Here's The Pitch
Today I was speaking with a young man from my congregation, and the opportunity arose for me to tell him one of my favorite stories from my baseball-playing days. It happened in 1972, when I was a freshman at East Carolina University playing fall baseball.

One day I was slightly injured in practice, so I was sent to the trainer's room for first aid. As I was waiting to be treated, I had a conversation with another player who was there. His name was Tommy Toms. He was a senior and was the star pitcher of the team. In fact, when he graduated the following spring, Tommy was drafted by the San Francisco Giants. Within a year or two he actually spent some time pitching in the major leagues with the Giants.

On this day, Tommy and I got to talking about the head coach of the ECU baseball team, Earl Smith. Earl was the coach for a long time at ECU, and while I never questioned his knowledge of baseball, I did not consider Earl to be one of the more enlightened people I had met in my life.

Earl had rules about the appearance of his players. First of all, when I was there it seemed they had to have white skin. Secondly, there was to be no long hair, sideburns or facial hair. I was pre-warned about this earlier in the summer by another of his players who I knew at the Ted Kluszewski Baseball School in Ohio: "Earl's not gonna like that mustache," I was told at the time. So, when I showed up at ECU, I shaved it off.

On the day I spoke with Tommy Toms, who actually had fairly long hair by Earl Smith standards, he related something Earl had said about him. In his best imitation of Earl, Tommy said, "That Tommy Toms may be a hippie-freak. But when he gets on that pitcher's mound, he's a pretty good boy."

When I think of that statement, I always remember something I once read concerning Martin Luther King, Sr., "Daddy King." According to the story, when John F. Kennedy was a U.S. Senator running for President, MLK, Jr. was arrested on a traffic violation, and was transferred late at night from the city jail to a Georgia state prison to do hard time. Naturally, the King family and many, many others were appalled at this turn of events.

John Kennedy intervened with Georgia officials, and Dr. King soon was released from the prison. Gratified and tremendously relieved, Daddy King told his congregation to vote for JFK, "even though he's a Catholic."

I always found the irony of that statement highly amusing, but it points to the reality that many, if not most of us, perhaps even all of us, have some preconceived notions about people who are different from us.

But, we qualify our prejudices: "the hippie-freak is a good boy, really;" "the Catholic did me a favor, so you can place your confidence in him."

Wouldn't it be great if we simply could appreciate the differences we all bring to the human story? Instead of the starting point being suspicion, or low expectations, or even fear, we would value the uniqueness of the other person and benefit from what they contribute to life in this world.

But, I guess that would complicate matters and inhibit our tendency to deny our own shortcomings.

We Are One In The Spirit
Our church this week was fortunate to host a visit by a veteran missionary who worked for many years in
Africa, mostly the Congo, and who more recently served in his native Haiti. He shared many insights from his long experience and helped us gain a better understanding of what happens when we send financial and other resources to support mission work in developing countries. The humility and joy I have often witnessed in such servants was evident once again.

He pointed out that the people among whom he lived and ministered were not interested in having someone come and "help" them. He said, "Don't walk ahead of us, don't push from behind. Rather, stand with us shoulder-to-shoulder that we can work on our mutual liberation together." I have heard of similar sentiments expressed by people of faith from developing countries.

Often, when we "rich" folks go on "mission trips" to "poor" villages and countries, we end up being enriched by the experience as much as, or more than, the folks to whom we are reaching out. More than once people have described such experiences to me, and I have read about them, as well.

Someone told me about a trip he made with a group that visited several sites in Latin America. The people were glad to receive the visitors, and provided eager hospitality. And they shared how they prayed regularly for the Christians in North America -- not that we would help them out, or send them money, but rather that we would remain spiritually strong in the face of all the challenges and temptations we face, and that we would be effective witnesses to the gospel, just as they tried to be in their setting.

I believe it was Anthony Robinson who reported in his book Transforming Congregational Culture that members of his church visited a community in Nicaragua where they shared in a sister church relationship with a group of Christians there. During the visit, the Nicaraguan congregation sang a series of hymns for their visitors. They used no hymnals, had no piano or organ to accompany them, but they sang with great passion and enthusiasm.

After a while, the hosts invited the guests to share some of their favorite hymns in return. The guests were embarrassed that they could not do so without referring to hymnals. Upon their return home, they made it a point to learn hymns to sing on subsequent visits.

During my seminary days it was my privilege to become acquainted with numerous students from other countries. During my first year, I roomed with a man from Thailand who had traveled thousands of miles, leaving his family behind, so he could study on an advanced academic level in a language not his own in order to one day return home and minister more effectively in a land where less than 5% of the people were Christians.

The next year, my roommate was from India, and the story was similar. Through both of these men I was able to meet and get to know other international students, and we regularly had a living room filled with folks whose experience of life, the world, and the church was vastly different from my own. Their stories were amazing and inspirational.

One is now a United Methodist bishop in the Philippines. Last year I spotted his picture in The Christian Century along with an article about some of the struggles the people are facing there. Another returned to Guatemala following several years of ministry in the United States. The last letter I received from him, perhaps a dozen years ago, described what he termed "nightmarish" conditions in his country. During our time at seminary his brother, a journalist, was murdered.

It is very worthwhile, and vitally important, for North American Christians to become more aware of the faith, lives and struggles of our brothers and sisters in developing nations. It helps us put into perspective the priorities we choose, and the behaviors we perpetuate in the church, and hopefully, will awaken us to the power of God's spirit to transform lives.

Because, as our missionary visitor told us, mission opportunities abound all around us as soon as we walk out the doors of our church building.

"...And Let It Begin With Me"
This morning our city's ministerial association concluded our program year by holding a worship service focusing on "prayers for peace." Scripture was read, a beautiful a cappella solo was offered, and two or three of our members shared readings or stories related to peace.

In his remarks, one person referred to an article in today's newspaper regarding the local police department. Seven of twenty-nine new police recruits were fired for "telling racist jokes and using racist slurs." It was heartening to know how seriously this was taken. But the more remarkable aspect of this story was that "several other cadets are under review for 'their failure to report those issues.'" In other words, not only are racist jokes and slurs not to be tolerated, but standing by and just letting it happen is a punishable offense, according to the standards of the police department.

It brought to mind an incident from my own experience. One day several years ago, I was standing in the check-out line at the grocery store. For reasons I no longer recall, I already was in a bad mood, but when I heard the person in front of me share his racist comments with the cashier, my temper got away from me. Intruding on the conversation, I used an impolite term for "nonsense," and let the guy have it. He was stunned, not only at my intrusion, but at my disagreement with his point of view.

He couldn't comprehend that I, as a Caucasian, actually would call him out on his low opinion of Asian people. "What are you? An Indian or something?" he asked me. When I said no, he said, "Well, you must not be from Virginia." "Born and raised," I replied. And as he fumbled for something else to say about me, I countered with the extremely clever, "You must be very happy, because 'ignorance is bliss.'"

He saw the fire in my eyes, got his change from the cashier, and left the store mumbling. By that point, of course, everyone else in the front of the store was watching and listening. It wasn't a proud moment for me, and it certainly wasn't an inbreaking of peace.

Apparently, the recruits for our local police department are taught the guidelines and standards of conduct to which they are to be held accountable. If those standards include reporting racist jokes and slurs uttered by their colleagues, then their responsibility is clear.

What seems less clear is what the rest of us should do in such a case. What if a family member is the culprit? Or it's a stranger ahead of you in the check-out line? Or it's the person who sits in your row at church? I've encountered all three of these scenarios.

When else do we stand by while someone says or does something that alienates or denigrates someone, or that even leads to their harm in other ways?

What should we do? What is our responsibility as people of faith?

For Whom the Bell Tolls
Today Mary and I spent the day at Bok Sanctuary in Lake Wales, Florida. Lake Wales is the point of highest elevation in the state, 298 feet above sea level. I was surprised to see a hilly area in Florida!

The Bok Sanctuary features beautiful gardens, lots of walking paths, a carillon that plays throughout the day, and a pair of cranky swans who didn't like it when I put my foot on the stone ledge around their pond. The more I did it, the crankier they became.

Edward Bok was in the publishing business, and for 30 years he was the editor of Ladies Home Journal. He fell in love with the location and decided to preserve the area and establish a bird sanctuary. Bok decided something was missing, and had the tower built with the carillon, reminiscent of the carillons of his homeland, Holland.

Edward Bok was a visionary in many ways. As the United States became involved in World War I, and as Woodrow Wilson was promoting the idea of a League of Nations, Bok offered a $100,000 award for a "practicable" peace plan, in which the U.S. would work with other nations to establish and maintain peace in the world.

Bok's grandmother had inspired him in his youth by insisting that every person should somehow leave the world as a better place because he or she had lived in it. Edward Bok's list of accomplishments and "betterment" of the world is impressive.

It is striking how it seems so much has changed in terms of the general attitude of nations and individuals. Competition for power and the control of the world's resources outweighs the notion of cooperation and pursuit of the common good.

Sometimes I wonder if God's plan was for differing peoples and nations to cooperate and rely upon each other, given that natural resources and food products are scattered across the globe in various locations. Perhaps God's idea was we would share what we have with each other, that we all have something to contribute to the health and well-being of our human sisters and brothers. It seems there is a richness in the diversity of our human family.

Why do we insist on a smaller, narrower, self-focused existence?

To quote the ever-quotable William Sloane Coffin, "There is no smaller package than a person wrapped up in himself."

Book Value
The process of placing value on an object always has been somewhat mysterious to me. But, it seems,
someone always knows. If you ever saw Antiques Roadshow on PBS you know there are experts who will tell the unsuspecting person before them the value of the painting, old letters, or piece of furniture they dragged in for appraisal. How do they do it?

Online auction sites such as eBay move thousands of items and facilitate the exchange of copious amounts of money every day. The single most expensive item ever sold on eBay was acquired today by someone who had a spare $10 million to invest in a car signed by members of the cast of The Dukes of Hazzard television show. I never once watched the program, but I'm beginning to think I missed something.

In a free society, people earn or otherwise acquire their wealth in a variety of ways. They likewise put that wealth to use as they see fit. If someone chooses to pay $10 million for a car, that's their business.

An overwhelming proportion of the world's population tries to survive on the equivalent of one or two dollars a day. Many people, most of whom shouldn't waste their meager resources in this fashion, faithfully play the lottery. The odds against winning the "big one" are phenomenal. And, it turns out so often, winners of those gigantic lottery prizes end up bankrupt, divorced and unhappy.

As a nation we spend money for war as if we can just print what we need anytime. When it comes to health care, education and jobs, especially for those with minimal, if any, access to them, well, you know, our resources are dwindling. Budgets are tight.

The budget is really tight for hundreds of thousands of people who made the mistake of living in the path of Hurricanes Katrina, Rita and others. As an eye-witness to the devastation 18 months after the fact, I can report that the Gulf Coast region likely will never fully be rebuilt. The evacuees will have to try and make it somewhere else, starting with nothing. Volunteers from churches and civic groups who are trying to help are told, "If it weren't for you, these people would have absolutely no hope."

Why not? Don't they have any value?

Say What?
One of the brochures arriving in my mail advertises a workshop on "The Renewed Homiletic," which it describes as a "turn toward the hearer." It points out that a shift in "the study and practice of preaching" occurred 35 years ago: "The purpose of preaching focused less on persuasion and more on transformation, less on asserting religious truths and more on offering an experience of the gospel."

Fair enough. There's more: "Thus homiletical strategies utilizing induction, celebration, story, narrative structures, and moves replaced a deductive, propositional approach to preaching." ...and moves...?? OK.

I must confess that never in my sermon preparation have I considered a "strategy" to utilize induction. I failed to ponder "narrative structures." The only "moves" I ever employed were gestures and the occasional foot-stomp. But, I guess it's OK, since I wasn't remaining stuck in a pattern of a "deductive, propositional approach," either.

Maybe I'm just not the reflective type, sucking pensively on a pipe, wearing a corduroy jacket with elbow patches, while I sit in my study surrounded by tall shelves of scholarly dissertations about referential language appropriate to post-modernity.

I remember a lecture once about church transformation, and one of the marks or characteristics of a transforming church, according to the learned lecturer, was its ability to "jettison the amphictiony." I couldn't wait to get that into my next sermon, and apply it in daily parish life. Right.

One sermon I preached last year made reference to language, suggesting it helps to know the language of those with whom you are communicating. I gave the example of something that might be said at one of the lobbying law firms on K Street in Washington, DC: "Go up to the Hill before the markup on the DOJ appropriation. Get some face time with the chair and deal away the RIF'ing of our clients. Then, go over to Old Town for a walk-through with the AEI PAC leadership. Take the orange line, transfer to the yellow because the Inner Loop will be stacked up at the Wilson that time of day. Then, at 7, go over to Georgetown and spin the Posties at the grip and grin at Ben and Sally's."

If my "hearers" were confused by that, I gave them more, offering an example of something my son might say: "Carlos was crunked because I wouldn't throw cheddar for his grindage. He said, 'I'll just gank it, then.' I put on the chinny rack and told him, 'You're lunching, dawg. Quit icin' my grill. It's cashed.' Then, I bounced."

One of my earliest mentors told me that preaching should be done in "language of a sixth grade level." I wasn't sure how to do that. Plus, it seemed like it would be insulting to the congregation. So, I found it especially hilarious when, on the very next Sunday, one of our elders used the word "archipelago" in his communion prayer. I sure didn't know or use that word back when I was a sixth-grader.

Many of the folks finding their way to churches these days are not familiar with church terminology, scripture or Christian history. They don't know one denomination from another -- and don't care. They are seeking spiritual guidance and health. They are giving God a try.

What do we say to them? And how do we say it?

Lift-Off
Upon hearing of the death of astronaut Wally Schirra my thoughts took me back 45 years or so. I was in elementary school when several of the historic U.S. space flights occurred. If the launch or re-entry took place during school hours, the teacher rolled in a black and white television and we watched history being made.

I was, of course, too young to understand much about it all, but it seemed to be an exciting and outstanding accomplishment to actually send people into space. For some reason, Wally Schirra was my favorite astronaut, and I knew the names of the rest of the Mercury Seven. Shirra was a bit like Mickey Mantle in my young mind, talented and heroic. I liked watching him on television, either piloting a rocket or providing expert commentary when other space missions were underway. It's difficult for me to envision him as an 84 year old man.

So much seemed possible in those days. Achievement and excellence were held up for our aspiration. Baby boomers like me were told we could do and be anything, and we believed it.

But, the older we got, the more complicated things became. We still were very young when Camelot disappeared, and we realized it really was just an illusion, anyway. In fact, things got very ugly very quickly. The world in which anything seemed possible turned into a scary place where it became difficult to trust "anyone over 30."

Now I'm ambivalent about the importance or necessity of the space program. I think the money would be better spent on job training and economic development in neglected city neighborhoods and dying small towns. There is far less collective celebration of human achievement because instead of working together toward common, positive goals we are suspicious of others, paranoid and increasingly self-isolating.

I guess it's somewhat understandable that some want to cling to the familiar and the comforting in the face of the challenges and changes swirling around us. But when it's the church of the "good old days" we seek to maintain or restore we discover that it, like Camelot, also was an illusion.

People are searching for something more meaningful.

Controlling The Conversation
In a recent church service there were periods of silence not usually included in the ritual. A lot of throat clearing and coughing filled the moments.
Were that many people dealing with allergies and throat tickles or was the silence uncomfortable?

In a well-known scripture story, God wasn't known in the earthquake or the high winds. God was experienced in a "still, small voice."

So often, our spirituality is flush with words and other noise. We fill silence in any way we can think of. Is our discomfort with silence somehow related to the still, small voice? Does the silence draw us into a confrontation we would rather avoid?

One of the characteristics of Quaker spirituality that I grew to appreciate in my years of association with them was the prominence of silence. In unprogrammed Friends' worship, there is no preacher, there are no hymns, no readings, no anything except silence and waiting for the spirit. Sitting in a simple room on benches facing each other, Friends embrace the silence, because in that silence God is to be encountered. The encounter with God may or may not move someone to share a message derived from the still, small voice. Once a message is shared, silence resumes.

Friends apply this approach to other gatherings. Like any congregation, there are committees and boards that meet to make plans and to conduct necessary business. Among Friends, these are "meetings for worship, with attention to..." business or whatever the purpose of the gathering might be. So, the work is done within the context of worship, and out of the inherent silence.

One time, our Board of Directors at William Penn House was wrestling with the financial difficulties familiar to many non-profit organizations. The discussion became tense and some anxieties were expressed. The Clerk of the Board called the group back to silence. It was not intended to just allow board members to "cool off," but rather to put us back in touch with the source of our being, the spiritual center we shared and to which we aspired to relate faithfully. It wasn't just a brief moment to regroup, but was an extended time of listening and waiting.

I had heard of this maneuver, but never saw it employed before that night. It was striking to me that not only did the Friends return to silence without hesitation, but the silence -- the listening and waiting -- prepared the group to continue our work in a positive and constructive manner.

We non-Quakers admire those who can pray aloud publicly. Our personal prayers, either spoken or "silent," overflow with words. The still, small voice doesn't get a chance sometimes. We pour out our hearts to God, then move on to other things as if we're dropping a letter in the mailbox, assuming the response will come later.

We say we want to know and do God's will, but we do all the talking.

The Call to Transformation
It is not a secret that many, many congregations of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), as well as churches in other mainline denominations, are wrestling with the call to be relevant within the context of the realities of the world in the 21st Century. There often is a longing for a “comfort food” version of the past: “If only we had 300 people in worship, like we used to!” “People don’t make church a priority like they did before!” Congregations and their leaders want to focus on programs and organizational structures, just like in the good old days.

The whole thing brings to mind the driver backing up against the direction of traffic on a one-way street after missing the desired turn-off. It’s an ill-advised attempt to correct a mistake, signs are ignored, and deep down the driver knows backing up is wrong. There is, however, indignant defensiveness against someone waving his or her arms and shouting, “You’re going the wrong way!” After all, the vehicle is pointed in the right direction.

Congregational transformation, as I perceive it, is a “journey,” and as much as it may distress us Disciples to acknowledge it, we are dependent upon the Holy Spirit for transformation and the Holy Spirit is free to do whatever, whenever, however, why ever, to whomever.

As we recognized this at our church, some of us made the commitment to an in-depth study of The Acts of the Apostles. The Holy Spirit is the key player in Acts, interacting with a church not unlike many churches today: unsure of what to do; searching for it’s purpose and ministry; incapable by itself of effective faithfulness to God’s intentions for how God’s people are to be a blessing to others; frightened by Jesus’ expectation of “taking up the cross” and following him.

In our study of Acts, we see how the earliest Christians emphasized prayer and a commitment to community with fellow believers as they faced their challenges, conflicts and fears. Their story is instructive and inspirational. We are taking our time in absorbing it all.

Participants are being shepherded through our study by Called To Be Church: The Book of Acts for a New Day, an intense book written by Anthony B. Robinson and Robert W. Wall. Our Elders are studying Transforming Congregational Culture, also by Anthony Robinson, and less of a Bible study than an analysis of where the church has been and how it can be transformed. The book is very stimulating and challenges congregations to look at their life and ministry in new ways, all with the idea that possibilities abound as the Holy Spirit is engaged.

I believe that’s the crucial element – engaging the Holy Spirit. Spiritual disciplines such as worship, prayer, study, service and generous giving are essential in transforming congregations. Recognizing the abundance of God’s blessings rather than complaining about scarcity reveals a heart reaching for the Holy Spirit. Seeking God’s will, God’s desires, and God’s intentions, as opposed to “figuring out a way to get more members” or “raising money for the budget” creates openings for the Holy Spirit. Mission, derived from spiritual discernment, leads to organization rather than the other way around.

People are energized and liberated by the study of God’s word and by a renewed sense of the presence of the Holy Spirit in our midst. Some new faces are beginning to find their way through our doors on Sunday morning. A “snowbird” recently commented to me regarding a new attitude he observed at the church during his annual sojourn here this year.

The transformation journey continues. There still are bumps along the road. Some of our folks still remain unmoved and disengaged. We struggle with patience. But, a momentum is developing and the Holy Spirit is catching us in more unguarded moments.

Knocking on Heaven's Door
Having been raised in the church, I developed the pattern of regular attendance. When I went away to attend college at East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina many years ago, I maintained the habit. There was a Southern Baptist congregation within easy walking distance of my dorm, so that’s where I went. My roommate and some of his music major colleagues attended, as well.

The pastor was a personable fellow and always warmly greeted me at the door when the service was finished. I don’t believe he ever asked my name, and I didn’t volunteer it. Two things stand out in my mind about that church.

One was a pun told by the pastor. Apparently, someone broke into the church one week and discharged fire extinguishers somewhere in the building. As he put it, the trespassers said, “Let us spray.” Very clever, I thought.

The second thing I remember was the congregation voted by a show of hands whenever someone came forward at the invitation to join the church. I couldn’t understand this judgment of whether a person was adequate to be a part of their church. What was the standard? Most of the members likely didn’t know the newcomers, and the voting was simply perfunctory. So, why even vote? Why the charade?

I never felt at home among the folks at that church, and soon I discovered that Sunday mornings were wonderful for sleeping late. It didn't last long, however.

One evening I was in my dorm room with Roger from across the hall watching a basketball game on television. Playing in the game was Elvin Hayes, then a star of the Washington Bullets. As we watched the game, I commented to Roger that, according to an article I read, Hayes had a spiritual encounter of some sort that led to a religious conversion. I said, “I’ve never felt particularly called to religion or the church in my life.”

As soon as I said it, there was a knock on my door. I didn’t know the person standing there, but he called me by name and said, “I understand that you’re a Christian.” “Well, I, uh…” “Are you attending a church?” “Uh, no, I’m not.” “You should come with me. I’ll pick you up on Sunday morning at 8:30.” And he did. Just like that I was back in church.

On that first post-knock Sunday morning Dave showed up. He was enthusiastic about taking me to his church, which turned out to be a very small Church of Christ congregation. That’s the non-instrumental bunch, and Dave himself led the hymn singing at the beginning of the service. Off-key, but sincere, the folks at the church displayed a sense of humility in worship and fellowship that was touching.

They were without a pastor at that particular time, so a chemistry professor from the university provided the sermon each Sunday. If memory serves, there were perhaps 20 people in attendance. They were carrying on their witness despite a lack of professional leadership, and they all seemed pleased to see me. I was back in church.

Now, I am assuming the hand of God played a role in all of this. The timing of the door knock was just too perfect for me to imagine otherwise. So, I went along for the ride, still not entirely clear what was unfolding.

Dave's personality and approach were such that he felt it necessary to kind of “shepherd” me a little bit. Well, more than a little bit. He became a regular presence in my life as we spent a lot of time together apart from Sunday morning. We weren’t friends, exactly, but he clearly saw himself in a spiritual mentor role. It was something I needed, it seems now, as his persistence put me in the position of actually reflecting on matters of faith.

He only recently “converted” to the faith himself. By his account, Dave's life was somewhat directionless, and maybe a bit on the wild side. He was a basketball player with visions of glory wearing the purple and gold of ECU. But, that didn’t happen.

What did happen was being “born again,” as he described it, and by the time he found me, he was passionate about his faith. Rabid, even, might have described him.

Now, my prior church experience was not of the rabid variety, so I was a little uncomfortable with him at times, and frankly, I thought he needed to lighten up. He clearly, though, was trying to be faithful in the best way he knew how.

But, for me, red flags were going up. Around Dave my words were carefully chosen, so as not to seem inappropriately worldly. I assumed my actions would be filtered through a lens of his making. I was walking on a field rife with land mines.

Maybe he really was fighting himself in all of this. But I couldn’t ignore how he came into my life, and tried to see through the surface to what really was going on.

I grew restless with Dave, though, and by the end of the school year, I decided that enough was enough. I could continue my faith journey without him. I decided I would tell him when school resumed in the fall.

The summer ended, and on the first Sunday morning after I returned to Greenville, I waited, certain what would happen

I stayed in bed awake, anticipating the knock on the door. At 8:30, Dave arrived, and when I presented myself, wearing sleeping clothes and disheveled hair, he was incredulous.

“You’re not ready!” “Yes, well, I’m not going with you anymore." He looked like he absolutely could not believe what he was hearing. After staring at me for a moment he said, “I want you to think about this. It could mean the difference between heaven and hell, for you, for your children, for your whole family.” “Well, I’m not going.”

He looked at me some more. I locked eyes with him and waited. Then, after an awkwardly long pause, and with the stunned expression of someone who had just been wounded but couldn’t connect his brain to the location of the injury, he turned and walked away. I closed the door and never saw him again. Just as quickly and at the exact spot where he entered my life, Dave left it, his purpose done.

Something funny had happened that summer while I was home on break. My home pastor's brother-in-law, Ralph Messick, also a Disciples pastor, moved to Greenville to become the pastor of a Disciples congregation there. Within a day or two of Dave leaving me at the door of my dorm room, Ralph showed up, just as we had arranged. Now, I not only was back in the church, I was back among Disciples, and I was on a path leading to seminary and ordination.

I never expected any of it to happen.