Suppository Preaching

Kevin DeYoung as the Judgment of God

2011-04-21T12:57:00.001-07:00

Here's a confession, I think I'm cool.

Sometimes it's involuntary and subliminal and sometimes it's a little less nuanced. Like when I look in the mirror, put on my sunglasses and say to myself in my best CSI Miami voice, "Well...it looks like someone just got a ticket...to awesomeville" YAAAAAAA (the screaming is optional - but I usually do). Now, to my credit, I only do that about five times a day.

But, you know what's funny, God has this way of doing something I (and James I guess) like to call "opposing the proud". And so every now and then, I get a reminder that I'm not that cool. And to be honest, I don't think I'm alone. When I look at the Bible I'm comforted because I see a guy like Peter in whom I feel like I can identify. I'm probably way off, but I see Peter as thinking he was
kind of cool. I mean, the way he would say and do things exudes a certain amount of confidence that only cool people have. But then again, Peter got humbled a lot. Here are some of my favorite moments from a new translation I'm working on:

John 13:37-38

Peter: Jesus, nothing bad's gonna happen to you. I'll die before that happens.

Jesus: Really? Because you're gonna deny me three times before the rooster crows.

Hours later...Peter denies Jesus three times...the rooster crows.

Matthew 14:28-30

Peter: Jesus, that's really cool that you can walk on water. Let me do that too.

Jesus: Okay, come here.

Peter gets out of the boat and walks toward Jesus.

Seconds later...Peter starts sinking and cries out in fear

*Editor's note: I'm not sure what this sounded like but I know that when I "cry out in fear" it sounds remarkably similar to a junior high girl.

Mark 8:31-33

Peter: Jesus, quit talking crazy. You're not going to die. You just admitted that you're the Christ, and we all know that the Christ is going to come and release us from oppression. Cough, cough...kill-the-Romans...cough, cough.

Jesus: Peter, remember that whole "Blessed are you Simon Bar Jonah" thing from a few minutes ago? Well, I have a new title for you....and it's Satan.

(I can only guess) Seconds later...Peter not so quick to give Jesus "biblical admonitions"

I'm not trying to be flippant with the text, honestly I'm not, I'm just trying to show, in my own words, how I see Peter continually being reminded that sometimes his confidence is misplaced. Needless to say, my life is filled with many of these same types of reminders.

Recently, I had just such a reminder when I went to The Gospel Coalition 2011 conference in Chicago. This was my first time going to this conference and, admittedly, I went into it with somewhat of a "fanboy" attitude. I was all to eager and a little "geeked out" to see and hear all of the many authors that I read and respect. Unfortunately, in my opinion, this approach to the conference is fairly common. In my case, it led to my demise.

Now, here I am at The Gospel Coalition conference and I decide to step out of the main speaking area. As I step into the sunlight, I spend a few seconds trying to let my eyes adjust to the natural light that is pouring through the windows into the hallway. Natural light was something in limited supply during the TGC 2011 conference. After my eyes adjust, I spot about five gentlemen gathered around two men having a conversation. This is a fairly common sight at TGC, but as I look closer I notice that the two men standing there are Justin Taylor and Kevin DeYoung. Now, these names may mean nothing to you, but in the "young, restless, reformed" crowd these guys are fairly well known for their contributions, and so at TGC these guys, like it or not, are stars.

Here's the thing. I think of myself as being somewhat socially adept and so I am constantly saying to myself "Don't be that guy. Don't be that guy." Case in point, when I was in seminary, I worked at the place where the Dallas Mavericks worked out and I always talked to the players only when they talked to me because I remember thinking the last thing I would want is having to constantly humor grown men who want to talk to me just so that later they can blog about it (there's an irony here). I also took that approach with my seminary professors who I considered to be very busy, godly men who could do without my interference in their lives. So, I sat back and watched other guys initiate conversations with the Dallas Mavericks and I pictured my friends moving into Dirk Nowitzki's pool house and becoming godparents to Steve Nash's children. I also watched my fellow classmates buddy up with the profs that I loved talking about books they planned to co-write together and trips they planned to Martin Luther's childhood home. All this while a single tear rolled down my cheek. But I felt pretty good about myself because I showed constraint and I wasn't "that guy".

I say all that to say this. Evidently, I am that guy.

My brother and I like to talk about theology. We can spend hours talking about theological issues that would drive other people nuts. I've come to realize that we are somewhat unique in this respect and some of the things we talk about don't necessarily interest approximately .0001 percent of the general population. But this is easy to forget. Recently, we have been having one of these discussions, and for whatever reason I feel like Kevin DeYoung wants to join our conversation.

As I said before, usually I have an inner voice that prevents me from doing things like this, but I'm not sure if it was the fifteen cups of Starbucks or the years of watching others steal my chances, but this time the inner voice wasn't there. It was just my voice, and that's never good. So, I notice that Kevin is taking a moment for himself to relax from all the craziness of the conference and I think to myself, "I bet he really wants to talk to me about an obscure theological issue". Because I know this, if I was in his position, I would love as many grown men as possible approaching me to talk about whatever is on their mind at the time so that later they can...well, you get the picture.

So, I step up to Kevin DeYoung and ask him if I can ask a question. He says yes (because he is really a nice guy) and then proceeds to cough. Now, when I say cough I don't really mean cough as much as I mean choked on some small animal and almost needed resuscitation. He excused himself and went to get a drink. Again, I usually have an inner voice, really I do. And at this point, normally I would say to myself, "He doesn't feel good, this is a sign. Leave him alone and go look in the mirror and tell yourself you're awesome". But alas, sigh, no inner voice.

I stood there with a smile on my face. I'm pretty sure it was a dumb smile. An uncomfortable smile that says "I like your books but I don't want to perform CPR on you." It seemed like a long time, but eventually he stopped coughing. That's when I asked him my question. And that's when he responded.

Confused look..."Never heard of it".

Okay, I'll say it again, inner voice = on vacation. I should've taken the hint. "Don't worry about it. Thank you for your time. I enjoy your writings. I'm a dork. See you later." Yeah, that's not what happened.

I decided I was going to explain the obscure theological issue, because, you know, that would really impress him. I decided I would give him an illustration from a movie.

Confused look..."Never seen it".

I hate my inner voice. I really do.

I kept talking and talking. Kevin kept nodding and nodding. I've got to give him credit he tried really hard to be as nice to me as possible. Eventually, I noticed his eyes kind of glaze over and guess who should show up but...my inner voice. "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

I thanked Kevin for his time and walked away. I could feel my inner voice giving me a look like "I leave you alone for a second..."

I have to say this. Kevin DeYoung is a really nice guy. He took time to answer me, he engaged in the conversation, he was very cordial, and he called me by name when we were done. He didn't have to do any of those things, but that's the kind of guy he is. I have to thank him for taking the time out of his life (when he was no doubt very busy and stressed) for a socially awkward person like myself. But there's something Kevin doesn't know and he probably should. At that moment, he was really just being used for God's sovereign purposes, and I think those purposes were to judge me and remind me of two things. One, all of us pastors are in this thing together and when we become "fanboys" and elevate another person because of their name it only leads to uncomfortable moments for everyone. And, two, I really need to work on my relationship with my inner voice.

All in all, I feel like I learned some things, and I hope by reading this you do too, but the real question is, "Would I do it again?". The answer to that question is complicated, but I'd probably say "Yes". Why? Because I'm cool.

For the Graduating Class of 2010

2010-05-30T20:20:00.000-07:00

(Hebrews 12:1-2)

With a crowd of witnesses cheering us on our way
We set out on the race before us each and every day
Our feet they hit the pavement and our brow fills up with sweat
We’re not quite sure where the finish line is but we know we’re not there yet

The world around us weighs us down as we seek our prize
We find ourselves tangled fast in sinful lusts and lies
“Cast off the sin and every weight!” is shouted from the crowd
Look to those who’ve won the race, who’ve made their savior proud

This race is hard. It wears us down. It makes us feel so weak
The valleys seem so dark at times and the future seems so bleak
But we press on. We must endure. For we seek a heavenly crown
And we know that when the race is won we’ll trade joy for every frown

So fix your eyes on Jesus. Press forward in the race.
Trust in Him to guide you and let nothing slow your pace.
Do not stumble. Do not stop. Run Christian Run!
Run the race before you, until the race is won.

Abra Cadabra

2010-03-29T11:20:00.000-07:00

One thing I remember from being a kid is the magic. I’m not talking about David Copperfield or Gandalf the Grey. I’m talking about the magic and wonder that seemed to be all around me as a little boy. I could take a walk in the woods and truly believe that I was going to end up in some exotic and foreign land like India, if only I could make it over that giant rock-covered cliff. Or maybe I would stumble upon some invaluable treasure that lay forgotten for centuries only to be discovered by a curious 8 year old boy. And maybe this treasure just happened to look like an old crumpled up can of Shasta. It didn’t matter if I was still in shouting distance from my parents; I was worlds away, exploring new and exciting territory, surrounded by danger and mystery. I was in the woods.

My dad recently said something profound to me about this very concept. He said, “When you get older, the world gets so much smaller”. I think this was his way of saying that the magic disappears. As a child, everything is unknown. Everything is exciting. Everything is magic. But when you get older, the world just seems less magical. One of the more mysterious times of my childhood was bedtime. Just as we were in the middle of perhaps the most significant GI Joe war, wrestling match, or TV show of our young lives my parents would usher my brothers and I off to bed with a callous disregard for the importance of our endeavors.

I didn’t understand. Why did we have to go to bed? Did we do something wrong? Did I act like I was tired, because I certainly didn’t “feel” tired? And most importantly, what were my parents real motives in condemning us to our beds? These were the questions that haunted me as I lay in my bed on cool summer evenings, sometimes before the sun had even completely set (oh the horror).

But I had answers to these questions. I was on to my parents. They hadn’t tricked me. The only conceivable reason they would send us to bed kicking and screaming had to be because they had something they wanted to hide. Something was going on downstairs after we went to bed, something way too fun and mysterious for kids. I imagined parties involving fountains of orange soda and lots and lots of cake. I pictured Ronald McDonald entertaining scores of adults and all of them laughing hysterically while simultaneously jumping on trampolines. My dad, no doubt, had pilfered our toy gun supply and was fighting off imaginary enemies in our basement. My mom was busy cooking an endless supply of pizza and French fries for all the guests. Either that, or she was running through the house intentionally disobeying all the “rules” she so strictly enforced during the day. Walls were being colored on, windows were being broken, candy was being consumed, and my toys were being played with. All this, while I was stuck in bed.

My parents had this down to a science. I knew this because occasionally I would sneak down to the landing on the stairs and I would listen in on what was going on. I would even use this fancy amplifier from a toy spy kit my parents got me for Christmas. But every time, without fail, my parents would know what I was up to and would immediately change their conversations to something mundane like the weather or the news. Oh how I wished, just once, that I could get a glimpse into the magical world of adults after the kids went to bed.

It wasn’t until I became a parent myself that I actually got a glimpse into that world. Very routinely my wife will give me a glance or a not-so-subtle statement suggesting that it is time for the kids to go to bed. And to be honest, we are quite eager to get them to bed. Some nights more than others, we will rush them through their bedtime routine and secure them in their rooms, but unlike my childhood imagination, it’s not so we can party. It’s so we can sit and talk about the weather or the news. And even though we thoroughly enjoy the peace and quiet the magic of my childhood is gone. Our world is smaller.

But the thing about it is, is that the magic isn’t completely gone. And that’s what I love about being an adult. It’s not that there’s no more magic, it’s that “the magic” is bigger and deeper than you could have ever imagined. Sure some things aren’t how you imagined them as children, but some things are way more than you could’ve imagined them as a child. There is a magic in the world and it’s way more fascinating than any of the goofy or cultic stuff we tend to think of. It’s the true power of God. It’s the kind of magic Pharaoh’s and Nebuchadnezzar’s court magicians had to learn about. It’s the kind of thing that lead C.S. Lewis to call Christianity the “true myth”. The truth is that in God there is such an infinite source of mind-boggling beauty, complexity, and wonder that it will keep us awe-inspired and worshipping for all of eternity. That’s one of the truly sad things about the people in this world who suppress the truth of God. They confine themselves to the “small world” of their own reasoning and in doing so they miss out on the big world. They miss out on real beauty. They miss out on real magic.

I also like being an adult because I get to relive the magic of childhood once again through the eyes of my children. My son is just getting to the age where he wants to go “exploring” in the woods, and I am still at the age where I like going with him on these explorations. The other day we wondered into a little stretch of “woods” just down the street from our house. I put woods in quotes because this particular section is pretty small, but big enough for my sons imagination. We spent some time climbing past fallen trees, jumping over creeks, picking up forgotten “treasures”, and throwing rocks into the water. I could see in his eyes the kind of wonder that was trying to make sense of the big world before him. I could see him trying to soak it all in. After a little while, I sat down on a fallen tree trunk and I picked up my son so he could sit next to me. We sat there and played “I Spy” for a little while, as I marveled at how many different trees or branches resembling the shapes of numbers my son could find. “I see an eight. I see a five. I see a six.” Eventually there were a few moments of silence and I looked around and said, “Isn’t it amazing that God made all of this.” My son leaned his head on me and with a sigh said, “Yeah”. That’s what he does when he doesn’t fully understand what I’m saying. We sat there quietly as my son's eyes looked all around. Finally, my son looked up at me and asked, “Dad, how did God make all of this?” I sat there with my arm wrapped around him tightly and I looked at the beauty around me. I smiled and said, “Magic”.

Piano Lessons in Life

2010-01-19T16:25:00.000-08:00

I’ve always promised myself that I won’t do it. I won’t use those tired, old phrases that every parent uses. You know the ones, “What? Do you think we live in a barn?” or “If Timmy jumped off a bridge, would you?” and then there’s the old standby, “Well, when I was your age I had to…”

I’m not going to do it. It’s non-negotiable. I grew up with too many of them, and they stick in my mind like that piece of gum I stepped on in the parking lot yesterday. Some of those phrases still haunt me to this day.

When I was young my mom made me take piano lessons. Now, this was a problem because I had a lot of things that I had to get done. For instance, there was Scooby Doo, GI Joe, and Different Strokes that all needed to be watched. And that’s not even mentioning my “rad” BMX bike I had gotten for Christmas. I didn’t have time for piano lessons. My life was already filled with lots of important things. Whenever I tried to explain this to my mom she always had the same response, and it infuriated me, “You may not like it now, but if you quit, someday you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Now when you’re a kid, the word “someday” is in the same sphere as unicorns and the Easter Bunny. There was no way that my mom could even be remotely right about this. I knew what I wanted, and I did not want piano lessons. After a few reasonable conversations with my mother, which involved me throwing myself on the floor; screaming; and writhing as if in pain; she relented, but not without throwing her final jab. “If you quit piano, you will regret it someday.”

I remember her saying those words as if she said them ten seconds ago. I remember, because I made it my mission to prove her wrong. I would never know how to play piano, and I would never regret it. That worked just fine for me…for about a year. Now I am a grown man with children of my own. and my son is learning how to play piano. He loves it for now and I’m trying to learn with him. I’m sure there will be days when he doesn’t want to play, and he may even want to give up some day. At that moment I know that I will remember the words my mother said, and those words will sting, because she was right. (There, I said it. My mother was right.) I will encourage my son to keep with it, because someday he will be glad he did.

For now, I help my son as he stares inquisitively at his piano books. And if he stares too long I’ll gently say, “Noah, if you keep staring, your face will freeze that way.” If you can’t beat ‘em…

Parents: And the kids who raise them

2009-05-02T06:04:00.000-07:00

It’s a funny thing having children. Actually, I mean raising children as opposed to giving birth. There’s nothing really funny about the actual process of giving birth. In fact, it’s quite disturbing. Fortunately, once you are done with the whole birth process everything after that is a breeze. Now, you may be wondering how I could possibly say something like that. It’s easy, I’m lying.

Everyone who has actually tried to raise a child (as opposed to the parents that don’t really try) knows that it is an extremely difficult task and only the most qualified professionals should ever attempt such a task. And that’s the tricky part. You become a professional by experience. It really is trial and error. That kind of makes me sad for the firstborn children.

I’ve concluded that the reason that a lot of firstborn children end up being CEOs, engineers, and presidents is because A) they’ve been hardened by a lifetime of their parents mistakes and B) they want to be in positions of authority so they can inflict the same sort of pain they endured upon others. There really is no other explanation.

Take the first few days of my son’s life for example. I remember going to the hospital in the middle of the night after my wife’s water broke with an eager anticipation to meet my baby boy. We had prepared for years for this moment. And by “prepared” I mean that my wife had read approximately 8,000 pregnancy books and I had read ESPN.com. All of that preparation was about to payoff. I remember speeding down the busiest street in Cedar Rapids with a reckless abandon almost hoping that a cop would pull me over. I had the perfect excuse for speeding. That, and I also thought it would be cool if a police officer delivered my child in the backseat of our two-door Tercel. Surely he would be so scarred by the incident that he would tell has his buddies never to pull my vehicle over ever again. It was a rather ingenious plan. My wife didn’t like it. She told me to slow down.

Eventually, we got to the hospital and we rushed into the birthplace with much drama and fanfare announcing that my wife’s water had just broke. I was prepared for what would happen next. There would be shouting, rushing, panic, beeping noises, screams, and eventually a child. I think I read that in a book somewhere. But that didn’t happen. At least not right away. Instead, a little old lady calmly and quietly walked up to us from behind a desk, grabbed by wife’s arm and walked us down to our room. I reminded her that my wife was in labor in case she forgot, but that didn’t seem to induce the panic I was expecting. Instead she smiled at me and I think patted me on the head. Little old ladies tend to do that to me. After a while, our nurse came into the room and told us that our doctor wouldn’t be in for another 6 hours so we should go ahead and get some sleep. I’m not sure if that was a joke or not, but I remember thinking it would be like telling someone on the Titanic to get some sleep because the boat wasn’t going to sink for another few hours or so. The doctor finally came in and after what I can only guess was about 382 hours of labor followed by an emergency C-section, my son was born.

I thought the first few nights would be a really hard adjustment as we learned the ropes of being parents, but it wasn’t that bad. And I think I realized why it wasn’t that bad. We weren’t being parents. You see, the system at the hospital is pretty fantastic, but it’s also sort of dangerous. Here’s why. After your child is born you have nurses (not to mention the 3 million visitors) coming into your room to hold your child, bathe your child, feed your child, and essentially raise your child. And if you ever get tired of that, well there is this nice little button you can push where the nurse will come into your room and take your child away. I remember using that button once when my wife was sleeping. I told her to get some rest and that I would watch over our son for a while. However, that was before I knew that he would be crying and pooping black stuff. As soon as my wife was asleep I found the button.

Beep
Nurse: Yes, may I help you?
Me: Um, my baby is crying.
Nurse: Okay, would you like me to help
(Now, I’m pretty sure at the sound of a male voice she already knew that I needed some help, but it was nice of her to ask)
Me: Um, okay. What do you have to offer by way of help?
Nurse: Well, if you would like to get some sleep, we could take the child to the nursery for you.
Me: You can do that? What’s that cost?
Nurse: Sure, it doesn’t cost anything (except for the $28,000 you’re already paying). I’ll be down in a little bit.

Several hours later my wife woke up and noticed that we didn’t have a child anymore and calmly asked me if I had lost him. I explained to her that I sent him to the nursery. I saw it as his first social opportunity. She saw it more as neglect. Be that as it may, we utilized the nursery on more than one occasion while were there and we were just starting to get the hang of the whole parenting thing when they threw a rather large curve ball in our direction. The nurse told us we could go home. And that’s when things got kind of scary.

I wasn’t quite sure what they meant by “go home”, but I was certain that they couldn’t possibly mean that they were going to send us home with our child all by ourselves. I mean we loved our son and we were happy to be parents, but we were in no way prepared to deal with the noises, smells, and fluids that this child was producing all by ourselves and yet, this is precisely what was expected of us. And when the day came, they wrapped him up, put him in his car seat and handed him to us. I remember feeling like someone had just handed us a nuclear warhead and sent us on our merry way. Now, just so that you understand, I don’t know what to do with a nuclear warhead, but I’m pretty sure that if I did the wrong thing bad stuff would happen. This is what I was afraid of. Bad stuff.

Well, we went home and the next few days and weeks and months and years were certainly interesting. I’m not sure if it is a man-thing or a me-thing, but the way learn about a new computer is not to read the manual (or 8,000 manuals) on the subject, but to sit down with it and start pushing buttons and seeing what happens. Sometimes I like what happens and I find myself more and more comfortable with the technology. Other times I’ll push a button and give out a, “GOOD GRAVY!!! What did I just do???” as I see smoke rise from the back side of the monitor. This is how it has been with my son. But, you know what, it seems a little easier with my second born, my daughter. I know that I shouldn’t touch that button, cause I don’t want to see the smoke. And I know if I push another button something good might happen. Of course, we’re dealing with the differences between boys and girls which is not really comparable to the Mac vs. Pc analogy as much as it is to a Mac vs. Emotional ticking time bomb. So, obviously there is a learning curve there. And she’ll have to take her lumps as the first girl in the family. But I’ve already learned a lot in these first few years. When we went to the hospital for my daughter’s birth it was a lot easier. We knew what to expect. And I’m guessing if, Lord willing, we go again it will be even easier. I find myself now concerned with what’s on the hospital’s menu more than anything else. And I’ll realize that “the nursery” is just a temporary luxury, and the nurses aren’t going to come home with us, and our child really isn’t all that scary. Well, mostly anyways.

So, I’m learning. And that’s what parents do. And that’s how you get qualified to be a parent. You have to go through all these steps. You have to play around with the new computer and see how it works. You have to spend hours and hours doing good stuff and bad stuff with that computer. And eventually, you’ll know a little bit more about computers. I’m on my way to being qualified to be a parent. I’m on my way to being an expert in computers. And if it takes a process of trial and error then I will eventually get there. I’ve done some rough calculations and in order to finally be considered a professional in the area of raising a child all my wife and I have to do is have 43,656,743.8 more children. I wonder if there’s a big nursery we can send them all to?

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2009-04-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

The evening’s activities were over. Presents had been opened, prayers had been prayed, and lots of sugar had been eaten. My parents gently tucked my brothers and I into our respective beds so that we could begin dreaming about sugar plumbs and whatnot, but what they didn’t realize was that this Christmas was different. A dramatic shift had occurred in the Guthrie home. At the tender ages of eleven, nine, and seven my brothers and I had figured it all out.

You see, every Christmas Eve we would open up the majority of our presents, but an “extra special” gift would be reserved for Christmas morning along with some stocking-stuffers. We never fully understood how the Christmas morning gifts got there. All we knew was that we would go to sleep and they would be there in the morning. But this year was different. The gig was up.

What my parents must not have seen as they tucked us in was the sparkle in the eye of a child that says, “I know it’s you, and when you’re asleep tonight I’m going to sneak downstairs and peak at my gift”. There’s no way they saw that sparkle. We were much to clever.

We waited in our beds for what seemed like an eternity, until it was positively assured that our parents were asleep. And so, after the longest fifteen minutes of our lives we crawled out of our beds with surgeon-like skill and precision. We moved through the upstairs hallway like a cool breeze moves through the morning air. We dared not turn on any lights for fear that we would get caught, but this didn’t concern us. This was our territory and we knew exactly where we were going and nothing could get in our way. Or so we thought.

You know how when something terrible happens it feels like time stands still. Here’s how it played out for us. It took approximately one second for the following to occur. As I attempted to descend the stairs the first thing I felt was something under my feet. Immediately, I heard the rustling of paper and plastic. Both the sound and the feeling of something under my feet caused me to panic and I quickly lost my footing.

There’s an unwritten rule with brothers that goes like this, if one brother is falling it is his duty to grab his nearest brother so that he might fall with him. Of course, I felt compelled to follow this rule. My brother, as he was falling, also felt the same compulsion. And so, in the next few seconds, all three of us were tumbling down the stairs in unison and accompanying us was that same mysterious sound of paper and plastic.

You know how when something terrible happens it seems like you can figure very complex things out in an amazingly short amount of time. Here’s how it played out for us. Somewhere between the top of the stairs and the bottom of the stairs as our bodies twisted and bent in ways we previously thought was impossible it occurred to us. Somehow, against all odds, our parents had seen that sparkle in our eyes. Somehow their old, dormant minds had figured out what our young fertile minds were planning. And somehow, they had outwitted us. At the top of the stairs they had placed an ingenious trap. They had taken the garbage bags filled with wrapping paper from the evening’s previous activities and placed them strategically between the upstairs and downstairs. The unmistakable sound of rustling paper would awaken them and they would expose our ruse. Most likely, they didn’t anticipate the debacle that would follow.

And so, here we were. Three clever boys enjoying the fruit of our labors. A jumbled mess of humanity lying at the bottom of the stairs covered in bags of garbage. The moans of my younger brother came from somewhere underneath me. My older brother rubbed his head in a mix of confusion and affliction. I felt pain over my entire body. We laid there for a few seconds anticipating the inevitable. Our parents would rush to our aid caressing and kissing our wounds. Perhaps they were already dialing 911. And then, in the midst of the darkness, we heard something. The reassuring voice of my father coming from their bedroom. “Go back to bed” The gig was up indeed.

As I laid my bruised head onto my pillow drifting off to dream about sugar plumbs (whatever those are) I could hear the moans and sniffles of my brothers and I couldn’t help but think that there was a sparkle in my parents eyes.

Continuing Education

2009-04-21T18:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve tried and tried to remember the first time I met Michael, but I can’t seem to place the actual moment. When I was in college, during Spring Break one year, some friends and I drove to Clemson, South Carolina to visit a young church primarily made up of students from the university. We left that trip very impressed with the church, the school, and the town itself. I quickly bought as much Clemson attire as I could to show my affection for the school that I knew about for approximately three days. A few years later my wife and I were preparing to head to Dallas Theological Seminary. As the preparations came together, we heard from a friend that someone very involved at the church in Clemson was going to be starting seminary at the same time. I was very excited to hear this and immediately made plans to meet this guy, knowing that anybody associated with the coolest church I had ever been to, in the coolest town I had ever been to, had to be cool.

I’m not sure if I met Michael the very first week of school, or if we were “fixed up” by friends, but somehow we ended up being involved in the same Spiritual Formations group. This was a small Bible Study group, organized by the seminary, intended to keep the students spiritually nurtured and connected by interacting with other students in a more intimate atmosphere. We had chosen to be part of a group that would involve our wives. So, when our SF group started, my wife and I eagerly went to meet our new compatriots in this exciting journey called seminary.

Both my wife and I immediately seemed to “connect” with Michael and his beautiful wife Jen. We had the church in Clemson in common, which I’m sure was a little awkward for them since I pretended to know all about it having spent about 72 hours there. But they humored me, and my wife was drawn by their easy going and good natured attitudes. They didn’t seem like “high maintenance” friends and this was exactly what we needed at this potentially stressful time of our lives.

Michael was about as likeable a guy you could find. In fact, I’d be interested to know if anyone ever didn’t like Michael. I’m pretty sure it couldn’t happen. Michael and I had a fairly immediate connection over his love of sports. Of course, he was particularly obsessed with all things Clemson. I’m sure I probably tried to humor this obsession as much as possible, while maintaining my Midwestern roots, something his wife shared in common with my wife and I. We would get together to watch the occasional football or basketball game and would always enjoy the time together.

Perhaps the most intimidating thing about Michael was how smart he was. At first I thought that Michael was just a mere mortal and that he was just as frightened and intimidated by the academic undertaking that we were all facing. In fact, I thought that maybe I had a little edge over Michael because of my undergraduate degree at a Bible college, but I was wrong. After knowing Michael for a while, he finally admitted, rather reluctantly, that he had just finished his Master’s degree before attending seminary for another Master’s degree. And of course, his Master’s degree was in Engineering, a subject that transcended every conceivable area of my intellect. Anybody can get a degree in Biblical studies, but only smart people get degrees (let alone Master’s degrees) in Engineering. Furthermore, I learned of Michael’s intentions for his Master’s degree at seminary. He planned to complete his degree in three years, a feat which was spectacular in it’s own right. The ThM at Dallas Theological Seminary is intended to take four years and I believe the average student takes about 4 ½ to 5 years to complete it. When Michael announced his intentions to complete the degree in 3 years we were all amazed. Unfortunately, I also felt a twinge of competitiveness, and decided to join Michael in the three-year-plan. Had I known how difficult it would be I probably would have left Michael to tackle that feat alone with his academic super powers, but I was young and foolish. I’m sure that Jen would attest to the fact that Michael didn’t have any academic super powers and all his success was due to hard work and determination. This is probably closer to the truth, but as we all observed how calmly and resolutely Michael attacked his studies, we were certainly impressed by his academic prowess.

In the years that followed, Michael and I spent many hours separate and together studying, praying, laughing, and working our way through school. When we would meet together as a group of men to discuss the various struggles and pitfalls of seminary life I always marveled at Michael’s singular mind. He was a very devoted individual. He would not sway from his devotion to his Lord. This was evidenced in his love for his wife, studies, and church. I remember Michael’s insistence that we as men should not waiver in our diligence toward those things. It seemed such an easy stand for him and so difficult for the rest of us. But I never felt that he was putting on a show. Michael was always genuine, and because of that his singular devotion was all-the-more impressive. I remember thinking as I sat at a table with a group of guys that Michael was truly the best of us and it was because of his passion that wouldn’t allow him to be otherwise.

Unfortunately, after seminary we didn’t stay in contact as much as we should have. This was mostly due to my laziness. Michael took a job at a church in Atlanta and my wife and I moved back to Iowa. We exchanged an occasional email and the annual Christmas card. Even through those small windows into his life I could tell that his passion had not waned. Instead, the focus had shifted from academic pursuits to a constant devotion for his wife, two sons, and ministry.

One Christmas we received the Colwell family Christmas card and in it Michael mentioned something about some tests that he was going to have done on some spots the doctors had detected. I was completely shocked, as this was the first time I had heard anything about this. I immediately sent Michael an email and he calmly responded that he was trusting in the Lord and appreciated our prayers. Several months later I emailed him to find out the test results and didn’t hear anything back. I figured no news was good news and didn’t bother following up. About two weeks later I got an email from a friend in South Carolina who knew the Colwell’s stating that Michael was having brain surgery. Needless to say, the news hit me like a ton of bricks. I scoured the internet and was able to get updates through Michael and Jen’s Facebook pages and eventually a blog that Jen began to keep.

As Easter 2008 approached my family decided to take a trip Myrtle Beach in South Carolina. Robin and I were not able to go due to finances and the fact that my wife was going to deliver our second child in two weeks, but as the date approached, I had an idea. I would go with my family and have them drop me off in Greenville where I would rent a car and drive to Atlanta to see Michael. Unfortunately, this would require me to leave my very pregnant wife at home and potentially leave me in Atlanta when our second child was being born. I agonized over the decision and when I learned that Michael and Jen were going to have family in town and potentially be very busy I decided it might be a little selfish of me to leave my family and interrupt their busy weekend just at my whim. At the very last minute I told my family I wouldn’t go with them to South Carolina. Michael and Jen never even knew of my spontaneous plan to come see them. I’ve often laid awake at night and thought about that decision. That was the last chance I would have to see my friend alive.

My daughter arrived on time about two weeks later and in all the business of having a newborn, I didn’t keep up to date on Michael’s condition. The last I had heard Michael was having tests done on some tumors in his brain and they were researching different medical options. Then one day, about a month after Easter, I got an email from a friend informing me that Michael had passed away. Perhaps it was the utter shock of it all, but it took a while to sink in. As I write this, about eight months later, I’m still not sure that it has. I find myself thinking about Michael often and trying to reconcile the fact that my friend is gone and that his wife and two young boys will have to live without him now. I find myself tearing up at random times thinking about the time we spent together and the opportunities I lost due to my laziness to remain in contact after seminary.

Michael and I shared a period in our lives where we were seeking to grow in our knowledge and understanding of God through academic pursuits. But the funny thing about such pursuits is that you often end up learning more outside the classroom than you do inside. I think about this a lot as I remember Michael and what he taught me with his life. A picture of Michael with his wife and two boys now permanently resides on the front of my refrigerator and it serves as a reminder of the education that I got at Dallas Theological Seminary. An education that never really stopped, and continues to tutor me in areas of friendship, sorrow, pain, love, and ultimately passion. An education I’m receiving from the Lord thanks to Michael Colwell.

As hard as try I can’t seem to remember the first time I met Michael. And the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe God intends that, because it reminds me of the next time Michael and I will meet. Someday I will see him again at the pierced feet of our Savior. And for now, I eagerly anticipate that day when I will see my friend again, when I know that no sickness or laziness will ever again separate us, and when at long last my education will be complete.

Pride cometh...

2008-04-02T10:11:00.000-07:00

Winter in the Midwest is always interesting. This winter was particularly weird. We experienced all kinds of different weather, including record-breaking snow. But it wasn’t the snow that threw me off this winter as much as the ice. Generally, ice storms occur a little more south, but this year it seemed that we got the full force of “old man winter”. For some reason, the ice was really brutal earlier in the winter. I remember one storm was especially bad.

I went to sleep at night and everything was peaceful. As I slept I heard the faint pitter-patter of rain on the windows. I slept fairly well as I drifted off to a dream world that involved hand guns, Alex Trebek, and a kangaroo that had a face that, believe it or not, resembled my great aunt Erma. I woke up earlier in the morning than expected due to the ringing of our phone. On the other end of the line I heard the gravely voice of a fellow teacher informing me that classes at the school I teach at had been canceled. I stumbled into the bathroom, wiped my tired eyes, and looked out the window. To my surprise what I saw was anything but a rain soaked lawn. Instead, I saw my neighborhood covered in, what looked like, glass. But it wasn’t glass, it was ice. Sometime during my escape to the land of gun-wielding Jeopardy hosts and kangaroos, the rain that was lightly falling against my windows turned to ice. And the ice, although beautiful, did some damage.

Multiple homes down our street had large tree branches littered throughout their yard. We were lucky because we didn’t suffer extreme damage, but we did have one large branch that just couldn’t bear the weight of the heavy ice. That branch sat in the middle of our front yard for most of the icy day until my wife finally convinced me that I should stop spending my day off playing X-Box and I should start cleaning up the ice damage in the front yard. As the leader of the house I decided I should stop spending my day off playing X-Box and I should start cleaning up the ice damage in the front yard. I was proud of myself for coming to this conclusion.

I spent the next fifteen minutes putting as much clothing on my body as humanly possible. After I felt that I had single handedly kept the winter clothing industry in business, I decided to brave the outdoors. I stepped outside and looked at the “crystal” world that surrounded me. I stood in awe at how absolutely beautiful it was. Little did I know, how dangerous it could be.

I stepped onto the snow in my yard to begin my trek toward the fallen branch. I immediately heard the crunching sound of ice breaking beneath my feet. Occasionally, the ice would not break right away and I would feel my feet sliding out from under me. I walked as though I were on a tight rope hundreds of feet above the ground with both my arms stretched out to either side to help me balance. I’m sure it was quite a site for the neighbors.

I finally made it to the middle of the yard. In front of me was the large branch that had fallen from the tree. I wasn’t quite sure what I should do with it and then a thought occurred to me. Just behind our house runs a creek and this creek is rather useful for the occasional disposal of leaves, dog poop, and broken branches. I decided I would haul the branch to the back yard and I would throw it into the creek. With any luck the branch would eventually float down stream and make a nice home for an impoverished beaver. It was the humanitarian (or beavertarian) thing to do.

After I had, rather daintily, walked across the ice in the front yard I thought I needed to do something to assert my manliness. I grabbed the branch with two hands and with as much testosterone as I could muster I hoisted the branch above my head in what I can only describe as, an impressive feet of strength. As I held the branch above my head, I felt the familiar feeling of the ice crunching below my feet. Suddenly, with my chest puffed out and my pride swelling I was no longer concerned about slipping on the ice. I was doing my manly duty and nothing could stand in my way. It was quite a rush.

I quickly made it to the back yard and I stood at the edge of the creek bank. About 12 feet below was the creek and somewhere downstream was a helpless beaver awaiting a branch to build his home. I was ready to do what was required of me. In fact, I was so excited and secure in my manhood that I didn’t even notice that the ice below my feet had stopped crunching. I was now standing on a fairly solid sheet of ice. I hoisted the branch even further above my head and in a moment of sheer power and majesty I hurled the large piece of wood into the creek bed below. I felt a sense of exhilaration flow through my veins having just completed one of the most masculine things I had done in a while. I could almost hear my neighbors cheering as they watched me from their windows. But then I felt something strange.

The momentum of throwing the branch pulled me every so slightly toward the creek. Now, normally this would have been no big deal since I can rely on my cat-like reflexes to regain my stability. But I was standing on ice. I felt my entire body sliding forward over the edge of the bank. I looked at the icy creek below and I knew I didn’t want to end up down stream with the beaver, so I did what any man would do given the circumstances. I flopped onto my belly in desperation. The problem was that I was already on my way down the side of the bank and I was still on a sheet of ice. Gravity can be an awful thing.

I’m not quite sure what I did to stop myself from sliding down into the creek. Really, it is all kind of a blur. I’m pretty sure that the next few moments included me flailing my body in every conceivable direction while offering shrieks of horror and uncontrollable fear. Slowly, I began to work my way up to level ground. I pounded my elbows into the ground beyond the ice and tried to wiggle my body in ways I previously thought impossible. Eventually, I had done it. I was safe on level ground again.

I stood up, wiped the tears from my eyes, and straightened out my jacket as best I could. I quickly looked around at my neighbors’ windows. My only hope was that they had watched my macho exhibition of branch throwing and walked away impressed without seeing the horrific events that followed. I didn’t see anyone in the windows and I concluded that no one had seen what happened. I had dodged a bullet and I would live to tell the story. Better yet, there were no eyewitnesses so it could be as majestic and adventurous as my imagination would allow. I began walking toward the house already concocting a story that involved heroism and bravery, when, all of a sudden, I heard something horrible.

My neighbor is a young single man who grew up on a farm, mows the lawn proudly displaying his chiseled body, and has a house full of hunting trophies. I try to impress him whenever possible. But as I was walking back to my house I heard the familiar creak of his back door opening. I was just beyond his door so I stopped dead in my tracks hoping my black coat would somehow blend into the snowy terrain. He popped his head out and said, “Tristan?”. “Yeah”, I replied with as deep and booming a voice I could manage. “I just wanted you to know, I saw all that.”

I walked through the snow and came to the front door. I went inside and peeled off the many layers of winter clothing. I poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and I told my wife we were moving.

A Man Found A Treasure In A Field...

2008-04-01T06:49:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid my brothers and I and a friend were hiking in some woods when we came upon something really wild. It was an old abandoned house. The windows and doors were long since busted out and the roof had numerous holes in it. The people had left all of their stuff inside, but the weather and years had ruined most of it. We went inside and found all kinds of things scattered around. Obviously we weren't the first people to discover this place. As we rummaged through dresser drawers and closets we came across old papers and clothes. The best we could tell, the last time the house was occupied was somewhere around the 1920's. We found a few old crumbled newspapers from 1923. This was the coolest thing we had ever found. We immediately began wondering whose house this was and what had lead them to leave everything behind. I suggested that the people had been murdered and their bodies were probably outside somewhere. Just after I said that, an animal of some sort ran by outside. I screamed like a woman and ran to the closet holding my little brother in front of me like a shield. I thought this was the wisest course of action given the possible circumstances. When we figured out it was just an animal I tried to dry my pants off and continued looking through all the stuff. As it began to get dark outside we decided to head home. We grabbed some of the old newspapers and strutted through the woods beaming with pure joy. We had found a hidden treasure trove of old things that we were sure we could sell for a bajillion dollars. We were going to be rich and all because some people had been murdered outside their home back in the 1920s, it was great. When we got home we excitedly showed our booty (quit laughing, that means treasure) to our parents. They thought it was neat but informed us that we probably wouldn't get any money for the stuff. It was mostly just old junk. In a flash, our treasure was gone. All the dreams, all the hopes. We had spent thousands of seconds preparing for our new life of wealth and now we were doomed to the destitute life of middle class Americans. It was all so cruel. We were pretty distraught that we weren't going to be able to buy ourselves all sorts of action figures and candy, but eventually we were able to move on by watching some A-Team and drowning our sorrows in multiple packets of Sixlets. The next time we went to the old house we decided to throw rocks at it and see what we could break.

Thank God for the Ordinary

2007-11-29T20:44:00.000-08:00

A funny thing happened the other night. As my wife and I were sitting in our family room, our two-year-old son made his way upstairs to his bedroom. After a few minutes I decided to check on him. I snuck up the stairs as quietly as I could and positioned myself on the top stair so that I could see my son, but he couldn’t detect my presence.

I watched as he meticulously stacked colored blocks on top of each other as if he was building a masterpiece. He moved the red block just slightly to the left, then stepped back and placed his hands on his hips with a look that exuded the kind of pride a great artist might have for his sculpture.

Smiling, he turned around and ran to the other side of the room with reckless abandon. Once there, he didn’t stop as much as he fell, flinging his legs toward the ground in a way that produced the crashing sound that has become all-too-familiar in our home. Fortunately, his body is made out of some sort of rubber substance that doesn’t perceive such a fall as painful.

Once on the ground, he turned his head and reached for the nearest book. It happened to be one of his favorites. He quickly opened the book and began “reading” out loud. To the casual observer his “reading” would have sounded a lot like gibberish, but to a proud parent it sounded like a brilliant dissertation. He flipped the page and his reading/gibberish became even more pronounced. The inflection in his voice left no doubt that he knew exactly what he was trying to say even if that didn’t necessarily translate into intelligible words.

Just then, I became aware that my wife had quietly snuck up beside me, and was laying on the stairs staring with me into his room. I looked over at her and we both smiled. We smiled at the nonsense that was coming out of our son’s mouth. We smiled at how silly we probably looked lying on the stairs spying on our son. And we smiled at how it took a goofy little moment like that to remind us how blessed we are.

It occurred to me that I will certainly be proud when my child, Lord-willing, accomplishes lifetime achievements such as learning to drive and graduating from high school. My wife and I will probably exchange that same smile during those moments as well. But I pray that I’ll never forget how proud I was to be a parent during the “not-so-spectacular” times. Sometimes it takes sneaking up the stairs to remind you of that.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving (me an ulcer)

2007-06-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

So there I was standing outside Adventureland, which is Iowa’s idea of an amusement park. I wasn’t particularly excited about being there since I had already passed my amusement park phase about 12 years earlier and from that point on it just meant expensive food, ever-tighter rollercoaster straps, standing in excruciatingly long lines listening to as many conversations as I could (which I do compulsively), and trying not to notice the young couple in front of me who obviously don’t understand that there is a certain “social awkwardness” that goes along with sticking your tongues down each others’ throats in a public setting. Nevertheless, I had decided to sacrifice personal well-being in order to treat a few of my high school students to a day of “amusement”.

I had purchased several tickets beforehand through a man at our church who could get them at a discount. However, I had overestimated the number of people who were going on the trip so we ended up with a couple extra tickets. Now for any normal human being this wouldn’t constitute a problem, but in my world this was a crisis. We had arrived just as the park was opening, so there were a lot of people standing around waiting to buy their tickets and get their day started. As I looked out over the sea of these all-too-eager-to-vomit people I had an epiphany. I knew what I would do with the tickets. I told my wife my full-proof plan. The tickets were selling at the booth for something outrageous like $25 and your firstborn child. I told my wife rather matter-of-factly that I would offer the tickets to someone for only $10. This way they would get a discount of over half the regular price and we would end up with $20 in cash that would almost cover the cost of a bottle of water and one of those frozen lemon things once inside the golden gates. I felt pretty good about the fact that I came up with this idea even though I’m pretty sure anybody riding the Princess Wonderwhirl could’ve figured it out just as easily. But I was happy nonetheless. There was just one problem. The execution.

Now, I would expect that most people reading this would be thinking, “What’s the big deal? All you have to do is sell two tickets for half their price.” Right. Sounds easy enough doesn’t it. Well, it would be if it wasn’t for my neurosis. You see, if you haven’t noticed by now, I sometimes struggle with hmmmmm, how should I say this…being an idiot. I don’t always have the greatest first impressions on people. I find myself to be extremely awkward in otherwise normal situations. This may seem a bit odd since I am a youth pastor and that naturally engenders thoughts of car-salesmen-smiles and Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirts. But let me assure you that I am not that good of a youth pastor. I am generally very comfortable with people once I know them, but it is the whole “trust me you’ll like me later” thing that takes a while to get used to.

And this was my dilemma. I had to walk up to someone I had never met before and make an offer to buy my tickets. Needless to say, the sweaty palms kicked in once I realized my wife actually expected me to carry out my plan. But I had to approach this with the right mindset. I was going to do someone a favor. I was going to save them some money. Who wouldn’t be up for that? I scanned the audience looking for just the right person. I wasn’t looking for the family that would be the easiest to talk to or the nicest, I, being the stand-up guy that I am, was looking for the family that needed it the most. How did I determine this? Well, like anyone would really. Prejudice, stereotypes, and profiling.

Finally, my eyes landed on the perfect family. I thought to myself, “These people have to be a low income family. Surely they would jump at an opportunity like this.” Now, let me assure you that my decision had nothing to do with race, but more to do with tattoos, a cut-off Iron Maiden t-shirt, missing teeth, and woman with a possible mullet. Does that justify my stereotyping? Probably not. Does it help you understand why I may come off as awkward sometimes? I would hope so.

Anyway, I decided that this was the family I was going to approach. But before I made any drastic moves I had to work up some courage. And by “working up some courage” I mean “not doing anything for a solid 5 minutes or so as everyone waited for me”. Finally, my wife asked me what was taking so long. I could see in her eyes that with every passing minute she was realizing that I was having one of “my moments”. She rolled her eyes and said something like, “Just be a man and go do it”. Ordinarily, this would hurt my pride enough to cause some action, but in this case the prospect of talking to Iron Maiden tattoo guy was enough for me to concede being called a girl. My wife had underestimated me. But then I noticed my wife’s look change from one of being annoyed and maybe even slightly humored to a look of disgust and impatience (which I have come to notice is a very thin line in our household). She decided to get nasty. She told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t talk to those people in the next 30 seconds that I wasn’t going get a funnel cake. Needless to say I made my way over to where they were standing.

I had to be cool. I had to be calm. I wanted to let these people in on the deal of a lifetime. But as I approached them I began to think about something. Was what I was about to do okay? I mean, legally. I thought that maybe Adventureland wasn’t going to be too happy about me selling underpriced tickets. I thought maybe someone was watching me. Again, I hope this kind of reasoning helps you understand some of my social difficulties. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching. I waited for the giant stuffed gopher shaking kids’ hands to make his way past us. I was surprised to find out it was a beaver. Once the mammal was out of normal hearing distance I made my move. I slowly slid in front of the man and gave him the toothiest smile I could. In a semi-whisper I said, “Have you bought your tickets?” “Excuse me” was his response. I stumbled, “I mean, um, do you already have your tickets? Because I have a deal for you.” I then explained to him the deal. I told him I had extra tickets and all he had to do was give me $20 dollars and the two tickets would be his. When I finished my less-than-polished presentation I waited for his response. I was waiting for a smile. I was waiting for a thank you. I was waiting for a hug. I was waiting for anything. I looked over at my wife and gave her a thumbs up. And that is when it happened. He looked at me and kind of wrinkled his brow and then he said, “No, I don’t think so.” “Excuse me” was my response. “No, I don’t want them.” I stood there oddly aware that I was still giving him the toothy smile. My mind raced. “Did he not hear the deal?” “Is he a millionaire that just wants to throw money away?” “Is he angry at the world?” And then I realized something. He didn’t trust me. He thought I was conning him. Even after the toothy smile. He didn’t think I was trustworthy.

I returned to the group waiting for me. I was dejected. I was beaten. I had put myself out there and I had been turned away by a cruel cruel world. “What happened?” they asked. I avoided all eye contact and mumbled something about him thinking I was a felon. I think people laughed. “Well, go ask someone else” my wife suggested. I shot her a glare that told her I was willing to go without a funnel cake. “Well then, just give them away. Tell someone you have free tickets for them.” she countered. I kept staring at my feet and said, “They’ll probably just think I’m going to rob their house while they’re at the park.” Finally, one of my high school students grabbed the tickets and said, “Here, I’ll do it.” I looked up and saw nothing but looks of disappointment. “No, give me the tickets. I will do it.” I said. “But you can come with me if you want.”

I walked up to a nice young couple pushing a stroller. “Hello, we’re with a church youth group and we bought too many tickets before we came so we have some extras and we would just like to give these to you.” They were surprised, but I assured them it was just a goodwill gesture. I quickly glanced around to make sure no large stuffed furry things were close by. I smiled at the couple as we left. They smiled at me back. I knew they were appreciative of everything I had done for them. I felt pretty good about myself. When I returned to the group my wife put her arm around mine, smiled, and said “Good job.” At first I thought she was being condescending, but when I looked at her I saw that she was proud of me. I smiled and walked through the golden gates. “First stop, funnel cakes.”

A Walk to Remember

2006-07-10T07:31:00.000-07:00

As children we are born with certain innate gifts. Some of us seem to come out of the womb as good athletes. Others seem to be naturally gifted in the academic realm. Some have the ability to play music and keep a melodic rhythm. Others don’t. As a child I yearned to know what my gift was. I saw other kids around me enjoying their gifts as they excelled in the athletic and social worlds, and I yet I knew that my day would come. I knew that I would find my gift and it would change my world. And it happened in an instance. Before I knew it I was knee-deep in my gift enjoying all of its fruits. I was immersed in a world that, to me, was previously unknown. I was a master of a craft Ithe likes of which I had never experienced before. It was something I was born to do. It was something I had to do. It was the cakewalk.

Every year at our church we would have an ice-cream social. It was a big fund raising event aimed at families with small kids. Families would gather at the church for an evening filled with ring tosses, raffle prizes, free throw contests, and of course ice cream. But tucked away in the church’s kitchen was the grand jewel of all the games. Some say it was a game of chance. Others say that it took too long to reap any real benefits. But those people were misled. They didn’t have the gift that I did. A gift that allowed me to look beyond the seeming randomness of the game to the beauty that lay behind.

The first time I stumbled upon the cakewalk was an accident really. I was wandering around the ice cream social with a bowl of ice cream that was sorely lacking in chocolate syrup. I looked at my bowl of ice cream devoid of syrup and I said that it was not good. So I decided to go on the hunt looking for a worthy companion for my dessert, and I figured that the best place to look was the kitchen.

I walked into the kitchen unaware of the fanciful world I had just entered. I looked around and I saw kids walking in circles as music played. I saw parents watching their children with approval and pride. I saw the joy on the face of the kids. And then I saw the table. The table filled with every kind of cake imaginable. Big, small, round square. Red, yellow, black, and white, they were all precious in my sight. And then something magical happened. The music stopped and applause filled the room. One boy stood in the middle by himself as the crowd affirmed him. He then walked toward what I had come to see as “the table of delight” and I saw him point. He was pointing at one of the biggest cakes on the table. What was he doing? Why was he pointing? And then I saw an adult reach for the cake and hand it to the boy. What was this? What just happened? That boy had just gone from a nonentity to the king of the roost in a matter of seconds and the greatest thing was that he had a beautiful cake to show for it. For a plump little kid who craved the spotlight like myself, this was better than finding a vast treasure. This was so much more.

So I devoted myself to this game. I convinced myself that I would become the master. I watched and studied several games before I first attempted one myself. And when I first started I had to suffer through the “rookie mistakes” that any seasoned pro at one time had to endure. But eventually I found my niche. I learned how to become the teacher instead of the student. For obvious reasons, I cannot divulge all of my secrets here. It wouldn’t be fair. But I will explain the basics.
The key that I learned was endurance. You see, the cakewalk is a lot like musical chairs, only with much higher stakes. Many children get booted from the game and stand on the sidelines watching one of their comrades enjoy the all-too-sweet success of winning. At this sight, they become disheartened and decide to run off to the dunk tank or some other archaic game. But not me. I would not give up. If I lost I would stand there staring down my opponents. Looking over the other chubby boys that dreamed of winning the confection sweepstakes with a kind of competitive fury that surely sent chills through them. And when the game was over I would hand my ticket to the adult for another round, convinced that this time I would not walk away a loser. Eventually the adults would have to give in. They would see that I was not willing to give up. They would see that I was willing to push any the four-year-old little girls to the ground if they got in my way. And they knew they would have to submit to my perseverance. Sometimes the adults wouldn’t be so sympathetic and I would have to just buy my time, knowing that eventually it would be 8:00 p.m. and everyone would be leaving and the only two people left at the cakewalk were me and the kid in 3rd grade who looked like he was 29. The odds were undeniable.

And so my illustrious career began. For the next six years, like clockwork, I brought home my trophy. In that time, I brought home white cakes, chocolate cakes, yellow cakes, and my favorite, a cake that was made to look like a hamburger. Eventually, my parents realized that I would be bringing home a prize for all to see and taste and some years they would make a special place in the freezer so we could save the cake for a “special occasion”. This was the best because it meant that all year long the symbol of my accomplishment was only a freezer door away. If my brothers ever questioned my greatness I could just open the freezer door and they could behold my marvelous feats. Sure, they would win their share of trinkets and candy at the ice-cream social but nothing compared to the kinds of cakes I would bring home. Like I said, they were the kind of cakes we would save for a “special occasion”. In fact, they were so special that sometimes we wouldn’t eat them at all. They would just stay in the freezer until the next year when we would have to make room for the next cake.

Eventually, as all greats, I had to retire gracefully from the sport I once dominated. I was luckier than some in that I got to leave while I was still on top. I looked in shame as I saw some jr. high or high school students attempt to relive their youth by winning a cake for their family. I swore that would never happen to me. And so, I left the game that I loved forever. As any great prizefighter undoubtedly bares the scars from his years of fighting to signify his accomplishments my body is somewhat of a living testimony to those great six years. I would be lying if I told you I don’t miss it sometimes. But I know it’s for the best. I know that somewhere out there, there is a plump little kid who possesses the same kind of intestinal fortitude that it takes to be the next champion. My only hope is that he plays the game with the necessary amount of love and passion so that one day he can look back, as I do, and say, “The cake was sweet, but the memories are sweeter.”

Say What???

2006-06-27T22:13:00.000-07:00

Communication is the key to a good marriage. At least that's what my dad has always told me. And I always believed him because he was married and I wasn't. So, really, he could've said anything and I would've believed it. "Blue cheese is the key to a good marriage." I don't know that doesn't sound like...oh well, he's married and i'm not, so he must be right.

But once I got married I got the chance to try out my father's advice, and oh boy, did i learn a thing or two. The first thing I learned is that whereas blue cheese is a tasty addition to a variety of meats and dressings it is, in now way, beneficial to marriage. Strike one for dad. But I've come to realize somewhere in the last seven years of marriage that, unlike blue cheese, communication has proved to be quite advantageous. However, sometimes communication can be just like having an elephant for a pet. Sure he's helpful carrying things to and fro, but you have to live with the fact that if something goes wrong the same friend that has repeatedly showered you with delightful baths from his trunk and whom you fed peanuts from your very hand could turn on you and you would be no better off than the naive little boy who unknowingly thinks he'll give it a try to, just once, tell his mom, "Shut up. I don't take no orders from a woman." Ouch.

This is my experience of communication. I love it. I treat it like family. I work hard to make sure that its working right. And what is my reward? I end up stuck to the bottom of its shoe like an annoying piece of gum. But what can I do? I can't ignore it. I can't starve it and let it die. It's just a danger I will forever have to live with. But sometimes it's easy to forget the danger that resides in my own home.

Let me illustrate how this could take place. Imagine an average day in a home where a husband and wife love each other and seek the hapiness of one another. Life is great as they sit down for a meal together and the conversation begins very pleasantly:

Husband: Well, today really was a hot day.
Wife: Yeah, it sure was. A day like this makes it hard to get anything done.
Husband (half interested): Oh yeah, so is that why the dishes aren't done?
NOTE: This is where things go wrong for an unsuspecting husband trying to enjoy his supper.
Wife: What??!!?!! Oh I suppose you can do a better job cleaning the house? Maybe you would like to try cleaning up after a total slob all the time. You're right, maybe I should just slave away all the time and never take a break. Maybe I should get a maid outfit too.
Husband: No...I mean...I didn't...
Wife: Oh, I'm sorry sir, I'm taking too long eating my supper. I should get back to work. Is it okay for me to get up from the table now?
Husband (playing with his food, mumbling): I'm sorry...I think you are a great wife...I love you
(The rest of the meal is accompanied with awkward silence and an occasional deep sigh while the wife thinks about how much of a jerk her husband is and the husband thinks about that maid outfit)

The poor husband never knew what was coming. He failed to realize the importance of every word that was spoken and in an instance he went from being the kid on his dirt bike jumping off a dirt mound sailing in the air enjoying life, to being the kid who slips while in mid air and lands stradling the bar that means the difference between a girls bike and a boys bike. Trust me, there's a big difference between the two.

But it's not only the man who must succesfully manuever in the minefield of communication. Sometimes the woman finds herself in the very uncomfortable position of having to figure out her husband. Most of the time this is unnecessary since the husband clearly communicates through a series of grunts and sports idioms, but ocassioanly a woman may find herself, as my wife has, dealing with an emotionally fragile husband who seeks affirming but doesn't always receive it. It looks like this:

Husband (flipping through amagazine featuring "Hottest Athletes"): Babe, do you think I was as hot as these guys when I was in my prime?
Wife (chuckling): Well, I wouldn't really say you were hot.
Husband: No, not now. I mean in my prime.
Wife: Yeah, I know. I wouldn't say you were hot, but you were really cute.
Husband: I was what???!!!
Wife: Being cute is a good thing.
Husband: No, cute is what you call the guy that you just want to be friends with.
Wife: Oh sheesh, here we go again.
Husband: Really? Really? I was cute? Really?
Wife: Give it up. You were hot, okay.
Husband: Cute??!!?? Cute???!!! I can't believe you said I was cute. The dog is cute. A dollhouse is cute. Cute???!!!
(The wife rolls her eyes and walks away looking for a quiet place while her husband mumbles the words "cute, cute, cute" while looking in the mirror for the next few hours)

And so we continue in this dangerous world. We live with the beast every day knowing that at any given moment, when we become too careless and sloppy, the beast could kill us. But what can we do? We need communication. It feeds the family. And that's the fragile balance, needing something for your existence that could possibly threaten the very way you live. But luckily for me, because of my dad's advice, I have mastered this craft.

Robin: I'm going to bed. Are you coming?
Tristan: Hmmm. What?
Robin: Sheesh, do you ever listen to me?
Tristan: Yeah, yeah. I'm doing something.
Robin: You've been on that computer all night. You've hardly talked to me.
Tristan: Come on, I'm writing something in my blog.
Robin: What are you writing about?
Tristan: I don't know, nothing really.
Robin: I bet it's cute.

Lord of the (pop) flies

2006-06-24T08:10:00.000-07:00

When I look back, it seems like it all started so long ago. I used to be a normal person with a normal life. A wife. A child. A home. I had hopes and dreams. I thought I knew what I was doing, what I was meant to do. That is, until that fateful day when everything changed.

It seemed like every other Monday. The weather was exceptionally good, but other than that, nothing was out of the ordinary. I spent some time with my wife and son that day. We enjoyed the outdoors as we walked around the neighborhood and I pushed my son in his swing. We laughed and enjoyed each other's company, unaware of how the events of that evening would unfold.

When the phone rang I thought nothing of it. It was one of the highschoolers from church. We chatted for a while about what we were doing and what we did last night, as if to confirm that yes, I do lead a very boring life. But as the conversation came to an end he asked me, "So, are you coming tonight?" I was caught off guard by the question and I didn't know how to respond. "Ummm, I don't know. I don't feel too comfortable with the whole thing..." I fidgeted nervously, hoping that he would leave it at that, but he pushed the issue, "Come on, it's not that big of deal. It'll be fun." Hesitantly I responded, "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt." He seemed happy with my less-than-enthusiastic response. "Awesome. We'll see you at seven o'clock then."

The hours passed by quickly and before I knew it, it was 6:00 p.m. I told my wife that I had to be there by 7:00 so she suggested that we cook up some hot dogs on the grill real quick. As I ate my dinner, I savored the tastes. I enjoyed every bite I took knowing that it could indeed be my last. I finished up dinner and we all jumped in the car. On the ride over I tried to fill the quiet moments with conversation of the mundane in an attempt to avoid the truth of where it was we were going, but before I knew it we were at our destination. We stepped out into the open air. We crossed a busy street and we walked onto the grass. My wife and son seemed pleased at the prospect of enjoying a nice evening at the park. But joy was the furthest thing from my mind as I gazed with dismay at the fate before. I had tried to prepare myself for this inevitable crisis, but now it was here and all I could do was stare at it in all its horror. There before me was my doom and there was no turning back. There it was. Softball diamond 3.

I saw a group of men from my church huddled together on one side of the fence. They were adorned with the classic, barbaric attire: cut-off tshirts, shorts, baseball caps, and the ocassional knee brace. I walked over to their cluster and said hello. "Oh, hello Tristan. Are you going to be joining us tonight?" The fear wouldn't allow me to speak, but somehow I think my body revolted against me since I nodded in the affirmative. "Great, we could use some young talent."

Talent??? I think not. You see, some of you may be wondering, "What's the big deal? This is softball, right? Isn't it a game for old fat people?" And that's what I always thought until I tried to play once in college intramurals. I grew up thinking I was somewhat of an athlete. I loved playing football in higschool and I also enjoyed wrestling. And ever since high school ended I have really enjoyed playing basketball, and sometimes I can be pretty good at it, if I'm lucky. But somewhere along the line I passed over baseball and it's slower, sloppier cousin, softball. I thought it was one of those sports you could just pick up. Plus I always saw people with these gigantic scab on their legs and they'd say, "Oh, that's from sliding in a softball game." And I'd shake my head and think to myself Sheesh, what a stupid sport. But, I'll admit I tried it once in college at the urging of some friends. It was a disaster. My wife, girlfriend at the time, laughed at me the whole time and still talks about it to this day. Pop flies landing right next to me. Me swinging and striking out when the ball is going slower than an 85 year old woman swimming in a pool filled with jello. The only thing I managed to do was to ruin a perfectly good self-esteem. It was a disaster. And I swore I would never put myself through that again.

So, here I was at softball diamond 3 with the guys from church. Some of the older guys were stretching. The younger guys were tossing a ball back and forth. And I was just standing around not knowing what to do unitl finally, the game started. Our first batter was our pastor. He stepped to the plate, hit the ball fairly well, and went running to first and then to second. But on his way to second base the other team threw the ball and it hit him right in the face. Smack Everyone could hear it. Ouch. He was bleeding in his mouth and was obviously in some pain. I looked around at the other guys for support. What is this? What's going on? "Yep, that'll happen in softball." one guy said laughing. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run to safety. I knew my face would be next. But I couldn't run. There was nowhwere to go. I was stranded on this remote island called a softball diamond and I was being forced to play this cruel game.

In the second inning it was my turn to bat. I had actually gone to a batting practice with a friend and I did pretty well. So, I was thinking this part wouldn't be so bad. I was wrong. The first pitch came and I don't know what to look for so I swung. I made contact but the ball went straight to the ground and rolled toward the pitcher. I ran as fast as I could toward the base and out of the corner of my eye I could see the pitcher throwing the ball my way. I had visions of the ball coliding with my face. Having my jaw wired shut. Having reconstructive surgery. Going into a coma. I did what any sane man would do when faced with those potentials. I ducked. But I forgot I was running. And I learned that it is not good to duck while running on gravel (something I probably would have known if I had ever played softball). Needless to say, I ended up doing a belly slide for a couple of feet. But hey, I was safe. Plus I got a free base because of an overthrow. It wasn't that bad. But when I got to second base the second baseman looked at me and said, "Ouch" I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but then I looked down at my leg and I saw that I was bleeding. Evidently, when I slid, I braced my fall with my knee. The second baseman laughed, "Oh man, that's going to leave a gigantic scab." Oh great, the one thing I detested about softball, the gigantic scabs, and now I was going to be the poster boy.

When I got back to the dugout my knee was starting to hurt. The blood mixed with the dirt and rocks was making a painful combination. But then something weird started to happen. The guys on my team started to huddle around me lloking at my wound and laughing. They were making comments like, "Yeah, that'll hurt for a long time." or "Ha, ha. Rookies" I think one guy even tried to poke my knee with a stick. Suddenly, being stranded on this island wasn't just scary it was bloody. And the sight of blood had brought out the beasts. I was taking part in some sort of tribal, manly ritual and me and my knee were the blood sacrifice.
I looked over at my wife and she was relaxing on a blanket in the shade. I yearned to be sitting with her, taking the place of a bystander instead of a participant in this sick game, but she was too far away. What else were they going to have me do? What else could they put me through?

In the bottom of the fourth inning I came up to bat again. As I limped to the batter's box I could hear the comments coming from my "friends" in the dugout, "Hey Tristan, try not to fall." or "Don't get any blood on that nice dirt. Ha, Ha, Ha." It was all so funny to them. Once again the pitch came and once again I swung right away. But this time I hit the ball better. The ball went fying up into the air. But I couldn't see it. In my excitement, I forgot where I was and what I was doing. I allowed the momentum of the bat to twist me around in a circle. At the same time I knew I should be running so I tried to run. The result was something of a mess. I didn't see it, but I have been told that it was ugly. Imagine a man twist and turning and tripping over his own feet and finally falling helplessly to the ground at home plate. Then, trying to gather himself together and run to first base only to discover that the ball had already been caught causing an out. I turned around slowly hearing only laughter in the background, not only coming from our fans but from their fans, and possibly from passerbys on the nearby busy road. I didn't look up. I kept my face pointed to the ground and I headed for the dugout. I tried to laugh it off, but deep inside I knew what I had become. Piggy. Somebody on this island had to be sacrificed. Somebody had to provide the blood and the laughs. And it had to be the weakest one. There was no one to defend me. Even my one year old son was laughing. Once again, it was a disaster.

As I sit here typing this I can barely bend my knee for fear that the scab will break open once again. A painful reminder of that fateful day. But a good reminder. A needed reminder. For it reminds me of my weaknesses. It reminds me of my limitations. There are some things that I just can't do. And someday I'll have a scar to prove it. But for now I just have a painful knee. I only hope my knee isn't too painful when we play at softball diamond six next Monday.

Hello, my name is Tristan and I abuse my blog...

2006-06-20T22:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I admit it. I've got a problem. The only thing that bothers me is I don't know what problem I have. Either, I really don't want to write in this blog but I'm addicted, so once every five months or so I have to leave some little bit of my soul on the internet with the hopes that finally some spam will show up in my comment box, or I am addicted to abusing my blog as if it were some ugly little stepchild that reminded me of my wasted youth.

My guess is that it's the latter. I've thought about counseling, but I'm not sure I really want to change. I'm thinking I'd probably be like Tony Soprano, telling my shrink how bad I feel about knocking off some guy and then, for the sake of ratings, turning around and doing it all again next week. But hey, if I stop knocking off blogs left and right like they're my brother Fredo, then where is all the drama.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I like the drama. When am I going to give in. I pass by my blog several times while I'm surfing on the internet, but rarely do I stop by for a drink and some nice conversation. Instead, I keep on driving knowing that blogs run by other management have better coffee and pie, and they usually have a daily special whereas mine only runs deals once every few mounths. But you know what? I know I'm going to stop by eventually. I won't let the place die. I'll just let it suffer a little. And the drama lies in wondering when I'm finally going to pull into the parking lot of my blog and stay a while. You root for the ugly little stepchild and you hope that someday she'll be loved like she deserves and you know that its not her fault that she looks the way she does. She doesn't have it as nice as some of those other kids. And with that in mind once in every great while I stop by the old place, dust off the furniture and look around, remembering what the place was like in her prime.

It's sobering really. A lot has happened to lead me to this point in my life. But I guess I have no one to blame but myself. So, if step one is admitting that I have a problem then consider it stepped. As I look around this desolate place with nothing but memories hanging in the "Previous Blogs" list and commenters lamenting "remember when" and "what could have been" I realize what I have become. I spoke previously of my blog becoming a monster that I couldn't control. I was wrong. I've become the monster, and it breaks my heart.

I don't know what the future holds for me and Suppository Preaching. I look around and I see changes I want to make. I see remodeling that could be done. I see old paragraphs that could use a good polishing. But my good intentions always seem to falter at some point and I don't think we can go through this again. But I'm optimistic this time. With the help of friends and family I think I can do it. I wan't to do it. I look around and I don't see cobwebs I see the future. I see hope. I see a place that can once again be a refreshing oasis in the often dry world of blogs that just rehearse minute daily life events. And so I guess it's time to get to work. I'll do it. Maybe one day at a time, maybe even one key at a time, but by-gosh I'll do it. And even though there will be hard times ahead I'm dedicated to making this thing work.

So, for all you out there. Sit back and enjoy a nice tall, cold, refreshing blog. Just make sure you do it responsibly.

Best Friends Forever (or at least for the week)

2006-02-27T13:22:00.000-08:00

The one thing from my childhoiod I remeber vividly are Fridays. Fridays provide so many emotions for a child that it is hard to explain, but I distinctly remember an odd mix of unshakeable confidence and vulnerability. The confidence would come from the sheer fact that it was Friday. Behind us was a week's worth of assignments and "time outs" and before us lay two days of nothing but cartoons, candy, and inexhaustible freedom (or so it seemed). You see, the mind of the child is unable to perceive of any legth of time exceeding two days, unless of course a trip to Disney World (or in my case, Donutland) was in the works. So, Friday was the day of freedom, and there was nothing that your teacher could do to change that. Assignments? Pile 'em on, I got the weekend. No recess? Oooohh, scary one, my whole Saturday is like a recess, lady. And don't even think about trying to get me to pay attention in class. My minds too busy driving up and down the roads of Hazzard county with the good 'ole Duke boys.

But there was an aspect of Fridays that was always a little unsettling. Friday was the day of reckoning. I'm not sure how the tradition started and I'm not sure how widespread the practice was, but on Fridays something eagerly anticipated would occur. You would announce your best friend(s). Now, as you can imagine, this was no small deal. I believe that to have or to be a best friend is among one of the greatest social privileges given by God to children today.

Here's how it would work. You would arrive at school like any normal Friday. Then, first recess would role around and you would start to feel the buzz. Kids would start talking about who might who's best friend and if the events of last week left "so and so" out of the running. Of course, there was the kid or two who would be left out of all the discsussions and lists but that's okay because they were just as happy to be playing "Create and kill your own little world with sticks" behind the jungle gym. But for the most part, everyone was involved in the excitement. After first recess, we would return to class and the excitement that was generated would only build through the process of whispers and passing notes. Eventually you knew it would come. Lunch. Lunch is where it would all happen. We would go to the cafeteria like any normal day and eat our assorted bag lunches, always being jealous of the "rich kids" who could afford the new, and ever-so-popular, Lunchables. But during lunch we would eat concious that at the recess that followed lunch we would have to give a report on who our best friend(s) was for that week.

Now, I was always lucky enough to make it on the "best friend" list of at least one person each week. Part of this was due to the fact that when I was in the third grade a friend and I had decided to become "blood brothers". This was a trick we had learned while watching the Lone Ranger movie. We would each cut ourselves and then smear each others blood together evidently ensuring that our blood would then live forever within our friend. No greater bond was possible. This transaction, of course, secured my place in my friends "best friend" list for quite some time.

However, there was the occasional incident where an individual would get left out of the "best friend" lists all together. Let's say that two girls had a fight and word spread that "popular girl" wanted "temporarily unpopular girl" off all "best friends" lists. Of course in the name of popularity who could resist. This would result in hurt feelings, crying at recess, and a weeks worth of note-passing propoganda until the "wrong" was righted and the "best friends" lists were again issued. No one ever wanted this to happen as it resulted in stress for everyone, so, if it all possible, peace conferences would be held by the swings to ensure that all parties would behave civily during the list revelation ceremonies.

Ocassionally, I would try to "buck the system". Being the nonconfrontational person that I am, I would try to begin my list with two names instead of one. This of course, would be insinuating that I have two best friends. For one or two weeks I got away with this tactic until some other people started trying the same thing. This got so out of hand, that eventually I was told that I could only have one best friend. This left me in the unenviable position of having to dissapoint one of my two best friends. The decision would become much easier if "friend A" was having me over for a sleepover or if "friend B" had just picked me first at recess. Needless to say, there was always quite a bit of campaigning going on during Friday recesses.

After several years of this process repeating itself, it finally ended. I don't exactly remember when, but I remember one time telling somebody that "friend A" was my best friend and the person looked at me like, "Who cares?" Every now and then I feel the urge to write down who my best friends are, but somehow I feel like that wouldn't go over so well. But if you really want to know, I would have to say my wife is #1. But that could change if tonight's supper really stinks.

The Naked Truth

2006-02-10T09:34:00.000-08:00

WARNING/DISCLAIMER: This post contains content that may be unsuitable for some women, children, and conservative evangelicals. If you are someone who is easily offended by the term "naked", "butt", or "sagging parts" than please do not read the following post. However, if while reading this disclaimer you giggled a little because I used the words "naked", "butt", and "sagging parts" than feel free to read on.

I have recently rejoined a fraternity. I say rejoined because this is a fraternity that I have belonged to in the past but only in the last few weeks have I come to realize what I had been missing. I am not an athletic person by nature but I have worked hard all of my life to be perceived as athletic. In order to make people think I am athletic I do the usual things. I talk about sports, I wear sports paraphernalia, and I try to stay in shape. It is the last of these items that has been the most difficult for me in the last several years. However, I go through periods in my life where I decide that it is important for me to get back in shape lest anyone begins to think that I am not nearly as athletic as I let on to be. Recently, I made the decision to get back in shape. And as many people in my predicament do, I joined a gym.

The gym is an interesting place. Many people gain memberships to a gym with the idea that they will lose weight or get in better shape, which will lead to them feeling better about themselves. However, the gym often works in the opposite way. If you are like me, you go to the gym and you look around and you see a whole lot of people who are better looking and in better shape. For the hour that I am at the gym I am constantly sucking my waist in, bulging my chest out, and conspicuously aware of every part of my body (which is almost the entire thing) that jiggles. By the time I am done with my work out I have achieved the goal of making my arms sore, my legs ache, and my self esteem virtually non-existent. But it isn't until the work out is finished that the gym becomes an even more degrading place. That is where the aforementioned fraternity comes into play. The fraternity of naked men.

Now, I'm not a prude, and I'm not particularly modest either. So some of you may wonder what the big deal is with naked men. I imagine that most of the people who read this are going to be familiar with the scene of the average men's locker room at a gym. However, after discussions with my wife, I realize that many women don't have a clue as to the amount of bodily freedom that is expressed in the men's locker room as opposed to the women's. So, for me it is really not an issue of nakedness, but more the sheer massive quantity of nakedness. I suppose there are some who would describe me as homophobic. If by homophobic you mean that I fear homosexuals, than I would deny that claim since I have never been particularly frightened by a homosexual. However, if by homophobic you mean that I am uncomfortable with the sight of 50 or so naked men chatting, sitting, laughing, jumping, stretching, and/or crawling than yes, I suppose you could classify me as homophobic. But if someone were to merely identify me as homophobic and go about there business I fear that they would be doing a great injustice to the degree of awkward nakedness I endure on a regular basis at the gym.

Allow me to elaborate. Imagine an average Tuesday. I finish teaching my morning classes and I have just enough of a respite to enjoy a few games of basketball. I head into the gym eager for a good workout. I proceed to the front desk where I receive a key and a towel. Then, I make my way to the lockerroom. The actual lockerroom is protected by a door, a hallway, and another set of doors. This is meant to minimize females being able to peek into the locker room while the doors are open. As I make my way through this entry way I feel a light humidity in the air carrying the scent of cheap body soap and Head & Shoulders. I open the second door and that's when I am accosted by a naked man just inside the doorway. As he is making his way from the restroom area he brushes alongside me and offers an, "Excuse me." The whole encounter lasted about half a second, but I already feel the need for a shower. I look down to make sure he didn't leave behind any unwanted hairs. We're good. I proceed past the first set of lockers where I see two naked men sitting on a bench having a conversation. I believe they're talking about the Chicago Bears. I then make my way down to the line of naked men waiting for the shower, which incidentally, is right next to the line of naked men waiting for the scale. I try to keep my eyes focused forward as I find my locker. Lucky me, it's all the way at the end, so I get to pass the maximum number of naked people allowable by law. I find my locker, quickly change, and go play basketball taking solace in the fact that today's games will not be "shirts" vs. "skins".

You would think that would be enough to scar me for one day, but there is more. As I return to the locker room after the games, I realize that I have to shower quickly so I can get back to school for my afternoon classes. As I round the corner and walk toward my locker I see two older naked gentlemen stretching while having a conversation, presumably about which parts of their bodies wiggle the most. I try as hard as I can to erase that moment from my mind as I find my locker. I approach my locker only to find that the worst imaginable is true. The lockers on each side of mine are currently occupied by naked men. I stand in horror and ponder my options. My time is limited and my towel is in my locker. I must do something. I decide to turn sideways and slide, ever-so-smoothly, toward my locker. That's when I feel the first naked buttocks brush up next to me. I fumble with my keys as I quickly try to open my locker. I turn and realize that the man next to me is rubbing some lotion all over his body. I see a spot of lotion on my shorts that indicates to me that the lotion has been transmitted by contact. I look behind me and see that a rather large naked man is making his way toward our lockers. As quick as I can, I grab my towel and head for the showers.

With towel in hand I assume that all I must do now is take a good, long shower and all the nakedness will have cleared out from around my locker. I'm in the clear. I make my way to the showers and realize that I have time yet to serve. I must wait in a line with naked men before I can shower. I step into the line and wait. As I'm standing there the man in front of me turns and with a smile says, "Are you going to shower in that?" I realize then that I am the only person in line who has any sort of clothes on. I didn't have time to remove my clothes at my locker because I was too busy doing the "bump and grind" with the naked men next to me. I laughed nervously and said, "I suppose not." And that's when I realized that he was only half joking. He and the others in the line were looking at me with eyes that said, "Look buddy, were all in this thing together. You're either in or you're out. Now take it off!" I stood there awkwardly for a while hoping the stares would stop, but they didn't. I slowly removed my clothes, conscious that everyone in line was watching the "new guy" learn his place. I felt like I was part of some sort of dirty strip tease. So there I stood, exposed to the world, with a towel in one hand draped in front of me to hide the essentials, and my clothes in the other hand. I did my time in the line, took a long shower, and returned to my locker. I dressed quickly, putting on as many possible layers until I looked like the Michelin Man. I walked quickly past, what appeared to be, the same two naked men sitting on the bench talking about the Chicago Bears and found my way to the doors. Somehow, in my hurry, I think I left my innocence behind.

So...you wanna go out sometime?

2006-01-29T19:02:00.000-08:00

"I did it right the first time." That's what I usually like to tell people (in a slightly arrogant tone) when it comes to dating. I married the first and only girl I ever dated. That makes me feel pretty good about myself. I feel like it makes people respect me. They probably picture me as a quiet, sophisticated high school lad who judiciously gleaned among the wheat and chaff until he found just the right young woman who would make for himself an excellent life partner. Unfortunately, the truth is not quite as brilliant. At the time my future-wife and I started dating the only thoughts that really occurred to me were "Gosh, she's really hot!", "Gee, I can't believe she feels so sorry for me that she will go out with me.", and "Gosh, she's really hot!" Thankfully, the Lord works in mysterious ways. The same girl that I happened to think was so hot also happened to be the best possible pick for a mate I could have ever stumbled across at a small, Iowa farm school. So, to make a long story short, our story mirrors many other great love sagas: Boy meets girl. Girl is slightly repulsed by boy. Boy follows girl relentlessly. Girl falls prey to the boys subtle, stalking charm. Boy tricks girl into marriage by buying an expensive, shiny ring. Girl says, "yes" to the ring, "okay" to the marriage. Boy realizes he forgot to ask her parents' permission. Awkward moment follows.

But one interesting thing about being married to the only girl I ever dated is that I sometimes feel like I missed out on something, dating. You see, I experienced all of my bungling moments with one person and I never went through the process of trying to impress more than one girl on a first date. For the most part I am thankful for this, but there is a part of me that has always wondered if I was at a disadvantage because of it. Recently, however, I discovered that I didn't miss out on anything at all. Certain people would like to tell you that finding "the one" is great because you never have to go through the hassle of dating again. I have learned that this is a lie. I'm not sure where this lie originated but I'm sure it's either from the Middle East or the internet becasue those are both bad places.

The reason this is a lie is because the dating process never stops, it just changes. Once you get married you don't have to go on anymore first dates with strange women, but you have to go on first dates. You see, once you get married the trick is to find friends. Now, I'll admit that there are some marriages out there where the wife has her friends and the husband has his, but for the most part this just doesn't work. Eventually you'll have to find that "right couple". This means a whole new wave of dating. Couple dating. And this is the kind of dating with wich I have become all too familiar.

Allow me to elaborate. Everyone knows that first moment when you meet someone, how all the emotions are new. There is always the awkwardness of making the first move:

Tristan and Robin, newly married, bump into another young married couple at church.
Tristan: Um, Hello
Other Husband: Hi
Tristan: So (Tristan fidgets with his hands), what are you guys doing next weekend?
OH: Not much. Wanna get together?
Tristan's face turns red as he giggles.
Tristan: Um, okay. Sounds good.
Tristan walks away with a slight skip.
Robin: Oh my gosh, I can't believe you didn't ask if we should bring anything!

But there is also the first time that you actually sit down together and have a legitimate conversation:

Tristan: So, Other Husband, what do you do?
OH: I work on cars.
Tristan frantically searches his brain for anything he can say car related
Tristan: Oh yeah? I change my own oil.
OH: Nice.
Tristan: So, do you just work on the engine or like...the whole car.
OH: Pretty much the whole car. whatever needs fixed.
Tristan: Wow, that must be hard.
OH: Crazy weather we've been having lately huh?

Now, depending on the encounter you may not be as lucky to come across quite as suave as me, but don't worry I got married young so I have had years of practice. But, its not all peaches and cream. You may find yourself in a situation where you have no idea how the other couple feels:

Tristan: Why haven't they called?
Robin: I don't know. Maybe they're busy.
Tristan: Too busy to pick up the phone and see how we're doing???
Robin: What do you expect?
Tristan: I expect a phone call!! It's been a whole week.
Robin: Don't wory about it.
Tristan: I'm not worried about it. I just thought we had a really good time. I mean, you and Other Wife were laughing and talking about shopping and I told Other Husband that I change my own oil...
Robin: You told him what?
Tristan: You wouldn't understand. It's "man stuff".

And after months, even years of searching, when you finally find the "right couple" things can still become a little strained. It doesn't take long before the big green monster rears his ugly head:

Tristan: So, I saw you at the mall yesterday.
OH: Oh yeah, I needed to pick up some tools.
Tristan: Right, right. That's what I was doing there too.
OH: Cool
Tristan: Did I see you with another couple?
OH: Oh yeah, that's that new couple at church. Did you know that New Husband also works on cars.
Tristan: Well, isn't that special!! Why don't you go ahead and start your own little store together.
OH: What?
Tristan: I bet you'd have cute little car babies?
OH: Dude, what are you talking about?
Tristan: Shut up, I hate you.
Tristan slams the door as he leaves

Now, I'm not saying that you're going to end up like this. But eventually you will have to meet new people and inevitabley your wife and you will have to decide which couple you are going to spend most of your time with. As for my wife, when it comes to couples dating couples, since it's close enough to finding a spouse, she's in good hands. Because, as I like to say, "I did it right the first time."

It's Alive!! It's Alive!!!!

2006-01-25T20:43:00.000-08:00

I'm a scientist. Not really a scientist, more like the type of person who thinks he is a scientist. The type of person who wishes he was a scientist. The type of person you see on the street corner looking disheveled, saying things like, "I'm a scientist! I'm a scientist" as you slowly roll your window up and look in the other direction knowing that the "scientist" is staring at you.

But I really do feel like a scientist. It may have something to do with my role models. When I was in high school my Earth Science class was taught by a man who could only be described as the Norm Peterson of science, but without the motivation. This sad, round man would sit on a stool and watch as class after class would conduct experiments centered around the hypotheses of which objects would bounce off of his body the best. Every once in a while he would treat us all to a nervous breakdown that would inlcude such door prizes as a thrown garbage can or a profanity-laced tirade, but that was about as rare as finding an old woman's hair in the cafeteria's version of "Shepherd's Pie". Needless to say, I found the man to be pretty sad and pathetic. But sometimes as I sit on the stool in my classroom and watch as a piece of crumpled paper gracefully floats in the air and, for a moment, sticks like velcro to the "big-hair girl" in the front row I wonder, "Have I become my science teacher?" And if so, does that make me a scientist?

I assure you that I have not yet thrown any garbage cans, but recently I have felt more and more like a scientist. I think it's because of my proximity to what I feel is the greatest science experiment I have ever been a part of. Allow me to elaborate.

Several months ago I was feeling odd. I felt useless and empty, like there was something missing and I didn't know what that something was. I became desperate. searching in all kinds of places. Perhaps, searching in places I had no place being, but alas, I had to find the answer. During my searches, in what can only be described as an act of providence, I stumbled upon a vast laboratory known as the internet blogging world. I began experimenting with comments, mixing "lol"'s and emoticons with the deadly toxin of inexperience. Finally, on one dark and stormy night as the world slept and the lightning crashed, I did it. I gave life to my very own blog. As I typed my first entry something coarsed through my veins the likes of which I had never felt. Once I saw the first few comments role in I began to feel the power. I had created this thing and it was beautiful. Not because it was eloquent. Not because it was well-written. But because it was mine. I had given it life and I could give it death. The power was like heroin. And in order to get my fix I would have to return to the lab every night to make sure that my creation was alive and well. And I did.

But just like any addiction, the craving for power wore off and I abandoned my creation for other experiments. Perhaps, better experiments. As I strayed, I watched as my once strong, beautiful creation withered away into something weak and ugly. The hits to my site began to fade until it became too painful for me to even look upon my anemic love, my child. I had to turn away. And I did.

I began to hear murmurs. They started off slow. A comment in a blog here and whisper in the chatroom there. "What is he doing?" "Is he just going to let it die?" "Has he no heart?" I ignored them with the callous heart of a recluse, but I heard them. And I heard them become louder, until they were no longer whispers. The people were becoming angry and it was my fault. Alan Crim began rallying the people in a campaign to create awareness of the situation, lamenting my so-called "retirement", and I came to realize that I could not remain silent. I thought for weeks how I would break it to the people that I had to move on. It wasn't going to be easy. Then, it happened. I sat down at my computer and I read a post in a blog by someone, whom I didn't even know read my blog, lamenting the death of my creation. Death. There it was staring me in the face. I had to come to grips with the terrible thing that I had done. Until now I wasn't willing to admit to myself that I was killing this thing, but I was. And i had. My hands shook as I reached for my mouse and keyboard. I methodically typed in the address to my once-thriving blog never once making eye contact with the monitor. Finally, I looked up. I saw the familiar title that I had once taken great pride in. I saw the blue palette that had once brought me such joy. And I saw the familiar title of the last post I had left months and months ago. Tears filled my eyes as I scrolled through the long-since-forgotten posts about traffic lights, Martin Luther, and emasculating trips to the grocery store. I smiled as I read comments from friends and well-wishing strangers. And I paused as, for a moment, I felt a slight surge of the once-so-tantalizing feeling I had craved. It was then that I realized what I had done. I became afraid of the power I had created so I told myself I had to kill it. I lead this beautiful thing to its death. My wife came into the room and stood behind me. She gently placed her hand on my shoulder and allowed me a moment. I showed her the post about the death of my blog. I could hear the peasants forming outside my doors, holding their pitchforks, expressing their displeasure. Some outraged and some saddened by what had transpired. My wife leaned down and gently whispered into my ear, "Honey, I think the people have spoken." I knew she was right. I knew what I had to do. I looked up at her lovingly and as I placed my hand on hers I said, "I might be a little late coming to bed tonight. Theres something I have to do." And with that I turned to the computer with a zeal I had not possessed for months. I had to recreate. I had to experiment again. I had to bring it back to life. And I did.

Finding my inner child

2005-10-16T07:10:00.000-07:00

I teach at a Christian school. I only teach a few classes so most of the time i get to be that guy who wanders the halls and always seems to be around but never seems to do anything. But ocassionally, I do teach. The other day after I was done teaching I was in the parking lot heading to my car when soemthing wonderfully strange happened. I heard some doors behind me fly open, the metal creating a loud noise as overexcited hands thrust against them. Then, from behind the doors, came about twenty kids, first and second graders. As soon as they hit the outdoors it was as if the same yellow sun that gives Superman power empowered these youngsters because they exploded. They all began running as fast as they could. On their faces you could see nothing but focus and determination as they used every available muscle to try to be the first one on the playground. The child in front was flailing his arms in a rather unorthodox style of running. A small girl proved to be the fastest in her class as she made her way from the back of pack to the front semmingly uneffortlessly. And somewhere in the middle of the group a child was running and yelling at the top of his lungs, "REEEEEECCCCEEESSSSSSS!!!! REEEEEECCCCEEESSSSS!!!"
After all the kids had made their way to the playground the supervising teacher finally sauntered out nursing a cup of coffee. I smiled and waved at the teacher ad said, "Hello Mrs. _______" She smiled nicely and said, "Hello Tristan" I turned and laughed to myself realizing that the interaction had just played out like a fifth grader saying hi to his third grade teacher.

When I got in my car I stopped and thought for a little bit. I watched the kids play feverishly on the playground. I was in awe over the amount of enthusiasm they had just displayed over going to recess. I realized that I miss that enthusiasm. Somewhere in the mix of it all I have become the teacher, slowly following behind the running crowd clutching onto my cup of coffee for dear life. I wish that I could have that back. I wish that my day could be filled with getting overly excited about insignificant things. I wish I could drive by my dad's work and see him running with all his fervor out the doors, pulling off his tie and yelling "LUUUUNNNNCCCHH!!!" I watched the kids play and it wasn't hard for me to imagine the enthusiasm of the kids as they pushed their way through the corwd to see Jesus. And it wasn't hard to imagine the joy it brought Jesus when He saw their entusiasm. Far too many times I find myself pushing back the childlike enthusiasm in me saying, "Jesus doesn't have time for that." I think so many people look at "the faith of a child" as referring to the content of faith, meaning you forget all that "theology stuff". I think you can have three PHD's and still have a childlike faith. And I think it has more to do with those kids going to recess than it does with someone abandoning all reason in the name of "faith". I think it has to do with using all the energy we can muster to serve God with unbridled enthusiasm. When it comes to the life served for Christ we should be the kid flailing our arms, looking silly, but doing the best we can because we can't hold back the joy. After all, it's "REEEECCCEEESSSSS!!!!"

Red means "Stop". Green means "Go find a new self-esteem"

2005-09-14T08:33:00.000-07:00

I've come to realize that driving in my car alone is one of the most socially awkward things that I do. Some people disagree with this notion because they think that there is no social interaction when you are alone in your car. After all, you're alone. But I beg to differ.

I believe I've already mentioned that I am a compulsive "people watcher." Because of this, I find myself watching other people in their cars a lot. Driving alone is dangerous from a social perspective because it gives a false sense of privacy. We feel alone and driving alone is sometimes boring so we do things to entertain ourselves. However, we always forget that our cars have windows. This is why I love watching people in their cars. You get a sense of what some people are like when no one else is around. Some people are pretty intense. They are looking straight ahead and tapping their hand on the steering wheel. They don't have time for a red light. Sometimes they'll rub their forehead like the sight of red is giving them a headache or they will mouth words like "Come on, Come on." These are the drivers that are halfway through the intersection before the light turns green because they have timed every light in the city. I've tried to do that a few times and I always end up mistiming the light because I will start going and then I realize that the light is not going to turn green. Then I have to jerk to a stop while all the other people around me are laughing. That's when I throw my hands in the air and look at my steering wheel like it was my cars fault not mine, like I'm driving Herbie or something. I've decided its not in my best interest to try to time the light anymore. I'm definitely not the intense guy.

Ocassionaly you will spot a singer. These people can come in a variety flavors, but they're always fun. Some people are just singing to themselves and having a good ole' time doing it. I love these people because you know they are enjoying themselves. It makes me smile and i want to sing with them. If they notice that I am watching they dn't care they just keep going about their business. But then there is another type of singer. These are the people who are very serious about their singing. Either they are taking themselves way too seriously as a singer or they are really getting into their music. Whichever one it is, they are pretty fun to watch because you know that they are lost in their own little world where they are singing on a stage to thousands of people. I've been stuck in this position before and when you realize that someone is watching you its not a pretty thing. Suddenly you realize that there aren't thousands of people listening, but there are about three people laughing at you.

Lately I've been listening to John Piper sermons in my car and I am somewhat of an interactive listener. It's not good enough for me just to listen to the message. I always turn it off and pretend that I am preaching the message. Sometimes I get pretty intense in my delivery of the sermon and like clockwork I will notice that someone is watching me. I'm not sure if John Piper ever feels weird, but I sure feel weird when I get caught trying to be him.

Today I was at a stoplight and the sun was shining directly in my face. My wife thinks this is weird, but I sneeze when I look at the sun. So I felt a sneeze coming on. Now I enjoy a good sneeze every now and then but it takes some preperation. I squint my eyes and furrow my brow. I flare my nostrils and my tongue involuntarily sticks out of my mouth. I've never watched myself do this but I'm quite sure that it is one of the most ridiculous things that I do. Then I sneeze and it's all quite violent. Now, that is exaclty what happened at the stoplight. But after the sneeze was completed and I took a few moments to regain my composure and acclimate myslef to my surroundings I realized that I had "sprayed" my dashboard and steering wheel. Without hesitation I reached my hand out and began the cleaning process. While I was wiping the console clean I glanced over to my left and I noticed a car with four middle-aged men whom I guess were carpooling. They were all staring in my direction and laughing. Evidently they had just seen my face blow up and pieces of snot and saliva shrapnel fly all over my car. Then they watched as I cleaned up the remains with my bare hands. I looked down at my hands and then looked at them in dismay, not sure how I could recover any sort of dignity from this situation. One man mouthed the words "Gesundheit" to me. I wanted to mouth some words back to him but I didn't think it would be appropriate. I've decided I should get tinted windows.

The Death of a Jedi

2005-08-29T08:52:00.000-07:00

Have you ever believed something your entire life only to find out you were wrong? If you have then you know how jaded and confused it can leave you. I have been fortunate enough to experience this only a couple times in my life, but the experience still haunts me to this day.

As warped as it may sound, one of my fondest memories from my childhood was when I had the privilege of going to see the movie Return of the Jedi in the movie theatre when it was first released. I don't really treasure family trips, deep conversations, or the great learning experiences from my youth, just the movies. But this wasn't just any movie. From the second that those familiar words "Star Wars" scrolled across the screen, all the way to the closing credits, I was completely mesmorized. When I saw a poised and brazen Luke stand in defiance to Jabba the Hutt I got goosebumps. Tears welled up in my eyes when Luke said goodbye to his mentor Master Yoda as the little green Jedi dissapeared into thin air in order to take his place along side the previously departed Obi Wan Kanobi. And I'll admit that, as a youngster, I was somewhat taken by the loveable furry Ewoks. But what was most captivating to me was the drama that surrounded Luke and his estranged father Darth Vader. As many people from my generation did, I came away from the movie feeling a sort of awe. But more importantly I felt a sense of purpose. I was now going to be a Star Wars fan.

When we were children my grandmother would make hooded towels for us boys to use at bath time. These towels played a crucial role in my development as a Star Wars kid. When our showers were over my brothers and i would run around the house in our towels pretending to be Jedis, saving the universe from impending doom. We would jump off of stairs and climb on couches feeling an invincibility that came with the use of "the force". Our towels would fly in the air revealing our naked Jedi bodies, but we were oblivious. When bedtime came we would wave our fingers at our mother in a Jedi motion and say something like, "You don't have to put us to bed. You want to give us a snack instead." For some reason our mom was impervious to our Jedi powers.

My childhood consisted of a lot of watching Star Wars, playing Star Wars, and buying Star Wars merchandise. I thought of myself as quite the purist. I would go over to my friend Dan's house and we would play with our Star Wars toys together. He had a lot more than I did, but I just figured that was because he was an only child. He also did something weird. He would buy action figures and he wouldn't take them out of the package. Instead, he stored them away and he would occasionally read the information on the back of the package. I thought it made me a better fan that I would tear open my packages as soon as I got them because I couldn't wait to play with them. But I was mistaken. I was mistaken about a lot when it came to Star Wars.

I lived my life fairly oblivious to this fact until I was in college. It was then that the Star Wars prequels came out. When the first one, Phantom Menace, came out I was all gung-ho. I was as giddy as a chubby kid at a buffet. I went to the theatre several hours early to secure my tickets. I was surprised to see that the place wasn't packed. I bought my tickets and went home and waited for the showtime. When the time rolled around my soon-to-be-wife and I went to the theatre. Again, I was amazed at how tame the crowd seemed. Don't get me wrong, the theatre was packed, but it wasn't the carnival-type atmosphere I was imagining. I mentioned how mellow the crowd seemed to be to the "ticket guy". He nodded in agreement and said, "Yeah, well all the real fans come to the midnight showing." I was crushed. How could I be a Star Wars fan if I didn't go to the midnight showing. I went into the theatre and watched the movie. It wasn't near what I was expecting. I never got goosebumps. But I think part of the problem was that I was feeling so dejected because I felt like I had a responsibility to be at that midnight showing and I let myself down. I swore to myself that would never happen again.

By the time the second prequel rolled around I had been checking movie times for months. There was no way I was going to miss the midnight showing. After all, I was a Star Wars fan. I got my tickets hours before the showing and my wife and I showed up to the theatre at least two hours before the movie started. By this time my wife and I had been married for almost three years and we no longer lived the lifestyle where watching a movie at midnight was normal. But I felt like this was something I had to do. The theatre was already crowded and as soon as I stepped into the lobby I realized something was wrong. My wife and I were wearing our normal clothing. Neither of us had anything painted on our face, we didn't have a storm trooper costume, and we weren't wearing shirts that we had gotten at a Star Wars convention. I knew we stuck out but we tried to laugh off our commonplace attire as we shuffled slowly into the crowd. Two grown people next to us were having a light saber fight with toys they had bought. A group on our right was quoting the first Star Wars movie almost verbatim. I saw some people who looked somewhat normal so I decided that we should shuffle over toward them. A guy stopped me and asked if I wanted to buy a detachable braid to put in my hair so i could look like young Anakin. I declined on moral grounds. When we finally found our way to the "normal" crowd I realized they were having a discussion on how the X-Wing is so much better than the A and B Wings because of its manueverability and its fuel efficiency. I think that everyone in the room had, at one time, worked in a video game store. It seemed like forever before the movie started. When they finally did open the doors the rush to find seats was chaotic to say the least. My wife and I got seperated twice as people in Darth Vader costumes pushed their way around. We finally found some seats that were less than desirable because we weren't willing to sacrafice limbs for a better viewing.

When the movie finally started I looked over at my wife. We were both tired from the activities and the fact that it was past midnight. I realized then and there that this wasn't all that important to me. I looked around the theatre and realized that I wasn't one of these people. I had always considered myself a fan but I never really counted the cost. I didn't know that it meant giving my whole life to the cause. It was then that I made a startling discovery. I'm not a Star Wars fan. At first I was hurt by this concept, but then I looked at the 300 pound man two rows in front of us who had at least two Star Wars tattoos permanently etched on his skin. I decided to accept the fact. I sat through the movie and enjoyed it much more than I did the Phantom Menace. Mostly because it was a better movie, but also because a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I didn't need to be a Star Wars fan anymore. I was ready to let it go.

When we got home my wife and I went to sleep and I didn't dream about being a Jedi. The next morning I woke up and went to the closet where we kept our games. I found my Star Wars Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit (both of which I have never played). I gently placed them in a box that was headed for storage. I put the box in the corner and smiled as I looked at it, feeling the same emotions Luke Skywalker felt at the end of Return of the Jedi as he stared at the "spirits" of his father, Yoda, and Obi Wan. My wife came over and hugged me as I stared at the box. I smiled and hugged her back. The Ewoks played music in the background.

Midwestern man tragically malled to death...

2005-08-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

Going to the mall is one of my least favorite things to do. I'm sure in the grand scheme of things there is a legitimate reason why malls were invented, besides the obvious reasons of creating an alternative daycare facility for prepubescent teens and a gigantic torture chamber for husbands who don't view shopping as an all-day affair. But the mall is a necessary evil in our world. I learned this a few weeks ago when I needed to get a gift for my wife for our anniversary. I had weighed all my options numerous times and there was no getting around the fact that the only store that could possibly have what I was looking for was in the middle of the mall. I had no choice. This was something I had to do...alone.

Our anniversary was on a Sunday and it was the Monday before. I had almost an entire week to prepare myself. I spent the next three days preparing myself mentally. I cherished the time I spent with my wife and son during those days. I gave them extra hugs and kisses and said things like, "If something should ever happen to me..." They had no way of knowing the events that were about to transpire in my life. On Thursday I went to the bank and withdrew some cash for my little expidition. The last thing I wanted was to have any problems with a check or credit card, which would only extend my stay. Cash was the quickest way to go, in and out. By the time Friday rolled around I was focusing on the details. I had narrowed down my outfit selection to three. Many people don't realize that the outfit you wear to the mall is very important. If you look too young you will get no respect from the employees, but if you look too old the prepubescent teens will laugh at you. I decided to go with a somewhat sporty look. I also went without shaving for a few days. That way I had an appearance of youth, but the beard left no question as to my maturity. An added bonus was that the rugged look would deter any vendors from trying to apply some sort of lotion to my hands. After I had rehearsed what to tell the employees I was looking for, I figured everything was in order. There was no looking back, when Saturday came I was ready to go to the mall.

I never realized this before, but going to the mall is perhaps the closest I will ever get to being on an African safari. When I opened the doors and felt the blast of the air conditioning and smelled the nail salon I knew I had entered a foreign land. I quickly surveyed the landscape and began to marvel at the wildlife. The aisles of the mall were filled with wildebeests who, in large herds, were heading from one watering hole to the next. I picked up my pace and began walking down the aisle, joining a herd of my own. I smiled as I passed the jewelery store and saw the peacocks strutting around the room with their heads held high in the air showing off their ornate feathers. I came up on the centerpeice of the mall, a large fountain surrounded by numerous benches. The benches were filled with old men waiting for their wives and exchanging stories. They were like hippos loitering in a cool pond enjoying the summer breeze and each others company. I knew that someday I would leave this herd and join their ranks, but for now I had to get my wife's present.

The herd picked up the pace as we headed down the west side of the mall. Vultures waited at every corner for an easy meal. They would move in silently, but with deadly force and before you knew it they would be trying to sell you cell phone accesories, mini remote-controlled cars, or lotion. I moved to the middle of the herd to avoid the vultures exposing some of the less fortunate to be sacrificed for the good of the rest of the herd. A "mall walker" breezed past me with the grace and agility of a cheetah. Ahead of me I could hear a group of teenage girls playing the part of hyenas, laughing hystericaly while simultaneously seeking their prey. A pair of middle aged women behind me caught my attention. They too had once been the hyenas but now they were the more dangerous jackals. Unlike the hyenas, who are scavengars, these women have many of the same characteristics only they are willing to use more sophisticated methods. They were discussing the upcoming season of Desperate Housewives. I felt threatened, so I hurried my steps. Finally, I was at my destination.

I stepped into the store and looked at the "cute" surroundings. Surely I could find a gift for my wife here. But my animal instincts were telling me something was wrong. I was the only one in the store. This is one of the most uncomfortable situations a man can find himself in. Your in the mall, strike one. Your in a "cute" store, strike two. Your the only one in the store and an employee is headed in your direction. It was like I was the wildebeest who had decided to get a drink from crocodile infested waters. I've seen on the nature channel how that turns out and it's not pretty. Ouch. A young girl approached me and asked if she could help me find anything. She had a look in her eye that said no one had been in the store for a while and I was her only hope for a sale. I told her I was only looking, but she proceeded to show me some items "that might make a nice gift." I could feel the jaws of the crocodile biting down. I didn't find the gift I was looking for, but I couldn't leave without buying anything. I had made the mistake of drinking from this pond and now I must pay the consequences. I decided to buy my wife's anniversary card. I think the young girl was dissapointed that I didn't buy more, but I'm not sure because we didn't make a lot of eye contact. I was planning my escape and I knew if I made one wrong move I would leave there having bought my wife a new piano. My wife doesn't play piano. I think I sprinted to the doorway when she gave me my receipt. I found the nearest exit and stepped outside into the fresh air. I sheilded my eyes from the sun and realized I had parked on the other side of the mall. I ahd two options, I could either go back in or walk to my car. I decided to stick with the outdoors. It just seemed safer.

The Need to Feed

2005-08-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

They say that the two main issues married couples fight about are sex and money. My wife and I don't really have fights per se. We had these friends in Dallas who were very passionate people and they had fights. They had real fights. Its not like they hit each other, but there was definite screaming. I don't like screaming. I am very non-confrontational so when I see couples fighting like that I try to find the nearest closet so I can climb into it and curl up into the fetal position. Perhaps this is why my wife and I don't fight.

But we do have disagreements. And we have frustrations. Its all just part of the whole marriage package. I wouldn't say it's the icing on the cake. It's more like the baking soda in the cake. I remember trying baking soda by itself once and it was nasty. I thought, "I don't want this gross stuff in my cake." But, you know what, it helps build a better cake. I can look back at some of the arguments my wife and I have had and, even though at the time they left a bitter taste in my mouth, I can see now that they helped build a better marriage.

In an effort to be normal, my wife and I will ocassioanlly disagree. And we have decided that if others disagree about money we should too. Our converstaions don't always turn into arguments, but it seems that there is always a little tension and frustration. We tend to look at our finances and we will sometimes come to the conclusion that we are going to starve. Now, let me clarify that statement by mentioning that we live a very comfortable lifestyle. However, we do not have any money saved. We basically use up both our checks each month on bills and life. Being a youth pastor is not a lucrative position and sometimes I feel like I should have more since I have a postgraduate education. My wife shares the same frustrations and now with our child things have become even more tight. Again, let me calrify. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. If you saw me and my family and the home we live in and the cars we drive and the life we live you would laugh at me for complaining. I agree, but complain we do. I guess its a sickness in our culture, and my marriage is not immune.

As I have previously mentioned, I am somewhat sadistic in my parenting methods, so what I will say will come as no shock to you. One of the many parenting pleasures my wife and I have come to enjoy occurs during feeding time. My son gets his eating habits from me. He likes to eat a lot and he enjoys it when he does it. However, when we are feeding him, the bottle will ocassionaly become depleted of its milky goodness. In order to replenish the milky goodness we will remove the bottle from my sons mouth and refill as necessary. What happens next has become one of our favorite pasttimes. My wife and I will gather around my son, ensuring that we have a good view of the action. We will cautiously remove the bottle as if it were a live nuclear device. At this moment my son realizes something is amiss. His eyes become wide and he surveys the room trying to ascertain what exactly has happened. He isn't upset, just confused. His tongue brushes his lips in an effort to attest to himself that his bottle is indeed missing. It is then that his bottom lip makes an appearance. The mere size of the bottom lip protruding from his face convinces us that something is wrong in his little world, but he feels the need to make the point even more clear. He then crinkles his entire face and performs an act that cause his whole head to change four different colors. All of this is merely pomp leading up to the main show, which is the sounds that come from him. Imagine a squeal, mixed with a cry, mixed with a scream, mixed with a mouse. All of this takes place in the span of a few seconds, but it is quite possibly the highlight of each day for me.

The other night my wife was feeding my son and this whole scene transpired just as I have explained. We both got a good kick out of my son's dramatics and then my wife made an unknowingly profound comment. She chuckled and said, "Doesn't he realize that I always come back with more and that I'm not going to let him starve." I sat there and let her words soak into my soul like medicine. I pictured God holding me in His arms with a big bottle labled "finances". He pulls the bottle from my lips and my reaction is instinctual. The lip, the colors, the crying. And God just smiles and shakes His head, "When is he gonna learn?" I told my wife what a profound statement she had just made. I started preaching a mini-sermon rght there in our living room, but I could see she wasn't that interested. She was busy feeding her son. Looking into his eyes and listening to his little noises. I stopped preaching and we both sat quietly and just watched our little boy for a while. Why not? We might learn a thing or two.

Tales From the Tripped

2005-08-08T11:55:00.000-07:00

About sixty miles outside of Kansas City it hit me. I had spent almost two week on the road with my Jr. High and High School students conducting our summer trips. It was far too long to go without a decent amount of sleep and yet trying to keep the energy level consistant with that of teenagers. It was far too long to go without seeing my wife and son. It was far too long to go always jumping from one event to the other with no time for introspective contemplation. It was far too long to drive. And so, as my rear end was becoming more and more numb and I felt myself drifting in and out of reality, something in the sky caught my eye. As parades of clouds were dancing across the sky one after the other I noticed a cloud that looked remarkably similar to the guy from Monopoly. I kind of chuckled to myself when I pictured this cloud reaching down from the sky to hand me my $200 for passing GO. The cloud began to break apart, beginning with the man's mustache. Once the man's facial hair was removed the wind began pulling at his face causing a distortion and changing his charming smile to a warped grin. The eyes became distorted as well and his top hat had floated away. It was then that I could see what this comical cloud had become. It was then that I recognized this cloud.

A few nights earlier I went with my youth group into downtown Dallas to feed the homeless. We were teaming up with another church and we were handing out sandwiches, cookies, fruit, and ice. As the line formed I joined with some people and began handing out bags to the patrons so they could fill them with food. Many people thanked us and said "God bless you." I tried to look them all in the eye and smile. As the line moved, one man in particular caught my attention. He was about 5'8 with long, gray thinning hair that came to about his shoulders. He didn't move as well as the others so he was continuously losing his spot in line. He would shuffle foward every so often with a grin on his face and eyes that were staring at something off in the distance. He made his way up to where I was handing out the bags. I handed him a bag and asked, "How are you doing this evening?" His grin remained on his face as he grabbed the bag from me. He never made eye contact with me or the bag as he moved through the line and loaded up on food for the evening and the next morning. He didn't talk to anyone, but instead made his way down the street, always grinning. My eyes followed him until he disappeard around a corner. A man from the church we were working with must have seen me watching him because he leaned over to me and said, "Everyone out here has a story." I wondered what that man's story was. I wondered how many people care. I said a quick prayer for him as I handed out the remaining bags.

The cloud above me was quickly changing, but for a breif moment I could see that homeless man in the smile that had morphed into a distorted grin. Just a few moments ago it had been the guy from Monopoly. So vibrant, so fun, so charming. And now the winds of life had come and changed it into something sad. Anyone passing by would look at it and say, "That's just an ugly cloud." Much like I would have done had I seen that homeless man on the streets any other day. But it wasn;t just a cloud. That cloud was displaying God's wonder. The same God that created the Himalayas created that cloud and I had seen how beutiful it could be. I wanted to stare at the cloud forever. I wanted to pull the van over and draw everyones attention from the movie that was playing on the portable DVD player. I wanted to shout out, "Look at that beautiful cloud." But I knew that it would be in vain. I knew the symbolism would get lost in translation. I knew the kids would be more interested in watching Finding Nemo for the fourth time. After all, it was just a cloud.

The State Of My Union

2005-07-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my anniversary. I have now been married 6 years. Spending your life with someone is a wonderfully odd thing. If a single person were to ask me to explain marriage to them I don't know that I could. It can't be limited to a word like "fantastic" or "awesome" because marriage isn't always fantastic or awesome. More often than not marriage is just "normal." It is my existence. Someone asking me what marriage is like, is like someone asking me what my life is like. I would never try to trivialize it by pasting a fake smile on and saying "Its great." There are ups and there are downs. To pretend that I have a perfect marriage void of all stress, conflict, and weirdness would be to deny the very essence of what marriage is, two lives becoming one. I have good days and I have bad days, but I am always thankful I am alive. Some days I wake up and wonder, "who is this person in my bed and how did she get here?" but I am always thankful she is there. To ask me to live without my wife would be like asking me to live without legs. I'm sure, eventually, I could adjust and do it. But I would never be a whole person. I would always stare down where my legs used to be and know that there is something missing. Try explaining to someone born with no legs what it is like to live with legs. Its part of who I am.

As many people do, I spent yesterday thinking about the day that we got married. I remember the many emotions that were flooding my mind as I prepared to say "I do." Perhaps the greatest emotion was fear. I was afraid of the unknown. I was the first of my close friends and brothers to get married. My groomsmen and ushers consisted of a bunch of good-times single guys. I was still in college and I had the mind set of a college student. I was supposed to be carefree and loving life. I had been dating my soon-to-be-wife for five years so it wasn't like I was afraid of her. I was afraid of being a married guy. I remember laying in my bed in my dorm room wearing a pair of shorts that were so worn out you could see right through them, the aroma of my sweaty basketball clothes filling the room. I could scratch myself and make any obscene bodily noise I wanted to and no one would know how nasty I was. If I was married someone would know those things. I couldn't hide that side of me forever. And what would become of my social life. Would my idea of a good evening eventually consist of sitting at home on a Friday night and laughing at how frighteningly true Everybody Loves Raymond is?

Yesterday we dropped my son off with my parents, who were more than willing to watch him for the day while my wife and I celebrated the ocassion. We had big plans for our "day of freedom" together. We were thinking dinner and a movie would be a nice start. We went to lunch at The Olive Garden. We ate too much, but it was good. After lunch we stopped by home to put our leftovers in the fridge. This is where our big plans fell apart. We decided to spend the rest of the day taking a nap, free of feedings and changing diapers. Midway through the nap I woke up. I was startled to realize what I was doing. My fears had come true. I'm young and vibrant. I should be out on the town having fun and instead I was willingly taking a two hour nap. Thats when I turned and looked at my wife. She was asleep. She's so beautiful when she sleeps. I thought about the first time I laid eyes on her when she was only 13. I thought about how we had basically grown up together through all the changes high school brings. I thought about how willing she was to change with me when I made a radical decision to "live for the Lord." I thought about how she stunned her parents by agreeing to go to school with me at a funny place called a Bible college. And I thought about how amazing she was when our son was born and the tear that ran down her cheek when she first heard him cry. I leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead, trying not to wake her. I put my head back on my pillow to finish my nap. I closed my eyes and thanked God that I have legs.

Roll disctinctions in the grocery store

2005-07-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

Needless to say, some dramatic changes have occurred in my life ever since my son was born nine weeks ago. I am trying to understand my new role as a father but it doesn't come easy. I have read numerous Christian parenting books, but they always seem to deal with the abstract. They say things like, "Show support" "Shepherd your child" "Trust in God during this time of transition." These are all good things, but they don't hit home to me when I have 35 highschoolers in my home and my wife is going crazy because the baby is trying to sleep. I want the highschoolers to feel comfortable in my home but I also want to feel comfortable in my bed later that night sleeping next to my wife.

Perhaps the biggest transition for me has been in the area of my daily schedule. As I mentioned before my job is "ministering to youth." This provides me with a lot of freedom during the day. I do a lot of work from home and I can hang out with kids. My wife works part time, 1 p.m. - 5 p.m. We decided that we would utilize my freedom and have me watch my child during those hours of the day so we didn't have to pay for daycare. This has put a serious cramp in my freedom. I know that sounds like a very selfish thing to say, but I guess I am thinking more about my job. I don't have the freedom anymore to just "wing it" and go to a baseball game or out to lunch without planning it and/or taking my son with me. This isn't bad, just an adjustment.

I realized another area of adjustment for me the other day. I was watching my son and I needed to do some shopping for a fund-raising lunch we were having at church. I decided we should go on a little field trip. I packed my son up in our minivan and we headed off to the grocery store. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday and the store seemed different for some reason. It wasn't near as busy, which was nice. The music playing overhead wasn't the usual top 40 junk. Instead, it was a collection of soft rock and oldies. Very soothing. But the best part of it was the samples. I remembered grocery store samples from when I was a kid. Going to the store was like playing the lottery. Was it going to be "sample day" or not? I had won the lottery. I went by the mozerella stick samples three times. Yummy.

This shopping thing was feeling pretty good. I was in a groove. I started to swagger up and down the aisles as if I owned the place. I tossed a bag of cheese in the air and caught it behind my back. I moved into the produce aisle like a lion. All the other animals watching enviously as I stalked my prey. Aha, beefsteak tomatoes on sale. I grabbed a package of them and placed them in my cart. A lady, old enough to be my grandmother, looked at my tomatoes and said, "Those are really good-looking tomatoes." I've never really known the proper response when someone comliments my produce. I smiled and said, "Thank you. They're very red." She nodded, acknowledging that I'm an idiot and went on her way. I rounded my way into the fruit section when another woman, approximately the same age, smiled at me and asked me how much my tomatoes cost. What was with these tomatoes? Either I was fortunate enough to get the best package of tomatoes in the country or something weird was going on. Thats when it hit me.

I looked around the store and quickly noticed that this was going on all around me. People were politely carrying on conversations with other shoppers. This kind of stuff just doesn't happen in the grocery store. But then I realized something else. Something frightening. I was the only man in sight. I feverishly searched for another man in my age bracket but none were to be found that weren't bagging groceries. I was surrounded by mothers, children, and retired people. I had, unkowingly walked right into the belly of a beast, the early-afternoon shopping hours. But the people were treating me as their own. I couldn't understand. I contemplated this series of events and thats when it struck me. I was pushing a stroller. My child was my access card. It was as though I was a groundskeeper who was suddenly invited into the clubhouse at a country club. Even though I was a man I was being accepted just the same. They probably assumed that my wife had tragically died in a car accident and I was left to raise my son alone.

Now, I was at a loss as to what I should do in this situation. Never in a million years would I have pictured myslef here. I thought about my firends who were sitting behind a desk somewhere doing "real work." I thought about my tough sports buddies who wouldn't be caught dead in aplace like this. I thought about my brothers who would make fun of me as though I had lost all my manhood. Thats when I did what any self-respecting man would do. I turned to the old lady and said, "I know. Aren't these tomatoes the greatest? They're on sale too. I used to grow my own but ever since my wife's car accident my garden hasn't been the same."

I was an intellectual...once

2005-07-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have been reading from Blake's blog recently. He has written some good pieces on anti-intellectualism. I think the issue is a touchy one because it is so personal to many people. We are taught in our churches that the Bible is a level playing field and that everyone has a fair shot at figuring out what it has to say. When someone comes along and tells us that maybe they're more equiped to handle the Bible, well to put it frankly, them are fightin' words. Unfortunately, when it comes to Bible interpretation many Christians like to wash their feet in the pool of self-confidence rather than strap on the towel and show some humility. I'm not submitting that my interpretation of the Bible is infallible, I'm just suggesting that there are gifted people in the body of Christ and if someone is more educated than me (and many are) then I should do my best to objectively hear what they have to say.

But all this talk of intellectualism reminds me of when I first ventured into those deep waters. It wasn't until I went to seminary that I realized that books are actually written by people. I was taught Greek by Dr. Dan Wallace, perhaps the finest Greek grammar and syntax scholar alive. I did my internship under Dr. Buist Fanning, who has written a standard on "tense" in the Greek language, he also taught Dr. Wallace Greek. And I played on a basketball team with Dr. Darrell Bock. I was mesmerized by the interaction I had with these men. I wanted more. So I joined a club.

Actually, it is a society. The Evangelical Theological Society. The name is fairly self explanatory. It is a society for evangelical theologians. But in order to be a member you have to have a Masters degree or higher. You can also be a student receiving a degree, which is how I got in. This is a community of scholars for the purpose of theological dialogue. I loved it. When I became a member I received the quarterly journal and I would peruse the contents observing the familiar names of the authors. I felt giddy when I read titles like, "Purity and Nationalism in Second Temple Literature: 1-2 Maccabees and Jubilees."

I had a friend who was also a member and we had heard that ETS had an annual meeting. This was a time when all these scholars would come together from all over the country (even the world) and discuss different theological subjects. It sounded like a theological buffet. And I like buffets. This particular year it was going to be held at the Grand Ole Opry Hotel in Nashville. That sounded even better. I could picture Millard Erickson and JI Packer standing at a karaoke machine singing Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler." I decided I should go.

When I got there it was everything I had imagined, minus the karaoke. Two of my favorite profs from Bible College let my friend and I bum a spot on the floor in their room. Dr. Fish and Dr. McLeod. Dr. Fish is an amazing linguist and whenever he goes overseas he tries to preach a message in the native language of the people. He was taking a trip to China so each night he would listen to his headphones and try to learn the language. As I tried to go to sleep I would suddenly hear Dr. Fish, in a high pitched tone. "Kang Poa!" "Wang Shee." "Tia Nong?" I dreamt I was a Samurai.

Dr. Fish and Dr. McLeod were kind enough to show us around and introduce us to different people. I remember being introduced to Wayne Grudem. I was taller than him. I had read his Systematic Theology so many different times and here he was in front of me shaking my hand. I wanted to lick him. But not in a weird way. Just a normal lick.

The icing on the cake was that ETS sends out an annual directory. It is a sort of phone book so that people in this community can stay in contact. I was so excited. My name, address, and email were going to be published alongside scholars and authors I have a profound respect for. Later that year I got my directory. I tripped on my way back from my mailbox because I was so excited. I furiously thumbed through the contents. I found Wayne Grudem's info and shot him an email apologizing about the whole "licking thing." Then I went to see my name. My eyes nervously scanned the page. Daniel Gurtner, Donald Guthrie, George Guthrie...Tristana Guthrie. Tristana???!! Thats when I decided to become a youth pastor.

Where's my flying car already?

2005-07-15T11:42:00.000-07:00

If you haven't figured it out by now, I have some strange thoughts. I consider them to be contemplative and introspective. My wife thinks they are strange. I think a lot about minutiae, because I don't want to take anything for granted. For instance, today I was eating lunch and I said, "This is great that I can enjoy this food." Those kind of comments make my wife think I'm strange. But the reason I was thinking that was because I have had a canker sore in my mouth before and I've also had a really sore throat. Both of those made eating food a very unenjoyable activity. I remember trying to choke down a piece of cake at a party. Cake is something I like. But between the pain and the tase of Chloraseptic I couldn't enjoy this peice of cake. I remember thinking to myself if I was ever healthy again I wouldn't take for granted the luxury of being able to eat without pain. I eat a lot of cake now. I like cake. The point is that we take so much for granted that we never even realize. I try to tell my wife that we live like royalty. My wife looks at the Toyota Tercel that she got when she was in high school and that we still drive, and she doesn't believe me. But we do. Think about how people lived just 150 years ago. No electricity. No running water. No cars. No Seinfeld. How did they survive? Even the richest of the rich back then couldn't afford the luxuries that we use and abuse every day. We have a dog. She's a pug. I think pugs are cute, but in a frighteningly-ugly kind of way. I was reading about the history of pugs the other day and the book said that they were a favorite among British royalty. That made me feel pretty good about myself. They would sleep in the bed with royal people at night. I thought that sounded sweet. But then it went on to explain the reason the dogs slept in their beds. The first reason was becasue the additional body heat would keep them warm since the winter nights could get unbearably cold. The second reason was because the dogs would chase away any rodents that might sneak into the bed during the night hours. If rodents were a problem for royalty I wonder what the youth pastors did back then. Our dog sleeps in our bed now. But the thing is, we don't have to worry about stuff like that and we never even think about it.

So, back to my weird thoughts. Lately I've been thinking about the future. A lot of people like to think about the future. It's fun to wonder what it will be like. I liked the Jetsons as much as the next kid. But I've been telling my wife lately, "I think we live in the future." She rolls her eyes. I mean, look at all the stuff we have and do. No one could have imagined this stuff 200 years ago.

I don't think much about the future because I think what we have now is pretty fantastic. I think when people look foward to the future its mostly out of laziness. We want a faster this or a better that. We want a robot named Rosie that does everything we want and teaches us a valuable family lesson on a weekly basis. We aren't content with what we have when what we have is better than the stuff of make believe just a few years ago. And so we go on complaining when it takes more than twenty minutes to have a pizza delivered. Or when we have to wait at a stoplight because the moron in front of us didn't see the green arrow until it was too late. Maybe in the future we won't have to wait. Maybe in the future we won't have to walk all the way to the door to see who's there. Maybe in the future we won't have to bother pretending to be polite to a human cashier. Maybe in the future my wife won't think I'm strange.

Let's pretend you never read this

2005-07-12T10:11:00.000-07:00

I like to pretend. I have a very active imagination. That's why I like the internet. Because much of it seems like a pretend world. In fact, right now I imagine that the people who read this blog envision me as an astute, ruggedly handsome, chiseled kind of man, yet sophisticated. The kind of man who sits at his computer wearing a suit, smoking a pipe, and stroking his chin , but at any given moment is prepared to throw off his civilized garments in an effort to save 150 hostages who are being held by evil terrorists.

I guess I like to pretend because I am fascinated with people. I love to watch people. When I see them I always wonder what is going on in their life. What kind of emotions are they feeling? How do they view the world differently than me? I would love to spend a day or two as someone else. There are some people I wouldn't want to be. Like Condoleeza Rice. Mostly because I wouldn't want people mistaking my name with a casserole. But there are some people I would like to be just to see the world differently and experience something new.

Today I was driving down the road and I saw a sign saying that Pool Tech was looking for someone to sell pools. I was driving by myself and listening to Norah Jones so I was half-way asleep already. I decided to let my mind wander. Its an easy decision for me. I began to pretend that I was a salesman. I was good. I would walk right up to people, flash them an all-teeth smile and introduce myself. I would explain to them that my knives were so sharp they could cut pennies into little pieces and my vacuums were so strong they could suck up those penny pieces in an instant. Then I would sell them a pool. Of course all of them came with lifetime warranties for just a little extra charge. And if the customer wanted they could also pay me for an additional consultation, which meant that I would come to their house and smile at them for a while. Then I would smile at their children and maybe even their pets. Most customers would get the consultation because I was a really good salesman. I was loving it. I was driving down the road talking to my empty passenger seat, explaining the benefits of the Pool Tech "urine free guarantee." I was also practicing my smile. At one stoplight I flashed my smile to a little kid in the car next to me. He stuck his tongue out at me and made a pig-face. I'm guessing he didn't want to buy a pool.

When I got to my church our seceratary introduced me to a family that has been visiting our church for a while. They have a kid in high school that they wanted me to meet. They brought him into the office and told me his name was Brian. I'm always awkward when I meet new people. I shuffled my feet, bit my nails, and looked at the floor. I asked Brian what he liked to do. I'm pretty sure he thought I was asking him to go steady. It was all very odd. I smiled at the parents, nervous uncomfortable smile not salesman smile, and we said goodbye. I don't think they'll be paying for the extended warranty or consultation anytime soon. Tomorrow I think I'll be a farmer.

Alfred Hitchcock's - The Ministry Zone

2005-07-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

I work in "the ministry" full time. That is the Christian way of saying that I get paid to be a good Christian. I mean, not that people who are not in full time ministry are bad Christians, I just don't feel like I'm doing anything above and beyond what I am supposed to be doing as someone dedicated to Christ. I have always planned to be a full time minister ever since high school. I went to specific schools that would train me how to do this. I now have a Masters degree and if I ever wanted to do something outside the realm of full time Christian work, my education would probably provide me a comfortable position as a cashier at Target. But, despite the cultural norm, my education is not meant to make me more "marketable" it is meant to make me a better minister. The sad irony is that in some of the church circles I run in my education actually makes me less marketable because too much education is viewed as a bad thing by many people. "We don't need any fancy degrees. We just need a Bible, the Holy Spirit, a map of the end times, and a list of current events to fill in the missing parts."

But I do have a fancy degree. And my hope was that my fancy degree would prepare me for all that goes with being a minister. In many ways it did. I wanted to learn Greek and Hebrew. I learned Hebrew and forgot most of it. I majored in NT Studies so I at least still remember the Greek alphabet. But I got my Th.M. from DTS in 3 years, which means I didn't have a lot of time to let any of the stuff sink in. Now I am in the ministry and it is all sinking in. I pour over my DTS notes and I have those "Aha" experiences I should have been having three years ago.

But the one thing that I was never taught was what being in the ministry would be like. I always heard it would be hard. I always heard it would be rewarding. But I never heard it would be weird. That's how I view my job sometimes. Just weird. When I was hired I was hired as a youth minister. I didn't really know the first thing about being a youth minister. I tried to ask for directions. I tried to ask what I should do. The response I usually got was, "Its your job to minister to youth." What?! That's weird. The reason that is weird is because there is no boundary to that. You can get lost in the immensity of the job or you can "minister" to one boy around a pizza buffet and feal pretty good about yourself. I was never told that I would feel enormous guilt for not "ministering" enough. I was never told that I would feel absolutely disconnected from the rest of the world because I don't have a "real job." I was never told that since I don't punch a time card I'm never really "off the clock." Like I said before, I feel like a lot of what I do is just stuff I should do. But yet, I get paid for it and so with that comes the responsibility to people, not to God. Some people will suggest to me that I shouldn't drink beer because I am in the ministry. Despite their numerous reasons, it always seems like they are saying, "Look, we're paying you to look like the kind of Christian we want." I was always so idealistic about being in the ministry. I love serving Christ and His church. But I am really at an odd place right now. If I had a "real job" and ministered as I felt I should I would be viewed as "noble" and "invaluable", but as a full time minister I feel more like a circus animal who has been forced to perform the very acts it once so enjoyed in the wild. I am not sure if I should enjoy it or lash out at the trainer cracking the whip becasue he's turned something so pure into a meaningless routine. I realize I am not being very coherent. I am just trying to make sense of it all. As I write this three high school students have entered my house (without knocking) and I think they are rummaging through my kitchen. I guess that means I'm "on the clock."

****Fade to Circus Music****

The Next James Dobson

2005-06-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

I was raised with two brothers. No sisters. I never realized how this affected me until I started dating. My wife was the first and only girl I ever dated. We started going out when I was 16 and she was 15. I remember when we first started dating I used to beat the crap out of her. Why? Because I liked her. I liked my brothers and we beat the crap out of each other, so if I liked this girl she should have the bruises to prove it. And she did. Eventually she explained to me that she didn't necassarily enjoy the "Charly Horse". She said that girls don't really respond to being placed in a "half nelson" the way boys do. This was all new territory for me.

I have now realized how my background has affected me as a father. When I first found out we had a boy (we waited until delivery to find out) I breathed a sigh of relief. I would have been ecstatic if I had a daughter, but a son was just more in my comfort level. I would be totally lost if I had to address an issue with my daughter's private parts. I understand the talk of pee-pees and ding-dongs, weiners and wankers. But what do you say to a little girl? For some reason telling my daughter to stop touching her "Virginia" just doesn't seem appropriate. I know all of this seems odd, but these are legitimate fears I had.

So, needless to say, when I found out I had a son I thought, "I can handle this." The first few weeks were rough. He seemed to cry a lot. We had friends who had a son the day after ours and their baby didn't cry near as much as ours. Well, since he's a boy, my approach was simple, "Let him cry." My wife just couldn't handle this and in the first couple weeks she actually broke down and cried because he was so fussy. I, on the other hand, almost found pleasure in letting my son lay in his crib and scream. I thought it was a way of toughening him up. I could picture my son coming off the football field with blood dripping from various parts of his body, having just recorded 20 tackles and 6 sacks in one game, all with two broken fingers. He would then look up at me in the stands and say, "Thanks dad, for letting me cry when I was a baby." The Hallmark moment didn't last. About a week ago we found out from the doctor that our son was underweight. My wife was doing everything she should be doing, but her milk supply wasn't where it should be so he wasn't getting enough food. We began supplementing his feedings and he has gained a pound and a half in a week. His temperament has changed also. He is like a totally different baby. The doctor explained to us that when our baby was screaming that was probably due to the fact that he was starving. My wife, of course, feels like a terrible mother (even though I think she is the best mom ever, and sexy to boot). However, I distinctly remember that I was the one who convinced her it was in our son's best interest to let him scream all the time. Lately my image of my football-playing son has been replaced by an image of a gangly looking prison parolee who has anger issues because his father starved him when he was three weeks old. And so begins my illustrious career as a father.

Not quite Martin Luther, but close.

2005-06-27T11:53:00.000-07:00

I had a lot of Catholic friends when I was in high school. For the most part our religious differences went unnoticed but every year around Lent a strange phenomenon would occur.
Every Friday my friends would abstain from meat. Not drinking, smoking, cussing, or sexual harrasment, just meat. I found this fascinating. What magical powers did the meat possess that I was unaware of. This mystery perplexed me everytime we would stop by a fast food place for a quick meal. There I was sitting at a table with about four fish combos and all I was stuck with was about a pound of two all beef patties with enough cheese and bacon to feed a starving nation. Every now and then my fish combo friends would look at the hunk of cow I was eating and they would toss me a dissaproving look. The taste of medium rare charbroiled goodness was replaced by the taste of guilt and shame. That's when I began to covet the fish combo. It just seemed so exotic and pure. I mean, who goes to a fast food place to order fish? I had to have it. But only on Fridays. Any other day you wouldn't be caught dead ordering the fish combo. But on Friday people would step up to the cashier with the confidence of a lion and roar out, "I'll have the number 7...extra tartar sauce." And when their order came up they would take their tray and hold it above their head like they were carrying the Olympic torch. Proudly displaying to all who could see, "Yes, I ordered the fish." I wanted to be one of those people. I had grown wearisome of the looks I would receive when they would call out, "Double Bacon Wopper with Cheese!" and I would have to hang my head in shame and saunter up to the counter to pick up my order.

And so, one Friday I decided I would do it. I would order the fish. I was a little timid because I wasn't sure how the whole thing was done. I stood in the line waiting to place my order and I studied how my friends placed their order, "Cheese with that?" "No." "What to drink?" "Moutain Dew." "Would you like to Biggie size it?" "Sure." I had it down. This would be a piece of cake. I stepped up to the counter, looked the cashier in the eye for the first time, and said, "I would like the fish combo please." I was half expecting her to ask me for my Catholic identification card, but she didn't. I looked over at my friends and they had the kind of proud look a father has when his son hits his first homerun. That's when it hit me. What was I doing? What would my parents think? What would my church think? I had been warned about Catholics. Much like I had been warned about Mormons, Jews, and Baptists. And here I was about to take part in one of their most sacred traditions, the fish combo. What's next, purgatory? I turned to the cashier and in slow motion I could see her place my fish sandwich on a tray. It was too late. That golden fried filet with extra tartar sauce was about to make me a Catholic. I looked up to the ceiling in desperation (or maybe to say my first prayer to Mary) and a sign caught my eye, "For a Limited Time Only: Double Cheeseburger $.99" Before I knew what was happening I heard myself ordering the double cheeseburger. The cashier looked at me like I was crazy, "Are you sure?" I had never been more sure about anything else in my life. I ate the fish combo that night, but on my tray the whole time I confidently displayed my double cheeseburger. I saved it for last and I savored every bite and every dissaproving look. I held my head up high knowing that I had reserved for myself a special place in the annals of church history.

Two Cynical Thumbs Way Up

2005-06-23T11:34:00.000-07:00

I'm doing a little "blog cheating" of my own. I found this video on someone elses blog but they found it from somewhere else so I guess its okay. This is from www.vintage21.com and it is one of the funniest things I have seen in a long time. I wish I could show it at my church. They have other great vids there to watch. Enjoy.

The Jesus Video

The Bad Samaritan

2005-06-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

Last night my wife sent me to the grocery store to get some Chinese for supper. The whole process was going rather smoothly until I got out to the parking lot. I was close to my car when I saw this overweight, unkempt woman flailing her arms about as if she was mad about something. Now in a situation like this I have been known to use a few evasive maneuvers. I will pretend that I forgot something in the store. I will stop, stroke my chin, and say "Oh no, I forgot something" loud enough for everyone to hear. Then I will turn around and go back in the store where I will wait by the window until the scary person is gone. I perfected this technique when I lived in Dallas in order to avoid panhandlers.

But despite my instincts I kept on walking straight for my car. As I got closer the woman's ranting became coherant. Evidently, something in her grocery bag had either broken or was dripping on her other items. I heard her say that she had told "that stupid kid" to bag it "really good." I pretended there was something in the sky I was looking at.

I thought it was safe so I turned my head toward my vehicle and my eyes were involuntarily drawn to the tattoo on her bicep. I tried to turn away but it was too late. She made eye contact with me. She thrust a plastic garbage bag in my direction and said, "Look at this! I knew this would happen!" Now, I neither work for the grocery store nor do I represent them in civil matters, so I was at a loss as to what I should do. I looked at her, shrugged my shoulders, and smiled as if to say, "I'm sorry for your loss." What I really meant to convey was, "This is a very socially awkward situation for me. May I please go home." She huffed at me and said, "Ah, what do you care. You don't care" I wanted to let her know that I did care. I wanted to let her know that soiled groceries were no laughing matter to me. I wanted to be by her side when she went and confronted "that stupid kid." But alas, the Sesame Chicken was getting cold. I got in my car, rolled up the window and drove away pretedning to look at that thing in the sky again. I should've bought some Rolaids.

Warning: In case of rapture this blog will be unmanned

2005-06-20T12:17:00.000-07:00

I'm a fan of bumper stickers. I like to get to know people and if I had the time I would like to get to know everyone on the planet just a little bit. And bumper stickers help me with that endeavor. Because I feel like if I read someone's bumper sticker it is giving me a little glimpse into what that person is like. But at the same time I think bumper stickers should be outlawed for Christians. I know that sounds very "anti-First Ammendment" of me, but I think as Christians we have proven that we can't be trusted with bumper stickers. At first, the Jesus fish seemed like a relatively tame way to "evangelize" until everyone had to have one and soon drivers all over the nation were being cut-off by Jesus fish after Jesus fish. But those darn pagans had to go and be more witty than us and so along came the Darwin fish. Not to be outdone, we retaliated with the Truth fish eating the Darwin fish. Now I love this bumper sticker because everytime I see it I get a good chuckle. Have you ever wondered how many people have come to Christ because they saw this one. I can almost hear the testimony, "Well, I resisted Christ for years and then it just hit me one day. The truth fish was eating the Darwin fish. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, did die for my sins." There's nothing like a good bumper sticker war between pagans and Christians to draw people to Christ.

Even still, our lack of restraint in this area is better evidenced by the Christian against Christian bumper sticker battles. There is a family in our church who had a bumpersticker that said "Purpose Driven" and it was crossed out, and next to it was written "Narrow is the way and few shall find it!" Now if I was an unbeliever and I was driving behind that car I would probably say, "Wow, now that is an appealing faith. I want to know more about their Savior" I saw a bumper sticker last week that said, "Born again, Believing, Baptists. They're just plain Better." Amen brother, amen.

I've noticed the latest trend is with the support ribbons for the soldiers overseas. If you turn them on their side they look like fish and so many Christians are trying to make two statements in one. I'm not sure if this means that they only support Christian soldiers or what.

When I was in high school I knew a girl who needed some cabinets fixed. She went to her neighbor to ask for help because on her car it said that her boss was a Jewish carpenter. Needless to say, that bumper sticker did not have the desired effect. And to add to the absurd, the neighbor did not explain what her bumper sticker meant, but instead showed disgust at her religious ignorance. Filthy, stupid pagans.

These are just a few anecdotal reasons why when I become president I will make it illegal for Christians to have bumper stickers. And I know that I will be president someday because I have a bumper sticker that says "Vote for Me: Someday"

They can find you anywhere

2005-06-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

My brother just got back from Ireland and he told me this story. I figure since I have already shared some of my observations about the Plymouth Brethren this story is pertinent. But first let me preface this story by saying that I have much love for the PB people and my closest friends are from the PB ranks. I guess I am somewhat critical because the church I grew up in (a Bible church) is right down the line with PB doctrine but it has never been accepted by the PB because we don't go to the right camps, have the right speakers, get the right newsletters, etc. I've always had nothing but love for the PB and yet I've always felt like I'm on the outside looking in. Feeling like I just don't match up because my church is not a chapel. Maybe I'm jealous, maybe I'm ticked, or maybe I can just relate too well to the struggles many "assemblies" have. Anyway, here's the story. It's sad but true.

So my brother was in Ireland with the youth group from his church. They were in a town one day doing some evangelism when they noticed another group doing more of the "open air" style evangelism. Tyson (my brother) got into a conversation with some of the people from the other group and lo and behold they were from a Plymouth Brethren chapel on the East Coast. Tyosn was excited to hear that and told them about how he had gone to Emmaus. The PB group was ecstatic to hear that he had ties to the one true church. They then began to inquire as to what Tyson was doing in Ireland. He explained that he was with his church doing some evangelism. Now, obviously he made a mistake by saying "church" instead of "chapel" or "assembly" because the enthusiasm of the Brethren was now replaced with concern. Tyson had mentioned that he was from Dallas and so one of the PB started asking Tyson if there were any chapels in Dallas. The inference was clear. If there were chapels in Dallas why wasn't he going to one. My brother explained that he was at a church where he could have an effective ministry in which he was very involved. This answer wasn't very satisfactory because one man was as blunt as to tell my brother that despite the ministry he is involved in he should leave the church he is at and go to the chapel. Tyson tried to brush it off, but as the conversation progressed he realized that he was being evangelized. He was a lost sheep who had strayed from the fold.

In some ways when I hear this story I just want to laugh. I mean it is just so absurd. But I have to admit that the part of me that is winning out right now is the part of me that wants to destroy something inexpensive. Here are two groups of people who share a common bond in Christ. That should be enough for us to break into hugs, celebration, and a "hows it goin brother" But instead, immediately, the lines are drawn, the boxes formed, and instantly everyone is either in or out. Some people hold themselves up to be the keepers of the "purest" form of Christianity and yet the "purest" form of Christianity to me is the person out on the street sharing his/her faith. That alone should make someone my brother, not which "denomination" they belong to. I can't help but think how foolish we are all going to feel when we are bowing before Christ's throne, together.

Thou shalt readest and likest this post

2005-06-15T12:49:00.000-07:00

I just spent the last hour and a half reading a thread on "Is the KJV the only text?" I hated every second of it, but I kept reading hoping that eventually I could be convinced to burn my NASB, grab an American flag, and have complete disregard for anyone who doesn't speak English. But to no avail. I guess I am still lost in my ways. But the time I spent reading was not a complete waste. Although I have a profound respect for the DTS students who were debating with the KJV onlyists I have now signed a sworn statement that says if I ever get involved with a meaningless "christian" debate with some freak legalist like that, several people will have the legal authority to take my life. Which leads me to a question. Should we sing hymns only or more contemporary music?

The role of indigestion in the life of a believer

2005-06-14T11:41:00.000-07:00

I found myself in the midst of a perplexing situation the other day. If anyone has ever been a part of an "open meeting", wether it be a prayer service or breaking of bread, they will relate to this. At our church we have a time during our evening service when the men will spontaneously pray out loud for needs in the body. This is a common practice in many evangelical churches, and I would assume that what occurred next is common as well. During the prayer time there was the period of awkward silence when no one is praying, but everyone is wondering who will pray next. Finally, a wife must have nudged her husbands leg because someone started praying. However, at the exact same time another man must have been nudged by his wife because the two men began praying out loud simultaneously. In an effort to be cordial, both men ceased praying. Awkward silence. Then, just like clockwork, both men started in again. This time both men were determined to keep praying so they prayed in unison for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, both men got their prayers in, but I am quite certain that their focused had been shifted from godly things to the "talking to" they would get from their wives when they got home.

The reason I mention this story is that it reminded me of something I was taught in college. I went to a Plymouth Brethren school and one of the distinctions of the PB is their "open meeting" for the rememberance of the Lord's Supper. This is a time when men may stand up and pray, share a word, or suggest a hymn. The intent of the open meeting is that it lines up with what seems to be going on in 1 Corinthians 14:26. I appreciate their attempt to be thoroughly biblical. However, in the Corinthians passage the context is all about the work of the Holy Spirit. Therefore the PB claim that the "open meeting" is conducted by the Holy Spirit. Now since this is the case, I was taught that if an incident was to occur like the one I described, it could be explained as follows. One of the individuals was being led by the Holy Spirit and the other individual was not, and the way that you determine who is being led by the Spirit is the person who "wins out." I'm not quite sure how this works if both men were nudged by their wife. Needless to say, every time a situation like this occurs I am left wondering which person was led by the Spirit and which was not. This really detracts from my prayer time. This issue is merely small potatoes. The big question has to do with the role of the Holy Spirit in the life of a believer. What does it look like? What does it feel like? How do you know? When I pray at the prayer meeting is it because I can't stand the awkward silence or is that the Holy Spirit? I have to admit I have a hard time sensing the presence of the Holy Spirit in prayer meetings and "open meetings" when it feels like my motives for saying something are all too human. I say that not wanting to disregard the work of the Holy Spirit in my life. My church seems to have such a low regard for the work of the Holy Spirit in the life of a believer that if anyone ever mentions the HS the common retort is, "How do you know it wasn't indigestion?" That phrase has become so common place at our church that there are some who probably think the Holy Spirit is on par with "Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or Eskimos" (a Simpson's quote). I would rather give credited to the Holy Spirit than not. And yet I am left to wonder what the role of the Holy Spirit was the other night as the two men fought over who would be king of the prayer hill. Does the Holy Spirit work only through the loudest prayer? Or were they both affected by the casserole they had at the potluck dinner?

Don't Mess With Me

2005-06-11T11:57:00.000-07:00

I was having a great day yesterday. The weather was beautiful and I was cruising in my car listening to my new Buddy Miller CD . There isn't much that can sway me when I am in a good mood but I guess the devil knows us well. Because I pulled up to a four way stop and I was about to go when this car came squealing right through the intersection. But this just wasn't any car. This was a Camero with tinted windows, shiny rims, a thumping system, a West Coast Choppers sticker, and a driver riding so low he had to use a periscope to see the road. Now I don't have any theological basis for this but I am pretty sure Hell consists of being forced to sit in a parking lot with these types of individuals as they stare at their cars and marvel at how well they have wasted their paychecks from Burger King. I tried to let it go but at the next stoplight I found myself in the lane next to this guy. He glanced at me through his periscope, sunk even lower in his car, and turned up the bass. That was the last straw. I quickly turned off Buddy Miller and found the nearest soft rock station I could. I turned up the volume as high as it would go. I think the sound of Celine Dion's voice startled him because he looked again in my direction. That's when I flashed him the kind of smile and wave a straight man can only pull off once or twice in his lifetime. When the light turned green all I saw was a flash of red as he sped away. I turned Buddy Miller back on and pressed the gas knowing that my sin nature had won this battle but with help from the Holy Spirit I could still win the war.

Blog like Jazz

2005-06-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

I just recently started reading Donald Miller's book Blue Like Jazz. It was recommended by a couple people so I thought I would try it out. It's a very compelling book and I'm effortlessly flying through chapter after chapter, but as I am reading it something has struck me. This book does not read like a book as much as like a blog. Maybe that is why it's so popular. I'll pass the book sitting on the coffee table and I'll think, "I wonder what little adventure Donald has in store for me today." When I approach the book I am not drawn by my usual pursuit of scholarship as much as by an emotional relavence and realism that says, "I hate everything about Christianity except for the truth." I don't think I destest anything more than anti-intellectual Christianity, and I don't see that in this book. I see a guy who is disgusted with what Christianity has become and wants to be drawn back to what is real. This book is his memoirs of his own prusuit for that truth. That's why I understand him. That's why I feel like I've had a beer with this guy before at a tavern. That's why I can't stop turning the pages. Stupid blogs! They're turning my mind to mush....yet I can't stop reading.

Is this progress?

2005-06-07T12:18:00.000-07:00

Today I realized just how enslaved I am to music. I was in a hurry. I hugged my wife, kissed my son, grabbed my keys, and ran out the door. I quickly glanced at my watch to make sure that I could run a few errands and make it back home in time for a 12 o'clock meeting. I was cutting it close. I turned the key and out of the speakers I hear the voice of Mac Powell of Third Day singing Come Together. Third Day? I mean, I used to love the band but now there just too commercialized, too mainstream, too...five years ago. What was I thinking? Then it hits me. I was reminiscing with a friend from college yesterday. That must have been what brought on the sudden urge for the Christian southern rock. So I grabbed my CD case and started flipping. Let's see, it's early morning, sunny, and I'm feeling upbeat. Patty Griffin? Not peppy enough. Derek Webb? Nah, I don't want to think that much. Air Supply? Yikes! My wife must have snuck that one in. Counting Crows? Hello? I said it was sunny. You can only listen to CC if it's raining or cold, preferably both. Aha, Kasey Chambers, but not just anyone. Barricades and Brickwalls. I feel like Goldilocks with the perfect pot of porridge. I was late when I got in the car. Six minutes have expired and now I'm even more late, but at least I have a good soundtrack. I rush to run my errands, which of course include going to the store to buy a new CD because I got a feeling tomorrow's going to be a Buddy Miller kind of day.

3 years is like a thousand and a thousand like 3 years

2005-06-06T09:21:00.000-07:00

Since we have a newborn baby in the house my wife and I don't get out as much as we'd like. So yesterday we spent much of the day watching what amounted to an entire season of an X-files like show called The 4400. Before you write me off as a sci-fi nerd let me give you the basic idea of the show. Over the course of 65 years 4400 people have been abducted by something (aliens are the standard assumption) until finally one evening, present day, they are all brought back to earth on a beach front in the Pacific Northwest. They are all exactly as they were when they were taken. So a six year old girl taken in the 1940's is basically transplanted 65 years into the future. But the catch is that they all come back with special powers. So the show is about these people trying to assimilate themselves back into the world after being gone for a number of years. A Scully-and-Mulder type duo have been assigned by the government to investigate the 4400 as they go bakc into the world. I found it to be a very intriguing show and if you get the chance you should grab the DVD and watch it. But besides the basic premise of the entire show, there was something that was not quite realistic. One of the "returnees" was taken in 2001. So, he had been gone for about 3 years. He was a high school student and his storyline was about how hard it was for him to adjust to how all the clothes, phrases, and music had changed while he was gone. My wife and I got to talking and I just don't think that much changes in 3 years. Maybe I'm wrong, but here's my comparison. I was in Bible College for 3 years and for those 3 years I basically lived in one building. The only sunlight I saw was when I would travle from my dormroom to the gym (I still remember how the sun would burn my eyes). I never really watched TV and I tried not to socialize with the outside world much. After 3 years I got married and moved back home to finish up my schooling. Now don't get me wrong, I'm as radical and bodacious as ever. I listen to the Backstreet Boys and Ricky Martin like all the youngsters today. I even just bought myself a set of Pokemon cards. I mean, missing those 3 years didn't set me back at all. How fake.

Where did he get a nickname like that?

2005-06-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

The recent disclosure that Mark Felt is indeed the mysterious "deepthroat" has spawned a great deal of discussion and has given the cable news stations a new topic to discuss on the airwaves for 72 hours straight. The other night I was flipping past one such channel and I saw Pat Buchanan talking, a man who unfortunately many people identify with evangelical politics. For some reason I felt the need for my blood pressure to rise, so I decide to watch a little bit. Buchanan was ranting that Felt was a villan of the highest order (or lowest depending on which one is worse). The reason that Felt was so bad, according to Buchanan, was because he had "ratted out an extremely popular president and he was ashamed to admit it for years." Buchanan went on to explain that Felt is a traitor and should be charged with treason. Forget that Nixon was wrong. The real crime is not what Nixon did. The real crime is being a tattletale. The logic of Buchanan's reasoning is mind boggling to me. I think Buchanan needs a good old fashioned spanking. And if you draw anything sexual out of that comment you are just plain sick and warped.

Oh, think twice. It's just another day for you and me....

2005-05-31T09:04:00.000-07:00

My whole family was together over Memorial Day Weekend. I'm a pretty big fan of when we all get together, but something seemed special this time around. Here we were sitting on my deck with the woods in the background on a gorgeous Memorial day eating brats and burgers, playing games, and just hangin out. My little brother, the musical overacheiver, is playing his guitar and singing songs with his wife, which adds to the ambiance. My older brother can't sit still for a second so he is involved in a raucous game of Dutch Blitz with other family members. My dad (we call him Parge) is old school. He's sitting in the shade just taking it all in. My mom (we call her Marge), in typical Marge fashion, is telling my brother to play something "we can all sing along with". My wife is in a full recline taking a break from her newly acquired role as a mother. And I'm sitting in a rocking chair holding my son who is sleeping in my arms. Parge gets up and walks around with his camera, struggling to find the right angle to capture the moment. I smiled and thought, "I bet that will be a nice picture...but it will never capture the moment."

This entry brought to you by Johnsonville Bratwursts. When that special moment calls for a special peice of grilled pork entrails.

The Joys of Fatherhood

2005-05-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

I had an interesting thing happen to me the other morning. It was about 4 a.m. and I was tending to my child. I noticed a peculiar smell coming from his drawers so I decided to change him. Now my child must be a fairly modest boy because everytime he's exposed he starts to cry. Well this was no exception. He was crying away and I was trying to calm him down when all of a sudden he stopped crying and got a rather peaceful look on his face. I decided to take advantage of this serenityby giving my child a few kisses on the face. I bent down to give him a smooch or two and I felt a warm sensation. My firstborn son was urinating on my face. Needless to say, this was a first for me. Incidentally, urine tastes like chicken.

Is Lindsay Lohan Anorexic?

2005-05-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

This blog has nothing to do with Lindsey Lohan. I just wanted to see how many of you would actually read a blog with this title. I got this headline off of some mundane celebrity news website. So if you're reading this I despise your adolescent enslavement to our culture, and yet I appreciate your readership.
Now on to todays blog. Since I am what I like to refer to as a "baby blogger" I have a certain zealousness that compels me to leave a blog every single day. I am sure that as I become a more "mature blogger" I will realize that it's not the size of my blog that counts it's how I use it. But until then, here is today's blog.
I suppose that I should inform you of some other events that have occurred in my life other than my recent metamorphosis from internet larva into blog butterfly. I became a father within the last 6 days. I know, I know, that's small potatoes compared to learning about the transforming power of blogging, but I still think it is pretty swell. I have a son. His name is Noah Tristan. I would leave his last name but my wife is pretty sure that some internet sicko is going to molest my son so I won't.
Anyway, I think it is pretty obvious where I got my son's name from, but that has been a source of contention in our household. I felt that since I had been to Bible College, Seminary, and full-time ministry that I had an obligation to name my child with a biblical name (Noah, Josiah, etc.) or a theological name (Augustine, Calvin, Wesley Sucks, etc.). Its not that I don't love my sons name becaue I do but what are your thoughts? If you were to name your son today would you give him a "spiritual" or "secular" name and does the name really have to have a significance to you or would you just pick something you like?
Well, thats it for now. I have to go because Lindsey Lohan is about to be on SNL in a few minutes.

I once was lost but now I blog

2005-05-20T13:05:00.001-07:00

I had reached a new level of despair. It wasn't that I was depressed, angry, or scared. I was indifferent. I would search the web aimlessly. I was hopeless, without a blog in the world. But alas, I was not left in my sorrow.
It was a day just like any other day. I woke up, went to work, came home, and meandered my way through the world wide web disgusted with my vapid pursuits. In an atempt to free myself from this banality I called my brother to see what he was up to. We talked for about an hour or so about this and that and in his voice I could hear a calm assurance the likes of which I had never known. It was then that he told me of the transformation that had taken place in his life. He, like many others I have heard of, had a blog. I rejected him at first, assuming (incorrectly) that all bloggers judge those who do not blog. But he continued to gently intice me as he demonstrated a zeal and zest for using the internet that became infectiously appealing. He suggested that I visit his blog and he explained how easy the entire process of blogging is. He told me that all I had to do was simply read the description of a blogger on the website and I would be a blogger for the rest of my life. Even if I never wrote a blog myself or showed any evidence of being a blogger I would always be one because I had read the instructions. And so I read those intructions on blogging.
Now I have grown up in a world that is saturated with blogs and I could probably tell you everything there is to know about blogging from an intellectual standpoint, but I had never personally experienced blogging. And so now here I find myself stepping out into a world of uncertainty, joing a fraternal world of which I know so little. The world of blogging.