What, this old thing?

One night last week, I sat in the beautiful Paramount Theater, waiting for a movie to begin. It wasn't the premiere of some new Hollywood blockbuster; it was a showing of the 1940 comedy The Philadephia Story. I've seen the movie a few times, but it's always great to see classic films in a classic theater, on a giant screen, the way they were meant to be seen. I was pleasantly surprised that several hundred people were in the audience, eating popcorn, chatting, waiting. I overheard a conversation behind me: A man said, "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" A woman replied, "I'm 90 years old."
"Wow," said the man, "did you see The Philadelphia Story when it first came out?" She said yes.
The lights dimmed, we saw a couple of previews for upcoming shows and then the familiar Looney Tunes/Merrie Melody music began. A Pepe LePew cartoon!
As the MGM lion roared, The Philadelphia Story began, in glorious black and white. It stars Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart; they don't make 'em like that anymore. I was struck repeatedly by how much the audience was enjoying the movie. The roars of the lion were overshadowed by huge roars of laughter which burst out so many times that some of the film's funniest lines were completely lost. And the laughs sounded so comfortable, so free. It was not the sort of laughs you hear at the new breed of comedies, where the laughter is mixed with uneasy cringes over what shocking image or taboo event has been exploited. These were joyful laughs, totally free of guilt.
It was the best time I've had at a movie in a long time. And yet, I know many people who say, "I don't watch those old black and white movies." I can sort of understand why a teenager might say that. But for an adult to believe that any movie without Technicolor has nothing to say is simply wrongheaded.
We live in a culture which frequently contends that anything older than yesterday is worthless. I feel sorry for anyone who skips the music of the Beatles or Bob Wills or Benny Goodman or the Boswell Sisters because it's not current. I want everyone to see the movies of Preston Sturges and Jean Arthur and Buster Keaton. There are treasures buried, none too deeply, for those who care to scratch the surface a bit.
It's much the same at church. There's always an "emergent" movement or a new trend in "praise music" that causes us to toss out beautiful hymns, timeless traditions and meaningful messages. Lest I sound like an old fogey, let me assure you that I love new music, new books, new movies. But we don't have to choose between "all-new" and "all vintage" when we can appreciate both.
Good stories are timeless, particularly the "Old, Old Story" mentioned in one hymn. Stories are just like songs, movies, books…and people. There's something to be learned from the newest, and great rewards for those who don't forget the oldest.
There couldn't be a New Testament unless there was an Old one.

A-one-and-a-two-and-a-three…

I always wanted to be in a rock group. I simply didn’t have very many chances. I began playing the guitar as a young teenager, sitting on my bed for endless hours, singing to an empty room. When the chance arose to play with a group for an assembly at my high school, I was excited. The group consisted of a drummer, a guitarist (who was actually named John Paul Jones), a guy who played maracas and tambourine, and me, playing bass and singing. The name of the group was…uh…Keep On Truckin’, named after the ubiquitous R. Crumb poster which I shamelessly ripped off in some handmade flyers advertising our debut.

Our twenty-minute set included songs by Grand Funk Railroad, Santana and a couple of others. On our final number, though, we cranked our amps up to maximum, despite the principal’s warning (hey, The Man can’t keep us down!) and launched into Jimi Hendrix’s Foxy Lady. It wasn’t good, but it was loud. This gig led to…absolutely nothing.
My next band was in college. My friend Tom and I were asked to join us with a couple of other guys to play at a fraternity party. You know, one of those quiet, contemplative gigs. This group, I’m embarassed to say, was called Isengard, from Lord of the Rings. I had no say in the song selection and we ended up playing some songs I hadn’t listened to, songs by Blue Oyster Cult and other bands of that ilk. We managed to finish our single gig and picked up a few dollars, but never played again.
My final group was born out of my job at a music store. There was a guy who gave guitar lessons and a girl who gave piano lessons. The guitar guy came in one day and asked if I knew any country songs. “Only really old country,” I answered. I had learned some Hank Williams and Bob Wills songs, but I was certainly not current. He said that anything would help; he’d accepted a gig at a country bar and the piano teacher and I would join him. We would play anything remotely “country” that any of us could think of. That would turn out to include Linda Ronstadt, the Eagles and even ZZ Top. At the club, we looked out into the darkest space I’d ever seen, except once when I was deep in San Marcos' Wonder Cave when they turned out the lights. We had one small nightlight on a music stand so the guitarist could see our song list. Even that tiny light bothered the owner of the bar, who kept telling us it was too bright. During a break, I asked her why it needed to be so dark in the place. “Well, lotsa people come in here with somebody besides who they’re married to.” Ohhhh.
These three gigs illustrate the glamorous nature of showbiz, at least on the local scale where most musicians function. But let’s face it, few things turn out to be as glamorous as we initially believe they’ll be.
But a few things live up to the hype. Love. A lifetime commitment that grows deeper and richer through the years. And I gotta say, my belief and understanding of God has never ceased to amaze. Oh, it sounded good, all those years ago, when I heard I could be forgiven for everything I'd done, that I could go to Heaven instead of the other place. But learning that my life here could be so much sweeter, feeling that God could help me learn to care about other people...this has been heady stuff. If my early understanding of Jesus was like playing in my first band, this is like being a Beatle. He loves me.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Leave no turn unstoned...

My mother died in a place called Christopher House. It’s part of Hospice Austin and I was impressed with the care and attention and compassion with which she was treated in her final days. Outside the Christopher House is a beautiful garden with a fountain, shady tree, leafy plants and flowers. But what most grabbed my attention were the cobblestones. The whole courtyard is paved with stones, but hundreds of them bear messages from friends and families of former patients at this unique place.
I walked around the grounds, skimming the messages. Most were straightforward: “We miss you,” or “God bless you Memaw.” Others, however, made me want to hear the stories behind them. One bore a name and the cryptic equation: “Infinity X Love.” Another made me smile: “Randy you got a brick!”
Some had musical references: “SWEET AS TUPELO HONEY.” “BRANDIE YOU’RE A FINE GIRL.” (Remember that song?) Underneath one woman’s name: “SWEETHEART OF HARMONY.” One was for George, “WHO LOVED MOVIES.”
Perhaps my favorite was a sentiment that required two bricks to complete it: “NEVER HAD A SHORT STORY” followed by “& SHE’S PROBABLY STILL TALKING”
It’s hard to know what we leave behind, hard to foresee how someone is going to sum up our lives in a handful of words. As I write this, I’m working on a message to deliver at my mom’s funeral. I’m not going to be able to limit myself to half a dozen words, I’m afraid. I can’t yet boil down my feelings to something that short, that poignant. But I’ve already decided that I’m going to buy one of those stones…or two or three…once I figure out what to say.
Some of those things were already said, in the days before Mom died. We told her we loved her, that she’d been a great mother, that she would soon be in a better place, free from pain, that we appreciated all she had done for us. Maybe I'll go with something like “TELL DADDY HELLO” or “CAN YOU SEE MY HOUSE FROM THERE?” Or maybe I'll cop out and just say "THANK YOU."
When I really think about it…there just aren't enough stones to say it all.
"SEE YOU LATER, MOM."