Contributing to the Delinquency of a Youth Group

Past entries here have mentioned the connections I had with youth ministry, a call I never felt comfortable with, but a vocation made necessary by two things: 1) my radio audience was made up of youth (in the early years especially), and 2) my radio ministry didn’t generate enough income to support me full time. I’ve listed my various youth ministry “jobs” previously in this blog, so I needn’t go into much detail apart from telling two or three stories more or less related to “Celebration Rock” and real live youth.

First, there was the night I was caught with underage kids in the middle of the night and found myself in a police station. That got your attention, didn’t it?

“Celebration Rock” had its birth as a program called “Showcase” broadcast on WBBL, the radio station operated at that time by Richmond, Virginia’s Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church. It was the late 1970s and to supplement my media ministry’s meager income, I had agreed to work at Grace Covenant as a part-time pastor to youth. The problem was that I had no formal training in the field. I was also introverted, never was into athletics, and didn’t sing or play guitar. As I remember it, my responsibilities were primarily with the high school youth, and they were fine kids, most of them. They were patient with my efforts to build community, experience Christian fellowship together, and do the obligatory activities previous groups had done in the past. For example, I organized and led a ski trip. Never mind that I had never skied before. And I took several of the teenagers to the week-long Montreat Youth conference. It was one of the worst weeks of my life. (With some further therapy, maybe I’ll write about that sometime.)

One of the things most youth groups look forward to at least once a year is the “lock in.” That’s a night when teenagers go to church, get “locked in,” and get to stay up all night while making life miserable for the well-meaning adults who thought this was a good thing. Depending on the church’s facilities and resources, the kids may watch movies, play games, sneak around the church building in the dark, and eat junk food. There may be a spiritual component of some kind, but not always. The Bible study or devotional time isn’t nearly as engaging as the sneaking around the building in the dark part.

Being a very creative guy, I changed the rules the night we had scheduled the lock-in. I designed it to be a lock-out. It took a couple of weeks and a score of phone calls, plus a letter to parents explaining what we were going to do that summer night. Frankly, except for the police station episode, the idea was pure genius and I would recommend this idea to anyone doing youth ministry in a local church. Here was the plan:

We gathered at the church at 8 p.m., with the kids arriving with their permission slips in hand. We began with some “circle time,” during which I told them of the night’s itinerary. In a few minutes, we would lock ourselves out of the church building and spend the night on the streets of Richmond. Kind of. Actually, we would be making several stops to visit with people who worked nights. The first stop was the Richmond Times-Dispatch newspaper building  downtown. We met with a reporter who took us to see the last “galley proofs” of the next morning’s edition. We talked with a photographer, too, and then went to the press room to see the papers printed and then bundled for delivery to the waiting trucks.

Next, we moved to what was then called the Medical College of Virginia Hospital, where we met with the night chaplain. He talked about his work there, but the most fascinating thing to me was the story he told about the day he first arrived at the hospital. Already hired, but not yet on site, he had been injured in an auto crash and arrived as a patient, not as a professional helper. He didn’t suggest that as a requirement for hospital chaplains, but it certainly set the tone for his ministry of empathy, compassion, and healing. The youth group was very impressed.

Also on the itinerary that night was a visit to a radio station. Since the kids knew me as the “rock and roll minister” I had asked the management of the stations where some of my programs were aired (WRVA and WRVQ) if we could stop by to talk with the over-night DJs, but we were turned down. Something about liability issues. Humbug. Q94 was the station most of the youth listened to in those days, and that was to be a highlight of their night out. But no. So I called WLEE (the fast fading AM rocker) and apparently they had no qualms about welcoming my youth group. I had had a long relationship with WLEE from the time “Showcase” started, so there was a firm level of trust there. The kids didn’t seem to mind at all that we weren’t going to the number one station in the city. And once we got into the WLEE studio, they learned that all there was to the station at night was one guy pushing buttons, cuing records, and logging his work. He also answered the phone and drank coffee. But it was as close as many of those kids came to show biz.

They almost didn’t make it to the radio station that night though. Because the stop just before that was to the local police  station, the precinct house in the church’s neighborhood. When I designed this night on the streets, I had called the Richmond police department to alert them to our plans for this all-nighter. Because the church was in a downtown area where one might expect some crime in the middle of the night, I also inquired about whether a patrol car might cruise by and check on us once in awhile. Not likely, the officer told me. They apparently had enough to do with real police work without providing security for our roving band of church kids who were foolish enough to be walking through the Fan District at 2 a.m. Fair enough.

But I was able to add the Fan District police precinct to our list of places we’d stop that night. Between the hospital and the radio station, we dropped by the station house. There was one cop there when we arrived. “Ah, you’re the one who called,” he said as we walked through the door, I and the kids and one other adult adviser. “Yes, I’m Jeff Kellam, the youth pastor at Grace Covenant down the street.”

“Well, Rev. Kellam, I have some bad news for you.” Oh oh; this part of the tour has fallen through for some reason, I thought. Good grief! We’re going to have an extra hour on our hands. That what I was thinking, but not what the officer was saying.

“I hate to tell you this,” the policeman said. “I should have thought about this when you called, but…we have a curfew here in Richmond. These kids were supposed to be off the streets by midnight. Do any of the kids have their parents here?”

“No. But I have permission slips!”

“Permission slips may be OK for the church, but a judge won’t be impressed. Since you are the one in charge, I guess I have no alternative but to place you under arrest for contributing to the delinquency of these minors.”

To be continued…

What If Celebration Rock Were Revived Today?

Early on in this e-journal about “Celebration Rock,” I wrote about the origin of the idea that led to the program over forty years ago. (Look back in February’s entries.) Basically, we had an already-established audience of youthful listeners, an available hour of free radio time, and a willingness, even desire, on the part of local churches to reach out with messages of hope, peace, and love. And I was invited to participate in the equation as producer/voice, or “disk jockey.”

Through the months that I’ve been writing about my radio ministry through “Celebration Rock,” an occasional correspondent has wondered about whether the program might be revived somehow. One person suggested that old CR shows could be re-edited and aired on radio stations that feature the music of the ’70s and ’80s. Another suggestion was that the format be re-invented, with a new voice interpreting current hit music, to be aired on radio stations that were looking for a Sunday block of creative programming that would appeal to a niche audience.

The vast majority of radio stations these days aren’t looking for “public service” programs, of course. Financial considerations dictate that radio time must be sold, not given away, no matter how attractive the package might be to an audience. Some locally-owned, small market stations might be open to airing a “Celebration Rock” type format, but for the most part, with deregulation, “that ship has sailed.” And it is way over the horizon.

The most likely scenario today would be an internet-based audio blog, a webcast, or some down-loadable audio effort that might find an audience in cyberspace. Frankly, I don’t have a clue about how music is licensed for such an effort, or how the thing would work technically. Nor how a “program” like that would find its audience, or vice versa. What I do know is that the way we communicate these days has been democratized to the point that

1. anyone with some computer literacy can pull it off;
2. those who search will indeed find;
3. those who find will be able to access such a “production” at their convenience;
4. and whoever produces such an effort will have to be wide open to response, critique, and, to use the most positive word, discussion.

Some exposition of the above points:

1) I went into radio with a minimum of formal training, learning more about the medium week by week. Someone with the same desire, savvy, and expertise in the Internet equivalent to radio could produce a “Celebration Rock” experience for an international audience on a laptop. I would hope there’d be some degree of theological sophistication involved in such an effort, but God knows I didn’t have all that much when I recorded the first shows for the old WBBL. The question of how solid my theology was when the long CR run ended…well, that’s open to debate.

2) An epiphany that came to me early on in this CR blog was the number of friends and strangers who found this e-journal by doing a web search for a particular rock musician or song, or for their own name! As I’ve pointed out previously, a surprising number of people have an apparent interest in so-called backward masking, and their searches have led them to my blog about the silly issue.  If a cyber DJ were to produce a webcast that interpreted the lyrics of contemporary music in a “devotional” or spiritually challenging way, I have no doubt a fan base would discover it and link up to the site regularly and spread the word about it.

3) While “Celebration Rock” started on a local Richmond, Va. station in a decent timeslot (8 p.m. Sunday nights), syndication often took the program to what we used to call “Sunday morning ghetto time,” early morning hours when stations knew hardly anyone was listening. Those were the time slots  so worthless to the broadcasters, that they were willing to give away the time as a “public service.”  Since I was a small operation, and every reel of tape cost me (or the sponsoring church organization) money, I was picky when it came to scheduling the show on out-of-town stations. If a station offered me a free time slot on Sunday night at ten, I was glad to oblige. But if a station wanted to run the show at 4 a.m. Sunday morning, I had better things to do with my time and the church’s money.

However, all that time slot consideration is irrelevant on the web. You want to download the program onto your Ipod to play in the car on your way to work? Come by anytime and choose the program you want. Listen at your convenience. Pause it when the phone “rings.” Not sure you caught that comment? Rewind it. That wasn’t possible when it was broadcast on your local FM station.

4) When CR was on radio, it was one-way communication, if there is such a thing. I tried to communicate, and the audience (bless their hearts) tried to listen. End of story. Except for the mail  that some programs prompted. If I wrote back to the listener, then the communication was two-way, but it usually stopped there. (I did have a few folk who wrote several times over a period of months, and I also enjoyed face-to-face friendship with some Richmond area listeners…some are friendships that continue all these years later.) And being pre-recorded, “Celebration Rock” didn’t allow for phone  response, or personal conversation the way a live show might have. However, a similar program on the web would certainly prompt feedback via “comments” or bloggers or any number of ways listeners might respond. On radio, I got mail, written messages from listeners asking advice, and folks taking issue with things I’d said. The letters were for my eyes only. But these days, web consumers are used to offering solicited or unsolicited reviews, critiques, complaints, debates, and diatribes. The floodgates are wide open, and everyone speaks with an equal voice. Democracy at its best, right? Until someone anonymously undermines our own best intentions.

An example: I used to do a live Sunday night call-in show. I’d interview a guest who spoke out of deep experience and with some authority about an issue or concern. Let’s say the guest was a counselor at an alcohol treatment center. Then comes a call from someone whose intentions are questionable, and whose remarks are far more damaging than helpful. To use the cliche, does that contribute more heat than light? Might a bigoted caller cast a shadow over an enlightening discussion? That’s the risk of opening up the phone lines. That’s why call-in programs have telephone producers who try hard to filter the calls that get to the air, and why even our modest little church studio had a ten second delay that enabled us to “censor” (or as I preferred, to “edit”) what we aired. That’s also why we bloggers get to approve or disapprove comments our readers offer to these radio ramblings.

 Nonetheless, whether through the still viable outreach of radio, or through the newest web-based audio technologies, I would hope someone is listening to contemporary popular music, interpreting its most inspired poetry, and doing it all through the Christian lens of compassion and hope. It would be just another small step toward peace on earth…or at least in one listener’s heart.

The Animals’ Christmas

When I was growing up in the 1950s, there was a television program my family watched together each week. It was about an immigrant Norwegian family, the Hansons, and each year the program featured a modern (for then) version of the old folk tale about “The Night the Animals Talked.” That would be Christmas Eve, of course. Because, legend has it, the animals in the barn witnessing the birth of the Christ Child were graced with the gift of speech, so that they could add their voices to the praise of Jesus. And on subsequent Christmas Eves, the animals of the world again received the gift.

So, with the Kellam family gathered around the old GE black and white TV watching,  Dagmar, the Hansons’ youngest child, would creep out to the  Hanson’ barn on Christmas Eve to hear the animals talk. Just like waiting for the Great Pumpkin to appear. We all knew it was legend. We all knew that the Hansons knew it was legend. And we all thought it was wonderful that Dagmar “believed.” And that the animals did talk that night.

Jump ahead some 35 years, and Columbia Records releases “The Animals’ Christmas.” Same basic legend. Composer Jimmy Webb, who may very well have seen the same early TV shows I did, wrote a spendid cantata, based on several old poems. (One, in fact, was centuries old, if I recall the liner notes accurately.) Jimmy Webb added his original poetry, set the whole thing to magnificent music, and played piano with the London Symphony Orchestra, while Amy Grant and Art Garfunkel sang the story line, along with the King’s College School Choir.

(And here’s an odd personal connection: in my previous post I mentioned again the Virginia-based singer-songwriter Steve Bassett. On more than one occasion guitarist Elliott Randall played with Steve in Richmond. We met once at Richmond’s Alpha Audio studios. Well, there’s Randall playing lead electric guitar on “The Animals’ Christmas.”  Small world, huh?)

Once I heard the album, it became a “Celebration Rock” fixture at Christmas time. I aired it in its entirety, and added commentary only when I thought it was absolutely necessary. I had the lyrics from the liner notes, but the listeners didn’t, so I would add some interpretative content now and then, especially if the words were difficult to hear through the music. I also prefaced the whole thing with these confessional words:

I have to admit that at first I was a little uncomfortable with the concept of an “animals’  Christmas.”  Seeing the Christmas story through the eyes of animals didn’t appeal to me very much, although I liked [Webb's] music a lot. Then I began thinking about the way the Scriptures had used various animals to teach lessons about God. The 50th Psalm reminds us that all creatures great and small are God’s. Part of it reads: All the animals of the forest are mine, and all the cattle on thousands of hills; all the wild birds are mine and all living things in the fields.

The Scriptures use animals to tell the story of God’s people, from Noah’s ark to Balaam’s ass, to the prophecy of lion and lamb lying down together in peace…to a rooster signaling Peter’s betrayal of the arrested Jesus, the Jesus who said, “Look at the birds flying around you; your Father in heaven takes care of them; you’re worth much more!”  It was Jesus who taught God’s profound love for humans by telling the story of a lost sheep, whose recovery brings great celebration in heaven. Jesus even likened himself to a shepherd, and to a gate through which sheep pass to find protection. Jesus also once asked Peter, “Do you love me?” “Yes, Lord, you know I love you.” “Then, feed my sheep.”

When that “Celebration Rock” program came to a close with the last cut from the Webb cantata, I concluded:

Parables and lessons about animals are not new to the search for understanding. So Jimmy Webb’s production, “The Animals’ Christmas,” simply adds new images. But at some point we put away childish ways, and see face to face the human meaning of faith, and hope, and love, lived out in the life of Jesus, the Christ. How shall we best see Christmas? Through the eyes of imagined animals, or through the eyes of children who share with God the Baby’s humility and innocence? Or, through the eyes of the displaced, the disenfranchised, the dis-eased? Shall we see Christmas through the eyes of the hungry? Or the lonely? Shall we see Christmas through the eyes of the servant, the volunteer, the helper, the peacemaker? However we see (understand) Christmas, let us accept this gift of God’s presence as we journey along faith’s way, seeing the Christ child in every child, finding God’s love in every unexpected, unworthy place. If we are wise, we will seek him, and worship him, and follow him, and give ourselves to this Child who gave himself for us, so that we would love God and neighbor, as we love ourselves.”

[A footnote: quite apart from the Christmas theme, the Webb album reminded me of a project I was involved with while teaching at the Presbyterian School of Christian Education. John Turner, a graduate student at Union Seminary, asked me to help him with a series of audio cassette "trigger tapes," that is, cassettes that would help "trigger" discussion. His theme was the animals (and birds) of the Bible. He researched the Bible's use of "all creatures great and small" and wrote and voiced brief commentaries that I helped him record. I smile as I write this, remembering that I didn't have much interest in the project...until I heard John's takes on the Scriptures' use of those animal stories. Just as I was hesitant about the Webb cantata until I listened to it and was won over, even converted by, imagination!]

Merry Christmas, animal lovers. Merry Christmas, people lovers. Merry Christmas, God lovers. Merry Christmas …to all.

Berry Chrithmads!

I hab a code. My wife reminds me that I used to catch some sort of bug around Christmas time almost every year. She’s right; I remember many years that Christmas Eve worship services would find me unable to sing the carols that pretty much made the night holy for me. Even worse, during my radio days, having a cold in December made for some unpleasant listening for those who tuned into “Celebration Rock.”

The fact that I worked alone, coupled with the unfortunate truth that I didn’t plan very far ahead, meant that if I had a cold, I had to voice the December programs no matter how “sick” I may have sounded. A few sprays of Chloroseptic, several lozenges, and some nasal spray got me through many December radio shows, but it wasn’t pretty.

I still have a recording of a vintage (there’s an interesting word) “Showcase” Christmas program that I had taped while suffering laryngitis. It was a stupid thing to have done. What made me think the audience needed to hear that raspy narrative. If you remember the well-worn voice of poet Rod McKuen…well, his voice was velvet, it was maple syrup, it was Baez compared to mine. Whatever wisdom I thought I had to share about Christmas, whatever holiday hope I had meant to impart…it was all lost in the too-painful-to-hear grating voice that read the script. I might better have tracked some album through from beginning to end, added some denominational Christmas spots, and called it a night. Or, a week.

Later in the long run of “Celebration Rock,” I had the wonderful Christmas gift of reruns to count on when illness struck. Stuffy nose, rough voice…who cares? I turned to last year’s program, or the one from five years ago. We’re talking Christmas programming here, folks, and if TV can rerun Charlie Brown and Rudolph cartoons for decades, I can run the same Christmas shows year after year. Anyone remember the story of “Barrington Bunny” as read by the author Martin Bell? I played that recording annually for years. Listeners either loved it or… I’ll bet I sold scores of copies of Bell’s book called “The Way of the Wolf.” (No, I didn’t actually sell the books; I just responded to countless written requests for where the story could be found. The local Cokesbury store made sure they were in stock.)

From 1970 or so, and into the mid-1970s, I also used cuts from “Some Beautiful Day,” an audio collage of music and meditations put together by musician Bill Comeau. The sub-title was “A Rock Celebration of the Life of a Dreamer Named Jesus.” Comeau’s re-telling of the story of The Nativity was avant garde, and that was indeed the record label as I remember. Eventually I had to drop the feature, not because I grew tired of it, but because of an unfortunate scratch on the vinyl. At some point in the narrative of Jesus’ birth there came an audible pop-pop-pop-pop, as annoying as my December rasp.

Producing the “Celebration Rock” Christmas programs became easier in the later years, not because of the rerun file, or because I managed to stay well, but because of the growth of Contemporary Christan Music. In the first years of my radio ministry, I relied on “pop” music, but not much “rock.” No one complained, of course. Even now, some forty years later, the local rock stations (the KOOL’s, the MIX’s, the MAGIC’s…) all play Perry Como, Burl Ives, and Bing Crosby! I played Barbra Streisand’s “Silent Night,” Andy Williams’ “O Holy Night,” and the cynical “One Tin Soldier” by The Original Caste (sic).

But with the advent (!) of CCM, I had album after album of contemporary, even “rock”  Christmas songs to choose from to build my shows. I tried to avoid the sentimentality of the season, as well as the secular usurpation of the Christmas gospel for worldly purposes. I had an hour to proclaim the cosmic arrival of God’s grace in the humility of the manger, and I wanted “Celebration Rock” to be more thoughtful, even more theological, than other media interpretations of the season. But it was, after all, a musical expression, and having several CCM artists to choose from aided the process considerably.

One of the things I accomplished each year with “Celebration Rock” was the liturgical movement toward Christmas that began with Advent. In early December, I’d use one or two CR programs to “prepare the way,” using music and conversation to ease into the season that the merchants had already been celebrating for several weeks. Then the Sunday before Christmas, if syndication reels had arrived at stations in time, I’d offer the year’s “Celebration Rock” Christmas special. And without apology, the next week’s program might well carry a Christmas theme too, even knowing  that for the radio stations that aired the show, the theme might be “out of date.” For the media, the season of marketing, selling, buying, and packaging Christmas ends with the last shopping day. For the Church, December 25 marks the beginning of the season, not the end. Twelve days, remember? And then Epiphany. As a Church-produced program, mine often (but not always) held on to the glad tidings of Christmas well after all the decorations were re-stored to the attic.

With or without my seasonal cold and flu voice, I often read the closing verses of W. H. Auden’s “For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio,”  a lengthy poem just slightly older than I. A masterpiece of creative story-telling, piety and irony, the poem worked well with whatever Christmas music I provided for a bed. A touch of class.

I must add to this recollection two musical collaborations that became annual presentations of “Celebration Rock” December shows. One was the Steve Bassett and Larry Bland album produced locally in Richmond, Va., “Seasons Greetings.” With Bland’s “Volunteer Choir” of African American voices and the two musicians’ original songs added to some more traditional carols, the album fit perfectly into my Advent-Christmas radio schedule. For Advent: “I Just Can’t Til It’s Christmas.” And for the holiday, the title track. Plus a superb setting of the spiritual “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” I still play that album (now safely dubbed to CD…no pop-pop-pops–) every year at home.

The other album is “The Animals’ Christmas,” composed by Jimmy Webb, and performed by Art Garfunkel and Amy Grant. It sure didn’t fit the “Celebration Rock” music format. But it was faithful to the contemporary spirit of the show itself. I’ve never been a big fan of using animals to make theology or spirituality “cuter.” But there is a very long tradition of animals showing up in the holiest of places.

And that’s the tease for my next entry!

For dow, I have to go blow by node.

 [If you refer to the August 15 entry for this blog, you'll see some other references to the Christmas message, especially as it was ripped from the context of December 25 and planted in the odd context of summer's waning days.]

Light of the World, Shine on Me

I’m in a weekly study group that helps pastors prepare for their sermons by spending 90 minutes with the Lectionary readings, coffee, and muffins on Tuesday mornings. When I was writing and producing “Celebration Rock” each week, it was mostly a “lone ranger” thing: just me in the studio playing the hits and writing reflections on lyrics. Later, when I was serving churches, preparing and writing sermons each week, it was less “lonely,” since I was usually able to connect with others involved in the same labor of love.

While serving my Vermont church, I enjoyed weekly conversations with my friend and colleague Bill Lingelbach. We’d meet at his home, and over coffee we’d think together about how we were going to build our sermons around the texts for the week. After Bill’s death, I was left with only computer connections to an unseen community of preachers who shared questions and insights in cyberspace meetings. Moving to a church in the Finger Lakes region of Upstate New York, I did enjoy a weekly breakfast gathering with neighboring pastors, but the agenda included only friendly conversation and coffee, eggs, and toast. The point was the fellowship together, not the “business” of sermon-building.

Thus it strikes me as ironic that now that I have retired from weekly sermon construction, here I am every Tuesday morning with an ecumenical group of clergy and laity praying together, reading and then reflecting on the four “lessons” that will inspire (one hopes for the best) Sunday morning sermons. I don’t have to be there in order to produce anything. I just need some continuing outlet for theological reflection and conversation.

Yesterday, a Lutheran pastor in the group, Michelle, connected a pop hit song with the reading from John 1 about John the Baptizer coming “to bear witness to the light.” Michelle sang a couple of lines:

Light of the world, shine on me
Love is the answer
Shine on us all, set us free
Love is the answer…

She confessed that she couldn’t remember the singer(s) but soon the song resonated in me, too, and I could hear the refrain and the instrumentation, the voices, and the good feeling that it was such an uplifting lyric, a kind of light that shone amid the darker, even meaner poetry of other songs of the era. “Love is the answer.” How quaint the cliche. But how true nonetheless, or all the more. “Light of the world.” Christians believe that light to be Jesus.  And like the people of Isaiah’s age, and John’s, here were we (but with coffee and commentaries) praying the same prayer: “Light of the World, shine on me.”

Shine on the newly unemployed. Shine on the victims of cholera. Shine on the recently homeless. Shine on the war-ravaged nations of our world. Shine on the terrorized ones.  For much of yesterday morning, I prayed the few lines of the song that I could recall as the music played persistently in my consciousness. It was only as Joan and I drove away from the church that I remembered the singers England Dan (Seals) and John Ford Coley. Aha! This morning I called Michelle and she did a quick computer search to confirm my slow but sure recall. And then she added that Todd Rundgren had written the song. That I didn’t know.

At yesterday’s gathering, Michelle (who knows nothing of my radio past) exclaimed, “Isn’t it interesting that a secular song can have such Christian meaning?” I smiled inside. And for a moment, “Celebration Rock” was cued up and ready to air.

A Prayer of Thanksgiving

As Thanksgiving day approaches, I look back on this Celebration Rock collection of remembrances with deep gratitude. And not only for the opportunity to have engaged so many years ago in such a creative olio of music, theological reflection, and audience feedback. This blog itself has reconnected me with old friends, long-ago listeners, radio folk, and colleagues in ministry.

I began this e-journal back in February (though an earlier effort proved to be a false start). Since then, I wrote far more often than I had exepected to, and broke the thread in September to do some traveling. It’s been hard to return to this discipline, especially knowing that all that was left to write was the obituary for both radio show and blog. (I did notice that even when I wasn’t writing, there were still readers who happened on the blog, perhaps Googling a song title, or some key word or memory, that led to “celebrationrock.wordpress.”)

Before we end, and move on to something new, in the spirit of thanksgiving I share this prayer from the November 19, 1989 “Celebration Rock” program which aired on Thanksgiving weekend of that year. Of course I had looked through my record library for rock music that included musical expressions of gratitude, and that wasn’t all that successful. (Quick…name five hit songs about thanksgiving!)  I used Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band,” an expression of thanksgiving for his Dad, and I used “Thank You for Being a Friend” by Andrew Gold, among a few others.

But the major offering on that Sunday was an ecumenically-produced Thanksgiving special entitled “The Great American Feast.” Media friends at Sandcastles International engaged the comedian-actor-composer Steve Allen, a Presbyterian, to host the program, which included real-life stories (actualities, we called them) of folks who expressed thanksgiving for their blessings of work, family, faith, friendship, and health. Then Allen concluded the half-hour with something he had written called “A Prayer of Thanks for the Big and Small.”

Thanks to my friend and colleague Billie Brightwell for remembering the prayer and prompting me to transcribe it for safe-keeping here.

[Note: Allen chuckled a few times in this prayer(!), occasions noted with J]

 

For the opportunity to live in freedom, we thank you, Lord.

For the freedom to dissent, to disagree, to vote, we thank you.

For medicine that works, for laughing children at play, we give thanks.

For good books in which we lose ourselves, for good friends in whom we find ourselves,

for woods and churches where we can be silent,

for loud parties and parades where we can whoop and holler and dance and sing.

For rocking chairs and socks in pairs,

for garbage bags that do not break,

for a window box of daisies,

thank you.

 

For the artist’s touch in words, pictures, and sounds

that give us faith that we are not in vain,

for the people who make us laugh and cry, in circuses and shows and good movies,

for the persons who invent toys that last,

for French fries and comic strips,

for leaders who challenge and care,

for good story-tellers, for good music makers who make us hum their songs,

we say thank you.

 

For bus drivers who smile,

for receptionists who don’t put us on hold,

for television commercials that make us giggle or feel we’ve learned something,

for things that work, thank you.

 

For the times of healed pain, for the times we’ve been healed by pain,

for the comfort of good neighbors and the kindness of strangers,

for the smell and taste of morning coffee,

for the long talks with good friends, for children bathed and bedded,

for good red wine, and feisty long conversations, we thank you.

For the burning leaves of long autumn evenings,

and for the brilliant winter sun on snowy roofs,

for favorite magazines,

and for an open fire,

and long Sunday afternoons,

thank you, Lord.

 

For those who really listen, we especially thank you.

And thank you for those who visit the lonely, and clothe the naked,

and feed the hungry, not just because it’s a mandate from on high,

but because that’s the way they want to live: helping others.

For those who have given us the freedom to make our own mistakes,

and learn to love life at first hand.

 

For the smell of barbecued ribs,

the quiet time before the dawn,

and for block parties where new arrivals find they’ve come home.

 

For ministers and priests and rabbis who live what they believe,

for doctors and nurses who not only cure but care,

for parents who speak love and show it.

 

Thanks for a cheeseburger with everything on it,

and a good crossword puzzle,

and for sleeping late and the luxury to choose to, now and then.

Thanks for a shady tree in summer’s heat, for iced drinks,

for the electricity of laughter and the power of good thinking.

Thank you for the courage to say the word, “Sorry.”

And the strength and forgiveness that reflects your mercy.

 

Thank you for fancy foods, and simple foods, and frozen foods J

and the sense to know when we’ve had enough of them.

Thank you for the quiet marvels of all of life,

for the gathering of weddings that make us cry with joy,

and the gatherings of funerals that make us cry in shared sorrow and not despair.

 

Thank you for short agendas and small committees.

Thank you for rocket ships and fireworks.

Thank you for short lines at the stores,

and for finding a ten dollar bill in a long unused jacket.

Thank you for the amazing jigsaw of life.

May we always love the questions and not be so sure about the answers.

 

Thanks for baloney (or bologna J or both),

for window shopping, for sparkling old wine,

for the majesty of cats,

Thank you for the special people we meet so seldom,

          and yet when we do, we feel that we’ve never been apart from them.

Thanks for children’s playgrounds without fights and tears,

for dolls that don’t have to blink or make a noise, but just silently give comfort.

Thank you for radios that inform and do not blare,

for chocolates and jokes and for funny hats.

 

Thank you for giving us patience, with others, but especially with ourselves.

Thank you for un-delayed airplane fights, and safe arrivals for travelers.

And for all the unseen people that make a city work.

Thank you for our places of worship, of work, and of love.

Thank you for poets, and practical mechanics,

and for a favorite old pair of slippers.

Thank you, Lord, for all the gifts we have in abundance, large and small.

May we receive them well and take our time to say the thank yous,

and we do thank you.

Amen…and amen.

Taking a Break

I am about to go away for a couple of weeks. As we pack and look forward to the time away, I remember what it was like to leave town when “Celebration Rock” was at its peak. It’s a lot easier now.

Back then, in the early 1980’s for example, taking a break for vacation or even just a week-long conference meant a week of hell and always one last late night, or all-night session before boarding plane or train. I wasn’t the most organized person on the planet or even in the room. I told people that I worked best under pressure. I also worked worst under pressure. So, with time off looming a week or so ahead, I would realize that not only did I have an extra week or two (or more?!) of “Celebration Rock” to produce and send off for duplication and mailing… I also had two or three or four weekly local radio programs to pre-tape and deliver.

While I may not have had many organizational skills, I was afflicted with a work ethic that demanded new shows every week, and not a back-up of reruns to fill time slots. (I used reruns quite reluctantly, until “Celebration Rock” had run its course, and when I began depending more on reruns than new material, I knew it was time to let the program end.) To my discredit, I also had failed to train or recruit anyone to sub for me. I would have had to initiate someone into the philosophy of each program, check them out in the studio, make lots of lists (ugh), and grade their theology exams. It was easier to do it myself.

Until hell week. I’d limit appointments that week, look for CR themes and music, produce and edit CR, and contact the syndication folk to let them know master tapes were on the way. Then I’d handle the WBBL Sunday night show (where, thankfully, I did have co-producers and hosts), and I’d plan and produce the WRVA show called “Sunday Morning,” taping enough programs to cover my time away. If Bob Edwards and I were still doing “Religion in the News,” I knew he could do the show solo, and I had co-hosts for the weekly public radio jazz show. (But when I moved to the weekly two-hour “Jazz Brunch” on WEZS/WMXB, I was strictly on my own. Since I was being paid per program, I avoided reruns since I wouldn’t “bill” for those.)

The work always got done. No one was ever left without something  to fill their air with, as far as I know. But sometimes it was close. I recall at least two times that I went to the WBBL studio the night before taking AMTRAK south to a conference in Fort Lauderdale, and having finally finished taping several programs, I’d sleep on the floor of the studio for a couple of hours, praying that I’d hear the alarm and get to the train.

[My wife just reminded me of the many vacations we began by loading kids and luggage in the car, checking maps, and then driving my tapes to the post office and the radio station circuit. ("Um, before we get started, Hon, I need to go to the main post office and then to WRVA. It won't take long, and then we'll be on our way!!" I'm surprised I've lived to tell about that.)

Now, in retirement, on the eve of this trip west, all I have to do is charge the camcorder and cell phone, let my email correspondents know that I’ll be out of touch for awhile, and find my sunglasses.

And write this blog.

A Young Man’s Journey, Part Two

She called back.

I don’t recall how long it took for her to think this through, but she called me and said that she’d be open to a meeting with this young man whom she had not seen since his birth. She told me her story, far more of his story than he knew.  I do not share it here, for it is their story, not ours. It is enough to say that she had not married his biological father, and for good reason. Many good reasons.

But she was married now, and had young teen-aged children. Her husband knew her secret, but the children didn’t, and wouldn’t, so far as it was in her power to keep that part of her life hidden from them. So of course, she set some strict guidelines for her first meeting with her first child. I suggested a living room on the campus where I worked, a neutral setting that offered hospitality but also confidentiality. She and I and the young man agreed that this arrangement was for one meeting only, a few minutes of conversation, some answers for the son she had given to another couple. She was making no commitment beyond that. The young man was ecstatic. Yet he knew that he might very well walk away from that meeting and never see her again. He ached for more.

My dear friend Judy, also a minister, was in on that meeting, for it was to be held in her space on campus. With the permission of both the young man and his biological mother, I had confided just enough information to Judy that she understood how important the meeting was, and how sequestered the living room was to be.

The day arrived. The young man came to my studio, showed me his scribbled notes, and asked for my feedback on the questions he planned to ask. Judy called from her office and said “our guest” had arrived. The youth and I walked to Judy’s building, and with adrenalin rushing, we walked quickly. Judy opened the door and ushered us in; then she graciously moved away from the scene to let me make the first introductions. It was quite a moment. As the two of them gazed at each other, I left the room, closed the door, and returned to my office in another building.

Some time later (I don’t recall at all how long), the young man came into my studio and poured out the details of the meeting. It had gone very well. But there were no further meetings planned. His birth mother, he said, would call me to initiate any further contact. But he now knew the story of his birth and the reasons for his adoption.

Judy and I debriefed the day.  Judy spoke of her time with the anxious (not eager) guest as they waited for the young man’s appearance. And Judy shared what she knew of their parting. I thanked her for offering her hospitality under very unusual circumstances. We agreed that no one had taught us how to do this in seminary. We moved on to the routine of our work thinking that we had done a good thing indeed.

Here is the rest of the story. I believe there may have been only two or three more face-to-face meetings between the young man and the woman who gave him birth. She had been fascinated at first with his physical resemblance to his biological father, but beyond that initial meeting, she made clear that this young man was not to harbor any hope of establishing a closer relationship to her, and certainly not with her family. Before long, she asked him to not contact her again.

He confessed to me that he was still driving by her home, and that he had stopped by her husband’s office under false pretenses (without the husband’s knowing who he was talking with). I warned him that his behavior was unacceptable. More than mere curiosity now, he told me that he had fantasized just going up to her front door and introducing himself to her children, so they would know “the truth.” He imagined that forcing his way into their lives might have a good ending. I assured him that that couldn’t be further from the reality of the situation.

His birth mother was by now frightened that her children would discover the truth and feel betrayed by their parents’ secret. When the young man made another effort to speak with her, she grew understandably angry and told him there would be serious consequences if he ever called her again. She also asked me to make that clear to him.

In subsequent conversations with this young man, I listened to his anguish, but sympathized with his birth mother’s situation. “It feels as if I’ve been rejected by her a second time,” he told me. I tried to help him understand her feelings. She is trying her best to keep her family safe, and to stay on the journey she chose during a very difficult time many years ago. After many months, perhaps a year or so, there were fewer references to his disappointment that things hadn’t worked out as he had hoped.

Then, we lost touch for awhile, his life taking a new path. Later, he fell in love, and asked if I would co-officiate with his fiancee’s pastor at their wedding. I met with that young couple and was very glad to have a part in the celebration of their vows. He invited me to their apartment once some time later, I suspect so that I would see him as a responsible “grown-up,” a husband, and, it turns out, a father-to-be. I went back after the baby’s birth and was relieved that there was no mention of his past pain and disappointment. His only request of me that evening: an aircheck of some work he had done on the radio so his daughter would know something of her father’s youth.

But the pain was still there. Pain, smothered by alcohol, leading to, or a symptom of depression. I had left Richmond by then, and heard about the end of his marriage by long distance. There was a custody battle of some sort. And then Judy called with news of the young man’s death. A security guard, he had carried a gun. And drank. And hurt. And hurt many of us. Families and friends.

I wrote to his mother, the one who had loved and nurtured him from his infancy, who had struggled with him through awkward adolescence (I know, because he had told me many stories…), and who had no doubt questioned why he had been so resolute in trying to connect with a family not his own. I told her  that I was terribly sad. For her. And for all of us who had hoped for so much more. I also admitted that I was angry with him for what he had done.

Why include this story in this blog?  I was privileged to walk alongside many youth and young adults through the years that “Celebration Rock” was on the air.  Some of us whose ministries of faith, love, and grace reached out through broadcast media far beyond church walls learned to become listeners ourselves. We were not in the business of watching ratings, but of listening to our audience, being always aware of the journeys we share. Along the way, every one of us encounters pain, joy, occasions of hope and celebration, as well as times of despair and confusion. I eventually discovered that some within the sound of my voice have followed paths to their own ministries, or their own music, or to vocations where their considerable gifts made a difference. But there were others whose stories did not end well. We must value their lives too. And learn from them.

And keep faith that the Lord is our Shepherd in life and death, and every path has a purpose.

A Young Man’s Journey

[I write this entry very carefully, choosing to tell a significant story, but also wanting to keep a confidence. Those who have known me well for many years may recognize the young man about whom I write, but for the general reader the details must remain veiled.]

I had known him since his early adolescence. Like a number of youth in the Richmond area, he knew my radio program, assumed from my voice and on-air persona that I would be friendly and welcoming, and based on that assumption, he called me one day to ask about seeing the studio and watching me work. He soon became a volunteer of sorts, and more than just hanging around the confines of the church studio where I produced “Celebration Rock” and my other weekly radio programs, he took an active role in helping with production.

Early on in a kind of mentor-protege relationship, he showed me evidence of his love for radio. I still have it somewhere: a picture from the Richmond newspaper of this boy working his paper route, pushing a shopping cart full of newspapers, and wearing a huge set of headphones, a radio headset tuned to a local rock station.

It was a few years later that he came to my studio to show me something else, a sheet of paper that would change his life, and have a dramatic impact on mine. I had known that he had been adopted as a baby, but if he had known any details of the circumstances of his birth and adoption, he didn’t share that with me. He had expressed now and then some curiosity about his biological parents but he didn’t dwell on it. His adoptive parents had divorced at some point during his childhood, and he lived with the only mother he had ever known. I remember his speaking of his out-of-town father, and even enjoying an occasional visit with him. When the boy, by this time in his late teens (or a bit older?), came to the studio with that single, wrinkled piece of photocopied paper, it was evident that he was far more than curious about his birth parents.

He had somehow secured a copy of his adoption record, and though some lines had been censored, obscured with thick black marker, he had been able to decipher enough information that his detective work led him to the name of a local woman he believed to be his biological mother. And he was asking me to call her. He wanted me to initiate a meeting, if she admitted she had given birth to a boy on a certain date, had “given him up for adoption,” and if, of course, she would agree to meet that boy.

I didn’t say yes right away. I had many questions. How did his mom feel about all this? What was I getting myself into legally? Suppose the woman he was asking me to call took this as accusation  instead of invitation?  I told the young man I had to think this over. I wanted to talk with his mom. And call an attorney. It may have been as early as that evening that I called my friend Dick, a lawyer I knew through a weekly men’s group we were in.  Dick asked the right questions of me, and finally advised that there would be little or no liability if I were to speak to the woman on the young man’s behalf. I would be serving as his pastor, and if I handled the call in a sensitive way, the conversation might be unsettling, to say the least, but not a legal risk.

The boy’s mother told me that she knew her son was on this quest, and that while she didn’t have positive feelings about the search, she loved him and wouldn’t stand in his way. We’ve talked, she said, and he’s told me that he loves me as his mother, but he wants to know his own story.

So, with the young man providing me with a name, telephone number, and even an address… I made the call. I had written out a script, to be sure my words were thoughtfully precise. I prayed. I dialed. And she answered the phone.

“Hello, I’m Jeff Kellam. I’m a Presbyterian minister, and…”

“Oh, hi Jeff!” Lord, she knew me! She didn’t just know who I was, from the radio. She had met me at her church one Sunday night when I spoke to her church’s youth group. She explained all that. And then asked, as if this were a friendly casual call, “What can I do for you?”

I looked down at my scripted words. I had to edit them. Was the conversation going to be more difficult now? Or, did we just establish an atmosphere of trust, my credibility and her curiosity. ”Well, this is a very sensitive situation. A young man has asked me to contact you. He was born on__________ in ________, Virginia. He was adopted as an infant, and has become interested in finding his birth parents. He has run across some information that he believes might indicate that you are the person he’s been looking for. I know this is not the call you expected to receive today, but I’m wondering what your response is?”

Those weren’t my exact words, of course. I’ve lost the script. But I remember very well the pause that came in our conversation. A long pause. And then a very quiet response: “Yes, I might know something about that.” It’s been many years, but I recall that the phone conversation ended fairly soon. I assured the woman that our conversation would be held in the strictest confidence. She had my word as a minister. And I also assured her that the young man wanted nothing more than a confirmation, but did desire, at some point, if and when she was OK with it (not necessarily “comfortable” with it), he would like to meet her. For one thing, he wanted to know about the health histories of his biological parents. And anything else she would be willing to share.

It was only after that phone call that the young man told me that he had already driven by the woman’s home, and that he knew where her husband worked, and who her children were, and where they went to school. He wasn’t stalking the family, but once he had some basic information, he said he couldn’t help but act on his deep curiosity about… everything. I strongly cautioned him to stay away from their neighborhood, and to wait for the woman to make the next move. We have just made a call she will never forget, I told him. We need to respect her privacy. If she calls me back and says that she has no interest in any further contact, we have no choice but to let that be her final answer. Understand?

[to be continued...]

Celebrating Sexuality, circa 1979

Once upon a time, there was a magazine called “Youth.” And a radio program for youthful audiences called “Celebration Rock.” The editor of “Youth” Magazine was Herman C. Ehrens, Jr. I don’t recall how our paths first crossed, but I suspect it had something to do with the fact that he was a youth ministry specialist in the United Church of Christ, and I was gaining a reputation (of some sort) as a youth ministry leader in the Presbyterian Church.

 

 When I discovered “Youth” Magazine, I promoted it to my “Celebration Rock” listeners, even offering free copies to those who wrote. The issues were filled with solid articles for and about youth, and included youth-submitted poetry, prose, and art. When Herman discovered my radio program, he assigned Kathy Meacham Legerton, the magazine’s managing editor, to interview me about CR at the Montreat Conference Center where Kathy and I happened to be attending a meeting.

 

 Kathy asked me for a sample tape so she could get an idea of what the show sounded like, so I chose a recent program I had done with a seminary classmate of mine, the Rev. Dodie Rossell. The show was a two-part series on adolescent sexuality. It seems to me that Herman had encouraged that move, as a cagey way to tell my radio story, but to include Dodie’s right-on comments about sex. “Youth” Magazine readers would get two articles in one that way.

 

I had also been working as a youth minister at Richmond’s Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church about that time, so I asked a member there, a professional photographer Phil Coltrain, to take the photos we’d submit for the article. It turned out to be a nine page spread in the January 1979 issue. Here is how Kathy started the article:

 

 The dial is set.

The sound is rock.

The beat hits hard. The rhythm is punctuated with clapping hands. An acoustic guitar swells.

A strong voice over the music announces, “This is Jeffrey Stan­ton Kellam with Celebration Rock. On this program we’re going to celebrate sex.” A slight pause. “I figured you’d be inter­ested.”

Brass blasts into a chorus of voices shouting “Shame!” and a solo female voice responding with a pleading song about love and shame. Then, when the song fades into its ending, the disc jockey comments, “That’s the music of Evelyn Champaign King. Blame shame on love? Why? More likely to be blaming shame on sex. Why are shame, sex and love so interconnected? Well, we’ll celebrate sex, in spite of its shame, on this Celebration Rock program.”

The music picks up again and the D.J. introduces the next number. For an hour, the radio program is music and talk inter­spersed.

“Most of us would agree that sex is a good gift of God,” says the D.J. “We’ll also agree that God’s people have had a hard time agreeing on sex-oriented issues. And so, for the next few minutes, we’re exploring the area of human sexuality in music and conversation. After all, there’s already a lot of words and music on the air about sex, but we’re dealing with it as if it’s a good gift and not a dirty word. Our guest is Dodie Rossell.”

Ms. Rossell is an ordained Pres­byterian minister who is the de­signer-director of the Virginia Institute for Adolescent Counsel­ing and Training in Norfolk, Va. She works with young people who seek counsel and informa­tion concerning personal prob­lems, especially in the area, of human sexuality.

The discussion that follows between disc jockey Kellam and counselor Rossell deals with a variety of ideas. For example, it’s important for young people to think through in advance where they stand on values and what they can and cannot handle in their relationships with others. Genuine closeness happens be­tween two people when they can verbalize their feelings toward one another instead of fumbling around awkwardly. Maturity is revealed when one can take responsibility for one’s own be­havior. Get correct information about your sexual questions. Although God intended the gift of sex to be good, sex can be abused, misused, exploited, or dehumanized. Lyrics to some songs today are misleading about sex and love.

In between hearing these thoughts, the radio listener hears music by Quincy Jones, the Com­modores, Eric Clapton, Melissa Manchester, Laura Nyro, Rod Stewart, Exile, and excerpts from a Woody Allen album—all con­tributing to the discussion on love and sex.

 

For example, in response to Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night,” Jeff Kellam summarizes: “It’s a saga of a chauvinist out to win the prize, even if it means cheating or manipulating or treat­ing the woman as a thing rather than a person. . . . Sex is an expression of love, not an act of aggression.”

 

“To be macho,” concludes Ms. Rossell, “means to be the con­troller and no one wants to be controlled all the time. . . . When sex is anything that has to be proven, no one is going to have a healthy relationship.”

 

In its more than ten years on the air, the radio program, “Celebra­tion Rock,” has matured under the guidance of Jeff Kellam, an ordained minister, who started the program while attending sem­inary in Richmond, Va. Originally a “gimmick” to attract teenagers to religion, the program has become a professional produc­tion aimed at youth, young adults and college students. It has received honors both from Bill­board Magazine, the national publication of the entertainment industry, and from the National Catholic Association for Broad­casters.

 

 While being recorded and broadcast in Richmond, the pro­gram is also aired Sundays on stations along, the East Coast from Jeff’s hometown of Bing­hamton, N.Y., to Tampa, Fla., plus St. Cloud, Minn., and other towns in Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, and Pennsyl­vania.

 

The format of the show varies. Some weeks, Top 40 music is woven into an audio/montage where music is the message. Other weeks particular albums are featured, exploring the lyric poetry of musicians like Judy Collins, Simon and Garfunkel, Dave Mason, Janis Ian, or Dan Fogleberg. Special guests have included Harry Chapin, Phoebe Snow, Leo Sayer, Seals and Crofts, and Kenny Loggins.

 

Still other shows feature per­sons who are making life a celebration for people with spe­cial needs: a dance therapist who works with the handicapped; a couple from the Koinonia Farm in Americus, Ga., who work with the poor; a Washington, D.C., pastor who is working for handgun control legislation; an 84-year-old woman who travels each week­end to speak to youth and church groups about keeping faith new; and a wife and husband who are living with cancer.

 

 Jeff considers an important part of his ministry to be his personal visits to youth groups three Sunday evenings a month. He welcomes such interaction.

 

 It was odd for me to be on the other side of the microphone as Kathy taped the interview. She did a great job distilling long conversations into a few pages. It was one of the few times CR drew any national attention. So I got lots of copies to send home to my parents!