This Christmas season, we live in a world being transformed by technology, seismic shifts in geopolitical, philosophical movements and globalization. Yet the fundamentals remain the same. Human need - both intrinsic and existential - remain virtually the same as it did in previous epochs. That which was compelling and attractive with prior generations is also endearing now. While the church has adapted to the age of technology - it has not done so well. It is not enough to convey our worship with the most recent hi-tech delivery systems. In the end, we will still be judged by the world and by God Himself on whether we love well - whether we continue Christ's legacy of compassion to a hurting world.
If we increase in number yet diminish in influence this is indicative not of a need for more religious expression but in its quality. The abundance of salt, if it loses its saltiness is of less value - and is no longer salt - but sand, so says Jesus. In other words if our religion loses its precise expression - then it is no longer attractive or impactful. The true measure of effect is how well we love. The Word - was made flesh and moved in our neighborhood, so says St. John. The Word manifest itself in sacrificial love. We cannot distance ourselves from the world's problem. We must enter it - identify with those who are experiencing its crushing blow and testify to its remedy, in person.
A Savior was born into poverty to make others rich. Two questions we should ask of ourselves this Christmas is this: where is my personal Bethlehem and am I extending His legacy of love there?
Monday, November 19, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Reviving the Diaconal Impulse of the Church
The evangelical movement is encountering a bit of a theological and structural awakening to the significance of justice and mercy. This is progress. Yet while there is a new openness to understanding the nature of following Christ and doing church while prioritizing our collective role in compassion, we must admit that in this regard we are at best like children learning to ride our bikes, with training wheels.
Some of us have dabbled in the ministry to the poor, only to grow frustrated with the enormity of the task and to return to our more narrow instincts of word ministry. Some have dived headlong into the challenge, and learned much valuable insight for the church at large through our successes and failures. But the evangelical church, or at least it's suburban enclaves, admittedly is more interested in the insights of wealth development and management - through Dave Ramsey seminars and the like - than we are to sit and listen to community development experts and missionaries as they advise us toward strategies to help the poor.
It is not enough to believe that mercy is an important tenant of our faith to which we give theological assent - it is also important to internalize and act upon that biblical instinct - to program and develop purpose toward that end. The role of the pastor, overseer is critically important in the church - worthy of much structured preparative study and diligence.
Yet one might argue that the task of accomplishing justice among the poor requires at least as much theological/sociological insight to do with excellence. Protestant churches that grow, instinctively apply their resources to the replication of more pastoral ministry. We hire professional elders/pastors/overseers - but among protestants it is rare to see churches hiring professional deacons - giving oversight to ministries of recovery and community development. We thus reflexively assume that missions is primarily a ministry of the word - exporting our theological framework to a world that has not yet heard.
But if we look to Christ as our example, we see - not only a didactic ministry of teaching - but a diaconal ministry - one of healing, recovery and justice. To follow Christ in His ministry paradigm means not only to convey the truth of the gospel in words, but also in sacrificial deeds. We should not only be focused on the establishment of churches - but also schools for the poor, physical infirmaries and clinics, mental health facilities and other community development works.
Where am I wrong?
Some of us have dabbled in the ministry to the poor, only to grow frustrated with the enormity of the task and to return to our more narrow instincts of word ministry. Some have dived headlong into the challenge, and learned much valuable insight for the church at large through our successes and failures. But the evangelical church, or at least it's suburban enclaves, admittedly is more interested in the insights of wealth development and management - through Dave Ramsey seminars and the like - than we are to sit and listen to community development experts and missionaries as they advise us toward strategies to help the poor.
It is not enough to believe that mercy is an important tenant of our faith to which we give theological assent - it is also important to internalize and act upon that biblical instinct - to program and develop purpose toward that end. The role of the pastor, overseer is critically important in the church - worthy of much structured preparative study and diligence.
Yet one might argue that the task of accomplishing justice among the poor requires at least as much theological/sociological insight to do with excellence. Protestant churches that grow, instinctively apply their resources to the replication of more pastoral ministry. We hire professional elders/pastors/overseers - but among protestants it is rare to see churches hiring professional deacons - giving oversight to ministries of recovery and community development. We thus reflexively assume that missions is primarily a ministry of the word - exporting our theological framework to a world that has not yet heard.
But if we look to Christ as our example, we see - not only a didactic ministry of teaching - but a diaconal ministry - one of healing, recovery and justice. To follow Christ in His ministry paradigm means not only to convey the truth of the gospel in words, but also in sacrificial deeds. We should not only be focused on the establishment of churches - but also schools for the poor, physical infirmaries and clinics, mental health facilities and other community development works.
Where am I wrong?
Monday, August 27, 2012
The San Lotano Oval, Maduro - by A.J. Fernandez
The joy of cigar smoking is something I've become partially infamous for. In keeping with this reputation, and along with my other blogging, I plan to put down my thoughts regarding my favorite smokes and my favorite places to smoke them. Perhaps by sharing my thoughts, I might be able to help others in their pursuit of the pleasures of the perfect smoke.
One of the greatest discoveries I've made in my relatively short pilgrimage into the world of fine cigars, (which humbly began with Swisher Sweets in the 5th grade), is the delectable experience I am enjoying in this very moment - the Nicaraguan born San Lotano Oval in its various incantations. Today I happen to be enjoying the Maduro. I am not as versed as I hope to be on how cigars are made and what makes them so different. But I've developed a sophisticated enough palate over the years to know when I've placed a masterpiece in my mouth.
The name Oval indicates an innovation in cigar shapes. Most cigars are round - a few are box pressed. But the Oval contours to the mouth perfectly. Immediately the peppery, soft wrap tingles the lip and when the cigar is lit a delightful complexity of yummyness immediately greets the palate. Woody, rich spicy flavors are strong and variant. The cigar remained lit through the entire experience - a rare accomplishment. The draw is perfect - not too tight - but full. The lightly rolled cigar lends to a steady light and a relatively shorter smoke - but by the time you're done the partaker is satisfied with a pleasant light-headedness that cigar smokers know as a good cigar buzz. At no point during the smoke is there a bitter pill to swallow - rather its richness remains consistent while it evolves to a spicier motif. This cigar is not designed for the rookie smoker but for those who have a developed a palate for the heavier cigar. Yet, it is never meaninglessly potent - as some stronger cigars are. Its strength is met equally with the highest quality flavors.
For those of us who are aided by a good cigar to reflect, relax, converse and yes, in my case, to worship - this cigar is a sure stimulating delight. After this good stick I am more mindful than ever of the goodness of God and His sacred comforts.
Since discovering the San Lotano Oval, I have explored the world of A.J. Fernandez creativity. I have sampled many others and am looking forward to future creations of this great Cigar Entrepreneurial Roller and writing about them. For those looking for a variety of creations www.cigar.com offers a generous sampler of A.J. Fernandez smokes which includes some of his San Lotano creations and others from his Man 'O War series as well as his Diesel selections.
I enjoyed this cigar in the comfortable setting of Waterwheel Cigar Shop in Amelia Island, FL. Off the beaten path, in the quieter settings outside the metropolitan area of Jacksonville, FL on A1A, surrounded by leather seats, unfinished wooden walls and large flat screen TV's, tended to by the personable and knowledgeable staff - it is the perfect place to get some work done while being treated to the bellowing smoke of this wonderful A.J. Fernandez creation.
On a scale from 1 to 100 this cigar receives a happy and enthusiastic Mo rating of 97. Happy smokes to all and may the Lord bless you with many long ashes!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Discovering Desire
It was simply breath taking. I had never seen anything like it before. I had grown up in the Deep South and had seen other pockets of poverty – but none like what I was staring at through the lens of my Yashika Camera and telephoto lens. My friend, who had brought me to see the Desire Housing Projects had been advised by everyone – not to drive into them – that they were exceedingly dangerous. He felt we were taking risks by driving on their outskirts. After seeing them firsthand – I understood his reservation.
We had only driven a little ways off of the interstate, over some railroad tracks. But it was like we had crossed a border and entered a war-ravaged third world country with seemingly endless rows of dilapidated government brick buildings covered with graffiti registering the deaths of dozens of youth killed within its darker corridors. Some buildings still standing, unrepaired after being damaged by fire. Busted out windows. Crumbling brick. Though it appeared unlivable – it was teeming with people – mostly children.
I zoomed in on one of the apartments deep in the heart of the vast housing complex – one that had obviously suffered fire damage – though it looked as though a bomb had gone off and had left crumbling brick, smoked doorways and broken window frames. I push my finger to take the snapshot and then suddenly held off. Out of the doorway came strolling small children – one still in diapers. My jaw dropped as well as my heart. People are still living there, I thought.
Later I researched and discovered that the Desire Projects were deemed uninhabitable in the 70’s, were poorly constructed and built adjacent to a former municipal dump called the Agriculture street landfill. Interstate 10 and a railroad track on its northern and western boundaries along with a barbed wire fence encompassed it. The Industrial Canal ran along its eastern boundary, with lines of industrial warehouses, a railroad track and barbed wire fences. The Florida Canal, the Florida Housing Projects, a railroad track and a barbed wire fence, separated it on the southern boundary. There were over 1,800 apartment units that “officially” housed 16,000 plus residents. I say officially because there were undoubtedly more than reported. Single parents headed 98% of its units. 60% of its residents were under 16 years of age. The men were present – simply under-reported. This dynamic was indicative of the many ways in which federal government assistance programs had deleterious effects on family – the God-given infrastructure for social stability.
The sight was permanently branded upon the film in my camera – but even more deeply and permanently upon the film of my heart. Never had my heart been so moved. It is the closest encounter with heaven’s hand inviting me, even reaching out to me, I had ever had. And while I was not ready to vocalize it – I had undoubtedly found my new place of purpose and calling.
A couple of years later after having moved into this neighborhood to start a ministry from scratch, New Orleans earned the notorious distinction of capital city for homicides. Over half of the murders which took place in the city happened in this area. I’ll never forget the first New Year’s evening we slept in the neighborhood. Literally thousands of gunshots filled the night air. The next day I climbed upon the roof of our home – the house picked out by the kids we had begun to minister to – and gathered at least a dozen bullets that had previously fallen on our roof and rolled into its gutters.
My wife, Ellen, was 5 feet tall – she was not naturally a brave soul. She lived with normal feminine instincts to avoid danger. Yet here we were – the only white family within a couple miles radius starting an incarnational work in the nation’s worst housing project community.
Ironically, Desire Street ran through the middle of this – the nation’s worst public housing project – and was intersected by streets called Abundance, Benefit, Pleasure, Treasure, Piety and Humanity streets. Those inscriptions would seem more befitting the streets of gold in the Kingdom of Heaven – than these treacherous paths through dilapidated buildings in a forsaken part of New Orleans. Nevertheless those inscriptions became for us the content of our prayers and the contours of our mission – to see this community rise up to its lofty hyperbolic street signs, to defy human expectations and through gospel power become a desirable place to live.
We had only driven a little ways off of the interstate, over some railroad tracks. But it was like we had crossed a border and entered a war-ravaged third world country with seemingly endless rows of dilapidated government brick buildings covered with graffiti registering the deaths of dozens of youth killed within its darker corridors. Some buildings still standing, unrepaired after being damaged by fire. Busted out windows. Crumbling brick. Though it appeared unlivable – it was teeming with people – mostly children.
I zoomed in on one of the apartments deep in the heart of the vast housing complex – one that had obviously suffered fire damage – though it looked as though a bomb had gone off and had left crumbling brick, smoked doorways and broken window frames. I push my finger to take the snapshot and then suddenly held off. Out of the doorway came strolling small children – one still in diapers. My jaw dropped as well as my heart. People are still living there, I thought.
Later I researched and discovered that the Desire Projects were deemed uninhabitable in the 70’s, were poorly constructed and built adjacent to a former municipal dump called the Agriculture street landfill. Interstate 10 and a railroad track on its northern and western boundaries along with a barbed wire fence encompassed it. The Industrial Canal ran along its eastern boundary, with lines of industrial warehouses, a railroad track and barbed wire fences. The Florida Canal, the Florida Housing Projects, a railroad track and a barbed wire fence, separated it on the southern boundary. There were over 1,800 apartment units that “officially” housed 16,000 plus residents. I say officially because there were undoubtedly more than reported. Single parents headed 98% of its units. 60% of its residents were under 16 years of age. The men were present – simply under-reported. This dynamic was indicative of the many ways in which federal government assistance programs had deleterious effects on family – the God-given infrastructure for social stability.
The sight was permanently branded upon the film in my camera – but even more deeply and permanently upon the film of my heart. Never had my heart been so moved. It is the closest encounter with heaven’s hand inviting me, even reaching out to me, I had ever had. And while I was not ready to vocalize it – I had undoubtedly found my new place of purpose and calling.
A couple of years later after having moved into this neighborhood to start a ministry from scratch, New Orleans earned the notorious distinction of capital city for homicides. Over half of the murders which took place in the city happened in this area. I’ll never forget the first New Year’s evening we slept in the neighborhood. Literally thousands of gunshots filled the night air. The next day I climbed upon the roof of our home – the house picked out by the kids we had begun to minister to – and gathered at least a dozen bullets that had previously fallen on our roof and rolled into its gutters.
My wife, Ellen, was 5 feet tall – she was not naturally a brave soul. She lived with normal feminine instincts to avoid danger. Yet here we were – the only white family within a couple miles radius starting an incarnational work in the nation’s worst housing project community.
Ironically, Desire Street ran through the middle of this – the nation’s worst public housing project – and was intersected by streets called Abundance, Benefit, Pleasure, Treasure, Piety and Humanity streets. Those inscriptions would seem more befitting the streets of gold in the Kingdom of Heaven – than these treacherous paths through dilapidated buildings in a forsaken part of New Orleans. Nevertheless those inscriptions became for us the content of our prayers and the contours of our mission – to see this community rise up to its lofty hyperbolic street signs, to defy human expectations and through gospel power become a desirable place to live.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
beginnings
a buoy on short rope in a rising tide
a kite in a waning wind
the hesitation before things collide
the lapse before the end
I tell this story reluctantly. I’ve been asked numerous times by various persons to do so, but have resisted until now. But one of my daughters has made a compelling argument – promising to stop talking to me if I don’t start.
This is not a story of personal triumph or accomplishment – but of brokenness and grace. It is not a story at all as much a rendering of random thoughts, knit together like a Carolina quilt. I live in a world of 7 billion people or so – each of us has a story – mine is not more or less interesting in my own estimation – or more worthy to tell. Nevertheless…
At this moment I sit outdoors a coffee shop in Tallahassee, FL – the place where my children and first wife live – a place where I once shepherded a church. Perhaps I will speak of this later – we’ll see. My son has a game tonight that I will attend. I rarely miss one, though I live almost 3 hours away. Yesterday he stroked a ball that hit the top of the fence about a foot short from going over. I’ve had similar hits – and never a home run. Such is the story of my life. I hope by my support and encouragement before the season’s over – he’ll have that memory of circling the bases triumphantly. Something his Dad has not yet known but aspired to and probably secretly continues to vicariously through him.
Men want that – to be celebrated, respected. Wise women understand. Our dream is not so much to be cherished but to be heroic. I always dreamed of being significant – I used to imagine myself on a field of football dreams making an incredible move, followed by overpowering an unsuspecting defensive cornerback or linebacker, accelerating with incomparable speed and crossing the goal line with football high-lifted in the air. That’s where my dreams began – with a football.
My father played football and we, my siblings and I, were immersed in it as a pseudo-religion. For me it was the only worthwhile life aspiration – to play professional football. Everything else was something short of the pinnacle plan. My love of football was in its essence a form of father worship. It was the place where I had hoped to please him, to gain his respect, approval and affirmation. For my father it was a place of discipline into the higher manifestations of hyper-masculinity.
Yet I was not blessed with exceptional athletic ability – above average perhaps – but again, that is the story of my life. I do a lot of things well – none with excellence – none that would allow me to trounce around the bases to the roar of the crowd and standing ovation, to the hugs and high fives of proud teammates. I did not score touchdowns or throw for any. My fate was to develop expertise in the most underappreciated and seemingly inconsequential position on the field – punter. If one aspires to fame – punting is not the path to take.
Few are inspired by a punter. Ray Guy – the greatest punter ever to walk onto a football field – just recently lost his final chance to be considered for the NFL Hall of Fame – a tragedy for him and all punters, yes, but indicative of the way that the rest of the football world views us – as an unfortunate necessity – and a non-athlete.
The art of punting requires incredible hand, eye and foot skill, balance, symmetry, timing and coordination. Line all the other position players on the football field – ask them to throw a football. Many can. Ask them to catch a football. Many still can. Now ask them to punt a football and watch it devolve into a live circus. Nevertheless we are the Rodney Dangerfield’s of football – we get no respect.
My senior year in high school I averaged over 40 yards a punt. I must admit to having felt proud of myself. I had worked really hard to perfect the craft. My father, who was my first mentor in the art of punting, had died two years previously – but I imagined that he would be proud too – I prayed before every game that I would play in a way that would make him so. Yet, there were no awards, no recognition for my accomplishment, no scholarship offers. A kind high school referee noticed me game after game – saw that I was talented and took it upon himself to market me to colleges and encourage me to attend. I was so grateful.
He brought me to see a college game in Athens, GA. There I saw true football greatness – the incomparable and incarnate Herschel Walker – all I can say is that whatever you saw of Herschel on TV does not compare to what I saw in person. What a human specimen of football divinity he was that day – and I was in football heaven. It was not destined for me to play between the hedges – too intimidating and large a stage for me. Rather, I chose to go to the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. They were graduating a senior punter – which was my open door and opportunity for greatness, as I then perceived it.
I offered to God an irresistible and generous plan. If He were to give to me the desire of my heart and allow me to play professional football – I would use that platform as an opportunity to witness for Him. How could He possibly turn that down? I thought. But I did not end my regretful prayer there. So confident was I that God was impressed and enticed by my offer, I continued…but if it is not Your will for me to do so, make it obvious. Injure my leg in a way that I will not be able to recover from or return to the aspirations of this dream.
Silliest prayer I’ve ever prayed and God has chosen to ignore many of my silly prayers before. Yet predictably, He was faithful to answer this one. During spring workouts I tore tendons in my hip, eventually requiring invasive surgery. An insecure ego and a room full of weights can be a dangerous equation. But I have always perceived this as no simple mishap or accident but an answer to my prayer – for I had torn the same tendons that Jacob tore when he wrestled with God. Now not a day goes by in my life that this particular injury does not remind me of God’s fateful answer – and that my destiny were different from my dreams.
My son and I discuss major league pitchers and hitters like the Apostle Paul talked with Timothy about discipleship. We study the craft that has become his dream. I know in my heart that he will not only hit homeruns but in my mind and heart he already is one. There is a sense in which my greatest feat of accomplishment stands before me in the towering grandeur of an aspiring son – who has chosen his own dreams. I for one, whether he hits it over the fence or not, will stand to my feet and feel surging and swelling pride – every time he comes to bat.
God did not give me my heart’s desire but He gifted me another – a better one – one that I would not trade for anything in the world. I have had the unusual opportunity and privilege not only of raising my son – and three beautiful daughters – but also to play a surrogate role in the lives of many additional sons and daughters who see me as a spiritual Dad. This enterprise is one that is dear to the heart of God who makes it His own mission to “Father the fatherless.” Ironically it was the art of punting that allowed me access to their lives and even more uniquely to do so in a neighborhood – ironically called Desire.
By the way – my son did not hit a homerun this night – he struck out 10 of 12 batters he faced and threw a no hitter. ☺
a kite in a waning wind
the hesitation before things collide
the lapse before the end
I tell this story reluctantly. I’ve been asked numerous times by various persons to do so, but have resisted until now. But one of my daughters has made a compelling argument – promising to stop talking to me if I don’t start.
This is not a story of personal triumph or accomplishment – but of brokenness and grace. It is not a story at all as much a rendering of random thoughts, knit together like a Carolina quilt. I live in a world of 7 billion people or so – each of us has a story – mine is not more or less interesting in my own estimation – or more worthy to tell. Nevertheless…
At this moment I sit outdoors a coffee shop in Tallahassee, FL – the place where my children and first wife live – a place where I once shepherded a church. Perhaps I will speak of this later – we’ll see. My son has a game tonight that I will attend. I rarely miss one, though I live almost 3 hours away. Yesterday he stroked a ball that hit the top of the fence about a foot short from going over. I’ve had similar hits – and never a home run. Such is the story of my life. I hope by my support and encouragement before the season’s over – he’ll have that memory of circling the bases triumphantly. Something his Dad has not yet known but aspired to and probably secretly continues to vicariously through him.
Men want that – to be celebrated, respected. Wise women understand. Our dream is not so much to be cherished but to be heroic. I always dreamed of being significant – I used to imagine myself on a field of football dreams making an incredible move, followed by overpowering an unsuspecting defensive cornerback or linebacker, accelerating with incomparable speed and crossing the goal line with football high-lifted in the air. That’s where my dreams began – with a football.
My father played football and we, my siblings and I, were immersed in it as a pseudo-religion. For me it was the only worthwhile life aspiration – to play professional football. Everything else was something short of the pinnacle plan. My love of football was in its essence a form of father worship. It was the place where I had hoped to please him, to gain his respect, approval and affirmation. For my father it was a place of discipline into the higher manifestations of hyper-masculinity.
Yet I was not blessed with exceptional athletic ability – above average perhaps – but again, that is the story of my life. I do a lot of things well – none with excellence – none that would allow me to trounce around the bases to the roar of the crowd and standing ovation, to the hugs and high fives of proud teammates. I did not score touchdowns or throw for any. My fate was to develop expertise in the most underappreciated and seemingly inconsequential position on the field – punter. If one aspires to fame – punting is not the path to take.
Few are inspired by a punter. Ray Guy – the greatest punter ever to walk onto a football field – just recently lost his final chance to be considered for the NFL Hall of Fame – a tragedy for him and all punters, yes, but indicative of the way that the rest of the football world views us – as an unfortunate necessity – and a non-athlete.
The art of punting requires incredible hand, eye and foot skill, balance, symmetry, timing and coordination. Line all the other position players on the football field – ask them to throw a football. Many can. Ask them to catch a football. Many still can. Now ask them to punt a football and watch it devolve into a live circus. Nevertheless we are the Rodney Dangerfield’s of football – we get no respect.
My senior year in high school I averaged over 40 yards a punt. I must admit to having felt proud of myself. I had worked really hard to perfect the craft. My father, who was my first mentor in the art of punting, had died two years previously – but I imagined that he would be proud too – I prayed before every game that I would play in a way that would make him so. Yet, there were no awards, no recognition for my accomplishment, no scholarship offers. A kind high school referee noticed me game after game – saw that I was talented and took it upon himself to market me to colleges and encourage me to attend. I was so grateful.
He brought me to see a college game in Athens, GA. There I saw true football greatness – the incomparable and incarnate Herschel Walker – all I can say is that whatever you saw of Herschel on TV does not compare to what I saw in person. What a human specimen of football divinity he was that day – and I was in football heaven. It was not destined for me to play between the hedges – too intimidating and large a stage for me. Rather, I chose to go to the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. They were graduating a senior punter – which was my open door and opportunity for greatness, as I then perceived it.
I offered to God an irresistible and generous plan. If He were to give to me the desire of my heart and allow me to play professional football – I would use that platform as an opportunity to witness for Him. How could He possibly turn that down? I thought. But I did not end my regretful prayer there. So confident was I that God was impressed and enticed by my offer, I continued…but if it is not Your will for me to do so, make it obvious. Injure my leg in a way that I will not be able to recover from or return to the aspirations of this dream.
Silliest prayer I’ve ever prayed and God has chosen to ignore many of my silly prayers before. Yet predictably, He was faithful to answer this one. During spring workouts I tore tendons in my hip, eventually requiring invasive surgery. An insecure ego and a room full of weights can be a dangerous equation. But I have always perceived this as no simple mishap or accident but an answer to my prayer – for I had torn the same tendons that Jacob tore when he wrestled with God. Now not a day goes by in my life that this particular injury does not remind me of God’s fateful answer – and that my destiny were different from my dreams.
My son and I discuss major league pitchers and hitters like the Apostle Paul talked with Timothy about discipleship. We study the craft that has become his dream. I know in my heart that he will not only hit homeruns but in my mind and heart he already is one. There is a sense in which my greatest feat of accomplishment stands before me in the towering grandeur of an aspiring son – who has chosen his own dreams. I for one, whether he hits it over the fence or not, will stand to my feet and feel surging and swelling pride – every time he comes to bat.
God did not give me my heart’s desire but He gifted me another – a better one – one that I would not trade for anything in the world. I have had the unusual opportunity and privilege not only of raising my son – and three beautiful daughters – but also to play a surrogate role in the lives of many additional sons and daughters who see me as a spiritual Dad. This enterprise is one that is dear to the heart of God who makes it His own mission to “Father the fatherless.” Ironically it was the art of punting that allowed me access to their lives and even more uniquely to do so in a neighborhood – ironically called Desire.
By the way – my son did not hit a homerun this night – he struck out 10 of 12 batters he faced and threw a no hitter. ☺
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