2025-03-18T17:31:40+00:00

Hunchbacks

March 18, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

All 4 of us (the Angel, both boys, and myself) spent Sunday afternoon in a local high school auditorium watching their spring musical, The Hunchback of Norte Dame. I’ve seen them perform Mary Poppins and Anastasia the 2 previous years, and you would think I’d start to expect a certain level of excellence. Yet, every year, I am left awed. We go to see a student actor who we just love to pieces, and I am always surprised by his talent, too.

I was unfamiliar with The Hunchback of Norte Dame (as I was with Mary Poppins & Anastasia). If it was a book, I didn’t read it, I never saw the Disney cartoon, so I walked in blissfully blank. It’s pretty dark, to tell you the truth. There is religion, sex, assault, death, gypsies, and, obviously, a hunchback. (I won’t spoil anything about it, just in case you haven’t seen it – you probably should.)

The last song ended with these lyrics: “Someday. Life will be kinder. Love will be blinder. Some new afternoon. Godspeed this bright millennium. Hope lives on. Wish upon the moon. Let it come one day.” You can already guess it’s not the feel good hit of the summer. Then, “And we wish we could leave you a moral. Like a trinket you hold in your palm. But here is a riddle to guess if you can. Sing the bells of Notre Dame. What makes a monster. And what makes a man.”

Everyone in the story is a label; Father, brother, gypsy, hunchback, soldier, stone, martyr, villain, and on and on. And all of them prove greater than the box in which they are relegated. They all transcend, for better or worse, becoming more and more human (for all that means.) I even thought the musical did the same, giving us the respect to not leave it too tidy and glossy, to leave us wide open, questioning, wondering, confused, broken and angry with a world that is hardly ever tidy and glossy. We’re all kind of broken and confused with our own world, looking for happy endings and finding few.

What makes a monster, and what makes a man? The question reminds me of a song that asks, Is evil something we are, or something we do? We’re all monsters, all men, or at least all have the capacity to be everything. We’re all villains, sometimes. Maybe the real danger is in our blindness to that fact.

But we’re also all heroes, too. Both/And. Quasimodo had choices, all throughout. Stay inside, watching a world on fire, watching Esmeralda burn, or leave, engage, act. Of course, he makes that choice. He braves a cruel, cold society for just one reason: love. It’s probably the same reason that impels any of us to act in a positive direction. We can choose our own selves, comfort, power, or we can choose to try our very best to bring healing to others, to a creation crying out in pain.

(I’m about to write something that is going to sound – and totally is – embarrassingly cheesy, but one of the blessings of being as old as I am is that I don’t care at all;) We are the hunchbacks of our worlds. We want to cower from a harsh, often nasty environment that sees us as hopeless outcasts. This environment protects itself, at any and all costs. It stifles beauty it doesn’t understand. But the divine can’t be extinguished, beauty perseveres, it’s just so hard to see sometimes. Some new afternoon, love will be blinder, life will be kinder, right? I left that show with tears in my eyes, but a big strong overflow of hope in my heart.

Great art does that, over and over- stretches the limits of the possible. Yes, sure, now can feel dark and overwhelmed, but the dark isn’t forever. If this can happen… If a person can create this loveliness in a high school in central Pennsylvania, with a huge group of teenagers that have been gifted hand over fist with this sort of passion and heart… If Quasimodo can affect the culture of his world, with his own gifts, despite his flaws, then anything can happen. Anything. So, we hunchbacks sing the bells of Norte Dame. Let it be one day. Let it be today.

Apple Cider Vinegar

February 13, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

Earlier this week, at the end of year basketball banquet, a mom of one of the boys asked me if I had seen the Netflix series Apple Cider Vinegar. I told her I hadn’t, but the picture and title sounded like something I’d like. As a matter of fact, she was right, an Australian woman who created a social media empire based on a complete lie (that she fought with brain cancer and won) is exactly something I’d like.

I am the target market for quirky documentaries and “based on” true stories, the odder the better. A perfect example was one called Chicken People, about farmers/groomers/owners who raise chickens to compete with each other. If you’ve seen Best In Show, the Christopher Guest mockumentary about dog shows, then you have an idea of Chicken People. It was so awesome, and I hoped the algorithm would respond with an endless flow of films about all different types of lifestyles that are a little (or a lot) out of the norm.

This is not that kind of show. Yes, it is quirky. Yes, the main character is an attention-seeking media whore, who will do and say anything for you to know who she is. It’s funny, in parts, and features surprisingly great writing & acting.

The 6 episodes unfold patiently, gently revealing a big beating heart. It gives you a perspective, jarring as it twists into another, then punches you right in the belly with another. Great documentaries don’t take sides, but instead present the people as they are, multi-faceted and complex, leaving us to decide. That way, our judgment exposes us more than the subjects. They’re mirrors. We watch them, but we learn who we are. Can we hold the truth that we are all of these things?

Very rarely are we 100% of anything, and this Belle Gibson isn’t, either. Of course, she’s a monster. Liar. Manipulator. Thief. But she’s also still the 12 year old who ran away from home, broken, insecure, lonely, depressed.

I’d suggest that she is only the framework from which to tell a different story. This is a story about couples, families, deep relationships, and the sharp, wiry tentacles of cancer that hold them (and us) together. It’s a story about hanging onto hope when all strength is gone, amid terrible loss. About death. And life. And especially, enduring, perseverant, love. The kind that isn’t in movies. Not the gauzy romance of meet-cutes, it’s the long, hard, hospitals, funerals and weddings, graduations, Tuesday dinners love that loves even when it’s hard and nobody feels like another step together. It’s about real love, where the roots go all the way down, through the earth into the soul of the divine. It’s about devotion and faith. The joy and gratitude that only comes from the sort of pain that makes you feel like you might die yourself. Where we show up, and keep showing up, forever and ever, amen.

I loved it more than I can tell you. I want you to all see it. I want to write a letter to the creators, or buy them a nice sweater. I cried so hard, so loudly, and so much, it hurt a lot. I’m exhausted and have a pretty vicious headache now.

Then I sent a text to the Angel, and I prayed. I prayed thank you for these gifts, and the tears that come with great, full lives. I prayed thank you for the pain of a broken, totally connected and soft heart. And I prayed that you know true beauty, that you know these kinds of tears, this heartbreak, this gratitude, and this love, too.

The Honesty of Authentic Presence

February 11, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

10ish years ago, my sister and I had a fight on the Ocean City boardwalk. I don’t have any idea what we were arguing about now, but it made everyone uncomfortable and the rest of the family all wished they were somewhere else. Or probably that we were somewhere else.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned, but last night, my youngest son had his last high school basketball game. I’m not going to go into details about that game, (or any other game, for that matter), or my feelings for/about him. But this is the sort of event that can make a man like me very sensitive, mushy even, for quite a while.

Studies show that human beings generally recognize 3 emotions: happy, sad, and mad. Of course, this isn’t anywhere close to enough, and it’s not that we don’t feel different emotions, we just lack the vocabulary to accurately communicate those emotions. Last night was bittersweet. I was proud, disappointed, joyful, overwhelmed. I was happy, sad, and mad, at different times. Sometimes at the same time. It would have taken 1,000 hands to hold everything I was feeling.

Several times during Sunday morning’s sermon, I realized & acknowledged (in my head) my tone and my turbulent spirit. As I taught about the second chapter of Titus, I realized how much of these moments were colored by this game, this program, church dynamics, politics, relationships, how I slept, what I ate, even what shoes I was wearing. Everything comes to the party, and it should, because everything matters.

Our services begin with a silent prayer, where we come as we are, bringing what we carry, to the feet of Jesus. It is embarrassingly misguided to pretend that we can come any other way, as if we are blank slates unaffected by the world around us. The prodigal son’s words to His Father land differently after you have children. The story of Israel is different from opposite sides of empire.

And I think that’s an absolutely intentional requirement of a life of faith. One of the most important observations I learned in seminary that totally changed my life is the honesty in every word of the Scriptures. Whether it’s in Lamentations, Habakkuk, Psalms, Titus, or any other book, God doesn’t want our sacrifices if they aren’t real. He has no use for fake plastic hypocrisy. He doesn’t want our pretense and our loud, grandiose assemblies if He doesn’t have our hearts.

He has mine. And so do you. Sunday morning, you get my awe, my reverence for the God Who rescued me, my study, prayer, interpretation, faith, AND my broken, confused, euphoric, sometimes wildly contradictory spirit. My careful conclusions and my dumb jokes. My cold, broken hallelujah.

Last night, I was disgusted at the basketball program while I wept for the people in it. I never want the season to end, and I’m so happy it’s over. I think there are lots of things that Jesus needs to transform in me, and I know He loves me in a way none of us can fathom, as I am. I get so many things wrong, and I am forgiven. I don’t want to stay this me, but I really like this me. Last summer, I told the baseball players I coached that I was finished, and I was relieved & thrilled to be done, and so sorry I thought I might crumble.

Being fully present, authentically ourselves, in true relationship with Our Creator and each other means all of this.

I chose a picture for this post. It’s last week’s senior night. I’m happy and sad, proud, hopeful, and he might be holding me up because I love him so much I might die. What it is, really, is a picture of gratitude. God gave us each other. And to stand next to for all of it, this God gave me the Angel.

I told you about Ocean City because, while everybody else wished to be somewhere else, I didn’t (and I bet my sister didn’t, either.) To be as close as we are requires us to bring everything we are to this amazing party. I’d love to go back to that night, when my boys were 5 and 7, and it was summer and the ground wasn’t covered with ice, but I don’t need to, I was there, then, fighting with my sister, loving every moment of this beautiful life I have been given. And if I could/would go back, I wouldn’t have been there last night, and I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.

1,000 Points

January 14, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

Maybe the least surprising thing to you is that I’m writing today, about this. Last night, my youngest son, named after the prophet Elisha, scored his 1,000th point as a basketball player. It was on a great move, where he was fouled, and the bucket counted, on what’s called an “and-1.” The game stopped, while we all stood and cheered this significant achievement. The Angel, my oldest son, and I were able to go on the court to hug him and take pictures. I told you I’d be the one with the watery eyes, and I was. I think we all were.

Then, less than 5 minutes later, he blocked a shot and, as he came down, rolled his ankle and missed the rest of the game and probably the rest of the week (at least). I may have mentioned (a time or 2 million) that an authentic, fully present life is held with 2 hands, in this case, great celebration and pain, minutes apart.

We all looooved last night, and we went to bed, aching with disappointment. 2 hands.

This young man, my son, and I prayed in the training room. I asked him what hurt more, his heart or his ankle, to which he replied, “same.” His concern was over their hopes at playoffs. Then, later, after the game (a loss), he composed himself and graciously received the accolades and congratulations from those who showed up to love him, thanking every one. In those moments, I could so clearly see my boy becoming the man he will be. Sunday night, I told him that we would be talking so much about his athletic performance, which is considerable, but our love for him has absolutely nothing to do with points or wins. And when I told him last night how proud of him I am, that also had nothing to do with a ball or a hoop.

But as far as a ball and hoop go, these points and this celebration, he earned them. Almost no one sees the hours and hours, the buckets of sweat, the study, the focus he invests. 1,000 points don’t just happen, they are the product of much, much more than 4 – 8 minute quarters. He’s gifted, of course, but he has worked to explore the depth of those gifts, to see what might be possible. An evening in January looks/feels far off on empty courts in June, but they do come.

I wrote a post yesterday about the intense hypocrisy of the adults from Friday’s game (who may have been from Lancaster Mennonite;). Before the game last night, the head coach of our opponents last night found me in the hallway and congratulated me, and asked many questions about my boy. His job was to beat our team, but he was one of those who cared for the boys on both teams. It’s no surprise his son (who I had the privilege/pleasure to know and coach) is so classy and kind. The juxtaposition between the 2 people could not have been more stark, and made Friday’s coach and program look that much worse. I relayed our conversation to my son, and he said how that coach (whose name may have been Chris George, and whose team may have been Northern Lebanon) also spoke with him, and expressed his genuine sadness with the injury. It was a wonderful illustration of the best part of sports.

Now. The real reason I opened my computer to write today was not on the court. The stands were packed full of people who love this beautiful young man. Friends drove hours to be there, made plans, gave up their own valuable time to sit in a gym on a frigid Monday night. You know, we fall in love with Jesus, we intentionally create these lives together, trying to step into our call every day, each moment, choosing our values, deciding who we’ll be and what we believe, and time passes, and we rarely get the opportunity to stand back and see the divine blessings that God has bestowed. Then, you happen to look up from your seat in the stands, and see the people of these lives filing in to love your son, and it is then that you can truly see the love and grace of God.

My post yesterday was, a little, about the dangers of tying Jesus to the actions of His followers. My post today is about the upside of that relationship. As we posed for pictures on the court, teary eyed and full, I looked up into the stands and I saw the faces of our lives, the answers to our prayers, our hope manifest. God may not always give a paved road, full of gobs of money, comfort and ease, but He gives us each other, and that is so much more than enough, so much better.

I am overwhelmed. I am grateful. He has a thousand and three points and I have a ba-zillion thank you’s that I’ll try to give to Him, and to you, with my life.

Complicated

January 7, 2025/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

The site prompt is, ‘What could you do differently?” And I LOVE that question. It’s not what I’m going to write about today, but I imagine I will soon. Today, instead, it’ll be about 2 complicated documentaries that I recently watched.

A British Horror Story is the account of Jimmy Saville, a British celebrity for 40+ years. I don’t remember ever hearing his name, though I think that’s impossible. As you know, I am somewhat of a pop culture aficionado. Maybe I did, but not remembering someone as odd looking as Seville is equally impossible. That someone this unappealing was a star in a visual medium is quite unusual. Anyway, appearances aside, he was as odd and unappealing in his life, as well.

A woman who knew him guessed that she had never seen someone do as much good as he did. He had given years and years, with much fundraising and publicity, for English hospitals, detention spaces, and mental health centers. Of course, he also sexually abused the patients in those facilities, more than 400 formal counts. There’s that.

The Curious Case of Natalia Grace is far more difficult to explain. Natalia is a little person who is either 22 or 35 years old. Either she is a psychopath who tried to murder her adoptive parents without any cause whatsoever, or the victim of horrific physical violence. No one is particularly likable in this series, and it’s totally probably that no one is telling the truth. I haven’t finished all of it. Maybe there is a resolution in the end, but so far, the Angel and I change our opinion on who the real villain is each episode. Is there a villain? Are they all villains? Are they all victims, too?

Now that I’m on this, a really good friend saw the Dylan biopic (featuring the alleged, noted STD super-spreader and terrific actor Timothy Chalamet) and has been obsessed with listening to old records, while trying to reconcile the fact that Dylan was, perhaps, not the nicest person.

I went to see Morrissey in November, and walked around the hotel, wanting him to sign my t-shirt. But only sign my shirt. I don’t want to have a conversation with him, or sit down to dinner together. He and his music absolutely changed my life, but personally, he is widely known as holding many of the characteristics that I actively avoid in others.

This is why I wrote ‘complicated’ documentaries, earlier. People are rarely just one thing. The woman in the Saville doc was right, he did an amazing amount of good, for many people. And he was a complete monster. He, likely, did those good things for one reason: to gain access. All of this is true. In the Natalia Grace series, are they all victims, or are they all villains? Yes. Chalamet is an STD farm (allegedly) and a brilliant artist. Dylan was a genius and a jerk. Morrissey is both the guy you want to listen to on your headphones, and the one you don’t want to talk to in person.

I used to have a need to know which one. Things and people needed to be black or white. Heroes or heels. Good guys or bad guys. Dallas Cowboys or New York Giants.

One of my first idols was, baseball pitcher, Roger Clemens. His stats are nearly unparalleled, and he’s not in the Hall of Fame because he cheated, using truckloads of steroids, and is still lying about it. Now what? Is he the best, or the worst?

The truth is that the answer is neither. We’re all very complex, beautiful and flawed. We’re all capable of great evil and the most selfless love and kindness you’ve ever seen. The inmates in the scariest prisons are someone’s mommy or daddy, another’s son or daughter. I didn’t understood the phrase, “there but for the grace of God go I,” when I was younger. I sure do now.

This is why I watch these documentaries, to hold contradictions and complications, to care well for the flesh and blood people in my own life. To make me a soft place to land.

Pains of Nostalgia

December 31, 2024/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

The site prompt is, “What makes you feel nostalgic?” And, on New Year’s Eve, that feels appropriate. Or at least connected. The truth is, I feel nostalgic quite a bit. Nostalgia is defined as “a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition also.” It’s a “feeling of pleasure and also slight sadness.” I don’t think it’s an entirely positive emotion. Nostalgia can be another way we are absent from the present, and there are too many of those.

I get nostalgic for the ‘90’s, even though, if I’m honest, that decade didn’t love me nearly as much as I loved it. I was lost and confused in my personal life, rudderless in my career path, generally hopeless and drifting in a sea that obviously didn’t care if I would swim or drown. Everything felt totally meaningless and random, there wasn’t anything that connected me to the world around me.

But I sure LOVED the music. I still do. I remember hearing the Counting Crows first album, August & Everythng After, for the first time. I cried when I heard “Round Here,” and I still do. I have no idea if any album will mean that much to me ever again. Maybe that’s a good thing, but it makes me sentimentally yearn for that irrecoverable condition. It makes me slightly sad.

I used to buy cds, go home and lay in my bed and read the liner notes/lyrics as I listened through a few times. I knew Sting and Bono’s real name and all of the members of the Goo Goo Dolls. I knew all of the track 9’s. Now, I barely know track 1, or what the album is titled.

That’s good, because I have the Angel and 2 sons, youth sports, and I absolutely know my purpose. I belong, am loved, and am deeply tied to this wonderfully beautiful creation. But all change, all growth, comes with loss. I am listening to a great song that I really like and would have to look to see the song title or artist’s name. (Incidentally, it’s “Bound To You,” by Jocelyn Alice, and I first heard it on an episode of Catfish. I have no idea what Ms. Alice looks like or if she has any other songs I’d like.) I miss knowing those things. I miss the simplicity of college and irresponsibility. I am still quite simple, but I am not at all irresponsible. I wouldn’t change a thing, not one.

This year will be rich and thick with wonder and meaning. I know this, because all days and moments are charged with wonder and meaning. That doesn’t mean they’re good, or feel particularly pleasant, but that sort of knowledge comes with age and attention. Blessing is for those who are aware & awake to see it and be grateful, so I am overwhelmingly blessed.

Anyway, back to the prompt. This is actually a question I have thought about, and the thing that makes me feel nostalgic, far more than anything else, is “Fade Into You,” by Mazzy Star. I have no idea why. I mean, it’s great, but it was never my favorite song. It’s not tied to treasured memories. It’s just awesome and it makes me feel awesome. And slightly sad.

Beautiful Things

December 18, 2024/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

I am hesitant to write yet another post about high school/youth sports, and I am especially hesitant to comment on the officiating in these contests. (I have written them, but have not posted them. I usually like to be a positive voice in a sea of increasing vitriol.) However. There will be a point that is much bigger than one game or season, right in the middle of a loooong silly rambling treatise.

I had a very elementary, yet personally profound, realization. You see, the officiating at these contests is generally, with few exceptions, abysmal. It’s simple incompetence. I don’t think these people are bad people (I mean, there are psychos walking around, so there are probably some in every field…and sometimes, they are quite rude and condescending), it just appears that they are overwhelmed by the speed and physicality of the game. But big deal, right? It’s high school sports. It’s just a game. So what if some middle-aged, overweight guys in stripes can’t manage to control the kids?

And that’s true, to a certain extent. But last night, as it was happening, I was wondering why we all (and myself in particular) get so invested in fairly trivial things, and why this inadequacy is so maddening. Of course, none of this is an excuse. Parents are much of what broke youth sports, and there is no space where a human being should be screamed at or publicly belittled, especially not in a high school gymnasium. These are human beings with families and maybe find themselves here, over their skis, ostensibly because they see a need and want to see the games played. I wrote last year about why it is that I get so excited (or what I like to call passionate;) and why it’s such a bad look for a man, regardless of that reason. This is not that post. This is a post with some observations, and the last one will be the “personally profound realization.”

*We like the illusion of fairness. We want to pretend that the ground is level and everyone gets an equal opportunity. We believe in justice and that we all get what we deserve. This is, obviously, not true anywhere. The best songs are almost never the most popular. Sometimes the most horrific things happen to the best people. Innocent people sit in prison while the guilty walk free. But we want it to be true in sports. And we’d really like it to be true for our children. It’s not, and evidence of that can be wildly frustrating.

*The most common excuse given for the state of officiating in all amateur sports is that “it’s hard to find” willing participants. I hear and can understand that argument (after all, parents are not the easiest to handle), while dismissing it as hollow. It is a paid position. This isn’t volunteerism. (But even then, if you help at the hospital information desk and consistently send people to wrong buildings and floors, maybe a change is in order.) But paid positions require a certain base level of competence…

…and to offer such a flippant excuse, is, essentially, an assent that youth sports, and by extension, the athletes, really aren’t that important to us. Maybe this is actually reasonable, but considering that sports are religion in America, it’s a mixed message. We either care or we don’t.

Now, the much bigger societal issue is what we’ll call the “It Is What It Is” mentality. It’s the language of despair, and an convenient escape hatch for the risk and responsibility of growth or change. We excuse any and all behavior, filing it under the category of “this is just who I am,” forgetting (or ignoring) that we don’t have to stay that way. Marriages, jobs, faith, habits, generational curses, whatever. Is our destiny really to just get by on the same path, walking the same steps we always have, accepting everything because “it is what it is,” while throwing our hands up in the air? And the arrogance of this stagnant position does nothing but assure more stagnation. Sports officiating might be the least important of all of the symptoms of this disease, but it is a symptom, nonetheless.

There are 40 year old boys I know that have no expectations whatsoever placed upon them. Oh well, shrug, he’s just that way. This lack of hope is depressing, and the next time it is helpful will be the first. Maybe if we stop accepting the lowest possible outcome, we’ll begin to get something different.

The truth is, whether I should or not, I care a lot. About the kids – I don’t want anyone getting injured simply because an official is under qualified and overwhelmed. I want them to enjoy sports and all of the great effects of participation, at all age and skill levels. That is my main interest, honestly. It’s not just the right thing to say between games on a blog so I don’t sound like a raving lunatic with poor priorities. Having said that, my profound epiphany is:

*I love beautiful things. 3 weeks ago, I attended a Morrissey concert. What if the sound engineer was ill-equipped? What if he didn’t know how to operate the board, and was a little tone deaf? The guitars might be too loud, the bass overdone, and the vocal mix out of balance. We may not be able to hear Morrissey, instead getting too much of the keyboard or rhythm guitar. Let’s say Brene Brown was giving a talk on relationships, and the microphone kept cutting out or the lights were flashing because the ones who should check batteries forgot. Would that be an obstacle to her brilliant talent? Would we accept it as “just how it is?” It’s hard to get sound guys, why bother to train them or hold them responsible for sub-par performance?

Basketball is an absolutely lovely sport, full of creativity and athleticism, as well as sharply choreographed cooperative movements. It can be an awesome display of the dance between giftedness and hard work. When a game is poorly controlled, this dance becomes a scrum. The inherent beauty of meaningful brushstrokes becomes a chaotic mess, noisy and disconcerting.

I’m not sorry for loving beautiful things. I’m not sorry for my passion for art (including sport). I’m not sorry for wanting all interested kids to be able to play, if they want to, without extra risk of violent injury. I’m not sorry that I value excellence, in any and all fields. And I’m nowhere close to sorry that I wholeheartedly reject the desperate “Is What It Is” nonsense.

What I might be sorry for is that “middle-aged, overweight” comment earlier.

Under The Covers

December 3, 2024/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

I’m listening to “Good Luck, Babe!” two times in a row, once by Postmodern Jukebox and the other by Chappell Roan. Later, I’ll listen to “Too Sweet” two times, the original by Hozier and the cover version by the Macarons Project. Earlier, Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” by Susanna Hoffs, and The National’s version of “Never Tear Us Apart.” There is a playlist on my music app called Prime Covers. (I use the word “prime” in each of my playlists, thinking it’s equal parts clever and commentary on the ubiquitous nature of the Amazon brand. It’s probably neither, it’s probably just dumb. Same goes for the title of this blog, which could be clever but is probably just dumb.)

I love cover songs, have always loved cover songs.

I do not, however, like too faithful note-for-note replays. Why? I didn’t like Van Sant’s Psycho shot-for-shot remake, either. The current exception is “Right Down The Line” – original by Gerry Rafferty, cover by Local Natives. Maybe that’s because the song/lyrics remind me so much of the Angel (“It was you, woman, right down the line.”) I could hear either one and be very happy. But usually, I can’t enjoy it because I’m waiting for something new and interesting that never comes.

I want completely different imaginings of these songs. My example of a perfect cover would be Danzig covering Pat Benatar’s “Love Is A Battlefield.” Danzig is not Pat Benatar, but “Love Is A Battlefield” sounds like a sentiment he could get behind. Everything would be perfect. Postmodern Jukebox’s “Good Luck, Babe!” sounds like an early ‘60’s b-side, and is better in every way than Chappell Roan’s. “Too Sweet” is different enough, but Hozier’s version is the alpha. This is usually the case, original’s are mostly indispensable, with the cover being a quirky distraction.

I suppose “All Along The Watchtower” is the best example of the new absolutely replacing the old. After Jimi Hendrix played his, no one would ever purposefully listen to Bob Dylan’s again. This is a very very rare phenomena.

One Sunday morning, in our church service, I played “Be My Baby,” by the Ronettes and then again by Bayside. Nobody actually thinks the Bayside version is better, but there are people who would, at certain times and places, rather hear a catchy pop punk tune than a classic piece of Heaven, with a transcendent Ronnie Spector performance (is there another kind???).

The point was, we have a Gospel that is the most amazing, awesome Truth, and there’s a Great Commission that asks us to take this Gospel everywhere. Not everyone likes Chappell Roan, or Danzig, or Bob Dylan, but these songs need to be heard, the audience needs to grow for beautiful things. And not everyone likes my face or voice or shoes, but everyone desperately needs this Gospel of grace, peace, and love. Maybe they need your version, instead.

Episode 8

November 4, 2024/The Bridge Faith Community/1 Comment

The site asks me what my life will be like in 3 years? Well, I imagine we’ll be slaves to our machine overlords. Or maybe it’ll look exactly the same, because we’re already slaves to the machines? Or maybe I’ll still be loving you, trying to change the whole world one at a time?

Anyway, a few days ago I watched episode 8 of the Star Wars saga, called The Last Jedi. Many of those who hold Star Wars like a religion rather than a rad film series hated this installment. Probably because our hero was a woman (!!!), the bad guy was derisively called “emo” (as if that was somehow a negative?), there was an awesome character named Rose that received death threats because she had the nerve to be in a movie, but the most egregious sin was that Luke Skywalker was jaded and sour. We like what we like, and don’t always (i.e. never) embrace change.

Rey, Ren, and Rose are perfect, and I thought it was pretty reasonable that Luke might be sort of broken after what he saw and endured, his spirit buckling under his guilt and shame. I spent years depressed and isolated for far less than plunging the universe into bondage under a new empire.

(I’m about to talk about how great this film is, and I’m going to need you to forget, as I will, that scene of Leia floating through space. Deal? Deal.)

Beginning with the moment where Rey shows up in Snoke’s throne room, the next hour+ is my absolute favorite. There’s nothing else in all of the movies I’ve seen that can touch it. Not Captain America getting Thor’s hammer in Endgame. Not the reveal in Fight Club. Not Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men or The Shining or Five Easy Pieces. Not the heart-crushing Aimee Mann song at the end of Magnolia. Or the super-strange frog rain in Magnolia. Not Helm’s Deep or the battle for New York. Not “In Your Eyes” on John Cusack’s boom box or every word of the script of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Not the conversation between The Bride and Bill or “Say what again!!”from Pulp Fiction. Maybe the reveal in Fight Club… no, not the reveal in Fight Club.

Ren & Rey killing Snoke and fighting the royal guard, Laura Dern turning the cruiser around and hyperspacing into the imperial fleet, the mono-skis on the salt planet, and LUKE SKYWALKER showing up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s THE BEST!!!

The weirdos who say the movie was terrible could not possibly be more wrong. In fact, I wonder if it’s all some sort of organized troll, like a work in big time wrestling, where everybody knows the truth. Like if you know somebody who says “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and the Beatles are overrated. They can barely say it with a straight face. Maybe this is the same. It has to be, right?

But the Star Wars studio heads didn’t think so. They listened to this nonsense and retconned (a new term that I can’t say I totally like) the story, rolling it back to somehow cobble together episode 9. Sigh. So I’ll keep watching episode 8 over and over, at least until those same studio heads destroy the print, and pretend it was never made. But we’ll remember, won’t we?

Tolerance…

October 17, 2024/The Bridge Faith Community/Leave a comment

We’re having an event (where I’ll speak and a fantastically talented singer-songwriter will perform) at our church. You’re invited, of course, but that’s not exactly what I want to talk about right now. A very great friend sent out an all-staff email with the flyer to invite those at the company where she works. Maybe this was a horrific breach of the separation of church & state, sacred & secular, religion & profession. Or maybe this was an irresponsible use of corporate communication channels. Or maybe this was simply a woman sharing her interests with her co-workers. (It was probably all of those.) Either way, she was quickly reprimanded, because…someone was offended and complained.

Is it an issue of ‘personal use’ or religious content? Who knows, the administration is appropriately vague. I wonder if all personal communications (like “Sally had her baby!!!” “Sally has extra tickets to the Phillies game,” “Sally’s husband is in surgery right now,” or even, “Sally is raising money for hurricane relief in North Carolina”) are banned. Or just religious messages (the only religious vocabulary or imagery on our flyer was the word “faith” in the address)? And who says what’s religious? The national religions are sports and/or commerce, so does anything having to do with those topics get flagged? Can I remind people to vote? Can I send a birthday card around? Or are we automatons strictly confined to professional conversation? Is it just email? Can I still ask you about your car accident or pet’s death, or is any acknowledgment that you have an outside life offensive?

Obviously, I’m overreacting, using absurdity to illustrate the absurd. But there is something here, isn’t there? This is not “persecution” or Christian “censorship.” We sometimes lob these kinds of words like grenades that do nothing but de-value and desensitize us to actual persecution, which does exist (just not here).

If you sent out an email I don’t like – or if, in this case, if I would NEVER go to your event – I would delete it. That’s all. Then I would go on with my day. Maybe someone else would go to your event, and in that case, I hope you all have fun. In fact, I want lots and lots to go, because we are human beings and people should enjoy themselves. Even if I wouldn’t enjoy myself at their shindig. But I still want to know about Sally’s life, Joe’s passion for pickle ball, or Jim’s grass cutting business.

As the notion of tolerance grows, I wonder why we’re all so much more offendable? Shouldn’t our pretend tolerance make us all very open to your thing, whatever your thing is? This is why tolerance is a ridiculous joke – because no one actually believes it, in the slightest. I would’ve put it in the above list of American religions, but we build our lives around Sunday afternoons and Black Friday, but almost no one cares what tolerance actually is, and less than ‘almost no one’ follows it’s basic tenets.

The only time tolerance matters is when I ask you to tolerate MY idea, belief, or opinion. Tolerance is a one way street, not a revolving door. It’s a farce that’s time has come and gone. How about we let it die and Rest In Peace.

Tolerance is such a low bar, anyway. How about we love each other? How about we celebrate each other’s differences, instead of merely tolerating them, like I tolerate the ulcer in my mouth or the bunions on my feet? We’re people, not social nuisances. Sometimes people have interests that you might not, and that is wonderful. It gives us and our world texture and color. Maybe you’d like my event, even if you don’t like singer-songwriters or brownies or my face, and maybe you wouldn’t. But that’s not the point at all. The point is that pretending to worship tolerance has gotten our feelings in such a twist, we are offended at mostly everything, enjoy nothing, and our world continues to divide and shrink. Love can open us up to new people, new experiences, new stories, new hands to hold and songs to hear, and in this season of divided, small perspectives, can’t we all use a bit of that sort of new?

Love With A Capital L

A journey towards living an inspired life of love in the modern world

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