tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34662937010380842142024-03-05T14:51:09.596-05:00Blah Blah BlahDisorganized, random, incomplete, irregular, incoherent ramblings...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-3254996624046904852011-03-07T17:59:00.002-05:002011-03-07T18:34:05.911-05:00the stranger<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4840RlqtwcElidXPob_aEDkI2PIkDx5l3E39q8_Ci9-XMp2ztd_6LEpariYSodpW4aLITe7hZjYtSJOLXDIRZrGUl8xav-OlDqZ3D7q4VK5QHpi14EDsBdaxKgyYTEn2aJhAJz7AvmsG/s1600/stranger.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 133px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581485296772950162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4840RlqtwcElidXPob_aEDkI2PIkDx5l3E39q8_Ci9-XMp2ztd_6LEpariYSodpW4aLITe7hZjYtSJOLXDIRZrGUl8xav-OlDqZ3D7q4VK5QHpi14EDsBdaxKgyYTEn2aJhAJz7AvmsG/s200/stranger.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />From Matthew 25<br /><a name="en-NIV-24043"></a><a name="en-NIV-24045"></a><a name="en-NIV-24046"></a><a name="en-NIV-24047"></a><a name="en-NIV-24048"></a>“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’</div><br /><div><br />Once again, in a moment where I might have shown some of the sacrificial love Christ asks of us and is modeled by the early Church, I chose my own comfort and convenience. Here's the story...<br />I was driving home from my job a couple nights ago about 10:45p.m. and passed a man walking on the shoulder of the road. I was on a limited access section of Route 30, driving at about 60 miles per hour. By the time any real recognition of the scenario entered my brain, I was ½ a mile past him. He was wearing a black leather jacket with a well-worn, sleeveless denim jacket over it. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I should see if this fellow needs a ride. But, what if he's drunk? What if he smells bad? What if he's going somewhere way out of my way? What if he's an axe murderer? And, now I'm 2 miles past him, so I'd have to get off the next exit, go back the opposite direction, get off, back on. As the next exit came into view-the one I'd need to take if I was to act on this idea- the debate in my mind became more urgent. Is this one of those hungry/thirsty/stranger situations Jesus spoke of?<br /></div><br /><div>I did not take the exit. I continued home, with the Christian contemporary radio station playing some song with lyrics something like 'where you go I will follow'... Apparently for me, though, as long as it isn't out of my way. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Would you have stopped? Would you have backtracked? How would you feel if your wife told you she, in that same scenario, had given him a ride? What if he looked, or was dressed differently? Where do we draw the line at this 'love your neighbor' business? Me? Obviously not where Jesus would want it drawn.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-55857232598427648522011-02-15T11:42:00.005-05:002011-02-15T11:57:47.354-05:00How Much ?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvU_5B_KQMKVdC71byHbdCGA7vIShPP-AmuTBxrNPrgQjo8CdSfZnnTtbZgqqVmC8_thuNHxxYnxe3uoK0zdWl3kJogzBRQ74uizxJFOxHlSiG4UcolYTm1pMgYWpNu9byPjf4M5xdLxo/s1600/starbucks+tall.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 89px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 129px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573959542423850962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvU_5B_KQMKVdC71byHbdCGA7vIShPP-AmuTBxrNPrgQjo8CdSfZnnTtbZgqqVmC8_thuNHxxYnxe3uoK0zdWl3kJogzBRQ74uizxJFOxHlSiG4UcolYTm1pMgYWpNu9byPjf4M5xdLxo/s200/starbucks+tall.bmp" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLj6jI0KMLag7Z1_-spT2Otddgv5NVF_5NMrIcv9lu6zG9OPp6C86X_0RnVjF7FvH7CXX6l4iztpMGmCScKxzGTfp-7fhX6WthyphenhyphengxyTXaMA4S2RBctnmEgFtQK26xtyTw5dF0V7wqlA8yI/s1600/pool.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 192px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 100px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573959647929179634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLj6jI0KMLag7Z1_-spT2Otddgv5NVF_5NMrIcv9lu6zG9OPp6C86X_0RnVjF7FvH7CXX6l4iztpMGmCScKxzGTfp-7fhX6WthyphenhyphengxyTXaMA4S2RBctnmEgFtQK26xtyTw5dF0V7wqlA8yI/s200/pool.jpg" /></a><br />I was sitting in the car on my lunch break listening to the news yesterday, and one of the lead stories was the president's budget proposal for the next fiscal year. The proposed spending is 3.7 trillion dollars.The news reader said that number quite nonchalantly, and I guess, in matters of government, we've all become accustomed and numb to what should be astounding numbers.<br /></div><div>When I was in elementary school, and we discussed presidents, there would always be someone who would raise their hand and say, in response to the question of who the second president was, Abraham Lincoln. The first was George Washington, the second Abe Lincoln. I suspect our understanding of the size of these figures used to describe government spending is about the same. A trillion is bigger than a million, and bigger than a billion, but it's next up the scale-just a few places after a million, and we can get our heads around a million.</div><br /><div>Well, I thought I had an understanding of what a trillion was, and set about trying to build, here, some analogies that made sense so that we might all collectively gasp at the budget figures. In playing with some examples of “trillion”, or 3.7 trillion, I quickly learned it was far, far more than I understood.</div><br /><div>Case in point....A Starbucks “tall” is 12 ounces. We can all see that. It takes 682 of them to fill the green garbage toter I see out my window across the street. It would take 7,035,600-that's seven million-of them to fill an Olympic size pool. An Olympic pool, obviously, is not the typical back yard variety, it's 50 meters by 25 meters! It would take-are you sitting down?- 526,000 pools – five hundred twenty six thousand pools- to hold 3.7 trillion Starbucks Talls. I was ok with grasping this until the final division problem-I can't envision 526,000 Olympic pools. </div><div><br />Second attempt...I wanted to reduce this to understandable personal spending. I started with the premise “you go to the mall, and spend $10,000 per hour, 24 hours per day, every single day, 365 days per year....” But that didn't work-it would take over 42,000 years!!! So, I tried a different way-suppose you went to the mall when King David was alive-3000 years ago, roughly, and shopped 24 hours a day, 365 days per year, how much would you need spend to get to 3.7 trillion. In case you're wondering, there are about 26,280,000-twenty six million -hours since King David. It comes out to $148,000 per hour!!! (give or take)</div><br /><div>OK, I give up. I can't get my head around 3.7 trillion. And neither, I suspect, can those who propose and ultimately spend that sum. It's a meaningless figure to us, just really big. They know full well we don't really understand how big.<br /></div><div>One more try at putting D.C. budgeting into meaningful terms...Suppose a family attempts to heed the advice of the late Larry Burkett, or radio personalities Dave Ramsey and Clark Howard, or the nauseating Suze Orman and sits down at their table to do a budget. Using the D.C model, the family would say, ok, we will bring in $50,000 this year, so we should spend $83,500. And the same next year!</div><br /><div>The U S of A, in 2009, took in 2.1 trillion, and spent 3.52 trillion. That's a shortfall- a defecit-of 1.42 trillion dollars...so how many Olympic pools of Starbucks talls is that? Never mind.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-32571402721761018022010-09-25T15:40:00.004-04:002010-09-25T17:22:57.865-04:00Street Corner Talkin'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6l3pRepCjpxMiIERjhLx6ftiDS8vTiOtObD9n1TG1Jg3LBHdoRX6NrxFr-JRI4oiBAchDiezQ63tqbRGOKO08WljKtdR8YsaoqqQAILYueGnV55hSVLmSvk1Kx9FOIQdV0RWP_wFL2xS/s1600/7-23-2009-bike-night-003.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 198px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520939928022409698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6l3pRepCjpxMiIERjhLx6ftiDS8vTiOtObD9n1TG1Jg3LBHdoRX6NrxFr-JRI4oiBAchDiezQ63tqbRGOKO08WljKtdR8YsaoqqQAILYueGnV55hSVLmSvk1Kx9FOIQdV0RWP_wFL2xS/s200/7-23-2009-bike-night-003.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />York's annual bike night was this Friday, when hundreds of motorcyclists from all over the region converge on downtown York. The official event kicks off with a parade of bikes through the city. Then the four blocks surrounding Continental Square are closed to traffic to accommodate an antique motorcycle show, food vendors, live bands at several locations, and pedestrians. Even if that scene holds no appeal, it's nice to see the oft-maligned downtown York thrive, for at least one night, and become a crowded destination.</div><br /><div><br />The motorcycle sub-culture, I guess like any other wide appeal pastime, is made up of a broad spectrum of participants. There was a seventyish gent with a nineteen-fortyish Harley Knucklehead dressed in the riding attire of the era when his motorcycle was new. He wore a clean white shirt with a bow tie, calf-high, shiny black boots, and a cap with a white visor. There were heavily inked folks on ''outlaw'' style motorcycles, the younger sport-bike crowd on GSXR's, Hayabusas, and Ninjas, and many many many regular Joes (and Joettes) on modern Harley Sportsters, Softtails, Wide Glides, and Electra Glides. Clearly, I was there for only a limited time, and could only observe a limited area at a time, but I witnessed no hostile, rude, or offensive behavior. No one (not counting exhaust pipes!) was particularly loud or making a spectacle of themselves. With one exception.</div><br /><div><br />On the southeast corner of the square there was a group of sidewalk evangelists. I don't know who they were, but I guess they are from a local congregation. Now let's get the disclaimer out of the way....I in no way dispute their right to be there, and to preach however they see fit. And, theologically and philosophically, I am probably closely aligned with them. I credit them with having the courage to attempt to spread the gospel in an environment most of us would not elect. But I was embarrassed by their methods, and dismayed that they may well do more harm than good. </div><br /><div><br />The ringleader stood on a box and shouted to the passersby. His associates carried signs, and approached individuals strolling past to try to engage them in conversation, stepping into their path to hand them a pamphlet. Their centerpiece sign-propped up along the curb and hard not to see said ''Infant Baptism...The Doorway to Hell''. I observed the corner for a short while, and saw absolutely no success with their efforts to engage people passing by. Most folks just shook their head and kept walking. When the apparent leader stepped down from his pedestal, I approached him and related I found his sign-the ''Infant Baptism, Doorway to Hell'' one-offensive, and in my opinion was counter productive. He clearly relished the opportunity to engage in debate, and his helpers quickly moved in to shout slogans and well rehearsed rebuttals. It was hard to get through to them that my point, my objection, had nothing to do with the issue of infant baptism. They mostly just urged me to read this verse or that verse relative to baptism. I was able to express to the leader, though he rejected it, that in my opinion, we as believers should be reaching out in humility and love and understanding, and that by being intentionally provocative, adversarial, and theologically arrogant we drive away people who already are suspicious, skeptical and reluctant about all things church. He and his disciples quickly responded they believed it was their duty to be confrontational and discomforting, citing Jesus's lambasting of the Pharisees in Matthew 23. I shook the preachers hand and moved on. We clearly had opposite perspectives, and no consensus was likely. I may be completely wrong here. Perhaps some tract recipients will read it before tossing it, and in time will come to truth. I admittedly have no experience in such an arena, but I think there is a much more effective, Christ like approach to such public evangelism. </div><br /><div><br />Suppose their signage, and more importantly their core message, said things that were no less true, but inviting, gentle, and humble. ''What's the big deal with Jesus?'' or ''Christ offers Love and Forgiveness'' or ''Prayer Works''. Most people, particularly at a secular event like a motorcycle rally, would likely still just pass by. I think, though, they would NOT see those ''witnesses'' as abrasive, loud kooks they want no part of. Among those many people, as in any crowd, there are hurting, lost people. There are at least a few people who recognize they are not the person they need to be. There are at least a few people who desperately need answers. Long before we as believers begin to deconstruct erroneous teaching or pervasive misunderstanding with someone, we must first gently help that person know who Jesus is, what He did, and what their response to Him should be. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-10598428204085763012010-09-08T18:33:00.008-04:002010-09-08T18:51:06.615-04:00Starry Night<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lJexBela03kLavN1YhGb19zqv6fBDcJlHC5w7C-Xhz8gy88TToQumOVUpZ926euwejh_lx7a1__avhMbZJTp6GtVxNr21cCIhZlrG6VW04-00lVjpUpj3ZG1cbr91dpck0r8TAgyiTh2/s1600/20081022_light_pollution.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 1px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 45px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514677398732498370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lJexBela03kLavN1YhGb19zqv6fBDcJlHC5w7C-Xhz8gy88TToQumOVUpZ926euwejh_lx7a1__avhMbZJTp6GtVxNr21cCIhZlrG6VW04-00lVjpUpj3ZG1cbr91dpck0r8TAgyiTh2/s200/20081022_light_pollution.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEjrJJ8R6XwfgV6878t3vLLnGom4hVnsiv1TniJSfIydwMxNRQTdye7RFOp6-sM4o5_QnkQ267_wHu0azEPplJ7YthJ7ltlfV3Iz2_ilHBipWRvMcGY5yy_joQNERpw-3PcYeGC9oGEozX/s1600/night%2520sky.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 218px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 162px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514677276717709042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEjrJJ8R6XwfgV6878t3vLLnGom4hVnsiv1TniJSfIydwMxNRQTdye7RFOp6-sM4o5_QnkQ267_wHu0azEPplJ7YthJ7ltlfV3Iz2_ilHBipWRvMcGY5yy_joQNERpw-3PcYeGC9oGEozX/s200/night%2520sky.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><br />On a recent late, moonless Saturday night Lori and I were driving on Route 322 in the Juniata Valley, near Newport, in a convertible with the top down. The highway, there, is sandwiched between a steep forested mountain on one side and the Juniata River on the other. So other than the headlights from other vehicles, and the occasional dusk to dawn light, it was dark- <em>really</em> dark, and the stars were stunning! We spend a good bit of time in that area, and have noticed the intensely starry sky many times before, but even so it's hard <em>not</em> to pause and stare upward for a bit. When we took our exit off of Rt. 322, no one was behind us, so we just sat still at the stop sign for a little while and admired the sky. The Big Dipper was big and bold and right in front of us, just above the windshield. Its pointer stars made the North Star easy to find, which, in turn, located the Little Dipper. Venus looked like a flashlight among the myriad tinier pinpricks of light, and the Milky Way streaked across the sky straight overhead, easily mistaken for a band of thin clouds. As we turned onto our road, Cassiopeia was clearly visible over my left shoulder. It's easy to find, if it's dark enough. It looks like a big ''W'', and is supposed to be a Queen's throne. I've always thought, since my scoutmaster pointed it out to us on a camping trip long ago, it looks more like a barber chair. I couldn't find Orion, though. I think he was still tucked behind the tree line ahead of us, and if we had waited he would have eventually risen into view.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>Sunday night, about 9:30, when headed back toward York. The sky was, again, a vast sea of uncountable stars. But somewhere along the way, as we approached Harrisburg from the north, Lori said, ''The stars are gone.''<br /></div><br /><br /><div>Indeed, the sky was no longer the deep black, or dark indigo blue it was just 20 minutes earlier, it was now a sort of gray-blue, and as we sat at the first traffic light we hit, near Linglestown, I looked up and could find only a handful of stars in the whole sky! As we continued down Front Street, the sky become pale amber, and I could find only 2 stars! For the rest of the trip, even along the relatively rural stretches of Route 83, the stars never returned, or at least no where near the show they put on up in the valley.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>So where'd they go? Obviously, the stars are still there in all their vast numbers and in all their splendor. They still sketch out lions and hunters and dogs and bears and whatever else the imagination of a night time observer can find. But, sadly, in too many places they are faded into invisibility by man made, artificial light. Sadly, too, there are probably more than a few people who have never seen a starry sky, who have never seen Orion, who think the night sky is <em>supposed</em> to be amber.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>There was once a time when people needed the starry sky to find their way. When there were no bright reflective green interstate signs, or no Garmin, a skilled traveler could find his way, even across the sea, with the stars. Good luck, though, to someone seeking the North Star passing through Harrisburg! Harrisburg <em>has</em> no North Star. To find it-to find the star that is key to establishing direction, a traveler must get away from the man made light, the fake light, the electric light.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>So it is as we travel the dark sea of life. When we seek direction, or guidance, or help, or clarity, we can either immerse our selves in every form of light from every available source, and as a result likely <em>never</em> see the true light, the light that brings truth. We seek to hear a still small voice, and I often lament that voice can be <em>so hard</em> to hear! But we are awash, drowning, in a cacophony of voices that call out advice and guidance and direction, be they friends, or Oprah, or Dr. Phil, or Tony Evans, or Glenn Beck, or this book or that film, or this Pastor, or that teacher, and what we end up with is a vague, contradictory mixture of directions, a pale-amber sky like Front Street at night. If we truly want to hear the whisper of truth, to see the tiny, sparkling, pinpoint of true light that we know points north, we must take ourselves out of the flood of light and noise, and go into the dark, quiet valley. We just may be stunned at how gloriously brightly the real light shines.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-21060430408984236522010-09-06T16:55:00.006-04:002010-09-07T16:17:53.108-04:00An Ancient Problem<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmrlxZSSYTF4gzjFoSLvMYJcusqINYchr4gz_axl9Idbrs8OukftDM9OqOeAyVIvo8zuzncjlwY-UHTN_Jhvv52Cc2hDcTElgFJyFNryXICaPKU19J1wyvHxyBy4PkpuWasAwz3DpEhLj/s1600/YHWH.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 100px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513915644097954082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmrlxZSSYTF4gzjFoSLvMYJcusqINYchr4gz_axl9Idbrs8OukftDM9OqOeAyVIvo8zuzncjlwY-UHTN_Jhvv52Cc2hDcTElgFJyFNryXICaPKU19J1wyvHxyBy4PkpuWasAwz3DpEhLj/s200/YHWH.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />2 Kings 17:41 (NIV) ''Even while these people were worshiping the LORD they were serving their idols.''<br /><br />I've been working my way through the Old Testament from bumper to bumper, and it is certainly true that it is easy to become bogged down in places, nearly stuck in the mud. Most of Leviticus and Numbers were <em>very</em> slow going for me. I'd take small daily bites, but would mix in a helping of Psalms or Proverbs to make the day's reading a bit tastier. I really enjoyed Deuteronomy though. In fact, I might advocate someone undertaking the O.T. in its entirety for the first time reading it <em>before</em> Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. Deuteronomy is Moses's sort of farewell message to the Israelite people, and is a tidy summary of the forty years they have been wandering the desert, and a condensed summary of the extensive and detailed rules-The Law-revealed in Leviticus. It is also a caution to the people that are about to enter the long-elusive Promised Land to adhere to these Laws, and not adopt the practices of the current occupants, namely the worship of false gods, man made idols, or the moon and stars. </div><br /><div><br />I'm now very near the end of 2nd Kings. If I were to summarize in only one sentence (probably a mistake to try), the overarching theme of all I've read between the books of Moses and this point, it is the failure of God's people to keep their end of the Covenant-to respect the jealousy of the one true God, and have no part in the worship, practices, and celebrations of idols and false gods. With a very few notable exceptions, leader after leader, king after king, generation after generation to varying extents ignored this command and either actively worshiped these pagan gods, or at best allowed these practices and the ''high places'' of these gods to coexist with the worship of the One True God. Even King Solomon, wise Solomon, who did much to glorify the Lord, the God of Israel, near the end of his life fell into the worship and following of the goddess Ashtoreth, and other ''detestable'' gods.</div><br /><div><br />So, by the last half of 2nd Kings, God's anger with his people was burning. He allowed first Israel, then Judah to be delivered into captivity, removed from the land promised to Moses, and gave the land and the cities to their conquerors.<br />Like Leviticus and Numbers, the two Kings books have, at times, been tedious. The stories of Saul and David, in the two Samuels, are certainly suspenseful, dramatic, and tense-captivating reading. Likewise the story of Solomon's reign in 1st Kings is a picture of an unequaled period of grand splendor. But much of ''the Kings'' is 'so and so became King of Israel at age 16 and reigned for six months, was murdered, and was succeeded by his son so and so. Meanwhile so and so was King of Judah, served 28 years, died and his son so and so became King.' Generation after generation, on and on and on. Some honored and obeyed God, most did not. Until finally, by chapter 17 of 2nd Kings, God had had enough! The Assyrian King invaded and exiled the people of Israel and “removed them from His presence.” (verse 18) </div><br /><div><br />The last verse of Chapter 17, verse 41, quoted at the top, neatly describes the ongoing, many generational problem between the Lord, the God of Israel, and those people. In the midst of some slow progress passages I wanted to just get through, this verse jumped off the page! Yes, it speaks to the ''stiff necked '' people of the ancient world, but it screams, and slaps us in the face-right here, right now, today. </div><br /><div><br />The God of Israel, is the God of today. He is still a jealous God. He still demands that we have no other gods. He still finds false gods, divination, sorcery, pagan rituals, witchcraft, the worship of stars, planets and nature detestable abominations. He still does not allow idolatry. Few of us, hopefully, have carved images or statues that we worship. And, hopefully, most of us steer clear of the occult, even when it's disguised as harmless fun. But I fear modern western culture has replaced statues and carvings and Asherah poles with upward mobility, achievement, career advancement, and status. This generation's false gods, our Baals, have names like Lexus and Armani and Rolex and BMW and Harley.</div><br /><div><br />''Even while [we] were worshiping the Lord [we] were serving....'' our houses, and our cars, and our 401ks, and our closets, and our egos, and our self-image. It is so easy to read the accounts of these ancient peoples, and recognize<em> their</em> too short memories, or <em>their</em> stubborn refusal to obey, and to imagine if we were in their place we'd do things differently. Perhaps, though, those ancients were just going along with what their culture, their society, deemed normal and acceptable-even admirable. Perhaps, when what seems so plainly disobedient and detestable to us from our vantage point of 3000 years of hindsight was current events, it didn't <em>seem</em> wrong at all. After all, they <em>were</em> worshiping the Lord. Right? They're going to church most Sundays; they sing in the choir; they volunteer for nursery duty; they pray out loud; they even raise their hand during worship sometimes. Doesn't that trump a little obsessiveness about square footage, or a newer SUV? I put something in the plate every Sunday, so it's not my fault people are hungry just a few blocks away! Is it? Besides, I've wanted this watch for a long time, and now I can afford it.</div><br /><div><br />''Even while these people were worshiping the Lord, they were serving their idols.''<br /><br />What has been will be again,<br />what has been done will be done again,<br />there is nothing new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9) </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-6759484656673774972010-07-15T12:37:00.006-04:002010-07-15T12:55:13.655-04:00The Whisper<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1bAFuELLP5ApO-vGTg42XU3BLGyl6iZUCz9MRpipnTF6fZyZYnwkKYfvn-EqSj499b3Dn8fiSwHYr54ksyb8-yTrfspeE_Xab6bzAJ6-pImmzb3665PDqnWbfMfShXmDPW0FECASkdW19/s1600/whisper.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 127px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 92px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494176999676591170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1bAFuELLP5ApO-vGTg42XU3BLGyl6iZUCz9MRpipnTF6fZyZYnwkKYfvn-EqSj499b3Dn8fiSwHYr54ksyb8-yTrfspeE_Xab6bzAJ6-pImmzb3665PDqnWbfMfShXmDPW0FECASkdW19/s200/whisper.jpg" /></a><br />Sometimes a patch of wild flowers waving in the breeze is a thing of beauty, and we can't help appreciating and enjoying it. Other times, or to different eyes, it's just a vacant lot that needs mowed.<br />Sometimes listening to Mozart, or Wagner, or Liszt is salve for the soul. The strings form a chord that is in perfect harmony with the music of our mind and we can't help closing our eyes and hearing it from deep within. Other times, or to other ears, it's just old, boring music with no words.<br />Sometimes the words of scripture are archaic, dry, lifeless words that say little more to us than random ink spots on a page. Other times, or to other eyes, the print becomes the very voice of our God and speaks to us directly, and plainly, and clearly. Sometimes that still small voice we long to hear whispers the words on the pages straight into our ears, and the words flow deep into the heart of our being, take root there, and become a lasting part of us, eternal truth for our eternal soul.<br />Such, today, are the words written by David in Psalm 116:<br /><br />vs. 5 The Lord is gracious and righteous<br />Our God is full of compassion.<br /><br />vs. 6 The Lord protects the simplehearted.<br />When I was in great need, He saved me.<br /><br />vs. 7 Be at rest again, O my soul,<br />For the Lord has been good to you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-22238197198537590502010-06-10T20:17:00.003-04:002010-06-10T20:21:05.018-04:00A look at a book...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievPJEC6YrPJFETJ574JByqA__Hp031_EFhp8O84Hao9r1MzvOhvIJt0UVNtkortRjcHYrH78izmZDXjO2srBhQsIayf_oJ2WaUdtvtPUobjDBGbJpmWGAcx2dK0MpFuAo9fnkdC7xJ6u9/s1600/the-art-of-racing-in-the-rain.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481304323530219970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievPJEC6YrPJFETJ574JByqA__Hp031_EFhp8O84Hao9r1MzvOhvIJt0UVNtkortRjcHYrH78izmZDXjO2srBhQsIayf_oJ2WaUdtvtPUobjDBGbJpmWGAcx2dK0MpFuAo9fnkdC7xJ6u9/s200/the-art-of-racing-in-the-rain.jpg" /></a> The Art of Racing in the Rain, Garth Stein<br />I recently finished this 2008 novel, and it is one of those books that keeps resonating in my brain. Most folks would find it simple-an easy read. Large type, barely 300 pages, it's the kind of book the fast readers I envy would finish in one or two sittings (it took me a week, though).<br />The book is written in the first person, and the “voice” is Enzo, a dog. He is quick to explain that he is more than a dog in his understanding of the world and the people around him, and he longs to speak with them and reveal the depth of his insight, but, alas, he has a long floppy tongue that makes word formation impossible, and his lack of opposing thumbs limits his motor skills. He points out that if someone would provide him with a “Steven Hawking machine”, and teach him the alphabet, he could marvel people with his intellect.<br />Enzo's owner and best friend is Denny, who is an amatuer race car driver flirting with the edge of professional greatness. He and Enzo spend many hours studying videos of Denny's races, and Denny's dissection of his strategy on the racetrack, and the mantras he uses to explain his driving skill become metaphors for his handling of his dramas off the track. And the dramas are significant-his wife battles life threatening illness, he fights to beat a very serious, but false, criminal accusation, and he faces losing custody of his little girl. Throughout the book, we are presented with a racing scenario and Denny's counter-intuitive thinking about how to best to handle it, then a real life crisis or battle where that same racing philosophy plays out as a life philosophy. When Denny talks about racing, he says things like '' always be in the corner your in, not the one you just came out of'', or ''you manifest what is before you'', or '' races are never won in the first turn, but they are often lost there.''<br />The book reminded me, as I read it, of the 1974 classic Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but is far more accessible (simpler !). They both follow a pattern of presenting a viewpoint, a philosophy, via a metaphor or parable, followed by some seemingly unrelated narrative where that way of thinking plays out. ''Zen'' became, for me, increasingly tedious, deep, and difficult, but this book<br />never traded away compelling story and attractive characters for depth. The philosophy on display here could correctly be accused of having some root in Eastern mystic stuff, and I'm not advocating adapting Enzoism as a guiding doctrine of life, but there is a lot in Enzo and Denny's approach to life that is attractive. In fact, when I reached the last page I wished for more time with Enzo and Denny-the very definition, says Lori, of a good novel.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-81931987861997255852010-02-23T17:22:00.003-05:002010-02-23T17:25:02.986-05:00Hannah's Gold<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhCNaNEdwWj-QvLJ_5HoMjMaNp5WHFBTT1SOoO_ZStMWKJ9NDOKEFUWYsA8_QuAC4yOEVpvmy_gFyFiSnqCQ1fFrkJZpJRC2hQS3NhmpspHf_dm4P2UKOatJ6b5Zc7AOOoxN1ne4w2Wqn/s1600-h/Hanah+Teter.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 138px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441568115617077650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhCNaNEdwWj-QvLJ_5HoMjMaNp5WHFBTT1SOoO_ZStMWKJ9NDOKEFUWYsA8_QuAC4yOEVpvmy_gFyFiSnqCQ1fFrkJZpJRC2hQS3NhmpspHf_dm4P2UKOatJ6b5Zc7AOOoxN1ne4w2Wqn/s200/Hanah+Teter.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />The 2010 Winter Olympics has been a smorgasbord of stunning performances, razor thin margins of victory, and unexpected upsets with the spice of controversy, rivalries, and at least one tragedy thrown in. And, as with every Olympics, an interesting assortment of back stories, as told by Bob Costas, has helped us choose individual personalities to root for-or against. Most of these back stories highlight, in some way, the athlete's unwavering, laser-like focus on becoming among the best in the world at their particular discipline. Apolo Ohno's four-a-day two hour workouts; bronze medal winning speed skater J.R. Celski's return from a potentially career ending leg gash in 2009 (with the help of Dr. Eric Heiden); both Hannah Kearney and Bode Miller's redemptive performances in Vancouver after disappointing strike outs in Turin in '06, and many, many more stories of amazing effort, commitment, and resilience.<br />My favorite of all the back stories is that of snowboarder Hannah Teter and her extensive charity efforts. Hannah is from Belmont, Vermont, the heart of Vermont's ski, snowboard, and maple syrup country. She created a foundation, Hannah's Gold, that sells “Grade A Medium Amber, Pure Vermont Maple Syrup” with the motto “Sweeten the World One Bottle at a Time”. Through a partnership with World Vision, she has “adopted” the town of Kirindon, Kenya. Hannah's Gold has raised over $178,000 for Kirindon. The focus, initially, was on providing clean drinking water and sanitation, but has also addressed AIDS victims, homelessness, farming equipment and methods, recreation for children, and other needs of the town. (visit hannahsgold.com for more info and/or to buy some syrup)<br />Now she has launched a new effort, “Sweet Cheeks. Panties with a Purpose”. (sweetcheekspanties.com) that donates its proceeds to Doctors Without Borders, her response to the devastation in Haiti. There is a Ben and Jerry's flavor, “Maple Blondie”, that helps fund Hannahs Gold.<br />In Vancouver, Hannah is sleeping under a quilt donated by Amp Energy Drinks, that is illustrated with images of Hannah snowboarding, and of Kirindon. Amp gave $20,100 to Hannahs Gold, and after the Olympics Hannah is going to auction the quilt. And Hannah gave ALL her prize money in 2009 to the charity.<br />There are, most definitely, a whole lot of athletes competing in Vancouver that are deserving of our awe. Not just the headliners, the medalists. Every athlete, even those who finish 18th, have reached a rarefied level most of us mortals can't even imagine. But this young lady, this 23 year old, spectacularly talented, hardworking snowboarder has reset the bar. Not, necessarily, for the medals she's won, but for the Gold she gives away. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-5165229398478950952010-02-20T12:49:00.005-05:002010-02-22T14:00:59.345-05:00The Cat Chow Solution<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePzu6ShHPXufTwW92zvNO7X-KEWm6-VKPDPtgmIepRmB18pXOlVK-9HY7SY6UPxhBXvNrMIwGfNEdxoxZmkorMCYWuG_U7W1fLhHlPk1Nd5oCkgN7qkqJwV1kajJksR5suUhk7-3EPBTy/s1600-h/cane-toad-australia.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 164px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440384560675759490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePzu6ShHPXufTwW92zvNO7X-KEWm6-VKPDPtgmIepRmB18pXOlVK-9HY7SY6UPxhBXvNrMIwGfNEdxoxZmkorMCYWuG_U7W1fLhHlPk1Nd5oCkgN7qkqJwV1kajJksR5suUhk7-3EPBTy/s200/cane-toad-australia.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />Ranking way up there on the list of the most alarming news of the modern era, along with wars, jihaadism, climate change, and global economic contraction, has been the uncontrolled proliferation of the carnivorous toad in Australia. Why Nancy Grace or Geraldo aren't on this story is beyond me, but it's at least as riveting as Tiger Woods tales. In case you've somehow missed this saga- Australia, in 1935, imported the poisonous, carnivorous Cane Toad from Hawaii to fight insect pests. Once there, though, the cane toads gobbled up smaller, docile native species and predators that fed on the cane toad died from their poison. The population of cane toads, since, has ballooned to 200 million. There have been numerous failed attempts to reduce their numbers, including gassing, running over them with cars, audio blasts intense enough, theoretically, to be fatal, and an annual Toad Out Day in Queensland, the epicenter of the toad crisis, on which locals are encouraged to hunt and destroy cane toads.<br />In 2009 anti-toad scientists at the University of Sydney stumbled upon a promising, and apparently effective strategy using-I promise this is not made up- cat food. It seems the cane toads do their multiplying in the ponds and “billabongs” of Queensland. Listen to this stat: one cane toad will produce 30,000 eggs in a single clutch!! Scientists discovered that dollops of cat food placed strategically around the ponds and billabongs attracted carnivorous meat ants . If timed to coordinate with the emergence of the millions of little toads, the ants feast on the all-you-can-eat toad buffet, and kill up to 80% of the hatchlings. Australia's Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, is withholding judgment on the catfoodicide method of toad control, concerned it may cause unnecessary “pain or distress”. Pretty safe to conclude I'd think, though I'm no expert in toad psychology, that ants eating 80% of your babies would, in fact, be distressing. But its unlikely there will be much sympathy for the carnivorous toads among Aussies. And some guy from-again, this is not made up-a group called Frogwatch doubts the kitty chow method's effectiveness. But many are encouraged they may finally have a solution to the toad problem. But I have a concern I have not seen mentioned. I'm concerned that encouraging the prosperity of carnivorous meat eating ants could lead to scary unintended consequences. If the ants successfully diminish the carnivorous toad population, Australia will have armies of hungry, meat eating ants, with a newly developed taste for a cat food appetizer followed by an unlimited buffet of....something. Maybe, then, they could bring in some ant eating Aardvarks from Africa.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-52953210522121059692010-01-01T13:15:00.004-05:002010-01-01T13:22:43.366-05:00the innkeeper<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihyphenhyphenTTxixdjjD06AdbUURlHolZE8i9pp2X0zhNqKlrOjYgGIfFYUMiAHssqu0rZaPUtsND76JCyHHL-LWncRaLPi-pET9Ys2JZ6Kr4YTiOZyU7fWafncuCor5s8JuNjWWbTycE7aXhGRMd/s1600-h/world_tour_05_1173510360_p1010175_-_no_vacancy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421836878639197618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihyphenhyphenTTxixdjjD06AdbUURlHolZE8i9pp2X0zhNqKlrOjYgGIfFYUMiAHssqu0rZaPUtsND76JCyHHL-LWncRaLPi-pET9Ys2JZ6Kr4YTiOZyU7fWafncuCor5s8JuNjWWbTycE7aXhGRMd/s200/world_tour_05_1173510360_p1010175_-_no_vacancy.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />Almost unavoidable, over the last 30 days or so, has been encountering a reading or a summary of the events in and around Bethlehem at the time of Jesus' birth. We're familiar with a lot of the key characters in the narrative, and many of us have miniature displays that include them, probably still out on some table or mantle soon to be packed away for eleven months. Over this now concluding holiday season, one member of the ensemble cast, one not typically part of the miniatures, has been stuck in my mind, and become a meaningful metaphor. That's the innkeeper. There actually is no innkeeper mentioned in the Luke 2 account of Jesus' birth, he exists only by inference. He is more a part of tradition than history. We are told, of course, that “...there was no room for them in the inn”, leading to the familiar manger scenario. Tradition, not the Gospel of Luke, has imagined a conversation with an innkeeper who, despite the “No Vacancy” sign, allowed them to stay with the cattle and donkeys out back in the shed. Maybe none of that ever happened. Maybe the hotels were obviously sold out, labor pains began, and they just took advantage of the first box of hay they found. But it's in the traditional story of a sold-out, but sympathetic innkeeper that I see metaphor. He let them stay. He did not turn them away. But he did not put them in the Presidential suite, or even a nice room with a view. The accommodations he allowed them was some unused space in a dark corner of the property. And in that innkeeper, I find a parallel with, particularly in the busy, chaotic period approaching Christmas, where we allow Jesus to stay. The cliché says Jesus is the “reason for the season”, but the reality is the reason for the season is Santa Claus, decorated trees, gifts, shopping, traveling, visiting, eating, social functions, football games, bonuses, time off school, and maybe a couple days off work. But we will allow a small portion of our holiday time and attention to focus on the birth of the Savior, as long as it's mostly just an hour or two Sunday morning. And Christmas Eve, we will typically take another hour or two to catch our breath and light a candle following the crescendo of chaos at the malls. Despite the “No Vacancy sign” on our December calendar, we will allow a little space, where we can, for “the reason”. But not the Presidential suite. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-44486816249196304722009-11-27T12:45:00.005-05:002009-11-27T18:21:25.069-05:00Walking On The Beach<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLodI7zl9HuznnBcl5dnWDzZO1bUIBOhdLKnEMo84sRYCEiNpFxZlzvH6McEzJgcoJuMkxaYQ5PeJCOsVyh3QJenVENDIx1ejwdDTHjxWvZFVYCOD78b_gsEUj98AsJGGt786NKLbzLBlU/s1600/beach_footsteps_i0tp.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408841724581854034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLodI7zl9HuznnBcl5dnWDzZO1bUIBOhdLKnEMo84sRYCEiNpFxZlzvH6McEzJgcoJuMkxaYQ5PeJCOsVyh3QJenVENDIx1ejwdDTHjxWvZFVYCOD78b_gsEUj98AsJGGt786NKLbzLBlU/s200/beach_footsteps_i0tp.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />Longer ago than I care to admit, during the pre-children, early years of our marriage, Lori and I would go to Myrtle Beach during the winter months. Her parents would rent a condo for January, February, and part of March to escape central Pennsylvania winters, and we would visit as often as we could. Many times, when we were there, we would take ambitiously long walks on the beach. These days, just walking to the beach seems like an accomplishment, but back then we would walk miles. Sometimes we would pick out some distant highrise along the beach, and resolve to walk to that point, then turn around. There's a funny thing about assessing distance on the beach. The tall building we would choose as a goal was always, in reality, much farther away- a much longer walk-than it appeared to be. We would walk and walk and walk, and the building would seem to get no closer. There was little sign of forward progress. When we turned around to look where we had come from, though, we clearly had walked a long way. Our starting point had receded, and looked small and distant, but forward the building seemed as far off as when we started walking. There were usually numerous beach walkers strolling the Grand Strand. The weather in January, while comfortable, was typically not warm enough for laying in the sun, or diving into the waves, so most folks walked the beach, each at their own pace. There were some athletic types who ran, and they would pass us by in seconds. Others would pass us by in that Olympic style speed walk, that looked more like a waddle. Some ambled slowly, holding hands, looking at shells, in no hurry at all, and we would catch them, and pass them by. Often, we would see people ahead of us turn to leave the beach, and it was tempting to think we were more dedicated walkers than those folks. Actually, though, we didn't know at all where they began. People entered the beach at a wide variety of places. We sometimes walked beside the beach itself, on the boardwalk near the center of town, then moved onto the sand when we ran out of boardwalk. We would join others that had entered the beach farther north, and more people began their beach stroll from the streets we would pass by, or from the many hotel decks that lined the beach. But unless we walked side by side from start to finish, we had no way of judging the distance others had traveled.<br />Last evening, the circle of friends with whom I have met most recent Mondays had a discussion about our individual reactions to the word ''Church''. All of us have been seeking, growing, and refining our understanding of Christ and His Church over the last ten weeks, or so. Our reactions to the word ''Church'' today are probably all different, or more complex, than before this recent exploration began, but it was stunning how nearly universally the word ''hypocrisy'' is among the primary descriptors. We all nodded knowingly as examples of blatant hypocrisy among self proclaimed Christians were shared. I, too, find myself trying to discern authenticity in those who call themselves believers. But as we chatted, I felt a new perspective emerging on this problem of pervasive hypocrisy. It is too easy to assume that certain people we encounter, who behave in a particular way, are, despite their own claim, not authentic Christians. The reality that crept into my mind was that most of us, if others were to see some isolated fragment of our lives, could be judged as hypocrites. The reality of the Church is that its authentic participants are all walking along the same beach, aiming toward the highrise of Christlikeness. The reality is, we've all entered the beach at different distances from that goal. Some folks arrive on the beach with little darkness around them. They have led clean, honest, relatively pure lives, and the end goal is only a brief stroll. Others, probably most of us, begin their walk at places of brokenness, real darkness, and ugliness and gradually, incrementally, surrender fractions of our nature as we are made aware of those areas we still cling to. Still others come from starting points so dark, twisted, painful, and evil that even after long, earnest forward progress, surrender, and reconstruction there is much yet to travel. And, at times along the way, many of us walk the wrong direction, and slip back towards where we came from. Even Paul, who most of us would agree was an authentic believer, said in Romans ''I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.''We can, perhaps, infer that if we happened upon Paul, at just the right moment, a moment in which he was doing what he hates, we might conclude ''Aha. Another one of those hypocrite Christians.''<br />The very nature of Christianity, the reality that Christ takes us as we are, then begins a work of transformation of varying magnitude makes it also a reality that the outside observer will see us incomplete projects as hypocrites. We should be very cautious, as part of the Body, in applying that label, unless we have walked side by side along the beach with the accused. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-1220886458752424512009-10-28T15:02:00.003-04:002009-10-28T15:16:23.688-04:00a bigger picture<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTTdZvtK7OIr23Eu1AhY7WVie6EvWDk2Mn_oDbVeRzSUCpC8pU0gKKFVJuOcJFJlZ7cDw8fPZG53yzXZ3FYb4y7J8cEn2afyLbyqXyRpDchBLs5DHVCyJdm0UwKXf2fgUXEjox7VIk5xM/s1600-h/zappa.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397728661149424114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTTdZvtK7OIr23Eu1AhY7WVie6EvWDk2Mn_oDbVeRzSUCpC8pU0gKKFVJuOcJFJlZ7cDw8fPZG53yzXZ3FYb4y7J8cEn2afyLbyqXyRpDchBLs5DHVCyJdm0UwKXf2fgUXEjox7VIk5xM/s200/zappa.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />If, like me, you were around during the sixties and seventies, and participated in activities and behaviors typical of that period you would prefer not be itemized, that list would probably include listening to the late Frank Zappa. For the uninitiated, Frank Zappa, as leader of the band The Mothers of Invention, and later by himself, produced a giant body of music that, I guess, would best be described as avante-garde. Zappa, father of four children of noteworthy names- Moon Unit, Dweezil, Ahmet Emuukha Rodan, and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen- was often described as a genius. Certainly he was prolific. He definitley was creatively different. But genius? He was often profane, and vulgar and his schtick included flirting with the limits of offensiveness. I always suspected that among his fan base, there was a certain degree of Emperor's New Clothes syndrome going on-only the smartest people “got it”, and of course everyone wanted to be counted among the smartest. I didn't get it. I owned only one Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention recording, 1971's ''Fillmore East'' (on 8 track!), that was good for shocking the unfamiliar with it's vulgarity. But like jazz ''geniuses'' Ornette Coleman, Charles Mingus, and John Coltrane, free verse poets like Allen Ginsberg, and expressionist painters like Jackson Pollock, Frank Zappa's art is over my head. Is it possible Pollock and Zappa privately laughed at people who “got it”? Were they, perhaps, secretly amazed anybody took them seriously? Maybe not.<br />But my intention here is not to critique Frank Zappa's work, it's to draw an analogy from one of his album covers, pictured at top left. Look at it a second or two. What is it? Most observers would conclude, if only aware it was a Frank Zappa record, that it is a Z and an A, part of a larger, unseen spelling of Zappa. The title of the album is “Ship Arriving Too Late to Save a Drowning Witch.'' Now what is the picture? (I must confess, I removed the word ''ZAPPA'' from the top, and the title from the bottom.)<br />So, what's the analogy? We often draw conclusions based on, to borrow a photographic term, our limited ''Angle of View''. I've been wrestling with some theological questions of late, questions that have been asked repeatedly for thousands of years and by millions of people. Questions about suffering, and free will versus predeterminism. While satisfactory resolution has remained, thus far, elusive, I take a certain blanket comfort in these issues by admitting that I only see part of a Z and the tip on a A, and conclude it's a ship and a hat. The infinite Creator, with His infinite ''Angle of View'' sees so much more-infinitely more- than I, and it's presumptuous on my part to question His love and wisdom. I am unable, when the placid surface of the water is disturbed by what I perceive to be a tragedy or horror, to see the effect of the ripples that flow across the lake surface. The perfect example, of course, is the horrors poured on Christ Himself. Then and there, His followers' limited ''Angle of View'' caused them to weep and mourn, but the ripples that flowed out from that event are still circling the globe, carrying hope and redemption to all the world. So, when we can't see why things happen the way they happen, and no explanation seems adequate, and we question the very nature and sovereignty of our God, we must remind ourselves there is a much, much bigger picture.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-76328662183733835572009-10-27T16:33:00.004-04:002009-10-28T08:19:35.598-04:00Mr. Fix-it<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ac0Ab_UkUKUTV7MCqk-Sr9OtauQ6diBXbl2GOKiopqQ0KqHtCvdmFVnufr1zUhlc-N4a6jfIha_DCxKXHNMfoX0UPTkvi5uMZ2MHn8EGjq3jUhh255Z96pM5gO_vtLBwNZ7ty02HqDjC/s1600-h/198969-main_Full.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 133px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397381759588784930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ac0Ab_UkUKUTV7MCqk-Sr9OtauQ6diBXbl2GOKiopqQ0KqHtCvdmFVnufr1zUhlc-N4a6jfIha_DCxKXHNMfoX0UPTkvi5uMZ2MHn8EGjq3jUhh255Z96pM5gO_vtLBwNZ7ty02HqDjC/s200/198969-main_Full.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />There are key landmarks, turning points, in the ascent of man. There is the harnessing of fire, the discovery of the wheel, the development of written language, the invention of frozen pizza, and the invention of the TV remote controller. Similarly, there are landmarks, key milestones, in our individual lives: becoming potty trained; learning to drive; marriage; our children's arrival; and starting to get mail from AARP. I have a new item to add to this list of milestones, for both humankind and me individually. I have successfully repaired our dryer. Not everyone, I'm sure, will share my conviction that this accomplishment equates with the wheel, or childbirth. But me successfully repairing anything is so out of character that it warrants inclusion on such lists. The odyssey began Thursday morning, when Lori shouted down the stairs, “THE DRYER WON'T TURN ON”. It wasn't unplugged, but acted as if it was. It was totally comatose. She checked the breaker box in the basement, but none were tripped. I relegated the announcement to the background, subconscious processing part of my brain, went about other business, and waited for my cerebral cortex to propose a course of action. I fully expected the conclusion would be to call the Maytag Repairman, wake him from his nap, wait two days, watch as he gloomily shook his head and said, ''you need a new dryer, sorry, that'll be $129 please.” Unexpected crises, such as this one, seem to arise at the most inconvenient time. Flat tires seem to happen when the trunk is stuffed full of suitcases and it's raining. And dryers fail when there is laundry piled to the ceiling, and there is an oversized load of newly washed wet towels and sweat pants needing to be dried. The upstairs hallway and our bedroom were transformed into a surreal wonderland of wet wash hanging everywhere it could hang-from the ironing board, from the treadmill, from the bedposts, coat rack, and chairs. I suddenly decided, “I can fix it!” I was probably delirious from the high level of laundry chemicals in the bedroom air, but nonetheless that was my plan. It's important to note, I don't fix stuff. It's not among my skill set. But I rounded up some tools, pulled the dryer away from the wall, and set about figuring out how dryers work, and more specifically, why this one did not. An hour or so later, the dryer's hood was up, like a cubic white Buick, and there were dryer internal organs scattered about the laundry room. I had formed a hypothesis, aided by internet sites like Appliance Repair for Morons, that the trouble was in two things called thermal breakers, and successfully removed them. Friday morning I went to a little store in West York that sells appliance entrails. The man behind the counter peered over his glasses at me with disdain, probably expecting me to say “My dryer don't dry. How come?” But I confidently, and correctly ask for the parts I needed. His demeanor changed, as he apparently mistook me for an authentic member of the Guys Who Fix Stuff fraternity. “Twenty Six bucks, buddy.” That evening, I successfully reinstalled all the organs, and closed the hood. I noticed one leftover screw. A big one. So, the hood came open again, and in short order,I had located the screw's home, installed it, and closed the hood again. The internet education I received on Maytag dryers urged the cleaning of various passages where lint accumulates, and leads to the failure of the very parts I replaced. So, with the shop vac, I removed enough wads of furry lint to make several cats, and closed her back up. And you know what? It worked! I threw in some damp socks that had been hanging from the laundry room door, pushed the start button and it rumbled to life! All weekend, I made Lori repeat how impressed she was. I told her, probably, five times, we saved a lot of money. And I think she is proud. Or at least surprised. I'm sure she expected I'd put it back together and it would still be comatose, and I would beat the dryer with a sledge hammer until it was scrap metal. I'm not sure how long the radiant glow of successful repairs lasts,or the half-life of the boost to self confidence, but for now anyway, in this one tiny area of life, I'm pleased with myself.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-55426941067082192532009-10-19T08:26:00.005-04:002009-10-19T08:59:10.165-04:00Trouble in Milwaukee<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RJaHOGrD8VHcAyaSGTIZhRCdoLh05qM181FB3dCYOy9kp7wBezxNIRfgIJIddDBY2ESEyPVtGAjxHfwam_mJIi3M4WY4PlPbfpf3ns04Zl-TNOOyvUqUr8ZdkO_ZJLWXg2Ip2TjZvzIo/s1600-h/HarleyDavidsonLogo.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 151px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394289907135810722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RJaHOGrD8VHcAyaSGTIZhRCdoLh05qM181FB3dCYOy9kp7wBezxNIRfgIJIddDBY2ESEyPVtGAjxHfwam_mJIi3M4WY4PlPbfpf3ns04Zl-TNOOyvUqUr8ZdkO_ZJLWXg2Ip2TjZvzIo/s200/HarleyDavidsonLogo.gif" /></a><br /><div>This was written a couple months ago, before Harley Davidson's announcement last week that they were dropping the Buell lineup, and plan to try to unload their MV unit, bought in '08. This was in response to an accelerating shrinkage of Harley's sales figures. Clearly, new Harley execs see the turn around strategy very differently than I. They say they plan to focus on their “core strengths”, and make money with the Harley brand other ways. I guess that means coffee mugs, pocket books, and clothing. We'll see. I hope they're right and I'm wrong. But there's a Wall Street saying that goes, ''The trend is your friend.'' The trend in Harley has been downward, and I fear this new strategy will accelerate it.<br /><br />This is the kind of essay that can get ya hurt. More, even, than insulting someone's wife, girlfiend or Mom, disparaging words about Harley Davidson are fightin' words to some. First, I must establish that I am not, by inclination, a Harley basher. I know there are some commited bashers though, folks who for whatever personal reasons would never be caught riding a Harley Davidson, wearing a Harley T-shirt, or even speaking positively of the brand. That's not me. I've owned four of them. And from about 16 years old on (that's a LONG time) I have spent probably an unhealthy amount of time with my nose buried in Harley oriented magazines, brochures, websites, and books educating myself on current offerings and the history of the brand. I've taught my sons, at an early age, to tell a Flathead from Panhead from a Shovelhead from an Evo from a Twin Cam. I've memorized, and quiz myself from time to time on the evolution of Harley models. Last rigid frame? ('57) First Knucklehead? ('36) First year of the K model? ('55) There is no product in all of commerce that has so fascinated and appealed to me as Harley Davidson motorcycles. So, having hopefully established myself as one not interested in criticizing Harley because I dislike them, I think the Motor Company has deep problems. Milwaukee has lost its mojo.<br />First, the obvious. Harley Davidson motorcycles, like boats, vacation homes, and pool tables are discretionary purchases-stuff that, in times just like these, we can do without. I can hear some folks, the ones with the most Harley logos inked on their bodies, boasting “No, for me a Harley is a necessity.” And there are probably the obsessive few who put their motorcycle on equal terms with their homes, utility bills, car payments, and college tuition. But most of us who participate in the real world will do without a motorcycle if the finances require it. Here in 2009, a lot of finances require it! So demand for all motorcycles is down. That's not a unique Harley problem, of course, but it is a problem.<br />Second, Harley, like the automakers, and more so the home sellers, have pigged out on the all-you-can-eat easy financing buffet for years, but, for now anyway, that buffet is closed! Suddenly credit scores matter, and down payment, and debt to income ratios, and all those factors that once opened the door to, or prevented, sign and ride financing are important again. Also, Harley enjoyed resale values that were unheard of in many big ticket purchases-they still do have better than most. But the supply/demand curve that once allowed dealers to get thousands over MSRP, and the seller of a one year old Fatboy to get all his original purchase price has shifted dramatically. Now you can pay under list in most dealerships, and MSRPs have been flat for years. New V Rods sticker now for less-a lot less-than when they were introduced! A new FXDI-the base Super Glide- is much improved over, say, a five year old one-bigger motor, standard fuel injection, beefier front end,a sixth gear, but has not increased in list price. All that has taken at least some of the wind out of the secondary market. So to a lienholder, the lender behind the sign and ride easy financing, the chances of recouping their money on a repossesed Harley bought with 100% financing are now slim. Just when Milwaukee needs lenders to step up, they are doing quite the opposite.<br />Third, and here is where the threats start coming in, it's product, product, product. Despite the claims of Harley's advertising regarding “new models” there hasn't been a truly new product since the V Rod. The displacement has been bumped, there are flat black versions, various seat, fender, handle bar combinations, polished and unpolished cases, different levels of farings and luggage, but there, really, are only Sportster, Dyna, Softail, Touring, and V Rod. Just because your brunette girlfriend wears a blonde wig, she's not a new girlfriend.<br />Harley certainly has the bases covered in heavyweight, air cooled, V twin cruisers. They own the category. They certainly have cred in the heavyweight Tourer segment as well. After all, before the FX in the early seventies, that's what HD was, except for Sportster. (OK, I know, they offered some lightweights-the Italian built Aermacchi stuff badged as Harleys. They, to say the least, earned Harley no cred.) But the world of motorcycling is so much broader and deeper. And the growth, at least at the moment, is in places Harley has no presence. If Harley Davidson is going to refill its customer funnel as age, economics, and changed tastes drain it, they must broaden and deepen. They need entry level, lightweight or middleweight choices. They need a credible Sport bike. They need a Dual Sport, something that likes dirt roads as well as interstates and boulevards. They must attract young riders. They're not doing real well in that regard. The domestic auto industry gave away a huge chunk of an entire generation by offering Pintos and Vegas to compete with Civics and Corollas and Rabbitts. Many of those early Civic buyers have bought Hondas and Acuras ever since. Vega buyers, rightly so, probably never set foot in a GM showroom again. Today's 20 somethings are entering motorcycling via Kawasaki EX250s, or KLR650s, or Honda CBR600s, or Suzuki SV650s, or dozens of dirt bikes. Harley's entry point is the $7000 solo seat, no passenger pegs Sportster 883. What young guy wants a motorcycle he can't take a girl for a ride on? Too many of those young riders will stay with Honda or Yamaha and never consider HD.<br />There are, I'm afraid, deep systemic, cultural obtacles to this transformation happening. The evolution of Harley's product has always been slow, gradual, incremental. Nothing remotely like the pace of change at the big four Japanese brands, or even, now, at the revived British threat Triumph. And there may never have been a “brand” with as clearly a defined look, sound and image. Just look at the controversy and cool reception in some quarters to the V Rod. But if the “don't mess with it” forces prevail, for fear of a “new Coke” debacle, Harley's target, or default, demographic will shrink. To advocate abandonment of the Harley tradition would be suicidal, but growing the line in new, unHarley like ways would not.<br />There are some positive signs. The Sportster XR1200, while certainly traditional HD in many ways, has been well received by the Sport bike press, and may bring new and different people to Harley showrooms. And, there is interesting thinking at Buell. Adventure Tourers. Sport bikes. Contemporary concepts. I've thought for a long time that Buell was the place Harley could redefine their product lineup without messing with the Harley name, but Buell sales volume is tiny. Now, though, they have 2 models powered by a liquid cooled 1125cc, 146 horsepower engine built by Rotax. This is interesting in that they were willing to go outside the company for a credible engine, and, like V Rod, bends the definition of a Harley-even if it's called a Buell. Erik Buell, who's approach is certainly out of the box, has been anchored down by having to use Sportster engines. Maybe we'll see a 600 cc version of that Rotax engine. Or a V four, or an inline four, or a $ 4500 replacement for the laughable Blast. (Even Buell is laughing at it now that they've mercifully pulled the plug for '10). Who knows? At least Erik Buell isn't hyping a flat black paint scheme as a new model. (the Nightling?)<br />Also interesting, but leading as yet to no conclusions, is Harley's acquisition in '08 of MV Agusta and Cagiva, premium Italian motorcycles with strong high performance heritage. Will we see those products in Harley or Buell dealerships? Or is this more about Harley gaining a bigger share in Europe?<br />Neither brand can in any way help the “entry level” void, but could, potentially, allow Harley to compete with Ducati or Aprilia in the high end.<br />BMW was once a motorcycle brand that, like Harley, had a tightly defined approach to bikes. Air cooled, opposed twins. Change was slow and incremental and they had a loyal ownership. Over the last ten years or so BMW has completely reinvented themselves. They still build top quality, dependable, not inexpensive motorcycles, and continue to sell “boxers”-opposed cylinder engines that are instantly recognizable as BMW, and appeal to their loyal base. But look at the BMW website today, and you'll see models that are nothing like the traditional Beemer. There is a 450cc enduro, a 650 parallel twin dual sport, and an 800cc version, a 650 single, and other new, exciting, broad appeal offerings that are not what anyone would have expected from BMW ten years ago. BMW has shown it can be done. A brand can redefine itself without abandoning tradition. They had to. Harley Davidson has to, or it will, over time, gradually, incrementally lose market share. The recession will end. Sales of motorcycles will rebound. But Harley can not count on a revived economy alone turning their numbers around.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-85706888832848494132009-10-17T17:45:00.002-04:002009-10-17T17:49:06.567-04:00Boring Economic StuffMost people, when conversation turns to economics, find their eyes glazing over and rolling up into their heads. It just isn't rivetingly interesting. But for some reason, probably warped and twisted reasons, I find it fascinating. The “cause and effect” principles that are behind arcane economic equations are like the song we learned as kids..''the ankle bone's connected to the...shin bone, the shin bone's connected to the...knee bone. Only in economics it's...''the money supply's connected to the...inflation, the inflation's connected to the ... dollar, the dollar's connected to... the price of oil, the price of oil's connected to the.... consumer,...and so on. I can watch the babbling heads on CNBC theorize about currency valuations, the fed's M1 and M2 money supply numbers, and LIBOR rates for hours, although admittedly, I understand about the same percentage of the conversations as when I watch the Spanish channel.<br /> Unfortunately, real, pure, unspun economic information, these days is rare. So much of what masquerades as economics, especially the ''pop'', sound byte economics of TV, has a political or business agenda hidden in it. Knowing full well that most folks are oblivious to, or simply not interested in how the decisions of politicians and business leaders echo through society, affecting the wealth and well being of all of us, they typically recite only lopsided, skewed, half-truth statistics. The televised hearings when fed chairman Bernanke testifies before Congress, are like a tug of war between an economic theory purist, and the partisan bloviates who try with every question to score points, and corner poor Ben into saying something that supports their ideology, or undermines their opponents'.<br /> The real thing, though, observations and forecasts based on unbiased data is like a lie detector test for the practices and policies of governments and business. Perhaps the rarest of the rare, in terms of TV talkers, are the apolitical, PhD level of economic knowledge types who also have the ability to communicate and illustrate their understanding in accessible ways so empty skulls like me can grasp it.<br /> There seems to be a common thread emerging among these impartial observers, that the U. S.of A, in terms of economics, is on a dangerous trajectory. There is considerable debate, a daily point-counter point, between pundits as to whether the recovery underway in our country, and, in fact, most of the world, is real and sustainable. On the extremes of this debate, and the most vocal, are those with a horse of some sort in the race-bankers, stock brokers, fund managers, and elected officials. These positions aren't based on dispassioned observations, but on selfish motivations. The purists, though, seem to be aligning with the “things ain't as they oughta be” side, and that is cause for alarm.<br /> Recently, I heard an economist make an analogy between the Cash for Clunkers program, and the economy as a whole. The very weak-pulse auto business roared back to vitality for about two months while the government subsidized retail sales with up to $4500 per transaction. But now that the program is over, the car business is back in a coma. The entire U.S. economy is currently the beneficiary of, literally, trillions in subsidy. Besides the controversial ''stimulus'' package, which was near a trillion alone, the federal government has made giant investments in banks and financial services companies like Goldman Sachs, Wells Fargo, Bank of America, AIG, and dozens of smaller regional banks. The government has invested about $81 billion in GM and Chrysler. The federal reserve has been pumping newly printed money-over a trillion dollars-into the economy, in an effort to lower borrowing costs and stimulate activity, by buying Treasury Bonds and mortgage backed securities. Think about that previous sentence a moment or two. The United States government is financing a big chunk of its operations-it's deficit-by borrowing money from Bond buyers. That's not new. But they are buying the bonds themselves-through the Fed, with printed, not gold backed, ''good faith'' dollars. This is the same thing as paying one of your credit cards with a cash advance from a different card, then paying the bill on the second card with an IOU. Just like Cash for Clunkers, all these ''stimulative'' programs are temporary. They have to be. Every time the government adds a new dollar to circulation, the ones in your wallet decrease in real, purchasing power value, by some tiny increment (…the ankle bones connected to the....knee bone...) A trillion printed here, a trillion printed there, and soon we're talking real money! Soon, people around the globe who have, for a long time, stored their wealth in dollars-oil sheiks, foreign governments, corporations-watch their $100 bills become $98 bills, then $92 bills, then $85 bills. They defensively begin to trade their dollars for Euros, or gold, further pressuring the dollars decline in purchasing power as demand for them fades. Doomsday thinking? Hardly. Drink enough coffee to watch some CNBC, or read just the headlines of the Wall Street Journal and you'll notice this vicious cycle is well underway. Why is a gallon of gas 60 cents higher than the end of '08? Because oil is back from a low of about $30 to a current $78 per barrel. Why? Because, the people who sell us oil must receive $78 per barrel to have received the same real value for their oil as when the more valuable dollar could buy a barrel for $30-35-40. (….the knee bone's connected to the...thigh bone...) Many smart people believe the collapse of the real estate market began when marginless, financed to the eyeballs consumers, became unable to keep their house of cards standing when fuel prices hit their peaks in mid 2008. The tiny bit of slack over-financed homeowners had in their personal budgets was more than absorbed by the cost of filling their tanks, and heating their homes. Debt defaults spiked, and down came the national, global even, house of cards.<br />So, there are several elements that could collide, or are colliding now, to form a perfect storm. The fragile, debatable, largely jobless recovery underway, weak as it is, is propped upped by a giant Cash for a Clunker Economy stimulus program that someday, somehow, will end. The ''recovering'' institutions, the ''too big to fail'' financial firms like Goldman and Wells Fargo are profitable now, but that is in an environment of an artificial, temporary zero percent federal funds rate. You don't have to be a very skilled banker to be profitable when the government has relieved you of bad loans, lends you money at 0%, and you lend those funds at 5 or 6 or 7 percent. How will they fare in a normal, market environment of a 3 or 4 percent fed rate? And, nearly every talking head on the business networks, says the key to real recovery is the consumer. In other words, we need Americans to return to spending like drunken sailors on cars, homes, and appliances again. While Americans have notoriously short memories, it could be a long, long time until conspicuous consumption is fashionable again. Even if it were, 10% of the American consumer is jobless. Many more are drowning in credit card and other debt. It is inevitable that inflation creep back into the formula to some degree, perhaps severely, as the dollar declines and food, fuel, and health care costs increase. Don't expect the American consumer to rescue the automakers, the home builders, or the refrigerator sellers anytime soon.<br /> It is not, of course, a done deal that the American economy will implode while Europe, India, and China take center stage as the new economic dynamos of the world. There are very smart people, economists, who have the understanding and vision to suggest the necessary course adjustments and correct fiscal policies. But as long as our economic planning and strategy look no further than the next election, and respond to the desires of narrow, self-serving special interests, wisdom will be ignored, political expedience will guide decisions, and we, as a country, will stagger towards our demise. But at least we can watch it on CNBC.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-69693662843643939692009-10-13T19:00:00.003-04:002009-10-13T19:14:09.879-04:00A Dilemma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWgBAU0jvpR96mXZk2VqItwkiwgvPOInYp3VlXIgPaPc1-rVMuA-Xk820_tdwpmkQk_XVvSqlEB11TSmLKqVsqU8UaLjaevnjLcoijq69AE4_IlgrBZTkJK8w-zYbzEKxazPk9AKmBqS7/s1600-h/JacobszStPaul.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 172px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392224835810138418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWgBAU0jvpR96mXZk2VqItwkiwgvPOInYp3VlXIgPaPc1-rVMuA-Xk820_tdwpmkQk_XVvSqlEB11TSmLKqVsqU8UaLjaevnjLcoijq69AE4_IlgrBZTkJK8w-zYbzEKxazPk9AKmBqS7/s200/JacobszStPaul.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />Again last evening, some friends and I discussed nagging questions in our small group setting. (see 2 posts ago-The Gospel of Larry) This weeks discussion centered around the issue of how God deals with, or will deal with, the zillions of people throughout history that have had no exposure to the Gospel message. Most of us around the table were troubled by the possibility that these folks could face eternity in Hell. It seems unfair, and a contradiction to the nature of God as loving and forgiving. Sort of like being told you won't be receiving your high school diploma because you didn't take the required Latin, and the school doesn't offer a course in Latin. There were other parallel, related questions having to do with the eternal fate of good people who do not believe. While interesting and important, that issue, in my feeble mind, is not as troubling as the question of those who have had no opportunity to choose to believe.<br />I've heard this question a number of times over the years, and, in fact, posed a version of it myself in a Foundations of Christianity class about 20 years ago. I thought I knew the answer. A few weeks ago, when our small group assembled a list of questions we would like God to answer, and this one was put on the list, I smugly thought “I know this..” Well, in the subsequent weeks my understanding of the passage wherein the answer is supposed to be has blurred. I'm referring to Romans 2, where the dilemma is addressed, and to Romans 3 where the apparent solution in 2 seems confounded. 2:13 says,''...it is not those who hear the law who are righteous in God's sight, but it is those who obey the law....” 2:14 says, and here, I think is the potential solution,...''[those] who do not have the law, they are a law for themselves, even though they do not have the law,(15) since they show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their thoughts now accusing, now even defending them.''<br />So, what does that say? That the information the Jews received from God, through Moses, the Law, in a general sense is already “written on the hearts” of all those without access to Moses' teachings. It says people know without the Commandments not to steal their neighbors wife, or donkey, or snowblower. It says we know our parents deserve honor. It says we know murder isn't a good idea. And it says our consciences tell us when we are out of line. So Romans 2 tells us all those non-Jews have a measurement, a way for their life to be assessed. Listen to what 2:29 says ''...a man is a Jew if he is one inwardly, and circumcision is circumcision of the heart, by the Spirit, not by the written code. Such a man's praise is not from men, but from God.'' More encouraging news, it appears.<br />Then, though, as one continues into Romans 3, things look dark again. In 3:10, 11, and 12 Paul quotes The Old Testament: ''There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one'' (emphasis mine). Listen to 3:20, '' Therefore no one will be declared righteous in his sight by observing the law, rather through the law we become conscious of sin.'' And 23, ''for all have sinned and fall short...''.<br />The Good News, of course, is that Jesus Christ fixes that dilemma for those who trust Him. But Paul seems, in Romans 2 and 3, to extend that dilemma to the whole world, those with the law ''written on their hearts'' as well. And many millions of individuals over thousands of years never, as far as we know, ever heard of Jesus Christ.</div><div>I need help understanding these passages, or perhaps coming to terms with what they say. Talk to me!!!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-66509538489492971562009-10-09T15:23:00.001-04:002009-10-09T15:28:01.433-04:00Tales from Brewster StreetBrewster Street, in the early Sixties, was a neighborhood in its adolescence. It was, then, only 2 blocks long, and had roughly as many vacant lots as homes. Ten years earlier it was all cornfield. But as the postwar boom in new, G.I. Bill funded homes spread, someone decided it was a good place to put a street, and, one by one, modest single family homes began to sprout. We lived at 33 Brewster Street, in a two bedroom brick, with an attached one car garage, sort of the Brewster Street prototype. There were several in a row, including ours, that if you looked closely were the same house, but slightly disguised by moving the chimney to opposite sides, or putting the garage out back, or having a carport instead of a garage. Our side of the street was solid, from the Spanglers at one end all the way to the Lippys at the other. The other side, though, was sparse, with only a handful of homes and empty grass lots between that allowed a view from our picture window of the elementary school a block away.<br />I knew the names, then, of the occupants of every house on Brewster Street, and many of the names of people on adjoining Mumma Avenue, Center Street, Sanford Avenue, and Glendale. My best friends lived at 27 Brewster, the Williams. There was also a kid my age at the Wentz home, an unusual two family rancher at 21 and 19 Brewster. But there was one home, one family, on our street that was, to say the least, unusual. That was the Bostions at 23 Brewster Street.<br />A passer by, even a stranger to the the neighborhood, would likely do a double take if they spotted the Bostion home. They would have to be observant, though, because a casual glance was not enough to reveal there was, in fact, a house at 23 at all. Their front yard, or where one typically was, was a rainforest of shrubbery, and plantings, and trees that had never, ever been pruned or thinned or trimmed. These plants, while perhaps the same genus as the orderly, shaped, mulch bedded ones of neighboring homes, had grown and evolved and intertwined and conspired to completely eclipse the dwelling. To the casual observer, the sidewalk in front passed an undeveloped lot that neglect had allowed to become botanical Hell. The lone clue that humans dwelled within this jungle, was a flagstone walkway that bisected the parcel, and pointed towards the front door.<br />I visited the Bostion home fairly often. They had a son, Benny, that was about a year younger than I, and we sometimes played together. Each time I visited, I would pause at the intersection of the sidewalk and the flagstone path, gather my courage, and remind myself there were probably not any tigers or pythons in Hanover. But I didn't dally. No, I would jog to the door, just in case there were more localized predators I hadn't considered lurking in the thick, dark forest.<br />Inside, Benny's house was an over flowing museum. The Mom, Catherine as I recall, collected those lamps that were the ticket in about 1960 that slowly rotated, displaying a back lit, animated scene. In their living room there was one of a forest fire, several of waterfalls, one of a river, and one of waves breaking on a beach. She also had several wall hung pictures of similar scenes on those hollow, 6 inch thick plastic boxes that lit up inside. They, too, were a decorating fad for about a week in 1960 or '61. Their house was also a shrine to the Washington Redskins. There were footballs, and banners, and autographed pictures everywhere. The Dad, Archie, was a maintenance man at Dickinson College, where the Redskins, then, held training camp, so the whole family were obsessive fans. The biggest fan, though, was Linda, Benny's older sister, who was the toughest kid in the neighborhood. She usually wore a Redskins jersey, often with shoulder pads underneath, and sometimes wore a Redskins helmet while just sitting around. She would go door to door in the neighborhood, demanding all the kids between 5 and 18 report to the elementary school yard to participate in the football game she was organizing. She assigned positions, made the rules, and quarterbacked. And if you objected, she punched you in the gut.<br />When Linda was about 11 or 12, she decided she would like to have a horse. Now, the properties along Brewster Street were not farmettes. They had no outbuildings, except the occasional detached garage. These were 50's subdivision sized lots, 1/3 acre probably. So, the Bostions got a horse. Not a pony. A full sized, in fact intimidatingly large, brown, poop manufacturing horse. It lived and grazed in their backyard, which was slightly less jungle like, slightly, than the front. Linda shifted her attire from football player, to cowboy, er cowperson, favoring pointy boots, jeans with a lasso hanging off the belt, and plaid snap front shirts. She would ride the horse up and down the alley that connected the back of all the houses on our side of Brewster Street to the envy of all the neighborhood kids, and to the disbelief of our parents. Sometimes she would offer to sell rides on Thunder for a quarter, but most of us couldn't come up with a quarter. I think Thunder only lived on Brewster Street one summer. One day, he was no longer there. Either the Bostions came to their senses, or township authorities, summoned by alarmed neighbors, ordered Thunder's exile.<br />As long as I knew Benny Bostion, he was fascinated by spiders and snakes and other odd pets. In his room, there were hermit crabs, and a small glass tank with a furry fifty-cent piece sized spider inside. We often went “snaking” together. We would wear old sneakers and walk in a nearby creek, overturning rocks on the creek bottom and try to catch what ever wriggled out from under. He usually had a snake or two, captured on these expeditions, in his room. One day Benny came to my house, all excited, to summon me to come see his new pet. His parents had gotten him an Eastern Racer, which, for the zoologically uninformed, is a quite large, though harmless, Black Snake. They were keeping him, until they figured out a longer term plan, in the bathtub with a window screen and a brick preventing his escape. It was time to feed his new baby, and Benny had a white mouse in a cage he let loose in the tub with the snake. In time, Mr. Snake would seduce the poor little mouse, squeeze him until his red eyes popped out, them eat him. I recall being troubled by the idea, and making up some obligation that wouldn't allow me to stay and watch the moment of truth. Maybe next time.<br />One summer Saturday morning, I was lying awake in bed, waiting until 9:00 am. when Mighty Mouse came on to get up. From across the street, I heard three BAM BAM BAM cannon like shots, and ran to our picture window to investigate. Neighbors were hurrying toward the recently finished, newly occupied house diagonally just across the street. The Storm family, a twenty-something childless couple were the new occupants, and I guessed Mr. Storm had blasted his wife, or vice versa, and hurried out the door, barefoot and dressed in my Lone Ranger pajamas to join the other neighbors nosing. Being nosy, in the late fifties, early sixties, black and white TV era was perfectly normal and acceptable. It was expected. Nosy was the opposite of aloof. Anyway, I ran around the back of the Storm's house where the others had gathered, and there on the cement slab patio was a spilled laundry basket, Benny Bostion's black snake, now in three pieces, and a stunned Mr. and Mrs. Storm, staring at the white, aluminum siding wall of their new home, riddled with holes-dozens of them- from the 12 gauge shotgun blasts. Noticeably absent from the gathering of neighbors were the Bostions.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-64849647455764543492009-10-06T19:56:00.000-04:002009-10-06T19:57:49.980-04:00The Gospel of LarryRecently, as part of a small group setting in which participants are encouraged to openly ask those nagging questions that trouble them, and possibly inhibit their faith, a question was posed about the sometimes contradictory theology espoused by different denominations, groups, or churches within the broad spectrum of Christianity. More specifically, the questioner was troubled by the intolerance often on display between groups which hold opposing opinions regarding some aspect of theology, and their mutual claim to exclusivity of truth. Sometimes one group will assert that some other is, in fact, not authentically Christian because they hold some erroneous view.<br />Our group batted that issue around, then moved on to the next nagging question. It became apparent, as we touched on a variety of the often-raised questions and objections, that however many people were gathered around the table, there were an equal number of differing versions of theology. Like the larger Church-the entire body of believers-this little group was fractured along many of the same troubling, arguable, eternal questions and the variety of ways each person chooses to answer them. It seems, that in addition to the writings of Matthew, Mark, Luke, et al, we also draw our truths from the Gospel According to Larry, or the Book of Gus. It seems many of us write a Gospel we are able to accept, that is palatable. And we align ourselves with a body of similar minded believers, or silently reject or modify parts of the teaching of our home congregation that we just can't, or won't, subscribe to.<br />Examples of these divisive issues include: infant baptism, to practice it or not and its efficacy if we do practice it; our duty, or lack thereof, as Christians, to evangelize and seek converts; the role of women in ministry; how we are to view homosexuality; the type of music that is appropriate in worship; how we are to view the Biblical accounts of creation, the flood of Noah, and other Bible “history”; how we are to view the Biblical prophesy of end times and Christ's return; and many, many other questions for which there are varied and numerous “answers”.<br />While we certainly didn't open up all these issues around our table, and the exchange was cordial, it was clear we come to reconciliation with troubling questions in different and individual ways. There is a Gospel of Linda, a Gospel of Louise, a Gospel of Bob, and the Gospel of Jeff.<br />As the Church, as the body of believers, we would be well served to continue seeking answers to these questions, to continue mining God's Word for enlightenment, but to strictly avoid defining each other by our differences. If we believe in a spiritual enemy, in a power that seeks to undermine the credibility and attractiveness of Christianity, we must recognize that division and disunity over these important but non-core questions aids the cause of the enemy! We must be unified and consistent on who Christ is, why He came, why He died, that He was resurrected, and our necessary response. All the rest, in the end, is a red herring, a misdirect, an obstacle.<br />It's tough, as the flawed, ego driven creatures we are to not argue in advocacy of our own personal Gospels, our Book of Larry. And, a two thousand year track record of splits and splinters and factions and denominations reflects just that tendency. But, according to the gospel of Jeff, mass changes, new paradigms are the sum of individual and personal transformations. If we could each hold firmly to the essential, non-negotiable, core Truths, and allow that some nagging questions may have more than one answer, we would be a stronger, more inviting Church.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-21661681750516532472009-09-30T16:23:00.002-04:002009-09-30T16:31:47.580-04:00Finding JoyOne of the fruits, one of the “you'll know them by...” marks of a Spirit filled life, we're taught, is joy.<br />But for many of us, even after coming to faith in Christ, a prevailing joy is not our default setting. Like other “Spiritual disciplines”- regular time in the Word, consistent times of prayer and meditation, loving those we don't like, selfless generosity to those in need of resources we have, these things take intent and effort on our part to become our nature. We don't, at least not most of us, enter into relationship with Christ as our Lord on one day, and wake up the next filled with Christlike love, compassion, gentleness, and joy. The transformation, the manifestation of the new creation we have become, develops over time, a lifetime, as God incrementally convicts and steers and enlightens and reveals, then refines and polishes the jagged edges of our human nature. Sometimes, these transformative steps are only a matter of changing perspective-seeing the same reality a new way, from a different angle. Such it is with joy.<br />Consider Route 322, the route many take to State College. The stretch of highway from roughly Newport to Thompsontown is, perhaps, one of the most spectacularly scenic drives in all of Pa. The road runs adjacent to the Juniata River, and from the Northbound lane, high above the river, you can see the brown ribbon of river winding into the distance, and the forested, rolling mountains stretching toward the far off horizon to the west. I've made that drive at least a hundred times, probably more. Most times I see only guardrails, tractor trailers, the white broken stripe between the lanes, and the green interstate style signs. Most of the time I just want the drive to be over with. Most times if I could teleport past the whole thing and just arrive I would do so. But every once in a while, on those unfortunately rare times when my mind is focused on the here and now instead of the next place, the view out the driver's side window is stunningly majestic and beautiful.<br />Joy, I believe, can become a more frequent reality when we bring our mind back from some imagined destination, look out the driver's side window, and allow the “getting there” to be, at least, half the fun. We aim our awareness, too often, on some as yet unrealized future place and time where we might find joy- when that promotion occurs, when we're finished school, when I can finally afford a new Softail, when we retire. Or we “live” in some idealized past time, our “glory days”, when we were the star running back, when we had no bills other than gas in the Camaro, when there were far more years ahead of us than behind us and our life was mostly a blank sheet of paper. We travel through the present, the only Earthly reality truly available to us, seeing only the guardrails, the stripes on the road, and the exit signs, missing the spectacular scenery, the fountains of joy all around us.<br />At almost any moment, regardless of the ambient stresses and worries that may underlie our present circumstance, we can pause, take in our surroundings, and allow ourselves to be thrilled by them. We are, round the clock, all our lives, immersed in generous beauty and wonder that we need only notice to begin having joy as our default setting. Look around. There are comfortable homes, the company of family, indulgent food, too many clothes, sunshine, storm clouds, a wet nosed dog, majestic trees, Famous Hot Wieners, a star filled night sky, the smell of baking, beaches, a motorcycle ride, toys, the magic of modern communication, mowed lawns, friends, cool sheets, an endless variety of music, medicine, people who need us, people on whom we depend, uncountable books, the collective knowledge of all mankind for all history at our fingertips, and the means-a plan-where by we can live forever with the Creator of the Universe.<br />Surely, all of us, at any given time, can cite reasons why joy, for us, is a distant concept. And all those things, the trials and torments of life, are very real. But I believe, with practice and intent, and the help of our tranformative Savior, we can develop the ability to notice, and experience, and savor, and find joy in the abundant, infinite, spectacular world we, for now anyway, must live in.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-53168357974137338162009-09-15T21:30:00.004-04:002009-09-15T21:51:39.397-04:00The Symphony of the Universe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeLcXv2bgeJ9iX1X6cwb9fUBlxyDgTOB1clKVShfxQRxCUKRWdb27SzAhna_FvoL8L3gRvLtw5yNkgoN-H-l2T_8TpNJ8d31EFWK5GhqCZyFquBIaPDs9BF7xu7sL-w5vWvRrwRg67Ao6/s1600-h/hubbell.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381872087602302306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeLcXv2bgeJ9iX1X6cwb9fUBlxyDgTOB1clKVShfxQRxCUKRWdb27SzAhna_FvoL8L3gRvLtw5yNkgoN-H-l2T_8TpNJ8d31EFWK5GhqCZyFquBIaPDs9BF7xu7sL-w5vWvRrwRg67Ao6/s200/hubbell.jpg" /></a><br />Imagine, if you will, our universe as the subject of a magnificent symphony, played by an orchestra of ten thousand instruments spread across a massive, curved stage, hundreds of feet across. At the center, all in white, the infinite God, the Creator of it all, conducting. Behind the stage a screen that spreads all the way from stage left to stage right and reaches up seemingly to the stars displays the visual wonders of the cosmos as the orchestra plays. The Conductor sweeps His right arm from side to side, then slowly raises both hands and all the instruments roar to a crescendo as the screen shows the collision of two galaxies. Purple, and gold, and blue clouds fill the screen as a million stars explode, and as a dozen tympani pound and throb, jets of energy, massive geysers of Gamma rays streak out 1000 light years from the collision. The Conductor closes His fists, and at once the instruments are silent and the screen goes empty. As he raises His left arm, cellos and trombones whine and growl rhythmically as on the screen we see a black hole, a dark iris in an oval sea of stars that circle clockwise around the dark center. Nearer the blackness, stars spin in an increasingly furious frenzy. The innermost stretch into semi circle streaks, then disappear, as if down a drain. Again, the Conductor closes His left hand into a fist, and instantly the orchestral sound changes to the bright chirps and tweets of piccolos and soprano clarinets and saxes. The percussionists tingle their triangles and rustle their chimes, and on the screen we see a solitary hydrogen atom, its simple core and its lone electron, like a gnat, whizzing around in circles.The view zooms in toward the nucleus, and the rest of the woodwinds blend in as we see the separate pieces, the proton and neutron. The orchestra takes a mischievous, cartoon like turn, the oboes and saxes honking discordantly, the brasses laying an iambic rhythm as we zoom inside the proton to the realm of the quarks, those specters, those phantoms, those shadows of matter that follow none of the rules the rest of creation must follow. We don't really see them, but we know they're there. The Conductor brings His arms to His chest, pauses, them flings them out to His sides, and instantly again, the music and the screen are transformed. Now all the instruments play together, a sustained C major chord. The drums play gentle rolls, the kettle drums a heart beat. On the screen the blue-green ball that is Earth comes into focus. It slowly rotates, and we recognize the continents and the oceans. As we zoom closer a man made satellite, a tin can with antennae and solar panels zips by. Closer still, and we see rivers, then cities, then skyscrapers. The C chord stops, and the violins alone play just a few bars of a bittersweet melody. The Conductor reaches toward the screen, His arms outstretched in front of Him, His palms up, as if to say “Ahhh, look there...” Then the palms close, the screen goes dark for just a second, and one lone violin weeps. Then ten thousand players are on their feet, their instruments angled toward the sky and blasting out a cacophonous finale as the screen becomes, again, a broad expanse of space, with clouds of galaxies, streaks of color, giant explosions and collisions in every direction. The Conductor waves both arms left to right, then back again. He points at instruments and coaxes still more out of them, and the screen grows more full. He sways with excitement, growing the sound, filling the sky. Dust becomes stars, and stars become dust. The finale will go on forever, just as it has. Forever.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-50237117827794312192009-09-07T12:05:00.004-04:002009-09-07T13:01:37.670-04:00Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance, Barack Obama<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgM9XpDgO0mDsagBl1urTxZzJH0lQIfg1WE_AL5kjrIQnYLQS47nT3yLAuFmoT-VvmK_adO2lZwiwDVD1MXIe-mQ-eHuUxdOTxxQSSNFPhA-bdpjecJJ2Pk8N0LsKKDtQ-BCxTAVAEJw0/s1600-h/obama.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 94px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgM9XpDgO0mDsagBl1urTxZzJH0lQIfg1WE_AL5kjrIQnYLQS47nT3yLAuFmoT-VvmK_adO2lZwiwDVD1MXIe-mQ-eHuUxdOTxxQSSNFPhA-bdpjecJJ2Pk8N0LsKKDtQ-BCxTAVAEJw0/s200/obama.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378758482301116802" /></a><br /> Reading this autobiography today is an unavoidably different experience than to have read it in, say,<br />1996 when Barack Obama was not yet on the public radar. His notoriety, then, was limited to some relatively small academic circles because of his selection as the first black president of the Harvard Law Review. There are probably not seven people on planet Earth today without some knowledge or opinions of who Barack Obama is, and, to some extent, his biography. So it becomes necessary to approach this book with an intentional effort not to filter or color his words with what we expect to read. It has to be seen as the honest, forthright words of a young man's struggle to understand the complexity of race, and his own identity and heritage.<br /> Similarly, this is a book that could not be written today. Not by Barack Obama anyway. Since The Speech in 2004, when he went to dead center on the public radar, the handlers, and advisers, and packagers, and pollsters, and consultants would never allow it. The forthrightness would be diluted into the familiar cliches and platitudes the entourage thinks people want to hear, or should hear.<br /> In the narrative, Obama honestly discusses his early realization that his skin color caused people to react differently to him. He suffered rejection and ridicule in the mostly white private school he attended in Hawaii, but when he gravitated toward the other blacks, he found himself an outsider to their perspective as well. He was raised by his white mother and grandparents, and didn't share the disdain for whites he found in many other young blacks. The theme, then, of the book, as we follow Obama through his childhood years in Hawaii, and from age 6 to 10 in Indonesia, through his college years in Los Angeles, then attending Columbia in New York City, then to his years working as an organizer in a housing project in Chicago, and finally to Kenya to “find” who his father was, is the search for personal belonging and truth. The honesty on these pages is engaging. He openly discusses his youthful attraction to drugs and alcohol. There are, of course, anecdotes of white folks' exploitation and rejection of African Americans, but there is also an honest examination and revelation of misguided, erroneous ideas, attitudes and behaviors within the black culture as well. <br /> Arguably, the most interesting section of the book is Obama's time visiting Kenya. His father, also Barack Hussein Obama, was mostly an enigma to him, as other than a month long visit when Obama was only 11, his knowledge of his father, and his entire paternal history, came from stories his grandparents and mother told him. After being accepted at Harvard, he left his job in Chicago to spend a few weeks in Europe, then with his extended family of sisters and brothers (different mothers) and cousins and grandmother in Kenya. As he explored Luo tribal culture and tradition and listened to his grandmother's detailed recounting of his family history, modern African culture, specifically Kenyan, took on a metaphorical parallel to Obama's own blended identity. While the people cling to many tribal beliefs and customs, and there is pride in their heritage, there is an unmistakeable dilution and blending, both from the influence of the colonialist period, and the modern world gradually seeping in. Dress, diet, economics, and attitudes all reflect non-African influence. Barack Obama's ethnic heritage is not singular or pure, but Africa shows there may be no such thing.<br /> There is a temptation when reading from these early Barack Obama thoughts to point to passages as “AHA!'s”, to connect these early, less guarded, developing views as the seeds of an ideology we may or may not agree with. And that may be true. But an honest reader must note the book is 15 years old, and the progression of the experiences cited here much older still. None of us, if we're old enough, would want every idea or observation we expressed at 18, or 25, or 45 years old to define us now, and it would be unfair to apply that to Barrack Obama. Taken as a chance to see race in America through eyes very different than our own, it's a great opportunity and a good read.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-87760515078828106262009-08-11T13:25:00.002-04:002009-08-11T13:27:58.480-04:00Morning Joy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZfXrY_dGT9Gg5Vk0UY85HzauswWU9bWcmAUPR5RnxJc2bxUTBpFTGUimXbNpNZsioU0-AfJ68hwnZ1J59wF8TVbOsUCpFHcMtyZlnCPh-oe3zTvSVb-8OQaUE2buzDz5r17NBtqbTOkD/s1600-h/235566553QcBlmX_fs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZfXrY_dGT9Gg5Vk0UY85HzauswWU9bWcmAUPR5RnxJc2bxUTBpFTGUimXbNpNZsioU0-AfJ68hwnZ1J59wF8TVbOsUCpFHcMtyZlnCPh-oe3zTvSVb-8OQaUE2buzDz5r17NBtqbTOkD/s200/235566553QcBlmX_fs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368759113787131586" /></a><br />This is a post about...nothing. It's about the simple joy of a cool morning, a shining sun, the aroma of coffee, a colorful variety of flowers all around-in planters and hanging baskets and beds, of a tiny but growingly bountiful garden-heavy laden with tomatoes, peppers, chilies, and cucumbers. More often than not, these abundant reasons for celebrating life in its simplest essence go unnoticed. More often than not, even when just out of bed, our brains are obsessed and distracted by our duties and tasks looming large, by over due bills, by unsolved dilemmas, by imperfect relationships, and all the burdens we carry. But on that rare morning, like this one today, when all those things are, for unknown reasons of biology and psychology, deep in the recesses of consciousness, just sitting and smelling and sensing is, however briefly, a joy. On these special occasions our skin registers the cool, dampness of the morning air, the palette of nature is noticeably more intense-oranges, and blues, and reds, and yellows, and many shades of green, and the often unseen detail is in focus-butterflies, chipmunks, the creak of the porch swing chains, the wasps in the corner, the adoring stare of the dog. The peaceful time window, however,begins to draw short, and from the edges, awareness of the day at hand begins to seep in, bringing with it the familiar anxiety of life. If only I had the power, or self control, to regulate the presence and onset of worries and stresses. I'm sure some do, but not me. That flaw though, that weakness, makes rare times, such as this very morning, more joyful, and reminds me that life is a wonderful gift full of lavish beauty.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-44330421087821388222009-08-10T14:22:00.002-04:002009-08-10T14:24:47.672-04:00Tony Dungy's Quiet Strength<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiPs2Kz7KcLudJTh6v1Lq6wXAW4XBlMHcMXhR3eWXj4hRrYpG4Kq6JzIkwwGMLBanavS7WSmVn-f4VS0uLob9pUQasxpzTvSkfg33v9mkk-O2_iBJTiUE5qJKp0dcHbkJvwRutRiboWsp/s1600-h/dungy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 88px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiPs2Kz7KcLudJTh6v1Lq6wXAW4XBlMHcMXhR3eWXj4hRrYpG4Kq6JzIkwwGMLBanavS7WSmVn-f4VS0uLob9pUQasxpzTvSkfg33v9mkk-O2_iBJTiUE5qJKp0dcHbkJvwRutRiboWsp/s200/dungy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368402755459663618" /></a><br /> <br /><br /> I just finished Tony Dungy's book Quiet Strength. Tony Dungy is, of course, the head coach, now retired, of the NFL's Indianapolis Colts. More than just about any other NFL coach, Dungy became familiar to even non-football fans because of his success as a coach, his faith driven character, and the personal tragedy his family faced. In preparing to share thoughts on this book, I gave some thought to the yardsticks by which I measure a book. <br /> First, was it a compelling read? Was I anxious, in each opportunity to spend time reading, to return to the narrative? Did I wish, when it was time to turn off the light and go to sleep, I could continue reading? In this case, most definitely yes on all three counts. The earliest chapters, the growing up bio, were somewhat less absorbing than the rest, but the behind the scenes NFL anecdotes-the story of his years in Tampa Bay, then Indianapolis made the book hard to put down. There are glimpses of marquee NFL players and coaches we might otherwise never see without Dungy's insider's recollections. And there is an ever present thread of everything Dungy does measured and tempered and guided by his faith in God. As probably anyone who would elect to read this book already knows, the Dungy family faced the suicide death of their 18 year old son Jamie in 2005. Even though the reader knows its coming, it would be hard to be human and stay dry-eyed reading Dungy's recount of the events surrounding his son's death, especially the “homegoing” service. Dungy's personal struggle to reconcile the tragedy with his faith is equally moving. Thankfully, he admits to not fully understanding God's bigger plan and, like so many Christians, having only weak answers for the question of why bad things happen. It would not ring true, or seem real, if he were able to neatly dismiss his personal loss by balancing it with some greater good. That his faith endures, even without complete “answers”, is admirable enough.<br /> Second, does this book teach something? Does it impart new knowledge? Does it inspire new, different thinking? Yes, yes, yes. I'm not a football junkie, so much of the “history”-the dramatic games, the big wins, the disappointing losses, are all new information to me. Beyond that though, the real life application of his faith in all decisions makes the reader, this one anyway, question or examine the degree to which we seek to glorify God in all we do. Do we live what we profess? Skip through all the football stories, and the book is still a story worth reading, if we seek to truly model Christ, and seek His ways in all things. Early in the book, a team chaplain refers Tony Dungy to the Old Testament book of Nehemiah as a primer on leadership, team building, delegation, and focusing on manageable steps in a seemingly overwhelming task. Dungy found guidance from this little sliver of a book in the monumental task of rebuilding the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in his first head coach job. I visited and read Nehemiah, based on Tony Dungy's recommendation. I doubt I would have found the leadership theme on my own, but with Dungy's illumination, Nehemiah became meaningful and applicable.<br /> Third, is the book one which I feel those people who's opinion, judgment, and perspective I admire need to read? Are they missing an opportunity for enrichment if they don't? Do I feel compelled to urge others to read it, confident they'll, too, not want to put it down? Yes,on all counts. I suppose, if someone detests, loathes, is sickened by professional football and any mention of it, this would not be on their short list of must reads. Similarly, if one rejects, and is offended by, faith in God as a prevailing theme, this is not a book on which we'll agree. Otherwise pick it up and read it. I assert you'll not want to put it down. Your knowledge of NFL history will be enhanced, and your faith will be measured.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-84072578677709336252009-07-23T07:41:00.003-04:002009-07-23T07:59:30.432-04:00Doggie PlaygroundThere's a wonderful facility near our house, part of John Rudy Park, we call the “doggie playground”. It's actually called Canine Meadows, I think, but it consists of 3 huge fenced in areas where dogs can run and play off leash. There's an area for the little, fuzz ball, under 30 pound dogs to play (the kind the late Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko said are for spraying with Endust and chasing under the bed where the mop won't reach) and a separate area for the over 30 pound real dogs. It's a great place to just chill on a bench or a rock while our dog runs, tumbles, chases and wrestles with the other dogs. Usually I have to chuckle at how dogs socialize, and the variety of very different “personalities”. Dogs don't know how silly they are- sniffing each other's butts as a greeting, obsessing over a stick or tennis ball, and pausing to pee or poop whenever the urge arises. They're raw and pure and uninhibited. On more than one occasion, while watching the dogs play, Lori and I have laughed at how funny it would be if people did some of the things dogs do. For example dogs will, whenever they run out of gas, just flop down and lay where ever they feel the need. Imagine people waiting in a long checkout line at Wal Mart laying on the floor until the line moves, or worse, sniffing the butts of the people nearby. <br /> Tuesday evening we took Little Bear to the doggie playground about 7:00, poor guy had been in his pen most of the day and he needed to unload some energy. It was busier than usual-lots of dogs, lots of people. This trip I noticed less the funny things the dogs do, and more noticed how strange a species we humans are. First, the whole concept of one kind of animal owning, training, and nurturing another animal is weird when you stand back and look at it. We project imaginary personalities onto our dogs, and bond with them, often, more readily and deeply than others of our own species. It seems, at least sometimes, people have chosen a dog that reinforces an image they wish to project. The “biker” fellow at the doggie playground, the guy with the Sturgis T-shirt, a bandana, a long braid, and lots of tattoos was playing fetch with his Rottweiler. Would he be seen with, say, a toy poodle? Neither would he drive a pink VW Beetle, or smoke Virginia Slims. I noticed one girl watching her dog whose hair was striped-like a parfait. There was a couple inches of burgundy, a stripe of blonde, a stripe of brown, and so on. Now, far be it from me to decide if an approach to hair is good or bad, but if there were 25 people there, there were 25 different ways to arrange, color, and display hair-hers being the most original of the 25. But I'm fairly sure not a single dog there had hair color other than the ones they were genetically intended to have. Many of the dogs, ours included, had been trimmed or styled, but I doubt one single dog gave even a second's worth of thought to whether their hair looked nice, or their nails could use clipped, or whether their collar was the right color. It's, at least partly, so the other “Moms” will say, “Ahh, doesn't Fifi look nice today...so pretty! Who does Fifi's hair?” Some of the dogs dive right in to the mix of other dogs, and run and play in groups. Others sort of watch the whirlwind of dogs from a slightly removed, safer perimeter and follow the pack just outside of the action. Others hang close to their people, watching but too shy to join in. Similarly, when people arrive some walk straight to the core cluster of people and engage them in dog-talk. “Say, is that a Blue Tipped Weimerheimer? I've always liked them. Mine's a Mongolian Boar Hound.” Others, me, smile but avoid real engagement, and quickly find a bench or rock slightly removed, at a safe perimeter from the mingling. Rarely, but once in a while, a dog is too aggressive and the snarls and teeth baring go beyond the pseudo violence of playing, and is “encouraged” to leave, at least temporarily banished from the park. And there's usually 1 or 2 dogs who aren't interested in getting the stick or ball, as is the object of the game, but are actually interested in humping every dog who inadvertently stops in front of them. Other owners are generally less than subtle with their displeasure, so the predators are reprimanded, but usually are repeat offenders. Now, I did not witness any parallel human behaviors to violent or sexual aggression while at the doggie playground, but a few minutes with the evening paper afterward certainly reveals that such behaviors are too common in the human playground, where we run off-leash. And the news is full of somebody taking the stick that belongs to some one else, and running off with it. So, we humans have learned to style our hair, resist sniffing butts, poop privately, and maybe slobber a little less, but we're more like our dogs than we may care to admit.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3466293701038084214.post-18446857724824079552009-07-20T16:03:00.003-04:002009-07-20T16:11:41.521-04:00Deal or No DealI read today that 71 year old Bernie Madoff has begun his 150 year sentence at a low to medium security federal penitentiary in North Carolina. Unless you just emerged from a cryogenics chamber, you know he's the fellow who's fraudulent investment fund managed to evaporate 1.2 billion dollars of other people's wealth. His sentence does have some good behavior incentives built in which could allow him to drop as much as 20 years from his stretch.<br /> So here's a question to toss around in your gray matter a bit: Suppose somehow or other (just play along, ok?) you were given the opportunity at, say 25 years old, to have unlimited wealth-a Visa debit card with a billion dollar balance. If you used up the billion, you can reload another billion. You can have a million dollar Park Ave. pad in Manhattan, a muti-million dollar Palm Beach, Florida home, a Gulfstream jet, a Ferrari, and a Mercedes SL. You can fly to Paris for lunch, then to Rodeo Drive to shop, and tan on the beach in Fiji. But at some predetermined age-say 65-it all went away, you would be penniless and alone, and you would spend your remaining years in a minimum security prison-would you take that deal? Would you trade 40 years of material Nirvana (or 30 years, or 20 years) for 10 or 15 years of shame, poverty, and imprisonment?<br /> I posed this question to Lori, over salads at Marinos, the other evening, and she thought it was absurd-she asserted that no one would take that deal-it's a no brainer. I disagree. No, I don't mean I'd take the deal, no no no! But I think there's zillions of people who would trade anything for 40 years, or far less, of limitless wealth, comfort, and self indulgence. Very few people would admit it, but I think many people, like in the legend of 30's blues guitarist Robert Johnson who met the Devil at a crossroads in Mississippi and traded his soul for the ability to play guitar, would in fact sign that contract in a heartbeat!<br /> What do you think? Would you make that deal? Or do you think Lori's right, that nobody would, that people are not short-sighted, self centered, greedy fools? Hmm?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2