The Problem of Being Faithful

When I was in the One True Church, I lived in a Brother’s House.  This was where a bunch of us Christian guys lived together with a family so

By James N. McCord. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

that we could be made into godly men.  We did this by attending lots and lots of meetings and doing lots and lots of stewardships.

Stewardships are basically chores except stewardships sounds much more Biblical – especially if you read the King James Bible.  We had a notebook of index cards called standards.  Each standard gave instructions on how to do the stewardships.  Further, one of the brothers was appointed head-steward so he had the extra responsibility of checking our stewardships to see if they rose up to the standard.

If our stewardships didn’t meet the standard, we got consequences.  The purpose of consequences was to encourage us to take the time to do the stewardships perfectly in the first place by giving us even less time because we had to do our consequences in addition to our stewardships and all of the meetings.

Brother Faithful rarely got consequences.  He always seemed to joyfully uphold the standards.  He was up at five in the morning doing his Bible reading and prayer before we all stumbled out for house devotions.  He made sure we didn’t miss a speck when cleaning the bathroom sink and to finish it off by shining it up with a paper towel.  He made us sing while doing the dishes after dinner.

I, on the other hand, did get consequences.  In one case, my consequence was to work with another offending brother in taking hand-written recipes and typing them onto index cards.

To entertain ourselves, we wondered how creative we could be in our descriptions.  For example, instead of typing one teaspoon of salt, we put down one teaspoon NaCl which is the chemical symbol for sodium chloride better known as salt.  I was toying with the idea of putting in as a fake last step to the chef salad recipe to place all the ingredients in the blender and puree for ten minutes but the other offending brother reminded me such an act could result in doing consequences until Jesus returned.

One evening when the brothers returned from work, Brother Faithful was already in the kitchen making dinner.  He had a medium sized pot full of ice that he was heating up.

“What are you doing, brother?”  asked one of the brothers.

Brother Faithful showed us the recipe card and the place where the standard called for two cups of thawed ice.

We stifled a laugh, held our composure and went on our way.

I wonder if Brother Faithful ever pulled the recipe calling for three cups of condensed steam.

 

 

 

In Search of the One True Santa Claus

Santa Claus in Chicago Douglas Rahden [Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons

As Christmas approached, my mom would take me to the month-end sales to try on clothes and visit the various Santa Clauses.  I don’t know what age it was when I moved from the innocent child in the sailor suit to a perceptive thinker and analyst of Saint Nick.

I reasoned that there could only be one true Santa Claus.  Yet I saw a plethora of Santa Clauses on our shopping circuit.  There was at least one in every department store.  Other Santa Clauses were outside ringing bells.  They were on television and in parades.  They were everywhere.

I asked Santa (at least one of them) while sitting on his knee chatting about my needs and wants, why there were so many Santa Clauses.  His reply: “I’m the real Santa Claus.  Those others are my helpers.”

My mom was a depression-era trained bargain hunter, so we hit up several stores looking for sales in the holiday season.  This gave me the opportunity to hook up with several Santa Clauses.  I asked each one the same question and they would all give the same answer – I’m the real one; the others are my helpers.

I wasn’t a math major yet but I knew that only one could be telling the truth.  The

By Florida Memory (Child Looking at Santa on the Beach) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons

others were liars.  How do I find the one true Santa?

The bell ringers were definitely helpers, perhaps working their way up the ranks to human interaction.  To analyze the sitting Santa Clauses fielding the multitudinous requests of expectant and earnest children that fueled the North Pole order fulfillment, behavior QC, and supply chain management, I needed a sharper technique to determine the wheat from the tares.

I found that after I communicated my gift list and Santa embarked upon his morality soliloquy about being nice and helpful and all that, I could study his beard.  If I figured out how it stuck on, then he was another fake.  One used lip tape.  The other used some sort of string netting I wasn’t supposed to see that tied behind his neck.  As I marched back to my mother who was declining the photo package, I would proudly inform her, “He wasn’t the real one.”

My theory was that the real Santa was the one at the fire station.  This Santa Claus was upscale.  He always gave the children a chocolate covered marshmallow Santa figure, not those small peppermint candy canes that required work, sucking, and get stuck in your teeth.  Everyone knows that chocolate trumps hard candy every time.

Further,  he was not tied to a store trying to lure you in to buy perfume and neck ties and a photo package.  At the fire station, they had a lawn full of lights and decorations.  It just felt different and more sincere than the department store Santa crammed behind the Sears insurance booth.

It was like magic as I waited in line among the lights to see the fire station Santa.  I walked by the reindeer, the giant gum drops, and the helping elves.   I went forward and sat on Santa’s knee.

“Hello, David,” he said, “How are you?”

I was flabbergasted and astounded!  “How did you know my name?”  I asked.

“Because,” he said, “I’m Santa Claus.  I know everything.”

Wow!  I was in astonishment as pondered out into the distance.  As I adjusted my gaze, I saw my mother pointing to her shoulder.  I looked down to my shoulder and saw the forgotten paper name tag that said  “David”.

That’s was when I jumped up on his knee, pulled his beard, stared into his beady brown eyes and yelled, “You lying son of a . . .”

OK, I really didn’t do that.  I told him my toy list as they snapped my photo.  I took my chocolate marshmallow Santa and walked with mom to the car.  I felt a little silly that I had forgotten about the name tag.

Some time later, my mom told me there was no Santa – that he was just a story.  My brother came to me later and asked,  “So, they hold you, huh?”

“Yeah,” I replied feeling as if I was supposed to be more devastated than I was.  But I wasn’t sad or disappointed. I had this gig figured out long before and it was really about time that we all agreed to drop the narrative.  It had been a nice way to choose toys but there never seemed to be a correlation between behavior and the quality of gifts that were always labeled “From Santa” in my mom’s handwriting.

No longer would I have to be put to bed for an hour on Christmas eve so they could let Santa in through the front door (a slight modification to the story since we didn’t have a fireplace) only to be allowed back out to a room full of relatives getting tipsy on egg nog while we opened our Christmas eve presents.

I’m not sure if forming an early belief in Santa Claus only to have it dismantled made me better or worse.   But it was fun while it lasted.

How to Drop a Perfect Pumpkin Pie

pieMy mother thought of pumpkin pie as a health food.  Technically, pumpkin is a fruit and if she substituted the sugar with some sort of artificial sweetener, we would stave off diabetes by dying of cancer.  It was a joyful autumn evening (or as autumn as you can get in Southern California) to have a dinner of split pea soup and a large slab of pumpkin pie.

I think this was why I was so intent on making pumpkin pies for our first Thanksgiving after our marriage thirty years ago.   I was taking my bride to my brother’s house, a tradition my side of the family had enjoyed since he got married some years earlier.

I didn’t exactly know how to make a pumpkin pie though I did have a large can of generic brand pumpkin – the kind where you saved a few cents but didn’t get the recipes printed on the back.

So, I drove to the local supermarket to copy a recipe off of a higher priced can.  Of course, it would have helped if I brought a pencil or pen.  Nevertheless, I borrowed what I needed from an annoyed and impatient fellow shopper and I was set.

It was much easier than I thought as cooking had evolved from an activity involving skill to simply mixing chemicals.  The finished product looked remarkably like pumpkin pies and I stored them in the storage refrigerator for the trip out to dinner.

When it was time to leave, I went down to retrieve the pies.  I put one on one hand and scooped the other pie up on the other.  The first pie started to feel wobbly so I instinctively moved the other hand to steady the first pie making the second pie feel wobbly.  Between my two wobbly pies and my unsuccessful attempts to steady the opposite pie without making the condition of the first pie more precarious, they both landed face down on the floor.

I was so angry and beside myself that my wife had to tickle me in order to settle me down and be willing to enjoy our first Thanksgiving together without pie.

Some years later, now only a few years ago, we were making our way to a small group for a near-Thanksgiving dinner and bonfire.  We somehow inherited, in the ancient archive section of our pantry, a can of pumpkin pie mix.  We never made it up for ourselves fearing the dubious ingredient but figured it was within the realm of Christian love and charity to make it up for others so they can enjoy it as they develop cancer and diabetes.

Thankfully, it was easier to make than the earlier pies because all the chemicals came in one can and all you had to do was add eggs.

When done, I loaded the wife and a very big dog into the car.  We wisely put the pies in the back of the hatchback where the curious canine couldn’t get to it.  When we arrived, I pulled up the hatch to remove the pies.  Suddenly, our Great Dane got a whiff of another dog, leaped over the back seats, squeezed through the hatch and after the dog.

I now had two pies with two massive paw prints in the center.

Perhaps I had grown spiritually as this time I didn’t get angry but simply laughed.

As I write, another pumpkin pie is baking in the oven.  Next to the oven is our kitchen trash can.  When the pie is done, I’ll conveniently drop it into the trash.  This will save time and frustration.


Pumpkin Pie recipe I use today.  This is good if you don’t want wheat (gluten) or very much sugar in your diet.

Crust

Ground pecan meal (we buy it from a nut truck but can easily be made by grinding pecans in a food processor):  I use I guess about a cup or so – just eyeball what will line my pie pan.  Note:  other recipes are out there using almond flour.

Butter: I grabbed about a half a stick, melted it, and mixed with the ground pecan meal in the pie pan.

Mix and press into the pie pan until it looks sort of thinned out enough and symmetrical though it will be covered with pumpkin and no one will really notice.

Bake 10 minutes at 325 to make it a little toasty.

Filling

Pumpkin – About two cups. Can use a can of pumpkin or I like to throw a pie pumpkin in an Instant Pot pressure cooker for 10 minutes on manual with a 1/2 cup of water inside.

3/4 cups coconut milk or I like to use a 5.4 ounce can of coconut cream.

1/2 cup honey

3 eggs

2 teaspoons of pumpkin pie spice.  I tend to put in a teaspoon or two of cinnamon, 1/4 t to 1/2 t of nutmeg, 1/4 t to 1/2 t of ground cloves, 1/4 t to 1/2 t of ginger,  Recipes vary widely on the spicing so I think there is latitude.  Pumpkin pie (or harvest) spice tend to be some sort of combination of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger.  Cinnamon is the predominant spice.

1/2 t salt

Mix it all up with a hand mixer.  Put filling in pie crust above and cook at 325 degrees for 50 minutes or until the pie is set.

Topping

For a treat, get a small container of heavy whipping cream and whip until firm.  Not too firm – that is called butter.  Just enough for when you lift the mixer out and the peaks still hold.  You don’t need to add anything else to the cream though a cap full of vanilla extract is nice.

 

Top That Testimony

By Taber Andrew Bain (Flickr: "Jesus Saves" in Neon) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Taber Andrew Bain (Flickr: “Jesus Saves” in Neon) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

When I was in the One True Church, it was very important that we all had a testimony.  Once a year, we would set a tent up in the middle of a park to preach the gospel to ourselves.  We actually intended to preach the gospel to the community but few actually came as it was a long walk from the Thrifty drug store across the street and traversing a long stretch of grass to a tent surrounded by greeters in coats and ties was a bit off-putting.

Nevertheless, we had a good time because we got to hear the gospel, see our friends play gospel music or do a gospel mime, and hear the personal testimony from friends at our church.

Testimonies certainly are not limited to the One True Church or tent meetings.  Many Christians put emphasis on testimony for the simple reason that, quite frankly, we believe that Jesus changes lives for the good.  Having listened to many testimonies in my day, it seems pretty evident that He does.

In my earlier days, I had testimony envy.  I didn’t think my story was very dramatic.  In eighth grade, I didn’t have a lot of self-awareness of the extent of my sin (that came later).   My brother called me into the room to share a gospel-in-four-easy-steps tract and I was committed without any angst or reservation.  Perhaps the testimony of God’s working lay in the fact that I was so prepared and ready and that God kept me interested through so many years of ups and downs, triumphs, and discouragements.

But back in the One True Church, a bunch of guys were hanging out and the conversation turned to who might have the best testimony.  Could anyone tell of laying in the gutter in a drunken stupor drowning in filth whereupon a cockroach crept by tugging along a gospel tract?  Could anyone say they were on the edge of a precipice ready to jump when he felt the arms of an angel pulling him back to safety?  Was any like  Paul intent on destroying the church until he was knocked to the ground by a great blaze of light?

The winner in this conversation ended up going to a young man who worked in a convalescent hospital.  When working in the kitchen, he slipped and fell into the trash chute that led to the trash grinder at the bottom.  He caught himself on the side of the chute and would inch himself to the top but just as he would reach his arm out of the opening to grab hold of something solid, he would accidentally cycle on the grinder that would suck him further down into the chute.   Somewhere in the struggle, he received Christ.

“Dear Jesus. (puff, puff)  I admit (puff, puff) that I am a sinner.”

Click!  Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

(Moments of climbing later)

“And I believe (puff, puff)   that you died (puff, puff)  for my sins.”

Click!  Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

(Moments climbing later)

“Please (puff, puff)   come into my  . . . ”

Click!  Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

 

Testimonies are a good thing in the Christian tradition because it is insightful on how a life can be brought from despair to joy.  However, a changed life is not unique to Christianity.  Testimonies abound from people whose lives were change by yoga, twelve step groups, or multi-level marketed vitamins and oils.

What makes Christianity unique is not simply that it changes lives but that it proclaims to the world an announcement that is so transcendent and so up-ending to the political and religious constructs of men and women that to call it revolutionary would be the ultimate in understatement.

The announcement in short hand is:  Jesus is Lord.  A longer version is that Jesus, an actual historical human who made footprints in the sand roughly two thousand years ago is in fact the singular monotheistic God who created all that exists and claims precedent and authority over every other political, spiritual, or religious system of thought.  “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand,” said Jesus which means, “The ultimate kingdom has the values and goals that I, the king, says it does and you need to be prepared to conform your values and goals to it.”

Heavy stuff.  Quite the announcement.  One that would be indeed treasonous if not preposterous unless He was indeed God incarnate in the flesh.

Reading the Bible from this vantage point will deliver us from seeing the Scriptures as a self-help book that helps us live more enjoyable lives.  Rather, it proclaims a transcendent declaration of God’s plan for the ages – from creation by Christ to consummation in Christ and the various historical stages in between – and His rightful expectation of and vision for the very creation He made.

Does Jesus go about doing good changing lives?  Of course.  But even if our lives don’t change as we hope, even if we are struck with horrific injustices from which we are not delivered,  and even if we are forced to faced our own mortality, the weighty announcement that Jesus is Lord is our hope that all will come to a glorious end.


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The Dogs of Rage

By Jose Rocha from Rio de Janeiro, Brasil (Flickr) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Jose Rocha from Rio de Janeiro, Brasil (Flickr) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Each morning in the darkness, a very large dog and a mid-sized backup dog stare me awake for their trip to the doggy park.    One of us grabs coffee and the rest pile into the car.

I jog the perimeter of the park and do mild attempts with a twenty-five pound kettlebell.  The dogs do dog things prancing in the morning mist lit by a lone street lamp.

Soon two headlights creep up the gravel road along side the park putting the dogs into high alert.  The dogs of rage have arrived.  Nothing is said.  The hour has come.

The dogs of rage burst into the small, secluded puppy area, a mere chain link fence away.  They are kept in isolation.  They cannot socialize.  They give off an aura that incites confrontation and outburst of emotion.

The dogs on both sides of the fence thrust into attack running up and down along side the barrier, mouths foaming spewing a thick volley of doggy trash talk.  It is a battle yet a game.  It is a struggle for dominance fueled by anger of the deepest innermost rage to accomplish a seemingly sublime goal that in the end is insignificant and offers no benefit to the world about them.  Kind of like football, come to think of it.

We let it play out and I thought about a man who always seemed to be contentious and on the attack.  I saw him harshly confront a young lady over an innocent side comment she made the week before reducing her to tears.  When I asked about this man people rolled their eyes and said he was just this way.  A thoughtful brother told me that there was a part of this man that the Lord was working on that has merit and beauty.

I don’t know what made the man the way he is.  But I did see him once break down and weep at the thought that he was reading the very words of Jesus.  And another time I saw his generous spirit helping someone in need.

The dogs reached their cardiovascular limits.  They lost interest in the fight and breathed heavily in the morning air.  The big dog and the mid-sized backup dog followed me as we jogged down the hill to do another lap around the perimeter.

I’ve thought of the many times over the years where my mind fell into a bad place resulting in an abusive burst of angry rage hurting those about me and shaming myself.  I thought I would be beyond this after all these years.  I’ve explored various helps from physiological to psychological to spiritual and certainly have found some help in self-management, identifying triggers, trusting God’s benevolence, and realizing the broken pathways in my thinking.

Nevertheless, when Jesus freed the demoniac, the demons fled into the pigs and tumbled over the side of the cliff with a sense of finality.  I think my demons still hide in the bushes waiting for an opportune time when I have my guard down.

I chatted with the owners of the dogs of rage, two sweet women.  They rescued these two black dogs from abusive situations.  The trauma was so bad that they will never be normal dogs.  The insecurity and harsh reactiveness is, at least for now, hard wired.  Yet each morning, the women look beyond the obvious exterior and see the beauty in two of God’s creatures.

That Sunday as we brought our broken and contradictory selves to the communion table, I heard this:

How deep the Father’s love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch his treasure

Behold the Man upon a cross
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom

Witnessing For Jesus

tractI’ve never been very good at witnessing.  I’ve never very much liked it.

I was raised in a family where I was taught to interpret conflict or confrontation as something wrong with me (I’ve never quite gotten over that pathology) so putting myself in the position where cherished beliefs collide was not my idea of a good time.

When my brother witnessed to me, sharing a four-easy-steps gospel tract and I became a Christian, I would go into his room and read all the books he had on what Christians were supposed to do.  There were many things that appealed to me – reading and learning the Bible, prayer, loving others, confessing sin, and letting the Holy Spirit guide my life, for instance.    However, it was this insistence that I need to  engage in the practice of going up to people I don’t know and tell them what the’re not interested in hearing that caused me to take a deep breath, suck it up, and be willing to take up my cross.

I tried.  I really did.  When I joined the One True Church, I had lots of opportunities.  We would go out every Friday night to talk to people on the local ocean pier.  We would go into parks and knock on doors in neighborhoods, Bible in hand, ready to share promises and lead inquirers to Jesus.

But the most opportune of all was our college ministry.  The campus, after all, was a whole mission field of impressionable minds at life’s crossroads.  We would pray earnestly for revival to bring our University campus to Christ.  We had a Bible study, a prayer meeting, discipleship groups, and (you guessed it) times of witnessing.  I would spend hours at the book table armed with tracts hoping to be a part of Jesus’ Great Commission with very little fruit to show for it.

The problem is, I’m kind of the Charlie Brown of witnessing, the one no one really takes seriously.  My witnessing would be similar to his It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown trick-or-treat experience:

Brother:  I ran into these high school kids hanging out and I talked with them and three of them received Christ!  Praise the Lord!

Sister:  There was this obnoxious woman at the gym and I prayed for the love of Christ and after sharing with her, she became a Christian and is now going to church with me!  Praise the Lord!

Me:  I got a rock.

Brother:  I’ve been sharing with my boss and he got really interested in the Bible and is coming to the Bible Study.  Praise the Lord!

Sister:  I shared with the girl at McDonald’s and she got so convicted that at her break she came out and talked with me and wants to know more about Jesus.  Praise the Lord!

Me:  I got a rock.

I don’t know why some people encounter the work of the Holy Spirit opening the eyes and convicting the heart while I only get looks of incomprehension of incredulity.   I don’t think I was speaking Yiddish but perhaps I was just not as self-aware as I thought I was.

To some, witnessing isn’t quite as big of a deal.  They believe that God choose those who are going to be Christians an eternity ago and its just a matter of getting out the draft notices.  I suppose the postal service would suffice for this.

Others, on the other hand,  feel that if someone dies without knowledge of Christ to face an eternity of harrowing judgment, it really comes down to being my fault for not doing a better job of witnessing, persuading, and otherwise getting the word out.  I really like to believe that the God who crafted the intricacies of the atom as well as the expanse of interstellar space is not resting the central supply chain of His salvation message on my dubious skills of proclamation.

Jesus said some sow and others reap.  I’m still trying to figure out how to get the garden shed door open.

The Importance of Being Macho

vanI knew a macho guy and he drove a macho van.

I met Macho Guy when I was going to Surfer Dude High School where we both pretended that we were on the soccer team but spent most of the time sitting on the bench.   We sat in the back of chemistry class worrying that we needed to secure a girl friend before the following year to take to grad night otherwise, well, we just could not imagine.

Macho Guy had a macho blue Ford camper van.  This was back in the days when high school students didn’t tend to own cars.  Several times he suggested I should join him with his other older macho friends on a camping trip down to the south county beach where they did macho things such as fishing and drinking beer and climbing on rocks around the tide pools.

It got to the point, in our little circle of friends, that all we had to do was sit on a bench as if a rock, rest one fist on one leg, the other arm on the other leg tilting that shoulder slightly forward, and then saying with a chiseled, serious face, “Let me ask you something, babe,” and we all burst out laughing.  We knew we were making fun of Macho Guy.

Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what made it so funny.  There is nothing wrong with being manly and macho.  There is nothing wrong with doing manly and macho things.  There is nothing wrong with taking steps to look manly and macho.

Yet with Macho Guy, something just didn’t fit well.  Perhaps the hilarity was in his overcompensation.

By senior year, we both had girl friends and decided to drive together with our dates to grad night in Macho Guy’s macho blue Ford camper van.   It started at Macho Guy’s house where his ultra-permissive yet demanding mom insisted we begin the night with a toast of champagne.   His father, who always struck me as passive and emotionally withdrawn, quietly responded to her orders.  The three of us declined but Macho Guy drank on our behalf.

We got into the macho blue Ford camper van and we were off.  We headed for a port where we would get on a boat that would take us to a little resort island two hours off the coast for a dance and dinner.  The macho blue Ford camper van rattled away as we made our way up the freeway into the next county.

Arriving at the port did not go smoothly for Macho Guy.   When he parked, he did not simply bump the cement parking stop at the end of the parking space.  He did not merely come in so hard so as to lift a tire up upon this cement divider.  When Macho Guy pulled into the parking space with his macho blue Ford camper van, he drove completely over the cement stop with all four tires.

This is when we first suspected that there was something amiss with Macho Guy.

A bit shaken and cautious, we got on board and the boat churned towards the island.  Since this was an official school function, someone smuggled beer on board.  We told Macho Guy that it wasn’t a good idea for him to drink but he protested vehemently that he had been on boats all of his life and had drank on several occasions so he knew what he was doing.

Later at the pavilion in the transition between the dance and late night dinner, I went to the restroom to freshen up.  I washed, straightened, and combed the hair.  As I was leaving, upon a glance, I made the observation that the guy lying on the floor wrapped around the toilet bowl happened to have the exact same jacket that Macho Guy was wearing.  I marveled at the coincidence and headed towards the bathroom exit until reality hit.

In the early morning hours, we all rode the boat back to the port as the sun was just breaking over the horizon.  I watched the sunrise with my girl friend not realizing that we would all grow up and go our separate ways.  In the background, Macho Guy was protesting to his now ex-girl friend,  “Give me a break!  This was just one mistake!  One mistake!  Can’t you forgive a guy?”  But it was too late; she was looking to break up anyway and now had the reason.

After graduation, he had a stint in the military and a couple of marriages and then I lost touch.  The last time we talked he had just gotten engaged again and was going on and on about the secret of life was to be happy and that he was happy and he wanted to know if I was happy.  It still  just didn’t feel real.

There are those in life who from a young age have a firm sense of self, know who they are and what they are called to do, and go on to achieve definitive things.  These, frankly, are the few.

There are others who after a time of immaturity, let go of idealized images of themselves, make peace with their strengths and weaknesses, and spend their present moments accepting life on life’s terms, doing honest work, engaging in relationships, and providing for others.

And still there may be others projecting something they were never meant to be while desperately trying to find the road.

Letters To My Smokin’ Hot Wife

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AOur_society_(1891)_(14802896293).jpg

By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons from Wikimedia Commons

I deleted my Facebook account some years ago for the sake of health and sanity and use my wife’s account to admire from a distance the harmonious and intelligent discourse among fellow God-imaged humans in this vast social community of reasoned prose, respectful, thoughtful dialog, and deep nuanced understanding of complex issues.

Being a professional mouse-clicker by trade, I ventured into an area of Facebook that I did not know existed.  There is a section specially reserved for messages addressed to my wife from people who are not her friends – as in complete strangers.  

Since my wife is a little less click-oriented than I am, I decided to do her the favor of reviewing these and responding on her behalf.

Here is the first:

Hi,

How are you doing? I hope you are doing great? I want to use this opportunity to let you know that I sincerely appreciate your looks!I believe you don’t mind us knowing each other much better? My Name is Steven,I am from Texas USA.Am a 9 years widower,I live with my pet dogs Wamma and Sandy.I am a Man with sense of humor,I am passionate and romantic,I have the fear of God in me, I have respect for my fellow human being.Till when we get to understand each other more, you will learn everything about me! For me distance does not matter, Am ready to relocate and come for you. Age difference is not a problem, what matters most is the Heart of loving! It will be wonderful of you to send me a feedback if you want us to get along and know each other.I will really appreciate knowing you, there is more we can talk about as we get to know each other.I promise to make you happy and always put a smile on your face.

Thanks and Cheers!

Regards,

Steven.

Since Steven’s profile was removed, I thought I would use my nationally read blog to reply.

Hi Steven!

We are doing great!  I so appreciate you admiring the photographs of my smokin’ hot wife.  Did you know I took some of the pictures and posted them myself?  I’ve been to Texas, yes the one in the USA, a few times but mainly on business.

I’m sorry to hear about your wife but I’m glad you have Wamma and Sandy to listen to your jokes and fulfill your romantic and passionate urges as well as keep you company on your way to church.

You sound like a person who has a heart just bursting with love and respect for others.  Your offer to relocate to our little community just to further our fellowship is quite heartening.  However, it really isn’t necessary.  I bet you can find someone right in your own community that you can strike up a friendship and get to know deeply through meaningful conversation.  Perhaps at your church.  Or, may I suggest that you meet others by taking a class at the community college where they teach English grammar.  

If you do take my suggestion, you should listen very carefully when the teacher talks about punctuation, especially around the differences between a sentence and a question.   You will have to listen very closely to the voice inflection in order to tell the difference.

Anyway there are a lot of other ideas.  Since age difference is not a problem, perhaps you should try bunco night at an assisted living center.  On the other hand, I would shy away from elementary schools. There are laws about that.

Thank you for writing, Steven.  Your letter definitely put a smile on our face. Say hi to Wamma and Sandy.

Thanks and cheers and regards!

David B. Sable

Looking further, I found there was a second message:

Hello Pretty,

How’re you doing out there? i really hope you’re cool, actually I’m a new member of this site and i find your profile quite impressive I’m here to make friends or something more, and i think you’re cool with your profile when i saw you on here, I’m a widowed man with a lonely heart, and you’re probably the first person I’m mailing on this site cos i find your profile quite impressive and interesting. You make a smile out of me if you can find a spare time to mail me back…Best of luck and good wishes

Williams Walter

Again, the profile mysteriously disappeared so I’ll have to use my renown blog in order to reply.

Hi Williams Walter!

We are doing great!  I feel in one short paragraph you have grown immensely as you began hoping that my wife was cool and one sentence later you came to realize that you think my wife is cool.  I can tell you from personal experience, that my smokin’ hot wife is indeed cool!

I am sorry to hear about your wife and your broken heart and am glad you are trying to make friends or something more.  By something more, I assume you mean eating dinner and I can tell you from personal experience that my wife is a great cook!  She was into delicious, whole food nutrient dense cooking long before it became fashionable among the millennials.  

You should find someone you can go to dinner with.  Maybe start with a hobby or community group.  If you take, for example,  a grammar class at the local community college, you may run into someone named Steve, Wamma, and Sandy.

Thank you for probably writing to share how interested and impressed you were with our profile.  I hope my reply brings you a smile though probably not as large as our smile.

Best of luck and good wishes,

Sable B. David

Perhaps I will return to Facebook to read more but right now I think I’ll go have breakfast and conversation with my smokin’ hot wife.

The Demon Sniffer

Wikipedia Commons Artist Unknown

Wikipedia Commons
Artist Unknown

I met the demon sniffer when we went over to the troubled brother’s house to cast out a demon.  I didn’t know that we were going to have an exorcism.

The associated pastor called me up and invited me to a special prayer meeting for the troubled brother  because of some stuff he was going through.  They thought it best not to let the elders in the church know because the elders didn’t think progressively and probably wouldn’t understand.

While waiting on the sidewalk in front of the troubled brother’s house, the brother in the beach pants filled me in.  He had read some books on spiritual warfare along with some really cool novels so he knew a bit about how all this worked.   The demon world was made up of a highly organized hierarchy where there were rulers of regions and rulers of territories and rulers of principalities leading up to Satan who was at the top.   Each country had demons assigned to it and there were highly trained special forces  demons that were in charge of addictions and lusts and other big sins.

I did not know this.

I’ll catch on, said the brother in the beach pants.  He said that it was because of these highly organized demonic forces that he goes out late at night and walks around the church for hours praying.   He said there is a giant dome sealing us off from heaven and only by persistent punching from the underside with prayer is there a chance that there may be a crack, then possibly a hole broken through so that the light of God’s blessing can have a chance to shine through to us.  God depends on us to do this.

I did not know this.

Now the demon sniffer knows his stuff, said the brother in the beach pants.  It’s amazing.  He has this gift where he can go into a house and see if it is clear or not.  We  bring him in for the big jobs.

The brother in the beach pants stopped talking as we saw the headlights of a large car creep slowly up the street.  It meandered and eased towards the curb, a pair of eyes on the driver’s side of the car just reaching over the dash board.

The engine stopped and the door creaked open.  Slowly and carefully, out stepped a short pudgy man with oily hair, polyester pants, and a wrinkled white shirt.  He held on to the steering wheel as he lowered himself to where his feet could touch the ground.  He pushed the door shut with both hands and waddled up into our midst and all eyes turned to him.

“Isth this whewe the spiwituaw wawefawe pwayew meeting ith?” he asked.

It was.  The demon sniffer had arrived.

We made some terse introductions and chit chat but the time of pleasantries and talk quickly ended.  Work was at hand.

“Wet’s go,” said the demon sniffer and we all walked with determination and trepidation towards the house.

I don’t want to judge a man by his appearance but my mind went back to a pudgy young kid in the high school locker room.  The kid who would get flicked with a towel.  The kid who would get ice dumped down his shorts.  The kid who would receive wedgies from laughing football players.  The kid who got carried against his will to the toilet for a periodic swirlie.

But what would it be like if this kid suddenly had power?  Incredible power.  Power over dominions of regions and territories and principalities?  And what if he had special gifts?  Incredible gifts.  Gifts to see into the far reaching world of the unseen.

We reached the house.

“How’s it look?” asked the associate pastor.

“Nothing thewe. Wait, I thee one ovew thewe. Hmmm.  Wook at him go.”

We broke into two groups.  The associate pastor, the brother in the beach pants, and the demon sniffer would be the main confrontation team that would sweep through the house and then pray over the troubled brother.  The rest of us would provide prayer support.

The thinking is that when the church is not praying, the demons in the unseen world are stronger and have mastery over the good angels.  This breaks forth into the seen world when evil seems to be getting the upper hand.  However, when people are praying, the angels get an unprecedented advantage and begin to prevail over the demons.   Prayer, in effect, is like Popeye’s spinach giving the sailor power to deliver Olive Oil from Brutus.

We weren’t sure what to pray but we began taking turn in intercession.  We prayed for the troubled brother, against the forces of darkness, and whatever other needs came to mind.  The other team swept through the house looking for these elusive creatures and prayed against them.

“Got him! He wath a stubbown one!”

We continued to make spinach.  I don’t recall how long this went on but we prayed and prayed amidst the sweeping, the running, and crashing.

“Dewe he is! Dewe he is!  In the name of Jesus, I webuke you!”

Finally the demon sniffer announced that we were done.  We walked silently out of the house.  The demon sniffer climbed into his car, eased away from the curb and drove off into the night.

“See you Sunday,” we all said to the troubled brother.

“Yeah,” he said, “See you Sunday.”

We all got into our cars and left.

Over the months that followed, the demons returned to the troubled brother.  There were more special prayer meetings, more confrontations, and more cleansing of the house.

Then one day the troubled brother’s therapist changed his schizophrenia medication.  And the troubled brother got better.

The Associate Pastor’s Really Hard Book

Selection_010I once belonged to a men’s accountability group.  This is where a group of men got together to ask each other the really hard questions such as if we read our Bible, if we loved our wives, and how much porn we used that week.

These groups came about as a bit of a knee-jerk reaction to a public relations disaster for the Evangelical church where a prominent preacher spent lots of money that, technically, was not legal on items that, technically, was not the gospel.  About the same time, another prominent preacher got a picture of himself in the newspaper in an intimate relationship with someone who, technically, was not his wife.  Years later, after prison, one of the gentlemen wrote a book entitled I Was Wrong which, technically, was an understatement.

Our group was led by an associate pastor who liked to ask the really hard questions.  He made a career out of it.  No one was really sure what he did of practical benefit program-wise at the church but he would sit for hours with the senior pastor at the coffee shop asking the really hard questions.  His wife said that he wasn’t very good at practical details but was much better at this sort of big picture stuff.  After a couple of years, he left the church that eventually died and disbanded and became a church consultant where he could travel the world meeting with other pastors asking the really hard questions.

We sat in a circle, those of us guys in this accountability group, and asked each other the really hard questions and tried to be vulnerable.  Being vulnerable was really popular back then, too.   In a moment of vulnerability, the associate pastor said, “I really need this!  I mean, I wouldn’t be reading my Bible if I didn’t have a group of men asking me the hard questions.”

Now I am not being judgmental here as I would be the first to admit that habits can be difficult to form and maintain in our busy lives.  Further, there are parts of the Bible that are less interesting and I can be prone to skim read like the rest.  Nevertheless, the statement struck me as a bit off.  I got to wondering how this goes down on that final day when we see the things clearly:

“Oh, Lord Jesus!  I am speechless!  Thank you that it was the Father’s good pleasure to give us the Kingdom.  Thank you for delivering my life from utter wreckage and despair and bringing me into way of light and life!  Thank you for sustaining me, providing my daily bread and seeing me through countless trials and temptations!

“But, dude!  Your book is a total dog!  I mean, who writes this stuff?  If I didn’t have a group of marines staring me down asking me the hard questions, I simply would not have been able to grind through it.  Like hello!  Nails on chalkboard!  Does anyone up here have any writing experience?”

To the Hebrew poet, the words of God are like dessert – sweeter also than honey and the drippings of the honeycomb.  To an early apostle, the Christian longs for the Word as the most basic mother’s milk of nutrition.  I wonder if other bookish religions have the same problem as our group leader.

I thought back to a Bar Mitzvah I attended years ago for a young relative on the Jewish side of my family.  Before the preliminary synagogue service, my uncle was arguing with the usher who wanted my the uncle to wear a proper yarmulke instead of his cowboy hat.  Another relative, took the side of my uncle and told him he should have told the usher to go to hell.  (Do Jews believe in hell?)

Anyway, when I got into the service, wearing a yarmulke and not a cowboy hat, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  They began to read the psalms but the difference was that the Scripture reading was not the rushed preliminary to what the preacher had to say.  Rather the Psalms were the prayers of the people, the fulcrum of identification.

It was not a portion to be analyzed, dissected, defended, and intellectualized.  It was assimilated as  the very words of wandering, struggle, hope and redemption that formed the heart cry of the congregation.  It was the place where they sat.

Later, the decorative scroll containing the first five books of Moses was taken out of its cabinet and reverently paraded  around the synagogue.    These are the very words of God they said.  And the people of the book celebrated, reverenced, and danced.  They kissed the scroll.  They recognized their place as a part of its very narrative.

Over the years, I’ve moved away from seeing the Bible as something trying to identify with me – trying to be cool and hip as it gives me relevant advise that helps me with my money management, self-image, and child training.  It is no longer my tool box where I pull out proof texts to do battle against the atheists,  doubters, and those of dubious theological opinions.  I no longer feel the pressure of a book that has to be gotten through by personal conquest as I watch  myself slipping farther and farther behind in my Bible in a year plan.

The Bible begins to be less burdensome and more attractive as I stop trying to make it identify with me and my world and I identify with it.

I begin my day sitting with my Scripture portion reading slowly and thoughtfully with a cup of coffee and the dog sleeping by my side on the couch.  I identify Israel’s wanderings as my wanderings.  As the blind man’s darkness as my darkness.  As Peter’s failure as my failure.  I am not better-than.  I am those wandering in the desert.

Yet, I am reminded of a God that lifts up the fallen, encourages the fainting, and fulfills the mission that Israel was never able to do on its own strength and merits.  It dissuades my heart from thinking selfishness is freedom and pulls me against my will to love and serve.  It captures my thinking that wants to make idols of my felt needs and desires and points me to the one true God who is all wise and transcendent.  I am not less-than.  I am in Christ who has done all things well on humanity’s behalf to whom God said, “You are my Son in whom I am well pleased.”

Though very little of the Bible is really about me and it was not written to fix my first world problems such as changing the oil or knowing how secular governments should be best ordered.  Yet, I am connected to its story.  At a point in time, God spoke into nothingness, created culture, formed a people,  provided redemption, and will one day establish a kingdom where things will be made right.  I have identification, a little part and space in that grand scenario.

Each morning, I look to that little part and space and take my part in the grand meta-narrative.  My meditations remind me of who I am and where I belong.  It is a cherished part of my day.