The First Time I Was Right and It Didn't Matter

by Ben Howard

Dateline: March 1^st, 1994.

I sit cross-legged on the big meeting rug in the middle of my 1^st grade classroom. My teacher calls this “sitting Indian-style.” Political correctness came late to the elementary schools of small town central Ohio.

My teacher, Mrs. Aufdencamp, a sturdy woman in her mid-50’s wearing orthopedic shoes as she hovers over the class, is well-known as a stern task-master. She bellows my name. I stand up, clumsily.

She asks me to go up to the classroom calendar and put today’s date on the board. I hesitate.

On the wall to my right hangs a giant calendar made out of pink, purple and red construction paper for the month of February. Apparently February is the color of lipstick. In a box to the right of the calendar is a stool holding a shoebox. This is the box of dates. One date is left in this box. February 29^th.

But there is no February 29^th.

I may be young, but I am aware of certain inalienable truths. There is only a February 29^th once every four years and it only happens in years with both a presidential election and a summer Olympics. This year there are winter Olympics and a World Cup. That’s not quite cool enough for an extra day.

I protest, “Dearest educator, I beg your pardon, but today is March 1^st.” My memories are far more deferential and eloquent than real life.

She sneers and I swear I see a puff of smoke emanate from her left nostril. “Foolish child! Of course it’s not. Your wise and beneficent teacher would never make a mistake. Now PUT UP THE DATE!” She may have actually said, “Um, I don’t think so,” but my version is way better.

I fell to my face, supplicant before my beloved yet simultaneously terrifying teacher. I was scared, but I had to fight for what I knew to be right. “Oh fair one! My liege! I must insist. You are making a grave error. Please do not force me to lead my fellow astray.” I may have encapsulated this erudite argument in the phrase, “It is too, March 1^st!”

In my mind’s eye I can see the rage boiling in her eyes at my six-year-old insolence. She strides to her desk with a menacing stare that probably never actually occurred and rifles through her purse until she pulls out her trusty check book. She flings open the book, checks the date, and begins a slow and dangerous exhale. She knows that I am correct. I am the victor. I have vanquished my foe.

You would think that my classmates would lift me on their shoulders for saving them from their mistakenly-dated fate, but alas no congratulations were given. Simply an acknowledgement that it was indeed March 1^st. Game over.

Or so I thought, but parent-teacher conferences wait for no man and while I forgot, my foe remembered.

On the night of the parent-teacher conference, my parents returned from their meeting with serious looks. They walked in, had me sit at the table and said that we needed to have a talk. My teacher has informed them that I am argumentative and often disruptive. She believes that I have a problem with authority.

Of course, she was right. Well, she still is right. I was argumentative, and I still am. I also have a well-documented problem with authority. I may have neglected to tell you about the other run-ins I had with this teacher where I was less right and less victorious. My memories like to be glorious.

I look at my parents and I protest, “But, but, did she tell you that I was right?”

She did. That wasn’t the point. 

That was the first time I remember being right and discovering that it wasn’t so important. It’s a lesson I keep learning and it’s a lesson that I continue to forget.

Peace,

Ben

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87. 

 

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A Place in Sedona

by JaneAnn Kenney

Growing up, I became increasingly aware that places matter, for better or worse. When my first experience of our house in Kentucky involved a man’s demise, it took years for the very physical location of that house not to bring me to panic, feeling that the house and the whole town were overshadowed by death. Conversely, I remember our home in Hurricane as filled with laughter and light, a place of peace to which I wish I could return. A certain dry riverbed in Benjamin, Texas—all red dirt and stars—gives me a similar feeling of familial acceptance.

Studying literature fine-tuned my locative sense. No longer must I base my assessment of a place merely on my own feelings. Rather, I can analyze it—what does it mean for a female to enter a traditionally masculine space (the academy or the work force) or to stay in traditionally feminine space (the home)? What does it mean for a place to be restricted, or dangerous, or uninhabitable? Where are the places which are for all people, and can thus become holy?

Coming to Arizona was a shock to my sense of place. On a superficial level, it is strange that my midnight text goes unanswered because my friends on Central Time don’t have their phones on at 2 am. (Arizona is currently on Pacific Time, with California.) Reds’ games are finished before I wake up, so it seems, and the Spurs/Heat games begin during happy hour. What glorious insanity is this? 

The heat in Phoenix is unlike any I’ve experienced before—dry and close, like the very molecules in the air don’t have enough room or energy to move, made lethargic with fever. Cactuses are real, and if you’ve never seen a bird of paradise, stop reading right now and Google it. (Perhaps the tourism board should give me a job?)

Physically, Sedona has great significance in my family. My parents were married here nearly 30 years ago, in the shadow of Bell Rock. The only wedding picture I’ve ever seen is of them standing in the wind together, back when Mom had shoulder-length waves of hair, gazing (although I hate the word) into each other’s eyes (I guess this is their love story), so excited for the adventure to begin that she didn’t even buy a white dress; Mary Beth found one for her. This place represents a time when I was not. All that existed of me was my parents’ love for one another (to leave out boring biological facts; I would be born four years later, so figure it out yourself).

Being in this physical location takes me to a place where my own existence can be questioned. I exist (most often emphatically, and if you’ve met me, you know that it’s true), but this land seems so mystical, so otherworldly compared to the rolling hills of Ohio or the old mountains of West Virginia—it feels as though the very place has taken me back in time. The eastern United States are, in my mind, predictably situated, content to remain as they are. They are my context. Should I even exist in this place?

Metaphysical questions aside, the drive up from Phoenix on “the 17” (when did interstates start using definite articles?) and now being here in Sedona at my mother’s best friend’s home put me rather in mind of a journey to some holy land. This is God’s country. The climb up through the mountains, my ascent; the rope lightning of a summer rainstorm in the distance, a demonstration of power and presence. He painted these rocks red and sent them reaching for the heavens, created unobtrusive trees as contrasting accents to the rock and the heights. This is not a useful place—not good for farming, not convenient for industry—and yet it feels purposeful. This place is meant to recall God’s majesty.

We speak sometimes of the thin places, the places where heaven and earth meet, places where we hear echoes of eternity and feel the goodness of creation as though it had not fallen. Being in Sedona, I remember stories which are not my own—of my parents before I changed their lives in Alaska, if you can believe it, and of another people for whom places were important, marked with rocks to say “this is Beth-El”. In this place, my hopes for my life are peacefully swallowed up in my hopes for the future of humanity and the greater creation. My personal goals are subsumed in this larger purpose: that God will one day renew all places so that heaven and earth are permeable and each is made new by the proximity of the other. In that day, our relationships will be renewed—to God, to one another, to the creatures and creation.

Do not hear this as an otherworldly hope. It is very firmly rooted in my 5’6” frame being in this physical location, two hours north of Phoenix by way of interstates and state routes. I arrived in a black 2013 Corolla. I have cat hair all over me from Tony, the friendly striped beast. I am eating a green apple which came with me from Nashville, Tennessee, and I hope soon to have red dirt covering my white sneakers, wind in my blond hair, my purple sunglasses protecting my blue eyes from the fiery setting sun.

The apostle Paul also insists on the importance of this earthly place in God’s plans: “the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience” (Rom. 8:22-25, NRSV). Creation’s pain is not without purpose—not even Paul would describe labor pains as being for naught. Rather, something good this way comes, and the pain itself evidences the struggle for the birth of this good, which God reassures us is coming.

I’m sure if I stayed here in Sedona and made a life, I’d find it is further from heaven than I imagine. The everyday headaches and cyclical heartaches would find me here, as anywhere else. I would experience loss, and the world of violence and hostility would invade my tranquility. 

Today, however, in this place, I need no patience. Hope is being justified right here, in front of my eyes and under my feet, in the red stone distance and the wind blowing through tree branches. To pray “Maranatha—Lord come quickly” is appropriate and yet feels superfluous. He is coming, and he has put this thin place on earth to remind us that the places we love and the people of those places are very much the object of his very real purpose.

You can ask JaneAnn about: Nashville, theology, cats. Baseball. Glacial rivers. Her stance on the color purple, and then again the existence of the word "purple." General frivolity and terrible music (for the DANCING!!). Old Stephen King novels, time zones, and toll roads in Oklahoma. She will not, however, answer any questions about that thing living in her fridge. You can follow her on Twitter @JAKof3Ts.

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Remembering a Ragamuffin

by Rebekah Mays

On Friday, Brennan Manning, a beloved author, speaker, and former Franciscan friar, passed away at the age of 78.

He is best known for his book The Ragamuffin Gospel, which if you haven’t read, you should. The book’s subtitle gives you an idea of what Manning’s life was all about: “Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-Up, and Burnt Out.”

It’s clear from Manning’s writing that he writes for himself just as much as for others. It is clear that he too needs God’s love, which is perhaps why his proclamation of the gospel is so effective. In his memoir, All is Grace, Manning humbly describes the detours of his life:

“Prone to wander? You bet. I’ve been a priest, then an ex-priest. Husband, then ex-husband. Amazed crowds one night and lied to friends the next. Drunk for years, sober for a season, then drunk again … I’ve shattered every one of the Ten Commandments six times Tuesday. And if you believe that last sentence was for dramatic effect, it wasn’t.”

As someone who occasionally thinks my screw-ups and destructive habits are beyond God’s healing and mercy, I relish Manning’s words. And I think for this reason, his writing couldn’t be more fitting for today’s believers and skeptics. Many Christians have finally realized that moralizing doesn’t convey the gospel well, and they are now admirably fumbling through a different way, the way of love.

The Ragamuffin Gospel tries to capture this lifestyle, with Manning both admitting his shortcomings and practically singing his praise of a forgiving and accepting Creator. Over and over he encourages us to look at Jesus, the God who loves us deeply despite our flaws, perhaps even because of them. And lest this message sound familiar or trite, Manning finds ways to catch our attention, reminding us that we can’t possibly comprehend the depths and wonder of divine love.

The wise man that he is, Manning also leaves room for doubt. In one passage from The Ragamuffin Gospel that brings to mind Paul’s letter to the Romans, Manning writes, “When I get honest, I admit I am a bundle of paradoxes. I believe and I doubt, I hope and get discouraged, I love and I hate, I feel bad about feeling good, I feel guilty about not feeling guilty … Aristotle said I am a rational animal; I say I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer.” Who among us can say she is always sure, never doubting, never questioning, and never turning to material solutions that only temporarily release us from our pain?

There is nothing heretical or unorthodox about Manning’s books. His words could practically be lifted from the Bible itself, they resonate so deeply with Jesus’s teachings about forgiveness. Yet it’s sobering that the kind of radical love he speaks about isn’t easy to find in either secular or sacred communities. Some even find fault with Manning for opening the doors to the kingdom a little too wide.

It’s clear that now, as skeptics turn from religion and well-meaning but mistaken Christians strain to make the dividing lines between “us” and “them” ever more distinct, the need for the real gospel is greater than ever. Brennan Manning did his part, helping us remember what’s important: that we’re all bedraggled, helpless sinners, in desperate need of a whole lot of grace.

Rebekah Mays is a Barnard College graduate originally from Austin, Texas. She currently works and writes in New York City. You can find more of her writing on her blog Iced Spiced Chai or follow her on Twitter @smallbeks.

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Life is Like Baseball (and That Sucks)

by Mitchell Richards

I really don’t care for baseball much. I love sports in general and I stay informed of the headlines with most sports, but when it comes to sitting down and watching an entire baseball game, I can’t say I've done that in years.

Baseball is boring to watch. Not a lot of action spread out over a great deal of time.

Today I realized that life is a lot like baseball, which is probably why I’m not a big fan of either one.
 
Baseball seems like the only job in America where if you succeed about 30% of the time (see batting averages) you’re the best at your job. In my job at the paper, I’d be fired if I only did 30% of an article. Elite baseball players are paid millions of dollars to succeed 30% of the time and often less.  

But then again, baseball is a lot like life. 

I remember playing baseball as a kid and the only thing I enjoyed about it was running the bases and catching pop flies. Unfortunately, to run the bases you had to get on base and that meant batting, which I hated.  

I didn’t really understand as a kid how the odds of getting a hit were not in my favor. I remember crying almost every time I struck out. I just wasn’t used to not being able to succeed at something every time.  

Baseball, like life, is about how you deal with the failures and struggles. Odds to succeed are stacked against you in both things, and I suppose it’s about getting back up to bat and seeing if you’ll strike out again. Baseball is about bouncing back.  

Baseball is a lot like life because the possibility of failure is always there and imminent, and the odds of succeeding are less than the odds of failing. 

I believe that life isn’t as much about succeeding as it is about failing. I don’t think you can truly appreciate success without the inevitability of failure. In fact, I don’t think you can truly have success without failure. Failure is the necessity, the cause and the effect, of desire. I’ve heard the opposite of love isn’t hate, but rather indifference, and accepting failure is the evidence of not being indifferent.  

Baseball is also a lot like life because there is just so much time spent standing around and waiting for things to happen. You never really know when a ball is going to be hit your way and you don’t get to bat every inning, but success is determined by how you respond when these moments come your way. 

In life, we will not always meet these moments and incidents with metaphorical great plays and proverbial spectacular catches, in fact we may fall on our faces, but the beauty of baseball and life is that you’re still in the game. If you drop a pop fly, your job is not done. You still have to make the most of the opportunity that life has dealt you. You still have to throw the ball in. You can still make a play.

I used to cry when I struck out in baseball because I thought I was terrible and striking out was proof of that. From all the years I played baseball I remember two things specifically. First, there was the time when I caught a ball in the outfield that made me flip over, and the other was when I slid into home plate and collided with the catcher, resulting in an injury to my knee that still clicks and cracks on cold days.

 
Like life, we win some and we lose some, but we have stories to tell regardless and an obligation to tell them. Stories of victories come and go and you won’t hit a home run every time you are up to bat. Often times you have tales of pain and hard times, but they are still a part of our story.  

I assume the better we are at going through life, the more opportunities we get to succeed and fail at it. Some days I’m out in right field, looking at the empty seats in the stadium, and other days I’m pitching and my arm is about to fall off, but I have to keep going.  

Life isn’t about hitting a home run every time, it’s about how we deal with it when we don’t. It’s about how we deal with striking out, dropping the ball, and slamming into the catcher. Life is about striking out and batting again when it’s your turn. It’s about dropping the ball and picking it up and still trying to salvage the play. It’s about slamming into the catcher and stomping on the plate because you made it home.



Mitchell writes at mitchellrichards.com. He tweets a lot and has a weird fascination with John Tesh. You can follow him @MitchellWords. He also wrote a book called Definitive Blurs which you can find it here. 

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