American Jesus

[AP photo/Altaffer]
Religion was on stage, front and center, last night, as megachurch pastor, Rick Warren hosted the two candidates for president, in a Q & A forum, at Saddleback Church.

With each candidate given an hour to answer questions and discuss issues pertinent to evangelical Xians, facilitated by America’s purpose-driven pastor, both Mr. Obama, and Mr. McCain acquitted themselves well.

While I didn’t watch the interviews in their entirety (surfing back and forth between the forum, and Red Sox baseball and the Olympics), I heard an extended segment with Mr. Obama, and Mr. McCain’s answers to Warren’s questions on evil, as well as abortion.

Hard line partisans probably won’t be budged from their candidate on the basis of Mr. Warren’s efforts at creating a forum to civilly discuss the issues. Those on the fence, however, or who happened to tune in and pay attention to either candidate’s responses, got a representative sampling of their leadership styles, and ideological orientation.

I think Mr. Obama had the greatest challenge, since some on the right assume being a Democrat and having core values rooted in faith are mutually exclusive. Others on the left fringes of the ideological spectrum may even view discussions of faith by a left-leaning candidate to be a liability.

As someone with a background rooted in spirituality, and a working knowledge of religion in America, I think Warren’s effort was done in good faith. I’ve not always been a fan of Warren, and the megachurch movement in general, but allowing candidates the room to answer questions like adults, and allow them an opportunity to tackle issues steeped in faith is necessary, in my opinion, in a country that at least pays lip service to religious values.

Interestingly, while more conservative evangelicals will probably consider is a slam-dunk win for Mr. McCain, younger evangelicals, many whom probably attend Warren’s church, will have a more difficult time pulling the lever in November, for Mr. McCain. Much of this has to do with changes that have occurred within American Xianity, and the inroads made by new evangelicalism. To think that today’s evangelical movement occupies a monolithic viewpoint is to reveal the kind of ignorance common among the drive by media.

While I’ve been critical of Mr. Obama, his willingness participate in this forum demonstrates an ability to cross party/political/religious/ lines. The nonpartisan view on this, I think is that he displayed wisdom, showed consideration, and came across as human to anyone who watched this with an open mind. Others will disagree, saying that his “nuance” was trying to be all things to all people, and give “safe” answers.

What is most interesting, the morning after, is viewing various websites (here and here) and reading media accounts, noting the predictability of the reactions (particularly the comments), when ideology is factored into the mix.

Reliance on past performance

Reading is a lot like listening to music, at least in my opinion. If you find an author that you like, reading other books by them usually brings enjoyment. There have been personal exceptions to this rule, of course. You might read one book by a particular author, and not be able to put it down. Another book, by the very same author, might be tolerable, but not the page turner you had been conditioned for.

Joyce Carol Oates is an example of the latter for me. I’ve found some of her books exhilarating. No doubt Oates is a fine author, but for me, her books have been hit or miss.

An example of an author that I once read everything I could find is Joseph Wambaugh. Wambaugh, who rose through the ranks of the LA Police Department, from patrolman to detective sergeant, over a 14 year law enforcement career, turned to writing, detailing the gritty realities of police work in his first novel, The New Centurions. Published in 1971, this book launched a prolific stretch of writing for the cop, turned writer.

I read Wambaugh shortly after leaving fundamentalist Xianity in the 80s. His books were the first that I’d read for pleasure since high school. I enjoyed his takes on police work, based upon his own experiences. The characters were believable, and Wambaugh was a good writer, so sticking with him brought a steady stream of enjoyable reading.

On the music side, certain bands and artists, are much like authors. Once you like one of their CD releases, chances are, you’ll enjoy their other output. Like certain writers, there will always be exceptions.

Mike Ness, of Social Distortion fame, and also, two solo discs, is an artist that I can listen to his entire catalogue, both with the band and solo, and not be disappointed. While my tastes have evolved somewhat from much of the indie post-punk that comprises a good deal of my music collection, Ness’ Social D stuff still stands the test of time.

Not long ago, I met with a colleague for lunch. After we discussed work, and details of possible collaboration, our conversation turned to music, baseball, writing, and spirituality. On the basis of that talk, he said he’d send me his favorite novel about baseball.

Curious as to what the book might be, about two weeks later, a package arrived in my work mail slot. Inside was The Brothers K, by David James Duncan.

I had never read, let alone heard, of Duncan. Sorry for me that I hadn’t.

I read most of The Brothers K, all 643 sprawling pages, during my long weekend at Shagg Pond.

My work friend was right about the book. Duncan is a wonderful writer, and the book captures the life, passion, and heartbreak of family like few other books I’ve ever had the privilege of reading.

Duncan creates characters that at times are a bit larger than life, but at the same time, very believable. The father, Hugh Chance, is a former minor league baseball phenom. A pitcher, on his way to the big time, before an accident in the hometown paper mill derails his plans, the book never becomes clichéd and the sudden turns and twists of the novel kept me engaged right up to the very last page turn. Even after 600 plus pages, I was disappointed the book was coming to an end. Duncan kept me wanting more, as he didn’t detail each and every event, or fall into the “lives lived happily after” trap of some.

On the strength of The Brothers K, I picked up River Teeth the other day, when I was perusing the shelves of fiction at the Lewiston Public Library.

I just started reading Duncan’s book of stories about rivers and idiot sheep, infused with the rich metaphor of “river teeth,” the memories of experiences we’ve all had, shaped by the river of time. Like The Brothers K, River Teeth is great reading, and Duncan seems to be a writer like Wambaugh (as well as Jonathan Franzen, Sherman Alexie, and others) whose catalog won’t disappoint.

Ending on a musical note, the band Nada Surf has become a band for me that brings aural pleasure. Overcoming the curse of MTV success early in their life as a band, with their hit, “Popular,” the Brooklyn-based band, after being dumped by major label Elektra, have moved beyond the constraints of “finding hits,” to producing some mighty fine work on tiny Barsuk Records.

About six months ago, after hearing a killer live performance on KEXP by the band, I picked up Let Go, their first post-Elektra musical foray. The disc stayed in my car’s CD player nearly nonstop for weeks. Recently, I decided to add The Weight Is a Gift, their 2005 release. The song "Always Love" is such a great piece of songwriting by the band, and captures the importance of choosing love (and possibly, kindness), over hate. While that song is the reason I nabbed the disc, the rest of the tunes are stellar, and there isn’t one bad track on the record. I also picked up their newest release, Lucky, which I’ve yet to listen to, I’m so enthralled with TWIAG.

One last game of catch

I can barely move today. Yesterday, after taking a long walk in the morning with my dog, and then biking around noon, I decided to throw batting practice to Mark, our son.

For a large portion of my life, baseball has been front and center in my life. It’s been a safe haven for me, a means of bonding between my son and I, and even provided a way to heal family divisions.

Oddly, the past two summers, baseball has been relegated to the margins. Somewhat burned out from coaching, and running a summer semi-pro league, as well as fed up with much that passes for the professional version, I became disinterested in the game that once meant so much to me.

[The accoutrements of BP]

Our son, now 24-years-old and no longer actively involved in playing (although he’s been a t-shirt vendor outside of Fenway for the past two summers) is readying for a move to the West Coast. He’s been home for a final visit this week, gathering belongings before heading back to Boston prior to his move.

The ball field at Durham Elementary School has been the scene of countless sessions of BP between the two of us, dating back to when Mark was eight, or nine. The early days were about instruction and lessons about the finer points of the game. I wasn’t always a patient teacher, but somehow, Mark gleaned the important points, and became a very good player, excelling at every level he played, up through college.

When I passed the school on my bike ride, I noticed a solitary L-screen setting on the pitcher’s mound at the field, beckoning me to return.

During the ride, I thought about the times Mark and I performed the ritual of me emptying the crate of 50-60 baseballs, as he scattered them about the outfield grass, with grounders, line drives, and long fly balls. Whether we were using a crate, ball bag, or bucket, eventually, it was emptied, and we would wordlessly trudge about the field, gathering the practice balls for another round. When Mark was in his teens (and I was in my 30s), it wasn’t uncommon for this to occur four, or five times, meaning that I would throw close to 300 pitches. When it was apparent I could no longer throw strikes, our session would conclude. Some of my best memories were the two of us, sweaty, sitting in the dugouts, talking, and sharing a water bottle.

Like Kevin Costner, in Field of Dreams, having a game of catch with the character he comes to recognize as his dad, Mark and I were able to share another session of BP, maybe the last one we’ll ever have.

As we tossed the ball back and forth to loosen our arms, the familiar “thwack” of the ball hitting the leather of our gloves was like a tune I hadn’t heard for a time, but something you never forget. As the ball hurtled to me, I realized that while I still could snatch the ball with relative ease with my mitt, I wasn’t as agile as I once was, even in my late 30s, when I was still playing competitively.

[Amazingly, I can still get into a catcher's squat]

Both Mark and I were rusty. I had managed to have a game a catch with a work colleague this spring. Other than that, and tossing the football some this week, with Mark, I hadn’t thrown a ball all summer.

Amazingly, I was still able to get the ball the requisite 60 feet, six inches, to the plate. Mark’s timing was a bit off, as he hit left-handed to start (he was a right-handed hitter through college). Mark always enjoyed toying with the opposite side of the plate. In fact, when he was 13, and broke his right arm, he taught himself to throw left-handed, so he could play catch while recuperating. It wasn’t long before I was glad I had the protection of the L-screen to duck behind, however. Mark began rattling line drives around the ball park from his unnatural, left-handed side.

[The L-screen is my friend]

[60 baseball pick-up]

After one bucket, he switched over to the right-side. Several of the first few soft tosses were popped up. After about 20 pitches, the Mark I remember came to life, and lofted a ball over the pines in left, some 350 feet away. The “crack” of wood making solid contact was back, and he hit several shots that reminded me of his high school, and college days, and some of the majestic home runs my wife and I witnessed.

While my right shoulder is painfully sore, and my left butt cheek pulses with pain every time I take a step, this 46-year-old baseball has-been is happy for one final diamond outing.

MSM fails to report on John Edwards

Ken Layne, editor of Wonkette, summarizes the John Edwards/love child story that the drive by doesn't have the heart (stones?) to report on. Slate also gives an explanation for the deafening silence surrounding the story.

I was duped by Edwards' faux populism he espoused when he was still jockeying his horse in the race. I should have known better about a guy that talks about the working class, but gets $400 haircuts.

The story, as Layne reminds us is "that politicians in Washington are creeps and weirdos, and whether they're Senator Larry Craig cruising for gay sex in an airport bathroom or ex-Senator John Edwards hiding from tabloid reporters in a Beverly Hills hotel bathroom, they are twisted little Caligulas pretending to be statesmen, on your dime."

Change agent for the common man

I no longer harbor illusions that most Americans possess the critical thinking to parse ideological differences between candidates for president. What has me concerned, however, is that when one candidate says one thing, like he's an agent of change, but at every turn, acts exactly like most other candidate for public office (as in saying one thing, and doing the opposite), then have the honesty to say you're voting for the guy because your an ideological hack, not someone that really believes your candidate will be any different than what your party has been offering for decades.

Take for instance Lord Barack Obama's 47th birthday party.

About 850 people attended the gala celebration, held in the ballroom of a Boston skyscraper, the 33rd floor to be exact, overlooking Boston Harbor. The guest of honor was serenaded first by singer Harry Connick Jr. and then his 10-year-old daughter, Kate. Afterwards, the entire room joined in what was described as an "animated" rendition of "Happy Birthday."

The cost for guests was between $1,000 and $4,600 per ticket. Among those, 250 also ate dinner with Obama — for $15,000 per ticket or $28,500 for a couple.

This is nothing new; candidates routinely shake down supporters for having the honor to be in their presence. It's how you become president in America, in the 21st century, and how it was done for the latter part of the 20th. Heck, Lord Obama left with $4 million in loot.

Interestingly, for a guy that seems to demonize oil, and is a member of the party of Al Gore and smaller carbon footprints, I wonder how many of the limousine liberals in attendance biked to the event, with their high end clothing and all. Come to think of it, I don't think Mr. Gore's spent much time on the bike, of late. Obama, on the other hand, looks like a cyclist, one that keeps his tires properly inflated.

The main course included porcini-crusted sea bass, which isn't the kind of cuisine that the working class, or John McCain was chowing down on, out in Sturgis.

Check out this link for the rest of the menu.

[Note: For the purposes of full disclosure, and in fairness to Mr. Gore for my crack on his weight, I'm carrying a few extra pounds on my own frame. At the same time, I'm not urging my fellow Americans to park the SUV, bike to work, and move to a cave without electricity.--JB]