Ranking: The Blessing And The Curse of Christmas Music

Well, I hope you're still out there...I realize that it's been a while. No, there was no bear trap involved...nothing more than a tag-team bout of apathy and busyness.

But here we are now...on the cusp of December and ready to dive head-first into ShopFest2007 (known, in some circles, as Advent.) I made trips to both the supermarket and Target yesterday, and was greeted (of course) by the number one sign that it's December: The piped-in Holiday Music. At the supermarket it was John Cougar Mellencamp's heart...check that...gag-reflex warming rendition of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" with a down-homey backbeat "Jack and Diane" feel to it. Somehow I ignored the nausea and (in my opinion) heroically kept shopping. Later, at Target, I was greeted at the door by the infuriatingly ubiquitous, robotic pinging, ode-to-Jesus-if-he-were-riding-in-an-elevator: Mannheim Steamroller's "Deck the Halls." I rolled my eyes as I considered the unstoppable insanity of Chip Davis...and started to make plans to avoid all places of commerce from now until mid-January. That was until electro-madness made way to simple, maginifcent sounds of the "Nutcracker." Suddenly, I felt better.

This, I realized, is the mixed bag of Christmas music. If asked what I thought of Christmas Music in general, I would probably answer (if answering generally and without thinking) that I like it. I'd think of "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve or caroling around the neighborhood to "Joy to the World!" I might even think of a few of the old records Mom and Dad used to throw on the player as we decorated the Christmas tree. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that the whole Christmas music thing is a mixed bag for me. So here, as an attempt to clarify things myself, are the goods and bads of Christmas Tunes:

THE BAD

Mannheim Steamroller

As previously mentioned, they need to go away now. As much as I love taking time-honored classics and synthesizing the bejeezus out of them, it's time to call it good. I hope that I never run into a group of half-man, half-musical-instruments-from-Depeche-Mode cyborg Christmas carollers...so, needless to say, I don't particularly enjoy having to hear what they might sound like.

The Trans-Siberian Orchestra

It was good of them to cross Sibera because, God bless 'em, they have evidently filled some horrible niche. They have nobly stepped in to satisfy that group of people who think about Advent and suddenly long for descriptors like "bombastic," "terrifyingly intense," "head-numbingly loud," and "80's hair-band-metal-ish." The first time I heard them I thought Jesus was coming back...then I realized it wasn't Jesus, and was disappointed because I wanted him to deliver me from the music. What is most stupefying to me is that these guys somehow made a version of "What Child Is This?" I'm sorry...but that's a peaceful songs about a peaceful scene. And I can't hear anything by them without picturing in my mind of the "Trans-Siberian" version of the manger scene: Jesus crawling out of the manger, cranking his Fender, slapping on a "Don't Tread On Me" T-Shirt, and rocking the Magi to the point of deafness with a few Quiet Riot covers. Strangely, I just can't find the Peace on Earth-speed-metal parallel. Call me old fashioned.

The Bevy of Pop Christmas Albums

Where does one begin? Christina Aguilera breaking out "Angels We have Heard on High?" Hall and Oates covering "Jingle Bell Rock?" Big Bad Voodoo Daddy anyone? And it gets better. Remember Hanson? How about a Christmas album from them, being the "20th Century Masters" that they are? They have mastered "Little Saint Nick" for you. What's that? You want some Ringo Starr!? 98 Degrees? Or perhaps you prefer to celebrate the birth of our Lord the way they did in the old country...by listening to "White Christmas" as performed by Twisted Sister. I shudder to think of the family that gathers around the tree with the unholy Hall & Oates-Ringo-Twisted Sister 3-disc shuffle going. I can see it now: Daddy trying to grow facial hair and jerry curls while Mommy's trying to pierce the Christams tree with a belly-button ring while screaming "We're Not Gonna Take It!" And poor litle Johnny's not there...he's too busy ruining his brother's completely awesome band with truly pathetic drum solos and sing-songy larks about a colored submersible and underwater horticulture.

The completely terrifying thing is that I spent barely 5 minutes on Amazon and came up with all of these...and there's more, thousands more. I'm half-tempted to look for a Joey Lawrence Christmas album, but I'm pretty sure that if it existed it would turn me into a nihilist.

THE GOOD

The "A Charlie Brown Christmas" Soundtrack featuring the Vince Guaraldi Trio

Two notes of this immediately relaxes me and makes me think, simultaneously, of decorating the Christmas tree with Julie, my childhood, and Linus' telling of the Christmas story. Wonderful, simple stuff. On top of all the memories, the jazz is pretty good too.

Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker Suite"

Another one with memories attached that stretch back to childhood...although I must admit that I have yet to figure out the bad-acid-trip that is the "plot" of the Nutcracker. I know that there is some sort of Rat monarchy, Sugar Plum Fairies, and lots and lots of dancing...but that's about it. But no problem...I just listen to the music and pretend that it's about the Huskers finding the perfect football coach.

"Yule B Swingin'!" by Various Artists

Sounds terrible, I know...but picking up this cheap-o from Target years ago has paid off. Includes "Cool Yule" by Louis Armstrong, Ella's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," and Glenn Miller unloading on "Jingle Bells." It's even got Dino singing about love keeping him warm when we all know that's it's the scotch that's keeping him warm. What better way to celebrate Christmas?

THE BAR-NONE BEST

"The Spirit of Christmas" by Ray Charles

Let's get the hesitations out of the way first. There are only two easily-handled problems. There's one song from the original album that I hesitate on: the sappy "Christmas In My Heart." And then there's the "bonus" track, a rendition of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" tacked on the end. The woman, God bless her, sings the song with a screeching wail that sounds like a cat with severe digestive problems. I usually stop the disc early. Problem solved. Now, all that aside....

There is no doubt in my mind that this is the greatest Christmas CD of all time. I bought it roughly 5 years ago...and it has played, non-stop, every December since. The CD has it all: a slow-groove version of "Little Drummer Boy," the horn-blasting, synchopated versions of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," "Rudolph the Red Nose Raindeer (pronounced Redno'eraindeer)," and the clavinova-tastic "Winter Wonderland." On top of that, you've got the beautiful title song and "Christmas Time" which both talk about the true purpose of Christmas and Advent. Add to all of this the spectacular cover art (pictured above) involving Ray Charles driving a sleigh...and, really, what can you say?

And so, as I write a sermon for Advent, I hope that this season meets you with more signs of the Ray Charles variety (hope, joy, and true meaning) than it does Ringo Starr (mediocrity), Trans-Siberian Orchestra (sound and fury), or 98 Degrees (rapidly-fading commercialism) variety. As for me, I'll probably do what seems best out of all of these options...I'll just sing some carols.

Crash Into Me?

We have a couple of dogs (Golden Retrievers to be specific) who live next door to us. We have come to love these dogs and they have come to love us...on their end mostly because almost daily one of us walks over to the back fence and gives them each half of a dog biscuit. They are named Crash and Daisy...and they are two completely different animals.

There has never been a more appropriately named dog than Crash. Crash is a tornado of excitement and affection...he zooms all over the yard, barking and jumping, in the hopes of just the least bit of attention. He will come bounding to the fence the minute he sees you, and he'll come for any reason...food or simple interaction. He'll charge right to you...to the point of almost slamming into the fence with excitement. He's always jumping, always barking, always all-out. Always on the lookout for someone to love.

Daisy's older...and acts like it. When she sees you come out of the house, she barks at you with a tone that at first sounds like: "Treat man...I require treats. Now." She doesn't move unless you move towards the treats. When you do bring them to the fence, she comes at her own pace, allows you to pet her, shows some affection back...and walks back.

I remember stopping at some point last fall and thinking: "As a minister, I should try and be like Crash." It made sense...I should always be the first "out at the fence," aggressively welcoming and loving...openly excited and full of energy...conveying, all out, that desire to show love. Daisy seemed distant at times, even a little bit mean.

Then we dog-sat one night, and something interesting happened. We went out to the back yard and Crash ran all over the yard trying to figure out what was going on...he wanted to make sure he wasn't missing anything or anybody. He barked at shadows and ran to the fences...and payed some attention to us, but was distracted. Daisy (now that she knew us) simply sat next to our legs and was perfectly content. She didn't bark or demand treats...she just spent some time enjoying these people she had come to know.

I crossed the back yard this morning with some trash that needed to go behind the garage. The dogs were out. Daisy barked from the back porch, a bark I now translate: "Hey...I'm only coming if you've got something to give." Crash ran, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth repeatedly as I went from house to garage to dumpster to house back to garage before finally appearing with treats. Daisy calmly walked over and joined Crash. Crash was so worked up that he almost choked on the treat...Daisy licked my hand and walked back to the porch.

I was coming off of a vacation this morning...a needed one. It was on the heels of a breakneck two months where I have found myself feeling lonely, tired, and low on energy and initiative. I looked across the fence at one exhausted dog and one quietly resting on the porch and thought: "Maybe she's got something there. Maybe I should try to be them both...a blend of Crash and Daisy."

There's only one problem. That makes me (appropriately enough) Dash...

Or Crazy.

Sheer Terror and Blessed Assurance

I've heard it compared to the Bubonic Plague...family member passing it to family member, eventually killing the ones you love most. I've heard it compared to sado-masochism...embraced only by those who seek out and even seem to enjoy pain. I've heard it compared to worshipping Satan...a strange and anti-establishment thrill even though you know it's not going to end well at all. I know that these are not positive analogies, but for whatever reason I chose, years ago, to call them my own...that's right...

I'm a Cubs fan. And this is the worst time of year to be a Cub's fan.

It all stared Sunday night. The Cubs were coming off a 8-0 rout of Pittsburgh, the Brewers had lost another tear-your-heart fall apart game to the Braves...and Dusty Baker (He of the 1,286 pitch count who still has Mark Prior's right arm at home on display above his mantle with a plaque reading "I felled him...me and me alone") said out loud for all America to hear: "They're in. They way they're playing, they're in." And as I sat there in bed, the worst thing possible happened: I agreed with him. Before I could catch myself, I agreed with him.

Suddenly, they flashed the stat that no team had ever blown a 3 1/2 game lead with a week to go. The lump started growing in my throat...there are stacks of those stats 10 miles high that now have the suffix "...except the Cubs." The Brewers won on Monday...again on Tuesday. The Cubs were off on Monday, and got crushed by Dontrelle Willis on Tuesday. Both teams lost last night. The Cubs Website today reads: "Cubs desperate to break Marlins' stranglehold." Yeah, that's right...the Marlins (68-90--the equivalent of the 95 pound weakling) have us in a headlock and are giving us a noogie right now.

And so, with 4 games left in the regular season and a 2 game lead, I'm terrified. You see...something strange happened in 1998. Before then, the only team that could get me nervous was the Nebraska Cornhuskers. Now, I was a fan before 1998, but that was the year of the home run chase and (more importantly) the first Cubs playoff appearance of my old-enough-to-understanding. I remember the tension down towards the end of the season...I remember thinking all was lost. Most of all, I remember the spectacular game they played against the Giants in a one-game playoff for the Wild Card in Wrigley. Sure, they got killed in the playoffs...but that game got me hooked.

If 1998 was my introduction, 2003 was my true initiation. I had heard of the terrible plays and the leads blown and all that stuff...but never experienced it. I remember the announcer calling Game 6 saying, "Only 5 more outs...and the way Prior's pitching, I don't think the Marlins can do it." And I thought to myself: "They've got it. We're actually going to the series." Minutes later, Bartman. Chaos. Disappointment. And...for Game 7...anxiety. That strange feeling that there was absolutely no way the Cubs were going to win.

And so, this September, that feeling has come up again. That strange mix of hope and anxiety. But as I think about the facts of baseball (like the once-cursed Red Sox fan base and their morph into demanding, spoiled Yankees who wear different colors) alongside the ins-and-outs of my calling (darkness before I dawn, dependence, and the like)...I can't help but wonder it the wins would mean as much if there were more of them. Sure, it would be nice to make the playoffs 13 years and a row and hire and fire people because you didn't win 100 games...but I look at the Nebraska fan base and then think about all the excitement I felt for that one-game playoff (to simply make the playoffs)...and I think of the smile I'll (God willing) have if they actually pull it off.

But I stop short of the whole "Cubs fan as a mirror of Christian faith" thing. I'll stick with it as entertainment....because, at the end of the day, when I feel this knot in my stomach as I check the scores comimg in and think about the relatively slight disappointment I would feel if the Cubs fail to make the cut...I sit back and am thankful for that unassailable fact:

Steve Bartman or no Steve Bartman...God always wins the pennant.

Green Grass

Something odd happened to me this past Saturday. I went to a Presbytery meeting at one of the larger churches in our Presbytery, and I found myself having an odd reaction.

I'm a guy who was raised in a small town who loves small churches...it's what I'm used to, feel called to, and love. But Saturday I walked into a larger church (around 1100, mind you...not a megachurch) and saw the beautiful sanctuary with new carpet and spectacular eye-popping banners and paraments. It was set up for the bell choir to perform on Sunday, right next to the guitars and trap set for the contemporary portions of worship. All this was set in front of a massive, beautiful pipe organ. I moved into the Fellowship Hall next, with bulletin boards covering the outside walls...Middle School group, High School Group, College Group, Young Adult Group, Seniors Group, Stephen Ministries, Mexico Mission Trip, Local Missions, Women's Bible Studies, Men's Bible Studies...and a table set up for a renewal/retreat weekend. The sign-up sheet was full. We moved down to the education wing with pictures of the hundreds of children that work their way through the Sunday School rooms on an average Sunday. I soaked it all in, in all of it's impressiveness...and something strange happened: I was jealous.

And I sat there, thinking about everything that's eating at me right now. I thought about our age (both facilities and congregation), our need for youth, our general tiredness, and all the ways that we are limited. I thought about how half-empty the glass was. I thought about the calls for volunteer es that have been met by silence. And I thought about how a large church would solve all of those problems.

I sat looking at one of the bulletin boards when a member of our Presbytery who was the Interim Pastor here, came up behind me and read my mind: "One set of challenges for another, friend...read your Peterson." I knew exactly what she was talking about. And so, this morning, I re-read some of "Under the Unpredictable Plant:"

"A bare 60 or 70 years after Pentecost, we have an account of seven churches that shows about the same quality and holiness and depth of virtue found in any ordinary parish in America today. In 2,000 years we haven't gotten any better. You would think we have, but we haven't. Every time we open up a church door and take a careful, scrutinizing look inside we find them again...sinners. Also Christ. Christ in the preaching, Christ in the sacraments, but embarrassingly mixed into this congregation of sinners."

"It is to be expected in these situations that with some frequency certain pastors will come forward with designs to improve matters. They want to purify the church. They propose to make the church something that will advertise to the world the attractiveness of the kingdom. With a few exceptions these people are, or soon become, heretics, taking on only as much of the gospel as they can manage to apply to the people around them, attempting to construct a version of church that is so well behaved and efficiently organized that there will be no need for God."--pgs. 24 and 25

I remember reading this in seminary and saying "Amen." I remember scoffing at the shallow pastors who skirt challenges as they seek greener pastures. I remember nodding as one of my mentors used to say, "the key is looking for how God is working rather than all the ways we think He's lagging."

I still get it. I still admire it, yes...I still understand and believe it, yes. But I'm discovering that it's a whole heckuva lot easier said than done.

The Adventures of Pastor Wuss

As already detailed above, I have recently discovered that I have a battle to fight with high cholesterol and high blood pressure. The fight has been going well, running has been upgraded from "Worst Thing On Earth" to "Thing I Would Rather Not Do," and I am learning to live life without the joys of cheese, red meat, and chocolate on a uber-regular basis. Last Thursday was the big day...my blood test. But in order to get a status report from the front, I had to face another bitter enemy:

Getting my blood drawn.

I know. Pathetic. How old are you? The funny thing is that I have gone through about a ten year period of my life when I've been fine with it. I had my blood drawn on a handful of occasions through grad school, seminary, and the like...but for whatever reason this last time (in June) got me. And I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I watched the whole thing. By the time it was over I was stumbling around the house like Dean Martin, looking desperately for some juice, and desperately trying to convince the nurse who had come by our home that I was "fine" (Translation: "I am a real man. Put away that skirt and back off.")

This is all to say that I was nervous and psyching myself out last Thursday. The receptionist informed me that I would be meeting with the doctor first and then I would go back to "the lab." So I have a great, though slightly nervous, meeting with the doctor, who congratulates me on having the "fortitude" to stick with running.

Then he calls in the nurse. She, of course, asks the first question: "Are you going to be OK with this? Do you get queasy?" My response: "No...I'm great." (Translation: "I eat meat raw!!!! Give me a steel beam and I'll rip it in half!!!! Give me motor oil, and I'll drink it!!!! GRRRRRRR!") We proceed to walk into "the lab," and the nurse informs me that she's going to use a smaller needle so the prick doesn't hurt as much. "It takes a little longer," she says, "but you'll hardly feel the prick." I'm on board with this...until she breaks out the FIVE vials she needs to fill. Great Caesar's Ghost!!! Why doesn't she just take a finger!?! Sweat starts to appear on my forehead. As she ties the gigantic rubber band around my arm, she asks: "You OK?" My response? A very terse, "Fine. Go." (Translation: "Dear Lord, please let her find a vein.")

It takes her roughly three tries to find the vein, all the while giving me the John Madden play-by-play. I now not only have my eyes closed, but am calling on the name of Jesus. I'm ready. Rapture time. Come on. After what was probably thirty seconds, I get up the nerve to look over: The vial isn't even 1/8th full. Vial number one that is. The nurse senses my panic. "It takes a while, but you didn't feel the prick did you?" Nope, I just heard about it. A few minutes go by and I start to feel woozy. I open my eyes again to find the vial...vial number ONE...at the exact same level. The nurse is tapping the syringe, a perplexed look on her face. She looks at me: "Sometimes it clots. This might take a while. You still good?" My reply: "I'm hanging in there." (Translation: "Are you KIDDING me!!?!?! I don't care about the poke...just get the blood!!! Get a straw and sharpen it for all I care...just get the blood!!! Now!!! You want me to poke myself with a pen? I will!!!" ) The sweat starts coming and the "You Can Do It" posters from Highlights magazine start spinning...so I give in: "I need to stop." (Translation: "I give in!!! Yes, a ten year old girl could be me up!!!! Just, great God in heaven, stop tapping that syringe!!!")

They put the ice pack on my neck and walk me out, holding my arm, back to our room. We pass the doctor, who smiles and says: "Hang in there, pastor." Nice. By the time we get back to the room, the doctor is in there to with a big book of jokes. I soon realize that he's there to distract me. I half expect him to pull out a stuffed lion and wiggle it: "Now show me that smile!" So much for fortitude. He know probably thinks that I run to avoid scary things...you know, like puppies and butterflies and sunshine. The good news is that the process goes quickly and efficiently with the normal needle (humility is evidently an anti-coagulant.) I feel the prick...no, I welcome it. By the time I walk out of the doctor's office, I have two massive cotton balls on each arm, three pats on the back, and a severely bruised ego.

The call came in the next day: my cholesterol is down nearly 15 points. My good is up, my bad is down. But, unfortunately, a couple of the tests came back sketchy...they think that the two gallons of blood were shaken too much in transport: "Is there anyway you can come back in for another sample next week?"

My appointment is for the 14th...my prayers are for a needle the size of toilet paper roll and/or a sudden influx of testosterone before then...or, if at all possible...

Jesus on the 13th.

Flashback

An entry written yesterday, but held back...and now reconsidered:

One year ago today (August 20), I received a "Rev." in front of my name and was given a call to go out and serve God and God's people with "energy, intelligence, imagination, and love." And as I turned around and faced the congregation, I was dumb struck. With a sea of family and friends in front of me, I was almost paralyzed by the realization that God had used so many people to bring me down that road to ordination...the people who had formed me, taught me, loved me, and made me who I am. And I was paralyzed, too, with the realization of that call in front of me...that I was to be a pastor.

Has it been one year already?

Some days it feels shorter...like the blink of an eye. When it feels like a miracle that all those sermon have somehow managed to come out of me. When I can feel and see myself growing, learning, and giving more up. Days when I thank God for my seminary and for all those people who taught me so much along the way. Days when I feel called, part of family and a tradition, days when I know that this is who I am made to be.

Some days it feels longer. And sometimes, it's a whole week that feels that way. This past week, neck-deep in church decor squabbles, lack of volunteers, a sermon that just won't work, IRS junk, and a whole list of things that need to get done...it feels like work. Like I'm fooling myself. Like the energy, imagination, intelligence and love aren't limitless. There are days when the self-pity kicks in and I feel alone, overworked, and useless. In other words, the last thing I feel is called.

I heard news Sunday of a long time friend of the family, a doctor who was one of my mother's first co-workers, delivered me and my siblings, sang next to me in the church choir for years, continued to write me every week, and was, in general a wonderful mentor and friend. Julie and I made sure to stop and see Doc and his wife every time we were home...to catch up and re-connect. We had a running joke. Nearly every time I would see him growing up, he would try to convince me to go into medicine, usually with something to the effect of: "You need to stop playing around and join the best profession." After my decision to go to seminary, he made that joke less...but we'd still throw it around once and a while.

Sunday I learned that Doc had decided to stop dialysis for his failed kidneys. He had made the decision earlier in the week, so by the time Sunday rolled around, they were worried that his consciousness/faculties would be slipping. If I wanted to talk to him, I needed to do so as soon as possible.

I hesitantly dialed the phone...and, sure enough, got him in the hospital room and he was still aware of what was going on. He asked how church was going, how many we had on Sunday, and how Julie was doing. I asked him if his family was there, if he was in any pain, how long he had been at the hospital. You know, "small talk" when you know you're talking to somebody for the last time. There was a long pause, and then the following exchange:

Me: "Doc, I just want you to know that we love you and are praying for you."
Doc: "Thank you. I want you to know that I'm proud of the work you're doing."
Me: "Well, I'm doing my best for the second-best profession...thanks."
Doc: "No. You are doing what you should be doing...and your'e doing a magnificent job. God is using you. You are doing what you were made to do."

We said good-bye, and that was all.

And so it happened that the Sunday exactly one year after my ordination at nearly the exact time that I stood before friends and family and gave the benediction one year ago...God reached down again. And again, it was through the self-giving love of those who have ministered to me. And again I am paralyzed...that even in the midst of pain and grief, God decided that I was somehow deserving, reached down...

And saw fit to ordain my call once again.

Ranking: The Summer Movies I've Seen

As some of you may know, I enjoying going to movies...especially in the summer. They've been particularly attractive this summer for several reasons:

1) It's been 90+ here nearly every day since June and we don't have air conditioning.

2) It's always a good day off activity to catch a opening-day matinee and put church stuff into the back of my brain for a while.

3) It's better than sitting around and looking at our yard (now nicknamed "El Scorcho.")

Anyway...Julie and I have made it to 8 movies together this summer and I went to one on my own. While we have enjoyed some independent-type movies, we generally go for the more mainsteam movies and enjoy them just fine, thank you. In other words, I'm not a movie snob (as you're about to see), and I don't pretend to be. But, for what it's worth and for a little debate, here's what I thought. Here's the nine:

9. Spider-Man 3

I had high hopes for this one...which is probably the problem. Julie and I both loved #2, and we thought that character development would continue. Oops. As I watched this movie, I couldn't help but think to myself that it was written with one goal in mind: to sell toys to prepubescent boys. I kept imagining the script writing sessions being peppered with labored 80s interjections: "The Goblin should be on a skateboard! SWEET! No...no...no...a flying skateboard! BOSS! And this dude, this dude totally made of sand could totally start killing this building! GNARLY!" And then, after they all took a break to drink some Kool-Aid, they filled in a "plot."

8. The Simpsons Movie

You can definitely chalk this up to too-high expectations. I haven't watched the show regularly in years now, but I still have a special place in my heart for the show and enjoy watching reruns. After getting a good chuckle out of the commercials (especially the Spider Pig bit), I went in with high hopes. It was fine...nothing terrible. Just not nearly as funny as I thought it was going to be.

7. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Let's just put it this way: When I go to these movies, I feel like I'm in a conversion van in the middle of Manhattan at 5:00...and I'm the only one without the map. I can track with the story somewhat, but my lack of interest in the books has turned my Potter movie-going experience into something akin to reading Shakespeare in French. Added to this confusion is that terrible feeling I get when people gasp and make statements like: "You haven't read any of the Harry Potter books!? But you're an English major!!" as if I've been putting off reading "Crime and Punishment" or kicking puppies.

6. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End

A good-enough summer blockbuster, but (again) still came up short of expectations. After watching #2 again, Julie and I talked ourselves into the possibility it building to a place where we loved all three as much as the first. While it had some great stuff in it (see: Keith Richards), it was still slow, confusing, and self-important in too many places. All that said, it did contain an unkillable monkey. Big plus.

5. Transformers

Let me just say this first: if this move would have come out when I was in 5th Grade, I would have simply stayed in the theater until they stopped showing it. They couldn't have moved me...not without prying me out of the chair with a crowbar. I really enjoyed going this movie...it helps that I was going into it expecting a disaster with Michael Bay (Armageddon, Con Air) directing. But, really, this is the only kind of movie he should be allowed to direct. It didn't need a plot...all I really wanted to see were large, cool robots going ten rounds and saying things like "One will stand and one will fall." I wanted to relive my childhood. And, what can I say, it delivered.

4. Ratatouille

A good story with some funny moments. It walks the line of boring on occasion, but at least it had some imagination and plot that several of the movies above so desperately lacked. But...and I can't stress this enough...this is summer. So, during the slower parts of this movie, I couldn't help but wish that somebody would blow up half the kitchen or that the rats would get into some sort of Porshe chase. But, I realize this is a Disney flick. It's not like it's....

3. Live Free or Die Hard

I actually saw this one with Julie, and we both liked it. Again, lowered expectations...but it was still a decent time at the movies. We didn't expect a whole lot...I mean, it's a Die Hard movie. Just follow the recipe: two parts snide remarks, one part white tank top, three parts stuff blowin' up, two parts evil villain. Combine, cook for two hours. Hello summer movie.

2. Ocean's 13

I don't know too many people who dislike the first one of these movies...I think I'm one of the few people who actually liked the second. I will agree that this one is much better, though...and nothing better than bringing in Al Pacino just to make sure it rocks.

1. The Borne Ultimatum

Holy smokes. Julie and I saw this one last night and...holy smokes. The best movie I've seen in a while. We saw the first one and liked it. Loved the second one and were amazed that it topped the first one. We went into this one with 9-foot expectations...and were blown away. They further the plot and develop the characters...they even incorporate the last movie seamlessly. And, on top of that, you have Matt Damon doing crazy, crazy, crazy, things. And things blowing up. This is summer, after all.

So there it is. I guess, if you want an executive summary of my movie-going summer, it would be this: lower your expectations, and you might just get out alive.

The Achilles' Heel

It's been a while now since I got the e-mail, but it still bugs me a bit. There was a parishioner who had gone through an extensive bit of surgery and was recovering well. The Deacons had gone out regularly and she had received a handful of calls, visits, and card from well-wishers. All reports back to the office were that she was in great spirits. Thanks to vacation, continuing education, and plain 'ol prioritization, I hadn't made the effort to go and see her. Admittedly, I should have. Then, one Monday morning, the one-line e-mail with no subject:

"So are you ever going to come visit me?"

Dangit. That bugs me. Bugs me a lot. Still does. And not in the "I'm so angry I could yell at you" way, but in the "Why did you have to go and make me feel like garbage" way. And it bugs me because it works. I got out to see her the next day...she was happy as a clam to see me out there, and now everything is fine. But it still bugs me.

It bugs me because I'm going to spend some time today running up to Lowe's to get come light bulbs because somebody in the congregation has noticed something that I have noticed...that some of the lights have been going out in the sanctuary. They let me know about it every time I see them. And, yes, I know that it's not my job to go buy light bulbs. And, yes, I know that I'm giving him exactly what he wants. But I've reached the end of that line of thought...I have thought that every time he's brought it up, and placed it on the back burner every single time. Today...I'm doing it. Why?

Because of my Chicago-sized Achilles' heel: I'm a people pleaser.

I need people to like me, to like coming to this church, and to like each other. I want people to be happy. And even though I have realized this personality trait, observed it, heard time and again in seminary that it will burn me out, worked as hard as I can to ignore/change it, and have done what I can to undermine it...it's still there. It still bugs me and makes me feel like dirt when I get that e-mail. It still bugs me when I get guilt trips about not doing enough. I still take it personally when the only thing people talk to me about it what's wrong with the church. I still have way too much riding on positive feedback and "warm fuzzies."

And probably the most frustrating thing of all is that I know this...and on my best days I can get over it. But then there's periods of time when I can't help but claim all the guilt and all the responsibility. There are times of extended self-pity/delusion when I feel like there's too much to do, that nobody is happy, that all the programs and sermons and visits aren't "working,"

And it's all because of what I have done or left undone.

Funny how this works...I really had no idea where I was going with this post. But after writing that last sentence, a parishioner came into my office, and we started talking about his son. We talked for an hour. His son, who lives halfway across the country, continues to make bad decisions even to the point of putting his life at risk. As he told me this story, he started to share with me the guilt, the pain, and the responsibility he and his wife feel every time something goes wrong; they go down the, "if we only did this..." road and scrutinize their parenting. And when he was done, he asked me what I thought. I found something flowing out of my mouth, plain as day (something I was once told in relation to myself):

"Would you take credit for it if he was rich and successful right now?"
"No...well, no. Not too much."
"Well then why are you taking all the credit now?"

We talked about loving someone without taking full responsibility for them...and how that becomes harder as the love gets stronger. We talked about praying, stopping, walking away and getting perspective. We talked about getting more sleep, about not letting it be all-consuming; about not spending so much time and energy trying to fix everything.

And I think he left feeling better, knowing that God had moved in our conversation to bring some of that perspective and peace. But what I don't think he knew was that he was being used by God, even in his struggles, to bring that perspective and peace to someone else.

That even when we feel broken and defeated, even when it feels like we're throwing punches at a brick wall...we realize that it all doesn't lie on us, that it is God who is moving...

Even when we know we're the ones who need the help.

Check that, epecially when we're the ones who know we need the help.

WifePod

It has been a busy week or so with a lot of challenges (I'll post on some of them tomorrow), but there have definitely been some highlights...such as an outstanding wife-of-the-year display of affection and humor from Julie.

I have continued my running routine, and it is getting somewhat better. I am now only cursing/doubting the existence of God about once every jog instead of the one-time standard 10-20 times a block. The joints are still a little creaky, but getting slowly into shape. I am, by no means, a powerhouse (a woman walking a poodle passed me today)...but I am still at it. I get credit for one thing and one thing only: stubbornness. I have also been equally vigilant in my decrying/complaining about running to our old tapes of sentimental favorites. As much as I love "Wonderful Tonight" by Clapton, not much fun to run to.

Well, my spectacular wife decided to make me a running tape while I was away at Session about a week ago...and while she didn't complete the task, what she has put together so far is a masterpiece. Samples from the list:

First Song: Born to Run, Springsteen

She didn't tell me what was coming when she handed me the tape, so I almost collapsed from oxygen loss when I started last Tuesday. Granted, the fact that I currently can't run and laugh at the same time proves that I was, in fact, not Born to Run, but the song still makes me feel like I was. I have decided that if you can't run to this song, you're definitely not trying hard enough. The "1,2,3,4..." followed by musical explosion part is enough to make me run right now...in slacks.

You Can't Always Get What You Want, Rolling Stones

This may seem strange at first...and, yes, it is one of the harder songs to run to on the tape, but it is an inspired choice. I've had red meat, pizza, and cheese once a piece over the past three weeks and had to watch a kid from our youth group eat a slab of deep-fried cheesecake in front of me at IHOP last Saturday. I was about to throw my ordination to the wind, burst out with a Rebel Yell, push him head-first out of the booth, and make a break for the door with the goods before Julie could catch me. Instead, I thought of my ever-hardening arteries, calmly ate my egg-substitute omelet, and cried on the inside. Sing it, Mick.

Gonna Be Some Changes Made, Bruce Hornsby

Many of you all know my affinity for the one-time ringleader of the Range. This song is another excellent "message song" that she put on the tape that makes encouraging/gently nagging me more fun for both of us. Although a closer examination of the lyrics reveals:

"Gonna be some changes, some changes made

Can't keep on doing what I've been doing these days

Better figure out something

Things are looking grave

Gonna be some changes, changes, changes made"

Grave? Grave? I know I've let myself go a little soft, but geeze. It's just a little cholesterol.

Vertigo, U2

Another inspired full-throttle choice. Good beat, good rhythm, and excellently appropriate lyrics. The song (from what I have been able to deduce) is about a person who feels out of control but eventually realizes that God is in control. The most appropriate lyric in the whole song is the final one: "Your love is teaching me how/How to kneel." A song about relying on God in the face of realizing how limited you are? Could there be anything more perfect?

And, finally, the Piece De Resistance:

War (What is it good for?), Edwin Starr

I can't tell you how much I love this song. I've belted it out at college, screamed it on baseball trips, and grunted along in my car an infinite number of times. While I definitely approved of it's addition, I found myself getting more and more passionate as I chanted along to the lyrics (slightly modified) as I ran:

Running! Hugh! Yea-a-h! What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing! Uh-huh!
Running! Hugh! Yeah! What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing! Say it again y’all!

Running! I despise,

Cause' it means destruction,

Of the muscles in my thighs!

War means tears in thousands to my eyes,

As my lungs go out to fight and lose their lives.

I said...Running! Hugh! Good God y’all!

What is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Say it again!

Running! Whoa-whoa-whoa, Lord...

What is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Listen to me…

Running! It ain’t nothing but a shin-breaker!

Running! Friend only to the shoemaker!

Running! It’s an enemy to all mankind,

The thought of running blows my mind,
Running has caused unrest in the middle-aged generation,

Induction then destruction-Who wants to ache?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Running!

And...you get the point. I hit this song in the homestretch, and I swear I was up to about 1/98th of a mile an hour singing along, growling quietly to myself.

Anyway...with our 5th anniversary coming up this Friday, I just wanted to pass along one of the many excellent, humorous, and life-improving things that Jules does for me...and also give you a brief public service announcement: That (in spite of my original theories) good music, while helpful and wonderful and workout-improving, doesn't make the side cramps stop.

Maybe I need some new shoes. Yeah, that'll do it.

Hello Old "Friend"

I am back in the office this morning...and it feels like an "Ultra-Monday." There is the usual backlog of mail and messages from the weekend, but there are also messages and duties from the entire previous week...a week of vacation that I wish had never ended. But more than anything, I'm feeling it this morning because I had an early morning meeting with someone I have let slip out of my life:

Fitness.

Fitness and I were inseparable in High School. I used to run cross country and train for it...spending evenings out running. I played my share of pickup basketball games, ran track, even golfed without a cart on hot days. Now, granted, the relationship slipped a bit when I went off the college...but I still checked in regularly with pickup games of ultimate frisbee, football, and basketball. But then grad school came...and suddenly I noticed that Fitness and I were having an extremely hard time finding things that we liked to do together. It soon reached the equivalent of rolling over in bed, looking Fitness in the eye, and sobbing quietly, "I don't even know who you are anymore." Our once wonderfully mutual relationship had turned completely one-sided. All I did was give...all Fitness did was take. She nagged, she made me feel guilty, and then, when I gave in, she made me feel old, fat, and tired. Pretty soon, we weren't on speaking terms. And that has pretty much been the status quo ever since. Sure, I lifted some weights in seminary (which, it ends up, was like putting a little more cargo on the Titanic) and have dabbled in running over the past few years...all to no avail. I have longed for those glory days of fun-loving, attractive Fitness...but instead have found a stable of dependable, enjoyable friends in Apathy, Lethargy, and Procrastination.

Now...let's get something straight here...I think that I'm in decent shape. Mostly thanks to Julie, I'm not the average-American who's borderline-cardiac-arrest. I eat well and am relatively healthy. But the recent health test I did for health insurance revealed that I have borderline high cholesterol...which, when teamed with my borderline high blood pressure, means that I probably need to do something I've been avoiding for a while; reconciliation with Fitness.

One of my problems is that I've done the elliptical trainer some over the past few years and I think that my body has learned to "fool" it. I usually "run" on it for about 20-30 minutes while watching a James Bond movie, and when I get done I feel slightly sore but not really all that drained or tired. It's as if my body says, "There, see! You're in shape! Now never do that again." This morning I tried to rekindle my love affair with Fitness through our old favorite: running. I thought that pulling out the walkman and going back to my roots might bring back all those good memories. So I pulled out of bed early and hit the streets this morning...and, boy, let me tell you:

Fitness has let herself go. There is nothing even remotely attractive about her...in fact, these past few years have made her bitter and vindictive. I'm convinced that she hates me. First, she shook loose years of God-only-knows-what in my lungs, causing me to cough like a chain smoker for most of the morning so far (I swear there were some bats nesting down there or something). Second, even after trying to let her know I was coming back by stretching before and after, she took a billy club to my left knee just to remind me that it's been years since I have called, then added double side cramps to really bring home the message. Third, for a "soundtrack," she made sure that he only tapes we still have are old mix tapes I made Julie back in the day that have more songs of the "slow, lovey, mellow" variety than the "fast, motivating, exciting" variety on them...so I was panting and heaving to the soothing sounds of Tom Petty's "Wildflowers" and Neil Young's "Silver and Gold." So it not only looked like a wake and felt like a wake...it sounded like one, too.

Those who run fairly often speak of something called "runner's high," a feeling you get when you're done running that is akin, somehow, to the euphoric feeling you get when you do drugs. Well, this morning was bad acid. They also say that your body sends you messages that you need to listen to when you work out, mine was saying something like: "What the heck is thiiiiiiiiiiiiis!!!???" But, valiantly or stupidly ignoring those messages, I pressed on. When all was said and done, I stumbled into the front yard heaving, wheezing, and listening to the soothing tones of "Blue in Green" by Miles Davis. I was oh-so-close to just lying down in the sprinkler and asking Jesus to take me.

But I guess it is that yellow yard that brought me a small slice of solace this morning. Our yard, once spectacularly green, has recently been upgraded to "extra crispy." But Julie and I have been working at it, dragging hoses and watering more frequently. The lawn seemed resistant at first, screaming "You talkin' to me!!!?" by stubbornly staying pale yellow. But slowly, and surely, the lawn has greened up. It still looks absolutely terrible in places...there is still a lot of work to go...but it's getting there. I just keep thinking about how much easier it will be to maintain rather than catch up. I keep thinking about how much better the house will look. I just need to keep thinking about the benefits of the work I'm putting in...rather than what a pain it is to drag those hoses. I guess you could say that I just have just got to keep at it. And then stay at it.

And so I am "watering the lawn" of personal fitness. And, yeah, it's been a while. And even though I don't think I'm burnt yellow yet...it still feels like I have a long way to go. But even though I know that, even though I preached yesterday on the cost of being who God makes to be...I still sat out back, sucking air to the point that I nearly inhaled our neighbor's dog...

And prayed for underground sprinklers.

On Bob Barker

I was half-awake on Friday morning. After spending the week at my New Pastors' Group (and staying up late every night), I was beat. I dragged myself out of bed and upstairs to work on my barely-started sermon...a sermon that I was intending to be on the subject of embracing change...but I was in no mood to write. As she left for work, Julie reminded me of something that had slipped my mind: "Today's Bob Barker's last show...you should watch it." I said good-bye, gave her a hug, and said thank you. She was out the door...and I was alone.

Sure enough, I "wrote" until 10:00 and made my way downstairs. I hadn't watched The Price is Right in probably 5 years...but I wanted to watch television history. I plopped myself down on the sofa and turned the television to channel 4...and was greeted by that same old music, those same crazy graphics, and that same old Bob Barker. And, along with them, something totally unexpected...

A surprising amount of emotion.

For the first 10-15 years of my life, when people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say (without hesitation): "A game show host." And The Price Is Right, as everybody knows, is the king of all game shows. I would watch it any chance I could get and then quickly run upstairs to try to recreate the games using playing cards on our sofa. Part of the benefit of missing school on a sick day or snow day? I got to see The Price is Right. I was a fan. And that has continued, to slightly lesser degrees, even since. I remember watching The Price is Right in the Union at college and getting oh-so-close to going to it live for my bachelor party (Bob was having surgery at the time). I've always loved it...

And as I watched on Friday I realized that a big reason it still makes me feel good is that it hasn't changed. They played the game with the car and the seven one dollar bills on Friday, and Plinko, and they spun the big wheel...all games I tried to recreate when I was still learning to write cursive letters. The music, the games, and the host...fun, inviting, and unchanging for over 30 years...for my entire life.

About an hour after the show was over, I got a call. A 90-plus-year-old parishioner was in the hospital. I went to visit and ended up spending most of the afternoon with her as she was moved from room to room awaiting her diagnosis. When we finally "landed," she made a comment: "Don't ever, ever grow old. Everything changes all around you...and all you can remember is what was. And there are times when all you can manage to do is just miss things that have gone away."

I've been preaching a lot about change over the past few weeks...trying to bring home to the congregation that change is both exciting and terrifying, but that God is always in the middle of it, working to stretch us into new, more Christ-like people. Change and new life go hand-in-hand. What I am realizing is that I think I have it better than most. My parents still live in the house I grew up in. My hometown hasn't become a ghost town or a suburb. My friends and the majority of my family are still healthy and in touch. But there are still those times that it slaps this naive small-town boy in the face...that things change, even the things I love.

And so God told me something on Friday through, of all people, Bob Barker: As the things around us change, we cling to those things that somehow have held on...and then we mourn them all the more when they finally do give in.

The question is if we will look beyond what have lost to see what God is giving us here and now. And while that may be easy for a relatively young man like myself; the tally of what has been lost is much longer for many of us...and it becomes more and more challenging by the day to get beyond the mourning.

I woke up Saturday morning without a sermon. I leafed through those I wrote in seminary and decided to recycle one on Caleb and Joshua reassuring the Israelites that even though it seems impossible, God will take care of them as they enter the Promised Land. And I realized that it was a sermon that I need to hear, too:

That even though I'm getting older, even though I miss so much, even though the world is constantly changing...

The promises do not.

Red Tape, No Scissors

Today represents a first for me. This is the first day that I have wanted to shut everything off, scream, and go home. There are three major items that I have been working on today:

1) Making my opting out of Social Security official
2) Making the changes to my Terms of Call because of said opting out official with the national office
3) Trying to get the Nominating Committee put together so that we can fill two sudden vacancies on our Session.

I have been here at work for a little over three hours...and I'm just about ready to either cry or take a baseball bat to something. Knowing my nature, it would probably be the former...but if I get put on hold again, it's going to be the latter. Here's what I've been up to this morning:

I received a phone call yesterday from a man named Jeff who works for the IRS. He informed me that they have received my paperwork, but it is incomplete. I had evidently misread the completely convoluted and confusing letter and the person I did talk to about it gave me the wrong advice (I believe it was, "Just sign the thing and send it in...you don't need anything else.") Jeff, in a spectacularly IRS-perfect nasally-robotic tone, informed me that I would need to supply him with copies of a couple of forms that would prove the tax-exempt, non-profit status of the church. He fired the alphabet soup of form numbers at me...and I waited until today to check the files. I can't find any of them...the Treasurer doesn't know where they are, the chair of Finance doesn't know where they are...and I'm tearing through the church files like a man possessed. You want copies of the minutes from the June 1945 meeting of Presbyterian Women? We got that...can put my finger on it in three minutes. The forms granting us non-profit status in the eyes of the US Government? Not so much. After a little over 45 minutes of ravenous searching, I gave up and realized that said document would have probably had to have been procured in the late 1800s for this church. I called Jeff. Hold. Two minutes go by. I hang up.

I exhale...calmly exhale...and move on to the next order of business. I start to fill out a form of "change of call" from our beloved Board of Pensions. I don't understand a couple of things on it at all. I place a call to the home office in Louisville. Hold. A minute goes by. I hang up.

And so I move to the project I have been dreading the most. We have had one elder move and another resign because of health concerns over the past month. The one elder happens to be taking an at-large member of our nominating committee with her (her husband). My mission was to find out what stipulations there are in the church by-laws for appointing new members of nominating committee and to see what hurdles there were that we needed to clear before we could convene as a nominating committee. There are none...none written at least. My calls produce three nobody-at-homes, two I-have-no-ideas, and a twisted web of positions that have yet to be filled from the various organizations of the church. This is all simply to put the nominating committee together...we haven't even started asking for elders yet. That process last fall, in and of itself, was like trying to find someone on the Rockies who can pitch in the 8th. And so, after about a half hour of calls, I hit another brick wall.

I try Jeff again. Out to lunch. He must be recharging his batteries. Call back tomorrow. I call our clergy tax advisor. He won't be in until Friday, and doesn't answer questions over the phone. I need to make an appointment on my day off to come in to ask him, "What forms do I need?" A parishioner walks in to ask me about to forms you need to fill out for camp scholarships...it takes me a little over eight minutes on the presbytery's convoluted website to find the forms.

And so that's my morning: a black hole of productivity where any project I begin is met with a wall of red tape and Don Henley hold music. As I go out to make an adjustment of the church sign, I half-expect a police officer to roll up and ask me, "Do you have a 606R Religious Display Authorization Form for that?" and then sing me "End of the Innocence" as I try to ask him questions.

I didn't sign up for this. I hate this. This is what I was trying to avoid...the forms, the desk work, the administrative red tape. It just makes my blood boil. I stare at my desk: the church by-laws, the book of order, tax forms, and Board of Pension documents are thrown haphazardly across the surface. And I stew...and I get angry.

But then I choose to write. And while I didn't know where I was going when I started this post, I realize something as I write. This is the first day in nearly 9 months that I have felt this way. When I worked at my former jobs (particularly in secondary education), I could have written a post like this every day. I hated it, and hated my job as a result. Here...I've had one bad morning of bureaucracy in, what, 9 months? Wow. I guess that I've avoided it for so long that I've lost my ability to tolerate it.

And so I will now shut the computer off and stop calling the Jeff-O-Tron 5000. I will go down and have lunch with a fellow minister. I will walk away. I will realize that those questions will eventually be answered. And, more than anything, I will realize that red tape and bureaucracy are not the norm in small church ministry. And I will thank God for that.

Getting "Tagged": Random Stuff About Me

I recently received the web equivalent of a chain letter...a.k.a. I was "tagged" to share 8 things about myself on this blog. I have hemmed and hawed about whether to actually do it or not...and I have decided to participate without passing said "tag" on to 8 people (per the instructions). This gives me a nice halfway point. I am, in fact, recognizing and responding to the wishes of a friend while at the same time avoiding burdening 8 of my friends to do the same. So, without further ado, the "tag" disclaimer (the rules):

1) I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2) Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3) People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4) At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5) Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
6) Don't tell anyone about Fight Club.

I added that last one myself. Anyway...here are the 8 random topics and some even more random comments on them.

Food: When it all shakes out, give me pizza. Sure, I like other food. I like to cook, love eating Julie's food, love eating out. But at the end of the day, there is nothing better than something that is delivered to your house, is covered in cheese, requires no utensils, and often has absolutely no nutritional value. Make it a deep dish Chicago-style pizza from Giordano's and, hey, I'm in heaven. Runner up: The Johnny Cash Ring-Of-Fire Burger at a local eatery. Buffalo sauce, jalapenos, and blue cheese on a 1/3 pound burger. Appropriately named because it is the gastrointestinal equivalent of doing a concert at Folsom prison: risky, but worth it. Walk the line, baby...walk the line.

Family: Yes, I have one. I love them all very much. Dad, Mom, my two sisters and their families, and (of course) the woman who keeps me afloat, Julie. I'm also quite fond of my extended family on both sides and have had some really great times with my aunts, uncles, cousins, and the like. I fancy myself a pretty good Son-In-Law, too...I like spending time with Julie's folks and all her New Zealand extended family. And I would be remiss, of course, unless I mentioned Shadow, our beloved dog who is now climbing fences in the great beyond (and hopefully getting walked more than once a month.)

Exercise: Yeah. I get on the elliptical trainer (a.k.a. "The Suicide Machine") every once and while, but I am afraid that I'm one of those strange people who doesn't like discomfort. I'm still looking for a way to make staying in shape fun again. I used to play pick-up basketball, football, and ultimate Frisbee in college. The only way I can play those now are in Rec Leagues filled with people who take it considerably more seriously than I do. I'm going to try running again here soon. Stop laughing. Don't make me come over there.

Profession: I am the King of the Diamond! Oh...wait...I get it. Presbyterian Pastor.

Obsession: Probably high on this list would be the James Bond movies, along with my life-long vision of designing, financing, and the building a corkscrew-shaped building. You think I'm kidding, don't you? Oh, and one other thing. Every time this clip comes on TV, I must stop and watch:

There is amusing, there is very funny...and then there is "Kneel Before Zod!"

Faith: See: Profession. I try to do the best that I can to love the Lord, my God, with all my heart, mind, soul, and strength and my neighbor as myself...and I try to make sure that everyone knows that I am broken...but healed every day in God through Christ.

Ailments: For all the exercising I do, you'd think there would be quite a few, but other than male-pattern-hair-recession, a still-growing mid-section, and a strange friend nicknamed "Hambone," well...I'm doin' OK.

Games: I love to play games with family and friends. I've already mentioned my affinity of sports, but I also love board games. Whether it be dominoes with Mom and Dad, Cranium with the larger family, Settlers of Catan with Julie, Texas Hold-'Em with friends, Rail Baron, Pinochle, Pitch, Hearts, 500, or PS2 on my own...I like a good game. A handful of game moments stick out in my mind, though (along with code names):
--Two-on-two basketball outside in the middle of winter (The "Frozen Tundra" series)
--Playing basketball in the old Heartwell gym (The night of the "Dog Pound")
--Playing pitch all the way home from skiing ("Paycheck")
--Playing Tecmo Bowl on Campbell 2nd North (The quest for the Neirmann Memorial Trophy)
--Bowling on East Campus (No ball over 4 pounds please)
--Cranium with my family (The "It's A Small Nose, After All" incident)
--Going all-in blind when a certain line was uttered (see: above) while playing Hold 'Em (The "Zod Hand")
--Playing multi-tap video games in seminary ("Day-lo")

Good times...every last one of them.

Well, there it is. I'm not passing this on, but I hope you've learned a little something about me. Something, that is, other than the fact that I'm a cop-out artist.

Ranking Things: Cars, Good and Evil

As mentioned in the previous post, Julie and I made a never-before-done-as-a-couple major purchase a couple of weeks ago: we purchased a car...rather, a vehicle. I hesitate to call it a "car" because it is a (gulp) SUV. Granted, it is a Honda CRV (a parishioner called it a Half-UV the other day)...but it is still (as the Rev. Dr. reminded me) something that I gave him an exceedingly hard time about buying nary a year ago. I, of course, blasted him with the "Soccer Mom" and "Kiss Your Manhood Goodbye" comments...never knowing that I was predestined to move into a glass house in mid-2007.

You see, out here in Colorado we have a little thing called "snow," and this past winter we had a whole heckuva lot of it. Needless to say, the 1997 Honda Accord and the 1997 Toyota Tercel, while formidable in their own ways (well...no...that's a lie), are not what you would consider "rugged" or even "snow-functional beyond 5 inches." Changes needed to be made...and so we looked into something with 4-wheel drive, that could fit more than 2 people, and didn't drive or use gas like like a front-end loader. Enter the 2002 Honda CRV (As pictured above, only dark blue).

I'll be the first to admit that I'm now well through my dinner-sized helping of crow. We really like the car; it handles well, gets decent mileage, and is comfortable. But as we prepare to put our two-door Tercel up on Craig's list, I can't help but sigh a bit that we're selling our dependable, gas-sipping, bandbox of a car for a Yuppie Chariot. And so, as an attempt to justify myself, I give you two short lists:

Top 5 Cars That Would Destroy My Soul/Will To Live

5. The Urban Pickup
One of my new favorites here in Colorado. We have a guy on our street with a Chevy that could flatten our house...dual "Dooley" back tires on the back, massive clearance, dual exhaust, and a cab that must require a smaller car to get up into. I would place it's origin somewhere in the late 90's...and there's not a scratch on the thing. It is always perfectly washed, even has mud flaps for that oh-so-muddy trip over to Hays Market. Meanwhile, the real farmers and ranchers around here are trying to find two pennies to rub together as they struggle to keep the 1984 Silverado going.

4. The PT Cruiser
Let's call it what it is: A minivan rolled in a mid-life crisis that is really nothing but a hatchback with bad aerodynamics. In other words, the new Gremlin.

3. The Minivan
I know, I know...I have a friend who just bought one, other friends who have owned them forever...and, yes, I know, they have V-8s with some pick-up. Yes, I know that some of them have DVD players. Yes, I am quite aware that they are exceedingly functional for large families. But the fact remains: It's a minivan. You don't get to watch the DVDs as you drive....and, at the end of the day, V8 or not, you are driving a small bus.

2. The "Extended" SUV
I get the logic here. I don't want to be un-cool in a minivan, so I'll buy a 4-wheel drive minivan. The problem is that these things are high-clearance, barely-converted tractor trailers that crush anything in their path. When I'm driving around in the Tercel, and I see a Yukon or Expedition merging without looking, I see my life flash before my eyes. These things are impossibly huge...and getting larger. Plus, after looking at some mileage reports while Julie and I were looking for a car, well, geeze. Instead of a little "Unleaded Fuel Only" sticker on the gauge, they should have a government warning label that reads: "You...yeah, I'm talkin' to you...you are why we are dependent on foreign oil. Thanks for that."

1. The Hummer
The unholy spawn of all of the above. Take three parts "status-mobile," four parts "I'm a real man...really," two parts "I want to run over anything that gets in my way," nine parts "hey, it's not a minivan," two parts "gas is like my line of credit, right...it won't ever run out," and there you have it. The ultimate driving machine.

So what, you might ask, would I get if my family rendered the CRV insufficient? Two words: Station. Wagon. Yeah, you heard me. Let me throw another couple at you: Wood. Panelling. There is a family in our church with three kids that has a Chevy Caprice Classic wagon with wood panelling...it even has the extra backwards-facing seat for extra family bonding/nausea. Spectacular.

Now...so not to end on an overly-critical note:

The 4 Greatest Cars I Have "Owned" or Driven Extensively

4. The Red 1997 Honda Accord (a.k.a. "The Old Kentucky Shark")
Still in active service, this car is most notable for it's Cal Ripken like ability to keep going out there every day. Has weathered five-plus moves, a handful of baseball trips, daily commutes in KC and here in CO, and me nearly ripping the front bumper off on a parking island. Is starting to show some signs of old age (it "wheezes" if you idle with the AC on), but is still punching the clock every day.

3. The mid-to-late 80's White Pontiac Bonneville (a.k.a. "The White Beast")
A warrior-poet of a car. Passed down from my sister, the Bonneville initially functioned as one of the first cars I drove after getting my license and later served a tour of duty as my school car. I never had a problem with it (which, for a Pontiac, is nothing less than an act of God). The car served our family well...and was given away at or near 200,000 miles (again...divine intervention for a Pontiac). It continued to drive, somewhere down in Louisiana, for a while. I like to imagine that it is still going...pushing 500,000 miles...saving orphaned children as it drove through the eye of Katrina and pulling "one-armed-Jessies" into the new millennium. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if it is.

2. The Gray 1989 Oldsmobile '98 Touring Sedan (a.k.a. "The Enterprise")
My first car. An unfittingly posh automobile for a Sophomore in college, the Olds featured leather seats, cigarette lighters for every passenger, a strange/cool center shifter, and an iron will. It was an "old-man car" forced into the role of college car. The Olds made it through three unobservant backing incidents, multiple brake reconstructions, and once drove from Kansas to Nebraska with a massive deer-inflicted dent down its left side, inspiring awe from all who drove by. An excellent road-trip car with a primo engine...I drove it hard, and died hard. It met its end, suddenly and violently, via a timing chain in a Target parking lot in Olathe.

1. The Blue Pickup
Recently promoted to "Iconic" in my mind's eye. The seminal mowing vehicle of our family's vast yard maintenance empire. A manual-transmission, wood-bed, rust-damaged, powerhouse of a truck that provided years of enjoyment, even in the midst of work. Once took a full-on blow from a Chevy Citation without giving an inch. Powerful engine was more than able to throw Marcy out the back while she was dumping grass. Whether completely covered in Little Debbie wrappers or destroying the Andersons' mailbox thanks to over-zealous ice-driving, the Blue Truck took on all comers. "What you did was so amazing," indeed. Dad sold the Blue Truck for a runner-up on this list (The Brown Chevy Scottsdale), but it will never be replaced.

And so I place the CRV somewhere between these two lists...a needed compromise that sticks my toe into the chilly waters of the yuppie/grown-up pool. I'm optimistic, though, because above all else what makes a car great are the stories...and I know there are more of those to come.

Divine Timing

Well, now that was something. I have had a whirlwind two weeks here that have consisted of the following (not necessarily in this order):

A long-time member of the church passed away (funeral on Wednesday).
I was asked to preach for the Presbytery (Saturday).
I am the "leader" of a Family Camp this weekend at our Presbytery's camp.
Julie and I purchased a new (to us) car.
My parents (and two nephews) visited.
It was my lovely wife's birthday.

That, friends, makes for one whale of a fortnight. In the midst of all of this, I had probably the most difficult day, emotionally, of my life as a pastor so far. Wednesday's memorial service was emotional for me (I am starting to realize that these get harder the more I actually know those involved), and so I arrived at home exhausted around 4:30. The phone rang. It was a woman who needed help...and lots of it. Through a terrifying set of circumstances stemming from cancer, she has been left without work, income, physical strength, or hope. I drove over to her home.

I walked in the door to find the accoutrements of faith all over the walls, the dresser. Crosses, books, Bibles, frames of her family saying "God loves you...and so do I" around them. But she sat at the table...crying. I asked, "What's wrong?" It took an hour and half to answer. I sat there as she cried and cried and cried...stories of weeks spent looking for work, stories of family apathy, stories of being turned away time and time and time again. It just poured out of her. I sat, mortified...no idea what to say. She finished by asking, full of hurt, "Why does God hate me so much? Am I being punished?"

I wanted to run and hide. I wanted to run and hide because, ultimately, I couldn't blame her. I have those same questions about why she is suffering. I wanted to know why, too. We sat for what seemed like a long time in silence. Then I muttered something like:

"You are not alone. You are loved. By God. By me. By the church. We care about what happens to you. See, we get together...in all our fear and hurt and doubt...because we know we can't do it on our own. We need God...and we need each other.”

Then I showed her Isaiah 40 and Ezekiel 37, explained their contexts a little bit, and drove home...feeling shaken and completely inadequate. Wondering how much of my faith is contingent on my car, my nice house, my health, and my all-in-all favorable circumstances. I didn't sleep well...so I rolled into the office early, anxious about my impending sermon for a house full of preachers.

But I sat in my chair...tired, sad...and didn't feel much like a preacher.

On that morning and the next morning, two things rolled in through the mail. The first was a simple, wonderful, completely pointless card from a good seminary friend that caused a long, hard chuckle and a good dose of therapy along with it. The next day, as I pondered my Wednesday encounter and I tore my hair out trying to compose an IMPRESSIVE sermon...the following bit of prophetic intervention showed up via another wonderful friend:



Spectacular. And with these two seemingly random, silly gestures I was, at once, reminded of two wonderful truths:

That God still wants me, not some super-pastor. God, even with all my scars and limitations and hurts...even in my "Scottness," can share the hope and love of Christ in and through me.

And that it is community, even across thousands of miles, that best demonstrates that love and gives us hope, encouragement, and perspective when we need it most.