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Celtics coach Joe Mazzulla: Battles with ambition and pride, appeals for grace and faith

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Celtics coach Joe Mazzulla: Battles with ambition and pride, appeals for grace and faith

It's rare to hear eight seconds of dead silence during an NBA Finals press conference.

Boston Celtics head coach Joe Mazzulla was asked if -- because of the "plight" of Black head coaches -- it was significant that both teams were led by Black men. Was this a source of "pride" for him?

The son of an Italian father and a Black mother, Mazzulla is an outspoken Catholic whose pre-game routine includes pacing through an empty arena, praying with a rosary made with wood from the court of the original Boston Garden.

Mazzulla's answer was blunt: "I wonder how many of those have been Christian coaches?"

While this response drew many cheers in social media, Los Angeles Lakers legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was not amused.

Mazzulla "decided to ignore a legitimate question about race that might have been illuminating and inspiring for others, and instead decided to virtue signal," the six-time NBA Most Valuable Player wrote on Substack. The answer was "strangely aggressive since Christians are not discriminated against but, as a group, are more likely to discriminate against others," Abdul-Jabbar added.

The reporter who asked the pivotal question went further, suggesting that the Celtics coach apparently didn't grasp that it's "possible to be both Black and Christian."

"This didn't feel like a denouncement of Mazzulla's Blackness, so to speak," wrote Vincent Goodwill of Yahoo Sports. "It wasn't quite the 'I'm not Black, I'm OJ' moment; it just leaves room for interpretation."

This wasn't the first time that Mazzulla has puzzled journalists. In 2022, he was asked if he met the "royal family," after Prince William and Princess Kate Middleton attended a game.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph? … I'm only familiar with one royal family," he quipped.

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The new kind of threat to Alaska's historic Russian Orthodox cathedral

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The new kind of threat to Alaska's historic Russian Orthodox cathedral

The fire began in the early hours of January 2, 1966, and spread through the business district of Sitka, Alaska -- toward the historic St. Michael's Russian Orthodox Cathedral.

"Everyone in town ran to the church and started passing things out hand to hand in long chains of people," said Father Herman Belt, the cathedral's current dean. "They even carried out the chandelier, since you could lower it back then. They ran out with all the candlestands. They carried out the crosses. We lost one icon."

The rescued treasures included the bishop's throne carved by St. Innocent Veniaminov, the Siberian priest and missionary who in 1840 was sent to serve as bishop of "New Archangel," the island village that would become Sitka. The bishop translated the Gospels and Orthodox texts into several Alaskan languages and dialects and, later, served as Metropolitan of Moscow.

The bishop's staff of St. Innocent is in the rebuilt sanctuary, leaning next to the central doors before the altar. The cathedral -- designed by St. Innocent -- contains other links to six saints whose lives touched Sitka.

The original cathedral was completed in 1848, built with logs, clapboard siding and interior walls covered in sailcloth. St. Michael's was rebuilt using concrete, steel and fire-resistant materials, using 1961 drawings from the Historic American Buildings Survey.

Russian churches can handle winter. But snow isn't the problem, in a cathedral near the Gulf of Alaska. There are leaks along joints in the domes and the wooden floors squeak because of water damage. Bedrock under Sitka ends a block away.

"We're in the mush below that, then we've got the ocean, so all the rain and melt running down dumps into our basement," Belt explained. "If we get snow here, it isn't too bad. But we get lots of rain with wind, coming off the water."

Sitka averages 90 inches of rain a year, in this temperate rain forest. Seattle gets 40.

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United Methodist establishment wins and steers left into a sea of red ink

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United Methodist establishment wins and steers left into a sea of red ink

While the "Kingsfold" hymn melody was traditional, the modern text of "Creator of the Intertwined" captured the progressive course steered by the recent General Conference of the embattled United Methodist Church.

"Creator of the intertwined, you made us all unique: / each one with ears to hear faith's call, each one with voice to speak. / Each worships where the call is heard, in forest, temple, dome, / on mountain top, in upper room -- each one must find a home," sang the delegates, on April 30. The final line added: "From different sources comfort comes, each seeks for the divine: / your voice speaks many languages, just one of them is mine."

While insiders grasped the symbolism of this interfaith affirmation, the news at this pandemic-delayed gathering focused, as expected, on biblical authority and sexuality. This General Conference urgently moved to modernize many UMC doctrines and laws, after the exit of 7,659 congregations in America's biggest church split since the Civil War.

With a 523-161 vote, these words vanished from the Book of Discipline: "The practice of homosexuality … is incompatible with Christian teaching." This had long banned "self-avowed practicing homosexuals" from ordination. Another revision instructed regional leaders to start training churches to accept pastors, whatever their LGBTQ+ identities.

"It's about damn time!", said John Pavlovitz, a pastor, author and activist popular with UMC progressives. "Either you believe LGBTQ are made by God and fully indwelled with beauty and dignity as-is -- or you don't. … Either you declare their worth by inviting them fully into your community -- or you refuse to. Either you believe gender identity and sexuality aren't moral flaws -- or you believe they are," he wrote, at his The Beautiful Mess website.

The General Conference also approved a "regionalization" constitutional amendment allowing U.S. churches to modernize church law and doctrine, while Global South conservatives, especially growing churches in Africa, could retain old traditions.

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The big idea: Harrison Butker focused on pandemic-era Catholic pain about sacraments

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The big idea: Harrison Butker focused on pandemic-era Catholic pain about sacraments

Early in the coronavirus pandemic, Catholic clergy -- along with pastors in many other traditions -- struggled with secular authorities or even their own leaders while trying to provide sacred rites at the heart of their faith.

Churches were locked. Some priests turned to open-air confessions, even automobile drive-through lanes. In some cities priests in hazmat suits were allowed to offer last rites, usually without family members present. Some officials, secular and sacred, were more flexible than others.

A network of Catholic activists wrote an urgent plea: "Bishops, we, your faithful flock, implore you to do everything you can to make the sacraments more available. … Something is terribly wrong with a culture that allows abortion clinics and liquor stores to remain open but shuts down places of worship."

This bitter divide resurfaced during the May 11 Benedictine College speech by Harrison Butker, a three-time Super Bowl champion from the nearby Kansas City Chiefs. While remarks about women and family life dominated headlines, most of the placekicker's 20-minute address focused on divisions inside Catholicism.

Cultural chaos is "in our parishes, and sadly, in our cathedrals too," said Butker. "As we saw during the pandemic, too many bishops were not leaders at all. They were motivated by fear, fear of being sued, fear of being removed, fear of being disliked. They showed by their actions, intentional or unintentional, that the sacraments don't actually matter. Because of this, countless people died alone, without access to the sacraments."

Thus, many Catholics have simply stopped listening to bishops they believe are acting like politicians, instead of spiritual fathers, he claimed. "Today, our shepherds are far more concerned with keeping the doors open to the chancery than they are with saying the difficult stuff out loud."

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Critics insist that star placekicker Harrison Butker's Catholic speech sailed way right

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Critics insist that star placekicker Harrison Butker's Catholic speech sailed way right

There was nothing unusual about the conservative Catholic leaders of Benedictine College inviting a conservative Catholic to deliver a conservative Catholic speech.

But the May 11 commencement ceremony was different, since the speaker was three-time Super Bowl champion Harrison Butker of the nearby Kansas City Chiefs.

The team's star placekicker stressed that "being Catholic alone doesn't cut it," while attacking many famous Catholics, including President Joe Biden for, among other choices, making the sign of the cross during a Florida abortion-rights rally. Butker spent most of his 20-minute address criticizing many American bishops, while also offering blunt defenses of Catholic teachings on sexuality.

But the words that ignited a media firestorm hit closer to home.

Butker asked the female graduates: "How many of you are … thinking about all the promotions and titles you're going to get in your career? Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world. But I would venture to guess that the majority of you are most excited about your marriage and the children you will bring into this world."

Butker stressed that his wife, Isabelle, is "a primary educator to our children. She is the one who ensures I never let football, or my business become a distraction from that of a husband and father. … It is through our marriage that, Lord willing, we will both attain salvation."

Pundits and comics claimed that Butker criticized working women -- while his mother, Elizabeth, is a medical physicist in the radiation oncology department at Atlanta's Emory University School of Medicine. In a 2020 Mother's Day tribute, he tweeted: "Growing up my mom was my biggest supporter, guiding me to be the man I needed to become."

Early this week, Change.org had gathered 221,866 signatures urging "Kansas City Chiefs management to dismiss Harrison Butker." The petition said the kicker's remarks "were sexist, homophobic, anti-trans, anti-abortion and racist," thus hindering "efforts towards equality, diversity and inclusion in society. It is unacceptable for such a public figure to use their platform to foster harm rather than unity."

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Attention all 'Rational Sheep' -- Hollywood is no longer the true church of the masses

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Attention all 'Rational Sheep' -- Hollywood is no longer the true church of the masses

As the creator of classics such as "It's a Wonderful Life" and "You Can't Take It with You," director Frank Capra knew how to touch the hearts and souls of moviegoers.

The self-described "Christmas Catholic" took that power seriously. "No saint, no pope, no general, no sultan, has ever had the power that a filmmaker has," he once said. This was the "power to talk to hundreds of millions of people for two hours in the dark."

The power of today's digital media is much more complex than that, said Barbara Nicolosi Harrington, a former Catholic nun turned screenwriter and Hollywood script doctor.

"Hollywood has been the church of the masses, but I don't think that's still true. At least, we cannot say that movie theaters are the sanctuaries they once were for most people, especially for the young," said Harrington, author of "Behind the Screen: Hollywood Insiders on Faith, Film, and Culture."

When she was young, she explained, mainstream entertainment "was everything. Hollywood created the images that told us what was cool and what it meant to be a success and to be loved."

Now, when she talks to young people, they have a completely different relationship with mass media. The voices and images of Hollywood are competing with legions of "influencers" who reach the masses through omnipresent smartphones.

"There are so many competing screens and so much of the content is truly asinine," she said. Young people accept that, but believe that, with their peers, they can decide what is true and what is false in that digital universe. When messages hit home, social-media mavens then connect users with creators, activists or networks linked to the content.

"Kids think they're in control," said Harrington, reached by telephone. "But how can you tell what is right and wrong if it's TikTok and its algorithms that decide what you see? ... You think that you get to decide what is right for you and what voices will guide you. But is that true these days?"

The big question is whether millions of parents, pastors, teachers and counselors realize how much the balance of power has shifted in mass-media and entertainment.

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When it comes to 'religious liberty,' Southern Baptists are pro religious liberty -- for all

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When it comes to 'religious liberty,' Southern Baptists are pro religious liberty -- for all

At a pivotal moment in world history, the president of the United States asked citizens to join him in an urgent prayer.

"Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion and our civilization," he said. "Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith. … Some will never return. Embrace these, Father, and receive them, Thy heroic servants, into Thy kingdom."

That was Franklin D. Roosevelt on D-Day, as Allied troops entered northern France.

"FDR said things about God and America that if anyone spoke those words today people would have heart attacks," said Daniel Darling, director of the Land Center for Cultural Engagement at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary.

"Presidents have always talked about God and faith, because they're speaking to ordinary Americans," he added. Biblical language has also been common, and not just among presidents backed by evangelical Protestants. President Barack Obama, Darling noted, "quoted scripture more often than George W. Bush, who may have avoided that since his critics screamed 'THEOCRACY!' whenever he did."

In recent years, academics and journalists have been especially critical of "Christian Nationalism," a concept that has become hard to clearly define and monitor in political life.

Researchers with Neighborly Faith -- a group that helps evangelicals build stronger relationships with other religious groups -- studied academic publications addressing this issue and created a detailed, 14-point compromise definition stating, in part: "Christian Nationalism is a movement advancing a vision of America's past, present, and future that excludes people of non-Christian religions and non-Western cultures. Christian Nationalists romanticize Christianity's influence on America's development, attributing the nation's historical provenance to God's special favor."

Some researchers add "white" before "Christian Nationalism" and stress that adherents believe America is increasingly threatened by immigration, Critical Race Theory, feminism, LGBTQ+ rights and other trends.

Neighborly Faith concluded that 5% of Americans self-identify as Christian nationalists, and 11% can be considered "adherents," Darling noted.

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The rise and fall of the AI 'Father Justin' is a technology parable for our time

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The rise and fall of the AI 'Father Justin' is a technology parable for our time

The penitent crafted the perfect sin to confess to a virtual priest: "Bless me father, for I have sinned. … I have had anger in my heart about the deployment of AI chatbots in inappropriate places."

"Father Justin," a 3D AI character created by the San Diego-based Catholic Answers network, offered biblical advice for wrestling with anger.

"God is merciful and loving, my child," the bot concluded. "For your penance, I ask you to pray the Our Father three times, reflecting on God's infinite mercy and love. And now, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Legions of cyberspace believers pounced. One tweeted this cry: "HAIEEEEEEE." Susannah Black Roberts of Plough Magazine noted: "Hey @catholiccom, your AI 'priest' is offering absolution. Might want to kill it with fire and never do anything like this again."

Online detectives found other flaws. The National Catholic Register noted the app struggled when turning voices into printed words, translating "Eucharist" as "caressed" or even "you, you, you," while "Communion" became "commute." The Pillar asked if it was possible to baptize "my baby with Gatorade in an emergency" and Father Justin affirmed that option.

"I say this with nothing but respect for you guys and your work, but ... this should've just been a plain search engine," tweeted Father Mike Palmer of the Congregation of Holy Cross. "Dressing it up as a soulless AI avatar of a priest does absolutely nothing except cause confusion and invite mockery of your otherwise excellent work."

Catholic Answers President Christopher Check quickly confessed that his team "received a good deal of helpful feedback." Thus, "Justin" lost his clerical collar.

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As a hostage, journalist Terry Anderson's Catholic faith was tested -- to say the least

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As a hostage, journalist Terry Anderson's Catholic faith was tested -- to say the least

During his 2,454 days in captivity — between strategic moves among 20 or more hiding places in Lebanon — Hezbollah leaders often allowed journalist Terry Anderson to read a Bible.

Armed pro-Iran militants seized the Associated Press correspondent on March 16, 1985, then jammed him into the trunk of a Mercedes-Benz. This took place during a painful time in his personal life, and Anderson was already asking hard questions about his Catholic faith.

Anderson pleaded with his guards to get him a Bible. When they did that, he read it from cover to cover 50 times while in captivity. Early on, he also learned that a Catholic priest -- Father Lawrence Jenco -- was a hostage. During their time together, Jenco heard Anderson's first confession in 25 years.

"I still had plenty of questions about the Bible," Anderson told me, during a 1999 global conference for Christian journalists in Chichester, England. Then, after Jenco was released, "I was locked up with a seminary professor." That hostage was the Presbyterian missionary Benjamin Weir, from the Near East School of Theology in Beirut.

"I needed a priest and God gave me a priest," said Anderson. "I had Bible questions and God gave me a New Testament professor. … I realized that God had not abandoned me."

Anderson died this past Sunday (April 21) at age 76, after complications from heart surgery. While in captivity, he became the symbol -- for journalists worldwide -- of the nearly 100 foreigners seized by militants during what Time magazine called "the decade of hostages."

After his 1991 release, Anderson taught journalism at several major universities, while struggling behind the scenes with post-traumatic stress disorder.