It was a tsunami

Thursday, June 16 will be a hard day to forget, or remember.

A new team was coming in called Tsunami, managed by Daniel Larson. Looking over the ages of the players I knew it was going to be a tough game as the guys were young. Mostly they lived in San Francisco’s Mission District, in the area that was enjoying a resurgence, and where a lot of young techy types were moving to.

As I drove down into the prison’s visitor’s parking lot I spotted them right off especially one tall, well built young man. Turned out he left his photo ID at home and would not get in. He said he would walk over to the Larkspur ferry terminal and catch a boat back to the City. Picturing the long walk, and potentially dangerous one at that, I told him I would drive him over there since there was still plenty of time left before I had to escort the Tsunami into the prison.

On the way, Stuart is his name, said he was going to be the starting pitcher and Daniel would have to go with someone else. Right away I felt a slight bit of a downer as I would rather face a team’s best. Most baseball people would rather lose to a team’s best than beat something less. Stuart assured me that the other guy would be tough on us in any case.

Tsunami’s left hander, John Hirsch, was that all right, but he could not find the strike zone quickly enough and we scored two runs in the first inning, which would prove to be enough for a Giants’ win. During the second inning however, one of the worst mishaps I have ever seen at the prison took place.

Kevin Loughlin was running the game and was at the 3rd base coaching box making the calls; I was at the first base box. Bottom of the second, a runner on first base, no one out, and Kevin flashes the steal sign. Our runner, Stafont Smith, takes off, the Tsunami catcher fired down to second but the ball skipped off just behind the second baseman. He turned to retrieve the ball, took a few steps, and collapsed. Looked like an ankle to me and I ran toward him. He was face down moaning in agony. I knelt beside him and looked him over. I had been a medic in the military for four years and still remembered some of what I had been taught.

Not wanting to touch him, I asked him where it hurt. No answer but he gestured with his hand toward his feet. It was quite easy to see there was a bulging on the sock just above his cleat on his right foot. Not a compound fracture as there was no blood or broken skin; it was as though the bone had snapped, clean, straight line, surgically straight.

The player, Jay Hardaway, the only black on the Tsunami, thirty years old, slight of build, strong and wiry, wore long and carefully braided dreads, with plenty of tattoos on his arms. (Later on, waiting for the ambulance, Jay explained the tattoos, which turned out to be mostly names of his family grouped about with a big cross.)

Right away an officer ran toward us and I asked him to call for an ambulance. I was not sure if Jay knew what had happened to him. I was checking for signs of shock, none of which had appeared, and I just keep him talking to me.

Soon a whole crowd gathered about us on the grass, about fifteen yards from the second base bag.  An Alarm sounded meaning that the inmates had to sit down. Almost all of the Giants were seated in the dugout since we had been at bat with the exception of Stafont Smith who had stolen second and was sitting on the bag watching the events unfold. Stafont usually had a big toothy grin going, but now he was somber looking.

San Quentin’s own ambulance arrived. A couple of the guys I knew were part of the crew. The free man, the supervisor of the paramedic team, looked at Jay’s injury and made a call to an outside ambulance that could transport Jay to Marin General Hospital in Greenbrae because he knew surgery would be required.

A good twenty minutes went by before the ambulance arrived. It had to go through the vehicle sally port for inspection first. The two paramedics from St. Joseph’s Ambulance service surveyed the situation quickly, carefully took the cleat on Jay’s right foot off, cut away the sock, and stabilized the ankle and foot. Then they used an “air” splint, a clear plastic pillow-like contraption. Jay did not react much to it but clung to a baseball I had given him.

Just before the St. Joseph’s ambulance arrived, Kevin brought a baseball out that all the Giants players had signed. Jay saw it, kissed it, and lifted up his arm and waved the ball at the Giants’ dugout. All the guys applauded like crazy. I wish I could more appropriately express this.

After some few minutes, Jay was lifted onto a gurney and loaded into the back of the ambulance. Once more the Giants’ applause could be heard. One of the other Tsunami players climbed into the ambulance and went along with Jay. Play resumed after some warm ups and a few innings later, the Giants recorded the win.

But the real tsunami had struck earlier.

            Kevin Driscoll figured he would never get out of prison. Sentenced to fifty years[1] he would respond to the question, “When are you going home?” with, “Never!” It had been murder by gun–and Kevin was in his mid-thirties. Even if he one day walked out, or was wheeled out, what kind of a life would he have? No home, no family, nothing really; maybe it would be better to die in prison.

            On Saturday, June 11, five days before the Tsunami game, I brought my wife Katie into the prison with me. She had been there a number of times before, the most recent being opening day, May 7. She had met Kevin then along with the rest of the team. When we got home Saturday afternoon she commented on how strange Kevin had been. I said I saw the wild look in his eye, too. He started on the mound, had two good innings, and then fell apart in the third.  Needing to keep his bat in the game, I put him at second base but he did not field or hit well. That’s the background then for what would follow on Tuesday, the 14th.

            After the players got their uniforms on I called a team meeting to discuss the issue of the A’s disrespect shown by their trying to influence the game when the Suns had been with us days before. I did not hit it too hard but I was firm that the Giants would not so behave.  Judging by the looks on the faces of the players it seemed like none of them had acted in kind. That was it, short and sweet, and then to get ready for the game as the Tsunami team had already begun loosening up in right field.

            As I approached the Giants’ dugout, an inmate waved me over. I cannot name him, he asked me not to, and he told me why Kevin was not suited up to play. On Tuesday the 14th, Kevin had been acting funny, so funny that he was observed with his pants down to his ankles, and his head in one of the porta-potties found on the lower yard splashing urine on his face. Earlier he had been seen on all fours eating grass. Seems that some of the guys wanted to call attention to the weirdness and have Kevin put into some kind of protective custody but did not pull the trigger quickly enough. An officer spotted Kevin with his face in the portable and approached him. Loud harsh words were heard, and then all of a sudden the officer hit Kevin with pepper spray, which resulted in Kevin going face down on the ground. Then it got ugly. For ten or so minutes, Kevin received a brutal beating with fists and the stubby little black batons the guards carry on their belts. This in full view of a hundred plus inmates plus some few teachers who worked in the education department that sits just beyond the left field fence. At this point, the conversation I was having with the inmate was interrupted and virtually ended. There followed a series of inmates coming over to me and giving me an account of the events. All of these were A’s players interestingly enough.

            Minutes later I was waved over by an inmate, this time while I was in the dugout. It was another player on the A’s team, one who had given me some grief over recent weeks, but who now wanted to talk confidentially with me. He described the beating of Kevin, acted it out with enough detail that I realized there were now several accounts of the event and they perfectly matched.

            Where was Kevin now?[2] No one knew. Some said in the prison hospital; some said in segregation housing; others said he had been transported to Marin General Hospital, the same place Jay was taken.

            I will find out, and I will also contact his father, and somehow tell him what had happened to the son he loved so much and grieved for every day.

[1] Kevin, upon his return home from a business trip, got in a fight with his wife; she was angry and fought hard. Kevin reached into his night stand, pulled out his home security weapon and shot her. He got 25 years for the murder and a 25 year enhancement for using a gun. Had he used a baseball bat he would have been looking at a 25 to life sentence instead. I verified all this with his father at a lunch at Marin Brewery early in the year. Kevin had just completed the work for a law degree. I doubt he will ever get to take a bar exam.  

[2] At the time of this writing, August 24, it is not definite Kevin’s exact location. He had been, or it was thought, up in the fourth floor of the hospital, in a rubber room, where he actually watched the Giants play ball. It is rumored now that he is in an isolation cell. More to come on this.

Here is the chapter from Why I Decided Not to Kill Myself

Forgiveness: The Great Miracle

Recently I wrote a book about how I had made “shipwreck” of my faith and my life, and this based on something the Apostle Paul said in 1 Timothy 1:18–19.

I confess I have contemplated suicide from time to time, no attempts, but the thoughts brought on a depressed state of mind. And during the pandemic we learned about S.A.D., Seasonal Attitudinal Disorder. I had it, mostly all gone now as we are in the Spring of the year, but I did not hide it from others. The result was a number of these told me they felt the same way.

Once again, I have to admit that my two divorces yet haunt me; I was not the sole trouble, but enough to impact my life as I think back over those times. No question but that I was a “bad man. And those who knew me, even other ministers and pastors, some of these rejected me then and continue to do so to this day.

How I faced the really stupid and rebellious things I have done made all the difference. And this because I came to a greater understanding of the forgiveness I have in my Lord Jesus Christ, and the personal admission that I am a not as wonderful as I would like to be.

I have to explain a paradox here, and that due to two Greek words that are found in the New Testament, and both of these are translated by the word “time”. They are, Kairos and Chronos, that is using English equivalents for Greek words. Kairos is God’s time, Chronos is human time. 

And here is the saving grace: my sin, and all of it, past, present, and future, was placed upon Jesus on the cross. This is Kairos time, and it is in Kairos time where God is. Chronos time, ongoing, day by day, and is where I am and in which I sin.

Let me say it another way: my sin, even that yet in the future, was laid upon Jesus on that “Good Friday” so long ago. Yes, the sin of all those who trust in Jesus as their Savior and to whom the Holy Spirit reveals the truth and does the saving work, from the beginning of creation to the very end, the whole of that sin is covered in the shed blood of the Lamb of God.

Only the Creator God could do this, and of course we cannot grasp it all. Some argue that this point of Biblical theology gives us a excuse to continue to sin. Yet the paradox of time stands clearly in the Bible.

And I do not sin that grace might more abound, as the old saying goes. It is knowing that our sin is covered that inspires us to more closely follow Jesus and turn from sin. To live in this crazy world is often horrid, and there is great relief in knowing that my sin is covered, and I belong to Him, and forever.

This great miracle then gives us the courage to live on. This does not mean that I don’t get down from time to time, I do, but I remind myself of the salvation I have, and I have an inner strength, brought by the working of the Holy Spirit, that gives me the desire to keep on keeping on.

Forgiveness, oh yes, forgiveness.

Johnny and Curtis

“I played with the Astros in the seventies,” an old con told me, “And I can still throw the ball a hundred miles an hour.”

“Number 8, that was my number when I was in the big leagues.”

“I was a Yankee, played with Don Mattingly in the glory years.”

            My response is often “Okay, let me check that on the internet. How do you spell your name?”

            Maybe I would create a fictional life if I was spending most of the years of my life in prison. I think everyone wants to be somebody and have purpose and meaning in life even if it is a fantasy. Usually I simply listen and act impressed.

There are only a few players on the Giants that I trust enough to tell their stories in a book like this. I am told so many lies, which is understandable since so many felons do not want to appear in a bad but a good light. But with Johnny and Curtis, I will take the risk.

Johnny is thirty eight years old, has been in prison for eighteen years, and is not eligible for parole until 2029. He is white, but ran with the Hispanics and is classed with that race. He looks every bit the convict, tattoos on his neck, arms, chest, and back. To me he looks like he has fetal alcohol syndrome, meaning his mother drank to excess while Johnny was in the womb.

He is bright however, very active, an excellent athlete, and is very much a dedicated Giants player. He is one of those guys who gives it all he’s got. Physically he is a wreck. His knees both need replacing and I understand at least one will be after the season is over. About the seventh inning, a hot day, maybe two more innings to go and Johnny won’t come out of the game. He has learned to ignore the pain, which I can see he has once in a while.

Johnny is easily angered though. He tries to keep in under control but it flashes out now and then. He and Mario will get into some real scary arguments and I have to get in the middle of it for fear the lower yard officers will make a report about it. He told me, and I guess it is common knowledge, that he killed more than one person, maybe a few, and he knows he earned the years he has to do.

Last week he saw his son, Little John, for the first time in six years. The son, now eighteen, has grown up without a father, and the mother, Johnny’s wife, is divorcing him. Not unusual when a wife has waited nearly two decades already and is facing a couple more of these. Johnny wears jersey #29 and he asked me if I could find another Giants jersey with #29 on it and send to his son. Along with eight photos of Johnny taken on Opening Day, the jersey was sent off priority mail yesterday.

Curtis, aged forty nine, is a three striker and a parole hearing scheduled for 2029 would seem like a big break for him. He is not eligible for parole until 2044. Three strikes, three felony convictions, earns a long stretch in prison. The law is peculiar to California and was an effort by the voters to put the worst criminals away for a long time. It probably works, but it also condemns many non-violent offenders, who may be capable of being rehabilitated, to a situation that is hopeless.

At the beginning of the baseball season I handed out a sheet of paper to the Giants players where I had some questions about their lives. Curtis’ response was by far the most extensive. At age six he was molested by an older brother, which continued for many years, and which was followed by his father sexually abusing him as well. Very sordid, so much so I wish I had never read it. Though he married and fathered two children, his life was a mess.

Curtis liked to smoke crack cocaine; it destroyed his life. He robbed places, small time stuff, to get money for drugs. Once he burglarized a relative’s cabin in Big Bear, southern California resort area, and picked up a strike.  Strike one, a robbery in 1985, strike two, another robbery in 1989 (Curtis claims he did not do it), and this last one got him a nine year sentence but he did only five due to good behavior. Strike three was a robbery and a forth strike, a burglary–both in 1995. His sentence was fifty years to life. What he needed was rehabilitation in an appropriate setting.

His wife divorced him, he has lost contact with his parents, and doubts he will ever go home–he has no home to go to anyway. He is convinced he will die in prison and he hopes it will be sooner than later. From time to time he is placed on suicide watch.

He never feels safe from the sexual predators. He is a small man, and now nearly fifty he is an easy target. He has been raped in prison, more than once, and lives in constant fear of being attacked. To this day he is constantly worried about it happening again and cannot get it off his mind. Unfortunately he has no group he runs with and is forced into being somewhat of a loner.

Curtis is a Christian, but does attend chapel services. The last chaplain treated him so poorly that he is soured on the whole chapel experience.

A few games back Curtis brought me a letter from a prison doctor–no more throwing baseballs for him. He had surgery to reattach a ligament in his right shoulder but when I asked that he play second base he said yes, and did, despite the pain. Curtis will now take over the 3rd base coaching box and give the signs which I will flash from the safety of the dugout. Hope I am not putting Curtis in harm’s way, but I cannot see the ball coming off those aluminum bats anymore plus it gives him an active role on the team.

 There is a three striker who plays on the A’s and I am glad he received a long sentence. We are all a little safer with him behind bars. Curtis on the other hand, in my view anyway, should have been released a long while ago. The difference between the two men illustrates the near impossibility of creating a level playing field in terms of corrections and rehabilitation. On paper, both convicts look the same, but they are radically different from one another, and the prison system, despite its growing sophistication, is not equipped to deal with the nuances.       

Please forgive me for sinning against you

Okay, I wrapped up chapter six about talking with others about emotional, even spiritual pain in the past. Now this is a bit different.

To start with, I have done this very thing—asking someone I harmed in the past to forgive me, and to be honest I am experiencing some unpleasant emotions right now. I recall a time or two when I was glad I made the confession and asked for forgiveness, but then I did not adequately calculate the repercussions and caused further harm. It is very unpleasant to even recall those instances.

To engage someone whom I have damaged in some way or another in the the process of confession and requesting forgiveness requires careful consideration. For one thing, we must be sure we are doing this for the other persons sake and not our own. It is not enough just to get things off one’s chest, so to speak. Our concern is for the other person who has been sinned against.

Some examples first: A person who has been cheated financially, taken sexual advantage of, been defamed due to rumors or lies, ignored or rejected under difficult circumstances, promises ignored with loss following, and many more, are some of the conditions when asking for forgiveness is acceptable. However, asking for forgiveness might just open up the wounds again. Sometimes ignored and forgotten is best.

But, and this is a big but, asking forgiveness can go a long way to healing relationships gone awry.

All about respect

On June 11 the Giants hosted the Santa Monica Suns. This team, perhaps my favorite, has been coming up from Los Angeles for several years. Bob Sharpa is the manager, and most of the players are involved in some way with the film industry. Once I looked out at the mound and saw a face I knew, I thought, and it took awhile until I realized I had seen him a number of times in movies.

            The Suns arrived on Friday, the day before the game, stayed at local hotels, and were scheduled to play a double header Saturday then head for home on Sunday morning. This year they would play the Giants in the morning and the A’s in the evening. I would have preferred two games with the Giants but now we have the B team, the A’s, and if I tried to take their Saturday evening field time away from them there might be a riot.

            The way it has worked when the Giants played the Suns both in the morning and evening, even if the Suns would win in the morning, we can usually get them in the evening because I take them to the Marin Brewery in Larkspur for lunch, which consists of heavy food and pitchers of beer. They aren’t worth much afterwards, so everyone wins.

            We all love these guys. They are so much fun to have come in and the lunch time is the best.

            Guillermo, a young Mexican stud pitched for them, eight good innings then they brought in Jacob, their closer. (Guillermo also hit the games only home run.) Sharpa played first base, and well, and got a hit. Not bad for an old guy. The team is a mixture of young and middle aged guys and they worked together well. My wife Katie got a photo of the team, with me in it, at the East Gate, which I just sent along to Bob.

            Tie game ended in a tie, 8 to 8. We had to stop due to the soccer players who however did let us go a half hour longer since the visiting team had come such a long way. I think the fact that half the Suns were Latinos made a difference, too.

            Unbeknownst to the San Quentin ball players, I often will email the managers of the teams that come in and get a debriefing. This has proved helpful over the years as I was able to stop some rather illegal activities from taking place, things like the cons asking the visitors to call, write, email, or otherwise contact various friends and family members. Then I have found that visiting players have given inmates batting gloves, baseball gloves, cleats, and even clothing items. A lot of times I will catch this when it is happening and ask Stan Damas, the enforcer, to take care of the problem.

            Stan, ex San Francisco cop, ex head of security for Bill Graham presents, mid-seventies now, handles all problems. He roams the lower yard doing business. My old friend, he makes all the difference.

            Bob and I talked Sunday, the day after the game. What he told me I should have been prepared for, but I wasn’t. Well, I had suspected but I really thought the A’s players would be above such things. They are not, they are the B team and they proved it again. Several A’s players, and though Bob did not know their names, I knew of course as I at least was watching what was going on behind the visiting dugout during the game.  The Suns got a complete running account of which Giants liked what pitches and how to defense the various hitters. Bob did not say if they were giving the Suns Giant’s signs, but my guess is they did try.

            The Suns would have none of it though. They were offended and disappointed. They agreed these guys were the B team. No respect was the consensus.

            Respect is a big deal in prison like anywhere else, but in prison it looms larger. To give respect is to honor and value. Where there is no respect a dangerous environment is created and anything can happen.

            The A’s did not respect themselves. They did not act honorably. The A’s did not respect the Suns; the Suns would not take advantage of the Giants by listening to the A’s information. The A’s did not respect the game, either. The A’s once again proved they were the B team.

            Hoping the Suns would beat the Giants, the A’s players thought this would elevate them as a team.  I would like to be able to sit down with the A’s players and talk to them about this. It would not be a good idea as an argument would likely break out. At least I will gather the Giants together tomorrow night and talk to them about it. I am hoping that no Giants players did the same during the game that evening. Bob did not say there was a problem, and I would be surprised if any Giant attempted to pass along information about the A’s. 

            To respect the game of baseball means respecting those who play the game, watch the game, love the game. It is not small thing.

            One other thing Bob told me–the A’s beat the Suns, 6 to 5. He said that once the A’s got ahead they stopped the game though there was plenty enough time for another inning. He said, “Oh well.” And I said, “Yes, the B team.”   

Is it all right to talk with friends and family about past troubling events?

This is a difficult question indeed. Yes and No would have to be the answer. Yes, when it is safe, and No, when it may not be.

When would it not be safe? Perhaps this would be when the listener is not emotionally and spiritually strong enough to hear what might be unpleasant. There were times when I was much younger, that it hurt me to hear about events that involved close family members. I needed to know these things, I guess, but it impacted me negatively. I would say that there are some things that should go unreported.

There have been times in my life when I had to shut up about problems I knew about family members. Just sitting here in front of my computer has brought a couple of instances rolling through my mind. Sometimes it might be better just to let things ride. While it might bring some relief to divulge, damage to others could be the result. I am suggesting that there be time spent in prayer, and careful consideration taken before making decisions about what to reveal and to whom.

So, the “no” part is complicated. Actually, it is all complicated. This is a “weak” chapter, because I am uncertain of how strong or deliberate to be here.

Concluding this brief piece, let me say that one needs to be careful about revealing that which might best be forgotten and hidden. Based on my years engaged in counselling, both as a therapist and a pastor, revelations of a serious nature might well do more harm than good.

However, I can also easily state, that if someone has a need to talk about past events, it is advisable to go to a professional or to someone who is not connected to the events. Over the years as a pastor, over 52 years now, I have heard many an unhappy story that needed to be brought into the light of day but without going any further.

We may well have to sit on tales that could still cause pain, and I think this is what maturity is about—the strength to know the horrors of past events and turn the pain over to our Lord who is always ready to listen. Yes, He is the great counsellor.

Two outs, nobody on, bottom of the ninth

May 28, Saturday morning and the A’s and the Giants are going at it. At one point I swore that the two teams would not play each other. There is something of a mean streak that runs in me; why can’t I just let the guys have fun playing baseball. We have the coaches, the equipment–so what is the matter?

            Last Saturday, between innings, I talked to an A’s player and argued that if the A’s and Giants played each other ten times and the A’s won every single game that would not make the A’s the A team. That designation had to be earned and it would take a lot longer than one season. The Giants have been playing for eighteen years and however talented the team might be, or not, the Giants is San Quentin’s baseball team.

            All along I have been reasonably assured that the Giants are the better team. Test it, play a bunch of games and see–well that would be meaningless to me but not to about everyone else, probably. Opening day we beat them by eight runs and it wasn’t that close. One umpire made four clearly awful calls resulting in most the runs the A’s scored. The underdog A’s have the most fans and unhappily some of these fans umpire the games. One of my favorite taunts is, “they got ten guys on the field.” No one argues differently either.

            The A’s had ten guys on the field again for the second game.  Everybody was tense, both sides, and the fans, the convict fans, were close in, watching and listening to every word, studying body language, heckling when possible, trying to get an edge for the A’s.

            Games at the prison are supposed to be fun the coaches and the players. No fun though anymore, far from it. I found myself being tense the whole game. Just underneath the surface the Giants were holding it together. With every bad call from an umpire, balls and strikes, out and safe calls on the bases–soon these could not be counted using fingers alone. The correctional officers must have sensed it as well as I counted an unusual number of them milling about. One incident and it would be all over. Even one of the officers had confided in me that there was a new Lieutenant in charge, a woman just transferred in from another prison, and she was looking for anything to shut the whole thing down. Sure, lots of cons would be angry at her but she would get the reputation of being tough and would gain esteem from more than half the guards at the prison.

            I wished I were somewhere else that day. The score was back and forth. The A’s played amazingly well with their key player pitching, whose name I cannot use because he would not sign a release form for me, and our errors allowed in enough runs to make it scary. For them it meant a chance to get the A team designation, despite everything I had talked to them about earlier. At one point, with the A’s ahead by two runs, Junkyard approached me and said that the A’s were going to be the A team. I looked at him, I wanted to yell at him and tell him to shut up, but I managed a smile and told him he was being a little premature–the game was not over.

            The game went the full nine innings. The soccer guys had to be mollified again as the game went beyond 1pm, the time when the baseball teams had to vacate the field. Graciously they understood the importance of the game and yielded. I will say at this point, that generally speaking, the Hispanic prison population is well behaved and congenial. Though I know they all belong to one gang or another, all under the radar or they would be shipped out to another prison better designed custodial wise, I have regularly felt safe with them.

            My blood pressure, which is ordinarily normal, was inching upward as I could feel the pressure in my ears. For a moment I had double vision. Not good for me, but there it was and all I could do was ride it out.

            Finally the Giants pulled even in the bottom of the eighth. We got the A’s on three quick outs in the top of the ninth, but in the bottom of the inning the Giants made two quick outs. Two outs and nobody on meant we were likely going to have to settle for a tie. The soccer players were getting inpatient.

            Johnny, our catcher, a guy whose switch is turned on in the morning and off at night and in between he is going full blast, walked. First pitch he stole second. Wild pitch and he took third. The A’s pitcher, Junkyard, was scared to death and we could all see it. If Johnny scored, the A’s would lose, and, anything could happen.  Eli, a really fast runner, hit a slow dribbler to the short stop, who was playing back too deep. His only chance was to try to get Johnny coming in to home. Good throw, catcher was there blocking the place, lots of dust, but Johnny with his head first slide got the safe call, and that from an umpire who was an A’s fan.

            I sprinted toward the plate and arrived just as Johnny leaped up with a shout, and it was mayhem joyous. What a win! The celebrating had to be cut short as the soccer guys were taking the field. 

            The usual high five line-up between the two teams was half hearted and I simply went to the dugout and took my cleats off. I was not going to make nice with those guys. A weakness in me I know, but I was not going to do it. I had endured a miserable, tension filled game, and I was not going to ignore my feelings.

            Beat the A’s two games now. As I gathered the team up on the sacred mound, after the usual recounting of the great plays and contributions to the win, I stated that the two teams would not play again, maybe ever, and that the coaches and I did not want to hear of the teams playing each other without us being there. Well, maybe there would be another game, maybe not, but the coaches would decide the issue.

            As we were clearing out of the dugout and getting the gear and uniforms ready to put back into the green metal storage locker, Johnny and Marcus asked to talk with me about playing the A’s. They did not share my view of it; they simply wanted to play against a real rival. I understood that, I said, but my concern was that there would be an incident, one that might end the whole sports program. They got it right away, maybe had never seen it from that angle, but they said, hey coach, we are with you.

            This season held the promise of being a pleasant one. Two games a week for four months, solid team, interesting guys, talented players, and perhaps the best team I had ever managed at the prison–all jeopardized by the animosity that existed between the teams. Or, was it just me? How much was I contributing to the bad chemistry that existed? Was I really being protective of the program or was it something else, something that resided in me alone?     

I often feel guilty when I am with others who know

what kind of person I have been.

Wish this was not true of me, but I have to admit this will happen to me. For years now I have avoided those who knew full well what a jerk I have been. Seems though now that I am easing up on this guiltiness, in fact, in recent sermons I have even mentioned this.

Yes, two weeks ago, last Sunday in April of 2023 I mentioned one of my divorces and how badly I felt about it even to the point of resigning from the church I now pastor and disappear into the world. I was amazed at two people, one man and one woman, who looked intently at me and nodded their heads in agreement. And I knew both of their pasts and I think it was a relief for them to hear this from me, and from the pulpit.

I wonder how many people there are like me who could no longer face a congregation who knew the truth. Okay, I know it may be argued that it is better to keep silence, but then again, maybe not.

Is it not true that all have sinned? And I am not talking about only our pre-Christian lives, but ongoing lives as well.

Right now I am thinking of what happened with those who believed in John Wesley, founder of the Methodist church movement, when toward the close of his life he said it was possible to live a sinless life, which then spawned the holiness movement. It was not long  before some of the ordained leaders of this off-shoot of Methodism failed. Indeed, some of the leaders proved they were not all that holy, and though the history is convoluted and complex, it spawned the Pentecostal movement. So the great gift of the Holy Spirit became speaking in tongues. And in my opinion, this was a step in the right direction.

Some may say, well Philpott, you are given out a license to sin, or you are saying that it is not a big deal if a Christian, especially a Christian leader, sins. Absolutely not, we are called to walk in the footsteps of Jesus and flee from sin. And especially for those of us called to the work. Yet, I know that I am not without blame, I know I am vulnerable to attack. Let me say that I face temptation each and every day. Most of the time I am able to turn away from sin, and I am not talking about the big stuff, but little stuff like tooting my own horn, exaggerating something I did not did not do, making excuses to avoid difficulties, failing to follow though on ministry to someone I knew needed encouragement, not pouring myself into the preparation for the Sunday sermon, and on and on I could go.

Do I ever have sexual temptation? Certainly I do, goes with the territory. Such is not sinful, but could be a step in the wrong direction. Porn, hmmm, anyone reading this guilty here? A large percentage of Christian men in particular, but women too, so engage. It is a powerful and twisted impulse. Every so often a man, almost always a male, will feel safe enough with me to tell me of their compulsion. A case of this occurred two and half weeks ago. Porn addiction is probably one of the major stumbling blocks we face today. More are messed up over perverse sexuality than ever before. It stares in the face daily.

1 Peter 5:8 is a verse that has been in mind for a couple of years now. “Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” Based on lots of pastoral experience, I have come to see that the one who insists he or she is not vulnerable is. In fact, most vulnerable.

Indeed, we have to tell ourselves the truth, we have to admit our weaknesses, and be quick to ask our forgiving Lord for forgiveness and also those whom we might have harmed.

It is no simple thing to be a follower of Jesus in this sin scarred world we live in. We are called to be honest with ourselves, with others, and the God to whom we pray.