Blind Horse

Alternative uses for books (Other than reading)

2010-05-17T16:46:00.004-04:00

See more here: http://www.offbeatearth.com/dont-like-reading-other-uses-for-books/

Cool Art

2010-05-13T19:00:00.001-04:00

It's All Perspective

2010-05-02T09:57:00.001-04:00

Watch to the very end!!!!

What is the Gospel?

2010-03-04T12:11:00.002-05:00

Thoughts on Changing Culture

2009-08-16T09:59:00.001-04:00

Czech president Vaclav Havel and other dissidents began to ask, ‘How can we live the truth in a culture based on a fundamental lie, especially since the lie is in our heads? How can we begin to live into the truth? We desire so much more than just things. We want something to hope in, a reason to believe.

So in his country as in other iron-curtain countries, people began to set up what he called ‘parallel cultures.’ It was not a counterculture because, he said, it was impossible for us to live totally outside the system.

You cannot live outside a culture. But you can create within it zones and spaces, where you can become who you really are. It is in such places that one can speak the truth, where one can gather with others who share that truth.

This went on for years, not without difficulties, but for years. Over time, the truth became stronger and stronger, and at a certain point people began to walk in the streets and to say to the system, ‘We don’t believe you anymore.’ And the system fell.

It fell, not because of the power of Western nuclear equipment, but because the people said within the system, ‘We don’t believe you anymore.’ It was a vision that had been nourished within those parallel cultures.

2009-08-06T17:23:00.003-04:00

Feeding the Beast

Feed the beast
Ever hungry never full
Dress up; come as you are
Feed the beast

Three t’s a day
Are the beast’s delight
Time, Talent, Treasure
Feed the beast

Consuming, devouring, life sucking
Dehumanizing appetite
Spewing guilt and shame
Feed the beast

Ever growing spiraled horns
Meal bells toll
Flocks assemble
Feed the beast

Feed by guilt
Feed by love
All the same
Feed the beast

Four things never to do

2009-05-24T12:24:00.000-04:00

;">There are four things you must never do: lie, steal, cheat, or drink.

But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love.
If you must steal, steal away from bad company.
If you must cheat, cheat death.
And if you must drink, drink in the moments that take your breath away...

Brianne Kelly Darragh

Something to get your shorts tangled up

2009-05-23T12:41:00.000-04:00

The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How would I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church's prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament.

Kierkegaardian quote

But I Got to Carry the Beer

2008-06-18T17:51:00.007-04:00

As a college student I had my fair share of jobs. One of the most , shall I say, curious was laboring on a construction crew, in what was then rural Davie several miles to the west of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

The project consisted of 180 two-story townhouses with eight units to each building. I began this career digging footers, laying steel rods, and placing concrete.

I began in February working form 1:00 until 5:00. (My Bible college classes all ended by 12:00. The pay was $3.00 per hour. Believe it or not that was big money back then and probably ages me with those who tell stories of walking to school miles uphill both ways. A few fellows I knew from college were already working there and helped me get the job.

During that winter and into the spring there was 8 – 12 of us at a time from the Bible college working at this construction site. “White ears” was one of the names used for us that I can repeat. We were called that due to our college dress code required that a fellow’s haircut show skin behind and above the ears.

Now construction jobs are not known for the gentility and civility of the crew. One might think it would be a difficult place for Bible college students to work. That is probably so, but what made this particular job, as I said – curious – was that besides those of us from the Bible college most everyone else was part of a motorcycle …er...uh…social club. Their colors bore the insignia Sons of Dixie. All that is except for the mob hit-man who was laying low, but that’s another story, oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell that, so keep it between us, OK?

By the time our semester ended in early May only two of us “Bible Boys” remained. During the four months, I guess, two dozen or more guys came and went from the college. Most left in a huff; offended by the bikers’ language, attitude, taunts or boyish pranks some of which involved pistols. Their self-righteous pontifications could be heard in the dorm halls in the evening out of ear-shot and arm-reach of their tattooed rapscallions.

One fellow, a nervous kid from Atlanta, quit after shots were fired into the top of the pot-a-pot he was evidently sitting in. I guess he had justification to leave, but my fellow “we-are-going-to-win-the-world-for-Jesus” buddies simply exhibited a self-righteous “better-then-thou” relationship with the bikers which only prompted “good-humored” abuse. Some of the pranks, questions, responses, and expletives I must admit were funny.

Anyway, to move this tale along…. I was able to fly under the radar and not rile up the bikers and was a hard worker. My work ethic earned me respect from several of the club members. One of the problems some of the preacher boys had was leaning on their shovel as they expounded on the word of God rather than digging the dirt.

I remember one fellow who quit after being told to “get up off your __ ___ ___ fat ass and get to work.” I’ve wondered if he was more offended by the profanity or for being called out for being fat and lazy. Guess I’ll never know but I have an opinion.

The construction company, Dixie Drywall, lacked efficiency. The ability to complete tasks and projects was evident in that we were about 75 completed buildings behind schedule. They were the poster child for the adage: “drugs and alcohol are the road to construction”. Though there never seemed to be any urgency, buildings that had not even been begun were supposed to have been occupied by clients who had already paid for them.

Skipping ahead to get to the beer – I hadn’t forgot. One night in late June the foreman and three others were murdered by a rival club, the Outlaws. The foreman was the national vice-president of the Sons of Dixie gang …er… I mean social club.

I went to the funeral – seemed to be the right thing to do. This was the only biker funeral I have ever attended. The roar of what seemed to be 500 Harleys which made up the procession was startling. I stood out a little, I might have been the only male not in colors. My attendance did make an impression on my fellow workers. After that I was not isolated as the Bible guy.

Well a new foreman was promoted, Barry an ex-marine, His brown shoulder length hair bleached blond by the sun, framed his piercing steel-blue eyes. A friendly smile and a laid back demeanor hid a very determined taskmaster Barry commanded respect or fear you knew instinctively not to get on his wrong side. The efficiency on the job site quickly improved. Progress began to be made as work was directed in an efficient and organized manner. Whether out of fear or respect everyone began to put in a full day’s work (more or less).

On a Tuesday, after lunch break about two weeks after the funeral, Barry returned from lunch in a cloud of dust and grinding gears as his el-Camino roared across the job site fishtailed sideways to a stop in front of the shell where I was at work on the second story slab with a few preacher boys and self-medicated non bikers.

In a voice that revealed Barry had enjoyed a very liquid lunch and was both angry and threatening commanded me to down off the slab and into his car. I did, and we pealed off into a cloud of construction yard duct. Later the kids from Bible college told me that they thought I was going to be killed and had begun to pray for my soul.

In silence, Barry drove. Basically he stayed on the road; never did more than two wheels leave the asphalt on either side of the road. He took me to a bar. Well, they sold beer and you could sit so I guess it was a bar. But how may bars have you been in that were in a 15’ x 40’ unpainted concrete structure with an exposed tar paper roof for a drink on a Tuesday afternoon. (If you have had fundamentalist Bible College experiences you will relate even more with the dilemma I faced.)

Barry ordered a beer. I took a chance and ordered a Pepsi. Only after finishing his first and starting his second as I sat in silence sipping my Pepsi did he speak. Barry told me the story of the murders. His best friend had been one of the victims. He had been to see the police and somehow even had photos of the crime scene. I didn’t ask him how he came upon them. Then he asked me to pray. So I did.

We met a couple of more times after work; he taught me to read simple blueprints and gave me the job title and position of labor foreman and a $.50 raise. That was a big deal in 1974; I was now making &3.50 an hour! His reasoning was that since I was the best “___ ___ ___ worker there”, I deserved it. And who was I to argue with Barry, I had seen the result of that with others. I like my face just the way it is.

Oh, and since I was the best laborer he gave me a leather nail apron and told me I was no longer to do any work; but to follow him around and carry his beer. That’s what the nail apron was for, to carry his beer.

Ok, I know you have questions, I even know what they are but I never asked him to explain, it was just one of those things, you had to be there. Also I do not enjoy pain and even more so dislike seeing my own blood flowing from wounds to my face or the discomfort of breathing with cracked ribs.

Barry seemed to take great satisfaction going into the offices of the sales force and property owners with me in tow and then asking them if they knew who I was. They always said, “No”. He proceeded to tell them that I was the best ___ ___ ___ worker there and he had just given me a 50-cent raise and guess what my job was now? “He carries my beer!” I just smiled and opened and handed him another.
I guess he made his point, whatever it might have been, because after a few days of carrying the beer I was back tying steel, sweating in the South Florida sun and directing the other laborers.

Another perk of my new position was to collect a few dollars from Barry and go to the local 7-11 to buy beer and ice for the day each morning. Other than chastisement from my fellow Bible boys – who considered it sin to buy beer and a mortal sin to contribute to someone else’s vice I enjoyed the time out of the sun. I believe that this may have been the moment I began to stray from the fortress of fundamentalism.

Now this story would be sweet if Barry got saved and is now a missionary to bikers worldwide, but as far as I know he’s not and isn’t. But we did talk about Jesus some and he said he had a different opinion about Christians. Sometimes he or another “club” member would ask me to pray. Barry told me one time that if I ever was to preach a sermon he would come to a church to hear me. Even though it has been many years, I often thought of Barry when I had the opportunity to fill a pulpit.

I hope I see Barry again someday, maybe in heaven, ….and I’ll carry the beer.

Hope and Despair

2008-05-21T14:33:00.001-04:00

soft morning light

.........a bird sings
.......belief reborn
..................inhale

dew on the lawn
.......cool breeze
.........head high
..hope renewed

afternoon heat
back bent
glare obscures belief
desire melts

sun sets
sweat stained
flee to sleep
despair

On Being Invisible

2008-04-24T19:14:00.000-04:00

I am invisible
Standing within
Unnoticed not shamed

I am invisible
Unseen, not blind
Unheard, not mute

I am invisible
The stench of my
Breath smothers you

I am invisible
The sweat of my
Back greases your path

I am invisible
My shadow chills the
Room I no longer dwell

I am invisible
Passing through cage
Bars forged by fear

I now invisible
Feel the breeze
Only a body knows.

I am invisible
Clothed by friends
Belief and trust

I am invisible
Sighted audible
Bound no more

On not posting

2008-02-24T16:56:00.002-05:00

Wow, I have not posted in a while. My time has been taken up with book-selling. This is something I began in 2002 with my private collection, basically to support my own buying.
Recently I have been acquiring boxes of books from friends so my sales increased. In late November a dear friend who is an author/speaker moved from the community. He blessed me with many boxes of basically new books which he had been given while on speaking tours or by various publishers

My sales skyrocketed with this acquisition. I began listing on Amazon in January (my other venue is half.com) and started to learn about book-selling as a part-time income producer.
This involves “scouting” for books at yard sales, consignment shops and thrift stores. I have been acquiring 30 – 40 titles on a Saturday and selling as many during the week.
Hopefully, I will get back to bloging soon.

On Following Satan

2008-01-23T21:04:00.000-05:00

Take a deep breath, dear reader, let it out slowly, very slowly, and now please take another. Don’t light the torches just yet, and would you please untie me from this stake; at least until you finish the article.

“Satan wants us to either be preoccupied with him or to ignore his reality.” So how have I followed this course of action? Well, it was quite innocently and certainly not by design, but I must admit I indeed did follow.

I coached High School basketball for 25 seasons at a small private Christian school. During the first few years we were the “cupcake” on everyone’s schedule. That is until a group of athletes, all in the same class came along. I had been their 6th grade teacher we bonded that year. I have never coached a group that were closer to each other or who trusted in me as their coach.

As they entered Jr. High our relationship continued as I was also the Jr. High coach. We began to play a physical, hard-nose man to man style of defense. They accepted the challenge and were willing to give their dedication to learning a physical way of competing.

It was slow going at the beginning of the season, but their hard work began to pay off after a few games and their confidence rose. Our varsity was still getting beat and beaten up with regularity, but the Jr. High squad was beginning to win.

In South Florida during the early 80’s none of the schools in our division played man-to-man defense or at least not well. The result was that none of the teams had a well developed offense to play against a man to man defense.

Without going into detail that would only boar a non-basketball-junkie, I’ll simply say that our help side defense would have brought a smile to Coach Knight and our kids really liked the contact of boxing out.
Our style could have been called full court karate.

So what does this have to do with following Satan, you might ask, well just hang on and you will see. And no, I do not believe it is a good idea to see if I will sink to the bottom of a pond!

As this group reached varsity in 10th grade, we were unknowingly following the modis operandi of the Prince of Darkness. Teams expected to win easily and win big against us. They no longer did. Even when we lost, our opponents, battered and bruised, rarely cerebrated.

As that season worn on and during the next two years, teams either became preoccupied in the days before playing us trying to prepare a new offense. This played right to our advantage. Our opponent was so busy concentrating on the new offense patterns and responsibilities that our defense worked even better. Also since their coach seemed concerned – why the new offense – opponents also worried. By half-time we would have their patterns and assignments learned and with simple adjustments would totally dominate the second half.

These teams were often only a little more talented and athletic than us. We would beat them by thirty. The powerhouse teams just ignored us, expecting to win – they always had before – due to sheer talent. I can’t say I really blame them, there were some really talented teams.

Though we pulled only a few upsets, teams who were accustomed to scoring 70 – 90 points a game and were looking forward to putting up 100 against us and padding their personal stats typically struggled to score 50 against us.

Frustration grew and blame among the opposing player began to flow like a cancer. Several of these talented squads had coaches who appeared to have been trained at the Bobby Knight School of Persuasion and Motivation. As their coach became more animated, we began to bait a trap.

With special coaches like this, we applied another of Satan’s tricks, we lied. Calm down, I have confessed and repented; it was thirty years ago, already. And no, you can not use that as evidence. Furthermore I will not walk nine feet, over red-hot ploughshares as proof I am not in league with Satan.

Our players were adapt at the use of language to cause doubt and sow division. They could spot a disgruntled attitude quickly and then went to work. A simple, “Why don’t they give you the ball more?” Spoken at the right moment to a leading scorer would be sure to ignite teen tempers. Once a few flames were lit; we verbally poured on the gasoline.

Though I did not see these strategies as from Satan at the time, I now see the correlation between either ignoring or having a preoccupation with an adversary as frustrating any advance. You see we should not have been able to compete but by shifting the focus away from our opponent’s strengths to ours we often prevailed.

The disharmony among many brothers and sisters in Christ not only between congregations but may be due to lies being whispered by an enemy. Certainly not accepting that we have an enemy or underestimating his abilities hinders the advance of the Kingdom of God.

Equally dangerous is focusing our attention on his schemes. Another lesson I learned as a coach was do what you do best and be only a little conscious of the other team’s methods. If my players sensed that I was worried about a rival squad they became more so.

OK, so here’s what I am trying to say. A Christian’s primary task isn’t to avoid sin, which is impossible anyway, but to recognize sin. Well, that’s not really our primary task but in order to move along. There is an enormous amount of self-deception in sin. When this is combined with devil-deception, the task of recognition is compounded.
We have an enemy, whose purpose to kill, steal, and destroy. Not so unlike HS basketball. If we become too preoccupied with our enemy he has an advantage over us. If we pretend he is powerless or non-existent he may have a field day over us.
One last stroll down memory lane, a lesson I learned as a coach was to keep it simple and do what you do well. Yea, as coach I studied the other teams but never made a big deal out of it to the players. Maybe we should just keep it simple; you know, love God and love your neighbor.

The Measure of Greatness

2008-01-21T06:08:00.000-05:00

Then little children were brought to Jesus
for him to place his hands on them and pray for them.
But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.
Jesus said,
"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."
Matthew 19: 13-14 NIV

Seven years-old and trapped with my mom at her workplace on a perfectly good morning on a teacher’s workday – what could be worse? First, for some reason we had no books or toys for me. Secondly, my mother was secretary for the president of Crozier Theological Seminary in Chester, Pennsylvania and in these hallowed halls no children were seen or heard.

Perhaps in compassion, but more likely to hide me, my mom placed me on a couch at the end of a large library/reading room. From the untrustworthy memory and perception of a seven year-old the room was enormous stretching past the distance an eye could see.

There were no interior walls. The appearance of several connected rooms was achieved by the placement of couches, chairs and tables. Each area had its own entrance door, but once inside one could move freely from one end to the other.

On the couch, my back was to most of the room as I was seated in front of a small b/w television set. My mother had tuned to a cartoon show and instructed me in her MOST serious voice: “Do not move, do not get up, do not make a sound, do not touch the TV, do not touch anything. Had it not been unhealthy I would have been told not to breathe. Thoroughly warned, completely intimidated, and utterly bummed I settled back and began to watch Woody Woodpecker.

As older TV’s often did, the vertical hold began scrolling. Now I was really in the dumps. How long before my mom returned to check on me, probably hours. Just when matters could not be worse a group of Suits entered the far end of the library from where I now cowered.

If the term Suits is unfamiliar, it refers simply to grownups that wear collars to small, ties to tight, never smile, and, most significantly, have a particularly strong dislike of small boys – like me.

After sneaking a peek above the couch back, I tried to become invisible while attempting mind control over the Suits, willing them to exit prior to entering this last section of dusty books and leather couches where I now trembled. My fear became panic as the tip-tapping of black wing-tipped shoes came closer as the boom of several bass voiced echoed in my ears.

Spotted! I could feel one of the group approaching. He sat down, placed a strong hand on my shoulder. His gentle eyes looked into mine as his smile and kind voice clamed me instantly. I don’t remember if I spoke. He asked what was the matter and then as if he already knew asked if he could fix the TV. I wanted to tell him not to touch it; I didn’t want him to get into trouble. But my voice disappeared in his presence as he stood, tall and confident. He adjusted the TV.

At the very moment his hand went behind the set, my mother entered. She stopped in the doorway. I could tell from her face that she was unnerved, more panicked than me, in fact, flustered.

“Ethel,” the man spoke her name. He knew her, I marveled. Ethel, it’s all-right,” he said as he approached her and greeted her respectively. I observed her embarrassment and apprehension dissolve as he engaged her in conversation.

Even at seven, I was able to intuitively sense the annoyance of the Suits; while amazed at the grace of this powerful man. Whoever he was they deferred to him. I quickly concluded he was OK; he probably had to dress that way, but he was no Suit.

After they left my mom sat with me and spoke about my new friend. Though I was only seven, the seriousness and gravity of her conversation remained with me.

During the next few years my mom would occasionally remind me of the encounter when we saw him on television, particularly when he was maligned on the newscasts.
Before he had a dream Dr. King was living his dream, at least with me a little seven year-old white boy.

"The King will reply,
'I tell you the truth, whatever you did
for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.'
Matthew 25:40

Love: Inside Out

2008-01-06T12:36:00.000-05:00

I first meet Manny after the summer of my ninth grade year. He was a student at the Philadelphia School of the Bible and had begun to work at our church as the 12th grade boys Sunday school teacher. I was returning form a summer as a counselor in training at Christian camp on Maryland’s eastern shore.

Manny was from New York City, in his early thirties, married with two boys under the age of 5. Though my church’s Sunday school program divided classes by grade level and gender, my friend David and I were assigned to Manny’s 12th grade class.

Several Christian men spoke into my life as I grew up in the church but none had the impact as Manny. I’m sure the time of my life was significant, but in actuality it was Manny.

Manny was not fooled by our teenage B.S. or attempts to pretend to follow the accepted and unspoken Christian standards of the late 60’s. He had been part of an organized crime family form his early teens and way to street-wise for us white suburban posers.

So for the next three years between the hours of 9:30 and 10:45, I sat under Manny’s teaching. Actually I don’t recall a thing he said, but I remember his life and the grace that flowed from him to all he encountered.

After Manny became a follower of Jesus he tried to leave the rackets and the fellows he had run with since he was thirteen. However he had made a pact with the devil – so to speak – and it ended with his house being fire-bombed and him fleeing with his young family to Philadelphia. I never learned but sketchy details of his prior life and as I grew to know him, I became more interested in this man who actually believed the words of Jesus and attempted to live them out.

Leaving New York and is former life with nothing but his family and the clothes on their backs, Manny found an apartment in a third-floor walk up in an inner-city government project. The project in all of its concrete and utilitarian splendor was part of a government program of the 60’s that failed. As was the case in Philadelphia the majority of the unfortunate residents were black, while Manny was Puerto Rican, a mix that had not yet been reconciled by Dr. King’s Dream. This was a difficult place to live. A place I never mentioned visiting to my parents.

During the next three years several things happened in the project. Most significant was a Bible study begun by Manny and his wife. The study grew and took on a life of its own. Today we would describe it as a home-church.

Though he was a student with a family, Manny’s finance situation improved to the point where he could leave the rat and dope infested project. Instead he chose to stay – because of the relationships and the need of the gospel of grace and love offered by his savior Jesus Christ. I remember discussing – actually questioning – Manny about his decision until I saw the love of Jesus in his eyes as he kindly answered me while portraying staying in the ghetto as the most logical and practical place for his family.

The influence many had in my life is difficult if not impossible to measure. A few years after leaving home I reflected back and with the proverbial light bulb flashing realized that I was not the only one. There were thirteen fellows in my actual grade. We had basically grown up together in the church. Even as high school seniors, we rarely missed Sunday school – though I’ll admit that many a morning my eyes were heavy and my head ached for sleep. Even though except for Dave and me the others only had Manny for one year, all thirteen of us entered a Bible college somewhere following graduation.

Manny’s love was not always kind or appreciated – at least by my seventeen year-old assessment. Most Friday evenings I received a phone call around 5:00. After some small talk, Manny would ask if I had any plans for the evening. Of course he already knew I would be going out either with my girlfriend or some of the guys from school. Then he would pray God’s blessing on me, my friends, my girlfriend, our plans and safety. He really knew how to put a speed bump into my plans. It was not until much later that I figured out that Manny probably made two dozen calls on Friday evenings.

The Monk’s Story

2007-12-20T11:59:00.000-05:00

A monastery had fallen on hard times. It was once part of a great order which, as a result of religious persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, lost all its branches. It was decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the mother house: the abbot and four others, all of whom were over seventy. Clearly it was a dying order.

Deep in the woods surrounding the monastery was a little hut that the rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a heritage. One day, it occurred to the abbot to visit the hermitage to see if the rabbi could offer any advice that might save the monastery. The rabbi welcomed the abbot and commiserated. “I know how hard it is,” he said, “the spirit has gone out of people. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.” So the old rabbi and the abbot wept together and read parts of the Torah and spoke quietly of deep things.

The time came when the Abbot had to leave. They embraced. “it has been wonderful being with you,” said the Abbot, “but I have failed in my purpose for coming. Have you no piece of advice that might save the monastery?” “No. I am sorry,” the Rabbi responded. “I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.”

When the other monks heard the Rabbi’s words, they wondered what possible significance they might have. “The Messiah is one of us? One of us, here, at the monastery? Do you suppose he meant the Abbot? Of course, -- it must be the Abbot, who has been our leader for so long. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas, who is such a holy man. Or could he have meant Brother Elrod, who is so crotchety? But then Elrod is so very wise. Surely, he could not have meant Brother Phillip – he’s so passive. But then, magically, he’s always there when you need him. Of course he didn’t mean me – yet supposing he did? Oh, Lord, not me! I couldn’t mean that much to you, could I?”

As they contemplated in this matter, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect, on the off chance that one of them might be the Messiah. And on the off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest where the monastery was situated was beautiful, people occasionally came to visit, perhaps picnic or to wander along the old paths, most of which lead to the dilapidated chapel. These visitors sensed the aura, permeating the atmosphere. The visitors began to come more frequently, bringing friends, and their friends brought friends. Some of the younger men who came to the forest began to engage in conversation with the monks. After a while, one asked of he could join then another and another. Within a few years, the monastery became once again a thriving order, and – thanks to the Rabbi’s gift – the vibrant, authentic community of light and love for each other and others had blossomed.

Adapted from The Art of Possibility, Benjamin Zander

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations--these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit--immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of the kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously--no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinners--no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbor, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ were the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

from The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis...

Perhaps as we think about the birth of our savior Jesus and how he came to earth so ordinary we might also look upon everyone we meet as unique as the creator intended.

The way of Law or Grace

2007-12-19T15:40:00.000-05:00

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood…

begins Robert Frost’s famous poem, a favorite of mine: two roads, a choice to make.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

And so ends the poem and I want to believe that I have taken the more difficult of the two: the path of grace rather than the law. I’ve come to realize by experience that one can have the Spirit of God (grace) or legalism (the Law) but never both. As one can only be on one path at a time you can never be living by grace and the law.

The path of law is smooth, broad and well traveled. The path of grace is narrow and there are some places that are not comfortable to the step.

It is harder to forgive, than it is to judge. Judgments are the stones that pave the path of the law, giving a sure foundation to all heavy loads. The path of forgiveness is a tangled way not clearly marked, but the flowers along this path are fragrant to the smell.

The pathway of grace is illuminated by the soft light of love. The love offered to the hurting, broken and lowly of this earth, a light that comes from giving love to those who never repay but with the demand of more. Easier to travel is the neon lined route of the law. Harsh neon that falsely makes the dark appear to be day. Powered by hate the light burns away the soft layers of natural light.

All is not bleak on the trail of grace for those along the way are known for their inclusion and help offered to all the weary travelers met along the way. A merry rag-tagged band of brothers are we. The way of law is a interstate, of fast moving sedans with only seats for a chosen few. Diesel fuming buses filled with those who think alike, sitting up straight, looking at the countryside through dark tinted windows.

Road-weary pilgrims along the path of grace know that it is harder to engage, than it is to ignore, harder to share, than it is to hold, harder to accept, than it is to reject, harder to welcome, than it is to walk away. Many started out on the Highway of Law but it just didn’t seem right and we have returned retracing our steps humbled. But we are refreshed by streams of living water bubbling up along this path. Tall trees shade our way and a cool breeze of the Spirit’s wind is at our back.

It is harder to live in grace, than it is to live in the law.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Dancing in the Dark

2007-12-08T10:04:00.000-05:00

Dancing in the moonlight the young man turned bent low and then spun quickly gracefully athletic. His joyous laughter pierced the still and silence of the night.

Approaching him along the shoreline a tall muscular three pieced suited gentleman, walking briskly, his steps in measured strides, his arms keeping time like a mechanical metronome.

The very proper and correct man broke his pace at the sight of the dancing, prancing silhouette in the moonlight. With hands firmly on hips and his suit jacket bulging at his chest he glared at the dancer. Not until he allowed his sight to adjust to the shadowing twilight did he see that the ritual dance had a purpose.

The dancer was picking up stranded starfish left behind by the receding tide to soon be baked up the rising of the sun. The starfish of many colors littered the beach as far as the eye could see.

Without hiding his contempt the watcher chided condescendingly, “What are you doing? What difference can saving a few starfish possibly make?”

Smiling with the innocence of a child the dancer sang while whirling but one more stranded starfish back into the deep. “It certainly makes a difference to this one!”

How are we as followers of Jesus the Christ to measure success? Are we to calculate by the multitudes, business models, and the lenses of modernity. Can a life spent in only making a difference to one be counted as a success?

Absent from the story are the familiar qualifications of success and measurements of progress. All that mattered was the dance and the “one” of the moment.

My point and purpose is not to attack large successful ministries nor to hold them up for examination but simplt to propose that the importance of the one is close to the heart of God. And those dancing in the dark may not be so out of step.

I have met some wary dancers – perhaps am one myself – who feel abandoned and diminished only due to their dancing the steps that the Spirit of God has put into their hearts. Their crime: caring more for the “one” than the organizational goals.

So, dancers in the dark, keep dancing even if only for the one. Keep dancing for if you slow down and lose the rhythm you may find your unique personality being trimmed to fit someone else’s mass-produced frame.

Post script:

Today I learned that one of the “ones” I hoped to throw to the deep was not thrown far enough and is trapped in the shallows with the heat of the full sun now bearing down.

J, may you find deep water and rest for your soul.

For when you feel powerless

2007-12-06T14:09:00.000-05:00

We prayed earnestly that God would bless out land and would confound the machinations of the children of darkness. There had been so many moments in the past, during the dark days of apartheid’s vicious awfulness, when we had preached,” This is God’s world and God is in charge!”

Sometimes when evil seemed to be on the rampage and about to overwhelm goodness, one held onto this article of faith by the skin of one’s teeth. It was a kind of theological whistling in the dark and one was frequently tempted to whisper in God’s ear, “For goodness sake, why don’t you make it more obvious you are in charge!”

No Future Without Forgiveness
Desmond Tutu (page 4)

Tales From a Mis-Spent Youth

2007-12-04T10:32:00.000-05:00

Today I leaned that it was Zappa tribute day.
Frank Vincent Zappa (December 21, 1940 – December 4, 1993 was an American composer, musician, and film director. In a career spanning more than 30 years, Zappa established himself as a prolific and highly distinctive composer, electric guitar player and band leader. He worked in almost every musical genre and wrote music for rock bands, jazz ensembles, synthesizers and symphony orchestra, as well as Musique concrète works constructed from pre-recorded, synthesized or sampled sources. In addition to his music recordings, he created feature-length and short films, music videos, and album covers.
Although he only occasionally achieved major commercial success, he maintained a highly productive career that encompassed composing, recording, touring, producing and merchandising his own and others' music. Zappa self-produced almost every one of the more than sixty albums he released with the Mothers of Invention or as a solo artist. He received multiple Grammy nominations and won for Best Rock Instrumental Performance in 1988 for the album Jazz from Hell
Politically, Zappa was a self-proclaimed "practical conservative", an avowed supporter of capitalism and independent business. He was also a strident critic of mainstream education and organized religion Zappa was a forthright and passionate advocate for freedom of speech and the abolition of censorship, and his work embodied his skeptical view of established political processes and structures. Although many assumed that he, like many musicians, used drugs, Zappa strongly opposed recreational drug use.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_zappa

And here is his classic “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow” complete with a clever animation.

Giving an “A”

2007-12-02T13:46:00.000-05:00

This is a start to a poor confession, as I am about to justify my actions, by inferring they came from Ken Blanchard. At a conference several years ago Ken Blanchard illustrated some point or another, and challenged, inspired, shocked me into action by affirming a deep-seated belief I held in just a few minutes of dialogue.

And what could he have possibly have said? Ken spoke of how he taught his business courses at Cornell University. You see on the first day of class Blanchard would hand out the final exam. Not to take, but for the purpose of informing the students what they would be required to know in advance.

The result was two-fold. Everyone gets an “A”; or at least they do if they use the exam in preparation and learn the answers. My understanding is that Blanchard is often in hot-water with other professors in his department. The other more important outcome…the students with the anxiety of “will this be tested” out of the way could actually learn something and begin to actively participate in the class discussions.

I took his practice to heart and during the last five years of my teaching middle-school geography and history basically gave the tests out ahead of time. I accomplished this by emailing a PowerPoint program consisting of 50 – 70 questions in an interactive format complete with background photos of the place, person, or event being quizzed.

Anyone who wanted to ace the exam simply needed to review the questions as many times as they needed. With that out of the way we were free to actually learn and enjoy our subject matter.

Oh, and if your wondering if I too got in hot water I nee to mention that I was also the headmaster of the school. So I was covered, if you know what I mean.

Actually, I think this was a very Christ-like thing to do. In Sunday school as I remember we were told to be like Jesus in everything we did. Or at least that is how I remember it. OK, I’m over reaching but stick with me.

Hasn’t God through Jesus given all of us an “A” already? It’s called grace. We have nothing to prove no test to pass; we are already given a passing grade. This does not mean we can live as we please any more than my students could.

But how about giving an A to everyone you meet. Face it, many if not all the people I’ve come into contact with make you prove your worth before you are accepted.

As I understand the culture several of Jesus followers, had been passed over by other rabbis, they were not deemed the best of the best. Jesus comes along and gives them an A to start with and they turned the world upside down. How about Matthew, Jesus gave him an A. The A was freeing and Matthew gave back to the people what he had extorted. Read through the encounters Jesus had in the gospels with the lens of giving an A. It’s sort of what he was about.

Who's the Illegal Immigrant, Pilgrim? (by Randy Woodley)

2007-12-01T12:33:00.000-05:00

Rev. Randy Woodley is a Keetoowah Cherokee Indian teacher, lecturer, poet, activist, pastor he wrote the following at God’s Politics. Thought it was worth the read

There seems to be much concern lately over the people being referred to as "illegal immigrants." Let's define our terms: "Immigrant" - somebody who has come to a country and settled there. "Illegal" - forbidden by law. Concern about illegal immigrants has a familiar ring to us Native Americans. We have been empathizing with those concerns for over half a millennium.
Let's see ...Were the first immigrants to America illegal? By every definition - yes! But perhaps if they had a good reason it makes their trespass less offensive. What of their motives? The stated intent of some of the earliest European settlers in America was first to establish military superiority over the inhabitants and then "civilize" them by assimilating them into their form of government and converting them to a foreign religion. Such was the case in the earliest American colonies: From the First Charter of Virginia, April 10, 1606..."[we] may in time bring the Infidels and Savages, living in those parts, to human Civility, and to a settled and quiet Government."

And talk about attitude ... they even came expecting us to learn their language. For example, I always thought, if you come to Cherokee country, you should speak Cherokee.

Click here for the rest of the article

A Memory

2007-11-28T17:11:00.000-05:00

I have watched this speech every year for as long as I can remember. Now that we do not have cable I picked it up on youtube.

Thanksgiving Prayer

2007-11-22T08:54:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Thee, O God, that I have risen today,
to the rising of this life itself;
may it be to Thine own glory,
O God of every gift, and to the glory, aid Thou my soul.
With the aiding of Thine own mercy,
even as I clothe my body with wool,
cover Thou my soul with the shadow of Thy wing.
Help me to avoid every sin,
And the source of every sin to forsake,
and as the mist scatters on the crest of the hills,
may each ill haze clear from my soul, O God.
~Thanksgiving Prayer - Irish
n

Illumination

2007-11-20T09:22:00.000-05:00

My work day usually starts at 7:00am. We do this to get a couple of hours in before the sun gets really hot. I work with some fellows building custom home in the Florida Keys. Also the workday ends at 3:00pm and there is still a lot of day left for other activities.

So I am often sitting on the front porch tying up my boots. (Insert favorite Billy Madison quote: “I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight, I hope I don't get in a fight.” I actually think that on a regular basis.) Back to the front porch, sometimes I am a little early so I sit there and finish my second cup of coffee.

And lately the sun has slowly illuminated the world as I sit looking at the trees. Amazing thing about the morning sun, it is not like switching on the light in a house. The light comes softly, on tiptoes. One doesn’t really notice unless you are actually paying attention to it. Several times this past week, I realized that when I sat down it was dark and then as I got up it was light.

For several mornings now I have paid attention to the slow, steady illumination. Try as I might I can not perceive the light only notice the change by comparing it to the previous minute. Now this may be due to my lack of focus, but I really think it is the nature of morning light.

It has also struck me that this is how God has operated in my life. Time after time, I observe that I recognize more of his light but can not really elaborate upon the process of change it just happens. As the Sun’s morning light appears almost inconceivably thus has God revealed himself to me.

2007-11-15T17:42:00.000-05:00

Today is my birthday. I am officially 54 years old.

Lord, let this feast of my birth be a reminder to me of all the gifts and blessings I have received from You this day and all the days of my life. On this my day of birth, I thank you for my life and all of my blessings and ask for another year filled with Your presence in my life that I may continue to grow in your love and grace.

Some thoughts:

Age is a high price to pay for maturity.
- Tom Stoppard

Growing old is like being increasingly penalized
for a crime you have not committed.
- Anthony Powell

The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.
- Muhammad Ali

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
William Shakespeare

There are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents ... and only one for birthday presents, you know.
~Lewis Carroll

The best birthdays of all are those that haven't arrived yet.
~Robert Orben

No wise man ever wished to be younger.
~Jonathan Swift

Old age has always been 15 years older than I am.

Age doesn't matter, unless your cheese, wine, or something left in Tupperware at the back of the fridge

And in closing:

"So you see, old age is really not so bad. May you come to know the condition! "
-- Cicero

Church of the Open No Doors

2007-11-11T12:43:00.000-05:00

At the end of his life, Van Gogh painted a church without a door. I believe this is a apt representation of the struggle and frustration many of my friends are experiencing. They cannot find a way into the faith in God they once had. They are no longer welcome with the faith God has given them.

(Van Gogh was a minister for a while, known for his compassion for Belgian miners.)

Church At Auvers

Remembrance

2007-11-10T17:24:00.000-05:00

In Flanderes Field the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place, and in the sky
The lark, still bravely singing flies,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow;
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Field.

Take up the quarrel with the Foe.
To you, from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, tho' poppies grow
In Flanders Field.

How Could I have Been So Wrong

2007-11-07T17:03:00.000-05:00

Peter Rollins author of How (Not) to Speak of God tells a joke to describe the predicament of the church caught in modernity.

“There is an old anecdote in which a mystic and evangelical pastor and a fundamentalist preacher die on the same day and awake to find themselves by the pearly gates. Upon reaching the gates they are promptly greeted by Peter, who informs them that before entering heaven they must be interviewed by Jesus concerning the state of their doctrine.
The first to be called forward is the mystic, who is quietly ushered into a room. Five hours later the mystic reappears with a smile, saying, ‘I thought I had got it all wrong.’
Then Peter signals to the evangelical pastor, who stands up and enters the room. After a full day had passed the pastor reappears with a frown and says to himself, ‘How could I have been so foolish!’
Finally Peter asks the fundamentalist to follow him. The fundamentalist picks up his well-worn Bible and walks into the room. A few days pass with no sign of the preacher, then finally the door swings open and Jesus himself appears, exclaiming, ‘How could I have got it all so wrong!’

Taking into consideration the presupposition that there are many followers of Jesus – more than we might realize, why insist that everyone be as we/you are, at the same place on the journey, having had the same experiences, responding in the same style. This insistence escorts one to become a Christian Pharisee.

Exclusiveness and excluding arise from a desire for purity; a false sense, I might add. Christian Phariseism, as I would characterize it, is a consequence of a distorted passion for theological purity. The corollary follows similar logic as using ethnic cleansing to achieve racial purity.

Does our journey of faith bring us to wholeness through Jesus and his atonement or by acknowledging theological formulas (or non- --formulas.

In cycles, it seems circles are drawn, boundaries established and edits are issued revealing who is and who isn’t a “true” follower/teacher/leader of Jesus. The circle drawers – whoever they are, remind me of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor.

Fyodor Dostoevsky in his chapter entitled "The Grand Inquisitor” envisions Jesus returning to sixteenth century Spain. Jesus is not only unwelcome by church authorities but arrested and imprisoned.

The Grand Inquisitor, representing the voice of this misguided church, interrogates Jesus in his prison cell. He speaks to Christ with superiority referring to theological creeds and moral codes concludes: “We have corrected Your work.”

Though no one might be so bold to speak these words; actions of excluding those who think, dress, associate with the wrong people, question, enjoy and generally disrupt the status quo are either programmed into this corrected work or pushed outside of the circle.

Counseling Tips 101

2007-10-30T16:29:00.000-04:00

Alternative title: Things I wish I had Known.

Literaly Speaking

2007-10-08T17:18:00.000-04:00

My summers in the late 70’s and early 80’s were spent with a small construction crew building concrete homes in the Florida Keys. One hot, sticky August afternoon, we were tying steel on a 1^st floor slab. Three of us: Nick, a college student, and Jim, a full-timer were all laboring together in the humidity of a tropical summer; we were fairly good friends. And as friends do, we kidded among ourselves.

Nick had a great sense of humor, if a wee bit naive. I had known him for several years; he had attended the school where I taught and had played on the basketball team I coached during his time in high school.

Jim and I often partnered together in pulling gags on Nick. It was “harmless” amusement to help pass the day. Harmless, unless we ribbed Nick too far, then we would pay for our indiscretions. Rarely, did Nick verbally pay us back; so he would resort to physical abuse. He was very strong, if we pushed him too far Nick would hold us above his head and spin around and around. It became a game for Jim and me. The game was to tease Nick until he threatened you with a spin but you lost if he actually did it.

Back to the afternoon in August, we were tying steel on a slab 12 – 15 feet above the ground when Jim asked Nick to “Hop on down and get me a (tool)” A very normal request for a carpenter to give to a laborer.

Nick responded with a crisp and loud, “Yes, sir!” Then he began to hop – and continued hopping – with a big silly grin, until he disappeared over the edge of the building.

Jim gasped and turned white, as we both ran to the edge of the overhang. There was Nick laughing, lying on a huge pile of sand that he knew would break his fall. Finally, Nick had pulled one over on Jim.

For a long time after that Jim would tell Nick not to take him so literally and was a little more cautious in what he said. But I’ve been thinking lately about literalism. Literalism has a bad rap among some writers I read, and people I consider friends, particularly in the online emerging conversation.

But I wonder, if we took some of what Jesus, Paul, Peter, James and the other NT writers said literally would there be a sand pile to catch us?

I’m sure you see where I’m going here. For some literalism is emphasizing that the Bible is literally inerrant, not only in matters of faith and practice, but also in terms of being a literal historical record. I grew up with such teachings and for most of my life never really considered any other possibility.

What I am concerned about is that literalism has since been expanded, by analogy, to refer to a variety of religious, political, and ideological positions. The limitations of such readings have alienated many people who would otherwise remain part of the church.

Recently there has been an interesting discussion regarding inerrancy over at the CRM blog. (Here is a LINK , also check out the three-part interview with Dan Wallace)

But I have been thinking that perhaps we are not taking scripture literally enough. We certainly look as crazy as Nick hopping off the edge of a building when we forgive. You know take literally the 70 x 7 thing. Or maybe something easier, perhaps performing our good works to glorify our Father rather than ourselves. Or stepping in faith out to pray for someone’s healing.

Taking scripture literally for some is about six-24 hour days of creation or a garden, tree, and a snake. That’s fine, but I wonder if we should be more literal about trusting in an unwavering non-logical love of a Father who is calling us home and has a robe, ring, and a great party planned no matter how we have squandered the family’s money, and telling all the other prodigals that Dad isn’t mad at us.

And when I hop off the ledge believing God wants me to bring peace or healing, or a just a meal to help point a brother or sister home, don’t be alarmed, I know where the sand piles are located.

Defense or “De-Bench”

2007-09-27T16:54:00.000-04:00

Twenty-five seasons as a high school basketball coach at a small Christian school in the Florida Keys often colors my ponderings as I seek to understand my own journey of faith.

Hopefully you will stick around and endure this gristly old coach’s ramblings, even if Sports Center is not part of your daily ritual. And for those who do not recognize the name Dick Vitale, translations will be provided.

Basketball coaches seem fond of inspirational clichés. One of my favorite basketology phrases was “defense or DE-BENCH”. My players, of course, understood and quickly learned what I valued and knew that “P.T.” (translation: playing time ) depended upon both their desire and ability to play defense.

You see, after being pounded by schools in Miami, during my first two seasons, I decided that I no longer wished to be the “cupcake” on everyone’s schedule. (Cupcake: bet you figured that one out on your own.) Not only was most of our competition 2 - 3 times larger in enrollment; our kids’ hands were more comfortable with a fishing pole than a round ball.

We needed a edge. I decided we would play defense: hard-nose, in your face, full body contact, man-to-man defense. Our kids bought into the concept. They did not like being thought of as the “Little Sisters of the Poor” either. (translation: synonym for cupcake)

Not only did we play defense well; during the early 80’s no other team in our division played man, so they were not practicing how to overcome this particular brand of defense. Our edge and a source of pride was defense. Talented squads who averaged 70 plus points a night, struggled to break 50 against us. Sounds great, but we also struggled to score; even against the girl’s team, we couldn’t break 50. Consequently, we felt better about ourselves but still lost more than we won.

Modifying our philosophy resulted in a district championship and over 100 wins to only about 20 losses. We were still tough defensively, but we also learned to put the ball in the hoop. (Not to mention, that we had a few athletes who actually had skills, speed and the ability to dunk. Translation: good stuff)

Now what can all this possibly have to do with a post-charismatic emerging fellow? Let me introduce myself; I began going to church nine-months before I was born. I knew all the stories, memorized large portions of scripture, and understood basic theological terms and concepts; even delivered a few sermons – all before puberty. Scripture was paramount and only Jesus came in a close second. Miracles? Healings? Sure God could, I knew all the omni’s; but he didn’t any more; we had the complete canon. There was no need for anything more.

Holy Spirit, yea, had all the stats; fully God, part of the Trinity, part of what the Pastor said at Baptisms and our quarterly Communion service. Gifts, no, did not know about that, and tongues, oh, no, not that!

I was part of a “defensive” minded team, uh, I mean church. We defended the faith. We were the defenders of the faith. In fact, our defense was offensive. To use another basketball cliché: “Offense wins games, but DEFENSE wins championships.” And we were out to win the greatest championship of all time: souls. I recall that the theological cliché I was brought up on was “rightly dividing the word of truth”. There was none of that emotional, experiential “offense” for us, no sir.

My apologetics were tough and agile as a full court press. (translation: defense on steroids) During the many years of basketball defeats, I took comfort in “moral victories”. Very much like in the church and Bible College I attended. We were suffering for Jesus, as we and we alone, were defenders of the truth. My wide-margined Schofield Bible was thoroughly underlined and cross-referenced to handle any argument, cowering pagans and C&E Christians alike. (translation: C&E: Christmas and Easter only)

Offensive basketball is fun. It’s fun to shoot; even more if the ball goes in the hole. How many kids have you seen in a driveway practicing defensive slides, getting over picks, boxing out and practicing taking a charge? (Translation: Just some basketball stuff you won’t see unless a coach is there to require it.) On the contraire, kids are practicing the “J”, dunking or lowering the hoop so they can. Fancy dribbling and sleek passing is all the rage. It’s hip, cool and simply more fun.

Going down to the river and meeting the Holy Ghost bartender is also fun. But it’s not either/or; how about a little of both/and. During my coaching tenure, we usually met a team or two that was only offensively minded. Their defense was “matador” style. (Their defense consisted of waving at you as they stepped aside, for those who are not ESPN addicts.) They could care less if you scored; they just wanted the ball back. So what if we scored 90; they scored 110. All would go great for the offense-only-team until tournament time, when a balanced team who could score and play defense sent them home to await next season.

The bottom line is this. In basketball both offense and defense are necessary. Some players are better at scoring, ball handling, passing; and others excel at rebounding, shot blocking and cutting off the baseline. There are players who thrive on the defensive aspects, others on scoring, but all must play both ends of the court in sync and harmony with their teammates. Sounds a little like what Paul had to say about the body of Christ in I Corinthians 12.

With honor and respect to God-fearing and God-loving teachers, pastors, and fellow travelers who hold doctrine, scripture and faith alone central, please understand, I value your care, concern and your pouring into my life the love of God’s word. My faith in Jesus Christ came through your ministering. All the same, I’m reminded of a player who won’t shoot, doesn’t want to shoot, really does not even want the ball. As a coach, when I spotted you, we would leave you unguarded, sort of watch you with one eye, and double down on the star. We upset many better squads employing this technique. Perhaps that is part of the reason the new generation avoids your places of worship. You’re playing only on one end of the court. You seem content just to defend the faith. Would anyone play or much less watch if the teams never shot at all, even denying there was a basket?

And now with apology to my spirit-led, wading in the river, glory-cloud, gold tooth filled, oil dripping from their palms, friends. It’s time to “D-up” or in non-basketball lingo: scripture is profitable, all scripture, rightly divide it. Ok, so who are you in my basketball heaven analogy? Try “and1” (translation: street ball, high-flying and high-fiving with a DJ and a lot of bass; extremely experiential always looking for the new moves)

Consider this description of streetball from Wikipedia:

While the rules of Streetball are essentially/theoretically the same as normal basketball, Streetball places a higher emphasis on one-on-one matchups between the offense and defender. Often the attacker will perform numerous flashy moves while attempting to drive to the basket, including crossovers, jab steps, and other fake-out tricks. Streetball often features spectacular dunks and alley oops, impressive ball handling, and trash talking. Also featured in streetball are moves. A move is either used to trick the defender to look away, or just to confuse. There are many different moves in the streetball world. Rules vary widely from court to court. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streetball)

Substitute a few words with pastor or worship leader and change the basketball terms to current church jargon and I see an apt description of the hype and charismania many are also rejecting.

Returning to basketolgy, let’s play both ends of the court. Our choice is not between “full-court press and run and gun” (translation: “run and gun” being only offensive minded, score as quickly as possible) You don’t choose whichever The Word or the Spirit; it is not either/or but both/and.

Currently my own journey and those with whom I am in community with are “practicing” how to play on both ends of the court. The game of basketball is enjoyed by many because it is fluid and equally mixes offense and defense and everyone gets to participate. My community is attempting to develop the same fluid motion and integration between the love and knowledge of God’s word mixed with the joy of the Spirit of God as a basketball coach stresses “transition” by his team. (last translation: “transition” the change between offense to defense or defense to offense; when it is seamless and apparently immediate there is great success on the court)

An "and1" video for those who are unfamiliar with the culture:

Message from Bob Dylan

2007-09-26T18:14:00.001-04:00

2007-09-25T15:47:00.000-04:00

Imagine walking into your local library, planning to read a theologian such as Reinhold Niebuhr or Karl Barth – or even a best-seller by Jim Wallis or James Dobson.

But instead of finding such important and popular titles, you discover that the religion section has been decimated – stripped of any book that did not appear on a government-approved list.
That's exactly what's happening right now to inmates in federal prisons under a Bush administration policy. As The New York Times put it, "chaplains have been quietly carrying out a systematic purge of religious books and materials that were once available to prisoners in chapel libraries."

The news reports seem implausible. The idea of government bureaucrats drafting a list of approved books on religion seems like something out of Soviet-era Russia, not the United States of America, where freedom of religion – even for those behind prison walls – is something we treasure.

But the reports are true. All of the books and authors named above have been removed from prison libraries. In some instances, according to the Times, chaplains have been forced to dismantle "libraries that had thousands of texts collected over decades, bought by the prisons, or donated by churches and religious groups."

To make matters worse, the contents of the "approved" list are extremely capricious. For example, "80 of the 120 titles on the list for Judaism are from the same Orthodox publishing house," and the list for Christianity "lack[s] materials from early church fathers, liberal theologians and major Protestant denominations."

The Bureau of Prisons says they merely want to ensure prisons are not recruiting grounds for terrorists and other militant groups. So why are they removing the vast majority of materials on faith and religion? And if prisoners are not free to pursue their own faith journeys, what cause for hope should they have?

Christians from across the political and theological spectrum are justifiably outraged. As Mark Earley, president and chief executive officer of Chuck Colson's Prison Fellowship, told the Times, "It's swatting a fly with a sledgehammer. There's no need to get rid of literally hundreds of thousands of books that are fine simply because you have a problem with an isolated book or piece of literature that presents extremism."

Stand up for inmates' religious freedom – demand an end to censorship in prison libraries!

Want to do something?

Click here to tell the Bureau of Prisons to stop censoring prison libraries.

The above report is from Sojourners

Sources:

"Prisons Purging Books on Faith From Libraries," New York Times, 9/10/07.

"2 New York prisoners sue to get their banned religious books back," Associated Press, 8/22/07.

Thoughts on Prayer

2007-09-24T11:46:00.000-04:00

Three minutes left in the fourth quarter, a 12 point lead has shrunk to 6. Fatigue is setting in as confidence leaks out.

“Time-out!”

I haven’t watched ESPN in vain; I know when to stop the bleeding. Dickie V. would approve.

The players hustle to the sideline, frustration evident in their posture and countenance. They each take a seat while teammates get water and towels and form a shell separating us from the court and bedlam erupting in the gym applauding the home team’s comeback.

Now what should happen is that five sets of eyes focus on mine as I renew confidence, infuse courage, and give instruction.

Instead the players talk, accuse, blame, justify and in a word: blather.
At times like this I have learned to become silent – adding my voice to the din would only add to the disorder.

Sometimes my silence is realized – perhaps felt – and the players become silent. Though I feel a strong compulsion to speak rapidly both to scold and quickly instruct and save the day; I have learned from hard lessons to remain quiet. Even after they settle down. Five seconds become ten, an enormous sacrifice in a time-out period strictly limited to 60 seconds. Leaving me only time for a single sentence; perhaps only an encouragement, I might simply say, “We are all-right, play our game, Defense!”

Reminds me of my prayers, I am full of words, blame, excuses.
“Do something God, aren’t you in charge!” As I continue to blather on and on doing all the talking – accusing, blaming, justifying – at the end comes my “amen” like the officials whistle and command of “Get them out here, coach”. Maybe God like a seasoned coach is silent, awaiting my attentiveness. Perhaps I should seek his eye rather than the sound of my own voice. Is God’s silence simply his awaiting my listening, my attentiveness?

I have recently been considering the following description of prayer:

Prayer is to listen attentively
to the One
who addresses us
in the here and now.

Making the Invisible Visible

2007-09-23T12:20:00.000-04:00

“A magician makes the visible invisible.
A mime makes the invisible visible.”

Marcel Marceau, the master of mime who transformed silence into poetry with lithe gestures and pliant facial expressions that spoke to generations of young and old, has died. He was 84.
Wearing white face paint, soft shoes and a battered hat topped with a red flower, Marceau breathed new life into an art that dates to ancient Greece. He played out the human comedy through his alter-ego Bip without ever uttering a word.
Offstage, he was famously chatty. "Never get a mime talking. He won't stop," he once said.
A French Jew, Marceau escaped deportation to a Nazi death camp during World War II, unlike his father who died in Auschwitz. Marceau worked with the French Resistance to protect Jewish children, and later used the memories of his own life to feed his art.

Talk Like a Pirate

2007-09-19T06:40:00.001-04:00

News you can use: today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. According to the Daily Telegraph, you must:

Growl - and scowl often. Pirates don't use a cultured, elegant, smooth vocalization - they mutter and growl.

Gesture with your hands frequently. Don't forget that pirates do most of their talking on the deck of a ship - out on the ocean, where wind, waves, and bird calls make it tough to hear. Gesturing often gives you a sense of "being there."

Run words together. Saying, "The boys and I were out for a lovely day on the water today" sounds like something you'd overhear at a yacht club. Instead, try, "Me'n'these here scurvy scallywags drug our sorry keesters out t'th'ship'n'had us a grand great adventuaaarrr! We almost had t'keelhaul Mad Connie f'r gettin inter th' grog behind our backs!" Note that you should always endeavour to call the addressee by some insulting name, usually involving an animal. "Yer a scurvy bilge rat, ya pompous gasbag" or "Here's yer dinner, ya mangy cockroach."

Prayer

2007-09-17T15:49:00.000-04:00

May there be peace within you today.
May you trust God that you are exactly
where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities
that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received,
and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing
you are a child of God.
Let His presence settle into your bones,
and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance,
and to bask in the sun.

I Was a Teenage Sadducee

2007-09-16T15:28:00.000-04:00

Yes, the title is a little cheesy, ok, a lot cheesy, and presently I will get to the how and why but first some historical perspective.

The Sadducees, mentioned in the gospels, were regarded the smallest by some historians of five social groups in Palestine during the early first century. The Pharisees, Zealots, Essenes, and Gentiles/Pagans make up the other divisions. Though small in number, they were the real power in the region. (If one does not consider how they were under the thumb and discretion of the Roman occupation.) The Sadducees controlled the Temple – the place of worship. Additionally 60 plus seats of the 70 member Sanhedrin legislative court were controlled by the Sadducees. Thus, they had both the political and religious systems under their authority and control.

Today they would be considered conservative in their politics, religion, and manner of life. They took the Torah literally, “if it was good enough for Moses” might have been the response to those who brought in the Psalms or Prophets. They believed that God had not revealed himself in any writings after Moses. They certainly did not accept the oral traditions of their rival Pharisees.

The strictness of their faith did not necessarily carry over to daily life; for the Sadducees were Hellenistic. They had accepted the Greek way of life with its emphases on the physical and intellect. An extra-Biblical account relates that once the Temple could not be opened for evening prayers due to the priest and workers all being at the gymnasium watching the wrestling matches. There world-view was certainly more Greek than Hebrew. Finally they were more prosperous by rule and used their position in society to curry favor from the occupying Romans.

Growing up in a some what fundamentalist church, I became fluent in most Bible stories and dispensational doctrines, by Jr. High, due to a well-organized and structured Sunday school and Jr. Church program. The church was fairly large, I suppose, for the early 60’s as we had two classes for each grade level, divided boys and girls. The dozen or so fellows in my class had been together since diapers.

Occasionally we would have a substitute teacher, obliviously pulled at the last minute from an adult Bible class. By Jr. High we had several well-developed routines for these well-meaning but unprepared sacrificial lambs…er…I mean volunteers.

The Sunday school superintendent must have had a standard pitch on what to teach while walking the “fresh-meat” down the corridor to our classroom. “Just ask them who or what their favorite Bible story or character is and go from there.” Since they all began that way, we knew our parts perfectly. Though we would improvise with each new encounter, the pattern was the same.

After hearing the usual and expected: Moses, David and Goliath, Noah and the flood, the feeding of the Five Thousand, either I or my pal David would say our favorite was either the Philistines or the Sadducees depending whether we wanted to go New or Old Testament. Subtly we would hook the teacher and reel him in. Of course, they simply wanted to get through the hour and also be a nice guy and that added to the tangled mess we could create.

We actually knew a little about either group – definitely more than any adult who had been conned or guilt-tripped into having a go with us.
As mentioned above, the Sadducees, as the ruling elite of society, the Temple and Sanhedrin held both religious power and political control in their hands. They had deftly separated the religious duty from every day activities. The Sadducees in practice did not let their religion interfere with the important stuff – like making money, gaining popularity, and controlling others.

Yes, I need someday to repent from my pleasure of tying the tongues of our substitutes as we became excited to also exert power over the congregation, have wealth, and find favor with political leaders just like the leaders of our church. We knew enough and were smooth enough of speech to twist scripture and make the Sadducees ones to be followed.

But more importantly is the repentance for also separating my life into compartments isolating my walk of faith from my interactions with those I rubbed shoulders with every day. Little did I realize that I was doing that in High School (and through most of my adult life). What we had said in juvenile jest had become the reality of my life. At school I was just a good kid who never got into trouble but a little like Ferris Buller knew and for a price could arrange things for you..

Two days prior to graduation from High School our schools tradition was to have a catered dinner for all of the seniors. No underclassmen or alumni were allowed. Additionally, the custom was upheld for that one evening that couples did not relate in that exclusive manner typically of High School. On this one amazing night social walls came down and everyone and anyone talked and hung out. It was surreal, almost mystical. Later that evening, after the meal, I found myself at a home with 20 or so of my classmates, none whom I had ever really hung-out with before.

Sitting in an alcove, away from the party, five fellows engaged in conversation. Two I sot of knew since we had been school friends back in seventh grade, and the other two I had had classes with during the three high school years and had “helped” with various school matters. Joe, who was literally “the big-man on campus”, began to tell us how he had come to know Jesus Christ as his personal savior two weeks before at some youth revival.

He was excited to be sharing with us his new faith and wanted us to know Jesus also. And to my surprise the fellow next to me said he was also a Christian and regularly went to a particular Baptist Church. I still remember the look on Joe’s face, something between surprise and disappointment. Well to bring the story to a close, each of us in turn admitted we knew Jesus and were involved in various youth groups. Not only involved, but each of us was considered a leader. Our conversations lead us to apologize to Joe and later to each other as we realized that we had missed the opportunity to live in community with each other as Christian brothers.

2007-09-15T15:52:00.000-04:00

A few days, Eric my personal trainer – or construction boss - asked me if I knew what a Haiku was. After giving a definition, and a few jokes, I suggested we only speak in haiku to each other. I basically accomplished that. As written before it helped me achieve a particular goal in life, presently.
But it also reminded me of this quote by Matsuo Bashō

Matsuo Bashō 1644 –1694 was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. During his lifetime, Bashō was renowned for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form; today, he is recognized as a master of brief and clear haiku.

Do not seek
to follow
in the footsteps
of the men of old;
seek
what they sought.

Almost Cut My Hair

2007-09-10T16:05:00.000-04:00

Almost cut my hair
It happened just the other day
It's gettin kinda long
I coulda said it wasn't in my way
But I didn't and I wonder why
I feel like letting my freak flag fly
Cause I feel like I owe it to someone

David Crosby Almost Cut My Hair

Humility

2007-09-08T16:18:00.000-04:00

tiptoed, reaching
striving for the hidden
straining, jumping
for the higher shelf

found a stool
brought a ladder
hidden just out of reach
the object I desire

a slip, a tumble
quite a fall
down on my back
looking at the bottom sill

What I sought
What I seek
always accessible
On the bottom ledge

Humble yourselves therefore
under the mighty hand of God,
that he may exalt you in due time;
1 Peter 5:6 (ASV)

A Paper Compass

2007-07-22T16:24:00.000-04:00

During the summer of 1980, I had a job with a small construction crew building custom concrete homes in the Florida Keys. Except for me, on summer break from my sixth grade teacher position, everyone else was a “boat-person”

Now a Florida Keys boat person was not a refugee from Southeast Asia, but someone who probably lived aboard a boat and worked some each year to acquire rations for a several month voyage among the Bahamian Islands. Several of the fellows I worked beside were captains, all were extremely talented craftsmen.

Due to this nautical background much of the Cave Man Construction culture and lingo involved terms more suited to a boat and sailing than a construction site. Or at least I thought so.

As the only “landlubber” I occasionally stumbled over terms used in connection with projects I was assigned. How was I to know which side of the building was leeward? And tell me, would you know how to shave an eight of an inch off the port side of a sheet of from plywood?

Randy the chief caveman often gave directions to locations within a building based on cardinal directions. For example, “Stack the plywood over on the northeast overhang.” My bewilderment and frustrated attempts to remember where true north was in reference to any of a half-dozen building sites prompted him to assist me with a visual aid one afternoon.

I suppose after tiring from hearing my “where”, Randy drew a large compass rose on the second-story concrete slab with a piece of keel. (This is also a nautical term used for a fat kindergarten crayon. Guess calling it a crayon is too wimpy for a caveman.)

As my good fortune would have it, I had a scrap of paper. Diligently I copied the compass, just as Randy had drawn it. Randy looked up and saw what I was doing. He looked puzzled, and with a frown said nothing.

It took about two weeks before my opportunity presented itself. Randy gave me another compass direction and he was in a fair mood and I was not with anyone else. This time I was prepared, better than a boy scout. I wiped out my paper compass, unfolded it with flair, and located south-east.

Randy, drop-jawed, did not know if he should laugh or scream. I had made my point – I just did not understand the directions when given in the language of a sailor.

Many people I know have written down paper compasses in order to help them spiritually, in order to have a relationship with God. The paper compass could be a list of rules, or obeying a particular teacher of tradition. More likely it is subtle unspoken but intuitively know by the members of the group. Some pick up a paper compass due to the language that is spoken, in an effort to fit in.

Sometimes I can tell when a person follows a paper compass. Many Christians do you know. You see they insist that they are correct and questioning is not allowed. Speaking the “truth in love,” to any who begin to veer off course of their true north.

I have been handed paper compasses many times during my passage through the Institutional Church globe. Modernism infused my schooling, both religious and secular. Having an answer for every one and situation was not only possible but required. My compass pointed to absolute truth. My dilemma came as I met others who had paper compasses that pointed to different absolute truths.

As a Bible college student in the early 70’s, my paper compass pointed to the true north of evangelism. “Are you going to Heaven when you die?” Which was replaced with Evangelism Explosion in the 80’s? We had the best paper compasses, or so we were told. Apologetics and winning the lost was all that mattered. I remember one of my college roommates challenging my other roommate, who usually spent his afternoon at the beach and me with the question: “How may did you win today, I got five.” But alas, this compass pointed only to the north of argument, could we convince, out reason, sell Jesus and heaven to any stranger we might meet.

Legalism in all its rigidness and pride became my next paper compass. Godliness could be obtained by keeping the rules, but whose rules and which ones?

So what is my compass now? I no longer hold one. I seek to follow instead a guide. I seek to hear my Father’s voice through the Holy Spirit.

But the helper, the Holy Spirit,
whom the Father will send in my name,
He will teach you all things,
and bring to your remembrance
all that I said to you.
John 14 26

Might As Well

2007-07-21T14:51:00.000-04:00

Might As Well

I’ve been told that about the doorway from the Phoenix Suns locker room is a sign that says:

The Game is scheduled

We have to play.

We might as well win!

The phrase “might as well” is speaking to me.

I might as well live…

… covered by grace casting aside the cloak of shame…

because the grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. (1)

… forgive, humbled by love, forgiven so I can forgive…

because as the Lord forgave me I can bear with others and forgive whatever grievances I may have against you (2)

… healed and becoming whole, physically, emotionally, socially, environmentally…

because I called to you O LORD my God, for help and you healed me. Jesus was pierced for my transgressions, he was crushed for my iniquities; the punishment that brought me peace was upon him, and by his wounds I am healed. (3) (4)

… as a conqueror, rather than as vanquished under the weight of daily toil.

because in all thee things I can overwhelmingly conquer through Jesus who loved me. (5)

… as a child of the king, instead of a ragamuffin in the alley of life

Because I am blessed by the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed me with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ. (6)

… embrace the mystery, giving up my necessity of figuring it all out…

because he has made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ. (7)

… know a father’s love, no longer cold and alone …

because great is the love the Father has lavished on me, that I should be called child of God! And that is what I am! (8)

… Might as well!

(1) 1 Timothy 1:14
(2) Colossians 3:13
(3) Psalm 103:3
(4) Isaiah 53:5
(5) Romans 8:37
(6) Ephesians 1:3
7) Ephesians 1:9
(8) 1 John 3:1

knees

2007-07-20T13:04:00.000-04:00

my name spoken
to a oak-wood floor
before I was
and now that I am
their voice now silent
but heard still

knobs, my inheritance
once my seat
forever a strength
too soon
gone
a memory felt

Husband, Child, or Something In-between

2007-07-06T14:34:00.001-04:00

As a thirteen year-old in 1966, I had the unique pleasure and opportunity to travel throughout Europe for nine weeks during the summer.

The first three weeks were spent in England, Germany and Switzerland with my parents. My mother was in her mid-forties and my father 56 when I was born. As a result, I was along for the travel they had saved for and following the middle class American dream then accomplished during retirement. This European trip had been a lifelong dream of my mothers. Everything was top drawer, first class.

The remaining six weeks were a complete reversal. I traveled with my 27 year old sister. We literally saw Europe on “five dollars a day”. We had a Eurarail pass and slept on trains, or in Youth Hostels, and walked if we could not get free transportation.

In some level of logic my mother believed that it would be safe or perhaps safer for my sister to travel with me. Looking back I realize what a burden a thirteen year old must have been. But what were my parents thinking!

During our travels my sister often passed me off as twelve in order to receive a child discount. You might imagine how this went over with me; I was thirteen! Then in the evenings I would need to pass as fourteen to stay in the youth hostels where we usually slept. No one ever checked identification back then. A green USA passport cover was all you needed to move effortlessly. If my ever changing age wasn’t confusing enough, in Italy people mistook me for her child. Often used to our advantage to acquire seats on the very crowded trains. However, in Scandinavia I was mistaken for her husband.

Needless to say, I had identity problems. My identity was shaped primarily by the strong influence of my authority – my sister, and the environment where I found myself: the hostel, a museum, Scandinavia…

It is simple now to see how my adapting benefited myself, during this adventure. First in order to please my sister I went along with what she said. This also relived me of any responsibility. At least to my 13 year old mind it did. She was the authority figure, later in hostel I just wanted to get along, fit in.

In the hostels, my sister and I were separated into male/female sections, often dormitory style. I would find myself among the drifters, twenty-something or so years old who had dropped out of Western cultural expectations and were already the unnamed hippie culture. Alone in this totally foreign culture this white-bread American boy adopted my identity be accepted. Again, I ask what my parents were thinking. Several times my new friends would bring me along on there evening adventures. I am sure that after 40 years the statute of limitations is up.

However, I am realizing that in my career with the institutions of Western American Christianity, I have equally been molded by authority figures to “be” what they needed me to be. Additionally I have given my consented all too freely, for the benefits which it produced.

I believe I have always bristled inside and somewhat passively resisted, even as I did when my sister passed me off as twelve to save a few Lira. My rebellion was bought off then with the rationalization and promise of a little meat with our daily meal of bread, cheese and water. It is not quite so simple to see what price has been my price from the Institutional Church.

Rather than walking in the assurance of my acceptance in Christ before God. Equipped with the Holy Spirit as my comforter and guide, I have juggled balls, spun plates on sticks all the while professing the accepted speech like a child’s doll with a pull-string.

Have It Your Way - Or Not

2007-06-24T16:05:00.000-04:00

Farm workers who pick tomatoes for Burger King's sandwiches earn 40 to 50 cents for every 32-pound bucket of tomatoes they pick, a rate that has not risen significantly in nearly 30 years. Workers who toil from dawn to dusk must pick two tons of tomatoes to earn $50 in one day.
Worse yet, modern-day slavery has reemerged in Florida's fields; since 1997, the U.S. Department of Justice has prosecuted five slavery rings, freeing more than 1,000 workers. As a major buyer of Florida tomatoes, Burger King's purchasing practices place downward pressure on farm worker wages and put corporate profits before human dignity.

Click here to send a message to Burger King: "Farm workers deserve fair wages!"

Source: Sojourners Action Alerts June 24, 2007

Divine Intention: How God's Work in the Early Church Empowers Us Today

2007-06-17T20:11:00.000-04:00

Recently I read Larry Shallenberger’s book Divine Intention. I am pleased to say that this book has wonderfully challenged me in my personal journey. I believe that God works in a way similar to the proverb:”when the student is ready the teacher will appear.”

I was the student and I was so ready for this book. In his introduction Larry says, “Christian character seems little more than a veneer of politeness used to lubricate the social exchanges that occur before and after services.” He had caught my attention and interest, though I wondered if this would be another of “what’s wrong with” books about the church. As Larry continued in his introduction relating his background, my heart was pricked. I too related as one who grew up in the church and still retained good memories and the hope that what I have experienced as an adult “full-time ministry” person was not all God had intended.

Further on I read, “This book you are holding is for those who love the church but have been deeply disappointed by it.” I have not been disappointed by the practical insights presented in the historical context of the first century Larry brings from the Book of Acts. Each chapter, able to stand alone, built a renewed desire to hear from God anew and continue my journey.

The conversation tone allowed me to imagine that I was in a dialogue with Larry. Often the very question that arose in my mind was addressed in the following paragraphs. I appreciated the non-formulaic approach and the pointing out a path to progress on rather than pushing a particular agenda.

At the end of the introduction Larry wrote, “My prayer is that this book will be evaluated not on the number of interesting facts unearthed regarding the first century church, but on its ability to spark small personal reformation in the quality of our love for God and our love for others.” Larry in my heart your prayer has been answered.

A Year and a Day

2007-06-10T20:18:00.000-04:00

new born out of old
familiar yields, becomes adventure
take flight

change occurs slowly
then avalanche
take shelter

darkness succumbs to light
squint into the glare
take notice

forgotten, only a mist
recall as a dream
take memories

time is hasty
day-night flicker on a screen
take a breath

My Name is Michael

2007-06-06T14:12:00.000-04:00

Growing up I lived in three distinct worlds: school, church, and the neighborhood. There was no crossover between them. I had separate friends in each location and a different social standing and reputation in each.

During my years of Jr. High – grades 7 through 9 – this was before middle school, I had three school friends, Pat a red-headed Irish kid, Steve who I don’t really remember too well, and Hammie. Hammie was the brightest of the group or at least he had the best grades. He and I had a similar sense of humor and I became closer to him than the others.

None of us really fit in with any of the other groups at school. We weren’t “cool” enough for the in-crowd and not “odd” enough for any of the out-crowd groups.

Each of us was in a different section – the way our school was arranged. You took all of your classes with the same group of 30 – 35 kids. There were 17 sections. However, we were all in the same level so we had the same teachers, lessons, assignments….This had been a bit overwhelming for me coming from an elementary where there was one class of each grade and all of my friends from there were in lower expectation sections. In other words they went to shop class I was prepared for college.

We ate lunch at the same time, which is probably where we met. Lost and lonely, we found refuge at a lunch table. And after several hundred lunches and running the halls between classes we became “school” friends. Occasionally I hung out with Pat on the weekend, since we lived near each other but other than school the four of us had little interaction.

Our jr. high and high school were basically on the same property but separated by acres of athletic fields. The move to the high school buildings for 10th grade was even more traumatic then the move from elementary to jr. high. Another jr. high about the same size joined at 10th grade and the size of the high school doubled. As I stumbled through the unfamiliar halls and classes where I did not know anyone, I was on the look-out for my jr. high buddies.

On the second or perhaps the third day, I spotted my old pal Hammie leaning against some lockers among several upper classmen.
“Hey, Hammie, How ya doin!”
He looked straight ahead, above me, beyond me. “My name is Michael”, he said without emotion or expression.
At 14 I was not the always aware of social situations. “Huh, ya, ok. Hey, Michael” …: as I cheerfully began to ask about his classes….
Sternly, but now with sadness in his eyes he spoke again.
“My name is Michael!” with a strong emphasis on the first syllable, “and you don’t know me.”

I then noticed his military fatigue jacket and the upper classmen who were dressed the same, and no one was smiling.

I stammered awkwardly and backed away, very confused. I thought a lot about our encounter over that day and for several days after. I realized that there were no longer any black kids in my classes anymore. My elementary school was 60 % black, but the high school was less than 10%.

I was confronted that year by the stream of racism, a cultural barrier that I was both unaware and unprepared. I discovered the ugly hand of prejudice that year. And I learned that not all divisions are desired but the pressures to maintain those divisions are unmovable. From time to time I saw my friend Michael. We learned the subtle acknowledgement of a head nod but never had another conversation.

I would say that I came to accept and function “where I belonged” but still never really understood. Here’s to you, Hammie.

Better Days

2007-06-05T08:07:00.000-04:00

In August of ’06 I received a CD in the mail – Better Days by the Robbie Seay Band. I am not totally sure why I had ordered it. Somehow and somewhere I had seen a recommendation and took a chance. I had it in the player of my car and it had probably played through once when I got into the car after receiving a phone call from my wife, Dottie.

She was in Miami for a routine breast examination at a clinic because her doctor was uneasy with the results of the yearly mammogram. Dottie had been told it’s probably nothing but the doctor thought it would be best to have a particular clinic in Miami examine her. Dottie’s call confirmed that the doctor at the clinic had found a lump – and I had one in my throat.
As I began to drive the title tract came on…

“First of all, thanks for listening to our song,
We hope this finds you driving in your car,…”

The words of the song flowed like a friend speaking to me as I clicked repeat time after time on the drive home.

“…Grace has found me,
Shaken up my soul,
Grace will follow,
Where ever you will go,…”

Never really said much about the song or the CD but I think Dottie thought it odd that the CD remained in the player for several weeks. I know my son did. I would let the album play through but each time Better Days came up I would replay it several times.

“…Here come better days
And here come better days,
Better days, and a better place I know.”

And through the weeks that became months, after each appointment and consultation where we were told by doctors, “I am sure that we will not need to …but let’s check just to be sure. The song became a friend and a rock to set my anchor as I believe God spoke to me through the song – Better Days – I knew it would be alright in the end.

“…Listen to me now for grace, oh grace, is calling…”

Through two operations, the learning that Chemotherapy was not an option but a requirement, as was the eight weeks of daily radiation treatments necessitating a 75 mile drive after teaching a sixth grade class all day.

“…Breathe out and breath again,
Know that life is hard,
But it's worth breathing…”

I believe that God speaks through His scriptures, in dreams and visions, from the “still small voice” but also through a song. The song was playing on the evening we learned that an operation was necessary, and after the first operation while I drove to the pharmacy to get some prescription filled.

“…Green grass, and I'm laying in the sunlight of you,
And the wind is moving through the trees ushering you,
And the better days you bring, the better places found,
Feasting at your table I am overwhelmed, …"

It was not the song but the presence of God that comforted me, but he used the song. How many times did it play, I don’t know but it spoke to me of hope and a future.

“…I lift my glass drink to love and never gave up,
Clouds pass fading into memories gone,
And all I'll show life is life, and love is.
What else could there be?”

Indeed God speaks once,
Or twice, yet no one notices it.
“In a dream, a vision of the night,
When sleep falls on men…
Job 33:14

I believe God spoke to me and I am thankful he did.

The Present of a Rubber Hose Factory

2007-05-21T21:59:00.000-04:00

Or musings about communication:
Maybe it was a blessing, maybe a cruel joke but I was given – for a wedding present – a 3 month job in a rubber hose factory. I really needed a job for the summer as I was newly married and would not begin my career in Christian education until the fall. So it was a blessing, but as a Yankee in a small southern town I had my share of challenges which is the cruel joke.

I was to work in an area of the factory called maintenance. Most of the fellows in the department had routines and scheduled tasks to perform, but as the new guy I needed to constantly ask a foreman for an assignment.

After the first day, I had little dealings with the department manager. All of my communication took place with a foreman, George, who was a black man from the county. In 1977 this was unusual and he had difficulty with his confidence in ordering white men, and I had difficulty understanding him.

Now a southern drawl is not all that difficult to understand, but people from the rural parts of the county where I was had more of a dialect than a drawl and with the droning of rubber processing machines and the beating of boilers and that George would always turn his head away from me when he spoke caused me much difficulty in perceiving what he desired me to do. Usually I needed to ask him to repeat himself several times. I could tell that this caused him severe emotional uneasiness.

Returning from lunch break one afternoon I was motioned by George to follow him. This was unusual as he had never lead me to a task; he simply sent me. After a short walk I found myself in a boiler room. The booms of turning machinery echoed off the concrete walls and George spoke with his head in his southern-black country drawl and with his head turned for several minutes. I studied the situation’ could think of nothing I could possible do; so I followed him as he left. He did not seem concerned. For the next 30 minutes we walked around the factory, stopping several places and he spoke at each. Sometimes there was another person present and perhaps the instructions were for them or maybe for me, I just didn’t know.

I can imagine you think it strange that I didn’t stop and inquire of the foreman, “Hey, am I supposed to do something here.” But you were not part of the culture of the factory. Not that I totally understood but I did realize that I was not to ask questions. I was an outsider – my name had been changed to “Damn Yankee” or perhaps that was my title? Anyway no one really wanted to interact with me more than they had to. George, the foreman, also had culture mores that he could not break. He was unable to relate as a boss to a white man. I guess I am slow as I did not realize this was an issue until I observed him with fellow black employees. My questions, which came from the communication problems always made him nervous and he would become very self-conscious. The awkwardness that followed was enough to keep a 23 year-old quiet.

Regardless, after following him around for a while, we came to a place where I understood something to do and stayed there completing a task after he walked away. To this day I do not know if this was the one and only place he requested I work or if he just kept assigning until I accepted one.

After 53 years of church attendance in evangelistic churches with 30 plus years in some position of leadership I wonder if we communicate in a similar manner as George and the culture of the factory. How many are in our sanctuaries and simply due to cultural differences become treated like a “Damn Yankee” in a “good ‘ol boy” Southern factory.

Are we afraid to look into the face, eye to eye, because we are afraid of what we may see? Or is it that the person is different from us? So we turn away and speak a language that is almost understood, but causes confusion – our “Jesus-speak”.

I wonder how many are ready and willing to carry out the mission of Jesus and his kingdom but are following leaders and never quite understanding that through the power of the Holy Spirit we can serve right now because of the culture and language of the leadership?

I wonder if leaders that are frustrated and negative about their “people” who are not “serving” the Lord should reevaluate how they are communicating.

Anyhow, I was just wondering.

We’re Just Crazy

2007-05-20T19:09:00.000-04:00

We’re Just Crazy

One discovery I made through 25 years of high school basketball coaching was that each team had a different and collective personality: the players blended together uniquely and distinctly. In the world of athletics this is called chemistry. As a coach, my desire and obligation was to discern the personality and then adapt to it, or so was my style.

During the early-90’s we had a very talented group lead by several strong-willed seniors. My assistant coach, Doug and I knew that we had the potential to win the conference title. Knowing that the group dynamic lent toward silliness; we were very serious and were a bit more disciplined in our approach than we had been with some other squads.

We won a few games early in the season and all seemed to be going according to plan. The players were confident in their ability, we coaches knew were properly prepared, but there was something missing.

The team struggled; we won games but did not prevail against the better teams. Something was missing that “chemistry”. Doug and I tried various schemes but nothing seemed to work.
Toward the end of the season we were scheduled to face our arch-rival Princeton Christian. The game was to on their home court; the stands were packed to overflowing. Before the game in the locker room during the obligatory “pep-talk”, I searched for a way to communicate our need to just have fun, be loose, play our game. I could see how tense the fellows were; here our season was winding down, our goals were no longer obtainable and they had “the deer in the headlight look” of a team that was playing not to lose rather than playing to win.

Several of the team leaders were really into their music. Personal CD players had recently come out and now after Christmas everyone had one. From my memory I gave this “inspired” speech about playing with a song on their heart and lips. Taking me literally, someone asked, “You mean, I can sing … while I am playing. I don’t recall the song – though surely not on the approved Christian school play list – I said, “Sure…

Several others asked and became animated and joking as I agreed to all of their songs. The clowning around continued into our warm-ups. Anyway, the fellows played loose, won the game easily, much to the crowds chagrin and our delight. Somehow victories on the other school’s court have always been special.
Leaving the parking lot in the van were nine joyful players. One player David had been singing “Achy Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus and had changed the words to reflect our win and Princeton’s broken heart. The parody cracked everyone up, I can still hear the players singing at the top of their lungs as we pulled away from the school. Doug told David and the rest of the team, “You’re just crazy!” Somehow that caught their fancy and it became the catchphrase of the night and the source of many jokes as we went to a restaurant to eat.

A few days later we were scheduled for our last home game against an undefeated Horeb Christian who had already clinched the conference title that we had claimed for ourselves many weeks earlier.

Horeb had not lost a game to anyone that season! This was their last game before the state tournament. They were a quick fast breaking Hispanic team from Dade County who played excellent defense. Earlier in the season they had blown us out by 20 points. For the Bulls of Horeb we were just a tune up match before the tournament.

Doug and I had decided that we had been wrong in our analysis of the team’s personality and need of discipline and structure from us, the coaches. During the three days of practice between the Princeton win and the Horeb match up we emphasized and cultivated the “We’re Just Crazy” persona. Additionally, we decided to use that as our strategy for the entire game.

The fellows had really enjoyed practices – believe me – they needed little encouragement to be raucous. However, they did not really believe that we would allow that to carry over into a game. I don’t recall what I said in my pre-game speech but I encouraged them to fulfill their destiny of being “just crazy”. Actually the speech became more like a celebrity roast highlighting and charactering each player’s unique brand of craziness.
Our warm-ups, to say the least, were unique. I believe that the players were testing Doug and me to see if we really meant – “Go Be Crazy”.

I really got into the role of directing the craziness as the game progressed. Horeb seemed a little bewildered early but were well coached and disciplined so they just played hardnosed basketball. It is probably is not possible to accurately describe the flow of the game and how Doug and I orchestrated the craziness.
The lead changed hands minute by minute. Much to Horeb’s surprise, and perhaps our own, we were matching them basket for basket – defense play to defensive play.

Half time, for us, was spent making jokes about the Bulls. (
Imagine a school named Horeb with the mascot of Bulls – Horebbulls, how easy it was.) If you have not been around teenage jocks then this may shock you but the name Horeb, their cheerleaders, the players themselves all become fodder for “humor”.

Midway through the third quarter Horeb went on a run and established a 7 or 8 point lead. Of course, I called a time-out. Good coaching move, basketball purists might say, break the momentum, inspire the troops … However, I called this timeout to have a towel fight between he bench player and the starters. The bench won; we had the towels.

It was about this time that I saw the “look” in the Horeb players eyes – they knew we were crazy and were baffled and beginning to have a small dose of fear.

Another “highlight” was the timeout with about three minutes left in the game. We had a 3 or 4 point lead. I used this T/O to perform a juggling demonstration with three basketballs. They had never seen me juggle – a talent I had kept hidden – and the T/O turned into a one-up-man-ship showcase of strange and unusual talents. The officials who were equally baffled at this point had to come break it up so the game could be finished.
However, the coup de grace occurred during the final minute when the Horeb squad began to foul stopping the clock hoping we would miss free-throws giving them the opportunity to save their unblemished season. Usually this is a time when high-schoolers tense up and only total concentration allowing the muscle memory of making hundreds of shots in practice wins the day.

Often, as hard as this is to believe about the fine Christian young men of our conference schools, taunts will be spoken to rattle the shooter. Horeb never got the chance; we were trash-talking to our own shooters. The expression of bewilderment on the Horeb faces was priceless.

Tony was on the line for us, and Jason was taking bets with odds that he would miss. Tony was giving as much as he took. He missed the shots. Horeb quickly took the ball down court and cut our lead by two.

We were still up by two when Jason was fouled. Tony was really into his trashing routine. The razzing continued as Tony bet $5.00 with Jason. He began his routine, two dribbles, bent knees, lifted the ball to his shoulder …and stopped, “Double or nothing, left-handed.”
Tony agreed, Jason laughed, quickly shot with is left hand and …swish, a three point lead. Horeb called, “Time out”.

We were now up three and only 20 seconds or so to a major upset. I watched as the Horeb staff attempted to focus and motivate their players. I no longer needed to encourage anymore “craziness”, they were in the “zone” as in Comedy or Twilight Zone. The bench player‘s had come up with a cheer – probably mocking the other teams cheerleaders. I know, I know, chill, take a deep breath – I’ve repented, recited John Wooden Pyramid of Success, watched Hoosiers three times, and genuflexed to the shrine of Naismith.
The bet was increased to $20.00 but with Jason’s eyes closed. I am not certain and perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I saw the Horeb captain tell his coach, “It doesn’t matter, they’re just crazy…”
We went out; Jason covered his eyes with his left forearm and sank another free-throw.

For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God…. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong….

I wonder if we sometimes have the wrong strategy for evangelism, too many rules, and structured programs, not to mention “Chic Tracks”. And in our meetings, are we so structured with our “order of service” and production notes, like the coach with perfectly designed plays. Maybe we could simply go out and meet people, pray for them, meet a physical need, laugh or grieve. Have a party or hang out were one was happening; you know like do the stuff Jesus did. Ah, but that would just be crazy.

Happy Birthday

2007-05-14T16:59:00.000-04:00

Today is my ½ birthday day. I waited for the cards and surprise party but none came.

SIGNS THAT I AM GETTING OLDER:

I am proud of my lawn mower.
I burn the midnight oil until 9:00 P.M.
I can't remember the last time I laid on the floor to watch television.
I confuse having a clear conscience with having a bad memory.
I feel like the morning after when I haven't been anywhere the night before.

White Shoes

2007-05-11T15:09:00.000-04:00

white shoes
never before worn

jump higher
run faster

lace 'em up
good and tight

jump higher
run faster

no mismatched pair!
no hand me downs!

mine, they fit
custum made

jump higher
run faster

or maybe just stroll

those who hope in the lord
renew their strength
they will soar on wings like eagles
they will run and not grow weary
they will walk and not be faint

Describing the Ocean

2007-04-22T16:44:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-21T07:29:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-04-20T08:12:00.000-04:00

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

Enough is enuf.

2007-04-18T17:19:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-04-15T14:01:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-13T16:52:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-13T05:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-12T06:35:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-11T13:54:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-04-02T17:02:00.000-04:00

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.

You Might Be In A Southern Church If...

2007-03-31T13:28:00.000-04:00

…The finance committee refuses to provide funds for the purchase of a chandelier because none of the members know how to play it.

…People ask, when Jesus fed 5000, whether the two fish were bass or catfish, and what bait was used to catch 'em.

... Opening day of deer season is recognized as an official church holiday.

... The pastor says, "I'd like to ask Bubba to help take up the offering," then five guys and two women stand up.

... Finding and returning lost sheep isn't just a parable.

... People think the "rapture" is what you get when you lift something too heavy.

... A member of the church requests to be buried in his 4-wheel-drive truck because "It ain't never been in a hole it couldn't get out of."

... The choir is known as the "OK Chorale".

... Boone's Farm "Tickle Pink" is the favorite wine for communion.

... In a congregation of 500 members, there are only seven last names in the church directory.

... Baptism is referred to as "branding".

... High notes on the organ set the dogs on the floor to howling.

On Being Inconsistant

2007-03-28T21:45:00.000-04:00

Frank, one of the fellows I work with each day on a small construction crew pointed out an area of inconsistency in my life yesterday.
He has noticed several times recently as I have had occasion to meet former students in the course of our work and their response is similar. “Is that you Mr. Oates? I never saw you look like that before!” Digging in the coral, tying steel, or pouring concrete has a way of presenting a person differently than a collared shirt and tie.
For the past 29 years teaching, coaching, and administrating a private Christian school in a small community, I have stressed the importance of getting an education, studying and doing homework as the formula to staying out of manual labor.
On this particular day, I greeted an eighth grader who was in my geography class last year when his father came to borrow a tool. I didn’t notice at the time, but he did look me over strangely. Later that day a fellow from many years past was pushing a stroller by our job site. I was walking toward him and said hello. From his expression, I realized he did not know who I was. Even after removing my hat and sunglasses, I still needed to give him my name before he happily greeted me and then said, “You look very different! I never saw you like this before!”
Later that day Frank kiddingly chastised me for having preached a “stay in school” message and now was scratching coral rock into a ditch. Frank is rightfully concerned about the message I am sending to my former students.
His confusion is also interferring with a tenant of his philosophy: “Drugs and alcohol are the road to construction”.

Anyway, STAY IN SCHOOL, DO YOUR HOMEWORK.

"I try to make everybody's day a little more surreal." -- Calvin of Calvin & Hobbes

Truth

2007-03-24T17:08:00.000-04:00

Truth consists in the minds giving to things the importance they have in reality.
Jean Danielou

The implication to a follower of Christ are high. What seems most real to us – our material existence or the Kingdom of Heaven. It seems Jesus was contrasting this world and His kingdom often if not exclusively in his teachings. This present world is contrasted with what is most unreal – the Kingdom of God.
We are citizens of this kingdom, joint-heirs with Christ. But it all seems to be in the distant fog.
We are entreated to have the mind of Christ. If we did would we not place more emphasis on that which is real – the Kingdom of Heaven?

checkout any time you like

2007-03-18T16:50:00.000-04:00

The foolish woman is boisterous; She is naive, and knows nothing. she sits at the doorway of her house, On a seat in the high places of the city, Calling to those who pass by, Who are making their paths straight: Whoever is naive, let him turn in here; And to him that lacks understanding, she says, “Stolen water is sweet, And bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” But he not know that the dead are there; That her guests are in the depths of Sheol.

Proverbs 9: 13 – 18

flamboyant persuasiveness
covering her shallowness
emptiness

significant, sanctioned
bow and cower before her
deception

smile of deceit
embrace of treachery
captivity

embracing, enchantment
holding decayed flesh
entered,

“You can checkout any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
Eagles – Hotel California

Erin Go Bragh

2007-03-15T18:56:00.000-04:00

Two days to go!

St. Patrick's Breastplate

2007-03-14T18:38:00.000-04:00

This prayer is often called "St. Patrick's Breastplate" because of those parts of it which seek God's protection. It is also sometimes called "The Deer's Cry".

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.
I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.
Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

The heart Has its Reasons

2007-03-13T17:51:00.000-04:00

Blaise Pascal, the brilliant mathematician and Christian apologist
of the seventeenth century, made this remarkable observation:

The heart has its reasons,
of which reason knows nothing . . .

It is the heart which perceives God and not the reason. That is what faith is: God perceived by the heart, not by the reason. . . .
Reason’s last step is the recognition that there are an infinite number of things which are beyond it. It is merely feeble if it does not go as far as to realize that. And from that realization some retreat into denominational familiarity. (Or some form of institutional framework where thinking is not necessary or encouraged.)
I don’t think Pascal was not arguing for subjectivism over reason. He was not saying we should jettison our thinking in favor of sentimentality.
Rather, Pascal was making the observation that learning and reason by themselves are cul-de-sacs. Cul-de-sacs figuratively grow tedious if all you do is go around and around in safety and security. They have limits to what they can truly tell us about reality. Leaving the safety of the cul-de-sac is entering the freeway of mystery and faith. Pascal was arguing that our heart does in fact see, and we must look at life with the heart if we are to embrace a true perspective on our world.

Listen with our Hearts

2007-03-13T06:28:00.001-04:00

G. K. Chesterton suggested that our world holds a certain astonishment and fascination,
and that only a world filled with mystery and awe, could adequately account for reality.
Do we as Christians apprehend this fascinating world in which we live?
Do we listen with our hearts, which witness to the world to come?
In his classic, Orthodoxy, Chesterton made this provocative statement
about how Christian orthodoxy provides us with an enchanting view of this present world,
a world full of awe and wonder, a world that points to another.

"How can we be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it? How can this odd cosmic town. . .give us at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour of being our own town?. . . . we need this life of practical romance; the combination of something that is strange with something that is secure. We need so to view the world as to combine
as idea of wonder and an idea of welcome. . . . People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum and safe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy."

Gaelic Prayer

2007-03-11T13:18:00.000-04:00

Deep peace of the
running waves to you.

Deep peace of the
flowng air to you.

Deep peace of the
smiling stars to you.

Deep peace of the
quiet earth to you.

Deep peace of the
watching shepherds to you.

Deep peace of the
Son of Peace to you.

Which Fanasty Super Hero Are You?

2007-03-10T17:14:00.000-05:00

I scored as Yoda

A venerated sage with vast power and knowledge, you gently guide forces around you while serving as a champion of the light.

Judge me by my size, do you? And well you should not - for my ally is the Force. And a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us, and binds us. Luminescent beings are we, not this crude matter! You must feel the Force around you, everywhere.

Yoda is a is a character in the Star Wars universe. More Yoda information is available at the Star Wars Databank.

Take the survey: LINK

The Atheist Who Went to Church

2007-03-10T14:09:00.000-05:00

Curious and open to Christianity, Hemant Mehta became the "eBay atheist" when he posted his soul on eBay and began accepting bids to visit churches and then share his thoughts. Some 30 church services later, he's still an atheist. He tells us why, what he does believe in and what Christians should consider when talking to someone with different beliefs.
by Heather Johnson
from Outreach Magazine, March/April 2007

Below are two of the questions and Hemehta's responses:
HJ: Hemant, you're still an atheist, but you say you've learned some things through this experience. And you've wanted others—Christians and non-Christians—to join you as you went through the process of exploring Christianity and its churches. So, what do you hope Christians learn from your observations?
HM: Clearly, most churches have aligned themselves against non-religious people. By adopting this stance, Christians have turned off the people I would think they want to connect with. The combative stance I've observed is an approach that causes people to become apathetic—and even antagonistic—toward religion as a whole. Many evangelical pastors seem to perceive just about everything to be a threat against Christianity. Evolution is a threat. Gay marriage is a threat. A swear word uttered accidentally on television is a threat. Democrats are a threat. I don't see how any of these things pose a threat against Christianity. If someone disagrees with you about politics or social issues or the matter of origins, isn't that just democracy and free speech in action? Why do Christians feel so threatened?
You need to spread the message of Christianity—the message being what Christianity stands for—loving each other, helping the people around you. Those are things everyone can get on board with.
Also, atheists … we're not non-believers. We do believe in a lot of things, but they come from other experiences and other encounters, not necessarily a book.
HJ: What would Christians have to do to change how atheists view them?
HM: Well, for instance, a lady e-mailed me and she said a group of people from her church wanted to do something nice over the weekend. They contacted the mayor of the town and asked if he knew any service projects that they could do. He told them there was an older couple—the guy is a war veteran—and their house needs remodeling. And so they did this kind of extreme home makeover thing. They pitched in, sent the couple away for a weekend to a hotel or something. And they didn't get just church people involved, they invited friends and the couples' neighbors.
So the couple returns and sees what these people have done for them and their house, and they are just overjoyed.
That sort of thing can change views. It had nothing to do with "we're Christians doing this." It was just a group of people doing the Christian thing, just helping these people.
The woman even said they had no idea what the faith of some of the people helping were, what church they attended or if they even attended a church. But the whole point was to do something nice while all these people were together.
And that is the type of thing that is hard to argue with. If that is what your Christianity can do, wonderful! And I can't think of any atheist who would be against that sort of a thing.

Read the entire article.

something of interest to me

2007-02-24T16:43:00.000-05:00

Read the entire article and become involved in the discussion by following this link.

LIGHTING MATCHES IN A LIGHT BULB WORLD
by Spencer Burke

When Jesus invited his followers to be “the light of the world,” what do you think went through the minds of the disciples? It only would have been natural for them to think in terms of the resources available in their day – spark, wood, oil, flame, and fire. But how much has changed since the first century? Even more radically, how much has changed in the last 150 years?

If Jesus were to pose the same invitation today, would we think in terms of matches or alternating current? Wood or filament? Oxygen or vacuum? Therein lies the tension.

We—the Church—have the job of being truth in an ever-changing world. Yet the reality is often that the church has over romanticized matches, wood, and oxygen.

The invitation of Jesus is not to remain captive to things that held true in the past, but to transcend, to evolve, to discover new ways of embodying the things that held true in the past. I find it fascinating that when we mapped the human genome, it was called genius. When we explored the mechanics of quantum physics, it was a step forward. When we democratized communication through the Internet, we called it revolutionary. Yet when we dream of a socially networked church, without walls or the one-hour event, it is perceived as the destructive to the Church.
(italics added by me)
read the rest of the article

Currently Reading

2007-02-18T18:22:00.000-05:00

Haven’t updated this in a while , so here goes:

The Call: Finding and Fulfilling the Central Purpose of Your Life
Os Guinness

From the Publisher
The Call continues to stand as a classic, reflective work on life's purpose. Best-selling author Os Guinness goes beyond our surface understanding of God's call and addresses the fact that God has a specific calling for our individual lives.
Why am I here? What is God's call in my life? How do I fit God's call with my own individuality? How should God's calling affect my career, my plans for the future, my concepts of success? Guinness now helps the reader discover answers to these questions, and more, through a corresponding workbook - perfect for individual or group study.
According to Guinness, "No idea short of God's call can ground and fulfill the truest human desire for purpose and fulfillment." With tens of thousands of readers to date, The Call is for all who desire a purposeful, intentional life of faith.

The Importance of Being Foolish
Brennan Manning

From the Publisher
In the eyes of the world, Jesus was a fool. He did not abide by the rules of his day; the people he associated with were shunned by society; his Sermon on the Mount reads likea primer on being left behind, stepped on, and ignored. In order for us to truly be the people Jesus wants us to be, we too must learn to become "foolish."
Becoming a Christian is not a magical enterprise by which we are automatically transformed into better people. We must train to become who God intends us to be. In The Importance of Being Foolish, bestselling Christian author Brennan Manning teaches us how to think like Jesus. By reorienting our lives according to the gospel we may appear to be fools in the eyes of the world, but Manning reveals that this is exactly what Jesus wants.
In a powerful exploration of the mind of Christ, Manning reveals how our obsession with security, pleasure, and power prevents us from living rich and meaningful lives. Our endless struggle to acquire money, good feelings, and prestige yields a rich harvest of worry, frustration, and resentment. Manning explores what Christ's mind was truly focused on: finding the Father, compassion for others, a heart of forgiveness, and the work of the kingdom.

The Way of the Wild Heart
John Eldredge

From the Publisher
I can fix it. I don't need directions. I can figure this out on my own. These thoughts that erupt from a man's bravado, from his deep urge to be real man. Yet underneath this, there is a louder voice countering, You can't. You're not capable. You're weak. Many men-possibly all men-face two looming questions at some point in their life. What does it mean to be a man, and am I one?
The Way of the Wild Heart reaches out to "unfinished men" trying to understand and live their role as men and fathers. Exploring six biblically based stages, John Eldredge initiates men into a new understanding and ownership of their manhood and equips them to effectively lead their sons to manhood.

Divine Nobodies Shedding Religion to Find God (and the Unlikely People Who Help You)
Jim Palmer

From the Publisher
Don Miller meets Anne Lamott meets Brian McLaren in this tale of how God is most deeply connected to the world in the most unexpected ways through the least likely people. Jim Palmer, founder of a small, innovative emerging church, shares his compelling journey to authentic faith as it is intersected by the oddest of characters. Each chapter gives the reader permission and freedom to let go of "Christianity" as religion in order to embrace Christ.

P.T. Barnum would be proud

2007-02-17T17:41:00.000-05:00

Fake drug, fake illness -- and people believe it!
A media exhibit featuring a campaign for a fake drug to treat a fictitious illness is causing a stir because some people think the illness is real.
Australian artist Justine Cooper created the marketing campaign for a non-existent drug called Havidol for Dysphoric Social Attention Consumption Deficit Anxiety Disorder (DSACDAD), which she also invented.
But the multi-media exhibit at the Daneyal Mahmood Gallery in New York, which includes a Web site, mock television and print advertisements and billboards is so convincing people think it is authentic.
"People have walked into the gallery and thought it was real," Mahmood said in an interview.
"They didn't get the fact that this was a parody or satire."
But Mahmood said it really took off over the Internet. In the first few days after the Web site (www.havidol.com) went up, it had 5,000 hits. The last time he checked it had reached a quarter of a million.
"The thing that amazes me is that it has been folded into real Web sites for panic and anxiety disorder. It's been folded into a Web site for depression. It's been folded into hundreds of art blogs," he added.
The parody is in response to the tactics used by the drug industry to sell their wares to the public. Consumer advertising for prescription medications, which are a staple of television advertising in the United States, was legalised in the country in 1997.
Cooper said she intended the exhibit to be subtle.
"The drug ads themselves are sometimes so comedic. I couldn't be outrageously spoofy so I really wanted it to be a more subtle kind of parody that draws you in, makes you want this thing and then makes you wonder why you want it and maybe where you can get it," she added.
Mahmood said that in addition to generating interest among the artsy crowd, doctors and medical students have been asking about the exhibit.
"I think people identify with the condition," he said.

Fri Feb 16, 11:56 AM ET NEW YORK (Reuters)

The Password

2007-02-13T14:14:00.000-05:00

On your feet now—applaud GOD!
Bring a gift of laughter,
sing yourselves into his presence.
Know this: GOD is God, and God, GOD.
He made us; we didn't make him.
We're his people, his well-tended sheep.
Enter with the password: "Thank you!"
Make yourselves at home, talking praise.
Thank him. Worship him.
For GOD is sheer beauty,
all-generous in love,
loyal always and ever.
Psalm 100 MSG

Many families even close friends have special “code-words” that have special meaning just for them due to common experiences. We have several in our family; one is “just say thanks for the cookie”.

Both of my children have taken Suzuki style piano since they were three. Though their mother is a Suzuki piano teacher, we selected, for Amy and Andrew, a teacher allowing Dottie to be a "piano-mom”. This decision meant frequent travel to Miami from “the rock” or our home on the island of Key Largo. Once the children began school this became our practice every other Saturday.
Early one Saturday, a classmate of Andrew’s, joined our family for the trip to the lesson before a day of activities on the mainland. Since two lessons would last more than an hour, I went to do some errands. After a quick stop at the computer store, I bought half-dozen large cookies from a shop in the mall and returned to the piano studio.
After getting into the car the cookies seemed only to be properly appreciated by the children. As Amy, Andrew and Alan all expressed gratitude for a cookie, Dottie uncharacteristically was grumbling and griping. Perhaps she thought it was to early in the day for cookies. The yammering and disapproval brought quiet and a sense of gloom into the car.
Without looking at her and seemingly to no one in particular I softly said, “Just say thanks for the cookie.” The randomness and foolishness of the comment broke the mood and we all had a good laugh. For the remainder of the day we all looked for opportunities to say, “Just say thanks for the cookie,” to each other.
And now seven years later, “Just say thanks for the cookie,” is the code-word that we use to occasionally reset and attitude. Having the opportunity to both be a classroom instructor and coach to both Alan and Andrew we have created many bewildered looks from classmates, opponents and even officials by saying, “Just say thanks for the cookie.”

Entering into the presence of God is the same, you start with the password: Thank you.

"To be grateful is to recognize the Love of God in everything He has given us --
and He has given us everything.
Every breath we draw is a gift of His love, every moment of existence is a grace,
for it brings with it immense graces from Him.
Gratitude therefore takes nothing for granted, is never unresponsive, is constantly awakening to new wonder
and to praise of the goodness of God.
For the grateful person knows that God is good, not by hearsay but by experience.
And that is what makes all the difference."

From Thoughts In Solitude by Thomas Merton

Joy is not Happiness

2007-02-09T17:19:00.000-05:00

The other night a discussion lead to the above statement, and now this morning I read some additional thoughts on the subject in a little book by Henry Nouwen.

Nouwen toward the end of his essay spoke of gravitating toward the light which drives darkness away. He said:

“Hope is more real than despair
Faith more real than distrust and
Love more real than fear.”

Being able to recognize the spiritual reality from the shadow of darkness is not sentimentalism but truth.
Nouwen went on to describe a friend whose joy was contagious.
“The more I am with him, the more I catch glimpses of the sun shinning through the clouds.”
Knowing that there is a sun behind the clouds however is not sufficient in itself when darkness surrounds and colors all other aspects with its suffocating twilight.
Continuing the description of his friend Nouwen goes on to say that “while his friend always spoke of the sun I (Nouwen) keep speaking about the clouds, until one day I realized that it was the sun that allowed me to see the clouds.”

May we become messengers of hope, speaking of the sun while walking under the dark skies.

“His master answered and said to him,
‘Well done…enter into the joy of your master.’”
Matthew 25:15

Coram deo

2007-02-02T17:17:00.000-05:00

a sound,
no, a voice.
hesitant,
there is no voice for me.

a voice calling,
yes, I hear,
and my heart responds,
betraying my feet.

behind the sound,
beyond the voice,
wait, be silent.
His eye

for me,
toward me,
light flows out, not in.
capturing me;

ah,
behind the eye,
adjusting to the light,
His face.

for me,
toward me,
capturing me;
grace in a smile.

the sound of beating,
behind His face, His heart.
the voice first heard
His love is complete.

"Unclear On The Concept"

2007-02-01T17:37:00.000-05:00

An FBI website meant to teach children not to give out personal information while at a website violates child online safety laws by asking children to give out personal information.

The site invites child readers to take part in a Common Knowledge Foundation quiz on how to become an FBI agent which requires that the child first enter personal information; their home telephone number and address. Worse, Common Knowledge Foundation never obtained the law-required clearance to be asking these questions of children.

But on the bright side, children come away with a clear understanding of how government operates.

The Register (UK) 23-Oct-06 Click here for original story

A Tribute

2007-01-31T17:37:00.000-05:00

It comes in a plastic wrapped brick and is consumed by more than 100 million people per day, but surprisingly few people gave a second thought to the man who invented ramen noodles.
Momofuku Ando, or Mr. Noodle as he is more affectionately known, has died. He passed on January 5 at 96.
In 1958 Ando was looking for cheap but good food for the working class when he invented ramen noodles. The noodles – fried, dried, and sold curbside – turned his company, Nissin Foods, into a global giant and have served more cups of noodles than McDonalds has served hamburgers.
My own son may not have survived his teens without the sustaining of ramen noodles. Perhaps the only thing he could cook himself. (Sorry to take a cheap shot, Andrew.)

Least Competent Criminals

2007-01-26T17:43:00.000-05:00

Police in Chesterfield Township, Mich., arrested Calvin Fluckes Jr., 21, in December after he tried to cash a counterfeit check for $848 at a Wal-Mart. Fluckes was apparently oblivious of the approximately 80 uniformed police officers who were in the store for a charity event and whose cruisers Fluckes had to pass when he parked his car in the Wal-Mart lot. According to a police lieutenant, "(Fluckes) was immediately apprehended." [Detroit Free Press, 12-7-06]

Time Out!

2007-01-25T09:14:00.000-05:00

Three minutes left in the fourth quarter, a 12 point lead has shrunk to 6. Fatigue is setting in as confidence leaks out.
“Time-out!”I haven’t watched ESPN in vain; I know when to stop the bleeding. Dickie V. would approve.
The players hustle to the sideline, frustration evident in their posture and countenance. They each take a seat while teammates get water and towels and form a shell separating us from the court and bedlam erupting in the gym as the home team is making a comeback.
Now what should happen is that five sets of eyes focus on mine as I renew confidence, infuse courage, and give instruction.
Instead the players talk, accuse, blame, justify and in a word: blather.
At times like this I have learned to become silent – adding my voice to the din would only add to the disorder.
Sometimes my silence is realized – perhaps felt – and the players become silent. Though I feel a strong compulsion to speak rapidly both to scold and quickly instruct and save the day; I have learned from hard lessons to remain quiet. Five seconds become ten, an enormous sacrifice in a time-out period strictly limited to 60 seconds. Leaving me only time for a single sentence; perhaps only an encouragement, I might simply say, “We are all-right, play our game, Defense!”

Reminds me of my prayers, I am full of words, blame, excuses.
“Do something God, aren’t you in charge!” As I continue to blather on and on doing all the talking, accusing, blaming, justiflying. At the end comes my “amen” like the officials whistle and command of “Get them out here, coach”. Maybe God like a seasoned coach is silent, awaiting my attentiveness. Perhaps I should seek his eye rather than the sound of my own voice. Is God’s silence simply his awaiting my listening, my attentiveness?

I have recently been considering the following description of prayer:

Prayer is to listen attentively
to the One
who addresses us
in the here and now.

Thoughts on Leisure

2007-01-24T17:45:00.000-05:00

Matthew 6:25-34
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life,
what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.
Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns,
and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are you not much more valuable than they?
Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
And why do you worry about clothes?
See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.
Yet I tell you that not even Solomon
in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.
If that is how God clothes the grass of the field,
which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire,
will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or
'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'
For the pagans run after all these things,
and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.
But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness,
and all these things will be given to you as well.
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Each day has enough trouble of its own.

There have been times when leisure seemed like the mist rising on a winter morning. It had an ethereal feel to it perhaps due to my own hazy understanding of leisure. Recently I came across this story about the Architect Frank Lloyd Wright in some of my clippings.

Frank Lloyd Wright once told of an incident that perhaps seemed insignificant at the time, but had a profound influence on the rest of his life.

The winter he was nine years old, he went walking across a snow-covered field with his reserved, no-nonsense uncle. As the two of them reached the far end of the field, his uncle stopped him, and pointed out his own tracks in the snow, straight and true as an arrow’s flight. He then pointed out young Frank’s tracks, which meandered all over the field.

“Notice how your tracks wander aimlessly from the fence to the cattle to the woods and back again,” his uncle said. “And see how my tracks aim directly to my goal. There is an important lesson in that.”

Years later, the world-famous architect liked to tell how this experience had greatly contributed to his philosophy of life. “I determined right then,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “not to miss most things in life, as my uncle had.”

I think Frank Lloyd Wright’s meandering across that snow-covered field, curiously looking at everything in his path, comes very close to this notion of contemplation and genuine leisure. May I continue to meander and not miss the small pleasures.

Prayer for Peace

2007-01-23T18:02:00.000-05:00

This is the world
You loved so much that for it
You gave your only begotten
Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, to hang
From the cross, done to death
Love nearly overwhelmed by hate
Light nearly extinguished by darkness
Life nearly destroyed by darkness
Life nearly destroyed by death –
But not quite –

For love vanquished hate
For life overcame death –
Light overwhelmed
Darkness, there –
And we can love with hope.
For peace,
For transfiguration, for compassion,
for soldiers,
for civilians, for peace, for Shalom,
For family, for togetherness –

O my God, our God O my father
When will we ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Desmond Tutu

The Measure of Greatness

2007-01-15T18:17:00.000-05:00

Then little children were brought to Jesus
for him to place his hands on them and pray for them.
But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.
Jesus said,
"Let the little children come to me,
and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.
Matthew 19: 13-14 NIV

Seven years-old and trapped with my mom at her workplace on a perfectly good morning on a teacher’s workday – what could be worse? First, for some reason we had no books or toys for me. Secondly, my mother was secretary for the president of Crozier Theological Seminary in Chester, Pennsylvania and in these hallowed halls no children were to be seen or heard.

Perhaps in compassion, but more likely to hide me, my mom placed me on a couch at the end of a large library/reading room. From the untrustworthy memory and perception of a seven year-old the room was enormous, stretching past the distance an eye could see.

There were no interior walls. The appearance of several connected rooms was achieved by the placement of couches, chairs and tables. Each area had its own entrance door, but once inside one could move freely from one end to the other.

On the couch, my back was to most of the room as I was seated in front of a small b/w television set. My mother had tuned to a cartoon show and instructed me in her MOST serious voice: “Do not move, do not get up, do not make a sound, do not touch the TV, do not touch anything.
Had it not been unhealthy I would have been told not to breathe. Thoroughly warned, completely intimidated, and utterly bummed I settled back and began to watch Woody Woodpecker.

As older TV’s often did, the vertical hold began scrolling. Now I was really in the dumps. How long before my mom returned to check on me, probably hours.

Just when matters could not be worse a group of Suits entered the library several areas from where I was.

If the term Suits is unfamiliar, it refers simply to grownups that wear collars to small, ties to tight, never smile, and, most significantly, have a particularly strong dislike of small boys – like me.

After sneaking a peek above the couch back, I tried to become invisible while attempting mind control over the Suits, willing them to exit prior to entering my section. My fear became panic as the tip-tapping of black wing-tipped shoes came closer, as the boom of several bass voices echoed in my ears.

Spotted! I could feel one of the group approaching. He sat down, placed a strong hand on my shoulder. His gentle eyes looked into mine as his smile and kind voice clamed me instantly. I don’t remember if I spoke. He stood, tall and confident and began to adjust the TV.

At the very moment his hand went behind the set, my mother entered. She stopped in the doorway. I could tell from her face that she was unnerved, more panicked than me, totally flustered.

“Ethel,” the man spoke her name. He knew her, I marveled.
Ethel, it’s all-right,” he said as he approached her and greeted her respectively. I observed her embarrassment and apprehension dissolve as he engaged her in conversation.

Even at seven, I was able to intuitively sense the annoyance of the Suits; while amazed at the grace of this powerful man. Whoever he was they deferred to him. I quickly concluded he was OK; he probably had to dress that way, but he was no Suit.

After they left my mom sat with me and spoke about my new friend. Though I was only seven, the seriousness and gravity of her conversation remained with me.

During the next few years my mom would occasionally remind me of the encounter when we saw him on television, particularly when he was maligned.
Before he had a dream Dr. King was living his dream, at least with this little seven year-old white boy.

"The King will reply,
'I tell you the truth,
whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.'
Matthew 25:40

Prayer

2007-01-15T07:47:00.000-05:00

O word of God,
I betrayed you, the Truth,
with my falsehood,
when I promised to hallow the hours that vanish away.

In overtaking me,
night does not find me undarkened by sin.
I did indeed pray,
and I thought to stand blameless at eve.

But someway and somewhere
my feet have stumbled and fallen;
for a storm-cloud swooped on me,
envious lest I be saved.

Kindle for me your light,
O Christ, restore me by your Presence.

Gregory of Nazianzus
a 4th century Christian bishop of Constantinople.

Snow Day

2007-01-14T17:33:00.000-05:00

I fondly recall a special day from my childhood, a special day, better than all other days – except perhaps Christmas or my birthday. Often I would wait with eager anticipation, my face planted against the cold glass of the dining room window, looking out onto the street, lit by a solitary streetlight. Watching, waiting, wondering, hoping, and for what – can you guess – a snow-day.

Yes, a snow-day, the most glorious day in a fellow’s life when he is eight-year’s old.
You see during my elementary years, the southern suburbs of Philadelphia would receive a snow of 6 – 10 inches several times a winter.

I would watch the small flakes fall, swirling in and out of the incandescence light. Hoping, believing, wishing that the snow was also falling out of my sight. My wishing along with every other red-bloodied boy was important. Collectively, we could make a difference, or so I believed. If the snow began to early, the streets would be cleared by the morning from the afternoon traffic and the salt-trucks and school would be held – without outside recess. To light of a snow also was no good. So together without any contact or premeditation all of us were at the windows calling the snow down onto the lawn and streets.

I would watch the fluttering crystals and anticipate the day off from school. I remember staying awake, tiptoeing to the window checking the accumulation, calculating the amount needed to postpone school.
Awaking on a snow-day was wonderful. There would be the smell of breakfast, since both my mother and father would be home, toast and jam, maybe bacon or even scrapple frying on the stove. The sheer delight of listening to the radio and hearing the name of my school called, knowing officially, what was already evident.

In my memory of snow-days, the sun was always shining brightly in the morning, the wind would have quieted and my entire world would be radiant: glistening, white, tranquil. The streets of heaven may be lined with gold, but the fields must be white with new-fallen snow. And the sound, quiet, not silent. A new snow fall brings a “sound” of peace perhaps soothing is a better word.

A snow-day was a free day. No cares or concerns, at least not for an eight year old. My day, after dressing in the proper winter garb and passing Mother’s inspection began with exploration. My feet would be the first on the snow covered steps. There is a joy in making a boot trail over a yard and looking back to see where you have been, locating drifts, kicking through the new power, and sliding down hills. As the morning developed, friends would be discovered doing the same, until a pack of us boys gathered and built snow forts, tossed snow balls or sledded down the hill in the meadow across the street.

Now I know it was not the same for the grown-ups. Some had to shovel out cars and brave the icy roads no matter what. And there were driveways and sidewalks to shovel, plus extra work waiting at the office when tomorrow came. But for a child this day was perfect. Play until soaking wet, chilled to the bone, then head home for hot chocolate or a bowl of soup until you redressed and began the adventure again.

Over the past several months, the books I have read, conversations with friends and even speakers I listen to have been directing me to desire a snow-day. Or perhaps I should explain in more approximate “grown-up” language: a time of Sabbath, a period of total rest, in the presence of God. Or better yet, to learn to live each new day as a new beginning: to recognize that God’s mercies are new every morning… to pray, listening attentively and enter into the presence of God to the one who addresses us here and now, to learn to hear the voice of God. God who has revealed himself as Immanuel: God with me (us). As I choose to listen that I might find the new mercy hidden in a moment, waiting to born. I desire to fight the voices, I hear, telling me lies.
My rational, modern grown-up mind relying on our past experiences and memories tells me that the future will be just a repeat of the past.

I wish to no longer be fooled by the Father of lies. The voice of the deceiver who comes to kill my hope, steal my joy, destroy my relationship with my Father in heaven.
Henry Nouwen calls the voices of the past and future - the “oughts” and “ifs”. He explains how the “oughts” pull us back into the unalterable past; while the “ifs” draw us forward into the unpredictable future. The "oughts" dredge up shame and guilt, while the "if" create doubt of the future due to curcumstances out of my controll.

But real life is the here and now. God, our God, my God is the God of the present the God of NOW. That is a why I seek for a snow day or perhaps better stated a snow-day moment. In the present, right now, to feel the hand of my Father and know that all is fine, that all is going to be OK, even in the midst of the storm. And to be able to carry that snow-day moment with me to sustain me all day long unto the morning when I arise anew and look for a snow-day again.

Lamentations 3:20-23
I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

2B or not 2B

2007-01-12T17:01:00.001-05:00

Proving the concept that if enough people do something it will become accepted. High school students in New Zealand won’t be marked off for the abbreviated and phonetic-style grammar popular in text messaging while writing essays for the New Zealand Qualifications Authority.
Condemnations form English purists notwithstanding, the shorthand developed as a shorthand for instant messages. Traditionalists insist that the new standard devalues English as a language.
An example published in the Wellington’s Dominion Post is above in the title. (it’s Shakespeare, of course) Another accepted sentence was “We shal fite dem on d beaches”. (A reference to a famous line from Winston Churchill)

The Way Through the World

2007-01-10T17:38:00.000-05:00

The way through the world
is more difficult to find
than the way beyond it.

poet Wallace Stevens

Narrow is the road that leads to life
and few are those who find it.
Jesus

This is not necessarily speaking of eternal life. For what is more essential to us than our own lives, and what are we less clear about than our own lives?
Many periods of my life have started with hope, joy, and expectation especially spiritually but so quickly and surprisingly lead into woods shrouded with a low lying mist.

Where is this abundant life?
Where is God when we need him?

I experience erosion from confidence to doubt. This erosion leads to a subtle questioning of God and his intentions toward me.
The gospel I read about seems to present more – so much more. When I take off the religious glasses of my heritage I see a different theme altogether

So little I actually see in the Gospels are about the hereafter; I find more about the Now!
Consider the following scriptures:

John 10:10 (NIV)
10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life,
and have it to the full.

John 7:38
38 Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him."

Notice how Jesus says from not simply in. Flowing from implies to me that this must be for someone other than me in some future age, but for those I am in contact with right now.

Perhaps the abundant life is missing because I am holding onto it rather than flowing to others?

Lost Keys

2007-01-09T19:17:00.000-05:00

Heard the story of the man who was in a parking lot under a street lamp looking for his lost keys? A friend sees him and stops to help. After some minutes he asks, “Exactly where did you drop your keys?”
“Somewhere in my car.”
“Then why are we looking out here?”
“Because the light is better out here.”

You will never find what you are looking for if you don’t look in the right place.

“They traded the glory of God
who holds the whole world in his hands
for any cheap figurines
you can buy at a roadside stand.”
Romans 1:21 MSG

Being ... A Prayer

2007-01-08T12:35:00.000-05:00

Dear God,

May every aspect of my being
be converted to Truth.
May every cell fall into place
and serve a higher plan.
I no longer wish to be
who I was.
I wish to be more.

Amen

Being ...
by Marianne Williamson from Illuminated Prayers

Ruin Your Life

2007-01-07T12:51:00.000-05:00

"The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined.

Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church’s prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close.
Dreadful it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament."

Soren Keirkegaard

Was Jesus a Lousy Missionary

2007-01-06T12:15:00.000-05:00

During the past few years the books I have read, the people I have been with in community and the teachers to whom I have listened have convinced me that the incarnation is the primary lens which we are to focus the activity of the church.
When “the word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood” there were countless ways Jesus the Christ could have revealed himself and conducted his activities. Yet, somewhat illogically it would seem, Jesus spent most of that journey quite intentionally as the ‘son of man’, living a simple life in a small town for his first 30 years, prior to any recognized ‘ministry’.
So much so that when he began to preach the people laughed and mocked him saying ‘He’s just a carpenter… Mary’s boy… Who does he think he is?’ It begs the question, was Jesus a lousy missionary or was there something quite intentional and radically subversive about the way he approached his life and mission that we need to learn from and emulate?

If Jesus were alive today and his mission was still to ‘seek out and save the lost’ what might he do?

Now That's a Traffic Jam!

2007-01-05T17:32:00.000-05:00

Traffic jam: Xiamen, south China

“If they'd lower the taxes and get rid of the smog and clean up the traffic mess, I really believe I'd settle here until the next earthquake”
Groucho Marx

I Like Nonsense

2007-01-05T11:44:00.000-05:00

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities.
- Dr. Seuss -

Illumination

2007-01-03T14:20:00.000-05:00

"The literature of illumination reveals this above all: Though it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise."

From "Seeing," an essay in Anne Dillard's first book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek