Merry Christmas

To all my loyal readers: I wish you a very Merry Christmas. And for those of you who occasionally wander by who or came here by mistake, or Googled your way here, or clicked a link without knowing what it would get you, or who just got here through random blog-surfing: I wish all of you a very Merry Christmas, too!

The family will be assembling soon. Both my children will be spending Christmas Day with their in-laws, then coming here afterward. Cheryl's parents and her sister are already here. Her brother and his family arrive Tuesday; Caren and Maizie [without Jason :-( ] will arrive Wednesday; Alan and Sheila will come in Thursday. Saturday will be the family Christmas. In all, we expect 14 houseguests. With this being Maizie's first Christmas and with Maizie being the first grandchild, I anticipate some heated arguments about who is going to hold her during the ten minutes or so that I don't want to.

Whenever your family celebrates, I hope you have a wonderful time and make many happy memories.

All Googley-Eyed

Google search terms that have brought people to this blog recently:

1. Looney Brownstown Michigan
2. Letter to Daughter in Law
3. Corn crazed ducks
4. Mark Frost (go figure!)
5. Wedding vowel renewal

Denver

I have several readers who live in the Denver area. According to my Site Meter, they've been visiting this blog (and presumably others as well) a bit more frequently in the last couple of days. So what do you do when you're snowed in? Put an extra log in the fireplace, grab a cup of hot chocolate, curl up and visit your favorite blogs.

And how much did it snow in Denver? More inches than my granddaughter is tall!

In My Lifetime...

...I have witnessed a huge shift in the relationship between the church's morality and public morality. I can identify three distinct stages:

1. The church as moral compass to society. Most people, even those who were unbelievers and irreligious, believed that the morality taught by the church was right. They believed that when and if they got their act together, they would adopt something close to the church's moral vision.

2. The church as irrelevant to society. In this stage, people looked at the church's morality as a harmless anachronism. The church's morals were certainly OK for those who chose to abide by them, but they laid no realistic claim on the lives of secular, "enlightened" people.

3. The church as the sponsor and perpetuator of immorality. Increasingly, I hear secular people who see the church as a danger to good moral values. The accusation is that the church promotes narrow-mindedness and bigotry, oppression of minorities, and infringement of important rights like free speech. There is also widespread suspicion that in addition to being bigots, most church people are also hypocrites who secretly practice the very things they condemn.

If my observation is even partly right, how should this shift in thinking change the way churches exist and function in the world?

Corn-Crazed Ducks

The gas station next to our church sells the Woods-N-Water News, which calls itself "Michigan's Premier Outdoor Publication." Like most magazines, its cover is filled with teaser headlines intended to persuade browsers fork over $3 for the whole issue. I resisted the temptation, even with teasers like (and I am not making these up) "The Estrous Doe," and "The Timing of the Rut." But the December issue got me with "Corn Crazed Ducks." Yep, I'm $3 poorer now.

I opened the News in eager anticipation of learning that corn is some kind of duck aphrodisiac, or at least duck cocaine. I had visions of ducks hopped up on corn knocking over their local 7-11s at 3 a.m., or pulling loony antics that would make that AFLAC character look lame. At the very least, I envisioned a circle of ducks sitting around late at night in a dorm room, eating popcorn, telling stupid jokes, and just quacking up.

No such luck. Turns out, the headline writers for the News are significantly more creative than their article writers. I read the whole corn and duck article, waking up periodically to check the date. The simple truth is that ducks are attracted to flooded corn fields (although "stubble corn ranks very high too"). Corn doesn't make ducks crazy, except in the sense of inviting them to hang out in a place where the readers of Michigan's Premier Outdoor Publication can end their sad little duck lives.

This is not to say that I'm disappointed in my $3 investment. There were plenty of other fascinating articles, such as "Pre-Ice Holiday Crappie." I'd really never thought of it before, but y'know, nothing says, "Happy Holidays" quite like pre-ice crappie. And there were convicting, consciousness-raising peices like, "Must we bait to achieve an adequate deer harvest?" There was a well-reasoned article that showed how getting separated from your boat without a life jacket can lead to death. Right now, I'm guffawing my way through "More Hilarious U.P. Stories." Just an excerpt: "One local old-timer quipped, 'I think those bucks unscrewed their horns after the first day and hid them under a stump. All I see is does!'" (I think the humor here is that the word "does," in addition to being the plural form of the term for female deer, is also the present active particulate gerrymander of the verb, "to do." Example: "I does see does.")

So, will I continue to purchase the Woods-N-Water News? Probably not, but if anyone wants to give me a gift subscription for Christmas, that would just be ducky.

Tired of Preachers

A snippet of a real conversation with two married couples, of which all four individuals are PKs (preacher's kids):

"I'm so tired of listening to preachers. It seems that they're just talking because they're supposed to and because they're good at it. It would be different if I really felt that they had spent a lot of time praying about their message and seeking a word from God. Of course, I can't judge whether they do or not, but most of the time, it just doesn't sound like they do."

You too?

Forgive me!

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last post. I have no excuses except:

1. Moving into a new house.
2. Getting old condo ready to rent (painting, repairing, cleaning).
3. Trying to sell an airplane.
4. Figuring out how to get furniture from Texas and Arkansas to the new house.
5. A couple of crises involving people I love dearly.
6. Brother-in-law with cancer.
7. Sister-in-law with cancer.
8. Mother-in-law with leukemia, requiring wife to be in Lansing more than she's at home.
9. Mother-in-law and father-in-law moving in with us soon.
10. All above-mentioned relatives coming for Christmas, along with assorted other relatives.

Really, I don't mean to whine. If any of you are left reading this blog, I do have some posts forming in my brain. Stay tuned; as soon as I can, I'll get around to important topics like:

1. Corn crazed ducks.
2. Loss, grief and healing.
3. The church and public morality.
4. How when you're too busy to blog, you're also too busy to exercise and your weight balloons up to unheard-of levels and it's almost Christmas and people will be shoving sweets in front of you and you'll try to be social and your weight will continue to balloon and then your clothes won't fit, not that I'm whining.
5. Depression.
6. Did I mention corn crazed ducks?

A Very Special Day!

Sunday, November 19, 2006, is WORLD TOILET DAY, so decreed by the World Toilet Organization (no, really). For those of you who do not instinctively recognize the need for this special day, here's a nugget from the WTO website:

The purpose of having this day is to have people in all countries to take action, increase awareness of toilet user’s right to a better toilet environment, and to demand for it from toilet owners. As such, it is also the toilet user’s duty to contribute towards its maintenance, cleanliness and hygiene. The public marks the day to practice toilet etiquette, the restroom community-at-large celebrates with a new declaration for the forthcoming year.

So, let's all get ready to practice that restroom etiquette and celebrate the most wonderful day of the year! It makes me proud to be a member of the restroom community-at-large.

Quick Update

Haven't posted in quite a while. Some of you have noticed and have been bugging me. Glad you missed my posts. I'll write something witty, deep, and challenging later. For now...

We bought a new house (at right). The condo was too small to be a "grandma house." Moving in Saturday.

Evidently my body scheduled a couple of days off without giving me advance notice. Spent a couple of nights in the hospital last week with rapid heart beat (atrial flutter, for you medical junkies). I'm better now.




The plane is for sale. Why? See house (above). It comes complete with a whopping mortgage. Grandbaby trumps hobby.

Good News at Lakewood

One of the joys of traveling is getting to visit other churches. Sunday, we attended the Lakewood Church of Christ. Lakewood is the Denver suburb where my daughter and son-in-law live. They are members of the Littleton Church, which is a wonderful congregation. But, with daughter and granddaughter in the hospital following the latter's birth, we decided to go someplace close.

We were uplifted and encouraged by our experience at Lakewood. Currently, they are doing a 40X40 prayer project. They have purchased the names and addresses of individuals who live in their area. Church members have committed themselves to pray for 40 people they do not know for 40 days straight. Each week, there is a different theme for the prayers that are being said. This week, it is "healing;" Reg Cox, the minister of the Word, delivered a wonderful message on praying for healing. Lakewood members will be praying for the physical, emotional, and spiritual healing of strangers who live in their community. At the end of the 40 days, each member will write a letter of encouragement to the 40 people for whom he or she has been praying. I believe God will provide some amazing (and humbling) answers to these prayers.

The teens at Lakewood set up a wonderful prayer room for members to use during the 40 days. It has various stations with appropriate decor to help people experience the various moods of prayer. They have posted hours through the week for people to come in and use the prayer room. It's great to see teens leading a congregation in spiritual disciplines.

Worshiping with the Lakewood church was a tremendous encouragement to me. My mind is full of ministry ideas and insights from just one short visit. May God bless the Lakewood church!

A-Maizie-ng!

At last. I am officially a grandpa! Maizie Jane George was born at 7:14 a.m., Friday, October 20, 2006. She weighed in at 8 lbs., 11 oz., and was 20 inches long. We are ecstatic. Her Mom and Dad are doing great. And Maizie is gorgeous.

Time for Good News!

There probably won't be any more posts on this blog for a while. We're leaving today to drive to Denver. Twenty-two hours of driving spread out over two days leaves little time to tend to a blog. And when we get to Denver, we'll be tired and then we'll be very busy. So this is my last post until...

...my granddaughter is born! They're planning to induce labor on Tuesday if she doesn't come before then. Believe me, I'll find a way to get to an internet connection and spread the word.

We've had an overload of good news lately: our son Alan got married, we're buying a new house, and the Tigers are going to the World Series. But right now, the spotlight is on Caren and the arrival of her daughter. I can hardly wait!

An Open Letter to My Daughter-in-Law

The day you married my son was one of the most memorable days of my life. I am now a father-in-law (again). I want you to know the guiding principles I will strive to follow:

After Jesus Christ, you are #1 in my son's life. We raised our son. We invested thousands of hours raising him and thousands of dollars educating him. He's been our son for 33 years. He's been your husband for a month. None of this matters. You have first claim on him. He owes his first allegience to you and we respect and honor that fact.

You are part of our family. We value you because you are a wonderful person, not just because you married our son. We would make any sacrifice for you that we would make for our own children. We will rejoice in your accomplishments just as much as we would for the successes of our own kids.

Our son is now a part of your family. The two of you are welcome in our home any time, and any holidays you choose to spend with us will be times of special joy. But we know that you will be spending time with your family too. We will respect your decisions about holidays and visits with both families.

We don't want to raise any more children. Therefore, it is not up to us to decide if or when you should have children. We will live full and blessed lives either way. We will not put any pressure on you (even in the form of subtle hints) about having kids. Of course if you do choose to have children, you know we will love them dearly. But if you choose not to, please know that you will not be loved or valued any less.

You and our son are both adults. If you want our advice, please ask. If you don't, we'll shut up, except in the unlikely event that someone's life or safety is in danger. We haven't lived our lives exactly as our parents envisioned them; you won't always conform to our expectations either. But we believe that you will often exceed our expectations in ways that surprise and delight us.

Finally, if you ever need money... ask your parents (just kidding). We love you!

Thankful for Halloween

Theological misgivings aside, you have to be thankful for Halloween. If not for Halloween, the stores woud put up all their gaudy Christmas decorations the day after Labor Day.

Last year, at the annual Scaraoke costume party I attend, I wore a T-shirt emblazoned with a large letter "E". My wife's shirt bore a picture of a paper clip. I was E-male and she was an attachment (and if you know her, you can imagine how excited she was about playing that role).

But I need an idea for this year. What creative costume ideas do you have? What was your favorite or most creative costume?

The Cory Lidle Tragedy

Whenever there's a high-profile airplane crash, dozens of concerned friends and family members call to tell me that small planes are proven death traps. The aviation community grieves the loss of Cory Lidle, as does his family and baseball fans everywhere. But here's one pilot's view.

First, let's back off the hysteria. No mode of transportation is completely safe. My guess is that at least a dozen cars a month run into buildings somewhere in America; people panic and hit the gas instead of the brake, they're going too fast for the conditions, they're distracted, etc. The same kinds of things can happen to pilots too.

Lidle was a relatively inexperienced pilot. New automobile drivers are involved in a disproportionate number of accidents; so are new pilots. He was flying a fine but rather sophisticated plane, the Cirrus SR22. There's a saying among pilots: "A fool and his money are soon flying more airplane than he can handle." It's too soon to know if that applies to Lidle, but it was a factor in the John F. Kennedy Jr. crash a few years back.

Lidle was engaged in low-altitude maneuvering flight, which is the most dangerous phase of flight. It demands special attention to detail. It sounds like he was doing some sightseeing, which by definition is distracting. When you're flying low and slow and get distracted, things can go south pretty quickly. From the early reports, Lidle was banking when the accident happened. At high bank angles, the airspeed at which the wings lose lift increases. If you're not paying attention, you can easily fall below critical airspeed. When that happens in a steep bank, a spin is likely. The SR22 has great spin-recovery characteristics, but it often takes 1,000 feet of altitude (and no tall buildings in the way) to pull out of one. Is that what happened to Lidle? It's way too early to tell, but that's where my best guess is for now.

Before his death, Lidle assured his family and friends that flying was perfectly safe. Obviously, he was as wrong. But so would be anyone who says that driving a car is perfectly safe. Like drivers however, there is much that pilots can do maximize their safety factor, like knowing their personal limitations and staying within them, allowing for a generous margin of error in all phases of flight, avoiding high-workload or distracting situations, etc.

Cory Lidle's death: a tragic accident. Given the right conditions, it could happen to any pilot. Just like a tragic car accident could happen to any driver. Will it make me a more careful pilot? Absolutely. Will it keep me from flying? Absolutely not.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

The celebrated and overpaid New York Yankees are no more. The Detroit Tigers will face Oakland for the American League championship. Remember these names: Bonderman, Verlander, Granderson, Zumaya... shall I go on? And when the Tigers come to your town, whether it be Oakland, San Diego, St. Louis, Los Angeles or (especially) New York, you will respect these guys.

More Wedding Vowels

Meanderings still gets a few hits from people who Google "wedding vowel renewal." But the traffic's dropped off a lot since the initial surge. Since this is just about this blog's only claim to recognition in the broader world, we can't let this decline continue. Surely everyone knows that Google orders results according to the frequency with which they are clicked. So, here's what I need from you, my loyal readers (both of you). Click this link, which will put the proper search terms into Google, then when the results appear, scroll down to Meanderings and click on it. As of this writing, it's the first result on the second page. If enough of you do this, we'll get Meanderings back onto the first page of results, and my site counter will go crazy with meaningless hits.

Amish-olatry?

OK, I'm probably going to get blasted for this, but here goes anyway. Our hearts are broken by the recent tragedy in Amish country. And yes, we admire the Amish for their gentle demonstration of forgiveness. But the way some of my Gen-X blogmates tell it, the Amish pretty much have a direct line to God. These last few days, I've read that because the Amish live in isolated communities untainted by the modern world, they have a much deeper insight into the ways of God than the rest of the Christian fellowship. Oh really? Sure, there are some aspects of Amish life that resonate with the postmodern mind: things like withdrawal from the superficiality of modern society, distrust of technology, disenchantment with politics, commitment to pacifism, strong sense of community and the courage to stand alone on one's traditions, however unpopular they might be.

But let's get real. If just a few days ago someone had suggested that all Christians adopt the male-dominant gender roles of the Amish, you know the ridicule that would have come from those same postmoderns. "Well, that's just what you'd expect," they would have cried, "from a group that hides in insular communities, is mired in the horse-and-buggy era, and is composed entirely of people with eighth-grade educations." I don't think too many of them ever would have advocated leadership-roles-for-males-only based on the idea that the Amish hear God more clearly than the rest of us.

Here's the truth: like many Christian groups, the Amish have much to teach us. But like all Christian groups (including our own), they have their blind spots. Here's one: my friend Bill Reist is descended from Hans Reist, who had a famous falling out with Jacob Amman in 1693. The Mennonites trace their history to Reist's faction, the Amish to Amman. The Reist-Amman rift was so bitter that it nearly came to physical blows a few times (and this between two "peace" groups). It remains historically one of the most acromonious and uncharitable divisions ever between Christian camps. Amman was upset with Reist because he wasn't vigorous enough in excommunicating folk over petty doctrinal differences. As a result, even today I think most of us would find Amman's spiritual heirs to be just a tad too rigid, inflexible, and legalistic.

So, let's pray for the Amish in their time of sorrow. And let's be edified by their spirit of peace and forbearance. But let's not prop up our favorite doctrines and biases by idolizing a group that has no more claim to a monopoly on God than anyone else.

And the Point Would Be?

Yesterday, a man in Japan recited the value of the mathematical constant pi to 100,000 decimal places--from memory. Took him sixteen hours, including bathroom breaks. Read all about it here. All righty, then.

Not Funny

When I heard the news yesterday about the horrific killings at an Amish school in Pennsylvania, a stupid little voice--I call it my "inner stand-up comedian"--intruded into my thoughts. "Hey, did you hear the one about the Amish drive-by shooting?" it asked, unaware of how embarassingly inappropriate that thought was. Of course, I'm not going to tell you the joke. It's not funny any more. But it was funny at one time. Absurdity is the foundation for humor. And up until yesterday, the mere juxtaposition of the word "Amish" with the phrase "drive-by shooting" was absurd. No group has worked harder than the Amish to insulate themselves from the stresses of the modern world that cause unstable people to snap and go berserk with guns. No group has developed a more tightly-knit, supportive, and protective social network. Evidently no amount of isolation, insulation, or protection can guarantee absolute safety, even for the Amish. Unfortunately for them, they've been forced to join "the modern world," in the ugliest way possible. Let us who are believers join them in their world of simple trust in God as we pray for their healing.

Moving Mother

I haven't been tending to the blog much lately; other priorities have intruded. One of the big ones for me was moving my mother into an assisted-living facility for Alzheimer's patients. My friend Jeff and I drove to Nashville, Arkansas, last Sunday. From there, Jeff followed me to Houston in a U-Haul truck loaded with Mom's bedroom furniture. We unloaded Tuesday morning, then took off for home, arriving late Wednesday night. We drove over three thousand miles in eighty hours (and somewhere in those 80 hours, we ate slept, moved furniture, and visited with my sister and my Mom)!

Mom can't live on her own any more. The assisted-living place is where she needs to be. But moving her there means that she has been uprooted from a community where she has lived for 40 years--half her life. She's away from her church, her neighbors, her friends, and a wonderfully familiar little town. Now, she lives in a nice room in a pleasant facility among total strangers in a huge and confusing metropolitan area. That can't be helpful for an Alzheimer's patient who's struggling to maintain some semblence of a grip on reality. My head tells me that for her safety's sake, we made the right choice. But my heart hurts for what we've done to her. No matter how we try to explain the reasons--she has to be near one of her children, and that meant either Houston or Detroit--she just wants to "go home."

When your kids are little, sometimes you have to subject them to pain for their own good. I was never at peace with the look of betrayal on Alan and Caren's faces when they were getting shots at the doctor's office. There was no way to explain to them why I was allowing them to be hurt. And now we've inflicted a great hurt on Mom, and there's no way to explain it to her so that she can understand. My prayer is that somewhere amid all the blocked and miswired synapses, there's still the understanding that we love her, even when we make painful choices.

God! Politics! Christians! Money!

OK, here's the deal. The longest thread on my blog runs to a total of nine comments, and I think two of them were mine. That's just unacceptable. However, I've noticed that when Greg Kendall-Ball and Mike Cope post anything about God and politics or about Christians and wealth, the resulting threads run to 100+ comments. Although reading those long threads wears me out--and honestly if the original thoughts contained therein were converted to hair, you couldn't make a wig for a grape--the point here is about amassing sheer numbers of comments to my blog. So, please reread the headline of this post, and let's get ready to rumble!

A slightly more serious afterthought: could it be that these topics generate so much heated discussion because they are sore points about which we feel threatened by the radical claims of the gospel? Just asking.

Farewell KB.net

Greg Kendall-Ball, caretaker of kendallball.net has decided to hang up his spurs and exit the blogosphere. His blog was one of the most widely visited sites among members of the churches of Christ (second only to Mike Cope's blog according to my own unscientific survey). Greg attracted a posse of Gen-X hot-shots, many of them grad students in theology, some of them heretics. Greg is a staunch pacifist in the heart of the reddest of all Red States. He was never afraid to stir the pot or to address issues that no one else wanted to touch. What was refreshing about KB.net was that it was a place where everything was open to question. Sacred cows were gored regularly and with glee. I found much to disagree with, but also found a lot that challenged the ruts in which my thinking had become mired. I came to appreciate the regular posters there as a group who were passionate about being authentic in their faith. Although Greg is quite serious about his faith and his politics, he never took himself too seriously. KB.net was always a fun place to hang out. His unique forum will be missed.

On Loving Enemies

There was an op-ed piece in today's USA Today entitled "A Christian vew of war," written by Oliver "Buzz" Thomas. An excerpt:

In ancient times, particular gods were associated with particular nations. "Tribal deities," we call them. Today we know better. God is not the mascot of Republicans, Democrats, or for that matter, Americans. God transcends all national and political affiliations. His precinct is the universe.

Thomas begins the piece by referring to the "Pray for our troops" bumper stickers. I understand the sentiment behind that sticker, and it's cousin, "We support our troops." It dates back to the time of the Vietnam conflict, when those who opposed the war were hostile and often abusive toward those who served in the military. Today's anti-war activists have generally been very careful to state that they support our troops, even while they disagree with the decisions that sent them into harm's way. It may be a difficult distinction, but it's one I'm glad they are making.

I've certainly seen and heard of less charitable stickers. A contributor to Mike Cope's blog reported seeing a bumper sticker on a car that read, "Osama: God may forgive you. We will not," next to a "Jesus lives" sticker. I mentioned these in my sermon yesterday and afterward, a lady told me of a t-shirt she had seen: "Osama: it's up to God to forgive you. Our job is to arrange the meeting." Next to those, I certainly appreciate the much more gracious tone of "we support our troops" and "pray for our troops."

However, Buzz Thomas says Jesus would have gone farther: "If he had money for a car and didn't give it all away to the hookers and the homeless before he got to the used-car lot, I'm pretty sure that his bumper sticker would say 'pray for our enemies.'" Sobering thought. Even as we oppose evil in whatever ways we feel we must, Jesus reminds us to temper our fear and hostility by remembering to lift our enemies up in prayer, to love them as completely as our heavenly Father does. God has a stake in curbing the violence of evil people; but God's heart is filled with love--often, wounded love--for even the most wayward of his children. God, give me the heart to love my enemies as You do.

Flying on 9/11

I have successfully resisted the urge to join every other blogger on the planet and talk about where I was and what I was doing on 9/11/01. Let me talk instead about what happened to me on 9/11/06.

I was due in Ashland, Ohio, at 10 a.m. for a Pastors of Excellence retreat. The night before, I checked the weather, and it looked like I would not be able to fly myself there (I am not instrument rated, and the forecast was for low ceilings and visibility). I was bummed, because it's a three-hour car trip, but only 45 minutes across Lake Erie in the plane. However, when the alarm went off at 5:30, I rechecked the weather and discovered that conditions were much better than forecast. So, after going back to bed for an hour, I flew.

Everything was fine until I was about halfway across the lake. I noticed that the oil pressure was well below the normal operating range; in fact, it was just above the red line. I landed at Sandusky, Ohio, the first airport on the far side of the lake. My stomach was tied in knots. The only two possibilities I could think of were "bad oil pump" and "catastrophic engine damage." One is expensive; the other is disastrous. After three tense hours with a mechanic named Mark, the problem was diagnosed as "bad oil pressure gauge." Whew!

I took off from Sandusky around 12:30 for the 20-minute flight down to Ashland. Nearing my destination, I announced my intentions on the advisory frequency (Ashland does not have a control tower). Immediately, a voice crackled in my headset: "Aircraft calling Ashland, be advised the Ashland airport is closed until further notice." Before long, I was over the airport and was able to see why. There was a disabled aircraft blocking their only runway. I had to land at Mansfield and call for a ride from there back to Ashland.

I'm not superstitious at all, but I think that's the last time I fly on 9/11.

Spiritual Reinforcements Needed

If you have the time, please read this post in its entirety and join me in prayer for a friend and brother, Marc Neal. I am a participant in Pastors of Excellence, a wonderful ministry put on by Ashland Theological Seminary. Eighty of us come together for six three-day retreats over the course of two years for spiritual renewal and personal growth. Marc is the mentor for the group of six ministers of which I am a part. He is pastor of the Jerusalem Missionary Baptist Church in Akron, OH.

Marc didn't make it to our most recent retreat, Monday through Wednesday of this week. Last Friday, a 33-year-old member of his church collapsed at the dinner table and died. He had no previous medical history and no history of drug or alcohol abuse. The funeral was Monday, and you can imagine how difficult it must have been for Marc to bring comfort to the family.

The Saturday before the funeral, Marc got a call from Kelvin, a 30-year-old member of his church. Kelvin is an employee at Marc's church--he handles the web site and other technical matters--but Marc counts him a close friend and confidant. Kelvin told Marc that he had tripped while carrying his month-old daughter and fallen on her, injuring her badly enough that she had to be hospitalized.

As Marc was driving to the cemetary after the funeral on Monday, Kelvin called him on his cell phone, distraught. Kelvin confessed that he had not fallen on his daughter; he had lost his temper with her and had thrown her, not once but twice. Kelvin was covered with guilt and remorse and told Marc that he was going to go away for a while. He called several of his relatives and told him the same thing. Marc left the cemetary and went in search of Kelvin. Before he found him, Kelvin took his life by jumping off a bridge. Marc was given the task of informing the family. In the aftermath, protective services is threatening to take the baby from its mother, a woman who is reeling from the news that her baby was abused and her husband his killed himself.

If you've stayed with me this far, I'm asking you to join with me in praying for Marc, these two families, and the Jerusalem Baptist church. If ever there was a time to call in all available spiritual reinforcements, this is it!

Minor E-noyances

1. Sweet, sappy, way-too-long, meant-to-be-inspirational forwarded emails that end with "if you don't forward this to 20 people, including the one who sent it to you, that proves you don't care."


2. Calling a company, getting their automated phone system, which asks you to enter your sixteen digit account number followed by the pound sign, then your five-digit zip code, then the last four digits of your Social Security number, then when a human gets on the line, having him or her ask for all the same information.


3. Automated phone systems that try too hard to sound human, especially ones that say, "You may say your response at any time; I don't mind being interrupted." It's a machine, for pity's sake! I prefer machines to sound like machines--monotone and metallic.


4. People who forward jokes to me on email (most of which I've heard before and many of which I don't take time to read), then ask me three weeks later, "did you get that email I sent you?"


5. When someone sends me a serious email, and I decide to wait to respond until I can collect my thoughts, then I forget all about it until the person asks, "did you get that email I sent you?" How embarrassing!

The Wedding!

Saturday was an exciting day for the Frost family. We witnessed the most touching ceremony uniting in marriage our son Alan with Sheila Neely. (It was my honor to be the "officiant" of the wedding.) Then, we celebrated the rest of the night with a wonderful collection of family and friends. Maybe I'll have more to say later about the many beautiful aspects of the wedding, but for now, a few pictures:




Alan eagerly waiting for his beautiful bride to arrive. Proud father of groom is to the left.







Sheila on her way to meet her groom.







"You may kiss the bride!"



In addtion to Alan and Sheila, there were seven other couples in attendance whose weddings I had performed. What an honor to be with all of them again!

Quiet and Pirates

Things have been pretty quiet on this blog, and they're about to become more quiet. My daughter Caren and her husband Jason are in town for an all-too-rare visit. We are all leaving for Chicago tomorrow for the wedding of Sheila Neely and my son Alan. I love all of you who read this blog, but not as much as I love spending time with my kids. So, if I have a chance to post over the next few days, I will. If not, check back early next week and I'll tell you about the most amazing wedding ever.

We saw Pirates of the Carribbean: Dead Man's Chest last night. You know that you're not enjoying a movie when you're praying, "Please don't let there be another plot twist, because that will lengthen this turkey another twenty minutes, minimum." And to think: to get into the theater to see Pirates, we had to walk right past the theater showing Snakes on a Plane. What a blown opportunity!

Of Specks and Logs and Coffee Pots

The following Post-it^® note recently appeared on the coffee maker in the church kitchen:

TO THE PERSONS MAKING COFFEE: IF YOU MAKE COFFEE, YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR TURNING OFF THE COFFEE MAKER. PLEASE REMEMBER TO IT OFF.

Being a smart aleck, I contemplated placing another note underneath it:

TO THE PERSONS PUTTING NOTES ON THE COFFEE MAKER: IF YOU WRITE NOTES, YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR COMMUNICATING CLEARLY. PLEASE REMEMBER TO ALL THE WORDS YOU INTENDED TO SAY.

I didn't post it (well, except for here on the internet for billions of people to see). It just illustrates again how easy it is to remind others of their oversights, while minimizing our own.

P.S. - I'm not the one who left the coffee maker on. At least I'm pretty sure I didn't. I think I remembered to turn it off...didn't I?

The Battle Hymn of...Michigan?

Most schoolkids in Michigan know that Michigan, My Michigan is our unofficial state song. It's sung to the tune of O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, which also happens to be the tune for Maryland, My Maryland and Florida, My Florida (OK, Maryland was first; Michigan and Florida are copycats). The first verse, which is the only one anyone remembers, goes thus:

Home of my heart, I sing of thee!
Michigan, My Michigan,
Thy lake-bound shores I long to see,
Michigan, my Michigan.
From Saginaw’s tall whispering pines
To Lake Superior’s farthest mines,
Fair in the light of memory shines
Michigan, my Michigan.

The original version, written by Winifred Lee Brent in 1862, drones on for nine more tedious verses. In them Brent, the wife of a Civil War surgeon, speaks of the glorious, if bloody, victories won by Michigan's troops over the enemies of freedom and equality. Truth be told, Maryland, My Maryland was written a year earlier and shamelessly glorified the Confederate cause, so Brent probably penned her song to even the "score" (pardon the pun).

With our state song so poignantly proclaiming our willingness to shed blood for such a righteous cause, you would expect modern-day Michigan to be a mecca of racial harmony. Instead, white flight over the past 40 years has made Detroit the country's blackest major city and rendered Southeast Michigan the most racially-segregated metropolitan area in the nation.

Maybe we need a final verse that reflects current reality:

We whipped the Rebs' butts all day long,
Michigan, My Michigan.
'Cause we were right and they were wrong.
Michigan, My Michigan.
We put an end to slavery,
But not to our own bigotry.
We've moved out of Detroit city
In Michigan, My Michigan.

If Only It Were This Easy!

Headline: Prohibitively High Rocket-Fuel Prices Bring Mideast Crisis To Standstill

Out or In?

While riding my bike today at Lake Erie Metropark, I saw a group of teens at the beach volleyball court. They weren't playing volleyball. Their body language indicated an argument in progress. As I pedaled past, one of the kids yelled out, "Hey, mister! That was out, wasn't it?" By this time, I was well beyond the court, but I turned and yelled over my shoulder, "No, it was definitely in!" I couldn't understand the words of his reply, but the tone of his voice indicated that my opinion wasn't really appreciated. Of course, neither his question nor my reply were meant to be taken seriously. To have the right to call balls in or out, I would have had to stop, get off my bike and get sand in my shoes. I would have had to have gotten involved in the game.

As a Christian, I believe that there are moral boundaries that are just about as absolute as the lines on a volleyball court. And as a preacher, I must faithfully proclaim what is "in" and what is "out" according to God's word. But I wonder how often I do that while I'm zooming past the field of play, completely uninvolved in the action or in the lives of the players. And I wonder how often my pronouncements seem to my hearers to be no more relevant than my on-the-fly "call" on the volleyball court. You see, to have meaningful input into peoples' lives, you have to be willing to stop, get some sand in your shoes and get right in the middle of their struggles. Jesus had a few choice words for those who presumed to judge others from a distance without caring enough to be involved in their struggles: "Woe to the teachers of the law and the Pharisees! They tie up heavy loads and put them on men's shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them." (Matthew 23:4) Twice in his ministry, in the face of overzealous self-appointed referees, Jesus quoted the words of the prophet Hosea: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

I believe that I am called to stand for biblical truth and morality. But I believe the call of Jesus goes way beyond merely playing referee as I cruise on down the road. I recall the time the Pharisees brought a woman caught in adultery to Jesus. "Hey mister," they asked, "she's 'out,' isn't she?" Jesus stopped, got right in the middle of the action--right down in the sand--and identified with her hurt, her guilt and her shame. Then, he called all of her accusers "out" and there was no arguing his call. "Who is it who calls you 'out'?" Jesus asked. And there wasn't anyone left. In my ministry, I want not so much to call people "out" as to call them "in" to the love of a merciful and gracious Savior.

Pain and Joy

Last week, we were in Santa Monica, California to attend a memorial gathering for our foster son, Bruce Shaffer (pictured at right), who took his life a year ago. I'm glad we went. Maybe you think that such a trip would be filled with pain and sorrow. Yes, there were tears. Bruce's suicide was just the latest in a life puncuated by tragic events. We mourned for him and grieved over our mutual loss. But there were smiles and laughter and lots of love and warmth too. In between the tragic events of Bruce's life, there were times of great joy. All of us who had a part in his life were able to share our joy at having known him.

All children are unique mixtures of pain and joy. They are conceived in joy and born through pain. You cannot be a parent without signing up for hurt, worry, conflict, heartache and grief. But it's not all pain; there are some pretty incredible joys embedded in the experience as well. We paid a heavy price for bringing Bruce into our lives. He hurt Cheryl and me. He hurt our biological children. He cost us dearly, both financially and emotionally. At the memorial gathering, there were lots of others who had paid dearly for their emotional investment in Bruce. But the overriding tone of the gathering was neither bitterness nor outrage. Was it because the joy Bruce brought us was so much greater than the pain? I can't say that for sure; I don't know how to weigh such things. I do know that we all owned and embraced both the pain and the joy, and God made it into a good--and healing--thing.

I'm leaving tomorrow for a quick trip to Cincinnati to be reunited with Tina Sherman, another of our foster kids. Tina's youngest sister, Jackie was killed in a tragic auto accident last week, and I'll be conducting the funeral. It will be good to be with Tina and her family again. But my heart breaks for their loss. Pain and joy, mixed together once again.

Hard Questions

Don't be afraid to ask the hardest questions that rise up in your soul. But don't expect answers. Expect rather to experience God.

--Larry Crabb

We tend to avoid the toughest questions of life. We're scared of them. What if we ask a hard question, a question that challenges the core of our faith, and find no answer? What will happen to our faith then? We conclude that maybe it's best not to ask.

The genius of the book of Job in the Old Testament is that it gives us permission--even encourages us--to ask the very toughest questions. Job did, in the face of three friends who told him that such questions must never be asked. At the end of the story, God commends Job and scolds the three friends for misrepresenting Him. And Job, who receives no answers, has a deeper encounter with God than he ever thought possible.

So go ahead. Take your toughest questions to God. Wrestle with them; wrestle with Him. Voice your deepest doubts and your bitterest complaints. Fearlessly ask...

1. Are you really and truly there, or are you something people made up?
2. Why do you answer some prayers but not others?
3. Why do good people suffer and die well before it seems they should?
4. Why do you bless people who pay no attention to you, while while I face obstacle after obstacle with no apparent relief?
5. Why is my marriage falling apart despite my best efforts to save it?
6. Why have I been hurt by the very people who were supposed to love me the most?

The more frequently and honestly you bring these questions before God, the more richly you will experience the reality of God. Answers? You may get some; you may not get any. But I'll take God's presence--no matter how messy--over a neatly-wrapped package of answers any day!

What Do You Do With An Hour?

The "worship wars" that churches have fought over the past few years have largely missed the point. Periodically, we call a truce in the wars long enough to observe that the things we're fighting about--musical styles, proper dress, multi-media technology, and hands (clapping, raising, etc.)--are not the central issue. Then we go back to fighting over those very issues. Sigh!

The point is that we should have grateful hearts that are turned toward God, not just for an hour on Sunday, but 24/7. Although the hour on Sunday was never intended to be our complete worship for the week, what we do during that hour is important. During that time, we encourage each other to carry an attitude of praise toward God into all the other activities of the week. The message from each Sunday morning should be, "worship God through your work; praise God through your family life; give honor to him by sniffing out His ways in the ordinary events of life and then joining Him there; strive to 'be Jesus' to every person you meet this week." I think that's the point of oft-quoted "go to church" passage, Hebrews 10:24-25.

So here's the question: what do we do during that one hour together on Sunday? How do we structure that time so that we are encouraged to take our faith to the streets Monday through Saturday? How do we best remind each other of who we are and whose we are? How does that hour become a time to which we all eagerly look forward and then a launch-pad for Kingdom activity?

Things Discovered While Looking Up Other Stuff #2

1. Alan Smithee, one of the most prolific directors in Hollywood, doesn't exist. When a director wants to disassociate himself from a film because creative control has been taken away from him, he can petition the Director's Guild of America to have the fictitious name "Alan Smithee" listed as the director in the credits.



2. The lyrics to the "Wiener Song" (on the occasion of the 70th birthday of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile^®, July 18, 2006):
       I know a wiener man; he owns a wiener stand
       He sells most everything from hot dogs to clams
       And in my later life I'll be his wiener wife
       Hot dog I love that wiener man



3. While Tagamet^® is a popular drug for treating heartburn and ulcers, Tagametsa is a town in Estonia that hosted the International Boy Scout/Girl Guide Jamboree in 2001.



4. The hip-hop group Black Eyed Peas is so named because, in the words of group founder will.i.am, "Black Eyed Peas are food for the soul." Meanwhile, down in southern Arkansas and northern Louisiana, the folks prefer purplehull peas to black eyed peas. They look very similar, but according to the connoiseurs, purplehulls have twice the flavor. Those in the know insist that purplehull is one word, though they admit that even many seed catalogs separate it into two. Tiny Emerson, Arkansas, on the Louisiana border, is home to the annual Purplehull Pea Festival and World Championship Rotary Tiller Race.

Leanne in Finland

A member of our church, Leanne Sexton, went to Tampere, Finland, on a mission trip last month, then stayed for an extra month to continue the work by herself. Her walk with Jesus is awesome; she is more in tune with the movement of the Spirit than just about anyone I know.

She sends back the most amazing emails from Finland. They're more than just a description of her ministry. They're challenging, thought-provoking, and edifying in the very best sense of that word. And here's the best part: her emails are now available in a new blog, His Girl in Tampere. Even if you don't know Leanne, you'll be encouraged by reading her posts.

Dis-a-vowel

Several weeks ago, I posted a story about a wedding vow renewal ceremony at a local senior citizen center. Whoever made the sign describing the day's activities had used the word "vowel" when they obviously meant to use "vow." It tickled me, so I wrote a reflection on what a wedding vowel might be.

Well, it seems that a significant segment of the population doesn't know a vow from a vowel. I keep getting visitors who were referred here after googling the words "wedding vowel renewal." I checked it out and sure enough, when you enter those search terms, my blog is one of the top hits. (I wanted Meanderings to gain recognition, but I didn't have this in mind.) Most of the other hits are sites featuring folks talking quite seriously about renewing their vowels. There are even some sites advertising places that are perfect for vowel renewals. Does it trouble anyone else that apparently many brides and grooms have such poor a handle on what a vow is that they believe they're taking vowels? Conversely, what do they think is happening when someone says, "I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat"?

How Embarrassing!

I hate it when I make dumb mistakes in my sermons. Three weeks ago, I was commenting on the sudden appearance of hundreds of people wearing Bluetooth phone devices. I said I thought they were the the first step toward becoming the Borg in Star Wars. I was thinking Star Trek, but said Star Wars. Every Trekkie in the church took it upon themselves to correct me. I think I could have referred to Elvis as the fourth member of the trinity and caused less of a stir.

But today, I topped myself. I made reference to The Passion of the Christ as a Mel Brooks film! What was supposed to be a serious moment in my sermon became decidedly less so. I have to admit, just imagining what The Passion of the Christ might look like if done by Mel Brooks is absurd enough to make me giggle.

That prayer that God would keep me humble: it's working.

Frost's Generational Axiom #1

"I sense a great disturbance in the blogosphere, young Jedi."

"What is it, my master?"

"It's the baby boomers, young one. They're aging, and they seem incapable of doing it quietly."

We boomers can't do anything without making a production out of it. The prez just turned 60, prompting every reporter of similar vintage to pontificate about the aging of the boomers. Over at Preacher Mike's place, you can find three posts* (so far)--complete with personal reflections and inspiring quotations--counting down to his 50th birthday. Age-wise, I'm in between Mike and W; well OK, a tad bit closer to W, truth be known. So who am I to buck the trend? No card-carrying baby boomer would ever let a significant life event pass by without waxing introspective and loquacious (in that order), under the false assumption that a World War II vet or Gen Xer somewhere gives a hang.

To any non-boomers still reading this: you need to know that whatever we boomers do is, by definition, cool--much cooler than when previous generations had the same experience. When we had sex, it was cool. The only cool thing about our parents having sex was that we resulted. Teenage alienation and rebellion? For us that was really cool; after all, we were challenging the establishment. When our kids rebelled, it wasn't cool; they were being spoiled brats. Asset accumulation and corporate ladder-climbing also became cool, once we got comfortable with being the establishment. (And no, we didn't "sell out." It's just that Michael Douglas's "greed is good" speech in Wall Street opened up a whole new perspective for us.)

Now getting old, which used to suck bilge water, is really cool because we're the ones doing it. Boomer blog after boomer blog trumpets the marvelous perspective, peace of mind and contentment that come with advancing age, rendering wrinkles, flab and arthritis mere superficial annoyances. Well guess what, campers? It's true. I am more comfortable in my sagging, at-risk-for-melanoma skin than ever. I wouldn't trade 55 for any other age I've been so far. But let's be honest; it ain't all sweetness and light, either. There are some frustrating realities about aging.

You want to know the hardest part for me? It's facing the truth of Frost's Generational Axiom #1, which states, "Each new generation instinctively understands stuff that the older generation can grasp--if at all--only after a thorough explanation." I only recently formulated the axiom, but I've observed the principle behind it for decades. Remember Archie and Edith Bunker from All In the Family? Their perspective, which seemed so normal and right to them, would elicit groans and eye-rolls from Michael and Gloria. No matter how much Michael tried to explain things to his father-in-law, Archie couldn't see the obvious. The only thing obvious to Archie was that Michael was a Meathead. And Edith, who really wanted to understand, just didn't have enough brainpower to get it. We boomers laughed along with Michael and Gloria; we all knew older people like the Bunkers, for whom no amount of reasoning would suffice to make them to see the obvious.

But now, it's my generation that doesn't get it. And I'm not just talking X-Boxes and programmable remotes here. Turns out, our whole world view is a bit dated. Check out James Wiser's insightful description of what his generation "gets" that we boomers need to have explained to us. Consequently, now I'm getting eye-rolls from the younger generation, and I dag-nab hate it. The first time I recall it happening, my daughter was in high school. I referred to one of her friends as an Oriental girl. Caren was mortified.

"Dad," she scolded, rolling her eyes, "she's Asian!"

"Of course she is," I replied. "I occidentally misspoke." More eye rolls. And since then it's only picked up steam. Increasingly, I get those looks from younger members of my congregation. You know: the condescending, "I'm-just-humoring-you-because-I-wouldn't-know-how-to-begin-to-straighten-you-out" look. I know it well, for as a young man I bestowed it countless times on my elders.

I recently read what I thought was a very challenging book about the future of the church. When I shared it with our youth minister, his reaction was, "you didn't know this stuff? I thought it was pretty obvious."

Meathead.

*Links to Preacher Mike's countdown to 50:
Turning 50 this Year
Twenty Days and Counting
As the Day Approaches

Yes, They're for Real!

I've delayed saying this until the All-Star break, but the Detroit Tigers are for real this year! Will they win the series? Who knows? Will they even make the playoffs? They have the best record in baseball, but the second-best record belongs to the White Sox who are in the AL Central with them. And the Sox are only two games back. But, the Tigers are real enough this year that they've awakened my long-dormant baseball gene and I find myself following every game with an intensity I thought I had lost.

You see, baseball fandom is an acquired trait for me. I didn't grow up near any major league teams (Roswell, New Mexico is known for some "out of this world" things, but not baseball). It wasn't until we moved to Cincinnati in 1974 that we became fans. In Cincinnati (especially in that era), either you were a Reds fan or you had nothing to talk about with friends (if you even had friends). We really got into the Big Red Machine--Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Davey Concepcion, Ken Griffey, Sr., etc. And of course, Sparky Anderson, the best manager ever.

When we moved to the Detroit area in 1978, the Tigers were a group of has-beens, and what little glory they had was the dying glow of their 1968 come-from-behind, miraculous World Series win. But in 1979, Sparky came from the Reds to the Tigers. I immediately became a Tigers fan. Going down to Tiger stadium for a game became a favorite family activity. And our devotion was rewarded in that amazing 1984 season when the Tigers started with a 35-5 record and never looked back; they led their division from opening day to the last day of the season.

But that was 20 years ago, and after Sparky's departure the only notable thing the Tigers have done was to come within a game of setting the all-time record for most losses in a season (2003). Until this year! Baseball is fun again. The Old English D is once again a symbol of excellence, determination, skill, and perseverance.

I'm hoping that this year, I may break my jinx. I've never seen the Tigers win a game at Comerica Park (I even went to opening day this year and they lost). Even though their home record this year is not as good as their record on the road, I think my odds are pretty good. What a glorious day that will be. Now, if it just so happened that it was the seventh game of the World Series...

Mind Like a Rolodex^®

Remember the venerable Rolodex card file? It was such a wonderful little innovation for the office. Instead of index cards being packed into a drawer, they were on a wheel which could be turned to quickly get the needed information. Once you got to the right place, you could see the whole card at one glance (unlike older card files) or you could pull the card completely out.

I don't see too many rolodexes any more. I'm sure they're victims of office computerization. One little database can hold much more information than a huge Rolodex. Still, I'm sad to see them go, because my grown kids tell me that I have a mind like a Rolodex. Mention almost any topic, and my brain starts to churn. Before long, I'll come up with a joke, an anecdote, a memory, or a bit of trivia that fits the topic. My kids can even tell when the Rolodex is at work. Caren notices that I grow silent and I have a faraway look in my eyes. She pokes Alan, who makes the "thd-thd-thd" sound of cards flipping past on the wheel. When they see the twinkle in my eye that shows I've thought of something, they say, "Ding!" and sure enough, there's the joke or story.

Some ministers keep a file of sermon illustrations. I've never had one; I have my Rolodex. Not that it's a complete blessing. My Rolodex contains appropriate as well as inappropriate material. It has some funny stuff and a lot of corn. And sometimes, the topic that triggered the Rolodex search triggers another topic, which reminds me of another one, so that what eventually pops up has little or no relation to the subject at hand. Nor does the Rolodex work well on command. If someone says, "tell me a story about puppies," the Rolodex freezes in place and refuses to spit out anything puppy related until, say, 2 a.m. the following morning when I'm supposed to be asleep.

But for better or for worse, my Rolodex is a part of who I am. However, it is causing me to question my proper place in the world of blogging. When I read other people's blogs, the Rolodex is in fine form; I find myself wanting to comment on just about every post I read. But when I realize I haven't posted anything on my own blog in a while, Rolodex freeze sets in and my mind goes blank. I'm still weighing this one out, but maybe my purpose would be better served not by operating a blog, but by wandering about from blog to blog, dropping cards from the Rolodex as I go. Kind of a Johnny Appleseed of the blogosphere, if you will.

Teens at Work

This week, I am at Michigan Christian Youth Camp, participating in the first-ever "Mid-Michigan Work Camp." It's a week of Christian summer camp for teens, except that instead of horseback riding, water skiing, volleyball, and high ropes, the kids are painting houses. Each day, they pile into vans and go to homes of needy people in the Lapeer, Michigan, area and they paint. Most of the recipients are seniors who can't afford to hire the work done and who are too frail to do it themselves. I haven't worked a week of camp in six or seven years, and haven't done any other significant youth ministry in 12 or 13 years. But when my friend Jerry Brackney asked me to be a part of this, I couldn't say no.

My task this week is to speak each evening to a group of worn-out, paint-speckled teens. The theme for the week is "Extreme Makeover--Christ Edition" an obvious play on the reality show that basically tears down substandard houses and rebuilds dream homes in their places. Our theme scripture is Romans 12:1-2. The kids have been great. They listen patiently as this old guy lectures them on the finer points of being a living sacrifice. And despite being normal, goofy teens, I get the sense that they're really serious about giving it all the Lord.

Which sometimes makes me feel like a bit of a hypocrite. I'm 55 years old, and I wonder how good a handle I have on what it takes to be a living sacrifice, to allow the Spirit to do an extreme makeover on me, no holds barred, no questions asked. I'm afraid that more often than not, my life more closely resembles Aaron Tate's lyrics (below) than Romans 12:

You say you want a living sacrifice
Well I am a burnt offering
Crawling off the altar and
Back in to the fire
And with my smoke-filled lungs
I cry out for freedom
While locking and chaining myself
To my rotting desires.
And I hate the stench,
But I swallow the key,
And with it stuck in my throat,
Can you hear me? Can you hear me?

(From Coming Home, performed by Caedmon's Call)

But, like Tate, I still cry out to the Father, "I'm coming home." And my Father stands ready with the ring, robe, sandals, and fatted-calf barbecue. This week's camp is a wonderful and encouraging way-station on that journey back to the Father's love.

I'll Probably Die Without Ever Knowing...

• • The lyrics to "Hail to the Chief" (or if it even has lyrics).
• • The name of even a single character on Desparate Housewives.
• • The rules for backgammon.
• • How to ride a unicycle.
• • What red and green look like to people who aren't red-green colorblind like me.
• • Why "pro-life" and "anti-gun control" wind up together on so many political agendas.
• • Exactly where Timbuktu is.
• • The difference between up, down, top, bottom, charm, and strange quarks.

A blog you should read is Zeteo, run by my good friend and brother in the Lord, Al Petri. Al's family owns Al Petri and Sons Bicycle Center, but he is better known at our congregation as a voracious reader, a deep thinker, and a man with a servant heart. He and his wife Debby have been faithfully ministering to the homeless for the past couple of years. His blog will make you think and challenge you.

Mark Your Calendars!

Here are some festivals and celebrations around the country that you won't want to miss:

1. The Fishfly Festival in New Baltimore, Michigan. June 21-25. For those of you who don't live in the Great Lakes region, fishflies are disgusting creatures that swarm in from the lakes in droves in late spring/early summer. They don't bite or sting, but attach themselves to just about any vertical surface. Nothing quite says, "Welcome Home" like a couple of thousand of them on your front door!
   


2. The Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California. July 28-30. Including the crowning of Miss Gilroy Garlic.
   


3. The Moose Dropping Festival in Talkeetna, Alaska. July 9-10. No, they don't drop mooses (meese? meeses?), which might be fascinating. Instead, they celebrate what the moose drops!
   


4. Frozen Dead Guy Days in Nederland, Colorado. March 10-12. Sure, lots of towns have a family that keeps their dead grandpa packed in dry ice in a shed out back. But only Nederland celebrates it with a festival!
   


5. Toad Suck Daze, Conway, Arkansas. May 5-7. This has been going on for 25 years, raising money for student scholarships. To study what?
   


6. Mike the Headless Chicken^® Festival, Fruita, Colorado. May 19-20. Yes, Mike is now a registered trademark, evidently to keep copycats and rip-off artists from using his name and identity to line their pockets. As the organizers say, "attending this fun family festival is a no brainer."

Check These Out...

Beth Tunick is a friend of mine and a member of my congregation. She is currently working with a mission team in Uganda. I've added her blog, "Beth in Uganda" to my links. Check it out; she writes so vividly that you're almost there. Please pray for her and her fellow team members.

Let me also point you to another new blog, "What Was I Thinking???" This one is run by Tammy, who has learned to trust God in a powerful way and is in an exciting time of transition right now. She has had a wonderful ministry in rescuing abused and neglected dogs, often finding that behind hurting dogs there are hurting people who need God's love as well.

Things Discovered While Looking Up Other Stuff

1. The name of pinking shears comes from the verb pink, which is defined as "to stab lightly with a pointed weapon; prick." Or "to decorate with a perforated pattern." It's from the Old English pyngan, "to push or prick." Evidently it's unrelated to the word for the color pink, the origin of which is unknown.
   
   
2. The "Abilene paradox" is a behavioral principle set forth by Jerry B. Harvey that describes the tendency of groups to adopt a course of action that none of the individuals in the group favor. (I wonder if this explains the tendency of Abilene Christian University, a Church of Christ school, to do things that bring down upon it the wrath of many churches of Christ?)
   
   
3. The world's largest lava lamp is in Soap Lake, Washington--well, sort of. They're still trying to raise funds to set it up for public display. So if you go to Soap Lake, you can't see it unless someone takes you to the warehouse where it's being stored.
   
   
4. In Barrow, Alaska, when the sun rises on May 11, it doesn't set again until August 2. Conversely, when it sets on November 19, it doesn't rise again until January 22.
   
   
5. "Yo' Mama" jokes (e.g., "Yo' Mama's so big I had to take a train and two busses just to get on her good side.") are the outgrowth of an oral tradition called "the dozens." They date back to the days of African slavery in America. Why "the dozens"? In New Orleans, slaves who were too old, sick, handicapped, or mutilated were sold by dozen. It was demeaning enough to be sold as a piece of property; the ultimate affront was to be deemed so worthless as to have no individual value. Thus, the harshest insult was to imply that one's mother was so fat, ugly, stupid, or old that she would be relegated to the dozens.
   

Please Join Us in Prayer

Tim Bass is my brother-in-law and an all-around great guy. Tim has bladder cancer that has metastacized to his lymph nodes. Cheryl and I just returned from the Cancer Treatment Center of America in Zion, Illinois, where Tim underwent a week of diagnostic tests. Though the official line on bladder cancer is that is is uncurable, the doctors at CTCA say that Tim's case is anomalous and they think there's a chance he can be cured. Tim is going for second and third opinions next week at Johns Hopkins and the University of Maryland. Please join us in praying for a miracle for Tim! If you get a chance, visit his page (you may have to register once you get there) at Care Pages and drop him a note of encouragement.

A Parable of Grace

Last Wednesday, I was craving coffee as I headed out the door for a 9:00 a.m. physical therapy appointment. "There's a McDonald's on the way," I thought. "I have just enough time to stop and get a cup ." Then I remembered that I had spent most of my cash the day before. Driving through rush-hour traffic with one hand, I fished out my wallet to discover a lone dollar bill--not enough for even a small coffee at McDonalds.

"No problem," I reasoned. "There's an ATM right on the way. I'll whip in there and get some cash." Then I recalled that it was the day before payday and my account was running dangerously low. So, once again I pulled out my wallet while dodging the road ragers. Holding cell phone in one hand and debit card in the other, I called the number on the back of the card to get my balance, all the while doing my very best Jeff Gordon impression. Now, my bank has recently been bought by another bank, so the first message I got was, "Welcome, new Chase Bank customer. To use our automated system, you must first register and select a PIN." So, while navigating through jammed traffic, I navigated the voice-mail labyrinth to get registered and find my account balance. Great news! I had enough to make an ATM withdrawal. I was beginning to taste that coffee!

I hung up my cell phone, simultaneously arriving at the bank. But curses! The three cars ahead of me all pulled into the same bank and lined up in the ATM lane. A surge of anger welled up; how dare they block my access to the ATM with their selfish desire for money! Impatiently observing their transactions, I became the world's foremost efficiency expert. "Hey, buddy, you can grab your cash and your receipt in one smooth motion, you know. You don't have to pull your arm back into the car, then stick it back out again." "Listen, lady, everyone knows that you do not sit at the ATM while you leisurely put your cash, receipt and debit card in your purse. You pull away immediately, and stash them while you're driving. Sheesh!"

Finally, it's my turn. Applying all of my expertise, I complete my ATM transaction in record time. Back into the traffic, I again skillfully dodge the idiots on the road while adroitly putting money, receipt and debit card in my wallet. Now I'm at McDonalds. I rush in and order a small coffee (all I'll have time to consume on the short trip to therapy). The girl hands me the coffee as I jam a fresh-from-the-ATM twenty into her palm. She hands the twenty back with a smile and says, "This is Wednesday; it's free coffee day!"

I wonder how much time, effort, worry and energy I expend on things I think are important, while my Father is patiently waiting to give me all I need for free. Sheesh!

Renewal

A few weeks ago, the activities director at a local senior citizen assisted-living facility called me. There are seven couples in the building who have been married 50+ years. She thought it would be great to have them renew their wedding vows. I agreed to do the honors.

Today, when I arrived for the ceremony, I saw a marker board--with writing that made me suspect it was done by a resident--that listed today's activities. There it was: "1:30 - Couples Renew Wedding Vowels."

The ceremony was lovely. The couples seemed genuinely moved. The wedding guests all said it was beautiful. But on the way home, I was wondering about renewing wedding vowels. At the risk of sounding like the cheesy preacher I am, here are some vowels I need to renew in my marriage:

A is for appreciation. As I write this, my wife is in Chicago with her brother, who is undergoing a battery of tests to determine if and how far his cancer has spread. She works hard every day without pay, ministering to the poorest people in Detroit through three daycare centers. She has a lot of responsibility there, but she dropped it all to go and be with her brother. I vow to renew my appreciation for this woman whose heart leads her to live so sacrificially.

E is for encouragement. Cheryl is an internally-motivated person. She does what she does because she feels called to it, not because she thinks someone will notice and heap praise on her. She handles discouragement far better than I do. Everything she's accomplished in her ministry has been in the face of wilting pessimism and criticism. I'm ashamed to admit that some of the discouraging skepticism has come from me. I vow to be more encouraging to my wife, especially when others are not.

I is for intimacy. After 35 years of marriage, I'm still learning the art of emotional intimacy. I want to exhibit the kind of character that convinces her that she is absolutely safe with me, that she can know and be known at the very deepest level without fear or shame. I vow to listen to her with my "inner ear"; to see her with the eyes of my heart; to know her as fully and lovingly as her God does, as far as is humanly possible.

O is for open-heartedness. We are both very busy. I thought the empty nest would provide us an opportunity to spend long, lazy hours together. It didn't work out that way. We both have demanding, time-intensive, emotionally draining jobs. I vow to discipline my use of time so that I can reserve some of the best of me to for my wife. And I vow to take time to drop in on her at random, or get her a silly little gift, or do something unexpectedly sweet--just because.

U is for unselfishness. I have no doubt that Cheryl has made by far the greater sacrifice for the sake of our marriage. She makes few demands. She is not "high maintenance" by anyone's standard. Far too often, I take advantage of her giving spirit by gladly receiving more from her than I give back. I vow to be less selfish and more sacrificial in expressing my love to her.

Well, those are the vowels I need to renew. What about you? What marriage vowels do you need to renew?

Church Fun

Several months ago, we were producing a pictorial directory for our church. We were having trouble getting people to sign up to to have their pictures taken. So we made this little video. It worked like a charm. Enjoy! (Many thanks to Jim McCardell for shooting and editing it.)

What Faith Looks Like

Last night, I led my class through the classic arguments that Christians have used to demonstrate God's existence. Then I said that the most powerful argument for God's existence is a life that bears the image of Jesus Christ.

After I got home, I heard the shocking story of Laura VanRyn (pictured above) and Whitney Cerak. Both college students were in a car accident a month ago, which apparently killed Whitney and left Laura in a coma. Over the weekend, "Laura" came out of the coma insisting that she was Whitney. It turned out that the coroner (and Whitney's family) had misidentified Laura's body. It was actually Whitney who survived and Laura who had been killed.

If you want to know what real faith looks like, go to the blog that the VanRyn family began after the accident to update friends and family on Laura's condition. The faith of the family shines through, despite their shredded hearts and the shock of discovering the misidentification. Their faith is not an opiate they suddenly grabbed in pain and desperation. It's a long-standing trust, developed and nurtured over years of good times and bad. Now, facing the worst trial imaginable, their faith is solid, because it's rooted in the reality of the God who sustains them.

We are fervently praying for the VanRyn family. Nothing can ever compensate for the loss of their wonderful, beautiful daughter. But their faith has touched me deeply and caused me to fall even more deeply in love with my Lord.

It's a Girl!

OK, I confess! I always swore that I would not be one of those annoying "let me show you pictures of my grandchildren" grandfathers. My first grandchild is still in utero and here I am posting her picture to the world wide web. How over-the-top is that?

But let me tell you what I am beginning to understand. Annoying grandparent bragging is not for your benefit; it's for the benefit of the grandchild! Every kid needs to know that he is loved, treasured, and valued beyond measure. She needs to know that her grandparents are insanely crazy about her. And you can't turn that on and off at will. So, when someone says, "let me tell you about my grandkids," please be kind. That grandparent's love is communicating a crucial message of unconditional love, acceptance, and honor to a child. You're just getting the overflow.

So, let me show you a picture of my grandchild. And yes, the doctors say that from this picture, they are 100% sure that it's a girl. Woohoo!

Off to Chicago!

The happy couple you see here is my son Alan and his fiancée, Sheila Neely. They are getting married August 26. Cheryl and I will be spending Memorial Day weekend with them in Chicago making wedding plans, celebrating a belated Mother's Day, and celebrating our 35th anniversary (Sheila's parents, Art and Sue, are celebrating 30 years of wedded bliss on the same day!)

Stupid Question

I'm attending the Sermon Seminar at Rochester College this week. The theme is the Sermon on the Mount. Yesterday, Warren Carter and Chuck Campbell both spoke about the Empire and identified it with the "powers and principalities" that form the background of much of the New Testament. They then talked about modern institutions that partake of the oppressive nature of the Empire, including the institutionalized, post-Constantinian church.

Last night it was my task to moderate a panel discussion that included Carter, Campbell, Richard Hughes, Dennis Dewey and the inimitable Stanley Hauerwas. I asked this question: "If indeed the institutionalized church has adopted the structure, tactics and goals of the fallen powers and authorities, can it be redeemed? Or would we be better served to abandon it and start anew creating a counter-cultural community of Jesus?"

"That's a stupid question!" bellowed Hauerwas. There was a collective gasp from the audience, followed by some nervous laughter. He continued on to say that as long as the church has the capacity to examine itself, acknowledge its shortcomings, and strive for more a authentic witness, of course it can be redeemed. After all, he stated, the church is the church not because we've formed it perfectly, but because it belongs to Jesus.

All through school, I was taught that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask. Apparently, that was wrong. I still think my question has some validity. There are a lot of people out there who are rethinking "church" and how it can best build a bridge to our post-Christian, post-rational, post-modern, post-just-about-everything culture. I think it's valid to ask whether the church as we have known it is capable of fulfilling the mission of Jesus.

But it's wrong to conclude that the church's success depends on our ability to "get it right." That's selling Jesus short. He's been working through fallible humans and fallen structures for 2,000 years now. If you think he can't continue to do that, well that's just plain stupid.

Thanks, Stanley. I needed that.

Headlines

One of my guilty pleasures is The Onion, a satirical newspaper/web page. It sometimes crosses the line between appropriate and outrageous, but it cracks me up. I generally just read the headlines, because I find them funnier than the accompanying stories. Some recent favorites: (Just the headlines; no links. It's my blog, and if I don't read the articles, neither can you.)

Muppeteer's Right Hand In Critical Condition Following Elmo Assassination Attempt

Heroic Computer Dies To Save World From Master's Thesis

Study: Alligators Dangerous No Matter How Drunk You Are

Illegal Immigrants Returning to Mexico for American Jobs

Rotation of Earth Plunges Entire North American Continent into Darkness

Girls Gone Wild Released Back into Civilization

Detroit Sold for Scrap (Ouch!)

Quotes Worth Re-quoting:

"An organization begins to die the day it begins to be run for the benefit of the insiders and not for the benefit of the outsiders."

--Peter Drucker

"Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it."

--Jesus

¡Quinceañera!

After thirty-five years of ministry, I thought all my "firsts" were behind me. But this Saturday, I'll be conducting my first quinceañera ever. The word means "fifteenth year," and is a rite of passage in Latino culture for girls turning fifteen. Sasha Reeves, whose mother Nuzly is from Honduras, is celebrating her birthday by embracing her heritage with a full-blown quinceañera.

American culture, sadly, is lacking in positive rites of passage. Getting drunk on your 21st birthday is as close as we come, and that's hardly positive. I'd like to see families and churches "institutionalize" some rites of passage like the quinceañera. At Sasha's ceremony, her family and our church community will be sending her four very important messages:

1. We value you. We have invested years of love, hard work, money, and patient instruction in you. We did it because we believed in you and in your future.
2. Your contributions count. You are now capable of shouldering more adult responsibilities and we're counting on you to do your part for the good of the community.
3. Your decisions matter. You will be enjoying greater freedom to make your own decisions. But the stakes are higher than ever. Wrong decisions at this stage in life can result in irreparable harm or death, either to yourself or others. They may even have eternal consequences. But wise decisions can result in incredible--and eternal--good. We're praying that you choose wisely.
4. We're here for you. Children need parental rules and discipline. Adults need the mutual care and accountability of a close, loving community. We welcome you into our community and pledge to encourage and support you.

I'm so honored to be the spokesperson who gets to convey these messages to Sasha. But the message is not to her alone. There will be 28 attendants in her "court of honor," all young adults like herself. If just a few of them catch a glimpse of how valuable they are to God and their community, it will be worthwhile.