Grace at the Plate

It's way too late, the day has been way too busy, and I'm way too tired, after four services with four sermons and baptizing my youngest grandson, and spending an exhausting yet wonderful day with a whole lot of family, that I turn my thoughts to grace, and heroes and baseball.  Tonight may be the last night that I'm able to sit out on the deck with a good, but not too good tumbler of bourbon and a good but not too good cigar.  (With the way things are in the world today not too good is plenty good enough.)  It's been a wonderful summer, but now the brisk air lets me know that fall is here, the long evenings of listening to baseball outside, as the crickets chirp and the bull frogs bellow has come to an end.  Frost and ice are around the corner, I can see my breath tonight...yet pour summer business is yet to be completed.

 I'm basking in the glow of another improbable baseball moment, the Boston Red Sox, after a truly remarkable season, coming from the worst imaginable last year to the best this year are seemingly on the ropes.  In the best-of-seven American League Championship series, after a dismal seven innings, getting only one run, after getting shut out in the previous game; facing probably the second best pitcher in the American League, after losing to the third best pitcher, with the prospect of facing the very best pitcher-with having more strike-outs in two games than any other post-season team; with what felt like the last chance, to have your hero, your Casey-at-the-bat guy not strike out this time, but hit a grand slam to tie the game which you eventually win...it feels like grace; unearned and undeserved, as the Book of Common Prayer puts it.

Yet with all of this, it's not David Ortiz (aka Big Papi) that is the hero I speak of, but it's the great sports writers, the Ring Lardners, and the Red Barbers, and the Jim Murrays that I so admire.  It's because they, (let me add my favorite contemporary sports writer, Sally Jenkins to the list), of all of humanity could make some sense of such a moment, such a game as this.  When things look the bleakest, the darkest moments; when there seems there is no good news, until the good news erupts, these truly gifted news paper men 9and woman) could put the magic of what was happening into some kind of perspective.  Just as one is ready to throw in the towel, to relinquish a season of promise, the unexpected miracle happens, the pitch is a half inch from where the pitcher intends it to be, the batter flicks his wrists, and everything changes.  New life, new hope, gtrace has happened again.

Our public life, with the sequestrations, the furloughs, the protracted and demeaning bickering on Capital Hill have the same feeling of sixteen long innings of one-hit ball.  Of a season of hope come to an end.  Yet as the Red Sox proved for one more night, at least, God's involvement in the world in our lives is a mystery beyond our understanding.  With this God all things are possible.

Passion

It happened so fast if you got up off the couch for a beverage you would have missed it. Astounding, how somethng that happens inthe blink of an eye can change history. Maybe that's the way it always is, there's a flash of lightening and history is forever altered. Richard the III is unhorsed on Bosworth Field, a young, already soul-sick Austrian youth named Adolf is unmercifully a butt of cruel teasing. Who can say? Although it takes a pathologically obsessed Red Sox fan to even suggest it, I witnessed such a moment watching a baseball game on a Saturday afternoon. And even if it didn't change world history, it certainly changed a storied baseball franchise and the lore of major league baseball forever. It was a hot, weekend afternoon, mid-summer 2004. I was sitting in front of the TV set watching a listless Red Sox team get man-handled by the star studded New York Yankees, amazing what the richest media market in the world can do for a sports franchise. Anyway, it was sometime in the middle of the game, Yankee third baseman A-Rod was crossing in front of Red Sox catcher Jason Veritek. Somebody said something to somebody, Veritek claims Rodregiz said it, a statement hotly contsted by the Yankee. Regardless, the Red Sox catcher bounded up like someone dropped a lit match in his back pocket. Facing A-Rod he gave jim a push, the Yankee, surprised, pushed back, the benches ran on the field and although it didn't take long for order to be re-establshed, when all things were settled the energy exhibitied by the Red Sox was startling. I suggest that this was the turning point in the 2004 season for the Sox. After 86 years the Red Sox won the World Series, after taking 4 strat from the Yankees in the American League playoffs. And although I never read that he said it, I'm sure that Veritek knew exactly what he was doing. Passion. Last week I flipped channels between a Nationals game and a Red Sox game. There was no comparison, the Red Sox looked like they were in last place in the Zombie league, and the Nats were on fire, stretcing singles into doubles, diving for line drives. Passion. Where doe it come from? How can one get it? Did Veritek really manufacture a situation that would ignite a World Series campionship? I don't think anyone really knows the answers. But I do know that if you've got it, food tastes better, colors are brighter and there's something to get up for every morning. I know that the people, probably the only people who really make a difference, for better and for worse are the passionate ones. Look at the characters in the Bible. Samson was passionate, so was Jael, Ruth, Ezekiel, and for sure, Jesus. But Peter ws passionate too, and so was Paul. So what's your passion? Who are you willing to "mess with?" Once it's unleashed passion is a flash flood, washing out bridges, overwhelming the banks, but how deflating life would be without it, like giving up seven runs in the top of the first. So thanks Tek, it was a great play.

Red Sox legacy

Welcome my dearest friends, I'm sorry to see you here, yet in a way it's comforting too.  Those of us who have been Red Sox fans since before 2004, those of us who remember the Buckner boot in "86, and before that the "impossible dream team of '67, and the Pudge Fisk home run of '75, or that pip squeak Bucky Dent's home run that kept the Sox out of the 78 World Series.  Welcome to that stunned feeling of disbelief, that as Dustin Pedroia said this week the queasy feeling in the "pit of his stomach."  Welcome to the beginnings of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' five steps of grieving process...believe me acceptance will come.

Baseball, more then any other sport is a test of endurance.  There is nothing more grueling.   For three weeks in July skinny kids with huge lungs push themselves up mountains in the Tour de France, torture for sure. But day in, day out mid-April to early October, six days a week, baseball will grind you down.  I can't say for sure, but in the pre-airplane days travel by train was almost leisurely, plenty of time for card games, and naps.  Nowadays, traveling three time zones in a few hours, often in the middle of the night, sitting in cramped airplane seats, it is exhausting.

Thing is, it's a long grind for the fans too, the ups and downs; staying up 'til two for a sixteen inning game. It's true, especially if you're a Red Sox fan, especially this September.  Only twice, well maybe three times before has the team had a worse won/loss record in September.   At the beginning of August, with hopeful hearts most Red Sox fans felt that the league championship was almost a sure thing.  While the insecure Joe Girardi, manager of the Yankees, lamented how winning the pennant was so important to his team.  That had to have home field advantage, he stated,  his pretty boys just didn't feel very comfortable on the road.  Our man at the helm, Tito Francona, with the best away record in baseball, expressed his only concern was to be in position for the right pitching match-ups.

With a knowing shake of a gray head us oldsters again realize how foolish such musings were.  How is it that the most powerful hitting team in all of baseball could succumb to the woeful pitching of the Baltimore Orioles, five out of seven times in two weeks.  It's just so hard to fathom how, even after this disastrous September, the Red Sox could still be leading the league in hitting.  A collapse, so quick, and so complete that it takes all of baseballs breath away.  Terrible starting pitching, partly caused by injury, partly ineptitude has wrought this terrible toll.  How is it that little regarded journeymen relief pitchers, and minor leaguers could be more effective on the mound that starting pitchers, three of them,  who were considered, in recent years past possible Cy Young winners.

So again, I say to you, my young brothers and sisters, welcome.  Sit in a darkened room for a day or two.  Replay the season in your minds, remember warmly Papi's drives, Ellsbury's pirouettes, Pedrora's filthy uniform.  Then come back into the sunshine, lift your head again.  We survived Buckner and Bench, Dent and Boone, we will survive the Collapse 0f '11 too.  But be aware.  It won't make you a better person.  Dis-spell yourself of that myth, regardless of what the Catholic Church says, suffering does not make you a better person. Say your prayers, eat green things, be nice to your grandparents, that will make you a better person.  No, it won't make you a better person, but it will make you a real Red Sox fan.

Half Way

All Stars

Half way, looking back and looking ahead. Any baseball fan will be happy to go on and on about the importance of stats. A couple of years ago a guy named Billy Beane, of "Money Ball" fame, demonstrated, with the creation of several new statistical categories, once and for all that baseball, maybe more then any other sport lives on the narrative of the past. Every game we witness the reality; should this left-handed pitcher stay in the game against this left handed hitter, or does the batter feed on lefties. Two outs in the ninth, one run down, should we steal second on this catcher, or does he have a real cannon. It's kind of like us people of faith, only our narrative is not based on probabilities, by on the Biblical text.

So let's look at this comparison. As much as the numbers can tell us about what an individual player may have a tendency to do in the future, it cannot tell us the future of his team. Remember 1969? Well probably not, but I do. Baltimore had on paper the best team in baseball, they won a whooping 109 games. The Mets on the other hand, had never won more then 76 games a year, before '69. With a third year virtually unknown pitcher, a guy named Seaver, and just average position players, the preseason line was another sub-par year for the boys that played in Shea. It never really was a series, the Mets took it in five.

There are folks out there that want to look at Scripture and forecast the future too. John's Apocalypse, Jesus, little apocalypses in Matthew, and Mark. Once again, just a month or so ago a preacher who had "read the signs" right prepared his community for the end of the world. After the end did not come, one of the followers was asked why he stayed in the cult. "I have no where else to go," he said, "I gave everything up to be here."

You watch. There are some great surprises to come in the second half. Pay attention to players who don't make the All-Star game line-up, one or two of them will make the difference between now and October. It's not over until the 27th out (not even then if there's a tie). As a player, as a fan, as a child of God, dig in, swing when it's in the strike zone, and cheer your team mates on.

Keeping Score

Many of us in the Diocese of Virginia were shocked this week to hear of the death of our chancellor Russ Palmore. Russ was not only the legal counsel for the Diocese, he was also our parliamentarian, our canon lawyer, an indefatigable advocate and friend. I was privileged to serve as a deputy to General Convention with him the past three conventions, and was very much looking forward to do the same in Indianapolis in 2012. Russ was my mentor during those times, and he helped make some very confusing experiences understandable, even fun. I will forever be indebted to his expertise, but what I most admire him for was his ability to make me feel that it was the quirkiness of the issues, not my own thick-headedness that caused my discombobulation.

Another thing Russ and I had in common was a love for baseball. Since General Convention happens in July, and in major metropolitan areas Russ and I attended several major leagues games together. We both delighted in the process of keeping a score card for the games, a practice which has become, regrettably passe in these days.

Now for those of you who are at a loss as to what I am talking about, the practice of keeping score goes like this. First one has to get to the stadium a little early, preferably during batting practice. This gives enough time to procure the score card from a vendor, now-a-days this often this requires buying a five dollar program, although in some ballparks one can still buy just the card for fifty cents (they often throw in a stubby, eraser-less pencil for free). Getting to one's seat early is important so that there is time to enter the line-up in the card. All crucial data, jersey number, batting order, and playing position is entered on the card. Then there is a kind of baseball short hand that describes each play of the game; hits, ground outs, home runs. On the score card there are tiny boxes where the scorer inserts the symbols. Although there are universal symbols, many scorers adapt and create their own short-hand.

Sitting next to Russ at the game was fun, very much like sitting next to him at Convention. Every now and then I would non-nonchalantly glance at Russ' card. It was impeccable! I suppose I ought to start by describing my cards—they are always a mess. Pencil lines swerve into adjacent boxes, often making it hard to remember the action, even two innings later. I am notorious for starting an inning off on the wrong line, messing everything up. I scrawl an ongoing commentary in the margins (beautiful puffy clouds, glorious golden medallion moon, really obnoxious fans right behind me need to shut up!).

Russ' scorecards were works of art, really. I am sure that five hundred years from now if an archeologist found a Russ Palmore scorecard he could tell you play by play exactly what happened. There were obvious and significant differences in my cards and Russ.' Could you say that one was better than the other? I don't think so, just that one style would appeal to some, and visa versa. Maybe one way of doing the scorecard actually enriches the other. Read Russ' card and you get an accurate pitch count, read mine and you learn about the really drunk guy who spilled beer all over the biker in front of him.

Thinking about archeologists makes me think about the Hebrew Bible. Most students of the Bible these days believe that it was written by a number of authors. They have figured this out, in large part, because the writers have very different styles. Some emphasize the historical facts of the times, genealogies, laws, ritual practices. Some tell stories, depictions of the great heroes, like Samson, or Jael. Whether these stories are true or not doesn't seem to be the point.

So, I'm thinking, there is a reason why the Bible was written by different types of authors. There is a fullness, a richness to the variety of styles. The Bible would not be the Bible if it was uniform. What Russ Palmore taught me was that the same is true in church-person-ship too. Without the multiplicity of perspectives that the Episcopal Church seems to want to hold in tension it would be a much poorer entity, for sure. Russ must have seen my messy scorecards, he never said a word, he wouldn't have, he was much to much a gentleman. I hope they made him smile, he was a fan who delighted in the differences.

More fun to Watch

What was it that Mark Twain said, something about his death being
prematurely reported? I would suggest that the same thing could be
said about baseball, and the Episcopal Church, for that matter.
Many said that baseball was doomed in the midst of the controversy
over the use of steroids. Fans would be totally turned off, players
would not know how to train without drugs; that main stay of the
sport, personal best records would be suspect. Without the physical giants like
Sammy Sosa, Mark MacGuire, and Barry Bonds the game just wouldn't be
exciting anymore.
Well guess what. They were wrong. Baseball has come back, maybe
stronger than it's been for a long time. Those lumbering behemoths
gave way to a new breed of ball players. Our new heroes are fast, and
scrappy, like Dustin Pedroia and Nyjer Morgan. They are becoming the
most exciting players to watch. We're realizing it's much more
fun to watch a bold runner score from first on a long out to
right field than it is to watch a slugger trot the bases with his
hands in the air after a home run.
Many said the Episcopal Church was gasping it's last breaths
too, especially after the affirmation of the election of the bishop of
New Hampshire at General Convention in 2003. And the Church has
gotten smaller to, or as I like to think of it, leaner and quicker.
It's not that the Church without the dioceses and congregations who
left is any better, rather it's that since they left those of us still
here have become more focused, more able to spend energy on something
other than sexual politics.
Just as I believe the changes in major league baseball will
reinvigorate the game, I believe the Church's changes will have a
similar outcome. Of course it takes effective training, courageous
play and taking some risks to produce successful baseball, and Church.
It's hopeful, and a lot of fun, to think that we're well on our way,
in both.


Sent from my iPad

First Pitch

Hurray, baseball season is upon us! Over the next few months I plan to spend some time writing occasional articles about two of my greatest passions, baseball and religion. Here is my first installment




I was really captured by the photo above the fold on the sports page of last Sunday's New York Times. It was taken in a rural village in Zambia, Africa. The photo was of a group of African children and two young, white Americans, comfortably nestled together. Everyone was grinning. Their smiles were of friendship and sharing So here's the catch, and the reason it was in the newspaper. Los Angeles Dodgers ace, 22 year old pitcher Clayton Kershaw, and his wife Ellen were the young Americans in the photo. Karen Crouse of the Times opened her article with:
The Los Angeles left-hander Clayton Kershaw held the audience in his sway from the first pitch. A world removed from the grandeur of Dodger Stadium, the barefoot children stood in awe as they watched Kershaw’s curveball spin and dip.
Kershaw’s pitching, as much as it delighted the children had a serious purpose. He was getting in a few precious minutes of training. Any young pitcher with a great career ahead of him knows that training time is vital. With the season just weeks away Crouse reports that the biggest anxiety the young pitcher had with the trip was that he would miss a week of training. For most people who go on this type of mission trip, money is often the biggest cost. For Kershaw it seems to have been time.
Probably the reason the picture piqued my interest so is that it reminds me of hundreds of similar pictures I have seen, and even been in It's about those countless people, young and old who don't have fabulously fit bodies, fame or fortune, but who can't wait to take that next short term mission trip to Haiti, or Kenya, Colombia, New Orleans, or Appalachia.
In early January I was getting on a plane in Washington DC for my trip to Liberia. I met a young woman, with a great big backpack, traveling alone to do a mission in Tanzania. Her trip, she told me would include, not just the plane ride, but also a rigorous two day bus ride. I think about the young people who I have shared trips with, challenged physically, or emotionally, yet who worked uncomplainingly in hot dusty places to bring the good news of God’s love, and themselves, to help others. I keep hearing from these travelers about how they get much more from those they go to serve then they give. All effective mission trips are about the transformation of the missioner more than about the project.
It's wonderful when a baseball star like Kershaw “gets it” and makes it to the sports page of the New York Times. It's also wonderful that there are so many selfless individuals who put themselves out there for the greater glory of God.