Opening pitch

While the movies proclaim there’s no crying in baseball, there might be a few tears at Victory Field next Thursday night. The crowds will gather for a celebrity softball game to remember and celebrate a little girl whose life ended much too soon. 

Caroline Symmes was just 5 years old when she died last December from a Wilms’ Tumor. In her brief life, she captured the hearts of many, including those who cared for her at Riley Hospital for Children and the Indiana Children’s Wish Fund. Caroline was precious to me because she was the first baby I ever had the privilege of baptizing.

My heart has broken for those closest to Caroline as they’ve wandered the devastating chasm of grief.  Although I believe God will comfort all who mourn and give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit, those promises seem empty in the wake of a tragic loss like the death of a child. 

Yet I’ve seen ripples of grace spread from a tragedy like this one. Family and friends have created networks of support. Faith communities have connected in new ways. Funds are being raised to benefit organizations like the Indiana Children’s Wish Fund, which creates memories and builds hope for other families with children who are ill. 

And perhaps those same ripples of grace will flow from the baseball diamond next week, as God gives Cracker Jacks instead of ashes, the oil for a softball glove instead of mourning, the mantle of celebration instead of exhaustion, all from the opening pitch. 

The Caroline Symmes Memorial Softball Challenge begins at 5 p.m. next Thursday, June 3 at Victory Field in Indianapolis. Tickets are $5, available at Ticketmaster. All proceeds benefit the Indiana Children’s Wish Fund. 

In Control

I woke up Monday morning expecting to feel different in my new interim senior pastor role.  I was certain that I would command a new sense of respect, power, and authority. 

My dog Isaiah, of course, was my first test. When I told him this was my first day in my new position, he rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Later on, he refused to come inside when I called him.  I gave up and left him outside all day.

As I walked into the church building, one parishioner called me the Grand Poobah. I offered him to kiss my ring, but he said that’s reserved for popes.  Another person said I looked a foot taller, but I was a foot taller than she is before I assumed the church’s helm. 

Others have been scheming with me on the best ways to maximize my newfound authority. My mentor reminded me that when the president of South Africa took leave a few years ago, the deputy president invaded Lesotho. 

The senior pastor himself joked that I might be the next Al Haig. For those of you who missed or slept through that era of American history, Haig served in many government positions, including Secretary of State under Reagan. When Reagan was hospitalized after his assassination attempt, Haig reportedly said, “As of now, I am in control here, in the White House.” The irony is that Haig was really fourth in line to inherit the presidency. 

As I contemplate the humble reality of the position I’ve temporarily inherited, I wonder about the adventures the next four months have in store. I pray for an extra dose of patience and grace. I hope for new experiences and challenges.  And every time I’m tempted to quote Haig, I’m reminded that we are never, ever really in control. 

Tomb

In the wee hours of Good Friday, two more teenagers in our city were gunned down as violence ripped again through a Westside neighborhood. One of the young men died; the other is in critical condition after surgery.

According to news reports, it was the second shooting at the home in a 24-hour period.  The night before, 12 shots ripped through the house, almost hitting a 9-year-old boy sleeping on the couch.  

The alleged perpetrator remains at large.

To many, these teenage boys are nameless and faceless, just one more example of teenage violence, just one more adolescent life with a tragic end.

To one of the child care providers at North Church, these young men are precious children in her family. Her stepson was the one killed; her son remains in critical condition. She knows their faces, stories, and lives with deep intimacy. 

I can’t even begin to imagine her nightmare. I’ve wondered today, of all days, why Jesus is still in the tomb.

And I wonder how in the face of such despair, we can be a community that believes he still moves stones.

A "Christian Thing"

It started out as a “Christian thing.” David Brian Stone would take his family to church. They would pray. They would read Scripture, particularly Revelation, and believe they knew how the world would end.  

But then something happened. According to David’s ex-wife, he began to take it too far. He started talking about taking on the government. He joined the Hutaree, an extremist Christian militia group based in Michigan.  He became the group’s leader. He went from hand guns to automatic weapons to improvised explosive devices. 

On the second day of Holy Week, David, three of his family members, and five of his fellow militia members were indicted on an alleged plot to kill a police officer and then bomb the funeral procession.  “Jesus wanted us to be ready to defend ourselves using the sword and stay alive using equipment,” the Hutaree web site says. “The Hutaree will one day see its enemy and meet him on the battlefield if so God wills it.”

What started out as a “Christian thing” had gone terribly awry. 

We’ll never know what snapped in David, or why he was allegedly leading others to commit heinous acts in the name of Jesus. 

What we do know is this: On the sixth day of Holy Week, they came and laid hands on Jesus and arrested him. Suddenly, one of those with Jesus put his hand on his sword, drew it, struck the slave of the high priest, cutting off his ear. Then Jesus said to him, “Put your sword back in its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matthew 26:50a-52a).

Jesus was beaten and mocked, ridiculed and whipped. He never retaliated. He died later that day, when violent hands nailed him to a cross. He forgave his killers and traitors. Three days later, he rose from the dead and triumphed over all of the violence and hatred and suffering, leaving an unsurpassed peace for those who love and follow him. 

That, my friends, is a “Christian thing.” 

Have you seen Raven?

Raven is a 70-lb black Lab who's been missing since the late afternoon of Tuesday, March 23. She escaped from a yard near 71st and Michigan Roads. She was last seen headed north toward 79th Street. If you see her, please call Holly at 317-517-2070. 


Thanks!

Standing with her in the rain

Samantha approached me outside the church on Thanksgiving morning with her hair disheveled and her coat covered with dirt smudges and rain drops.  She demanded to borrow my cell phone to find if the Thanksgiving dinner she had requested from a charitable organization would be ready for pick-up in an hour.  I was in a hurry. I needed to be inside preparing to lead worship. I begrudgingly let her borrow my phone, but I insisted on dialing the number myself and standing with her in the gentle rain.

Samantha issued commands to the person on the other end of line. When she hung up, the rant continued against our church, our staff, the weather, and this meal that would serve as her Thanksgiving dinner.  I had to let her go mid-rant, but not before reminding her that I would keep her in my prayers. 

My encounters with Samantha have continued over the past few months. She’s almost always confused, angry, and paranoid. She tells stories about growing up with another member of our staff, who never met her until recently.  It’s hard to know how to respond to Samantha. 

A friend called me recently to ask if our church had any resources for helping congregations to welcome those who struggle with mental illness. I pointed her in a few directions, including the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). Even as I offered her the information, I felt uneasy. Connecting with those who have mental illnesses is a complex, difficult journey. 

It was raining again on Monday when I saw Samantha. She was sitting in the front lobby of the church. She shouted at me as I walked out the door, “Be careful out there! Two guys tried to kidnap me, and I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.” Unwilling to believe her, I replied, “Samantha, I’m sorry you had a rough morning. I’ll be thinking of you. Hope your day gets better.” I continued out the church doors and opened my umbrella.

I later discovered that Samantha was mugged that morning. Thankfully, the police believed her while I blew her off. They arrested the alleged perpetrators that afternoon. 

I’m embarrassed by my lack of gentleness and compassion toward Samantha, and I know I’m not alone. I wonder what it means for the Church to embrace, accept, and listen to those who have mental illnesses. I wonder how church leaders like myself can grow and help others to deepen their care for people like Samantha.  

There are no simple answers, but I think the answer starts in a simple place: We stand with them in the rain. 

When William Grows Up

When I look into William’s deep brown eyes, I see a window to our souls. William is only a week old. He lives next door. The moment I spot him, I want to tussle his curly black hair and poke his pudgy brown cheeks.  He’s beautiful.

Like most babies his age, he sleeps and eats and burps and potties and then repeats the cycle.  What separates William from some of his fellow infants is that he is a brown baby adopted by white parents.  And both of his parents are mommies.  

As I cradle him in my arms, I stare deeply into his eyes, praying and hoping that just maybe the world will be different for him. 

Maybe when William grows up, his mommies will have their union recognized by the state of Indiana. 

Maybe when William grows up, The United Methodist church will openly affirm people who are gay and lesbian instead of declaring their lifestyle to be incompatible with Christian teaching.  

Maybe when Williams grows up, I will be able to perform marriage and commitment ceremonies for my friends in same-sex relationships. 

Maybe when Williams grows up, my clergy colleague who is a lesbian will believe she has a future in The United Methodist Church. 

Maybe when William grows up, I will no longer counsel parents and children who are haunted by their sexual identity because all people will be accepted just as God created them to be. 

William will be grown up before we know it.  As I gaze into his eyes, I’m certain that we are the only ones who can change his world.