Next Person Up

I have to say that the one thing helping to keep me from total despair these days is remarkably the Boston Red Sox.

And, unless you have been a long time fan of the team, you won't appreciate just how ironic that statement is at the beginning of August in baseball season. Usually, right after the All-Star break, is about the time the team begins to take a nose dive.

And, unless you last thought about the Red Sox in late May/early June, then you might think I've totally lost my mind. Because the team stunk...like a dead fish left on the beach in the warm sun for 24 hours.

But something happened about June 25th. And suddenly, the team found its purpose. They started playing together. They took time at the plate and made the opposing pitchers work. And everyone seems to be bought into the idea that winning actually feels good and makes their fan base very, very happy.

By the end of July...they had posted a 25-4 record...the best July this team has ever had in its 125 year history!

What the heck does any of that have to do with the 14th Chapter of Matthew, you ask?

Well...read on and tell me what you think. 

Text: Matthew 14: 13-21

+++

I love baseball.

And I especially love listening to baseball on the radio when it’s my team…the Boston Red Sox…playing.

Now I know that not everyone shares my same enthusiasm for the team or the sport…but recently…the Red Sox went on the most incredible run.

They won 15 games in a row…the most consecutive wins that team has had in 80 years.

And it almost came to an end at game number 14.

They were playing the Baltimore Orioles… a division rival… who also were on a long winning streak.

The two teams kept going back and forth on the scoring.

It was the bottom of the eighth inning.

The score was tied five to five.

The two guys on the team who had been doing the best at the plate—Wilyer Abreu and Wilson Contreras—had already been at bat and hadn’t made a dent in this tie score.

So now all eyes were on the Red Sox third baseman Caleb Durbin.

Now…earlier in the season…a lot of us fans were not happy with the way Durbin had been playing.

And none of us were excited about the offensive strength of the Red Sox.

They just were…well…not very good…including Durbin.

But just when it seemed as if this game was going into extra innings….bam…Durbin hit a blast that sailed into the bleachers for the go-ahead home run… and the Red Sox were able to hold on to win the game in the ninth inning on a score of six to five.

And there was joy…and happiness… and celebration from Fenway Park… all the way to me sitting at my desk in our home office.

The radio commentators were overcome with emotion.

As one of them said…the Red Sox had become a real team.

When the usual stars don’t come through… the attitude in their dug out was now “next man up”…the average player…the one in a slump… not the big name star…comes up to make the biggest play of the game.

That’s how the best teams make things happen… and win the game.

That’s what I think we hear Jesus saying this morning when he says, “You give them something to eat.”

Essentially…it’s a “next person up” situation.

This story of the feeding of the five thousand appears in all four Gospels…which is like a neon light-flashing clue that this is one of the big Jesus moments so pay close attention.

There are several places we could jump in on this one.

This miracle used to be the central story for gathering the early Christians together for the Eucharistic meal.

It has echoes of the history of Israel…journeying through the wilderness…with doubts in their heads and hearts.

Jesus lifts these provisions of bread and fish to God for a blessing…and like the manna that rained down on the Biblical ancestors during the Exodus from Egypt… God was able to feed five thousand out of just this offering… and still have enough leftovers to go into 12 baskets.

(The twelve baskets represented the 12 tribes of Israel).

This story stands out as one of the best examples affirming God’s Love and desire to see that all… everyone… is fed and given exactly what they need.

It’s also a teaching moment for the disciples that were there with Jesus… and it speaks to us hearing this story two thousand plus years later.

Remember the events that have built up to this moment.

Jesus has already given a pep talk to the disciples.

He’s told them to get out there… go to the towns and talk to their fellow Jews… and do the work of his mission… telling them God’s kingdom has come near.

Heal people.

Liberate them from their doom and gloom.

Cleanse the lepers who society has shunned and pushed aside.

Take all those who have been treated as outsiders and center them in the story of God’s love.

And he’s warned them that none of this work is going to make them popular and could get them into deep trouble with the Empire.

In fact…the story that is told in Matthew’s Gospel right before this one about the feeding of the five thousand is the horrific execution of John the Baptist by Herod.

But despite the terror and the difficulties…Jesus repeats the favorite phrase in all of Scripture: do not be afraid.

So, he’s been teaching them, coaching them, using parables as a type of code language, and preparing them for just a moment as this feeding of the five thousand.

So when they turn to him and say,

“Come on Jesus. It’s getting dark. Tell these people to go away so they can get food.”

Jesus’s response is, “No, I will not tell them to go. YOU give them something to eat.”

A-K-A: Time for the next person to step up.

Those who have been listening and learning and have sat at the feet of Jesus…soaking in all his instructions… must now do the very thing he has been showing them how to do all along.

Feed the sheep.

Feed the lambs.

The disciples look around.

They look at one another.

They’re seeing this throng of people.

And all they have to offer them is a couple of fish and five loaves of bread that they’d been carrying with them.

But even that meager amount…which seems like nothing…is enough for Jesus to give one more demonstration.

He lifts that bread and fish to God…blesses it and breaks it…and gives it back to the disciples so that they can pass it out to everyone.

And through this act…God’s grace is able to feed the crowd because the disciples step up to feed the people.

Their small offering becomes greater with God’s help and their efforts.

That’s the ultimate teamwork…and that is what gets asked of us every day:

To take the things that we have…our smarts…our skills…our goodwill…and put it to work to lift up those around us…help move our society in a direction where all are fed…both with real food and even more importantly…with a real sense that they matter.

We are called on to keep meeting the needs of those we know our hungry for mercy…compassion…and justice….as well as those seemingly smaller tasks of simply treating each other with respect and dignity.

This is the way we reclaim an important element of Christianity that has been lost in the tangled web of our religion being too close to the power structures.

This is how we move intentionally in the direction of Jesus to stand with those who aren’t the most prestigious…and politically connected…and to bring God’s love to those needing real friends.

This is what it means to be on Team Jesus…and be the next person up to meet the matters facing us in this time.

In the Name of Our One Holy and Undivided Trinity.

 

 

Baseball And The Hard Truths of A Girl's Life

I don't know about you, but I am still buzzing over the amazing and nail-biting finale of the 2016 World Series. I mean, how 'bout them Chicago Cubs, right?

Seven games. A rain delay. Extra innings. The baseball season stretched into the wee hours on November 3rd on the East Coast. It was the bottom of the tenth, two outs, and there was a ground ball hit to Cubs third baseman Kris Bryant who smiled as he fielded the ball and slung it across the diamond to first base. Cubs first baseman Anthony Rizzo pocketed the coveted final out ball and dashed into the mosh pit of his teammates in the infield as they celebrated the end of a 108-year World Series drought. It was pure joy!

I have always loved baseball. I played it from first grade up through my freshman year at prep school. And I played baseball, not softball. I have played every position in the field, but the three positions I was most proficient at were first base, centerfield, and pitcher. Injury forced me to stop playing (I would later diagnosis my problem when I was in massage school as a strain of my subscapularis), and in my last season, I was batting just over .400 and was developing a wicked curve ball where the bottom would fall out on the throw just as it crossed the plate. I even pitched a fork ball to one of my teammates at practice. He stood slack jawed in the batter's box as it traveled with no discernible motion whizzing passed him. 

 

"What the hell was that?!"

"A strike!" I laughed.

It wasn't easy being a girl who played baseball. Every time I moved up to the next level of play, I went through a process of having to prove myself and gain the trust and respect of my male teammates. Title IX was in its infancy when I was beginning to play team sports and this idea of girls playing with and competing against boys was groundbreaking. As a kid, I wasn't thinking about that at all. I was just setting a ball on top of one the garden posts and practicing my swing, my arm extension, and turning my wrists. My brother Edward would practice with me and I could sometimes get my perpetually busy dad to put aside the law for a little while to play catch. One of my coaches, Ed Gustafson, taught me how to disrupt the pitcher's rhythm when batting and, conversely, he would work with us pitchers on how to stay focused and not let a batter psyche us out. There were definitely men who encouraged me in learning to play the game that is America's pastime.

But their support did not prepare me for the disappointment the day the phone did not ring.

I was eleven years old, and my goal was to play in the Exeter Junior League, aka the Little League in my home town. All the teams had full uniforms that made them look like very young pro ball players. Their games were played at Currier Field about four blocks from my house. I would often ride my bike over to sit in the bleachers and get bubble gum at the concession stand. I dreamed of one day being out on the field, taunting batters with the rest of them:

"Hey, batter, batter, batter, noooo batter, batter, batter, hey, batter, batter...SWING!"

To make it onto a Little League team, you had to attend try-outs. They would pin a number to your back and then you would go through the drills of fielding, throwing, running, and hitting. I first tried out when I was ten years old. And I wasn't very good. I couldn't throw as hard or as accurately as some of the other kids, and I finished in the middle of the pack on all the running drills. I was disappointed that I didn't receive the phone call that I had been drafted, but I took it as a challenge to get better. I played in the Exeter Recreation Department's Minor League, the town's alternative to the Little League. It was challenging playing against kids who were older than me, but it also forced me to get better. And by the spring of 1979, I was ready to take another shot at try-outs for the Little League.

I was good. More than good. My skills had really improved. I was charging ground balls and throwing harder and more accurately than anyone else. With each smack of my throw coming into the coach's catcher's mitt, he would smile and give the approval, "Yeah, that's the stuff!" I would glimpse out of the corner of my eye that coaches were taking down my number and it gave me more confidence as I showed patience and strength in the batter's box. This time, I came away from the try-out feeling triumphant. I had proven myself. Now all that was left was the wait for the phone call on a Sunday afternoon. 

I sat at the kitchen table. I didn't want to seem anxious, but when the phone rang, I almost bolted from my seat. My mom calmly answered the phone.

It was my older brother calling to ask a question. 

My mom hurried him off the phone, explaining that I was expecting a call. 

I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

As the sun began to set on the day, I realized that, once again, I was not going to be picked to play on a Little League team. I cried. A lot.

How could this be? How, after my near perfection performance at the try-outs, could I NOT be drafted?

My mother, who had seen me and noted how well I had done in comparison to the boys, was furious. She got on the phone and called the man who had been my brothers' Little League coach to demand some answers. What she heard was stunning.

"Well, Peggy, y'know I promised John I would pick his son and I couldn't disappoint the little boy..."

And so, at eleven years old, I learned about the good ol' boy network. And I learned that no matter how fast I ran, hard I threw, or how far I hit a baseball, my female gender would always be trumped by "the boy." It was a bitter lesson. 

That season, I returned to the Exeter Minor League and helped my team crush our opponents finishing with an undefeated season and a .682 batting average. The next year, what would have been my final year of eligibility in the Little League, I didn't bother to try-out. The Recreation Department splurged to buy full baseball uniforms for all the teams, so we could also look like mini-pro baseball players. And my coach decided he'd had enough of the Little League's refusal to bring in girls, so he took the story to the media. There was a free feminist newspaper in the Seacoast area of New Hampshire. Coach Gustafson called one of the reporters, and invited her to come talk to the girls on his team to hear our story. And when it hit the stands, there was a big hue and cry heard all over town. The story revealed what I and the others had already suspected: the Little League folks didn't want us, and thought baseball was a "boy's game" and that we should play softball because that was a "girl's game." The fact that there was no softball league and that as pre-teens we were just as skilled didn't matter. 

The end result: a few years later, girls were beginning to be allowed into the Little League and not just for a few games at the end of the year. It was too late to help me, but some other talented girls got the chance to play on Currier Field.

I share this story because as I have watched this political season drag on and listened and read the coverage of the presidential campaign, I see echoes of my own experience playing out again and again. It seems to me that the same resistance rising in the hearts of men (and some women) that I met attempting to follow my dream of playing baseball is the same stumbling blocks set up against Hillary Clinton. People may come up with lots of reasons and righteous arguments for why they think she's unfit to be president, but they all sound like the same righteous justifications used to pick boys who giggled as they fell down during a sprinting drill or threw into the back stop or hit little dribblers back to the pitcher when the girl is smacking base hits into the outfield. It's all sexism, and it is a real thing that I have had to deal with my whole life from childhood into adulthood. So when I see an abundantly qualified woman running for office against a man who has no experience and has insulted every person, place, and thing in America and yet people still say, "I don't see a difference between these two" I feel myself transported back to that kitchen table in New Hampshire waiting for the phone call that never came.

I am not voting for Hillary Clinton because she's a woman. I am voting for Hillary Clinton because I am a woman, and I know how much harder we have to work just to be given a chance to shine, how much more thorough she needs to be on her plans, and how extremely gracious she needs to be in the face of unapologetic sexism. Who better to take the reigns of leadership from President Obama who has had to put up with a steady stream of racism during his eight years in office?

Give her the ball.

. 

      

The Gospel of Jesus and the NFL

Are you ready for some football?

I would say, "Yes," but it seems football wasn't ready for the scrutiny it came under in how it handles players who are out-of-control when they are off-the-field.

This past week, there was the explosion and revulsion over the video from inside the elevator at a hotel where Ray Rice, now formerly of the Baltimore Ravens, decked his then-girlfriend, now wife, Janay, knocking her out cold. Rice was then seen hauling her limp body out of the elevator as if she were a heavy sack of potatoes.  There were reports of at least two other players in the NFL who also beat their significant others. And then the news that Minnesota Vikings star, Adrian Peterson, used a switch to discipline his toddler which left bloody scars on the child.  Ray Rice was fired by the Ravens and indefinitely suspended from the NFL; the other two players were allowed on the field this past Sunday, and Adrian Peterson, while he was benched in Sunday's loss to the Patriots because he was indicted in the child abuse case, will be back on the field this Sunday.

And that's business in the NFL. The Players Association union is appealing Ray Rice's indefinite suspension. My guess is that it will be overturned and he'll be allowed to play for another team.

Meanwhile, Janay Rice was pretty ticked about all the attention and the scrutiny directed at her husband after TMZ released the video from inside the elevator, and ordered everyone to back off. 

One man did not back off. Sportscaster James Brown of CBS took last Thursday's opening game between the Ravens and the Steelers as a "moment of personal privilege" to raise the bar for men in America:

James Brown's commentary before the Ravens vs. Steelers game

I appreciate Brown's remarks, especially in light of the teaching of Jesus in last Sunday's Gospel about forgiveness coming on the heals of the equally difficult teaching about making peace with the person who has wronged you in some way from the week before. 

In Sunday's Gospel, Jesus is asked how often one must forgive someone who has done wrong. Is it seven times? No, Jesus says. More like seventy-seven times... or as the text might have actually read: 7x7.  The point is that seven, in the Scriptures, is a number of perfection and so your willingness to forgive must be absolute perfection just in the same way that God's forgiveness of us is absolute perfection. The week before, we heard that if you are in a bitter disagreement with another person, go to that person and have a discussion and strive to work things out.  A one-to-one conversation has to be the first step before something between two people becomes a public matter.

How does that fit with what is happening with Ray Rice et. al in the NFL? One could say that Janay is correct: we, the public, have no place in the matters that are between them, and she doesn't want our presence. I can respect that she is feeling exposed to a harsh light because she and her husband are in a harsher light called, "the public eye." And that's the fact. When someone who is a public figure does something criminal, then that public figure can expect that he or she is going to suffer a more intense scrutiny than someone totally unknown to a wider audience.  Is it fair? Probably not. But it is reality. And when someone of the stature of Ray Rice or any other football player knocks the daylights out of his companion, especially female companion, we have moved from that stage of this being just between folks to being between the folks, the team and the public. When somebody famous commits that act of violence that goes viral because the video got posted to social media... then those who were previously willing to look the other way can't' do so without causing more of a furor. His two-game suspension, if it hadn't already felt appallingly trivial, now was unacceptable. Must it hang around his neck forever?  No, not if he goes to counseling and begins getting to the root of why he thinks it's OK to knock out his now-wife. And his wife also needs counseling, clearly. In one of the defenses of Ray Rice's behavior, some people noted, "She hit him first!" And she should not have hit him. Why does she think that's the appropriate way to deal with her emotions? And if she accepts that Ray Rice is within his right to hit her, she's got some issues to work through with a therapist.

Forgiveness of these misdeeds by the NFL, the individual players and others, is always there. But the first move must also be made to acknowledge that a trust has been broken, and a criminal act committed. And there needs to be a rethinking of one's ways. Perhaps this public embarrassment will lead to true repentence and amendment of life for the NFL... and all its associated players.  And perhaps this will bring to light the need for us in this society to rethink our willingness to look away when it comes to domestic violence.

Michael Sam: Standing Tall in the Face of Foolishness

I have one thing to say about the NFL draft and Michael Sam:

Mizzou-RAH!!!!!!!!!

I couldn't be happier for this guy, and his opportunity to play professional football as an out and proud gay man.  Hats off to Jeff Fisher and the St. Louis Rams for drafting him, even if it was later in the game than one would have expected for an All-American and SEC co-Defensive Player of the Year.  Playing in the SEC is essentially like playing semi-pro football, so I am confident that Michael Sam is ready for the big leagues.  He's dedicated.  He wants to work hard.  He loves the game of football.  And above all things, he's a Missouri Tiger.

Can I get an M-I-Z!?  (your answer to that is: Z-O-U!)

Of course, this draft pick, and the picture of him kissing his boyfriend, a former Mizzou swimmer named Vito Cammisano, has sparked outrage among the haters.  I have to wonder which offends them more: that two men are seen kissing each other, or that the two men happen to be an interracial gay couple?  It's hard to know these days when there's so much acrimony in the air about people in love.

Never mind that many of us, including the LGBTQI crowd, have had to watch many, many images of heterosexual joy on the sidelines of football games.  Does it not bother Alabama fans that their quarterback was dating a woman from Auburn?

If folks weren't all tied up into knots over the kiss, then it was the fact that the historic moment received any attention at all that drove some to flame on their Twitter feeds.  A member of the FSU football team actually defended the honor of the school's rival, the University of Florida's Tim Tebow, to take a swipe at the hype about Michael Sam:

"Y'all praise Michael Sam for being gay but y'all mocked Tim Tebow for being Christian. SMH. #society."

Here we go: Christian athletes don't get no respect and gay ones get too much.  Let's start with the fact that there is nothing novel about being a "Christian" athlete.  Christians on sports teams have been openly displaying their faith, both through gestures of prayer or by starting every interview by thanking God.  There is even a Fellowship of Christian Athletes, which is very active on the Florida State campus. In short, being a Christian athlete isn't a big deal.  

And while there were some who mocked Tim Tebow for his kneeling in prayer and pointing to the sky during games, there were just as many who loved him for it and praised him for not being afraid to exhibit public displays of affection for God.  When Tebow first entered the NFL, there was a lot of excitement and speculation that he might be a great player... especially if he learned to play another position besides quarterback.

That's where Tim Tebow fell down.  According to all reports, while Tebow is a great guy and sincere about his faith in Christ, he would not let go of his dream to play quarterback in the NFL.  That's really too bad because I think if he had trusted that his coaches knew what was better for him, he would still be playing.  Perhaps as a tight end for the New England Patriots, catching passes from Tom Brady.

Tim Tebow's failure to cut it in the NFL wasn't about Tim Tebow being a Christian.  It was about Tim Tebow being attached to a position where he wasn't needed and wasn't going to get to play.

Furthermore, the suggestion from all of this smokescreen about Christian athletes presumes that Michael Sam is not a Christian.  I don't know if he is or isn't, or if he professes to belong to any particular faith.  I do know that my college friend, the Very Rev. Mike Kinman who is dean of Christ Church Cathedral in St. Louis, issued an open invitation via Facebook for Michael and his boyfriend to join them for services on Sunday, and even noted that if they came to the 8am, they'd be able to get to the stadium in plenty of time for the kick-off for the early games!  He included the hashtags #JesusLoves #WeDoToo.   Truth via Twitter.

For his part, Michael Sam seems to be just preparing to play football and appreciating the love of his new fans in St. Louis.  I think it's great that he is joining an organization there in the Show Me State where he'll be close to his college roots in Columbia, and fans who loved him so much that they gave him a standing ovation at a basketball game shortly after he came out.  I'm proud that my alma mater, and the city of Columbia, has become a place where it isn't nearly as scary to be "out" as it was even 24 years ago when I was graduating from Journalism School.  One of the shops down town has a window display with the T-shirts bearing a new slogan, "We Are All CoMosexuals."

M-I-Z!!

Yes, His Coming Out IS a Big Deal: Homophobia in Sports

Jason Collins, NY Times photo.

Let me be blunt: Jason Collins coming out as a gay man is HUGE.

Collins, who started this season as a center with my beloved Boston Celtics, but now wears the Washington Wizards jersey, is the first male athlete, still active in professional team sports, to announce that he is a gay man.  Up to now, men in competitive pro sports in this country did not reveal their sexual orientation... because they must be straight.  They're athletes.  Athletes are macho.  Macho men are only gay if they're singing with The Village People.

In contrast, several prominent women professional athletes have announced they're lesbians:  Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova, Sheryl Swoopes, Megan Rapinoe, Brittney Griner are just some of the list of names.  But unlike men, women in sports often face the opposite issue: they must convince the fans they are NOT lesbians.

I was recently told that there is a softball team at one of the major universities where the women all put their hair up with a certain elastic tie.  The significance of the color and the style of putting up their long hair is to indicate that they are straight.  I have been told of other instances where the coaches of a women's sport have kept lesbians off the team.  Many times, the reason for denying these talented... and lesbian... athletes a chance to excel in their sport is that there is a conflict with the religious values of the coach.

Some have used their theology to back up bigoted reaction to Jason Collins' coming out.  Collins cited his belief in Christ as his reason for telling the world who he is in the Body of Christ.  But ESPN Sportscaster Chris Broussard called Collins' revelation, "openly living in unrepentant sin."  He went on to say, "I would not characterize that person as a Christian because I don't think the Bible characterizes them as a Christian."   ESPN has stood by Broussard as having had a "respectful discussion of personal viewpoints."  But, in fact, there is nothing respectful about saying that someone who has professed a belief in Jesus Christ is NOT a Christian just because they are gay. I will say this again and again... and probably again: a person's sexual orientation is NOT a sin, unrepentant or otherwise.  Our sexual orientations, whatever they are, are a beautiful gift from God. It is how God has allowed us to experience intimacy and deeper relationship with another person which is, by extension, a tapping into a deeper relationship with Divine Love.   How can anyone ask another person to repent a gift from God?  That's lunacy.

So is the commentary of Miami Dolphins wide receiver Mike Wallace.  Wallace doesn't understand homosexuality.  As he put it, "All these beautiful women in the world and guys wanna mess with other guys..."  Someone get this man to a PFLAG meeting, quickly!!  I have had this same discussion with dads who are reeling at the news that their handsome, athletic son has said he's gay.  "How can that be?  He could have any girl he wants: how does he know he's gay?"

I gave a very simple answer to that one. 

"Mister Dad: when you were 15, did you think girls were hot?"

"Oh, yeah.  I was all into girls when I was 15."

"And so you knew you were straight, then, because you thought girls were hot."

"Yeah."

"Well..... your 15 year-old son thinks guys are hot.  And that's how he knows he's gay."

And a light is turned on where there had been darkness.

As much as some have been offering up the same tired bigoted statements about gay men during this news cycle of Collins' coming out, there are many more who have risen above the usual locker room nonsense.  Within hours of his announcement, the Boston Red Sox contacted Collins via Twitter to congratulate him and offer that any time he'd like to come back to Boston and throw out the first pitch, they'd be happy to put him on the mound. 

It made me proud of my "home town" team.  Their response, and the efforts of pro football players Brendon Ayanbadejo and Chris Klewe as straight allies, not to mention the moves by the National Hockey League to institute anti-discrimination policies are signs that there is progress and acceptance happening in pro sports.  Collins will still likely endure nastiness in some quarters.  But his courage is a slam dunk for equality, and will serve as the starting point to more openness both on and off the court.

 

Purple Shirt on the Field!

photo by Rev. Canon Susan Russell and posted at All Saints Pasadena blog

Play Ball and Go Blue!

Normally, a game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Chicago White Sox wouldn't matter to me.  I haven't liked the Dodgers since the abbreviated 1981 season when they knocked out the Montreal Expos from the play-offs.   And the "real" Sox of baseball are the boys in Beantown who play at Fenway Park home of the Green "Monstah".

So, why then am I devoting a blog post to this game?

Because the two teams are number one in their respective divisions?  No. 

Because interleague play is exciting?  No.

Because it's Episcopal Night at Dodger Stadium?

Yes!!

And to mark the occasion, the Dodgers have invited Bishop Mary Glasspool to throw out the first pitch.  How super cool is that??

First, you rarely see women being given the chance to toss the ball to the catcher in the traditional start of the game (a huge oversight, I believe, of many Major League Baseball franchises.)  Women are baseball fans, and there are plenty of girls who love to swing for the fences, too.  Showcasing a prominent woman at a major league game is just good public relations.

Second, it's Pride Month, and what an honor to have a lesbian be on the mound at Dodger Stadium to start the game.  Two snaps for that PR move.

And last of all, she's an Episcopal bishop.   And the church goes to the ballpark and drinks bad beer and eats hot dogs and roots for the home team just like the rest of the world.  That is the way it ought to be.  Yes, we have lovely sanctuaries, beautiful stained glass windows, and amazing music.   But part of being in the Body of Christ is to be that body in common spaces as well and remove the idea that we are so apart from "the world" that we don't participate in it.   And if there is one Christian denomination that knows how to party, it would be the Episcopal Church.  It also establishes the idea that "the world" will embrace the church and allow it to take part in its rituals of sport.   A win-win PR coup for both the Episcopal Diocese of Los Angeles and the Dodgers.

So, for my money, tonight's game will be won in the first 30 seconds when Bishop Glasspool makes her throw to home plate, and then takes her seat to watch two young, talented left-handers attempt to keep the batters off the bases.

May the peace of the Lord which passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds in the game, L.A.! Play ball!!

Too Much Tebow

Americans love their football, but the worship of a mere mortal as the "Mile High Messiah" makes me want to dump chicken wings and beer all over those who genuflect at the altar of the pigskin.

It hit a new low when I saw the article speculating about the numbers Denver quarterback Tim Tebow posted in Sunday's wild card playoff game against the Pittsburgh Steelers.   Tebow passed for 316 yards.
He set a playoff record with an average of 31.6 yards completed.  And the TV rating for CBS at the time of the amazing one-play, one-80-yard TD pass: 31.6.   These numbers apparently set the wacky wheels in motion:  3:16... as in John 3:16, a favorite of football fans bent on holding proselytizing posters for the TV cameras at football games.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son to the end that all shall not perish, but have everlasting life."   That's your John 3:16.   It occurs in a heady exchange between Jesus and Nicodemus.  And they were not talking about an American football game!

I am beyond fed up with the hype around Tebow and his one-knee-to-the-ground-head-on-curled-fist showmanship of prayer.  I am also annoyed that if one criticizes this public display of prayer some will accuse you of being "anti-Christian."   On the contrary, I am Christian.  I believe in the Trinitarian God.  I also like pro football and I believe in sports as a fun activity, and a break from the every day to cheer on a bunch of grown men who like to run around with an oblong piece of leather and get paid to tackle each other.  I do not believe that Jesus is the reason for the football season, and the Almighty doesn't favor one player or team over another.  So all the religious symbolism being attached to Tim Tebow is ridiculous.  And looking for signs in statistics?  Oh, puh-leeze!

I am a New England Patriots fan.  Our team got off to a slow start against the Denver Broncos last month in their regular season match up.   Hopefully, they won't need to wait so long to bring Tim Tebow back to earth and remind him that there is one Son of God... and it's not him.

NOTE: Tom Brady and the Patriots took care of football business by handily defeating the Broncos in a game that seemed like a scrimmage.  As Boston Globe sports columnist Dan Shaughnessy described the 45-10 game, "It was a beating of--dare we say-- biblical proportions."  Yes, it was.

Bittersweet Ending of a Tradition

Tomorrow at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, two midwestern football rivals will take to the field in a game that has come to be known as the Border War.

The University of Missouri-Columbia Tigers vs. the University of kansas Jayhawks... also known as the "Ugly Birds".   Yes, as an alumna of Mizzou, I have an opinion about our opponent.  This game has been played every year since 1891... and its roots go back to the national upheaval during the Civil War.   Kansas was a free state.  Missouri was a slave state.  The "Jayhawkers", a band of hooligans from Kansas, would make periodic raids into western Missouri, burning towns and making mayhem.   Missouri responded by sending William Quantrill and his raucous Bushwhackers into Lawrence (home of kU), burning it to a crisp.

Today, fires and raids have given way to helmets, shoulder pads, and brutal tackling.   As these gridiron gladiators go at it on the field, fans from both sides will be screaming themselves to hoarseness as the bands play on with the fight songs to encourage their teams.

Sadly, tomorrow will likely be the last time Missouri will play its arch rival in this classic showdown.  My Alma Mater, for reasons of money, has decided to leave the Big 12 Conference and will begin playing in the SEC next season.  They'd been trying to join the Big 10, another Midwestern-based conference.  But Michigan, Ohio State, Northwestern, Wisconsin.... they all refused to acknowledge the request.  Or simply chose to look the other way.   Meanwhile, the SEC was happy to include an institution with one of the premiere Journalism Schools in the nation... as well as a football team that could join Vanderbilt in the "homecoming guest" department.   And so, beginning next year, Missouri will have a Border War with.... umm.... with....

Arkansas?

That doesn't work for me.

In fact, most of this whole realignment business of the collegiate athletic conferences doesn't work for me.  The Big 10 has twelve teams; The Big 12 this year had 10 teams.  The PAC 12 (used to be PAC 10) includes former Big 12 school Colorado... a school that might be on the Pacific Coast in the event of global warming!   Florida State has been in the Atlantic Coast Conference... even though it sits closer to the Gulf of Mexico.    The whole thing is a stinking mess, and it is all about money, and television revenues.  Not for the players, of course.  They're chattel in this high stakes world of college sports. The universities make a mint off of them.  And as legislatures continue to hack away at higher education, the need for revenue from the athletic programs becomes greater.  What should be just a game is now all about the ca-ching of cash flow.

Lost in all of this are the rivalries such as Missouri vs. kansas.  When kU heard that Missouri was going to bolt from the Big 12, the Ugly Bird school threw down the gauntlet:  leave, and this rivalry match-up is over!   Mizzou's response: we never liked you very much any way.  So, see ya later and we'll play the Gators.

As an alumna, I am disappointed.  The bitterness between the two schools and the two states has actually been fun.  All Mizzou alums get a kick out of refusing to capitalize the "k" because we know that kansas is "Neither a proper noun nor a proper state!"    In turn, the more Union-friendly fervor of kansans burns hot every time they proclaim that they've been "protecting America from Missouri since 1854!"  And when I was a student in the late 80s, both schools had the same football cheer: "Oh, yeah?! Wait 'til basketball season!!"

I hope that both schools will come to their senses and realize that we are really talking about a game, and that these conferences have become so meaningless in their geographical alignment that to sacrifice a tradition that dates back to 1891 and draws the attention of alums and curious on-lookers alike is just plain stupid.  Surely, one of the SEC foes will forgo a game against the Missouri Tigers to allow them to play the Ugly Birds.   For those of us who went to these schools, the game against the rival might be the only one that could get us excited about the sport in question.  I mean, no one at Mizzou ever gave up her tickets to football or basketball games against kU. 

Guess that won't be an issue any more.

   

Pope Joe Pa: Buh-Bye

There are lots of things I could blog about, but tonight I am shaking my head in amazement and horror at the destruction of a giant of American college football.
Joe Paterno, head coach of the Penn State Nittany Lions for 46 years, has been fired in the wake of the sexual abuse scandal involving his former defensive co-ordinator.  The story is tragic.  Jerry Sandusky joined the Penn State coaching staff in 1969, and eight years later, begins a program called Second Mile in 1977.  He sets up group foster homes for troubled boys who either have no family or come from dysfunctional backgrounds.  And it is from this setting that Sandusky meets his victims... as many as nine boys... who he would take to the showers at the Penn State football stadium and abuse them.  According to the timeline in the grand jury indictment, numerous people, sometimes the parents of the boys and sometimes university employees, saw or learned of the abuse and reported it.
But nothing happened.
And the worst was the graduate assistant who saw Sandusky having sex with a 10 year-old in the showers.  The grad assistant didn't intervene to save the boy.  Instead he told his father, and the next day went to Head Coach Joe Paterno and told him.   Sandusky wasn't even on the official coaching staff, but was some kind of "coach emeritus" with the team.
Did Paterno call the cops?  No, he called the athletic director.  Did the athletic director call the cops?  No, instead everyone promises to "look into it."  Sandusky has his keys taken away.  But not his freedom.
This was in 2002 when there were a number of headlines about the Roman Catholic Church's own issues with child sex abuse.  And Paterno is Catholic.   His response to the news that something was rotten in the showers of his vaunted football progam is too reminiscent of how his Holy See also preferred to look the other way as it became apparent that the church would shuffle pedophiles from one parish to another.
Paterno had announced earlier today that he would retire at the end of this, his 46th season.  The 84 year-old coach probably still believed that his legacy could still be salvaged.  Certainly, everyone would remember his "Great Experiment" of making championship-worthy football go hand-in-hand with great academics.  He probably wanted to add another win to his record of 409, more than any other coach in college football. 
Instead, the Board of Trustees have told Joe Pa: Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Good-Bye.  Same with the University President. 
Like I said, it's all tragic and sad.  Especially for Victims numbers 1-9. 
Most college sports teams are shaken up by financial misdeeds by boosters, or athletes breaking the law, or college tutors cheating on behalf of the players to keep the athlete eligible to play.   But raping young boys in the team shower?  Sorry, Joe Pa.  If you knew and did nothing, you do not deserve to leave on your terms.