Sheer Terror and Blessed Assurance

I've heard it compared to the Bubonic Plague...family member passing it to family member, eventually killing the ones you love most. I've heard it compared to sado-masochism...embraced only by those who seek out and even seem to enjoy pain. I've heard it compared to worshipping Satan...a strange and anti-establishment thrill even though you know it's not going to end well at all. I know that these are not positive analogies, but for whatever reason I chose, years ago, to call them my own...that's right...

I'm a Cubs fan. And this is the worst time of year to be a Cub's fan.

It all stared Sunday night. The Cubs were coming off a 8-0 rout of Pittsburgh, the Brewers had lost another tear-your-heart fall apart game to the Braves...and Dusty Baker (He of the 1,286 pitch count who still has Mark Prior's right arm at home on display above his mantle with a plaque reading "I felled him...me and me alone") said out loud for all America to hear: "They're in. They way they're playing, they're in." And as I sat there in bed, the worst thing possible happened: I agreed with him. Before I could catch myself, I agreed with him.

Suddenly, they flashed the stat that no team had ever blown a 3 1/2 game lead with a week to go. The lump started growing in my throat...there are stacks of those stats 10 miles high that now have the suffix "...except the Cubs." The Brewers won on Monday...again on Tuesday. The Cubs were off on Monday, and got crushed by Dontrelle Willis on Tuesday. Both teams lost last night. The Cubs Website today reads: "Cubs desperate to break Marlins' stranglehold." Yeah, that's right...the Marlins (68-90--the equivalent of the 95 pound weakling) have us in a headlock and are giving us a noogie right now.

And so, with 4 games left in the regular season and a 2 game lead, I'm terrified. You see...something strange happened in 1998. Before then, the only team that could get me nervous was the Nebraska Cornhuskers. Now, I was a fan before 1998, but that was the year of the home run chase and (more importantly) the first Cubs playoff appearance of my old-enough-to-understanding. I remember the tension down towards the end of the season...I remember thinking all was lost. Most of all, I remember the spectacular game they played against the Giants in a one-game playoff for the Wild Card in Wrigley. Sure, they got killed in the playoffs...but that game got me hooked.

If 1998 was my introduction, 2003 was my true initiation. I had heard of the terrible plays and the leads blown and all that stuff...but never experienced it. I remember the announcer calling Game 6 saying, "Only 5 more outs...and the way Prior's pitching, I don't think the Marlins can do it." And I thought to myself: "They've got it. We're actually going to the series." Minutes later, Bartman. Chaos. Disappointment. And...for Game 7...anxiety. That strange feeling that there was absolutely no way the Cubs were going to win.

And so, this September, that feeling has come up again. That strange mix of hope and anxiety. But as I think about the facts of baseball (like the once-cursed Red Sox fan base and their morph into demanding, spoiled Yankees who wear different colors) alongside the ins-and-outs of my calling (darkness before I dawn, dependence, and the like)...I can't help but wonder it the wins would mean as much if there were more of them. Sure, it would be nice to make the playoffs 13 years and a row and hire and fire people because you didn't win 100 games...but I look at the Nebraska fan base and then think about all the excitement I felt for that one-game playoff (to simply make the playoffs)...and I think of the smile I'll (God willing) have if they actually pull it off.

But I stop short of the whole "Cubs fan as a mirror of Christian faith" thing. I'll stick with it as entertainment....because, at the end of the day, when I feel this knot in my stomach as I check the scores comimg in and think about the relatively slight disappointment I would feel if the Cubs fail to make the cut...I sit back and am thankful for that unassailable fact:

Steve Bartman or no Steve Bartman...God always wins the pennant.

Green Grass

Something odd happened to me this past Saturday. I went to a Presbytery meeting at one of the larger churches in our Presbytery, and I found myself having an odd reaction.

I'm a guy who was raised in a small town who loves small churches...it's what I'm used to, feel called to, and love. But Saturday I walked into a larger church (around 1100, mind you...not a megachurch) and saw the beautiful sanctuary with new carpet and spectacular eye-popping banners and paraments. It was set up for the bell choir to perform on Sunday, right next to the guitars and trap set for the contemporary portions of worship. All this was set in front of a massive, beautiful pipe organ. I moved into the Fellowship Hall next, with bulletin boards covering the outside walls...Middle School group, High School Group, College Group, Young Adult Group, Seniors Group, Stephen Ministries, Mexico Mission Trip, Local Missions, Women's Bible Studies, Men's Bible Studies...and a table set up for a renewal/retreat weekend. The sign-up sheet was full. We moved down to the education wing with pictures of the hundreds of children that work their way through the Sunday School rooms on an average Sunday. I soaked it all in, in all of it's impressiveness...and something strange happened: I was jealous.

And I sat there, thinking about everything that's eating at me right now. I thought about our age (both facilities and congregation), our need for youth, our general tiredness, and all the ways that we are limited. I thought about how half-empty the glass was. I thought about the calls for volunteer es that have been met by silence. And I thought about how a large church would solve all of those problems.

I sat looking at one of the bulletin boards when a member of our Presbytery who was the Interim Pastor here, came up behind me and read my mind: "One set of challenges for another, friend...read your Peterson." I knew exactly what she was talking about. And so, this morning, I re-read some of "Under the Unpredictable Plant:"

"A bare 60 or 70 years after Pentecost, we have an account of seven churches that shows about the same quality and holiness and depth of virtue found in any ordinary parish in America today. In 2,000 years we haven't gotten any better. You would think we have, but we haven't. Every time we open up a church door and take a careful, scrutinizing look inside we find them again...sinners. Also Christ. Christ in the preaching, Christ in the sacraments, but embarrassingly mixed into this congregation of sinners."

"It is to be expected in these situations that with some frequency certain pastors will come forward with designs to improve matters. They want to purify the church. They propose to make the church something that will advertise to the world the attractiveness of the kingdom. With a few exceptions these people are, or soon become, heretics, taking on only as much of the gospel as they can manage to apply to the people around them, attempting to construct a version of church that is so well behaved and efficiently organized that there will be no need for God."--pgs. 24 and 25

I remember reading this in seminary and saying "Amen." I remember scoffing at the shallow pastors who skirt challenges as they seek greener pastures. I remember nodding as one of my mentors used to say, "the key is looking for how God is working rather than all the ways we think He's lagging."

I still get it. I still admire it, yes...I still understand and believe it, yes. But I'm discovering that it's a whole heckuva lot easier said than done.

The Adventures of Pastor Wuss

As already detailed above, I have recently discovered that I have a battle to fight with high cholesterol and high blood pressure. The fight has been going well, running has been upgraded from "Worst Thing On Earth" to "Thing I Would Rather Not Do," and I am learning to live life without the joys of cheese, red meat, and chocolate on a uber-regular basis. Last Thursday was the big day...my blood test. But in order to get a status report from the front, I had to face another bitter enemy:

Getting my blood drawn.

I know. Pathetic. How old are you? The funny thing is that I have gone through about a ten year period of my life when I've been fine with it. I had my blood drawn on a handful of occasions through grad school, seminary, and the like...but for whatever reason this last time (in June) got me. And I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I watched the whole thing. By the time it was over I was stumbling around the house like Dean Martin, looking desperately for some juice, and desperately trying to convince the nurse who had come by our home that I was "fine" (Translation: "I am a real man. Put away that skirt and back off.")

This is all to say that I was nervous and psyching myself out last Thursday. The receptionist informed me that I would be meeting with the doctor first and then I would go back to "the lab." So I have a great, though slightly nervous, meeting with the doctor, who congratulates me on having the "fortitude" to stick with running.

Then he calls in the nurse. She, of course, asks the first question: "Are you going to be OK with this? Do you get queasy?" My response: "No...I'm great." (Translation: "I eat meat raw!!!! Give me a steel beam and I'll rip it in half!!!! Give me motor oil, and I'll drink it!!!! GRRRRRRR!") We proceed to walk into "the lab," and the nurse informs me that she's going to use a smaller needle so the prick doesn't hurt as much. "It takes a little longer," she says, "but you'll hardly feel the prick." I'm on board with this...until she breaks out the FIVE vials she needs to fill. Great Caesar's Ghost!!! Why doesn't she just take a finger!?! Sweat starts to appear on my forehead. As she ties the gigantic rubber band around my arm, she asks: "You OK?" My response? A very terse, "Fine. Go." (Translation: "Dear Lord, please let her find a vein.")

It takes her roughly three tries to find the vein, all the while giving me the John Madden play-by-play. I now not only have my eyes closed, but am calling on the name of Jesus. I'm ready. Rapture time. Come on. After what was probably thirty seconds, I get up the nerve to look over: The vial isn't even 1/8th full. Vial number one that is. The nurse senses my panic. "It takes a while, but you didn't feel the prick did you?" Nope, I just heard about it. A few minutes go by and I start to feel woozy. I open my eyes again to find the vial...vial number ONE...at the exact same level. The nurse is tapping the syringe, a perplexed look on her face. She looks at me: "Sometimes it clots. This might take a while. You still good?" My reply: "I'm hanging in there." (Translation: "Are you KIDDING me!!?!?! I don't care about the poke...just get the blood!!! Get a straw and sharpen it for all I care...just get the blood!!! Now!!! You want me to poke myself with a pen? I will!!!" ) The sweat starts coming and the "You Can Do It" posters from Highlights magazine start spinning...so I give in: "I need to stop." (Translation: "I give in!!! Yes, a ten year old girl could be me up!!!! Just, great God in heaven, stop tapping that syringe!!!")

They put the ice pack on my neck and walk me out, holding my arm, back to our room. We pass the doctor, who smiles and says: "Hang in there, pastor." Nice. By the time we get back to the room, the doctor is in there to with a big book of jokes. I soon realize that he's there to distract me. I half expect him to pull out a stuffed lion and wiggle it: "Now show me that smile!" So much for fortitude. He know probably thinks that I run to avoid scary things...you know, like puppies and butterflies and sunshine. The good news is that the process goes quickly and efficiently with the normal needle (humility is evidently an anti-coagulant.) I feel the prick...no, I welcome it. By the time I walk out of the doctor's office, I have two massive cotton balls on each arm, three pats on the back, and a severely bruised ego.

The call came in the next day: my cholesterol is down nearly 15 points. My good is up, my bad is down. But, unfortunately, a couple of the tests came back sketchy...they think that the two gallons of blood were shaken too much in transport: "Is there anyway you can come back in for another sample next week?"

My appointment is for the 14th...my prayers are for a needle the size of toilet paper roll and/or a sudden influx of testosterone before then...or, if at all possible...

Jesus on the 13th.