3:16

Sitting in church the other day, the preacher made a passing reference to John 3:16, a verse many of us should be able to quote or summarize thanks to countless hours of Sunday School and televised football games. It was nice to visit one of the “classics” and be reminded of a simple truth and a cornerstone of my faith. Later, in the sermon, the preacher referenced I John 3:16, a verse equally compelling and thought-provoking:

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.

So I started thinking: What other nuggets of Truth lay hidden in the third chapter, sixteenth verse of the books of the Bible? Flipping through, I found several.

Most of the sixteenth verses of the third chapters of the books of the Bible are part of a greater story, a broader discourse, and hard to understand out of context. There are comments about environmentalism (Nahum 3:16), faithfulness (Malachi 3:16) and what not to wear in church (Isaiah 3:16). Leviticus 3:16 holds a tag-line ready-made for a Christian dieting program: “All the fat is the LORD’s.” And Genesis 3:16 sparks a long-suffering debate about the role of women as mothers and wives:

To the woman he said,

   “I will make your pains in childbearing very severe;
with painful labor you will give birth to children.
Your desire will be for your husband,
and he will rule over you.”

Much of the Old Testament 3:16s are part of the stories and historical records, accounts of God’s people trying to get into the Promise Land, getting the crap kicked out of them and taken out of Israel as slaves, and then working feverishly to get back home. But one of my favorites is from the Book of Joel, and carries all the Old Testament, fire-and-brimstone, wrath-of-God imagery we sometimes forget:

The LORD will roar from Zion
and thunder from Jerusalem;
the earth and the heavens will tremble.
But the LORD will be a refuge for his people,
a stronghold for the people of Israel.

In the New Testament, I think you find more quotable verses, more verses you can take as an isolated item and meditate on for a while. In the gospels of Matthew and Luke, the 3:16s refer to the baptism of Jesus and the significance that act has on future followers. (Matthew’s verse holds an image I recall debating fiercely with a Christian studies professor at Howard Payne University. My memory of the debate was that he claimed it to be a metaphor and I claimed it to be a literal account. I think we agreed to disagree, but I remember the argument vividly to this day.) And in the letters to believers that follow from Paul and others, there is a more we can glean about our faith:

* Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in your midst? (1 Corinthians 3:16)

* But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. (2 Corinthians 3:16)

* I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being… (Ephesians 3:16)

* Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. (Colossians 3:16)

* All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness… (2 Timothy 3:16)

* For where you have envy and selfish ambition, there you find disorder and every evil practice. (James 3:16)

One of my personal favorites, a verse that had a major impact in my life during my teen years, comes from Revelation:

So, because you are lukewarm — neither hot nor cold — I am about to spit you out of my mouth.

I took that to mean that living my life mired in the middle and meandering, directionless, is about the most repulsing thing I can do. I may not succeed, may not rock the house on every occasion, but even my failures are better than never having tried, never having taken that step of faith.

My point in all of this? I think I take my faith and the Scriptures for granted. I don’t spend nearly as much time in quiet reflection and reading as I should, and it shows on my attitude, my relationships with others, and my general disgust for the way I react or the things I say or the foolish ways I think I’m in control. I cuss too much, think and say things I shouldn’t and generally eschew many of things I should be celebrating and praising. But just as I’d ask you not to take one or two things I’ve said or done and use it to judge the whole person, perhaps we should do the same with the 3:16s and keep things in perspective.

Case in point: While John 3:16 is an oft-quoted line, the true cornerstone of the Christian faith, the Truth which cannot be dismissed, is found in verses 17 and 18:

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because they have not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son.

Baseball Makes Me ‘Blue’

So I just finished Michael D’Antonio’s Forever Blue, a look at the life of Dodgers owner Walter O’Malley, who moved the team from Brooklyn to Los Angeles and made a major impact on the game of baseball.

THE GAME: First, I’m not a Dodgers fan. I grew up in the Bay Area, where you were expected to choose between the San Francisco Giants or the Oakland Athletics. The Dodgers were the “hated ones” in my neighborhood because 1) they were the Dodgers and an ever-present thorn in the Giants’ side, and 2) because they were from Southern California. (For NorCal residents, all things SoCal are evil and not to be trusted.) I got into baseball during the Tommy Lasorda era, so I heard all about the Dodgers, and did my best to root on my A’s.

As a kid, I only took in a few games in person. I recall a trip to Candlestick Park with my stepdad to see the Giants play (possibly against the Dodgers but more likely the Reds) and we sat on the third-base line and I was very concerned about catching a foul ball in that far left corner of the stadium. I think I went to the Oakland Coliseum once but I may have dreamt that. I do recall being very in tune with baseball and the teams during the 1989 World Series, when Oakland’s eventually victory was interrupted by at major earthquake. (My mother had been on a section of freeway that had collapsed only hours before the quake and she, my sisters and I delivered papers for my route the next morning in the eerie silence.)

The strike and my general dissatisfaction with baseball turned me away from the game for a few years. When I moved up to Washington, I reconnected with the game and my true hometown team, the Seattle Mariners, and found enjoyment in the simplicity of it all. I moved up there right before Seattle’s amazing 116-game win season and worked on the sports desk at the Yakima newspaper, so I had to stay in the know about the team and the game. (Yes, I got PAID to read about sports all day. What a life.) It also helped that my wife was a fan of the game — though the teams she supports changes from year to year — and baseball was a way for me as an adult to connect with my stepdad and have something in common.

It’s my dad’s love of the Giants that got me interested in Forever Blue. Though I’m an American League West fan, I try to stay on top of what the National League is doing so my dad and I have something to talk about when I call home on Sundays. (He does the same for me.) The Dodgers’ success (more specifically, their success over the Giants) is a source of contention and comment and criticism. It’s good conversation fodder and I like that my dad and I have common enemies in the Dodgers and the Yankees.

THE BOOK: I’ve read countless articles and magazine cover stories on sports, the games and the participants. I could care less about the day-to-day stuff, the regular standings or the stock quotes coaches and players seem to always give whether they win or lose. I’ve grown more fascinated with the behind the scenes stuff, the things you don’t see on TV or hear on the radio or read in the game report. So when I was meandering through my local library I spotted the O’Malley biography and got curious. I like to keep a couple of books going at one time and I found myself in a spot where I was really reading anything, so I figured I’d give it a shot.

I’ve always been curious to know how the Dodgers went from Brooklyn to L.A. I knew there had been a team in Brooklyn, the “Bums,” who’d been moved to L.A. decades ago. I grew up in the Expansion Era, so teams moving or popping up in different parts of the country is foreign to me. What I didn’t know is how things got to the point where the Dodgers HAD to move out West or who was involved.

D’Antonio does a great job at presenting a good amount of historical perspective as he tells the life of Walter O’Malley. There’s a great deal in the book about New York during the first half of the 20th century and a good deal about baseball as a business first, an entertainment product second, and finally, the game. It’s a solid read for anyone who likes baseball, history or biographies, and I highly recommend it. (Though, there are chunks of text and comments he tends to repeat too often.) There’s also some nice summary of Los Angeles during the 1950s and 1960s, how Hollywood and city politics shaped baseball’s future, and some intriguing notes about players like Jackie Robinson. I must praise D’Antonio for taking a more journalistic approach to the subject, but allowing for his own “love of the game” to slip through now and then. It’s stoked my own heart fires as Opening Day approaches.

Now, I’m not a Dodgers fan, and this book didn’t convert me. I have much more respect for the history of the team and the people who worked — through trial and error — to make the franchise (and the game) what it is today. I’ll still root against them whenever they play my dad’s Giants or make the occasional interleague trip to Seattle or Oakland.

But Forever Blue gave me a push toward reading more about the history of the game (I’m enjoying Jim Bouton’s “Ball Four” right now) and appreciating what the sport and people have meant to fans and each other. It’s easy to get disgusted with billionaires and millionaires squabbling over money most of us will never seen (and be the ones to willingly hand over), so books like these remind me it’s just a game, a game that’ll live on long after the professional leagues are gone or have morphed into something else.

Change Starts With You

I see you, out there on the campus quad, playing guitar and singing, in a circle with friends and classmates, in the shade of flag poles and evergreen trees. I’m curious as I walk toward your group, straining to hear what the slight breeze may carry away. As I approach, I notice members of the circle in prayer, arms raised, worshipping, and I make the connection with what I am seeing, what I am hearing.

My immediate thought is: “What’s the point?” Not asked in a callous way, but I am curious as to what you hope to accomplish. Is your goal to let your songs about God and faith and love and grace change the world around you, to bring passers-by to their knees in repentance, to help the unsaved become saved? Is it enough to have one person stop and listen and maybe ask a question or will only a few hundred do? Who (and what) exactly do you hope to change?

Maybe the only person changed is you. In that moment, do you feel just a bit closer to God? Do the waves of your troubled life settle down for a few solemn moments? Is your heartbeat just a little bit louder, the sun just a little bit brighter, the smell of spring on the air just a little bit sweeter? Is it enough for you to put in all the work you do only to have the only person truly, significantly affected… you?

I hope it is. I hope the music has carried you to a better, richer place in your mind and there’s a deeper connection with the unseen and your soul. I hope you walk away, when the last note has been sung, satisfied that it was time well-spent.

I know that as I passed by, thoughts of God and faith and love and grace came to mind, and I’m better for it. Keep playing on.

Music, Life and Everything Else

It started as a throwaway comment in a conversation between Craig and myself: “Let’s start a band that fans love and musicians want to be a part of.” Six years later, I’m still doing my best to see that idea realized. I dare say we’ve come pretty close and as long as there are music lovers and lovers of making music interested in what we’re doing, I guess we succeeded.

Another year, another iteration of the band. Six weeks into 2011 and I’m mulling more personnel changes and further evolution of a group I’ve poured so much of myself into. To date, Lost Immigrants has had 12 different musicians (most of them drummers) come and go. It’s still fewer than those who have been a part of my friends, The Killdares, who I played with for a short stint in 2004-2005. But they’ve been around twice as long and Celtic rock is an acquired taste.

Longtime LI fans will know of which I speak; for some, it’s become a running gag every time they see us, who’s in the band and who’s moved on. I lose track myself. Hopefully, though, different players bring different musicality and”flavor” to the LI sound, and that’s exactly what Craig and I had in mind at the start.

I don’t think I’m an egotist. I could care less if anyone knew the name James Dunning or associated that with music or the band or whatever. But I do hope those out beyond my immediate circle get to know the name Lost Immigrants and get to hear and fully appreciate the music we write and perform. I’d prefer the members to be nebulous, ever-changing, hard to peg, and stand fully behind the music, never out front.

But I want the music to ebb and flow, evolve from simple natural acoustics to cosmic bombast and settle back down again. I want for the band to be a gateway for open ears to carry that soul to another place for a short time and remind all who hear that there is hope and promise and redemption amid the chaos and sorrow. We’re kidding ourselves if we think we’ve got anything more to offer than a simple truth reiterated a thousand times, and we are doing ourselves and our craft an injustice by squandering the few precious moments we have on this earth singing about drinking and screwing and being cool. (That may be a comment more for those on the Texas music scene.)

I’m not sure if the message is clear in the music you hear. I hope it is. If not, I’ll be more blunt. The last several months have found me writing with purpose and direction and renewed fire despite the setbacks, changes and disappointments. I, for one, am excited about the art we’re creating and the songs yet to be sung. I hope you’ll join us on our journey into the unknown.

Another Tuesday, Another Day of Complete Randomness

Apologies all around for disappearing the latter half of the summer. Those of you who know me know how busy my life can get — and how lazy I typically am about writing. But a few thoughts from the past several weeks:

• OLD SCHOOL JAMS: My wife had an MRI done last week and they let her bring in a couple of CDs to listen to while they ran the machine. She grabbed a copy of a 2004 limited-print album I did, compiling 12 originals from previous projects. She said it was a comfort to hear my voice singing while she went through the test, and that made me puff up my chest a little and spend a bit more time than normal with her this weekend. To be honest, I’d really forgotten about the little disc and the songs. I tend to move on to the next thing pretty quickly, and what’s done is done and I fight myself every time I have to come back to something. But as we were driving around this weekend, I found myself listening to the CD, sharing it with our daughter and decided revisiting the past isn’t always a bad thing. The songwriting’s not the best and the music is very lo-fi, nearly demo quality. But for me it was a sign of things to come and it’s nice to see how much I’ve grown as a singer, a musician and a writer.
  * You can download the entire record for as little as $5 from a site I set up over the weekend. (http://jamesdunning.bandcamp.com/) Let me know what you think.
• FOOTBALL SEASON IS HERE: I’m not a big sports guy, but now that I’m in two fantasy football leagues, I find myself paying better attention to sports. I spent the better part of Saturday watching college games and it was refreshing. One of my favorite times of the day now is starting my day, eating breakfast with my daughter, watching ESPNS’s SportsCenter. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a father now and I’m suddenly filled with this desire to make sure she’s properly introduced to sports or if it’s because I’m a guy and that’s what guys do (I’ve finally succumbed to all the beer and junk food commercials) or if, in this crazy, mixed up world, there’s a sense of normalcy and calm in watching a guy throw a no-hitter or seeing a striker rope a goal from 30 yards out or cheering when a free safety snags an interception and runs it down the field for a touchdown. This year alone, I’ve been to the Colonial PGA tournament, watched in person my Mariners lost to the Rangers and skipped work to catch USA narrowly win in World Cup pool play.
  * Go Seahawks!
• THE BOOB TUBE: “Sons of Anarchy” starts tonight and I’m stoked. If you haven’t seen this FX drama about a northern California motorcycle club, you need to check it out. I’m not really into bikes, but the music on the show is top-notch and the storylines are good, good, good. I wouldn’t let the kiddos watch it, but it’s a nice supplement now that “The Shield” is done. I’m trying to watch less television as a rule, but what I do watch, I’ve noticed, isn’t on the regular networks. I’ve been enjoying “Leverage,” “Dark Blue,” and old episodes of “Stargate: Atlantis” over the summer. Not Emmy-winners exactly, but better than brain-dead reality shows. (Except that “Wipeout” show; something about people getting knocked silly into a pool gets me every time.) Seems the like the better stuff has moved higher up the channel listing. Which sucks if you’re looking to get rid of expanded cable to save money. Thankfully, Netflix and the Internet have allowed me to catch up on shows I’ve missed.
  * Dear Lord, please let me get to the end of my life without regretting that I didn’t watch more survivor shows on The Discovery Channel.

• THE WRITE STUFF: Partly because of my job and partly because I made the time to do so, I’ve gotten back into writing. Like every other writer, I’ve got a couple projects going on at once and I’m hoping I’ve got something done by the end of the year. But I’ve been inspired by a few writers I’ve met or read this year and I high encourage you to make the time to read more. Brian from The Accidental Historian is a riot. Sure, he’s been writing about Lost Immigrants pretty much nonstop since last year, but the guy’s a really good storyteller and one of the smarter people I’ve met since I started the band. (I’m looking at you, Grayson County.) Like millions of other people, I’m slogging my way through Stieg Larsson‘s Millennium trilogy and am enjoying it (even if I did seen the Swedish film adaptation of the first book). I’m also re-reading Robert Traver’s Anatomy of a Murder and dreaming I’m an extra in a Perry Mason episode. One of these days I’ll get around to finishing my own whodunit?, but for now I’m letting others tell the tales.
  * Suck it up and watch the Swedish versions of the Millennium films, subtitles and all. I’m sure the Hollywood version will be decent, but there’s something about listening to tales of murder in the Swedish tongue that makes it that more real.

Lazy Days… No Refrain

I’ll first admit I’ve been lazy and unable to muster enough time and focus to update this blog.

(Which is an apology to exactly six people who read this — none of which is my family. They’ve all got better things to do.)

I wish I could offer up some great explanation as to why I’ve neglected to sound off and add my voice to the hurricane roar of idiocracy that plagues the Internet these days. I can’t. I just been busy and bored and unwilling to spend any extra effort or thought into stringing a few meager sentences together.

In other words, you ain’t missing much.

The band’s been good and fine and as upside down as ever and I’m flattered we got our first tepid review since… well, ever. I don’t mind people being critical or less-than-complimentary; I’m just surprise we don’t hear that sort of thing more often. I’m the first to admit we suck at times and shocked more people don’t agree. It was nice to see someone devote 500 words in their news magazine to opine the new album was “meh”.

Most days, I couldn’t agree more.

This past weekend was the first off we’ve had in months and it was refreshing. I watched a lot of television — too much TV, in fact — so much so, that I’ve deluded myself into thinking I should spend more time on a sitcom I’ve had brewing for 12 years. Eight cans of Diet Coke and a screaming kid will do that to a guy.

Earlier this month, we got to visit Mountain Home, Idaho, to open for Micky and the Motorcars and Reckless Kelly. Idaho is exceptionally pretty and bearable this time of the year; M&MC and RK, not so much. People in Idaho are pleasant and respectful and go out of their way to say hi. Sort of like living in any part of Texas not named Austin. The trip was quick and I got to see some family and meet a bunch of new fans and discovered a new fondness for the Fender Deluxe Blues twin cab. I also walked away hoping I never get to be so big I can’t step foot outside my dilapidated tour bus to say hi to anyone who might have plunked down $30 to see me or write 12 impossible-to-discern-the-difference tunes and call it art. I’m fine being “little people” and not growing to the point where I fold in on myself and lose whatever glimpse of a creative soul I once had.

Cynical? Sure. But it makes the absurdity of air travel worth it.

Things I Learned This Weekend

… That I’m Pretty Sure Aren’t True (or Are They?):

• Sam Houston defeated Santa Anna because he had the battleship Texas and Mexican horses can’t swim very well.
• A banjo in the band doesn’t necessarily mean you’re hearing a country or bluegrass song.
• You can’t make jerky from beaver meat.
• Chip’s Burger Village is slightly underpriced.
• People who buy a Harley then spend money on fixed saddle bags and a CD player for an over-sized faring should have just gotten a Honda GoldWing instead.
• Sarah Palin is the Kim Kardashian of politics. (Minus the butt.)
• I think I’m going to spend the rest of my life designing a no-skip phonograph player for my car. Nothing says “road trip” like rockin’ a Kool and the Gang LP on vinyl.
• Nothing says “luau” like a sales pitch for a Las Vegas vacation.
• Friends are important. And also necessary to bail you out of jail.

Does This Mean I’m All Growed Up?

Funny thing happened on the way to my mid-30s: I grew up.

(Okay, just a little mind you, but definitely some sort of maturation thing going on.)

I’m not sure when it happened: Could have been when my daughter was born last year, could have been a book I read, could have been a conversation I had with a friend. But it dawned on me recently that the piss-and-vinegar attitude of my youth had started to fade a bit. Where at times I would rant and rage and jump from extreme to loud, cussing extreme whenever someone let me down or something didn’t go the way I wanted, I now find myself still bothered but less likely to re-act so demonstratively. Not that I’ve become a pushover; rather my mood as been subdued slightly and I’m letting ill-fated waters roll off my back.

Case in point: A dear friend and business partner has fallen short of my expectations and recently informed me he no longer desired to be a part of the project. Too bad. A year or more ago and I would have verbally nailed him to a cross, called him all sorts of names and groused about his shunning of my dream and hard work. (I tend, some may well point out, to make most things about me.) And while I read the email divulging these new developments to my progress, I calmly moved on and enjoyed the rest of my day off. Admittedly, I supposed I wasn’t sure I’d read things the way they were meant to be and I thought time and reflection would server more purposeful than reaction and a pointed turn of phrase. Consequently, I offer decorum and poise in my response a few days later and the reasons behind this change of plan became evident.

Here’s the thing: I’m sure lots of folks go through this. There’s no new revelation to behold, no new process in which to build a new religion upon. I suppose I’ve simply tired from being the Angry Young Man and don’t cherish a legacy as the Angry Old Man. Whereas a retirement of cantankerous and persnickity affectations were once sought, I now find myself eager to move on, enjoy the day as it is, and revel in all the Good Lord has to offer. Sure, I’m disappointed in the shortcomings of others, my family and (most importantly) myself. But those days of raging against those who I thought were positioned against me have begun to fade. I’ve discovered most folks have too much crap and heartache and disappointment in their own lives to truly go out of their way to hurt me; I’ve also found the things that once hurt no longer mean that much. I guess Life will have to find another way.

Moving forward, I’ll take a deep breath, count to 10 (20, 30 or however long it takes) and move forward deliberately and in an effort to minimize the damage. I fear an outward sign of weakness, but I remind myself life is too short to worry about the opinion of others. There’s too much living to get to and too little time to do it.

Reject Album Titles and Covers II

More foolishness…

“Great Caesar’s Ghost”

“Marlboros & Madames” (alternate cover)

“Idiots et Imbéciles” (collection of French folks songs)

Random Thoughts for a Tuesday

Living and breathing music most of the time these days. Waiting for production of the latest batch of the new album to finish up. Managing my time, energy and interest with several other people’s time, energy and interest. Wondering if those I want to rely on will actually come through or if I should just do the things that need doing myself. Seeing stormy weather on the horizon but am headed that way anyway.

To quote my friend David Dewese, “I’m making the best of it.”

Not that life’s got me down. Fact is, I’ve never felt more “stable” in my life. But it ain’t all sunshine and roses, rainbows and puppies. If it were, I’d probably bitch about that, too.

The owner of a secondhand retail shop just north of Waco tells me the story one summer of a Texas country legend, back in the 1970s, at the height of his popularity. The shop owner and a buddy were hanging outside a bar one night when Mr. Big Shot rolled up in his brand-new Cadillac, professing a need for a bass player for an upcoming tour. Shop Owner happens to play bass real nice, so he volunteers and agrees to meet Mr. Big Shot at a venue outside of town in two nights to play with him and his band. Gig is four hours, mostly honky tonk covers, and pays $150 a man. Shop Owner is feeling blessed because he needs the money and had recently fallen on hard times.

Two nights later, Shop Owner shows up at the venue, loads in his gear, tunes up, meets the rest of the band. They talk through the set lists, order a few beers and get the night started once the crowd starts filing in. Four hours under hot lights in a room with too many people and no air conditioning. Shop Owner plays his heart out, plays the best he’ll ever recall, and soaks in the smoke and cheers and atmosphere of the country road honky tonk. Show’s over, crowd’s gone and empty bottles litter the backstage area. Mr. Big Shot shakes Shop Owner’s hand, tells him he did really good, tells him he’ll call him the next day about the tour schedule. Asks him in what denomination he’d like his money for the night.

Let me help you with your gear. Watch that back door step. I’ll hand it down to ya. Go ahead and load up and I’ll have your money for ya.

Click.

Shop Owner bangs on the back door. No one answers. He runs around to the front. Locked. He hollers, he yells, he kicks the side of the building. Nothing.

Eventually, tired and drunk, he decides to wait it out in his car behind the venue to confront Mr. Big Shot when he comes out. A few hours later, it’s dawn, he’s wiping drool from the side of his mouth and all the cars in the back lot are gone.

Another legend begins.

There’s something about these stories — tall tales, if you’re inclined to call them what they are — that keeps me doing what I’m doing. I love the celebration and the critique. Love the history. Don’t feel a part of it right now, but maybe one day. A fellow musician told me the other day he’d resigned himself to the fact that his music likely wouldn’t be appreciated till he was dead and gone. I couldn’t agree more. Notoriety and fame were never the motivating factors. Writing songs from the heart and putting a smile on someone’s face — that’s all it’s ever been.

If I can keep reminding myself of that, I just might make it.