Ranking: Potato Chips

Well, now...that's enough of the heavy stuff for a bit, eh? Let's take a break. Let's dodge the political spit wads, hate mail, and debates about lipstick...and let's get down and dirty and talk about something of truly monumental importance: junk food.

Like every youngster raised in the 80s/90s, I had a serious craving for snacks. I sucked down my fair share of Little Debbie snack cakes, Dr. Peppers, and Kit Kats...but a special place in my heart was always reserved for unnaturally-colored magnificence of the potato chip aisle. With the help of my family, I consumed my share of chips over the years, and by college considered myself something of a connoisseur. It was about that time, in a conversation with my two best friends, that I came to the realization that, in my universe, 5 chips stood above the rest. I named them "The Pentavaret" and spent the rest of my College/Grad School/Bachelor days advocating for these snacks...by buying and consuming as many of them as I could.

But then, thanks be to God, came marriage. And the woman I love soon realized that there was a pretty good chance that my blood was the consistency of Silly Putty. And so, these 5 wonderful brothers-in-arms who once comprised a personal food group have been reduced to yearly (if that) indulgences. I don't miss them as much as you might think. They are like those friends from way back that you know might have killed you...but you still find yourself drawn to them (and to the half-man-half-goat you used to be.) But I still miss them. So here...for nostalgia's sake...is the "Pentavaret" in all of its glory.

5. Bacon and Cheddar Tato Skins

The diabolical Keebler elves rolled out their latest weapon to fatten, and thus conquer America in 1987. It was their most effective weapon against me, and was timed perfectly for the height of my junk-food consuming abilities. Between it and the Fudge Stripe cookie...our house lined the pockets of many a rich elf. This chip-overlord was the "Tato Skin." The Tato Skin still comes in three flavors, but it is the powdered-cheesy goodness teamed with the nothing-less-than-devine power of bacon that blows away the Sour Cream and Chive and (don't even waste my time here) Plain versions of the chip. The novelty of the chip was the one-side-darker technology that the bag told you was the "skin." (Yes...and by "skin," they mean a monosodiuglutenate #4 instead of monosodiuglutinate #3.) The reason this chip is ranked so low on the totem pole is because it is now nearly impossible to find. A trip to http://www.tatoskins.com/ will direct you to the "Inventure Group," a company still trying to keep up the brand by marketing them alongside such geographically-confused industry juggernaunts as "Bob's Texas Style Sweet Maui Onion Potato Chips." I haven't seen them in years...and if I did, I imagine it would be like a re-creation of that scene in "The Natural" when Roy Hobbs finally talks to Glenn Close after all those years and she says: "I used to look for you in crowds. One day...I guess I just stopped looking." You are Roy Hobbs, Tato Skins. I miss you...and you might have been the best that ever was. Oh...yeah...one other thing...I didn't have your baby.

4. Chili Cheese Fritos

Fritos are good, Ranch Fritos are better, but this unique incarnation of Frito takes the cake. Packaged in a deceptively small, but densely packed bag...the only "problem" with Chili Cheese Fritos in how easy it is to talk yourself into taking down an entire bag. And that, friends, is like a SubPrime Mortgage or buying a St. Bernard puppy: File it under "It sure seemed like a good idea at the time." The closest thing I can compare it to would be swallowing two momma badgers whole after separating them from their young. Not pretty. On the plus side, they work extremely well in the most classic of Frito applications including application on top of chili, in the middle of burritos, and (my personal favorite) smashed and melted into a grilled cheese sandwhich. Yes...I'm still alive. Yes...I do realize that it's a miracle.

3. Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles

Technically called "Cheddar 'N Sour Cream Ruffles," but every time I use the big capital "N," the little English Teacher inside me dies a little. I'm usually not a big fan of "regular" potato chips, especially in their more traditional flavors. The over-sweet potato chip BBQ flavor makes me a bit queasy and the generic "Sour Cream and Onion" chips just take like onion salt to me. But these beauties who, again, conveniently came on the scene during my prepubescent years, brought me back to the basics. I can remember at one point saying something to the effect of: "I would eat an asbestos tile if it were covered in that stuff." Unfortunately, the good folks at Ruffles gave me that chance a few years back by producing the "Baked" version of this chip. 21st Century Semi-Healthy/Getting Older/Broccoli-Eating Scott tried them a few years back and nearly broke into tears because the age-old adage was proven right once again: put all the peanut butter you want on it, folks...it's still celery.

2. Cool Ranch Doritos
I don't remember exactly when it was in the 80's, but I do remember the sheer novelty of a new flavor of Doritos. We had only previously known the joy of regular old Doritos and their processed cheesy goodness...but suddenly, out of nowhere, the FritoLay company came up with a whole new mega-salt/chemical concoction to put on their chips known as "Cool Ranch." I would never eat regular (now "Nacho Cheese"--oh, so that's what that was...) Doritos ever again. Well...OK...so that's not true, but I definitely preferred "Cool Ranch." In true American style, Doritos has now expanded to include 8,543,209 flavors including--not joking--"Sweet Chili Heat" and an oh-so-square "Ranch" variety that gets sand kicked in its face at the beach...but the 2nd incarnation remains the king in my books. They even tried a marketing scheme of calling it "Cooler Ranch" (along with "Nacho Cheesier") a while back. Cooler...yeah, right. Short of throwing a few dashes of Eye of Fonzie in there, how is that possible? Come on. Oh...and in another interesting experiment, 21st Century Healthy/Boring/Trying to Living Longer Scott also tried the baked variety of these and...yeah. The baked "corn chips" sucked every last drop of saliva out of my mouth like some mutant sponge. Thanks, FritoLay, but I'd rather die of the fat.

Editorial note: For the entire previous paragraph, I kept wanting to put "Doritoes," but that...I think...is the word for the lower digits of someone named Dorothy. And I don't care what you put on those, I ain't eatin' them.

1. Crunchy Cheddar Cheese Cheetos
I can not emphasize the importance of the "Crunchy" part enough. Keep the puffs, you patsies...they're packing peanuts. Trust me, they are. And don't give me the twists, either...take a side on the Crunchy/Puffy debate, flip-floppers. And the baked? Oh...come on, people. Are we learning nothing here? Baking chips is like throwing holy water on a vampire, OK? And as for the "Flaming Hot" variety...come on...they're not Hotos, people...they're Cheetos. This, friends, is the Elvis of snacks...bow to the king. From the Chernobyl-yellow color to the surprising density of them...they reign supreme. I have recently discovered the pure joy of putting Cheetos into a sandwich. Cramming cheetos into a regular turkey sandwich on white is roughly the same as introducing a monkey to Session meeting. Not only is it unexpected, unorthodox, and borderline insane...but you end up wondering how you ever did without it. On top of that, they include my favorite chip side-effect,"Cheeto-hands," the wonderful cheesy residue left on your fingers that is impossible to wash off. For those who are not picky about hygiene, this allows for continued "snacking" for the rest of the day. And so, for these reasons and many more, the Cheeto rules the Pentavaret.

And now...with that...I'm hungry. I will now be going to the store where I will wander the aisle gently calling out for Tato Skins. Please, whatever you do, don't tell Julie.

"Other Duties"

I just spent 45 minutes cleaning our basement. Many things led to this. Our custodian quit about three weeks ago without giving any notice, the repeated pleas to the congregation for help in cleaning went mostly unheeded (outside of the help of those who already are doing way too much), and tonight is our monthly potluck/fellowship event and we are inviting in a singing group from the local high school and their parents.

And so, for reasons I can't completely explain, I found myself scrubbing toilets this morning...leaving my unfinished sermon to be completed piecemeal over the weekend.

Sigh.

I know I'm not supposed to do it. I know all that small church theory that tells me that I should let the church look like garbage tonight and let the church feel the shame of it, and then (in theory) the church will take action. I know all of that and have even tried it on occasion...I recited it to myself again as I sat in the basement and cleaned away.

The "problem" is that I love this church. I want the Sunday School to thrive...I want the place to be clean. I want it to be something more than just a run0down building on the corner. I want people to walk into our basement and not think to themselves, "Boy, they're really letting themselves go." And Julie bends over backwards to teach Sunday School. And I try something new to try and set off that spark...that fire...that gets people excited about being participants (I've found myself back from leaders) in what God is trying to do here. More than anything...I want to take all the "I"s out of the previous paragraph and see God working in and through the people here to something new and profound and life-changing.

I don't clean because I'm a control freak. I clean, mostly, so that those ten-or-so poor souls who do everything don't have to do more. I do it because I feel it needs to be done...all the while hoping for a day when it will get done because somebody else is committed to doing it. But I end up feeling bad about it, because I am that most terrifying of modern terms...an enabler.

These are the days when work at a larger church calls like a siren...misleading and deadly. Days when the "compliments" like, "We'd be nothing without you..." feel even more like defeat. Days when I look back at my application and see the statement: "What I love about church ministry is the variety." This is variety, I'll give it that. I'm a bookkeeper, a copy writer, a motivational speaker, a babysitter, an entertainer, a handyman, a landlord, a referee, a contractor, a troubleshooter, a sales representative, and a janitor....

But, on certain days, really feel nothing like a pastor.

How The Political Conventions Are Killing My Will To Vote

I want to be informed. I want to be a good American, a good voter. I've followed the primaries, done some reading on the subject. I've formed some ideas. I've made a go of it...I really have.

But now it's convention season once again and, at the end of the day, I hate to say it...they just won't let me do it. They just won't let me feel passionate or confident...they won't let me feel good about voting for anybody. In the end, it feels like no matter what choice I make, I'm still casting a vote for a Politician.

Not that I can entirely blame the conventions...I'll take some of the blame. I've tried to avoid them, I really have...but while we were on vacation, the conventions and "analysis" found their way onto our television in the hotel rooms. I found my way to them again last night. Maybe it's curiosity, maybe it's hope, maybe it's sadomasochism. But I just keep running into the same things.

One of the most insightful things I have heard about recent American politics was the statement, "Americans don't know who they support any more...but they sure know who they hate." This has been what has been on display for every convention I can remember. Last year was an excellent example. The speeches I saw/read/saw "highlights" from at both conventions were stunningly similar. The DNC worked to paint George Bush as a warmongering, lying, environment-killing, isolationist idiot and the RNC worked equally hard to show John Kerry as an unpatriotic, God-hating, baby-killing flip flopper who wanted to raise your taxes. The DNC didn't really talk all much that about Kerry...the RNC didn't really talk all that much about Bush. They didn't talk about their candidates or their platforms or what they hoped to achieve outside of some general, benign statements like, "I think we should stop using so much oil," and "I think education is important." (Might as well have thrown in "I'm pro-puppies" and "I'm totally committed to doing all I can to stop bad things from happening.") They talked about how terrible life would be if you were stupid enough to elect the "Other Guy." They bandied hate, fear, and bloodlust around their arenas like tennis balls all week and then went home to let it fester. It was gruesome. And it was again this year.

What makes it harder is that I had hoped. I loved "Early Obama." Obama in Iowa got me excited. He talked about being unconventional. He talked about the hurts and crippling inactivity of division. He made stirring speeches about expecting the best out of everybody and listening to everybody, even those across the aisle. Most of all, he didn't take cheap shots at other candidates. He did something completely new...he actually talked about what he would like to do. He seemed different...like less of a Politician.

And I had hoped John McCain would be different. He has always gone out of his way to step outside the political boundaries. He resisted cheap shots early on, too...talking about some of the changes he hoped to be a part of. And he had always seemed like an affable, even-keeled, and open kind of guy to me. I got excited, too, when he went way out into left field to find an unconventional VP from a small town.

But..sure enough...at the conventions, the "teeth" and the "red meat" came out. I rallied my hopes again for the Obama speech. They guy's a heck of a speaker...and I was hoping for that "Early Obama," a sweeping, inspirational speech that would talk about what was possible, about his goals and vision...about who he is and what he hopes to do. He had some of that (I loved that part of his speech that talked about working towards a common good), but there was also plenty of blaming, jabs, and "fear the other guy" junk. And then, last night, I was hoping for something down-to-earth, connected, and real...and there was some of that (moments of wit and stories of how her roots formed her that I enjoyed) but, again, it didn't take long for the chainsaw to come out big-time...and just like the crowds at the DNC, the cheers were the loudest for the cheap shots.

And so these "outsiders" both followed suit with all-too-familiar speeches that I honestly feel (at this point) like I could write myself. RNC? Talk about guns, right-to-life, cutting taxes, insert God here and there...and make sure to mention how (insert Democrat here) will raise taxes, hurt small businesses, hates America, and doesn't really love Jesus. DNC? Talk about the environment, about social programs, reducing defense spending, and the evils of big business...and make sure to mention how (insert Republican here) is in the pocket of big oil, kills pandas for fun, wants to nuke every country that looks at us funny, and uses Jesus as a billy club.

I swear I could do it for them. And it's because I've learned from the same place they have...from the whims and methods of the parade of the soulless, blathering pundits that vomit "opinion" 24-hours a day on the news network of your choice. They want their candidates to mirror them...with more "red meat" and "conviction." They want them to be as arrogant, rude, and obstinate as they are...and compromise, rationality, and (God forbid) even listening to the "other guy" are not options. Interrupt, man! Yell louder! Put words in their mouth! Play soundbites over and over and over again. Michelle Obama hates America! Cindy McCain's a rich snob! Tear them all to pieces bit by bit by bit until there's nothing left that's noble or special or inspirational about them. For heaven's sake, don't ever admit you might be wrong...it's media bias! Attack! Defend! Rip them to shreds. Make them live in fear.

It wears me out...and it depresses me because I have come to realization that we will probably never have another great American president or another great American speech. Both require leadership and a hope for something greater on the part of the listeners. There will never be another Abraham Lincoln because every president will be immediately torn limb from limb by a collection of reporters, bloggers, and the like and irrationally deified by others. There will never be another Gettysburg Address because speeches that are meant to heal or unite us will be D.O.A. because they "flip-flop too much" and don't "appeal to the base." We'll just keeping doing what we've done to Clinton and Bush...vilifying or canonizing, depending on if you watch MSNBC or FoxNews or have an "R" or a "D" after your name on your driver's license. And the votes will continue to float around 50% as the people trying to figure it out just settle on "giving the other party another try."

And so I register Independent and hope for something else...for someone and something completely different. I wait to feel like somebody's being genuine. I wait for it not to be about the money. I wait for the day when I don't feel like I'm voting for the lesser of two evils. I wait for the day when the devolving political discourse leaves our political stages and churches. I wait for the day when I'm not called "naive" or "indecisive" because I don't blame the Republicans or the Democrats.

And I sigh as I watch the news and the conventions...because I'm not holding my breath.

To Shave Or Not To Shave

My new pair of glasses came in on Tuesday...the first change of frames I have had since about 1997. The old glasses, magnificent warriors they were, were looking a bit scraggly and, to be completely honest, downright scary around the eye pads. Not kidding...they are green. The folks at the optometrist office let out an audible "Eeewww" and gathered around them as if they were looking at a dead opossum or something when I took them off. Anyway...picked out the new frames, they came yesterday...and I have a new face. But (if all goes according to plan) this will only be phase one.

Because I have decided to grow a goatee.

Yes, yes, I know. I've tried this whole "facial hair" thing before with disastrous results. Yes, I remember The Great Mustache Debacle of 1998. Yes, I remember my friends calling it my "Rookie Cop Mustache" and referring to me as "Officer Kowolski." Yes, I remember my friend begging me to shave before standing at his wedding...and then having to cringe as I looked at the pictures months later. No, no one noticed it...and, yes, when they did they usually had to force back laughter. These memories all remain.

But I think that I can do it this time...that I'm older, wiser, and (God willing) more able. I think I can pull it off...and I'm motivated (I know...says the Buffalo Bills.) So I'm going to try it. Which begs the question:

Why? Why take the next 9 months (conservative estimate) to grow facial hair? Why subject yourself to the snickers and non-stop questions? Don't you have a zone of zero-hair growth you refer to as the "No Man's Land" that would separate this theoretical goatee into a mustache and awkward chin-cover? On top of that...why now?

As my obvious lack of posting indicates, things have been up-and-down since about the turn of the year, with the last few months in particular leaving me feeling like a punching bag. Mission trips have been ignored, worried over, and then canceled, an increasing number of tasks have been placed on my desk, running has been avoided, and I have set-up a summer home in the not-so magical land of self-pity where I enjoy spending time thinking about "Nirvana Presbyterian Church"...the place where the sermons will come easily, the parishioners will never begin sentences with "You should...," and the pastor will be seen for the saint/genius/pariah that he is. And so, to be honest, I have spent my share of time wallowing around the muck the past few months...thinking only about what I feel God has left out instead of what God is putting in.

But I'm getting a feeling that a corner has been turned...thanks to a few therapy session with Saint Julie (yeah...I talked to the Vatican), having some good talks with friends and mentors, and pretty much deciding that moping around wasn't doing any good. I have stepped back and asked God to give me new eyes for old things. I've started to once again look at this church and what it means to be a pastor here (or anywhere for that matter.) And I've remembered that saying from seminary: "You can't force a system to change...you can only change yourself."

And along the way I've felt the urge to grow some facial hair. In general, those I've run it by from the congregation seem supportive/intrigued/eager to see a train wreck. My proposal passed the Presbyterian Women with flying colors and was met with a general "Why Not?" support from friends at Presbytery. Julie, no doubt considering the whole kissing-as-exfoliant for three weeks...er...three months, has adopted the well-used "Slight shake of the head with a smile: my husband's a freak...but for some reason I love him" posture. She seems to be in...for now...probably because she knows what's going on.

It was nailed on the head by our Executive Presbyter who responded, when I told him of my plans, with the following question: "Wait...you've only been a Presbyterian pastor for a year and a half and you're already this eager for change?"

Darn right I am. Let's shake things up. Let's look at this whole pastor thing differently. Let's get a little crazy. Let's try something. Let's not care what people think. Let's try something we've always wanted to try.

Let's change. Let it grow, baby...let it grow.

Me+Christian Rock=Complicated

Greetings one and all. The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated (although, on the Thursday after Easter, it feels like there might be a little truth in them somewhere.) The spectre I like to call "church work" has been working me over like the heavy bag since Christmas...and so free time has been spent doing things significantly less important than blogging. Things like spending time with my wife, actually resting, and watching my parents paint our whole ground floor. You know...priorities and all that.

One of the church-related activities I participated in over the past month was a Newsboys concert a few weeks ago. A member of our church was particularly excited to go and Julie is a big fan...so we all went along with a small contingent from our congregation (as many of you have witnessed, our church is not exactly a mosh pit in the making demographically, but we had a delegation there.) It was your standard concert fare; there were three bands that preceded the main attraction, two truly awe-inspiring walls of speakers set to "Jet Landing In Your Ear Canal" and a good crowd for the three hour concert. I thought that the opening bands had a moderate amount of talent...about what I expected. But Newsboys surprised me with their talent/passion/originality. To some degree, they projected a "Trying to be U2" vibe...but all in all, they were better than I expected...and I got a kick out of hearing them. This, as many of you know, is saying something.

It's not that I'm vehemently against Christian rock. I was raised in a house full of Amy Grant, Sandy Patti, Michael W. Smith, and the like...I could even sing a few bars of my beloved Petra and Stryper if subject to a grand jury. But a few experiences changed my approach to Christian Rock:

1) Attending a Christian college in the late 90s. I heard at lot of Christian music; both live and recorded...both by choice and not. The dorms were a 24-hour-a-day DC Talk/Jars of Clay/Audio Adrenaline concert...and a good percentage of my friends played in bands where they covered Christian music and performed their own compositions. This was both good and bad. Good in that I saw "grassroots" Christian music...people performing as an act of worship...and witnessed truly effective "contemporary" worship for one of the first times in my life. Bad in that I also saw music used as a theological billy club and object of power. College was the time when I felt less Christian when people saw that I owned B.B. King, Neil Young, and the Rolling Stones...and I felt even worse when I sold all of them so I could show everybody how righteous I was. College was where I was told that hymns represented a "dying church." College was where found out that I would rather sing about God than myself. It was a good time of growth...but I guess you could say that it left me a bit skeptical.

2) Working at a Christian bookstore. I was hired to work at a Christian bookstore that had recently been bought out by a national conglomerate. I spent a lot of time in customer service reading the trade magazines and a lot of time watching the national office drive out the loyal employees of the former independent bookstore one by one. In both cases, it seemed like it was all about the money. I read interviews that made a direct correlation between album sales and faithfulness. I was told by our district manager that sales equalled evangelism. I stocked C.S. Lewis two shelves down from a book claiming that Tiger Woods was the anti-Christ. It was also where I met a lot of wonderful people, learned a great deal about the Bible, and even encountered some excellent Christian music. I made my peace with the store by eventually telling people, "It's a lot like Wal-Mart in there...there's some good stuff, you can't just pick anything up off the shelf, though."

But the more I think about it, the more I think that it was my decision to become a pastor that shaped my approach to Christian Rock. I have seen my share of folks in the ministry simply because they crave the "spotlight"...I have fought becoming that person myself as well. I have tried to be disciplined by pointing, as much as I can, to God Almighty...to the giver and not the gifts. I have tried to make genuineness and humility my goals...because I can see how completely sideways and twisted the pastorate can get when it becomes an ego trip. Heck, I've seen what it does in my life without the pastorate...I cringe to think of what it could do a congregation.

And so we reach the catch. Part of me, deep down, thinks that the very nature of rock music makes it awfully hard to be both humble and effective as a Christian rocker. The great bands explode with swagger and self-obsession...we are talking about a group of individuals that spend an awful lot of time singing about themselves and their experiences. They then take those songs...and perform them in large contexts where the focus is, ultimately, on them. Rock is notoriously and pretty much definitively self-indulgent. I would classify myself as a "U2 Christian" for the simple reason that they admit this self-indulgent aspect...they admit that they are in it to be rock stars...but they also hope to help some people along the way. B.B. King never pretended to be anything higher than just someone who sings the blues....there's an honesty there...he's there to sell albums. And, on top of that, selling more blues albums than somebody else can not be misconstrued by anyone as you being more"faithful" to the Blues or any such nonsense. I want you to be genuine. I want you to be honest about why you do what you do. When somebody, anybody, gets up on a stage and starts wailing on a ten minute guitar solo...well...cross around you neck or not, it's hard for me to honestly believe that it's about anything but the musician. The performer. One massive "look at me" moment that leads, at the end of the day, to everybody getting paid...because a mass of people wants to direct their attention to you.

And that sets off the alarm for me. I have heard so much, read so much, and seen so much on making sure that God is the center...the "audience" of worship. I have spent so much time in seminary, in church, in worship talking about giving our gifts freely so that people will be pointed to who God is and not who we are. I have worked, even against myself, to make Session meetings feel less like sales meetings. In my short time here, I have cringed with any reference to the life I have brought to church or the power of my ministry. I am passionate about...I have worked with a feeling of purpose and conviction...making church less and less about me as the pastor and more and more about God. I crave a shared "spotlight." We are called to be the church together...not draw attention to ourselves.

And so I guess you could say that my hesitancy with Christian Rock is that it just seems to personify the worst individualistic, self-promoting veins of the church where bigger and louder and more produced is better. It seems a bit too "look how talented my Jesus is"for me. And, I'll give it to you, I'm a bit cynical about the whole thing. I've seen one too many guitar solos and heard one too many cat calls in worship...and I've seen too many "worship leaders" work as hard as they can to make sure that all eyes are on them. I dug this hole...I'm biased. I'll admit that.

But a strange thing happened at that concert. Yes, I still cringed when the bands desperately plead with the audience to buy their merchandise. Yes, there were still moments when I caught my "nerd pastor" inner monologue questioning the theology of certain songs. But there was also something else as I sat in the audience for my first Christian concert since becoming a pastor. I thought about my call. I thought about getting up in front of a congregation every Sunday to present something creative and personal hoping that those gathered see beyond the craft to God. I thought about my hesitancy whenever my pay is discussed...and the way I bite my lip and justify my pay with quips about God's work still being work. I thought about the increased vocal and compositional theatrics I find myself using during the High Holy days of the church in hopes that I can draw something more in the response column. I think about the daily struggles I fight to stop myself and this church from thinking that I'm the center of attention here.

And so something else happened. I listened to them talk about their mission to raise money for poverty relief and self-sustenance programs. I listened as they read a Psalm and then let it breathe in the silence. I listened as the group belted out songs about the majesty of God's creation. And, yes, there were moments when I thought it might be a little too much...just like there are times on Sunday mornings when I think, "Where did that come from?" And there were moments when I scowled a bit at the theology...mirroring reactions I have seen in the pews. But what I realized is that there was something moving above all of that...something powerful and effective. And I gave thanks for it. I gave thanks that something got through...even to a guy who stacked his deck against the whole thing.

Because in that realization, the hope that I cling to was realized...that even with all the spotlights and speakers and sermons...God can and does come through (even in spite of our mess of pride and motivations) with something genuine and holy.

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.