I am so, so happy that we have returned to 24-hour coverage of Jon Benet Ramsey. Society cannot function properly unless we have the fate of a white girl, preferably a rich one, to obsess over. (Oh dear, I am now officially insensitive.)
Good-bye to Chris Kuntz. Hello, uh, Bitterness?
Chris Kuntz leading worship at Anchor for the last time.
Yesterday in church, we said good-bye to Chris and Lisa Kuntz. Chris has been our worship leader for the past four-and-a-half years, and for those of us in the band, he’s a friend. We’ve laughed and learned and prayed together many times. Mostly laughed, I suppose. And made some great music. I, for one, will greatly miss Chris.
Next week, Chris begins as worship leader at Union Chapel, a United Brethren church located on the north side of Fort Wayne. Chris’s parents go there, and both are part of the worship team. The idea of going to Union Chapel arose in May, when Chris was invited to lead worship for a Friday night youth event. Other opportunities have arisen over the years, and Chris has shrugged them off. But he wasn’t able to shrug this one off. This one seemed to be of God. And doggone it to pieces, I think it was.
Chris plays acoustic guitar, plays a mean violin, sings, knows sound equipment. Knows what it means to worship. He doesn’t hold a college degree. He does hold a great deal of passion for what he’s doing. And I’m gonna greatly miss the sonofagun. I told him that while I support his decision, I will commence trashtalking Union Chapel for stealing him away. Actually, I won’t. Probably won’t. There is a reasonable likelihood that I won’t, except in the interests of national security. Having seen Chris wrestle with this decision all summer, I have no doubt that God wants Chris at Union Chapel. That doesn’t mean I can’t deeply mourn Anchor’s loss. Or throw random objects at walls.
The Anchor congregation had prayer for the Kuntz family as we, reluctantly, send them off to a new church. Somewhere in that huddle is Pastor Tim with Chris and Lisa.
At the end of the service, Pastor Tim brought Chris and Lisa to the front and invited people to express their appreciation for what they have meant to them, and to Anchor. Lots of soapy stuff was said, including by Yours Truly. Then there was a massive group-prayer-hug thing. I worked very hard to find an angle to take a photo which actually showed Chris and Lisa. Which means I wasn’t praying, of course. Call me bitter.
Chris is one of those old-school guys who throws himself totally into his church. A dying breed, regretably. He’s also a wonderful father. I enjoy watching Chris interact with his three young boys (who will now get to interact every week with their grandparents). And Lisa’s fabulous. Wonderful sense of humor.
Next week, Anchor’s worship team is playing at Union Chapel’s 150th anniversary. Or maybe their 100th. It’s a biggie, anyway. It’ll give us another chance (I refuse to say “one last chance”) to play music with Chris. I told Chris I would take a can of spray-paint so I could leave nasty graffiti at Union Chapel. Though I probably won’t. Probably. It’ll be fun watching Chris–and Union Chapel–flourish in the years ahead.
And maybe, just maybe, God will bring along somebody new to Anchor. As Chris’s Uncle Dave Ward told him point-blank as we prayed before practice on Sunday morning, “Chris–you’re replaceable.” Which is exactly how Chris wants it.
A Missionary in a Dangerous Place
My church supports three young women, all single, serving as missionaries–one in Vietnam, one in a former Soviet republic, and one soon to be headed to Haiti. All three attended Anchor while pursuing degrees at Taylor University – Fort Wayne.
Today, Sharon told about her work in Asia. She helps run a Christian bookstore in what is a predominantly Islamic nation. They have great trouble just getting Christian literature into the country, constantly dealing with governmental opposition.
Sharon was our first missionary, going back to 1999, I believe. I’ve been very impressed with Sharon. And humbled. This is one brave, committed gal. Because the country in which she serves can be a dangerous place for Christians.
One of Sharon’s coworkers, a man, was threatened with a handgun. Another, a woman, was attacked with a knife in an apartment stairwell. Another worker was beaten up, and the store robbed. The Muslim opposition is very intentional. Sharon lives with the very real threat of violence; people are intentionally targeting her and her coworkers. And yet…there she is. And she’s going back.
My heroes have always been missionaries. Sharon, with her amazing faith and strength of character, is among my heroes.
Notes from a Vacation and Band Concert
Got back late this afternoon from a few days of vacation up in Pentwater, Mich., where Pam’s Dad has a beautiful cabin (four bedrooms! decks galore!) along Lake Michigan. We hadn’t been there in we’re not sure how many years, and that’s a shame, because the place is fabulous. I must have walked 50 yards into the lake without the water reaching my neck.
Pam and I read. And read. And read. I made major dents in four books, but didn’t finish any of them: Jim Wallis’s God’s Politics, Ann Lamott’s Plan B, Don Miller’s Searching for God Knows What, and Robert Parker’s Back Story, which I took by mistake, having forgotten that I read it a few years ago. But I’m now two-thirds of the way through it again.
On Thursday night, we attended Pentwater’s weekly band concert in the park. It’s not really a concert. People who play band instruments show up (or not) and arrange themselves on chairs under the covered gazebo. There doesn’t seem to be a director. After each song, they pause for a minute or so, then the drummer signals the next song, and off they go. An hour of that. Not the best band-playing you’ve ever heard, but quite enjoyable. But the music isn’t what interested me most. It was the overall atmosphere.
Hundreds of people gathered, carrying their bag-chairs and lawn chairs and blankets, and dogs, and scattered on the lawn surrounding the gazebo. I had been told this was one of the last remaining pieces of Americana, a quaint tradition that brought the whole community together. And that’s pretty much what it was.
As the band played, most people listened approvingly as little girls jump-danced in front. Moms and daughters entwined fingers and swayed to the music. Fathers propped young’ns atop their shoulders. They swayed, too. Meanwhile, townspeople flitted around, saying hello and getting caught up and, no doubt, remarking about the price of gasoline.
One tall, lanky girl with braces and a blue cap dropped to the grass in front of our bag-chairs and said, “Can I pet your dog?” She was talking about Sylvia, Jim and Ann’s tan Labrador Retriever. “Sure you can.” She caressed Sylvia for a bit, then moved on to other people’s dogs. By the end of the hour, I’m sure she had spent some time with every dog there. And we’re talking quite a few dogs. No pit bulls or otherwise mean-looking dogs. These were Labs and cockers and my favorite, a shepherd-husky mix, just a pup, whose fur seemed as soft as cotton. Gobs of people stopped to pet that dog.
Pentwater is a small resort town along the lake. The highway goes down the main street, which hosts numerous gift shops, two ice cream shops, and no small amount of realty companies, which no doubt make big commissions on each sale, because Pentwater property ain’t cheap. Lots of summer homes here. That’s what Jim and Ann’s place is, basically. They can’t even get to it during most of the winter, with all the steep hills amidst the lakeside forest. The rest of the year, they live in Fort Wayne.
Pentwater doesn’t allow any chain restaurants or stores. No McDonalds, no Walgreens, no DQ. There were chain banks (like the Huntington Bank) and chain churches (United Methodist, Lutheran, etc.), but all of the stores were homegrown, home-owned. Nice. There was no convenient place to erect a Wal-Mart.
I would enjoy living in Pentwater just for those Thursday night concerts. Quaint, traditional, family-friendly. A place of community. People of all ages gathering together every week. Bring the children. Lingering Americana, indeed.
I loved the atmosphere. But toward the end, I noticed something significant. There were no blacks, no hispanics, no Asians. Just Caucasians. Middle, upper-middle, and upper-class Caucasians. A very homogenous group.
This caused some reflection on my part. How would the presence of blacks and hispanics and Asians change the atmosphere? Would it necessitate different styles of music? Would the use of other languages harm the sense of cohesiveness which made the event so charming? What about just adding some working class people, or downright poor people? Would it kill the event? Would disparate people not care to come together?
Can an event popularized by such a non-diverse group, both racially and economically, be considered true Americana? What is Americana, anyway? Why am I using a word when I don’t really know what it means?
Those are some of the things I reflected on. Not in any kind of a judgmental way. I just noticed the makeup of the crowd, thought about it some, and still thoroughly approved. Afterwards we got ice cream at the House of Flavors and called it a night. They had a doggie cup of vanilla for free. Ann says Sylvia looks forward to that every week.
Book: God in the Alley
I read a lot of books by Christians who care about the poor. You know, “liberal” Christians, those social-justice peaceniks who live in communes and, incredibly, do not see the blatant inconsistency in claiming to be a Christian while voting for Democrats. Sadly, because of what is an obviously compromised state of mind, I actually learn a great deal from these folks.
About a month ago I finished “God in the Alley,” by Greg Paul, who leads a small church in Toronto among prostitutes, the homeless, drug addicts, and general down-and-outers. Reading books like this demolishes the canned solutions and simpleton answers that we well-fed evangelicals (and the entire Republican Party) routinely fling at deep social problems.
I most remember the story of Rose, daughter of a heroin addict, now a prostitute trying to care for her own two children, whom she loves deeply. How can she be a prostitute and be a good mother? Greg Paul describes her as a commendably good mother.
Despite the fact that nobody anywhere ever has modeled healthy parenting for her, she is absolutely dialed in to those children. You make some remark to that effect, and her eyes fill with tears.
“I love them,” she says, simply, softly. “I’d do anything for them.”
And she does. Every night, in cars, hotel rooms, alleyways. Every night, she sacrifices her body for the children she loves.
Wow. There’s a whole world–a complicated, untidy, messy world–that I know nothing about, living in my comfortable middle class suburban home. I can sit back and render judgement on Rose, state what she needs to do to make her life right. But I’m largely ignorant of the real dynamics of such situations. I catch many glimpses of it at Anchor, my own church, as we interact with people in deep, deep holes. And I do, finally, get my hands a little bit dirty (as opposed to just writing a check).
I grew up hearing easy answers to social problems spewed from pulpits. But we don’t know what we’re talking about. Greg Paul offers no easy solutions. He just tells stories about people in this blighted area of Toronto, and sometimes the stories have happy endings. Greg Paul knows what he’s talking about. And having read his book, I know a lot more.
Sneakers Guy
I have never in my life worn sandals. Talk about flagrantly refusing to be like Jesus.
I’m a sneakers guy. I would prefer wearing nothing on my feet except for sneakers. Sneakers and white sweat socks. That’s who I am. Always ready for action.
If you wear sandals to a picnic and they want to play softball or something, you’re out of luck. I don’t like being out of luck. In addition to shunning sandals, I’ve never worn cowboy boots. My brothers have, but not me. I severely dislike flip-flops, and will only wear them to go swimming. Dress shoes make my teeth ache. The sooner I can get out of them, the happier I am. The happiest I am is when I don’t need to wear dress shoes to begin with.
I have several pairs of casual shoes that I wear to work, but they are soft and pliable and comfy. Not as comfy as sneakers, but they’ll do. I get kidded about wearing sneakers to church, whether I ‘m wearing Dockers, jeans, or shorts. I didn’t wear sneakers at my previous church, because it somehow seemed inappropriate, but the first week at Anchor, I was in sneakers and have been ever since. Will make an exception on Easter. I’m a sneakers guy, and Anchor is a sneakers church, and all is well in my world.
Hammer and nail, hand and glove, rhythm and blues, Harley and Davidson, lock and key, sneakers and Steve. We go together. No doubt about it.
My Latest Heart-Felt Rant Against Dubya
I believe a President should leave the country better than he found it. That’s not unreasonable. But in my lifetime, three Presidents have failed that test. Lyndon Johnson left us mired in Vietnam. Richard Nixon extracted us from Vietnam and did other good things, but those pluses were outweighed by the nation-shattering disillusionment of Watergate. And then George W. Bush.
Jimmy Carter was not a great president, but he did some good things and left us slightly better off than he found us, particularly in putting us some distance from the bummer days of Watergate. George H. W. Bush did no harm. Eisenhower, Kennedy, Reagan, and Clinton (I know, you object to me saying anything good about Clinton) left America in much better shape than they found it.
George W. is, in my book, the worst president of my lifetime (not the worst ever, just the worst since I’ve been around). I voted for him twice, thank you. He entered office in 2001 with enormous promise and almost unprecedented advantages–control of both the House and Senate, a sympathetic Supreme Court, a majority of governorships, a severely reduced national debt (thanks to Clinton and the dot-com boom), and a leaderless Democratic Party. But to me, he has squandered it all, accomplishing practically nothing. He’ll blame it on 9/11, which was a true-blue disruption in his Presidency. But I don’t think history will let him cop-out with that excuse. With many issues, Bush has been very intentional in producing lots of bad outcomes.
In Defence of Madonna
I read in one of my magazines that Madonna is getting involved with relieving suffering in the African nation of Malawi–raising and contributing money, and promoting awareness of the needs in Malawi. This is a good thing. However, the article said Madonna has never actually been to Malawi, and suggested cynically that maybe this was some celebrity good-cause stunt. I don’t think it is. But it’s interesting that Madonna is drawn to a place she’s never been.
But then–how different is that from a lot of missions promotion? Across our churches you’ll find people who have a special burden for a particular part of the world that they, personally, have never visited. Might be Africa. Might be China. Might be Latin America. Might be India. The interest could have been sparked by any number of things–a missionary they know who serves there, an article or book they read as children that sparked an enduring fascination, a family member who once visited there, or even just purely a God-prompting.
You can be genuinely concerned about a place, even highly knowledgeable about it, without having actually visited. Though visiting certainly helps.
So, I guess I’m on Madonna’s side. If you have a burden for Malawi and want to help‚Äîyou go, girl!
Additional Note: After posting the above, I remembered hearing a few days ago that part of Madonna’s standard contract is that her accommodations include a brand new toilet seat, which must be unwrapped in her presence. Yeah, I doubt she’s going to Malawi anytime soon.
I’m an Apocalyptic Spoilsport
When I was a teen, I devoured prophecy books like The Late Great Planet Earth and heard doomsday sermons that scared the heck out of me. But by the time I turned 20, the skeptic in me took firm command and hasn’t relinquished his grip. I decided I wouldn’t get my underpants bunched up over that stuff anymore. Lots of people with high prophecy IQs restock their bunkers every time the Palestinians throw a temper-tantrum. But I refuse to join the hysteria. So while wars and rumors of wars and all kinds of biblical stuff happens, turning otherwise rational people into drooling doomsday-mongers, I remain cynically calm. It’s one way to relieve stress. Thus far, I have a nearly 30-year stockpile of I-told-you-sos.
I’m thinking about this because lately, our pseudo-news TV shows have been playing up the fear (or glee) among evangelical Christians that the current turmoil in Israel may usher in the Apocalypse. That we’re on the verge of the Left Behind books becoming reality. Jon Stewart’s “Daily Show” ran through a whole bunch of reports last Thursday night. Blogs talk about why, this time, The End really–seriously, we’re not kidding this time–is nigh.
I hate to be a spoilsport. I know that Christians for 2000 years have been expecting the latest crisis to trigger the Second Coming, so when I say “It ain’t gonna happen this time, neither,” it’s just gratuitous piling-on. But that’s my view. Maybe it’ll happen in 50 years, maybe 100. But not anytime soon. And boy of boy, does that opinion irk today’s Christians, who yearn for God to flush the cosmic toilet in their lifetime, and who can quote me chapter-and-verse conclusive proof that this time, the stars are correctly aligned. “Steve, just read Revelation! It’s all right there!”
The Birthday Breach
The genie is free, the Furies unleashed, the dam breached, Pandora’s Box unlocked. The Four Horseman, atop fresh saddles, are galloping in my direction, promises of “Vengeance!” on their breath.
Yesterday was Pam’s birthday, and the birthday of Chuck, her “second” Dad. I took them both to Logan’s Steakhouse, something generally viewed as a good deed. If we had gone to Bandido’s, they would have gotten free meals, and it would have been a very cheap date for me. But no, I opted for Logan’s, with the peanut shells littering the floor and the tasty warm rolls.
As we ordered, I asked our waitress, “Do you do anything special for people with birthdays?” I was fishing for discounts or free meals.
“We yeehaw,” she told me. “Who is having a birthday?”
I pointed to both Pam and Chuck. “Both of them. Father and daughter.”
Pam was of a mind to crunch my skull with a crowbar. We’ve had this agreement that we don’t embarrass each other publicly on birthdays. We nearly always eat out on birthdays, but never rat out each other to the waitress. I detest having “Happy Birthday” or other fusses made over me, and Pam detests it even more. So what I did at Logan’s violated a sacred covenant, marched across No Man’s Land to break a truce. We will, perhaps, need marital counseling to recover the trust I flagrantly threw to the wind.
But, being weak-willed and impulsive, I couldn’t resist. Not with two birthday people present. Chuck merely grimaced, annoyed by his son-in-law’s transgression, yet playing the good sport. But Pam promised that my upcoming 50th birthday would involve gift-wrapped retribution. Actually, I figure on get nailed on my 50th no matter what, good behavior or not. And yet, some fuses simply shouldn’t be lit.
When we finished eating, our waitress and two fellow servers came to the table and asked Pam and Chuck to leave the booth and come stand beside them. Pam refused, and Chuck said, “If she’s not, I’m not.” After some futile coaxing, our server finally realized it was a lost cause. She then yelled out to get everyone’s attention, and then led the restaurant guests and workers in a loud “Yeehaw!” People applauded, and that was it.
The ordeal was much less painful than enduring the “Happy Birthday” song. And yet, I breached a dam tonight, and I must now live in fear of the inevitable, but yet-unknown, consequences. Sin is rarely worth it, never satisfying. I’m afraid Pam shall teach me that lesson with utmost clarity.
