*Ahem* Hot Spots

Those crazy guys over at the Woods-n-Water News ("Michigan's Premier Outdoor Publication") are at it again! I've written before about the teaser headlines they put on the cover that just make you want to buy it so bad (see my post on 12/13/06, Corn-Crazed Ducks).

Well, the cover of the May issue is no exception. Consider this one: "Crappie Hot Spots." Immediately I'm thinking about the Hollywood walk of fame, where in places the stench of urine is sufficiently strong to distract one's attention from the hookers who are accosting passers-by. Now that's a crappie hot spot!

Actually, I already knew that crappie was a kind of fish, a fact learned by embarrassing myself in front of hundreds of people. When I was in high school in Nashville, Arkansas, I worked part-time as an announcer for radio station KBHC (pronounced Kye Bay Ayech Say), "The 500-watt Voice of Southwest Arkansas." One afternoon, I read the local fishing report over the air. There were all kinds of reports of crappie catches from across the region. When I finished, the phone began to ring.

"It's pronounced croppie, you dunderhead!" the callers nicely explained. Right then and there, I was in a crappie hot spot. It's the only crappie hot spot I've ever been in or ever care to be in. So, I passed on purchasing the May issue of the Woods-n-Water News.

Random Thoughts on a Friday Morning

• Recently remembered proverb: "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time...and it annoys the pig."
  

• I'm fond of saying, "A successful day is one where I cross four or five items off my 'to do' list and only add seven or eight more." It occurs to me that that statement says a lot about deficiencies in my spiritual life.

• Why is it that so many things on my "to do" list are things I don't want to do? I sometimes get real whiny about that until I remember that the cross was on Jesus' "to do" list.

• Recent favorite song to listen to: She Walked Away by BarlowGirl.

• I just finished a deep and meaningful conversation with a five-year-old girl. She had lost a tooth the night before Easter. The next morning, she had an Easter basket and money under her pillow. She and I are beginning to suspect that the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny are the same person.

• I used to have a recurring nightmare where I'm in church and we're singing the song before the sermon and I realize I'm only wearing my underwear. It used to happen once every couple of months or so. But I haven't had that one in a couple of years. I wonder what that means.

• I have a Far Side daily calendar on my desk. I especially look forward to the cartoons about hell. Like one that shows a demon ushering a short, portly, tuxedo-clad man into a room full of banjo players. "This is your room, Maestro," quips the demon.

Mourning for Ministry Marriages

A Tennessee jury today found Mary Winkler guilty of voluntary manslaughter in the killing of her husband Matthew. Matthew was the minister of the church of Christ in Selmer, Tennessee. The jury of ten women and two men rejected the charges of first degree and second degree murder. In Tennessee, voluntary manslaughter suggests that the crime was committed in an irrational state. Mary claimed that Matthew had been verbally, physically, and sexually abusive.

Thirty years ago, I had a coworker who was good friends with, and had great admiration for, Matthew's grandfather. That's my closest connection to this family. I don't have a right to an opinion on the matter. But I do believe the jury did their very best to render the verdict that best fit the circumstances.

However, the Winkler case serves as a warning to all of us in ministry. Of course, their situation was extreme. But how many ministry marriages are in crisis due to neglect, workaholism, pornography, disrespect, domineering attitudes, or outright abuse? And how many minister's wives keep silent because asking for help would jeopardize her husband's career (and thus her security)? How many ministry families work hard to project the image of perfection, shielding themselves from the kind of spiritual accountability and mentoring that could be their salvation?

How many church leaders simply assume that because a man preaches a decent sermon on Sunday, his marriage must be healthy? We in ministry need to prioritize our marriages and be the first to seek help when they are threatened. And church leaders need to become a lot more proactive in holding ministers accountable to their family responsibilities.

Virginia Tech and Bath

Last night in my Bible study group, two members were talking about the Bath school disaster. I had never heard of it. They explained that in 1927, a disgruntled school board member in tiny, rural Bath, Michigan detonated hundreds of pounds of explosives that he had secretly planted under the floors of the elementary school. Forty-five people were killed; another fifty-eight were wounded. Most of the casualties were school children in grades two through six.

There's no way we could have known that Virginia Tech was less than twenty-four hours away from a tragedy of similar proportions. We tend to think that mass murder at school is a recent phenomenon that began at Columbine High. We believe it's the product of a relationship-starved and values-poor society. We fool ourselves into believing that such things could not have happened back in the good old days, when folks lived in small towns with tight social structures, where everybody knew everybody else, and where children were taught values and all adults watched out for all kids.

The Bath tragedy from eighty years ago reminds us that we've always had people among us who have are capable of unspeakable horror: whether it's Eric Harris and Dylan Kleibold , or Timothy McVeigh, or Andrew Kehoe (the Bath bomber), or the yet-to-be-named Virginia Tech murderer. My guess is that they all have one thing in common: a perception that the world had treated them so unjustly and cruelly, that their mass slaughters were justified.

Andrew Kehoe left behind a message burned into a plank of wood in a fence on his farm. It read, "Criminals are made, not born." It's an implied indictment against the grief-stricken community: "You don't like what I did, but you made me this way." I reject that. Most of us have been treated unfairly. Those who have endured severe abuse, though only a small percentage of the populace, still number in the thousands, if not millions. Nearly all of us figure out how to cope and compensate for our hurt. But a tiny, tiny minority lash out with chilling viciousness. It's not a new phenomenon. And we will see it again.

So what do we do? We join in prayer for the families of the victims, we hug our own family a little tighter, and we recognize again that this world is not our home. But we also expect to be moved by another aspect of human nature that surfaces in tragedies like this. We will hear of the heroism of ordinary people who met unthinkable horror with sacrificial courage. And we'll be reminded of the nobility of character instilled in humankind by our gracious Creator.

In Response to Your Requests

OK, it wasn't that many requests...

Oh, all right, it was zero requests...

But I know you would have requested this picture of my granddaughter Maizie if you'd known how cute she was!

IMUS t've Missed Something

The media frenzy over Don Imus's insulting remarks seems strangely out of proportion to me. Last night the NBC Nightly News devoted over ten minutes--nearly half its daily allotment--to the story. Slow news day, you say? Sure, there were no "jetliner hits building" stories to displace the Imus piece, but c'mon, folks; we are still at war and gas prices are spiraling upwards. The attention given to the Imus story was seriously over the top.

Why would I say something so jarringly politically gauche? Is it because I don't think his remarks were all that bad? Not at all. I cringe at his brand of demeaning speech and have made a personal vow that anytime those kinds of words are said in my presence, they won't go unchallenged. Or is it simply that I'm resigned to the fact that, even in these enlightened times, there is still an irreducable minimum of ignor-Imuses out there? Nope. Imus deserves to be abandoned like a South Bronx tenement by advertisers and listeners alike. Or maybe I think Imus has been unfairly singled out. That's a bit closer. I have to admit that the I-man doesn't register anywhere near Howard Stern or Tom Leykis on the Gross-O-Meter. But that's really not why I think this thing is out of balance.

Here's my theory. We have severely whittled down the SWWPUW (Stuff We Won't Put Up With) list. Most the sins that used to be cause for public censure--adultery, drunkenness, cussing, pornography, temper tantrums, rudeness, and shirking of duty--have been recast as life-style choices or at worst, adjustment problems. You just can't get a consensus on any of them any more.

So what's left on the SWWPUW list? Racism and sexism (and in most elite circles, homophobia--however that's defined). That's about it. And since Imus committed two of the sins on this truncated list (and he's a repeat offender), he got the full force of the media's outrage.

Long ago, every town square had stocks and pillories specifically for publicly shaming those who dared violate the much more extensive SWWPUW lists of the time. We don't have such barbaric devices any more, but it doesn't change the fact that the public still enjoys a good pillorying from time to time. And the folks in power enjoy dishing out said humiliation, as long as they can maintain the appearance of righteous detachment in so doing.

The whole experience is cathartic for just about everyone. You have a few people who get caught publicly expressing thoughts and attitudes that many harbor secretly. Subjecting them to public scorn helps keep the focus off the personal (and secret) sins of the rest of us. Lots of us live with the guilt and fear of exposure that are the inevitable result of our sins--even if those misdeeds were struck from the SWWPUW list decades ago. Pillorying the likes of Imus, or Michael Richards before him, provides a temporary respite from our guilt. It also allows us to celebrate the fact that we're not so stupid as to actually express our basest impulses in public.

But if anything at all is to be learned from Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, it's that the secret sins are by far the more dangerous ones. Pillory Imus to your heart's content, O Masters of the Media. His words were indeed reprehensible. But don't be fooled. It is the arrogance, greed, lust, anger, jealousy, and selfishness in all of our hearts--sins so subtle, internal and unverifiable that they never made the SWWPUW list--that threaten to unravel the gossamer fabric we call civilization.

From Gratitude to Generosity

Just a quick little truism: gratitude gives birth to joy, and joy gives rise to generosity. And gratitude is a decision. But it's more than a single decision. It's a discipline, in the sense that training for an athletic event is a discipline. It is a single-minded focus that governs many other decisions. You don't become a grateful person by accident. It's the result of hundreds of seemingly inconsequential decisions to choose thankfulness over griping, complaining and bitterness. But the fruit of those decisions is really sweet: a rich source of joy within and a spirit of generosity that blesses others.

Yet Another Reason Why I Don't Listen to Country Music

Scanning the dial this morning on the way to work. Stumbled across these romantic lines:

I 'd like to see you out in the moonlight.
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks.
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

--Brad Paisley
Ticks

Bill Knapp's Keeps Me Up At Night

Bill Knapp’s Restaurants were a Michigan institution. Most of them were built exactly alike, so they were instantly recognizable. You could walk into a Bill Knapp’s anywhere in the state and instantly feel at home. The food was good and the menu changed seldom, if ever. And they had a fiercely loyal clientele.

But Bill Knapp’s paid a terrible price for their decades of keeping everything the same. Their loyal customers got older. The college students who worked at our local outlet called it the old folks’ home. Cheryl and I began noticing that there were few customers at Knapp’s younger than we (and we ain’t no spring chickens). The chain’s aging demographic must have caught the attention of the folks at corporate as well. They evidently realized that unless they recruited younger diners, their restaurants would die along with their customers.

So, they changed. They tried to attract young families. They installed video games and other activities for the younger set. They dropped some old favorites from the menu and updated the fare. They started an advertising blitz with a new slogan: “That was then; this is WOW!” It didn’t work. No amount of décor and advertising could erase the widespread impression that Knapp’s was “your grandmother’s restaurant.”

Even worse, the changes at Knapp’s alienated their traditional clientele. The older folks didn’t like the new décor, menu, or games. Bill Knapp’s is no more. Out of business. Bankrupt. Two miles from our church building sits a familiar-looking building, deserted for years, a mute reminder to past glory. Meanwhile, newer restaurants nearby flourish.

So why does this keep me awake at night? A recent article in the Christian Chronicle said that Churches of Christ became a “franchise church” during the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s: you could walk into a Church of Christ anywhere in America and feel right at home. The order of worship was almost identical. The prayers used familiar phraseology. The sermons were drawn from a select group of “our” topics. Many of our buildings looked alike. And the clientele was fiercely loyal.

But Churches of Christ are getting older, dramatically so. John Ellas, the leading church growth guru among us, has thoroughly documented the shift. It’s a rare Church of Christ that’s attracting significant numbers of previously-unchurched twenty-somethings. In metropolitan Detroit, I can name maybe one—maybe. What does this mean for our brotherhood, and specifically for my congregation? The solution seems obvious: we need to reach young families. But, will we wind up pulling a Bill Knapp’s—alienating our traditional support base while at the same time failing to reach significant numbers of younger families?

That’s what keeps me up at night. In the Trenton church, we’ve made some changes to try to reach a younger crowd. And we’ve lost several of our older members who liked it just fine before we started “tinkering” with things. And yet, within the last two weeks, two more twenty-somethings who grew up at Trenton have announced that they will be attending a different church (not a Church of Christ). Both have significant others who do not share our heritage, and who find us too wedded to unvarying practice, too mired in issues that make no sense to them. To them, we are “your grandmother’s church.”

But let me not end on such a depressing note. There is a difference between the church and Bill Knapp’s. Knapp’s had a marketing department. The church has the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit alone can bring new life. My guess is that the Holy Spirit has a future in mind for us that none of us can quite envision yet. I would be surprised if his future involves us clinging desperately to all the old ways for fear of losing even more longtime members. But I also doubt that he wants to see us caught up in a bunch of gee-whiz, “that was then, this is WOW” church marketing schemes. My hope is that we will pray for his guidance, and then be humbly open to whatever direction he leads. And we need to be courageous enough to put everything on the table for him to either use or jettison: physical facilities, ministry staff, our pet programs—everything. If we can do that, trusting him fully, then we will have a future.

On Politics

I’m just not much of a believer in using the political process to bring about God’s will. Yes, I believe governments are ordained by God. And yes, I believe that God often works through governments to accomplish His will. And yes, I vote my conscience in every election and urge others to do likewise. But I don’t see a lot of good that has come from Christians organizing as a political action group.

Specifically, I think the Republican Party has sold the Christian Right a bill of goods. And I believe the too-close alliance between them has closed many doors to the gospel, while being ineffective in bringing about a more moral society. Here’s how it appears to me. The Republicans observed that evangelical Christians generally vote for pro-life, anti-gay candidates. So, they incorporated those issues into their platform and marketed themselves to us as God’s Own Party (a slightly different take on the initials GOP), as opposed to the “godless Democrats.” Unfortunately, this obscures two realities.

First, there are items on the conservative agenda that are inconsequential from a spiritual standpoint, but some Christians nonetheless treat them as biblical issues. I heard a Christian talk show host recently attack the idea of global warming. He strongly implied that anyone who believed in global warming was a secular humanist, brainwashed by the godless demagogues of the left. Now I admit I haven’t examined the issue closely. I don’t know whether Al Gore is a prophet or a fool. But if anything, biblical teaching leads me to suspect that global warming might be for real. After all, Paul taught in Romans that Creation itself suffers because of humankind’s sin.

The second reality is that, besides abortion and homosexuality, there are plenty of other moral issues with political implications. And I’m with the Democrats on some of them. Social justice and economic justice come to mind. Caring for our environment as stewards of Creation is another.

And while I’m venting here, let me say that the GOP seems willing to fulfill only enough of their promises to keep the Christian Right in their fold. For most of my adult life, I’ve been told that if we elect Republican presidents, they will appoint enough Supreme Court justices to overturn Roe v. Wade. And you know how disappointing the results have been on that. The hard line rhetoric about restoring morality to America flies fast and furious during elections. But afterwards, there’s little will to actually enact legislation on the issues they trumpeted in order to get elected.

I have a sneaking suspicion that genuine disciples of Jesus will either be apolitical, or will hold such an eclectic mix of political views that neither major party would be anxious to claim them.

Is It Just Me...

...or is the Academy totally wacko? I'll begin by saying that I am not a film aficionado. I see maybe four movies a year. I went to sleep last night before the major Oscars were presented. It's 10:00 the night after and I still don't know who won best picture, best actor, best actress, etc. And that doesn't bother me.

But...I did see the award for best documentary. Just going by the brief clips that were shown, Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth was conspicuously amateurish. He looked like "Mr. Policeman" in a preachy sixth grade safety movie. So how did that film win the Oscar?

Body Wars

She first gained recognition for her body. Light reflected by that body, captured by a lens and focused on a strip of photographic film rendered an image that was then converted into millions of tiny multicolored ink droplets on the glossy pages of a magazine. Millions of men looked at the resulting likeness of her and said, "I want her body." Women looked at her pictures and wished they could have a body like hers.

She lived in a society that idolizes bodily beauty, and she parlayed that idolatry into glamor, wealth and notoriety. She became "Playmate of the Month, May, 1992," making her a member of the elite pantheon of her body-worshipping world. That led to a sham of a marriage to an aged millionaire and the expectation that his riches would soon be hers.

Worship quickly turned to ridicule as her body ballooned to, shall we say, more generous proportions. Every late-night television comic had a field day making fun of her. Then, she starved her body back to a semblance of her former self. But few of her worshipers returned. She was yesterday's hot topic. Yes, a diet food company signed her up as a spokesperson, and the press took fleeting notice of her weight loss. But still she was more a joke than a goddess. She was a curiosity, relegated to the carnival side show while newer, more intriguing bodies took center stage. We now know that she kept her body going with chemical assistance, and that her body suffered greatly for it.

And now, Anna Nicole Smith is dead. And what of value is left for family and frinds to fight over? Her body!

Smart Cars

My in-laws are staying with us temporarily. While they're here, I sometimes drive their Cadillac, which is a very smart car. My car, a '93 Olds Cutlass, is by contrast as dumb as a sock full of chick peas. There are two keys to the Caddy, and it knows which one you have inserted. When I use my father-in-law's key, the car adjusts the seats and mirrors for him. He's a big guy, so I have to readjust the seat so I can reach the pedals. On the other hand, when I use my mother-in-law's key, I immediately feel like I'm in the trash compacter scene from Star Wars. It doesn't matter what controls you push, that seat is going to keep inching forward until it crushes you against the steering wheel. Only then will it return control to you so you can give yourself a little breathing space.

Does anyone else have a car that's too smart for its own good? Do you have any mechanical or electronic device that's "smart" in a dumb sort of way? Share some stories!

Roger and Me

I'm at Winterfest, a gathering of 12,000 teens and adult sponsors from churches of Christ across the country. In this morning's session, Jeff Walling interviewed Roger Crouch, a Shuttle astronaut. Like many kids of his generation, Roger wanted to be a fighter pilot, then an astronaut. But he was disqualified from both because he was colorblind. Undeterred, he kept knocking at NASA's door for seventeen years before he was finally accepted as a mission specialist--responsible for managing zero-gravity science experiements on board. Roger's first space flight came at the age of fifty-six. Although his two Shuttle missions were a decade ago, he kept the kids' attention with his folksy humor and unassuming style. Roger's comment on his first mission, which was cut short by a fuel cell malfunction (the same problem that doomed Apollo 13): "We lost one of our three fuel cells. If you should happen to lose another one, they make a movie about your life, so we decided to come on home." On the solid-rocket boosters that launch the Shuttle into orbit: "You just pray that the rocket scientists knew which way was up that day, because those things are going to take you somewhere real quick until they burn out."

I felt an immediate kinship with Roger, because I too had ambitions of being a fighter pilot and astronaut, and I too am colorblind. (And, not that it counts greatly in the coincidence department, I am currently fifty-six.) Roger achieved his dream of flight by pursuing a Ph.D. in science and working on projects in which NASA was interested. I achieved my dreams in a much more mundane way when I earned my private pilot certificate ten years ago.

Roger Crouch is a humble man with a servant spirit. He voluntarily stayed around after his presentation for an hour or so to sign autographs and to have his picture taken with a long line of space-travel junkies like me. He's a true American hero and a genuine follower of Jesus.

You're Welcome, Uh-Huh

WARNING! GEEZER ALERT! The following rant was written by a geezer who pines for the good old days when things were done right. If you are under the age of 35 and/or have the misguided notion that the good old days were just days and probably not all that good, read no further.

Otherwise...

Whatever happened to the words, "you're welcome"? I still say "thank you." But something has happened to the polite response, "you're welcome." It's been replaced with "uh-huh." That's if you're lucky. If not, your thanks will be met with a barely audible "mm-hmm" or a dismissive "yep." Yep?!! What's up with that?

You don't believe me? Go through a day saying "thank you" to as many people as possible. Then tell me how many "you're welcomes" you get in return. They're as scarce as hen's teeth, I tell you!

For those of you still reading, I thank you listening to my petty little tirade.

The Vine

The assignment was simple: go for a walk outside; ask God to reveal a lie about yourself that you have believed; then find a stick that is symbolic of that lie. The exercise was part of a Pastors of Excellence retreat in Ashland, Ohio.

Dutifully, I ventured into the great frozen outdoors to find my stick. But my heart wasn't in it. This was the third such exercise of the day. Each one involved asking God to reveal something and then listening for his response. If you share my background in the churches of Christ, you know that listening for God's voice "separate and apart" from studying the Bible is not one of my strong suits. I had put my heart into the exercises, but not much was happening and I was exhasted. All I wanted was to find a stupid stick and get back inside where it was warm.

"God," I prayed, without much conviction, "You and I both know lots of lies that I've believed about myself. Just pick one." And he did. A thought formed in my mind: "I believe that I have to receive positive reactions from other people in order to be loved." In other words, I'm a people pleaser. My identity as a worthwhile person is wrapped up in my ability to make others like me. Now this was no news flash to me; I've long been aware of this people-pleasing pathology. But God seemed to be saying that now was his chosen moment to address this particular lie.

"Fine," I thought, "but what kind of stick symbolizes that, and where am I going to find it?" Just then, I passed a tree. Like all trees in Ohio in January, it had no leaves. But growing up the side of the trunk was a vine, probably some kind of ivy. The vine sported bright green, heart-shaped leaves. With considerable effort, I pulled loose a foot-long section and broke it off. "This will do," I thought. At my people-pleasing worst, I felt I had to latch onto others and conform myself to their shape in order to be worthwhile. Right down to the heart-shaped leaves, the vine perfectly symbolized my lie about clinging to others in order to feel loved. Or so I thought.

Then I looked again. The green hearts on the vine were the only leaves to be found in the drab winter landscape. If anything, the vine was a symbol of life in all its resilient vitality. Then God spoke the truth to me, one reminiscent of my Bible reading from the day before. (It was Jesus' teaching about the vine and the branches in John 15.) "The vine doesn't derive life from the tree," I thought. "It receives life from the root. But it does need the support of the tree."

The little vine didn't illustrate a lie at all; it taught God's truth. The lie I had believed was a reversal of the vine's message. My life does not derive from the people to whom I tend to cling. My life comes from the root--my relationship with Jesus. I do need other people around me for support. When I draw life from Jesus and receive loving support from others, I flourish. But when I reverse the order--trying to draw life from other people while seeking a little support from Jesus--I live by a lie, a lie that can yield only barenness.

I'm keeping the vine. I need it to remind me that while I need the support of other people, real life only comes from being rooted in Jesus Christ.

The Penny Must Die!

A recent tour of the United States Mint in Denver served to harden a conviction I've long held: the penny should be abolished. The Mint makes more pennies each year than all other coins combined! It costs 1.23 cents to make a penny. Then they are sold to banks for, um, one cent each. We make almost 8 billion of them a year, representing an $18 million burden on the taxpayer. Two-thirds of each year's production winds up in mayonnaisse jars, coffee cans, or the trash. Many others are tossed into "Give a Penny/Take a Penny" cups at checkout counters. They are no longer taken seriously as a medium of exchange. When asked why the Mint continues to produce pennies, our tour guide answered, "Congress has mandated it." I think it's time we un-mandated it. So, what do you think? A nickel for your thoughts...

Lullabies

My Mom sang Rock-a-bye baby to us, but I was always troubled by the bough breaking and the cradle falling with the baby in it. So I never sang that one very much to our babies. Why unnecessarily traumatize them if you can avoid it?

When my grandfather walked the floor with fussy babies, he sang a song from his childhood about a heroic railroad engineer, Casey Jones. Although he remembered the tune, he had evidently forgotten most of the words, so he replaced them with nonsense syllables. So his lullaby went thus:

Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doo.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
And a hi-de-hiddle and a hi-de-ho.

So what difference do babies know anyway? (The real lyrics are here.) When my children were babies, I sang Casey Jones to them, using my grandfather's lyrics, of course. With my daughter, I interspersed a song that I composed:

Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl, yes her is.
Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl her is, be-dooba-de-boop.

My wife hated it, because she's a school teacher and the song is grammatically incorrect. (My daughter has a degree in journalism and is a professional copywriter who uses flawless grammar, so I don't suppose my lullaby scarred her too badly).

When my granddaughter Maizie was born, I tried singing Casey Jones to her, but it just didn't sound right. And morphing Daddy's Precious Girl to Papa's Precious Girl didn't feel right either. So I composed a new song for Maizie:

Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
He's plum crazy about his Maizie,
'Cause she's the cutest one in all the world.
Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
There could never be another one like she,
Papa loves his Maizie girl!

Bad grammar seems to be a theme with my lullabies. My daughter likes this one, except after I've sung it 20+ times in a row. Maizie loves it--even when repeated ad nauseum--except for the one time I sang it for the video camera. She was screaming her head off by the time I reached the end of the song.

What about you? What songs do you sing to your little ones? What songs were sung to you? Have you made up any lullabies? If you have, would you share the words with us?

The Lord's Supper

Francisco is a brother in the Lord who lives in Recife, Brazil.¹ We met him on a mission trip several years ago. He was working as a custodian for the downtown church in Recife. Despite meager pay and an hour-long daily commute on hot, overcrowded buses, it was obvious that Francisco loved his job. And it was clear that he loved his job because he loved God and God's people.

Francisco went out of his way to welcome us and to attend to our needs. We were pretty naïve about the danger of theft (even in a church building), so when Chico (a common Brazilian nickname for "Francisco") saw an unattended bag, camera, or even a Bible, he would lock it away in a closet. Whenever we couldn't find our stuff, we would call out, "Chico, chave!" (chave is Portuguese for "key") and he would come running to retrieve it for us. Chico had learned a little English and he loved practicing it on us. Mostly, he just loved being around us. And we loved him back.

One Wednesday evening, our mission team visited the congregation nearest to Chico's house. He insisted that we come to his house after Bible class. We were worn out and must have shown some hesitation, but Chico insisted. "I live very close; you can walk there," he urged. "Just come for a few minutes." We couldn't say no, so off we went, following Chico down narrow, dimly lit, dusty streets.

It turns out that Chico's definition of "close" was somewhat different than ours. My guess is that we walked nearly a mile. Upon arriving at Chico's house, we were faced with a reality we had chosen to ignore: Chico was poor! Even by Brazilian standards, he lived in poverty. His apartment was just a couple of rooms with bare walls and naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. What little furniture he had was rickety and threadbare. But he beamed with pride as fifteen of us crowded into his sparse flat.

Chico squeezed into his tiny kitchen, past the mass of standing-room-only Americans. There, he opened a small 1950s-vintage refrigerator. He pulled out some small rolls, each about half the length of a hot dog bun, and began placing a half a slice of American cheese on each. He served us the cheese sandwiches along with small paper cups of orange soda. Mike Pruitt, our missionary in Recife, told us that Chico had been saving money for weeks in order to pay for this extravagance. When all the sandwiches and soda had been distributed, Chico got our attention and said, "This is the happiest day of my life, because today my brothers and sisters from America have come to my house."

When I was growing up, we studied hard to understand the requirements for the Lord's Supper. Only "authorized" elements were allowed. We argued that since Jesus, by his example, authorized unleavened bread and fruit of the vine, it would be sinful to substitute hamburgers and Coke at the Lord's table. We further argued that the first day of the week was the only day on which we had divine authority for partaking of the Supper.

But on that Wednesday night in Brazil, I realized how thoroughly we had dissected the form while missing the function of the Lord's Supper. For on that night, Chico's sacrificial provision of cheese sandwiches and orange soda clearly reflected Christ's sacrifice for us. And it was there, in Chico's tiny apartment that we all, as one Body, truly ate the Lord's Supper.
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¹ I recently told this story in impromptu fashion at our church's Christmas Eve service. In that telling, a faulty memory caused me to identify Francisco as living in Honduras instead of Brazil. I've been to Honduras on mission trips also, and had some wonderful experiences with brothers named Francisco in both places. For those who heard me Christmas Eve, my apologies for the mistake.

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.