As I See It

Future - Tomorrow's Temptation or Truth

2010-07-30T11:50:00.000-07:00

What would it be worth to you to know the future?

Just how curious are you about tomorrow . . . or next week . . . next month . . . next year . . . or even ten years from now?

If I claimed to accurately prognosticate what was coming up for you, could I convince you to part with some of your wealth or common sense to trust me?

My maternal grandmother was born in 1900. She lived a few months short of her 100th birthday. In her century on earth, grandma witnessed the proliferation of the electric light bulb, horseless carriages, microwaves, audio cassettes, television, and putting a man on the moon. Her younger brother, often talked of, as a boy, seeing the Wright Brothers assembling their flying machine in Akron, Ohio, before taking it to Kitty Hawk for its test flight.

But the future is always a two edged sword. It also held World War I, polio, the Spanish Flu epidemic, the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War.

For those who can predict the future accurately, it can be profitable. I was born just before the second half of the Twentieth Century. In High School, the most advanced calculating tools were the manual adding machines and our brains. To do the complex formulas for algebra, geometry, calculus, and later radio engineering, I mastered the latest in technological gadgets--the slide rule.

(See the attached picture for younger readers.)

I recently read of a government attempt in 1958 to bring together 10 of the top academic economists in the country to project what the future would be like by the 2000. These weren’t random soothsayers . . . they were “experts.”

The government then started formulating it policy on the 50 predictions of what the world would be like

at the turn of the century. Unfortunately, only 10-of-the-50 predictions came true--government policy was based on 80% speculation.

Another independent business study was done in 1967 by Kueffel and Esser. As leader in high tech instruments, they wanted to see what the future would bring. The results of this expensive commission predicted we would soon be living in domed cities and watching three-dimensional television.

What the commission missed was what Keuffel and Esser was in the business of making . . . and the little error cost company their fortune. Within three years a new gadget exploded on the market. More than one billion pocket calculators would sold in the next five years. Kueffel and Esser -- you see -- were the world’s largest manufacturers of slide rules.

It is human nature to want to know what lies ahead of us. At times we dread the circumstances we are living and are looking for someone to tell us the future promises a positive change. Thus the ploy of the psychic who teases us with wealth and happiness . . . for the price of a reading.

Other times, boredom with the status quo is the backdrop for our seduction in to the soothsayers web.

I have found fellow Christ-followers, and myself, pulled toward promises of future insight. For

several years, I worked with a Christian ministry, whose biggest yearly event was their Prophetic Conference. Attended by thousands, people came from around the world to hear the “latest evidence” as to the timing of the Second Coming of Christ.

I’m not claiming to know all of attendees motives. I did, however, observe how often the speakers, these prophecy scholars, spent time defending their interpretations of prophetic passages and their theological position on eschatology (the part of theology concerned with death, judgment, and the final destiny of the soul and of humankind).

Many local churches hold “prophetic conferences.” Here, people who claim to have the “gift of prophecy,” speak over the attendees giving them information about the future.

The Word of God is cautionary about an unhealthy thirst for know the future. He was specific in his ban on gaining information from psychic sources. In Micah 5:12

“I will cut off sorceries from your hand, and you shall have no soothsayers.” (New King James Version)

King Saul in the Old Testament was the poster-boy for impatience and paranoia. He saw threats to his authority everywhere--sacrificed all of his family relationships in pathetic attempts to save his public face. In a final, desperate attempt to find a fragment of hope in his homicidal dementia, he went to a psychic to contact a former dead friend/prophet.

That turned out badly for both Saul and the psychic. Samuel was called back, but his message for the King was he had crossed the line with God -- his kingdomand life was forfeit.

ABC Television has been airing a program called “FlashForward.” It’s characters have experienced a glimpse into the future during a worldwide blackout. Following this event, people are obsessed with either, attempting to change the events they’ve seen, or resigning themselves to the inevitable, regardless of obvious opportunities to having a positive impact on the lives around them.

There are some things God delights in not revealing--not because He is ignoring us--but out of love. Proverbs 25:2 says

“It is the glory of God to conceal a matter;...” (New International Version)

Our interest...concern...fascination...fear...hope of the future is really suppose to be a matter of faith, if we claim to have a relationship with Jesus Christ. He has made the bold claim to be ...

“... the same yesterday and today and forever." (Hebrews 13:8)

Having a number of cats and dogs at our home proves to be a constant reminder of my heavenly Master’s care. These fur-kids spend little time of their day worrying about their future or whether they are provided for. They seem pretty confident my wife and I will always return and provide shelter and care.

Jesus simply gave this advice long before the field of psychology researched stress levels and it’s correlation with worry over the future. He said,

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matthew 6:34

Don't Tell The Bride

2009-06-18T10:43:00.000-07:00

It had to happen!

Someone came up with a plan to thwart the Bridezillas of this world.

Leave it to the Brits to attempt a masculine mitigation to the matrimonial mayhem.

My bride of twenty-three years and I recently watched the British Broadcasting Corporation's (BBC) second season of Don't Tell The Bride. This is a series where the groom must choose every detail of his wedding, from venue to cake to, in some cases, the wedding dress. The man is no longer a passive, almost rubber-stamp role; now he becomes the active, aggressive planner of THEIR day.

It's at this point, many of my female readers' blood may start to run cold. The very idea of letting a MAN, even one you love, take the reigns of YOUR special day is ANATHEMA!

After all, this is the day your mother has been planning for you since you were born. BOTH of you have very definite ideas how you want/wanted your wedding to be.

HOW DARE any male be allowed to interfere!

I may be stretching it a bit…but not far. Our culture has pushed the feminine ideal of weddings to icon status while doing little to address the post-ceremony reality which reduces the princess to a normal person. The dress is packed away. Guests go home. The new spouse has morning breath and irritating habits.

After watching a couple of these Don't Tell The Bride episodes, I noticed some interesting trends. First, with the stress of planning and keeping the wedding within a budget transferred to the shoulders of the man, they seemed to handle with the pressure better, though they did tended to be more last minute in their planning. The grooms tended to arrived at their big day without the wrangled nerves and fractured relationships a bride-planner left in her wake.
Secondly, freed the details about the day, the bride could focus on her dress, preparing herself, her bridesmaids, and getting ready. There was a sense of intense excitement about how her groom was picking her up, the way he was going to be dressed, where her wedding would take place, what it would look like, where the reception was scheduled, where the honeymoon was planned, etc.

Of the show's we watched, there wasn't a single bride who expressed disappointment in her man. What trust! What confidence! What love!

Americans look at a show like this and say, "It'll never work here!" Ours, you see, is a culture of control--a culture of mistrust.

Our women have been raised not to trust men. They must manipulate and control lest the male species take advantage of them. Then women wonder...after they have taken the helm of the relationship...from the ceremony to the check book...why their passive partners aren't more involved in the marital decision making process beyond the TV remote.

Some years ago, I did extensive research into the wedding customs of Jesus day. (There were some parallels with the BBC production.)

After the engagement, the groom went away to prepare a place and the ceremony for his bride.
The bride did not know when, and often not where, the wedding was to take place. Her responsibility was to keep herself and her wedding dress pure.
The bride was to remain ready to be picked up, or "caught away" from her house. She and attendants were taken to a ceremony and reception or feast of the grooms choosing.

While Don't Tell The Bride will probably never resonate with American women, it should strike a cord with my readers who claim to be Christ-followers. It has long been taught in evangelical Christian circles, those who have embraced the forgiveness of their sins through the death of Christ, have a claim to the Heavenly Bridegroom, Jesus.

In the Upper Room, on the night before He was to face the torture and death on the Roman cross, Jesus spoke the last words a engaged man would tell his fiancé as He left the meal with His disciples

"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am." John 14:1-3 (New International Version)

The word Jesus used for troubled is the idea of agitation, or "the inner commotion of parts in friction." That is a perfect description watching the prospective bride from an episode of Bridezillas.

And yet, Jesus' words that night are cautionary for me in 2009 AD. When I allow social and cultural circumstances to impact my spiritual purity, I experience the agitation they brings. I am flirting with "other lovers" just to get by in this life. His absence makes me want to call the shots. I design my own wedding-in-waiting from inferior, cheap earthly designs--forgetting He designed the cosmos, with colors yet unseen by human eyes.

"No one's ever seen or heard anything like this, Never so much as imagined anything quite like it—What God has arranged for those who love him." 1 Corinthians 2:9 (The Message)

The pressure is off of me to run the relationship I have with my Bridegroom. It is my responsibility to keep it clear from the interference of others who would clutter it with rules and regulations; doubts and discouragement.

Because He hasn't come for me and the others who make up the Bride is not the sign of a lack of love. He's still working on unfinished rooms.

"Verily I say unto you,...Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh." Matthew 25:12-13 (New International Version)

Starring into The Abyss

2009-06-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

I was starring into the abyss!

Even though I have a strong heart, it was a sight that would have sent the English cleaning ladies on the BBC's How Clean Is Your House fleeing in terror.

The closet of a seventeen year-old boy. . .

Deposits had been made for some time.

NO withdrawals or corrections in recent recorded history.

I flipped the light switch a second, then a third time. The result was the same. No amount of urging could entreat a greater response from the forty watt bulb. There was only so much it could do in its heroic struggle against the black hole of adolescent procrastination.

This was the second day of "my gift" to my son. Lest you mistake me for a weak-willed parent, I had been prompted by the Holy Spirit to straighten his room and clean out his closet.

This was no task I would have considered on my own. I mean, there are some things well below the pay grade of a 60-year old father. After all, the Battle of the Wills was at stake! No self-respecting parent would surrender to a strong-willed teenager...UNLESS it was an Act of God!

Famous last words!

This came in the midst of identity crises, girlfriend troubles, employment frustrations, financial shortfalls, friend betrayals, spiritual confusion, personal woundings...In other words, during a normal rash of family issues, when my wife and children's life-issues weren't fixed, and they weren't being easy to live with, God reminded me they were His gifts to me!

It's very powerful...especially when you realize you have been treating God's gifts as if they were your life problems.

Well,..I'm a fixer. A tinker. That's the way God wired me.

But in the flesh…my tinkering skills hadn't worked out well with our/their problems. Soulishly and emotionally, we've been like porcupines bumping into each other, trying to dig out of the same hole of frustration.

At the Holy Spirit's prompting the next Monday morning, I was to (WITHOUT telling anyone in the family why I was doing it) straighten my youngest son's room. Here is the place he "lets down his hair"…and everything else about his life! It took about an hour just to pick up the clothes and organize his DVDS & video games, food carcasses, empty glasses, make the bed, etc.

However, the next morning, after I swallowed my pride, steeled myself, opened the closet door, and stated into Vault of Neglect and Repressed Issues, I discovered as much about myself as I would about my teen. Here was the closet into which everything dissappeared when he cleaned his room and didn't want to face the task of organizing his world. Games and toys and letters of faded interest joined the pile. Unsorted clothing and shoes became a growing, evolving eclectic reflection of his active, athletic lifestyle.

And secrets! Things he hid in embaressment from family. Issues from school and home which told volumes about his attitude, his behavior. Secrets, which, in some cases, were a betrayal of our relationship as father and son. I was now privy to them. How was I to handle them?

Even more telling...as I went though the process of sorting, hanging, straightening, righting, and washing...was reminants of creative talents he had lain aside to the distractions of later electronic, adrenalin-addictions and relationships. The art pads, the oils, the small guitar amp, the bottle of valve oil for the trumpet…all giftings forsaken for more immediate, emotional quick-fixes.

It wasn't hard to draw the conclusion my son's room, and his closet in particular, was a true reflection of his inner life. Here was a life, not as he wanted the world to see it, but as it is to those he lives with.

Until recently, my own Vault of Neglect and Repressed Issues has remained just as unprobbed and unsorted as that of my son's physical one. Heart woundings and flawed assumptions about God kept me from trusting Him to puck the thorns from my wounds and release my secret yearnings. The inner stress between who I was and who I wanted the world to see, robbed most days of joy.

Perhaps that's true of everyone. We all have a closet of life's experiences, secrets and dreams. Seldom do we allow another to crack the door for fear the disarray will alarm them. Equally stressful, thoughts of introspection drive us to increased activity lest we meet ourselves in those few moments between when our heads hit the pillow and sleep wraps it's fingers around our minds in fitful slumber.

Yet, we have a Heavenly Father who comes to sort through our clutter, to "hang, straighten, righten, and wash" the pile we have jumbled inside. The clean clothes He will fold and hang. The sox He will pair. The love notes He will collect. Memories He will treasure. Giftings He will not withhold…and secrets are His to protect.

For most of the human race, our concept of God has been Reasoned UP. The very use of the term father, husband, man, or brother is limiting. We assign to Him the human characteristics of humans males we're exposed to, good and bad; IE. harsh, condemning, judgmental, withholdings, critical, giving, loving, tender.

However, God can ONLY be understood by REVELATION Down from heaven.

"I don't think the way you think. The way you work isn't the way I work." Isaiah 55:8 (The Message)

Jesus, Himself, told us that if we wanted to know what the Heavenly Father was like, take a look at HIM.

"You've been with me all this time, Philip, and you still don't understand? To see me is to see the Father." John 14:9 (The Message)

I'm keenly aware not everyone's had positive experiences with fathers who've discovered their teenager's secrets. Some have ripped families apart. Even the revival of buried dreams, giftings or lost loves may have created painful rifts when a child's heart veers from the parents unfulfilled hopes for their offspring.

But I can promise you, when that Heavenly Father comes, there is an UN-earthly tenderness to the way He handles the secrets, the wounds, the stories, the dreams. He sorts the confusion of your closet…not to bring guilt, but to give you a new start. You can breath freer when you don't have anything to hide anymore. It's easier to gaze into the gift of grace than abyss of confusion and guilt.

If there was any doubt, Jesus said:

"The thief (satan) is only there to steal and kill and destroy. I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of." John 14:9 The Message)

Trying to Listen...

2009-05-07T07:11:00.000-07:00

As a Christ-Follower, I've heard the words "Devotions" or "Quiet Time" used for years. They conju up some monastic images of four AM awakenins, where, the devotee mystically melds with the mind of the Divine, receiving revelation of life changing events. They rise to face the day, a face brighter than the sunrise itself. All who encounter them cannot stand before their powerful radiance.

Sorry, I think, I'm recalling a Sunday School poster I saw somewhere, ... years ago, ... about 1956. But such were the "personal time with God" impressions I inheritted from older people growing up in my religious background.

MY reality ... I spend more time talking AT God the Deity than listening to Daddy-God, the Father.

In his book, Walking With God, John Eldredge said, "I assume that an intimate, conversational walk with God is available, and is meant to be normal." To make matters worse he continues, "I'll push that a step further. I assume that if you don't find that kind of relationship with God, your spiritual life will be stunted. And that will handicap the rest of your life." [Walking With God, (pg 7) John Eldredge, ©2008 Thomas Nelson]

So, as a knee-jerk reaction, what do I do?

Get a tape series on prayer?

Attend a conference on how to pray?

Get up an hour earlier, put on a pot of coffee, and determine to pray for the whole hour?

Buy a new book from Charles Swindoll, Max Lucado, or John Eldredge on prayer?

None of these suggestions are bad, but somehow intimacy is being missed by something we,…I…was never taught by spiritual mentors.

... HOW to LISTEN!

In the Old Testament book of I Samuel, a young boy is wakened in the middle of the night by a voice calling his name. Supposing it to be his mentor, Samuel goes to the aged Eli, who,..the second time it happens, realizes it's God rousing his student. When Samuel says, "Speak, God, I'm ready to listen,"…God announces He is getting ready to rock the nation and get their attention.

The problem with listening?

It requires silence...

... And silence is LOUD!

Several years ago, as an Audio and Radio Production Instructor, I required my class to shut their eyes, for a period of 20 to 40 seconds silence, then have them guess how much time had passed. On average...unless they had previous broadcast experience...most would over-guess the silence.

Our society is manic to keep us from having to experiencing silence. Our phones no longer only make phone calls; they surf the net, text and function as MP3 players so we NEVER have to think. If a child ISN'T A.D.D. or A.D.H.D, his peers can train him to be with the right phone or IPOD.

The Christian community is a close second. Christian radio 24 hours a day. (and I am an ex-radio and Christian TV worker) Christian TV Networks. The newest Christian self-help tape series. IPOD download sermons series. All keep us busy thinking…but not LISTENING.

Here's where I'm going to get in hot water from a lot of traditional teachers.

TRADITION teaches: God Speaks only...

1) Through His Word: The Scripture --"Every part of Scripture is God-breathed and useful one way or another—showing us truth, exposing our rebellion, correcting our mistakes, training us to live God's way. Through the Word we are put together and shaped up for the tasks God has for us." (Message Bible)

That's it. Revelation done! All the ears that could hear from the Divine have written it down. Case closed.

2) Through Godly People: They have an impression or feeling how God is moving today.

3) Through Circumstances: This appears or seems to be how God is working. A bit of a guessing game.

Unfortunately, most TRADITIONAL believiers seem to reverse the order...they look to circumstances first to guide them, then spiritual wisdom, finally Scriptural direction. It's as if they fear the Book will be a Divine Kill-Joy to their plans when they open it first.

However, the older I get, the less intimidated I am by silence. The man I find there is someone I am learning to be comfortable with. And I am learning Tradition's TEACHINGS may not always square with Scripture.

If I base my decisions on circumstances and the council of people, I may have missed the wisdom of Scriptures like:

2 Chronicles 15:2
"God will stick with you as long as you stick with him. If you look for him he will let himself be found;" (The Message)
James 4:8 "Draw near to God and He will draw near to you." (NKJ)
"Say a quiet yes to God and he'll be there in no time." (The Message)

The "drawing near" intimates a movement on my part, rather than His part. He is the constant…I am the one in flux. He is the Rock; I'm the one driven by the life's of cacophony sound. He is the Lighthouse; I am the ship tossed by the tyranny of the urgent. And yet, there are times, I must stop. "…He'll be there in no time."

1 Kings 19:11-12 tells about the climactic end of an emotional draining experience the prophet Elijah had after finding himself on the run, his face on Wanted Posters, a price on his head. After letting him have a first-class pity party, Daddy-God gave Elijah (and all of us) an insight on how to listen for His voice in the midst of turmoil. "...but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; 12 and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice."

Those are the times for short prayers.

No lists.

No requests.

Just silence.

As your spirit waits… … for that still … small … Voice.

The Voice that fills your spirit with peace.

With several words.

Or one word.

Spoken just for you.

Of direction … correction … confirmation … information … revelation.

No secret formula.

Just practice.

Hitting Another Speed Bump ...

2009-04-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

Texans love to drive ... and they love to drive fast.

The roads are wide ... and straight ... and it's a fer piece between towns. If you don't drive fast out here, the calendar is libel to change between when you leave for work and the time you arrive.

And nothing is more annoying to your forward progress than those annoying speed bumps highway engineers lay down to snap your attention away from cell phones & talk radio to road hazards & pedestrian safety. They rip the steering wheel from your grasp or can give you a concussion if you fail to brake properly before bouncing over the berm-sized speed bumps senior citizens diabolically have constructed in residential areas.

Life tends to throw mammoth speed bumps at us as well; Some we see the sign warning us of their approach. We can prepare our self, ... slow down ... swerve to the opposite lane ... adjust to the obstacle or hazard.

Others come at the bend of a curve, loom menacing over us, and bring life to a standstill.

Having been a Christ-follower for more than fifty years, I've struggled with a tension between the belief I should be exempt from some of life's speed bumps and the reality I'm not exempt as a member of the human race. Somehow, God is not holding up His end of the partnership.

As Hamlet said in his soliloquy, "ay, there's the rub..."

Entering adulthood, I chose a "Christian" service profession. I thought being in God's service should please Him and at least cut me some slack, a pass as it were, on some of the tougher things of life…like pain, money troubles, divorce.

God was the assistant to my life,..as it were, a means to an end, rather than the End itself. God never intended our relationship to be a partnership. He is doesn't want to be my Co-Pilot. His expectations are higher. But He will not force the wheel from my grasp.

That's why some of the biggest speed bumps...

It takes a speed bump to bring out what's inside of me,... what needs to be arranged.

I was intrigued recently by what one Christian-follower said he felt God was asking him to give up in his life during such a speed bump experience. (*) It wasn't a specific Scriptural lifestyle condemnation of it, but, as this writer put it, "exhausted and frazzled from the day, I'd turn to it as a sort of refuge and relief, a way to find peace."

"I began to see it as reaching for joy--joy in a bottle, joy within my grasp."

This introspection came during one of life's speed bumps. His active, outdoor summer with his kids was came to a screeching halt after a horse riding accident left him with both arms in casts for almost three months. Agenda Interruptus is often the tool God's Spirit will use to gain the ear of busy, driven Christ-followers.

It took a lot of nerve for this leader to be that honest. Reaching for happiness is something most Church folk would say is what the "world folk" are doing. How easy to pluck a Scripture verse like

Psalm 4:6 "Why is everyone hungry for more? "More, more," they say. "More, more."
I have God's more-than-enough, More joy in one ordinary day."

And yet, when the pressure is on, when life doesn’t work, children stagger, health fails, pain flares, Heaven is silent,…where do these Church goers reach for joy?

For some, it was the comfort of food. Others anesthetize with alcohol or drugs. Still others choose the womb of sleep. I've watched many who try maintianing the adrenalin high of caffeine and stimulants. This was a hard question for me. It was easier to point fingers at those around me.

My Agenda Interruptus? A pituitary tumor the size of a golf ball.

So, during this time of recovery, my life-pace has slowed. Neurosurgery can result in thoughts of second chances and priority re-alignment.

My reach for joy? The fantasy world of fiction mystery & suspense books and television.

My justification? I live in a world that isn't often fair, fun or just. It's good to watch a movie where justice wins in an hour. A book where I can figure out what is going on and have all the answers explained…all the better if the author is a Christian.

But…..

As the chapter is done…

When the cover is closed…

Or the credits roll…

And the colors crackle into those single dots…there is the emptiness.

I'm reminded once again T-V is an acronym for Time Vampire!

As a Christ-follower, my soul and spirit is longing for something deeper, more fulfilling. The "Disciple whom Jesus loved" put it this way, "We saw it, we heard it, and now we're telling you so you can experience it along with us, this experience of communion with the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Our motive for writing is simply this: We want you to enjoy this, too. Your joy will double our joy!" 1 John 1:34 (The Message)

For me, a crucial part of the joy I seek is the relief that peace brings. The writer said he'd reach for his joy "...as a sort of refuge and relief, a way to find peace."

Unless one lives alone, it is sometimes difficult to find peace in the normal household. Each person within the walls of a home has ever-evolving needs for affirmation and love. The deeper the need for love, the greater the grasping for joys…the more intense the feelings of isolation if genuine peace and joy go unfulfilled.

Jesus Christ said "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid," in John 14:27. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world gives, give I unto you." (King James Version)

However, I am learning His peace isn't a good competitor with what I often consider high-value agendas. Peace is too gentle to partner with Religion or Pride or Self-Righteousness. It withers in the face of busyness, worry, and entertainment.

The good news…the REALLY good news is..."Are you tired? Worn out?

Burned out on religion?" Jesus says, "Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly." Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

That's worth reaching for.

(*) The above quotes taken from Jon Eldgredge's Walking With God, Thomas Nelson Publisher, 2008

Every Parent's Nightmare

2008-08-07T11:56:00.000-07:00

Bobbie was young and beautiful and full of promise. From all appearances, she was the last child who would bring her parents grief.

She was active in her church in O'Donnell, Texas.

At 14, she could claim a long list of social and scholastic achievements: Bobbie was involved in Cheerleading, Band, UIL (University Interscholastic League) Science Fair, One Act Play, and Girl Scouts.

The future seem to be promising and smooth sailing…if she could just navigate the pitfalls of her adolescent years.

But Bobbie had a secret. Perhaps it was the first time,…or the last of many times…but at fourteen she was getting and consuming alcohol from some adult.

Teen drinking is not only illegal, but for Bobbie it would be lethal and she would be responsible for the death of a fourteen-year-old friend, as well as seriously injuring seven others all under the age of 18.

In what can best be described as every parent's worst nightmare,… one boy of unknown age,.. one girl of 13,.. two girls age 14,.. one boy age 15,.. one girl 15,.. one boy 17,.. and one boy age 18 where joy riding in the 2008 Toyota pickup 14 year-old Bobbie was driving Saturday night at 2:30 in the morning. According to Department of Public Safety officials (Texas State Troopers), Bobbie had been drinking prior to driving at a high rate of speed on a road north of O'Donnell. The vehicle hit a ditch, went into a slide, then rolled three and a quarter times, coming to a rest on the passenger side door. Most of the teenagers were riding in the bed of the pickup, none wearing seatbelts or restrains.

As a Texas parent, it would be easy to finger point and blame;

Why were you allowing your 13, 14, 15 year-old age kids out at that time of night?

Why was an under-aged driver at the wheel of that vehicle?

Who gave those minors the alcohol?

Was there no parent who was curious enough to know what their children were doing that late at night?

At the same time, I am the parent of a 17 year old who will do ANYTHING to declare his independence. The "Truth" at our house is often a cat and mouse game between parent and child with God providing evidence and conviction when his mother and I can't be there.

Except for God's grace, my son could have been in the back of that pickup. Some of his friends have been involved in similar stupidity!

I never met Bobbie or any of her companions from that accident. I doubt her family will ever read these words. But as a life spectator and fellow parent, I share their anguish having lost a brother years ago in a roll-over accident before he could graduate high school.

I encourage parents...you are first a parent to your child,...secondly a friend. Don't let their begging wear you down. Want to know where they are going, who they are with, and to call when they change places and plans. That's why you provide them with that cell phone…..NOT FOR TEXT THEIR FRIENDS.

This incident strengthens my resolve to be involved. I will not be put off by the "invasion of my privacy" or "none of your business" argument. Love and parenting makes it my business.

Second, providing alcohol to minors is no joke,.. it is NOT a rite-of-passage we should wink at just because we may have done it. Alcohol and gasoline doesn't mix… especially when combined with raging hormones.

Mothers Against Drunk Driving are an excellent organization, but they haven't done enough. Several years ago, there was legal precedent set in England where pub owners and severs were libel for accidents and crimes their clients committed when intoxicated. If only that kind of legislation were passed in this country. But alas, how many local, state and federal legislators have the backbone for such a stance against the alcohol industry lobby. Most seem afraid their favorite bartenders and saloon owners would go to prison on their behest.

If the person who provided Bobbi with the alcohol was charged and convicted with involuntary manslaughter for this horrific tragedy, it might not bring back Bobby or the 14-year-old girl who died with her, but it would send a powerful message to those cavalier for sharing or selling alcohol to minors.

For the families of those eight youth involved accident north of O'Donnell, Texas, the "whys" and "what did we wrong" are too late.

Two families are mourning. Two crosses will be erected in the roadside ditch to remind others of this tragic accident.

Six young people will carry physical and mental scars of how a night of "just hangin' out" went wrong.

Excuse Me...And Your Tragedy Is?

2008-07-10T22:37:00.000-07:00

A friend recently asked me what my Tragedy was!

Now, that's not the sort of conversation which usually comes up while waiting in line at Starbucks or chatting with someone next to you on the Tread Master at the gym.

It's the sort of rhetorical question ministers ask in a sermon were you can hide in the silence of the service.

Some might think it an irritatingly, morbid question, since we spend the lion's share of our time staying too busy to reflect on the painful areas of our lives. Reality avoidance is the name of the game we play with a vengeance.

No, my friend is not an "ambulance-chasing-councilor." And she was sincere when she spoke about walking in public places, searching the faces of strangers, wondering what their tragedies. As one who works in a service industry, I encounter people with the full range of emotions. Most people are dealing with their life situations well...but there are the few who can't wait to share the lava of their disappointments with whoever crosses their path.

TRAGEDY: Drama in which the protagonist is overcome by some superior force or circumstance.

As 21st Century Americans were raised to believe that “Life is Fair.” It is not suffering that troubles us,…it is Undeserved suffering. Growing up, if we disobeyed our parents, we were punished for it. When that discipline was connected with wrongdoing, there was a sense of justice connected to it.

But when we get older, and we see there is no correlation between the amount of wrong we commit and the amount of pain we experience, it can be devastating. An even larger surprise can come when we do RIGHT and we get kicked down for doing it. Thus, the full impact, the large capital TRAGEDY!

For the Protagonist (Hero), anger is only the first of many emotions, depending on the duration of the experience. For some the Tragedy proves lethal, life threatening, overwhelming, hope-less. As one who has swam in these dark pools of despair on more than one occasion, the last thing I needed was the know-it-all, pious answer-people who visited.

We don’t like to see people suffer. As Christ-followers, we like to have answers to the Why behind suffering. The truth is, sometimes we don’t know Why. And it is no reflection on our faith or on God if we can’t speak for Him.

In the Book of Job, his friends tried to speak for God, presuming to know what Job’s sin was or that he was suffering for his pride and hidden sin. Job's comforters' assuptions and advice was hollow, superior, and spiritually presumptive. At the end of Job’s trial, God appeared to those friends and said….

Job 43:(7) “After God had finished addressing Job, he turned to Eliphaz … and said, “I’ve had it with you and your two friends. I’m fed up! You haven’t been honest either with me or about me - not the way my friend Job has. (8) So here’s what you must do. … go to my friend
Job. Sacrifice a burnt offering on your own behalf. … My friend Job will pray for you, and I will accept his prayer. He will ask me not to treat you as you deserve for talking nonsense about me, and for not being honest with me, as he has.” (9) They did it. Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar did what God commanded. And God accepted Job’s prayer. (10) After Job had interceded for his friends, God restored his fortune - and then doubled it!

Those are sober, cautionary words for me to remember any time I speak to a friend going through the crucible of pain. I am more likely to weep with them than quote volumes of Scripture exposing my ability for Biblical literacy, but lack of personal sensitivity. I’m also learning, by personal experience, that there are times God withholds Himself from the believer, not in punishment, but in an act of love for the child who would seek Him and the treasure of His presence.

In this world of microwave, instant, credit card gratification, we have forgotten God’s delight is still in those who SEEK him.

Psalms 119:2 "Blessed are they that keep his testimonies, and that SEEK him with the whole heart."
Proverb 8:17 "I love them that love me; and those that SEEK me early shall find me."
Jeremiah 29:13 "And ye shall SEEK me, and find me,
when ye shall search for me with all your heart."

The word “seek” means “search or frequent a place, tread a place.” There is a diligence implied. Something more than an infrequent, quick prayer fire to heaven at meal time.

If following Christ had been so easy, He would have never told the rich, young ruler to forsake all and follow him. We have forgotten conveniently "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24)

Now, I'm not advocating those tragedy-ridden people are the only seeker-serious followers of God. Some sufferers have chosen to curse God for their situations. It is a choice on how you will respond to your circumstances. And the resulting bitterness will only extend the effects of suffering and its impact on those around you.

If you've been spared great trial to this date, it's God's wisdom. The book of James tells us the Father will never allow trial more than our maturity or ability to bear it. The reality is for millions of Christ-followers, taking up the cross daily means painfully more than simply wearing a silver cross around their neck or putting the fish sticker on the back of their car and getting hassled about it.

Celebrate - Remember - Fight Back

2008-05-08T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm not a fan of live sports events, but this was one I was not going to miss.

Being "sedentarily-challenged", I was determined to do at least one lap. There were hundreds of us in purple Survivor shirts amassed on the track at Lowery Field in Lubbock, Texas, joined by lime-green clad Caregiver and White shirt family and friend supporters for the opening Victory Lap.

Honestly, I was not prepared for feelings of overwhelming support from a community who lined the infield and applauded as we circled the track in celebration of our personal struggle over the second-leading cause of death in the United states. As we walked, clutching the hands of our care-givers, we were reminded of how merciful God had been to us. At the feet of those who clapped for us, were Luminaries that would be lighted that evening, each with name of someone who had succumbed to cancer.

I had heard about the Relay for Life for many years and knew it was the American Cancer Society's main fundraising event designed to unite those affected by cancer, while raising money for the organization's research, education and advocacy efforts. Frankly, I wasn't interested. Didn't have time for it.

But life and reality have a way of intervening. My wife's father is a seven year survivor of bladder cancer and I am going on my second year being cancer free from prostate cancer. However, God in his wisdom, chose to take my mother-in-law last November with stomach cancer. This was our year to Celebrate . . . And Remember.

Yet, I am keenly aware that there are those who read this who have lost loved ones or are struggling with this ravenous malady. Thus, the Fight Back. That is why we walked the laps . . . For you . . . Even though we may never meet. We will keep walking for you.

Our little from Lubbock, joins the other Relays from around the nation, to help the American Cancer Society fund more than $120 million in cancer research.

I came away from my first Relay with three indelible impressions. As I looked at the sea of purple Survivors around me, I was struck with how this dreaded disease is no respecter of age, sex, or race. The number of children and youth were in no less proportion to middle age and the mature.

Secondly, the age span of lime-green clad Caregivers was no less divers than that of the survivors. There were children and husbands surrounding their purple-shirt mothers. Elderly couples surrounded their purple-shirt young adults.

Thirdly, the purpose found in a second chance at life. The purple shirt made it easy to strike up a conversation. Each survivor seemed to have their own story of hope. Some had started up new occupations or tried challenges a previous "safe" pre-cancer life would have never considered.

My favorite conversation was with the Toy Doctor, a nine-year survivor over prostate cancer. Previously an engineer, he is now confined to a wheel chair. However, this Doc brings a great deal of joy into the lives of children in Lubbock hospitals. Using his skill with a Dremel and blocks of wood, he takes a picture of someone's pet and turns it into a 3-D toy.

To me he epitomized what the Relay for Life was all about. . .

Celebrate

Remember

FIGHT BACK!

HAPPY EARTH DAY - - Humbug!

2008-04-24T09:42:00.000-07:00

If one more person wishes me a "Happy Earth Day," I'm going to scream!

Better yet, I'm going to give them an ounce of Mother Earth from my home as a TOKEN of the EARTH Day which travels enshrouds my house five-out-of-seven days-a-week at speeds of 15- to-65 MPH during March and April in west Texas.

Living on the Caprock, west of Lubbock, Texas, there is very little variation in the terrain between here and the mountains of New Mexico to break up the winds. And with the cotton fields bare after being stripped, with little rainfall, dust storms are a regular, if not daily occurrence.

And if it does rain, there's "smud." That's rain, mixed with dust, pushed ahead of a thunderstorm by high winds.

"You ain't seen nothin' till you been smud on, then hailed on, then have to keep an eye out fer the torenaders that are right on their tail," warns the cowboys.

So, for all you Earth Lover folks out there, I've got a great deal. Our Mother Planet has left me with a over-abundance of her fine, red dust in my back yard. I'm assuming it is her gift to me as it's been over six weeks and she has not taken it back.

I really want to share some of that gift with all of you who have an appreciation of our Sacred Mother and her treasures. If you'll send $5 and include $2 for S&H, I'll send you your very own five ounces of commemorative 2008 Earth Day Dirt…(sorry) Earth. It will be something you can treasure and pass on to your children and their children. Imagine, telling them that this was a sample of Mother Earth from Whitharrel, Texas.

It will make it a truly Happy Earth Day…for both of us.

I Wish You Enough . . .

2008-01-11T19:42:00.000-08:00

There are stories that come my way that touch the heart which are too good to simply FWD: friend to friend. The following is one such narrative sent to my wife, then to me. It is of special significance as her mother has passed a few weeks ago and her absence is still keenly felt in our lives. Still it is a reminder that none of us have a promise that the ones we charish can be taken for granted ... not even for tomorrow.

Standing near the security gate, they hugged and the mother said, 'I love you and I wish you enough'.

The daughter replied, 'Mom, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Mom'.

They kissed and the daughter left. The mother walked over to the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see she wanted and needed to cry.

I tried not to intrude on her privacy but she welcomed me in by asking, 'Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing it would be forever?'.

'Yes, I have,' I replied. 'Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever good-bye?'.

'I am old and she lives so far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is - the next trip back will be for my funeral,' she said.

'When you were saying good-bye, I heard you say, 'I wish you enough'. May I ask what that means?'.

She began to smile. 'That's a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone'.

She paused a moment and looked up as if trying to remember it in detail and she smiled even more.

'When we said , 'I wish you enough', we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good things to sustain them'.

Then turning toward me, she shared the following as if she were reciting it from memory

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the
day may appear.

I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.

I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.

I wish you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear
bigger.

I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.

I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.

I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye.

She then began to cry and walked away.

They say it takes a minute to find a special person,

an hour to appreciate them,
a day to love them
but then an entire life to forget them.

PS: It was one year ago 1/13th that God held me in the hollow of His hand as my car rolled several times on an icey road.

To all my friends and loved ones, I WISH YOU ENOUGH!!!

My Big Holiday Blunder

2008-01-11T10:24:00.000-08:00

It's been almost three weeks since my Big Holiday Blunder. I can now reflect on the event with some emotional distance.

Most of you know the kind of blooper I'm referring to --an expectation of some kind you project on family or friends, usually unspoken, during the Christmas and New Year get-togethers. And then WHAM … Reality Hits! People don't live up to YOUR standards.

Now, if you are NOT a Christ-follower, I discourage you from reading any further. My observations from this point won't make any sense to you. In fact, most of what I'm referring to will seem quite trivial to you.

On second thought, if you are a close family friend, you might find this discouraging.

The Blunder actually came near the end of a gathering of friends for Christmas. Gifts had been exchanged. A meal shared, belching and declarations of impending diets, and New Year's resolutions discussed.

Since the totality of the group were Christ-followers (meaning they had accepted Christ as their personal Savior) I thought they might be interested in watching The Nativity Story, a realistic, well-produced film which appeared theaters in 2006 about the birth of Jesus of Nazareth.

THAT WAS MY BLUNDER -- A one hour and forty-one minute blunder!

Many families have traditions at Christmas. They read….

T'was The Night Before Christmas…. (short)

Or sing -- "Up On The House Top"….(short)

Or watch -- It's A Wonderful Life …. movie … (not so short but has has Jimmy Stewart and a clutzy angel)

Or -- A Christmas Carol …. movie ... (longer but has has Scrooge, Tiny Tim and ghosts, is a musical and lots of versions)

Or families will read the Christmas story -- Shorter than the movie but more interesting if from a modern Scripture translation, Matthew and Luke, usually before opening gifts. A crèche on the coffee table provide the visual reference for small children. A total of 51 verses tell the story of from the appearance of the angel to the virgin Mary to Joseph, Mary, and the toddler Jesus fleeing Bethlehem ahead of Herod's child-killers. It takes about two minutes to read the narrative.

Twenty minutes into The Nativity Story, my fellow viewers began to drift away -- physically. Phone calls suddenly needed to be made. Urgent matters that had been forgotten since morning cropped up called people to other rooms. The appeal of the all too familiar story was gone. Tiny Tim's peril might have held their attention in Scrooge. Clarence the goofy angel keeping George Bailey from committing suicide could have insured their watching It's Wonderful Life.

In retrospect I may have been witness to a micro-cosum of this modern generation of Christ-followers. We appear more in love with the IDEA of what the 'Christmas Season' does to people than the PERSON for whom the season is celebrated. Not only have we gotten the cart before the horse, we've decorated the cart, push it ourselves with worshipful celebration, and forgotten the stable where we've abandoned the horse.

Where is our amazement at the Creator of the Universe wrapping himself in flesh and hair?

Why does the God who birthed us from His very mind not hold our attention long enough to marvel in the story of His journey to "be touched with our very infirmities?"

How often do we complain that "God doesn't understand what we are going through!"...yet we won't sit long enough to see what He went through to sleep in the manure-filled stable?

And at the end of that hour and forty-one minutes, there were two of us left. Me (the storyteller) and a person, not born and raised in American "Christian" culture. This individual was not introduced to Jesus as his Savior until a few years ago; to him it is story still full of wonder.

So this past holiday has left me with sad acceptance that many Christ-followers no longer hold a fascination for "Emmanuel" -- God Among Us -- in the carols they sang. Their faces are no happier singing Oh, Come All Ye Faithful than when singing Jingle Bells.

But perhaps neither was mine. Most of us couldn't wait for Christmas to arrive and pass. For some of us it has been a really hard, trial-filled year.

We want the abridged, version Christmas story.

We want it short and sweet.

The Gospel writer John wrote:

The Word (of God) became flesh and blood,
And moved into the neighborhood.
And we saw the glory with our own eyes,
the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son.
Generous inside and out, true from star to finish.

He was in the world,
And the world was through him,
And yet the world didn't even notice.
He came to his own people,
But they didn't want (have time) for him.

The Message Bible (1:14,15,9-10)

I look at this generation and wonder; Has much changed in 2002 years among those who look for a Savior?

Have we made a visit to the manger, paused and rushed back to the "sheep fields" of our daily lives without much thought of what it really means for God to coo and cry and bleed and die?

And it really make me wonder who is more guilty …

King Harrods who try to kill the Christ child because they know how dangerous the Child is …

Or those who see Him daily, take him for granted, and live our lives unchanged?

How MERRY the First Christmas

2007-12-24T12:32:00.001-08:00

It's like a scene from the story of The Little Match Girl. Standing in the black, white, and grays of the cold winter night, a waif-like girl, stands staring into the window of the wealthy as they celebrate a festive, color-rich, aroma-laden holiday celebration. It is Christmas for all, but that plate glass window might as well be a universe of separation between the two worlds.

The older I get, the more I realize how we religious folk,..in an attempt to preserve it's significance wonder,..have taken the most tender, fearful moment of God's intervention in human history, only to glamorize, trivialize, merchandize, and holy-fy it. Starting with religious education, then Americanization, the simple, insecure wonder of the first Christmas has been turned it into plastic figurines on front lawns in December or miniature crèches, the necessary part of most people holiday decorations.

I don't mean holy,...as in "God is holy",…but Western Christian's concept of the Nativity has made it "a sacred place of pilgrimage or worship." (Webster's Dictionary)

Over the years, as an artist I've used sound, color, and images to move church, theater, and television audiences at Christmas time. "Creating the right atmosphere" it's called. The costuming must be right: Dress Mary (ages 18-25) in blue and white. Use a live baby if possible…and pray he/she 1) doesn't cry during "Silent Night" or 2) that he/she move their arms so the audience can stop wondering if it is a real baby or not.

But, as a writer, historian, and storyteller, I am irresistibly drawn to the simplicity of the original events. As Luke (the author of the book named for him in the Bible) writes to his friend Theophilus, I can sense his struggle editing such a lengthy account of the life of Christ. I can also imagine him tucking away parchment notes to do a longer treatment on just the birth of Christ when he could get around too it.

The writer in me wants to compress the story to a one-hour telling, accurate, but competitive enough to hold the average American's overly video-stimulated mind.

The historian must get the setting, the background, the politics, the costuming, the architecture and the language precise.

The storyteller,..compromisor between the two,..walks the tightrope, piping his audience along though the sights, smells, feelings, and emotions of the characters. His time is of essence; he must guide you with speed AND accuracy.

So, "Touch my robe", as the Second Spirit told Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Journey with me before tinsel and the trimmings, ribbons and wrappings, carols and cards, Santa and sleigh bells. Travel to when holidays were scarce, life was hard, insecure, and often cruel.

Un-Holy Night -- After twenty-one centuries, choirs and soloists sing, "Oh, Holy Night." But that late summer or early autumn night Mary and Joseph the carpenter huddled in the cave below the Bethlehem Inn, it was not a Sabbath or holy (special, set apart) day in their culture; just another average night, after an average day, in an average week, in an average year. But that's how God interrupted human history--on an average day.

Un-Wanted -- Long before Mary was elevated by religious leaders to veneration, she was a simple, Jewish girl, scarcely out of puberty. It is with the naïveté of a teenager she says to the angel in Luke 1:38, "Let it be as you have said," then heads off to spend three months with her cousin miles from town.

Returning home, now in the full bloom of motherhood, Mary is met with skepticism and hostility. It is a small town, the rumor mill turns, and Mary is grist for the wheel. Her explanation is outrageous, her family shamed, her fiancé is wounded, her community disgraced. Their choices few, dictated by the Law of their Fathers: Banishment, Divorce, or Death.

Un-Comfortable -- Luke 2:19 says that, following the visit of the Bethlehem shepherds, Mary "treasured up all these things in her heart and pondered on them." But that concise statement is only the summation of more than nine months of turmoil and triumph. She had an angelic visit, but only her fiancé would believe her. Mary endured the gossip and ridicule of small town Nazareth.

One songwriter captured her heart in Breath of Heaven (Mary's Song),

I have traveled Many moonless night
Cold and Weary With a babe inside
And I wonder What I've done

Holy Father You have come
Chosen me now To carry your son
I am waiting in a silent prayer

I am frightened by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone
Must I walk this path alone

Be with me now … Be with me now

Un-Recognied -- The Jewish Scriptures (Old Testament books in the Bible), written between 1450 BC and 430 BC, contain hundreds of prophecies about an “anointed one” or Meshach who would arrive in their future. This Messiah would “deliver” or “save” all the Jewish people, bringing them to paradise or heaven.

For 170 years, brutal Roman soldiers raped, pillaged, and murdered at will to keep their dominance an undisputed reality. Religion was the common man's solace, their hope, but its leaders untrustworthy. The prophecies were taught, but they were for future generations…the God of Abraham seemed impotent.

Thus, the problem of recognizing fulfilled prophecies on average days, through average people. The approval of prophecy fulfillment often falls to scholars and the sanctimonious who spend time jerking camels through the eyes of needles. Their opinion is colored by prejudice, experience, and doctrine. Fortunately, God seldom needs our approval or salvation of the human race would still be trapped in unending committee consults.

It was a handful of average people who recognized Jesus that week:

peasant Jewish girl
sawdust covered carpenter,
ragtag bleary-eyed sheep-herders, and
two elderly church goers who refused to accept more than shallow, token religious show. (See Luke 2)

Un-Accepted --After his humble birth, Jesus and his "kingdom teachings" were rejected by the religious hierarchy because this self-styled rabbi didn't match their desired Messiah-mold. Herod the Great feared Jesus because of complications an heir to the Throne of David would be to his Judean client-king relationship with Rome. Roman officials (Pilate) might tolerate miracle workers and healers, but kingdom builders had no place in the Empire.

Un-Embraced --Despite centuries of effort, few orchestras strike notes so desolate, painters choose oils so lonely, writers touch hearts with isolation, or singers probe the insecurity facing Mary, Joseph and the newborn child.

"No room!" ripped at the heart of Joseph and Mary. Ironically, it still echoes in streets of America where an enlightened, tolerant society has room for anything but the nativity in public buildings. (Not much has changed in 2000 years.)

No special lighting to add a magic glow to face of the infant in the cave.

No perfume overwhelmed the musk and manure of the animals that shared his birthing room.

No comfort was afforded the swaddled infant in the stone-carved manger other than broken straw and passed over grain. ... (A foreshadowing of another stone-carved ledge were his lifeless, swaddled body would lay thirty-three years later.)

No family surrounded the couple, providing them with the security of relativities and friends.

The future -- insecure.

Their hope -- in a God who lead one average day at a time.

So this Christmas, as you stand in your festive, color-rich, aroma-laden holiday, take a moment and pause at the Nativity. Look though the plate glass window of time and allow the music, bright lights and colors to fade. Tarry a moment and watch Mary, Joseph, and the baby of the crèche start to move. They once were more than carved figurines.

They were average people, just like you and me…when on one average night, a newborn's cry announced human history would be average no more.

(For a fairly accurate retelling of the familiar story of the first Christmas, watch The Nativity Story, released 2006.)

The REAL Santa Clause

2007-12-23T00:10:00.000-08:00

What if I were to tell you that the Christmas Hero we force our children to have their pictures taken with has a checked past?

Like a peak behind the curtain at the Terrible Wizard of Oz, there is more than meets the eye when it comes to Santa Claus. A little background check turned up some interesting facts:

1) Orphaned at 9, Nicholas was born in Turkey but given a Greek name meaning "victory of the people"

2)May have been spent most of his youth on fishing boats rowdy sailors

3) Became a preacher

4) Served first term in prison for offend the country's ruler with his preaching.

5) Served second term for slugging a fellow preacher during a debate

6) Never wed (which would cast doubt on his marriagability in 21st Century
society.)
So how did this single, Turkish, ex-con preacher, get to be the North Pole Toy Company CEO and ad-spokesman for Coca-Cola and Hallmark Cards?

Perhaps you think I'm attempting to give YOUR Holiday hero a bad wrap. Not really. But would you have kept reading had I not at least raised a question or two?

I struggle with two opposing views of about this Icon of Christmas. First, there are those who want to WORSHIP Santa Claus . . . Allowing him to be the excuse for their children's unbridled greed at Christmas. These same parents then wonder why their off-spring don't "understand what Christmas is all about."

Au-contre' The brats understand all too well!

But then there are those who want to banish Santa, his spirit of giving and all, as a SECULAR Pawn of the Season. I consider their well-intentioned, at times sanctimonious, if not ill-informed knee-jerk.

They are like the "Don't take Christ-Out-Of-Christmas" sermons that come from pulpit and Blogs of America. I shake my head for they betrays the ignorance (lack of knowledge or education) of the writer or speaker. The letter X is the first letter of the word Xristro, the Greek word for Christ. Xmas, then, does not eradicate the name of Christ from Christmas. It is a legitimate term in the Greek Orthodox church.

Nicolas was named Bishop of Myra in the earthly fourth century by the Catholic church, a post he held until his death on December 6 343.

He was best known for the kindness he showed to a poor neighbor who was unable to support his three daughters or provide the customary dowry so they could attract husbands. Nicholas slipped up to the house by night and dropped a handful of gold coins through the window so the eldest daughter could afford to get married. He repeated this act on two other nights for the other two daughters.

The gift grew from a handful of coins to bags of coins. Instead of dropping them through the window, he dropped them down the chimney. And rather than land on the floor, the bags of coins landed in the girls stockings which were hanging on the hearth to dry.

People then began to suspect that he was behind a large number of other anonymous gifts to the poor, using the inheritance from his wealthy parents. After he died, people in the region continued to give to the poor anonymously, and such gifts were still often attributed to St. Nicholas.

For this reason, I am reluctant to throw out the "spirit of Saint Nicholas" with the commercial mold of holiday sales-laky we've forced Saint Nicholas into. It's as fake as the synthetic white whiskers strapped under his nose.

As Bishop of Myra, he wore the traditional ecclesiastical robes and mitered hat. He is known to have been slim, with a dark beard and a serious personality.

By 1300 he was wearing a white beard. But the 1800's he was depicted with a rotund belly and an ever-present basket of food over his arm. Soon came the black boots, a red-cape, and a cheery stocking on his head. In the late nineteenth century his basket of food became a sack of toys. In 1866 he was small and gnomish but by 1930 he was a robust six-footer with rosy cheeks and a Coca-Cola.

Santa reflects the desires of people all over the world.
With the centuries he had become the composite of what we want.

A friend who cares enough to travel a long way against all odd to bring good gets
to good people.

A sage who, though aware of each act, has a way of rewarding the good and overlooking the bad.

A friend of children who never gets sick and never grows old.

A father who lets you sit on his lap ad share your deepest desires.

Santa. The culmination of what we need in a hero. The personification of our passions. The expression of our yearnings. The fulfillment of our desires.
"And The Angels Were Silent" Max Lucado
While Santa makes a great Christmas hero, ultimately even the original Saint Nickolas can't provide what we really need. When December's requests become February's payments, Santa's left the mall. . . He only comes once a year.

And when Santa comes, he sometimes gives much, he doesn’t take away much. He doesn't take away the grave, mistakes, the anxiety of demands, or healing hurts.

Again Max Lucado says it best in "And The Angels Were Silent"

We create heroes from castles and crusades,…sanctuaries and stories,…politics
and airplanes. God chooses a virgin to bear himself…He dons a scalp and toes and
two eyes…he burps and sneezes and gets bit by mosquitoes.

Here was a hero who could touch blind beggars and their darkened eye gulped down the light. At his command, twisted, useless limbs became whole. At his embrace, desperate lives filled with hope.

His birthplace was among the smells of livestock. His death at the hands of arrogant politicians, religious bigots, sweat-soaked solders, and ambivalent admirers.

Only God could create a plan like this. Only God could create a hero like this.

So, when it comes to goodies and candy, cherub cheeks and red noses, go to the North Pole.

But when it comes to eternity, forgiveness, purpose, and truth, go to the manger. Kneel with the shepherds. Stare with the soldiers at the bloodied crosses. Finger the empty grave clothes in the vacant tomb. In between those events you will find a hero worth celebrating every season of the year.

Thanks-Giving and Thanks-GIMMY!

2007-12-04T10:35:00.000-08:00

AT LAST! I have observed the respectable days of mourning between Thanks-Giving and Thanks-GIMMY! It's Here and it's my time to rail!

I've placed my lump of coal in my heater. (Yes, I do have a vintage charcoal heater.) Told Cratchet to pull that comforter tighter about him if he wants more warmth.

Next, I sharpened my feather quill with my replica Sweeney Todd shaving razor before turning off the electric lamps. If any joy can come to this cold heart it's knowing the six-pence I count on my desk will say there and not fill the coffers of the power company. It is with morbid satisfaction I watch that aluminum wheel slow to a stop, squeezing one kilowatt after another out of the power company.

I light my solitary hand-dipped candle to document my ravings, but not to worry, my laptop screen is back-lit.

What is it about this Season that Set my Satirical Side all a-Sizzle?

Oh -- Let me count the ways!

It's not the "spirit of Christmas" -- whatever that is -- I object to.

[See, whenever I mention an abstract term like "spirit of Christmas," it starts bouncing around in your brain like a marble in a tin can. Hard to grasp isn't it? Even more difficult to verbalize. But, alas, leave it to the professionals, like me.]

It is the Holy Herd of Hollow Sacred Cows we all Haul around at Thanks-GIMMY Time I am Hacked off at.

(For you satire-slow pokes that’s December 1-24 in the toy, electronics, small appliance, outdoors, and clothing isles of department stores.)

EXAMPLE: It’s things we do for absolute strangers, in-laws, out-laws, and ir-relatives, at this sentimental time of the year we wouldn't think twice of doing any other time of the year. In fact, you couldn't PAY us to talk to them. Feed a struggling family -- you mean they get hungry more than Christmas and Thanksgiving?

How dare they have birthdays or start school or grow up and need a new pair of shoes at any other time but Christmas!

"Who do they think they are? . . . My family? My relative? ... Obviously you don't know my relatives!"

Jesus -- you know, that little plastic dude they put in the manger this time of the year, -- the one surrounded by the shepherds, wise kings and camels, -- seems he wasn't content to stay put. He grew up became a teacher, a friend of street people, the sick, the shutouts, but irritated the sanctimonious. On day he told a group of those showoffs who wanted some back patting for all they had done for their church and their friends. Jesus pointed to the dirty children the pompous had to wade through and said.., "when you do it for the least of these, you do it for me."

Oh, Darn it! I hate it when He does that and starts messin' with my comfort zone. You mean HE expects me to do this Christmas Spirit thing all year long to STRANGERS?

Finally, after years, I seem to being making progress at my house when it comes to Christmas getting. The boys are in their upper teens. They are down to one request per Christmas and will gladly accept cash or a gift card for the store of their choice. My oldest is married and his wife's problem.

As for my wife and I, we'll give trinkets of affection for each other. It's not that she isn't special, it's just that I'm an all-year giver. I don't wait until Christmas or anniversaries to give her flowers and presents that let her know she is the love of my life.

It is with more than a little pride I walk through my local Super Wal-Mart in my "You-Can't-Touch-Me" Bubble." On the outside I may look like a harmless, meek, bald, English butler, with Santa Clause eyes, but inside there is a Rambo, bandanna-wrapped resistance gift-taban fighter, a bandoleer and 50 caliber machine gun in my arms. As I stroll through the isles I take my stand.

"No, you wire light-wrapped dunking reindeer. I will not be drawn like a moth to a flame."

"Take that, you inflatable flying Santa with Reindeer urinating pellets of white Styrofoam on the inflatable village of unsuspecting sleeping children below.

"You can't tempt me you jive-rapping cameo-dressed Barbies. I don't care how collectible you'll be in 10 years."

"Here's a few slugs you big screen TVs. There will be another super-hyped, fraged, two inches wider, plazzmatic screen that doubles as a microwave and high pressure home car wash to take your place tomorrow…Wait, wait, yea, that really is high definition."

And last but not least. "Were is that bossy woman in the self-check out machine? If she yells at me what to do ONE MORE TIME, I'm going to slide her head through credit card pad and type in 666."

So, after a season of creative drought, I'm back. I'm even considering taking on the HOLIEST CHRISTMAS COW of all . . . That's Right! . . . Santa Clause.

"Abomination!" you cry!

"Off with his head!" you scream!

"Burn him at the yule log!" you mutter from your egg nogg stupor!

But alas....it may not be what you think. Most of my readers can't tell me where the jolly elf came from save the Hollywood antics of Tim Allan or billboards of him holding a bottle of Coca Cola. If you know, please leave me a response in the comments box available.

And I will always feel obligated to leave you with a delightful twist.

Which reminds me: If I'm still on your Christmas list after this, there is a section of my Wal-Mart left standing standing after my mental Rambo Raid. There is this Therapist Select Shiatsu Plus Massaging Cushion which uses a state-of-the-art, moving dual-massage mechanism. . .

Writing these blogs all hunched over by candlelight are havoc on my back.

"Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own." Anonymous

Barns, Secrets And Old Houses

2007-11-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

I come from country roots, as close to an educated redneck as one can get. I love the modern, contemporary Gospel music, but there will always be a part of me who loves the country gospel music of my youth.

One such song was "This Old House," penned by the composer of "It Is No Secret What God Can Do." This blog space is too small to do justice to the stories behind those Gospel hymns, but suffice to say, the first was composed following a hunting trip in the mountains of northern California. When the author and a hunting companion discovered the remains of an elderly man in his old cabin, the poet saw similarities between the two.

Originally sung slow and reverently, Patty Page recorded "This Old House" as a toe-tapping tune that has made it immortal in the annals of Gospel Music.

The following Perspective on Old Barns reminded me of that song and I wanted to pass it along to my readers. (The older I get, the more like these old barns I get.)

A stranger came by the other day with an offer that set me to thinking. He wanted to buy the old barn that sits out by the highway. I told him right off he was crazy. He was a city type, you could tell by his clothes, his car, his hands, and the way he talked. He said he was driving by and saw that beautiful barn sitting out in the tall grass and wanted to know if it was for sale. I told him he had a funny idea of beauty.

Sure, it was a handsome building in its day. But then, there's been a lot of winters pass with their snow and ice and howling wind. The summer sun's beat down on that old barn till all the paint's gone, and the wood has turned silver gray Now the old building leans a good deal, looking kind of tired. Yet, that fellow called it beautiful.

That set me to thinking. I walked out to the field and just stood there, gazing at that old barn. The stranger said he planned to use the lumber to line the walls of his den in a new country home he's building down the road. He said you couldn't get paint that beautiful. Only years of standing in the weather, bearing the storms and scorching sun, only that can produce beautiful barn wood.

It came to me then. We're a lot like that, you and I. Only it's on the inside that the beauty grows with us. Sure we turn silver gray too ... and lean a bit more than we did when we were young and full of sap. But the Good Lord knows what He's doing. And as the years pass He's busy using the hard weather of our lives, the dry spells and the stormy seasons to do a job of beautifying our souls that nothing else can produce.

They took the old barn down today and hauled it away. I reckon someday you and I'll be hauled off to Heaven to take on whatever chores the Good Lord has for us on the Great Sky Ranch.

And I suspect we'll be more beautiful then for the seasons we've been through here and just maybe even add a bit of beauty to our Father's house.

May there be peace within you today.May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. I believe that friends are quiet angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.

Tribute to a Texas Star

2007-11-11T15:49:00.000-08:00

Many of you have been praying for Carla's mother and her bout with cancer. Diagnosed with stomach cancer just before Mother's Day this year, her family and close friends have remained at her side through the rollercoaster ride that post-surgical treatement can be. At approximately 5 minutes after 1:00 PM Central Standard Time today (Sunday), she passed from this life in to the arms of her Savior. Over the past week, family members were able to say their farewells in preparation of Chris' homegoing. As per her request, she remained at her home in Sundown, under the loving care of her husband and daughter. During the frequent visits by family and friends, Chris's mind was clear and she would frequently joke around with them.

A Celebration of the life of Chris McCollum will be held Wednesday, November 14, 1:30 pm at First Baptist Church, Sundown with David Brantley, Whitharral, and Pastor Bill Oliver, First Baptist Church, Seagraves, officiating

Chris was born August 28, 1932 in Abilene, 30 minutes after her twin sister, Earlene. Parents Earl and Pauline Shrum were surprised, but joyfully welcomed their daughters on Earl’s 29th birthday.
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Chris graduated from Levelland High School in 1949. She married Carl T. McCollum on July 22, 1951 in Levelland.

Preceding her in death were her parents, twin sister, and in-laws Eddie and Edna (Pink) McCollum of Sundown.

Left to cherish her love, laughter, and amazing sense of humor are husband Carl, daughter Carla and husband David Brantley of Whitharral. She is survived by three grandsons, Jonathan Brantley and wife, Katie of Missoula, Montana; Pasha and Brian Brantley of Whitharral. one sister, Bobbie Ryan of May, TX; much loved cousins, nieces, nephews, many cherished friends, 3 Wondercats and 7 Grandkitties.

A world class encourager, giver, and practical joker, Chris was always doing something-for someone-somewhere, so it is fitting that this tireless advocate of young people and education chose to donated her body to the Texas Tech School of Medicine.
Many thanks to the doctors, nurses and staff at UMC and Chris’s team at Vista Care Hospice.

In lieu of flowers, donations to Vista Care Hospice or to Operation Christmas Child at http://www.samaritanspurse.org/.

Thank you for your continued prayers as we head into the holidays, a first without the laughter and style of one who added much to the world around her.

David & Carla Brantley

When the Stones Cry out

2007-08-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

This generation -- call it Baby Boomers, Gen Xers, or whatever -- is impacted spiritually more by movies, music, and television than by sermons, Bible studies, or crusades. Since the mid-1950's, America has experienced a shift away from Judeao-Christian principles to a plethora of religions: IE. Existentialism, environmentalism, ego-centrism, globalism, multi-culturalism and down-right paganism.

I am live in the first generation of Americans who are "biblically illiterate." No longer can I use Christian-ese, like salvation, regeneration, or repentance, and expect people younger than 60 to understand what I am talking about. With basics of the Ten Commandments removed from public schools, basic terms like adultery, coveting and stealing have been so grayed, they've little meaning to the average high school graduate. The individual form the center of the universe around which all life must revolve. Right and wrong is determined by personal preference and relativism.

Having grown up in a conservative Christian background, oral-preaching and teaching was elevated to the pedestal of THE technique to communicate the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Music and holiday drama's were tolerated, but never allowed more than secondary to the spoken word. The infrequent movie was shown if it contained an obligatory 10-minute Billy Graham sermon segment and invitation.

While being accused of everything from "diluting the Gospel" to being "tools of the Devil," seeker-style congregations have learned that some sacrosanct methods of traditional Churches are ineffective in today's media-wise generation. Critiques have forgotten that most of their sacred ways of doing things were once cutting edge, contemporary evangelism tools, decried as evil by the traditional church leaders of the day.

Sunday Schools were pioneered by Dwight Lyman Moody, a shoe salesman turned preacher, to reach the spiritually illiterate children on the streets of Chicago.

Another enterprising Christ-follower mounted his steam powered organ on the back of a wagon, traveled through inner-city streets, attaching children to religious ervices. We associate the sounds of the calliope with a circus, but it first was a tool of evangelism.

In the 15th century dramatic enactments of Scripture were banned from cathedrals because they were more popular than the Latin masses, which the church attendees could not understand.

Reformer Martin Luther set doctrine to the tunes of popular drinking songs so the illiterate could memorize the principles of Scripture.

Sunday Evening Services were started as a drawing card so people could marvel at the invention of gas lighting while hearing the Gospel presentation in public buildings.

This generation is as eager to fill the God-void in their souls as any time in history, but they are drawn to methods which entertain while educating. They want their senses, as well as their minds satisfied. Entertainment has that appeal.

By definition, entertainment is an activity that is diverting and that holds the attention. It is a tool of education, information and indoctrination. It has no morals--it is neither good nor evil. The world system has long known entertainment disarms the individual, opening the heart to concepts the mind would normally reject.

When Christ-followers abandoned their salt-and-light roles in Hollywood during the 1950's and 1960's, the talent void was filled with directors and producers who effectively waged war on Bible-believers. We have been portrayed as ignorant, sadistic and mindless robots. Scripture-quitting characters are narrow-minded and intolerant at best. At worst, we are the anti-heroes from Pulp Fiction, or vengeance-obsessed villains who use the Bible to justify evil acts portrayed in print, on the tube, or on the movie screen.

While Christ-followers may never dominate the artistic worlds of the stage, silver screen, and television, there have been encouraging events of recent days.

Amazing Grace -- Well-produced, well-acted recounting of what it took to stand against public apathy, opposition, and an Empire to get slavery outlawed.

The Nativity Story -- A well-scripted retelling of the first Christmas with high production values and good marketing.

Facing the Giants -- A church funded and produced football drama, well received by movie goers.

End of the Spear -- A revival of the inspiring deaths of five missionaries in Ecuador during the '40's

A Night With The King -- A classy retelling of one of the Bible's most thrilling stores of murder, intrigue and faith.

Bruce Almighty -- Perhaps not entirely Biblical, but a comedic look at what a modern day Noah might face.

Saving Grace -- While urging caution, because of the language and infrequent nudity, this TNT crime drama looks at the raw life of a sinner who, asks God for help, gets an angel (nothing like Touched By An Angel), and fights the drawing grace of God on her road to redemption.

As I See It, it would be easy to become paranoid and discouraged over this generation's seeming godlessness. Being a Christ-follower, I could rail at the Darkness, throw stones at these bastions of wickedness, or take my God-given gifts and re-format my presentation in terms this society understands. God is still in control of the affairs of men. Jesus said if his followers would not speak up, "the stones would immediately cry out" (Luke 19:40) -- even if it's the stony hearts of the entertainment industry.

I Was There!

2007-08-04T10:02:00.000-07:00

I've had an epiphany this week...No strike by lightning. No big religious conversion. No calls I've won the Texas Lottery or a wealthy great uncle three-times removed has left me millions of dollars in foreign currency.

But it was a moment of conviction which put into perspective of more than a decade of confusion and frustration.

For those of you who know me, . . and to you strangers who happen onto this blog, . . let me fill in the blanks about this bald guy who loves movies, acting, writing, story-telling and making a really good cup of coffee.

I am a cancer survivor: It's been more than a year-and-a-half. All my tests have come back negative. . . But that wasn't my epiphany.

I survived a roll-over accident: In January of this year, everything was thrown from the vehicle but me. . . But that wasn't the epiphany.

I've started new careers, seen moderate success, and had fun along the way: . . .But my epiphany was not found in work success or failure.

I crossed the half-century mark: In the process, I've avoided the mid-life excuses that assault so many men. I'm looking forward to my next decade celebration two years away. I know now what I don't want to do with the rest of my life. . . But my epiphany did not come with the experience of years.

Last night I was driving on the Interstate, listening to the radio, when the random pieces fell into place. The whys, the mystery, the frustration at the silence of Heaven was answered in a moment when my thoughts were on less celestial matters.

In the Bible book of Job, we find a successful, well-off man with a large family, many possessions and several close friends that shared his value system. Today he would have appeared in Fortune 500, GQ, and been the subject of television and news reports on the Rich and Famous. But what made him the target of occult attack was his unwavering commitment to his Creator.

In contrast to the popularity of the American "Name It and Claim It, prosperity" Christianity, Job lost everything except a bitter, cynical wife in a series of catastrophic events. Accused by three of his best friends of being a spiritual fraud with some secret sin in his life, Job experienced his children, property, income, and finally his health taken away. Covered in boils, his loving spouse comes and offers her compassionate advice: "Why don't you curse God and die!"

I am not claiming to be a Job or have experience one-tenth what this man suffered. However I do understand that at the loss of something we hold precious, especially as Christ-followers, there is something going on behind the scenes God has not chosen to enlighten us on. How easy for me to confuse closed doors and windows of opportunity as His disfavor.

After college, I was privileged to pursue occupational choices that fit my giftings. After several years in radio, I moved on to television, developing skills in an atmosphere consistent with my spiritual passions. I've enjoyed on- and off-camera work, at times reaching a national audience. After two decades, I transitioned into independent video writing and production which involved some international travel.

Suddenly, it was over. Like a hard-stop at some busy intersection, the prospects dried up and there were no doors of opportunity open to any of the experiences I had chosen to define myself by. I was frustrated, confused, and angry at God.

Herein lies my epiphany, over 10 years later: One of my travels took me to a tiny village in north of Moscow, Russia . Pictures of a little orphan would result in the adoption of our son Pasha. After 5 years of cultural conflict and absorption, my wife and I took steps to bring another boy into the circle of our family, this time an American-born child.

Pasha, now twenty, and Brian, approaching 15, are opposite in personality as night and day. And, like most parents experience, the two Brantley recruits are different in so many ways to our oldest son Jon, who is 32 and married.

Last night, I realized what a God-orchestrated opportunity I was participating in. I WAS THERE! I had been there to watch and influence my boys negotiation from childhood into puberty and beyond. How many of my peers will look back on the years of their children's passage into adulthood without regrets. I know of no man, in a nursing home or on his deathbed, who wished he had spent more time at the office.

This is not to say that child raising has been all laughs and fun. There are moments when the advice of Mark Twain seems viable:

"When a child reaches 12 you should put him in a barrel and feed him through a knothole. When he reaches 15 you should board up the knothole. And you shouldn't release him until he is at least 21."

Yet within the defiance, anger, tears of reconciliation, discipline, guilt, compromise, blackmail, and intimidation, there are the moments that I will treasure: The school awards despite learning disabilities, the sleepy hugs in the morning, discussions about girls and what made them unique and confusing, the laughter and competition at cards or boardgames, the accomplishment in sports or personal hobbies, thrill of standing with a son on his wedding day watching his marital life-cycle begin, welcoming a daughter-in-law into the family.

AS I SEE IT, there are video tapes which will play in my mind, memories no one can take away. Some may be embellished with the replaying. Some may be edited to only remember the positive words spoken. But no matter how my sons turn out, in God's time and in His will, . . .

I WAS THERE!

American Wedding Worship

2007-07-24T15:02:00.000-07:00

It's irritating!

It's infuriating!

How can some people be so egregious!

Yet it seems to be great entertainment to many women.

No, I'm not talking about the multiple Reality TV shows with people slugging it out in the jungles of Bora-Bora or...learning how to survive on Mt. Ararat if your climbing buddies perish, leaving you to construct an igloo from black ice while hunting for Noah's Ark.

I'm talking about that show on W-E...(Women's Entertainment Network)...which features the abominable snow-women, she-big foots, and the female chupacabras disguised as …….. Bride-zillas.

What is the fascination of watching supposed-liberated women show their feminist rear-ends? We can expect no shortage of fodder for mother-in-law jokes should these self-absorbed brats propagate and spawn carbon-copies of themselves.

One would hope women are planting their daughters in front of the Boob Tube and educatiing their impressionable offspring on how reprehensible this behavior is.

I'm not a Neanderthal who believes in knocking a woman over the head and dragging her to the cave. However, As I See It, this kind of Bridezilla-style feminist liberation is detrimental to women everywhere. These spoiled floozies might win every conflict on HER day, but what about the next day,..and the day after,..and the day after that,..and on and on. In the wake of her perfect wedding, she leaves executed relationships and irreparable emotional chaos.

How did our society evolve to where we elevate this kind of emotional gladitorialism to Women's Entertainment?

The Barbee Syndrome: The American female is presented at the earliest age with an idol worthy of any pagan culture. Goddess Barbie, and her obliquatory underling-male adorer Ken, are fondled, adored, adorned with clothing, jewels, and other plastic (but not as beautiful) plastic friends. Yearly she morphs into trendy, contemporary settings.

The Belief? With Barbie as the epitome of womanhood it is no wonder most women feel inferior. Who can compete with a figure of legs (always poised for high heels) 1/2 her height and a bust size so out of proportion she would have back trouble and walk leaning forward if she was human.

Wedding Worship: Perhaps only the mortuary and drug businesses in America have higher markup margins than weddings. Little girls are encouraged to look forward to marriage and having children. They hear their mothers coo over brides at weddings. They quickly learn that the supreme dress-up and looking pretty is the wedding dress. Reinforced with such movie garbage as Pretty Woman, any promiscuous behavior before wedding commitment can be overlooked by a walk down the isle.

The Belief? The Wedding Day is THE day--the crowning hour of womanhood. Nothing before it or after it will match the moment of dressing up and saying "I Do" in front of in-laws, out-laws, business friends of the parents, friends of friends, and occasionally total strangers if they bring a gift. These guests are wined and dined with food, flowers, and music which cost enough to make a substantial down payment on a home. This must be HER perfect day.

As I watched my mate watching Bridezillas, I wonder what the-morning-after will be like for these cranky, spoiled, angry, b……, (I'll be nice) picky women. What's in store for the men who wake up next to these bogus-Barbies?

Most married couples are familiar with the "I'll change them when we get married" fantasy. But for a man to ignore the boorish behavior of his bridezilla leaves me thinking the poor, blind, hen-pecked smuck deserve what he overlooks.

Is our society to blame…after all "it takes a village to raise a child." (What tripe!)

I'm inclined to turn my microscope toward the parents. To raise a princess--so totally focused on herself that society must bend to her whims--is unrealistic and eventually harmful to herself. If she escapes the divorce urgings of her peers when her kingdom fails to cower daily at her feet, she will live to find a spouse and children who fear and shun her. America's nursing homes of are filled with these bitter, shriveled, abandoned women.

Once Upon a Time, a king had such a daughter, he could not deal with. He didn't know how to marry off his strong-willed, critical off-spring, even in a culture of arranged marriages.

At the same time, the king was faced with a competitor for his throne. A young, handsome, courageous man, in the king's own employ, was being elevated by public praise to a status of hero notoriety. The subject of songs and sages, he was indeed a giant-killer.

In a brilliant stroke of genius, King Saul knew he could cripple his competition. by marrying off his troublesome second daughter Michal. According to the Old Testament book of 1 Samuel 18, Michal was enamored with Hebrew-hunk David, son of Jessie, slayer of Goliath. She must have been a looker; David fell for the "son-in-law-of-the-boss" arrangement. Verse twenty-one is very telling:

"Saul said, I will give her to David that she may be a snare to him, that the hand of my enemy may be against him."

David could conquer giants but not one of history's first bridezillas. Her critical spirit would harass him mercilessly on the day of his greatest spiritual exploit, and perhaps drive him into the arms of a next door neighbor's wife.

Bridezillas of the world take notice: You had better enjoy having your way on your wedding day . . . No one respects a princess after the flowers have wilted and candles are extinguished. It's going to be hard work to keep the kingdom intact.

Who Wants That?

2007-07-19T09:58:00.000-07:00

I am fascinated with Do-Dads. I mean those things that hang on the end-caps of shelves in Wal-Mart, Lowes, and Home Depot. They intrigue me. They call my name. In the tradition of P.T. Barnum, they lure me like the sirens seduced Odysseus' and Jason's sailors in the Iliad and the Odyssey.

Once these "must haves" arrive at my house, they are fondled, admired, caressed and put on a shelf. Quietly they await the opportunity to save the world from some monster Unpeeled Potato, Scale-Incrusted Shower Door, or the Rabid Mole that pushes mountain-size piles of dirt up to blemish my Southern Living-perfect lawn.

Realistically, most of these inventions will wind up on the odds-and-ends table at the mega-garage sale my wife holds in the name of "down-sizing." My treasured Do-Dads will pass to another unsuspecting soul for just pennies on the dollar.

But you have to give credit to the inventor who traversed the gauntlet and convinced some company to mass produce his idea and foist it on the unsuspecting public.

Thomas Edison once said, “I only want to invent things that sell.” One statistic says 98 percent of all patented inventions never make enough money to recover the expenses of getting a patent? The inventor was deluded into thinking that if he/she could get a patent, surely someone would want to buy the product.

If you link to http://www.ipwatchdog.com/patentmuseum.html, you can see some of the strangest ideas at the Museum of Obscure Patents.

Fragrant water closet closer
US Patent No. 6,694,536
Issued February 24, 2004
This patent covers is a gas powered automatic toilet seat lowering device, which will undoubtedly bring peace and harmony to couples all over the globe! Immediately after explaining how women complain about the failure of men to lower a toilet seat after use, the inventor makes the parenthetical remark: "Never heard are complaints about women not putting the seat up after use!"

Dog umbrella

Ahhh, even I would pass on this.

Beerbrella
No comment needed for this non-drinker

Toy missile launcher
The gift no al-Qiada boy should be without.

Animal chastity belt
Does this really need an explanation?

Get the "Idea?" There are plenty more listed at the web-site. The inventor had an idea, pursued it, and spent the money to have it patented.

Having grown up in the South, we have many colloquialisms about life. Frequently I heard my father talk about somebody "riding a dead horse." Eventually I figured out he wasn't speaking literally.

On Dan Miller's web-site, I read about the tribal wisdom of the Dakota Indians, passed on from generation to generation. They say that when you discover you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount. In modern corporate America, the government, and some Christian organizations, "a whole range of far more advanced strategies are often employed," such as:

Buying a stronger whip

Threatening the horse with termination

Appointing a committee to study the horse

Lowering the standards so that dead horses can be included

Reclassifying the dead horse as "living impaired"

Hiring outside contractors to ride the dead horse

Harnessing several dead horses together to increase the speed

Providing additional funding and/or training to increase the dead horse's performance

Doing a productivity study to see if lighter riders would improve the dead horse's performance

Rewriting the minimum performance requirements for all horses.

Promoting the dead horse to a supervisory position

As Christ-follower, who has been a regular attendee of church, I frequently hear well-developed sermons which have little to do with the issues I'm dealing with in my life. The speaker is scholarly, his delivery smooth, the rationale solid. However, I leave the fellowship wanting more than the dead horse-topic of the week.

On occasion I have the opportunity to speak to other Christ-followers. I find myself seduced by the same temptation as the teachers I refer to. While something may be my pet-theological-baby of the moment, I have to ask the tough question; will it address the real-life issues in my audiences' life? Will they be challenged and changed? Perhaps my spiritual Do-Dad will not meet my listener's need.

If I'm riding a dead horse, it's time to dismount. To me, as an actor, teacher, and speaker, time is one of the most precious gifts an audience can entrust to me. To bore them or fail to meet their needs, is a capital crime. Better to be silent than waste the trust they have given me.

Historical and Christian Myth-Busters

2007-07-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

Ever played the game called Gossip? Line up ten people and tell the first one a secret. It is then whispered to the next, the next, the next on down the line to the last person. It never fails what is whispered to the first player is no where near what is heard by the last.

This is just the type of historical gossip that been foisted on American school children for more than 50 years. Inaccurate historical superstitions pass from classroom to classroom, unchallenged by students who gobble up regurgitated historical data coming from teachers who know more about NFL records than American history. Case in point:

Betsy Ross sewed the first U.S. flag. The story is based solely on oral affidavits from her daughter and other relatives, made public by her grandson in 1870, The only supporting documentation that Betsy Ross was involved in federal flag design is the Pennsylvania State Navy Board commissioning her for work in making "ships colors & c." in May, 1777

George Washington tossed a dollar across the Potomac River. Even if he did toss something, the gold dollar didn't come into being until after the U.S. gained independence.

Francis Scott Key wrote our national anthem. Key penned the words but set them to an old English drinking song. The poem, titled "Defence of Fort McHenry," was put to the tune of the popular British drinking song "The Anacreontic Song." It was recognized for official use by the Navy in 1889 and the President in 1916, and was made the national anthem by a Congressional resolution on March 3, 1931.

The midnight ride of Paul Revere carried the warning of the British invasion to the colonists. Longfellow's poem overstated the role of Revere in the night's events. Israel Bissell traveled 345 miles, compared to Revere's nineteen. Historian Ray Raphael, in his book "Founding Myths", mentions a number of other unsung messengers, such as Samuel Tufts of East Cambridge, Dr. Martin Herrick of Medford, and other messengers who set out from Medford and Charlestown, and Samuel Prescott, in fact, who carried the warning to Concord.

The Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776. Only John Hancock, for the assembly, signed it that day. Congress, meeting in Independence Hall in Philadelphia, finished revising Jefferson's draft statement on July 4, approved it, and sent it to a printer. The other signatures were added to the hand-written document on August 2.

George Washington was the first U.S. President. John Hanson was the president of the Congress of the Confederation and carried the title of president of the U.S., as did eight men after him.

"Yankee Doodle" is an American song. It was a British ditty designed to harass ragtag colonists during the French and Indian War.

Likewise, many Christ-followers have fallen victim to inaccurate teaching that is often the result of lazy scholarship or doctrine that is designed to keep the disciple in-line:

All you have to do to be a Christian is "ask Jesus into your heart." That is an important step, but you must first repent, or "turn around and go the other way" from your present life style. There is no such thing as a saved thief, saved liar, saved prostitute, saved murderer, etc. etc. The temptations may always be there but the true Christ-follower has turned 180-degrees away from the life-style practices that are contrary to the teachings in the Word of God.

You have to go to church (a building designated for religious services) to prove your devotion to God. The Church (worldwide group of Christ-followers) is not limited to a facility. The Holy Spirit has chosen to indwell those who have given their lives to Christ thus making their physical bodies "members of the body of Christ God" according to 1 Corinthians 6:15. The woman at the well, in John 4, tried to sidetrack Jesus with the "where is the right place to worship God" -- Jesus response: "Those who worship Him must do it out of their very being, their spirits, their true selves, in adoration." (John 4:24 Message) We may come together to celebrate our mutual faith, but that does not make you a Christ-follower any more than meeting in a donut shop makes you a baker. Jesus instructed "when two or three of you are together because of me, you can be sure I'll be there." (Matthew 18:20) Fellowship is for our benefit by exposing ourselves to the Gifts of the Spirit found in each other, not membership in the family of God.

When you accept Christ your name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life. Biblical authors (all from Jewish backgrounds) frequently referenced the Book of Life. Job hoped to be found in it. Psalmist writers wanted to inscribed in this book instead of the Book of the Wicked Dead or the Book of the In-between (the Undecided). Writers of the New Testament said the Book of Life was actually the "book of life of the Lamb (Jesus Christ), slain before the foundation of the world." In Revelation 17:8 that names "written in the book of life from the foundation of the world." Revelation 3:5 and Psalm 69: 28 talks about being blotted out of the Book of Life by rejecting the overtures of grace from Christ. God, in his mercy, romances the individual to remain in the Book of Life despite our rebellious nature to defy the Divine love and reject the desires of God. Thus He is forced to "blot them out."

If you are a good Christian you will must take Sunday off as a day of rest and go to Church. To truly observe the Sabbath (day of rest), as a rigid literalist, you must start at twilight Friday night and end Saturday at twilight -- the "day of rest" mandated by God for the Jewish people. After Jesus rose from the dead, his followers celebrated the seventh and first day of the week as Sabbaths. They met in synagogues and in each others' homes. When Jesus was challenged by the hyper religious for over violations of multilevel rest vs. work regulations, Jesus said, "the Sabbath was created for man, not man for the Sabbath." (Mark 2:27)

You will know a person is a Christian by their adherence to the 15 Commandments. (11 Don't Dance, 12 Don't Gamble, 13 Don't Smoke, 14 Don't Drink, 15 Don't Date the People Who Do the Afore Mentioned.) While a person may benefit from the blessings of God in an obedient lifestyle, it is not the Laws of God that save us. Jesus said that the Laws of God were designed to show us what God expects to be a citizen of His kingdom, but "no man comes to the Father except through me. (John 14:6)" While religious and secular people have a list of qualifications for acceptance into their organizations, Jesus dismissed the us vs. them mentality of circle-defined organizations. "If you are not against me, is for me." (Luke 11:23) He defined being a Christ-follower as one moving toward the center (Jesus and His Father) not just stepping inside the circle.

As a Christ-follower for over 40 years, all man-made religious rules did were give me a false sense of security when it came to my eternal destination. They did not bring the "peace that passes all understanding" which came with a relationship with Jesus Christ. Once I grew in love with Him, I understood that His commands were to give me a richer life here and now, rather than a fire escape from hell and ticket into Heaven.

When it comes to discerning myths of modern Christianity, I received the best advice from a godly woman who had lived for God for more than 70 years. She told an aspiring group of preacher boys, "READ the Word, don't read INTO the Word."

It is amazing what you discover is not in the Bible that modern Christianity has accepted as fact. But the key is you have to read it for yourself, instead of depending on the Bible book report given to you from the pulpit, Christian television, radio, tapes, and downloads. The results will be a freedom from man-imposed religious regulations that you never imagined you could experience.

Let's All Get Along . . . WHY?

2007-06-27T16:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, everyone! It's karaoke time! Hum along with me. Visualize all those people in tie-died shirts swaying together over the hillside"

"I'd like to buy the world a home and furnish it with love,
Grow apple trees and honey bees, and snow white turtle doves.
I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony,
I'd like to buy the world a Coke and keep it company…"

Ain't that sweet? Don't you feel better already?

And the song goes with all those feel good slogans . . .

"Live and Let Live"

"Promote World Peace"

(Or as a bumper snicker I once had read I LOVE WHIRLED PEAS)

And my favorite … the "United Nations"

As a unabashed, unashamed Christ-follower, how do I fit in with the "Can't We All Just Get Along" crowd? … Or can I?

Trust me, when they wrote the "I Want To Teach The World To Sing" in 1969 it wasn't to promote world peace…it was to sell Coca Cola.

And if you explore the "Live and Let Live" crowd you find them really saying: "I want you to think the way I think….and leave me alone."

And the so-called "Pro-Choice" -- it's REALLY "My Choice, But If You Disagree Shutting Up is YOUR Choice."

When I see the lust for acceptance in our culture, I find the same cravings among my fellow Christian brothers and sisters. With all the clamor to "Just get along," it's no wonder the same social and personal cancers saturate the American organized church. We loudly hail we are the Body of Christ but divorce, out-of-wedlock affairs, suicides, rebellion against authority, abuse of children and the elderly, neglect of children and the elderly, work-a-hallism, and fractured family units are no longer the symptoms outside the "Church." We rail at these problems as attacks of the Devil when they may well be the results of when trying to get along with our culture. We have done such a good job of being inoffensive and blending in, we now look like "the World" and have the same problems they do. Largely our attempts at changing the world are no different than the work of other social organizations like Kiwanis, Grange, Chamber of Commerce, and various fraternal organizations.

To this point I'm hearing hardy "AMENS" from the choir, but I want to get personal with you, the reader. When was the last time you encountered opposition and abuse for your faith? When have you last felt the hateful breath of our culture as it discovered you were a Christ-follower and practiced what He taught?...Have you ever?

I'm not talking about personal quirks and offensive behavior. I'm referring calling people out of sin-filled lives to follow and embrace the teachings of Christ -- STARTING with a personal relationship with Jesus. He declared in Matthew 5, if you follow Him and talk about it unashamedly, you will be censured, chivied (harassed) and crucified. As He stood on the Galilean hillside, He laid out the cost of following Him. As I See It, what He said that day is far from the "beautiful plan for your life" that is often used to sell salvation in the American religious culture.

Jesus used the word "persecute" in His discourse (in the King James Version), but since most of us relate persecution to "someone doesn't like me," I'm going to quote a more modern paraphrase:

(10) "You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom. (11-12) "Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble. (Matthew 5, The Message Bible, the emphasis my own.)

Frankly, I don't like that teaching, but Jesus didn't ask me when He was putting His sermon together.

Until the time Roman Emperor Constantine popularized Christianity in 312 AD, three centuries of Christ-followers had to seriously count the cost when it came to speaking of and living as a Christ-i-an. While abortion was a common practice in the Empire, so was the practice of child-exposure. Though it was acceptable to "expose" if they were maimed or abnormal at birth (IE. leave the infant to die from the elements or wild animals), female infants were frequently discarded at the door step. In Rome, the garbage collectors would come along, pick up the discards as part of the garbage, and dump it all outside the city walls on the massive refuse dump.

Jews and Followers-of-the-Way (Christians) held it wrong to kill an unwanted child. The Christ-followers would go out at night, rescue the living, bury the dead, and care for the infants in personally financed orphan homes. This was such an embarrassment to the Roman aristocracy who regularly exposed children, the "Law of Exposure" was passed by the Roman Senate. Lasting for almost two years before the Senate over-turned it, the consequences of rescuing an discarded child was death; early Pro-Lifers were regarded "enemies of the Empire" and executed.

Since the 1950's, when the American culture began to turn from quasi-Christian to pagan*, organized religion has sought to be liked by the culture's movers and shakers. We want the world to accept us, love us,...to make life easier for us. *A person or culture who does not acknowledge God.

Our country's history is full of those who, when the culture turned against them, tried to commune away from the World culture. They attempted to build Utopias where they didn't have to deal with the World. A Utopia is normally created by humans attempting to establish/reestablish on Earth a society which reflects the virtues and values they believe have been lost.

Every attempt has failed, and will always fail as it is contrary to Jesus prayer in John 17:

"Because they didn't join the world's ways, just as I didn't join the world's ways. I'm not asking that you take them out of the world But that you guard them from the Evil One. They are no more defined by the world than I am defined by the world."

God never intended us to withdraw or be liked by the culture. (Ironically the word Utopia is from the Greek which means "no place" or "place that does not exist.") And yet Christians keep on trying in our nation, government, communities, and our churches. We want to be liked--to be accepted--to be a "buddy" to my neighbor, no matter their lifestyle. We leave them alone, or give them what they want, so we can live in a kind of Don't-Rock-the-Moral-Boat-or-They-Might-Through-Me-Overboard relationship.

For almost three decades I was a part of Christian broadcasting as it became professional, national, and yes, even profitable. Initially, Christians wanted to use the media as a tool for evangelism, but after great sums of money was raised through beg-a-thons, we discovered we were largely "preaching to the choir."

One year, at the conference of the National Religious Broadcasters Association, the executive director summed up what he called the unwritten law of all television preachers: "You can get your share of the audience only by offering people something they want."

It was secularist Neil Postman in his book, Amusing Ourselves To Death, who observed: "There is no religious leader—from the Buddha to Moses to Jesus to Mohammed to Luther—who offered people what they want. But television is not well suited to offering people what they need. … As a consequence, what is preached on television is not anything like the Sermon on the Mount. Religious programs are filled with good cheer. They celebrate affluence. Their featured players become celebrities. ... I believe I am not mistaken in saying that Christianity is a demanding and serious religion. When it is delivered as easy and amusing, it is another kind of religion altogether." (Postman, Amusing Ourselves To Death, page 121)

Even though religious broadcasting was my profession for so many years, I watch little Christian TV today. Largely I find it is sensational, or alarmist (many prophecy-oriented programs), or downright hokey. I am grieved when I often see God-anointed evangelists and teachers hawking health diets, experimental medical treatments, food supplements, and jewelry; more merchandising than message. At times Touched By An Angel or Amazing Grace (TNT) has more ministry for me.

Being raised the oldest of 6 children, I learned to be a people-pleaser and I'm good at it. Rather than being a rebel, I learned to use the system to get what I want. Call me a passive aggressor if you like, but it has gotten me the "personal peace" I've sought most of my life. I'm adept and practiced at keeping my mouth shut rather than being confrontational. I like being considered a Nice Guy.

But I am practicing the life Christ advocated? The World will give awards for acts of kindness, like feeding the poor, but takes great offence if I call them to a moral high ground as they worship at the idols of greed, choices, fame, and independence. A vocal, active Christ-follower makes the hypocrite and inactive uncomfortable. Persecution is designed to bring me into line…to force me into the mold of the culture.

Jesus said, "Woe [unto you], when all men shall speak well of you! for in the same manner did their fathers to the false prophets." Luke 6:26

I wonder in which category Jesus places American Christianity?

I wonder in which category He considers me?

For Me or Against Me

2007-06-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

"We have been silent witnesses of evil deeds; we have been drenched by many storms; . . . experience has made us suspicious of others and kept us from being truthful and open; intolerable conflicts have worn us down and even made us cynical; Are we still of any use? . . . Will our inward power of resistance be strong enough, and our honesty with ourselves be remorseless enough, for us to find our way back to simplicity and straightforwardness?"

Powerful words written to a world flinching with each act of terrorism? Words penned to admit our sense of impotence in the battle between the haves and the have-nots, the citizens and the immigrants, the powerful and the power-less? Words of exhaustion over modern life out of our control?

Would you be shocked this quote is found in Letters and Papers from Prison, by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, one of WW II's great Christian martyrs? From the depths of Nazi incarceration he frets that people of character, those who draw from the hidden life of Christ, may be in short supply.

Bonhoeffer wasn't thinking of nice people, of men and women who make no waves, cause their world no trouble. He was search for people who are defined by the character of Jesus Christ--Christ-followers whose impact on their troubled, often wicked, generation comes from being confident and centered in the person and power of Jesus Christ.

On my first trip to Russia, I brought back several matruskas, known to most Americans as nesting dolls. These round, wooden dolls stand about nine inches high, beautifully hand-painted, shaped like duckpins. If you remove the upper portion of the doll, you will find another inside, another inside that, another inside that, down to the smallest doll about two inches tall.

They are reminder of the many layers of me, each having to be transformed as I allow the person and power of Jesus to dominate my life. This helps me understand that, while there is an outer image I want to project to the world, there is a layer passionate to listening to God, another who is impatient with my family and coworkers, another arrogant about my interpretation of the Scripture, another weak-willed when certain temptations flaunt their vices, yet another rife with feelings of inadequacy and shame. My life task, often an intense struggle, is to bring them in line with what Jesus says about me, . . . Forgiven, free, mercy-filled, grace-filled, accepted, adequate in Him.

This is what defines me as Christ-follower, not necessarily what fellowship I attend or creed I aspire to . . . or even a pinpoint date I can claim as my "decision for Christ." Everyday has to be a NEW decision for Christ.

Now, I know I am treading on dangerous ground with some who claim to be "fundamental, evangelical." All my religious life I was told I should be able to "remember the day, place, and time I accepted Christ." The implication was if I COULD NOT, then I probably wasn't "saved."

If that is what you were taught, I want to challenge your thinking and perhaps your heart. (Hold off tossing the stones of doctrine a moment and let me walk you through it.) You may begin to understand the words of Jesus in a new way.

I'm not trying to discredit your moment of "receiving Christ as Savior," but challenging you look at where you are now in the process of becoming like Christ. More than providing fire insurance from Hell and a doorway to Heaven, Jesus is in the business of reinventing people for the here and now. Strip away all the beatitudes, parables, healing, and miracles, Jesus spoke very simply; "I am the way the truth and the life:" (John 14:6) His message could be reduced to a few simple words; repent (leave), follow, and I will make you into something new.

"Nowhere can I find in the Four Gospels any instance of our modern version of evangelism. No one who was asked to pray a prayer and then told he was 'in.' No one was asked to affirm a set of doctrines or propositions. All were judged on one simple basis: were they following Jesus or not. . . . It is clear the following spoke of the direction one was walking in. Either you were walking toward Him (no matter the distance from you to Him), or you were walking away from Him." ~ Gordon MacDonald, Mid-Course Correction

For more than two thousand years the organized church has viewed themselves as the world culture viewed itself. Imagine a circle that is defined by its outer circumference. One is either in or out of the circle. And those inside the circle define what it will take for those outside to get in. Be it social organizations, business or religion, we want to know the boundary line and what it takes to get in.

So we begin a well-intentioned transformation consisting of altering behavior, vocabulary, schedules, even priorities. We are celebrated and welcomed to the "in-circle" but something haunts us when the cheers fade and life gets hard. The layers, the hidden life, the heart remains untouched. We redouble our efforts to either change or surrender to despair.

But Jesus taught a second alternative for being "in" -- as "in the Kingdom." This alignment is not concerned about the rules of the circumference . . . The important thing is WHO is at the center. One is either moving toward the center point or away from the center.

When Jesus disciples confronted a man was casting out demons in Jesus name. They told him told him to stop because he wasn't one of their "in group" of Christ-followers (IE. not one of their denomination, gone through their process of discipleship, had "their experience," or worship like they do.) Jesus rebuked them: "Don't stop him; he who is not against Me is for Me (the center point)."

Like a surgeon's knife, Jesus' words slice through my intentions, reservations, and excuses. There is no middle ground, no room for stagnation. My decision to make Him my center point has launched me from the bow as an arrow bound for the target. If I claim Him as my Center, I am in motion toward Him or away from Him.

"If Jesus is the center point, and He bids us come closer and closer, then there is incentive each day to reengage an increasing transformation…Moving closer -- deliberately, strategically -- becomes one's personal mission over the course of a lifetime." ~ Gordon MacDonald, Mid-Course Correction

Our Loss . . . Heaven's Gain

2007-06-20T13:39:00.000-07:00

This week I join the millions of Christ-followers around the globe who mourn the passing of a humble, but outspoken saint who's life has touched them deeply. Ruth Bell Graham, the wife of well-know evangelist Dr. Billy Graham, now stands in the presence of her Savior after 87 on this earth. Her husband of 64 years and five children were at her bedside in the family home of Little Piney Cove, in Montréal, North Carolina.

In today's world of feminism and women's lib, Ruth Bell Graham stands as a unique example of the confident, interdependent female. A gifted poet and writer in her own right, Ruth authored or coauthored 14 books, including Sitting By Laughing Fire, Legacy of a Pack Rat, Prodigals and Those Who Love Them, and One Wintry Night.

Born in 1920 in China to missionary parents, Ruth Bell’s own ambition was to become a missionary and return to her beloved Orient. Yet, in God's wisdom, her life would touch more than just the Asian continent; it would be worldwide ministry through the young, blue-eyed Billy Graham starting on the campus of Illinois’s Wheaton College. After their first date, to a performance of Handel’s "Messiah," she got down on her knees in her bedroom and prayed to God: “If You let me serve You with that man, I’d consider it the greatest privilege in my life.” They were married in August, 1943.

(Years before, Billy's former fiancé at the Florida Bible Institute in Tampa, Florida had broken off their engagement because he was going to be "an unknown preacher-boy.")
When her husband's ministry sprang to national notoriety during California evangelistic crusades in the late 1940s, Ruth chose to raise their five children near her parents in Montreat, North Carolina. Some might say she sacrificed her dreams to her husband's ambitions, but Ruth was the first to disagree. Billy Graham biographer William Martin once said, "Ruth knows who she is, while Billy is always auditioning."

Shunning the national and international spotlight, she helped her husband craft and research sermons and even books. By his own admission, she was his chief confidant, friend, advisor, and soul-mate. It was Ruth who named the "Hour of Decision" radio program that began in 1950.

Dr. Graham always looked to his wife's intuition even in his role as spiritual advisor to multiple U-S presidents. "When anyone becomes so famous, so important, that no one dares to disagree, they're in a dangerous position," she once said. "I've met husbands who wouldn't let their wives disagree with them and they invariably suffered for it."

"Ruth kept Billy both loved and honest," said Leighton Ford, an evangelist and Billy's brother-in-law. Ruth was the one to discourage her husband's consideration of making a US presidential bid after the tumultuous Nixon presidential debacle…she threatened to leave him if he ran. "No one will tolerate a divorced president!" she said.

Characteristic of the Grahams' humble life-style in the presence of worldwide fame, Ruth was buried in a simple birch plywood coffin made by a convict-turned-Christ-follower. Prior to his own passing earlier this year, Richard Liggett, who was serving a life sentence for second-degree murder, was asked by Graham's son Franklin to build a matching pair of caskets for his parents during a visit to Angola prison in Louisiana. The prison has a Bible college and chapel near death row funded largely by the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. According to Warden Burl Cain, many of its 5,108 prisoners are Christian and spend the weekend "preaching and praying and remembering the Graham family."

Even in death, Ruth Graham's legacy lives on in her adult children who all are actively involved in ministry. She may not be as worshipped as Princess Diana or have served the poor of Calcutta, but the impact of Ruth's promise to serve her Lord and Savior beside the dairy farm boy from North Carolina continues to live on through lives of us forever changed by the God of Dr. Billy Graham.

We have lost a mother, sister, writer, encourager. . . . Heaven has welcomed a saint.

Even the secular world could not ignore this godly woman. For an amazing CNN Tribute see:
http://edition.cnn.com/video/player/player.html?url=/video/us/2007/06/14/phillips.ruth.graham.obit.cnn&wm=11 (Wait for the ad to play thru).

Worldly Wisdom in the Church

2007-06-13T18:32:00.000-07:00

I recently heard about a church (to remain unnamed) that has printed a credit card form on the back of their offering envelopes. I would have expected this sort of scheme from a more liberal church, but this was a mainline denominational church who prides itself in being fundamental and conservative.

A member of the congregation questioned the head minister about this decision, hoping it was a mistake by some bean-counting member. With great pride the woman's pastor said he thought "it was an innovative idea; "this will make it simpler for business people to make their donations."
At first, I sensed my ears getting hot and the smoke erupting from them. Then it made me sick to my stomach over the willful-ignorance of some of my Christian brothers concerning finances. Have the leadership of fundamental, evangelical churches sunk so low they have to resort to the world techniques at getting donations?

The lust and competition for the Believer's bucks is nothing new. It is as old as the days when the Body of Christ mutated from fellowships to fiefdoms, needing budgets to pay for presbyteries, personnel, and projects. The mission to "feed the widows and orphans" and "go into the whole world" with the Good News became limited to a handful of professional Christians who made their living by ministry. Organizations need staff, schedules, and salaries.

Please understand I am not opposed to the thousands of my friends and acquaintances who are professionally attempting to reach the world with the message of a new relationship with Jesus Christ. These Christ-followers often sacrifice large salaries, security, and social notoriety to fulfill Christ's Great Commission. But what really irritates my sensibilities are the organizations who fleece the flock to feed the budget-beast they have created. They resist attempts at accountability; "How dare anyone question our results in ministry or why 80+ percent of our budget is consumed by utilities, salaries, and programs." The widows, orphans, and poor are sent to secular social programs and forgotten about until Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Then there is the competition for the Christ-follower's recreational dollar. In my lifetime I 've seen the emergence of a billion dollar industry of music, books, videos, and Christian TV. I am an avid reader and love faith-based music and entertainment. But the industry spends million dollars in advertising aimed at siphoning off the Believer's tithe intended to reach the lost. I am equally annoyed and irritated when Christian organizations "make it easy to buy/donate/spend now and pay for it later." One credit card company had the audacity to state in their propaganda: "God Wants You To Have Our Credit Card." Another national Christian Book store sent credit card applications to their mailing list, with the logo of their company on the face of the cards. (Part of me was tempted to allow my 12-year old to get the card, max it out, and then refuse to pay it because they had sent it to a minor.)

I am proud of my participation in the No Credit Card Revolution. (http://www.daveramsey.com/media/pdf/fpu_creditrebellion.pdf) As one well-known Christian financial consultant says, "Debt is Dumb, Cash is King, and the Paid-off Home Mortgage has Replaced the BMW as the Status Symbol of Choice." (http://www.daveramsey.com/) Gone are the days when I (like the majority of Americans) spend 120% of my anticipated monthly income. I can now return 10% of what my Father has blessed me with (my tithe) by not paying the 20% interest payments to MasterCharge, American Excess, and Crap-ital One. (Nope, they ain't getting back in my wallet!)

In all of the Bible's instructions there isn't one single passage that says compulsive buying and debt is good. God's Word always cautions that debt enslaves; it limits a person's choices and ability to bless others with our overflow.

Jesus Christ of Nazareth once walked through the commercialized religious industry that had emerged around the Temple with the approving supervision of the religious leaders. The attachments and evolving rituals had turn very profitable for the priesthood, scribes, and merchants. The religious seekers' attention was drawn from the beauty and faithfulness of God to the stuff man had designated as a requirement of worship. As He overturned the money-changers tables and set the sacrificial animals free, Jesus was succinct; "My Father's house was intended as a place of prayer, but you have turned it into a den of thieves." That comment was not only directed at the merchants--it was targeted to the religious leaders who profited from the commercialism.

Has the organized Body of Christ sunk so low it cannot financially survive without the World's modus-operandi?

And what would Jesus do if He walk among today's churches, ministries, faith-based entertainment, and businesses? It's none of their business "What in your wallet?" It's what's in you heart that's "priceless." God will meet the needs of His Work without guilt, greed and goading.

What Gets Under Your Skin?

2007-06-06T14:12:00.000-07:00

What "gets under your skin?" What really drives you CrAzY?

Is it slow drivers? Or those drivers who get traffic rules-amnesia when on their cell phones, doing their makeup, and diapering an infant not in it's car seat?

Maybe the mud-slinging political ads up-coming in this presidential election year?

Or whiney teens protesting the unreasonable house rules?

Speaking of cell phones, those inconsiderate people who think the Cell Phone God takes precedence over the peons attempting to wait on them?

Telephone solicitors?

Those athletes who do the funky in the end-zones after a touchdown?

Or eight minutes of commercials between five minutes of programming on TV?

But what if I told you that Jesus says there is a blessing in store for those who get under other people's skin? Yep, it's really OK to get under someone's skin.

However, before you grab the cell phone, do the funky, or whine about your limitations to others, you might want to get the context of His instructions.

In the hillside sermon in Matthew 5, know as the Beatitudes, Jesus includes among those receive special blessings in this life, "Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy (v.7)." Even though the New Testament is written in Greek, many people don't know that Jesus spoke his native tongue of Aramaic. The word for merciful in the Aramaic is "to get under another's skin."

It means "to empathize or be empathetic." in today's language. You look past the obvious, past the outward appearances, to understand what another person is experiencing . . . care enough to get involved by sharing their burdens.

I heard recently of minister who was speaking at a family retreat. One man sitting on the front row repeated dozed and woke during the minister's talk. By the end of the second session, the speaker found himself annoyed by the dropsy listener, wishing the man would just stay in bed rather than be a distraction to himself, the other speakers, and the audience.

At a lunch break, the wife of the sleepy man introduced herself to the preacher and asked for prayer for her husband who was undergoing chemo-therapy for cancer. One side-effect of the medication to counter-act the chemo was drowsiness. Despite the inconvenience, the husband wanted to come to the retreat because he soon would not be able to meet with the people of God.

The idea of mercy is more than just empathy. It is not passive--it implies action. It carries the idea of helping the afflicted, to bring help to the wretched. It is similar to "walking a mile in another man's moccasins," as the Native American wisdom advises.

Years ago, a missionary friend told me of his work among a primitive tribe deeop in the jungles of South America. Until his arrival, there was no written language, so he set about creating an alphabet and translating the Bible into their tongue. At Mark 10:26--"Who then can be saved?"--my friend discovered there was no word for salvation in their culture. The missionary struggled for months attempting to find something that would convey what Christ's death meant to lost men.

One day, he was attending the birth of a native baby girl. According to custom, families slept in hammocks, one above the other, over a smoldering fire which kept insects at bay. The bottom hammock was reserved for the mother, with a hole cut in the center for purposes of giving birth. The newborn would drop into the ashes. Culturally, boy babies were highly regarded and quickly pulled from the ashes by the father; a sign of acceptance. Girl babies, if not picked up by the father, would have their heads bashed in by the old women of the village.

On this occasion, even though it was a female child, the father pickup the girl and handed it to the older women to clean up. Quickly the missionary ask his native interpreter what that process was called. This become the salvation word in tribe's New Testament--"to be plucked from the ashes of sin and accepted by the heavenly Father."

That's what mercy is all about. I have been rescued from the ashes of my failure, mistakes, and willful sin. I don't deserve rescue. I don't deserve love. I don't deserve forgiveness. I don't deserve acceptance. But He did . . . Aad He does. His mercies are new every morning.

Matthew 5:7 says I will be blessed (or happier) if I "get under the skin if other's" in need; then, when I am exhausted, weary, lonely, and forgotten He promises He will provide those who will "get under my skin".

What's The Point

2007-05-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

Midnight Games

Last evening at the midnight hour
Two men, in different places,
Unknown to each other,
Sat pondering the same subject:
The significance
Of fifty-five years of life.

These are those moments
When a certain mood
Causes a man's mind to open and scan
The resume of personal existence,
engaging in a ruthless game best called
What's-the-Point?

For losers, this midnight came can be harsh, perhaps dispiriting, or even destructive.
For winners, it cam be satisfying, fortifying, vindication to the soul.

For both men the time to play this midnight game had come.
A strange reverie, you see, had captured the hour.
And this contest in private thinking, which, sooner or later, almost every man plays, began for them.

See one player at a desk in a high-ceilinged, paneled den.
Mozart plays softly in surround-sound, but no one listens.
The Late Night Show glares out in the dimness, muted, but on one watches.
A whiskey glass frequently "freshened" gains increasing attention.

In another location of great contrast, a second player rests his elbows on a scratched kitchen table.
Decaf, grown cold, half fills a mug.
Here in this simple place, there is silence except, that is,
For the deep breathing of sleeping children in the next room, and a wife humming a familiar tune as she brushes her hair and prepares for bed.

From somewhere deep in the two players, a Voice,
Call it the Keeper-of-the Score, cries out,
"Add everything up! Compute the value of these years!
Be frank; hold nothing back,
You two men who live on different sides of the tracks,
Who are separated by square footage, horsepower, clout, and portfolios."

And so the first of two reaches for his oft-used glass and begins his private thinking.
"I can play this game," he says, "and I can win . . . BIG."

"There's my house," he notes for openers: three garages, pool (covered), great room, and closets large enough to be squash courts.

"I own a business, no partners, no public stock.
The four hundred-plus people on the payroll,
They're mine because I tell them when to come to work, when to take a break, how much they'll earn, and whether or not they'll even have a job next week.

"There's my wife, and for the purposes of this game, I might as well speak of her in business terms.
The woman's mine; I've bought her everything.
She's mine. She owes me everything.
She can't leave; she can't change . . . Without my authorization.

"The kids are mine, too, when you add up the costs.
I've set them in motion with trust funds, abortions, European vacations, and front-page weddings.
They do what I say, come when I call, face a future I've designed.

"What's the point?" demands the Keeper-of-the-Score.
"Yes," the first player answers, "I was just asking that myself.
If, for example, everything and every person in my world is mine,
Why am I so drained of spirit as I play this midnight game?
Why do I have this feeling that everything belongs to me . . . But my soul?

"And why do I sit here, glass in hand, wondering:
Why is my wife not here tonight,
Why do my children chose colleges and jobs a thousand miles away,
If my company will survive paradigm shifts,
If my reputation is adequately protected,
If there is anyone who like me?
Why do I brood on these things bothered by a nagging void within, when so much is mine?"

TIME! Switch playing field, for it is
a second player's turn at the midnight game.
Leave that pretentious scene,
Cross the tracks to a block of homes as plain and indistinguishable as white bread.
Don't disturb, but quietly watch.
A second player takes his turn at play in the midnight game.
from a beaten-up thermos he refills his mug to the half.

"This house is getting old," he sighs, looking around.
"Will the furnace last the winter?" he wonders.
"I've got to paint that ceiling," he promises.
"If we don't refinance the mortgage," he reasons, "it will be ours in six years and seven months.
"But, in away, this place really does own me; it welcomes me each evening.
Every room contains memories of Christmases and birthdays,
Crises and conflicts, giggles and prayers.
I do belong to this place; I'm rooted here.

"My job, . . Just a job.
But I might as well admit after these thirty years, the job kind of possesses me.
I must have known a thousand people I've served.
Everyone knows that my word is my bond;
Deal with me, I promise, and I'll give you a fair price.
Trust me, and I'll never let you down.
I like what I'm doing and the way I'm doing it.

"My wife, she wasn't a cheerleader when I met her, she didn't go to Vassar.
She's probably not going to win someone's beauty contest.
But hey, I might as well say the honest truth--I belong to her.
She's full of affection for me.
She's wise; she's sensitive; she's caring.
And she's tough, and she's smart; nothing gets by her.
She doesn't ask for much; she gives everything.
I'd give her anything she asked for, beginning with myself, nothing held back.

"Then there's my kids, average students, reasonable competitors.
When you get right down to it, I may be their father, but I belong to these guys.
I love being spectator to their fun and games.
I glow as I watch their hearts enlarge with insight and character.
They are mine, but my heart says that I am theirs.

"Assets? What we've got wouldn't make for a good yard sale.
The only holding of value are my friends, memories, and my faith in God.
Especially after the prostate scare."

TIME! It's past midnight. GAME IS OVER!
Count up the scores.
Who's the winner?
Are you as confused as I as we watch two me extinguish the lights and head for bed?

Look! One reaches for the hand of his wife as they start up the stairs.
The other has nothing to hold on to.
One grins at something said by his wife and you have this suspicion that the night is not yet concluded.
The other hears only silence a he arms the security system, takes a sleeping pill, and lurches toward an empty bed.

It is a strange experience, this midnight game.
We thought such games were won by power and accumulation, by beauty and skill, by being connected.
But maybe we were wrong and didn't understand that midnight games are won most often by players whose records include:
Generosity, care,
Simplicity, love,
A full heart.

Mother's Day and Sponge Bob

2007-05-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

Take rush hour in Dallas, . . . on a holiday, . . . add an accident in the west-bound 4-lanes of Interstate 20, . . . traffic moving at 2.34 MPH, . . . a blown-out radiator . . . at 6:00 PM on Sunday afternoon . . . And what do you have?

Frustration? . . . Goes without saying.

Humidity? . . . What else do you expect in Dallas at 85 degrees.

Road help? . . . Not much now days once fellow-drivers see you checking the bars on your cell phone.

Repair Shop? . . . Don't even think about it until 8:00 AM Monday morning.

However, this was not a true representation of our four-day, Mother's Day weekend. We did spend quality time with my oldest son and daughter-in-law in the quaint town of Winnsboro, Texas.

Jon and Katie were finishing up their final performance for the Mossula Children Theater before regrouping and heading off for a summer tour of Germany and Turkey. We enjoyed lots of laughter and bad jokes, watching them spin their magic with the youth in this small Texas town of 3,500.

After an extended lunch at Cracker Barrel, we parted ways, not looking forward to the five-and-a-half hour return trip to Colorado City. The boys were in the back seat, mesmerized by their I-pods and CD players. I had successfully run the gauntlet of downtown Dallas, smugly aware of no mistakes which would have diverted us to the town of "Frontage Road."

Abruptly the traffic came to a halt; A fender-bender five miles ahead foiling our escape attempt from the metroplex. My attention shifted from avoiding someones bumper at 70 MPH to lane-switching, like a desperate shopper jockeying for the fastest moving checkout in a Super Wal-Mart.

Topping the next overpass, I could almost see what was bringing westbound Texans to a creep. Suddenly the sound which strikes fear in the heart of even the most experienced motorist.

BOOM! . . . HISS! . . . Steam billowing around the cracks of the hood like some Old Testament sacrifice before the Tabernacle in the Wilderness. The hose had not just blown off the radiator, but part of the radiator was blown away, parts of it still attached to the dangling hose.

Okay, . . . figure out what exit you are closest to. . . .

Call AAA, . . . knowing a tow-truck is going to creep through the same traffic nightmare you've been delivered from. . . .

Endure the sympathetic stares of fellow-drivers, thanking the gods that it happened to you and not them.

Our teenagers . . . now out of their music-induced comas . . . stand staring at the engine, offering their expert advice. The 19-year-old, an auto tech student, is convinced he could fix it "in no time" if we only carried a spare radiator in the trunk at all times. Of course, in his birth-county of Russia, it is common practice to pull over to the side of the road and repair your own car.

Never to be out done, my wife came up with a festive way to pass the hour+ wait on the wrecker. She had me stand at the rear of the car, . . . facing on coming traffic, . . . wearing my bright yellow Sponge Bob T-shirt, . . . as she held up a yellow legal pad with "Happy Mother's Day" emblazoned in large black letters.

The response of aggravated drivers was amazing. Once I got over my anxiety of feeling totally stupid, I enjoyed the smiles, thumbs-up, and honks of the motorists creeping by. Some signaled their mothers were in the car with them. Grandmothers of all ethnicity mouthed "God Bless You." Cameras protruded from rolled down windows. Even macho young men gestured they were speaking to their moms on their cell phones.

Eventually our teen boys (huddled in front of our car from parental-embarrassment) peered out and joined the festivities by getting semis' to honk their horns.

Eighteen hours later, we were back on the road, venturing home to our 6 cats. This was a Mother's Day not soon forgotten by the Brantleys. And when friends ask my wife what she got for Mother's Day 2007, she smiles and asks, . . .

"I got a tow-truck and new radiator . . . What did you get?"

Too Busy To Hear

2007-05-02T10:11:00.000-07:00

Working in a Starbucks coffee shop, I get to watch the busiest people in the world. The drive-thru for those who don't want to get out of their cars. They don't have to be distracted by human interaction as they scurry off to their offices and appointments.

If the drive-thu line is too long, some customers come in the store confessing to each other how busy they are, how exhausted they are, and how much they intend packing into the day before they have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Thomas Kelly, in A Testament of Devotion, observed of this generation with its Blue Tooth technology, PDA's, and Instant Messaging, . . .

"Many of the things we are doing seem so important to us. We haven't been able to say No to them, because they seem so important. But if we center down, as the old phrase goes, and live in that holy Silence which is deeper than life, and take our life program into the silent places of the heart, with complete openness, ready to do, ready to renounce according to His (Christ's) leading, then many of the things we are doing lose their vitality for us."

As a fellow obsessive-compulsive activity addict, Kelly's words bring a ring of terror. For more than 50 years I've derived my sense of self-esteem from what I have accomplished or am striving to excel in.

This is why I have long misunderstood the story of "Busy Martha and Lazy Mary" in the Bible. Jesus' biographer Luke tells of domestic conflict when Jesus and the boys dropped in, unannounced for supper. Martha, Mary and their bro Lazarus were good friends with the young Rabbi, but there is a hint of long-held resentment between sisters.

While I have no proof of this, I suspect Martha was the oldest sister. Having grown up the oldest of six children, I frequently experienced resentment of my younger siblings. Much of the daily responsibilities in our household fell to the older children while the younger ones "slacked off."

We read in Luke 10, after Martha welcomed the unexpected guests and made them feel at home, she headed to the kitchen. Fully expecting her sister to take up the slack in feeding the additional thirteen hungry men, she looks into the family room to find Mary lounging at the feet of Jesus. Martha begins a slow burn as expectation turns to disappointment to irritation to tears. All the pots are boiling, meat is about done, at least Mary could get the good china and set the table!

Rather than confronting her sister directly, Martha vents her frustration on the guest of honor. If Jesus is the friend he claims to be, he should know how hard she is working with NO HELP! . . . Mary has burn-out. "Don't you care that Mary has abandoned the kitchen to me? Tell her to lend me a hand."

Been there, done this. "Now, God. Don't You know I dedicated my life to You. You gave me this minister/job/opportunity. I've been doing my best but I feel so alone. Can't You fix it so it's not so hard."

Jesus' response has long confused me. He seems to be minimizing what Martha was doing FOR HIM and the disciples. . . "Martha, dear Martha," he gently rebukes, "you're fussing too much and getting yourself worked up over nothing." He then reminds her the reason for his interruption of her daily schedule was not to have her fix them a meal. In fact, HE was providing the meal . . . The meal from his heart. For Jesus it was his intention to share His heart in the time he had left before his betrayal and execution.

For we Marthas of Christianity, . . activity driven people who find validation in our faith by being the "doers of the Word and not hearers only," . . . perhaps this is why interruptions come into our lives. It can be the death of a friend or family member. Maybe an vocational change. What about serious personal illness or life threatening accident? What would it take to get you "out of the kitchen" and at the feet of Jesus?

"That choice to get busy or to sit still, to work in the kitchen or to wait at Christ's feet, is essentially a decision to whether or not to submit the details of our life to His lordship. If we decide to submit them, it simplifies our life because it puts us accountable to one master instead of to a pantheon of competing ones. ~ Ken Gire, Seeing What is Sacred

I'm equally convinced there are times we will never be given the reason for divine interruption of our agenda. We may complain to One we are trying to serve, receive a rebuke, and be told to "sit at My feet" for an indeterminate time. It will only be when we pass from this life to the next we will see how God was wanting to be flesh and bone to the world in which we lived.

"Perhaps that explains, at least partially, why bad things sometimes happen to good people.

For the sake of those around them.

That they might come to Christ.

That Christ might come to them, to live in them.

So that once again a Savior came be born into the world."
~ Ken Gire, Seeing What is Sacred

The Holy Grail and the Will of God

2007-04-25T09:12:00.000-07:00

The knights of King Arthur and the round table couldn't find it. Indiana Jones and his professor father kept it from falling into Nazi hands. It was even the centerpiece of the best-seller The Da Vinci Code. Holy Grail: the dish, plate or cup used by Jesus at the Last Supper.

For the benefit of a few readers unfamiliar with the legend, the Grail is an object said to possess miraculous powers. Some have claimed that it is not a object but a person, a blood line from Jesus of Nazareth. Others claim it is a purely Christian symbol, I.E. the sacrament of Holy Communion.

Far from being an ancient story, it is a recurrent theme that keeps cropping up in contemporary movies and television. There is the new action series on FOX called DRIVE; the Grail at the end of the cross-country race is the promise of millions of dollars, a kidnap spouse, or personal discovery. 24 continues another season with Jack Baur's Grail; saving the United States and the President from another disaster. American Idol promises the glamour of fame and fortune.

By pure definition, a grail is "the object of any prolonged endeavor." In the early Arthurian tales, the noble knight Percival's immaturity prevents him from fulfilling his destiny when he first encounters the Grail, and he must grow spiritually and mentally before he can locate it again.

At the risk of sounding hyper-religious or sanctimonious, my quest has been the 40+ year pursuit of living within the Will of God. Needless to say, that pursuit and it's outcome have had varying results. I think, however, I can make some observations that might assist a fellow Christ-follower who is of like heart.

If your relationship with Christ began in childhood or teen years, that adventure is filled with idealism and zeal. This is why the majority of people involved in "full-time Christian service" make commitments in their youth. The temptations are vicious in these years, but surviving relationship traps results in a reputation and conscience spared the ravages of a guilt-saturated youth. I would be remiss if I did not confess to a number of well-intentioned mistakes in those years. It is the zeal of youth that often cause us to run roughshod over others in the name of God. To this day, my wife says I have the discernment of a prophet, but don't exercise the gift of mercy very well.

In the middle years of a Christ-follower's life, I have noticed a focus on what we regard as our "ministry." This may or may not be directly related to the organized church but it is where passion meets reality. We are in it for the long haul. At times it melds with our occupation others a spiritual avocation. However, unless we maintain a balanced focus, our families and, at times, our personal relationship with our Savior suffers.

Especially for men, our focus is doing rather than being -- we just don't know how to describe ourselves without mentioning our occupation or hobby. The times I've suffered from burn-out have been in these years when disappointment and anger over unfulfilled or blocked goals prevailed. If you hear "How could you…" bouncing around your brain and out your mouth, know I have walked in your shoes while searching for the grail of God's Will.

If we can avoid the sarcasm and regrets of senior years, these can be a time of effectiveness in the Kingdom of God. We may lack the zeal of youth, but we should posses the wisdom to avoid naïve mistakes. It is a time of reflection, a conservation and properly directed energy.

On one wall of our family room shelves are dedicated to the places in the world I've visited, symbols of ministry, occupational opportunities I've enjoyed, and knick-knack reminders of American History. Not long ago, in a stretch of self-pity, I moaned, "These are all memories of a has been." The last several years have been filled uncertainty, accidents and the shifting needs of health and family. I don't handle not being included in the divine wisdom of God very well.

In these "mature years" I am listening to the wisdom of God in a new way. Wisdom, as found in the book of Proverb, is not quiet but we must be willing to listen. It refuses to compete with the voices of our generations.

"Lady wisdom goes out into the street and shouts. At the town center she makes her speech….I am ready to pour out my spirit on you. I'm ready to tell you all I know." (Proverbs 1, Message Bible)

Like Sir Percival, I'm on a quest, with some detours of immaturity, to pursue the Grail of God's Will for me. Some of my mistakes could have been avoided but recovery from them has made me stronger and re-tuned my hearing to the voice of wisdom. The Quest is as important as claming the Grail. As Indiana Jones discovered, it not the possession of the Grail that it satisfying, but what the Grail can do for the lives of those around us.

A Storm Raged - A Friend is Lost

2007-03-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

I awoke to the sounds of the raging storm. The crack of the lightning, roll of the thunder, and gush of water as the heavens wept. I had been warned of its coming, but still its fierceness surprised me as broke over my home.

Seventy-five miles away another storm raged, but this storm would rage longer,…lingering over the lives of people I work with and love. Like the flash of lightning on a cloudless day, word came a friend was in the hospital, his life hanging in the balance. I was not there, but I could sense the severity of the storm in the voices that trembled on the phone, the agonizing hours that passed with no word of his progress, the hope against hope that a miracle would happen and the sun would split the clouds of fear that hovered over his wife and two young daughters.

The storm crested, but a drizzle of sorrow remains. Unanswerable whys soak hearts of those left without a husband, a father, a son, a friend. Life will go on, but today, those closest to the loss don't know how. Where shock and fear and hope were mingled as the storm raged, tears now fall like rain from a sorrow saturated sky.

The loss they feel draws me back to the losses I've experienced in recent days; My daughter-in-law's brother taken in young life, my father on a New Year's morning, my Grandmother a month shy of her 100th birthday. There are holes in my heart that will never be filled.

Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, these storms take us to a place we never expected or to places we feared; a forest of sorrow, the wilderness without our loved one. "In the middle of the journey of our life," Dante wrote in his Inferno, "I found myself in a dark wood."

In Windows of the Soul, Ken Gire explained it this way:

"…the trees were so dense and their shadows so long that I didn't know how to get out--or if I ever would get out. That was the fear. Not of the darkness of the woods. Not the dangers in the shadows. But that the woods may never end. . . . I feared too for someone I lived whose life had also ended up in the woods, lost too, but in a different way. I wanted with all my heart to help but found myself of all people the least capable of doing it."

I'm not as close to the one taken as others are. I am not family, in a literal sense, but I have been included in the "family" who was called as the storm struck and raged. And I am family with those who grieve and will grieve in the days ahead. My tears will come when I see the faces of those who now have an empty place that my friend filled with his love and his laughter. I pray I will strong enough to weep with those who weep, to be a comfort on their journey into a dark wood.

The Romance of Being a Writer?

2007-03-27T07:42:00.000-07:00

When people find out I'm a writer, I frequently hear, "I have a great idea for a book." then they launch into an animated description of the plot and the characters, . . . or say something like . . . "It's Star Wars, meets The Lord of the Rings, with the heart of "When Harry Meets Sally."They get all excited about it, and expect you to catch the fire, rush right home, lock yourself in your study, and not eat or come out until it is done . . . like Hayden and his composition "The Messiah."

When I ask if they have written any of this down, their jaw drops like the ghost of Jacob Marley before Scrooge, and with genuine shock in their eyes, they stare at me as if I've suddenly sprouted another head on my shoulders. Their once articulate speech slurrs, they stutter and list major obstacles that are aborting the gestation of their dream . . . like an unsorted sock drawer or winning the lottery .

Perhaps 10% of these author wannabes actually get anything down on paper. Even fewer get past the 32 page block. Here an writer is happily wordsmithing along and suddenly switches from dialogue and action ... to outlining ... to trailing off into oblivion.

Several years ago, I was asked to work on a project intended as a television series. As research for my treatment of the pilot episode, I was shown copies of previous scripts submited or contracted for the project. One such treatment came from the Italian producer of the major motion picture, Jesus of Nazareth. With trembling hands I carefully turned the pages . . . and then . . . there it was; The 32 Page Block. This award winning author/director/producer went from action and dialogue to describing what should happen.

As Ken Gire wrote in his Windows of the Soul,

"Some people have a romantic view of what the life of a writer is like. They think writers go out and sit by the sea with their notebook and pencil, muse awhile, write a while, spread out the beach towel and tan awhile, muse awhile, write awhile, tear the ragged end off a loaf of French bread, smear it with a little Brie cheese, sip a little chardonnay, muse a while longer, write a while longer, and at the end of the day, savor what they've written like an afterdinner mint on a serene walk home.

"The truth is, writing is mostly blue collar work, not much different from that of a stone mason. At least, it is for me. Every day I go to work where I pick through a rubble of words, looking for one that will fit, hoping the mortar will hold, that the work will stand up. I go back and forth from the word pile to the worksite all day long, searching for the right words and the right places to put them. …Instead of tearing off a piece of French bread, I was tearing off my fingernails an anxious bite at a time, jotted notes on a legal pad, picked up a work here and there, discarded some of the things, set others aside."

The rewards of writing can be very satisfying, especially when the check arrives in the mail. But make no mistake, as one Scottish writer said,. . .

"Writing is easy, . . . It's like wrestling alligators all day long!"

Mealtimes and Fun with the Messiah

2007-03-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

I've just discovered a wonderful book, by a writer I've never heard of, with a last name stranger than mine. As I read the forward by another "author, theatrical storyteller and performance poet," I knew I was going to enjoy Mealtime Habits of the Messiah: 40 Encounters with Jesus by Conrad Gemph.

Now this isn't some title I have rushed down to buy my local bookstore. In fact, it would have been on the bargain table. (I can tell this from the big yellow "Bargain Book" sticker on it's cover.) In fact, it was one of the "bargain books" my wife received when she joined a book club and it has lain around the house for weeks. I was expecting something more academic, but I am being presently surprised.

As Rob Lacey notes in the forward: when it comes to writing about the story of Jesus, "we need Intellectual Rigor, Respect, Serious Scholarship, but at what stage do these fine attributes morph into Academic Arrogance and Ivory Tower Isolation in a false-nose-and-glasses disguise." With his tongue firmly planted in his cheek he continues, "Maybe this is why the word academic has started to mean 'irrelevant.'. . . Let's be intelligent in our handling of the life-changing story of Jesus, . . . But then we run the risk of drowning out the voice of the little boy standing at the door, scruffy clothes and dirt-caked knees, asking, 'Can you come out to the park to play?' WASN'T IT JESUS WHO SAID THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN BELONGS TO SUCH AS THESE?'"

Jesus was at home with the Left Brain Homeland of rational and systematic logical thought. He could debate the Pharisees on the minutiae of Old Testament theology, and then nestle children in his lap, laughing and tickling them. He could construct parables (illustrations) that would stimulate the imagination of his listeners, resonate in their visual memories long after most had forgotten last week's synagogue sermon.

I love the humanness of the author's POV in the chapter "Catering On Planet Earth." When Jesus appears post-resurrection to the disciples after a night of fish-less fishing, he "is concentrating on turning over the pita bread to keep it from burning, just the way he concentrated on drawing in the sand in the 'cast the first stone' story." In truth, Jesus hasn't fried enough fish for the lot of them; he asks them to bring some of the fish they just netted while Peter is drying out from his hasty swim to shore.

At the end of this encounter, Gemph notes: "Throughout this book, you'll see and hear a very human Jesus who spoke about and did supernatural things unlike anyone else who ever lived, but also a divine Son of God who shows up on planet earth and waits and cooks and eats."

I'm loving and hating this book: I love it because Gemph dares to capture the mealtimes with Jesus in a human, realistic way. I'm hating it, because I didn't come up with this idea and write the book myself. Oh, well, Peter could you pass me some of the pita bread and a little fish. Not too overcooked please.

(Quotes taken from Mealtime Habits of the Messiah, Conrad Gempf, © 2004, Zondervan Publishers.)

Is It Good Enough?

2007-03-17T08:15:00.000-07:00

Is my story good enough to share with others? Will it hold their interest? How many rejections from publishers are necessary for me to give up and "get a real job."

Several years ago, two motivational speakers decided to assemble their favorite inspirational stories into a book. When Mark Victor Hansen and Jack Canfield thought it was ready they offered it to the big New York publishing houses, fully expecting an enthusiastic contract offer. Reality settled in with the multiple rejection letters; thirty-three rejections in the first month. After receiving 140 publisher rejections, these motivational speakers found little motivation to continue hawking their manuscript.

Almost, as a last ditch effort before shelving their manuscript, they went to the American Booksellers Association Convention and took their manuscript booth to booth, trying to find anyone who might show a little interest. Finally the president of Health Communications, Inc. caught their vision and decided to give these unpublished authors a chance.

As they say, the rest is history. Chicken Soup for the Soul was first published in June 1993.
Not only did it become a best seller, but it would become a series that took the publishing industry by storm. The Chicken Soup books started appearing on best seller lists all over the country and wining prestigious awards, prompting Time magazine to call the series the "publishing phenomenon of the decade."

More than eighty-million sales later, I wonder what those other publishers are thinking who wrote Hansen and Canfield and told them, "your manuscript doesn't meet our publishing needs." The Chicken Soup books are being sold in thirty-seven languages.

That is the power of a true story. People experiences have an uncanny ability to shine a searchlight into your soul. It also shines a spotlight on the wonderful and amazing things that God is capable of doing. There are times when our lives become so mundane or difficult we need a good story to jump-start our faith in God.

One Scottish sage wrote, "Writing is easy -- it's like wrestling alligators all day long." But don't give up when rejection comes from the big publishers. The great value of a story is that it places a finger under the hard-road traveler's chin and gently pushes up. I don't know the details of your life, but just maybe your experience is the divine Rx someone needs today.

(Idea from Walking with God on the Road You Never Wanted to Travel" Mark Atteberry, © 2005 Nelson Books)

Heroes and Wayward Seagulls

2007-03-04T14:13:00.000-08:00

Eddie Rickenbacker, easily one of the most colorful characters in American history, came to understand how God, in spite desperate situations, could take care of you.

He was a World War I flying ace who downed twenty-six enemy aircraft, a designer and builder of his own automobiles, one of the very first race-car drivers, and the owner and operator of the Indianapolis Speedway for twenty years. He also survived two plane crashes, the second of which set him on a particularly hard road.

The year was 1942. Eddie was asked the secretary of war to deliver a message to General Douglas MacArthur, who was headquartered at Port Moresby, New Guinea, in the South Pacific. The message was so sensitive that it couldn't be put in paper, so it was given to Eddie orally and he committed it to memory. On the night of October 18, he took off with a crew of eight from an airbase in Hawaii, not realizing that he was embarking on perhaps the most incredible adventure of his already amazing life.

The flight required a circuitous rout, because the Japanese controlled the waters in a straight line between Hawaii and New Guinea. That, along with a slight navigational error and a stronger-than-anticipated tailwind, cause the plain to overshoot the island that was their destination. Before they realized what was happening, they found themselves so far from land that they didn't have enough fuel to get back. The only option they had was to ditch the plane in the middle of the ocean.

The pilot managed to get the plane down safely, and it stayed afloat until all the men could climb aboard the two rafts that no one believed they'd ever have to use. At that point they were all alive, but facing three enormous problems.. The first was they had left their water and rations on the plane all they had between them were a dozen chocolate bars and a few oranges.

The second problem was that they had no idea where they were.

And the third--and by far their biggest problem--was that no one else knew where they were either. They were certain that military aircraft would be dispatched to search for them, but they were equally certain that those planes would be looking in all the wrong places.

This, of course, was not the first time Eddie Rickenbacker had stared death in face. He was actually quite experienced at it so the rest of the men allowed him to assume control of the situation. Immediately he set up a system of two-hour watches so their would be eyes on the water and the skies at all time. Then he formulated a schedule for eating the oranges and candy bars. Finally, he determined that they would pray together twice a day, morning and evening.

One of the men had a small New Testament in his pocket, so it wasn't long before their little prayer times turned into a full-blown worship services. They would pass the little Bible around, find their favorite Scriptures to read aloud, and sing the hymns they had learned as boys in Sunday school. They couldn't always remember the words, but they sang anyway, often at the tops of their lungs, as if to scare away the demons that were hovering overhead and waiting to steal their hope.

It was on the eighth day at sea that something amazing happened.

The men were desperately hungry and spent a good bit of their prayer time pleading for God's mercy. When they finished, Eddie settled back in the raft and pulled his cap over his face to shield his eyes from the sun. He'd just dozed off when he felt something land on his head. He couldn't see it, but somehow he knew it was a seagull. All of the men froze and no one said a word. The last thing they wanted to do was scared it away. They know that if they could somehow catch it, they could eat.

Ever so slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, Eddie moved his trembling hand toward the bird. Again, he couldn't see it, but he painted a mental image of where it would be, judging from the pressure on his head. Excruciating seconds assed as his hand slowly moved into position. The men held their breaths and prayed like never before. Then, in a flash, Eddie grabbed for the bird, caught it by the feet, and hung on for dear life. Its fluttering wings kicked up a tornado of dancing feathers but there would be no escape.

In minutes, the bird was defeathered and cut into eight equal pieces. The men chewed the tough, sinewy eat slowly, bones and all, and felt that it was the finest-tasting meal they'd ever enjoyed.

And they were just getting started. When they finished eating, they rigged a fishing line and used the bird's intestines for bait. In no time, one of the men landed a twelve-inch mackerel, and then Eddie himself pulled in a sea bass. In a matter of minutes, they went from being half-dad from starvation to finally alive with bulging stomachs.

And that's not all.

That very night, it rained for the first time since the crash. The men caught the water in their bailing buckets and lay back their mouths open to catch as much as they could. Eddie would later remark later that nothing ever tasted so good, before or since.

Was it just a coincidence that all of these good things started happening within five minutes after the men finished pleading for God's mercy? One could almost believe so, except for one thin. The bird was hundreds of miles from land. What seagull flies hundreds of miles straight into the middle of the ocean, unless it's keeping a divine appointment?

(from Walking with God on the Road You Never Wanted to Travel, Mark Atteberry, © 2005, Nelson Books)

Portrait of My Wife

2007-02-28T08:35:00.001-08:00

Somewhere between "Dear David" and "Love, Carla" something of her soul is expressed through the cards and notes she has written me. Something of her soul is audible through her frequent laughter and the tears over someones trial as she speaks to them on the phone. There is something of her soul as she sits with students, encouraging them to make better life-decisions knowing they face homes bubbling with anger, desperation, rejection and failure.

Something of her soul is visible through the rich, deep colors and solid textures she has chosen to decorate the house. Even the kitchen tile speaks of solidness and resilience of her spirit to the world that would stain and mark her family. The type of furniture, casual and comfortable, even the way she has arranged the furniture, reveals something of her desire to make all who live there and visit feel welcome.

Arranged in the entry way are pictures of people and events that give her a sense of pride. These are the students and family whose lives she has touched with creativity and care. On one wall in the living room are the pictures of family, which speak of her sense of the heritage that has made her who she is today. Another wall she has encouraged the array of her family mementos. She knows that encouraging the success of others brings great joy to her world.

Her own display of mementos area smaller, but in the kitchen; it is here she feels that families come together. Her tiny tea posts and tea cups speak of desire to sit and get to know whoever walks in the door. The pictures and magnets dotting the refrigerator chronicle friends and family she never wants to forget when the busyness of life threatens to overwhelm her.

Her frequent conversations with parents, remind me of her committed love for those who raised her and their eventual dependency on her as time marches on, their strength and independence waning. Her uncomplaining chauffeuring for me through the surgery, illness, and post-accident events, show a faithful honoring of the "or worse" vows over 20 years ago.

Beside her bed are the books she reads; They reveal a woman who is a romantic, loves mystery in life, and looks for the secrets to intimacy with her Creator and Lover.

All of these are elements of a large picture. All of these things, down to the most ordinary and everyday of them is a window to her soul.

As one writer put it, "And when I pause to look, something like the morning sun streams into my soul and wakens me to everything in her that is beautiful and precious to God."

(I can't take credit for the idea of this blog. But when I read another author's work, I was inspired to look through the Window of the Soul of the one who has chosen to love me and stand by me for more than 20 years.)

God, Make It Tokyo

2007-02-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

A mother was passing her 8 year-old son's room and overhead his night time prayer.

"Please, God, make it Tokyo," the boys pleaded in earnest. "Please make it Tokyo."

"Son, I couldn't help but overhear your prayer last night," she asked the next morning a breakfast."What were you asking God to do with Tokyo."

He looked down sheepishly. "We had a geography test yesterday, Mom. I wanted God to make Tokyo the capital of France, like I answered on my paper."

Ah, yes . . . The things we ask for us in prayer. I'm must admit to being like this young man -- asking God to clean up mistakes I've made or fix situations where I second guessed the right thing to say.

Hang on, now. Please don't stop reading because you think I've got some mystical or hyper-spiritual point to make about prayer.

Truth is, I would be a very rich man if I had a nickel for every how-to, must-do, formulated, success-guaranteed, name-and-claim, sermon and teaching I've heard on the subject of conversation with the Divine. Frankly, most of those methods are a lot like trying to wear someone else's shoes.

Recently, while I strapped in a tumbling car at 2:15 AM, I didn't have the time to fold my hands, kneel in a sanctuary, wait for the appropriate organ music to start with a "Dear Heavenly Fa-a-a-a-ther." To the sound of grinding, twisting metal I squeezed out, "Lord, help me through this, help me through this."

I'm learning that's what prayer really is; God is bigger than me and my situation. Letting go of the controls of your life is a real pride killer. Admitting, He can, . . . I can't.

Maybe that's it -- prayer is designed to change me more than have my shopping list filled by the God of the Universe.

Okay. I'll admit it. Most of my life I've tried to use prayer like Aladdin and the Magic Lamp. God was some eternal Genie, who would was there to grant my wishes if I massaged the lamp just the right way. And there are plenty of teachers and preachers who have "massage" techniques they claim guarantee success.

"The world is full of so-called prayer warriors who are prayer ignorant. They're full of formulas and programs and advice, peddling techniques for getting what you want from God. Don't fall for that nonsense. This is your Father you are dealing with, and he knows better than you what you need. . . . Find a quiet, secluded place so you won’t be tempted to role-play before God. Just be there as simply and honestly as you can manage. The focus will shift from you to God, and you will begin to sense his grace." Matthew 6:7-8,6 The Message

Prayer won't make Tokyo the capital of France, but it does help me find a purpose in the daily issues confronting me. . .

Prayer may not change my circumstances, but, in situations I never faced, it will give me wisdom how to respond. . .

Prayer may not remove the pain from human relationships or lack of them, it affirms I am not alone.

Smack Dab In the Middle

2007-01-24T09:20:00.000-08:00

I don't really on consider myself a "control freak." I pretty much allow the people I work and worship with to be themselves. I can't really change the way family members relate and respond to each other.

And yet, I like to think that I'm "in control;" that I have some sort of say-so in my life. That changed a few days ago; not only was I NOT in control, but I had to turn my life over to others.

Country music artist Carrie Underwood sings it so well on her Some Hearts album.

She didn't even have time to cry
She was sooo scared
She threw her hands up in the air
Jesus take the wheel
Take it from my hands
Cause I can't do this all on my own
I'm letting go...
Jesus take the wheel.

From the moment my car started to fishtail, I knew I was not in control.

When the car began to roll and the sound of twisting metal pounding the roadway filled my ears, I knew I was not in control.

Sitting in the bone chilling cold, waiting for help to arrive, I knew I was not in control.

In a matter of seconds, control of my life had shifted to others:

The five "angels" -- young men who stopped to be with me until EMTs arrived.

The paramedics who made sure I was stable until I reached the hospital.

The emergency room staff, who worked efficiently but with sensitivity to my trauma.

The ER doctor who made it a point to comfort my family and point out another medical concern not related to the accident.

My family who has waited on me hand and foot while enduring my complaints about slow healing injuries.

I pride myself at being a low maintenance, self-sufficient person. Losing control of your everyday life is a humbling experience. It’s normal to wonder where is God in all of this. Maybe the operative word is "pride". . . Or perhaps "self-sufficiency."

I recently read about Frank Silecchia, one of volunteers searching the wreckage of the World Trade Center for survivors. This particular morning he hoped would be different; past days had yielded forty-seven victims, none of them alive.

However he would stumble upon a symbol destined to be seared into America's memory--a twenty-foot tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One on Building Six merged to gigantic beams. When one crashed into the another, the two girders bonded into one, forged by fire. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of large one; different sizes, different angles, but all crosses.

As a stunned America struggled with "Where is God in all of this?," the beams emerged from the rubble to say "I am right here in the middle of it all."

Could God have prevented 911 from occurring? Absolutely! But since World War, Americans have been pretty cocky and believe we are in control of our own destiny.

Could God have kept my car from rolling? Absolutely! But I am re-learning the lesson of dependency on Him and the people He has placed in my life.

As I stumble through the rubble of mistakes and misfortunes in my life, I am reminded that He is smack-dab in the middle of who I am, what I am, and where I am going.

Admitting I'm not in control is not such a scary thing after all.

Most Important Moment of My Life

2007-01-17T14:04:00.000-08:00

I love the song from the Broadway musical "RENT" which most people consider the theme song. It's actually entitled Seasons of Love.

525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525, 60 minutes - a year in the life?
525,600 minutes, 525,600 journeys to plan.
525,600 minutes, how do you measure the life of a woman or man.

The older I get, (and I still think I'm a spring chicken at 57) the more I appreciate the fast moving minutes of my life. Having "semi-retired," I'm not quite as career-driven as I once was. I now know more about what I don't to do in my life as what I want to accomplish. I have been so blessed having worked in the worlds of television, radio, theater, and some film production over the last 30 years.

(Oh, my! I'm starting to sound like one of those "when I was a kid we didn't have TV in color.")

Earlier this year, I survived a bout with the big "C." Cancer has a way of putting you life on pause while you re-evaluate your priorities. Most days I treasure the early minutes of my morning. I allow myself to enjoy the view out my front window while my feline princess sits in my lap being worshipped. I sip my Starbucks (home brewed) coffee and do a little inspirational and fun reading. I get to think of and pray for my friends. I get to savor the moment.

Just last week I survived a multi-rollover in my 1990 Bronco which I should not have walked away from. One gusty west-Texas wind on an ice slick interstate litterally flipped my daily routine upside down.

One of the life events took weeks to adjust to, the most recent has rudely interrupted life with bruises and pain and immediate alterations to even the most simple things like sitting up, bathing at scratching your own nose.

Fact is, under normal situations, I can get antsy if I have unstructured time on my hands. I take my reading material to high school football games. I carry more than enough research material that I could possibly deal with in 3X the times I am away from home. I NEED to keep my mind busy. It's not because I can't handle the silence. I do enjoy those time where my attention is not under demand.

But I do love the engagement of my mind and imagination. I hate wasting time. That's why most sports bore me. It takes too long, play to play, inning to inning. Now reading -- my mind has to keep painting and repainting the scenes around the characters. And movies, give me plot, plot, plot (as well as plenty of action.) And it doesn't hurt that I can live another life and time through the characters.

When I was a boy, "just a minute" seemed to take FOREVER. Now 60 seconds has become jet propelled, approaching the speed of light. There isn't much I can do to change the moment past. And reality is, especially after the events of this week, I don't know if I am promised the next one.

Out of the 525,600 minutes of this year, I've decided that THIS moment is the Most Important Moment of all. I entend to enjoy this moment, and those that follow to the fullest.

In A Moment, Blink of An Eye

2007-01-15T10:44:00.000-08:00

In an Instant, In the Blink of an Eye

It can happen in an instant, . . . In the blink of an eye, . . . And life can take an unexpected turn.

Some people are said to live lives of quiet desperation. Not me. One good gust of wind and I am reminded how much I am loved and love those around me, even total strangers.

I was driving home from an assignment with Whirlwind Tours in Midland, Texas. It was 2:30 AM and I was eastbound on I-20. The roadway had just begun to ice from the cold front that swept through the area.

Suddenly a blast of wind hit the driver's side of my Bronco, causing it to fish-tail. I corrected, but it wasn't enough and after it crossed and recrossed the inside lane I knew it was going to roll.

Roller coasters and thrill rides have never been enjoyable to me. I have no curiosity strong enough for me to keep my eyes open. I prayed, a very simple prayer, "Oh, Jesus help me, help me."

And He did! I can't tell you whether it rolled two or three times, but it stopped upright in the center median. The passenger window was gone, the rear hatch back torn off. The driver's seat was broken but I was firmly held by seat belt. And the dome light was on.

Five wonderful young men stopped to help me. The things inside by car had been thrown completely clear of the vehicle. Clothing, tool box, travel bags, even my computer had become projectiles leaving a flipping ship.

Amazingly I never hit my head or lost consciousness. I was lucid and clear-headed if not a little addled.

Arriving at Scenic Mountain Medical Center I was x-rayed head-to-toe, with special attention paid to my left elbow, forearm and wrist which had begun throb with pain. Nothing came back fractured. It is thought that a nerve in my elbow has been bruised and will take some time to heal. With a shoulder sling, I was sent home and told to wait till the soreness subsides before going back to work.

This "unexpected vacation" from my normal activities has caused me to appreciate the people in my life. Not just family who are here by my side, but all who have written and called to express their concern and love.

In the vast scheme of things, this accident will probably be just a blip on the radar of life, but it is a reminder that a detour can happen in a moment, in a blink of the eye. It's good to know I'm not alone; That there are "angels" of all kinds, dressed as family, paramedics, policemen and hospital worker. How very blessed I am.

The Freedom Letter

2007-01-10T10:59:00.000-08:00

Ever get one of those letters? The kind you can't wait to open it, then wish it was delivered to someone else?

That happened to me this week. Fresh into the new year, riding the crest of resolutions, I opened it to find;

Dear David:
You've gone and locked yourself into a deal with a stranger.
You've impulsively promised the shirt off your back and now you find yourself
shivering in the cold. Don't waste a minute, get yourself out that mess. You're
in another man's clutches! There's no time to lose. Run like a deer from the
hunter. Don't procrastinate.
Because I care;
Your Best Friend.

Wait a minute! Just who does he think he is? It's none of his business, . . . or does he.

It's an old letter, one I'd read before, but this time it was different. My family has grown sick and tired of being in hock to a number of "strangers" all because we didn't have the self-control to wait. Yep, we're among the 70 percent of Americans who struggle paycheck to paycheck, having fallen for the credit card carrot on a stick of "Get it Now, Pay for it Later." Master (my money) Card, Discover (how broke I can be), and American Excess, with their slick billion dollar media campaigns, have replaced snake-oil salesmen hawking their wares from the back of traveling wagons.

Just whose fault is it I'm on the bad end of a business deal with these credit sharks? Me, Moi, Myself,. . . The person I stare at in the mirror each morning. Oh, yes, I picked out the desert when the desert cart came by before eating dinner.

And it's little comfort to me on payday that I'm in good company. Consumer Reports Money Book reported the typical American household has $38,000 in debt, part of the total consumer debt of over $3.3-trillion.

The letter is actually part of an ancient proverb which reminded me the heart of man hasn't changed in 3000 years. 2007 is a good time for the Brantley's to swim against the current, stop living like everyone else now, so we can live like no one else later. (Thanks, Dave Ramsey)

It's not going to be easy, but I don't scan the credit card apps anymore. Better yet, I take all their material and send it back in their return envelope so they have to pay postage both ways. I figure CitiBank can afford it after all the interest they've charged me. Without the Capital One card in my wallet, I will have a truly hassle-free deal. Besides, if that well-running restaurant in the TV commercial doesn’t want to take my cash, I know several other food places who still require their help be able to make change.

Our paid-for, 10-year old cars run just fine. If my teen boys want the latest techno-what's-it, they can get the money the old fashioned way, . . . Earn it!

That letter (found in Proverbs 6:1-5, the Message Bible) has rekindled that spark lost during the "gimme/get" holiday season. It's not burst into full flame yet, but the Brantley family's 2007 intention is to keep fanning it to full blaze. "FREEDOM" starts just one paid off bill at a time.

(For information that is helpful, check out The Total Money
Makeover, by New York Times best selling author, Dave Ramsey, or check out http://www.daveramsey.com/)

After The Tinsel, Tree and the Trimmings

2006-12-27T11:34:00.000-08:00

Finally, it's over! Tell me, is there anyone else that's glad the hassle and bustle is over?

Oh, I love the tree, the lights, the music, the food, but I do not like the pressure of making everyone happy for the sake of the season. The gift has to be perfect, the meal has to be just right, everyone has to get there on time. All that ceremony until the sound of ripping paper fades away. Everyone then retreats to their corners to fondle their treasures until the food comes out. We eat too much for comfort, drink too much to keep our heads, and sometimes stay to long.

Then we head home with selective memories of "how wonderful" a Christmas we've had, comparing it to the nostalgic, magical Christmas' we may have had as a child. The tree was bigger then, the lights brighter, the smells richer. However, as a Web friend of mine says, "Nostalgia is a seductive liar."

Hopefully, in the year ahead, we'll reflect on the intention that went into the gifts we unwrapped as we fold the into the fabric of our daily lives. Some gifts will be eaten, others read/watched then given away, some stored out-of-sight until Aunt Whose-It comes back to visit. Still more may end up on a garage sale table to become the neighbor's bargain treasure.

Only 363 shopping days left till Christmas!

Augh! Leave me in my ignorant bliss until at least Halloween. After all, isn't that when the ghosts of Christmas-yet-to-come decorate the shelves of Walmart?

What I miss most at Christmas is the personal solitude and time for reflection. Christmas in America has become so high octane that, when asked about our reason for the season, we unroll a list of to-do's that makes Santa's toy list pale in comparison. Family activity, holiday cheer, and presents are used to upstage the personal Gift which awaits us; this Gift requires unwrapping in the stillness of a quiet heart.

If we're not careful we will miss this plainly packaged Gift. Tradition has attempted to robe it in mystique and wonder. It's been dressed in unsoiled clothing, center-pieced in Christmas pageants, relegated to fireplace mantel's once-a-year, surround by plastic, lighted figurines in front yards and before churches. By making the story and it's players so "sacred" we make the Gift unapproachable.

As I write this, I am looking at a six-inch nail which hangs near the trunk of our Christmas tree. It's not gold, silver, or gilded; just plain rusty iron, hanging from a blood-red ribbon. That spike is a reminder to me of the ultimate purpose the Gift was given. Starry-eyed wise men, singing angels, smelly shepherds, a murderous king, a no-vacancy hotel, and a newborn's cry are nothing more than another touching holiday story without the shadow of the spike and the cross. That is why He came to our planet, and Roman torture was where He was headed.

Why should I consider this MY Gift? In a world of little wonder, little hope, and little future, He wanted us to know He was not only for us but WITH us. One of the Gift's names was Immanuel. In it's original language it means, "God with us." Not 'God above us', or 'somewhere in the neighborhood God'; not 'God with the religious' or 'God with the rich.'

As far as Earthmaker was concerned, prophets weren't enough. Miracles and messages needed more. Apostles wouldn't do. Angels didn't fit the bill. He sent Himself, "he took on flesh and bone and lived among us." (John 1:14)

This is a tough concept to wrap my mind around. As the writer Max Lucado puts it;

"He swims in Mary's womb. Wiggles in the itchy manger straw. Totters learning to walk. Bounces on the back of a donkey. God with us. He knows hurt . . . His siblings. He knows hunger . . . Eats raw wheat. Knows exhaustion . . . Sleeps in a storm-tossed boat. Knows betrayal . . . Invests 3 years in Judas and get a kiss. Experienced pain . . . Felt the whip, the nail and the tiara of thorns."

And when the Gift endured Earthmaker's rejection . . . "Papa, Papa, why have you turned your back on me?" . . . He did it so it would be my experience ONLY if I rejected the Gift.

Jesus may be the Gift given to the World 2000 years ago, but He had me in mind. He may be "GOD with me", but wants to be "God WITH me;" with my family conflicts, with my time at work, with my leisure musing, with my creativity, with my concerns and challenges. It's not meant to be intrusive or guilt-laden, but a comfort. He is with me and for me.

That is the message of the season for me. He is the Gift that keeps on giving in February, in July, in October.
"The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. . . Generous inside and out, true from start to finish." (John 1:14 The
Message)

Christmas At the Gas Station

2006-12-18T17:05:00.000-08:00

This story is not original with me, but a good one I wanted to pass along. Stay with it until the end. It is well worth it.
The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate.

He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through. Instead of throwing the man out, Old George as he was known by his customers, told the man to come and sit by the heater and warm up.

"Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy, I'll just go."

"Not without something hot in your belly." George said. He turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty, Stew ... made it myself. When you're done, there's coffee and it's fresh."

Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George
said. There in the driveway was an old '53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front.

The driver was panicked. "Mister can you help me!" he said with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken."

George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold, the car was dead. "You ain't going in this thing," George said as he turned away. "But Mister, please help ..."

The door of the office closed behind George as he went inside. He went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building, opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting.

"Here, take my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good." George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. He turned and walked back inside the office.

"Glad I gave 'em the truck, their tires were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new ........" George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The Thermos was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it.

"Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought. George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers.

He discovered the block hadn't cracked, it was just the bottom hose on the radiator. "Well, shoot, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on. Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car anyway.

As he was working, he heard shots being fired. He ran outside and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Please help me."

George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic.
He knew the wound needed attention. "Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The uniform company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound.

"Hey, they say duct tape can fix anythin'," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease. "Something for pain," George thought. All he had was the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills. "You hang in there, I'm going to get you an ambulance."

The phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your car." He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two way radio. He went back in to find the policeman sitting up.

"Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy that shot me is still in the area."

George sat down beside him, "I would never leave an injured man in the Army and I ain't gonna leave
you." George pulled back the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is. Bullet passed right through 'ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time your gonna be right as rain."

George got up and poured a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?" he asked.

"None for me," said the officer. "Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city. Too bad I ain't got no donuts." The officer laughed and winced at the same time.

The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun. "Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before. "That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer.

"Son, why are you doing this?" asked George, "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody
else might get hurt."

The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!"

The cop was reaching for his gun. "Put that thing away," George said to the cop, "we got one too many in here now." He turned his attention to the young man.

"Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I got. Now put
that pee shooter away." George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry.

"I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job, my rent is due, my car got repossessed last week ..."

George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can." He got the young man to his feet, and sat him
down on a chair across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Bein' stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and we'll sort this thing out."

The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm
sorry officer."

"Shut up and drink your coffee." the cop said. George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn.

"Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.

"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?"

"GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man.

Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."

George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other. "That guy work here?," the wounded cop continued.

"Yep," George said, "just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job."

The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man leaned over the
wounded cop and whispered, "Why?"

Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas boy ... and you too, George, and thanks for everything."

"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems."
George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box. "Here you go, something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."

The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw. "I can't take this,"
said the young man. "It means something to you."

"And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's all I need."

George reached into the box again. An airplane, a car and a truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours."

The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier.

"And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that too," George
said, "Now git home to your family."

The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good."

"Nope. I'm closed Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after."

George turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you left?"

"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"

"Well, after my wife passed away, I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by
myself and besides I was gettin' a little chubby."

The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor. The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will make you a rich man and not take any for
himself. That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man."

George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?"

"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha again." The stranger moved toward the door. "If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned."

George watched as the old leather jacket and the torn pants that the stranger was wearing turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room.

"You see, George ... it's My birthday. Merry Christmas."

George fell to his knees and replied, "Happy Birthday, Lord." And a Merry Christmas to you,

Author Unknown

Ho, Ho, Ho, They Want More!

2006-12-14T08:23:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season for Christmas music. Tune up and Sing along with me:

(To the tune of "Up On The House Top")

Up on the counter we don't pause
Pile up more "From Santa Claus"
Down in
the wallet we dig deep
Just so the little ones
Won't think we're cheap

Chorus
Ho, ho, ho!
They want Mo(re)!
Ho, ho, ho!
They'll
get Mo(re)!
Up on the counter
Click, click, click
Down go the credit
cards
One, Two Three.

STOP - STOP - STOP! You get the idea, . . .

But don't try to peg me with the old "Humbug!" I love Christmas as much, if not more, than the next person. I love the traditions, the trees, (which get smaller every year), the lights, the music, even the idea of giving, . . . What I don't like is the pressure that I have to give to people I haven't spoken to since last Christmas. (And they haven't spoken to me either.) In some large families, with all the nieces, nephews, grandkids, cousins, aunts and great uncles, you're known as "Uncle-who-gave-me-the-stupid-toy-that-I-traded-at-school-for-something-cooler."

And who says that God doesn't have a sense of humor when He gives people kids just like themselves?

Now, I work in retail, when I'm not work-crafting on this lap top. I'm one of the guys at the Starbucks drive thru you think is too happy because he gets a caffeine IV when he arrives at work. I enjoy people, and I enjoy asking those tough questions like "How's your day?" and "Finished your Christmas shopping?"

Women tend to have it down to a percentage -- "Only 46.3% left to go. But I still need to shop for the holiday meal."

Men are different. Some, have the look, "They scheduled Christmas this year? . . . When? . . . I didn’t get the memo."
Or, (under their breath) "I don't want to talk about it. Back off, buddy, or someone will get hurt."
Or, the smile, "It's really going well," (male code for: "Don't ask me that while my wife is in car. Can't you see the packages in the back seat? She bribed me my letting me come to Starbucks if I would go with her shopping. If I'm a really good boy, she will let me come back when we are done.")

It's when people flip out the debit/credit cards to pay for something as little as a $2 drink I understand the love-hate relationship we have with the Season. It starts with Thanksgiving and extends well past the Day-After-Christmas sales. No wonder the malls start playing Christmas Carols before the boos of Halloween have faded into the November morning light.

On Black Friday, (day after Thanksgiving) some news sources reported the average person spent $326 (more than they normally spend a day.) Santa was good to the merchants; They are "Dreaming of a Green Christmas" -- sales were up 19+% over last year.

Dr. Seuss had the right idea with The Grinch That Stole Christmas, but he had the wrong character: it should have been The GREED That Steals Christmas.

Of course, Mr. Greed is around all year, but he really shines in December with the brightness of the Bethlehem Star. Linda Kulman wrote, "Americans have double the number of shopping malls as it does high schools. Americans shell out more for garbage bags than 90% of the world's 210 countries spend for everything."

According to Bob Russell's Money: A User's Manual, in 1900, the average American wanted 72 different things and considered 18 of them essential. Today, the average person wants 500 things and considers 100 of them essential.

You're A Mean One" - (with apologies to Dr. Seuss)
You're a mean one, Mr. Greed
You really are a mole,
You're a monster, Mr. Greed,
You make my heart an empty hole,
You're a sly one, Mr. Greed
You're all about more stuff
You're a sneaky, Mr. Greed
You're the king of "not enough."
Don't get me wrong. I love getting and giving gifts, but I don't wait until Christmas to give them. Getting stuff and having stuff is pretty cool, but I don't want them to own or obligate me.

My wife ask me the other day way I wanted for Christmas, I drew a blank. I really couldn't come up with anything that I wanted. Maybe that's why I'm smiling when I pass your peppermint hot chocolate through the Starbucks window. I've not only got the reason for the season, but I'm not letting the season strip my soul or my pocketbook.