Thanks, But No Trophies for Me

Back during the summer I watched as Rory McIlroy lapped the field in the U.S. Open. It was an incredible performance that likely will not soon be matched, either by him or anyone else. Afterwards, he posted a couple tweets with pictures of the US Open trophy. It made me think…


It’s good that I’ve never won any event like this. Really, it is.  It’s good that I have roughly zero athletic ability—or any other ability that might one day lead to the awarding of some sort of trophy or major award (yes, that IS a Christmas Story reference). Why is it so good that I’ll never win anything? Because I would be intolerably obnoxious about it. It may be sad, but it’s true.

I would never stop talking about winning the US Open. Never. I’d bring it up at weird times. “Congratulations, it’s a boy!” and I would respond, “This is an awesome day. Only slightly more awesome than when I won the US Open.”

“Would you like dessert today?” “No,” I would reply, “not today. Speaking of days, did you know it’s been 562 days since I won the US Open?”

And it wouldn’t stop there. I’d drive around with the trophy beside me in the car. I’d tell the story over and over of how I sank the final putt on the 18th green or how I ran away with the tournament and was able to coast in. However it played out, you’d hear about it again and again and again. Oh, and again.

I would be the consummate me-monster. “Hey, did you hear that Bob got promoted to partner in his firm?” “That’s great. It reminds me of when I won the US Open.”

“I’d like to toast the bride and groom. May your days be filled with as much happiness as I had the day I won the US Open.”

So it is a good thing that I’m a no-talent hack on the golf course, and the football field, and the baseball diamond, and the basketball court, and the soccer pitch, and the tennis court, etc., etc., etc.

You can thank me for my mediocrity later.

Multiply

"All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (NIV)

Matthew ends his gospel with these words--Jesus' final command while on earth. As David Platt puts it, "It is the central mission that Christ gave to his church before going to heaven." All of Jesus' words are important, but this is it--the last thing he wanted his disciples to hear. So after receiving the Holy Spirit, they set out, traveling the world, sharing the gospel, making disciples of all nations.

It seems pretty clear that carrying the gospel to the world is exactly what Jesus wants us to do today. Church isn't about fancy buildings, cool music, or pot-luck dinners. It is about sharing the gospel with the world.

For so long in my life I was incredibly closed-minded. I find I still struggle with this, but through my own spiritual growth, I've come to see just how wrong I was about a lot of things. I didn't grow up going to church, so whatever ideas I had about right and wrong came primarily from a secular standpoint, and usually of my own making. The idea that sin could be separated from the sinner was a foreign concept at best. Anyone who did anything that I considered wrong was worthy of contempt.

I think this is true of a lot of people. Somewhere along the way, we forget that the people we see committing sin are just people. We forget that we, too, are just as guilty of wrong-doing as they are. We get these ideas...

A perfect example of what I'm talking about took place last summer in Ohio.  Here's what I wrote back then:

There is a strip club in this small town and there is a church there that has a serious problem with the club. The solution they've come up with is to picket in front of the club, taking pictures of the people going in the club and taking pictures of their cars and license plates. Because they believe that stripping is wrong, they want it stopped, and they think that by doing these things, they will deter people from going to this place.  Not surprisingly, faced with such condemnation, the girls at the club have not reacted favorably to the church. In fact, they set up a counter-protest at the church. So in this town you now have church people protesting in front of the strip club and strippers protesting in front of the church.

I read this morning about a ministry based in California that was started by a former stripper. The goal of this ministry is to reach those who are still in this industry and show them the transformative power of Jesus. They heard about the town in Ohio, so this past weekend a few of them trekked from San Diego to Ohio to see these girls. Their first day in the town, they went to the club and explained who they were. The church members protesting outside largely ignored them, but the girls invited them right in. They spent the next few hours sharing Jesus with these girls--not condemning, not judging--just sharing Jesus. They went back the next night with food for the protesters and the strippers. The spent hours with the strippers again, showing God's love and compassion, sharing God's willingness to forgive. Before the night was over, several of the girls had committed their lives to Christ and/or rededicated their lives to Christ.

It is so easy for us to judge.  It is so easy for us to condemn.  But whose message got through?  The ones who saw only the sin or the ones who saw the people obscured behind the sin?

The Tiger Dilemma

Written earlier this summer:

For the first time since 1994, Tiger Woods will miss the US Open, and I find myself…conflicted. My initial reaction is that I am happy he is not playing. In his career he has won 14 major championships—that’s four short of Jack Nicklaus, who is generally, if not universally, considered the best to have ever played. The truth is, a big part of me doesn’t want to see Tiger Woods eclipse Nicklaus’s mark; a big part of me doesn’t want Woods to be known as the greatest; a big part of me wants to see him fall short. But why?


Golf isn’t for everyone. Some people think it is a ridiculous game played by wealthy old white men. That perception has changed in my life, and I have to admit, in no small part because of Tiger Woods. The sport stands apart, though, in the way it is played. The game is still played with integrity. It is still played with a sense of honor. Players police themselves. It is not at all uncommon for a player to assess himself a penalty if he or she has broken a rule. That simply does not happen in other sports. When was the last time a wide receiver caught a pass on the sideline and shook off the completion because he knew he’d stepped out of bounds? When was the last time a basketball player called a foul on himself? These things don’t happen, but in golf, they do. Does that mean that golfers are perfect? Of course not. I have no doubt each and every player who has ever played the game has his or her own shortcomings. Such is the nature of mankind.

That players will admit that they’ve messed up or violated a rule, even if it costs them a championship, does set the sport apart, though. In no small part, that is why I love the game. And at the top of this sport are men who have embodied that spirit of fair play and honor. For them to be supplanted by someone who has lived his life the way Tiger Woods has, makes me sad. I don’t want to see it happen because then golf is no different than any other sport. Athletic ability trumps integrity. I’ve never been much of a “hero” guy, but if one of my kids said they wanted to be like Jack Nicklaus when they grow up, I wouldn’t mind. There are few heroes in sports anymore, and maybe in some ways that is a good thing, but we still look for those individuals who stand above the rest, who set a positive example in a world filled with bad ones.

If my initial reaction is that I’m happy he’s not playing, then my second reaction is that I’m ashamed of my first reaction. I believe in forgiveness and redemption. My faith tells me that we all fall short, and though none of us deserves it, we are given forgiveness if we seek it. Because of the grace extended to us, we should be quick to extend it to others. Tiger Woods doesn’t have a clue who I am—nor should he—and he certainly doesn’t care if I forgive him. What does it say about me, though, that I want to see him fail in his professional life because of the failings he’s had in his personal life? What does it say about me that I cheer for him to lose? I have certainly messed up in my life—maybe not in the same way as Tiger, but certainly as often. The only difference is that the whole world knows who he is, and about 17 people in the world know who I am. But is that a real difference? What if those 17 people I know were actively cheering for my failure because of all the stupid, hurtful, terrible things I’ve done in my life?

So what am I to do? Should I write him off, refuse to recognize the remarkable career he’s had? Do I continue to cheer for him, in spite of the scofflaw he’s proven to be?

My third reaction is to wonder if there is some sort of middle ground. Perhaps it is to recognize that just because his sins have been aired so publicly doesn’t make them any worse than mine. Perhaps it is to expect that he live his life with integrity, but offer forgiveness when he stumbles, just like I’ve been given. In the end, I can appreciate the gifts and talents he’s been given and hope that he uses those to honor the One who gave them to him in the first place, and then teach myself and my kids once more that no man should ever be put on a pedestal. He’ll always fall short.

A Recent Dream

Something went wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. The world I had known vanished. No time for reflection; no time for lamenting; no time for understanding. Survival—that is what remains. And it is upon me, omnipresent and all-encompassing.


I don’t know where I am, or rather, I knew where I was, only now it looks completely different. People—there are others. Some I know. Most I don’t.

In the first few hours, survival means not being alone. The ones I know, even if only tangentially, become instant partners, instant allies.

A few days later I’m in a building on the second floor. I’ve never been here before, but I’m surrounded by “my” people—people who, in another life, in another time, were fellow followers of Christ. What are we now? No time to consider.

We cannot stay here much longer without supplies. Are there any to be found? Will we have to kill to get them? The others scoff at the idea or else are repulsed by it. Are they in shock or are they blind to what happened—to what is happening?

Two of us will go. Nancy’s father owns a grocery store. She hasn’t seen or heard from him. Privately, I think it is unlikely we will find him and highly likely that the shelves of his store will be empty—all goods sold, possibly, but more likely looted.

They tease me as I slip my Glock into my belt at the small of my back. They laugh, but they don’t tell me not to take it.

We walk out the door. Chaos reigns in the streets below. I immediately pull my gun out. Nancy laughs a little, but moves closer to me. The doorway leads onto a metal staircase, leading straight to the alley below. Amazingly, Nancy’s car is parked there, unmolested by looters. I lead the way to the car, my eyes constantly scanning, looking for signs of trouble.

I’m not a cop or a soldier. Days ago I would have felt ridiculous in this posture, but now I know—I can feel—that our lives depend on my vigilance. I am as I was before—getting older, terribly out of shape from sitting for eleven years behind a desk. I’m in no shape for anything like this. More clarity than I would’ve expected: if I’m to survive, if I survive, I will soon be in shape for this, through stark, painful necessity.

Nancy’s car is a 4-door sedan; silver and otherwise nondescript. There is an unfolded sleeping bag across the backseat. I don’t question this. She has opened the back door on the driver’s side and I’ve done the same on the passenger side. I see him out of the corner of my eye. He seems to be stumbling, falling, about to crash into the car. In that split second I cannot tell—is he crazy, drunk, old, or as stunned as I feel? I reach out to catch him. Old instinct clashes with new: poor old man falling and I want to help versus dangerous man, threatening my survival. My attempt to catch him fails—did I hesitate in uncertainty about his intentions? He lands face-first in the back seat. Fast, much faster than I thought he’d be, he slides all the way through the car, taking the sleeping back with him. I move around the car, gun pointed at his back. I’ve pulled the trigger before I even realize it.

Roar of the gun, explosion of blood out of the man’s midsection. But no, only a click. The gun doesn’t fire. Why? Nothing in the chamber. I’m shaking. Did I try to kill a man over a sleeping bag?

Something has gone terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. The world I knew has vanished. The person I knew me to be has vanished in the click of a gun. I didn’t, but I would have killed him—I tried—to kill him. The man has disappeared, gone as quickly as he came.

We’ve gone back upstairs. Nancy is shaken. I’m—I don’t know what I am. The people are a blur around me. Words are spoken but unheard by me. Inside I know I’ve just crossed a line, some sort of threshold. Outwardly I’m still shaking, but inside I’m calm, made so by this realization: the need will come again to pull that trigger, and I can do it.

It is too dangerous, they’ve decided, for Nancy to make the trip. I will go, along with another man. Do I know this guy? Maybe, barely, a little. The two of us are about to put our lives in each other’s hands, and I can’t even remember his name. We must have food and supplies, though. Survival trumps all.

He drives, so now he is The Driver. Somehow I didn’t know we’d be going to a different town. A little larger than here, but not much. I know this place, or knew it years before, as a child.

We make it to the town without incident, but not without worry. The gun never leaves my hand. The Driver doesn’t comment on it, but after yesterday’s scare, no one is making fun of me anymore.

The traffic lights aren’t working—no surprise. Our town has no electricity either, but it doesn’t matter. There is no traffic. People are about, and at first glance, things appear calmer here. No violence, at least not on the main streets.

This grocery store isn’t like the large chain places. Family owned and operated. The parking lot is small and mostly empty. A few cars remain, but they already look abandoned. How quickly the permanent things we’ve made start to show their impermanence. White boards are hung over the windows of the store, or maybe they now replace the windows. I can’t tell. It looks abandoned, too, but I’m not sure.

Again it occurs to me that most likely this store has been emptied out, but we have to try, and that the windows have been boarded up means that someone has tried to protect this place. I get out of the car first, pistol in hand. There is a bullet in the chamber now. Another mistake like yesterday will likely leave me dead. In this new world, most of us aren’t savvy yet, but in a month, a moment of hesitation or an oversight like not having a bullet in the chamber will likely be my demise.

People are around, and it is tense—I can feel it in the air—but nobody threatens us or even approaches us. We reach the door, which has also been boarded over. The Driver tries the handle, but it is locked.

I see him coming, but it is too late. He hits me across the middle with a broomstick. The stick hits hard against my elbow, and the gun falls from my now-numb fingers. He grabs it quickly—before either I or The Driver can move. People on the sidewalk and in the parking lot quickly wander off. They are surviving too, and getting caught up in someone else’s fight isn’t conducive to survival.

I’m bracing myself for another hit and trying to decide if I should run or fight, but the next hit never comes. My attacker is holding the broom in one hand and my gun in the other. He’s small—no taller than I am—and older, maybe in his 60s. He’s Asian. An Asian man, here, I wonder. “What you want?” he asks, not threatening, but not inviting either.

“Mr. White, it’s Tommy Anderson, Nancy’s friend,” The Driver says. “She sent us here.”

Without lowering the broom or the gun, he says, “Follow me.” I can’t process this. Nancy isn’t Asian. At least, she doesn’t look at all Asian.

We walk around the corner, down an alleyway, to the back of the store. He looks around to make sure no one else is there, then starts pushing against the side of a dumpster. I can’t imagine what he’s doing, but then I see it. The dumpster is huge and shouldn’t move, but it does. Somehow he’s pushed the whole thing almost two feet. He drops to the ground and crawls through a small hole in the wall, revealed when the dumpster moved. The Driver looks at me bewildered, but we follow anyway.

Through the hole we find ourselves in the back storeroom of the grocery store. Mr. White is pulling a chain, and I can see that the dumpster is sliding. With a thud it locks back into place. “Won’t move when locked,” Mr. White says.

He looks hard first at me, then at The Driver, and then back at me. “Put that away,” he says, handing me back my gun. I wince as I reach out my arm to take the gun. “You hurt?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I assure him, sticking the gun back in my belt.

“Mr. White,” The Driver says, “Nancy will be glad to know you’re okay.”

“Nancy is okay?” Mr. White asks.

“She’s fine.” The Driver stops for a moment. “Well, she’s not fine. She’s like the rest of us—confused, shaken, scared. But she’s alive.”

Mr. White nods. “I knew she would be okay. She’s a survivor.”

“Do you have any food and supplies left?” I ask. I know I should be more concerned about Mr. White and his family. I ask anyway.

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury

In the summer of 1974, 28 years after the first publication of Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury wrote a new introduction, explaining how the semi-autobiographical novel came into existence and how he used the same basic process to write all of the stories and books throughout his life. In its simplest form, Bradbury explained, the process went like this:

I simply got out of bed each morning, walked to my desk, and put
down any word or series of words that happened along in my head. I
would then take arms against the word, or for it, and bring on an assortment of
characters to weigh the word and show me its meaning in my own life. An
hour or two hours later, to my amazement, a new story would be finished and
done. The surprise was total and lovely.

For Bradbury, writing Dandelion Wine seems to be a reconstruction project of sorts. He takes words and phrases that hold a particular meaning and pulls from his own mind memories of days past, working to fit the words and memories together. Added to those pieces is the one thing that 12 year-old Douglas Spaulding lacks: hindsight. Finally, Bradbury puts in a healthy dose of wonderment. These four pieces, when cemented together, make for a moving, heartfelt remembrance of that ever-too-brief time in life when the world is full of wonder and amazement, where anything can happen (and sometimes does), where summertime really can be captured in a bottle. Bradbury describes his novel this way:

Dandelion Wine is nothing if it is not the boy-hid-in-the-man
playing in the fields of the Lord on the green grass of other Augusts in the
midst of starting to grow up, grow old, and sense darkness waiting under the
trees to seed the blood.

I asked once before if it is possible to feel nostalgic for a time and place one has never known. In Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury invites us to remember with him the magical summer of his twelfth year. Told with such detail and imagination, one can't help being drawn in to the summertime adventures of Douglas Spaulding. It is hard not to want to sit on a front porch, surrounded by neighbors and family, watching fireflies dancing across the lawn. What for Douglas is a time of discovery and enchantment is for the reader a glimpse of a simpler world, a world full of amazing things--some wonderful, some dangerous, but all amazing. Maybe the summer of 1928 isn't the summer most remember, but in some small way, most readers can find a connection to their own childhood--a link to the half-forgotten memories. It is more, though. It makes one long for the childhood one could've had--filled with wonder, amazement, fantasticism, beauty, danger, and at last, growing up.

Man on the Sidewalk

Why were you sitting on the sidewalk? Were you tired, hurt, hungry? Why did you sit there as people walked by? People who either glanced at you and quickly looked away, or people who pointedly refused to look in your direction. And you sat there. You’d say hello as people went by. Some responded, but most didn’t. Occasionally you’d ask for some money, but not often.


As I waited for my food—enough for you and me both—I stopped watching you and started watching the faces of the people with whom you interacted. Most ignored you and went on their way. A few looked repulsed. None looked sympathetic.

And still I watched. You were just sitting there, saying hello. Someone must have complained. You couldn’t have been there very long. Here they came—one on foot, the other on a scooter. You’ve got to leave. I’m sure that’s what they told you. No other choice. You are sitting in front of a restaurant. Don’t you know you’re making people feel guilty? No, that wasn’t it. Surely we don’t make people go away just so we don’t have to feel bad about ignoring them.

I got my food and left—enough for both of us, but shared with no one. I looked for you. I’m not altruistic. I walked right by you and into the restaurant. Just like so many others, I didn’t take the time. Would I have spoken if I found you? I tell myself I would have, but I didn’t as I first walked by.

Why were you sitting on the sidewalk? You looked young—younger than me. Why did you sit there, just saying hello? Were you hungry? Did you need a place to rest? Were you lost? Were you afraid? Angry? Thirsty? Or were you just broken—broken like me but not like me?

And then you were gone.

Fans

Some time ago I watched a football game between two big rivals.  The teams involved aren’t important, nor is how the game ended.  I watched this game with people who were all fans of one of the teams.  Throughout the game some of them ravaged the other team’s players, coaches, and fans.  It was ugly.  At one point I tried to offer some balance, pointing out that pretty much every team has their fair share of questionable fans.  I suggested that their own team was no exception, much to their dismay.  They just couldn’t think of any fans that they knew who were obnoxious like the other team’s fans. 

That particular game led me to a little rule of thumb, which since then has proven itself over and over.  It goes something like this: if you aren’t able to identify the obnoxious fans in your own fan base, then most likely you are the obnoxious fan.