AMDG: A Jesuit Podcast

Three Stories: Rock Music for Toddlers, Existential Writer's Block and Imaginary Baseball

Today’s episode is different from anything we’ve ever done. Instead of an interview, we have three audio pieces about what you could call the spirituality of everyday life. What are the things we do to find meaning and purpose within the daily grind? First, host Mike Jordan Laskey tells you about his “kindie rock” band, Down By The Bagel. Then, New York-based writer Kaitlin Campbell shares “You Can Do This,” a story about a big case of writer’s block and her prayer for God to just show her a sign already. Finally, Steve Givens, an author and spiritual director from St. Louis, has a piece about how an imaginary baseball game he played as a kid shaped his spiritual life in ways he only would come to realize decades later. If you’d like to submit us your own proposal for some creative work, check out our pitch guide at JesuitMediaLab.org. AMDG is a production of the Jesuit Media Lab, which is a project of the Jesuit Conference of Canada and the United States. www.jesuits.org/ www.beajesuit.org/ twitter.com/jesuitnews facebook.com/Jesuits instagram.com/wearethejesuits youtube.com/societyofjesus www.jesuitmedialab.org/

Broadcast on:: 25 Sep 2024
Audio Format:: other

[Music] From the Jesuit Media Lab, this is AMDG. I'm Mike Jordan-Lasky. Today's episode is different from anything we've ever done on the show. Instead of an interview, we have three audio pieces about what I guess you could call the spirituality of everyday life. What are the things we do to find meaning and purpose within the daily grind? Later on, you'll hear from two of our Jesuit Media Lab contributors. Caitlyn Campbell, a writer from New York, has an essay about facing what I might call an existential case of writer's block, and her prayer for God to show her any sign already. Then Steve Givens, who's a spiritual director and author based in St. Louis, has a piece about how an imaginary baseball game he played as a kid, shaped his spiritual life in ways he would only come to realize decades later. I really love both pieces, and I'm so excited to share them here on AMDG. If you'd like to submit us your own proposal for some creative work, check out our pitch guide at JesuitMediaLab.org. Before we hear from Caitlyn and Steve, I'm going to tell you a story, a story about my rock band. [MUSIC] Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages. Now, put your hands together, four, and jump and buy the fingers! [APPLAUSE] [MUSIC] A few weeks ago, my rock band played this neighborhood festival in Washington, D.C. It was our third show ever, with a third different lineup. [MUSIC] A few weeks ago, my rock band played this neighborhood festival in Washington, D.C. It was our third show ever, with a third different lineup. This time, we had six musicians, my wife Genevieve on vocals, my uncle Pete on the drums, Scott on electric guitar, BB on fiddle, and Steve on tuba. I sing and play acoustic guitar. Our target audience is the eight and under set. Our band name is Down by the Bagel, which is a pun on one of Raffy's greatest tunes. You could say that the children's singer, international superstar Raffy is our biggest artistic influence. But we also play 90s alt rock covers and a duolipa song. The goal is to keep the kids entertained without annoying their parents and ourselves, which is a tricky needle to thread. I said my wife sings in the band, which is true, but her favorite part of Down by the Bagel is planning our intricate stage production. We've got an enormous bubble gun and five gallon buckets of bubble solution with magical bubble wands. We have an industrial-sized roll of bubble wrap for kids to stomp on. Bubbles, in pretty much any form, are very popular. Our oldest daughter dresses up in a bare costume for "We're Going on a Bear Hunt." We pass out 100 shaky eggs for a Lori Birkner song about a chicken who lays shaky eggs. We have these huge inflatable plastic balls we toss into the crowd that have earned us more than one comparison to a flaming lip show. Before our last gig, we had custom t-shirts made up, not to sell or anything but just for us in the band to wear. I don't even want to know how much money our family has dropped on this enterprise, not to mention the hours and hours spent in preparation. [Music] There were a few times during our recent show when I wondered if this new family hobby is worth the investment. We had to fight microphone feedback in a less than ideal audio setup. Then, during the performance, a few kids invaded the stage. One of them grabbed the kazoo Genevieve was about to play and just put it straight into her mouth. I hope the kid didn't have COVID. [Music] I don't like to feel that I'm babysitting our audience. Don't get me wrong, though, the gigs are overall quite fun, and I love that our family collaborates on something creative like this. What I've realized, though, is that I like our rehearsals more than the performances. An upcoming gig provides the impetus to play music more than I would in the usual busy week, and that's the thing I value about this most of all. In the month leading up to the show, our family sits around the living room a few evenings a week after dinner for what our four-year-old calls band practice. Jan and I sing and play through tunes, and the kids wander in and out. Our son drums along, and he calls out the songs he wants to play in order of his preference. One of our daughter's practices, the tune she sings lead on, and our other daughter comes up with dance moves she'll show off at the front of the stage. This is screen-free, usually peaceful family time, and I like the idea that our kids are forming lifelong memories. I picture them in 30 years, saying something like, "Remember when mom and dad started down by the bagel? That was so weird. Who starts a kid's music band and makes zero dollars doing it?" But it was fun. [music] A week or so before the gig, the whole band gets together at our house for rehearsal and pizza. We figure out who will sing which song and who will take a solo when. Mostly, we stand around in a circle in the backyard and play. And even though the songs are kitty songs, it's pure joy. We sound good. The music is for the kids we'll perform for, sure, but it's mostly for us adults. The magic of human beings sharing space and making music together is undefeated. I also like to think that we are taking a stand against loneliness in this age of alienation. I have no interest in a solo gig. Six band members is good, but ten would be even better as far as I'm concerned. Note by note, song by song, we are building a community. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. I think Raffi would be proud. Next up, we have our story from Caitlin Campbell. Caitlin was facing a lot of self-doubt in her creative life. She felt pretty much ready to walk away. And she found herself wishing God would do something, anything, to make her decision clearer. Caitlin's piece is called "You Can Do This." I sat staring at the blank Google Doc. It was like the cursor kept flipping me off. 24 hours till deadline. My three weeks of mental planning for an amazing story amounted to nothing but panic, nausea, and blurry vision. I imagined cartoon storm clouds gathering above my head. And my plan to clear them was open and shut the laptop. Pace. Open and shut the fridge. Repeat. As I did this, a demon in my mind started raising the stakes on the whole situation. You're wasting time. You're wasting money. You shouldn't have signed up for this class. You can't do it. You're not a writer. You should just drop the course, eat the tuition bill, quit. But thankfully, an angel. My ringing iPhone. A friend calling. Interrupted. I'm losing it over here, I told her. I have this story I'm so embarrassed. Everyone thinks I'm such a great writer, but they have no idea how hard it is for me. I don't have anything, nothing. I think I should tell the professor I need to drop the class. And I was also thinking, you know, since I've been praying for a sign as to whether I should even do the MFA program. This is the sign, right? This must be the sign. What my friend said next rang my brain like a bell. I asked her to repeat herself twice. Why don't you just give up? Her voice was casual, even flippant, made me angry. Give up? Yeah, just stop trying. So you're telling me with 24 hours to go and $1,500 worth of tuition justification on the line that I should just give up and not write anything and not turn anything in? Yeah, yeah. When I'm faced with a deadline I can't handle, I just say to God, I can't do this. I won't do this. I'm giving it up. If you want me to do this, you're going to have to give me the willingness, the focus, and the energy to get it done. But I quit, and I'm not going to spend another second thinking about it. The words of her strange prayer opened a crack in my mind, but I was very suspicious. It seemed simple, too simple. The walk didn't seem like a bad idea, though. I made a new plan, this time with spiritual oomph. I'll go on a walk for inspiration. Ask God for three symbols that I can use to tie the plot to the protagonist character development. The promise of this solicited mystical information bolstered my ego. And maybe it could be a meta narrative, too. The plot is actually that the protagonist goes for a walk and finds literal symbols that are the same metaphorical symbols. And with these galloping thoughts urging me out the door, I strapped on my sandals, slung my laptop around my shoulder, and made way for St. Nicholas Park. On the street I smiled to myself as I walked past pedestrians, civilians, not mystics, not writers, imagining how lucky I was to have such a profound connection to a spiritual source. These symbols would answer everything, would tell me all things, and I couldn't wait for the illumination. God send me the symbols. I chanted arms out strength. God send me the symbols. I was ready for lightning. I was ready for revelation. I was on fire. Every object I passed became fair game. Aha, a tennis ball. Maybe it means don't look twice before striking. I picked it up and put it in the bag. Aha, a random letter. Sign W. Maybe it's a, maybe it's water that helps us flow through the rapids of mental experience. I took a picture of the random W and created a new iPhone note. St. Nicholas Park in Harlem is landscaped into a series of terraces and cliffs. A rendezvous through the park could take you straight up a steep flight of stone stairs or in a zigzag around each ascending level. Since it was my neighborhood park, I knew all the different kinds of routes and typically chose my climbs by energy level and mood. Today I was in such a days I was not thinking consciously about where to walk. And after about 45 minutes of wandering and monologuing, I arrived at the base of the steepest staircase. Exhausted, defeated and totally desperate. I looked up at the steps and looked up at the sky and literally threw my arms in the air and said out loud. Alright, I cannot do this. I give up. I'm not doing this assignment. I'm dropping the class. I'll tell people I tried the whole MFA thing, but it's not for me. I'll pay the tuition bill and be done with it. I quit. I began trudging up the steps, head hanging, stomach dropping again, this time with grief and horror. At letting go of a dream I had put so much time, effort and money into cultivating. I whipped back up at the sky, but if you want me to do this, whoever you are, you're going to need to do something magic. You're going to have to turn me completely upside down, but I'm not doing it. And I'm not giving it another thought. I dragged my feet and tears weld in my eyes, staring at the concrete and just placed one foot in front of the other up the steps, beginning to imagine my life without writing, without dreaming, without hoping for having the kind of life I thought God wanted me to have. One step, two step. And on step three, my eyes exploded out of my face. I whipped my head around above me again, looking for someone, anyone, to help me assess whether I was hallucinating. Spray painted in neon pink, in big, bold letters. Someone, at some point in time, graffitied. You can do this, exclamation point. I squealed with laughter. What? My tears continued, but with utter, absolving disbelief and joy. I looked back up the sky and said playfully, "Oh, f*ck you. Are you serious right now?" And how? How am I supposed to do this? I then heard, "Clear as a bell." The following instructions. Use what you have, love. Finish the draft. Ten minutes on, five minutes prayer. Another 30 minute walk, and then editing. Editing is harder for you, so for that five minutes editing, ten minutes prayer. I went home. Followed these instructions exactly. Completed the assignment in 45 minutes and got nay. It was so easy. I did it, and I did not know how. A week or so later, in the same park, I was given the sign for my story. I was seeking so voraciously, a week earlier. Two 12 year old girls, shyly stood behind a table of homemade string bracelets, with different bright colored plastic beads and alphabet letters they were selling. A three bead ring with letters. IDK caught my eye. IDK. The girls seemed a little confused as to why I was laughing so deeply. I asked them why they chose these letters. IDK. They simply shrugged and said, "I don't know." But I thought to myself, "Yep, but someone does. Someone does." Kaitlyn Campbell is a writer in New York. Our final piece is from Steve Givens. Growing up in St. Louis in the 1960s, Steve spent hours playing an imaginary baseball game he invented. Little did he know at the time, but he was doing more than playing a game. He was preparing his heart for Ignatian imaginative prayer. Steve's piece is called, "Step Ball." Cardinal's hurler Bob Gibson is on the mound. It looks him to get the sign from Macarver. He shakes him off. The count is full. The 1968 World Series has come down to this pitch. Two outs on the bottom of the ninth, and the bases are loaded. Tiger's slugger Alkaline stands on the right side staring down Gibson. Gibson shakes off Macarver once more. He clearly wants a fastball. He stares down the runner on third and fires. Oh, it's a deep shot to left field. Brock goes back, back. He leaps at the wall and makes the catch. The Cardinals win! The Cardinals win! Stevie, time for supper. Oh, Mom, just one more game. Although I couldn't possibly have imagined it at the time, my life of prayer and work at the intersection of creativity and Ignatian spirituality began right there at age eight with a cheap drugstore baseball glove and a worn-fated tennis ball. Running down the middle of my backyard in North St. Louis in the 1960s was a sidewalk leading to the garage. Near the house was a three-step concrete stoop. What transpired for young me, standing before those steps and on that sidewalk, my first attempts at both baseball and storytelling. It was there I learned all by myself to pitch and cleanly feel the careening and unpredictable ball. But at the same time, I was beginning a life of the spirit and the mind. I was visualizing and moving around in my head two complete teams of imaginary professional baseball players. In my mind's eye, they pitched, hit, fielded, scored, and ultimately emerged victorious or slunk away in defeat. Step ball, as it was called in my neighborhood, was my first experience of using my imagination to get it something bigger and deeper, something I couldn't actually see. The rules, if you could call them that, were pretty simple. I showed about 20 feet away from the stoop and pitched the ball at the steps. As the ball came back to me on the rebound, I had to field it cleanly and throw it back at the steps, as if throwing to a first baseman. Then I had to field that rebound cleanly as if I was the first baseman. If I fumbled any of those opportunities or if I missed a line drive to fly ball, imaginary runners would take their places on the baseball diamond of my mind. A fly ball that went over my head counted as a double and one that went over my head and hit the garage on the fly, well, it was a home run. All the time, I was keeping track of the progress of the imaginary runners and even calling the game like the radio announcers I idolized. Hall of Famers like Jack Buck and Harry Carey. I used the lineup of the current year St. Louis Cardinals and some other teams, like the Cincinnati Reds or the Pittsburgh Pirates. I knew all those players' names and whether they batted left or right, even though the steps themselves were, of course, neither left-handed nor right-handed batters. Still, that's something you just need to know. It's the territory of the lonely kid. But it allowed me to begin to imagine things beyond my sight. I began to see the games come alive in an age when televised games were few and far between. Decades later, when I first experienced the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola and the practice of imaginative contemplation using stories from the gospels, I thought to myself, "Ah, just like Steppel. Just imagine you're there, in the game, as it were." There were differences, obviously. Imaginative prayer is not about just making things up. It's not about changing the story and the truth of Scripture to better fit our circumstances and desires. The Cardinals, after all, did not, did not win the 1968 World Series. Imaginative prayer is powered by the Holy Spirit working through our imaginations. It is a time of intimate connection between us, Holy Scripture, and Holy Spirit. At its heart, it is a way of meeting God, of encountering Jesus in a very real and personal way. It is a new and different way of knowing the truth. When I ask God to draw me into the story of, for example, the healing of blind Bartimaeus in the tenth chapter of Mark, I am asking for more than any illustrated storybook can give me. I am asking to be a part of the movie in my mind. I am asking to be let into that moment of encounter and healing. I am asking to be there, feeling the heat and tasting the dust of a busy Jericho Market Street. I get to sense the crowd moving and gathering around me as I hear Jesus gently ask Bartimaeus, who has just scrambled to his feet and thrown aside his cloak. What do you want me to do for you? I get to hear the man's faltering and incredulous voice respond. Well, I want to see, of course. I get to see Jesus smile riley at Bartimaeus as simple and matter of fact reply. I get to see him look straight into the man's blank eyes and say, "Go your way. Your faith has saved you." I get to witness the astonishment of Bartimaeus's face and hear the gasp of the crowd and sense the silence that always follows the inexplicable and the miraculous. Perhaps most importantly, I get to see or sense Jesus turn toward me and calling me by my name, ask. And how about you, Steve? What can I do for you? It's like hearing my name get called by the coach from the end of the imaginary bench. I'm going into the game. Prayer is no longer the spectator sport we learned as children sitting quietly in hardback pews with hands folded and eyes closed tight. It's participatory, alive, ever-changing and full of surprises and unknown turns of events. When I pray using my imagination, I'm honoring the reality of the incarnate word. I'm entering into the words and life of Jesus and seeing where I fit into the story. Like standing before that three-step stoop, waiting for a tennis ball that never bounces back at me the same way twice. I'm opening up myself to the twists and turns of a life of faith and discipleship. I'm saying, I'm here. I'm in the game. Hit me with your best shot. Stepping into imaginative prayer was written, narrated, and produced by Steve Givens. With production assistance from Noah Givens and voice acting by Noah Givens, Sue Givens, John Carabelli and Phil Girling. Baseball Stadium music by Phil Cooper. With additional music by Phil Cooper, Steve Givens and John Carabelli. Steve Givens is a writer and spiritual director in St. Louis. If you'd like to pitch us your idea for content at the intersection of creativity and ideation spirituality, check out our website at Jesuitmedialab.org. AMDG is a production of the Jesuit Media Lab, which is a project of the Jesuit Conference of Canada and the United States. We're based in Washington, D.C. The show is edited by Marcus Bleach. Our theme music is by Kevin Lasky. The Jesuit Conference communications team is Marcus Bleach, Eric Clayton, Becky Sindelar, and me. Connect with the Jesuits online at Jesuits.org. On Instagram, at WeAreTheJesuits. On X at JesuitNews and facebook.com/jesuits. Sign up for weekly email reflections by visiting Jesuits.org/weekly. The Jesuit Media Lab offers courses and resources at the intersection of ideation spirituality and creativity. If you're a writer, podcaster, filmmaker, visual artist, or other creator, check out our offerings at Jesuitmedialab.org. If you or someone you know might be called to discern a vocation to the Jesuits, connect with a Jesuit vocation promoter at BeAJesuit.org. Drop us an email with questions or comments at medialab@jesuits.org. You can subscribe to the show on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts. An ascending nacious of Loyola may or may not have said. Go and set the world on fire. [MUSIC] [BLANK_AUDIO]