Olympic Opining

I'm one of those Olympic junkies...I watch everything from badminton to field hockey and check the medal count to see if the US is still ahead. I don't have any rabid patriotism-we're-better-than-they-are things going on...I suspect it is just my competitive nature kicking in. But as the games wind down to the closing ceremonies, I thought I'd offer an observation or two about a few names we've seen or heard in the past few weeks.

Michael Phelps - We'll get him out of the way first - amazing, monumental achievement with 8 golds, thanks to clutch performances by Jason Lezak on the anchor swim of two medleys...but is there anybody else that thinks he's a bit of a big inarticulate goober. I know he answered the same three questions a bazillion times and I can't blame him for zoning out to parrot the same things he said every time he got asked...and he is after all a swimmer and not a professional speaker, but then, I listen to 16 year old gymnast Shawn Johnson answer difficult questions with insight, passion and compassion, as well as a wise-beyond-her-years respect and graciousness for both her teammates and opponents. She's cute as a button and won't it be cool when she goes back to high school this fall and is sitting in English class just like everybody else!

Dara Torres - She's 41 and she's faster than almost every swimmer more than half her age...and oh yeah...she hot. But none of those things are the main reasons she impresses me. Coming back to competitive swimming after giving birth to her baby girl less than two years ago and winning a total of 12 Olympic medals in her career that began in the 1984 games in LA is impressive enough, but it was her joyful attitude and irrepressible smile that won me over. And then, just as her semi-final heat was set to begin, she had the presence of mind to lobby for extra time for an opponent who had a wardrobe malfunction and had to go back to change her suit. Dara, notified the officials so they wouldn't start the race without the absent swimmer and then calmed the rest of the field down as they waited. That's class...and maturity. And by the way...if she wants to marry me...tell her I'm OK with that.

Usain Bolt - I actually consider Bolt (is that not the most appropriate runner's name ever?) who won three gold medals by breaking world records (easily I might add) in the 100 and 200 the most amazing story of these games. The 22 year old Jamaican speedster, has such a contagious delight for life and running that it was hard not to smile every time he left the starting blocks. He is a rising star and an entertaining one at that.

The NBC broadcast team - OK, it is a little strange, perhaps, to mention these guys, but I think several deserve special note.

Bob Costas - I just love Bob Costas. He is the consummate professional, incredibly knowledgeable, but was never so serious that he couldn't laugh at himself or see the lighter side of many of the happenings during the games. And he's a baseball guy...need I say more?

Mary Carillo - This former women's tennis pro had really only done tennis broadcasts before this, but she appeared throughout the games as an analyst and commentator, often doing special interest reports. I've always liked her, but never seen the human, compassionate side of her...I think this should propel her to do more than just tennis in the days to come.

Andrea Joyce - Andrea has been around sports broadcasting for a long time, and mostly did sideline interviews with the athletes after their competitions. I've never been a big fan, but after she decimated American gymnast Alicia Sacramone, insisting on hammering her with inane humiliating questions over and over, I'd had enough. I don't understand why it is necessary to add insult to injury by asking obvious questions and seemingly intentionally hoping for a an emotional breakdown. No class...no compassion...no bueno.

So...we'll wait to see if the closing ceremonies are as mind-blowing as the opening ones and look forward to the games in London in 2012. Maybe I'll be in the stands at the pool there cheering on my recent bride, Dara. Well a guy can can have Olympic dreams can't he?

Pling...Pling...

dg

It's a Dad/Daughter Thing...

I was pondering several serendipitous events yesterday and wondered what to do with them. Most of you know that I have three daughters...and they are not just any three daughters, they are smart, funny, tough, talented and beautiful. You also probably know that our last 14 years together have been with me as a single parent and them training me every step of the way. So what I'm getting at is that we have a very special relationship. I know that the dad/daughter is very important in almost all families, even in the ones where it is characterized more by its absence than presence. Years ago I read that cultural phenom that was "Reviving Ophelia" by Dr. Mary Pipher. One of the observations she makes is in regards to the incredible void that gets left in the lives of pre-adolescent girls who developmentally need a father figure in their lives during these critical years to develop healthy self image, relational and sexual identity foundational elements. For many, the father wound is deep and devastating. I have two close friends (single parent moms) who have young daughters, one 5, and one 9, and who watch them cry when the random and and infrequent contact of the hit and run fathers of their girls send their daughters into an emotional tsunami. It breaks my heart knowing that scenario gets played out thousands of time daily in our culture.

But...that's not what prompted my pondering. Actually, and refreshingly, it is the other end of the spectrum. A couple of dear friends, Ginger and Milton Brasher- Cunningham from Raleigh/Durham NC were in Texas to visit family and help lead a retreat at Laity Lodge. We got to sit and chat for a couple of hours on their way up to Waco to see Milton's family and to Ft.Worth to see a Lyle Lovett Show before heading south again for the retreat. As we were talking about family, Ginger began to talk about her concern for her father who is wrestling with Alzheimer's and she is seeing this gentle, compassionate man slip slowly away from them. She commented that she is one of the rare women in the world who can boast about a wonderful loving father as well as a wonderful, loving husband. She's right.

Several hours later I was watching , along with millions of others, as American gymnasts Nastia Liukin and Shawn Johnson won the gold and silver medals, respectively, in the women's all-around competition in Beijing. Shawn came in as the favorite on the strength of her victories at the World Championships and the US Olympic trials, but it was obvious to all those who watched the team competition that Nastia, the daughter of a dad who was a Russian gold medal gymnast 20 years ago, and a mom who was a competitive rhythmic gymnast, was getting better and stronger with every event. Since I am a sucker for these dad/daughter scenarios, I paid close attention to the way her dad, who is her coach and who was on the coaching sidelines during the Olympic events, interacted with her in the ups and downs of the team events. Dad/daughter relationships are one thing, but dad/daughter/player/coach relationships are a different animal all together. I coached Calla's softball teams for about 6 years and that tenuous balance between being a mentor and motivator and a supporter and cheerleader are easy to get dangerously entangled...and as we all know from watching little league games, can be downright ugly. I was impressed by Nastia and her dad's interaction during these days, but just fell apart, when following the official announcement that she had indeed won the gold, the first person she looked for was her dad and she raced to hug him and held on tightly for what seemed like minutes as she wept in his arms. At that moment she wasn't the top female gymnast in the world...she was just a daughter hanging on to her dad for dear life at the most important moment in her young life. There will be many more...most of them having nothing to do with gymnastics.

So, for all of those dads out there like Nastia and Ginger's who have had the courage to not just be a provider, but to be a friend, parent, coach, counselor, and cheerleader...I salute you. We need you...your daughters need you...the world needs you. Well done.

Pling...Pling...

dg

Geezers Rule!

I'm 56 years old...in November that bumps up to the next whole number digit...most days I don't feel like my head, my heart or my body agree with that chronological assessment... but on the other hand, there are days when my rickety knees outvote my brain and heart and Advil becomes my best friend. So, inexplicably, several months ago, my competitive nature kicked in and I signed up to play in a men's singles (as opposed to doubles, not not-married) league. I have played tennis recreationally since my best friend Cliff McArdle taught me to play 30 years ago, but have never, ever played in an organized league. So I went online, found a summer league that only cost $5 to join and decided to go for it.

Now the thing I didn't know was that you have to rate yourself as a player so that you can be placed in a league appropriate to your skill level. Since I've never played at any level I had to go to the USTA site and prognosticate what my level might be. I guessed at a 3.5...especially since you are warned to not sandbag and underestimate your ability to whip up on lesser opponents. I had my first match last week and my opponent was Mario, who was smart, successful, a very good tennis player...and oh yeah...half my age. I hung with him for a while, even leading the first set 3-2 at one point, but his strong serve, seriously tough topspin forehand and young legs prevailed and I lost handily 6-4 and 6-1. I limped home, put an icepack on the knee, took a couple of Advil, and wondered how I could ever have thought this was a good idea.

Tuesday was my next match, and I pondered the possibility that I might play the whole season without winning a single match...but what the heck, I would be building up the self esteem of others all across Austin...that's what servanthood is all about right? Yeah...I wasn't thrilled about being the Prince (I play with a Prince racket) of doormats either. So Tuesday I met Eddie, my next opponent. He was a very nice guy, had a booming serve...hit the ball like a rocket...and in case you were wondering...again, half my age. Eddie, while clearly a guy with better tennis strokes than moi, had a rough start and shockingly (for both of us and several folks watching as well) I won the first set 6-0. He won the first two games of the second set, I won the next three, and then the lights on these public courts just shut off. He asked if, in the event we might could get the lights back on, I wished to continue (he was no dummy...he knew that his youth and fitness would no doubt be a factor the longer we played). I agreed and after about a 20 minute delay the mercury vapor lights came on and we resumed. He proceeded to win the next 4 games and take the second set 6-3. We began the rubber match third set and with the score tied at deuce(40-40) in the first set the lights went out again. We decided to meet Thursday night to conclude the match.

Sooooooo... tonight we met to resolve the outcome, and I have to confess that while I have done a ton of stuff in my life in front of a lot of people, I was crazily nervous about playing this third set. I couldn't figure it out...this match has no real meaning in the larger scheme of the universe. It's a game that won't affect global warming (unless I fail to recycle my plastic tennis ball can), feeding the poor, addressing the human rights issue in China, the outcome of the Presidential election in November, or human trafficking in Cambodia...but I was nervous nonetheless. Bottom line, Eddie did not play well, and I avoided enough mistakes to win the final set 6-2. Go figure...the old man can actually win occasionally, even against the young guns. So, because I really do care about all of those afore-mentioned issues, and because I have friends who are experiencing devastating losses and family health and vocational crises, I will now turn my attention to more important matters, but for this moment my aching knees don't feel all that bad...and I'm kinda wondering if Centrum Silver and the AARP might do paid endorsements for a star tennis player like myself...

Pling...Pling...

dg

Sad

"Mr. T"... Sarah and Scott Bickle's feisty and precious toddler, Thomas, lost his two year battle with brain cancer yesterday. I was staring at the screen on my desk yesterday evening, wanting to say something, needing to say something, but unable to make sense of much of anything when a friend request from Facebook popped up. I was responding to that request when I noticed a string of recent updates on a number of folk's profiles (those of you who are FB addicts know of which I speak) indicating feelings or reports on what they are doing. I have trouble keeping up with my car keys much less updating my mood every few hours, so I rarely participate, but on this day I did have something to report, so I just typed in "sad". Curiously, within a few minutes several folks on my "friends" list checked in to see why I was sad. I guess maybe the Facebook "community" can actually occasionally act like a community. I was grateful that they were concerned and we chatted with short FB and e-mail notes, but I still am mostly wordless and clueless.

I'm not interested in talking the theology of the afterlife...although I believe with all my heart that Thomas is now pain free and sitting in the arms of Someone whose arms feel lovingly like his mom and dad's. I'm not interested is debating whether they should read "The Shack" or "90 Minutes in Heaven" even though I know those have both been helpful resources for folks who are grieving. I'm just sad. Sad that a wonderful mom and dad had such precious little time with their beautiful son and even much of that was nursing him through pain and surgery and chemo. I'm sad that I was seldom present with them through any of this except by phone and e-mail...OK I also feel guilty about that. And I'm sad I can't articulate any better why I'm sad. Talking and writing for a living is what I do. It's a good thing I'm not being paid by the word today.

I love you Scott and Sarah. I do know that... and I can say that with certainty. And I can pray to a God who gets it even when words don't.

Pling...Pling...

dg

The New Old Slavery

I attended a screening tonight for a documentary to be released to theatres this October entitled "Call and Response...The Concert to End Slavery". It is a project of love for a friend I met a little over a year ago, Justin Dillon, from Oakland, CA. Justin is singer/songwriter who had this issue of human trafficking almost dumped in his lap and he responded by putting together this truly amazing body of work that has to be seen to be appreciated, addressing this reality of 27 million people in slavery around our world TODAY! To see an articulate insight into the film see Shelton Green's wonderful perspective in his blog post (In Reformation) tonight. Justin is headed to Nashville on Wednesday and Washington DC on Thursday and Friday to pave the way for the film's release with screenings similar to tonight's. If you have any interest in this grassroots, open-source movement then visit the film website at www.callandresponse.com. As Dr. Cornnell West says in the filom, "justice is what love looks like in public"! Pling...Pling... dg

Broken Bread and Vanishing Saviors

Several weeks ago I wrote about an amazing trip to Colorado with my friend Sam Vaugh. In the post I mentioned that each night after dinner, in the blissful absence of television and Internet, we both read for several hours. Sam was reading an unfinished manuscript that a local Southern Colorado author had let him preview. I was reading a book recommended by my friend Bob Carlton, "Take This Bread", by Sara Miles. Sara Miles grew up in a home where her parents, partly as a reaction to devout missionary parents, partly a response to the lack of relevance of the mainstream church to the pressing social causes and needs of the 1950's, raised their children as practicing agnostics. When Sara reached adulthood she spent time as a chef in New York City, and then as a respected writer and reporter who spent much of the 1960's living and reporting in Latin America during that incredibly volatile, but culture revolutionizing decade. She gave birth to little girl while she was in Latin America, then when the violence became too risky for her daughter she moved back to the US settling in the San Francisco area. One day while walking down the street in her neighborhood, she passed the open doors of an Episcopal Church, a particularly intriguing one architecturally, and she decided to go inside to see more. When she entered she found that they were observing Communion, the Eucharist, The Lord's Supper. She was somewhat familiar from readings about religion, but she had never experienced it personally. She got in line and curiously, and apprehensively approached the ministers who were serving. One of them broke off a piece of bread, whispered to her that this bread was the "body of Christ". She watched as the person in front of her dipped the bread in the chalice of wine as the next minister said, "and this wine is the blood of Christ shed for you". Sara Miles says that in that moment of hearing and tasting, she was transformed. She didn't know anything about what had happened or what it meant, she just knew that when she left that room...she was a different woman. Because she had no frame of reference for what this was supposed to mean she began to ask herself, and in a desperate need for some answers, this God that she had always assumed did not exist, for help. The only thing she could come up with was that, her experience as a cook taught her that food has a deep, primal, and spiritual connection to the soul. She thought that this experience was telling her, God or no
God, she was supposed to feed people...so she began a food pantry for the homeless and the working poor out of that same Episcopal church. I won't ruin the rest of the fascinating story...you should read it yourself...but the other thing Sara Miles discovered was that just when you get a handle on what God wants from you, he seems to get a little harder to box up and pin down.

I'm reminded of the post-resurrection story in Luke 24 that tells of the now-you-see-him-now-you-don't nature of keeping up with Jesus. He appears to two fringe believers (Cleopas and his companion)early Easter morning. They see him and don't recognize him, hear him speak and don't recognize him, listen to him exegete the entire of Hebrew scripture that has to do with the coming of the Messiah, and don't recognize him. Now my hunch is that they are crazy numb with grief and are in the throes of emotional shock. They even say that they had so pinned their hopes on Jesus being the promised Messiah, only to watch him die and be be buried. Loss will do that to you...disappointment with do that to you...betrayal will do that to you...fear will do that to you...the crush of failure will send you to a place where you wall yourself off from anything that has the slightest potential of dealing out more pain. It is also significant to me that according to my less than stellar mathematical abilities, Jesus made five appearances after his resurrection (not counting the ascension). They were all to people who already believed. If I had been put in charge of the post resurrection public relations campaign of the Messiah...I do things a little differently. I get him on Larry King and Oprah. I get him to throw out the first pitch at the World Series and I get him to be a contestant on Dancing With the Stars. Oh...and he is in both an iPod and a Geico commercial. But I was not in charge and God chose not to scare, frighten, or overpower our human will or our ignorance...you have to come to faith with your head, your heart and your willing volition.

So... Jesus has walked the several hours-long trek to their home village and they still are clueless, and yet...they have enough sensitivity to the needs of a stranger to invite Jesus in to eat and spend the night. They sit down to eat, asking Jesus to bless the food and when he prays and breaks the bread...they suddenly recognize him. Now what was it in the breaking of bread that revealed his identity when seeing him face to face, hearing his voice and hearing him teach failed to do the trick? I don't know but I think my friend, chef Milton (Don't Eat Alone), and Sara Miles, have it right. The power of breaking bread and sharing a meal together opens doors to the soul that stay slammed shut and resist the most adept lock pickers. Then, of course, just when you are ready to systematize and quantify the magical experience you had with God he vanishes, and you are left with a holy heartburn ("didn't our hearts burn within us as he explained the scriptures to us along the road") and not even a Polaroid snapshot for the scrapbook. He is illusive and untameable...you don't put him in a choker collar and leash, get him to roll over and play dead, and follow obediently at your heels. That's not the God of Creation... that's Lassie...

So take a bite outta that...


Pling...Pling...

dg

Wilcox and Ariele

Worship at Journey had many notable elements last Sunday, including Dave Madden singing Cake's "The Palm of My Hand", listening to Nicole Nordeman's "What If", hearing excerpts from NPR interviews with noted scientists and opposite ends of the philosophical spectrum, Richard Dawkins and Francis Collins, Rick being brilliant as usual; and, a talk-back time with the community that asked them for questions they always felt were not allowed in church that got responses like, why do we talk about love and still live like bigots, why do we fell it necessary to still consider God masculine, why are we so afraid of homosexuality, why does God allow children to be abused and neglected, among many more. The highlights for me though were a great David Wilcox song, "Beyond Belief" sung by Judi Sawyer (check out Wilcox performing it himself on the youtube video) and Ariele (you can see her work at Saint Vespertine) poetry she wrote specifically for this service and sent it on to us.

inquisitive.

I’m the question Mister; no more answers for the breadth of mortals
still unsure that something somewhere pale and mild will arrive to save
this day, tomorrow, eternity. Concerning the care with which you query,
there is no more hope than heart for this flesh foundry calling out
with carefully-crafted throats, thrush muscles mastered by hands neverseen.

Or how true is it?
You
Am I
Are we,
All is love and tragedy.

(And though chance’s cruel schooling
may convex our spines with sickly greenstick precision,
we’ll not contemplate stopping, stalking
sanctuary back-aisles, cellars and bell spires,
pressing tenderly the walls of these hallowed places to our palms--
with heads hanging bent, but hearts calling up,
we splinter-souled Quasimodos of hope.)

...There’s a place for you within my heart marked
with curlicue catastrophes, where cacophony
builds quickly like Babel, then collapses
in cool blue pools of neverknowing


Just another Sunday at Journey...


Pling...Pling...

dg