Books that stick

Thirty-some years ago, I was the program director at a conference center. Calvin Miller was the week’s speaker and one day we were sharing lunch with Calvin and his wife Barbara. Calvin was one of those larger than life characters, a preacher, poet, painter and more. He could possibly sing and dance, too, I don’t remember. For a short time after we met, I was on his Christmas card list, meaning that I received a card with a hand-painted picture — hand-painted by him!

Calvin was going on about some popular movie he had recently watched (this was around the dawn of the VCR era — ask your parents if you don’t know what a VCR is) and how the actual story of the movie, if you knew how to watch it, was all about Jesus. At some point he took a breath. Barbara gently moved her hand in front of Calvin’s, maybe a sign to let him know it was her turn.

“You have to understand,” she said. “Calvin can find Jesus in any movie. I think it’s his excuse to watch every movie.” After shared laughter, Calvin returned to being the center of attention and finishing his movie story.

In my own way I find almost any book has a sense of the breath of God.  I think all life stories are guided by some sense of trying to find and connect with or move away from God. Novels and biographies can range from subtle to overkill, but it’s always there. I can be captured by the finest literature or by some trendy, simplistic, sappy story, whether fact (the author’s version) or fiction (again, the author’s version). When I finish a book — a nearly perfect one, one which has burned itself into my soul — I take a deep breath and delay the start of the next. To begin another too soon seems to be trampling holy ground.

To talk about books and how they have changed my life borders on impossible. In one way almost every book I have encountered has left its mark, for good or ill. I struggle to make a list of my favorites, top ten or whatever. That type of list seems like more of a moving target, shifting with the mood or the moment.  Ah, but the question of the day is which books (or which type of books) do I carry everyday and everywhere? Which ones speak to my soul, through whispers or shouts, as the moment dictates?

If I were to begin a rough list of significant authors and possibly my favorite book by them, here are some that would be in that realm:

• Frederick Buechner, Godric (but how can I pick one?)
• Henri Nouwen, Wounded Healer
• Scott Cairns, The End of Suffering
• Madeleine L’Engle, Many Waters
• Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow and all that followed
• Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies (of course)
• Lauren Winner, Girl Meets God
• Richard Rohr, Quest for the Grail
• Sara Miles, Take This Bread
• Eugene Peterson, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction
• Walter Wangerin, As For Me and My House
• Philip Yancey, Soul Survivor
• Calvin Miller, Philippian Fragment
• John White, Daring to Draw Near
• Marilynne Robinson, Gilead
• Nicholas Wolterstorff, Until Justice and Peace Embrace
• Phyllis Tickle, The Great Emergence

The words of these authors have carried me over the years or they’ve been recent find, thereby being more quickly remembered.  Some of their works have transcended time to haunt me with holiness at each new step. Others have been the cup of water for a dry moment and might feel disconnected if I attempted to bring them into my life today.

I have devoured almost everything written (or at least published) by Garrison Keillor. It’s cliché, but I laugh until I cry. His fanciful stories are so close to real, yet so impossible I can’t wait to see what’s next. His characters seem to be stuck, shallow, arrogant, confused and without substantive goals or direction — just like real people — and yet they are heroic, alive and beautiful.

Frank Schaeffer’s thinly fictional trilogy of the life of a European missionary kid is hilarious. His more recent Crazy for God and the following books are fascinating. He opened doors on evangelical Christianity that few have dared to crack or even knew existed. He angered many and probably confused more. But I am thankful for his beginning many conversations that were long overdue.

I love books about history, specifically American history, including the cruel, bloody greed of westward expansion and the tragic family feud we call the Civil War. I want to understand who we were and what we were thinking and doing during my childhood as lived out in the crucible of the Civil Rights Movement.

Now I come to the time of true confession. I am going on my annual solo camping trip next week and I have my books selected. I think I have eight to choose from and will probably read three or four. Of the eight, four (or maybe five) are baseball books. I love baseball books. I really love books about baseball history. I’ve read books about other sports, but they lack something, kind of like the functionality of a football stadium or basketball arena compared to the mystical beauty of a ballpark.  For me, a beautiful ballpark is like a cathedral. Somehow the structure enhances the experience, making the moment more.

In baseball I see the American story of the shift from an agricultural landscape to a machine-driven economy — the movement of boys from the farm to the city. Civil rights are central to the story and the Negro Leagues story central to understanding the whole. And when it comes to pure simple religion or subtle spirituality, baseball is overflowing with imagery and examples. I will read historical overviews of certain eras, teams or players. I read fiction with baseball as the setting. I read biographies and players’ memoirs. It may sound utterly ridiculous to many, but baseball books feed my soul.

I started keeping a list of books I read over twenty years ago. A quick glance at my list reveals that about a quarter of the books I read are somehow about or connected to baseball. While the following books are not my favorite baseball books (again, I’m not sure I can articulate which are my favorites), they all breathe life into the reader — at least they did for me:

• Summer of ‘49 and October ‘64 by David Halberstam are can’t-miss.
• Wait ‘til Next Year by Doris Kearns Goodwin brings together family, baseball and growing up in America post World War II.
• A Great and Glorious Game by A. Bartlett Giamatti completes the cycle by graciously revealing how baseball is more than a game — much more.

Looks like I’ll be having a great time next week.

May God have mercy on us all…

also:  https://www.catapultmagazine.com/books-that-stick/article/breath-of-life

Fundraising 101

I have spent most of my near-forty career years in non-profits. That translates to nearly forty years of fundraising. I have been a part of everything from nickel and dime begging to multi-million dollar organizational relocation, from passing the plate to pledges, from campaigns to coffee and lunch meetings, from banquets to car washes. I’ve been a staff member, board member and donor for more organizations than I can list or remember without extensive brain stretching.

At one point I was hired to help an organization with a focused, short-term funding project. In a few months we outraised our goal. Guess what? Some people thought I was a fundraising genius — not a perception I was anxious to live up to.

In my last long-term staff role, I was an executive director of a local ministry. As the ED, I was responsible for overseeing and implementing the needed fundraising for the daily and ongoing needs. Through varied methods we were able to keep things balanced. There were a few tough stretches, but for the most part we paid salaries, bills and kept a cushion in the bank. Often when people would ask about fundraising I’d say, “I want to be good enough at it to keep things together, but not so good that they want me to do it all the time.”  My experience is that most people who are in positions that require them to raise money for organizations would rather be doing something else — not another job, just not the fundraising part.

The current buzz is to talk about sustainable funding, which is really nothing new. Twenty years ago we didn’t sit around and say, “Hey, let’s set up a funding system that will evaporate in a few years and leave the next set of leaders floundering.”

I now focus my time as a consultant and coach. I help people and organizations, and one of the things I help with is fundraising. True confession: I prefer helping others do fundraising than having the primary responsibility.

When all is said and done, fundraising is about trust. Do people trust the person who is representative of an organization enough to give their money for support?  There are numerous techniques and programs that can be implemented to raise money. If you are a financial mercenary, you can follow the P. T Barnum approach: “There’s a sucker born every minute.” Find enough suckers and you stay in business. Best case, it’s a two way street. People who are doing fundraising need to be ethical, honest, trustworthy and sincere, seeking the best for all involved. These kinds of fundraiser view donors as partners in the ongoing life of the organization.

The ideal is for donors to be responsible in vetting organizations before jumping in — to build a relationship with the program and the people. Check out the Donor’s Bill of Rights from the Association of Fundraising Professionals for help in researching organizations.

The reality is that there are many ways to raise money, many people who want our money and many organizations that we can be involved with (and give to). The stories of non-profit financial abuse are many and the results of broken trust tragic. If you are responsible as a fundraiser, do a self-evaluation. If you are not the right kind of person, get out of the role. Save the organization and yourself the grief of the damage you may do.

If you are a donor, be wise. If you are better informed, you can have the deeper satisfaction of being a part of an organization that is doing work that matches your commitments, values and passions.  The best fundraising and giving grows out of open, honest relationships of trust and respect.

May God have mercy on us all.

previously in catapult magazine VOL 12, NUM 14 :: 2013.07.05 — 2013.07.18: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/raising-money/article/fundraising-101

I finally wrote a book today

I finally wrote a book today

You know, the one

I keep thinking about

But am afraid to talk about

For fear I’ll jinx it

The same one people

Keep telling me I should write

I’ve started plenty

Each with a different slant

Probably sounding like little more

Than a pitiful version of something

My momentary favorite author would pen

But now, it’s done

No more to haunt me

Nagging for time and affection

I finally wrote a book today

Or, at least, thought about it

Again

Disingenuous

Trying to convince you
I don’t care about money
would be about as disingenuous
as saying I don’t know
who’s winning the
scoreless
peewee soccer game that
my granddaughter is currently playing.

This poem is from the new edition of catapult magazine with the theme, "Call That Profit." Follow this link for the entire edition: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/

I can’t bear to consider

I like to think

what they don’t know

can’t hurt them.

But then, I think,

everything can hurt them.

But they don’t know it,

so it doesn’t.

At least, until it does.

But then, again,

I’m not sure they are aware

enough to really be hurt.

All of which I choose to believe,

because I can’t bear to

consider the alternatives.

Do you wanna dance?

Q: Why are Baptists against sexual intercourse?

A: Because they heard it can lead to dancing.

The joke works because it catches you by surprise. And because you know proper people don’t talk about Baptists and sex in the same setting. It hovers on the razor edge of being ridiculous, while revealing something of reality.

Following are some stories related to dancing and that part of my childhood and young adult years lived out in Baptist culture. Before we go further let me clarify, this is not a rant about Baptists. The Baptists of my youth were caring people who helped me and my family in many ways, but they did have some hang-ups. I believe I would have had a similar experience in most fundamentalist/evangelical church settings in that era. I am also aware that many of these groups have shifted with the times in a variety of ways.

I grew up in a family that danced. I have early memories of being in the basement party room of my paternal grandparents. We’d put 45s on the drop down spindle of the cabinet stereo. My grandmother, Estelle, would appear in what seemed like an eternal, silky, blue, flower-printed dress. She’d take my hands and lead me around the room. She was smooth, flowing with the music. Her perfume was strong, her skin soft and covered with some unknown powder. She’d seem lost in the moment. It may have helped that she’d had “a few” before coming downstairs. After a dance with each of the grandsons, she’d be back upstairs with the other adults.

My parents were square dancers, members of a club, the Wagon Wheels. I think they went to competitions. Based on the competitive genes that flowed to me from my Dad, I’m guessing they were good. Mom made matching outfits; a dress for her and shirts for my Dad, my brother and me. I hated wearing the matching outfits.

There were the weekly nights at the clubhouse. After a potluck meal the adults would dance and the kids would play around the edges of the room. We took trips to the beach and joined in house parties. One summer night we took all the furniture out of our living room and dining room and emptied the garage for a house dance. The street was full of cars and the dancing continued long after I had fallen asleep in my parents’ bed. I think a few people were still hanging around when I woke the next morning.

Along the way, Mom started taking my brother and me to a little Baptist church. I’m guessing I was about eight or nine when we started attending. By the time I hit my teen years, I had learned that Baptists don’t dance. Well, I learned that there was a long list of things Baptists didn’t do, and dancing was high on the list.

Fortunately for me, my Mother never quite bought into some of the Baptist fears about worldly pleasures. She loved dancing and wanted us to enjoy it, too. We were also allowed to go to movies, another evil pleasure greatly frowned upon by the church family.

I learned square dancing in grade school PE. Some of the good Christian kids had notes excusing them from the sinful activity. Their parents’ intent was that they would be witnesses for Jesus by not participating. I thought they looked goofy and was glad I wasn’t fully part of their tribe.

In seventh and eighth grade, we had three dances a year. Mrs. Peebles, who was a harsh looking PE teacher, got permission from the principal to host these events. Rumor was the principal was another Christian who refused to be complicit in encouraging us to dance. We’d dance to 45s played on a mono school record player in the gym/cafeteria. I developed a mental list of girls who were “safe” dance partners — friends, but no expectations of “going steady.”

On the night of one school dance, I was in the gym when an eighth grade girl approached me and asked if I wanted to dance. I was a seventh grader. There was a frozen moment of fear. She was a mysterious, mystical beauty, something beyond reality. The answer in my mind was, “Yes, of course, I want to dance.” It was easy to think, but impossible to articulate. My body and words soon betrayed me. Although I knew her by name, I’d never spoken with her before. Overwhelmed by the moment and grasping at humor, I stupidly mumbled something about an old war wound. She left.

High school dances were more frequent, usually after most Friday home football and basketball games. There were bands. A darkened cafeteria, guys with long hair, loud rock and roll, a few primal light shows. I spent most of the time hanging with my guy friends, dancing occasionally with my newfound “safe” girl friends. I avoided formal dances. It was the 60s and I viewed them as an effort to make us of part of the “establishment.” No, thanks, I wasn’t renting a tux and selling out.

By the end of high school, I was more deeply entrenched in the Baptist world and I had drifted from participating in dances. I was becoming more of a Baptist than anything else and we Baptists had “sings,” went to roller rinks and watched movies (produced by the Billy Graham Association).

Late in my high school days, Connie and I began dating. She was from a family that was more deeply rooted in Baptist culture. She tells of wanting to take ballet lessons as a young girl and being rebuffed because of what her grandparents would think. Her grandparents, by the way, were missionaries in Japan. School dances were absolutely forbidden.

We married in an era and a church culture in which weddings were held in the church with  reception in the fellowship hall — a basement, in our case. Dancing was never considered a part of the celebration.

As a young couple we were active in “good” churches and dancing wasn’t on the radar. After a few years, we were working at a Christian camp and dancing was clearly on the list of “No’s.” I remember having to sign an annual pledge of things we wouldn’t do. Smoking, drinking and dancing were included. One year I put my credibility on the line and pushed for a square dance as a summer staff get-acquainted activity.

Before long we left the camp and I joined the staff of a mainline church. We found new freedoms. People danced, drank alcohol and some even smoked and swore all while still believing in Jesus.

Years later Connie and I took a ballroom dancing class. She was great, she learned the steps and could flow with the pace and spirit of most any dance. I was awkward — maybe too self-conscious, maybe too uncoordinated. Not a pretty site on the dance floor. One night the teacher chose me for her demonstration partner. I was in a state of near panic as she flung me around the room telling me to do simple things that I found nearly impossible. The story has been told many times and always gets a deserved laugh.

We allowed, if not encouraged, our sons to go to dances. They enjoyed them and we all seemed to survive.  In the meantime, I moved to another ministry with college students and we regularly sponsored dances. Connie tolerates my inept dance moves at weddings, festivals or other gatherings where the music and opportunity meet.

I have two memories of dancing as moments of joy that transcend daily life. Could they have happened with out dancing? Maybe, but I doubt it.  The first was in Detroit with college students. We were on a mission/service trip and had been assigned to visit a house that was helping young adults who were in the country for a variety of reasons, but didn’t have legal documentation. We started with pizza and games; the games were to help with English acquisition. As the evening progressed, someone brought out a CD player and the music began. Soon about 50 young adults in a crowded living room were caught in a dance party that seemed to go on forever. Laughter and smiles filled the room. Language almost disappeared and a unity evolved that could not have been programmed.

The second memory of dancing at our youngest son’s wedding was one of the most joy-filled moments in our lives. The moment, the people, the purpose all brought us to a place of true celebration. 

Our daughter-in-law grew up as a dancer. So our granddaughter was taking dance classes before she started pre-school. She’s almost four and does dances for us when she visits. We’ve gone to a number of recitals. She’s been a flower and a mouse and each time the cutest kid on the stage.

One thing I’ve learned is that there is something in us that feels music and wants to move. Has music and dancing led to sex (I truly think that was the big Baptist fear)? Sure, and so have a lot of other things. And I am fairly certain that kids deprived of dancing have found their way to sex.

We can choose to fearfully avoid and eliminate anything that might be somehow connected the world and live in isolation and denial. Or we can find and live life, discovering that we are a messy mix of emotions, intellect, passions, hopes and desires. We can live lives of risk and joy. We can be captured by a sound or a moment. We can dance gracefully or awkwardly.

I think to resist dancing is akin to resisting the Spirit — saying “no” to that which calls us from the deep unknown, that which we cannot describe, control, measure or predict. We can say “no” and merely exist, or we can “yes” and live.

I’ve been listening to “Old Yellow Moon” by Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell. In the song “Back When We Were Beautiful,” they share the story of an elderly woman looking back and remembering the gift of dance in her life:

I don’t feel very different, she said, I know it’s strange.
I guess I’ve gotten used to these little aches and pains.
But I still love to dance, you know we used to dance
The night away
Back when we were beautiful, beautiful, yes…

May God have mercy on us all. 

previously in catapult magazineVOL 12, NUM 10 :: 2013.05.10 — 2013.05.23 : https://www.catapultmagazine.com/dance--2/article/do-you-wanna-dance

WHat is the real issue here

t’s too easy to identify progress as evil, as the problem. However, progress is an extension of human drive, desires, passions, creativity, exploration and who knows what else that can work for good or for evil. Progress in the form of hell-bent efficiency has destroyed, maimed and killed. Progress driven by greed is a beast. Blind progress has led us to destroy much of value, including the extreme of annihilating people groups.

At the same time, staying put or going backwards can also result in the growth of evil. Stubbornly refusing change or arrogantly remaining “old school” can be covers for ignorance. Some forward-looking risks have resulted in helpful progress. Some medical advancements have emerged from messy processes, but the results have enhanced and saved lives. It would be hard to say we want to discard such progress and throw ourselves again to the winds of chance.

Progress is not the issue. The issue is how we live our lives, how we steward the resources that we have been entrusted us. The problem is rooted in power, ego and pride. When people operate without vision, they often hurt others. We need to make decisions and take actions with respect for the greater good. Ask who will be impacted by this action, and how we can ensure that the impact will be positive.

Take the long view. See the big picture. Consider the cost. Remember it’s not about you.

Somewhere along the way, we learned to say to our kids, “If it’s not illegal, immoral or unhealthy, go ahead.” It may have been more of a joke than an actual rule. Another way to phrase the spirit of this law is that if my actions are motivated by love for God and others, good things should happen.

Progress, or the opposite in some form of downward mobility, can both represent choices to be better people and serve the common good. Both can also be acts of trendiness or arrogance.

As humans, we hold unbelievable power in our hands. I don’t think this capacity is limited to some elite class. Virtually all people make choices and steward some resources. The question is whether we will be accountable to something greater than ourselves.

May God have mercy on us all.

 https://www.catapultmagazine.com/backward-movement/article/whats-the-real-issue-here