Dancing in the Temple: A Morning with Gene Robinson

Over the years, I've listened to numerous sermons by and interviews with Bishop Gene Robinson and have read much of his book, In the Eye of the Storm: Swept to the Center by God. Since his election and consecration as bishop of the Episcopal Diocese in New Hampshire in 2003, many millions of people here in this country and around the world have come to know this man as a friend, a faithful servant, and a Spirit-filled priest - something which his friends in New Hampshire have known for quite some time.

Today, I was privileged to experience that faith and friendship first-hand when I attended two services at Foundry United Methodist Church in Washington. The Bishop had been invited to participate in the church's Summer in the City - Outstanding Preacher Series after the church's senior minister, Dean Snyder, had heard him preach as part of the 2009 Lenten series at a church in Memphis. (As Snyder noted, his response after hearing Bishop Robinson's sermon was, "Oh, my Lord! An Episcopalian who can preach a sermon!" - a line that got a tremendous laugh at both services.)

Both services - which were geared for very different interests, the first a more praise-and-worship style for the younger crowd and children, and the second more traditional - were very crowded. More importantly, I was so overjoyed to see a tremendous amount of diversity in the congregation; young, old, families, singles, black, white, gay, straight - perhaps the most comprehensive cross-section of the community I've ever seen in any Sunday service. The music ranged from the spiritual "Plenty Good Room" to an arrangment of a piece by Gustav Holst, and performances by the nine-person Jubilate choir, the 21-person chancel choir, the pianist/organist, and a guest flutist. All in all, something to appeal to everyone.

The Bishop's sermon was based on the two readings he had selected for today: Acts 3:1-10, which tells of the healing of the lame man at the Temple by Peter and John; and Luke 4:16-30, which tells of the first time Jesus spoke at the synagogue in Nazareth and was both admired for his ability to preach and reviled because he pointed out that Elijah and Elisha were sent by God not to the Jews, but to Zarephath in Sidon and Namaan the Syrian. He told all of us that the passage from Acts should be the one that speaks to everyone in the LGBT community - just as the lame man was prohibited from entering the Temple because of his infirmity, the LGBT community knows what is like to be barred at the door and prohibited from entering the sanctuary. And just as the man was healed by Peter and John and allowed at that point to walk into the Temple ("dancing in the temple"), those who have been discriminated against by many in today's world have also heard the call of God and now know what it means to celebrate in the center of the church.

As he said, the church is in chaos right now - which is to be expected when there is any sort of change, particularly in the area of the acceptance of the LGBT community over the past 20 years (and after millenia of the status quo). When a child goes to his or her parent to come out, there is a bit of chaos as the parents take it in and determine how to react; Robinson used this as a lead-in to his own situation, which he described as going to his father - the Archbishop of Canterbury - and saying, "Dad, I'm gay." Just as in the family, there is similar chaos as the church determines how to respond (although he feels that it is by and large over, and that we'll gradually see that we're moving on).

The Bishop also talked about the disparity between those who preach fear - the televangelists who use words like "abomination" and "Satan" to describe the LGBT community and are rewarded with increasing contributions - and others "who preach the limitless love of God and get into trouble". He said, "When I ordain deacons, I tell them that I expect them to get into some Gospel trouble. If they're not in trouble, I wonder if it is the Gospel that they are preaching." Later in the sermon, the Bishop said, "At the end of the day, we need to decide if we're going to be admirers of Jesus - or disciples. And Jesus doesn't need more admirers."

The question-and-answer session held after the second service was also very good, and the Bishop was very honest and straightforward in his answers (although as he pointed out, "Now you can see why I can't necessarily talk about this in the pulpit."). It is worth noting at this point that the clergy and congregation at Foundry have been in deep discussion throughout the summer over how they react to Washington's decision to allow same-sex marriage; Reverend Snyder said that the rules of the Methodist Church prohibiting the blessing of same-sex rites on church property or by Methodist clergy are in direct conflict with the constitution of the Methodist Church, which call for service to all regardless of race, status, background, or financial position. Snyder said that he finds himself in a position of being unable in good conscience to continue abiding by the rules of the Methodist Church, and that while the congregation as a whole must vote to determine how they will respond they should do so without worrying about getting him into trouble ("Whether or not I get into trouble is between me and Jesus."). Snyder went on to say that it may come to a point where he must continue his ministry outside of Foundry if he is to continue honoring his conscience.

Because of this, many of the questions directed at the Bishop concerned how the church should respond if they are punished for going against the Methodist rules, whether there are similar circumstances with any congregation in the Episcopal Church, and why the Washington-area clergy - indeed, churches around the country - are the ones speaking most loudly against the LGBT community. The Bishop, response to the variuos questions he received, responded in part: (1) if Foundry is precluded from a relationship with the Methodist Church because of the vote of the congregation, and if Snyder is stripped of his certification/pastoral license, they should continue paying their dues, continuing participating in the life of the national church, and continue speaking up - because of their importance nationally, they should serve as a beacon and speak up; ultimately, another voice at another church will speak up, and it will continue to the point where "the trickle will become a waterfall"; (2) as he looks at those who are critical of those of the LGBT community and who insist on taking an "us versus them" approach, the Bishop wonders, "Is there not as much diversity in the straight community as there is elsewhere? I think people focus on homosexuality so they don't have to focus on themselves."; (3) "Death is not the worst thing; not living your life is the worst thing."; and (4) in dealing with Peter Akinola and the other African bishops who feel that the Bishop's consecration allowed Satan to enter the church, he said, "My job is to love them; how I am treated in return is not important."

At some point during the day, Robinson mentioned some of the controversy going on at the time of his election, and how there was an investigation of false charges that put off the final vote. While these charges were being examined, and he and his family were sequestered, a friend gave him a small piece of calligraphy which read, "Sometimes, God calms the storm - and sometimes, God allows the storm to rage and calms the child." Gene Robinson's visit today was to me an example of God calming "we children" by allowing us to witness the life and example of another of his children. I don't think anyone in that room would argue that we were the recipients of a tremendous gift indeed.

The Silence of the Soul

My soul is silent before God. Like the infant who is nursed and becomes calmed at its mother's breast and finds all its wishes fulfilled here, like the young boy who is speechless gazing upon his hero and leader, like the crying child that yearns for its mother to lay her gentle hand upon its brow and dispel and silence all its cares, like the young girl who quietly reflects on the prospect of one day becoming a mother, like the man who finds all his passion and restlessness clamed by the gaze of his beloved woman, like the person who becomes quiet before the eyes of a loyal friend, like a sick person who is calmed by the physician, like the old person who becomes calm before the face of death, like all of us who are silenced in reverence and awe at the heart of nature, under the starry heavens - just so should the soul be calmed from all the restlessness and chaos and haste, before the eyes of God.

- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, from a sermon delivered to his congregation in Barcelona, Spain, on the Sixth Sunday after Trinity, July 15, 1928

Are We Priests, Levites or Samaritans: A Parable in Modern Times

Even at my age, I am still surprised by how one line in a political statement could lead to a debate that evolves in my mind into a theological reflection.

During his introduction of Jack Lew as the next director of the Office of Management and Budget, President Obama made the comment (and I am paraphrasing) that members of both parties are in agreement that we do not want to endure another financial crisis the same as the one that we just went through. Naturally, that jumped out at me – with his choice of words (or those of his speechwriter, I should say), we were in essence being told that the financial crisis was over.

But is it? Unemployment is still at 9.5%. Millions of Americans are still out of work, with a significant number of that group losing their unemployment benefits due to the 99-week maximum having been reached. A report I read today said that for every one job opening in this country there are five potential applicants. And the Senate, locked in its ongoing struggle over extending benefits while trying to find a way to pay for them without increasing our national debt, has not taken any action.

Does that seem like the end of the financial crisis? The banks and lending institutions may be in better shape, and the stock market may be on the rebound, but that means nothing to the 50-year-old husband and father who has been out of work for two years and cannot find a job, or the single parent whose company downsized and left them uncertain about how they will support their children.

A friend of mine – someone I respect a great deal – questioned whether 99 weeks isn’t long enough. If it isn’t, he wondered, how many years are enough?

Immediately, my mind turned to the traveler on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho – the subject of Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10. And I began to wonder: are we a nation of priests, a nation of Levites, or a nation of Samaritans?

I understand very well how much money the government spends each year in supporting unemployed men and women throughout the United States – those who are looking for work, those who have given up, and those who never intended to look to begin with. I understand the need for fiscal restraint and the importance of getting our national books back in balance.

More than that, though, I understand what in mind is a moral obligation to be the friend of those who need help – the Samaritan to the man who was beaten and robbed. If Congress does not extend the benefits, how will we react in the face of situation which will become even worse? Community organizations, relief agencies, and churches can only do so much.

Assuming benefits are not extended, millions more families may become homeless. The roll of those seeking help with increase dramatically. The suffering experienced by so many in this country – the stress, the depression, the uncertainty, the hopelessness – will be compounded more than we can imagine.

What will we do?

Will we be a nation of priests, who come upon the scene and move to the other side of the road to avoid what we find? Will we be a nation of Levites who react in the exact same manner?

Or will we be a nation of Samaritans who stop, offer aid, bandage their wounds, take them to safety, and see things through to the end?

Faith and Costly Grace - Do You Have Them?

How strong is your faith?

Is it strong enough that you could confidently make a decision to leave a job to return to your home, knowing that you might never be able to leave that home ever again?

Is it strong enough that you would willingly take a course of action in a certain situation that you knew could in all likelihood end with your death?

Having just completed the new biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas and read with great interest how this simple, unassuming pastor, theologian and martyr dealt with these very same issues, these questions have been on my mind quite a bit. Much of my contemplation of his life has centered on trying to put myself in his shoes to see how I would react.

While visiting and studying in New York City in the late 1930s (his second visit there during that decade), Bonhoeffer - against the advice and pleading of many of his close friends - gave up what would have been a safe and secure teaching position in the United States to return home to Germany and confront Hitler's tyranny from the front lines. In the early 1940s, he joined a conspiracy of high ranking military officers, aristocrats, ministers and other other opponents in an effort to assassinate Hitler (culminating in the July 20, 1944 attempt). In both of these instances - indeed, throughout much of his life between 1932 and 1945 - Bonhoeffer acted out of principle and love for his country, but even more out of a sense that what he referred to as "cheap grace" would not be enough.

"Cheap grace," as Bonhoeffer writes in his book Discipleship, "is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate." Bonhoeffer's objective for himself and for all mankind was "costly grace," which as he writes "is the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man’ will gladly go and self all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble, it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows him."

To say that Bonhoeffer in the living of his life sold all his goods, plucked out his own eye, selfed all that he had, left his nets and followed Christ would be a tremendous understatement. But he did so with trust in God and by living out his faith through his actions - and in so doing, achieved the "costly grace" to which he was trying to lead others. He returned to Germany when it was safer to remain, and he became involved in a plot that would end his life when he could have remained on the sidelines - but in both instances, I strongly believe he did so seeing not the hangman's noose, but the cross.

So again, I ask - of you and of myself - how strong is your faith? Could I do in similar circumstances what Bonhoeffer did, and give up safety and security for a route which could end all things for me?

I honestly can't say (but know that God knows), and that is one of the struggles with my own faith. But it wouldn't necessarily be the end, as Bonhoeffer stated not long before he died: "This the end; for me, the beginning of life."

Yom HaShoah: My Day of Remembrance

Today is Yom HaShoah, the Day of Remembrance - the time in which the world remembers the milions of Jews murdered during the Holocaust. It also marks the beginning of the National Days of Remembrance here in the U.S., highlighted by a ceremony in the Capitol rotunda later this week and the reading of the names at the Holocaust Museum here in Washington.

I was honored to be accepted as one of the many men and women who had asked to be a part of the reading of the names, and so immediately after church this morning I headed into the city to join the ranks of those offering up the names of the victims. Those who were already there were gathered in the Hall of Remembrance, a six-sided domed room that serves as a memorial for the Holocaust victims. Because I was so early, I had an opportunity to sit and to listen and to think as I awaited my turn at the lectern.

As the voices of the readers ahead of me echoed off the concrete walls and around the dome, I sat and stared at the panels hanging in the room which were adorned with just a few words: Treblinka; Auschwitz; Bergen-Belsen; Buchenwald; Ohrdruf. Simple words, yes, but words that symbolize mankind's history of horrible acts committed against itself; words that symbolize the lengths to which one group will go to eliminate another out of hatred; words that symbolize the taking of children from parents, husbands from wives, brothers from sisters.

But then this is what this day is about - words. Hearing a number - six million Jews killed - or seeing pictures is tragic enough, but to read a person's name gives it much more personal significance, much more meaning, much more direct impact. As my turn approached, I wanted to ensure that the few names I was about to read would have an impact, that they would resonate not just off the walls and throughout the dome, but into the hearts of those taking a tour of the museum and pausing to listen to us. I wanted to do my part to make sure that there was one more memory they would take with them, that what they had seen was real and that there were names attached to those men, women and children whose faces they had seen in the exhibits.

And as I finally stood before the microphone, I tried my best to achieve that goal - to not rush my list, but to read each name and give it time to echo and sink in with the others in the room before moving on to the next. Baur. Beer. Beck. Berkstadter. I heard the names coming back to me seconds after I said them, names that I wanted to read perfectly to honor their memory the best way that I could - with my voice.

Had people raised their voices six decades ago, perhaps this could have been prevented. But time cannot be changed, and all we can do now is to ensure that history is not forgotten and most definitely not repeated. As I lit a candle before departing, this was my prayer - and my hope that we would never again see a need to read names such as these.

I think the only way I know to end this post is with the Jewish Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. As you read this and listen to the setting of the Kaddish by Maurice Ravel below, say a prayer for these six million, the men, women and children whose voices were silenced and yet who speak to us still...

Glorified and sanctified be God's great name throughout the world which He has created according to His will. May He establish His kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon; and say, Amen.

May His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.

Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, beyond all the blessings and hymns, praises and consolations that are ever spoken in the world; and say, Amen.

May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us
and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

He who creates peace in His celestial heights, may He create peace for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

A Six-Year-Old's Deep Theological Questions

My oldest daughter has been in a phase lately where incidents in everyday life prompt her to ask questions about God and faith which, for a six-year-old, strike me as very deep indeed. As we were getting ready for church this morning, she again asked me about prayer - except this time, it was for herself, since she has been ill for the past two days.

MB: "Daddy, is it okay to pray for myself to get better?"

Me: "Sure it is. People pray for themselves all the time."

MB: "So it's okay to ask Miss C. [the children's priest at our church] to pray for me when she asks today?"

Me: "Sure."

MB: "What do people pray for?"

Me: "Well, they pray to get better if they've been sick, or they pray for a job if they don't have one, or they pray for a good friend or a member of their family. They pray for anything."

MB: "Did you pray to God when you went to Applebees and got sick [with food poisoning]?"

Me: [holding back laughter] "Oh, yes, I sure did."

This episode is a lesson on two fronts - one, children always ask great questions, and two, they never forget anything. Applebees was four years ago!!

Anne Lamott at Borders: A Gathering of Imperfect Birds

I'll start off by being direct: I have never known what to make of Anne Lamott.

Several years ago, a good friend of mine (who is a priest in the Episcopal Church and godmother to our youngest daughter) and I were wandering through the bookshop at Washington National Cathedral when she picked up a copy of Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and said, "You should really read Anne Lamott. She's great." This friend had never steered me wrong before - despite our spirited political discussions, which we approach from opposite ends of the spectrum - and so I cracked open the book. One paragraph into the first page, the thought "What the hell?!?" flashed through my mind, for there in stark black-and-white I was greeted with, "Better to go out by our own hands than to endure slow by scolding at the hands of the Bush administration."

My friend - the friend who had never steered me wrong - had put in my hands a book by a Bush-basher!

Giving her the benefit of the doubt, however, I purchased it, along with a few others, and took them home for a read. It was a struggle for me, however; I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried, get past her political musings. I was angry with Ms. Lamott, that much was certain. And I wasn't going to be very forgiving.

It was then I found the other Anne Lamott: the single mother, the recovering alcoholic and drug addict, the woman who in the midst of one of her darkest moments felt the presence of Jesus as he knelt by her in the corner. The self-professed flawed Christian who said, "You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do." THIS was the Anne Lamott to whom I could relate, the woman you wanted to hug and tell that everything would be alright, and that people loved her as much as Jesus loved her.

This was the Anne Lamott that I went to see this past Thursday evening at Borders, where she was promoting her newest book, Imperfect Birds. It goes without saying that I was in the demographical minority in the crowd, with lots of women and perhaps 10 men, but it didn't detract from the event by any means. Surprisingly, it started with her doing part of the signing, and she wandered throw the rows of people chatting, signing, humorously chastising those who hadn't purchased her book, and genuinely seeming to enjoy being in the midst of a crowd like ours on an otherwise stormy evening.

And then she got to where a friend of mine and I were seated - what to say to her? Do I say anything?

Of course I say something - and I tell her the story of the first time I saw page one of Plan B. I tell her about the anger and frustration I felt at seeing her political views, and then of how I just wanted to give her a big hug and pull everyone together after getting to the faith side of her life. She paused for a moment - oh, geez, here it comes! - and then said with a smile, "Thank you for telling me that. And I do have some friends who are Republicans!"

With credit to Stewie Griffin, "Victory is mine!" I had won her over! Quickly, though, I figured that that ego-filled thought was wrong; I hadn't won her over, nor had she won me over. It became clear during the Q and A session that we were both victims of something else - for as she said, even among Democrats and Republicans and all of their differences, there is one common factor we all share: faith.

She spoke of her son and grandson, of the difficulties she has experienced in her life, of the rejection that she has received from some Christians (being told once, "If this is your view of Christianity, then I wonder how you'll feel one day when you are burning?"), of writing and solitude and friends and Sunday school ("I teach young children in Sunday school because, well, no one else really wants to do it."). And she read excerpts from her new book, the title of which was taken from a quote by Rumi: "Each has to enter the nest made by other imperfect birds."

And on this evening, this is what we all were: imperfect birds, flawed Christians, scarred humans, who were all sharing the same nest with a woman who as she says "gets it." It was a warm, funny, lively conversation, the kind you would have sitting around your living room on a Friday evening with a group of friends.

At the end of the night, Anne Lamott had a new fan - one who is still slightly disturbed by her political views, although much more forgiving because my own views have moderated in recent years. This is a woman I could see sitting around in a group with my wife and clergy friends and others for a long discussion over wine or drinks (which in itself is flawed since Anne is a recovering alchoholic and addict, albeit one who talks about how great it felt to be high).

What a conversation it would be!

The Archbishop, the Talk Show Host, and the Peabody

Congratulations to Craig Ferguson for his receipt of the Peabody Award for his outstanding interview with Archbishop Desmond Tutu. If you've never seen it, all three parts are below - it's a fantastic episode!

Haiti and a Unified World ... But Why Did We Wait Until Now?

No obstacle can stand in the face of a world united.

I've always believed that, and I think we are seeing a demonstration of that right now in the streets and communities of Haiti.

Since the tragic earthquake of January 12, the world has come together in a way that to me - and to many others, I'm sure - is unprecedented. Thousands of American troops and aid workers from around the globe. Millions of dollars contributed by governments, humanitarian organizations, and average citizens - men and women, young and old, contributing amounts as small as a few cents and as large as tens of thousands of dollars to the American Red Cross, the What If? Foundation, Doctors Without Borders, Episcopal Relief and Development, the Clinton Bush Haiti Fund, and countless other groups.

Last night, the world came together in a prayer service for Haiti at Washington National Cathedral. The Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, Katharine Jefferts Schori, was joined by United Nations Ambassador Susan Rice, Haitian Ambassador Raymond Alcide Joseph, Cathedral Dean Sam Lloyd, Cathedral Dean Sam Lloyd, and many other interfaith religious leaders - Christian, Jewish, Muslim - in perhaps the most moving service I've ever attended. Hundreds of people from different faiths, different backgrounds, different demographics, and different economic levels all came together to offer prayers for the Haitian people. A magnificent choir, several wonderful soloists, and the cathedral organ added even more beauty to the event.

Wonderful music. Moving remarks by the ambassador. An inspiring homily by the presiding bishop. The light of hundreds of candles in the dimmed cathedral. Inspirational prayers and readings from the Old and New Testaments. The hopes and prayers of a diverse congregation merging into a single petition to God - save, restore, and nourish the people of Haiti. Each of those pieces came together to form a single picture of how tragedy - and hope - can bring the people of the world together.

But through it all, I've been wondering one thing: why does it take a tragedy like the Haitian earthquake to make the world take action as one? The problems in Haiti - homelessness, poverty, hunger, lack of education - have been persistent there for years; they are present here in the United States and Europe and India and all points around the world. To their credit, there are groups, individuals, and foundations that have been working for years to address the problems here at home and abroad.

But there's no large, unified effort on any of them - and the problems persist. As the Haitian tragedy has shown, the world can tackle any problem when it comes together and puts its collective mind, heart, spirit, and resources together to that end. So why doesn't it? Why can't the nations of the world come together to fight hunger, illness and poverty, in its many forms and locations? Is it because we find it easier to deal with problems outside our borders rather than face those in the next street, the next city, the next state? Is it because the nations allow their pride, their self-assuredness, or their stubbornness to get in the way of what truly matters?

Or is it because even now, in the 21st century, we as fellow travelers through this life with billions of other people still haven't discovered what it is that truly matters: loving our neighbors as ourselves.

The Legend That Is Jerry Falwell - A Personal Reexamination

It has been nearly three years since Jerry Falwell - old-time Southern preacher, college chancellor, political firebrand, and a man whose legend and legacy has reached near mythic proportions - passed away in his office at the university he built from scratch, nurtured and loved, and even now people are continuing to assess the true scope and ultimate impact of his life and work.

Several new books have come out within the last year which approach him from different angles: Dr. John Killinger's The Other Preacher in Lynchburg, which examines Falwell's impact in Lynchburg, Virginia and across the country through the lens of being a fellow minister in Lynchburg; The Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner's Semester at America's Holiest University, which explores Kevin Roose's life as a student at Falwell's Liberty University as told by a Brown student and aspiring writer who spent one semester living, learning and worshipping there; and Macel Falwell's new memoir, Jerry Falwell: His Life and Legacy. Of the three, I have finished Killinger's book (fascinating), am nearly finished with Roose's book (a good look at Liberty from the inside), and will soon be starting Mrs. Falwell's book.

I'm sure that some of you who are here regularly may be asking why I, a born-and-bred Episcopalian with a more moderate view on certain social issues, would spend thirty seconds on Falwell let alone invest in three books (and possibly read some of his own work, ghost-written or otherwise). It's a fair question, and I'll be short and direct with my response: I have absolutely no idea. Had you asked me three weeks, three months, or three years ago whether I would be interested in exploring Jerry Falwell's life as a personal study, I would have laughed.

Now, I'm not laughing.

As a native of Lynchburg and someone who spent the first 22 years of my life in that town (a town that I still love), I and everyone else were perpetually in Falwell's shadow. Even today, when I tell folks where I come from, they invariably respond, "Oh! You make Jack Daniels!" And just as predictably, my answer is always, "No, we made Jerry Falwell." It seemed that the two were inseperable: Lynchburg was Jerry Falwell, and Jerry Falwell was Lynchburg. I can remember from a young age the Sunday morning broadcasts of The Old Time Gospel Hour that were invariably running in the background as my family got ready for church, whether we were watching or not, and I can still remember Falwell's booming baritone going up and out from behind the pulpit at Thomas Road Baptist Church. In fact, that is precisely the reason I chose this particular picture to accompany the post - it is from the period in my life containing my earliest awareness of who he was.

Remarkably, in 22 years in a town the size of Lynchburg, I only saw Falwell in person three times: once at an annual performance of TRBC's Living Christmas Tree; once at a Sunday morning service at TRBC (where I witnessed perhaps the greatest repeat passing of collection plates and baskets during a sermon that I have ever seen); and once as his great, black SUV nearly ran a friend of mine and I into a ditch as the good reverend was pulling out of a carwash just minutes from Liberty University. The once-every-every-seven year sightings are even remarkable now when I consider that I went through a phase where it seemed that every young lady I asked out on a date (some successfully) was a student at Liberty, attended TRBC, or both.

So again, the question comes up: why am I doing this now? I still don't know; perhaps it's part of a larger reexamination and review of my life in Lynchburg, a life where Falwell was always lurking on the edge of things. Perhaps it's part of my exploration of other denominations and faiths outside of my own Episcopal background - and no single denomination or faith was bigger in Lynchburg than TRBC (25,000 members, if I remember correctly). Or maybe it's a subconscious desire to move beyond - after nearly 40 years - some subconscious notions that have built up, to at long last decide for myself whether he truly was a sinner or a saint, a hero or a villain, a priest or a charlatan, a man who really loved his hometown or who simply saw the advantages of being able to build an empire by never leaving his hometown.

I can't say where this is going - I only know that I'm going to enjoy the ride.