Day IIII: the colorful city

I spent the morning of the fourth day at the odgen museum of southern art. From the get-go I realized two things: the difference use of color in southern art and that the narratives of the pieces were the narratives of poor people. I was introduced to artists I had never heard of and subjects I had not thought of before. I realized how word-centered my sermons and thinking had become. What pictures have I created? When I looked at the vibrant kids art I realized how little I develop a sermon with the energy of kids in mind.

After three hours I hopped back into the semi-mature German engineered sedan and headed up the avenue to the Loyola University Library to begin processing all of the artifacts, notes, and ideas I had accumulated.

Outdoor Baptisms

The other day on facebook a reporter asked if anyone had any stories about outdoor baptisms. Boy did I, so I wrote the reporter a few of them and viola they ended up in an article!

Go here for the article.

Day III: The Joy of Being a Liturgical Free Agent

I optioned to spend day iii of my bespoke continuing education program at the library of the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. B/C the church I serve had a historic relationship with the seminary I receive borrowing privileges at this institution (I do not, however receive a card - instead I tell them my name and they allow me to check out 5 books at a time).

I took my file folder box, sermon idea box, and my brief case into the reading room, found a big table, and spread my stuff out. It is a good place to study (nothing will ever take the place of the reading room at CRCDS). It was quiet for the most part, except when a dude came in to talk to the dude in some office. I heard fantastic (not really) tales of what is really going on with the BP spill. Other times folk would walk by, see my big pile of stuff, and make quizical remarks like "that guy has a lot of work to do" or "man look at that" and other well thought out responses. But the afternoon got kicking when a mob of golf shirts and khaki panted men along with short shorted cowgirl boot wearing females swarmed into the reading room sometime after lunch. They came in, commandeered most of the tables, took volumes of reference books and started, get this...researching. I tried like the dickens to figure out what they were up to but was unable. Although i may be nosy, i'm more of the disinterested nosy type.

Every time I go to the library I am more impressed with the collection and the friendliness of the staff.

My biggest surprise, however, came at the flow of ideas that emerged from dedicated and undistracted time. Ideas were gushing out so fast it was all I could do to write them down fast enough. I had mapped out on Monday my sermon ideas for the Fall, but it became apparent by 10:00am on Wednesday that my initial idea would not do. (How many times have I preached a first draft sermon or wasted time researching a first draft idea?) Instead of following the lectionary in the Fall I elected to develop a series of sermons based on the parables in Luke. This is where being a Baptist comes in handy; no one can send in a unit of liturgical cops over to rough me up and make me follow the lectionary. I am liturgical free agent and can move around, or not all, in the lectionary as I please.

With my texts and Sundays in hand I set about locating appropriate parable resources. But something happened by the time I got back to the table with my stack of books. Was the parables i chose and the order I chose them the best possible idea? I allowed my thoughts to percolate some more before arriving at an unsatisfactory answer. So I went back to work on the texts. Came up with a better order (third draft).

Day II: Artifact Collecting

The day started with some beignets and cafe au lait at Cafe du Monde, no line - only about 2/3rds full. As the powered sugar collected on my shirt and shorts I listened to a Latin guitarists play Johnny Cash and my mind went began filling with ideas. Next I moseyed down to the National Historical Park New Orleans Jazz site. I hoped it would be an interactive museum; nope. It was a room with some brochures and a stage. Oh well. So I went to the US Mint (on the way got hit up four times for spare change - to my knowledge the irony police did not issue any citations).

After that a stroll up Chartes Street to the other parts of the Louisiana State Museum and the St. Louis Cathedral. Lots of metaphorical artifacts gathered here: dates, visuals, historical happenings, and books I need to read (like Reconstruction: America's Unfinished Revolution by Eric Foner).

With that my museum time ended. I reviewed my thoughts at the Napoleon house at the bar with a Pimm's Cup and that was that.

Day III: Chalmette Battlefield & National Cemetery , some library time, and recollections.

Bespoke Continuing Education

It seems after every Continuing Education event i have attended I always leave with the selfsame feeling: why did I sign up for this? I always end up looking at the bill for travel, food, and lodging only to imagine a week on the beach or in the mountains, or at home drinking coffee and going to museums in the afternoon. Then I always feel guilty leaving my family behind. Rather than do this again I decided on a week of sermon preparation, a full week of exegesis. But not the normal kind, my best ideas come from interaction with culture, both high and low.

This year I decided to tailor my own continuing education week. It began this morning on the dining table. I parked my bible, the official RCL book, my calendar, LSU football schedule, the Saints schedule, and my own eclectic assortment of dates. I then started plowing through to assemble my sermons for the remainder of the Summer, Fall, and into Advent. The idea is not to write sermons but to write down my ideas so I have adequate time for study, reading, and further investigation as I am trundle along. Day one completed and I feel good.

The rest of the week: museums, battlefields, cultural venues, sights and sounds of New Orleans. I will have my camera and my notebook scouring for ideas, pictures, metaphors and inspirations. I will also spend a day or two going through my box. That's right my box. I am notorious, in Lori's eyes at least, for cutting out newspaper articles, ripping out paragraphs from magazines, and scribbling down lyrics to songs on scraps of paper. In order to save my marriage I dedicated a special box for all of these collections. The box is quite full and need of having a look-see. Now that I have my major ideas down for sermons I can start matching stuff from the box with future sermons.

I doubt anyone will issue me a certificate for this, but come this Fall I will thank myself over and over for doing this when I did. I dont even want to confess how many sermons have been delivered knowing more could have gone into them, or wishing i had thought to read blank title or listened to such and such recording, or looked at this or that painting...

Spoiled Rotten: The Musical Overhaul of New Orleans Music

Due to a great friend, Dan, the VOR and I were able to obtain tickets to the 41st Annual New Orleans Heritage and Jazz Festival. The morning began a little nutty: I first had to pick-up my tickets/credentials for Mayor Landrieu's interfaith service, swearing-in, and gala; next I went to a little league mandatory safety clinic. While at the clinic I asked some other coaches to give me a primer for the fest. Roger and Skip provided me with excellent advice, especially when they suggested that we ride our bikes.

After the morning rounds I arrived back at the rental chateau and prepared for the afternoon. We mounted our street cruisers and pedaled our way up to the Fairgrounds. Once there we were thrilled to find not only a designated bicycle parking area but also the nicest lady who guarded our bikes the entire time (lucky thing because in my rush to get into the event I simply wrapped the lock around the VOR's bike and not mine). We moseyed into the event, got the lay of the land and headed over to watch The Rebirth Brass Band.

We were up close and got a great feel for the music. How the dude in the gray suit did not pass out from heat exhaustion I'll never know. While we were taking in the sounds a peculiar and familiar smell wafted over in our direction. The VOR looked at me and I confirmed yeah it was what she thought it was. For the record I never did touch, inhale, or taste the brownies with the "stuff" in them. But my next door neighbor (if you can call two houses out of five on the one mile of dirt road where I grew up "next door") was surely into "the stuff." Anytime he walked by there was a cloud of the stuff around him, he also grew it over the hill and sometimes would burn it, thus creating a huge inhale party for all of his buddies. I suppose his weird behavior turned me away from ever trying the stuff. Sad to say he committed suicide a few years back.

We then decided it was time to get something to eat. Me, the quail and andouille gumbo; her, the chicken and tasso over creole rice. Both were amazing!

Next it was off to see Allen Toussaint. Now here is it where it starts to get interesting (from a musical standpoint). A.T. was fantastic. He was in the WWOZ Jazz Tent which had a small pipe across which secreted a find mist of water to cool off the crowd. The mist created an auroa around the music which made it mystical. But we left his set early so we could make it back to the Acura stage so we could see Pearl Jam. I've always wanted to see them but I'm not a big concert kind of dude. After three songs I was a little ticked off which caused me to bluntly ask, I left A.T. to see this? I waited too long to see PJ, they peaked in the late 90s! Eddie Vedder's comments could have been said by Rod Stewart, they were predictable, plain, and stale. Yet, just a few yards away a career musician was playing his heart out and playing fresh music.


This post is a warning - watch out the music here can spoil you!

A good friend and classmate from divinity school was also in the crowd but we could not reach each other, but we did meet up in church this morning. During my first year at CRDS, Lawrence gave me my first introduction to Jazz, specifically with A Love Supreme by John Coltrane. It was interesting to have Lawrence in the congregation this morning for I really feel if he had not gave me that introduction I don't know if I would have ever been turned onto jazz or, thusly, onto New Orleans for that matter.

Authority Figure

Last Sunday afternoon I took #1 to softball practice, although she has had several practices, this was the first I was able to attend. We arrived at the field a few minutes early, so I put on my glove and started to pass with her. In a few minutes another girl from the team arrived and (without asking) started passing with us too, then another, then another, then another. Before I knew it I was passing ball with 6 girls. They wanted pop ups and grounders, and I was happy to oblige. But then they started throwing pop ups and grounders to me. I informed them that I am not working on my game, my baseball/softball game peaked about 10 years ago. After a few minutes of this tom foolery another girl arrived, then approached me and wanted to know what time practice would end. I wasn't even sure I had #1 a the right field more or less what time practiced began. Luckily right at that moment the coach arrived.

Skip ahead a few days to last night, the first baseball practice for #2 - I volunteered to be his coach. At the appropriate time I called all the boys in to start practice. Before practice began there were boys throwing as hard as they could, there were boys wearing their gloves on their heads, there were boys running around, and one boy attempting to knock out the other boys with his bat. It was an interesting evening. As they assembled around me I asked who had played ball before, I expected half to raise their hands, only two had. Uh-oh. These boys are lucky that this is an instructional league and that I am laid back dude. (For a side note, as I left practice I saw another team practicing - there were all kinds of dads drilling the kids with proper arm placement and motion, they had their own bases, measuring rope, a designated hitting area, and boys all wearing caps, correctly!)

I mention these two stories because it is amazing how human beings accept authority figures. How many times have you seen some yahoo in charge of an event and wonder why is everyone listening to this clown? Then you realize you are one of the clowns listening to the clown. I am amazed more folk do not protest or offer a better alternative. In the two instances above the kids simply assumed I knew what I was talking about, that I was some sort of expert, that I even knew what time practice ended. As much as I want my kids and other kids to be free and independent thinkers when it comes to coaching - let's keep that free-thinking stuff to ourselves. Or my football coach used to say when you made a mistake (naturally you would respond I thought... but before you could start) don't think Norvell, do!

666

This is my six hundredth and sixty sixth post. A few years back a woman at a Rite-Aid or something like that in WV was "totally freaking out" that my order came to $6.66, she begged me to buy something else. On principal I refused. Perhaps I could have bended a little, perhaps she could have knocked off a penny. The whole number thing has never bothered me. I seriously doubt the evil in this world goes around with 666 written on them - nope they have names such as ICBMs, and Citigroup, and Blackwater, and Massey Energy.

So in full celebration on my 666th post, a picture. A picture of me eating Louisiana grown strawberries with shortcake and Louisiana whipped cream. If I cant make it to JazzFest, at least I have my strawberry shortcake (in April!)

From Bait to Good Times: Tribute to my first crawfish boil.

Shortly after I moved from Providence, RI, to this great city in July

2009, a parishioner made the cautionary comment concerning the food here, “Watch out, this city will thicken you.” Man, was he spot-on. I thought I had this city whipped; I thought Lent would be my time to reclaim my physicality. I vowed to abstain from alcohol (yes, I’m that kind of Baptist) and to stay away from sweets.

But the dinner party invitations wouldn’t cease. Plus, how could I not celebrate in March the absence of bitter winds, piles of snow and the gloom they bring? So I adopted my wife’s Lenten pledge to stop yelling at the kids (we have three under the age of 9; you try not yelling for 40 days and 40 nights)!

We made it through Lent okay. In fact, it was the first Lent-Easter season that did not exhaust me. High holidays take their toll on religious professionals. I took up running on the streetcar tracks -- the daily near-collisions with the front ends of autos don’t even faze me anymore -- scaled back on my weekly testing of neighborhood po-boy shops and came to peace with the realization that I do not have to sample every variety of bread pudding by end of my first year here. I seemed to find a balance with the gastronomical offerings of this city and the limits of my wardrobe.

But there was one important -- no, necessary -- offering that I had to force myself to participate in: a crawfish boil.

Growing up in West Virginia I would pass idle hours overturning rocks in the creeks to catch “crawdads” (the WV equivalent of crawfish). After I amassed enough to fill my tin bucket, I would walk to the river or to the nearest pond and start fishing. Crawdads were bait. Never in a million years would I have dreamed of eating them. Largemouth bass, pike, and even channel cats ate them; humans didn’t. I’d eat a mountain oyster before I ate a crawdad.

So imagine my surprise when I saw large quantities of “mudbugs” at the grocery store, high-dollar restaurants with them on the menu, and locally made screen-printed T-shirts advising folk to pinch da tail and suck da head.

I knew, however, that if I am to officially call this place home I would have to suspend my better judgment and dig in.

Hearing and receiving no invitations, I formed my own crawfish boil under the disguise of a church picnic. The day came: 70s, light breeze and blue skies at The Fly. When I arrived, the chef was already boiling. I moseyed over, picked one of the critters up, stared at it, put it down, and started nursing an Abita. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Soon the piles of the small red crustaceans were poured on the table and into buckets. Folk grabbed a plastic pitcher and began piling gargantuan helpings onto humongous plastic trays. I watched in amazement; I could not believe folk were being so greedy and gluttonous.

Then came my turn. I smugly placed only four or five on my plate, thinking I would display proper manners. I twisted the tail, tore at the second vertebrae and popped the meat into my mouth: fantastic! In a matter of minutes I had cleared my plate and realized why folk had served themselves such heaping portions.

It wasn’t clam cakes at Point Judith, RI, with the waves of the upper Atlantic crashing against shore. Nope, it was better. Crawfish, corn on the cob, sausage, garlic on saltines, the Mississippi, and new friends. Spicy, messy, and thickening – a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I did not suck the head. I’ll need a few more amber beverages before that. Next time, perhaps.

When you see me running my now-necessary 7 miles on the streetcar tracks and I happen to run in front of your automobile, don’t honk or display your favorite number. Instead have a moment of sympathy for a citizen of this city who is enjoying it a little too much.

Its Evolution Baby

As a child every Saturday morning I would wake up well before sunrise, run into the living room, and hope against hope that that morning cartoons would be on. Every weekend, however, it was the same story no cartoons just gardening and animal shows. The gardening shows were mainly repeats for months at a time, so were the animal shows. Since 4:30am has never been the time network executives concentrate on first class programming the gardening and animal shows were not of high quality. I recall a man in overalls always reviewing shovels. And I recall a salty raspy voice describing the brutal killings of weaker animals by stronger more aggressive animals. In my mind I can easily bring to the fore a weak or sick elk being stalked by hungry wolves then the narrator describing each and every limb being torn from it. After the wolves gorged the narrator would then describe how the wolves had specifically picked the sick elk and waited till it was at its weakest moment before attacking it.

Now skip to this evening...

After the VOR and I had dinner, a glass of wine, and a heaping plate of strawberry shortcake I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a three foot streak of a munchkin go dashing across the kitchen floor, snatch something off the counter and then went streaking back into his den...er...bedroom. If that was not enough, it was later reported that he was in the hallway crouching down with binoculars zeroing in on his desired target.

All I can say is...this is only the beginning...