Poisoned Church

Poisoned Church

My friend, Rick Anderson died suddenly of a heart attack a few years ago.  I think of him often and wish that we could have another dinner together.  You see, Rick and I became friends at church way back in the early 1980’s, but in later years he lived in Boston and then Evansville and I lived in South Carolina and then Indianapolis.  We fell out of touch a couple of times and it wasn’t until my career took a turn that brought me to Evansville for work from time to time in 1998 that we began to “hang out” again.  I would show up.  He would pick me up at my hotel.  We’d have dinner…and we’d talk.  Often, the conversation turned to church and he wanted to talk about that, but it was difficult.  It was difficult because to my friend, church was poisoned.

Despite the fact that some of Rick’s closest adult friends were cultivated at church, that was also the place where he experienced some of the worst relationships and emotional pain.  God didn’t poison church for him.  People did.  Judgments.  Accusations.  Assumptions.  Unrealistic expectations.  Manipulations.  Controlling leadership.  Pressure!

A complete deficiency of Grace.

I have felt it myself.  I remember as a young man thinking something like:  “I just can’t imagine doing this for the rest of my life.”  The “this” was the pressure I felt to meet the standards that were expected of me in the church I was a member of at the time.  Another occasion, around the time that Rick’s faith was being poisoned in Boston, I was verbally and emotionally abused by a church leader in Indianapolis in a group setting where he demanded the others participate in “discipling” me.  That spiritual assault haunted me for several years, and events like that threatened to poison the church for me as well.

Thankfully, I finally realized that I did not need to feel that way, and the church was not designed to be that way.  Church can be a beautiful thing…incredibly encouraging…a long-term support…and personally transformative.  Rather than being a source of spiritual poison, church can be our lifeline to ever-flowing spiritual nutrients, a source of calories for a successful spiritual life.  It was designed to be the Light of the World…a city set on a hill.  The voice of the Savior in the world.

Rather than a snare to trap a person in a world of spiritual enslavement, it is a trampoline to propel us into a world of spiritual growth and an ever-expanding relationship with God…the Creator of it all.

Let’s examine some scriptures...

Hebrews 10:24-25  And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another – and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

This passage is often used as a hammer to enforce regular attendance at officially sanctioned church events.  To do that, you miss the point.  It wasn’t meant to be an endorsement of a checklist of church meetings that we all must attend.  Rather, it is a reminder to value the mutual encouragement and motivation that can come from being together…encouragement and motivation to love others and to do good to those around you, and a call to fulfill that responsibility we share.  If that is your priority, then you don’t need a checklist.  You’ll be there at every opportunity that you can.  It’s not about checking off the box.  It’s about the relationships!

Then again, even though the point of this scripture isn’t to structuralize a list of formal meeting times, it does indicate that we NEED to be together.  It is part of the DNA of the church that we meet together to worship…to encourage…to train…to work together.  Time alone is important too, just as Jesus went off alone at times to pray, but the church is built as a community.

Acts 2:47b  And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

People don’t add you to the church.  You don’t join the church.  When you choose HIM, He adds you.  As long as you follow HIM, you are a member of HIS church.  No man can exclude you.  No group can kick you out.  HE adds…and HE is the only one who can remove you.  Now, you can walk away from HIM, but no man can take that status from you.  It is HIS church.  It has many names.  It has many members.  In the end, HE decides who is a member.

Hebrews 12:18-24  You have not come to a mountain that can be touched and that is burning with fire; to darkness, gloom, and storm; to a trumpet blast or to such a voice speaking words that those who heard it begged that no further word be spoken to them, because they could not bear what was commanded: “If even an animal touches the mountain, it must be stoned to death.”  The sight was so terrifying that Moses said, “I am trembling with fear.”

But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem.  You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, to the CHURCH of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven.  You have come to God, the Judge of all, to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.

I love this passage.  How amazing is the company we keep as members of “the church of the firstborn?”  How incredible that our names are written in heaven.  Can you see it?  Can you see the angel penning your name into the book of life at the moment that Christ added you to His church?  How special is that body?  How special is that community?

My friend Rick never regained that special sense of community.  Man poisoned his understanding of church and despite our many talks, I could never quite get him over the hump so that he could feel SAFE reinvesting himself with a body of other believers.  He wanted to.  He wanted to make that jump…to him it was a great leap…back into a spiritual community, but he just couldn’t quite do it.  It is a great sadness to me.  Not that I think he is lost, but only that he was not able to fully heal.  Remember, God added Rick to the church, and Rick never walked away from God.  Rather, he escaped from spiritual abuse and struggled mightily with the pain for the ensuing years prior to his passing.  And, if there is anything I know about God, it is that He loves those who are hurting.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”  Jesus.  Matthew 5:3-4

I believe Rick is being comforted.  I believe his spiritual healing has finally come.

As for those of us who are still kicking around here on Earth, we’ve all had different experiences with church.  Some good.  Some bad.  Some simply mediocre.  Some of us have been deeply hurt, perhaps poisoned.  Some of us have had nothing but positive memories.  Whichever describes you, I want to encourage you to simply reach out and embrace the community that God has given you, and embrace the grace that comes to us all through Jesus Christ.  Sometimes, mankind messes things up.  Remember though, that we will make mistakes, but God’s church is bigger than any man, and we can still be that city on the hill.  We can still be His voice to the world.

I hope that church is not poisoned for you, but if it is…just know that God still loves you…and His book of life is written with special ink that only you or He can erase.  As long as you hang on to Him, He will hang on to you…and you are still in His church.

A Muncie Boyhood-A Stingray, a Collarbone, and a Mystery

It was May 1968.  I remember that the day was sunny.  I was almost finished with my very first year of school as a kindergartener in Miss Austin’s class at Roosevelt Elementary.  (I wonder whatever happened to her.)  I was standing on the south side of our house and peeking through the basement window.  I think my friend Rex from next door had tipped me off.

“I think there’s a bike in your basement,” he said.

So, I peeked in….and spoiled my dad’s surprise. 

I couldn’t see it well because the window as dirty and the lights were off in the little oil room off our main basement, but it was there.  I could tell.  It was a bike and it had to be for me!

Sure enough, the last day of school came and my dad gave me my first bike.  It was a bright red Schwinn Stingray with a banana seat!  I was the envy of the neighborhood!  And, I loved that bike!

I wish I still had it.  Besides the fact that it would be worth a chunk of money, it would be special to have it for sentimental reasons.  Think about it…if you’re over forty years old…wouldn’t you love to have that first bike that your mom or your dad gave you?

I rode that thing all over the neighborhood.  I jumped ramps in the alley.  I even broke a bone in my very first serious bike crash.

It was August of 1970 and about a week before 3^rd grade.  My buddy Jerry was over to the house on his bike.  Sometimes I rode to his place, and sometimes he rode to mine.  Have wheels, will travel.  Anyway, as boys will do, we decided it was time for a little competition.  I can’t recall if I challenged him or he challenged me, but we decided to race down the alley.  This alley had two gravel ruts with a grass median.  I had the left one; he had the right.  We were flying!  We were a blur!  Well, maybe not, but it seemed like it.  I was slightly ahead…not by much…but just enough that when I glanced over at Jerry I had to turn my head a bit toward the rear.  When I looked forward again, I was headed off track to the left and directly toward a large bush.

One of the cool things about the Schwinn Stingray was the brake system that was built into the pedals.  Push the pedal forward and you rode.  Push it backward and you braked.  Get going fast and then reverse to the brake and you could pull a neat sideways skidding slide.  It was fun when you did it on purpose, but pretty scary when you were really trying to stop in a hurry.

I was headed toward that bush so I slammed on the brake and began a slide as the rear wheel overcame the front.  What I had not seen and had pretty much not considered was the short, concrete-filled steel post that marked the property line just in front of that bush.  I slid right into it sideways and it threw me into the air.  I can remember doing a mid-air somersault before landing on my right shoulder.

SNAP!

I screamed in pain and stayed on the ground crying after breaking my right collarbone.  My neighbor, Emma heard me cry out and came running.  She got me home, and then I was taken to the ER at Ball Memorial so they could fix me up.

I started 3^rd grade with my right arm in a sling, and had to learn to write left-handed.  That was a real struggle, but I got through it.

I had that bike until my dad repeated the process when I finished 7^th grade in 1975.  He got me a bright orange AMF 10-speed when I succeeded in passing through to 8^th grade at Wilson Middle School.

My 10-speed got me through high school.  Of course, it fell to second fiddle once I got my driver’s license, but still I rode it quite a bit…no helmet…no special shoes…no spandex.  Sore butt and all.  I can remember riding through the neighborhoods…to a friend’s house or to my youth minister, Neil’s house…listening to 990 WERK on the red AM radio that I bought at Radio Shack and mounted on the handlebars.  I rode it so much that the frame eventually cracked around the pedal bracket, so I had to take it to the welding shop at 20^th and Monroe to see if they could fix it.  They welded it right up for me…no charge.

That bike disappeared sometime in the early 1980s.  I kept it in my dad’s basement and would carry it out to ride it, then take it back in at night.  In the winter, it would simply be stored down there until the weather broke.  On a warm spring day, I’d drag it out, clean it up, pump up the tires, and lube the chain.  Then, off down the road I’d go.  That was the system year after year until one spring when I went down to drag out the bike and it was just gone.

It’s a mystery.

I don’t know if I left it out on the back sidewalk overnight in the previous fall and someone stole it, or if someone came all the way down into my dad’s basement to swipe it.  Both seem unlikely to me…but one of them has to be true…’cause it was gone.

It would be another 15 years before I would take up cycling again.  My wife and I got some Free Spirits from Sears when we first got married, but they were terrible bikes, so we got rid of them.  Now, I ride a full-fledged road bike with all the gear…helmet, shoes, and yes….spandex.  I love the sport, but don’t do it enough.  I kind of long for those days when it was just easy and fun to jump on that Stingray and buzz down 21^st Street…jumping ramps…racing friends….and pulling a cool side skid….keeping all bones intact.

Oh, those warm summer days with the wind in your hair….     

A Muncie Boyhood-The Pinhead

As a boy in Muncie, I was surrounded by bowlers.  Not my immediate family so much as my extended family, especially my Aunt Joan and her two twin boys.  My first experiences rolling that heavy ball down that slick little hardwood floor was with them.  I think I might have bowled a 52 that day….and I felt good about it too.  In fact, the first time the gutter didn’t come into play I was riding cloud nine!  I wasn’t a league bowler like Randy and Sandy (Sandy’s name now is Gator), but I did enjoy the game from time to time as a youth.  I have a few stories that involve those heavy little pins.  I’ll share a few here…

Starting from the most recent…

As a young man, I was dating the woman who was destined to become my wife, but to my chagrin she had moved to Indianapolis and we were dating “long-distance.”  Now, keep in mind that this was before the days of cell phones and Skype.  Calling Indianapolis and talking for more than 30 seconds was expensive….plus, she wasn’t too coherent after 11pm when you could actually afford to talk.  As a result, we mostly got to spend time with one another on the weekends, and that was kind of tough.

One time, we were out on a date with some other college-age couples and we were bowling.  It could have been the annual New Year’s event, but I’m not sure now.  Anyway, I was rolling my usual set which generally meant one or two strikes and one or two spares and a lot of pins left standing across several games.   It was fun, but I was in no way competitively skilled as a bowler.  However, I could once in a while rise to the occasion, and just an opportunity was given me.  Just as I stood to roll my next ball…after a particularly poor series of balls…she said to me:

“Mike, I’ll move back to Muncie if you roll a strike.”

I smiled.  Turned to the lane.  Laid down a smooth roll.  STRIKE!

Continuing to smile, I turned back to see her reaction.

She looked a bit perplexed, then said:  “I never said when.”

Ahhhhhh.  There’s always an out for the girls!

Another event that always brought bowling into my life on an annual basis was the annual New Year’s Eve Sing at my church.  The Fairlawn Church of Christ, being averse to the usual community celebrations that involved much consumption of alcohol on the holiday, always planned a church-wide singing devotional from 9pm to midnight on New Year’s Eve.  We would sing in the New Year.  Then, when everyone was just about sung out, we’d head to the Village Bowl…just about the entire congregation…to bowl from 1am to 3am.  While everyone else in Muncie was getting plastered, we were laughing, joking, rolling gutter balls, and knocking down a few pins.  I remember those nights with great fondness…and unlike so many of my friends….I can actually remember those nights.

Now, my folks weren’t part of the church celebrations.  They weren’t part of the church.  Neither were my sister and her often not so nice husband (that’s another story).  One year, my nephew (my sister’s boy) and I did the New Year’s Eve Sing and Bowling party while my sister introduced my mom to Kahlua. 

Apparently, my mom liked it.  She liked it a lot.

David and I bowled until 3am, then we made our way through the icy streets from the Village Bowl on North Wheeling back to the south side of Muncie.  We may have stopped at the Big Wheel for some breakfast, but I can’t recall that detail for sure.  I dropped him at his house and then drove the additional four blocks to my house.  I knew something was up when at about 4:30am every light in our house was lit up.

David told me that when he walked into his house, his stepfather was passed out on the sofa and his mom had passed out on the bathroom floor.  The scary part was that they had actually driven home from my house!  How they managed that, I’ll never know.

At my place, I parked the car as I contemplated the possible scenarios of why all those lights would be on.  Did someone die in the family?  Was there an accident somewhere?  What could it be?  That was all settled when I stepped inside and found my mom asleep on the couch with her head propped at a ninety degree angle on the armrest…no pillow…just cocked up sideways.  I had never seen her drunk before, and even then I didn’t really experience it…just saw the aftermath.  Dad was sound asleep in the bed, but still…every light in the house was blazing….and I mean every one…lights we never used were on.  It probably took me fifteen minutes to turn them all off.

The last bowling-related memory I’ll share did not even involve my visiting a bowling alley.  Nope.  I was just strolling through an open field behind my cousins’ house.

My Aunt Joan and Uncle Ralph had connections in bowling circles.  They were in leagues and I think my aunt even worked at a few different alleys.  Anyway, they ended up with a bunch of used bowling pins that were piled up out in a field behind their house out on highway 28.  I think the plan was to burn them in their fireplace.  When I got wind of that, I decided I wanted one for my bedroom.  Don’t ask me why….I don’t have an answer.  Why does any kid want any weird thing to display in his bedroom?  I just wanted one, and my Aunt Joan said I could have one.

Off we marched….Randy, Sandy (Gator), Jeff, Chuck, and myself.  I picked out my pin.  Boy, was I excited about it!  I couldn’t wait to show my mom!  I couldn’t wait to show my friends!  No one else in my neighborhood had a bowling pin in their bedroom!  I was sure of it!  I was thinking that maybe I could make a lamp out of it.  I was so proud of it that I was tromping through the field with that pin propped right up on the top of my head like a tall, hard, weirdly balanced crown.  I was holding it lightly in between my hands and walking ahead of the twins. 

For some reason, Randy had carried a basketball with him on this mission, and as he bounced that ball back and forth in his hands he was struck with a brilliant idea.

It would be funny to knock that pin off of Mike’s head!

So, he threw the basketball and hit the pin toward the top end.  It flips out of my grip, but it doesn’t simply fly off and fall to the ground.  No….that probably would have been funny.  Nope, that crazily balanced piece of iron-hard wood flipped.  The balance of the weight was in the bottom and that flipped completely over and slammed into my forehead….and I went down.

The next thing I can really remember is reclining on my Aunt’s sofa with a packet of ice on my head.  I had a knot that was about as big around as a half dollar that stood out from my forehead about a half an inch.  I moaned.  I ached.  I was mad at Randy.  (I think I’m over that now….I think.)  And I no longer cared about making a bowling pin lamp.

I never saw that bowling pin again, but now, as I write this, I can see my reflection in the mirror and I can still see the place where that evil piece of wood nailed me.  There is still a little knot right where it impacted. 

I guess that means  I’m still a bit of a pinhead.     

"This is Your Time!" A sermon

http://southeastern.org/files/SE%20Messages/Sermon%2012-4-11.mp3

The link above goes to an MP3 of a sermon that I had the opportunity to deliver on December 4, 2011.  I thought I'd place here on the blog for easy access in the future.  If you choose to listen, I'd love you hear your feedback.  I had originally delivered this message to about thirty men during a Men's Breakfast, but several of the guys requested and suggested that I share it with the whole church.  As a result, I was given the pulpit for a sunday.

A God's Eye View

A view from the Marriott in Waikiki.

As I write this, I'm in another hotel room....kind of up high.  I'm not as high as the picture from the balcony in Waikiki that I've posted above, but high enough to get a nice view of a golf course and a nearby lake.  It' beautiful!  I love great views!  The view from the balcony in Waikiki is a favorite of mine, but it's also a reminder of when I discovered my fear of heights.  You can see from the picture how the balconies sort of wrap around...well...I couldn't stand to be out there more than just a couple of minutes at a time before an unreasonable and unwelcome fear of falling would come over me.  I even tried sitting down so my shoulders were below the railing, but to no avail.  I had to go skulking back inside.  This was new to me.  I'd never experienced it before.

Being up high, if you can stand to do it, can give you a whole new perspective on things.  Things that seem so huge and so important when you are at ground level become small and insignificant when you're looking down from above.  Take another look at the picture.  See those tiny little cars?  How about those people walking on the sidewalk?  The aerial view can also let you see how things interact.  You can see how the traffic flows from street to street in relation to each other street.  You can see the ebb and flow of foot traffic.  There is so much detail visible to you from above that you just cannot see when you are standing in the middle of it.

Do you ever wonder what God sees from his perch in the heavens?

There is a street in Owensboro, Kentucky that I travel down from time to time.  It is a street that isn't all that different from many other streets all over the country...or the world.  There are businesses.  There are cars.  There are people.  And, there are churches.  In one short stretch of maybe a quarter of a mile, there is a Catholic Church, a Church of Christ, and a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  They are all just next door to one another.

I imagine that week after week those folks drive in and out of their church driveways, passing right past one another...over and over again....and likely they don't give one another the time of day.  There is too much DIFFERENCE between them despite how close they are to one another.  (Of course, I have no first hand knowledge that this is the case.  I'm imagining the scenario based on personal observations of other places and other people.)

I wonder if they ever even take the time to even wave at each other? 

Now, consider this from God's perspective.

He's looking down from above.  He sees them go in and out, week after week...never speaking...never interacting.  Does He wonder why his children can't get along?  Does He turn to Jesus and say something like: "I wish they'd at least talk to each other!"

I suppose I have a fear of the heights of God's perspective too.  I'm afraid of what that view might reveal in myself.  How often do I let my differences drive me to disregard or disrespect my brother or sister in the worldwide family of humanity that God created?  Do I disregard and disrespect them because I disagree with them?

Take a few minutes and think about what our petty squabbles must look like from God's balcony.

You might say, "These differences are NOT petty!  They are real and important and huge!"

I'm sure that's true from the perspective here on the ground.  But....try....for just a short little while....to consider that the perspective from heaven might make things look a little more insignificant than you and I may think.

And, then wonder what could happen if those three churches in Owensboro held a huge, joint pitch-in dinner some Sunday afternoon....and at least talked to one another.

Henry the Preacher-Volume 1, Number 3

A big "Thank You" goes out to my friend, Greg York for the base idea behind this one.  I don't know exactly what he had in mind, but to me this is a play on how the "itching ears" of some congregations leads to a revolving door of ministers who haven't scratched those ears just right in what they've preached.

Regards,
Mike DeCamp

Two Days in September

Dear readers,
I wrote the following on September 21, 2002...the day after tornados ripped through central Indiana damaging one friend's house and destroying another's.  I lost this little piece of verse for several years because I forgot where I wrote it down, but I found it today as I skimmed through an old journal.  I hope you appreciate the sentiment.

Two Days in September

Imagine two days in mid-September

Forty-eight hours of unbroken time

The first delivers the terror of shattered glass and splintered trees

Blackened skies and the winds of destruction

The second refreshes hope with bright sun and blue skies

Singing birds and the gentle tinkle of a wind chime

Amidst both is the power of God

The Hope of mankind

Those who trust in Him may walk with confidence

Regardless the day

A Muncie Boyhood-Church or Sleeping In?

As a boy in Muncie, I didn’t go to church.  Sunday was just a day to sleep in.  My dad read his Bible a great deal, but otherwise spiritual things were unknown in our family.  I liked my dad’s Bible.  It had some nice pictures of Old Testament characters and of Jesus holding some lambs.  However, the extent of my early scriptural training evolved out of the annual viewing of “The Ten Commandments,” “The Robe,” or “Ben Hur.”

Obviously, there were a lot of churches of all sizes in Muncie back in my youth.  St. Mary’s Catholic Church.  The High Street Methodist.  I think Glad Tidings was getting things going.  There were a multitude of smaller Baptist and Pentecostal churches.  Even so, the only head-bowing we did was to put our heads on our pillows.  I heard the words “Jesus Christ” and “God” but they were usually connected with other less respectable words and spoken with some anger.

I did visit a church for a couple of months with my mom after my brother died.  I think Parsons Mortuary arranged for a local minister for the service and my mom started going there for a while after the funeral.  I can’t remember the name of the place, but only that it was located near downtown somewhere just south and west of the corner of Wysor and Madison.  My strongest memory of the place was that each Sunday some of the kids in my class were picked to light some candles in the main service and everyone got excited about maybe being picked.  I did get to do it once…I felt very special that week.  Soon, however, we fell back into old habits and Sundays became the day to sleep again.

My sister took me to church once.  I think it was the Latter Day Saints church when it was out on Wheeling Avenue.  She was mortified though, when my little niece wrote a word she had seen scribbled on a wall by her house on the chalkboard…a word that is four letters long and starts with “F.” 

We never went back.

Sometime before my brother's death in 1969, we got some new neighbors.  It could have been a little before then, or it could have been shortly after, but a new family bought the duplex next door and moved in.  I made friends with the two boys, and my mom and dad became friendly with the man and woman.  Emma, the young mother was a Christian and took her boys to church every Sunday.  When Vacation Bible School at the Fairlawn Church of Christ rolled around, Emma took the opportunity to bring me along.  This was the beginning of my involvement with church; an involvement that has now spanned over forty years.

This is Emma and her kids (Rex, Roy, and Ronda) in the picture below.  Her simple act of being a good Christian neighbor changed the course of my life and had tremendous influence on many aspect of my family.

After my brother died, my mother was distraught for many years, and Emma did what she could to be a good neighbor and help. Mom spent several stays at Ball Memorial Hospital.  During one of those stays, Emma arranged for her minister, a guy named Ron Miller, to visit her.  Ron became a sort of counselor for my mother leading to more hospital visits and several phone calls.  Eventually, they conspired to sic the youth minister, Mike Runcie on me.  The conversation in my memory went something like this:

Youth Minister:  “Mike, you should ride the church bus to church on Sundays.”

Me:  “I sleep in on Sundays.”

Youth Minister:  “If you ride the bus and come to church, in the summers we go to Kings Island, Cincinnati Reds games, and then we go to camp for a week.”

Me:  “What time will you pick me up?”

Basically, he had me at Reds games.  I wasn’t going to get to go to those places any other way.  Church on Sundays seemed like a reasonable trade off.  I became a “JOYbus” kid.  The JOY stood for: Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last.

By high school I had my nephew and my niece riding along with me most weeks, and I was paying attention.  I did have one experience in my earliest years that pointed me toward God when at about the age of three, my dad told me that the most important thing I could ever do is love God.  That stuck with me.  So, on those Sundays as I sat on the hard wooden pews inside the little brick building at 13^th and Monroe listening to either Ron Miller or Billy Harris preaching about Jesus, salvation, and baptism…I was paying attention.  On October 11, 1976, that youth minister that bribed me to ride the JOYbus baptized me and I became a member of the Fairlawn Church of Christ.

Frankly, I’ve got to tell you that this changed the whole course of my life.

I was a pudgy, self-conscious, insecure young guy coming from a family where both of my brothers had been in serious trouble; one spent time in prison and the other committed suicide.  My mom had retreated to her bedroom after my brother’s death and had medicated herself heavily to ease the anguish.  It was my dad and me at home, and we weren’t on the same page a lot.  I was at a fork in the road.  I could follow my neighborhood friends down the course of the alcohol, sleeping around, and for some….drugs.  Or, I could pursue this church thing.

I chose the latter.

A few months after the baptism, I began to devote myself to the youth group and became a church boy.  Sunday morning, Sunday night, Monday night youth group, and Wednesday night class.  Plus, the summer activities:  Camp Indogan, Reds games, Kings Island, youth rallies and conferences, etc.

I grew up over the next few years.  I dated a cute girl named Toni.  I slimmed down.  I made new friends.  And, I gained a sense of self-respect that helped me to eventually overcome my insecurities.  I even learned to do a little public speaking…which has come in quite handy in my career in industrial sales.  It wasn’t quick and it wasn’t easy, but the love I received at church and the challenge of being more for God drove me to push through my personal obstacles.

I suppose I can trace most of the best things in my life back to that little congregation on Monroe Street.  I met my wife there.  I learned to push beyond myself there.  I gained personal strength there.  I grew the roots of my faith there.

And, I learned that sleeping in on Sundays isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Some related links:

My Muncie Boyhood story that discusses my brother's death...

http://caaampersthoughts.blogspot.com/2011/04/muncie-boyhood-switches-and-crying.html

My post about how my dad instilled my initial seed of faith...

 http://caaampersthoughts.blogspot.com/2010/10/fathers-legacy.html

Spanking and Chicken

It's been a while since I've commented on societal ills or public policy new stories.  In fact, it's been a couple of weeks since I've posted anything new on here.  I suppose I just haven't had anything to say, and when you don't have anything useful or interesting to say...it's just best to be quiet.  However, in the last couple of days, I've run across a couple of ABC News stories that have kind of stirred some thoughts.

First, there's the subject of spanking.  Take a gander at this video clip from Good Morning America:

http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/video/parenting-techniques-spank-spank-16716075

I think our world is going a bit wacko on this whole subject...and, for the most part it is because some folks have abused the tool of spanking...resulting in abused children...and thus....wham.....all spanking is evil.  I'm not buying what they are selling.

I suppose there are reasonable arguments on both sides of this issue...but, I am coming down on the side of being in favor of spanking....assuming the parent is following a few reasonable guidelines...such as:

A.  Never spank out of anger--NEVER!
B.  Be under control.
C.  Explain the "whats" and the "whys" to the child so that they understand.
D.  Always...always...always...reinforce the child with positive comments of love and by showing loads of affection.
E.  Refer back to rule A.

Personally, I think way more "mood disorders" are caused by verbal abuse, neglect, manipulation, and negativity than could ever be caused by spanking...even spanking done poorly.  Beyond that, a lack of even what sometimes may seem as harsh punishment can leave a child with the impression that there just aren't consequences for bad behavior.  Folks, the world is a rough place.  The sooner a child learns that there are consequences and sometimes painful consequences for their actions, the better.

As to the guy in the video who smacked the boy on the rear with his belt during a game of catch, well, I'd refer him back to my first rule...but, beyond that, I think it's pretty presumptive for all the country to judge him based on the video shot by a nosy neighbor through his window blinds.  My guess is that there is a completely different story behind that situation rather than the accusation that he smacked him for dropping the ball.  It seems to me that folks are doing a lot of assuming.

One last thought on that subject before I move on to chicken...bad, abusive spanking results in one of two things.  First, it leads to more bad spanking as those kids grow up and think that is the way to do it.  Bad actions lead to worse actions.  Secondly, it leads to the counter-balance of parents that lump all spanking into that one category and call it abuse.

Young parents need to be taught how to spank appropriately.

Now, on to chicken....take a look at this story:
http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/health/2012/07/11/superbug-dangers-in-chicken-linked-to-8-million-at-risk-women/

I bet those Chick-fil-a cows are hating this story 'cause I'm headed back to beef.  My wife feeds me chicken all the time...to the point (bock) that I'm starting to (bock) grow feathers under my arms.  (Bock, bock.)  All I need is a real good excuse to start demanding more red meat on my plate!  Moooooove over wings...I'm goin' back to the burger!  Cow-a-bunga!

Of course, I'll probably be eating just as much or more chicken from now on despite that story...'cause no matter how much this rooster crows, my sweet, beautiful hen runs my kitchen....and she loves her chicken.

That's it for now.  In the words of Kanye..."Omelet you finish" whatever else you were doing.  Time for me to scramble.  Keep the sunny side up.

How to Not Be a Sissy

About once a week, I call my friend Dale up to see if we can have lunch.  Dale is one of the ministers at the church where I’m serving as an elder, so sometimes we talk serious and sometimes we talk fun.  On this particular day, he suggested a new restaurant, a place called Firehouse Subs in Beech Grove.  (It’s pretty good, by the way.)  When I met him there, as he sometimes does he had a couple of other guys with him, our youth minister and a youth ministry summer intern.  They got there first and had ordered, so I got my food and sat down with them a few minutes later.

I mentioned that sometimes we talk serious and sometimes we talk fun.  Well, a lot of the time we talk fun about serious stuff.  I suppose it is a way to process through the heavier stuff in a way that helps us to keep some perspective.  This was one of those days.  A subject came up that had been seriously discussed within our young adult group the night before, and we started bantering it around.  After a few minutes, I turned to the youth ministry summer intern…a guy who has just finished his first year of college…and asked him:

“So….., what about you?  What do you think we should do about this?”

He started to reply:

“Well, the safe thing would be…”

I interrupted him.

“I don’t want to do the safe thing,” I said.  “I want to do the right thing.  What do you think is the right thing to do?”

As I’m sitting here contemplating what I said to him, I am realizing how ridiculous it was for me to say that.  Not that it is the wrong thing to say.  I believe it to be absolutely the right approach.  The problem is with ME saying it.  See, I’ve spent a large part of my life in various situations settling for the “safe” thing.  I am constantly playing it safe.  I’m afraid to say it, but if I were one of the three guys in Jesus’ parable about the talents (a measure of money) …I would have been the guy to bury his…if you are unfamiliar with the story, that is not a good thing to do.  (See Matthew 25:14-30)

Basically, I tend to avoid conflict.  I don’t take very many risks.  My nephew says I “overthink” everything I do.  (I suppose he is usually right…but, I’m not going to think about that too much.)  Sometimes I wonder how I’ve ever become so successful in my sales career considering how much I dislike rejection.  Perhaps, it’s because I’m in a field where it doesn’t seem so personal when it happens.  Maybe?  Or, maybe I've pushed myself to grow in that area.  Maybe.

Anyway, this has been a battle for me much of my life.  It took me forever to ask my wife out on our first date…the fact is that I only ‘sort of’ asked her out when I actually did get up the nerve.  I have always struggled with this desire to play it safe, but over the years I have gradually grown to blow past my safety ropes and swim in the deep water once in a while.  I can tell you that it does get a little scary out there, but I know that I need to do it to really get stuff done.

Risk-takers are the ones who change things.  They are the ones who make a difference.

I never really came to a conclusion as to the complete right thing to do in my conversation this week.  I’m still working on that.  However, as I think about the concept of not just playing it safe, but doing the right thing in general...well…

Should I say it?

It’s risky.

People might pay attention and notice.

Well…

I’m going to do my best to stick with doing the right thing.  I’d like to make a difference, make some positive change, and…

Playing it safe is for sissies! 

A Battle with Inertia

I have one significant personal nemesis; one enemy that creeps up behind me occasionally and pulls a sneak attack.   He’s a villain.  A mean-spirited bully.  I’ll tell you his name.

Inertia.

It seems that the older I get the more havoc he creates in my life.  I get motivated.  I get a plan.  I hit it full bore and start making some headway.  Then, all of the sudden he knocks me in the head and I come to a stop.

It happened earlier this year.  I had a plan…a detailed plan.  I was going to walk everyday…at least one mile…I was going to slowly increase until I was hitting three miles a day through the summer.  I was also doing push-ups, sit-ups, and squats…slowly increasing each.  I was doing really well.  I didn’t miss a day of walking from January all the way to April.  I was so excited, so proud of myself.

Wham!

Inertia hit me over the head.  Rrrrrrrrrrrrt.  Brakes.  Everything came to a stop.

In this case, I finally came to a day where I just couldn’t get the walk in.  I tried to tell myself that it was just one day.  Just one.  One out of 365.  No big deal.  Right?

Wrong.

It took the wind out of my sails and left me discouraged.

Discouragement rides hand in hand with inertia.  They are pals, buddies, amigos.  Discouragement does the dirty work of stopping the action, then inertia takes over to make sure it doesn’t start up again.

As I age, the battle becomes more intense.  It becomes more and more of a struggle; a struggle I cannot afford to lose.  What does that commercial say?

“A body at rest stays at rest.  A body in motion stays in motion.”

I have to keep moving.  I must limit my body’s atrophy.  In fact, I think I can still get fit again.  I can still feel the rush of endorphins and the blood coursing through lean muscle pumped by a strong healthy heart.  I have to be smarter; more careful.  I can’t afford injuries anymore.  They open the door to my nemesis.  But, I can still win the battles…I can still win this war.

I just can’t quit.

My problem right now is that inertia has his claws into my side.  I’m having a hard time getting free…getting going.  I have a bike to ride, but I can’t seem to make myself swing my leg over and pedal away.  I’ve got a road to walk on, but somehow there is always some reason to stay home.

It’s too hot.  I’m too tired.  I don’t have enough time.  I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes.  I need to send an email.  I have to feed the dogs.  I have to…to…to…to.

Inertia.  Inertia.  Inertia.

It’s a character thing.  And this is one character flaw that is a really bugger. 

This morning at church, I shared about how it all starts with a decision.  Mostly, I was talking about spiritual things, but this afternoon I was walking with my wife and complaining about how inertia had its grip on me, and she reminded me of my words. 

“Just like you said this morning,” she said.  “All it takes is a decision.”

Dang!  Now, I can’t blame some impersonal force anymore.  I guess it’s up to me.

Time to move again!

The Cage of My Own Creation

I am contained within a cage of my own creation.

Shackled. 

Hobbled.

Anchored to accidental success.

Heckled by the whispers of self-pity.

Accused by the echoes of unfulfilled dreams.

Perhaps, there is still a road less traveled.

Mountains.

Forests.

An adventure yet in store.

Lingering just beyond my fingertips.

Waiting just over my horizon.

I have a yearning tugging at my heart.

Explore.

Seek.

Snap the bindings.

Unhinge the cage door.

Escape toward a new destiny.

Yet I dare not travel alone.

Love.

Companionship.

Loneliness abated.

Elements of a grand journey.

Friendship is itself a destination worthwhile.

Shall I step out of the cage?

Hesitant.

Apprehensive.

Shall I embark upon the new trail?

Shall I walk into that new horizon?

Perhaps the journey is more urgent than the destination.

I am contained within a cage of my own creation.

Patience.

Planning.

Peering toward intentional success.

Urged by Divine re-creation.

Revived by the hope of dreams redefined.

Perhaps my cage is simply indecision.

Perhaps destiny is found by stepping outside.

A Muncie Boyhood-The Fire and the Photo

 My sister was seventeen when I was born, and when I was little I thought she was the prettiest girl in the world with her blonde hair and petite features. 

She lived at home with us, but I don’t remember much of that except for a few sketchy events.  For example, I remember once when she had a bad headache and I wanted her to play with me.  She was lying on the bed with a cold rag on her face.

“Sissy, play with me,” I pleaded.

“No!  Go away!” she said.  “I’ve got a headache.”

Well, that didn’t sit too well in my toddler’s mind…so…I grabbed a heavy item off the headboard and smacked her on the head with it.  Maybe you could call that payback for her letting me walk my baby walker…you know…one of those little baby vehicles with wheels where the baby (me) sits suspended in the middle and can walk around….anyway, she let me walk my baby walker down the back stairs.  You’ve got to love those sibling relationships!  Served her right.

Shortly after I turned four, she had a baby, my nephew.  Since he was much closer to me in age than my actual siblings, we ended up growing very close as we grew up.  In fact, he is still more like my brother than she really is like my sister.  I spent many nights at his house, and he spent even more at mine.  We did everything together.

We stayed up late and watched Sammy Terry (the local late night horror movie host).

We built random stuff in my dad’s basement.

We horsed around and wrestled all over our bedrooms.

“You boys stop that wrestlin’ in there!” my mom would yell.

“We’re not wrestling!” we would shout back as we froze in place.  Ten seconds later, we were back to flips and body slams.

Another thing that we used to do sometimes, courtesy of my sister, was go to the drive in.  Being the late sixties and early seventies, often the kinds of movies shown at the Ski Hi Drive-in weren’t really appropriate for children, but she took us anyway, and maybe that’s another story.  The movies weren’t always that bad though.  Sometimes they were science fiction flics or scary movies.

Eventually, I grew to love going, and started looking for opportunities.  It was just such an opportunity that led to the catastrophic event at the center of this Muncie Boyhood entry.

My nephew, David was off on a trip to Tennessee with some other family members, but his mom (my sister) stayed home.  There was another little girl staying with her, and I was sort of friends with her.  Dawn (the girl) and I decided we wanted to go to the drive-in, so we asked my sister to take us.  It wasn’t too difficult to convince her, since she was in her twenties, she still liked to go out there too.  It was a summer evening.  It was warm.  The drive-in was the place to be. 

We never made it there that night.

The thing you have to know about my sister, though, was that she didn’t have much money, and she refused to buy food and drinks at the venue.  She would make her own popcorn and bring it plus a few Coca Cola’s along.

It was decided.  We were going, my sister, Dawn, and I.  So, my sis started to get things ready.  She checked her money…it was a bit thin.  She gathered a few Cokes.  She put the skillet on the stove to make the popcorn.  (In those days before microwaves, you made the popcorn in a skillet on the stovetop.)

“I’m out of popcorn,” she said.  “We’re going to have to go to the store, but first we’ll need to go see if we can get some money from dad.”

So, we jumped in the car and drove the five blocks to my house so we could squeeze a few bucks out of my dad.  In short order, he came through and we were back on the road.  For some reason that I no longer recall, we stopped back by her house and dropped off Dawn to do something to get ready, then my sister and I drove on to Marshall Carter’s Grocery Store to get the needed supplies.

I stayed outside while she went in to buy the stuff.  Shortly, there were sirens.  Soon, the fire trucks from the station down on Memorial Drive came screaming down Madison Street headed south…the same direction as my sister’s house.  I remember wondering where they were going, but didn’t think anything more of it.  When my sister came out, we just headed back to get the stuff ready.

Her house was on south Monroe Street; just one block off of Madison between 20^th and 21^st streets.  We traveled down Madison to 20^th and made the turn toward Monroe.  We could see the flashing lights as we rounded the corner.  When we reached Monroe, my sister screamed!

“IT’S MY HOUSE!!!!!!!!  IT’S MY HOUSE!!!!!!!”

She had turned on the skillet, but neglected to turn it off when we left to go to the store.

According to Dawn, who was waiting nearby, after we dropped her off and drove away she opened the front door and the whole kitchen was ablaze.  She ran next door and banged on the door.  When the person opened the door, she told them about the fire and asked them to call for help.  Apparently, they didn’t immediately believe her, so they had to come see for themselves before making the call.  By the time we had gotten home, the fire was all but out, but not before destroying the kitchen and living room.  The secondary damage from water and smoke left the rest of the house in terrible shape and unlivable. 

My sister was a blubbering mess, so Dawn and I ran on foot to get my dad.  We told him what happened and he rushed back to handle whatever it is that dad’s handle in a situation like that.  Ultimately, he took care of my sister very well.  He got her a new place to live.  He personally rebuilt her house; doing most of the work himself, and then moved her back in.

In the end, the only casualty was David’s canary.  I remember the moment I realized that the bird had died.  I was sitting in my mom and dad’s dining room a few hours later.  We were all talking about the disastrous event and recounting how everything unfolded, when all at once I thought of the bird.

“Oh no!” I blurted out.  “David’s bird!”  It wasn’t my bird, but I cried anyway.  It broke my heart to know that the little thing perished, and I knew that David didn’t yet know, and somehow that made it even worse.

In the months that followed, I occasionally helped my dad at the burned out house.  He had an old light blue Chevy truck, and we made multiple trips to the dump with the smoky, burned, and water-logged mess that we stripped off the walls and floors.

There was one more crazy thing about that fire that we discovered when we were first allowed back inside.  I’ve told the story before about my brother who committed suicide.http://caaampersthoughts.blogspot.com/2011/04/muncie-boyhood-switches-and-crying.html  He left behind a widow, and she and my sister were fairly close.  They loved each other dearly, but often fought like true sisters (or cats and dogs).  My sister had an 8 X 10 photo of her in a frame sitting on a coffee table in her living room.  When we walked in the front door, the charred mess was everywhere.  Nothing was untouched and nothing was unmoved.  Nothing, that is…except for that photo of my brother’s widow.  It sat there in the middle of the soggy, burnt out room like a beacon in the dark of night.  It was unmoved and carried no indication of any damage either from fire, smoke, or water.  It was almost as if someone had carried it in after the fact and placed it there.

The expressed opinion of my mom and my sister was that my brother Freddie had protected it and kept it safe during the whole ordeal.  Who’s to say?  I will say this…I saw the carnage and I saw that picture sitting there.  It was truly weird.
One final thought…

In retrospect, sometimes it just might just be cheaper to buy the popcorn at the theater.

"How's your Spiritual Life?"

I had lunch today with a good friend and mentor.  I met him at his “office” as I have done many times over the last three or four years…the Bob Evans Restaurant on East Washington Street, here in Indianapolis.  He started the conversation as he nearly always does:

“Mike, how’s your spiritual life?”

Have you ever had someone ask you that?  I mean, we often ask each other things like: “How’s it going?” or “How are you doin’?”  We don’t actually want to know…we are just being courteous.  It’s another way of saying hello.  My friend’s question, though, will make you pause.  It does a few other things too, like….

Make you nervous.

Make you embarrassed.

Make you want to slide down under the table and hide!

The first time he asked me that question, I was caught off guard.  Not because I had never before been asked that or a similar question.  Rather, it was because it hadn’t happened in a long time, and never in the ministry of which I am currently a member.  I was caught off guard…and a bit embarrassed because at the time, my spiritual life was less than stellar.  When that happens, you have a choice to make: Will I be honest or will I hide?  In my case, I was sort of honest.  “Sort of.”  That means that I didn’t want to really hide…I wanted to tell the truth…but, I was also embarrassed and didn’t want to be completely straightforward.  So, I hemmed and hawed…I admitted to some struggles, but I lacked detail.  That said, you know, I walked away from that encounter refreshed.  I felt better because someone had pushed me to be open even just a little bit with what was on the inside, and my struggles had leaked out some.  It felt good to have someone care enough to ask me how I was doing.  I felt like I had company on my spiritual journey. 

Today, when he asked me that question, I answered like this:

“Keith, I try real hard to be doing really well anytime I’m going to have lunch with you.  Don’t ask me about last week, and next week isn’t here yet, but for right now, I’m doing pretty good.”

He nearly fell of his chair in laughter.  Never, in all the years that he’s been asking that question, had anyone answered it in quite that way.

But, you see, that’s the glory of great spiritual relationships…especially relationships where there is a sense of mentoring or discipleship.  They drive you to be better than you would be otherwise.  They influence you to focus on the facets of life that are primary and of highest importance.  Like the Six Million Dollar Man, they make you better than you were before.  (Children of the 70’s will get that reference.)  I am a better man today because there have been a handful of men over the years (along with my wife) who have taken the time to really ask me how my walk with God is doing, and through their influence my life has been changed and continues to change for the better.

Here are a couple of scriptures to emphasize my thoughts:

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.  Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.  Philippians 2:3-4

To the point of my post, we need to care enough to ASK and LISTEN to one another.  We need to show an interest in the lives (interests) of each other.

This is the message we have heard from Him and declare to you: God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all.  If we claim to have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live out the truth.  But if we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, His Son, purifies us from all sin.  1 John 1:5-7

When we hold all our mess inside, are we not hiding in the darkness?  We need to have folks in our lives that will help us drag it all out in the light.  We need to be honest with God, and we need to be honest with one another….and we can then have real fellowship with both God and our friends.

So,……

How IS your spiritual life?