(Originally written 2/21/12)
Tonight after dinner...wait, I should rephrase. Tonight, after a period of time that was dinner for me, 75% putting our 9 month old down for my wife, and 100% track meet for J.- off to the toys, spinning around in his chair, off to Mommy's newly vacated seat, each time summoned back by Dad- he dutifully took his plate to the sink, walked back and asked in a little voice if he could watch a show. I was appropriately hesistant, raised my eyebrows, and said slowly and somewhat sternly, "You may watch ONE show. Now which one do you want to pick?" His exuberant reply stood in stark contrast to my own words: "SPRING!" he practically shouted, tossing his arms up in the air and jumping at the same time. I was taken back, and with his reply still ringing in my ears, my own words, complete with measured severity, rung even louder in my head, over and over. It was one of those seminal "I just sounded exactly like the kind of parent I always said I never would become" moments, and I realized a truth I had experienced my whole life but never been able to articulate: there is something fundamentally wrong with our understanding of joy.
I say wrong, because the word "inadequate", while an appropriate description of many of the other-wordly virtues that we only see a tarnished reflection of here on earth, doesn't sufficiently describe our practice of joy here on earth. Allow me to attempt to explain what I mean. When I was a kid, I was best buds with my friends Paul and Tim. Every Sunday that I can remember, church would end, we would end up playing outside, and one of us would get the ingenious idea of coming over to the other's house. The prospect was brimming with endless possibilities; just considering the experiences we could have in the subsequent 5 hours until the evening service stretched the limits of our 8 year-old brains. We'd find our mothers and beg and beg, promising absurd things like an immaculate bedroom for a month if we could just have this one favor. Our Moms were usually pretty accomodating, unless we'd (1) been particularly rotten that week, (2) gotten caught that morning during the sermon trapping flies from the windows in offering envelopes, crushing them and putting them back in the pews, or (3) tuned out the service completely with our incredibly detailed and epic drawings of the entire US military in all its righteous might, including about a zillion nukes, all pointed at a solitary and rather sheepish-looking Iraqi dictator in the wide open desert.
Then there were the times I remember watching a friend's parent give him permission to do something, but both the assent and the activity were laced with stern looks that seemed to say, "You owe me big, and you'd better toe the line or I am pulling the plug on this immediately". For a ridiculously sensitive kid like myself, who cared far more about any emotional separation from a parent than some stupid game, this struck me as not only pointless, since I wasn't having much fun anyway, but rather poisioned- what should have been a time of play and joy was instead a barrage of guilt via hairy-eyeballed looks and comments that amounted to pre-emptive condemnation. Their demeanor seemed to say, "Have fun, but not too much fun, because I know the kind of kid you are deep down." Why don't you pump the brakes on that joy a bit.
I get why this is necessary at times. Really. I'm pretty new to this parenting thing, but I usually have a much better barometer than my son does on his energy, micheviousness, and proximity to a meltdown. The trouble, I guess, comes in two places. The first is when I'm (gasp) not an infallible parent, and because I'm tired or annoyed or care more about quiet and a smaller swath of destruction, I rain on my son's parade and let him know that just because he's having fun doesn't mean I am, or that he should really appreciate how lenient and sacrificial I'm being right now. Sometimes when I mean "Have fun but be careful because I love you" it comes out more like "sigh-grunt-sigh-stern look, "Ok, but only ONE MORE TIME." But the real trouble comes in the second area. When we inevitably transfer what we know of our parents to our heavenly father, we lump in the vices as well as the virtues, and that ambiguous notion of pre-emptive condemnation I remember so vividly as a child suddenly has far greater implications. And since I can't make God breakfast in bed or butter him up with absurd promises of perfect behavior, I end up, in an attempt to have "fun but not too much fun", tempering all of life with a fashionable amount of protestant reservedness. In its most benign form it deprives me of life giving belly laughs and child like joy; in its most sinister, and perhaps truest form, it results in self-rejection.
I've seen the child-like joy of someone who has had an epiphany of the real meaning of grace, in its ludricrous simplicity and unfathomable life-giving implications, be met by a parent with the words, "Yeah, but you go too far in that direction and you forget all about works and bearing fruit." Calm down, sonny, I've been around a while. I'm sure your youth camp was nice and all, and being young you're excitable, but that stuff will wear off, and I still want you to be mindful of dotting your I's and crossing your T's. Well intentioned, life-crushing, carefully measured reservedness. An abomination of the gospel.
When Jesus says in the Gospels that we must become like little children to enter the kingdom of heaven, it meant a litany of things. And now that I have kids of my own, it has taken on whole new shades of meaning. Jeremiah doesn't question where breakfast is coming from tomorrow. As far as he is concerned there is an endless supply of pancakes, bagels, juice, etc. in our kitchen. As amazed as the four and five thousand were when Jesus fed them all with a pitance, I bet not a single kid there was amazed. Cool, Jesus is feeding us all lunch from that basket. Maybe we can all have dinner at his house, too! Kids are loud, messy, unrefined, and totally accepting. I can just picture the Pharisees shooing the kids away, trying to preserve decorum. The gospel isn't about decorum. It is incredibly messy, graphic, as loud as you can imagine and as absurd as the things my 4 year old says every day. And to those who first grasp it, their joy is like the kid on youtube who gets surprised with a trip to Disneyworld. If we dare to really look at it over and over, and think of what it means, it will remain as fresh and interesting as the episode of Little Bear my son has watched two dozen times or more. I watch him remain glued to the television, cackling at every joke and cheering with the main characters- he knows the ending, right? I mean, he's seen this like a thousand times this week... Child-like joy. That had to be a big part of what Jesus was talking about that day.
That Mom may have been right to keep a close eye on her son. Kids are sinful, just like the rest of us. Often in this fallen world people have what starts off as fun and it devolves into debauchery. Even our selfless acts can be tinged with narcicissm. So we try to have fun, but not too much fun. We try to reign in our excitement about the prospect of spiritual growth because we know it's still us we're talking about, and we just did that dumb thing 10 minutes ago. Perhaps we think we're being appropriately joyful, but I think what we're doing is polluting our joy with self-rejection. Or maybe we're just picturing God peeking out from behind the shades, giving us a stern look to make sure we know He's still watching and ready to levy consequences should they be necessary. But I think the key to all of this is this: We will only experience real joy to the depth that we believe that God wants us to have it, and that sin destroys it. God is not a kill joy. He is a physician who is simply way, way smarter than you. Fun only burns us when it ceases to be real fun, and becomes a cheap imitation instead.
Until we dare to believe that God wants us to have not just adequate joy, enough to temper the painful parts of life, but infinitely great joy, based on his love and independent of our performance, we'll always be trying to stay on his good side and never live in reality- you are loved unconditionally by the all-powerful creator. Is his grace barely enough? Before the foundation of the world was laid God looked at your whole life, the worst thoughts and actions you would ever have, and said, "That one's mine, and I'm going to love them forever." You know what that means?! I get giddy just thinking about it...
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
What the world needs now...
(Originally written 12/17/11)
My friend, Nat, is, well...there's no way around it, he's way smarter than me. I think I knew it pretty much right off the bat, the fateful morning we met sophomore yeat of high school during our pre-school assembly in that teeny chapel/library room. It was never, as far as I can recollect, a sore subject, more just an inescapable truth. Wierdly I still remember his SAT scores. Luckily we got along ok; we actually get along even better now, which is always nice. However, I contend that there are two things that Nat was wrong about. The first is the revised way he pronounces his last name. I mean, c'mon, man, talk about obtuse...it would be like me going around saying, "No, it's pronounced HAHNdel." Some things are just better Americanized.
The second one was probably a bit more significant, and it has stuck in my brain ever since. We were having one of our quintessential enriching class-dialogues on denominational distinctives and their implications, and, well, from time to time I was an arrogant punk in high school. Yeah, probably even now.... anyway, he always managed to state his views eloquently and diplomatically, whereas I was significantly less...nuanced. I had just gotten done saying something thoughtful and edifying when he turned to me and laughed good naturedly. "Nat, do you think I seek out conflict?" He smiled. "I think sometimes if there's smoke....you sort of try to fan it into a flame." Had I something witty and even better, incindiary to say, I'm sure I would have, but I was struck by the truth of his statement and for once kept my mouth shut.
Fast forward to tonight, and my wife gets home with our sick 7 month old, and tells me the Dr. says he has a bad ear infection. The poor guy had been such a trooper, getting top teeth, so congested he can't breathe and wakes himself up, and was still sweet and cuddly. It had been a nutty Christmas season, and we were all pooped. Jenny had called in the anti biotics as well as his acid reflux meds to the local CVS earlier, so I called to see if they had arrived. "Yep, they'll be ready in about 15 minutes." I thanked her, hung up the phone, and ran over after 20, just before supper so we could get in two doses tonight.
Once I got there the pharmicist asked me who the prescription was for and I told her my son Isaac, and that there were actually two. She came back with attitude, and informed me that the reflux meds required 2 days to mix and let sit in the fridge, that they couldn't just do that on the spot. Next time I should plan better and give them ideally 3 days notice.
"Oh," I said, "I didn't realize that."
She told me the other meds would be ready in about 15 minutes.
"Huh," I said, "when I called 20 minutes ago they said they'd be ready in like 15."
Now she was really exasperated, and informed me that no, once I showed up they put me onto some other more pertinent list and my new 15 minute counter began.
"Now if you'll excuse me," she said, motioning/almost blocking me aside with her arm, "I have to help this gentleman who's been waiting."
I bit my tongue and stepped back. She helped him, looked over at me and said matter-of-factly, "It's been crazy here today."
"Yeah," I replied, "it's been crazy at my house, too. I have a screaming 7 month old with an ear infection."
"That's why we'll get those right out..." her voice trailed off as she turned back-to mid sentence and walked away, leaving me alone to contemplate the sincerity of her empathy.
So I waited, and burned just a little on the inside. The other pharmicist, who hadn't stopped working since I got there, came over with the meds and kindly explained them to me, as well as getting a quote on the reflux meds, when they would be ready, and why they were so stinking expensive. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to say something.
"You ok?" she asked.
I thought about it, thought about dinner waiting for me and my sick baby, and said yes, I was fine, and left.
I told my wife during supper what had happened, and she looked at me knowingly.
"I know the one you mean, she's been nasty to me before, too."
I had sort of deduced from her demeanor and the way her coworkers interacted with her, that she had some type of seniority and I wasn't the first party to receive some haste explanation.
So I went back.
Since I left the store the first time I had been wondering about being a person of grace while being a person who strives for justice. Call me melodramatic, these are the thoughts that occur to me when I'm on the receiving end of a pharmacist who has had a rough day.
I could just let it go like a normal person. It's a small town and you'll probably run into her again. I should just let it go.
No, I shouldn't, and here's why: for every 10 people that get treated like that by this woman, 8 will probably say nothing and just assume they were at fault for...something. One might say something under their breath or maybe even explode in the store. The other person might go right to the top, chew this woman out to her supervisor, on a CVS website, etc., but they wouldn't say anything to her face. And they'd all be wrong.
Am I lobbying for conflict? I sincerely prayed that I wasn't.
Was I seeing a wisp of smoke and trying to fan it into a flame?
No. Because conflict, when done right, is actually a means of reducing conflict.
Conflict, when employed correctly, can actually be a form of love.
It is direct, and gives the offending person the respect of seeing their accuser and explaining themselves.
It is directed appropriately, not at my 4 year old who wonders why Daddy was mad all night, or my wife who gets a distracted spouse for the few minutes we have alone each day, or worse, a spouse who verbally spews on her and feels better while she wonders why she feels worse.
It seeks justice by the most efficient means possible, without gossip, without slander, without a boycott of a franchise because of the insensitivity of one employee. It is justice motivated by reconciliation rather than vengeance.
So I went back into the CVS and asked the friendly pharmacist her name. She told me her first, and I asked for her last as well.
"Do you mind if I ask why?"
"Yes, I'm writing a complaint about one of your employees, but I also want to write a recommendation for you. You were very courteous and helpful."
I told her I needed to speak with the other pharmacist. She appeared uncomfortable with the idea and suggested I speak with someone over the phone. Clearly she didn't want an incident in the store, which was perfectly understandable.
"Look," I said, "I'm fine. I just need you to be a third party when I speak to her."
She appeared slightly relived and agreed.
Finally she summoned me over and I explained who I was and why I was there. I calmly recalled the incident, and how her tone had come across.
"I'm sorry, that wasn't my intent." She was apologetic and wanted this over with, but I had more to say.
"You treated me as if I were being beligerant, and I clearly wasn't. You acted as though I was slow and should have understood the ins and out of pharmaceuticals. I wanted you to hear this from me, face to face, before I log a complaint on the CVS website and leave a message with your district manager."
She was falling over herself to apologize. This clearly wasn't something she was accustomed to.
"I just thought I recognized you and having been in here before you knew how this worked."
I had never gotten this prescription here before, and had to reason to "get how it worked". Furthermore, I pointed out that even if I had and had simply forgotten, I was a paying customer and deserved some courtesy, like her equally busy coworker had displayed to me.
"Look, my wife and I are both working, both in grad school, and raising two kids, one of whom has a bad ear infection right now. I just didn't expect to be treated like that when I went to pick up his meds."
She again apologized sincerely, and said she needed to work on that, that she was thankful for my feedback.
"What are you in grad school for?"
"Seminary," I replied, winking at her.
She smiled, and I could see the beginnings of tears in the corner of her eyes.
We shook hands, and I left, feeling like if I saw her again not only wouldn't it be awkward, but she would in face be sincerely appreciative as she had been in the store. Not because I'm wise and right and she was wrong, but because conflict is hard. That's why people avoid it. But it can be an encouraging thing for both parties.
I didn't want to ask for some reimbursement like a gift card, that would have proven I was playing an angle.
I won't write that complaint because I don't know this woman's story, what's going on at home, how hard her day has been how often she's been given the courtesy of difficult honesty. Mostly I won't write it because I am highly skeptical of an appropriate response from a higher up at any large corporation. Besides...I don't want to write it now anyway. This woman heard me, and I listened to her, and that's all I wanted to begin with.
So in the end, perhaps Nat- smart guy that he is :)- wasn't wrong about either thing at all. I may not shy away from conflict as soon as I should, though I hope I enter into it more humbly than I used to. In the end I pray every day that God would grow me and use me, and when by his grace I care more about reconciliation than my rights, I see that the primary function of justice-true justice- was displayed on the cross. It is a means to an end. It is about reconciliation, not punishment.
My friend, Nat, is, well...there's no way around it, he's way smarter than me. I think I knew it pretty much right off the bat, the fateful morning we met sophomore yeat of high school during our pre-school assembly in that teeny chapel/library room. It was never, as far as I can recollect, a sore subject, more just an inescapable truth. Wierdly I still remember his SAT scores. Luckily we got along ok; we actually get along even better now, which is always nice. However, I contend that there are two things that Nat was wrong about. The first is the revised way he pronounces his last name. I mean, c'mon, man, talk about obtuse...it would be like me going around saying, "No, it's pronounced HAHNdel." Some things are just better Americanized.
The second one was probably a bit more significant, and it has stuck in my brain ever since. We were having one of our quintessential enriching class-dialogues on denominational distinctives and their implications, and, well, from time to time I was an arrogant punk in high school. Yeah, probably even now.... anyway, he always managed to state his views eloquently and diplomatically, whereas I was significantly less...nuanced. I had just gotten done saying something thoughtful and edifying when he turned to me and laughed good naturedly. "Nat, do you think I seek out conflict?" He smiled. "I think sometimes if there's smoke....you sort of try to fan it into a flame." Had I something witty and even better, incindiary to say, I'm sure I would have, but I was struck by the truth of his statement and for once kept my mouth shut.
Fast forward to tonight, and my wife gets home with our sick 7 month old, and tells me the Dr. says he has a bad ear infection. The poor guy had been such a trooper, getting top teeth, so congested he can't breathe and wakes himself up, and was still sweet and cuddly. It had been a nutty Christmas season, and we were all pooped. Jenny had called in the anti biotics as well as his acid reflux meds to the local CVS earlier, so I called to see if they had arrived. "Yep, they'll be ready in about 15 minutes." I thanked her, hung up the phone, and ran over after 20, just before supper so we could get in two doses tonight.
Once I got there the pharmicist asked me who the prescription was for and I told her my son Isaac, and that there were actually two. She came back with attitude, and informed me that the reflux meds required 2 days to mix and let sit in the fridge, that they couldn't just do that on the spot. Next time I should plan better and give them ideally 3 days notice.
"Oh," I said, "I didn't realize that."
She told me the other meds would be ready in about 15 minutes.
"Huh," I said, "when I called 20 minutes ago they said they'd be ready in like 15."
Now she was really exasperated, and informed me that no, once I showed up they put me onto some other more pertinent list and my new 15 minute counter began.
"Now if you'll excuse me," she said, motioning/almost blocking me aside with her arm, "I have to help this gentleman who's been waiting."
I bit my tongue and stepped back. She helped him, looked over at me and said matter-of-factly, "It's been crazy here today."
"Yeah," I replied, "it's been crazy at my house, too. I have a screaming 7 month old with an ear infection."
"That's why we'll get those right out..." her voice trailed off as she turned back-to mid sentence and walked away, leaving me alone to contemplate the sincerity of her empathy.
So I waited, and burned just a little on the inside. The other pharmicist, who hadn't stopped working since I got there, came over with the meds and kindly explained them to me, as well as getting a quote on the reflux meds, when they would be ready, and why they were so stinking expensive. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to say something.
"You ok?" she asked.
I thought about it, thought about dinner waiting for me and my sick baby, and said yes, I was fine, and left.
I told my wife during supper what had happened, and she looked at me knowingly.
"I know the one you mean, she's been nasty to me before, too."
I had sort of deduced from her demeanor and the way her coworkers interacted with her, that she had some type of seniority and I wasn't the first party to receive some haste explanation.
So I went back.
Since I left the store the first time I had been wondering about being a person of grace while being a person who strives for justice. Call me melodramatic, these are the thoughts that occur to me when I'm on the receiving end of a pharmacist who has had a rough day.
I could just let it go like a normal person. It's a small town and you'll probably run into her again. I should just let it go.
No, I shouldn't, and here's why: for every 10 people that get treated like that by this woman, 8 will probably say nothing and just assume they were at fault for...something. One might say something under their breath or maybe even explode in the store. The other person might go right to the top, chew this woman out to her supervisor, on a CVS website, etc., but they wouldn't say anything to her face. And they'd all be wrong.
Am I lobbying for conflict? I sincerely prayed that I wasn't.
Was I seeing a wisp of smoke and trying to fan it into a flame?
No. Because conflict, when done right, is actually a means of reducing conflict.
Conflict, when employed correctly, can actually be a form of love.
It is direct, and gives the offending person the respect of seeing their accuser and explaining themselves.
It is directed appropriately, not at my 4 year old who wonders why Daddy was mad all night, or my wife who gets a distracted spouse for the few minutes we have alone each day, or worse, a spouse who verbally spews on her and feels better while she wonders why she feels worse.
It seeks justice by the most efficient means possible, without gossip, without slander, without a boycott of a franchise because of the insensitivity of one employee. It is justice motivated by reconciliation rather than vengeance.
So I went back into the CVS and asked the friendly pharmacist her name. She told me her first, and I asked for her last as well.
"Do you mind if I ask why?"
"Yes, I'm writing a complaint about one of your employees, but I also want to write a recommendation for you. You were very courteous and helpful."
I told her I needed to speak with the other pharmacist. She appeared uncomfortable with the idea and suggested I speak with someone over the phone. Clearly she didn't want an incident in the store, which was perfectly understandable.
"Look," I said, "I'm fine. I just need you to be a third party when I speak to her."
She appeared slightly relived and agreed.
Finally she summoned me over and I explained who I was and why I was there. I calmly recalled the incident, and how her tone had come across.
"I'm sorry, that wasn't my intent." She was apologetic and wanted this over with, but I had more to say.
"You treated me as if I were being beligerant, and I clearly wasn't. You acted as though I was slow and should have understood the ins and out of pharmaceuticals. I wanted you to hear this from me, face to face, before I log a complaint on the CVS website and leave a message with your district manager."
She was falling over herself to apologize. This clearly wasn't something she was accustomed to.
"I just thought I recognized you and having been in here before you knew how this worked."
I had never gotten this prescription here before, and had to reason to "get how it worked". Furthermore, I pointed out that even if I had and had simply forgotten, I was a paying customer and deserved some courtesy, like her equally busy coworker had displayed to me.
"Look, my wife and I are both working, both in grad school, and raising two kids, one of whom has a bad ear infection right now. I just didn't expect to be treated like that when I went to pick up his meds."
She again apologized sincerely, and said she needed to work on that, that she was thankful for my feedback.
"What are you in grad school for?"
"Seminary," I replied, winking at her.
She smiled, and I could see the beginnings of tears in the corner of her eyes.
We shook hands, and I left, feeling like if I saw her again not only wouldn't it be awkward, but she would in face be sincerely appreciative as she had been in the store. Not because I'm wise and right and she was wrong, but because conflict is hard. That's why people avoid it. But it can be an encouraging thing for both parties.
I didn't want to ask for some reimbursement like a gift card, that would have proven I was playing an angle.
I won't write that complaint because I don't know this woman's story, what's going on at home, how hard her day has been how often she's been given the courtesy of difficult honesty. Mostly I won't write it because I am highly skeptical of an appropriate response from a higher up at any large corporation. Besides...I don't want to write it now anyway. This woman heard me, and I listened to her, and that's all I wanted to begin with.
So in the end, perhaps Nat- smart guy that he is :)- wasn't wrong about either thing at all. I may not shy away from conflict as soon as I should, though I hope I enter into it more humbly than I used to. In the end I pray every day that God would grow me and use me, and when by his grace I care more about reconciliation than my rights, I see that the primary function of justice-true justice- was displayed on the cross. It is a means to an end. It is about reconciliation, not punishment.
Tebowing.
Originally written 12/16/11
For football fans, this season has been one of the most interesting in recent memory. For all the headlines, there's many more stories going under the radar that in any other season would be front page news. The Steelers have become a passing team, and Big Ben is having his best season to date. No less that three QB's are poised to break Marino's passing record set in 1984 for all time most passing yards in a season. The Packers are undefeated and appear to have the makings of a legit dynasty for years to come. Aaron Rodgers has been unconsciously good, and Gronkowski is having the best year ever for a tight end, with no signs of slowing down over the last three weeks. But all this is being drowned out by one of the most outspoken (not uncommon in the NFL) and polarizing players to hit the NFL since...well, maybe ever.
It has all the makings of a feel good story, yet by far its characteristic is divisiveness. Possibly the best PASSER in the history of the SEC (which, if you don't know college football, this is the suma cum...everything conference in D1 football), similar touchdown numbers to Manning's in college but with half the picks, national champion and Heisman winner gets drafted in the first round by a coach who's fired the following season, and inherits a coaching/ownership group (not to mention several teammates) who make it abundantly clear that they didn't chose him, and really don't want him. He gets benched behind a journeyman QB who promptly plays terrible football for several games. The cries for Tebow, present from training camp, are now defeaning, and the coach makes a choice which was really no choice at all. Many said Tebow would never play QB in the NFL. Many said he should be drafted in the first, second or even third rounds. Then they said if he played he couldn't win with his unorthodox throwing motion and propensity for running- not like the elegant, gazelle-like running QB's like Michael Vick, Steve Young or even Aaron Rodgers- but more like a fullback, often choosing to run over people rather than arounde them. They said even if he won a few games he couldn't sustain it, and he wouldn't get better passing the ball. They said his last minute wins were flukes against bad teams. They've said all this and more, and each time Tebow has proven them wrong. It's a ready made Hollywood script. Except people hate him. Not like you hate brocolli, or you hate it when you forget your ez pass at home. Visceral, mouth-foaming, tripping-over-yourself-to-yell-about-it-HATE. If I said it doesn't make sense to me I'd be lying; that doesn't, however, mean that hating Tebow isn't ludricrous and untenable.
Some claim they hate him because he's not a good Quarterback and shouldn't be starting. What were the Broncos supposed to do? They benched a guy who was losing badly and started a guy who has won 6 out of 7 and rallied his team around him. In the logic score, that's Broncos: 1, Tebow haters: 0. They say there are lots of QB's who have put up better numbers than Tebow but aren't playing now because they weren't first rounders. What was he supposed to do when the Broncos traded back up into the first round, went on the clock, and his phone rang? Tell Josh McDaniels "Thanks, but I really think there are others more deserving than me." ? Tebow has taken all the hate and not reciprocated a word in kind. When asked about his team's success, he has consistently deferred credit and said all the right things, while appearing to be the most striking and unusual characteristic of all in mainstream media icons: Genuine.
So he's a winner, a hard worker, a great teammate, a humble player, with character and intangibles that are undeniably off the charts. Yet people can't stand him. It is a curious phenomenon, especially for parents who need to realize that atheletes are some of the most visible role models for their kids, and in every sport many are failing miserably with this responsibility.
Of course, the proverbial elephant in the closet is this: he is the one thing a society obsessed with tolerance absolutely cannot tolerate: a professing evangelical Christian.
Never mind the fact that the average Olbermann-watching left winger would be hard pressed to give a historically accurate definition of an Evangelical Christian; simply insert the words hate, ignorant, stupid, judgemental, CONSERVATIVE (gasp), and you have it. Ball up all the things today's secular media considers evil, and you have an Evangelical. But again, I fail to see the logic.
Across the NFL there are stories like the one that broke this week about Bear's receiver Sam Hurd:
"The former Northern Illinois University receiver told an undercover federal agent who he thought was a drug supplier that he wanted to buy five to 10 kilograms of cocaine and 1,000 pounds of marijuana per week to distribute in the Chicago area, authorities said. In exchange, authorities said, Hurd agreed to pay $25,000 per kilo and $450 per pound — which would amount to up to $2.8 million a month."
Guys shooting themselves in the leg, guys getting drunk and commiting manslaughter, wife abuse, degrading women, infidelity, fathering a dozen kids from multiple road trips, drug use, gambling, the list goes on and on. Players actually said they were fearful that if the lockout hadn't ended and there had been no NFL games this year, the spike in violent crime among players would have been unprecedented. Yet not one of these stories induces the vitriol reserved for a guy who spent the offseason volunteering at an orphanage, who doesn't swear, and just happens to love Jesus. "Religion offends people, he shouldn't bring it up." This is the trump card I've heard every announcer, radio host and football personality say on air. But here's the problem: the media brings it up all the time, and nobody (who gets any air time) cries foul.
Why is that? The answer is simple: the media only brings up certain types of Christians, and they're always the wackos. How many youtube hits did that psycho chick get who thanked God over and over for the Tsunami hitting Japan? If there is a Christian who has a problem with interracial marraige, their church is on the front page. The countless Christians who spend energy doing relief work, giving to the poor, running their companies with integrity, contributing to their communities; I can't remember the last time one of them got air time. I think ultimately that's the crux of this whole phenomenon: the media can't stand Tebow because he isn't a backwoods lunatic who is easily dismissed. If Christianity is brought up at all in media today, it is brought up to be mocked and dismissed. But this guy is a winner. Inspires his teammates. Has morals and character. He's everything we claim we want in our role models, but he just won't shut up about Jesus and people who love Jesus can't be taken seriously. The media can't stand Tebow because he isn't what they claim all Christians are, and they can't censor him. People can't stand Tebow because he doesn't fit their preconceptions of what a Christian is. In a society whose golden rule is not to judge until you've walked a mile in someone's shoes, Christians are to be scorned from a distance. While many Christians are going further than I think is appropriate with Tebow's plight, citing every hurdle as persecution and every success and favor, what many are in essence saying is, "SEE?!" One of theirs has a platform from which to be heard on a relatively (for once) playing field, even if it is a mile high. Tebow invokes such emotional reactions because he actually believes and lives what he preaches, and you have to DEAL with him. And this Sunday at 4:15, as a football fan and as a Christian, I am psyched to deal with the Tebow phenonmenon, win or lose. I will be rooting for the Patriots, and don't think our Lord has a particularly vested interest in the outcome of this game. I am just genuinely refreshed to have such a solid God-fearing guy in the most prestigious position in American sports. Hopefully others will begin to appreciate a subtext to a game that for once doesn't involve players getting fines, parole, legal proceedings, cheating, etc. Just a guy doing what he loves and thanking God for the chance.
For football fans, this season has been one of the most interesting in recent memory. For all the headlines, there's many more stories going under the radar that in any other season would be front page news. The Steelers have become a passing team, and Big Ben is having his best season to date. No less that three QB's are poised to break Marino's passing record set in 1984 for all time most passing yards in a season. The Packers are undefeated and appear to have the makings of a legit dynasty for years to come. Aaron Rodgers has been unconsciously good, and Gronkowski is having the best year ever for a tight end, with no signs of slowing down over the last three weeks. But all this is being drowned out by one of the most outspoken (not uncommon in the NFL) and polarizing players to hit the NFL since...well, maybe ever.
It has all the makings of a feel good story, yet by far its characteristic is divisiveness. Possibly the best PASSER in the history of the SEC (which, if you don't know college football, this is the suma cum...everything conference in D1 football), similar touchdown numbers to Manning's in college but with half the picks, national champion and Heisman winner gets drafted in the first round by a coach who's fired the following season, and inherits a coaching/ownership group (not to mention several teammates) who make it abundantly clear that they didn't chose him, and really don't want him. He gets benched behind a journeyman QB who promptly plays terrible football for several games. The cries for Tebow, present from training camp, are now defeaning, and the coach makes a choice which was really no choice at all. Many said Tebow would never play QB in the NFL. Many said he should be drafted in the first, second or even third rounds. Then they said if he played he couldn't win with his unorthodox throwing motion and propensity for running- not like the elegant, gazelle-like running QB's like Michael Vick, Steve Young or even Aaron Rodgers- but more like a fullback, often choosing to run over people rather than arounde them. They said even if he won a few games he couldn't sustain it, and he wouldn't get better passing the ball. They said his last minute wins were flukes against bad teams. They've said all this and more, and each time Tebow has proven them wrong. It's a ready made Hollywood script. Except people hate him. Not like you hate brocolli, or you hate it when you forget your ez pass at home. Visceral, mouth-foaming, tripping-over-yourself-to-yell-about-it-HATE. If I said it doesn't make sense to me I'd be lying; that doesn't, however, mean that hating Tebow isn't ludricrous and untenable.
Some claim they hate him because he's not a good Quarterback and shouldn't be starting. What were the Broncos supposed to do? They benched a guy who was losing badly and started a guy who has won 6 out of 7 and rallied his team around him. In the logic score, that's Broncos: 1, Tebow haters: 0. They say there are lots of QB's who have put up better numbers than Tebow but aren't playing now because they weren't first rounders. What was he supposed to do when the Broncos traded back up into the first round, went on the clock, and his phone rang? Tell Josh McDaniels "Thanks, but I really think there are others more deserving than me." ? Tebow has taken all the hate and not reciprocated a word in kind. When asked about his team's success, he has consistently deferred credit and said all the right things, while appearing to be the most striking and unusual characteristic of all in mainstream media icons: Genuine.
So he's a winner, a hard worker, a great teammate, a humble player, with character and intangibles that are undeniably off the charts. Yet people can't stand him. It is a curious phenomenon, especially for parents who need to realize that atheletes are some of the most visible role models for their kids, and in every sport many are failing miserably with this responsibility.
Of course, the proverbial elephant in the closet is this: he is the one thing a society obsessed with tolerance absolutely cannot tolerate: a professing evangelical Christian.
Never mind the fact that the average Olbermann-watching left winger would be hard pressed to give a historically accurate definition of an Evangelical Christian; simply insert the words hate, ignorant, stupid, judgemental, CONSERVATIVE (gasp), and you have it. Ball up all the things today's secular media considers evil, and you have an Evangelical. But again, I fail to see the logic.
Across the NFL there are stories like the one that broke this week about Bear's receiver Sam Hurd:
"The former Northern Illinois University receiver told an undercover federal agent who he thought was a drug supplier that he wanted to buy five to 10 kilograms of cocaine and 1,000 pounds of marijuana per week to distribute in the Chicago area, authorities said. In exchange, authorities said, Hurd agreed to pay $25,000 per kilo and $450 per pound — which would amount to up to $2.8 million a month."
Guys shooting themselves in the leg, guys getting drunk and commiting manslaughter, wife abuse, degrading women, infidelity, fathering a dozen kids from multiple road trips, drug use, gambling, the list goes on and on. Players actually said they were fearful that if the lockout hadn't ended and there had been no NFL games this year, the spike in violent crime among players would have been unprecedented. Yet not one of these stories induces the vitriol reserved for a guy who spent the offseason volunteering at an orphanage, who doesn't swear, and just happens to love Jesus. "Religion offends people, he shouldn't bring it up." This is the trump card I've heard every announcer, radio host and football personality say on air. But here's the problem: the media brings it up all the time, and nobody (who gets any air time) cries foul.
Why is that? The answer is simple: the media only brings up certain types of Christians, and they're always the wackos. How many youtube hits did that psycho chick get who thanked God over and over for the Tsunami hitting Japan? If there is a Christian who has a problem with interracial marraige, their church is on the front page. The countless Christians who spend energy doing relief work, giving to the poor, running their companies with integrity, contributing to their communities; I can't remember the last time one of them got air time. I think ultimately that's the crux of this whole phenomenon: the media can't stand Tebow because he isn't a backwoods lunatic who is easily dismissed. If Christianity is brought up at all in media today, it is brought up to be mocked and dismissed. But this guy is a winner. Inspires his teammates. Has morals and character. He's everything we claim we want in our role models, but he just won't shut up about Jesus and people who love Jesus can't be taken seriously. The media can't stand Tebow because he isn't what they claim all Christians are, and they can't censor him. People can't stand Tebow because he doesn't fit their preconceptions of what a Christian is. In a society whose golden rule is not to judge until you've walked a mile in someone's shoes, Christians are to be scorned from a distance. While many Christians are going further than I think is appropriate with Tebow's plight, citing every hurdle as persecution and every success and favor, what many are in essence saying is, "SEE?!" One of theirs has a platform from which to be heard on a relatively (for once) playing field, even if it is a mile high. Tebow invokes such emotional reactions because he actually believes and lives what he preaches, and you have to DEAL with him. And this Sunday at 4:15, as a football fan and as a Christian, I am psyched to deal with the Tebow phenonmenon, win or lose. I will be rooting for the Patriots, and don't think our Lord has a particularly vested interest in the outcome of this game. I am just genuinely refreshed to have such a solid God-fearing guy in the most prestigious position in American sports. Hopefully others will begin to appreciate a subtext to a game that for once doesn't involve players getting fines, parole, legal proceedings, cheating, etc. Just a guy doing what he loves and thanking God for the chance.
Conspiracy?!
(originally written September 2011)
With the 10 year anniversary of 9/11 we will be reminded of the horrific events that changed America a decade ago, retold firsthand accounts of heroism, unthinkable pain and in some cases, unbelievable luck. However this anniversary also grants, if only by default, a soap box to many political groups, op-ed columnists, and the ever popular conspiracy theorists. While some look at the claims of this last group and wonder if a local psych ward is missing a few residents, we shouldn't be surprised that this group exists, and at least for a time, was far more popular than many think. The lone gunman theory has never sat well with us Yankess. Here in America it's difficult to conceive that lives here can be taken so easily, so capriciously, and without regard for what we hope is the best defense system in the world. Pearl Harbor. JFK. The Twin Towers. We refuse to accept the answers we've been given. There simply had to be more to it than that. Ironically this is the lone instance where many people who regularly berate the government for their stupidity and inability to accomplish anything do a 180 and claim that not only is the government intelligent and proficient, it is stealthy and thorough enough to somehow fabricate an incredible hoax that the majority of thinking citizens accept. I mean, come on. Either G.W. is a fumbling dunce or an evil genius. You can't really have it both ways.
Fast forward to today, where I read an article with interview snippets from several leading conspiracy theorists, including David Ray Griffin, Kevin Barrett, and Dylan Avery, a young New Yorker who produced a "documentary" that became a focal point of the conspiracy theorist's movement and promptly much mainstream press in the process. The creative process he describes is telling:
"It was just so easy to believe anything terrible about your government because you were seeing all of these terrible things. They were doing all of these terrible things right on front of our faces, so why wouldn't they do terribloe things behind closed doors?"
Why not, indeed? Avery's initial offering cost $2000 and was widely criticized, even by those in his own camp, for factual errors. Incidently, Webster defines a documentary as "employing documentation in literature or art; broadly: FACTUAL, OBJECTIVE ". After trimming out some the the more outrageous claims, he re-cut and released his film in 2005 at "the perfect time". The perfect time being the lowest approval rating Bush had enjoyed to that time. People were foaming at the mouth. Wanting revenge, an outlet for their anger. And by twisting the facts in his film (which has since been re-cut twice more to remove further inaccuracies), Avery granted them the thing they wanted most: an illusion of righteous indignation. Any of this starting to sound familiar?
In subsequent years these movements went through a precipitous decline in popularity, and Avery decided to do some homework. Not on the reasons his movement is losing speed, mind you. No, he did actual homework on the events of 9/11.
"Since 2006 Avery has re-cut the film twice more, removing some of the more outrageous accusations, like the claim that Flight 93 had been diverted to Cleveland Hopkins Airport rather than crashing in Pennsylvania and that calls made from the plane had been faked using "voice-morphing" technology. After interviewing some of the Pentagon witnesses in person, Avery has even backed away from the stance that it was a missile and not a plane that hit the Pentagon. "It's easy to come to conclusions when a) you don't have a lot of information at your disposal and b) you haven't had a chance to actually talk to people who were there," Avery says."
I'm sorry, what was that last part? For a minute it sounded like...
"It's easy to come to conclusions when a) you don't have a lot of information at your disposal and b) you haven't had a chance to actually talk to people who were there."
Now, I'm no filmmaker, but I would have thought that both of those items would be pretty high up on the list of pre-requisites to do a documentary. Avery now says his keen insight is that the organization of these attacks had to go beyond the Bush administration (i just can't...even...ahh, see the end of paragraph 1), and the fact that the government had warning and should have been able to prevent these attacks. Sounds strangely like...what sane people have been saying all along. In retrospect, Avery admits getting "sucked into a hardcore mentality that it was almost too easy to get into back then, because the war had just started and everybody was just so pissed off." Doesn't sound like conspiricist propoganda, sound more like...an apology. Well, apology accepted. But it's not me you should be apologizing to.
With the 10 year anniversary of 9/11 we will be reminded of the horrific events that changed America a decade ago, retold firsthand accounts of heroism, unthinkable pain and in some cases, unbelievable luck. However this anniversary also grants, if only by default, a soap box to many political groups, op-ed columnists, and the ever popular conspiracy theorists. While some look at the claims of this last group and wonder if a local psych ward is missing a few residents, we shouldn't be surprised that this group exists, and at least for a time, was far more popular than many think. The lone gunman theory has never sat well with us Yankess. Here in America it's difficult to conceive that lives here can be taken so easily, so capriciously, and without regard for what we hope is the best defense system in the world. Pearl Harbor. JFK. The Twin Towers. We refuse to accept the answers we've been given. There simply had to be more to it than that. Ironically this is the lone instance where many people who regularly berate the government for their stupidity and inability to accomplish anything do a 180 and claim that not only is the government intelligent and proficient, it is stealthy and thorough enough to somehow fabricate an incredible hoax that the majority of thinking citizens accept. I mean, come on. Either G.W. is a fumbling dunce or an evil genius. You can't really have it both ways.
Fast forward to today, where I read an article with interview snippets from several leading conspiracy theorists, including David Ray Griffin, Kevin Barrett, and Dylan Avery, a young New Yorker who produced a "documentary" that became a focal point of the conspiracy theorist's movement and promptly much mainstream press in the process. The creative process he describes is telling:
"It was just so easy to believe anything terrible about your government because you were seeing all of these terrible things. They were doing all of these terrible things right on front of our faces, so why wouldn't they do terribloe things behind closed doors?"
Why not, indeed? Avery's initial offering cost $2000 and was widely criticized, even by those in his own camp, for factual errors. Incidently, Webster defines a documentary as "employing documentation in literature or art; broadly: FACTUAL, OBJECTIVE ". After trimming out some the the more outrageous claims, he re-cut and released his film in 2005 at "the perfect time". The perfect time being the lowest approval rating Bush had enjoyed to that time. People were foaming at the mouth. Wanting revenge, an outlet for their anger. And by twisting the facts in his film (which has since been re-cut twice more to remove further inaccuracies), Avery granted them the thing they wanted most: an illusion of righteous indignation. Any of this starting to sound familiar?
In subsequent years these movements went through a precipitous decline in popularity, and Avery decided to do some homework. Not on the reasons his movement is losing speed, mind you. No, he did actual homework on the events of 9/11.
"Since 2006 Avery has re-cut the film twice more, removing some of the more outrageous accusations, like the claim that Flight 93 had been diverted to Cleveland Hopkins Airport rather than crashing in Pennsylvania and that calls made from the plane had been faked using "voice-morphing" technology. After interviewing some of the Pentagon witnesses in person, Avery has even backed away from the stance that it was a missile and not a plane that hit the Pentagon. "It's easy to come to conclusions when a) you don't have a lot of information at your disposal and b) you haven't had a chance to actually talk to people who were there," Avery says."
I'm sorry, what was that last part? For a minute it sounded like...
"It's easy to come to conclusions when a) you don't have a lot of information at your disposal and b) you haven't had a chance to actually talk to people who were there."
Now, I'm no filmmaker, but I would have thought that both of those items would be pretty high up on the list of pre-requisites to do a documentary. Avery now says his keen insight is that the organization of these attacks had to go beyond the Bush administration (i just can't...even...ahh, see the end of paragraph 1), and the fact that the government had warning and should have been able to prevent these attacks. Sounds strangely like...what sane people have been saying all along. In retrospect, Avery admits getting "sucked into a hardcore mentality that it was almost too easy to get into back then, because the war had just started and everybody was just so pissed off." Doesn't sound like conspiricist propoganda, sound more like...an apology. Well, apology accepted. But it's not me you should be apologizing to.
Theology of Ministry
(Originally written August 2011)
My wife and I have been attending an OPC church since the fall, and while I was familiar with much of the denomination's theology, I had never attended one of their churches regularly. One of the elements I appreciate most in their service is the corporate confession of sin and assurance of pardon. Like so many staples of a worship service which are done every week, this time has the potential to be distracted and hollow repetition, or, with an ounce of intentionality and sincerity, the essence of what meeting together is all about. There was a phrase in this past Sunday's corporate confession that struck me with its bluntness, vulnerability, and above all its truthfulness.
"We do not love each other as we should because we do not believe that you love us as you do."
That's it. If we had an inkling of the intense love God has for us, everything else- EVERYTHING- would just be overflow. It's a drum I've been beating for years, an intensely personal revelation of grace for me, and a lesson I need to continually learn. It has an organic and unstoppable overflow into the rest of our lives, and is the source of our sanctification, not merely a reassuring reminder as we tighten our boot straps and just try harder to be better. This attractive theology of self-flagellation sadly not only represents the central thesis of far too many sermons from the pulpit, but a departure from, and an invalidation of, the message we call the gospel. In one of the courses I've taken at Gordon Conwell I was asked to write a one-page synopsis of my "theology of ministry"- essentially why I do what I do for God. These truths I was reminded of Sunday morning brought this paper back to my mind, so here it is. I apologize if it feels repetitious after this introduction.
The book of Ephesians is easily my favorite book in the New Testament. Paul is incredibly concise yet thorough, theological yet practical, and in a few brief chapters frames our past, instructs our present, and affirms our hope for the future. I have returned to this book again and again and it is always a scathing indictment of where I and the church at large have gone wrong. Yet it is immensely hopeful and live giving. In it I find the paradigm for what I want my theology to be: accessible, concise, unapologetic in its conviction of sin and unflinching in its gaze at an ultimate paradise. This is why we do what we do, and here is how we do it. It contains my ideal theology of ministry, and perhaps due to the Baptist in me I have whittled it down to three points, each related to the others. The more I read the Scriptures and various writings from giants in the faith, the more I am convinced of the centrality of these three points, and how catastrophic it is if we err on any one of them. Here then, is the theology of ministry to which I currently subscribe:
Who is God? A.W. Tozer in his brief and brilliant book The Knowledge of the Holy affirms first and foremost the importance of thinking rightly about God. He likens all of our Christian doctrine and practice to a building whose foundation is its conception of God, and where it is "out of plumb" the whole structure must collapse. Though this book was written decades ago, it has only become more relevant in modern times as churches have reduced the Most Holy God into a buddy who we can call to cut us a deal if we’re in a jam. When God is not feared then sins needn’t be hidden. God is not a morality tale we can deconstruct for nuance with our post modern sensibilities. The modern cardinal sin is offending anybody, yet no one is concerned about offending God. It is only when we take a good look (as though that were possible) into the awesomeness of his majesty and justice that we begin to have an inkling that we indeed have a problem on our hands. Included in this conception is the perfect and eternal love which finds its definition in Him, and with which He individually and uniquely pursues us.
Who are We? The modern conception of sanctification seems to be something like this: Yes, it is by grace we’ve been saved, but now its up to our best efforts to stay on God’s good side and keep growing. It cries for the removal of all the filthy rags that predated our conversion, then seems to stockpile the deeds we do afterwards for a rainy day. Predictably this results in forgetting altogether where we came from, which was the reminder with which Paul begins his letter to the church in Ephesus. We were dead. Unusable. Decaying. ALL our righteousness is as filthy rags. To appreciate the gap between us and God we need to take an unflinching look at the darkest corners of our thoughts, emotions and actions. Our appreciation of Christ’s work on the cross is directly proportional to the degree to which we’ve owned our ugliest, worst sins. That is when grace is incomprehensible, when the phrase that it "saved a wretch like me" is truth felt in your bones rather than a stale piece of orthodoxy. Once we have a right conception of God, we know without a doubt we are guilty and hopeless before him. However the periodic reminder of where we came from goes far in squelching pride and reviving the gratitude for the huge debt which was paid for us.
Who are Others? Reverend Steve Macchia said in the closing lecture to this course that the word he liked to associate most with evangelism is "overflow". I would contend that if we grasped these first two concepts along with the atoning sacrifice of our Savior then all of our Christian life would be overflow. We would want to study Scripture to become more like Jesus and less like ourselves. We would want to commune with God because we’ve never experienced love like His. And we will want to treat believers and non believers alike in light of our underserved standing before the Creator. We will see that not only did God pursue us and make us his, but he imbued us with different parts of his character which are complimentary and necessary for each other to function; the body of Christ exhibits "irreducible complexity" as it were. And of course it will overflow into evangelism- not as an uncomfortable, dutiful activity, but as organic and joyful as a child inviting someone to a birthday party or sleepover. The continued recognition and affirmation of these three truths crushes self righteousness and antinomianism in the same blow. They make ministry an outgrowth of joy from our undeserved good fortune. Each point is contingent on the one which precedes it, and each will naturally overflow into the one which follows.
My wife and I have been attending an OPC church since the fall, and while I was familiar with much of the denomination's theology, I had never attended one of their churches regularly. One of the elements I appreciate most in their service is the corporate confession of sin and assurance of pardon. Like so many staples of a worship service which are done every week, this time has the potential to be distracted and hollow repetition, or, with an ounce of intentionality and sincerity, the essence of what meeting together is all about. There was a phrase in this past Sunday's corporate confession that struck me with its bluntness, vulnerability, and above all its truthfulness.
"We do not love each other as we should because we do not believe that you love us as you do."
That's it. If we had an inkling of the intense love God has for us, everything else- EVERYTHING- would just be overflow. It's a drum I've been beating for years, an intensely personal revelation of grace for me, and a lesson I need to continually learn. It has an organic and unstoppable overflow into the rest of our lives, and is the source of our sanctification, not merely a reassuring reminder as we tighten our boot straps and just try harder to be better. This attractive theology of self-flagellation sadly not only represents the central thesis of far too many sermons from the pulpit, but a departure from, and an invalidation of, the message we call the gospel. In one of the courses I've taken at Gordon Conwell I was asked to write a one-page synopsis of my "theology of ministry"- essentially why I do what I do for God. These truths I was reminded of Sunday morning brought this paper back to my mind, so here it is. I apologize if it feels repetitious after this introduction.
The book of Ephesians is easily my favorite book in the New Testament. Paul is incredibly concise yet thorough, theological yet practical, and in a few brief chapters frames our past, instructs our present, and affirms our hope for the future. I have returned to this book again and again and it is always a scathing indictment of where I and the church at large have gone wrong. Yet it is immensely hopeful and live giving. In it I find the paradigm for what I want my theology to be: accessible, concise, unapologetic in its conviction of sin and unflinching in its gaze at an ultimate paradise. This is why we do what we do, and here is how we do it. It contains my ideal theology of ministry, and perhaps due to the Baptist in me I have whittled it down to three points, each related to the others. The more I read the Scriptures and various writings from giants in the faith, the more I am convinced of the centrality of these three points, and how catastrophic it is if we err on any one of them. Here then, is the theology of ministry to which I currently subscribe:
Who is God? A.W. Tozer in his brief and brilliant book The Knowledge of the Holy affirms first and foremost the importance of thinking rightly about God. He likens all of our Christian doctrine and practice to a building whose foundation is its conception of God, and where it is "out of plumb" the whole structure must collapse. Though this book was written decades ago, it has only become more relevant in modern times as churches have reduced the Most Holy God into a buddy who we can call to cut us a deal if we’re in a jam. When God is not feared then sins needn’t be hidden. God is not a morality tale we can deconstruct for nuance with our post modern sensibilities. The modern cardinal sin is offending anybody, yet no one is concerned about offending God. It is only when we take a good look (as though that were possible) into the awesomeness of his majesty and justice that we begin to have an inkling that we indeed have a problem on our hands. Included in this conception is the perfect and eternal love which finds its definition in Him, and with which He individually and uniquely pursues us.
Who are We? The modern conception of sanctification seems to be something like this: Yes, it is by grace we’ve been saved, but now its up to our best efforts to stay on God’s good side and keep growing. It cries for the removal of all the filthy rags that predated our conversion, then seems to stockpile the deeds we do afterwards for a rainy day. Predictably this results in forgetting altogether where we came from, which was the reminder with which Paul begins his letter to the church in Ephesus. We were dead. Unusable. Decaying. ALL our righteousness is as filthy rags. To appreciate the gap between us and God we need to take an unflinching look at the darkest corners of our thoughts, emotions and actions. Our appreciation of Christ’s work on the cross is directly proportional to the degree to which we’ve owned our ugliest, worst sins. That is when grace is incomprehensible, when the phrase that it "saved a wretch like me" is truth felt in your bones rather than a stale piece of orthodoxy. Once we have a right conception of God, we know without a doubt we are guilty and hopeless before him. However the periodic reminder of where we came from goes far in squelching pride and reviving the gratitude for the huge debt which was paid for us.
Who are Others? Reverend Steve Macchia said in the closing lecture to this course that the word he liked to associate most with evangelism is "overflow". I would contend that if we grasped these first two concepts along with the atoning sacrifice of our Savior then all of our Christian life would be overflow. We would want to study Scripture to become more like Jesus and less like ourselves. We would want to commune with God because we’ve never experienced love like His. And we will want to treat believers and non believers alike in light of our underserved standing before the Creator. We will see that not only did God pursue us and make us his, but he imbued us with different parts of his character which are complimentary and necessary for each other to function; the body of Christ exhibits "irreducible complexity" as it were. And of course it will overflow into evangelism- not as an uncomfortable, dutiful activity, but as organic and joyful as a child inviting someone to a birthday party or sleepover. The continued recognition and affirmation of these three truths crushes self righteousness and antinomianism in the same blow. They make ministry an outgrowth of joy from our undeserved good fortune. Each point is contingent on the one which precedes it, and each will naturally overflow into the one which follows.
Dude...is that yours?
(Originally written June 2011)
As my boss and I pulled to a stop at a major intersection, a decade-old Nissan Quest that was shedding its clear coat rolled past, no doubt full of soccer balls, stale fries and untold scars of neglect. I let out a sigh that was equal parts disgust and self-righteous pity.
"Dude, don't ever let me get one of those. I mean really, like smack me in the face if I do."
I had an as-yet unspoken fear that though my wife and I had managed to get through the first three years of my son's life without completely sacrificing our dignity or capacity for rational adult decisions, this lucidity would end with the addition of more children and I would sacrifice the last vestige of my once intact masculinity and buy...or worse yet, drive and be seen in...a minivan.
"Don't worry man, you never will."
I prayed my boss knew me better that I knew myself. I was a car guy, darn it. None of these underpowered, mile-long windshield touting, body-rolling, spit-up stained-memorials to any identity outside of parenting for me. Anything bigger than a minivan was almost necessarily cooler (the certain rebellious subculture and probably-don't-want-to-mess-with-that-guy feelings evoked by a full size Chevy van with tinted windows, for example), and anything smaller meant you still hadn't gone full bore soccer mom. However, as is the case with so many things, the experience of being not just a parent, but being dear friends with other new parents, had a profound impact on the way I viewed what's parked in my driveway and what that says about me.
The change began, I think, when I started reading friends' or friends-of-friends' blogs or facebook posts about the experience of parenting, entries which periodically ended with open-ended questions. Truthfully it was more in the subsequent comments and free offerings of insight and wisdom from people in response to these posts. They started innocently enough, but after several back and forth responses with progressively waning degrees of civility, it became clear that the issue being discussed was no longer the initial question of a no-cry sleep solution, but the tenability of the responses, and by implication, the very parental competency of the contributors. It went from being about the kids to being about them.
If you listen carefully, you'll hear it every day. Parents bragging about their kids...but it's not really about their kids. How THEIR kid is going to play sports, behave in public, how color-coordinated they'll be (whether they like it or not!), the types of "creations" that will be hung on the fridge vs. those that won't...the list goes on and on. It's an understandable trap to fall into, and by no means am I saying that I'm exempt. You pour so much of your self, of emotions so deep and fatigue so incapacitating you didn't believe it existed, into this blob...well darn it, they'd better realize whose name it is they wear on the back of their jersey, and who carried all their...stuff in their Apple Tart Cake Cosmopolitan Carryall from Petunia Pickle Bottom. $350 for a diaper bag? Hey, how else are your kids going to become the kind of people that value QUALITY?
Ok, just because you're a parent doesn't mean that's ALL you are. And the healthiest parents, much like the healthiest couples, are probably those who maintain a social life/hobbies and interests outside of being Mom or Dad. But there's an alarming amount of significant decisions being made for kids that aren't being made for the kids. And that's not parenting...that's immature superficiality. And faced with some cold hard facts about modes of transportation, I was forced to recognize that my stigma of minivans fell under this second category.
1. Many people hate minivans, but they need the space, so they buy SUV's (but not full-size like the Suburban, because that's just ugly and for heaven's sakes, we want the other parents to know we care about the ENVIRONMENT!) So they buy the mid-size SUV (Japanese, preferrably, domestics are...you know, so 80's...) that gets worse gas mileage than a Suburban and require your third row occupants to be (a) very small children, but not so small that they require actual assistance to get buckled in, or (b) contortionist Asian midgets, like that dude from Oceans 32.
2. The combination of fuel economy, versatile space, comfort, blistering array of infotainment/safety options, cost of maintenance and sticker price simply cannot be matched by another vehicle. If you say it can, you have not ridden in the 3rd row of your stylish friend's MDX.
The proverbial nail in the coffin was when I had to pick my sister and her family up from the airport. I had J. with me, so it meant four boys in car seats, plus 3 adults and all their luggage. I was forced to recognize on that trip that these objects of such scorn are wonderfully and undeniably practical creations. With the majority of our friends now having kids, going anywhere means having a serviceable 3rd row or taking two vehicles. When we have friends move we can take the second and third rows out and fit an incredible amount of stuff, and it's all out of the elements. We can (and have) take 6 adults in comfort to and from singing gigs. The list goes on and on.
I am hardly an expert on much, let alone parenting. My wife and I have just begun to scratch the surface of this wonderful experience, but from all I can gather, it is, as much as anything else, the ultimate lesson in getting over yourself. IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. It is a freeing and simultaneously daunting realization. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy your kids nice stuff, or drive sweet cars. Lord knows if I was making 6 figures I might be driving something different. But for where we are in life right now, the minivan just made too much sense. And I had to realize I needed to get over myself and do some parenting.
As my boss and I pulled to a stop at a major intersection, a decade-old Nissan Quest that was shedding its clear coat rolled past, no doubt full of soccer balls, stale fries and untold scars of neglect. I let out a sigh that was equal parts disgust and self-righteous pity.
"Dude, don't ever let me get one of those. I mean really, like smack me in the face if I do."
I had an as-yet unspoken fear that though my wife and I had managed to get through the first three years of my son's life without completely sacrificing our dignity or capacity for rational adult decisions, this lucidity would end with the addition of more children and I would sacrifice the last vestige of my once intact masculinity and buy...or worse yet, drive and be seen in...a minivan.
"Don't worry man, you never will."
I prayed my boss knew me better that I knew myself. I was a car guy, darn it. None of these underpowered, mile-long windshield touting, body-rolling, spit-up stained-memorials to any identity outside of parenting for me. Anything bigger than a minivan was almost necessarily cooler (the certain rebellious subculture and probably-don't-want-to-mess-with-that-guy feelings evoked by a full size Chevy van with tinted windows, for example), and anything smaller meant you still hadn't gone full bore soccer mom. However, as is the case with so many things, the experience of being not just a parent, but being dear friends with other new parents, had a profound impact on the way I viewed what's parked in my driveway and what that says about me.
The change began, I think, when I started reading friends' or friends-of-friends' blogs or facebook posts about the experience of parenting, entries which periodically ended with open-ended questions. Truthfully it was more in the subsequent comments and free offerings of insight and wisdom from people in response to these posts. They started innocently enough, but after several back and forth responses with progressively waning degrees of civility, it became clear that the issue being discussed was no longer the initial question of a no-cry sleep solution, but the tenability of the responses, and by implication, the very parental competency of the contributors. It went from being about the kids to being about them.
If you listen carefully, you'll hear it every day. Parents bragging about their kids...but it's not really about their kids. How THEIR kid is going to play sports, behave in public, how color-coordinated they'll be (whether they like it or not!), the types of "creations" that will be hung on the fridge vs. those that won't...the list goes on and on. It's an understandable trap to fall into, and by no means am I saying that I'm exempt. You pour so much of your self, of emotions so deep and fatigue so incapacitating you didn't believe it existed, into this blob...well darn it, they'd better realize whose name it is they wear on the back of their jersey, and who carried all their...stuff in their Apple Tart Cake Cosmopolitan Carryall from Petunia Pickle Bottom. $350 for a diaper bag? Hey, how else are your kids going to become the kind of people that value QUALITY?
Ok, just because you're a parent doesn't mean that's ALL you are. And the healthiest parents, much like the healthiest couples, are probably those who maintain a social life/hobbies and interests outside of being Mom or Dad. But there's an alarming amount of significant decisions being made for kids that aren't being made for the kids. And that's not parenting...that's immature superficiality. And faced with some cold hard facts about modes of transportation, I was forced to recognize that my stigma of minivans fell under this second category.
1. Many people hate minivans, but they need the space, so they buy SUV's (but not full-size like the Suburban, because that's just ugly and for heaven's sakes, we want the other parents to know we care about the ENVIRONMENT!) So they buy the mid-size SUV (Japanese, preferrably, domestics are...you know, so 80's...) that gets worse gas mileage than a Suburban and require your third row occupants to be (a) very small children, but not so small that they require actual assistance to get buckled in, or (b) contortionist Asian midgets, like that dude from Oceans 32.
2. The combination of fuel economy, versatile space, comfort, blistering array of infotainment/safety options, cost of maintenance and sticker price simply cannot be matched by another vehicle. If you say it can, you have not ridden in the 3rd row of your stylish friend's MDX.
The proverbial nail in the coffin was when I had to pick my sister and her family up from the airport. I had J. with me, so it meant four boys in car seats, plus 3 adults and all their luggage. I was forced to recognize on that trip that these objects of such scorn are wonderfully and undeniably practical creations. With the majority of our friends now having kids, going anywhere means having a serviceable 3rd row or taking two vehicles. When we have friends move we can take the second and third rows out and fit an incredible amount of stuff, and it's all out of the elements. We can (and have) take 6 adults in comfort to and from singing gigs. The list goes on and on.
I am hardly an expert on much, let alone parenting. My wife and I have just begun to scratch the surface of this wonderful experience, but from all I can gather, it is, as much as anything else, the ultimate lesson in getting over yourself. IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. It is a freeing and simultaneously daunting realization. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy your kids nice stuff, or drive sweet cars. Lord knows if I was making 6 figures I might be driving something different. But for where we are in life right now, the minivan just made too much sense. And I had to realize I needed to get over myself and do some parenting.
The Impotence of Contrarianism
(Originally written October 2010)
Like many people, I listen to sports radio a fair amount - though not at work, as I've tried and find myself standing still yelling at the radio - alas I am a terrible multitasker. And I've become more convinced than ever of a conclusion that many in New England came to long ago: Mike Felger is a loser.
Not because he's from Milwaukee and couldn't hack it on every show he'd been on before Mohegan Sun and the Sports Hub, nor because he's an arrogant, tasteless juvenile phlegmatic who genuinely doesn't like many of the teams from the region he calls home. He's a loser because he's a contrarian. The worst kind of contrarian, because he claims to be the sole purveyor of objectivity awash in a sea of psychophantic "green teamers", yet his angles are almost always dictated more by a reaction to popular sentiment than facts or statistics. Contrarian 1, Objectivity 0. In other words, he is hoisted on his own pitard.
It's easy to understand why someone would act in this manner. Remember when you were a kid, and there were the "cool kids" who were "too cool for school"? Try going to a small Christian school. The cool thing during my tenure at Christian schools is to moan all day about how how crappy the sports program was (for the guys), or how terrible the selection of guys were (mostly from the girls). Sadly I observed this trend only grow in volume & popularity as I got older, reaching a fevor pitch at a Christian college. Except now teachers were on board. "Oh, I shouldn't say that HERE..." Wink wink, nudge nudge. Those lame stuffy evangelicals and there infantile notions of morality.
But seriously, think about any context, anywhere, and there will always be someone there bemoaning their surroundings, coworkers, boss, company policy, stupid customers, etc. They are, in essence, letting you know that they're better than all this. Because it's cool to buck the trend. And always easier to criticize than come up with a proactive solution.
Think of politics, religion, or sociology. Campaigns right up the highest office in our country are won with the sales pitch of "not being the guy in office", or different from what has gone before. It's an appealing stance which requires little thought or articulations of what you actually have to offer. And therein lies the impotence of contrarianism- it is ultimately self defeating.
Let's take an example from an exchange common in church circles today.
"What do you believe?"
"Well, I'll tell you what I DON'T believe." K, that wasnt' really what I asked...
"Well, I was brought up being taught a, b, and c...have any of you here ever heard those things?"
Thoughtful nods appear across the room- in this case dissent from Evangelicalism most often replaces a genuine alternative vision of church structure/beliefs with an ambiguous sense of dissatisfied empathy. But I write this today for a different reason.
Several weeks ago I met the head pastor of a church we were visiting. He was, in my estimation, a bit stuffy and underwhelming. As he was the head pastor, I contemplated the implications this would have if we were to attend this church, and the type of leadership I wanted to place myself under, particularly at this point in my life. I thought I was rather gracious in my exchange with him, not letting on in the slightest that this probably wouldn't be my bag. Then today, we found ourselves there again, and he was preaching. Let's see if your instincts have gotten rusty, I told myself.
He spoke in a quiet, deliberate tone; since that first visit I learned he had been diagnosed with Parkinson's yet was still doing all he could to continue his ministerial duties as before. He looked pretty stodgy, actually, in his pinstriped suit and starched shirt - completely unlike the young worship team members or assistant pastors. Even with his microphone you had to be quiet for fear that you would miss words or phrases. Yet what followed was the most humbling, articulate sermon I've heard in quite some time.
The pews were filled with young people cut from a generational cloth miles apart from this preacher's. The "you have 3 seconds to entertain me or I'm done" generation. Most listened, several were visibly distracted by the occasional noisy kid or the not-so-occasional note being passed to each other. As I sat there, disgusted with myself and the entitled narcissistic brats that comprise my generation, I couldn't help but think that we were essentially guilty of, for a better term, sermon contrarianism. I thought about the disservice we do to ourselves (that I have so often been guilty of) when we dismiss a pastor, a church, or a group of churches based on appearance or style, and miss content - potentially life-changing content in this case. It functions as a wonderful escape hatch from conviction because it completely circumvents the question of "What is God trying to say to me?" by instead asking "How does he expect to hold my attention with THAT?! Someone should really talk to him..." Or similar dismissive or distracting thoughts.
Now I don't mean that we shouldn't try to be culturally "relevant" - that's really a misnomer, as the Gospel is eternally relevant, and what we are really addressing is the packaging we surround it with- or that we shouldn't try to meet people where they're at. What I'm referring to are the churchgoing folks who have been in the pew long enough to develop a little callous here and there. And when there's a guest speaker who isn't quite as advertised, or worse still, you're in a friend's church where things are done just a little differently, you allow that distraction to take precedence in your mind, and check out a little bit, because "you're better than all this".
I could qualify this in a hundred ways with a hundred disclaimers, each having some validity and relevance to church format and where it needs to get with the times- but the heart of the matter is this: When we care more about our ego than we care about humbling ourselves before the Word of God, we (1) cheat ourselves of much needed nourishment, and (2) cheat all those we come into contact with who need to hear something encouraging and life giving. God isn't interested in your nuanced sensibilities and how they weren't satisfied with the packaging delivered this morning from the pulpit. He doesn't want to tweak them, He wants to rip them apart and completely rebuild them into something that has no room for ego and self. The questions you don't think people are smart or wise enough to answer aren't the point. The point is the hubristic perspective from which you're asking them. God may not answer your questions because ultimately they're the wrong questions. Get your eyes where they should be. Don't wander through a desert and stumble into a well, only to critique the archaic pulley system they expect you to use to get the water out. Get a drink, give your friends a drink, then (with slightly clearer and more thankful frames of mind) constructively address a potentially more efficient means of water delivery. Until then we are just frauds standing around an untapped well.
Like many people, I listen to sports radio a fair amount - though not at work, as I've tried and find myself standing still yelling at the radio - alas I am a terrible multitasker. And I've become more convinced than ever of a conclusion that many in New England came to long ago: Mike Felger is a loser.
Not because he's from Milwaukee and couldn't hack it on every show he'd been on before Mohegan Sun and the Sports Hub, nor because he's an arrogant, tasteless juvenile phlegmatic who genuinely doesn't like many of the teams from the region he calls home. He's a loser because he's a contrarian. The worst kind of contrarian, because he claims to be the sole purveyor of objectivity awash in a sea of psychophantic "green teamers", yet his angles are almost always dictated more by a reaction to popular sentiment than facts or statistics. Contrarian 1, Objectivity 0. In other words, he is hoisted on his own pitard.
It's easy to understand why someone would act in this manner. Remember when you were a kid, and there were the "cool kids" who were "too cool for school"? Try going to a small Christian school. The cool thing during my tenure at Christian schools is to moan all day about how how crappy the sports program was (for the guys), or how terrible the selection of guys were (mostly from the girls). Sadly I observed this trend only grow in volume & popularity as I got older, reaching a fevor pitch at a Christian college. Except now teachers were on board. "Oh, I shouldn't say that HERE..." Wink wink, nudge nudge. Those lame stuffy evangelicals and there infantile notions of morality.
But seriously, think about any context, anywhere, and there will always be someone there bemoaning their surroundings, coworkers, boss, company policy, stupid customers, etc. They are, in essence, letting you know that they're better than all this. Because it's cool to buck the trend. And always easier to criticize than come up with a proactive solution.
Think of politics, religion, or sociology. Campaigns right up the highest office in our country are won with the sales pitch of "not being the guy in office", or different from what has gone before. It's an appealing stance which requires little thought or articulations of what you actually have to offer. And therein lies the impotence of contrarianism- it is ultimately self defeating.
Let's take an example from an exchange common in church circles today.
"What do you believe?"
"Well, I'll tell you what I DON'T believe." K, that wasnt' really what I asked...
"Well, I was brought up being taught a, b, and c...have any of you here ever heard those things?"
Thoughtful nods appear across the room- in this case dissent from Evangelicalism most often replaces a genuine alternative vision of church structure/beliefs with an ambiguous sense of dissatisfied empathy. But I write this today for a different reason.
Several weeks ago I met the head pastor of a church we were visiting. He was, in my estimation, a bit stuffy and underwhelming. As he was the head pastor, I contemplated the implications this would have if we were to attend this church, and the type of leadership I wanted to place myself under, particularly at this point in my life. I thought I was rather gracious in my exchange with him, not letting on in the slightest that this probably wouldn't be my bag. Then today, we found ourselves there again, and he was preaching. Let's see if your instincts have gotten rusty, I told myself.
He spoke in a quiet, deliberate tone; since that first visit I learned he had been diagnosed with Parkinson's yet was still doing all he could to continue his ministerial duties as before. He looked pretty stodgy, actually, in his pinstriped suit and starched shirt - completely unlike the young worship team members or assistant pastors. Even with his microphone you had to be quiet for fear that you would miss words or phrases. Yet what followed was the most humbling, articulate sermon I've heard in quite some time.
The pews were filled with young people cut from a generational cloth miles apart from this preacher's. The "you have 3 seconds to entertain me or I'm done" generation. Most listened, several were visibly distracted by the occasional noisy kid or the not-so-occasional note being passed to each other. As I sat there, disgusted with myself and the entitled narcissistic brats that comprise my generation, I couldn't help but think that we were essentially guilty of, for a better term, sermon contrarianism. I thought about the disservice we do to ourselves (that I have so often been guilty of) when we dismiss a pastor, a church, or a group of churches based on appearance or style, and miss content - potentially life-changing content in this case. It functions as a wonderful escape hatch from conviction because it completely circumvents the question of "What is God trying to say to me?" by instead asking "How does he expect to hold my attention with THAT?! Someone should really talk to him..." Or similar dismissive or distracting thoughts.
Now I don't mean that we shouldn't try to be culturally "relevant" - that's really a misnomer, as the Gospel is eternally relevant, and what we are really addressing is the packaging we surround it with- or that we shouldn't try to meet people where they're at. What I'm referring to are the churchgoing folks who have been in the pew long enough to develop a little callous here and there. And when there's a guest speaker who isn't quite as advertised, or worse still, you're in a friend's church where things are done just a little differently, you allow that distraction to take precedence in your mind, and check out a little bit, because "you're better than all this".
I could qualify this in a hundred ways with a hundred disclaimers, each having some validity and relevance to church format and where it needs to get with the times- but the heart of the matter is this: When we care more about our ego than we care about humbling ourselves before the Word of God, we (1) cheat ourselves of much needed nourishment, and (2) cheat all those we come into contact with who need to hear something encouraging and life giving. God isn't interested in your nuanced sensibilities and how they weren't satisfied with the packaging delivered this morning from the pulpit. He doesn't want to tweak them, He wants to rip them apart and completely rebuild them into something that has no room for ego and self. The questions you don't think people are smart or wise enough to answer aren't the point. The point is the hubristic perspective from which you're asking them. God may not answer your questions because ultimately they're the wrong questions. Get your eyes where they should be. Don't wander through a desert and stumble into a well, only to critique the archaic pulley system they expect you to use to get the water out. Get a drink, give your friends a drink, then (with slightly clearer and more thankful frames of mind) constructively address a potentially more efficient means of water delivery. Until then we are just frauds standing around an untapped well.
Songs that remind you of people...
(originally written July 2010)
Everyone has songs that remind them of that one specific person.
1. "Dare you to Move" by Switchfoot -of course makes me think of my bud Sam, as I'm pretty sure he was the president of their fanclub for a few years as well as an uncommonly good judge of music.
2. "You can call me Al" by Paul Simon- always makes me think of my sister as she would often rock out to this in her room and in the car with our uncle.
3. "Lola" by the Kinks- always makes me think of my friend Matt. Don't ask why.
4. "O Quam tu pulchra es" - my friend Melissa, from college. Her involuntary visceral reaction to the men's ensemble singing this was the only reason I got it right on the listening quiz in the hades that was Music History in college.
5. "Use Me" by Bill Withers- always makes me think of Memorial Day bbq's at my in-laws with my father-in-law and his good friend rocking out to some soul.
6. "Vide Cor Meum" by Hans Zimmer- my college bud, Jenn. I get goosebumps and can smell her comforter when I hear this song. It sounds risque but it's really not.
7. "Still" by Joseph Johnson- my two college apartmentmates. Good times. You haven't seen white boys rap until you've heard our rendition of this.
8. "40 Acres" by Caedman's Call- my bud Oliver. Every week. Twice. Drive into Boston. Knots in my stomach. Yodeling in my ear. Oh the pain...
9. "Foolish Heart" by Steve Perry - my old masonry boss Johnny. He was a sucker for soft rock, and would always get really happy when this came on the radio. And anything by Dan Fogelberg.
10. "Nearness of You" by Norah Jones- there are honestly a hundred songs that make me think of my wife and all the different sides of her personality- she always sings this one in her Macy Gray voice and I think it's funny- also the last song we danced to at our Wedding reception. It was pretty sweet.
And then I have to wonder what songs make me people think of me....either the Pope Marcellus Mass by Palestrina, or possibly a Monty Norman jazz tune adapted by John Barry with the timeless sound of a Fender Telecaster...and probably several others for various ignominious reasons.
Everyone has songs that remind them of that one specific person.
1. "Dare you to Move" by Switchfoot -of course makes me think of my bud Sam, as I'm pretty sure he was the president of their fanclub for a few years as well as an uncommonly good judge of music.
2. "You can call me Al" by Paul Simon- always makes me think of my sister as she would often rock out to this in her room and in the car with our uncle.
3. "Lola" by the Kinks- always makes me think of my friend Matt. Don't ask why.
4. "O Quam tu pulchra es" - my friend Melissa, from college. Her involuntary visceral reaction to the men's ensemble singing this was the only reason I got it right on the listening quiz in the hades that was Music History in college.
5. "Use Me" by Bill Withers- always makes me think of Memorial Day bbq's at my in-laws with my father-in-law and his good friend rocking out to some soul.
6. "Vide Cor Meum" by Hans Zimmer- my college bud, Jenn. I get goosebumps and can smell her comforter when I hear this song. It sounds risque but it's really not.
7. "Still" by Joseph Johnson- my two college apartmentmates. Good times. You haven't seen white boys rap until you've heard our rendition of this.
8. "40 Acres" by Caedman's Call- my bud Oliver. Every week. Twice. Drive into Boston. Knots in my stomach. Yodeling in my ear. Oh the pain...
9. "Foolish Heart" by Steve Perry - my old masonry boss Johnny. He was a sucker for soft rock, and would always get really happy when this came on the radio. And anything by Dan Fogelberg.
10. "Nearness of You" by Norah Jones- there are honestly a hundred songs that make me think of my wife and all the different sides of her personality- she always sings this one in her Macy Gray voice and I think it's funny- also the last song we danced to at our Wedding reception. It was pretty sweet.
And then I have to wonder what songs make me people think of me....either the Pope Marcellus Mass by Palestrina, or possibly a Monty Norman jazz tune adapted by John Barry with the timeless sound of a Fender Telecaster...and probably several others for various ignominious reasons.
UGHARGHSTUPIDSTUPIDPHOOEY.
(Origianlly written June 2010)
Today's game has left me needing to vent, and I find it irresistable to recall what a horrible year it has been to be a New England sports fan. Let's recap:
#1. Pats get knocked out of the playoffs in the first round by the Ravens, in the most embarassing loss in recent franchise history, characterized by something to which this team was once impervious: apathy. Pats haters come out of the woodwork declaring the end of a dynasty, and Howie Carr performs the near impossible feat of becoming louder and even more obnoxious.
#2. The Bruins become the first team in NHL history to blow a 3-0 series lead by blowing a 3-0 lead in game 7. Decades-old wounds are ripped open, and many children for the first time see their tough crusty dads cry.
#3. The Celtics, against all odds, turn it on in the playoffs and come 4 points shy in game 7 of cementing KG, Ray Allen, and Doc's place in Celtic lore- after which the inevitable breaking up of this special group of players/coaches will occur. And two more words: Ko-be. An incredulous Bill Russell gives Bryant the MVP trophy, knowing full well the Spanaird was deserving party, and the only reason a largely ineffective Kobe received another ring.
#4. After shelling out a record setting payroll for what is largely considered patchwork offense/defense (with the exception of starting pitching- which was largely the justification for the other questionable acquisitions/lack of acquisitions), our starting pitching gets blown up for one of the worst starts in recent Red Sox history.
#5. Two loud mouthed-blowhard divisional opponent NFL coaches acquire the lions share of a ridiculously stacked free-agent group, while Belichick watches quietly, opting yet again for "value" over talent. For another year the Pats are the only team whose intake of Centrum Silver outweighs that of performance enhancing drugs.
#6. World Cup soccer grabs the attention of hicks and yuppies the nation over, only to have their hearts ripped out with a loss to Ghana where the team forgot to show up for the first half, then ran out of energy in extra time from playing for 45 minutes. Post game analysis is given by one of the all-time MLS greats, Alexi Lalas, and New Englanders recall Revolution glory days, when we made it to 3 championships in 4 years- and in a bizarro-Patriots twist, lost ALL OF THEM. Landon Donovan supasses the beloved Cobi Jones and the all time US leader in World Cup matches played, while simultaneously surpassing the Separatists in Quebec for international irrelevancy. Ironically he is possibly the only name Joe-I'msecureenoughinmymanhoodtoadmitthatIwatchedtheWorldCupthisyear-schmo knows from the US men's team.
#7. There are months and months before any game of consequence takes place, providing no distraction from the bitter taste and painful memories of what would not have been nearly as painful if it hadn't been so tantilizingly close. In a revolt against all things athletic, heartbroken fans will turn their tv's off, and baseball ratings will hit an all time low, with the exception of a few hopeful furniture shoppers.
It's June, people. Peace be with you.
.
Today's game has left me needing to vent, and I find it irresistable to recall what a horrible year it has been to be a New England sports fan. Let's recap:
#1. Pats get knocked out of the playoffs in the first round by the Ravens, in the most embarassing loss in recent franchise history, characterized by something to which this team was once impervious: apathy. Pats haters come out of the woodwork declaring the end of a dynasty, and Howie Carr performs the near impossible feat of becoming louder and even more obnoxious.
#2. The Bruins become the first team in NHL history to blow a 3-0 series lead by blowing a 3-0 lead in game 7. Decades-old wounds are ripped open, and many children for the first time see their tough crusty dads cry.
#3. The Celtics, against all odds, turn it on in the playoffs and come 4 points shy in game 7 of cementing KG, Ray Allen, and Doc's place in Celtic lore- after which the inevitable breaking up of this special group of players/coaches will occur. And two more words: Ko-be. An incredulous Bill Russell gives Bryant the MVP trophy, knowing full well the Spanaird was deserving party, and the only reason a largely ineffective Kobe received another ring.
#4. After shelling out a record setting payroll for what is largely considered patchwork offense/defense (with the exception of starting pitching- which was largely the justification for the other questionable acquisitions/lack of acquisitions), our starting pitching gets blown up for one of the worst starts in recent Red Sox history.
#5. Two loud mouthed-blowhard divisional opponent NFL coaches acquire the lions share of a ridiculously stacked free-agent group, while Belichick watches quietly, opting yet again for "value" over talent. For another year the Pats are the only team whose intake of Centrum Silver outweighs that of performance enhancing drugs.
#6. World Cup soccer grabs the attention of hicks and yuppies the nation over, only to have their hearts ripped out with a loss to Ghana where the team forgot to show up for the first half, then ran out of energy in extra time from playing for 45 minutes. Post game analysis is given by one of the all-time MLS greats, Alexi Lalas, and New Englanders recall Revolution glory days, when we made it to 3 championships in 4 years- and in a bizarro-Patriots twist, lost ALL OF THEM. Landon Donovan supasses the beloved Cobi Jones and the all time US leader in World Cup matches played, while simultaneously surpassing the Separatists in Quebec for international irrelevancy. Ironically he is possibly the only name Joe-I'msecureenoughinmymanhoodtoadmitthatIwatchedtheWorldCupthisyear-schmo knows from the US men's team.
#7. There are months and months before any game of consequence takes place, providing no distraction from the bitter taste and painful memories of what would not have been nearly as painful if it hadn't been so tantilizingly close. In a revolt against all things athletic, heartbroken fans will turn their tv's off, and baseball ratings will hit an all time low, with the exception of a few hopeful furniture shoppers.
It's June, people. Peace be with you.
.
The Inverted Pharisee
(originally written May 2010)
"Where there is no vision, the people perish." Proverbs 29:18.
So much of life is about the attempt to glean understanding. It is significant that the most commonly used metaphor for understanding pertains to sight. Do you see what I mean?
If all of life is about God (which it is), and ultimately about worshipping God and understanding who He is, then I would offer this suggestion: worship is ultimately an issue of sight. More specifically, worship means becoming more like what you are looking at.
This is not a novel idea; this is an inescapable component of the human condition. Whether it's friends, music, literature, politics, physical location, etc., we are, like it or not, hugely influenced by the things with which we surround ourselves, or as is often the case, the things which seem to surround us. I've heard it said that sanctification isn't about trying harder on our Christian behavior checkoff list, it's about becoming like someone you're falling in love with. I think sanctification is an outgrowth primarily of the Holy Spirit's indwelling; but as much as it is up to us (another conversation for another day), it is about worship. And to worship something you have to look at it.
We've all heard the parable of the pharisee and the tax collector going up to the temple to pray. The pharisee begins by thanking God that he is not like the stinking masses of sinners, including the downcast tax collector nearby. But the tax collector won't even dare to look up, but beats his breast and begs God for mercy. However, I think if the parable were set today there would be a third party involved. The pharisee, the tax collector, and the inverted pharisee.
The inverted pharisee stands watching the first two offer their prayers up, but when he speaks, it is not in the desperate whisper of the convicted man, it is with the self righteousness of the pharisee. The only difference is the object of his scorn. "Thank you, O God, that I am not like this prudish, hypocritical pharisee whom you will surely punish with eternal damnation. I eat and drink with tax collectors and whores, I make sure everyone knows my Christianity is mature and nuanced enough to handle interacting with the "outcasts" of society. I would rather get drunk with these "genuine" sinners than even worship in the same building as those intolerant pharisees. I write blogs daily and post all the sins this pharisee and those like him commit. I likewise inject enough sarcasm and offensive language into my status updates that there will be no confusing me and those who take pride in their purity. For I take pride in my stains."
So which one of these things is not like the others? Man #2 is the only one looking at Christ. Ironically he felt too condemned to even raise his eyes to heaven- it is doubtful he is even aware of the scornful pharisee who is looking down at him. The first and third men both have their eyes acutely fixed on and their mouths loudly proclaiming the difference between themselves and the dirty sinner nearby. The tax collector is the only one in danger of receiving life giving change, because his eyes are glued on his savior. In his agonizing cries for help he is worshipping and being sanctified. He has a vision- and the other two are too busy congratulating themselves to notice that their growth and witnesses have ceased; that they are in fact, perishing.
"Where there is no vision, the people perish." Proverbs 29:18.
So much of life is about the attempt to glean understanding. It is significant that the most commonly used metaphor for understanding pertains to sight. Do you see what I mean?
If all of life is about God (which it is), and ultimately about worshipping God and understanding who He is, then I would offer this suggestion: worship is ultimately an issue of sight. More specifically, worship means becoming more like what you are looking at.
This is not a novel idea; this is an inescapable component of the human condition. Whether it's friends, music, literature, politics, physical location, etc., we are, like it or not, hugely influenced by the things with which we surround ourselves, or as is often the case, the things which seem to surround us. I've heard it said that sanctification isn't about trying harder on our Christian behavior checkoff list, it's about becoming like someone you're falling in love with. I think sanctification is an outgrowth primarily of the Holy Spirit's indwelling; but as much as it is up to us (another conversation for another day), it is about worship. And to worship something you have to look at it.
We've all heard the parable of the pharisee and the tax collector going up to the temple to pray. The pharisee begins by thanking God that he is not like the stinking masses of sinners, including the downcast tax collector nearby. But the tax collector won't even dare to look up, but beats his breast and begs God for mercy. However, I think if the parable were set today there would be a third party involved. The pharisee, the tax collector, and the inverted pharisee.
The inverted pharisee stands watching the first two offer their prayers up, but when he speaks, it is not in the desperate whisper of the convicted man, it is with the self righteousness of the pharisee. The only difference is the object of his scorn. "Thank you, O God, that I am not like this prudish, hypocritical pharisee whom you will surely punish with eternal damnation. I eat and drink with tax collectors and whores, I make sure everyone knows my Christianity is mature and nuanced enough to handle interacting with the "outcasts" of society. I would rather get drunk with these "genuine" sinners than even worship in the same building as those intolerant pharisees. I write blogs daily and post all the sins this pharisee and those like him commit. I likewise inject enough sarcasm and offensive language into my status updates that there will be no confusing me and those who take pride in their purity. For I take pride in my stains."
So which one of these things is not like the others? Man #2 is the only one looking at Christ. Ironically he felt too condemned to even raise his eyes to heaven- it is doubtful he is even aware of the scornful pharisee who is looking down at him. The first and third men both have their eyes acutely fixed on and their mouths loudly proclaiming the difference between themselves and the dirty sinner nearby. The tax collector is the only one in danger of receiving life giving change, because his eyes are glued on his savior. In his agonizing cries for help he is worshipping and being sanctified. He has a vision- and the other two are too busy congratulating themselves to notice that their growth and witnesses have ceased; that they are in fact, perishing.
Top 40 Theology
(Originally written March 2010)
So this is something I've been musing about for months; nay, years, and a journal entry may not do it justice, but here goes anyway.
If you listen to top 40 at all, you've probably hear Miley Cirus' song "The Climb." My wife can't stand it. Wierdly, I think it's kind of catchy, in a you're-16-and-you-already-sound-like-you-have-Cindy-Lauper-type-vocal-dysfunction sort of way, but catchy nonetheless. And if you listen to Country radio at all, you've heard Miss Underwood sing "Temporary Home." They offer polar opposite life philosophies which border on - and at times unapologetically dive into - Theology. But here's the rub: they both, like their more esteemed counterparts from academia, fall catastrophically short.
"Well what did you expect from a former American Idol (is that not the most unapologetically pagan yet accurate description of a TV show ever?) and a former...Hannah Montana...whatever she did.?" I actually thought both songs were gutsy choices for these performers, but I am getting off track.
The message in "The Climb" can be summed up in these words from the chorus : "Ain't about how fast I get there, ain't about what's waiting on the other side- it's the climb." Fair enough. Although if you've ever been climbing the final destination has more than a little to do with the blood, blisters, sweat and tears along the way, but the song makes a valid point about the (potentially) transformative process of the journey as well as the risk of missing out on all the things along the way if we only ever look for the end result.
"Temporary Home" offers what many would call a Christian perspective on life, namely enduring hardships here on earth by viewing them through the lens of eternity, an eternity spent in Heaven. The song talks about a single Mom trying to provide for her daughter, a young boy who's bounced from foster home to foster home, and an elderly man on his death bed being comforted (and comforting his family) by his impending entrance into glory. Well, what's wrong with that?
If you've ever been in a situation where a family member was saying goodbye in their hospital room before they die, and the family and ill family member are Christians, you will never again doubt the power of Scripture to comfort and sustain the frail bodies and broken hearts were find ourselves wrapped in here on earth. But what about the foster kid being ok with his situation? What about the struggling mom and her dependant daughter? Evangelicals have for far too long been apathetic on these issues, and a watching world has called us on it. Certainly the eternal security of any soul should be paramount in our interactions with them, but that doesn't put food in their stomachs. That doesn't stop their dad from beating their mom. That doesn't stop molestation, abandonment, poverty, or provide education, counseling, or opportunities.
When I was a freshman I was in a discussion oriented class where part of the required reading was a book titled "Heaven is not my Home." I wish I had read the darn thing. As near as I could gather from the title and subsequent in-class conversations it had a bone to pick with Christians on these very issues, and in particular the hymn with which many of us are familiar. Later on I had a sociology prof who leveled the claim that religion was a tool with which to oppress the masses and keep them in poverty by distracting their starving eyes with promises of paradise. Dude had an ax to grind.
So which is it, as the famous candy asks? Now or Later?
Why can't it be both?
Or maybe, why can't people see that it HAS to be both, if either is to have any significance?
Here and now, and all the accompanying pain, sickness, sorrow, and longing for eternal happiness, love and fulfillment, only makes sense if there is a God who created us to long for these things, who did not incorporate sin into the original plan. Yet our actions here in our 'temporary home' clearly have eternal implications, if we are to believe what Scripture says about our actions, how we treat the poor, and what we do with the tellingly physical and temporary life and ministry of the person of Jesus Christ. Yet here we are some two millennia later and still we have these two entrenched camps. The problem is, as it often is, both sides have parts of the truth, which if focused on to the exclusion of the other parts leads to a bunch of divided righteously indignant folks who understandably say, "But what about THIS?!" Sound familiar? So where is the balance? Where is the love, the love, the love....
The example that keeps popping into my head was one I heard a few years ago, from a man I consider myself blessed to have known and even more blessed to have worked under. He delivering a sermon and was citing a book as an example. The book had been written by an officer (army? my mind is regrettably hazy on certain details) who had served and been a POW in the Vietnam war. A devout Christian, he wrote a book recalling his experiences as a prisoner and how his faith in the eternal had sustained him in the immensely difficult temporal. He recounted being able to tell which new prisoners would make it and which wouldn't (he was incarcerated for nearly a decade). He said the ones that came in visibly optimistic would talk about being home for Christmas, then Easter, then a family member's birthday...as the reality of the situation set in their superficial optimism turned into irreparable despair. He said that he and several others learned to look at the most brutal and ugly realities of their situation, while always having an ultimate hope....that was what sustained them through years of unspeakable hardships.
To not acknowledge and do something about the ugliness and injustices in this world due to misguided religious zeal is immature and inexcusable. That type of Christianity is disingenuous and frankly, useless. But to mock someone's ultimate hope as a fairy tale for the weak that can't handle the complex realities of today's world is equally irresponsible and self-indulgent. You learn much along the climb, because Christ has surrounded us with fragments of his glory and clues as to his character and our subsequent responsibilities in light of this new understanding. You are able to endure the climb because you know that someday there will be a mountaintop like none any eye has seen, where valleys that seemed eternal are hardly visible and everything is put into perfect perspective. We are not there yet, but thank God we are on our way! Our temporary home has significance because God created it, called it good, and instructed us to take care of it. But "God", "good" and "care" are words which only truly find their definitions in eternity, or in the One who is waiting there for us. This is the paradox of Christian living, the eternal in the temporal. The significant-yet-temporary climb. If either the journey or the destination get left out, the other becomes meaningless.
So this is something I've been musing about for months; nay, years, and a journal entry may not do it justice, but here goes anyway.
If you listen to top 40 at all, you've probably hear Miley Cirus' song "The Climb." My wife can't stand it. Wierdly, I think it's kind of catchy, in a you're-16-and-you-already-sound-like-you-have-Cindy-Lauper-type-vocal-dysfunction sort of way, but catchy nonetheless. And if you listen to Country radio at all, you've heard Miss Underwood sing "Temporary Home." They offer polar opposite life philosophies which border on - and at times unapologetically dive into - Theology. But here's the rub: they both, like their more esteemed counterparts from academia, fall catastrophically short.
"Well what did you expect from a former American Idol (is that not the most unapologetically pagan yet accurate description of a TV show ever?) and a former...Hannah Montana...whatever she did.?" I actually thought both songs were gutsy choices for these performers, but I am getting off track.
The message in "The Climb" can be summed up in these words from the chorus : "Ain't about how fast I get there, ain't about what's waiting on the other side- it's the climb." Fair enough. Although if you've ever been climbing the final destination has more than a little to do with the blood, blisters, sweat and tears along the way, but the song makes a valid point about the (potentially) transformative process of the journey as well as the risk of missing out on all the things along the way if we only ever look for the end result.
"Temporary Home" offers what many would call a Christian perspective on life, namely enduring hardships here on earth by viewing them through the lens of eternity, an eternity spent in Heaven. The song talks about a single Mom trying to provide for her daughter, a young boy who's bounced from foster home to foster home, and an elderly man on his death bed being comforted (and comforting his family) by his impending entrance into glory. Well, what's wrong with that?
If you've ever been in a situation where a family member was saying goodbye in their hospital room before they die, and the family and ill family member are Christians, you will never again doubt the power of Scripture to comfort and sustain the frail bodies and broken hearts were find ourselves wrapped in here on earth. But what about the foster kid being ok with his situation? What about the struggling mom and her dependant daughter? Evangelicals have for far too long been apathetic on these issues, and a watching world has called us on it. Certainly the eternal security of any soul should be paramount in our interactions with them, but that doesn't put food in their stomachs. That doesn't stop their dad from beating their mom. That doesn't stop molestation, abandonment, poverty, or provide education, counseling, or opportunities.
When I was a freshman I was in a discussion oriented class where part of the required reading was a book titled "Heaven is not my Home." I wish I had read the darn thing. As near as I could gather from the title and subsequent in-class conversations it had a bone to pick with Christians on these very issues, and in particular the hymn with which many of us are familiar. Later on I had a sociology prof who leveled the claim that religion was a tool with which to oppress the masses and keep them in poverty by distracting their starving eyes with promises of paradise. Dude had an ax to grind.
So which is it, as the famous candy asks? Now or Later?
Why can't it be both?
Or maybe, why can't people see that it HAS to be both, if either is to have any significance?
Here and now, and all the accompanying pain, sickness, sorrow, and longing for eternal happiness, love and fulfillment, only makes sense if there is a God who created us to long for these things, who did not incorporate sin into the original plan. Yet our actions here in our 'temporary home' clearly have eternal implications, if we are to believe what Scripture says about our actions, how we treat the poor, and what we do with the tellingly physical and temporary life and ministry of the person of Jesus Christ. Yet here we are some two millennia later and still we have these two entrenched camps. The problem is, as it often is, both sides have parts of the truth, which if focused on to the exclusion of the other parts leads to a bunch of divided righteously indignant folks who understandably say, "But what about THIS?!" Sound familiar? So where is the balance? Where is the love, the love, the love....
The example that keeps popping into my head was one I heard a few years ago, from a man I consider myself blessed to have known and even more blessed to have worked under. He delivering a sermon and was citing a book as an example. The book had been written by an officer (army? my mind is regrettably hazy on certain details) who had served and been a POW in the Vietnam war. A devout Christian, he wrote a book recalling his experiences as a prisoner and how his faith in the eternal had sustained him in the immensely difficult temporal. He recounted being able to tell which new prisoners would make it and which wouldn't (he was incarcerated for nearly a decade). He said the ones that came in visibly optimistic would talk about being home for Christmas, then Easter, then a family member's birthday...as the reality of the situation set in their superficial optimism turned into irreparable despair. He said that he and several others learned to look at the most brutal and ugly realities of their situation, while always having an ultimate hope....that was what sustained them through years of unspeakable hardships.
To not acknowledge and do something about the ugliness and injustices in this world due to misguided religious zeal is immature and inexcusable. That type of Christianity is disingenuous and frankly, useless. But to mock someone's ultimate hope as a fairy tale for the weak that can't handle the complex realities of today's world is equally irresponsible and self-indulgent. You learn much along the climb, because Christ has surrounded us with fragments of his glory and clues as to his character and our subsequent responsibilities in light of this new understanding. You are able to endure the climb because you know that someday there will be a mountaintop like none any eye has seen, where valleys that seemed eternal are hardly visible and everything is put into perfect perspective. We are not there yet, but thank God we are on our way! Our temporary home has significance because God created it, called it good, and instructed us to take care of it. But "God", "good" and "care" are words which only truly find their definitions in eternity, or in the One who is waiting there for us. This is the paradox of Christian living, the eternal in the temporal. The significant-yet-temporary climb. If either the journey or the destination get left out, the other becomes meaningless.
True Country Boy is Hard to Find
(originally written January 2010)
At the new home of my old job, I have become coworkers and friends with the technicians. As is the case in all mergers, there have been adjustments...none more significant for me than the radio station which is on all day, every day. I will preface this by saying that as far back as I can remember I have been close friends with people who love the two types of music I simply can't bring myself to enjoy: Country and Jazz. I say 'bring myself to enjoy' in the literal sense, because I have tried unsuccessfully for years to get over my aversion to these genres. In any case, for the last year and a half I have been innundated with a barrage of songs full of "twang and trains and hillbilly thing" and thought I would share, in ascending order, the 5 most obnoxious country songs on the radio today, and how they've acquired this ignominious status in my feeble musings.
#5. "She wouldn't be gone." Yes, she would. She left because you're a selfish prig, which is now expressing itself in self pity. "If I'd have loved her this much all along?" Please. Countless relationships have been restarted and failed because one party mistook self-pity for love. Keep crying at the windshield and leave her the heck alone.
#4. "Any man of mine." I really don't have time to get into all the reasons this one is obnoxious, but let's start with the most obvious- it represents the blatant double standards of the feminism in the 90's and to some degree the feminism of right now. Any man of mine better do a, b, and c, and if I change my mind about what any of those things are, over and over, he'd better say "I like it that way." The simplest way to reveal the idiocy of the song is to perform a little egalitarian swap. Introducing the hit single, "Any woman of mine." .."better walk the line, show me a teasin' squeezin' pleasin' kind of time...And I can be late for a date that's fine but she'd better be on time..." Do I need to go further? Try it with "That don't impress me much", too- although my favorite part of that song is when she's trying to be hip and says, "you much be joking, right?" But both in the wording and delivery it's so painful that she might as well be saying, "Clearly you mustn't be serious, am I correct?" Walk that line, Shania...
#3. "Don't you know you're beautiful." Just the way you are...once you go on a ultra-conforminst mainstream "singing" competition...and use your prize money to get new teeth, a new nose, and other various enhancements...then you can sell individuality like some repackaged robot. Nice message, totally disqualified performer delivering it...
#2. "8 Second Ride." This song embodies the full grown backwoods male adolescent fantasy: carefree sex in the bed of your jacked up and tricked out pickup. It contains the purest strain of modern cowboy: one who not only disapproves of all things not country, but views himself as the only remaining pure specimen to be found, who evidently is in some demand. To be honest, every guy has probably had the fantasy of going to a party, social gathering, etc. and having some attractive girl turn to him and say, "Please take me out of here." This song is no different, except upon exiting the local watering hole, this cowboy's conquest turns to him and explains that the reason she chose him was due to the circumference of his tires and the 14 inch lift kit his cousin installed in return for some chicken-fried and gravy soaked provisions. He invites her into his sanctuary, but warns her to "watch the cup where I'm spitin my dip inside." I always tried to clean my car before I took girls on dates, naively not realizing the innate pheromones in my trash. And spit, apparently.
#1. "The Cat's in the Cradle." To be fair, this classic folk rock song was written several decades ago, but finds itself getting airtime due to another conspicuous idiosyncracy in the country music world: the unapologetic and relentless repackaging and covering of songs without regard to genre, era, or fear of appearing to be an unoriginal pandering money-mongerer. From such relevant artists as All for One to Marc Cohn, it seems none are safe from some 3-toothed good ol boy who, in an apparent moment of lucidity, changes the radio to a top 40 station, listens to a few classics, and says (lucidity having now passed)..."Yeah, that won a bunch of awards 'n stuff, but you know what it could really use? Some slide guitar and sub-par vocal embellishments." No, no it doesn't. Just leave people's good memories alone, please.
At the new home of my old job, I have become coworkers and friends with the technicians. As is the case in all mergers, there have been adjustments...none more significant for me than the radio station which is on all day, every day. I will preface this by saying that as far back as I can remember I have been close friends with people who love the two types of music I simply can't bring myself to enjoy: Country and Jazz. I say 'bring myself to enjoy' in the literal sense, because I have tried unsuccessfully for years to get over my aversion to these genres. In any case, for the last year and a half I have been innundated with a barrage of songs full of "twang and trains and hillbilly thing" and thought I would share, in ascending order, the 5 most obnoxious country songs on the radio today, and how they've acquired this ignominious status in my feeble musings.
#5. "She wouldn't be gone." Yes, she would. She left because you're a selfish prig, which is now expressing itself in self pity. "If I'd have loved her this much all along?" Please. Countless relationships have been restarted and failed because one party mistook self-pity for love. Keep crying at the windshield and leave her the heck alone.
#4. "Any man of mine." I really don't have time to get into all the reasons this one is obnoxious, but let's start with the most obvious- it represents the blatant double standards of the feminism in the 90's and to some degree the feminism of right now. Any man of mine better do a, b, and c, and if I change my mind about what any of those things are, over and over, he'd better say "I like it that way." The simplest way to reveal the idiocy of the song is to perform a little egalitarian swap. Introducing the hit single, "Any woman of mine." .."better walk the line, show me a teasin' squeezin' pleasin' kind of time...And I can be late for a date that's fine but she'd better be on time..." Do I need to go further? Try it with "That don't impress me much", too- although my favorite part of that song is when she's trying to be hip and says, "you much be joking, right?" But both in the wording and delivery it's so painful that she might as well be saying, "Clearly you mustn't be serious, am I correct?" Walk that line, Shania...
#3. "Don't you know you're beautiful." Just the way you are...once you go on a ultra-conforminst mainstream "singing" competition...and use your prize money to get new teeth, a new nose, and other various enhancements...then you can sell individuality like some repackaged robot. Nice message, totally disqualified performer delivering it...
#2. "8 Second Ride." This song embodies the full grown backwoods male adolescent fantasy: carefree sex in the bed of your jacked up and tricked out pickup. It contains the purest strain of modern cowboy: one who not only disapproves of all things not country, but views himself as the only remaining pure specimen to be found, who evidently is in some demand. To be honest, every guy has probably had the fantasy of going to a party, social gathering, etc. and having some attractive girl turn to him and say, "Please take me out of here." This song is no different, except upon exiting the local watering hole, this cowboy's conquest turns to him and explains that the reason she chose him was due to the circumference of his tires and the 14 inch lift kit his cousin installed in return for some chicken-fried and gravy soaked provisions. He invites her into his sanctuary, but warns her to "watch the cup where I'm spitin my dip inside." I always tried to clean my car before I took girls on dates, naively not realizing the innate pheromones in my trash. And spit, apparently.
#1. "The Cat's in the Cradle." To be fair, this classic folk rock song was written several decades ago, but finds itself getting airtime due to another conspicuous idiosyncracy in the country music world: the unapologetic and relentless repackaging and covering of songs without regard to genre, era, or fear of appearing to be an unoriginal pandering money-mongerer. From such relevant artists as All for One to Marc Cohn, it seems none are safe from some 3-toothed good ol boy who, in an apparent moment of lucidity, changes the radio to a top 40 station, listens to a few classics, and says (lucidity having now passed)..."Yeah, that won a bunch of awards 'n stuff, but you know what it could really use? Some slide guitar and sub-par vocal embellishments." No, no it doesn't. Just leave people's good memories alone, please.
Painful goodbyes
(Originally written August 2009)
So the last 3 days have held a myriad of emotions for me....and I often realize, whether through my wife's prodding or even just looking through old pictures and notes, that the majority of the emotions I experience are never articulated. So here's to turning over a new leaf.
P.S. Be warned that while some of these experiences are probably universal, others (well, hopefully all) are definitely from a guy's perspective, and may seem ridiculous. Well...this is my note. Write your own.
It all started Thursday (truth be told, it started about a year and a half ago) when for the first time since the '08 season opener, Brady would be stepping under center and doing what he does better than anyone does, arguably better than anyone ever has. I was almost embarrassed about my brimming excitement over a pre-season game. Almost. Anyway, that fully lived up to my expectations, and the next day was Friday. Along with the usual amiable repore with co-workers and the general sense that rest of the world just doesn't care so much about dumb things if only on this day, Friday brought with it the unenviable task of packing up family from a house that has been my second home since I first visited my future-in-laws some 9 years ago. There were the typical bittersweet moments; finding old treasures once thought lost, reliving experiences and seeing accolades that accomplished in-laws would never have brought up on their own, sweating and working together, and more than anything the joy of community. Friends who don't often get to hang out just ate up each others company; I was reminded of the first few times I saw this vibrant support network of extended and adopted family throughout Rowley. I reflected both on the unusual treasure it was (and the amazing gift given to those who had never known anything else) and the bittersweet truth that when God calls us somewhere that often means leaving a piece of his body behind, a piece that has been Christ on earth to us. And that seems unnatural to us because it should; we were designed to live in a collosal mansion together, and thankfully, someday, we will.
Friday night found me watching the Red Sox in the top of the ninth inning down by a run, two men on, two outs and two strikes to one Victor Martinez. As I realized how tense my body was for three pitches which were fouled off, I was reminded that the hardest thing in all of sports is hitting a baseball. Try to think of any other athletic discipline where being successful 3 out of every 10 times is considered great. The next pitch was a fastball low and away, and Matinez did the job he was acquired to do, rocketing a line drive to deep right and scoring two runs. Jason Bay. J.D. Drew. What had seemed to be certain defeat in a deafeningly loud Rangers stadium had turned to an 8-4 rout in an almost equally loud Rangers stadium, a testiment to the incredible landscape of Red Sox nation. My mother-in-law, who was of course sowing a complicated design for a loved one(which notably would be worn in yet another wedding and immortalized in pictures, the majority of which people would see and never suspect that the embroidered gowns seen on the Bridal party were made by a homemaker who chose family over certain professional success) turned to me and smiled, commenting on the frequency with which both of us seemed to be the last ones awake in this house. I smiled and felt a knot in my stomach as I remembered another occasion when this had happened, and the ensuing terror I felt that memorable evening as she stood up with the remote, turned the t.v. off, faced me and said, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I need to talk to you about something..." The look on my face told her that she had succeeded, for what I felt was much more than discomfort...unearthly terror...room spinning...blood draining...well, you get the idea.
Then, this morning, with the unparalleled satisfaction derived from hot Dunks coffee, we set out to finish packing and loading the truck. Even more friends and family arrived, and I again would have been happy just to watch the most organic and genuine conversations I've ever heard transpire. The dreaded moment of saying goodbye arrived, and predictably, there were tears. "I'll be back in a week ...we'll be back and forth...this isn't the final goodbye..." And yet it was, as things had fundamentally and irreversably changed- for the better by God's calling, wisdom and design- heartbreakingly nontheless. Our son, who for days had valiantly battled cutting molars, brutal heat and things being in constant upheaval, was fading fast; I put him in the car seat and headed home to Georgetown. He didn't last for a mile, and I watched "the rack monster" (another inexplicable saying from my father-in-law) grab him and drag him off to sleep. I felt again the feeling of immense responsibility which I first felt on our ride home from the hospital, when I was ready to rip apart anyone who came within 20 feet of our car carrying its precious cargo. My wife cried for much of the ride and informed me upon our arrival that she never wanted to take him in the car again. Resisting the impulse to comment on the intricate constraints that would put on...everything, I just hugged her and nodded. This was uncharted waters for both of us.
And now, for the first time in our lives, neither of us has a family or adopted family upstairs, 10 minutes away, or 100 miles away. For my son, who some 3 hours later is still asleep in the next room, life will remain essentially unchanged, with the glaring exception that his Grandpa and MeeMaw are not around nearly as much. His family, our family, is a unit unto itself; yet never autonomous. The adults we learn from and lean on for a sense of security were themselves once faced with the prospect of raising a family and walking by faith, albeit occasionally with hesitant and trembling feet. By God's grace and mercy we take part in the plan He has for us...one step at a time. Today was just a tough step.
So the last 3 days have held a myriad of emotions for me....and I often realize, whether through my wife's prodding or even just looking through old pictures and notes, that the majority of the emotions I experience are never articulated. So here's to turning over a new leaf.
P.S. Be warned that while some of these experiences are probably universal, others (well, hopefully all) are definitely from a guy's perspective, and may seem ridiculous. Well...this is my note. Write your own.
It all started Thursday (truth be told, it started about a year and a half ago) when for the first time since the '08 season opener, Brady would be stepping under center and doing what he does better than anyone does, arguably better than anyone ever has. I was almost embarrassed about my brimming excitement over a pre-season game. Almost. Anyway, that fully lived up to my expectations, and the next day was Friday. Along with the usual amiable repore with co-workers and the general sense that rest of the world just doesn't care so much about dumb things if only on this day, Friday brought with it the unenviable task of packing up family from a house that has been my second home since I first visited my future-in-laws some 9 years ago. There were the typical bittersweet moments; finding old treasures once thought lost, reliving experiences and seeing accolades that accomplished in-laws would never have brought up on their own, sweating and working together, and more than anything the joy of community. Friends who don't often get to hang out just ate up each others company; I was reminded of the first few times I saw this vibrant support network of extended and adopted family throughout Rowley. I reflected both on the unusual treasure it was (and the amazing gift given to those who had never known anything else) and the bittersweet truth that when God calls us somewhere that often means leaving a piece of his body behind, a piece that has been Christ on earth to us. And that seems unnatural to us because it should; we were designed to live in a collosal mansion together, and thankfully, someday, we will.
Friday night found me watching the Red Sox in the top of the ninth inning down by a run, two men on, two outs and two strikes to one Victor Martinez. As I realized how tense my body was for three pitches which were fouled off, I was reminded that the hardest thing in all of sports is hitting a baseball. Try to think of any other athletic discipline where being successful 3 out of every 10 times is considered great. The next pitch was a fastball low and away, and Matinez did the job he was acquired to do, rocketing a line drive to deep right and scoring two runs. Jason Bay. J.D. Drew. What had seemed to be certain defeat in a deafeningly loud Rangers stadium had turned to an 8-4 rout in an almost equally loud Rangers stadium, a testiment to the incredible landscape of Red Sox nation. My mother-in-law, who was of course sowing a complicated design for a loved one(which notably would be worn in yet another wedding and immortalized in pictures, the majority of which people would see and never suspect that the embroidered gowns seen on the Bridal party were made by a homemaker who chose family over certain professional success) turned to me and smiled, commenting on the frequency with which both of us seemed to be the last ones awake in this house. I smiled and felt a knot in my stomach as I remembered another occasion when this had happened, and the ensuing terror I felt that memorable evening as she stood up with the remote, turned the t.v. off, faced me and said, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I need to talk to you about something..." The look on my face told her that she had succeeded, for what I felt was much more than discomfort...unearthly terror...room spinning...blood draining...well, you get the idea.
Then, this morning, with the unparalleled satisfaction derived from hot Dunks coffee, we set out to finish packing and loading the truck. Even more friends and family arrived, and I again would have been happy just to watch the most organic and genuine conversations I've ever heard transpire. The dreaded moment of saying goodbye arrived, and predictably, there were tears. "I'll be back in a week ...we'll be back and forth...this isn't the final goodbye..." And yet it was, as things had fundamentally and irreversably changed- for the better by God's calling, wisdom and design- heartbreakingly nontheless. Our son, who for days had valiantly battled cutting molars, brutal heat and things being in constant upheaval, was fading fast; I put him in the car seat and headed home to Georgetown. He didn't last for a mile, and I watched "the rack monster" (another inexplicable saying from my father-in-law) grab him and drag him off to sleep. I felt again the feeling of immense responsibility which I first felt on our ride home from the hospital, when I was ready to rip apart anyone who came within 20 feet of our car carrying its precious cargo. My wife cried for much of the ride and informed me upon our arrival that she never wanted to take him in the car again. Resisting the impulse to comment on the intricate constraints that would put on...everything, I just hugged her and nodded. This was uncharted waters for both of us.
And now, for the first time in our lives, neither of us has a family or adopted family upstairs, 10 minutes away, or 100 miles away. For my son, who some 3 hours later is still asleep in the next room, life will remain essentially unchanged, with the glaring exception that his Grandpa and MeeMaw are not around nearly as much. His family, our family, is a unit unto itself; yet never autonomous. The adults we learn from and lean on for a sense of security were themselves once faced with the prospect of raising a family and walking by faith, albeit occasionally with hesitant and trembling feet. By God's grace and mercy we take part in the plan He has for us...one step at a time. Today was just a tough step.
Grease monkey, that funky monkey
(Originally written April 2009)
Every vocation that involves working with people has its unique frustrations, and being a car mechanic has a lot of them. I thought I'd take a few mintues and write down some things I hear daily from customers that end up hurting, not helping, them in the long run.
#1. " Ever since you worked on item A, item B has been making this noise:"
This captures the essence of the obnoxious customer: totally ignorant, but suspiciously claiming they're onto your game. 99.99% of the time the two items are as unrelated as mechanically possible; this makes you sound stupid, and makes your mechanic not want to help you out.
#2. "Really? 'Cause I was on this online forum and IT said..."
Yes, really. I don't give a flying rats fanny what some benevolent do it yourself-er in Nebraska told you was wrong with your car. I looked at it, I'm telling you what the problem is. I actually had to undergo a significant amount of training for this job, so let me do it efficiently and not spend 20 minutes explaining something that while painfully simple to me is beyond your comprehension.
#3. "Well, I'm really hoping this is the problem..." Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Ok. Here's what my job is: I look at your car, find what's wrong, and tell you how much it will be to fix it. What you do from there is your business. I have zero control over (a) which part is broken, (b) how many parts are broken, and (c) the absurd price of parts these days. I do not determine that that metallic sound coming from your brakes is merely a pebbly caught behind your backing plate and not the last millimeter of metal brake pad backing that's been saving your life for 2 months since it started making noise. Which transitions nicely into...
#4. "Yeah, it just started making that noise this week."
Don't lie about your automotive neglect. It is just awkward to explain to you that due to the condition of said component we know you're lying, and as a result of your neglect the job will cost 3 times what it would have had you gotten it serviced when it ACTUALLY started making noise.
#5. "Are you sure it needs that?"
Well, now that I think about it, you're right, it probably doesn't. Thanks for helping me come to the right conclusion.
#6. "My husband said it needed this."
This ties in with a few others I've already stated, but it is equally, if not more awkward to explain to you that your husband doesn't know what he's talking about; that said, many women in this situation have come to that conclusion a long time ago.
#7. "Do you guys do oil changes?"
Oil changes are the most elemental service to perform on a vehicle, and every automotive shop in the world does them. It would be ludicrous not to.
#8. "You guys are the experts....but you're sure it isn't this? I mean, you know way more than I do, but I thought this meant that..."
If you would like to have a coherent conversation about the physics of automobile parts, I would be happy to. However, simultaneously purporting to be compotent while being fashionably self-depreciating only makes you look like a schmuck when your eyes glass over once I mention words like reluctor ring or neutral safety switch.
#9. "Oh...you can't do that now?"
See this impact gun in my hand? See that car on the lift? While individually unincriminating, taken together they mean that I'm WORKING, like, on another car. Poor planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on my part. If you're leaving tomorrow for Florida, maybe you should have come in before today to get those head gaskets taken care of.
#10. (Usually on a phone call) "The check....what was it...check engine?...yeah..that light came on in my car. What's wrong with it?"
One of ten thousand things. There are literally hundreds of possibilities for why this light came on. Systems independent of the engine trigger this light all the time. Just the way it works.
Every vocation that involves working with people has its unique frustrations, and being a car mechanic has a lot of them. I thought I'd take a few mintues and write down some things I hear daily from customers that end up hurting, not helping, them in the long run.
#1. " Ever since you worked on item A, item B has been making this noise:"
This captures the essence of the obnoxious customer: totally ignorant, but suspiciously claiming they're onto your game. 99.99% of the time the two items are as unrelated as mechanically possible; this makes you sound stupid, and makes your mechanic not want to help you out.
#2. "Really? 'Cause I was on this online forum and IT said..."
Yes, really. I don't give a flying rats fanny what some benevolent do it yourself-er in Nebraska told you was wrong with your car. I looked at it, I'm telling you what the problem is. I actually had to undergo a significant amount of training for this job, so let me do it efficiently and not spend 20 minutes explaining something that while painfully simple to me is beyond your comprehension.
#3. "Well, I'm really hoping this is the problem..." Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Ok. Here's what my job is: I look at your car, find what's wrong, and tell you how much it will be to fix it. What you do from there is your business. I have zero control over (a) which part is broken, (b) how many parts are broken, and (c) the absurd price of parts these days. I do not determine that that metallic sound coming from your brakes is merely a pebbly caught behind your backing plate and not the last millimeter of metal brake pad backing that's been saving your life for 2 months since it started making noise. Which transitions nicely into...
#4. "Yeah, it just started making that noise this week."
Don't lie about your automotive neglect. It is just awkward to explain to you that due to the condition of said component we know you're lying, and as a result of your neglect the job will cost 3 times what it would have had you gotten it serviced when it ACTUALLY started making noise.
#5. "Are you sure it needs that?"
Well, now that I think about it, you're right, it probably doesn't. Thanks for helping me come to the right conclusion.
#6. "My husband said it needed this."
This ties in with a few others I've already stated, but it is equally, if not more awkward to explain to you that your husband doesn't know what he's talking about; that said, many women in this situation have come to that conclusion a long time ago.
#7. "Do you guys do oil changes?"
Oil changes are the most elemental service to perform on a vehicle, and every automotive shop in the world does them. It would be ludicrous not to.
#8. "You guys are the experts....but you're sure it isn't this? I mean, you know way more than I do, but I thought this meant that..."
If you would like to have a coherent conversation about the physics of automobile parts, I would be happy to. However, simultaneously purporting to be compotent while being fashionably self-depreciating only makes you look like a schmuck when your eyes glass over once I mention words like reluctor ring or neutral safety switch.
#9. "Oh...you can't do that now?"
See this impact gun in my hand? See that car on the lift? While individually unincriminating, taken together they mean that I'm WORKING, like, on another car. Poor planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on my part. If you're leaving tomorrow for Florida, maybe you should have come in before today to get those head gaskets taken care of.
#10. (Usually on a phone call) "The check....what was it...check engine?...yeah..that light came on in my car. What's wrong with it?"
One of ten thousand things. There are literally hundreds of possibilities for why this light came on. Systems independent of the engine trigger this light all the time. Just the way it works.
25 things about me...
(originally written January 2009)
Right. This should be interesting.
1. The only bone I've ever broken is my skull, which is simultaneously cool and lame.
2. I've been in an ambulance 3 times, and puked blood over the EMTs in 2 of those.
3. When I was a kid I would sing Petra songs in bed at night in falsetto while my brother kept time with his "tummy drummies."
4. I absolutely love treehouses, and have built a couple huge ones.
5. I engage in extended periods of intently thinking about something when suddenly I find myself pulling into my driveway. I don't remember making any of the turns, seeing any speed limit signs, etc. This can't be good.
6. I enjoy Bond films in a way that's not normal. It's almost geekish.
7. Since the first time I heard a renaissance choral piece, I've been hooked. It consistently gets to me like nothing else.
8. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" is my favorite Christmas song...ironically it always strikes me as bittersweet and meloncholy. Maybe it captures the essence of Christmas for me- joy laced with longing for the way things should be.
9. In high school youth group there were battles on every retreat between the guys and the male leaders. I was introduced to atomic wedgies at a young age, and still have the tags from some of the guys I nailed.
10. I have a pipe I got in this little smoke shop in Castle hill, Prague. The owner looked like Grizzly Adams and smelled like wonderful. I asked him which pipe I should buy, and he said in a deep, thickly accented growl, "For you? Heh heh heh." He pointed to my pipe and I paid the obscene price without regret.
11. I've gotten halfway through this little note on two occasions only to have my computer erase it.
12. I hate double standards, esp. in the media, who stopped even trying to pretend to be objective a long time ago.
13. When I was a kid, I literally had a fleet of tonka trucks and a sandpile that got replenished every year by a dump truck. My pulse still picks up when I see heavy equipment in operation.
14. I've been plowing for three years now and keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, when I'll hate it like all the other plow drivers I talk to. I still love it though.
15. Very few things strike me as laugh out loud funny. However, I know if I give my friend Jon 5 minutes I will literally be crying. He's the only person in my life who can do that whenever he wants to. I'm blessed because I know we'd be friends even if he weren't funny...although that is hard to imagine...
16. I told Jen 3 weeks into dating her we should just skip the hassle of the next few years and just get married now. I heard the air whoosh out of her lungs in a shocked kind of chuckle, but we both knew we were the ones.
17. At our new shop the techs from New Meadows work on big trucks with a totally different set of tools than I have, and I feel like a kid in a candy store, just wanting to watch.
18. I grew up in Maine and have never been skiing. Not really sure why.
19. My idea of heaven on earth is two leather chairs, a walk in humidor, and a bottle of Taylor Fladgate 30 year tawny port with Sam. I have luckily been able to experience this once already.
20. My mom used to hide under my bed and scare the crap out of me. Ask her about this and she'll lie.
21. My whole life I wanted a dog who would sleep on my bed and lay at my feet and just be my bud. I didn't get this 'till I was in college. Unfortunately he's now a 100 pound eight year old chocolate lab who still gets into my lap when I go home. He's so lovable, I can't tell him no...
22. I still get excited at the thought of sleepovers, even though they don't really work anymore. I need to grow up.
23. When I was a kid I had an accident because this girl my mom was babysitting took forever in the bathroom. I informed her after the fact that she had taken longer than a dumptruck takes to unload. This was honestly the longest period of time I could contextualize in my 6 year old brain. I didn't understand why my mom kept laughing so hard.
24. I remember the day my freshman year of high school when I knew God was calling me to the pastorate. That sense of certainty has never waned, though my path to this point has been somewhat unorthodox...
25. There was an episode of Top Gear where they were flogging a ridiculously gorgeous exotic around a track, talking in their amazing accents over the roar of the exhaust while a British men's choir sang Renaissance music in the background. I cry like twice a year, but this year there will have been 3.
Right. This should be interesting.
1. The only bone I've ever broken is my skull, which is simultaneously cool and lame.
2. I've been in an ambulance 3 times, and puked blood over the EMTs in 2 of those.
3. When I was a kid I would sing Petra songs in bed at night in falsetto while my brother kept time with his "tummy drummies."
4. I absolutely love treehouses, and have built a couple huge ones.
5. I engage in extended periods of intently thinking about something when suddenly I find myself pulling into my driveway. I don't remember making any of the turns, seeing any speed limit signs, etc. This can't be good.
6. I enjoy Bond films in a way that's not normal. It's almost geekish.
7. Since the first time I heard a renaissance choral piece, I've been hooked. It consistently gets to me like nothing else.
8. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" is my favorite Christmas song...ironically it always strikes me as bittersweet and meloncholy. Maybe it captures the essence of Christmas for me- joy laced with longing for the way things should be.
9. In high school youth group there were battles on every retreat between the guys and the male leaders. I was introduced to atomic wedgies at a young age, and still have the tags from some of the guys I nailed.
10. I have a pipe I got in this little smoke shop in Castle hill, Prague. The owner looked like Grizzly Adams and smelled like wonderful. I asked him which pipe I should buy, and he said in a deep, thickly accented growl, "For you? Heh heh heh." He pointed to my pipe and I paid the obscene price without regret.
11. I've gotten halfway through this little note on two occasions only to have my computer erase it.
12. I hate double standards, esp. in the media, who stopped even trying to pretend to be objective a long time ago.
13. When I was a kid, I literally had a fleet of tonka trucks and a sandpile that got replenished every year by a dump truck. My pulse still picks up when I see heavy equipment in operation.
14. I've been plowing for three years now and keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, when I'll hate it like all the other plow drivers I talk to. I still love it though.
15. Very few things strike me as laugh out loud funny. However, I know if I give my friend Jon 5 minutes I will literally be crying. He's the only person in my life who can do that whenever he wants to. I'm blessed because I know we'd be friends even if he weren't funny...although that is hard to imagine...
16. I told Jen 3 weeks into dating her we should just skip the hassle of the next few years and just get married now. I heard the air whoosh out of her lungs in a shocked kind of chuckle, but we both knew we were the ones.
17. At our new shop the techs from New Meadows work on big trucks with a totally different set of tools than I have, and I feel like a kid in a candy store, just wanting to watch.
18. I grew up in Maine and have never been skiing. Not really sure why.
19. My idea of heaven on earth is two leather chairs, a walk in humidor, and a bottle of Taylor Fladgate 30 year tawny port with Sam. I have luckily been able to experience this once already.
20. My mom used to hide under my bed and scare the crap out of me. Ask her about this and she'll lie.
21. My whole life I wanted a dog who would sleep on my bed and lay at my feet and just be my bud. I didn't get this 'till I was in college. Unfortunately he's now a 100 pound eight year old chocolate lab who still gets into my lap when I go home. He's so lovable, I can't tell him no...
22. I still get excited at the thought of sleepovers, even though they don't really work anymore. I need to grow up.
23. When I was a kid I had an accident because this girl my mom was babysitting took forever in the bathroom. I informed her after the fact that she had taken longer than a dumptruck takes to unload. This was honestly the longest period of time I could contextualize in my 6 year old brain. I didn't understand why my mom kept laughing so hard.
24. I remember the day my freshman year of high school when I knew God was calling me to the pastorate. That sense of certainty has never waned, though my path to this point has been somewhat unorthodox...
25. There was an episode of Top Gear where they were flogging a ridiculously gorgeous exotic around a track, talking in their amazing accents over the roar of the exhaust while a British men's choir sang Renaissance music in the background. I cry like twice a year, but this year there will have been 3.
Thoughts on L-O-V-E
(originally written January 2009)
So the other night as I waited with my wife in the Beverly ER (another story for another time) an article written by Lisa Miller in a recent edition of Newsweek caught my eye. The article was about gay marriage, with a specific emphasis on
(a) the numerous examples of non-monogamous heterosexual relationships in Scripture and
(b) its apparent silence on the issue of homosexuality, with the exception of a few "throw away" passages.
As I read on the author cited numerous examples in Scripture where Jesus is seen reaching out to those on the fringes, the social outcasts of his day. In summation, Miller quoted scholar Walter Brueggemann as saying the Biblical case for homosexuality wasn't so much in specific texts as the "general conviction that the Bible is bent toward inclusiveness."
Inclusiveness. That got me thinking.
Tolerance. Acceptance. Inclusiveness. These modern buzzwords are generally used in a universal-moral-code kind of context; i.e. to love your fellow man (persons?) is to, in the words of Jean Valjean, "see the face of God." My issue with this article was not so much in its Scriptural case for gay marriage (though it was as the saying goes, "an inch deep and a mile wide") as much as it was in a trend I see absolutely everywhere now in the secular world, and increasingly (and alarmingly) in the Christian church: the redefinition of love.
The logic goes something like this: You say you're a Christian? You want to be like Jesus? Well Jesus was loving. He accepted those "dirty sinners." He hung out at a well with a "promiscuous" Samaritan woman. Who are you to judge me? Judging is pharisaeical. You know where Pharisees go. (this last one is gleefully trumpeted by many liberal denominations who understandably have had their fill of dry orthodoxy.) But there's always something missing. Something bigger than ourselves that loves us but WANTS better for us.
Something that gives us hope. Hope beyond what we poor beggars can offer each other. The part where after the incredible gift of unconditional love and acceptance comes the "Now go and sin no more." The part where we realize the way we've been living is killing us, that it's not how God designed us to operate. This is the second part of love that is inextricably linked with the first because while it would be easier to just "be ok" with how someone is living, true love wants what's best for someone, whether they themselves know (or are willing to admit) what that is yet.
This Saturday my son will (amazingly) turn 17 months old. He's freakishly tall for his age and can now reach everything that isn't suspended from a floating shelf or bookcase. As you might imagine this has made life considerably more interesing, in addition to making me immensely more aware of my surroundings (though my wife might differ with me on this point:) ). My bleary-eyed mornings have turned into relentless games of monitoring EVERYTHING J. gets into.
And he loves buttons. Buttons on the TV, buttons on the microwave, and buttons on the stove. Outlets, teetering glass dishes, batteries freshly excavated from the remote; this is a world of endless fascination. Till dad says "NO". The look on his face is curious, sometimes startled. You can see the deductive wheels already turning. "Why not Dad? This is all part of my playing, discovering the world around me, how things feel, etc. This gives me joy. Don't you want me to be happy?" "Indeed I do. More than I ever could have understood. But I also know how it feels to be cut, burned, bruised and scared. And I don't want any of those things for you."
More than I desire my son's acceptance (which I do desire), more than I want to be his buddy (which I long for), I want him to be healthy. Safe. Have a long full life full of love and hope and friends and family and to be an old man with stories and a swing on his porch and a twinkle in his eye that makes you feel like all great grampas do, like they could be YOUR grandpa. I want things for him that give him life. Not take it away.
So while I fully acknowledge it would be a much easier world if Scripture in fact had nothing to say about homosexuality, or drunkenness, or sloth, or greed, or pride, or materialism, it does. And as Christians we historically have been pharisaeical and hypocritical and all the rest. We have condoned "acceptable" sins and demonized others. God, however, does not do this. The arrogant, judgemental elderly lady in the quilting circle is just as guilty as a pedophile in God's eyes. We need to remember where we came from. "He who has been forgiven much loves much", and we need to remember we all have a lot to be forgiven for.
I am not looking down my self-righteous nose at you because I disagree with your lifestyle. I am trying to be faithful to the ultimate and only perfect embodiment of love. I can't very well point at your wounds and say "hey, you're a bloody, stinking mess" when I have open wounds and festering sores just as ugly. We both need help. So the great physician takes us into his immaculate ER (where I can only presume there are no Newsweeks) and admits us though we don't have a penny (I suppose this could be called the ultimate universal health care:)). He tends to our wounds and says, "Now how did you get these wounds? Oh really? Well you need to stop playing with those knives. And you, sir? Playing in used car oil all week and not showering? Yes, that will cause disease."
Put down the remote, J. I love you, GOD'S perfect, now YOU change. Because I want better for you.
So the other night as I waited with my wife in the Beverly ER (another story for another time) an article written by Lisa Miller in a recent edition of Newsweek caught my eye. The article was about gay marriage, with a specific emphasis on
(a) the numerous examples of non-monogamous heterosexual relationships in Scripture and
(b) its apparent silence on the issue of homosexuality, with the exception of a few "throw away" passages.
As I read on the author cited numerous examples in Scripture where Jesus is seen reaching out to those on the fringes, the social outcasts of his day. In summation, Miller quoted scholar Walter Brueggemann as saying the Biblical case for homosexuality wasn't so much in specific texts as the "general conviction that the Bible is bent toward inclusiveness."
Inclusiveness. That got me thinking.
Tolerance. Acceptance. Inclusiveness. These modern buzzwords are generally used in a universal-moral-code kind of context; i.e. to love your fellow man (persons?) is to, in the words of Jean Valjean, "see the face of God." My issue with this article was not so much in its Scriptural case for gay marriage (though it was as the saying goes, "an inch deep and a mile wide") as much as it was in a trend I see absolutely everywhere now in the secular world, and increasingly (and alarmingly) in the Christian church: the redefinition of love.
The logic goes something like this: You say you're a Christian? You want to be like Jesus? Well Jesus was loving. He accepted those "dirty sinners." He hung out at a well with a "promiscuous" Samaritan woman. Who are you to judge me? Judging is pharisaeical. You know where Pharisees go. (this last one is gleefully trumpeted by many liberal denominations who understandably have had their fill of dry orthodoxy.) But there's always something missing. Something bigger than ourselves that loves us but WANTS better for us.
Something that gives us hope. Hope beyond what we poor beggars can offer each other. The part where after the incredible gift of unconditional love and acceptance comes the "Now go and sin no more." The part where we realize the way we've been living is killing us, that it's not how God designed us to operate. This is the second part of love that is inextricably linked with the first because while it would be easier to just "be ok" with how someone is living, true love wants what's best for someone, whether they themselves know (or are willing to admit) what that is yet.
This Saturday my son will (amazingly) turn 17 months old. He's freakishly tall for his age and can now reach everything that isn't suspended from a floating shelf or bookcase. As you might imagine this has made life considerably more interesing, in addition to making me immensely more aware of my surroundings (though my wife might differ with me on this point:) ). My bleary-eyed mornings have turned into relentless games of monitoring EVERYTHING J. gets into.
And he loves buttons. Buttons on the TV, buttons on the microwave, and buttons on the stove. Outlets, teetering glass dishes, batteries freshly excavated from the remote; this is a world of endless fascination. Till dad says "NO". The look on his face is curious, sometimes startled. You can see the deductive wheels already turning. "Why not Dad? This is all part of my playing, discovering the world around me, how things feel, etc. This gives me joy. Don't you want me to be happy?" "Indeed I do. More than I ever could have understood. But I also know how it feels to be cut, burned, bruised and scared. And I don't want any of those things for you."
More than I desire my son's acceptance (which I do desire), more than I want to be his buddy (which I long for), I want him to be healthy. Safe. Have a long full life full of love and hope and friends and family and to be an old man with stories and a swing on his porch and a twinkle in his eye that makes you feel like all great grampas do, like they could be YOUR grandpa. I want things for him that give him life. Not take it away.
So while I fully acknowledge it would be a much easier world if Scripture in fact had nothing to say about homosexuality, or drunkenness, or sloth, or greed, or pride, or materialism, it does. And as Christians we historically have been pharisaeical and hypocritical and all the rest. We have condoned "acceptable" sins and demonized others. God, however, does not do this. The arrogant, judgemental elderly lady in the quilting circle is just as guilty as a pedophile in God's eyes. We need to remember where we came from. "He who has been forgiven much loves much", and we need to remember we all have a lot to be forgiven for.
I am not looking down my self-righteous nose at you because I disagree with your lifestyle. I am trying to be faithful to the ultimate and only perfect embodiment of love. I can't very well point at your wounds and say "hey, you're a bloody, stinking mess" when I have open wounds and festering sores just as ugly. We both need help. So the great physician takes us into his immaculate ER (where I can only presume there are no Newsweeks) and admits us though we don't have a penny (I suppose this could be called the ultimate universal health care:)). He tends to our wounds and says, "Now how did you get these wounds? Oh really? Well you need to stop playing with those knives. And you, sir? Playing in used car oil all week and not showering? Yes, that will cause disease."
Put down the remote, J. I love you, GOD'S perfect, now YOU change. Because I want better for you.
Quirkiness
(originally written September 2008)
Right, so most of you know what this is about....here goes.
1. I play stupid games on road trips involving the lines on the highway. For instance: I'll pretend that there's an imaginary line continuously running beside the car which I control. Every time I tap my foot, blink my eye, or some other discerable movement, it moves between the lines. Sometimes I pretend the line is perpendicular to the car and I have to fill all the long breaks in the double lines due to intersections, turns, whatever. Kind of OCD, really.
2. Sort of related to the first one...I keep records of how many of those temporary reflector tabs I can hit in a row- you know, the ones they use for center lines in new road construction. It started in High school with my friend Corey- we kept beating each other's records every week- 32, 34, 36....then one awesome day I got 84. I have tried unsuccessfully to duplicate this feat since.
3. Every time I'm hunting and it snows, I imagine I'm in Narnia. I can't help it.
4. I am my dog. In every way. This is not an aspiration, just a demonstrative fact. Kind of hard to explain, but my friends will attest to this.
5. I honestly would trade any number of useful body extremities for a DB9 volante, a DBS, or a 1964 DB5. This is probably an unhealthy outlook, but I have no doubt I'd do it given the choice.
6. I want to build a house for my family on a huge chunk of land, and put numerous secret passages and a central hidden safe room in it. (A) it's totally practical in the event of a natural disaster, buglary or hostile takeover by the Russians or Germans, and (B) it's totally sweet. Think Webster meets Panic Room meets Clue meets a particularly memorable episode of Chip and Dale's Rescue Rangers. That's RESCUE RANGERS, people. Right after Duck Tales, Tailspin and Darkwing Duck.
Right, so most of you know what this is about....here goes.
1. I play stupid games on road trips involving the lines on the highway. For instance: I'll pretend that there's an imaginary line continuously running beside the car which I control. Every time I tap my foot, blink my eye, or some other discerable movement, it moves between the lines. Sometimes I pretend the line is perpendicular to the car and I have to fill all the long breaks in the double lines due to intersections, turns, whatever. Kind of OCD, really.
2. Sort of related to the first one...I keep records of how many of those temporary reflector tabs I can hit in a row- you know, the ones they use for center lines in new road construction. It started in High school with my friend Corey- we kept beating each other's records every week- 32, 34, 36....then one awesome day I got 84. I have tried unsuccessfully to duplicate this feat since.
3. Every time I'm hunting and it snows, I imagine I'm in Narnia. I can't help it.
4. I am my dog. In every way. This is not an aspiration, just a demonstrative fact. Kind of hard to explain, but my friends will attest to this.
5. I honestly would trade any number of useful body extremities for a DB9 volante, a DBS, or a 1964 DB5. This is probably an unhealthy outlook, but I have no doubt I'd do it given the choice.
6. I want to build a house for my family on a huge chunk of land, and put numerous secret passages and a central hidden safe room in it. (A) it's totally practical in the event of a natural disaster, buglary or hostile takeover by the Russians or Germans, and (B) it's totally sweet. Think Webster meets Panic Room meets Clue meets a particularly memorable episode of Chip and Dale's Rescue Rangers. That's RESCUE RANGERS, people. Right after Duck Tales, Tailspin and Darkwing Duck.
football musings
(originally written June 2008)
So a wonderful friend and mentor in my life wrote a note the day after the Pats' loss in SuperBowl XLII. In trying to process what happened, he wondered about God's favoring of the underdog. It's something I've wondered too, and hashed over and over in my head since I saw the game. S now, however many months later, I finally responded. Here, in it's unabridged glory, are my thoughts on God and His role in the Pats' loss:
Does God love the underdog? Without delving into the innate worth or deservedness of the underdog to be loved, I would maintain that while God has in the past and still today uses the weak things of the world to shame the strong, He does not love the underdog just because they're the underdog. God loves God, and He is certainly not the underdog. And therein lies what I keep returning to:
In every instance in scripture where God uses the "underdog," it is to accomplish a specific task to display to people (often large groups of people) that this thing could not possibly have happened without God's favor or intervention. The glory is given to Him, and men are left without excuse or plausible explanation.
But that is not what happened when the Pats lost to the upstart Giants. Even we who know the Lord can only muse about possible theological implications. I don't think it fits the pattern of God displaying his character and power through the endorsement of the underdog. Perhaps one team was more loaded with Christians than the other, though I doubt that was the case...perhaps one team was more arrogant than the other, but I honestly saw more arrogance from the men in Blue and White than from the men in Red, White, and Blue. If anything, and I have thought this repeatedly (and admittedly, perhaps naively) over the last 7 years, that if God is a football fan, He would condone the kind of graciousness, humility, and single-mindedness that has come to characterize the Pats, and that we now take for granted.
I have a possible alternative explanation for the outcome of the SuperBowl, though again, I am only musing and posting this in good fun:
1. God loves and desires excellence. While the Patriots certainly embodied excellence over their 18 wins, the Giants, in my opinion, embodied it more on SuperBowl Sunday. A tough pill to swallow, but that's just what happened.
2. God loves fun - childlike wonder. The Giants simply played for the joy of the game, while the Pats were too stoic, too businesslike, too...professional. It's a game, and when teams forget that, they usually end up losing.
3. All theology aside, the Giants peaked at the perfect time, with no expectations on them. The Pats took everybody's best shots every week, and felt the weight of history and everyone's expectations since pre-season. Key injuries combined with the exhaustion of carrying this load, and in the end, the Giants clean slate and momentum were better than what the Pats had to bring to the table. Just a hair better, but better nonetheless. And while it still stings a little bit, I find it hard to complain as a New England sports fan these days.
And pre-season is less than two months away...
So a wonderful friend and mentor in my life wrote a note the day after the Pats' loss in SuperBowl XLII. In trying to process what happened, he wondered about God's favoring of the underdog. It's something I've wondered too, and hashed over and over in my head since I saw the game. S now, however many months later, I finally responded. Here, in it's unabridged glory, are my thoughts on God and His role in the Pats' loss:
Does God love the underdog? Without delving into the innate worth or deservedness of the underdog to be loved, I would maintain that while God has in the past and still today uses the weak things of the world to shame the strong, He does not love the underdog just because they're the underdog. God loves God, and He is certainly not the underdog. And therein lies what I keep returning to:
In every instance in scripture where God uses the "underdog," it is to accomplish a specific task to display to people (often large groups of people) that this thing could not possibly have happened without God's favor or intervention. The glory is given to Him, and men are left without excuse or plausible explanation.
But that is not what happened when the Pats lost to the upstart Giants. Even we who know the Lord can only muse about possible theological implications. I don't think it fits the pattern of God displaying his character and power through the endorsement of the underdog. Perhaps one team was more loaded with Christians than the other, though I doubt that was the case...perhaps one team was more arrogant than the other, but I honestly saw more arrogance from the men in Blue and White than from the men in Red, White, and Blue. If anything, and I have thought this repeatedly (and admittedly, perhaps naively) over the last 7 years, that if God is a football fan, He would condone the kind of graciousness, humility, and single-mindedness that has come to characterize the Pats, and that we now take for granted.
I have a possible alternative explanation for the outcome of the SuperBowl, though again, I am only musing and posting this in good fun:
1. God loves and desires excellence. While the Patriots certainly embodied excellence over their 18 wins, the Giants, in my opinion, embodied it more on SuperBowl Sunday. A tough pill to swallow, but that's just what happened.
2. God loves fun - childlike wonder. The Giants simply played for the joy of the game, while the Pats were too stoic, too businesslike, too...professional. It's a game, and when teams forget that, they usually end up losing.
3. All theology aside, the Giants peaked at the perfect time, with no expectations on them. The Pats took everybody's best shots every week, and felt the weight of history and everyone's expectations since pre-season. Key injuries combined with the exhaustion of carrying this load, and in the end, the Giants clean slate and momentum were better than what the Pats had to bring to the table. Just a hair better, but better nonetheless. And while it still stings a little bit, I find it hard to complain as a New England sports fan these days.
And pre-season is less than two months away...
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