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Plug-In: Amid Tennessee tornado wreckage, one man's faith offers a huge measure of hope

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COOKEVILLE, Tenn. — Heartbreak and hope.

It’s a combination I’ve witnessed repeatedly when covering catastrophes, from the Oklahoma City bombing to Hurricane Katrina to, most recently, the March 3 Tennessee tornadoes that killed 25 people and injured hundreds.

In a ravaged neighborhood of this community 80 miles east of Nashville, I met a survivor slammed into his basement by the EF-4 twister that destroyed his home.

But rather than lament what he had lost, the man, Gary Flatt, thanked God for fellow Christians who had come to his aid.

“Someone looked at the house and said, ‘It’s unbelievable what a tornado can do,’” Flatt told me, standing amid the scattered debris. “And I told them, ‘No, it’s unbelievable what a bunch of loving Christians can do.’”

Yes, it’s true: People of faith do more than pray after a disaster such as this.

Here’s how religion writer Holly Meyer of The Tennessean described the religious community’s response to the tornadoes:

They transformed their houses of worship into de facto relief centers, organized droves of volunteers for cleanup, raised money and met the basic needs of storm survivors.

These belief-driven helpers have been at it for days.

In 2018, I enjoyed writing a feature (“18 wheels and a heart to serve”) about a faith-based disaster relief truck driver’s all-night drive from Nashville, Tenn., to Panama City, Fla., after Hurricane Michael.

The theme: Heartbreak and hope.


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Did I shake hands with the rector? COVID-19 hits a highly symbolic altar inside DC Beltway

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I know, I know. I couldn’t believe it either.

In terms of shock value in the Twitter-verse, the Washington Post team buried the lede in a timely news piece that ran with this headline: “For Georgetown churchgoers, a coronavirus self-quarantine is embraced as necessary.”

This is an Inside. The. Beltway. Story and I am perfectly OK with that. So see if you can spot the shocking symbolic detail in this overture:

The longtime friends were looking forward to their regular game of bridge at Washington’s posh Metropolitan Club on Monday afternoon, a bit of welcome routine in a world slowly spinning out of control.

The three prominent lawyers, C. Boyden Gray, William Nitze and Edwin D. Williamson, were well aware that the novel coronavirus was spreading, and that it had just made an appearance in Maryland with the announcement of the state’s first three cases last week. They never imagined, however, that the District’s first confirmed case of covid-19 would arrive at their doorstep: the 203-year-old Christ Church Georgetown, an affluent Episcopal congregation co-founded by Francis Scott Key and attended by a bipartisan collection of well-known Washingtonians, among them Fox News host Tucker Carlson.

You can just hear the gasps from readers across America who do not understand the role that Georgetown plays in the DC political ecosphere.

Yes, Tucker Carlson and his family attend an Episcopal parish. If I remember correctly, they have been members of this parish for quite some time.

It’s a Washington thing. Lambs and lions (who is who depends on the biases of the observer) may occupy the same pews. It’s all about location, location, location. And as any editor inside the Beltway will tell you, the Episcopal Church retains its clout, serving as a kind of “NPR at prayer” (a label created by my Orthodox priest, a former Episcopal tall-steeple clergyman).


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During times of panic and plague, priests take risks to do the work they are called to do

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During times of panic and plague, priests take risks to do the work they are called to do

The second wave of influenza in the fall of 1918 was the worst yet and, by the time Father Nicola Yanney reached Wichita, Kansas, a citywide quarantine was in effect.

A 16-year-old girl had already died, creating a sense of panic. The missionary priest -- his territory reached from Missouri to Colorado and from Oklahoma to North Dakota -- couldn't even hold her funeral in the city's new Orthodox sanctuary. As he traveled back to his home church in Kearney, Neb., he kept anointing the sick, hearing confessions and taking Holy Communion to those stricken by the infamous "Spanish flu."

After days of door-to-door ministry in the snow, Yanney collapsed and called his sons to his bedside. Struggling to breathe, he whispered: "Keep your hands and your heart clean." He was one of an estimated 50 million victims worldwide.

A century later, many Orthodox Christians in America -- especially those of Syrian and Lebanese descent -- believe Yanney should be recognized as a saint. And now, as churches face fears unleashed by the coronavirus, many details of his final days of his ministry are highly symbolic.

"Father Nicola got the flu because he insisted on ministering to people who had the flu," said Father Andrew Stephen Damick, creator of "The Equal of Martyrdom," an audio documentary about the man known as "The Apostle to the Plains."

"For priests, there are risks. But you cannot turn away when people are suffering and they need the sacraments of the church. You go to your people and minister to them. This is what priests do."

Few acts in ministry are as intimate as a priest huddled with a seriously ill believer, hearing what could be his or her final confession of sins.


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Autism and Communion: Textbook social-media clash between parents, press and church

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Every now and then I get an email from a GetReligion reader who has, for all practical purposes, researched and written a perfect news-critique post for this blog.

It’s especially interesting when the email comes from someone who — in a perfect world — would make an ideal source for mainstream coverage of the very issue that he or she is concerned about.

So that’s what happened the other day when I received a note from Father Matthew Schneider, who writes at a blog called Through Catholic Lenses. He is also known, on Twitter, as @AutisticPriest — a fact that is relevant, in this case.

That is, the fact that Father Schneider is autistic is relevant because he has a natural concern for people facing autism and related challenges, which has led him to dig into church law and teachings on that topic.

This matters when facing a USA Today headline such as this one: “Boy with autism denied First Communion at Catholic church: 'That is discrimination,' mom says.”

What we have here is a perfect, 5-star example of a clash between parents — backed with press reports — and church officials who seem to think they have lots of time (In the social-media age? #DUH!) to figure out faithful responses to complex liturgical issues. It also helps, of course, when reporters fail to use search engines and plug into logical sources about Catholic teachings and even Canon Law.

Anyway, here is the overture to this story, which is long, but essential:

MANALAPAN, N.J. — Nicole and Jimmy LaCugna both grew up with a strong Catholic faith. Each attended religious education as children, married in a Catholic church and sent their first son, Nicholas, through a faith-based pre-K program.

So when their second son, 8-year-old Anthony, reached second grade last fall, he was on track to receive his first Holy Communion in April.

But just days ago, the couple learned Anthony would not be allowed to receive the sacrament at St. Aloysius in Jackson, New Jersey, the church the family has attended for years.


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Family, faith, sickness and fame: Volunteer Trey Smith fights to keep his many commitments

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Family, faith, sickness and fame: Volunteer Trey Smith fights to keep his many commitments

As a teen-ager, Trey Smith kept praying that he would reach 6-foot-5 -- the right height for a blue-chip lineman coming out of high school and then a college star who would rise high in the National Football League draft.

His mother Dorsetta -- a preacher's daughter -- had dreams of her own, including that her son would honor his academic commitments and, after picking a good university, earn his degree. This was something they talked about while young Trey watched his mother wrestle with congestive heart failure and then die at age 51.

All of that was on Smith's mind when he won the Jason Witten Collegiate Man of the Year Award. The NCAA version of the NFL Walter Payton Man of the Year award, it goes to a student leader who has exhibited "exceptional courage, integrity and sportsmanship both on and off the field."

Smith apologized and asked the audience at the Dallas Cowboys practice facility in Frisco, Texas, to give him a moment as he wrestled with his emotions. Then he thanked God, his family, teammates, coaches, academic advisors and the medical specialists who -- literally -- have helped keep him alive, as well as in the University of Tennessee offensive line.

There was a moment last year, he said, when doctors treating him for blood clots in his lungs told him, "You know man, hang it up, hang it up. You're done playing football. This is it.' …

"Something you dream about as a kid. A promise you made to your mom on her deathbed. Hearing that it's done? You know, it's devastating … I kept thinking … it's not over yet. God put a vision inside of me that night and that whole week, saying, 'I don't care what they say, I've got more glory, I have more honor for you.' God had a bigger purpose for me."

The spotlight on Smith's fight to keep playing has allowed fans everywhere a chance to watch a dramatic case of the mental, physical, emotional and, often, spiritual challenges student athletes face season after season, said Chris Walker, a former Volunteer defensive end who is the UT campus director of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes.


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Orson Bean and Hollywood: His wild life had a final chapter worthy of some ink

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Orson Bean answered the same question many times during his crazy ride from Broadway to doing every conceivable kind of work during his decades in Hollywood.

What was this funny guy trying to do, while embracing drugs, edgy politics, sexual healing, hippie communes, experimental forms of therapy and other diversions involving his body, mind and soul?

On one occasion, Bean said he was trying to become the "happiest son of a bitch alive." In another Los Angeles Times interview he added: "I did all this stuff, the drugs, getting my kisser on the tube, because I thought it would make me happy. But it didn't work. I didn't find happiness until I learned to surrender, to give up the crazy pursuit."

Surrender to what? The answer to that question didn't make it into the media tributes after the 91-year-old Bean's death on Feb. 7, when he was hit by two cars while walking in his Venice, Calif., neighborhood. However, the answer has hiding in plain sight in several cable TV interviews, his one-man stage show and an online testimony he wrote entitled "How Orson Bean Found God."

"For most of my life I didn't believe in God," noted Bean. "Who had time? I was too busy with things of this world: getting ahead, getting laid, becoming famous.

"For most of my adult life I've been at least somewhat famous. Not so famous that I had to wear dark glasses to walk down the street, but famous enough that head waiters would give me a good table. I didn't want to be famous for its own sake. I wanted to be famous so as to be happy."

What finally turned Bean's life around was a religious conversion. He went looking for the "Higher Power" in his 12-step program and eventually found peace.

Many Hollywood people who knew Bean were amazed that the final act in his wild life -- from Communist sympathizer to father-in-law of the late conservative raconteur Andrew Breitbart -- didn't make it into news reports.

This was a lot of territory to cover. Bean's work was known by multiple generations -- from "What's My Line" to "Desperate Housewives," from his many appearances on "The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson" to the surrealist classic "Being John Malkovich." Bean was pre-hip, then hip and finally a kind of ironic post-hip.

In the obituaries, journalists "got the blacklist thing in there, of course, because that's still a major sign of status in Hollywood," said Barbara Nicolosi Harrington, a former Catholic nun who became a screenwriter and film-studies professor.


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Plug-In: A 'soothsayer' predicted this prominent politician's future? Why theology matters

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About a year ago, I wrote about the retirement of Tim Funk, the award-winning religion writer for the Charlotte Observer.

But I noticed this week that Funk is back at work for the Observer part time, covering politics.

“North Carolina has a primary on Super Tuesday (March 3) and will again be a battleground state in the fall,” the veteran journalist told me. “Plus, Charlotte is hosting the Republican National Convention in August.

“Besides covering religion during my 34 years at the Observer, I also did politics as Raleigh (state capital) reporter, Washington correspondent and full-time reporter on the Democratic National Convention (when Charlotte hosted it in 2012). It’s fun being back!”

He stressed — since I told him I might mention him at Religion Unplugged — that he’s no longer on the Godbeat.

“I don’t plan to cover religion — except where it intersects with politics,” he said. “Which it seems to do a lot these days.”

Amen!

Funk isn’t the only former religion writer reporting on national politics. Frank Lockwood — once known as the “Bible Belt Blogger” — has served as the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette’s Washington correspondent since 2015.

Honestly, I wish more political writers had expertise in religion.

For example, the Dallas Morning News had a story this past week that could have been benefited — greatly — from more attention to theological details.


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Podcast: What do Oprah and Michelle have that Bernie and Bloomberg need?

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Let’s say that you are the leader of a social-service program operated by African-American activists at a Pentecostal or evangelical megachurch in the Bible Belt. Or maybe you are the leader of a non-profit religious school operated by evangelicals, Catholics or Orthodox Jews.

What did you learn about religious liberty disputes that are crucial to the future of your faith-based work, if you watched that Nevada showdown for Democrats in the 2020 White House race?

To quote that classic Edwin Starr song — “Absolutely nothing!”

At the end of that slug fest, you may have been entertained or depressed. But it would be hard to say that you were joyful or hopeful. In other words, you didn’t feel the way blue-zip-code believers folks felt after the “gospel revival” sessions (a term used by The Washington Post) during the Oprah and Michelle Obama 2020 tour.

This was the territory that host Todd Wilken and I explored during this week’s “Crossroads” podcast (click here to tune that in). The goal was to explore the role that religious faith is playing in the current Democratic Party campaign and how that will affect an eventual showdown with President Donald Trump.

Let’s start with a flashback to that article about Oprah and Michelle Obama — “Washington Post says blue USA needs 'a healer': So Oprah and Michelle are in savior biz?” Here’s the Post thesis statement about this not-political (but not-religious, either) event:

The not-“Oprah 2020” event could have been a political rally from an alternate dimension where two of Blue America’s most beloved figures have teamed up to take back the country from President Trump. The Vision tour was, in fact, an event from this dimension, where Blue Americans, anxious and exhausted and restless, have directed some of that energy toward better governing their own bodies and minds.

That article was packed with references to “healing,” visions, yoga, meditation and some vague sense that — in the Trump era — many downcast Americans are looking for a “savior” (presumably of a political nature). They appear to be yearning for someone named Oprah or Obama 2.0.


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Washington Post says blue USA needs 'a healer': So Oprah and Michelle are in savior biz?

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Over and over, this recent Washington Post news feature proclaims “This is not a political story,” “This is not a political story,” “ This is not a political story.”

Thus, the headline proclaims: “Greetings from the alternate universe where Oprah and Michelle Obama are running for president.”

But, of course, the whole point is that there are many blue zip-code Americans who wish, wish, wish this was a real political story. They are looking for a savior, with a small “s.”

Then again, this article — in addition to not being a political story — is not a religion story.

Maybe. It depends on how one defines “religion” right now, in the giant shopping mall of self-empowerment lingo that is American public discourse. See if you can spot a clue or two in the overture:

NEW YORK — It wasn’t long after Oprah Winfrey took the stage … for her 2020 Vision: Your Life in Focus tour — equal parts Weight Watchers pitch, gospel revival and wellness fair — before she said what was on the tip of the audience’s tongues.

“In the early stages of the tour, we had trouble coming up with the right title,” she said. “We did talk about ‘Oprah 2020.’ And then I thought you would get the wrong idea.”

No, for the millionth time, Oprah is not running for president. And neither is her guest of honor that day, Michelle Obama, the nation’s most famous empty-nester, who told Winfrey she’s trying to figure out “how I want to spend the rest of my life.”

“President!” came a shout from the audience. “White House!” yelled some others.

OK, I will ask: What does “gospel” mean in this context?

Anyway, that reference opens the door for a rush of semi-spiritual lingo in this piece — even though there is no attempt to reference a brand-name religion of any kind.


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