Abiding in Christ and Mission Trip Highs

If you grew up in a church youth group, then you probably went on a summer mission trip. You'd travel by bus with forty of your friends to some remote destination that you had never heard of, and somehow you got up at the crack of dawn every day to do the kind of work that you would never think of doing back home. And yes, all of our parents would say quietly to themselves, "So my child will travel half way across the country to put a roof on some stranger's house, but you have to pull his teeth to get him to clean his own room?" I know, I know...double standards.

And if you went on these short trips, then you know all about the Mission Trip High (MTH). You came home with grand visions to live your life sold out for Jesus, changing the world before you graduated high school. You promised to read your Bible every day. You vowed to fast once a week. You swore to be the greatest prayer warrior in your church. You were going to be the perfect Christian!

But within days of coming home, the MTH was gone. You were sleeping in till noon. You were loading up on junk food. Your Bible was still packed away in your suitcase. And you figured that since you went on a youth group mission trip, you could excuse yourself from church for the rest of the summer.

As we grew up, we came to call those MTHs a mere emotional experience. We believed that we allowed our feelings to get the best of us; that's why we made the same ridiculous promises after every single mission trip. Let's be honest - those promises were a bit far fetched for anybody.

I would like to argue, though, that something other than out of control teenaged emotions were fueling those MTHs. In fact, I will say that for those of us who spent a week or two of our high school summers serving on mission trips, we were fulfilling Christ's words to His disciples in John 15.

Final Instructions.

On the night Jesus was betrayed, Jesus gave these final words to His closest friends.

I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. (John 15:5-8 ESV)

How do we interpret those words, "Abide in me....I in you?" For years, I was taught that the answer was found in the spiritual disciplines: read your Bible, pray daily, fast regularly, etc. And indeed, these are important activities for any follower of Jesus. But Jesus does not exhort his Disciples to a life of prayer and meditation. Not here, anyway.

Jesus' emphasis is on direct action. Let's look further.

As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. (John 15:9-11 ESV)

Now wait a minute. Did Jesus say what I think he said? Did he actually say that we will earn Jesus' love by following His commands?

No. He said that we would abide in His love. In other words, we would live in accordance with His love if we follow His commandments. Or we would become more aware of His love if we follow His commandments. That is the model Christ sets for us; He kept His Father's commandments and so rested in His Father's love.

And what is Jesus' commandment? He couldn't be more clear.

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. (John 15:12-14 ESV)

The love of Jesus bore good fruit in the physical world. The love of Jesus wasn't only about storing treasures in heaven; Jesus loved in order to showcase the Kingdom of God is in our midst right now. 

John 15 is sandwiched between two profound acts of service. In John 13, Jesus washes His disciples feet, a humiliating duty reserved for the lowest of servants. In John 18 and following, Jesus is arrested, tried, and crucified. Jesus puts flesh on His own words - "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends."

For three years, the twelve disciples were first-hand witnesses to the kind of love that Jesus honors. Jesus healed the sick, he embraced the crippled, he protected the lowly, he advocated for the poor. Not only that, but Jesus loved the enemy of the nation of Israel by healing a Roman Centurion's son. Jesus loved the enemy of the weak by dining with the Pharisees. Jesus loved the enemy of the Law by sojourning for a while in unclean Samaria. 

Jesus loved His twelve disciples even as they misunderstood his teachings, as they asked banal questions, even as His own disciples questioned Jesus' agenda. For all of their mistakes, Jesus called these twelve men his friends, and that should be a great comfort to us as we struggle to live and love well. (Although, it should be noted that Jesus had sent Judas away from the table by this point in the narrative). 

And what of our teenaged MTHs? Think about it. If you went on those kind of trips, you made sacrifices. If you had a summer job, then you sacrificed a week's worth of income, no matter how small it was. If you had summer athletic training, you gave up a week of strength conditioning to serve. If you hated hard labor and early mornings, you sacrificed your right to sleeping in and comfort. If you harbored prejudices against the poor or people of color, than you sacrificed your biases in order to serve another human. If you didn't care much for your colleagues in your youth ministry, then you sacrificed your pride (or fear) and forced yourself to serve with new friends. Jesus honors all of these sacrifices, and in making such sacrifices, you opened yourself up to understand God's love in new ways. 

What's the takeaway? Christian, if you are longing to know Jesus' love for you, then here is your answer - love your neighbor as Jesus would love them. That is no "social justice gospel;" those are the very words of our Lord and Savior. While much good can be said for a life of prayer and meditation - and indeed, Jesus expects us to fast and pray - none of those disciplines will make any sense until you put on some work boots and serve. 

I am reminded of words from a local pastor that I heard nearly a decade ago. "An over-exposure to Truth with no response will lead to a hard heart." 

Why did the MTH disappear? You stopped following Jesus command to love one another, so you ceased to abide in Jesus love. If you grew up believing that reading and memorizing God's word was the key to joy in God's Kingdom, then maybe you were confused when sustained joy never came with an increased head knowledge of His Word. That's because Jesus doesn't ask us to live life tucked away in an ivory steeple. Jesus calls us to love one another by practicing the wisdom of the Scriptures in the real world. To love one another is a command so simple that twelve rapscallions, enabled by the power of the Holy Spirit, were able to build God's church on this earth.

So go forth, serve, and get your Mission Trip High, and then work that high day by day by loving your neighbor as Christ commands us to. And may you find your rest by abiding in the Vine who supplies you with all that you need.

Until next time,

-JC

Lessons from the Bike: The Tough Guy Crashes

Any of my friends will tell you - I love to bike. I have a Carpe named Balrog Trouble Cornwheel - or Trouble, for short - so named because he's menacing like the evil Fire-Demon of Moria, he's constantly getting me into some kind of mess, and, well, Cornwheel just sounds like the bicycle version of my last name.

Even at rest, he looks mean

Trouble and I go for some decently long rides. It's not unusual for me to take him on a 20, 30 mile ride on a nice day. During the summer months, we'll average about 80-100 miles a week. We commute. We exercise. We flip off drivers who cut us off. We're made for each other...even when Trouble is getting me into trouble.

Like last Friday, when Trouble and I got into a nasty accident on a major Memphis road.

Madison Avenue is a road that runs from Midtown Memphis all the way to the University of Memphis Law School's downtown campus. I love biking on Madison because not many motorists use the road, and it also offers bike lanes, which gives me a decent sense of security.

But Madison Avenue has a nasty little trick. It has trolley tracks built into the road, and if you're not careful, those tracks will take you down.  As my good friend Clark, owner of Victory Bike Studios, will tell you, "I always tout that the trolley tracks are what keep orthopedic surgeons in business. You can't ride parallel to them, or you are gambling."

There's a point on Madison where the trolley tracks cross from the middle of the road to the sidewalk; for a cyclist, this crossing is the most dangerous part of the journey to downtown Memphis. If you hit the crossing at any angle other than 90 degrees to the tracks, you will crash.

And for a dozen trips down Madison, I have won Clark's gamble, safely coasting over those metal devils.

But last Friday brought the unlucky craps shot. I came in at the wrong angle, and my tires got lodged into the grooves of the tracks, and I spilled face first onto the pavement.

And I immediately got back on my feet.

I immediately put the chain back on the gear.

I immediately got back on the road.

I immediately biked to my intended destination.

And I didn't bother to see the damage until I got to my intended destination.

Not damage to Trouble, mind you; the bike got away without a scratch. (Like I said: Trouble).

Rather, the damage to my body - to my left knee. My jeans were ripped and covered in a small amount of blood. My knee was scraped bad - not bad enough to need stitches, but it hurt. And my knee was dirty, covered in soot and gravel from my spill on Madison.

My riding gloves - it was cold - were also ripped. That could've been the flesh of my palms.

But you know what? I'm a Tough Guy. I don't have time to mope, and I'm not about to call a friend for a ride home. So I chain my bike up outside the coffee shop I intended to visit to meet with my intended friend for my intended cup of coffee, and over said cups of coffee we casually joked about my fall, my ripped up jeans, my bloodied knee.

Well, I joked. My friend Tyler laughed only because I laughed - in reality, Tyler wanted to give Trouble and me a ride home in his truck.

But no. I'm a Tough Guy who is going to spend all day on his bike, scraped up body be damned. So Tyler and I finish coffee, and we hug goodbye, and I mount my bike ("Dang, my knee hurts"), and I head east on Madison to meet another friend for lunch, and I go over the same trolley tracks, and I spill again. Not as hard as the first fall, but even then, it was like adding salt to an fresh and biting wound.

(Yes, Reader, I was wearing a helmet).

And I immediately get on my feet, and I immediately fix the chain, and I immediately hit the road to have my lunch with my friend Andy, because Tough Guys bike to lunch with a banged up body.

When I meet up with Andy, he's looking at my ripped up jeans, my bloodied knee, my scraped gloves with that look - you know, the one that says, "Jimmy, you're an idiot. You know that, right?" Andy offers Trouble and me a ride home in his truck, but I politely decline. I'm a Tough Guy; I'll take care of myself.

I bike to Rhodes to do some work ("Dang, my knee really hurts"), and I have to tell my colleagues what happened to my bloodied knee and ripped up jeans. Eh, let's be honest, I'm smirking with every detail I tell them, because pain is cool, and I'm a Tough Guy.

By now, all my adrenaline has worn off, so I am exhausted. I bike my sorry self home ("[Expletive], this frackin knee really hurts") and I pass out as soon as I walk into my bedroom.

When I wake up about an hour or so later, I start thinking:

Why didn't I stop?
Why wouldn't I accept anybody's help?
What joy do I have in telling people I crashed on Madison?

I could have been seriously hurt.
I could have broken my wrists.
I could have been hit by a car while I was down on the ground.
I could have gotten killed.

I suffer from Tough Guy Syndrome - a sequence of lies and half-truths about masculinity. I believe this lie that says pain for the sake of pain is noble and good. I believe this lie that says only weak people accept help from friends. I believe this lie that says you must always be the noble hero at every moment; you must always push every envelope.

I'm a Tough Guy on my bike. Where else am I a Tough Guy?

I'm a Tough Guy in my friendships. I don't like to ask for help, nor do I like to receive help. My roommates are always asking if they can help me make dinner, but I always shut them down. "Nah, I got it."

I'm a Tough Guy in my work. It's midnight as I write. I've put together lectures, class plans, and e-mails at an even later hour. Why? Because I must push through the fatigue; only the weak need rest.

I'm a Tough Guy in my faith. Anyone who knows my story - which is many of you - knows that I have endured some horrifically rough episodes, most notably during my time in North Carolina. I've never really allowed anybody to help me carry those burdens. Sure, I've shared my story many times, but I don't know if I have ever allowed many people to help me confront the pains, fears, and anxieties I carry in my heart.

Because I'm a Tough Guy. There's no time to stay on the ground. I gotta get back on the bike and get moving to my next destination - and I'll gladly wear my bloodied wounds openly on my heart and body.

But it takes a humble man, a strong man, a healthy man to say,
I need to stop and rest.
I need to heal these wounds.
I need someone else to carry me right now.
Or I'm going to hurt myself - and others - more deeply than I am already hurt.

There are more than a few guys in my life who are willing to carry me home. A Tough Guy will always decline, but a strong man will humble himself enough to gratefully accept the help.

"Bear one another's burdens," writes the Apostle Paul, "and so fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)

Trouble may not be able to teach me how to accept help, but he has revealed a wound that cuts deeper than a scraped knee. Self-awareness is the first step towards wholeness and restoration.

A few good friends and a gracious Father in Heaven is teaching me now how to ask for and receive help. That's a hard lesson to learn, but even in the last few weeks, I have benefitted greatly from it. But that's a lesson to share for another day.

Until next time,
-JC

Lessons Learned in 2013

Yesterday, I wrote a little recap on what I have *done* in 2013.

Today, I want to offer a brief reflection on what I have *learned* in 2013.

1. It's good to take risks. When I quit my church job back in February, I had *nothing* to fall back on. There was no job offer. There was no call for a job interview. Heck, I had not even put in a job application. All I had was a sense of calling and some money saved up and a far-gone crazy hope that maybe, just maybe there will be a job for me in the right time.

Sure enough, seven weeks after my departure from the church, I was walking into a brand new job at Christian Community Health Fellowship that, funny enough, utilized none of my professional training. But hey, it was a job that kept the bills paid.

If you had told me that working for CCHF  would indirectly lead to a job with The Marin Foundation, then I would have called you crazy. And yet, this is exactly what happened when my boss at CCHF said to me in June, "Look, you're great, we love you, you're doing a good job - but you're not happy here. You need to be working to build bridges of reconciliation with the LGBT community. Our one conversation in the car from Atlanta helped me so much."

I kid you not - my boss at CCHF told me those words.
One week before I would go to Chicago.
To hang out with The Marin Foundation staff.
Who, as it turned out, were waiting for me to make a commitment to them.

Funny how risks can play out like that.

2. The familiar can become unfamiliar. Case in point - the Bible. Last January, I got on a Bible-in-a-year plan, and as of this publication, I'm four chapters away from finishing Revelation - the final book of the Scriptures.  Passages that were, at one time, very familiar have now become a rich treasury of mystery and, yes, frustration. I still don't quite get all the violent bloodshed of the Old Testament. Jesus and Paul said some very hard things, and I'm not sure how *literally* I'm supposed to take them (Romans 9? Matthew 25? I Corinthians 6?).

3. The familiar can still be familiar. Case in point - the Bible. I stumbled across words - some familiar, some obscure - that struck deep chords in my heart. Psalm 73 is the song of a conflicted, burdened man whose hope rests in the Living God. Malachi 3:1-4 reminds me that I'm not a finished product - the best is yet to come. Romans 8? There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus? Amen. John 8: I do not condemn you either - you are free to live *well*.   Psalm 139: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

4. I get to keep learning. I'm going to start anew that same Bible-in-a-year curriculum. There's too much buried in those texts for me to simply close the Scriptures right now; I am convinced that the Holy Spirit has much more to teach me from the Bible. And as for myself, my being, my body, my mind, my identity - I'm asking myself huge questions. What does it mean to be a Christian? Who is God? What has God made me to be? What does it mean to be a man? What does it mean to be gay? I look forward to engaging those questions in 2014.

5. Time is so short. You only get so many hours a day and days a year, and I wasted more than enough time on things that just don't matter.

On arguments that don't end.
On relationships that have died.
On grudges that wear me down.
On a past that can't be changed.
On people who don't build me up.

Wasted time burdens the spirit. And in the words of a great prophet of YouTube this summer - H'aint nobody got time fo dat!

I've only begun to understand that you have to manage your time well in order to manage your well being. Calendars and rituals can help you spend more time on what's important.

On conversations that illuminate.
On relationships that thrive.
On laughter and joy and peace and forgiveness.
On a present that only exists for the moment.
On people who build me up.

So now what? 2014 is only a few hours away. On Thursday, I'll share with you my resolution for the new year, but in the meantime, I hope that you all ring out the old and ring in the new with loved ones tonight!

What did *you* learn in 2013?
-JC

2013 in Review

I'd like to take a brief moment to take stock of what happened in 2013. This was a challenging year, a restorative year, and a difficult year.

In February, I left my position as Director of Music Ministries at First Presbyterian in Hernando, MS for both personal and professional reasons. This was a massive leap of faith; I left the church with no job prospects. Nonetheless, I walked away confident that God would provide for my daily bread.

Leave that church job allowed me to return to my old house church with Christ Community, where I got to worship in my neighborhood with friends old and new.

In March, I got an opportunity to attend the national conference for the American Choral Director's Association in Dallas, TX, where I heard incredible performances of some of the world's best choirs, including the University of Louisville Cardinal Singers, the Tallis Scholars, and most impressively of all, the Dallas Symphony Choir in a performance of Benjamin Britten's magnum opus, The War Requiem.

With plenty of inspiration, I led the Rhodes Chamber Singers on a fabulous tour to New Orleans, LA with many standout performances.

When I came back to Memphis, I began a brief stint with Christian Community Health Fellowship as a part-time office assistant, where I helped a small but dynamic staff plan and execute their annual conference in Atlanta, GA. I had the opportunity to go to Atlanta for the gathering, where I got to hear Bob Lupton, Chris Rice, and other great speakers.

But my time with CCHF would be short, because in June, I went to Chicago to see my good friend Andrew Marin with The Marin Foundation, and join their staff for the annual I'm Sorry Campaign in Boystown. I came home from that trip with an exciting new venture: I joined the ranks of The Marin Foundation staff as Director of Community Relations, Memphis.

My work with The Foundation has consumed the better part of the last quarter. I officially began my duties in September, and I have already had opportunities to consult with pastors and community leaders as we seek to build bridges of reconciliation between the Church and the LGBT community. Our bi-monthly Living in the Tension gatherings grow in attendance, and through these shared dialogues, we are all challenged to examine our biases and pre-conceived assumptions about our respective Other - whomever the Other may be.

Of course, I'm still making music. The Rhodes MasterSingers Chorale gave a once-in-a-lifetime performance of the aforementioned War Requiem in November, and BealeCanto: A Professional Men's Ensemble has sung in front of several packed houses this past fall. Looking ahead to 2014, I'm eager to lead the Rhodes Singers on their annual tour, this year to Birmingham and Atlanta.

2013 by the numbers:

States visited: 6
Cities visited: 10
Performances given: 16
Choirs involved with: 7
Number of athletic events for which I sang the National Anthem: 3
Number of vocal parts I sang in concert: 3 (Bass II, Baritone, Tenor 2)
Books read: 23 + 1 unpublished manuscript
Number of miles biked: 839 (+/- 384)
Number of margaritas made: I lost count
Number of times I played the Justin Timberlake 20/20 Experience in its entirety, in one sitting: A dozen
Number of times I went to a Wait Wait Don't Tell Me taping: 1
Number of scratches Bela Copland left on my hands: 2,349,102
Number of words in this review: 588

Have a Happy New Year, friends!

Until next time,
-JC

The Gospel According to Moulin Rouge: The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

Confession: I possess an unhealthy love for Baz Luhrmanns's Moulin Rouge. It’s got the “Spectacular Spectacular” dance pieces, an absurd soundtrack to accompany 19th century Bohemian Paris, chaotic cinematography, and oh-so-deliciously over the top performances from Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor. 

And deeply embedded in the movie’s frenetic energy is a wonderful lesson rooted in the Bohemian ideals of Beauty, Truth, Freedom, and above all else, Love:

The greatest thing you'll ever learn,
is just to love and be loved in return.

YES. ROMANTIC. But may I make a suggestion? Perhaps our starving artists in Montmarte had it backwards. Perhaps an even truer lesson is this:

The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just be loved and simply love in return.

Learn to receive love - give love in return. This, my friends, is the good news of the Gospel:

In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us...We love because [God] first loved us.

(1 John 4:10-12, 19 ESV)

And I find that the first clause - “be loved” - is actually harder than to give love. An old friend once asked me: “Do you believe that God loves you, as you are, right now, no questions asked?” And the answer for me is sometimes, “No.” I find myself thinking, “God, You can’t love me.”

I’m impulsive and stubborn.

My past is too dirty.

My sin is too deep.

My story is too complicated.

My (homo)sexuality screws everything up.

And God kindly responds, “No, son. I love you. You are mine.” 

What I would not give to rest in that love, but it’s hard. All Jesus asks us to do is simply believe that He loves us, but we’ve convinced ourselves that it’s necessary to work for His love. All the Psalmist asks us to do is to be quiet and know that He is Lord, but we feel the implacable need to blabber on aimlessly in prayer. And when we’re not trying to earn God’s blessings, we’re trying to convince ourselves that we can’t have His love.

Yet the Promise remains true - we’re loved first by God. That’s it. You are loved; end of story. Even as I write those words, I feel in my spirit, “Yeah, I know, but...” No buts! You are loved - what's more, His love is perfected in you.

And from that deep well of love, you can draw forth living water to give to those who are hungry, thirsty, lonely, and hurting. 

Those Bohemians got so much right at the Moulin Rouge - the Gospel teaches us to value Beauty, Truth, Freedom, and above all other things, Love. Today, take some time to rest in God’s everlasting love for you.

Until next time,
-JC

I Can Never Forget: Father's Day 5 Years Later

My father died of biliary cancer on the morning of Father's Day 2008. I actually don't remember the date (Google tells me it was June 15), but I remember Father's Day. 2008 was five years ago. That's a long time, yet it feels like only yesterday that Dad was mowing the lawn shirtless, working on a miniature model project, and making another culinary masterpiece.

51 weeks out of the year, I don't think too much on my Dad, but this week is that one exception. I suppose being five years out from Dad's passing has given me more reason to stop and think throughout the year. Dad and I shared a complicated, a rich relationship, as so many sons enjoy with their fathers; for better or for worse, I can never forget the things that my Dad was for me.

I will never forget that my father was forever a student of life. He was always reading history books and watching historical documentaries. On vacation, we were never allowed to simply lounge at the beach. Oh no, we had to find a museum or a historical site to explore. We always had to learn something cultural.

I will never forget when my dad took me to Chicago for the first time. I was about 10 years old, and it was January. This Texas boy got his first dose of real winter. We stayed in the uber-fancy Drake hotel - Dad had the highest of standards - and visited all the museum - we always had to learn. We also took the CTA around town, and noting that we were only white people on the bus, I leaned over in youthful ignorance to my dad to whisper, "Dad, why are there so many black people?" He silently gave me my first lesson that there more skin tones to the world than my pasty white one.

I will never forget the lessons he taught me by example:

He taught me the value of eating as a family, and he taught me that a home-cooked meal is always, always better than eating out.

He taught me how to budget time and money - budget for fun, budget for necessity.

He taught me the value of a clean room and an organized workspace.

He taught me the value of humility. Though he was the president of his franchise of Management Recruiters - complete with a posh executive suite to call his own - Dad chose to work in a cubicle like everyone else.

He taught me the joy of hospitality; if ever we were to have guests over, he made sure to have a clean house, a stocked refrigerator, and no one was allowed to have an empty glass.

He taught me the joy of reading. I will never forget that he was always reading a Tom Clancy novel. If we were running errands, he would bring the book with him to read at a red light behind the steering wheel.

I will never forget the meals he made. When my friends were eating meatloaf and pork chops, we were eating chicken marsala, fettucini with homemade pesto, veal saltimbocca, wiener schnitzel, gyros with homemade tzatziki sauce, and the best fajitas in San Antonio.

I will never forget his love affair with a good drink.

As a young boy, Dad would slip me a tiny taste of triple sec and tequila while I juiced the limes for his infamous margaritas.

When I was a teenager, he handed me a can of Miller Lite and said, "Try this." When he saw the grimace on my face, he told me, "Tastes like piss, doesn't it? That's not good beer, so don't ever drink it" (Thanks to that episode, I'm now a forever beer snob).

I remember how much beer and wine he would drink at dinner, many times passing out at the table before he could finish the meal.

I remember, in his last weeks, he passed on the recipe to the Cornfoot Margarita, and when that cocktail was memorialized with him at his funeral, I knew that I had a legacy to continue.

I will never forget how, after coming out to him, he said to me, "You don't ever need to tell anybody this." I don't believe he was a homophobe. I think that this man who grew up in the 1950s had no vocabulary to talk about my sexuality, and I think that he never anticipated having a gay son. I will never forget how we would never talk about that subject ever again, and so I will never know how exactly he felt about it.

I will never forget riding around town with him as a pre-teenager, listening to the classical music station. He would ask me, "Jim, who do you think composed this piece of music?" He would give me stylistic considerations to listen for - Beethoven was heavier than Mozart, but Brahms was more complex harmonically. Little did we both know how, in just a few years time, these skills would come in handy for my drop-the-needle tests in my musicology and choral lit courses.

I will never forget how he would only come to church if I was to sing with the youth choir or play piano in the service. Otherwise, he had no time for that Methodist church!

I will never forget when he confessed to me that he no longer believed in a Christian God. Surely, he thought, there was a supreme intellect out there, but who were we to call that God Jesus? Thus was I introduced to a broader, more humanistic way to think of religion.

I will never forget how he and my mom would travel all the way to England to follow the Rhodes Singers on our international choir tour. My friends would play, to my embarrassment, "Spot the Cornfeet" at all our concerts, and they never failed to point my parents out to me. Mom would wave. Dad would just stare at the architecture of England's glorious Gothic and Romanesque cathedrals - everything had to be a learning experience.

I will never forget when Dad came to my senior recital, and after a grueling first half - a 30 minute, four-movement Beethoven sonata - my dad rushed into the greenroom to flatly tell me, "Well done, son." And then he went back to the crowd. Front row center.

I will never forget when Dad came to hear me give my last concert in Memphis before I would move to North Carolina. The Rhodes MasterSingers Chorale gave their occasional performance of Bach's Mass in B Minor. It would be the last performance I would give for him.

I will never forget that phone call in April 2008 when he told me that he had an MRI and biopsy; the doctors found malignant spots on his liver. My dad never got sick.

I will never forget when he was diagnosed with biliary cancer; he was given a 2-3 month prognosis. Despite this, dad continued to mow his own lawn and work on Management Recruiters business.

I will never forget that night in early June of 2008 when Dad fell in the house. I knew that it was close to the end, but I had no money to get home. I will never forget when my brothers on the Service Over Self summer staff bought my plane ticket to leave for home just two days later.

I will never forget the hospitality of my best friend and closest brother Byron that weekend I came home. When my home was full to capacity with my sister's family - she was there for her 20th high school reunion - Byron's family opened their home to me, and Roni came from Abilene to be a strength and support. When my 3-day visit turned into a 10-day furlough to bury my father, the Rogers family hosted me the entire time, and Roni took that week off work to take care of me.

I will never forget my last conversation with Dad. We listened to Bach's Magnificat and talked life. I will never forget that he refused to admit to me that he was dying, and I will never understand why his pride prevented him from showing his weakness. I was the last family member to have a sentient conversation with him.

I will never forget the morning of Father's Day 2008, when at 7:25 AM, half-asleep in Byron's room, my phone rang. It was my sister. I knew why she was calling; I picked up the phone only to receive confirmation of Dad's passing. I will never forget waking Byron up to tell him the news. He was in the bed on the other side of the room from me. He just held me for about 10 minutes - I would not have wanted anybody there with me at that moment than Roni.

I will never forget the funeral. It was held at Ft. Sam Houston's post chapel; Dad received full military honors. At the graveside ceremony, there was a 21 gun-salute and flag-folding ritual. Dad, in his coffin, was brought to the grave on a caisson. Despite the solemnity of the moment, one of the horses pulling the caisson urinated during the ceremony. Knowing my dad's sickly sarcastic sense of humor, it somehow seemed appropriate.

I will never forget the dozens of people I met at the funeral following the reception. War buddies, executives from corporate, and West Point friends came to me, extolling my father as a warrior, scholar, and businessman of the highest order - able to keep his cool in conflict, ready with a joke to crack the tension, and always prepared to give from whatever had to offer.

I will never forget how my dad's passing deeply uprooted all of my religious beliefs. There is no calamity like the death of a beloved one, particularly when that beloved did not share your religious convictions. Five years later, I've found some new answers, reaffirmed some old beliefs, and raised dozens more questions about judgement, salvation, and the un/limited atonement of Christ.

Five years later, I think of my dad in the small things. I'll crack a joke that my dad used to say. I'll make the wise-crack remarks that Dad always made; you can't always be too serious. I'll turn anything - even a dumb movie - into some kind of lesson, because, you know, everything has to be a learning experience. I cross my 7s like he does. I loop my lower-case 'f"s like he does. Anytime I hear a trumpet, I think of my dad and his love for jazz and classical music.

And if family reports are to be believed, I make the margarita and pesto sauce just like Dad did.

Until next time,
-JC

Praha: Chorale Tour, Days 7-8

I'm writing from home, and yesterday was a grueling 24 hours of airports and airplanes. I won't bore you with that, so let me give you a recap of the last two days of our tour.

We transferred from Vienna to Prague on Tuesday morning, and it was immediately clear when we crossed the Czech border. The language was totally foreign to me, and the roads were rougher. In larger towns like Brno and Praha, you could see the remnants of the former Communist regime: featureless residential towers that have, since the fall of Communism, been painted many colors. The climate was also markedly different. Unlike sunny Austria, the weather in the Czech Republic was cooler and wetter. I won't go so far as to say that this is typical, but the rain of Praha made me miss the sun of Salzburg and Vienna. We were all grateful for the cooler temps.

Tuesday afternoon, we toured Prague Castle (Vysehrad) and St. Vidus cathedral, with its incredibly intricate stained glass windows. The castle afforded stunning vistas of the River Moldau and Old Town Prague. My friends were right; Prague is stunning. We crossed the Charles Bridge - you haven't been to Praha until you cross the bridge - and walked through the Old Town Square. I should mention at this time that our tour guide was named Vladimir, a man in his retirement, and whose voice surely bore testament to his smoking history. Then we checked into the hotel to enjoy our dinner. A few of us on that first night wanted to be adventurous, so we took the metro back to downtown to wander a bit, maybe find a bar. Well, we got lost. The streets are tiny and twisty, and signs are not in English (or German!). And it was cold. And rainy. And dark. After an hour, we find a group of Americans to direct us to a Metro station, and we were all wet and tired. To be honest, I was bit discouraged, but Wednesday was a new day.

On Wednesday morning, we toured Terezin, the concentration camp and Jewish ghetto situated about an hour north of Praha. I don't know how to write about this place; one does not "enjoy" or "admire" a concentration camp. Our tour took us through the entrance of the prison, a tour of the tiny cells, the interrogation and torture chambers, the showers (which were showers; this was not an extermination camp), the underground garrisons, and ultimately the execution field. A place like Terezin is a visceral reminder of dark history and man's own sinfulness. How the hell could one nation - Nazi Germany - justify the systematic destruction of an entire ethnicity? What reminders and lessons does a place like Terezin and her counterparts at Dachau and Auschwitz offer us in the 21st century? Terezin is unsettling; I don't know if it can offer many answers but only a reminder: Don't let this happen again.

Our afternoon was simple. Three free hours to do what we wanted, so I museum the Kafka Museum. His messed up life explains twisted nature of what he wrote (EG Metamorphosis  and The Penal Colony). We gave our final concert at St. Francis Church to a full and appreciative audience. We enjoyed our final meal together. And finally, I and some of our twenty-something basses and tenors (four of us in total!) went back to downtown Praha to find a bar and celebrate Fourth of July late late late in the night.

So now I'm home. Did all that really just happen? Did I really tour Austria and the Czech Republic? Yes. I miss it already, but I'm glad to be home where it is quieter.

Tchüss!

The Moldau, looking towards Vsyehrad.

St. Vidus Cathedral. This nave was built in the 14th century.

One of many beautiful windows at St. Vidus

Beautiful Praha as seen from Vysehrad

The entrance to Terezin. "Arbeit Macht Frei" means "Work makes you free."

Praha. What the hell is this?

St. Francis Church, scene of our final concert.

Astronomical Clock and Tyn Church in Old Town Square

Chales Bridge by night, as seen from our Fourth of July bar.

Until next time,
-JC