BIRTHDAY

Twenty-nine years ago today and almost to the hour, I was privileged to witness the arrival of Jacob Douglas Christie into the world.  That year in Harrison, Arkansas it was indeed ‘a cold winter’s night that was so deep,’ one of the snowiest and coldest Decembers in Arkansas that I can remember.  Jacob’s first ride in an automobile was in a Jeep CJ8 with the four-wheel drive locked in as we headed back to the parsonage at Cotter on the bluffs of the White River a couple of days later.

That December I found myself on the bottom side of a steep learning curve.  I don’t think I had ever even held a baby outside a baptism, much less changed a diaper or made a two a.m. feeding or tried to jam an impossibly tiny body into one of those cute little sleeper things with the feet and the ass flap.

But I think the greatest lesson had little to do with my crash course in baby-raising.  It had to do with the coincidence of Jacob’s birth with Christmas in 1983 as I struggled to assemble some thoughts for Christmas morning homily a few days later.

I couldn't get the birthing room at the Boone County Hospital out of my mind.  Pam was bone-tired – it was a long and sometimes difficult labor.  I was scared – I had done my best at the helpful husband routine, but even Mr. Rogers can’t stem the pain of contractions and childbirth.  I was standing on foreign soil, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, seeing and feeling things brand new to me, clueless about what to do next.

Yet the others attending Jacob’s arrival were not nearly as carried away.  One of the two nurses held her stomach tightly and swore she had acquired food poisoning from the turkey at the ward Christmas party the previous evening.  The other nurse complained bitterly that she had to work the third-shift and so-close to Christmas in spite of numerous requests to management for some well-deserved time off for the Holidays.  The doctor slumped half-asleep against the wall perhaps overindulged a bit in Christmas cheer.  It was as if, to them, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary was happening. 

The most astonishing event of my life was no big deal.  The miraculous hidden within the commonplace.  The extraordinary masquerading as the mundane.  Probably not much different from the first Christmas.

Who could have seen what was really going on right under their noses?  An annoyed motel clerk?  A crew of farmhands in their greasy John Deere caps and manure-grimed Ropers?  A young father anxious for the life and health of his child-bride and already beginning to worry about how this new mouth was to be fed?  Clueless each one that they and their world has just been unalterably changed.

And redeemed.

And thus we remain – the mostly numb, but occasionally amazed, Company of the Clueless, somnambulant even with the Excelsis in Deo on our lips.

So Happy Birthday, Jacob.  And Happy Birthday, Jesus.  And may we all be alert to the Holy lurking right under our noses.

STATESMAN

I was saddened to hear this week of the death of Charles McDonald.  Charles was a clergy leader of distinction for many years in Arkansas United Methodism, having served in both administrative and pastoral roles.

The poignancy of his death for me does not actually have to do with the dying itself – after all, Charles was 86 and under Hospice care, and, from what I understand, died peacefully with the benefit of good care and the presence of family. 

And I am saddened sympathetically for his children, especially his son Tom with whom I was at one time quite close – I know from experience that losing a father of considerable stature is a trial of some challenge.

Plus there is a nostalgia in this that links to my two summers many, many years ago as resident counselor at Shoal Creek Camp in the old Fort Smith District of the North Arkansas Annual Conference where I was privileged to spend a lot of time with men and women who became heroes for me over the years – Charles McDonald, Charles Casteel, Max Whitefield, Hillman Byram, Pryor Cruce, Allan Hilliard, just to name a few.

My deeper sadness comes from a trend I have observed for some time but only shared in private with Beth.  I make this observation from afar, having been out of the stream of Arkansas United Methodism for some considerable time.  Charles McDonald’s death for me throws into high relief the continual erosion of statesmanship in the denomination.

There was a time when the leaders in the church were not known for gang affiliations and  theological identities, but for their winsomeness and their effectiveness and their courage.  Their leadership did not seem to be held hostage to theo-political opinions about human sexuality and a host of other distractions, but seemed to move relentlessly toward the greater good and advancement of the body of Christ - in other words, they were unapologetic Wesleyans. 

These statesmen seemed to operate with a sense of benevolent pragmatism with which the minor points of theological judgment were not allowed to interfere.  They were wise and pastoral and pretty smart most of the time.  Their expedience was not brutal.  They did not question an opponent’s  right to call him- or herself a Christian.  They did not let callousness masquerade as conviction.  To them grace was serious business, not a footnote.  They practiced inclusiveness on many levels, but without calling it that.

Today I hold Charles McDonald and his family in my heart, gratefully for the hand he played in the shaping of the church which in turn has shaped the lives of so very many - me especially.

Train Wreck

The church at Corinth was a train wreck. Instead of hearing “Amen” and “Praise the Lord,” one would more likely hear “Screw you, buddy!” and “Oh, yeah? You and whose army?” Not exactly filled with the love of the Lord and the unity that comes with it most of the time, the Corinthian Christians were itching for a fight, not with the world outside their community, but with each other. Food fights at the communion rail, shoving matches at the elders meetings, and partisan-fueled gridlock at the program council were the order of the day. It was not unusual to see worshipers leaving church on Sunday morning with bloody noses and black eyes, rather than peace and love in their hearts.

In spite of workshops, sermons and a specialized Sunday School curriculum, the Task Force on Congregational Unity had gotten nowhere … in fact things seemed to be worse in the wake of their efforts rather than better. After six weeks of trying everything in his trick bag, one consultant left town in the middle of the night after he emailed the lay leader that, for whatever reason, the intramural conflicts at Corinth, rather than obstructing the mission of the church, seemed to actually be the mission of the church. “The churches that have a vital witness to the world,” he wrote, “consist of Christians who are continually amazed by the grace of God and power of the Holy Spirit. These folks, it seems, need the hatred generated by their division to support their existence.” When this missive was read in worship, the factional leaders began catcalling their opponents across the aisle with taunts of “Did you hear that, you moron?” and “You tell ‘em, preacher!” and “That’s just exactly what they needed to hear!”

In the middle of the brawl was a guy named Paul, a self-proclaimed apostle, formerly the infamous Saul of Tarsus. A prickly man with what seemed to be a huge ego, Paul was a lightning rod for the kind of skirmishing upon which the Corinthians thrived. Hanging with black-hatted boys at the temple on one day and having coffee with truckers at the Flying Jehovah the next and seen sipping a gin-and-tonic with the girls at the Paper Moon the next, his scandalous and erratic behavior made Newt Gingrich look like Dwight Eisenhower. “Whose side was he on, after all?” asked the baffled and contentious Corinthians.

So in his follow up correspondence that is collected and edited in our bibles as First and Second Corinthians, Paul spends the bulk of his efforts not only in defense of his authority but also explaining the method to his madness. “I did what it took,” he wrote, “to let the world know what amazing things God is up to in the world these days. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.” Take a look-see for yourself.

We Corinthians in the twenty-first century have no way of knowing how effective Paul’s correspondence was in unifying the church at Corinth – I suspect not very. Centuries later, his writings are still largely irrelevant to us. The divisions we create for ourselves and the fortresses within which we find security and identity and our various reasons for being are perhaps more vicious and pronounced than ever before, all cloaked in the nobility of words like “patriotism,” “family values,” and “doctrinal fidelity.”

But one thing is certain. Those outside the walls of church life in America look at us and how we do our business and say, “What a joke.” They also say, “No thanks. Not for me. I have enough troubles of my own. Save the drama for your mama.” Perhaps we should simply be mindful of this the next time we are tempted to self-medicate on how right we are and how wrong the other guys are. The world sees what we are and what we have, and there are fewer and fewer takers.

Pragmatism is not a sin ... at least it wasn't for Paul.

Shutting Down

I know a few of you still look in on this blog from time to time although I haven't written anything in several months. Thanks for checking in. I started this as a means to a more mentally disciplined life, not to acquire any sort of following - but I appreciate the kind words and the positive feedback.

My employer of the last 12 years is closing its door this Friday. Ronnie Dowdy Inc. has suffered through some tumultuous changes in the trucking industry and in our economy, and has adapted and survived up until now. However, the restrictive nature of bank lending has made it impossible to continue doing business.

I cleaned out my truck yesterday, but not before already receiving two solid job offers - and over the next several days I am sure I will receive several more. So I am not terribly concerned about finding employment. The hard thing for me is turning loose of what has become for me and for many a family.

When I stumbled into the recruiting office at Dowdy twelve years ago today (!) I was close to the end of my rope. Through my own blunders I was living life east of Eden, desperate to find a connection and become a part of something bigger than myself. That bill is filled in the lives of persons in many ways, some healthier and more constructive than others, but for me it was this motley cast of characters in Batesville.

And it is clear that places like this are becoming fewer and fewer, and more and more far between. As the middle class dissipates, so do the family businesses that made up so much of its soul and its life. In the niche that I have occupied the last few years, in is clear that the days of the hard-charging, smokey-dodging 'outlaw trucker' are gone, replaced by electronic monitoring, ridiculously low mileages, huge companies with 2000+ trucks, and, hence, a wage that is often at or only slightly above poverty levels. Some laud this as a great advance in public and highway safety. I don't want to argue about it - but that is patently absurd.

Well, at least your lettuce is still green and your chicken is still fresh and you get pretty good fruit nearly year round. That hasn't been a happy accident.