For of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

Christians, of which I am (or at the least aspire to be) one, are told we should have childlike faith.

Then we're told to shut up, listen and accept, because that's what good kids do.

This is what's known, or should be known, as an Epic Theology Fail.

Have you been around real children? They ask questions. Over and over. About everything.

What's that? What does that word mean? Why did that man do that? Why? Why? Why?

Children throw themselves into their interests. When I was in grade school, I read everything I could find on ghosts, dinosaurs and Bigfoot. (Yeah, I was a weird kid.) I couldn't get enough, even if I did have trouble sleeping sometimes.

And when they see something wrong, they'll let you know about it -- and they know what needs to be done.

You won't hear, That lady looks hungry. Let's tell him he's going to hell if he doesn't accept Jesus right now! or Look, she fell down and she's bleeding. Let's go hand her a tract and ask her if she has found God yet! from a four-year-old.

Here's what you'll hear:

That man's cold. We should give him a coat.

That woman's lonely. Someone should go sit by her.

That little boy is crying. Let's help him.

That's the faith of a child: Open to joy and quick to offer solace in sorrow, quick to make a new friend or forgive an old one, voraciously seeking knowledge and unafraid to ask the hard questions in order to get it.

Does that mean maturity is somehow bad? Absolutely not. There's a world of difference between childlike and childish. But wonder, fairness and curiosity don't inhibit growth. They foster it.

Were I a preacher, there might be a sermon in that.

Reconstitutional, Part I

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: The Rainmakers, "Small Circles"

Time: Night.

I've never been able to wear a wristwatch. Not that I don't like knowing what time it is, but I can't stand having anything around my wrist while I type -- which is pretty much all the time for me.

But on my left wrist, there's a makeshift bracelet of red cord, flecked with black and yellow. It's knotted in such a way that I can adjust the fit with a simple tug, but that's not why I've been wearing it since December the 30th.

The bracelets were given to all the adult sponsors at the two-state church youth conference I attended just before the turn of the year. The idea was to differentiate us from the teenagers -- not so much a problem for me, I know, but some of the sponsors were in their early 20s and looked younger.

The theme of the conference was "Goodbye Ordinary." The guiding principle: that risks must be taken and patterns broken if spiritual progress is to be made. I have much progress to make, spiritually and otherwise (although the "spiritually" should, ideally, drive the "otherwise." So I'm leaving the bracelet on not as any outward sign -- it doesn't proclaim that "Jesus is My Homeboy" or even ask "What Would Jesus Do?" -- but as a reminder.

That bright red bit of cord reminds me that I am nowhere near any kind of There -- and that I won't ever reach it if I don't take the steps to get there.

Wherever two or more are gathered ...

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: U2, "Gloria"

Time: Night

I went to bar church tonight. No, really. Sometimes, on Sunday evenings, I go to church in a bar.

A couple of my friends from my regular church also went, after more than a month of my urging them to come and check out the proceedings. So, of course, there was hardly anyone else there tonight.

It was the three of us, the pastor and his wife and their two children, and the song leader. So while the meeting went on as scheduled, the format changed. We retired into the side room to talk.

One of the church's main emphases is on social justice -- including doing what it can to raise awareness about human trafficking (which goes on, sad to say, even here in the heartland). On other fronts, there are monthly collection drives (food last month, coats this month, food again in January). There is a plan to launch a ministry where the church will partner with a laundromat to do laundry for homeless people -- and no one will have to convert to leave with clean clothes.

There are those within the faith who would label all this vaguely leftist. With all due respect, they're wrong. We're not just encouraged to take care of the hungry, the cold, the imprisoned and the stranded -- we're commanded to do it as though we were taking care of Christ Himself. While "The Lord helps those who help themselves" has taken on the weight of scripture, it's not.

(In this respect, many of other faiths, or no faith at all, act more Christian -- in the best, "love thy neighbor" sense of the word -- than we who would claim the name.)

So what are we to do?

Nothing more than all we can, really. None of us can end poverty, or trafficking, or any other human ill on our own.

But if we really want to be God's hands on Earth, then which use do you think he'd prefer: patting ourselves on the back for being among the Elect, or reaching out to do whatever good is given to us to accomplish, whenever we can?

Brought to You by the Number L

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Big Rig Jackknife, "All Night Truckstop"

Time: Night

Upfront disclaimer: No scary story tonight. I'll do two tomorrow, I promise. But tonight's all about life, not chain-rattling returnees from a Victorian afterlife.

Good things came in 50s tonight.

As I type this, the Chicago Fire are leading the New York Red Bulls 4-1 in the second half. That means the Kansas City Wizards -- barring an utter collapse by Chicago -- will make the Major League Soccer playoffs. For me, that's a much-needed extra 50 dollars for covering the home leg of the first round.

(Update: The final score was 5-2, Chicago. Seven goals but no punch-up, so Nick Hornby wouldn't have called it perfect.)

And earlier tonight, I was the recipient of a random act of caffeine -- a 50-dollar gift certificate to a coffeehouse I really like. I was there, getting some work done on an art show review, when the barista came up to me with a happily baffled (henceforth to be known as "happled," which is a much better state than "hapless") smile.

"Someone just called in with a credit card number and asked me to give you this," she said, as though she still couldn't quite believe it.

The giver has been thanked. Ordinarily, I would do so publicly, by name, but I have the feeling I would get a bit grumbled-at if I did that in this instance. The giver didn't do it for a mention in a blog.

We had a bit of a discussion about what Christ would think about many of the things that go on in His name today. (Upshot: He would not be pleased.) That made me think about the admonition in Matthew: "When you give, do not let the right hand know what the left hand is doing." In other words, don't give in order to get the approval of others. Don't even do it to feel better about yourself.

Do it because it's the right thing to do.

And if you're in the mood to do so right now, whether by 50s or any other amount, might I suggest Heifer International? Every gift there helps people sustain themselves ... and isn't that one of the things we're here for, to help others to live?

Brutality Uncovered (and Un-Covered)

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Bob Walkenhorst, "Primitivo Garcia"

Time: Night.

Missions day at church today. Pot luck (always a good thing) and presentations from missionaries, in fields as far-flung as Asia and Italy and as close as my home county.

One of today's speakers is a member of our church and a friend of mine. He and his wife work in Orissa state, India.

Orissa is home to a Hindu ultranationalist movement that aims to force the conversions of all Christians, Jews and Muslims. The alternatives: departure or death. The violence has been appalling, and it's still ongoing.

And for the most part, it's been ignored by the Western Press. (That may be changing. I found this from the New York Times and this from the Sunday Herald tonight. Now that the Pope has issued a condemnation of the attacks, I can only hope more coverage will follow.)

Darfur has gotten a lot of press, and rightly so. So, over the past week, has the political marginalization of Christians in Iraq. Any killing is a tragedy, and no one -- of any faith or none -- should have to worry about persecution for what he or she believes (or doesn't).

But where has Orissa been in the mainstream media? Buried, pardon the bitter expression.

My friend has a theory. The violence in Darfur has been committed by Islamists. Christians in Iraq are concerned about their place in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. It's safer to write about "bad Moslems" than about "bad Hindus," because Muslims are our officially approved boogeypeople -- the Other du jour, as it were.

(Please don't think I'm demonizing all Hindus, either. My friend and his wife are able to coordinate relief efforts in Orissa because one of their agency's local partners is a Hindu priest. My friend choked up today, relating the bravery of this man risking his life for -- well, for Others.)

We're not at the point of sectarian violence in this country, but we've been there before. There were atrocities on both sides in the early years of the Mormon movement, and in 1857 the prospect of open warfare between the U.S. and the Utah territory was quite real. That's an eyeblink ago, as history goes.

Somewhere, there's a notebook with one of my rare epiphanies (I get them occasionally). I don't remember all of it, but it runs somewhat thusly:

"If I hate in my own name, I am wrong but still within my 'rights.' If I hate in my country's name, I am wrong -- but still within my 'rights,' insofar as I have a citizen's stake in the matter. But if I hate in God's name, I am not only wrong but utterly in the wrong. One cannot hate in the name of One who commands us to love our neighbors -- and reminds us that everyone is a neighbor."

So tonight, remember not only the Christians of Orissa, but the Muslims and the Jews. And if you pray, say one for the persecutors, too. Hate hurts the hater. And there's too much pain in the world already.

Lighter post and three scary stories tomorrow. I promise.

Don't Give Me No Blue-Eyed Wimpy Jesus

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: King Crimson, "Elephant Talk"

Time: Late afternoon.

One thing about being ill is that it's let me catch up on my reading. (Small blessings must be taken where found.)

I finished Christopher Moore's "Lamb" this week. This may get me in trouble in Sunday School, but I liked a good deal of the book.

As a history? Not so much, but it doesn't aim to be a history. It's a story -- funny in some parts, touching in others and surprisingly more reverent than ir. Joshua (that's Jesus to you and me) is presented as more human than He is in the Gospels -- but no less divine, to my eyes.

(And I'm not saying that humanizing Jesus is a bad thing. Too often, He's portrayed as overly soft and serene, not to mention Caucasian-- what I call "Blue-eyed Wimpy Jesus." No, thanks.)

Don't read "Lamb" if you're easily swayed from beliefs. It's not theological truth. And don't read it if the idea of Jesus doing anything but looking tranquil (even while kicking moneychanger butt and/or being crucified) makes you break out in hives.

But if you can take what you know and believe, and sift through a work of fiction to find the truths in it ... well, then, happy reading.

Hello, Hello, Hello, Is There Anybody IN There?

Tea: Golden Monkey with Honey

Music: Too much to list. Make me pick one, and I'll choose a sung section from the Book of Common Prayer.

Time: Night

Okay, so let's see if this works. I've more than a week of posts stashed somewhere, and (grrr) have been unable to actually -- oh, you know -- post them.

So, to recap (I'll catch up later, if this works).

My Hallowe'en costume kicked butt.

I'm in New York right now, for writing (and learning about writing) purposes. Earlier posts dealt (or deal, if I manage to get them up) with the panic (and occasional joys) of preparing for the trip.

The guy playing the title role in "The Screwtape Letters" should insist the director be fired. Oh, wait, he is the director. He still should insist the director be fired. Karen Eleanor Wight, who played Toadpipe? Keep her.

I've found a church home in Brooklyn. It's an Episcopal/Anglican church, sparsely attended, the congregants largely immigrants from the West Indies. I'm a white Baptist from Kansas. Go figure.

Since this was going to be my post for the day, I'll elaborate.

My branch of the Christian tree has lost something by de-emphasizing rite and ritual and concentrating on teaching and personal experience, I believe. There is something -- well, sacred -- about treating a service as something both joyful and solemn.

There was rite this morning, but no rote. The Book of Common Prayer was not script, but a link to other congregations around the world united in the same purpose and intent. And the light that shone from those people's faces ... "divine" is an overused word, but it suits here.

My branch is still my branch. But it's good to know I can light and rest elsewhere. When I come back to Brooklyn, and I will, you'll know where to find me on Sunday mornings.

Now, I'm going to hit the "publish" button and see if this works.

Cup XLII: Inside, Outside, KSU

Tea: Earl Grey

Music: "Wabash Cannonball," arranged for marching band

Time: Afternoon

Another football game finds me back in professional observer/chronicler mode. College this time: Baylor at Kansas State, on a gorgeous (if breezy) afternoon.

I went to school here, several lives ago. Didn't finish, but that's a long story for another time. Most of the football games I saw here, I saw from the pressbox. But for a while, before and after that, I was a fan.

Kansas State was pretty bad in those days, save for the 1982 season (a pressbox year for me). Empty seats abounded, and games were largely social (read: drinking) occasions.

The football team's better these days, but one thing hasn't changed. The tribal color on Saturdays in Manhattan is still purple.

I don't wear either team's colors when covering a game. It's a professionalism thing for me. It also marks me as an outsider to both tribes, putting me in the odd position of feeling out of place in a town I called home for years.

It's not that people are unfriendly. It's more my own sense of not belonging (and my tendency to slip into observation mode, which isn't always a bad thing).

It's okay, though. I have my havens here. Hibachi Hut. The Dusty Bookshelf. Radina's Coffeehouse. There are others, but those three are my haunts.

I go to see my friends Gary and Cheryl (and Hannah, their schnauzer, who loves me because I speak her language and throw a mean tennis ball for fetching). We drink diet soda and talk about sports, about theatre, about literature and music and ... and ... and ...

Before games, the three of us -- and others -- meet at the house of another friend, Jim. (I once mistook his voice for God's. Remind me to tell you the story sometime. It's kind of funny.)

We eat hamburgers, usually. Today, there were bratwursts, too. We talk, often about the upcoming game but just as often about whatever strikes our fancies.

Christians (in which number I both count myself and hope to be counted) are often told, "This world is not our home." That has some value in reminding us that we don't get to take all of our stuff with us when we move on to the next world.

But taken to an extreme, it can lead to clubbiness and clannishness and the idea that the simple pleasures of this life are to be avoided because they encourage "wordliness."

For my part, I'm grateful for a place at Jim's table, a spot on the pull-out sofa at Gary and Cheryl's, for a cup of coffee and a bowl of gumbo and a new old book of someone else's words.

Speaking of other people's words, here's tonight's ghost story:

A.C. Benson, "The Slype House"