The Right Lane
Apologies. I think I promised some people I’d put some detailed things out here. The person probably bothered most by the broken promise is me. I had things to say about impressions of Rwanda and victory and loss of different kinds at the University Games, but other things big and little kept happening and the energy I had for telling those things became more and more distant. It’s all still there. Cook me a hamburger this summer and I’ll happily talk about anything all night.
This semester is almost the exact opposite of last--from coordinating 982 students and teaching 200, to sharing with Peggy one class of 5--American Literature (Stephen Noll pointed out that Peggy’s presence was necessary to keep the course from being “American Lit--Hemingway to Kerouac.” I appreciated the recognition.) The free time’s been taken up by more leisurely business. Playing halfcourt ball with the basketball guys--I feel more pressure to win against them than I’ve ever felt playing anywhere. Hanging out with the 16 American students here with the Uganda Studies Program--we’ve gone on a couple trips and into Kampala and I’ve spent a few Uno evenings with them. Cards, cokes, good solid rock-and-roll in the background of a room full of white people--again, having the doors blown off the primitive romance of the missionary life. But so far no one, God included, has told me I should be doing anything else.
In fact, the most recent development is taking me further into American-ness. I’m gonna be on the radio. Seems like it should be a long story but it ain’t. There’s a new station on campus. I met the owner--an American who owns a couple other African stations and a hotel in Branson--in line at a big buffet lunch for the outgoing Archbishop and we talked and I told him I’d love to play good Jesus country on his station and he asked when I wanted to start. He took me down and introduced me to the Ugdandan station manager named Margaret and told her he wanted me to have drive-time everyday to play my music. Margaret has no prior radio experience, she agreed and it was decided. I’m gonna have from 5-8 p.m. every week-day to play whatever I want and say and do whatever I want. Of course I’ll be a slave to righteousness, but it’s easy to be a slave to righteousness with George Jones and Tammy Wynette and Dylan and Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris and Willie Nelson and Johhny Cash and Woven Hand and Gillian Welch and Sarah Masen. I don’t wanna get too excited because it could easily fizzle, but there’s been proven approval of Country Music in Africa and almost tacit approval across the good and bad board of any American entertainment.
Some may think it arrogant or obnoxious or simply very American to think I can get away with opening my cd folders to a bunch of Ugandans. But it’s not me who thinks it, it’s the station owner. Besides, there’s the appreciative pirating of all my stuff that took place in Kampala a few months back.
The immediate result I’m hoping for is a few Muslims or American NGO or Embassy workers who tune in and hear Dolly Parton sing He’s Alive and understand what it means to their lives. Beyond that, it’s gonna be a chance to play directly with the aesthetic hypotheses I’ve been mumbling to myself and others lately. I talked about writing something about having lunch with Thomas Kincaid and Wendell Berry (if you don’t know one or other of the guys--God bless you). In the middle of an email exchange with Brett Wiley, I learned what the whole thing was really about.
“...what it comes down to is I want people to think for themselves. Maybe I’m the one to challenge people on that level because most of the folks who say they want people to think for themselves are smart people who, whether they mean to or not, really want everyone to agree with them on whatever it is from Abortion to Pepsi. I was told a few weeks ago while discussing the Wendell Berry and Thomas Kincaid thing with others at a lodge in Sipi Falls, "you’re the most laid back judgmental person I’ve met." An intuitive remark I took as a huge compliment. Opinionated and direct as I allow myself to be, I honestly never intend anyone to jump ship and agree with me that Kerouac and Dylan and Dolly Parton and Peanut Butter and Jelly pave Heaven’s streets. The only one I want them to jump ship onto is Jesus. I rarely think of expressing it this way, but what I really want is for everyone to be able to sit in the front of a bus and look out at the hills or plains or trees or lakes on either side of the road in whatever region in whatever country on whatever continent and see a bird or hear a sound or smell a smell that burns their chest with eternal hope and pushes a Holy tear to their cheek--Holy Sentimental. I want it for them because I know how wonderful it is to me. And I know it’s one of the big things that keeps me on the Jesus ship.”
Help me out and pray that it goes well. Or do better and come to Kampala some afternoon and tune into 96.6 Spirit FM, Music For Life. I’m thinking of calling the show, The Right Lane. American road, yes, but “If your road leads to Jesus, you’re in the Right Lane.”