Uncle Wayne

 

02/26/2021

I saw Uncle Wayne last night. It was one of those dreams that doesn’t seem like a dream until you wake up. I think I was in heaven, but I’m not sure. I know it was a place where I had never been. It seemed like a large restaurant with a lot of wood, like a ranch-style barbecue café. All of the tables in the center of the room had been removed and chairs were set up and there was a woman with strawberry-blondish hair at the front with a microphone. There were booths along both sides of the room and people sitting in those, too. There were a lot of people there, but I didn’t know anyone – unlike most stories of heaven that I have read.

I was standing on the right side of the room (I almost always stand on the right) toward the back and the woman with the microphone that I didn’t know was introducing people one-at-a-time. I guess it got to be my turn, though I didn’t hear any of the other introductions. She said (and I quote), “There are some McDonalds here from far away.”

That’s when I saw him. He was sitting in one of the booths toward the front of the room but on the opposite side from me. I’m not sure, but I think he was sitting across the table from Uncle Cecil. When he (and I) heard her say that, he stood up and looked right at me. He was much younger than the last time I saw him. He was still tall and willowy, but his hair was dark and his features smooth.

As soon as he saw me, he started walking across the room right in front of the lady with red hair. She was still speaking, but I don’t know what she was saying, and it didn’t matter. I started toward Uncle Wayne and we met in the front of the room and in front of all those people that I guess Uncle Wayne knew, but I didn’t. I hugged him and buried my face in his chest and cried. He said, “I love you.”, but I just cried. I hugged him for a long time, and he just let me hug him and cry.

I woke up still crying.

I didn’t know there would be barbecue restaurants in heaven. Maybe there are different heavens – like Texas heaven and Alabama heaven. Who knows? I don’t know why there is a need for microphones in heaven, and I don’t know who pays the electric bill up there. I learned about heaven that even though you might look younger, you retain your stature. Uncle Wayne was still tall, and I was still short.

I want to go back. I bet the barbecue is good.

 Terrorism in Frankfurt

October 2019

This story is loosely based on events that may or may not have actually occurred, definitely exaggerated and told in a literary style called tongue-in-cheek, or as Kathy says after almost every story I tell, “It didn’t happen that way at all.”

We had just completed another incredible European vacation and had only one more obstacle to accomplish: The long trip home. We were required to leave the Viking river boat at 3:30 a.m. for our 6:15 flight from Budapest to Frankfurt, and we both set our phone alarms for 2:30. Neither of us were aware that Daylight Savings time set in at 3:00 a.m. so we were an hour early for the bus taking us to Budapest airport (BUD – which is what I would call my airport if I had one).

We arrived at 3:51 and there were already an estimated 2 million people there. Our Viking tour guide directed those of us going to Frankfurt in economy class to lanes 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7. When we made it to that area of the airport, we would discover that there were no lanes but only an already agitated crowd waiting for the Lufthansa gate agents to arrive. If I had to guess – and I do – there were about 75 to 100 people in mob formation. We found a few of our Viking shipmates and fell in behind them near the middle back of the undulating cloud of people. The punch line is that it would take us about an hour to get from that position to the gate to check our luggage and receive our boarding passes.

All of that wouldn’t have been so bad – we had about 2 hours until our flight departure – except for the Arab terrorist behind me. He really did look like what you would expect a terrorist to look like and to use Kathy’s description of him, “He had 2 eyes, but they weren’t looking in the same direction.” As soon as the gate agents arrived, the mob of people moved in unison toward what we would soon discover was only one gate – about 2 people and luggage wide – that would lead to one lane and the 5 agents.

As soon as the people moved toward the gate, the terrorist pushed me from behind and kept a constant pressure on me all the way. I already hate crowds of people and he was really irritating me. It was very difficult not to turn around and push him back, and if he hadn’t been a terrorist, I might have. As we neared the gate, he started trying to pass me on my left. There was no room to pass. This was literally front-to-back and shoulder-to-shoulder, but at some point, I decided to let him pass just so he would stop pushing.

By then we were almost to the gate. He had steadily pushed me for 45 minutes. Kathy pointed to my left to an elderly couple trying to make it to the gate. When I say elderly, I mean they appeared to be older than me, and I am in the foothills of the Elderly Mountains. The terrorist was beside me now and my luggage was the only thing stopping him from moving in front of me. I could see in his left eye that he intended to cut off the elderly couple. I was going to let the terrorist go around me, but I was NOT going to let him shove in front of the older couple.

My passive aggressive nature kicked in (I wouldn’t call it that, but Kathy does). I slowed just enough to let the couple enter the gate. When I did, Mr. T(errorist) went around me, but he was pulling luggage, too (no doubt a bomb). Now he was in front of my luggage, but his luggage was behind mine. He tried to move my luggage so he could pull his ahead, but my foot held it fast. I could feel him looking at me with his right eye while keeping his left on the couple now safely within the confines of the gate. He was stuck. He couldn’t enter the gate without leaving his luggage behind. Kathy and I deftly eased by him behind the couple. We were now within an organized lane and Mr. T, in resignation, fell in behind us.

I felt like Tom Cruise in any of the Missions Impossible.

A Protestant in Catholic Clothing

 

A Protestant in Catholic Clothing   by Mike McDonald

I have a graduate degree from the Augustine Institute in Denver, Colorado. On the home page of that fine university, these words are found:

The Augustine Institute serves the formation of Catholics for the New Evangelization. Through our academic and parish programs, we equip Catholics intellectually, spiritually, and pastorally to renew the Church and transform the world for Christ.

There is at least one thing wrong with this picture.

I am not Catholic.

I have never been Catholic.

I have been both a card-carrying Methodist and Baptist but never Catholic. I didn’t necessarily hide my Protestantism in my very-Catholic classes – they didn’t ask, I didn’t tell – but after a few online conversations with Catholics, I tended not to advertise. I was asked by one, “Do you feel like the fox in the hen house?” I replied that I felt more like a hen in the fox den. Those who discovered that I was not Catholic were nice, polite and tolerant, but it was obvious to me that conversation became somewhat guarded upon learning that I was not a fellow Catholic. One of my professors graded a paper with these comments: “It is a source of edification for me to read a paper like this and to think that the Church has another son who has made such effort to think with her!” He obviously didn’t sense any Protestantism. That might have caused just a bit of something like Catholic guilt in me.

History has taught us that Catholic and Protestant churches are as far apart as the east is from the west. Though there have been attempts to bring the two faiths together, those efforts have gone unrewarded for the most part. A Baptist friend of mine referred to the Catholic Church as a cult, and a Methodist relative said, (I am not making this up) “I’d rather die and go to hell than be Catholic.” Another church friend said that my interest in Catholicism was possibly due to “a faith crisis”. Although I cannot begin to rectify the differences that have existed for over five hundred years, my personal belief is that a lack of education causes many of those differences. The Venerable Bishop Fulton J. Sheen stated,

“There are not more than 100 people in the world who truly hate the Catholic Church, but there are millions who hate what they perceive to be the Catholic Church. As a matter of fact, if we Catholics believed all of the untruths and lies which were said against the Church, we probably would hate the Church a thousand times more than they do.”

My limited Catholic education has given me a profound respect for the Catholic Church. Though I know a lot more now about both sides of this religious fence between us, I don’t see any benefit in debating the issues distancing us, but I do have a strong desire to take the fence down. My goal has become to educate my Protestant brothers and sisters in order to begin taking the divide apart little by little. I have attempted to teach Catholic discipline, doctrine and dogma in both Baptist and Methodist religious adult education classes. I have tried, mostly in vain, to explain the differences between Catholics and Protestants. My thought process has been that if we know where they are coming from, we can move closer together. I have had very little success. The Greek philosopher, Epictetus, must have experienced something similar when he said, “For it is impossible for anyone to begin to learn that which he thinks he already knows.” A few have seemingly appreciated the Catholic education, but I have come to believe that most people don’t want their beliefs challenged.

They don’t want to know what they don’t know.

There are many areas of contention between Catholics and Protestants. We don’t seem to be able to agree on the meaning of baptism, the security of the believer, salvation by faith or works or both, the priesthood of the believer, the infallibility of the Pope, the succession of apostles, and oh, the Mary thing. More, of course, could be named, and yet, we agree – or at least we pretend to agree – that Jesus was the Christ and He is our personal savior. It was His intention that we love one another and that we be ONE. They will only know we are Christians by our LOVE.

This is the Truth: There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all (Ephesians 4:4-6).

ChurchPop - A Baptist Prays in a Catholic Church

 

Why This Baptist’s Favorite Place to Pray is His Local Catholic Parish Church

by Michael McDonald - June 13, 2018

As a Baptist, I watch people in airports, in restaurants, in the mall… and in church. I wish I could focus on God in church, but I just can’t when there are people around.

So there have been times that I have needed to find a church with no people inside to pray. In today’s world, that is not an easy task. I just Googled, “Why do churches lock their doors,” and I found quite a few reasons. It is nothing but common sense I guess: robberies, homeless people, vandalism, etc.

But Pope Francis said that churches should not give in to these kinds of societal pressures. He said, “There are places in the world where doors should not be locked with a key. We must not surrender to the idea that we must apply this way of thinking to every aspect of our lives. To do so to the Church would be terrible. Churches, parishes, institutions with closed doors must not be called Churches; they must be called museums!”

Fortunately, there is a church near my home that is open most of the time. I have never been there except during daylight hours, but it has always been open and there are seldom people there.

Yes, it is a Catholic church and I am not Catholic, but no one has ever tried to stop me from entering and praying. I don’t think anyone ever would, although I’m sure I look very much like an average interloping Baptist.

There are a lot of things I like about Catholic churches:

1) I like Holy Water.

We had some in a Mason jar once. A Catholic friend gave it to us to help sell our house. My wife sprinkled it on me and our son. I’m not sure why. Yes, the house sold pretty quickly after that.

This church has Holy Water in a font at the entrance. I touch it to my forehead going in and coming out. I hope it doesn’t taint the water for others and I hope there are no surveillance cameras.

2) I like those things – I think they are called kneelers.

You’ve seen them.

Catholic people know when to kneel, when to sit and when to stand in the Mass. I’m sure that’s how they identify Protestant visitors in their services. So, when I am there by myself, I put a kneeler down and kneel on it. I don’t think God requires that we kneel before Him, but I think we should.

I always cry when I hear “O, Holy Night” and it comes to that line, “Fall on your knees”.

Every knee shall bow…

3) I like the crucifix.

It gives me someone to talk to. I imagine that He listens to me better if I am looking at Him.

I was visiting someone in a Catholic hospital many years ago with two other men. There was a small crucifix on the wall. One of the men took it off the wall and put it in a drawer. He said, “My God is no longer on the cross.” The other friend who happened to be a Baptist pastor said, “So, why did you put Him back in the tomb?” I wish I had thought of that.

When God answered my prayer

I’m like most Christians I guess. I don’t call on God much except when I need Him. I first visited this neighborhood church when I was in need of a job. I had been looking for months, sent out a couple of hundred applications, and was just about to give up.

I decided to give prayer a shot. I had tried prayer of course, but only in my house or in a church with people. It’s just not the same.

I very tentatively walked through the doors, expecting to be yelled at. No one yelled. I did the Holy Water thing and the kneeler thing and I talked to the Man on the Cross – the One who established the Church. I did that three times in one week.

I got the job offer the next week. I’m sure it was just a coincidence.

So maybe this church locks its doors after hours. I don’t know. But I am grateful that it is open for my use at least some of the time when I need it. I’m very glad that there is not a sign that says, “No Baptists Allowed!” I am most thankful that my God is willing to meet me there and listen to my pitiful attempt at conversation.

Thank you, Lord. I’ll see You again soon.

 

McDonald History

 

For Joel and Lauren:

Something happened to me on Sunday, August 6^th, 1972 that would change my life forever. It would serve as a watershed moment that would influence and / or determine all of my future decisions and would cause me to see things – all things – differently from that moment on. In many ways the decision I made on that Sunday afternoon would change your life as well.

I found myself on that Sunday at the United States Naval Academy. My appointment to that military institution was a big deal, especially in the little town of McGregor, Texas. It was actually front page news when it occurred. As far as I know, no one from McGregor had ever been appointed to a military academy. At the time, only 4% of the Naval Academy’s applicants were offered appointments, making it the most selective college in the United States, ahead of Harvard and Stanford.

My first airplane ride took me to Annapolis, Maryland in early June of 1972. I don’t remember much about the events leading up to that plane ride, but I remember being pretty scared on the flight – not afraid of flying but afraid of – well, just everything in general – being away from family for the first time and on my own. To be honest, I don’t think I started the Naval Academy application process ever thinking that I would be on that airplane. I still think, as metaphysical as it sounds, that all of this would lead me to that Sunday afternoon in the Naval Academy Chapel in August.

The Academy experience was a positive one, in general. I did well with all of the plebe (freshman) harassment and military training. At the end of the summer, I was rated first in my company of forty-two plebes. I don’t have any idea how that rating was accomplished, but I saw everything there as a personal challenge. I enjoyed the physical and military parts of the training. I aced most of the intellectual tests, including Morse code and sea flag identification. I rearranged the cheat sheet that we were given for Morse code. I wish I had kept it, because plebes from other companies were coming to me to get copies of my new cheat sheet. All I remember is that I created groups of acronyms and it helped me to memorize the code.

However, to reiterate, the Sunday afternoon in August would change my world. I had signed up for a Bible study. My motivation was probably to get me out of something that I didn’t like doing. Sunday afternoons were about the only times we didn’t have every minute planned for us. Others tended to use the time to catch up on sleep, but for whatever reason, I chose to fill the time. I tackled Bible study just like I tackled everything else at the Academy. I did all the homework, read all the passages and memorized all of the verses that leader Jim Truler asked us to do. I stayed after class that day and talked to Mr. Truler.  

I won’t try to explain what happened because I’m not sure I fully understand it. I had a religious experience. Some would say I was “saved”, others that I had a “born again” experience. All I know is that once I was blind but now I see. I felt that I had a super power, a strength that was not there before. Over the next few months, I lost my zeal for the Academy. I never really knew what I was doing there, but I was trying to make the most of my time. After my “experience”, my direction changed. I left the Academy in February of 1973.

My life still had little direction. I lived with my parents in McGregor and got a job at a mobile home plant near town. I bought a 1967 Mustang, but I really had no idea what I would do going forward. I coached a PeeWee baseball team in McGregor, but that is a story for another time. I attended my sister’s church, College Avenue Baptist Church in McGregor. It was there that I was baptized. (Side note: There is no college in McGregor and no street called College Avenue.) It was also there that I was licensed as a minister by the state of Texas. At some point in that early summer of 1973, a musical group from Howard Payne College in Brownwood, Texas visited College Avenue and I knew as clearly as I have ever known anything that my place was in Brownwood. I applied and was accepted into the Bible Theology program at Howard Payne. I was suddenly a Ministerial student.

Howard Payne was an expensive school. Where state universities charged about $4 per semester hour at the time, Howard Payne charged $34. Once again, I didn’t really plan for the future. I just moved in the direction I felt was right at the time. I think maybe that’s what I’ve always done. My Dad paid for my first semester and I know that he had to borrow the money. There was no talk about what we would do for additional semesters. As it turned out, that decision was never made.

I pre-registered for all of my classes and my dorm room. However, as fate would have it, when I showed up in Brownwood on the campus of Howard Payne College in late August of 1973, I found that all of my pre-registration had been lost – well, all except the check that my Dad had sent. In the days before computers were used for college admissions, the loss of paperwork was enough to make my registration non-existent. Except for the fact that they had the check and had cashed it, I would probably have been sent packing. As it was, I was pretty upset, because I was sent to register for classes and would find that a very frustrating activity. I stood in long lines to get classes only to find at the end of the line that the class had been filled and closed. The process was several hours long, but it seemed much, much longer. I was just about ready to give up, but I really had nowhere to go but forward.

Toward the end of this very annoying process and needing only one class to fill my roster, I was told that geology was closed and that only two classes remained available. One was a PE class and unfortunately, I had already signed up for a PE class and they would not allow me to sign up for two. The ONLY other class was one called Oral Interpretation. I had no idea what that was, but I quickly signed up. I was not happy.

In addition to the registration fiasco, I was told that I had no dorm room. That paperwork had also been lost. The men’s dorm in which I had reserved a room was off-campus. I was subsequently given a room in a wing under construction in the athletic dorm on campus. The athletic dorm happened to be just across the street from the girls’ dormitory. Though all of this caused me to wonder whether or not I had made a horrible mistake by coming to this college, of course I would find that all of these mistakes were leading me to another momentous and life-changing event.

My miseries were multiplied when I found that the Oral Interpretation class was in the Drama Department and the class was housed in the theater off-campus. There was a shuttle bus to the theater, but I chose to drive the Mustang. I showed up to that class with a really bad attitude. I didn’t know what I needed, but I knew that I didn’t need a drama class. Like a typing class that I was forced to take in high school, I knew that this would be a total waste of my time. (Side note: That typing class has been as beneficial to me as any other class I ever had to take.)

When I found the classroom and entered, I saw her. I didn’t see anything or anyone else. My eyes were drawn to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She had long, blonde hair and wore a short hot pink dress and white shoes. I immediately sat in the desk behind her. I was scared but not scared enough. I don’t remember all of the short conversation that we had before class started, but I know that I asked her name and she said, “Kathy McDonald”. It was the perfect ice-breaker. I didn’t ask her how she spelled Kathy but I asked how she spelled McDonald. I was smitten by her then. I am smitten by her now.

There were only maybe ten or twelve people in the class. I was way out of my element. The instructor, Professor Armbrister, asked why we were taking the class. I remember hearing the other class members talk about radio and TV experience and theater and art ambitions. Except for the presence of the pretty girl I had met, I was still seething for having to be there. When it was my turn to speak, I said, “Geology was closed, they wouldn’t let me take another PE and this class was all that was available.” There was a proverbial “pregnant pause” in the class. I don’t remember what Mr. Armbrister said. He probably brushed me off as a bad egg. I don’t know. Kathy would say later that she was impressed with my honesty, but even then I didn’t really care what anyone thought. I was mad.

Since she rode the shuttle to the theater, I offered her a ride back to campus. Another girl intruded and offered herself a ride in my car and took the front bucket seat. Kathy had to sit in the back. Somehow before she got away, I managed to get a moment alone with her and asked her for a date. She said yes. I quickly found a new love for drama.

On the first date, we saw two movies. The first was called “The Bird in the Crystal Plumage”. After that we went to Sonic and had cheeseburgers before going to the second movie, “High Plains Drifter”. Ok, I wish I could say that we fell in love on that date, but we didn’t. Well, she didn’t. I think I did. I called her the next week for another date. It seems that her roommate had to wake her up when I called, and she blames her sleepy confusion for agreeing to a second date – something she said she had already decided not to do.

After only a couple of months of dating, I very reluctantly told her, “I think I love you.” She said something like, “Well, I wondered how long it was going to take you to figure that out.” (Side note: If we have a “song”, it is probably “I Think I Love You” by The Partridge Family.)  Once again, planning for the future was not high on my list of talents, and we didn’t really know what to do next, so we decided to get married. (Side note: I still regret not giving more thought to a proposal.)

We shopped for a ring in Waco and bought one at Zales. I think we paid $419 for it, and Dad had to co-sign for a loan. We paid it off at $19 a month for two years.

We were married on Saturday, June 22^nd, 1974 at Calvary Baptist Church in Lufkin. I won’t speak for your Mom, but marrying her is the best thing I have ever done. I have always been proud to be her husband, and I am very grateful that she married me. I could not, using my own abilities and desires, have picked a better life mate.

Believe what you want to believe, but I know that God directed my path directly to her as though nothing else in all of His creation was as important as that meeting.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Your Dad

16 December, 2015

 

p.s. Another side note: I think only your mother and I know this story. You will understand why I have not chosen to publicize it when you read it.

Early in my childhood – starting maybe around the age of five and continuing for several years to the best of my recollection – I had a recurring dream of a blond-haired girl about my own age. I think that it might be unusual for a five-year-old boy to dream about a five-year-old girl and, if he had such a dream, that it might not be a pleasant experience. I remember those dreams today only vaguely, but I remember being filled with a sense of calm and peace. Being with the un-named girl in my dreams seemed natural and gave me a feeling of warmth. Even at that age, I looked forward to the dreams. Of course, I was too young to see any significance in the dreams, and I never voiced them to anyone.

Shortly after your Mom and I married, we were at Memaw’s house on Duncan Street in Lufkin, sitting in a closet in a bedroom looking at old family photographs. Your Aunt Judy was there and the three of us were sitting on the floor of the closet. When I saw the picture of your Mom at about five years old, my heart began to pound and I felt dizzy for a moment. Then that same sense of warmth from years past flooded over me.

The little girl with curly blonde hair in that picture was the same little girl from my childhood dreams.

Believe what you will…

Church and Baseball – Top of the First Inning – Protestants at Bat

“Baseball is like church.  Many attend. Few understand.”  Leo Durocher

Do baseball and church have anything in common? Many people point tongue-in-cheek to the first words of the Christian Bible: “In the Big Inning”. I like this possibly photo-shopped rendition of Michaelangelo pitching baseball in the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

 Although Abner Doubleday has been given credit for the origin of baseball, most purists know that baseball’s Genesis came long before Abner’s time. Some date it back to the late 18^th century with references to “town ball” in early American life. Maybe it has lost some of its luster in recent years, but baseball has long been America’s sport. In the movie “Field of Dreams” Terence Mann (played by James Earl Jones) tells Ray Kinsella (Kevin Kostner):

 “The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball.  America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers.  It’s been erased like a blackboard – rebuilt, and erased again.  But baseball has marked the time.  This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray.  It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again.”

[Note: In the book Shoeless Joe by W.P. Kinsella from which the movie was taken, Terence Mann was J. D. Salinger, but Salinger was offended by the fictional portrayal of himself in the novel, and his lawyers said that they would be “unhappy if it were transferred to other media,” so the studio created the character of Terence Mann.]

Just as we cannot know with 100% accuracy when baseball arrived, neither can we know exactly when the church came to be. Both teams trace their roots back to the birth of the baby Jesus in Bethlehem some 2000 years ago, but disagreement arises in the definition of the “real” church. Catholics of course claim to have the longer history, but many Protestants refuse to legitimize or even acknowledge the Catholic claim to being the original church.

To the question, “Did Jesus establish a church?” almost all Protestants and Catholics agree that He did. But the next question brings controversy. “If He did, indeed, establish a church, does it exist today and, if so, where is it?” The Catholic squad contends that Jesus established His church through the first Pope, Peter (which will be discussed in the second inning), and can show an unbroken string of games played by Popes throughout the centuries. Protestant players talk trash to the Catholic team by pointing out unethical and even rule-breaking practices by Popes and others in the Catholic organization. Catholics agree that there were bad Popes and bad people doing bad things in the name of the league at times, but respond with similar trash talk like, “So what?” and “At least we were in the game. Where were you?” [Note: A good book on this subject is Pope Fiction by Patrick Madrid.]

A minority of Protestant players like to call John the Baptist the founder of the Protestant league, but referring to this as a stretch is an understatement. That independent minor league team has as its gospel a book called The Trail of Blood written by J.M. Carroll. Its subtitles are Following the Christians Down Through the Centuries and The History of Baptist Churches From the Time of Christ, Their Founder, to the Present Day.  However, the theories presented in that writing were discounted by its own author later in his life – as Yogi might say, “He said that before he died.”

In fact, the Protestant league was founded by Martin Luther in the 16^th century, some 1500 years after the establishment of the Catholic league. Martin Luther actually played second base for the Catholic squad, but he became disgruntled over Catholic league policies and left to form his own league of teams. Today it is estimated that there are over 30,000 Protestant teams, which makes the end-of-season playoff bracket cumbersome at best. The competition between the Catholic and Protestant teams has continued throughout history, but even that rivalry has been overshadowed at times by competition among Protestant teams.

[Note: The modern era Protestant team called The Baptists was named not after John the Baptist but, in fact, after Anabaptists or “Re-Baptizers” who came to be with the formation of the Protestant League. Many on the Catholic team who followed Martin Luther were re-baptized in order to join the Protestant league.]

In the modern era, 1973 was a particularly bad year for Catholics, Protestants and baseball, in general. Two leagues had been formed in baseball – the National League and the American League. Much like Catholics and Protestants, both leagues espoused supremacy. The leagues existed in relative harmony for decades before the 1973 Schism, which came in the form of “The Designated Hitter Rule”. Much like Martin Luther had done, the American League wrote new rules and found a strong following. The Designated Hitter Rule stated that a team could enlist a substitute batter for its traditionally weak-hitting pitcher, essentially adding a player to the long-standing, God-given roster of nine players (divisible by baseball’s Trinitarian number 3). The designated hitter does not play defense; he bats for the pitcher on offense.

Some have asked, quite rightly, why not substitute for a weak-hitting shortstop as well, or why not have an offense and a defense like football? (I’m not sure if anyone else has asked those questions, but I have.) Rick Wise, a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox in 1974 said, "The designated hitter rule is like letting someone else take Wilt Chamberlain's free throws." And of course, everyone knows the quote by Crash Davis (played by Kevin Costner) in the movie “Bull Durham” (1988): “I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter." (He said some other things during that speech, but none of it is pertinent for purposes of this discussion.)

[Note: In addition to this heinous baseball rule in 1973, “homosexuality” as a mental disorder was removed from The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in direct violation of the Catholic League Rule Book, and the Supreme Court decision Roe vs. Wade legalized abortion, incensing many Catholics and Protestants alike.]

[Note 2: AstroTurf was invented in 1965 and originally called “ChemTurf” but was renamed after its first well-publicized use at the Houston Astrodome stadium in 1966. The Astrodome was the world’s first indoor baseball stadium and was nicknamed “The Eighth Wonder of the World”. I first walked into the Astrodome through the east gate in the spring of 1965 as an eleven-year-old boy with my dad and my grandfather. I will never forget that day or the awesome view from centerfield or the majesty of The Eighth Wonder of the World.  I had never seen a baseball field bigger than the Little League field I had played on.  I had been a Yankees fan through their glory days in the early 60s with Mantle, Maris, Berra, Whitey Ford and other greats, but my grandfather was an Astros fan, and I became one that day.  I was a die-hard fan over the years until the Astros fell from grace and became members of the American League with the abhorred “Designated Hitter Rule”. To me, it was like finding out that your wife of 40 years had left you because she had become gay.]

[Note 3: Back to AstroTurf: Tug McGraw, relief pitcher for the New York Mets, when asked if he preferred AstroTurf or grass, responded, “I don’t know. I’ve never smoked any AstroTurf.”  Tug was credited with coining the phrase “Ya Gotta Believe”, which became motivation for the 1973 Mets and their run to the World Series that year. They were managed by one of my heroes, Yogi Berra, and were defeated by the Oakland Athletics in the Series, but only in a decisive 7^th game.]

[Note 4: Tug McGraw was the biological father of famed country music singer Tim McGraw. According to Tug’s book Ya Gotta Believe, Tim was the result of a one-night-stand between Tug and Tim’s mother, Betty. Tim was raised Tim Smith and believed that his stepfather, Horace Smith, was his dad. Tim discovered his birth certificate at the age of eleven and found that his real dad was the baseball player, Tug McGraw. Tug refused to acknowledge his son until Tim was about eighteen, and only then because of the notable family resemblance. In the forward to Tug’s book, Tim wrote, “I was his son, but I never called him Dad.” However, Tim and his wife, Faith Hill, ensured that Tug received the best medical care through his fight with brain cancer, to which he eventually succumbed in 2004 at the age of 59.]

Introduction (Pre-game Warmup)

I have played for both teams.  Well, not really. I have never played for the Catholics professionally, but I have practiced with them on many occasions and have come to respect the members of their organization. I was born and raised on a Protestant team and have remained on the team. I was raised Methodist, but I married a Baptist and have been on that team for over 40 years now. However, I have good friends and family on the Catholic team that have been strong influences in my life, and I have a great deal of admiration for the team.  I have master’s degrees from Houston Baptist University and Augustine Institute, a Catholic seminary in Denver, Colorado. I think I have a knack for seeing the good in both teams, and my desire is that players on both teams be able to see the good in the other team that I see.

I grew up in church and I grew up playing baseball. I have often compared the two.

Annie Savoy, Susan Sarandon's character in the movie “Bull Durham” echoes this sentiment in her own way during the opening voice-over monologue in the movie:

"I believe in the church of baseball. I've tried all the major religions and most of the minor ones. I've worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic's rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I learned that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn't work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me. I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there's no guilt in baseball. And it's never boring. . . . It's a long season and you gotta trust it. I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the church of baseball."

One of my first memories of childhood is watching, through the chain link fence from my back yard, boys playing baseball in a sandlot field.  I was too small to climb the fence.  I don’t know how many times I stood there at the fence and watched them play, but I remember the day that Mike Erlanson (Big Mike) lifted me over the fence and told me that I could play.  My Dad eventually built a set of steps over the fence and I spent almost every non-rainy day playing baseball on that sandlot. 

I am so glad that Nintendos and Play Stations didn’t exist when I was a kid.  I played baseball every day that I could.  When I got a little older, I rode my bicycle to the “real” baseball fields that the city of McGregor, Texas had built, stopping along the way to recruit potential players. As years passed, it became more difficult to find guys to play baseball.  Some got interested in cars; some in girls; but my interest stayed focused.  I played baseball with anyone that would play with me.  Of course, I, too developed interests in girls and cars, but they would never surpass my love for the game.  Baseball was my life.

One can learn a lot about life on a baseball field. I did. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. Charlie Brown said, “It doesn’t matter whether you win or you lose….until you lose.” Sometimes the umpire’s decision doesn’t go your way. He might be wrong and it might not be fair, but his decision is final. (Unless the video replay proves him wrong – something that will be discussed later.) Both institutions – baseball and church – have rule books and interpreters of those rules. In both, the rules have changed to some extent over the years – for better or for worse. Many would advocate more changes, many less, and the debate will continue.

A fierce rivalry has existed between the Protestant and Catholic teams for centuries. Each thinks it has the better program, and the games go on between them. Each believes the other misinterprets the Rule Book. This writing will not settle the multiple issues between the two teams. There will always be a competition and each will play by its own rules to some extent. Facts and opinions will be voiced in this book that might possibly upset many players on both teams.  I have observed that many people become defensive when their interpretation of the Rule Book is questioned or even merely discussed.

I have learned not to take too many things seriously on a baseball field or in church. My goal is to take a sometimes light-hearted and sometimes semi-serious look at both teams – not to divide but to unite – to give each team a little insight into the other. If the Catholics better understood the Protestants and the Protestants better understood the Catholics, the games might be a lot more fun. I think it is possible that the two could unite into one league.

We will play nine innings or longer. There is no time limit. The game could be shortened by inclement weather or some other act of God.

Play ball.