Maybe Michael is at peace now ...

Like most 50-plus-year-olds, I remember Michael Jackson long before the days of "Thriller."

In my adolescence, there was "I Want You Back," ABC," and "Ben," the latter of which always seemed a little creepy to me. After all, Ben was a rat, if I recall.

While the Jackson 5 was way too bubble gum for me in 1969 to the early 1970s, Michael and his family always seemed harmless enough. Their music was a strain of pop along the lines of The Archies, The Cowsills and 1910 Fruitgum Company.

Still, you have to wonder how stardom affects a 10-year-old boy -- particularly in USAmerica where we treat pop stars like little gods. On the other hand, we know how it affects the little gods we make in celebrity culture. Wipe the cobwebs from your mind and the names surface like so many ghosts in a Smoky Mountains cemetery: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Keith Moon. And you don't have to look very far to see the ones that are still alive, but are bent on self-destruction.

I read somewhere that the average lifespan of a rock musician is about 37 years. If true, I guess Michael Jackson beat the system in that regard; however, as he became more and more of a caricature of his own character, I found myself often pitying him. As I watched his physical transformation and obviously troubled soul, I would often wonder what it was that drove him to such bizarre behavior.

I'm not a psychiatrist -- I don't even play one on TV -- but it seemed obvious that there was some sort of self-loathing going on inside his head.

I was washing our cars and thinking about him, which was strange since I never really cared for his music. Then again, it wasn't the music, or the talent, or even the bizarre antics for which many people will remember Michael that was crossing my mind as I wiped the grime away. I was thinking -- no, praying -- that Michael finally found the One who accepted and loved him just as he was, not as he wished himself to be.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Take my hand, and meet me at the Cross

I just stumbled upon Brian McLaren's "synchro-blogging on sexuality" post. I had no idea this was going on today, which means I am really out of the loop or this movement was really under the radar.

Nonetheless, I thought I would prayerfully post on this issue. I have a great deal of respect for Brian, as well as Tony Campolo, who has also written and posted on this subject.

Personally, I am nowhere near where I was on this issue some 20 years ago; in fact, I find myself in a very questioning position because it is far more complex than it is often presented in the Christian community -- which means, it is more complex than I presented in prior writings.

Truth be known, I am nowhere near where I was theologically or positionally on this issue five years ago. The main commonality between the hugely conservative viewpoint I had in the late 1980s, the viewpoint I had when writing about it in 2004, and the viewpoint I have today is this: If your heart is as my heart is, then give me your hand.

In other words, meet me at the Cross.

I want to be a part of Bridging the Gap, so if I had to stake some ground tonight it would likely be somewhere in the same acreage of Bridging The Gap: Tony Campolo's take on "Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin."

Still struggling, but still open ...

Grace and peace ...

Life with Aunt Ginna ...

My Aunt Ginna was a complex woman.

She could be tough as nails.

When I pick through the cobwebs of my mind, there is this family story of Ginna sitting at a stoplight in downtown Richmond in her blue and white Oldsmobile. The light turns green, and Ginna’s a bit impatient to get moving, but there’s this woman walking slowly in front her. The woman stops, turns her head, glares at Ginna and says, “You wouldn’t DARE hit me!”

Ginna guns the engine and shouts, “You wanna BET?!”

It was probably the hard-scrabble life of the 13 Harris children that toughened their young hides. When Ginna was 14, both of her parents were gone … and there were three children younger in the brood: Nora, Clifford and Bobby.

Tough circumstances can put a hard edge on your shell, but they can also create a place for grace -- and compassion. Because it is no longer, “There but for the grace of God go I,” rather it is, “I have been in your place …”

It is not the grace and compassion of sympathy; it is an incarnational grace of empathy.

That was Ginna: tough as nails one minute; full of grace and compassion the next.

Even though her toughness is legendary, it is the grace and compassion of Ginna and my late Uncle Russell – the grace and compassion of those two Christians — that sticks with me … and my mother … and my sister, Sheree.

And there’s good reason for that: We three who were sometimes vagabonds were great recipients of that grace, and compassion.

The three Harris siblings who lived in Richmond as adults – Ginna, my Uncle Willard, and my mother – sort of looked out for one another, even as adults.

I have commonplace familial memories of holiday jaunts from Horsepen Road to the Miffleton house in Lakeside, as well as Uncle Willard's residence.

But the … uh … uniqueness, if you will, of my family situation led to some likewise unique opportunities for grace and compassion on the part of Aunt Ginna and Uncle Russell – and I would be remiss if I did not offer thanksgiving for those acts.

In the summer of 1969, my mom was in the throes of a horrific marriage, to say the least, and she brought my sister Sheree and I to stay in Richmond while she sorted things out in Florida.

Sheree stayed with the Miffletons, and I went back and forth between my paternal grandparents’ house and the Miffleton household. I sort of had the best of both worlds for a 13-year-old boy. I’d go shooting with my grandpa, and travel with him and my grandmother. He was a professional baseball scout, and what red-blooded American boy wouldn’t love to spend a summer shooting and traveling around watching baseball games.

Ginna and Russell were gracious enough to not only let my sister live with them for the summer, but were also patient enough to allow an adolescent boy to pop in and out as he felt the need … or, perhaps, as the grandparents felt they had experienced all of the shenanigans they could take for a while.

As Linda will so often remind us, that was the summer of the infamous Virginia Beach vacation … where I sincerely drove Ginna and Russell nuts. No one knew what ADD was in 1969, I am certain, but I bounced around the two of them like so many beach balls.

“Where’ we eatin’ breakfast Uncle Russell? Can we go to the pancake house again? How about the water slide? Can we do that again?”

Five of us crammed in The Emperess hotel room for a week; me harassing Linda every single chance I could get; and Linda and Sheree doing their best to lose me on the beach.

That was the same week the men walked on the moon.

It was a beautiful thing for Ginna and Russell to invite Sheree and I along, and it was a a beautiful thing for them to open their home and hearts to a niece and nephew.

A truly memorable summer.

But it was at summer’s end where we truly experienced the sacrificial Christian love that Ginna, and Russell, had for their family … maybe even a unique love for her sister Nora and her children.

Sometime late that summer, my mother exits the truly horrible marriage and makes her way back to Richmond.

Broke … and broken.

A single mom in 1969, with two teenage children.

No job.

No money.

No place to live.

Ginna and Russell are there, putting hands and feet to their faith, the teachings of which maintain that pure religion is to care for the widows and orphans.

Sheree and I were spiritual orphans.

My mother was a spiritual widow.

And in familial and Christian love, Ginna and Russell help her pick up the pieces and move on.

They help us find an apartment -- one that’s close by, I would note -- and Uncle Russell takes care of the rent, deposit, you name it, to enable us to move in.

He and Ginna then take us to Kenneth Lord Furniture, the business he had worked his way up to own on Cary Street, and we spend the evening picking out furniture for the apartment.

Even as my grandparents took me shopping for school clothes as the summer of 69 drew to a close, Ginna and Russell bought my sister Sheree’s clothes that year.

Afterward, Ginna would stop by our apartment while my mother was at work and put groceries in an empty refrigerator.

There are many other acts of grace and compassion on the part of Ginna, and Russell, that I could tell you about, but I’m going to close with something that is most important to me … and by osmosis, if you will, to my family.

Ginna and Russell were heavily involved in Hatcher Memorial Baptist Church as an extension of their faith. Uncle Russell was a deacon, and in the fall of 1969 I was strongly urged to begin attending.

I really didn’t fit in that well; after all, the closest I likely came to a church while in Florida was when I rode my bicycle past one.

But I hung in there for a while. Even sang in the youth choir.

And was baptized sometime within the next year.

My life being what it was, I went through my own struggles, and Ginna and Russell helped me pick up the pieces on at least one occasion.

And when God finally got a good grip on me at the age of 29, and I truly gave my life to Christ, I made sure Aunt Ginna and Uncle Russell knew, because God, through His Holy Spirit, was reaching down to me through these Christian actions.

I spoke with Aunt Ginna sometime after I committed my life to Christ on Easter Sunday, 1985, and wanted her to let my Uncle Russell know – particularly how grateful I was for his having led me to be baptized.

In her words, he said, “Well, I guess it took.”

We who live on this side of eternity can not know the exact nature of the experience of on the other side, but I can imagine Uncle Russell greeting Ginna in this way: “Dahlin, I didn’t mind waitin’ …”

And Ginna perhaps responding, “Russell, you’re not gonna believe what’s been goin’ on since you’ve been gone.”

Thanks be to God for the Christians in our life.

Grace ... and peace.

Thankful for brothers and sisters in Christ ...

I'm really thankful for brothers and sisters in Christ.

I'm particularly thankful for the brothers -- men of faith whom I can call on and say, "Bruddah, I'm standing in the need of prayer." I say that because women of faith have long carried the church. It's only been in recent decades that I believe contemporary men have began to stand up and be counted as men of faith.

I knew a tough day was ahead of me and I called on one of my brothers as I was driving to work. It made the morning go easier. It was still tough, but knowing a brother was praying with me gave me strength, peace and courage.

I stand in grace ... and peace.

Taking a break ...

Sometimes you've just got to take a break. But for some of us, even when we get a break we can find ourselves having to work.

For instance, I'm taking three days off to spend some time at Ripshin. I've got a few chores to do, but that's not really "work." The work I have to take with me is a 10-page paper on Karl Barth that's due in a little more than a week.

I'm printing out the material, some of which I have been reading, and taking it with me.

Well, at least the class will be over before Memorial Day weekend, which is my next break.

Remembering the Rev. Ray Robinson ...

We were at The Meadow taking part in a fairly extensive work day with other Meadow folk and volunteers with Family Promise of Blount County when Carol Green told me Ray Robinson was in critical condition at UT Hospital. I learned later that Ray had died.

I knew of the Rev. Ray Robinson long before I met him. He was held in high regard by longtime members of Middlebrook Pike UMC in Knoxville, which was my home church for more than 15 years. Ray served that church from 1965-69, the church's history records it as "a time when we needed a boost."

The history, some of which I still have on my hard drive, goes on to say this:

"It was as if we had 'bottomed out' into a low plateau of enthusiasm, interest and church growth. The Rev. Robinson got the church 're-organized and re-vitalized.'

"Fellowship dinners were started; a newsletter, the 'Messenger,' was published; the old Hammond organ was replaced with a new and larger one; landscape improvements were made; and our first pictorial directory was completed.

"Attendance and programs increased as a new feeling of spiritual alertness permeated the congregation. Plans for a new education building came into focus."

After Ray retired, his charge was at Maryville First UMC. He knew of my connection to Middlebrook as well as of my work at The (Maryville) Daily Times. He would occasionally take me to task about something he didn't care for in the newspaper -- never in a mean way, but in a challenging way.

I'm guessing that was the way he served at Middlebrook, as well as his other pastorates: Challenging disciples to move forward for the Kingdom.

Please pray for his wife Jane, daughters Anne and Joy and their families, as well as for the many friends and family members who are affected by his passing.

Grace and peace ...

Editing 'In His Steps' may let a little more light shine through

I first read “In His Steps,” by Charles M. Sheldon, in the late 1980s.

My Pa’s mother, "Momma T.," had it on her shelf, but the inscription indicates it actually belonged to his sister, Emily. Since I expressed an interest in reading it, it was placed in my hands.

In the Sheldon tradition, it has no copyright; however, the author’s introduction indicates it is a 1935 edition. Based upon a series of sermons by Sheldon, the book was originally penned in 1896 and the author notes that, “Owing to the fact that no one had an legal ownership in the book, sixteen different publishers in America and fifty in Europe and Australia put out the book in various editions from an English penny to eight shillings.

“Mr. Bowden, the London publisher, sold over 3,000,000 copies of the penny edition on the streets of London.”

In the early 1990s, the once public domain book and the “WWJD?” acronym for “What Would Jesus Do?” became a Christian subculture pop craze. I always felt a little funny about that, and I’m fairly certain Sheldon rolled over in his grave.

Today, my somewhat inherited copy of “In His Steps” — with its brittle, yellowed pages — has a high place of honor in my bookcase. The reason: It greatly influenced how I attempt to practice journalism today. One of Sheldon’s central figures was a newspaper editor, who stopped to ask himself "What would Jesus do?” before printing any story or advertisement.

When I first read the book, I was working as a copy editor at what was then Knoxville's other daily newspaper, The Knoxville Journal. At the time, I was struggling whether to remain in the vocation of "secular" journalism. The result: I eventually decided that there really was no difference between the secular and the sacred when you are on this Christian journey. When every day is viewed as a day of worship, and not just Sunday, it is all sacred.

Christians struggle in every vocation, but journalism offers some unique struggles for people of faith — not the least of which is a feeling that we sometimes peddle gossip for a living. That feeling serves as a reminder to me that the calling is much higher than merely peddling the darker side of the world.

Though we journalists often crack crass newsroom jokes about the events of the day, the responsibilities are far greater than we sometimes realize. We can be a cynical bunch, but the opportunities to impact our community in positive ways are evident -- if we have eyes to see and a willing pen to record. In the Christian vernacular, it can be “Kingdom work,” which is not to be confused with proselytizing for the faith.

Kingdom work is looking for places where the community — particularly, but not solely, the community of faith — is letting down its responsibility to care for the widow and orphan, to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked and to ensure that ‘justice rolls down like a mighty river.’ Once identified, it sometimes spawns a news story.

Few people know that Charles M. Sheldon was actually invited to edit The Topeka Daily Capital newspaper as Jesus would for one week beginning March 13, 1900. Heather Hooper, writing for The (Topkea) Capitol-Journal in a Sheldon centennial section published in 2000, notes, “At that time, the Capital's average weekly circulation rate was around 11,200, and 12,300 on Sundays. During Sheldon week, the number skyrocketed to an average daily circulation of 362,684, with more than 2.1 million copies printed all together, according to an article published March 25, 1900, in the Capital.”

The March 13, 1900, New York Times carried a story headlined, “The Rev. C.M. Sheldon’s Newspaper Experiment.” The lead paragraph, datelined Topeka, Kan., read, “The main purpose of the paper will be to influence its readers to seek first the Kingdom of God.”

As a journalist-pastor who continues to follow two callings, it’s comforting to know that those who chronicled the original Good News struggled with discipleship as well — and yet, God worked it out for good.Perhaps God can do the same with those of us who are called into the world of journalism today.

In no way would I suggest that the person at the center of every news story that crosses my desk is treated with the same grace, mercy and compassion that would be provided by Christ. After all, this editor is 100 percent human, with only a spark of the divine. Yet, I can not help but believe that the spark of the divine that lives within a Christian journalist makes him, or her, better at plying their trade.

Perhaps it allows a little more light to shine through the darkness.

Grace and peace ...