Describing the Ocean

I enjoy the ocean. Some of my earliest memories are of the Jersey shore and the crashing surf. Our family went to the Jersey shore each spring before it was warm enough to swim and nearly each weekend until one last time each fall after all the boardwalk stores had boarded up. We would sit and look longingly at the waves as I inwardly both remembered the summer and planned ahead to the next year.

The lapping of waves or the roar of surf sustains me. The college I attended was located in a grand seven story hotel complex on Hollywood Beach in Florida. My fifth floor dorm room looked out on the Atlantic and one of the best beaches of the Gold Coast.

I suppose it is safe now to admit that I left my windows open at night – with the AC cranked down low, of course – drifting off the sleep to the sound of lapping waves.

Prior to college graduation I lived a block from the beach for a summer. Each day my friend John and I lived the life of a beach bum, working a night shift parking cards at a beach resort and our days at the beach.

For the past 30 years, my home has been in the Florida Keys. Nearly every morning I have been energized by the morning sun rising over Whale Harbor Bridge on my way to work. Some mornings the colors or the sky gave me pause. Often during the summer months the sea and sky would meet in the same color and the ocean so flat clam it looked like you could walk to the horizon on a azure highway.

I don’t believe a year has passed that my wife and I have not gotten away at least once for a few days sitting at the beach and relaxing in the surf.

How would you describe the ocean to someone who had never seen it? Allow me some latitude and suppose all media were unavailable for use. Could your words do justice to the sound of outer ocean on a beach? Can you describe a cool ocean breeze in the twilight after a day of sun? How about the tranquility of dozing on a beach under a tropical sun?

Suppose you were the person who had never seen the blue water disappear into the horizon where you can not tell where one begins and the other ends.

Imagine I handed you a large glass jar contain beach sand and sea water. Using this prop to convince you of the majesty and magnificence of the ocean, I proceed to implore you to consider a decision to go to the ocean and live.

Would it be a surprise to find that you are not impressed or interested? Perhaps you would smile politely, while handing back the jar and with a quick “push-away” head for the nearest exit.

Suppose, for a moment, the Kingdom of God was the ocean and the jar our intellectual attempts to convey the mystery of Christ. Are our attempts even feebler than a jar of sand and water the ocean in explaining God and his Kingdom of light?

I wonder why anyone is drawn.

Our words are only useful to weakly relate what we have already experienced.
Taste and see that the Lord is good. Once a man has seen the ocean, felt the spray of salt water on his face, heard the roar of crashing waves on the rocks can he say he has seen the sea.
I am not demeaning preaching or any teaching of God’s word; nor apologetics, though I am coming close to doing so.

Study, teaching, theology, even dogma occurs at and after the ocean is seen, felt, enjoyed. Then and only then will the words of teaching have life, reality and power. Al else is simply cheap imitation.

So either we can dust the shells on our shelves or go stand in the surf.
Anyone need some sunscreen?

Dog on a Chain

I discovered two things about myself during my freshman year at college. I liked to run and I was fairly good at it. Now I am not talking about jogging in the park, but running – miles of it – running at a pace of seven minute miles for 10 plus miles.
My discovery began a week or so into my freshman year. I attended a small fundamentalist Bible college in Hollywood, Florida. One evening several of my friends were about to go out for a “run” and asked if I would join them.
So, I did. We ran three miles along the Hollywood boardwalk – which is actually asphalt. Remarkably, I stayed with them until the end when they each finished with a sprint over the last 300 yards. I didn’t have any gas left for a kick. (kick – term for a runner’s sprint at the end of a long run)
Surprised and encouraged my friends asked me to join the cross-country team which had recently formed.
Anyway I did, and developed a passion for running. By the end of the season I had become the number four runner on the team. My passion continued after the season and into the summer when I returned home to the suburbs of Philadelphia.
To be honest my passion became an obsession. If I did not get my daily run in I became sullen and irritated. This necessitated running many nights around mid-night.
Late at night I had the world all to myself, gliding along tree covered sidewalks illuminated by occasional streetlights. Theses runs became almost dreamlike as if only I existed in the quiet of the night.
I had a nice three mile course, for these late-night runs, which made a loop around a small lake. On one side of the lake beautiful homes had been built each with manicured lawns and tall oaks hiding the homes from the street.
One evening the tranquility was broken by the bane of all runners – the barking of a dog. Instantly I awakened from my runner’s trance. Adrenaline shooting through my veins, instinctively I knew that this was a massive dog by the snarl and the sound of paws closing the distance between us as the black figure came across a lawn from between the trees.
My mind was filled with the horror of snapping jaws and the prospect of mangled legs. I immediately lengthened my stride running on my toes in a full sprint. Suddenly the snarl became muffled as I heard a muted yelp and heard the thud of the beast’s body hitting the ground. Adrenaline still pumping and the primeval urge to flee was still paramount, but curiosity took over I broke stride. Turning my head, looking over my shoulder, I saw a monstrous German shepherd tangled in a yard chain. A cold sweat washed over me as I began to run away amid feeling of relief.
A few nights later, I again needed to get in a short run around midnight. As I approached my adversary’s yard, I quickened my pace and lengthened my stride. I peered into the darkness, searching for a sign of my foe.
Suddenly, a black figure began his mad dash toward me. I stepped up into high gear; easily eluding the charging brute. Again I heard the thud! Laughing inwardly I glided away into the night.
Subsequently, I found myself repeating this tease often. I was actually putting off runs until midnight for the sole purpose of tormenting my canine dupe.
In order to cause a more frenzied chase and keep the game interesting - to me – I had begun to cut into his yard. Each night I became more daring learning just how far and at what speed I needed to cause a most spectacular tumble.
My braggadocios grew nightly, as I ventured further and further into his territory running just ahead of danger, barely escaping. Night after night I toyed with my adversary until one night I did not hear the customary yelp at the extent of the chains span. Instead I heard the beast’s snarl – growing ever closer. Footfalls were louder and approaching as I realized He had been loosed!
Refuge was found with three quick strides and a leap unto the roof of a Ford Mustang. I danced as He standing on his hind paws tired to reach my ankles with his snapping jaws.
The porch light came on as his owner called the dog and I cowardly jumped down and ran into the darkness.
It was a long time, actually several months before I took a loop around the lake and even then on the far sidewalk.
I’ve told this story several timers as a Bible teacher and at chapels in the Christian school where I once ministered. Usually the point was as Dallas Willard poignantly explained, “sin management”. You know, “Satan’s defeated and is on a chain. He can’t get to you but don’t be foolish, stay out of his yard.”
But upon reflection, I believe it is more an illustration of grace. You see, I was thoughtless, mean-spirited, and very much a jerk, and still I did not suffer for my cowardly impertinence.
I am reminded of God’s grace: scandalous grace. I in no way deserve it but grace has showered me and I am saved from my foolishness, set free, healed. I am released, and still I do foolish and even purposeful idiot-atosities every day; but the grace is still there.

Grace
She takes the blame
She covers the shame
Removes the stain

I know all the “but…” I went to a fundamental Bible college. Take some deep breaths. You will be fine.
Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. Romans 8:1

What once was hurt
What once was friction
What left a mark
No longer stings
Because grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things
Grace makes beauty out of ugly things
Lyrics: Bono

What do you what in a church.

http://www.bohnsplace.com/betty_butterfield/testimony.mov

Enough is enuf.

Simplified Spelling Society: "Let's get phonetic"

By Paul MajendieTue Apr 17, 10:19 AM ET

The Simplified Spelling Society (SSS) is celebrating its 99th birthday by launching a new campaign to make it easier to read and write English.

It may be the world's most universal language but linguistic experts say it has failed to adapt for the last 500 years and now half the globe's English speakers have difficulty spelling.

With texts and e-mails revolutionising the way we communicate, SSS secretary John Gledhill says the time is ripe for phonetic reform and spelling simplification.

"Texts cut away the complications and take away the stigma of not being able to use an obsolete spelling," Gledhill told Reuters in an interview.

The SSS message is simple: "You can change the spelling without spoiling the language. People are scared of change and don't realise it is normal in language."

European children learn to read and write far quicker than the British, he said. Italians take just two years while the British can struggle for up to 12 years.

He said 40 million American adults are functionally illiterate -- for everyday purposes, they are not able to read and write.

Gledhill, who has a PhD in the history of Dutch consonantal spelling from 1100-1970, said the Netherlands updated spelling to keep pace with pronunciation.

"English is about the only language, apart from French, on the world stage that hasn't updated its spelling for 500 years. That is why it is in rather a mess," he said.

PHONETICS KEY

Gledhill sees phonetics as the key to improving literacy and spelling.

He complained that almost 4,000 English spellings make no sense. If head, said and friend were simplified down to 'hed' and 'sed' and 'frend' then kids would learn quicker.

But teachers begged to differ.

"Language has to be fit for purpose. The discipline of spelling is important. Children should learn to judge when formal and informal language is required," said John Dunford of the Association of School and College Leaders.

"Text message spelling may be appropriate for text messages. It certainly isn't appropriate for filling out an application form. Children should learn how to punctuate and spell properly."

The Simplified Spelling Society boasted 35,000 members in its 20th Century heyday. U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt was one of its most prominent supporters.

In Britain, where illiteracy is estimated to cost the economy 10 billion pounds a year, parliamentarians sought to tackle the problem by legislation. But enthusiasm waned.

"We are not sure why there was such a huge interest after the First World War. Maybe people thought it was a brand new world after the war to end all wars," Gledhill said.

Membership worldwide has now shrunk to 500 for the London-based society but Gledhill insists change is more urgent than ever.

"Spanish is easier to read and write and could challenge the dominance of English. The English language itself is in very good health. We just want it to be written down in a way that is readable and writeable."

You’re a Christian, you gotta take it!

The Diplomat Hotel was one of the flagship Miami Beach resorts during the 1970’s. Though actually located in Hallandale ten miles to the north from the crown jewels of the Doral, Eden Roc, and Fountain Blu the Diplomat drew the same clientele and possessed the same prestige.
At 19, I parked the cars of the wealthy and famous an all winter long, snowbirds from the northeast. Currently this service is usually called valet, but back in the day, we were called “runners”. Our outside lot at the Diplomat was enormous, parking over 1200 cars. Another 800 could be parked in the garages below the hotel. Some would be more than a quarter-mile away from the entrance which was ramped to the third floor displaying the opulent foyer widening to hold three lanes of traffic above the main beach road – A1A.
My best friend had been “running” cars there for about a year and through him I was hired. That was the good news, because in the mid-70’s a kid could make a lot of cash hustling tips. However, the bad news was that I would need to prove myself on the day-shift. This not only meant working in the South Florida heat, but also with the head door manager – Eddie.
Imagine of a combination between Louie from the TV show Taxi and a senile Yogi Berra put into a weeble-wobble toy body and you might begin to visualize Eddie.
I can still hear his squeaky voice – something between a transmission whining out and nails on a chalkboard – calling me. “Ritchie, Ritchie, let me tell you I’m the quarterback of this team, now go and hit me a homerun.” Oh, and as he spoke to you he had this habit of squeezing the muscle on the top of you shoulder with two fingers as his hand twitched, but enough of my fond memories.
To call my fellow workers on the day-crew slackers would be too high of praise. Their idea of running for a car was to toddle down the ramp until just out of sight and then stroll for the car.
During this time, I was participating in competitive cross-country races and saw the job as a way to be paid for interval training. Also a strong work ethic had been instilled in me so working hard was not an issue. The result, conversely, was that I ran for far more cars during a shift than my fellow runners. That by itself would not have really been a problem but we “pooled” our tips and they were happy to have me take their turns.
Eddie waddled around the lavish entrance of the Diplomat as a king in his own court. He generally had one runner who was in the “dog-house” upon whom Eddie spewed verbal abuse. This lasted until someone else messed up and would then become recipient of Eddie’s verbal wrath. Easy to figure out this system – don’t mess up.
This was not a problem for me since I not only worked hard but was able to consistently write down the correct location and description of the cars I parked. (Don’t be too impressed, I was in college and not hampered by chemicals that were either smoked or ingested.)
Nevertheless, a day came when Eddie realized he had been negligent in his attention of me, and since there had not been a damaged car or a lost set of keys in several days he decided to ride the kid from the Bible College.
The tropical sun was high in the sky. There were no clouds and even less breeze to temper the humidity. But the heat I was feeling had nothing to do with the tropics. Slowly with deliberateness, Eddie began his badgering.
He seemed to enjoy pushing, tormenting until a runner exploded in anger. Perhaps he gained some level of control that way, I just don’t know.
Well, I resolved to take what he dished out and to keep my mouth shut. My fellow runners worked like they had never before. They were uncharacteristically efficient in parking and retrieving cars. I rarely escaped to the lot for a few minutes respite. After several hours, I had held my tongue but was boiling inside, Eddie went for the throat.
Though I don’t recall his exact words, he could tell I was at a breaking point. I do remember, as if it happened five minutes ago, Eddie laughing as he moved closer and squeaked, “You don’t like this do you, Ritchie, You don’t like this at all. Well, you’re a Christian; you have gotta take it.”
He was right, but he did not understand that the idea of turning the other cheek was about freeing the downtrodden and changing the social order. Turning the cheek is not about masochism but power and authority.
I told him he was correct, I did have to take it, and then smiled and said, “But I don’t have to work for you.” Turning I headed to personnel to clock out.
Funny thing, Eddie began to squeak and ask me to stay, waddling after me down the ramp and into the parking garage. I couldn’t, at least not then.
A couple of weeks later the night manager contacted me through a friend and asked me to return and work the night shift. I did.
I am curious about why I was able to act with restraint and also so decisively. Upon reflection I believe it has to do with moralism. Moralism: the curse of the Christian witness on the public square. Eddie hoped to bind me with moral chains, not of his beliefs, but those he assumed were mine.
Moralism operates in a characteristic way. Grace is first removed, put aside from the conversation like an unwanted little sister. The issue then becomes only of moral dos and don’ts.
Followed close behind by the attitude of superiority which becomes the accepted moral judge, a weapon of choice to attack and keep others in their place. In other words: a weapon of mass distraction, keeping the grace of God hidden behind the illusion of moral correctness. The sadness is that in the end it reinforces hostility to God, who is blamed for the moralism dispensed in his name.

Happy New Year

The Thai New Year Songkran is celebrated every year on April 13 - 15. It is also celebrated in Laos, Cambodia, Myanmar, and by ethnic Dai in Yunnan, China. Sri Lanka also celebrates a similar festival called Sinhalese and Tamil New Year on the same dates.
An interresting celebration of Songkran is the throwing of water. People roam the streets with bowls of water, water guns or even a garden hose, and drench each other.
This festival emphasizes returning home to visit parents, paying respect to them, and usually bringing them a small gift. People also visit and pay respect to their older neighbors. For these reasons Songkran days are also considered the family days or the elderly days.

Memories

Kurt Vonnegut,
US novelist (1922 -2007 )

Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.

I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.

If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind.

Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

On the Catwalk

One of the pleasures of my current job is “walking a catwalk”. A catwalk is about 12” of form-work (plywood) that extends beyond the area formed for a concrete slab or roof. Back in the day, (early ’80’s) I thought nothing of nimbly walking, working, and carrying equipment on the catwalk 30 – 35 feet off the ground. Now in my early 50’s, returning to my “roots”, I am a bit more apprehensive.
Little did I realize how my present experience on a catwalk during a recent roof pour would assist me at our “second” home in North Carolina.
Walking a “catwalk” or runway as some insist, had never entered my imagination. So when I found myself and our dog, Rufus, at a charity luncheon showcasing Life IS Good apparel I had to smile at the irony.
A year ago neither activity was ever even a remote possibility, and in the course of a week I have done both.
At the fashion show, I must say we – that is Rufus and me – were the highlight. Rufus is our 15 year-old whippet/terrier. Though I usually describe him as a breed of Lee, you know, part Hom- and part Ugh-. He is a sweet gentle dog who no longer can see too good, or hear too good, or smell to good. Rufus has few teeth left, and those he has stick out of his mouth at an angle.
Little Rufus was styling in a green and yellow argyle sweater with the black boa trim. I lied to him when he was dressed and told him no one would laugh. The boa did little for his sexual orientation which is confused since the operation. However, no worry, his self-esteem does not appear to have been harmed.
The society ladies adored him, the store – The Stitchin' Post – we represented has had increased sales and I have a story to tell. Rufus also made the front page of the local paper. Not bad for two old guys.

Check out the The Stitchin' Post for Life IS Good summer wear.

Sisyphus Complex

Boulders
MY back is strong
Blunders
MY shoulders broad
Broken
I can take
Shove
all
Sweat
the guff
Sisyphus
Again, again, again…
(Small voice)
“my burden is light
my yoke is easy”
Groan
my effort
I do not hear.

Blogger Bill Kinnon has a post “The People formerly known as The Congregation” which I found through internet monk. It is worth a read.
He may be a bit harsh and a mite jaded, but he speaks with a voice I have found in many places.
However you feel about the institutional church Bill’s article will stir you up.