’t speak unless you raise your hand and are acknowledged. If I had shouted down Shannon Jones in third grade like some of these “grassroots protesters” (sarcasm implied), I would’ve been strung up…literally. It’s about respect…respect for the Constitution, respect for your fellow man, and respect for the democratic process…all things that are a part of “My America.”

This woman’s? I’m not so sure.

***For a much better and more well-written response to this video and sentiment, visit THIS blog.

Toasty/Bagel Hope

2009-08-10T13:37:00.001-07:00

My apologies for the Dust-Bowl type drought in the updates. I would tell you that I just didn’t have time, but in an effort to be transparent, I’ll just say that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Honestly though, the second half of the summer was much, much different than the first. We didn’t have as many groups that came on Sunday night and stayed till Friday morning, for whatever reason. Because of this, there was a substantial amount of downtime for Tori and I. Many groups came in just for the day and worked or painted, while some came and stayed for only a few days. To pass the time, we brushed up on our forensic skills and tore through Season 1 of CSI.
Now that the summer is over, I’ve been trying to process what I learned, or didn’t learn, from this summer. It is safe to say that while last summer taught me extensively about things I’m good at, this summer taught me exactly the opposite. It seems to be a theme of this particular journey. Being reminded of my inequities is a good thing, I suppose, but is never an easy thing to stomach. It’s a good starting point in addressing things I need some grace for, beginning ministry. It is, however, hilarious to look at the ways you can rationalize or talk yourself out of doing certain things is certain situations. I would expose some of these things, but I’m not ready to be quite that vulnerable yet. I’m sure you’ll understand.

Much of what I’m about to type has been said before by Deb, so I’m not going to act all profound by saying it here and claiming credit, just so you know. Just giving credit where it’s due.

There were many times this summer when I asked myself “Why am I here?” My experience this summer had the unfortunate and unfair position of being compared in every way to my experience from last summer, so I was continually asking myself if what we were doing was accomplishing anything. Last summer, we oversaw 15 homes that were repaired to be warmer, safer and drier; that is, the families that occupied those homes’ lives were vastly improved. This summer, inevitably because of many of our volunteers, I struggled to see the good in what we were doing. Sure, the homes looked much better with a fresh coat of paint and trim, but what did we do to alleviate the problems that faced these homeowners? We would only be there a week (maybe two), so it’s not like we could enter into deep, meaningful relationships. We were just…painting. The neighborhoods they lived in were still riddled with crime, the schools would continue to be subpar, the health problems many homeowners carried around were still there and they would continue to be overlooked. Painting their home for them seemed to be, in my eyes, putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound.

Thankfully, as the summer progressed, I was able to see a bigger picture. In the neighborhoods we worked and lived in, there wasn’t much light. Crime, as I said, drugs and poverty were simply ways of life. But throw a coat of paint on a house, though, and a little light begins to break through. Deb mentioned of times when neighbors, seeing the new house, would come outside and try to tidy up their own property by picking up trash and doing yard work. Hope, she said many times, is contagious. So while many homeowners still have rotten siding, accumulating medical bills, live in fear of their own neighborhoods, and struggle to buy groceries, perhaps we have done just a little to brighten up their lives. Hopefully, we have made enough of a crack in what was despair so that some light can break through.

Light, in toasty and bagel.

Home Again

2009-07-05T12:11:00.000-07:00

The trip is on its last leg and reflecting on it, I’ve learned many things. Some seem pretty profound, while others are pretty trivial. I guess in a sense, it all really is, but it all in all, God seems to work through the trivial moreso than not. Our last day in Riga, we spent the day with Dan, Courtney, and Ceara, the 11-day old latest edition to the Randall family. Dan and Courtney, both Duke Div graduates interestingly enough, are UMC missionaries in Latvia and together, essentially run the church. It was great talking with them about the new baby, Camp Wesley, as well as our common friends we had. LT and Eidson spent half of last summer with them in Latvia before heading to Russia, and Courtney was previously a youth director/minister at a particularly outstanding church I got to know really well last summer from Cary. The world is small indeed.

We broke schwarma together before saying goodbye to D, C and the baby and heading to old Riga. We decided to try our luck as street musicians in one of the old squares in town. Turns out, it was really hot and we hit an epic mental and musical block, which rendered us unable to think of anything to play, thus turning into a really long blues jam in E (obviously).

That night, we found a restaurant and ate one last meal out before doing various things the rest of the evening. Once we arrived in Frankfurt and made a futile effort to get an earlier flight home, we prepared for our 22-hour layover in Germany. After much indecision, we decided to take a train into the city to eat. We settled on a small outdoor café in which we ended up spending the next four or so hours sitting around. We tried to get the check at one point, but John, our Filipino waiter who lived in Germany but spoke English in what sounded like a California accent, insisted we hang around. Restaurants are one place in which American and European cultures differ dramatically. There is hardly a rush to turn tables, mainly because tipping is much different. I’m sure many servers were shocked to see the amount of tip we left throughout our various eating adventures, but oh well. I bet it made them happy and that is worth it enough.

The train ride back to the airport was as big of an adventure as we had. We followed all the correct signs back to the terminal, but when we stopped at the main Frankfurt terminal, the train shot us back the other direction towards the suburbs. It took forever to finally get it worked out, but we finally made it back around 1:30 a.m. local time. Turns out, we weren’t the only ones wandering around that particular city, though. Literally, and I’m not exaggerating on this, one in every seven or eight people was wearing a Bruce Springsteen shirt. It seems the Boss had made a stop in the city that night, which caused what would normally be a pretty vacant train station to swarm with people. It definitely made things more interesting. Once we got back to the airport, we set up shop in a dark area and each went about finding our most preferable sleeping positions. Some preferred the seats, while the Bob, Beesh and myself ended up on the floor. We left Frankfurt at 10 and arrived in D.C. a few minutes before one. We’ll leave here at 5:10 EST and get to Birmingham just after 6:00, thus ending the trip once and for all.

In Gallup’s StrengthsFinder, your top five strengths are determined from a list of several questions that you answer. When my results came back, not surprisingly, number one was connectedness. It is the idea that everyone in the world is seemingly connected, that we are all related somehow, that something greater links us together in a community that most, if not all, cannot understand. People with Connectedness carry this belief in the forefront of their mind, which coincidentally or not, is something that’s been happening to me all year long. God continually shows me ways in which we are tied together, be it through paint brushes and rollers at Urban, guitars in Latvia or anything else. He is teaching me something, though I’m not quite sure what it is.

One doesn’t need to spend much time around any number of people in my immediate or extended family to know that music is an important thing. To hear the Hastings family rip a 9-part harmony to the doxology before lunch or dinner at the lake is all-in-one hilarious, beautiful, inspiring and well, beautiful. Music has been such a large part of my life so far and I don’t think God did that as an accident. Music provides a place that the connectedness I’m talking about can manifest itself in my life. I knew going into the trip that I would be touched by the transcendence of the language barrier that would happen at the worship workshop at Camp Wesley. That, in itself, is a beautiful thing. The moment that I was really flooded by the emotion came during “All Who Are Thirsty,” as our Latvian friends gradually took the lead on more and more songs. They chose this particular song because they had the words translated in Latvian, so away we went. As I played for Sonita and Kristina, I began to sing the words in English to myself. We all started to jump into, gradually increasing the volume as they became more comfortable leading the song. Once the chorus hit, it was almost unearthly.

“Come Lord Jesus, come.”

Harmony knows no language. Harmony is universal. I believe, as I alluded to earlier, God gave me somewhat of a gift in music to lead me to a place where I can not only lead worship, but that I can realize this web of faith that is woven when we do worship. As we sang that simple chorus, with blending languages and everything, the presence of God was eerily palpable. It was almost as if words didn’t matter; we were offering what we could give, the harmony, the melody, in worship to a God who provides a way that connects us all, even when we can’t begin to understand words the other is spoken. I believe in a way, God is harmony. We’re not all in the same place, but we are in a place that when we summon that gift or offering inside us, beautiful music is made.

Throughout the trip, these things have continually been made present in my spirit and mind. Desmond Tutu speaks of this communal sense using a traditional African word: ubuntu. To have ubuntu is to recognize that your humanity is innately tied in your fellow man, that we are all, indeed, connected, that I am human because you are human.

May you recognize, affirm and live in this spirit of connectedness and ubuntu each and every day. Grace and peace.

Not at the Table, Carlos.

2009-07-02T02:09:00.000-07:00

Hey again from Riga.

It's been an exciting couple of days in Vilnius, Lithuania. We sang at a Vacation Bible School before seeing the Hill of Crosses, which was phenomenal. More on that later. Vilnius was incredibly interesting, with history and culture and the like. It was the beginning of their once-every-four-years music festival, so everything was really crowded and expensive, requiring us to cut our stay to one night. We saw many of the sights walking around and ate at Pizza Jazz, which isn't quite as American (or Italian) as it sounds. After others went to bed, Beesh, Rachel and I decided to see a little more of Vilnius, but due to the apparent early-bird nature of their society, there wasn't much fun to be had. We did meet a nice Scottish gentleman in an establishment who informed us that Obama was doing a fine job until he started "bombing the shit out of Pakistan." Of this I was not aware. Leave it to the Scots, I guess.

After checking out of the hotel, we did more sightseeing, including the castle/fort of Gedeminis, the founder of Vilnius and the tile representing where the last person stood in the human chain. During the demise of the USSR, the three Baltic satellites were the first to rebel against the Soviets; as an act of solidarity, what had to have been millions of people made an unbroken human chain stretching from Tallen(sp?), the capital of Estonia to Vilnius. The location of the tile in the square is not publicized or documented; rather the locals encourage that "each person needs to find their own freedom." It is an inspiring display to say the least.

We arrived back in Riga last night. After taking in The Hangover at the local cinema, we found a hotel, then ventured out to find food. We lucked out when we stumbled upon what seemed to be the only thing open, and each took in some traditional Latvian fare, and while I'm not sure how it's properly pronounced or spelled, I believe it's something like "Big Mac combo."

Today will involve a relaxed day of shopping and sightseeing before we fly out tomorrow. Once I process everything I hope to have something a little more inspiring, but until then I will remain descriptive. Peace to all of you and

Euro-trippin'

2009-06-29T09:36:00.000-07:00

Hey from Lithuania.

This is the first time I've had internet access the whole time, so if you've been freaking out about me now getting in touch (Moooom), sorry. The Baltic wi-fi connection isn't quite as strong as it is in the States.

I arrived in Riga on Friday afternoon after two very uneventful flights. The transatlantic voyage was about 7.5 hours, with me sleeping somewhere between one and three of those. I'm not exactly sure of the time, but I do know that I fell asleep in the middle-end of He's Just Not that Into You (which is terrible, by the way) and Last Chance Harvey, so interpret that as you feel necessary. Bob met me at the airport in Riga and we drove the two or so hours to Camp Wesley, just outside Leipaja. Friday, Saturday and Sunday consisted of a worship-leading workshop and getting to know the Latvians that we stayed with. I’ll get more in depth with that once I get home, but it went really well.

We slept in tents outside. Yep, just us and the Latvian wilderness. Oh, and also the swarms of gigantic mosquitos. It doesn’t really get dark until after midnight, but we usually stayed up past then, so it wasn’t a problem. It’s weird to be outside in broad “day” light, only to find that it’s ten ‘til eleven. For meals, we ate mostly traditional Latvian fare, which consisted mainly of potatoes and vegetables. I didn’t really realize how much my body depended on protein until this trip. Many of us have come to experience what we’ve dubbed as the “carb crash,” in which your energy level literally bottoms out in what feels like an instant. Luckily last night, as we travelled back in to Riga, we found a steak house where we each did work on various assortments of steak. We left just after the sun went down at ten past midnight and went to bed.

Today we’re in Siauliai, Lithuania (pronounced Sho-lay). It was about a two hour drive here, mostly consumed with Mitchell and Beesh talking in accents that will be documented later. We are now at the Hotel Siauliai after eating lunch. There is a long pedestrian boulevard that is lined with restaurants and shops which was a cool experience. Tomorrow we will visit the Hill of Crosses, a Catholic monument that is well-known across the world. More about that here. The next few days will be spent between Vilnius, also in Lithuania and Riga before flying out of Riga on Friday.

I hope you are all well. Talk to you soon.

Pax

Leavin' on a Jetplane...

2009-06-25T06:43:00.001-07:00

I'm sitting in Bhm Int'l. I forgot how I love and hate airports at the same time. Funny. I'll be in Riga, Latvia tomorrow around lunch, local time of course. It's an 8-hour swing, so you do the math. I guess I could use your, my faithful readership's (all 3 of you), prayers for travels and for the workshop we're doing. The Beesh-tastic duo of James and Anna along with Bob and Rachel got to Riga yesterday, so they're safe and vigilantly await my arrival. I'll try to blog again when I get there. Peace to everyone.

I Can Have That?

2009-06-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

Well I’m glad that’s over. It was a rough week to say the least. The groups came from Community Church Without Walls, a church in West End started out of Urban, East Lake United Methodist and Trinity UMC in Murfreesboro. Yes, there were times when walking into a room seemed as if you were flashing back into the ‘60s, with a different color dominated a different side of the room. The week went well, considering these factors I suppose. I worked with CCWW/East Lake all week and discovered a few things. Let me explain.

Laziness and Whining Knows No Race, Socio-economic class or anything else. The sloth and desire to avoid work that I struggled with the first week reared its ugly head again. I think I assumed that because these kids were from completely different situations and ways of life than those of the first week that they’d have a refined work ethic and really understand why they were at the houses painting.

Wrong.

It was exactly the same. Granted, it was hot enough to crush even the strongest of wills and spirits, but seriously. It was hot. These words of my mother rang true yet again in the midst of idle paint brushes and scrapers though: “I’m telling you, buddy; they’re just at that age…” Must be. If the planned careers of pharmacists, doctors, lawyers and NBA stars I was told of don’t work out, some of those guys should consider trying their hand in magic. Or maybe I should. All I had to do is say “Hey guys can I get a hand with these ladders” or “Alright guys let’s get back to work…” and they would disappear faster than the Lucille II.

While the lack of work was frustrating, it was more the attitude of a select number of the guys that really led me to the breaking point I experienced on Tuesday night. As we finished the house we had been working on, our homeowner gave us the paint she bought to repaint her carport with. The project took no time at all, but the paint she bought just happened to be oil-based, leaving our buckets and brushes marred by that Luciferian substance. (If you’ve never used oil-based paint, don’t.) The day before, a group of three or so had helped me clean the paint brushes, so, along with the three R.G. and I deemed to have worked the hardest that day, they weren’t required to help when we got back. Everyone else, however, was. So, when we got back to the dorm, a group of R.G., Cheryl, and the three instructed not to help went about cleaning everything. My admonishment of “you can sit at the door all you want, but I’m not unlocking it until everybody helps” fell on deaf ears, as most of the group did, in fact, sit at the door. After an hour, with my arms elbow-deep in mineral spirits, I just decided to throw the buckets that I couldn’t clean away. I tried to let those that had helped just go in while keeping the others out. That worked as well as the zone read with Chris Todd. So finally, with my spirit broken and my mood soured, I just said “screw it” and let everybody in. I was frustrated. And mad. And disappointed.

I don’t, as a 22-year old, feel that I deserve much respect from those that are just 9 years younger than I am. I probably wouldn’t take somebody seriously if I was just 13. The thing I was disappointed in myself about was the lack of influenced I seemed to be able to have on these kids. I certainly worked harder than everybody on the worksite, mostly in the hopes that they would see me covered in sweat and paint and follow suit.

Fail.

I was disappointed that some of the things I had said to some of the guys about respect seemed to go one in ear and out the other. After asking one of the kids to just get water because we needed the Kool-Aid for dinner, he proceeded to argue with me and plead to let him have some, while he mixed himself a nice tall glass. Anything I asked them to do, really, was done so either not at all or begrudgingly with an aside remark about not wanting to do it. Everything asked of them was a struggle. As I walked back to my room, I’ve never really felt so helpless in all my life. I was simply broken.

They say you should never pray for patience. Apparently, you should never pray for grace either. That is, however, the only thing I could get out through my clenched teeth as I walked back to my room. I believe that God’s grace gets you to places you couldn’t get on your own, allows you to do things you weren’t able to do without His help and the like. So, I thought, maybe if I prayed for grace, God would give me the gift of patience and I would be able to look at this group of guys without wanting to unleash a flurry of curse words and ideals that would surely set them straight.

Wrong again. (See a pattern?)

The next morning continued with the suck. I was beginning to get sick with some kind of sinus trouble, along with the events from the previous night, and the day was off to a pretty fantastic start. I’d be lying if I said the thoughts of “Did I mishear God?” or “Was I really called here?” didn’t go through my mind. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t think about where in Appalachia I could be or what ASP-related thing I could’ve been doing at that moment. It was tough. Nothing seemed to be going right or getting better. Throughout that day, though, I began to see a little light break through.

I met our new homeowners, the Longs, and was fortunate enough to talk to them for a minute. The work got better, probably because half of the group went to Highlands, so there wasn’t as much contagious laziness to infect the group. It was only a half-day, as they had Wednesday night off. There were little victories happening and I began to feel better about everything.

Talking to my friends at ASP, I’ve sometimes caught myself wishing I made a different choice. Maybe it’s the familiarity of being on staff. Maybe it’s the long-term relationships you are able to form with the families you work for, rather than the short-term you experience here. I don’t doubt my call here. I just wonder, I guess. Thursday though, gave me a glimmer of hope. One of the worst acting kids of the group talked to me a little bit about faith and why I believed the way I did. He said he hadn’t “given his life to God” yet because he didn’t want to stop doing some things he was doing now and if he did, God would make him stop. I tried, as best I could, to explain how my belief in God, and belief in God in general, wasn’t a list of rules you had to follow; it wasn’t about eliminating all the fun in your life. Rather it was a change of heart, an inward transformation that changed the way you saw people, the way you treated people. It was about shifting your focus. It was about becoming new.

I don’t really think he listened to me. He most likely was just thinking about how he would never get to “run around all night.” I thought about the “Sinner’s prayer” and all the ways of “evangelism” I’d been taught about growing up. How ineffective would that’ve been in that moment? Yeah, I could’ve led Dreek in the prayer where he confesses his sin and “repents” and all that. Would he have been changed? Maybe. I doubt it though.

Most of these kids need an example. I suppose that’s why I’m here. God gives us a lot of opportunities to make a difference for the kingdom. If that five minute conversation made an impression on a guy that most likely hasn’t had a good example made some kind of difference, showed him his place in the Kingdom, set some kind of positive example or anything else, then I’ve filled my place.

Thy kingdom come…on Earth as it is in Heaven…

I’m going to Latvia this week. Sweet.

Excuse Me, But You're in My Pew

2009-06-14T11:15:00.000-07:00

If you received my weekly emails last summer, you read that Week 1 was hellacious and Week 2, comparably, was just the opposite. I’d say that held true again this year. We had three groups this week, two from Huntsville and one from Dyersburg, TN. It was nice to finally get some Methodists in here. Just kidding. But seriously…it was nice. I was fortunate enough to work with the group from Dyersburg all week on the house we started last week. I wasn’t exactly excited to continue on this house, mainly because it was so big and so inaccessible with the number of ladders we had. This group, though, worked twice as hard as the last group with half the number of kids. This week, I was actually able to have fun and enjoy the work, as well as develop a great relationship with most all of the kids and leaders in my group. It was so much better than last week, where I spent the whole week simply maintaining a group and strenuously concentrating on not committing a form of child abuse.

The groups painted all Monday, half of Tuesday and half of Wednesday, and all of Thursday. Aside from the 20-foot high section of the house only accessible by a mostly rotten roof, those kids got the whole thing finished. It was really great to see kids work so hard for somebody they didn’t even know. They even sprung for some extra paint to redo the porch.

Tuesday morning was spent at Highlands UMC in Five Points working in their Community Ministries. Rev. Emily, an associate at Highlands, spent a long time talking us through the history of the ministries and the church’s influence and presence on Birmingham’s south side. If you’ve ever been to Five Points, you know that it’s a bustling entertainment district, with many restaurants, bars, clubs, shops and boutiques. It’s also a large gathering place for many of the homeless in Birmingham. The church has been very intentional about staying in the community, much to the ire of some local businesses. Emily talked about the dialogue that they’ve taken up with local businesses about what they feel they’re called to do and how they want people to come to Five Points, but also that the church has a charge to care for those marginalized and homeless that have become as much of a part of that community as anything or anyone. It was very neat and inspiring to hear the stories of the church; members lost, community disputes, and even stories of local business owners re-examining themselves because of the ministries of Highlands.

Six days a week, the church serves breakfast for people off the street, provides a place for homeless people to get a load of clothes washed per week, a place they can have mail delivered, and a clothes closet where they can get clothes and shoes. Some days, the church provides a program called Project ID, where they provide assistance to people who need state IDs and birth certificates, as most places require one or the other, or both, to enter rehab facilities, missions, or get jobs. The kids from Dyersberg spent Tuesday morning sorting shoes, serving breakfast and sorting mail. All morning, I went through two stacks of mail marking “Return to Sender” on the envelope. Highlands will only keep mail for six months, so once that time is up, the mail is sent back. It was really sad, actually. Almost every single piece of mail that I went through was from UAB or some other medical billing service. It got me to thinking about healthcare and the medical “business” for lack of a better term. That, however, is another rant for another day. Maybe I’ll write about it when I have something intelligent to say. For now, though, my heart just breaks for those who are oppressed by the system, whose lives are destroyed because of circumstances beyond their control and those who are even made homeless because of any and all of it.

It was nice to see so many people, many who weren’t even members of Highlands, coming out to volunteer. Many were older people and most were so happy to see all these young kids coming in to help. Some though, namely those in charge, welcomed us, then commenced to complaining about not having enough jobs for everyone. It was baffling, really. Ten kids come from five hours away to serve and give of themselves, and instead of being welcomed with love, they get indirectly insulted by some old lady complaining about the excess of volunteers.

The last sentence was probably a misrepresentation of the group. Most people there welcomed us with a smile on their face. It was those that didn’t that ruined the perception for me. It took me back to several different conversations I’ve had with friends and mentors about the state of the church right now. Those that can look straight past what Jesus said about love and service because it messes up the “routine.” Those that put signs outside their church that say “No Trespassing.” The “I’m sorry but you’re sitting in my pew” crowd. Somewhere along the line, we’ve become A church instead of THE Church. A church that worships routine instead of serving and loving in the name of Jesus. We’ve become an institution instead of a body. An institution that do things “because we’re supposed to” instead of because we are “clothed in Christ.” It was sad to see, in the midst of such selfless service, attitudes like that.

When I think about my perception of people, I sometimes laugh. It is so much easier for me to look at a homeless man who is probably addicted to something and see the face of Christ than it is for me to see Jesus in an old woman who barks at 13-year old kids because there isn’t enough work to go around. I suppose that’s a testament against my ability to see Christ in everyone, but nonetheless it happens. But what happened to loving your neighbor? It’s not a secret that some are easier to love than others. Some require more grace to love. But all require love.

Except those, apparently, that sit in your pew on Sunday or bring too many volunteers to help.

We're Going to Phoenix

2009-06-06T20:25:00.000-07:00

Michael: “And the best part is, in Phoenix, we won’t have anything to do with that family.”

George Michael: “But…don’t you always say family first?”

Michael: “Yes I do, but that is not a family. It’s a bunch of greedy, selfish people who have our nose. And Aunt Lindsay.”

George Michael: “She’s not my real aunt?”

Michael: “Not her real nose. I’ve got a picture of her when she was 14 in a swimming cap. Looks like a falcon.”

Welp, Week 1 is done. A success, I would say. Two houses were completely painted while the other was scraped and mostly primed, waiting on its color next week. The groups worked for three days and then took a trip Friday up 59 to Alabama Adventure. This job is still a bit of an adjustment for me. While I still have a great deal of responsibility, making sure groups get to where they need to be with the supplies they need and the like, I still don’t have near the responsibility that I did last summer, especially this week. The groups provided their own programs, so aside from a few nights of leading worship, Tori and I just hung around at night.

The house that I was responsible for was the house that could not be finished this week. The homeowner is an elderly woman who is quite ill and lives with her son, for now at least. Because of her condition, the kids were not able to interact with her hardly at all. That is unfortunate, seeing as I believe it would’ve made the experience richer for this ‘particular’ set of volunteers. I was, however, able to have a few, albeit, short conversations with her son, who occupied a chair on the front porch. I’ve got a blog in the works on what painting a house does for a family, but that should be looked forward to at a later date. He is a great guy and was thrilled to see us pull up everyday.

It’s tough to tell a van full of 13 and 14 year old kids who’ve come to Birmingham to paint a house to hold off on the brushes and grab a scraper. That’s what I had to do, though. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some whining. But, they did a great job. After, of course, they asked me some form of the question, “Can we paint yet?” as many times as Nick Saban says “aight” and bumps into a prospective student athlete.

One thing this week has given me is a newfound respect for those youth leaders and parents who work with junior high age kids. They have a special gift. The problem with trying to relate to 13 and 14 year old boys is that in order for me to do so, I must treat them like my friends, which involves joking around with them, which involves them losing any respect for my position, which involves them acting like 13 and 14 year old boys and causing me to be irritable beyond belief.

I hope you enjoyed my Arrested Development reference at the beginning of this post. One thing I realized throughout this week in dealing with a lot of these…we’ll call them ‘privileged’ kids…is how connected we really are. In this particular episode of Arrested Development, Michael finally gets fed up with the shenanigans of the Bluth family and leaves. He does, however, come back with the theme of that episode becoming how much the family needs each other. It’s a little like this with our family, it seems. Not my actual family though. Mitchell has never tried to steal every girl I’ve ever dated, Meredith rarely takes up charity work on a whim, Mom is not a manipulating alcoholic and Pops isn’t in prison for building houses for Sadaam.

**Note: If you’re not an avid follower of Arrested Development, the preceding references will most likely sound ridiculous and not make any sense. Apologies.

The “family” I’m talking about is this priesthood we all share in the faith we all seem to proclaim. Reading Ephesians lately, I’ve pondered what “unity in the Spirit” actually means. We certainly don’t all get along. There were times this week when I certainly didn’t feel a lot of love for some of those kids. For example:

Text from JC to Tori: “I almost ended my 22-year streak of not striking a child a second ago…”

The point that I came to realize is this. God calls us to unity. Unity not in absolute agreement. Unity not even in “liking” people. The unity we are called to, in my opinion, is when so much grace is given to us that we begin to see our attitudes towards each other, each child of God, as such, and not as the annoying character traits, bad attitudes and whining. When we are changed, when we repent, when we allow grace to take over, we turn around from wherever it is we’re going (Oh man I wish you hadn’t said Phoenix…), and turn into the priesthood that God has ordained, and whether we know it or not, love wins, grace prevails, and the Kingdom comes.

In the coming weeks, pray for us. That we would build relationships with the kids that will come, the families and homeowners we will serve, and the people we work with. Don’t, however, pray for patience. I’m not quite ready to deal with that yet. If you’re reading this, odds are I know you and love you, but if I don’t, I love you anyway.

pax

Boom Boom Pow

2009-05-30T11:13:00.000-07:00

Training, done. We finished training yesterday at the Joe Rush Center for Urban Mission. It was interesting transition for me. Coming from the borderline-OCD model of ASP, in which training is a 10-day whirlwind of foundations, rafters, and skillsaws where every moment is planned, I often found myself apprehensive with the lack of stress that went along with this week. Our first night, we moved in, did a bit of orientation and went grocery shopping. That night, as we went to sleep, we heard a what sounded like someone firing off a round in our hallway. Oddly enough, as I laid there frozen, my first thought was not, "Oh crap I hope Tori is ok..." or "I'm about to be shot...", but rather "I reeeeally can't let Mom or Gran find out about this." Turns out it was just Tori's door swinging open and nailing the wall. There have since been loud sounds resembling gunshots at night, but I think Chief Deb-o put it best when she said, "Don't worry about it. They're not shooting at you."

The next day was spent getting CPR/First-Aid certified, eating, and hanging out. A goldmine was hit when we ventured to Target and found each season of Arrested Development on sale for an awesome $17.99.

A highlight of the week so far has been getting to know Michael, who works with Urban and the Joe Rush program, specifically. A soon-to-be 64 year old who doesn't act near that age, we've been blessed to hear many life stories of his, some funny, some difficult to listen to, but all inspirational. If grace was ever evident in anyone's life, it's Michael's. On Thursday, we went with him to a home to paint a shed. DJ Mary Bendall led us in a strengths workshop in the afternoon, then we took in a Baron's game that night. Off this weekend, our first group comes in Monday to begin work.

There have been a lot of things I've tried to process so far. Something prompted me to ponder the question of why I'm here the other day. Maybe it was the draw of a different experience from Liberia and West Virginia (West End is certainly different). I'm probably thinking that running the gamut of possible ministry scenarios will help me figure out what I want to do with my life. Maybe it's the opportunity to work in Birmingham and be closer to home after last summer. Maybe I want to see if I'm really as open and accepting as I claim to be.

What it comes down to, I think, is putting myself in a position in which I can find grace. Even as I write that, it sounds a bit strange. I believe, however, that as we move forward in sanctification, God allows and calls us to seek out the grace that He has for us. Though we believe in an active God that works in our life to bring us to places where we can experience grace, He also calls us to do our part in working out our own salvation. Whether it's Liberia, Logan County, the Mississippi Delta, West End or One-freaking-onta, grace is alive. Love is there. The Kingdom sneaks around and reveals itself in those people and places you don't expect. As Mother Teresa said, "Yesterday is gone; tomorrow has yet to come; all we have is today. Let us begin."

amen.

...and so it begins...

2009-05-21T20:31:00.000-07:00

What's up.

If I update this thing as much as I hope, I'll give you a dollar.

-jc