Ten (and a Half) Texas Politicians You Need to Know

So, Rick Perry’s decided to quit his presidential hunt, leaving quirky Ron Paul to be the man from Texas on the campaign trail. And George W. Bush’s time in the White House hasn’t quite faded from our national memory.

But believe it or not, Perry, Paul and Bush aren’t the only brand of Texas politicians. Along the way, Texans have elected – dare I say it? – a few liberals. Gulp! Maybe they called themselves moderates, progressives, or populists. Maybe they simply saw themselves acting with integrity or decency. Maybe their whole records aren’t perfect. Or maybe they just accidentally did a few good things.

But in the interest of fairness to my fellow Texans, here are ten Texas politicians you need to know:

1. Mirabeau B. Lamar. As second president of the Republic of Texas, he set aside land for each county to set up schools and for the support of two universities, later the University of Texas and Texas A&M University. Lamar supported education and had the good sense to say, “A cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy.”

2. Elisha M. Pease. As governor in the 1850s, Pease created the Permanent School Fund, a big chunk of money that helps Texas schools keep their head above water today (despite efforts to take away their flotation devices.) Pease also gladly used state dollars (read that, taxes) to build institutions for orphans, the mentally ill, and deaf and blind Texans. And, he paid off the state’s debt at the same time.

3. Miriam Ferguson. Okay, Miriam “Ma” Ferguson left a trail of corruption and scandal in her wake, and she was pretty much the pawn of her husband. But she’s worth knowing. In part because she was a woman, elected governor in 1924. And in part because Ma took on the Ku Klux Klan (a group that made the tea party look like amateurs). She stood up to bullies.

4. Dan Moody. As governor Dan Moody reorganized the state’s prisons. He redid the state highway system to make roads connect, which meant he cut highway costs in half and meant he stood up to the road-builders and their lobbyists. He had the state started auditing its accounts.

5. Maury Maverick. Maverick served only four years in Congress, representing San Antonio, but his work is monumental. During the Great Depression, Maverick lived with African-Americans, Mexican-Americans and poor whites to see their plight first hand. He brought to Washington the memories of those tragic places. He also brought an ACLU membership card, an opposition to lynching, and loathing of the poll tax. Maverick objected to the House Un-American Activities Committee, went so far as to oppose all war in principle (though he earned a Purple Heart in World War I), and gave the world the word, “gobbledygook.”

6. Lyndon Johnson. Yep, he swaggered like Bush and Perry. Yep, he governed like a bully sometimes. And yep the Vietnam War was a horror. But dag-nab-it, the Civil Rights Acts were remarkable pieces of legislation. Federal funds for education, Medicare, Medicaid, highway beautification, environmental conservation, an all-out assault on poverty, Head Start – those things were real and powerful and needed.

7. Barbara Jordan. She sounded like God and used her voice on behalf of others. She passed a workers’ compensation bill that helped injured workers, and she broadened the Voting Rights Act to make sure that Mexican Americans were covered.

8. Ann Richards. Funny, flawed and fearless. She supported a woman’s right to choose, she appointed openly gay and lesbian Texans to offices, and championed the rights of Latinos and women. To paraphrase Texas Senator Lloyd Bentsen’s broadside against Dan Quayle, “I lived in Texas when Ann Richards was governor, and Rick Perry is no Ann Richards.” (That probably makes them both happy.)

9. William Wayne Justice. As a federal judge, his ruling about prisoners’ rights led to a complete overhaul of the Texas penal system. And his 1970 ruling led Texas schools be desegregated. Longtime Texas Lieutenant Governor Bill Hobby said of the Judge Justice, he “dragged Texas into the 20th century. God bless him. He was very unpopular, but he was doing the right thing.”

10. My Uncle George. Okay, he was actually my great-uncle. He served as County Judge of Delta County for one term. While in office, my great-uncle George Bolger got crossed up with the county sheriff Benny Fisher over the bonds to fund the jail. The sheriff wanted more money, my uncle wanted less. In the midst of haggling out the details, a weekend rolled around. While everybody was away, the sheriff moved Uncle George’s office furniture move to the courthouse men’s. I don’t know who won the bonds debate, and my serious uncle was mortified by this entire episode. But that’s why he’s on the list – he was a politician who cared about the details of a budget and the dignity of public office.

10 ½. Benny Fisher. See #10. The Delta County Sheriff makes the list as an honorable mention for having a tremendous sense of humor.

Don't Be a (Religious) Hater

I’m kind of tired of people saying that they like Jesus, but they don’t like religion. (This little rant is prompted by a recent Facebook/YouTube clip, saying, “I hate religion, but I love Jesus.”)

There’s a whole other subset of folks who opt for the “spiritual, but not religious” track. That’s a different deal. Today, it’s the “Love Jesus, Hate Religion” mindset that’s bothersome.

I get the surface points – Jesus was about treating other people with kindness, honesty, justice, grace, compassion and love. Religion (or what people say is bad or false religion) sometimes (maybe oftentimes) squelches those virtues. Fair enough – on the surface.

So, to get by the squelching, some people – with earnest, hipster-like angst – want to opt out of religion. I think that’s selfish.

Following Jesus is cool. Devoting oneself to kindness, honesty, justice, grace, compassion and love – that’s the point of life, whether you love Jesus, Buddha, Zoroaster, or Bugs Bunny.

But I don’t think you can do those things in vacuum. That is, you can’t be kind, honest, just, graceful, compassionate and loving and never interact with another person. And the minute you interact with another person, you’ve started in on “religion.”

Religion is the process of living out a values system or a faith system. Religion is two or more people trying to follow Jesus, Buddha, Zoroaster or Bugs Bunny. And the minute two people start to interact, there is conflict, or at least the potential for conflict.

“We should demonstrate our devotion to Bugs Bunny by dressing up in rabbit suits and passing out carrots,” says Adherent Number 1.

“Should they be organic carrots,” asks Adherent Number 2.

And that’s when the trouble starts. That’s religion.

The way to avoid it is for Adherent Number 1 to withdraw, to love Bugs but hate religion, to avoid Adherent Number 2.

Maybe that would work for followers of cartoon rabbits, I don’t know. But I don’t think it works to be an independent, religion-averse Jesus-lover. I think being kind, honest, just, graceful, compassionate and loving requires being religious – that is, it requires being in connection with, in cooperation with, in community with – maybe even in disagreement with – other people trying to live out those same values.

You don’t have to call your community a church or a congregation or a coven or a klatch. But you can’t act piously and sanctimoniously above the fray of religion either. It’s part and parcel of following Jesus.

Rather than “hate” religion, I think we are called to embrace it, to recognize its inconsistencies, to laugh at its foibles, to admit our own contributions to its shortfalls, to transform it as best we can.

See, “religion” (i.e., people) has done some terrible, horrible, inexcusable things. And along the way, “religion” has had a fine moment or two as well. But to “hate” religion seems to be rather sanctimonious. To take part in religion seems like hard work that keeps us humble.

Laughing, Happy Sinners Wanted

"A place where sinners laugh at themselves and make other people happy.”

What is the church all about these days? Why does the church exist? Why am I a Christian? Why are you, dear reader, a Christian (if you are)?

I suppose these questions have always been important and have been asked in various ways for the last 2000 years or so. But ever so often they take on new relevance.

A church member here preached a very fine sermon last Sunday tackling those very questions. His sister (a minister) had emailed that his nephew (a cradle roll Presbyterian) had become a teenaged agnostic or maybe even an atheist. The sister was trying to figure out if the church was worth sticking with.

On a plane last week, I read Phyllis Tickle's book, The Great Emergence. She rips through a rollicking list of changes in the past 200 years -- from evolutionary science to the role of women to technology to transcience -- all of which have changed the church and have asked questions about the role of the church.

At the same time, the church where I serve is growing in this amorphous, willy-nilly kind of way that is invigorating and challenging. We probably need a larger building. But before we start mixing mortar, we thought it would be a good idea to think about, and maybe answer, the questions above.

So we began a formal process of trying to jot down a few sentences that define our church's values, our mission, and our vision.

Last night, a group of thoughtful souls sat around a table and bantered about vision. We were sort of working with the starting point, "In 3-5 years, United Christian Church will be..."

We talked and wrote and compiled lists and sample sentences filled with very good ideas. Our working premise is that church serves a three-fold purpose: It's a place for all people (emphasis on ALL) to enter, be welcomed, be included. Once they're here, the church is a place for healing, learning, growing. Third, we have a vision of our church as a "ministry center" -- a place that is a hub of all sorts of needs-meeting work and encourages people to do that work.

In trying to articulate all of that succinctly and compellingly, we were earnest...and wordy. The folks around the table were also funny and open-hearted.

At various points, we talked about the importance of fun, laughter, imperfection and passion in a church. Based on that, I tossed out a tongue-in-cheek vision statement: "United Christian Church is a place where sinful people come to laugh at themselves and make other people happy."

Not exactly high-faluting. Certainly not traditional. Possibly even a little shocking to some. But I like. I think it captures the three-fold vision we were exploring.

No doubt our vision writing group, with input from the larger congregation, will, in time, craft a more poetic, evocative formal vision statement. In the meantime, I'm holding on to this one as an informal mantra of who the church is called to be: "Sinful people who come together to laugh at themselves and make other people happy."

Can I get an, "Amen"?

God as Western Union Boy?

Dear Pat, Glenn and Michele:

I hope it's okay that I use your first names. Your chatty TV sermons, radio broadcasts, and stump speeches give me a first-name-basis kind of feeling. If not, please insert Rev. Robertson, Mr. Beck, and Congresswoman Bachmann. Call me Tim.

Now that the niceties are over with, loosen up. Or at least, let God loose.

Last week, each of you told us what God was up to. Rev. Robertson, you said that the East Coast earthquake was a sign from God. Mr. Beck, you said that Hurricane Irene was a "blessing." And Congresswoman Bachmann, you said that the hurricane was a message from God.

Your comments shouldn't be a big surprise. After all, Mr. Robertson, a few years ago you blamed a hurricane in Haiti on someone's pact with devil. And you agreed with Jerry Falwell when he blamed the September 11 attacks on the ACLU and others. Mr. Beck, you compared the Norwegian kids who were shot at summer camp to Hitler youth. And Mrs. Bachmann, you blamed swine flu on Democrats and Jimmy Carter, even though it first popped up when Republican Gerald Ford was president.

But this go 'round you all three spoke for God. And wrongly, I think. In the process you trapped God, limited God, confined God.

You trapped God with old-timey images. By portraying God as using the elements for vindictive purposes, you echoed some of the language of the Bible, where God kills to send a message or uses the sun as a weapon. Yes, those images are scriptural. But they were written by people who thought the earth was flat, who thought leviathan lives in the ocean, who thought giants roamed the woods, who thought that cutting off the enemies' foreskin was good public policy. So, yes, the ancients thought God used bears and winds and rivers to send messages. But that picture of God is more like Zeus than like the One Who Was And Is And Ever Shall Be. You've trapped God on a flat-earth or up on a cloud hurling lightning bolts. Let God loose among the particles of physics and the dust of galaxies and the iPods of today.

You've also limited God to the job of messenger, sort of like Hermes or the Western Union boy. Your God just tosses around natural disasters to warn and punish or say, "Look at me." Free God from her day job to live as full-time Mystery, Ground of Being, the Great I Am.

Third, the image of God you present is, well, just plain mean. Granted, Congresswoman Bachmann, you said your words were just a joke. But still, the idea of God who kills children, destroys buildings, and ruins lives? Ouch. The writers of the Bible mention God's steadfast love hundreds of times. God is gracious and kind and slow to anger, the words says. Part of the Bible even uses some pretty sexy talk to describe a God who is intent on some pleasureful stuff. (Now that would get your ratings up in the polls, people.) And my favorite sentence in the Bible simply says, "God is love."

So, Pat and Glenn and Michele, thanks for reading. Let God go.

In the event of a hurricane, don't call Ron Paul

Ron Paul is an interesting fellow. The Libertarian-leaning Republican Congressman and presidential candidate is often lauded for being honest, authentic, clear-thinking and the like. His bluntness often leaves political-watchers shaking their heads.

And with Hurricane Irene bearing down on the East Coast, Mr. Paul did not disappoint. He says that we don't need FEMA or any other federal response to the hurricane. He said, "We should be like 1900." Then he mentioned Galveston, which was battered brutally by the 1900 hurricane.

At worst, Mr. Paul's ideas come across as uncaring. If your fellow citizens -- in Texas, along the East Coast, wherever you aren't -- suffer, too bad. You can help them if chose, but you're under no obligation if you think they don't deserve your money. Or if you're just not interested. Let 'em fend for themselves, Paul seems to be saying.

On another level, Congressman Paul missed out on some history. His implication is that we don't need federal assistance for disasters in 2011 because we didn't have it in 1900.

Granted, we didn't have FEMA. And we didn't have the Internet, cell phones, weather radar systems and the other things that go into modern day storm-chasing and storm-fleeing. But Galveston did have federal help following the 1900 hurricane.

The advance warning of the hurricane was less than a day. But that warning came from the U.S. Weather Bureau -- a federal entity. The federal government helped save lives.

Congressman Paul's comments also seem to imply Galvestonians happily facing that storm on their own. Not so. Major Lloyd Randoloph Dewitt Fayling coordinated the relief effort in Galveston. At the time, Major Fayling said, “The situation demands federal aid. It demanded it from the very first…. The disaster is so great and so terrible no municipal authority in the country could be expected to handle it unaided.”

And the federal government responded. The United States government sent money, supplies, and army troops -- troops who did some of the things that FEMA and other aid workers do today.

And, after the hurricane subsided, it was the federal government -- specifically the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers -- who built the first seawall to protect Galveston from future floods.

My hunch is that many people in Galveston were glad to see their federal dollars at work saving lives, giving aid to the devastated, and rebuilding their city in safer ways. Seems like that's what a government should do.

So, Congressman Paul may actually be right: "We should be like 1900," where individuals, city officials, state officials, and federal officials all chip in to help in the event of a natural disaster.

But if I'm ever faced with a hurricane pressing down on my house, I don't think I'll call Ron Paul. He may not feel like helping that day. Oh, and he might not have had a phone in 1900 anyway.

A Hippopotamus Walks into a Pastor's Office

A real-life story from inside the pastor's office and inside my mind....

So there I was sitting in my office, checking email, planning ahead, and honestly getting ready for a little vacation next week.

The doorbell rings. It's the church insurance agent wanting to take a few pictures for their file and to drop off our renewal estimate. Turns out we have about a $1.5 million worth of stuff that her company will insure if we pay them about $7000 a year. Fair enough, I think.

We talk about our church's sexual abuse prevention policy, she gives me a CD about crime-proofing our sanctuary, we talk about payment dates and about possibly increasing our workers' compensation coverage. The typical "business" of the church.

I thank the insurance agent, she leaves me a card to email her some follow-up information, and as I walk her out of the office, in walk two more persons: Samuel and Ntombikayise Mkhonta. Samuel Mkhonta is the Bishop of the Kukhany'okusha Zion Church (KZC) in Swaziland. Ntombikayise is an active worker in the life of that church as well. They are visiting the States for awhile.

We talk.

The bishop tells me about some of their church "business."

The KZC is working to feed orphans in Swaziland, a country where 30% of the children are parent-less due to a staggering death rate caused by HIV/AIDS. The church set out to feed approximately 300 kids one simple meal a day. They find themselves feeding almost 600 children a day, until they run out of money, the bishop says.

The KZC is also trying to support elderly people who have few resources and little help. The church gives the elderly corn meal that they hope will last for three months. It rarely does.

To offset the soaring unemployment rate, the church is using volunteers to make the soup that is fed to the orphans. The pay these food preparers receive is a month's worth of detergent.

Bishop Mkhonta is funny man, dedicated, passionate, clear-eyed. He tells me a story about being attacked by a hippo while baptizing church members in a river. I think back to my earlier conversation about workers' compensation insurance.

The bishop tells me about ten year-old orphans who are the heads of their households. The households really have no houses, just mud and stick make-shifts that wash away when the rains come. I glance, self-consciously at the 12 pages of legal jargon sitting on my desk describing our "multi peril property protection." Seems to me a ten year-old trying to feed younger siblings in a mud shack is "multi peril."

I give the Mkhontas a quick tour of our $1.5 million worth of sheetrock and shingles and pews and carpet. Bishop Mkhonta is most interested in our baptismal pool. Seems he would like something similar for his church in Swaziland. Not only to stay away from hippos (see above), but also because the last time he baptized people in a flooded, polluted river, he contracted some kind of disease. My run-through of our insurance policy had reminded me that our church has no flood insurance. Probably wouldn't cover infectious, baptismally-contracted diseases anyway.

The bishop and his wife left.

I sat down to glance back through the insurance forms. But the words all ran together. Other words started rattling around in my head: juxtaposition, geography, blessing, fairness, justice, injustice, unfairness, ministry, contrast, calling. Those words swirled around and around each other until one word emerged: wrong.

That word was tattooed on the side of a giant hippopotamus splashing through the muddy waters of my troubled mind.

The trinitarian formula of a forgetful mind

I'm forgetful, or lazy, or absent-minded, or something.

For most of my life, I've been forgetting things. Growing up, it was my homework and jackets. By the time I graduated from high school, I had probably lost a dozen or more coats.

As an adult, it's car keys, billfolds and cell phones. I never lose them, but I often forget them. Leave them places. Set them down somewhere "important" (such as the freezer or the bumper of the car), then wander off. I spend a lot of time searching for them.

Then I find them and off we go again.

Most days when I leave the house, I have a little ritual. I pat three pockets to see that I have my three things: front right pocket: phone; front left pocket: keys; back right pocket: wallet.

Yesterday, as I was doing my triple check, it occurred to me this was some kind of modern genuflection: a bow to my own humble humanity. But rather than crossing myself, I'm patting myself: Sort of a mix between a TSA pat down and some kind of ritual observance in honor of forgetfulness. Odd, I know. But that's how my mind works.

Then it dawned on me that my three necessary objects -- phone, keys, and wallet -- are some kind of trinitarian formula. I just haven't determined their metaphysical meaning yet. Oh well, scholars and theologians have been haggling over explaining the Christian Trinity with equally unsatisfactory meanings for a long time, so I figure I've got a couple of thousand years yet to work it all out.

Your thoughts are welcome as to the meaning of this all.

In the meantime, let me see how I add my newest object to lose: reading glasses, the curse of being over 40. Three pairs I own, and none to be found. Oh, maybe they're in the car.

Let's see, where did I put my keys...