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The Iron Man and the communion of Saints.

"On the night that Cal Ripken Jr. broke Lou Gehrig's record for most consecutive games played there were no arrests in Baltimore."  My good friend Ted told me this over beers the other night.

There are a few important things to understand regarding this statement.  Baltimore is a wonderfully historical city.  It is deeply rooted in both import/export business and the corruption that comes with big money.  It is a city close to everything but far away from many peoples most desirable places to live.

Like many blue collar cities in the world there is a great deal of crime and frustration regarding the economy and the general decomposer of "the way it was" or "the way it ought to be." Baltimore has a couple great sports teams (Orioles and Ravens).  You might have heard of them.

On September 6, 1995 most of the country and pretty much all of Baltimore tuned in to watch Cal play his 2,131 consecutive game.  Ripken hit a homerun in the fourth inning and by the middle of the fifth inning the game was official.  The crowd stood and gave Cal a twenty-minute standing ovation.  They cheered loudly and with the ferver of amazed bystanders for twenty straight minutes not really knowing what else to do.  Ripken had given his entire career to one team.  He encountered suffering, disrespect, media pressure, death threats and the remarkable anger that comes to many when we try to change history.  But he endured.

Both outside and inside the stadium in Baltimore, people were spellbound.  Silence ensued within the city's busy streets.  Celebrations occurred and violence seemed to stop.  In a city known for its raw culture and honest working man's efforts, hatred seemed to take absence because of one man and the game he loved. No arrests happened on September 6, 1995.

I write these things on the Shrove Tuesday (Mardis Gras) on the eve of Ash Wednesday and the brink of the Lenten season because I love that pitchers and catchers report to spring training today. And I love peace.  I love that well after Ripken's career in baseball had come to an end he founded a corporation that builds baseball parks in urban Baltimore with the express purpose of getting youth off the streets and teaching them a more enriching way of life.

Peace comes to us when we are silent.  It comes when we remember the things that are really important.  Peace happens when we invite celebration into our homes and when we listen to the stories of heroes and the broken.  Peace is a gift in the midst of thievery and a statement among silent voices.  It is a twenty minute raucous and a quiet street.

When we focus on our true heroes we encounter peace.

Lets focus on Christ this Lent.  Lets dig into the lives of the saints and surrender the violence of our daily schedules for the holiness of their sacrifice.  Lets bring peace.  Peace be with you this Lenten season and all seasons.  May peace enter your home and reign in the midst of all your days.  Play ball.

No drugs in the desert.

Once I gave up coffee for Lent.  This was a conscious choice.  I swear. After forty days of depravity it was decided by my lovely wife that I was never aloud to do it again.  Allow me to explain.

In the forty days leading up to Easter, Catholics enter into a time of fasting and preparation for the resurrection of our Lord.  Easter becomes the carrot on the end of the stick.  This is, of course, where the folklore of bunnies enters into the tradition.  Catholics become so desperate for whatever they fast from during Lent that they are like rabbits ravaging a garden of carrots.  Not really.

Lent is a time of sacrifice.  It is a desert.  In going out to the desert, Christ embraced the challenges and temptations of the world and told them where to stick it. The word Lent itself is derived from the Anglo-Saxon words lencten, meaning "Spring," and lenctentid, which literally means not only "Springtide" but also was the word for March, the month in which the majority of Lent falls.


Please understand, I do not consider myself addicted to any drugs.  I am not a drug abuser.  I choose my drugs wisely and feel that I care for them with the utmost compassion and respect.  I simply like coffee.  On a day to day basis I drink about four to thirty cups.  Okay, more like eight.  You get the picture.

I felt like giving up coffee would be a real symbol of sacrifice and dedication to the season.  I didn't realize that the headaches, lack of "wake-up"ability and genuine agitation would disrupt my family dynamic to the point of near incarceration.  But I made it the full forty days.  Bring it on.

In giving up coffee, I thought my sacrifice was the reason for the season.  I understood Lent to be about me and my ability to dedicate myself by giving up something.  Wrong.

Easter morning I drank an entire pot of coffee and returned to the daily high octane lifestyle that my wife and children had grown to love.  My stomach felt like a rusted steel mill brought back to life for one weekend of production only to be shut down again by a strike on the part of my colon.  Not pretty. What was Easter about anyway?

Lent is not about what you give up for your sake in hopes that you can tell all your Catholic friends about your sacrifice.  It is about the desert.  Lent is a time to shut up.  It is a designated season for creating more space in your life for Christ to be more present.  It is silence when you would normally be loud.  It is stillness where you are usually busy.  It is calm where you bring chaos.  It is Christ.

Walk into the desert this Lent with a sense of confidence and anticipation for you resurrected king. If you "give something up" be sure to fill the time you would have used for that thing with time for Christ.  Meet him in the sands with dedicated time and set aside reflection.  Chocolate or no chocolate, I promise your Easter will be that much more of a celebration.  Then, have a nice cup of coffee and enjoy the morning.

Wolves shooting guns in the kitchen.

I was a liar as a child.  It is something really.  I would lie to my parents about all kinds of things.  Once I wrote my name on the side of our house with a pencil.  When my dad asked me if I had done it, I denied it.  Now, I am no lawyer, but I feel my defense may be weakened in these particular circumstances.

The amazing thing about all my childhood lying was that I really don't know why I did it.  I was a pretty good kid.  Sometimes my friends and I would do stupid stuff, but nothing illegal, that we knew of at the time.

My lying haunted me when I became a teenager. It was clear that my parents had a hard time trusting me.  Please understand that I completely agree with them at this point.  Who would trust someone that would lie about their homework almost everyday and then lie about how they had lied in order to try and get themselves out of trouble for lying.  Mom and dad, I get it.

This lack of trust in our home created a bit of a vacuum for healthy conversation and genuinely led my dad to becoming a stark raving lunatic.  I had cried wolf so many times in our home, the shepherds were just down right pissed. Let me explain.

I had BB Gun when I was a child, like all good boys.  I had shot many pop cans, neighboring cats and the occasional migratory bird.  I was actually pretty responsible with the device.  I know you don't believe me now, but I swear.  Anyway, on one fine day my friends and family popped a big bowl of popcorn in our Stir Crazy popper.  Being young, I was always inclined toward making a mess.  A number of the hot popcorn seeds spilled out of the popcorn maker and onto our linoleum kitchen floor.  The seeds were so hot that they melted little holes into the floor just about the exact size of a BB.  Do you see where I am going with this?

My dad, not exactly a morning person, woke up one afternoon after working hard as a long haul truck driver only to find his kitchen floor riddled with small holes. His red faced assessment led him to believe that I had walked around the kitchen shooting the floor with my BB gun.  I know, right?

I was confronted with the allegation whereupon I laughed quite loud.  My dad became enraged at my humorous downplaying of the situation and proceeded to deductively reason both my motivation for the crime and my general defiance in the home.  I was at a loss for words.  I thought he had gone nuts.

The sad part is, he was really angry and stayed that way for quite sometime.  What I considered to be something trivial and silly, he presumed to be wedge in our relationship.  That kinda sucked.  The wedge would have been an easily explained mishap if trust had been maintained.  Instead it was a family altering reality.

Trust is what it is because it is necessary in healthy relationships.  Trust is a non-negotiable component. Trust is like 1000 foot dam.  It appears powerful and strong and nearly invincible but as soon as one little leak is spotted, integrity and value become doubted and even dismissed.  Trust is the foundation for all relationships because it is both fragile and firm.  It tills the soil and nourishes the seed. You wonder why all of God's relationships with us were built on convenant...a old word for promise based on trust.

To this day, I am convinced that my dad still believes I shot his floor.  No worries dad, at least you never found the holes in the ceiling.

Thomas Aquinas and Socrates had jobs, I think?

When I changed my major for the seventh time in college, my dad, understandably, was a bit annoyed.  My parents had saved money and were generously helping my siblings and I through the collegiate experience.  I was a Psychology major then Sociology, History, Communications, Public Relations, Secondary Education, Elementary Education and finally Theology and Philosophy.  Yes, you can get a degree with a double major in unemployment.

Christmas break came and my dad sat me down.  He asked, "How do you ever expect to get a job studying Theology and Philosophy!"  My witty 19 year old self replied..."Dude, you don't go to college to get a job, you do it to get an education."  "Thomas Aquinas and Socrates had jobs, er, I think?" After my dad recovered from me calling him "dude," he rolled his eyes and exhaled a breath of disgust.  A pretty healthy argument ensued.

Fast forward six years...

My parents helped me move into my second youth ministry position.  I am managing a two-hundred person youth group at a thousand plus family parish in Sumner, Wa.  My dad asks me, "So when are you going to get a real job?"  I responded with a pony tail to the middle of my back and a pair of Birkenstocks on my feet, "Um, not cool dad." This was actually a pretty good question on my dad's part at the time.

I am a dreamer and always looking at the pretty grass on the other side.  I am generally convinced that there is alway more.  In ministry I have never ignored the demands of my current reality, but I certainly seem to stare into the distance longingly a great deal of the time.

Fast forward three more years...

I bring a group of forty teenagers and adults from the the nine parish youth ministry I now manage to my parents little cabin in Newport, WA for a ski retreat. I ask my dad to cook and be patient.  If you knew him, you would be giggling right now.  A funny thing happens.  In the midst of my enjoying the moment, celebrating young people, developing relationships, praying, listening, laughing and just engaging great youth ministry, something clicks.  My dad and my mom see joy.  They see a career.

Fast forward six more years...

I manage the youth ministry for a Catholic diocese over 55,000 square miles.  We serve over 70,000 people in over 60 different faith communities.  I am responsible for resourcing, supporting, visioning, engaging, developing and practicing healthy adolescent faith formation for over 12,000 youth.  And, I do it from behind a desk (and in a car most of the time) with one administrative assistant and a heck of a lot of prayer and support.

My parents know that I have a real job.  I have always known this.  When we are young we have a decision to make.  Are we going to pursue a salary and the "security" of economic directive or are we going to face plant ourselves into a life of vocation.  The difference is in the spiritual life.  Are you doing something because you can or are you pursuing something because it is what you were built to do.

My little undergraduate degrees will get me a $2 cup of coffee at Starbucks.  That is, of course, a skim milk latte, but you get the picture.  My career has gotten me a life of challenges, beauty, innovative people skills, management experience, stress, marketing development, joy and a network of thousands of people all over the country.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  The grass may be greener, but I love the field I am in.

One bathroom shall serve them all.

Being a father of daughters, I am always taken back by the gasp that exits people's faces when I tell them that I have one bathroom and five girls.  The next assertion is generally concern for me as a parent  when my children enter their teenage years.  I can certainly empathize with this idea.  My children already compete for the one hairbrush of twenty that we own that they claim does not rip their hair out when they brush it.  Mornings are like responding to an alarm in a fire station only with more pink, hair ties and drama.  I think I hear CBS calling.  My girls argue over cereal, noise, eye contact, milk consumption and the weather.  They also dispute over shared shoes, some clothes, tooth paste and my attention.

I come from a family of five people.  I have a brother and a sister. My mother was a nurse and my father a long haul trucker.  My dad recently retired.  Reflecting on my childhood, I discovered something fairly astonishing.  My dad has been absent half of my life.  Allow me to explain.

My dad, a wonderful man and dedicated husband, would drive a long distance every other day.  When we lived in Spokane, WA he drove to Bellingham, WA every other day.  Years later his route changed to Boise, ID then Billings, MT.  Every other day he was in a hotel sleeping before piling back into a truck and returning home.  When home, he would sleep, parent, catch up on responsibilities, etc.  Quite a life when you really think about it.

Don't get me wrong, I had a great childhood.  Rarely did I ever feel lacking.  In my adult years, however, I cannot help feel this deep burning need to catch up on time with my parents, especially my dad.  I just want to hang out.  Be present.  You know?

My oldest is ten and my youngest is two.  There is nothing I would rather do than spend time with them.  Time is like a precious commodity in a fluctuating market.  Some weeks I have a ton of it and its value is modest.  Other weeks there is very little of it available and its value is precious.  The time I spend with my kids, my wife, my God has to be intentional and disciplined.

In youth ministry we call this the "Ministry of Presence."  The very nature of being present is in itself its own gift.  Our presence sends a message of dedication, trust, investment and most of all, comfort.  Others our comforted by our desire just to be there.  We witness discipleship by the sheer nature of our attendance at family, school and church functions.  We are present because we are part of the wholeness and formation of young people

I know this is true with my own kids.  When I can just be with them there stems a natural sense of accountability and wholeness.  My  wife likens it to peace with a little harmony.  Of course, harmony in a house of five little girls is akin to a symphony playing on a stage being pulled by a speed boat, but it will have to do.

Be present to family, faith and formation today.  You will never regret time dedicated to others.  The longings of the generations to come ought to come from their desire to be present to others.

 

Rebel with a skewed sense of cause.

Youth ministry for me growing up was a bit of a let down.  The forty-hour per week working moms did the best they could.  Volunteers did everything.  For me, however, it was more of a source of frustration than formation.  Gathering at the church to be lectured at or going on retreats with little content and a whole lot of rules didn't exactly bring me closer to Jesus. So I thought.  The programming seemed contrived or fake.  The efforts of those women was lost. Or was it?

When I stumbled into a career in youth ministry I did so out of rebellion.  I know, not the best reason for entering into a career of low pay and fickle administration.  But, I wanted to be better.  With my little undergraduate degrees in theology and philosophy I was certain I held the key to the universe. I wanted to prove that teaching about the Lord to young people didn't have to be dram and boring.  It could be enthusiastic and engaging.  It needed to be real. But, I believed it still needed to be about me and my ability to manage the moment.  Are you picking up on a theme here?

I am at a loss when I look back on my adolescent experience of ministry.  I remember being angry a lot with the lack of quality teaching and engaging content.  I remember acting out and intentionally disrupting the efforts of the worn out volunteers for the sake of attention or, better yet, dismissal.  I was the kid that asked the hard questions, had high expectations and then quit coming.

Me, me, me, me, me.  I sound like a two year old with a messed up mission.

I suppose the value in my experience comes from the fact that I have a memory of it at all.  A whole lot of adults put in a whole lot of hours to try to teach me about Jesus.  Their personal formation might have been a bit lacking and their teaching style may have resembled a Charlie Brown character, but they were present and they cared enough to try.  

My rebellious roots in ministry turned to professional perseverance in my late twenties.  I discovered that the world of youth ministry was monstrously large and there a lot of people much more qualified at it than I.  When you want to be successful in something, you study people that are successful in that thing.  So I did.

Today, youth ministry or any ministry for that matter, is an intentional landscape of opportunity and growth.  I approach it with a sense of humility and joy.  I focus on fundamental faith development and the pursuit of personal spirituality in young people.  I try to let the moment be mastered by Christ.  In other words, I know to get out of the way.  I have learned to shut up.  I have learned to yield to the authority of the Holy Spirit and trust in the power of an open heart.  I have learned about the notion of the other.

Service is at the heart of all successful ministry.  From service flows discipleship and from their, the rebel in all of us can be used to build a kingdom.

My mom gave John Wayne an enema.

I have two incredible "one up" stories.  You know how when you are engaged in a conversation about something totally interesting and the person telling the story really feels that they own the moment.  Comedian Brian Regan does a great bit about this on his "Walking on the Moon" DVD. It usually starts with something innocent like, "One time I was on this hike and..."  Eventually you hear about how a grizzly bear ate their friend but they narrowly escaped using parachute chord and a Trident gum wrapper as a hang glider whereupon they ran for three days only to discover respite in a tavern outside the ranch town of Augusta.  Maybe that is just in Montana.

The first "one up" story I like to drop on folks involves my mother.  When somebody starts in on what celebrities they have encountered over the years, I calmly wait with a gem in my pocket and a devious story of unprecedented success.

Here it is.

When my mom was in nursing school at Fullerton Junior College in California in the 1960's she happend to be doing a rotation in the emergency room at Fullerton Hospital.  In walks one John Wayne.  The John Wayne.  Yes, that one.

We have all heard the legends of his eating habits.  Apparently John was tying one on with a hefty meal and some drink when all of a sudden his intestines decided to file a formal protest and lock down until the union could gather before allowing any more work to be done concerning accounts receivable and sent.  This is a polite way of saying...his tummy really hurt and he couldn't go to the bathroom.

Upon examination of Mr. Wayne, the doctor on staff prescribed an enema.  Now it is important for everyone to realize that I will not go into hefty detail as to what an enema is.  You have Google.  Use it.  Regardless, the union lines had to be broken!  My mother...my wonderful little twenty-something LPN mother was on duty and got the assignment.

My mom gave John Wayne and enema.  She has had an encounter with a celebrity like no other.  She has placed her hands...okay, I will stop.  Isn't that hilarious?!  The best part of the story is that while John Wayne was recovering, putting on his pants and what not, my mom has the wherewithal to ask him for his autograph!  And, he gave it to her.  I like to think that John said something like, "Here ya are little lady.  Like to thank you for letting the herd back out into the pasture for me.  Wuhhuuh," but I am sure he responded more like, "May I go home now?"

Usually I tie my stories into some sort of spiritual theme or advice.  I like to look at life as a big teacher and me the lowly defiant student.  Maybe there is one here.  Perhaps we need to remember in times of desperate need to ask for help or that when are lives come to a halt, there is always a way through it.  Not sure I can keep a straight face while typing anymore.  This time, however, I think I will just let this story sit on its own, cause I know you have nothing that can "one up" it! Teeheehee.

P.S.
My second story (another blog post perhaps) has to do with my dad and the Beatles.  Seriously.

Making out with Julie Andrews

Over Christmas break my family (my wife and five daughters and I) watched the Sound of Music.  This was the first time the kids had seen the film.  They love to sing and dance and sometimes I want to ship them to Austria.  Perfect fit, right?

The film was a total hit.  My kids were spellbound by the antics of the children and the downright colorfulness of the movie.  Julie Andrews hypnotized them with her voice and by the fact that she was a rebellious nun.  My Catholic kids got a kick out of that.

The part that absolutely left me in stitches was when the Captain finally called off his engagement to the baroness and decided to let his feeling be known for his convent bound governess.  They find each other in the garden under the gazebo and begin singing to one another, like you do.  Finally, the moment comes when only a kiss can seal the deal.  I look over at my 4, 6, 8 and 10 year old sitting on the couch.  They are leaning in like they are trying to with a marathon.  The kiss happens and all four of them bury themselves under pillows.  The 8 year old yells, "Don't you know she's a nun!"  The 10 year old cries out in terror, "Oh my gosh!!!!"  My 6 year old says in a calm voice, "I knew they were going to do it."  4 year old remains silent.  My 1 year old spits up milk on the floor, cause you know, thats what they do.

My wife and I are dying laughing.  When they kiss again, I actually yell out, "Boom!"  To which my girls are all now giggling and loving every minute.  The movie continues.  They are now a family and the real drama escalates.

You know the story.  The Captain doesn't want to be a Nazi so he attempts to escape the country.  They sing.  They hide.  They walk to Switzerland.  Like you do.

The best part about the experience was at the end of the movie.  The family is walking to freedom to start a new life when the captions begin to roll.  My 8 year old bellows, "That can't be the end?  What happens next?  I want to know how everything turns out!"

Exactly.

I want to know how everything will turn out for my family.  I want my girls to be self-confident amazing women.  I want them to be wonderful moms, singles, or religious if they are called so by the Lord.  The key here is that the real story is in the adventure.  It is in the unknown.  Just as we all think things couldn't get any better, we are usually dosed with a big plate of unknown.

The Christian man or woman must be at peace in this environment.  Unknown simply means someone else is steering the ship.  Isn't this what we are called to through our baptism?

Thank you Rogers and Hammerstein for illustrating drama and family adventure.  Thank you Julie Andrews for making out with a Captain and re-telling the world that love dictates all.

Try not to get kicked in the face

When I was a freshman and my brother was a junior in college, I decided to join him on the intramural soccer team. Not since our youth had we played soccer together, so this was fit to be a bit of an adventure.  I played goalkeeper and my brother was a “sweeper” or full back.  This means he was the last defender before the ball got to the goal.

On one particular game, my brother got beat by a forward and I was left to defend the goal by myself.  This was a rare occurrence, I might add, considering he was lightening fast and ridiculously competitive).  I ran out to greet the striker in a one-on-one dive whereupon I lay out horizontally and attempted to steal the ball from the opposing player. 

The plan was sound.  The execution was costly.  As I flopped onto the ground the forward wound up and kicked at the ball.  Since I had arrive a bit quicker than the opposing player had anticipated the ball was in my hands and his foot ended up kicking me in the ribs.

Silence.  I had never had the wind knocked out of me like this before.  I remember gasping for air like I had just landed on Mars.  Of course, once I was able to take a breath, I inhaled as deeply as I could only to cause my broken ribs to make me cry like a little schoolgirl.  Man alive, that was a lot of pain.

My brother, seeing me gasping for life and riling in agony on the sparse turf looked me in the eye and asked the necessary question, “Are you alright?”  To which I responded with a headshake and tears.  Mind you, I was 19 years old.

My brother picked me up and carried me to his car.  He buckled me in as I awkwardly hunched forward and moaned.  He drove me to the hospital.  He stayed with me the whole time and made sure I made it back to my dorm room, six hours later.  He never said a sarcastic word.  He never laughed or taunted me.  He simply was present and loving.

I will never forget his fatherly compassion.  I will never forget the look of genuine concern on his face and the immediate move toward action.  It pays to build healthy brotherly relationships.  Trust me, I know.

Family can be weird and dysfunctional sometimes.  It can be the source of tension and frustration.  It can be violent and hurtful. But it can also be a glimpse into salvation.  Remember to call your brother or sister this week and secure the roots of healthy relationship.  You never know when that might come in handy.

Moonwalking with MC Hammer

I was a huge Michael Jackson fan when I was kid.  I even took tap dancing lessons when I was in fifth grade.  Somewhere out there is a photo of me in black stretch pants wearing a peach sequence vest and matching peach sequence hat.  Did I mention it was peach...and sequence?

My friend Josh and I were so excited about dances in junior high, we used to practice moves in my parents basement.  I am not kidding.  It takes two by Rob Base was a particular favorite. We would listen to songs that we thought might get played at the dance and choreograph moves.  Like I said, I am not kidding.

By my freshman year I had won three dance contests to MC Hammer's Can't Touch This. The trophies usually consisted of a six pack of soda and the attention of a number of beautiful junior high girls.  I know what you are thinking, "Doug, what is your secret?  Teach us the ways of your zen mastery in pre-pubescent extra-curricular groove."  Or you are thinking, "What a dork." It gets worse.

High school was more of the same.  I attended dances regularly.  My mom and I were the stars of the Mother-Son Father-Daughter dance whereupon we fearlessly twisted the night away.  In college I was hypnotized at freshman orientation and did a full lip sync to Michael Jackson's Beat it.  Many friendships were formed that night based on side splitting laughter and disbelief in my ability to moon walk.  Since then, things have slowed down.

My kids are the proud owners of Just Dance 3 and 4 and I just can't seem to let myself participate. The game is incredible.  It promotes incredible physical activity for people while having all the fun of a dance party in your living room. So what's my deal?  I think I have a theory.

Somewhere I let myself slip into a "been there, done that," mode when it came to dancing.  It is much easier to smile from the bar with your drink then get out on the dance floor.  It is much easier to disengage the present and dwell on the past. Yup, thats it.

I let myself dismiss the newness of every opportunity to encounter music and movement because I equate it with my adolescence.  The experience for me seems childish and I feel like I need to put away childish things.  How many of us do this with our faith?

"Oh I went to church when I was a kid because my mom made me."  "I used to go to youth group when I was a teenager, it was cool, but I grew out of it."  "Yeah, I used to take part in service trips when I was younger..."  And so on and so on.

A faith life just like dancing is not childish, it is child like.  We all know what the Lord thinks of being child like.  If you need a reminder read Matt 18:3.  Let make faith be a priority this year.  Maybe sit down and remember childhood joys and re-discover them.  Maybe your childhood encounter with faith was weak or ill formed...be an adult about it and discover a deeper richness in a more mature way.

MC Hammer ended up becoming a minister after all of his musical stardom faded away.  Maybe he and I were more connected than I had thought.  I should send him some soda. One of my new year's resolutions is to dance more.  I will not practice. I will not smirk at the invitation.  I will rip up the floor to Call me maybe and Final Countdown!

My wife has a crush on a guy named Edgar

Edgar Martinez won the award for best designated hitter in baseball so many times that they named the award after him.  He has a lifetime .312 batting average, .993 OPS and .515 slugging percentage.  If you are not a fan of baseball you should know that those numbers are amazing.  My wife is not the biggest baseball fan, but when Edgar was playing she thought he was ridiculously handsome as well.  This was great for me because I could get her to watch games.  This was not so great for me because I look nothing like a curly haired Puerto Rican.


Edgar came into the league in 1982 as a third baseman for the Mariners.  Wearing number 11 his entire career, Mr. Martinez hitting ability quickly began to surface as his greatest asset.  He became a full time DH.  In other words, he hit for a living.

In 1973 the American League introduced the position of designated hitter into professional baseball.  The idea is that the pitcher does not have to hit and an extra player on the team can contribute offensively.  The cool thing about the position is that is doesn't dismiss the bottom of the batting order during a rally.  For example, if you have a couple guys on base and the pitcher is due up, you don't have to kill your rally.  Pitchers average a .115 batting average nationally.  This means they usually cant hit worth a hill of beans.  Managers love the DH because it opens up all kinds of ways to put the game in motion in the bottom of the batting order.  Of course, I am a Mariner fan and in 2012 we carried four starters that hit under .200.  Just saying.

Why am I telling you all of this.  Edgar Martinez is on the ballot for entrance into the Hall of Fame this year.  The controversy is that many baseball purist feel the "designated hitter position" does not make one worthy of entrance into the hall.  Having receive the Roberto Clemente Award in 2004 for outstanding service on and off the field, I am not sure how Edgar could be more qualified.  Are we going to deny David Ortiz entrance as well? Here is what I am getting at.

When you take a job, you are usually asked to do the best you can.  Is there anyone alive who's job stays exactly the same their entire career?  Usually multiple additional tasks are asked of them and success is determined by their ability to adapt and overcome challenges.  From a McDonald's fry guy to a professional athlete, your role at work will change.

It is in how we deal with change and how we rise to the occasion that defines us.  Edgar Martinez redefined a position in the great game of baseball.  When it was determined that he would no longer be a starting third baseman, the position that Martinez loved and had played his entire career, he took to the batting cages.  Edgar would write words on tennis balls and load them into a pitching machine.  As the balls flew by him at 100 mph he would read the words.  That is intense.  It is also the self-discipline of wanting to become the best at what the game of baseball had offered him...well into his 40's.

No matter how our jobs have been redefined, lets make the best of them today.  Look at the differences in your work place from say five years ago.  How have you changed?  How has your job changed?  How will you change your approach to your job?  Oh, and, get out their and vote Edgar into the hall.  If their is one man that has exemplified the human spirit and the will to overcome, its him.

He Man and the moron youth minister

My first year as a parish youth minister I actually created a puppet show using my old collection of  He Man figures in which the story of creation was acted out behind a make shift curtain on folding tables.  He Man was, of course, God and She Ra was Eve. If these names mean nothing to you, you simply missed out on one of the greatest cartoon story lines of the 80's...or so I thought.  The puppet show...was for juniors in High School.  I....was a moron.

I was 22 years old and thrust into a position where I had been given the responsibility of helping form the faith of hundreds of teens.  I thought I could be extremely entertaining and maybe dabble in a bit of content. My credibility was shot with the youth and adults in the room in one night. Quite frankly my ego was a bit fractured.  Why was I doing this job again?

When I started out in youth ministry with my pony tail and sandals, I was convinced that I was the best at what I did simply because I wanted to be the best at what I did.  My personal spiritual life was a joke and my understanding of day to day parish life was a bit of a fantasy.  I was good at being with young people, but completely inexperienced at planning anything.  My understanding of youth culture was based solely on my memories of being a youth and my education, I believed  some how entitled me to authority...I thought.  My charm would have to be enough.

Oddly, it sort of was.  You can get away with being fun loving and easy to get along with in ministry. You can be the young adult that makes youth laugh and completely accepts the quirks of the culture with a smile and a ,"Thats cool, no worries," type attitude.  Your impact, however, will be shallow and short lived.  It took me a long time to learn this.  I was much more concerned about being accepted in the youth culture than being a messenger.  I thought it my job to be a positive influence in the lives of youth rather than a disruptive voice on behalf of our risen Lord.  Both are important.  Simply being positive, however, is not the way of the cross and certainly not the model laid our for us by the communion of saints.

My career as a minister has been a bit of a mountain ascent.  It has mostly had its ups but they have come at a price.  The cost is always hard work and forcing my self to walk the extra step to gain ground in m spirituality and personal formation.  Along the way I have a stumbled a ton.  With every bruising step, I have a choice to make.  My own spiritual ascent can either form me or frustrate me.  I can let my career in ministry change me into what God wants me to be or simply attempt to climb a corporate ladder.  The choice is mine, but the result will impact everyone around me.

This is the way of service.  I am not in my twenties anymore, and am glad for it.  I do not make the same mistakes I made as a younger man...thank the Lord.  I take my own spiritual formation extremely serious because I want young people to do the same.  This is the seed of success who's fruit I may never reap.  But it is a path much more attune with the Gospel narrative and the path of discipleship.